Four Hundred Forty

To say I struggle with my weight is to lie.  I am not happy with my weight, but with it I do not struggle.

To struggle suggests a battle of two opposing elements.  These elements--sometimes equally matched--are adversaries pitted against each other physically or mentally or emotionally (or a molotov cocktail of all three). Neither adversary willing to concede to defeat; both exerting extensive energy to victory.  

In my life I have experienced struggle against stress, against procrastination, against depression, against financial instability, against ennui, against single-motherhood (and the stereotypes associated with it)--against the multitude of daily labors faced by people of all races and genders working to live the they imagine.  I have not always welcomed these struggles--who wouldn't prefer, at times, a struggle-free existence--but I have met the struggles with the best of my resolve and might, and whether defeated or victorious, I have come away stronger and wiser.  After all, isn't that the objective of struggle--personal betterment?

However, among all of the struggles I have confronted in my life, I cannot honestly list my weight as one.  I am familiar with my weight.  We share the same space (and the same pants) but we have, up to this point, done so in relative silence.  It mocks me occasionally, scoffs me sporadically, needles me frequently.  In response, I imbibe in sweet or salty delights.  No confrontation.  No battle.  No struggle of note. Just me and my weight, living in coefficient delusions of harmony.

As I ended 2013, measuring my accomplishments and losses, and looked forward to 2014, anticipating its accomplishments and losses, my sights moved beyond the standard 365 days of the year ahead.  Instead, I tallied the days laying between me and my next life milestone--my 40th birthday.

And without hesitation I resolved that during the 400 days between now and that milestone, I will struggle against my weight.  It may mock and scoff and needle me as it wills.  I will sweat and stretch and stonewall it into submission.

I will struggle.  And it will be worth it.

Time to Go Forward

Moving forward.  Yet again.  Yes again.  Because what was behind, back, before simply weighed me down in a facade of progress and growth.  Confident words over-shadowed by festering weakness.  Seeds of indecision, as if defying their very core, blossom into hardened oaks, reaching forward with the strength of a women found.  Thus, every part of me says go ahead.  Further ahead.  Yes ahead.  Back to me.  The me I see ahead of me.  The me I left behind when I couldn't keep up with myself.  The me that waits, unchanged, for the epitome of me to rejoin me, not move backward. 




Submission for "100 Word Song"
Tame Impala "Feels Like We Only Go Backward"

Ghosts of Halloweens Past

If I were to pin-point when the enchantment of Halloween evaporated for me, I would readily be drawn to the year my sister was born, the year I went Trick-or-Treating as Strawberry Shortcake, the year of my first store-bought costume--the year I was seven.

Prior to that year, my mom elicited the aide of her Singer sewing machine to stitch for me traditional princess, witch, and clown costumes.  But none of these impressed me as much as the authentic Native American Indian attire she crafted with precision and care for both me and my younger brother.  Suede pieces latticed together with leather rope.  Beaded detailing on the smock of my dress and on the front plate of Travis's shirt.  My long, blond braids entwined with leather and feathers; his fine hair set away from his face with a simple, yet authentically inspired, headdress.  If not for the betrayal of our Irish, freckled complexions, we looked authentic.  Our mom's love was rewarded a thousand-fold with the compliments from strangers as we wandered the streets in search of treats (being far too scared of tricks).

Store-bought costumes (as manufactured in the early 80s) just didn't cut it.  The plastic, front only masks, held on by a length of elastic that, in a feat of gravity would twist itself around your hair like a python on a man, ripping it out in clods, were a flimsy rendering of the character's features.  The costumes themselves choked at the neck, rose in the crotch, and anticipated a flood at the ankle.  Instead of embodying believable characters, the costumes bred laughter, and, as a result, my discontent.  And thus, I abandoned Halloween as a magical time of year (and sought that magic in literature and movies--and, much further down the line, in parenting--instead).

