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Oh, Bonnie, thanks for that inspiring and wise post. With a job I love, a child that is a serious contender for the title of world's greatest kid (I know every parent thinks that, but hey, one of us has to be right, right?), not to mention a partner so devoted, hardworking, and cute that I recently compared him to Wall-E, I know I have precious little to bitch about. (Not that that's ever stopped me before.) The story of your years as a single-mom private investigator in D.C. is riveting (have you pitched this to Showtime yet?), and that vision of happily-ever-after—you and your honey pursuing your writing on separate floors, with occasional YMCA breaks—is something to aspire to. (Oh, and thanks for calling me "thirtysomething." Heh.)
And Samantha, because you solicited our thoughts on what to say to a daughter daydreaming about a financial Prince Charming: Though I'm sure it is likely happen at some point, I would be horrified. This is why I plan to keep her away as long as possible from Cinderella, Snow White, The Little Mermaid—pretty much any Disney movie or other heterosexual rescue fantasy. Can't she have a few years of imagining her life in some way unbound by those narratives?
My grandmother used to sing my siblings and me a song, "Que Sera Sera" (it's the song sung by Doris Day to her son at the creepy climax of The Man Who Knew Too Much.) The lyrics of the first verse go like this: "When I was just a little girl/ I asked my mother, what will I be?/ Will I be pretty, will I be rich?/ Here's what she said to me ..." Now, since I'm put off by the the values espoused in those lines, I sing it to my daughter like this: "Will I be happy/Will I be strong?" I know my doctored version won't keep the princess fantasies at bay forever, but whatever will be will be.
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Not to be overly clichéd here but, Dahlia, Hanna, Emily, and Dana, you are right now having the best and most exciting moments in your crowded, demanding, and conflict-filled lives and are incidentally superb role models for Jessica, Samantha (welcome to both!) and Noreen's Gen Y cohort. You awe-inspiring thirtysomething mommies can enjoy who you became for the next couple decades while only having to work like dogs to keep the inconsistencies and chaos (brunch and a birthday party?) at a tolerable level. When I was in the throes of work-life balancing, long before Queen made it a lyric, I used to whisper to myself during especially hectic periods, "These are the days of our lives." Not much time to appreciate them, but deeply exhaustingly satisfying. (Speaking of role models, Dana, Pearl sees that her mommy loves her work. One day your little boss lady will thrive in her own professional glory.)
As the most chronologically advanced of the women in this discussion (though the least experienced writer), my career and education opportunities were measured by an entirely different rubric than either of you post-feminist generations of women. In the late '70s, I was a high-school educated, comparatively underprivileged, unwed mother raising a first-grader in Washington, D.C.'s pre-gentrified Adams Morgan neighborhood. I was not expecting Prince Charming to rescue us. I cobbled together day care, latchkeys and a series of live-in babysitters for my little girl while I used my investigative talents to earn our keep. I earnestly tried freelance writing but the reality of 10 cents a word, even counting in 1978 dimes, was unworkable.
As it was, my long hours on client matters spilled over to homework hastily completed in the McDonald's booth after bedtime. When my daughter was 12, I married a guy who wrote books for a living. He poured the proceeds from five novels into shoring up our collapsing kitchen. He adopted my daughter, and we adopted him. Since he and I were in our mid-30s and each owned a mortgaged D.C. row house, we wondered if we needed a prenup. This was it: We each declared soberly, "Everything I have is yours."
Who supports whom in a marriage is always a matter of perspective. Either way, we pooled our resources. Two incomes are better than one. My steady investigative work and his sometimes lucrative flights of imagination paid for "private schools for future children." My daughter grew up a steadfast professional who loves her demanding work as a documentary maker, pays her own mortgage, and looks forward to having children to complain about. My Prince Charming and I are now child-free, both at-home writers' with offices on separate floors. Some days we leave the house only to work out at the YMCA. Samantha, you and your generational cohorts may not build the same cozy lifestyle as your parents but you may be thrilled to discover you build something more exciting and enriching when you work harder for it. In the end, the fantasy is whatever you make of it.