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Where's My Daughter? Call Her Forth

April 4, 2018 | Callie Feyen

An excerpt from Callie's book, The Teacher Diaries: Romeo & Juliet

It’s a few nights before Christmas. My mom and I are in the kitchen in the house I grew up in on Gunderson, near Chicago. She’s moving about, pulling food from the fridge, lifting plates out of cupboards, setting out napkins and wine glasses.

I’m standing in the same place I’ve always stood since my parents re-did the kitchen when I was 14, at the counter that opens to the dining room. I can see the outside—the oak trees, the streetlights that flickered on well before the 6 o’clock rush of Oak Park residents walking home from the El. December in the Midwest grows dark early. You can feel it at 3:30; the heavy cold presses on your shoulders as the barely blue sky fades quickly to grey, and then a crystal black so cold it’s like walking into ice. The streetlights shine for those returning from the city, and the night glimmers.

I am a brand-new mama. My daughter, Hadley, is two months old and asleep upstairs. My mom is basking in first-time grandma-ness like a gal who’s just been asked for her hand in marriage. She is effervescent, and soon Hadley will be up and friends will be over, the wine will be poured, and the house will be pulsing with celebratory oohs and aahs as Hadley is passed around.

My mom puts hummus and olives, cheese and crackers on a wooden slab in front of me. The library lights next door turn off for the evening, except for the security lights that cast a glow on the books like a blanket. I can see those lights and the books through my bedroom window. The Els rush by quickly now and I think they’re cold, too. I wonder about checking on Hadley when the door opens. It is Mrs. Carlson.

“Are you ready to laugh your ass off?” she asks, removing her gloves ever so daintily.

“Always,” my mom says, uncorking the wine and pouring a glass for her dear friend.

My mom and Mrs. Carlson have been friends since her daughter, Sarah, and I met our freshman year of high school. While Sarah and I had done our fair share of teenage girl mischief, my mom and Mrs. Carlson were known to get rowdy as well. And they did it in public.

The two of them used to rollerblade around town, with this ridiculous equipment on. They were known to blade all the way to the high school football field, where Sarah and I were frequently practicing our Drill Team routines. They’d yell hello as loud as they could. Neither of them knew how to stop so they’d roll and usually fall onto the grass, or crash into a fence, resulting in howls of laughter.

“Our moms are here,” I’d tell Sarah between clenched teeth, not moving a muscle in their direction.

“Oh my gosh,” Sarah would say, following suit. “Ignore them.”

You couldn’t ignore either of them, though. Nobody could. They were a force: a loud, incredibly witty, stunningly stylish force.

“Callie, sweetie,” Mrs. Carslon says as she makes her way towards where I’m standing. I smile and watch her expectantly. She puts her hands on either side of my face, and the smile she’s giving me seems to lift her hair. “You’re a mama!”

The way she says it makes me feel like I’ve done something, like I am something.

She lifts her glass. “Cheers,” she says, and my mom and I reciprocate, then Mrs. Carlson goes on to tell us a story that, indeed, has us laughing so hard, we could count it as cardio.

***

It’s easy to wince when reading the Nurse’s debut scene.

In fewer than fifty lines, we learn of her daughter’s death, and she shares the very palpable details of how she weaned Juliet, as well as her body’s reaction to that weaning. We learn that her husband is also gone, and we hear a little anecdote about Juliet’s toddler years. After my first reading of the Nurse’s speech, I wrote in the margin, “Girlfriend could’ve started a blog.”

Shakespeare’s Nurse is off-color, and she gives far more information than she needs to. She is also the person Juliet trusts most. When I teach Romeo and Juliet and we get to this part in the play, before we read, I give my students a warning.

“She says way too much, and she might make you squirm a bit.”

This, of course, makes them want to read on. Dangle any hint of something taboo in front of a middle school student, and they’ll devour it.

I go on to explain, though, that I believe it is her stories, perhaps even the inappropriate and overloaded details of her stories, that make Juliet trust her and tell her things.

“She’s kind of like me,” I tell my students, and they look at me, shocked at the comparison.