As a mom, I understand the mystery and wonder that Halloween holds for children.  I enter each witching season intent on building for Braden an experience similar to the ones my mom crafted for me, to brainstorm homemade costumes for him to wear Trick-or-Treating.  For his first official Halloween, he was set to go as Winnie the Pooh, a hand-me-down plush costume (not homemade), but when he saw the factory manufactured bee costume I had donned, he 'buzzed' after me until I let him wear it. That year started an eight-year tradition of purchasing Halloween costumes for Braden instead of making them, a tradition much less festive, yet much easier, than concocting something original on my own. 

The closest I came to original costuming was the year he went as a ghost, but you don't really have to be crafty or innovative to cut up a sheet.  Sadly, before that night was over, the ghost costume had to be hung like a toga. It seems five year old boys don't glide as gracefully as Casper, and after the fifth or sixth face-plant, a college frat boy seemed safer than a friendly ghost.

In defense of store bought costumes, the frightening skeleton he paraded as when he was five and ominous zombie skateboard punk he embodied last year were both much cooler than anything I could have imagined; yet I wonder if, as his mother, I should demand more from myself for All Hallows Eve.

And these are my mommy-fueled fears:  Does Braden enjoy the rituals of childhood in a manner as memorable as I had the fortune to experience as a girl?  Should I gauge his experiences by my own past or by a barometer we set for ourselves?  Do I allow the ghost of Halloweens past to haunt the present or do I exercise them while Braden still shivers at things that go bump in the night?

Delusions of athleticism, part two

I am not an athlete.  Not even remotely.  But even at eight, Braden is an athlete.  For Braden, athleticism comes naturally as part of a gene mutation he got from his dad (who is also naturally athletic).  Think I am too biased to proclaim that my son is athletic--you might be right; after all, it is very mommy-like to consider your child good at everything they do.  But as someone completely void of any athletic ability, I can identify such weakness in others from miles away and Braden, though a little clumsy at times, adapts to athletic situations with ease.

Braden tried team sports with three seasons of soccer and one season of basketball, but had little patience for sharing his team's success with the team.  He, even at 5 and 6, was a ball-hog and a show-boater--not very endearing behavior.  Upon some advice from a friend, I put him into swimming.  Swimming, a sport you play against yourself, is ideal for him.  So, Braden is a swimmer.  This proclamation makes my friends Stephanie and David, who have unsuccessfully attempted to persuade me into letting him loose on a football field for three years now, cringe. But for now---and secretly in the recesses of my heart forever--he swims.  Like a fish.  Like the next Michael Phelps.  Like no other 8 year-old boy on his team.

This season marks Braden's second in year-round swimming.  When he came into this season in August, he swam a 25 back in 23.55; 25 free in 31.06; 25 fly in 31.54; and he rarely swam the 25 breast without DQing.  Last weekend, he ended the short-course season with these times:  25 back in 18.20; 25 free in 16.28; 25 fly in 18.50; and 25 breast in 26.62.  In total, Braden shaved over 32 secs off this season and he can swim the breast without a DQ.

At districts here at Mizzou, he left with a first place medal in the back, 4th in the fly, 5th in IM relay, and 14th in free.  At State, he left with a 9th in back and a 15th in fly.  But the medals are only half of the accomplishment.  He's stronger.  He's more focused.  He's confident.  He's proud.  He's an athlete.

And I love watching him swim.

Mother Nature Misnomer

As a literature teacher, I fully understand the symbolism behind Mother Nature, named such because of the parallels of fertility, fecundity, and over-all nurturing bounty between the two.  (And even if I weren't a literature teacher, the connection between the two life-bearing entities would still be obvious.  It's one of those things you just know.)

Four hours in to what meteorologists across the world purport to be unlike any winter weather system to hit Missouri in years, I can confidently assert that Mother Nature is neither a stay-at-home mom or a single mother.  Think about it.  If Mother Nature was sole entertainment provider for her children during severe weather systems, she would be more sympathetic to mothers.  But no, she's too busy climbing the ladder and leaving her mark on the world to think about the middle woman--the actual mothers of the world.

