Magnify

I was born in the early seventies—a great time to be a feminist baby. It was the Free to Be…You and Me era, and my parents were two baby boomers who, while not quite flower children, took to heart the political upheavals of their generation. We wore that record out. In our house, all people were equal and everyone had unlimited potential.

Despite the freedom to be them, I didn’t end up as a CEO, astronaut or Supreme Court justice. I got a world-class college education and worked the same job my grandmother had: housewife.

From the start, I refused the uncomfortably Schlaflyesque moniker of Stay-At-Home-Mom. That seemed so limiting for someone who could do anything, be anything, handle anything. And besides, the command “stay” made me feel like a dog. Unlike Lisa Belkin’s Opt-Out Generation, I was opting-in to the challenge of redefining parenthood on my own terms, like so many of my punk rock idols had done with political and creative scenes. Hell, I thought, this parenting shit was gonna be easy.

My son Elliott changed all that. Elliott was no mere fussy baby. He was a shrieking, sobbing, kicking, howling-until-he-ran-out-of-air-and-turned-purple baby. For hours at a time my wanted, loved, adorable boy would wail inconsolably while my brain melted and ran out my ears, leaving behind only the darkest possible id, alone in that shadowy corner where all the demons hide.

You’ve seen the stories of parents charged with grievous assaults on their children. You see their grainy mugshots and think: How could anyone do that? I knew. I knew how such a horrible thing could happen, though I had only parenthood in common with the moon-faced adults on the news. I had everything going for me. A safe, monogamous relationship (with a man, conveniently, so I had access to his health benefits in addition to many other hetero perks), a middle-class lifestyle that included financial stability, good physical health, a college education, a support network of friends and family, a child that my husband and I planned for. In short, I had everything I needed to get out of my desperate circumstances.

I love my son. But when it comes to the care of children, love is not enough. What could have happened if my advantages hadn’t been there? What if I had been single? Addicted? A teenager? A rape victim? Homeless? Uninsured? All of the above? I would suffer, to be sure, but the real victim would be my child. Think of the times you’ve kicked a dent in a failing hard drive or an unresponsive automobile. Don’t for a moment think, “I’m better than that.” You’re not better. Your situation is better, but you’re not.

The suffering of children affects everyone. Leaving aside for a moment the obviously cyclical nature of poverty and abuse, consider your daily life. Who repairs your car’s brakes? Who prepares your restaurant meal? Who invests your retirement savings? Who answers your 911 call? Someone’s child. All of us, including the childless, have an interest in being sure each child is raised with love, compassion and dignity.

My moment of clarity was truly profound. Too bad it had to happen facedown in the unvacuumed wool pile of my son’s Pottery Barn nursery rug. Multiple doses of Paxil and hours on a therapist’s couch later, I lifted myself from the metaphorical floor and started thinking activism. Online, I found hundreds of groups waiting for my time and money, but most were single issue: abortion rights, GLBT rights, welfare rights, education reform, health care reform, et cetera. All pieces of the puzzle, to be sure, but no one was exactly right. My epiphany required connection, not fragmentation.

I settled with the local chapter of a national feminist organization, the venerable grandmother of the Free to Be…You and Me record I had so enjoyed. No longer content just to mail in my check, I showed up to meetings, where I broached the topic of child care. As in, “do you ever have meetings with child care provided? Y’know, so moms without a backup plan could come?”

I was observed with a strange blend of amusement and confusion. Over time, it became clear that the majority of the women involved with the organization were veterans of 1970s-style activism and, in the mother/worker, either/or divide of that era, skipped parenthood entirely. I was a generation younger, brought up by Marlo Thomas and Madonna. Whatever I aimed to do, I planned on bringing my baby along for the ride.

To be fair, the ladies tried. We found a willing teenage babysitter and paid her to do nothing because no moms showed up. This embarrassed me to no end, as I had talked up the meeting (and the free child care! Jeez!) at my community center’s newborns group. I assumed that the new mommies from my liberal, middle-class neighborhood had become as radicalized as I had.

I was wrong. These mommies had other worries: Parker’s vocabulary was not as diverse as Olivia’s; Cooper didn’t sleep through the night; How could they be sure there would be a slot for Claire at the Montessori preschool? They didn’t have room to take on the problems of the rest of the world, thank you very much.

To be fair, these ladies tried, too. They clicked their tongues and agreed that parenthood does open your eyes, actually, and being a mother is like living with your heart on the outside of your body. And maybe they would give my group some money (they didn’t).

I found myself stuck between two worlds: my family and my feminism. Not a unique place to be as the Mommy Wars started heating up, but unsettling, nonetheless. I could be an activist, but I would have to leave my baby at home with his father. I could be a mom, but I would have to leave my politics buried deep within my diaper bag.

Clearly, if such a thing as a radical housewife were going to exist, I would have to create the paradigm myself. I’d need to integrate wiping baby butts with writing impassioned fundraising letters—that is, if I wanted to keep my face from falling back down into the rug again.

I live where politics and real life intersect. My sign at the 2004 March for Women’s Lives in Washington, D.C. read “Choice is a Family Value.” I used my second pregnancy in 2005 to fine effect when I marched in support of an embattled Planned Parenthood, this time with a sign announcing “Pregnant Mom for Abortion Rights.” Elliott has been kissed by Al Franken’s daughter and scolded by U.S. Representative (and Keith Olbermann target) Michele Bachmann. He was the only protester at the 2008 Republican National Convention in St. Paul who shook hands with the burly SWAT officers with pleasure, not irony.

Our culture still has a long way to go, and so do I. It’s time to opt-in to a world where we’re all part of one human family. Otherwise there’s another F-word that’s going to describe us: fucked. Put on your radical aprons, gang, and let’s get to work.

Shannon Drury is a Minneapolis-based writer, parent and activist. She writes a regular column for the Minnesota Women’s Press, and her writing has also appeared in the Minneapolis Star Tribune, HipMama.com, and AlterNet. She blogs at shannondrury.blogspot.com and at myspace.com/theradicalhousewife.