“C’mon,” I’ll say, “you know I have a story for everything.”

They laugh, thinking they are the ones who throw me off course, taking up class time, when I meticulously plan for it.

I offer my stories—my vulnerable, awkward, growing-up stories—because I’m leveling the playing the field. I want to bear some of what it is my students are going through so they will trust themselves to get at their stories. I’m attempting to pull something out of them, as the Nurse does for Juliet, as Mrs. Carlson has done for me.

The opening line in Act 1, Scene 3 is a question and a command. “Where’s my daughter?” Lady Capulet asks the Nurse. “Call her forth to me.” We can interpret that line literally. Mrs. Capulet doesn’t know where her kid is and is asking the Nurse to help find her.

I think this line can be interpreted figuratively as well. That is, we mothers don’t always understand what’s going on with our children—their experience is not our own. Recognizing this can be scary, when we see them on the brink of adolescence, marriage, motherhood. Where’s the daughter we once knew? Who is she now? How much of this experience do we help her navigate? How do we help her become who she’s going to be? Why not bring in our friends to call forth something in our children.

Before Lady Capulet tells Juliet to “Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,/And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen,” before Juliet falls for Romeo on the night she is to look at Paris, before the Nurse and the Friar take part in this star-crossed romance, let’s look at the Nurse in all her vibrant, story-telling glory. Let’s watch her and Juliet together, then nod along with Lady Capulet when she tells the Nurse to “come back again,/ I have remember’d me,” because it can be our friends who not only call forth something in our children, but help us remember a part of ourselves we’ve forgotten.

***

Mrs. Carlson, my mom, and I stand together in the kitchen for a few minutes before the rest of the company arrives—these two women sharing the space where I’d been listening to and wondering about the night, each of them with an arm on my shoulders, making me laugh.

Hadley wakes up, and I bring her downstairs to show her to friends who’ve watched me grow up. There’s Mrs. Padour, who made pancakes in the shape of my initials while her daughters and I watched, sleepy-eyed from staying up too late, and happy from the sizzle of buttermilk and flour, eggs and vanilla shaping itself into a perfectly fluffy C. There’s Mrs. Roldan, who, on a Saturday night when Celena and I were broken-hearted over a boy, sat with us on her bed and told us her own broken-hearted boy stories. Mrs. Todd is here, too. She gave me one of my first jobs, helping her sell tea in her tea store. I loved lifting the big glass jars, gently scooping up jasmine, Ceylon, or, my favorite, cinnamon spice tea leaves and spilling them into golden bags for customers. And at lunch time, Mrs. Todd and I would sip Diet Coke and eat our sandwiches and giggle about one thing or another we found silly. Now Mrs. Carlson is smiling, her eyes twinkling, and I think she’s coming up with her next story. Mom smiles, too.

All of them, like the Nurse, calling me forth.   


Photo by Ashlee Gadd.

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In Storytelling Tags mothers and daughters, it takes a village
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I leaned towards the window to get a better look at a plaid pair of ankle pants. I studied the pattern and wondered if they’d look cute with an Irish cable-knit fishermen’s sweater Jesse gave me for Christmas years ago. I didn’t get a chance to wear it that often when we were in the DC area, and the weather never got as cold as it does in the Midwest. I shook my foot rapidly while Cara read, and I stared at those ankle pants. I should get rid of that sweater, I thought. After all, minimalist wardrobes are all the rage: only keep what you love. If you haven’t worn it in several years, toss it.
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I hadn’t worn that sweater in years, this is true, but thinking about throwing it out made me sad. I could remember the morning Jesse gave it to me. We were living in South Bend, and he was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame.  He told me the story behind the sweater—that each pattern is unique to the fisherman so that if he drowns at sea, he can be identified. I thought about a wife sitting by a fire, knitting a sweater for her husband, a pattern designed for him so if she stands next to his lifeless body one day, she can point out the cable and twist stitches down the center, the rib stitch she decided on at the last moment for the sleeves. “This is mine,” she would say, running her fingers over the yarn that was once a pile on her kitchen floor while her husband sat nearby humming “The Night Visiting Song.”
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Maybe I’d wear that sweater again someday. It would look cute with those ankle pants. I began to imagine reading my Erasmus paper in that outfit at a writing conference, perhaps the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I would look fantastic, and I would express something about The Praise of Folly that nobody had thought of before.
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// From "Lessons in Folly (an excerpt from Twirl)" by @calliefeyen, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