Drive on roads covered by .5 inches of ice to pick her child up from school...not Mother Nature; purchase groceries for a potential three (if not more) days isolated to the house...not Mother Nature; shovel the driveway while her son begs her to build a snowman...not Mother Nature; explain to her son that just because there's no school tomorrow doesn't mean he can stay up as long as he wishes...not Mother Nature; watch countless episodes of "Johnny Test" as well as sequels of movies that shouldn't have even produced in first runs...not Mother Nature; play Scrabble and Sorry and Battleship and Uno and Monopoly until she's numb...not Mother Nature; hum the background music to Mario Bros in your sleep...not Mother Nature; lose personal mental capacity to such severity that you YouTube search the "Mario Bros" music and find this:  Big Band performs "Mario Bros" theme...not Mother Nature.

Nope.  Mother Nature lacks the compassion and heart of a real Mother.  Because I wasted thirty minutes of my intelligence today looking at Mario Bros YouTube videos, I have no other suggestions of names.  For lack of something better, I'm just going to call it nature.

Mother, my ass....

Trivial tidbits, week eleven

My parents named me after Darcy Farrow, the tragic heroine of a John Denver song by the same name.  My brother after William B. Travis, commander of the regulars who defended the Alamo against Santa Anna.  My sister's name was a favorite from the dictionary.

I don't know about other parents, but I felt a lot of pressure when it came to naming my son.  Everyone, even strangers, rang in with their favorite suggestions.  His middle name, Samuel, was known with certainty.  Finding a first name that was unique, yet not bizarre, fitting of a future Senator or musician, equally masculine and poetic, that flowed with Samuel Cearley, proved more difficult.  Momentarily driven by a family pattern connected to the alphabet, Braden was almost Eldridge or Eli.  Eldridge lost out when my mom suggested we call him Ridge for short.  (I've always believed that you name your child what you wish him to be called, not something you later morph into a nickname.  I believe I subconsciously learned this from my step-mom, whose kids are Mandy and John, not Amanda and Jonathon.)  Eli haunted me because of a former student with the same name.  Being a teacher further plagued the naming process because every name associated itself with another experience.  However, I decided to twist the teacher-name association situation into a positive one for naming my son.  After much creative thinking, I constructed Braden, who is named after Ben, Rashad, Aaron, Dusty, and Stephen respectively.  These students embody the very qualities I want in my son as he reaches his teenage years (and further into adulthood).  While we have encountered several boys named Braden since his birth, only one other shares his spelling, and I am certain none came by their name as uniquely as Braden Samuel Cearley.

In honor of naming rituals (and as a belated holiday blog), I bring you today's trivia:

What other names were considered for the red-nosed reindeer before his parents settled on Rudolph?

The winner of today's trivia challenge gets to listen to Braden play "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" on the piano.

And if you're willing, share your naming story with me.

When I grow up, part two

I knew with certainty at a very young age that I wanted, possibly even needed, to be a mom someday.  In my girlish fantasy, my home echoed with laughter and fighting of a child and his siblings--four youngsters in total--while my husband and I prepared dinner and alleviated the worries of our children with a smile and a hug.

Oh, the naivete' of childhood.

I have been a single mom since the beginning of my pregnancy; yet even after 8 years, I find myself continually surprised by the closed-minded, often judgmental responses people give when learning this.  First, they assume I am divorced.  When they discover that I've never been married, they presume the worst about my moral fortitude.  (No one has ever done this verbally, but such assumption is easily read on one's face.)  When learning that my son's father and I conscientiously and maturely decided that marriage was not the solution to our parenting situation, the conversation becomes slightly uncomfortable.  When I announce that my son's father, step-mom, and I get along quite well given our unique parenting roles, brows raise in perplexed confusion.  And when I explain my views about single motherhood being a part of God's plan for my life, they run for the holy water.

