by Anna Kunnecke
As a mother, my shoe collection has dwindled, both in number and in style points. I am down to four pairs of heels now, and two of them are just incarnations of the same walkable pump--one pair in red suede, one in passable alligator. I used to have stacks of shoes, in all the really beautiful colors: emerald green, peacock blue, gold, purple, pink, scarlet. I rarely bothered with black or brown; instead, my shoes were my finery, my plumage. They made me tall and graceful, and when people raised their eyebrows at the towering spires of the heels, I used to reply tartly that they were actually quite practical: they paid for themselves, see, in champagne and taxi rides. But the truth was, I rarely accepted a free ride anywhere, and only a few thousand free drinks, tops, and my feet usually hurt by the end of the day.
Then
suddenly I had a baby to carry around, first in my belly and then, less
gracefully, in a stroller. I see shiny mamas soaring their enormous
Swedish strollers through the wide Omotesando boulevards or jogging through
Arisugawa park with bicycle strollers, but that was never a possibility for
me. Our train station has neither elevator nor escalator, so I was the
only available engine available to hoist the perambulator up the stairs with
its precious cargo. My shoes reflected this sad change of affairs.
My heels sat neglected for a while, then were swept out in a feng shui attempt
to peace with this new stage of life. I bought some flats, but my heart
wasn't in it. I got some awesome sneakers, but the truth is that I don't
like sneakers.
The
strange thing about the gigantic life-changing events in your life is that they
sneak up on you and then smack you in the face. For American women it
might be the moment they sign for the dreaded 'mom van,' but for me it was the
moment I stared into my genkan shoe cabinet and said in horror, 'Oh my
god. I've got mom shoes in there.'
It's
been hard to learn to walk flat-footed through the world. Stilettos lend
themselves to graceful flourishes and bold strides. They call them
fuck-me-shoes for a reason, but they're also called, appropriately,
shit-kickers. I never felt more feminine or more powerful than I did in
heels. I might not be able to run, but I could do all sorts of
damage. I miss the leverage, the height, the attitude.
Now
my baby is bigger, and though heavier to carry, she can move though the world
on her own steam most of the time. It's thrilling. I can sense my
old loftiness drifting back; I can feel myself going tippy-toed in
anticipation. I love the earthiness of motherhood as it manifests in my
daughter, the way our bodies were entwined, the way the umbilical cord
stretches further and further. But feet firmly planted on the ground,
grounded, down-to-earth--none of this appeals to me. For a little longer
I will clomp steadily, I will step carefully, pad meekly along. I will
chase, dance, throw my girl in the air and twirl her around. But I can't
wait to be a little closer to the sky myself, to walk a few inches off the
ground again, to travel by air, by red carpet and, let's face it, by
taxi.
by Anna Kunnecke
This
is how they separate the sheep from the goats, the good mothers from the wanton
wenches: school supplies.
For
preschool my daughter needs bags: a bevy of bags, so very many bags, a whole
flock of bags. Drawstring bags, cup
bags, laundry bags, shoe bags. I
must acknowledge that it's not as bad as the old days, when my mother had to
make ALL of my school things to spec--from handwritten Japanese instructions,
naturally--bookbag, fork and chopstick case, lunchbox wrap with complicated ties
and Velcro... it was awful. No, I am
very lucky because now, see, I can buy that all ready-made.
However.
You
pay for that, and not just in money.
You have to broadcast your inferior status as a mother, because the
ready-made bags only come in two colors: electric blue or barmaid fuschia. Needless to say they are all festooned
with manic crawling characters so loathsomely cute that they make me want to
brush my teeth with gravel. Also
needless to say, my daughter adores them.
She wants the bunny-kitty with pink hearts for eyes and little purple
stars for brains, the ones with bouncy purple pigtails and fluffy salmon
clouds. They make my eyes
hurt. They make my teeth
hurt. Oh gravel, purge me of the
loathsome sweetness.
If,
however, I were the kind of mother who were willing to make bags with my own
two hands, in other words if I were someone who really loved my child as a
mother should, my fabric choices would widen. Now they would include sweet tintype trains, twining strawberries,
and crisp blue gingham dotted with ladybugs. So lovely were these fabrics that I had a brief identity
crisis right there in the fabric aisle.
I
am bad at sewing, I hate it, and it has proven to be a sucking vortex of time,
money, and dignity. This is
because the finished product usually requires much weeping and many extra trips
for new materials to replace the ruined ones. But there on the precipice, torn between the tasteful bolts
of respectability and the public declaration of garish shortcoming, I
waffled.
Not
for long. Fate saved me: I asked
the child's opinion on the ladybugs.
"Not blue, pink," she announced, pulling out of the rack of lovely
fabrics the only sour note, a bright fluorescent pink. Thank heavens. That snapped me out of my sewing
insanity immediately. She gets a
blue bag, the only plain one in the store, because I am mean beyond words. The absence of cartoon characters leads
me to believe that it is not actually intended for children, but for a specific
mysterious purpose, perhaps storing one's dentures and hearing aid, or toting
cans to recycling. I don't know
what that purpose is, but her teachers will, and they will read its coded
message and look at me with pity and understanding, silently acknowledging my
acceptance of my second-rate mother-status.
Oh
well. If my daughter doesn't like
it, she can sew her own damn bag.
I may be a charlatan wench, but I'm excellent at childproofing. Good luck finding the needles,
kid.