Currently reading:

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I leaned towards the window to get a better look at a plaid pair of ankle pants. I studied the pattern and wondered if they’d look cute with an Irish cable-knit fishermen’s sweater Jesse gave me for Christmas years ago. I didn’t get a chance to wear it that often when we were in the DC area, and the weather never got as cold as it does in the Midwest. I shook my foot rapidly while Cara read, and I stared at those ankle pants. I should get rid of that sweater, I thought. After all, minimalist wardrobes are all the rage: only keep what you love. If you haven’t worn it in several years, toss it.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I hadn’t worn that sweater in years, this is true, but thinking about throwing it out made me sad. I could remember the morning Jesse gave it to me. We were living in South Bend, and he was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame.  He told me the story behind the sweater—that each pattern is unique to the fisherman so that if he drowns at sea, he can be identified. I thought about a wife sitting by a fire, knitting a sweater for her husband, a pattern designed for him so if she stands next to his lifeless body one day, she can point out the cable and twist stitches down the center, the rib stitch she decided on at the last moment for the sleeves. “This is mine,” she would say, running her fingers over the yarn that was once a pile on her kitchen floor while her husband sat nearby humming “The Night Visiting Song.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Maybe I’d wear that sweater again someday. It would look cute with those ankle pants. I began to imagine reading my Erasmus paper in that outfit at a writing conference, perhaps the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I would look fantastic, and I would express something about The Praise of Folly that nobody had thought of before.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
// From "Lessons in Folly (an excerpt from Twirl)" by @calliefeyen, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
The plan for the weekend was to worship, listen to speakers, and be together as a community. The only problem: child care was no longer available. After spending two full mornings tucked away in a separate room for the kids to be loud in, I break down into tears. I feel alone. I long for a physical second body. One to share responsibilities with. Mentally and physically I am drained.
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I walk outside to get some fresh air. The only place to sit is a cold metal bench facing a dreary pond. I look to my left and see two canoes. Not one person has dared take them into the green water while we’ve been here. Built to hold people while floating on water, instead they sit upside down on a piece of wood. I feel like the canoes: unnoticed and not living to my potential. Tears fall down my face.
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I don’t understand why I’m still single, I think to myself. I know I am being the best mama to my daughter that I can be, but I also feel I am missing out on something beautiful: a complete family. I long to be loved.
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A couple weeks later, I sprint around the house early one morning. My daughter is sleeping and I am already late for work. Again. With only one shoe on, running around like a madwoman, I  look for my lunch box. It is nowhere to be found.
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My daughter wakes up just in time.
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“What are you looking for, Momma?”
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“My lunch box.” I reply.
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“Oh! Hold on,” she says with utter excitement.
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She crawls out of bed, stumbles into the living room and comes back with my lunch box.
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“Here you go Momma, I made your lunch for you last night!”
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I peek inside the lunchbox to see all of her plastic play food in there. My heart bursts with pure joy.
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We head our way to the car to repeat another day.
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Turns out there is love for me after having a baby. I was just looking in all the wrong places. She was right in front of me the entire time.
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// #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member @woodyface #loveafterbabies
Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
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I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
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But a funny thing happened by the time I reached aisle four; I felt confident, almost proud. I felt like a mom. As it turns out, the past five years have produced a mom who knows what she’s doing every now and then.
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile
Birth exposes you in ways you’re not expecting, and I don’t just mean the most private areas of your body, which are exposed to a room full of medical professionals. It exposes your heart, too. Never before have I been so incapable of hiding my innermost feelings; the love for my newborn son, the fear for my ruined body, the awareness of the fragility of life. My husband saw me at my weakest, in every possible way. Now, six weeks later, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. What if this experience has completely changed how he feels about me?
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My doctor gave me the green light to resume normal activity. I’m healed, she says. But here I am, sitting at a green light, frozen in place. Green light means go, but I’m scared to move forward.