Those who know me well know that I believe in God, but that my faith is in many ways cumulus--both well-defined and fuzzy, much like the clouds of the same nature.  This is not to say I am a fair-weather fan, a believer only when it works for me; instead, my faith is mine--a private matter for the most part--that I do not feel comfortable discussing at great length with most people, mainly because my views on God's role in our lives is often controversial to Christians more devout than I.

I inherently believe that being a single mother is part of my path, destiny (or whatever you choose to call it) that God set out for me.  If I had waited for society's definition of the ideal family structure--living happily-ever-after with the Prince Charming from my childhood vision--to become a mom, I would still be waiting for that glass slipper.  Of course, I understand the science behind my son's creation (and give that science its due for its role), but I also know that His blessing came sublimely into my life, giving me hope and faith in something more.  His plan for me, as His plans always do, tempered mine, quieting my longing for a family of my own.  His plan for me, as His plans always do, brought me the endless joy (and frequent headaches) of motherhood.  His plan for me made me me.

And so, when I grow up, I want to be a mother.  My home will echo with the laughter of a son and I will alleviate his worries with a smile and a hug.  I will relish in the naivete' of childhood, knowing that when I grow up, I will be whole.

Trivial tidbits, week three

Braden pulled a loose tooth yesterday before school--his second tooth lost this month.  The tooth fairy, feeling a little strapped by the recent activity, did a little research about tooth loss to see if she needs to seek part-time employment to support this new habit.  In celebration of Braden's two teeth, this week offers two trivia challenges.


How many years does it take most teeth to cycle from first eruption as a baby tooth to final stage of permanent tooth?

This little tooth fairy reminds me of my angel tattoo.

On average, how many baby teeth does a child lose per year? (Braden, being the over-achiever he is, has lost more teeth this month than the average child looses in a year.)

On the upside, Gigi--my mom, who informed me this evening that I earned whatever change was on hand when I lost a tooth as a child--has promised to match whatever the tooth fairy leaves Braden on his next tooth.  Actually, this isn't the upside; even with half of the pot sponsored by an outside source, the tooth fairy would still have to scrounge for $2.50 in order for Braden to earn the average income left by the tooth fairy under each pillow.  (For those of you not following the awkwardly worded word problem, this means the average child earns $5.00 per tooth.  Outrageous!)

If you know the answers to tonight's trivia questions, you will earn $2.50 per question.  Or you can yank out a tooth and wait for the fairy...

There's no crying during a water gun fight

Shortly before coming in from playing for the night, Braden and several kids in the neighborhood started a water gun fight.  Actually, it wasn't even a fight.  Braden had a large water gun that he refilled several times, allowing four other kids to squirt him until it was empty, making him the only child in soggy shoes for most of the "fight."  Excited squeals echoed off the sides of the carbon-copy duplexes on our street indicating that a good time was being had by all...and then a cry broke through the twilight.

I looked around, assuming that someone had tripped and scraped a knee.  When I noticed Ava kneeling on the sidewalk, I moved closer to see if she was okay.  "I'm not allowed to get my clothes wet," she wailed in agony.  I inspected her shirt, which was a little damp but not drenched and promptly coaxed her back into the giggling mob that was now running down the cul-de-sac away from Braden.  She followed suit, and sprinted down the block...for a moment...and then she crumpled to the ground, sobbing even louder.  Again I sought the source of her anguish, and again she wailed, "I'm not allowed to get my clothes wet."

At this point, I lost my patience for the cute, doe-eyed doll.  While Braden should have considered the other kids before barrelling after them with watery furry, I have a major issue with a child who knows her parents wishes--in this case that she not get her clothes wet--yet actively participates in an activity that defies said wishes.  I understand that she's a child, but she was eagerly and happily involved in the fight when the gun was pointed at Braden, but the moment the tables turned, she became a loud, accusing tattle-tale.  Had that been Braden with the crocodile tears, I would have said to him what I said to her:  "If you know that you are not supposed to get wet, why in the world would you play with the boy with the water gun?"

