back to her teenage years , typewritten essays , some published poems , poems written for others as gi s , a finished novel , an unfinished manuscript . In the months a er she passed , when my dad first handed me the haul , I poured over the pages relentlessly . But over time , I slowed my pace . Sometimes months went by where I read nothing from her .
Now I too , am a mother , and I struggle to find tiny gaps in my days to focus on my own writing . To give myself some accountability , I recently joined a writing critique group where we have to set weekly writing goals . In addition to my " real " goals — edit this chapter , write a new poem , etc .— I add another “ writing goal ”: type up a piece of Mom ’ s writing each week . This way I would get through it all , at last .
This is the first week into tracking my goals , and of course my daughter has a sleep regression . I don ’ t have time until Friday to sit down and focus , exhausted and frustrated by her lack of sleep and fussiness . But Friday she finally naps peacefully , and I reach into the box of Mom ’ s writing and pull out a few sheets of yellowed paper . The first poem in the stack is written for “ George ” and I skim through it , type it up and add it to my folder titled “ Mom ’ s poems .”
The next page is dated at the top — September 2 , 1986 , and it is typewritten . Always , when I look at dates on these excerpts of hers , I calculate my age when it was written - in 1986 , I would have been five , and my brothers would have been six and three . Never do I calculate my mother ’ s age but I realize I ought to . She would have been twenty-nine .
Her notes at the top indicate it is an essay that she submitted to Redbook Magazine ’ s “ Young Mother ’ s Story ” section . I open a browser on my laptop and search for this , discover the old description : “ Personal and inspiring solutions to questions about sex roles , raising and caring for children , jobs , money , housework and marriage .” I don ’ t recall seeing this essay before in my perusal of her writings but perhaps I had skimmed past it because it didn ’ t resonate with me at the time - before I was a mother . Or perhaps I truly hadn ’ t seen it before . Or maybe I hadn ’ t needed it yet .
I set the papers on top of my keyboard and read this story that my mother felt compelled to share with other young mothers , her personal solution to a motherhood dilemma . It is titled “ Too Much Mommy .”
It is an essay about her choice to become a stay-at-home mother , her belief that women shouldn ’ t rely on daycares to potty train their kiddos , her philosophy of raising her children by her side , at all times . But more than that , it is an essay acknowledging that her plan was all