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I take a step closer to the mirror, then shimmy out of my yoga pants and tank top, slipping on the black lace lingerie. Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way. But it’s possible that what he says is true, and after all this, he loves me even more. I want so desperately to trust him and let his reassurances drown out the self-deprecating voice in my head.
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God had to literally knock me off my feet for me to finally let someone see me completely. All I want to do right now is build my walls back up, but I won’t. Isn’t this the whole idea of marriage? Truly seeing someone and loving them anyway? And truly letting yourself be seen and letting yourself be loved?
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Our bedroom door quietly creaks open. I turn toward my husband, my heart racing with fear and anticipation and everything in between. Within seconds, he’s crossed the room, filling the space between us.
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His kiss tells me more than words possibly could.
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// From "Green Light Means Go" by an anonymous guest writer, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
A stack of puzzles sits atop our office desk. Each puzzle has at least one missing piece. We’ve searched couch cushions, rearranged furniture, and moved tables and dressers. We don’t give up, at least not yet; the stack of puzzles attests to that fact. Their presence reminding us to keep looking, to keep hoping to find what is lost.
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I want to tell my husband that our marriage, or our love more aptly, is like those missing puzzle pieces.
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Not necessarily lost for all time, but buried underneath something else.
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I try to remember the excitement and tingle of first love and the joy of being together on long car rides. Those feelings are still there, yet most days I fear they’re buried beneath the rigors and busyness of our day-to-day lives.
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Some days I’ll go to bed without saying goodnight or giving a good night kiss - not because I don’t feel anything, but because I just can’t do one more thing.
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My love lies hidden with the puzzle pieces under the couch.
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The other day, our daughter came running to us both. Cheering and exclaiming, “This, this, this!” as she shows us a puzzle piece. She places it in the missing hole. The puzzle is complete once again.
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She’s cheering, we’re cheering.
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The piece wasn’t lost, just waiting for us to find it. Waiting for us to be surprised by its presence once again.
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There are moments when my feelings of love come bursting forth. I want to cheer, too, like my daughter. “This, this, this. This is the love I know and felt.” I want to jump for joy again and fall into your arms.
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I hope we’ll keep unearthing this love, keep searching for it, for years to come. Leaving pieces of ourselves and this love wherever we go.
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We fit together, you and I.
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We belong together like the one missing piece that can’t be found until you’ve stopped looking for it, and find it suddenly right where you left it.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
"We’ll figure it out." They seem like rote, meaningless words, don’t they? If there’s a continuum from the solid confidence of “A Plan” to the futility of “Grasping at Straws,” “figuring it out” feels like it falls closer to the latter. In the face of fear and uncertainty about things as big and weighty as health and financial stability, it’s a solution so nebulous and ambiguous that it should fall flat upon delivery. Instead it has provided courage, absolution, and comfort by turn.
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Why?
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I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the “we” that makes the difference. My fear and shame is Jon’s. His worry and anxiety is mine. It’s not just my stuff to work through or his to deal with. It’s ours, and I’m learning that it’s just as much an act of love to allow someone else to carry your burdens as it is to be the one who offers to help. We’ll figure it out has become our shorthand for “I’m going to help you carry this and you’re going to let me because of the love between us.”
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It took six months of the tightest budget imaginable, but we figured out quitting my job.
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It took a few extra writing gigs and moving some money from savings, but we figured out the credit card bill.
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And it took two weeks of tests, but I was sitting in the doctor’s office with Jon when we found out that his heart is fine—the irregularities are harmless and nothing to worry about.
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After 10 years of marriage, we’ve learned there are times for plans and research and arguments and spreadsheets. And then there are times to close the computer, stop debating, and make the call. There are my battles, his battles, and the ones we fight together, guarding each other’s weak side. There are nights when we stay up for hours, talking through options. And there are nights when the only words we need are "I know." "I understand." "We’ll figure it out."
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// From "We'll Figure It Out" by @jennbatchelor, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

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