I know this is harsh, even bitchy, but kids need to be held accountable, even at eight, for their actions.  Yes, Braden was holding the water gun that got Ava wet (and he went to bed early because of his role in the drama), but Ava knew better, as evident in the fact that she cried.

Ava's mom shot me that "how dare you let your child be so cruel" glance as she gathered her up to take her inside.

Oh well, I don't want Braden playing with someone who cries over a damp shirt anyway...

Trivial tidbits, week two

Braden has been sick for the past several days.  It's nothing serious, just some annoying bug that presents with a fever slightly over the "infectious" level and some potty habits not worth discussing.  Some people assume this means I've had a break the past few days; that life is easier with a sick boy than with one that is well.  If only... Unlike most kids (or what I assume to be the case with most kids), Braden's activity level does not decrease as the fever increases.  I do the best I can to subdue him, claiming that too much movement will irritate the fever, but fighting with him about abstract concepts such as how skateboarding can negatively impact his upset stomach takes too much out of me.  Cabin fever set in shortly after the first dose of Children's Advil took hold and we spent five days fighting fever and each other.  The only thing that brought either of us solace:  a Shrek marathon.

There are thousands of gems hidden among the ogre's caustic, but compassionate, quests with Donkey, Puss, and Fiona which lend themselves to trivial trivia.  After all, nearly every movie in the Disney library is alluded to in some fashion in the movies.  However, my favorite moment can be found early in the original when Shrek and Donkey cross the swinging bridge into Dragon's castle.  That scene provides the inspiration for today's trivia.



After crossing the bridge, Shrek pats Donkey on the head and says, "That'll do Donkey; that'll do."  From which movie does this line originate?
  

I'll check back in 24 hours to see who wins the grand prize: a date with Braden the next time he's sick!

Trivial tidbits, week one

During my time in New Haven, CT this summer, I spent every Tuesday night dominating pub trivia with my favorite Chaucerians.  While there are some facets of Yale that I do not miss--91 Howe, EXPLO, modern art installations, the ill-timed ringing of a cell phone--I have noticed a void in my life during these past few trivia-less Tuesdays.  And so, in honor of brain stimulation, I bring you Tuesday trivia.  Trivia on my terms--meaning no obscure questions about which Beatles' song has the fewest words (the answer to which cannot be accurately researched through Wikipedia, just another reason it shouldn't be used as a valid source of information.)  Instead, you'll get questions about whatever seemingly unimportant topic I find important at the time.  I'm excited about sharing my useless information with you.  Without further ado......



Why does Ferb, of Disney's Phineas and Ferb, have a British accent when his brother, Phineas, does not?

Phineas and Ferb is by far the best kids' show on television.  Witt.  Science.  Inventions.  Secret agents.  Twirpy brothers.  Catchy musical interludes.  If you have a child, especially a boy, it's a must.

Actually, it's a must even if you don't have a child.....

The tie that binds

Braden woke this morning and said "I feel like it's a tie kind of day."  Not exactly characteristic of most 8 year-old boys, who tend to prefer action-hero t-shirts over "fancy clothes," but definitely a common occurrence at our house.  An occurrence that makes my heart smile.

Braden's love for ties started when he was quite young, maybe even as little as three.  Some may think he loves ties because of some preference of mine, but this is an interest he acquired and developed independently of my influence, highlighting even more that this energetic boy is his own person.  We shop for ties often--in honor of piano recitals, in preparation for school picture day, in celebration of holidays, in reward of other significant occasions or in mere want of a new tie.  As he has matured, so has his fashion sense.  Ties that clip, adorned with cute  embroidered animals have given way to a more sophisticated array of ties that tie, most cut from a fashionable stripped material.

This morning he wore such a tie.  Red with diagonal blue stripes.  As you can tell from the pic, he needs PaPa Curt to provide him with a refresher course in how to tie it, but you can also see his enthusiasm for his appearance (messy hair and all). (Don't worry, he combed that mop before leaving the house.) When he entered daycare, and one of the teachers commented on his dressiness, he replied, "Thanks.  I tied it myself."  He feels good in a tie--proud and accomplished--and that's more than alright with me.

