I have an essay coming out in the new Mothers Who Think collection about how I love my husband more than my children. I know I'm going to get grief for that, even though the editors wisely discouraged from putting in a line about how I love my husband so much that I would toss any one of my children in front of a bullet if that was the only way I could save his life. They recognized that for hyperbole above and beyond the usual. (From Ayelet Waldman’s now-defunct blog)

Ya think?

This woman obviously has her fans—the essay she’s talking about was printed in the New York Times, for Pete’s sake—but this woman drives me crazy. And yet like a four-car pileup, I am unable to look away. The mark of good celebrity, I suppose.

Waldman is clearly getting a lot of mileage out of this “I love my husband more than my children” business; she actually scored an Oprah appearance last week. Apparently she’s taken a sampling of Gymboree moms, done some deft statistical analysis, and concluded that she is the only woman in the entire country who’s having sex. Maybe she forgot to carry the 1.

I finally got around to watching the show today, and I have to admit, she was a lot more charming than I was expecting. Of course that was partly because some of the other women seemed so damn sad—the woman who watches TV during sex, the flash-card obsessed mother of three who doesn’t even acknowledge her husband when he walks into the room. (Hi honey!)

I think what bugs me about her is that she defends her statement “I love my husband more than my children” as a corrective against making children the absolute center of one’s life. That’s an extremely clunky argument, in my opinion. Well, duh. It’s not healthy to live your entire life through your children. So these are my options?:

I love my husband more than I love my children.
OR
My children are my entire life. Everything else takes a back seat.


What does it even mean to love one person more than another? OK, I’ll play…

Who gets thrown in front of the bullet to save the other in Waldman’s horrid game of God Forbid?
Easy. Child gets saved. (I’ve talked to the Mr. and he agrees. Good man. I’ve also made it clear to him that if it’s between saving her and me, he saves her, or I’ll kick his ass.)

Whom have I loved longer?
Husband.

Whom did I love before I even met her?
Child.

Who gets the last cup of milk if we’re almost out?
Child.

Who gets the last cookie in the box?
Hmm, is it a thin mint? Well, we’ll split it after she goes to bed.

They’re both crying; who do I go to first?
Tough one. Mr. doesn’t cry much; that would be pretty amazing. Probably time to triage.

Who would I rather spend the night with at the Four Seasons?
Husband.

Who gets pulled from the burning building?
Child.

Whom do I hope to kick out of my house at some point?
Child.

With whom do I hope to live for the rest of my life?
Husband.

Gosh, this is hard. I don’t know how to tally my answers. Do I love my husband more than my child?

You see how stupid this is?
How 4th grade?
“…She’s my bestest friend! And she’s my second best friend…”

Hello, Ayelet? Welcome to the world of the three-dimensional. You’ll like it here.

But I guess you don’t get on Oprah by tracking in subtlety.

**

OK, OK. Here’s what’s really hard about this. I’m a third-wave feminist all the way. I need a man like a fish needs a bicycle. “You complete me” sounds sweet coming out of Jerry Maguire’s mouth, but if I ever pulled that sap, R would look at me with his sideways raised-eyebrow expression (trust me, it’s really cute). Ephesians 5? Being subject to one another? Nice. Necessary. Even romantic. Wives submitting to husbands? Not so much.

But. I had a “yikes” moment when C was three months old. It was seminary graduation, a proud day; and I was up on the dais, watching the rest of my class file in. I looked up in the balcony, and there was my mother holding my adorable three-month old in pink and blue seersucker with matching floppy hat. And I thought, “Here I am at my graduation, a long strenuous journey at an end. And that tiny dimpled creature is the finest thing I’ve ever done.”

I was touched by the truth of it, but I was also embarrassed.

So conventional.
So unliberated.
And yet, I would give up everything I’ve achieved for her, if I had to.

Of course, I don’t have to. I guess that’s the difference. I work outside the home, and someone else receives the joy of caring for my daughter for part of the week. I go on dates with my husband. We’re going away overnight in a couple of weeks (have I mentioned the U2 concert? only about 18 times), and for several days in June. I don’t intend to compromise those things. On a micro level, maybe, but not on a macro level.

Does that mean I love C less than my job or my marriage? It’s a ridiculous question. I chose my husband; I’d choose him again. But I am beholden to my child on a cellular level. It's animal.

I owe so much of who I am and what I've achieved (glory be to God) to the sexual revolution, but I haven't yet found feminist vocabulary to articulate that animal instinct.