IX.
“TURN ’EM OFF.”
IT was because I had my theory under consideration,—the theory of child-training being the chief duty of a mother,—that I was so much impressed by our neighbor’s remark concerning the “three meals.” “Now, how is this?” said I to myself. “If ‘the three meals take about all day,’ and making and mending, the evening, where is the children’s time coming from?”
And, indeed, where is it coming from? I see that they get scraps of attention, when, for instance, as in Mrs. Fennel’s case, a bit of a sermon is thrown at them now and then in the intervals of cooking, but not often a good square meal. I see that all things else are attended to before the children; not meaning before they are clothed and fed, but before time is taken to talk or read with them. I see that mothers and children are, in a measure, strangers to each other; that they have too little opportunity of becoming intimate. I see, that, with the mothers of Tweenit, life is one prolonged hurry. Feet and hands are hurrying to “get things done.” The mind is ever on the stretch, planning how to “get things done,” or fearing things will not “get done;” and things do not “get done.” One day’s work laps over on to the next, one week’s on to the next, one month’s, one year’s; and so there is no pause, no let-down. Rest, quiet, leisure, are here unknown terms with the mother of a family; yet these are just what a mother of a family needs, and must have, for accomplishing what I think is her chief business; for this business of hers requires thought, study, earnest preparation. It requires the mother. Yes, it requires herself personally.
But how shall the children of Tweenit get their mothers, or the mothers their children? No doubt both would enjoy each other’s nearer acquaintance. I remember hearing Mrs. Melendy talk one day to her little two or three years old Rosa.
“You ’ittle peshious!” she said. “Mother hasn’t had you in her arms to-day. Mother will let every thing go, and hold you a little while, whatever!”
The child was delighted. Both were delighted. They hugged each other. They played peekaboo! They took kisses from each other’s lips; and, oh, what a good time they had! It lasted nearly five minutes. Little Rosa would fain have been held longer; but mother had too much to do. The singular part of it was, and the sorrowful part, that Mrs. Melendy appeared to consider her five minutes’ good time as a stolen pleasure. It was enjoyed with the feeling that she ought to be doing something else. I had the curiosity to wait and see what that something else was, and found it to be lemon-pies.
How is my theory going to work in Tweenit, if mothers have to steal time to fondle their children?
I came across a story the other day, which contained an excellent moral, well conveyed. I carried the book in to Mrs. Melendy, and said to her, “This story is exactly the thing for your little boys. You might read it aloud some evening, and talk it over with them.”
“O Mr. McKimber!” said she, “if you only knew how much I’ve got to do! Why, I can’t sleep nights thinking of it!”
So there it is again. And how is my theory to work in Tweenit, if boys must go away from home for their amusements, because mothers cannot even steal time to give them?
And how is it to work in other places, and among other classes? I have a cousin living in Elmbridge. She keeps help. I made a little visit there recently, one object of which was to learn whether she does or does not give to her children the leisure thus obtained. She does not. She gives it to extras in the way of cooking, extras in the way of house-adornments, extras in the way of dress. By way of test, I took my book with me, and presented it with remarks like those addressed to Mrs. Melendy on a similar occasion. Her answer was almost identical with that of Mrs. Melendy: “Oh, you don’t know how much I have to do!”
And I did not know. I could form no idea of the labor of flouncing that “suit.” It had already, she assured me, taken one week’s sitting-down time. My theory would not work at Cousin Sallie’s. Well, now, thought I, just for the curiosity of the thing, let me try what are called the highest circles. There is one family in the highest circles, the Manchesters, with whom I am on visiting terms. They live in the city. They keep a cook, chambermaid, parlor-girl, nursery-maid, and usually a seamstress. As far as work is concerned, Mrs. Manchester’s life is one prolonged state of leisure. Does she give this leisure to her children? She does not: she gives it to society. I thought I would try the “book” in her case, and did so, scarcely able to conceal a smile, as I thought how little she imagined that an experiment was being made upon her for the benefit of domestic science. I said a few words, as on the two former occasions, perhaps enlarging rather more on the desirableness of mothers giving their children more of themselves. But now came in society.
“My dear Mr. McKimber, society demands so much! Why, I scarcely have an hour to call my own!”
And I saw that it was so,—saw that what with shopping, dressing, dinner-parties, evening-parties, callers, and calling, the “chief duty” stood a small chance.
Among all classes, then,—among the wealthy, the comfortably off, and the uncomfortably off,—children are wronged. They are petted, pampered, furbelowed, amused, but still wronged: they are defrauded of their mothers. This is a broad statement; and, of course, there are exceptions. I know myself some thoughtful, careful, prayerful mothers, who understand their mission, and try to fulfil it. But, as a rule, the mission is not recognized. As a rule, children are shoved aside. And this is done in many cases deliberately. Said one of the sewing-circle members, “It won’t do to notice your children too much: if you do, you can’t turn ’em off.”
Yes, “Turn ’em off,” is the cry. And turned off they are,—some for “society,” some for “flounces,” some for “lemon-pies.”
How, then, and where, then, is my theory to work? for mothers, exceptions excepted, do not even feel that boy-and-girl-training is their first duty. And, allowing they could be convinced of this, then comes the question of time. How shall they find time to attend to it? which is rather an odd question, as it might be supposed that one’s first duty would have the first claim. Ah, well! it is almost a hopeless case. The next generation will not be a good generation, because it will not be started rightly; and it will not be started rightly, because mothers are not attending to their business; and mothers are not attending to their business, because they “have no time,” and because they are not aware that it is their business.
Why do not philanthropists organize a society for the enlightenment of mothers? That is what the country needs. And when such a society shall have been organized, and have accomplished its purpose, another must be started, the object of which shall be to furnish mothers with time: not by putting more hours into the day, or more days into the week, but by an easy process which I have in my mind, and which I am willing to divulge. Its name begins with S. I will note down here that the name begins with S.
There is a class of mothers not mentioned in these remarks, who make themselves slaves to their children by trying to gratify all their whims and wishes. This class need enlightenment as much as any other, for the kind of attention which children shall receive is a consideration of the utmost importance.