I think Braden was right.  Today was a tie kind of day.  Here's hoping tomorrow will be, too.

Before Beauty and the Beast, May 2010

Uncle Travis and Aunt Cat's Wedding, July 2009

With Mr. Chris, piano teacher, December 2009

Let's hear it from the boys

In my previous post I discussed the view of Medieval motherhood presented in "How the Good Wife Taught her Daughter," a view that I like despite its trite proverbs and anti-feminist doctrine.  When I "discovered" the poem in my research on motherhood, I learned that it has a mate entitled "How the Wise Man Taught his Son."  The author of this lesson, which is written in prose as opposed to verse, is also unknown, but it is believed that it was published for the first time in 1470.  It does not seem to be written in response to "the Good Wife," but it does share some interesting parallels.  Since it's about parenting, I consider it close enough for my purposes, so I'm going to share it with you.

Like the good wife, the wise man begins his prose to place God before all else; he does not, however, emphasize the importance of tithing.  (He does spend a great deal of time discussing finances later in the prose.)  He keeps with the wife's organization by continuing on to dismissing gossip.  (Gossip is something that has come up time and time again in The Canterbury Tales.  In the Manciple's Tale, a crow meets his end for gossiping.  Usually the tales assert that women talk too much; I won't argue that this is untrue, but obviously men could spin-yarn, too, given the man's advice to his son.)  Both parents now emphasize the elements of countenance, with the man's primary concern being truth.  As truth is a principal theme of The Canterbury Tales, it seems appropriate that the son should learn of its importance.  The man's lesson to his son diverts from the path set by the good wife at this point.  Instead of moving on to marriage, he discusses work.  Seeing as how a woman's work revolved around her mate and her home and a man's would have been outside of it, I can see how these topics, though different on the surface, are the same upon analysis.  The attention given to tavern behaviors is slight, especially in comparison to the wife's, but I already ranted my views on that.  He closes, as does the wife, with details about maintaining the home, though his focus is primarily financial whereas the wife's is functional.

Both pieces identify the role of each gender within their society so I am not bothered in any "I am woman way" by the presentations or implications of each piece.  The "Wise Man" reads a little sexist, in today's voice, but it's appropriate for its Medieval audience.

Plus, the poem about the mother came first.  I think this is evidence of a mother's superiority!


Source:  The Babees' Book.   www.yorku.ca/inpar/babees_rickert.pdf

She's no Rosie the Riveter

In my attempt to understand the role of mothers during the Middle Ages, I frequently encountered a poem entitled "How the Good Wiif Taugte Hir Dougtir" (How the Good Wife Taught Her Daughter).  Written by an unknown author, it is believed to have first been published in Codex Ashmole 61:  A Compilation of Popular Middle English Verse in 1430.  (Its authorship is dated nearer the beginning of the 14th Century.)  Touted as a piece of instructional literature or advice text for the Medieval mom, I narrowed my investigation to this piece of poetry in hopes of more clearly defining motherhood.

Seeing as how the poem is over 200 lines long, I've included a few of my favorite stanzas:
(Good luck with the Middle English!)

Be fayre of semblant, my der doughter;
Change not thi countenans with grete laughter,
And wyse of maneres loke thou be gode.
Ne for no tayle change thi mode,
Ne fare not as thou a gyglot were,
Ne laughe thou not lowd, be thou therof sore.
Luke thou also gape not to wyde,
For anything that may betyde.
Suete of speche loke that thow be,
Trow in worde and dede — lerne this of me.
Loke thou fle synne, vilony, and blame,
And se ther be no man that seys thee any schame.

Now I have taught thee, my dere doughter,
The same techynge I hade of my modour.
Thinke theron both nyght and dey,
Forgette them not if that thou may.
For a chyld unborne were better
Than be untaught — thus seys the letter.
Therfor, Allmyghty God inne trone
Spede us all bothe even and morn,
And bryng us to thy hyghe blysse,
That never more fro us schall mysse.

(Or read it in a Modern translation found in The Babees' Book:  Medieval Manners for the Young.)

Be of seemly semblance, wise, and other good cheer;
Change not thy countenance for aught that thou may hear.

Fare not as a gig, for nought that may betide.

Laugh thou not too loud nor yawn thou not too wide.

But laugh thou soft and mild.

And be not of cheer too wild,

My lief child.

Now have I taught thee, daughter, as my mother did me;

Think thereon night and day, that forgotten it not be.

Have measure and lowness, as I have thee taught,

Then whatever man shall wed thee will regret it naught.

Better you were a child unbore

Than untaught in this wise lore,

My lief child.

The blessing of God may'st thou have, and of His mother bright,

Of all angels and archangels and every holy wight!

And may'st thou have grace to wend thy way full right,

To the bliss of Heaven, where God sits in His might!

One of the major arguments against the poem regards its tone.  The mother's role in the poem is to prepare her daughter for wifehood (oh yeah, I totally made that up) and eventually motherhood.  This is really no different than the role of a mom today.  (My mom always said she was trying to mold us into respectful, self-sufficient adults.  This is a very reasonable parenting goal; I hope I can do that well with my son.)  In my experience and philosophy, mothers are teachers and nurturers and the "Good Wiif" does not diverge from this ideal.  However, when read with modern, feminist eyes, the poem is a little off-putting.  Given that it was not written for bra-burning, liberal activists, I think it provides the glimpse of Medieval motherhood I set out to find from the beginning.

The mother begins by advising her daughter to be attentive to God and church (including specific execution of tithing and direction in prayer) as would be expected of all Christians, not just the females.  She then moves to suggestions about finding a husband, encouraging the daughter to receive any man humbly, without overt behaviors that could lead to sins of the flesh.  The daughter's countenance--fairness, honesty, composure--are the mother's next topics of heed, followed by several stanzas regarding tavern behaviors.  (This passage of the poem sounds as if the Pardoner wrote it.)  According to the good wiif, the  "tavern bring[s] thy credit low" and the daughter should avoid them for fear of "fall[ing] into shame."  The tavern behaviors are followed by admonishment of sports and hunting and any other such pleasurable things and an intense recommendation for the daughter to just stay at home and "love thy work much."  (These four stanzas most incite my feminist wiles.  I know they speak to female roles in Medieval culture, but if one can assert that these hobbies are bad for women, they must be equally bad for men.  Women are not more easily imbibed than men merely because they are women.  And men have spent decades sitting on couches, wearing a butt imprint into the cushions, in worship of the "big game," yet we have cautioned women against sports since before poets thought to sign their names to their work.  Annoying!) (However, if you regard the passage from the position of traditional gender roles, it makes a lot of sense.  As addressed before, women worked within the home, men without.  Women weren't forbidden from sports initially out of some masochistic control, but out of balance of domestic roles.  Maybe many of society's issues with marriage come from the blurring of those lines.  But I digress...)   After encouraging the daughter to love being at home, the good wife devotes the rest of the poem to maintaining the home, including specifics about raising children with a firm hand.

This organization, from start to finish, clearly identifies the role of the mother within Medieval culture.  By focusing her attention first on God, she establishes a Christian foundation for her children that would have been customary at this time.  The importance of family is further enhanced by her encouragement to find a good mate and make a good home.  Despite the hope that her daughter entirely avoid drinking and sports, the mother establishes simple rules, presented as proverbs, by which the daughter can live.  Although the proverbs themselves over-killed the message a bit, the poem provides me with the image of motherhood I have found lacking in Chaucer's tales.  (Sorry Chaucer.  This doesn't mean I love you any less.)

This good wiif (and mother) may not embody the female persona with the same visionary power as Rosie the Riveter, but she embraces her responsibility with parallel zeal.

Chaucer's mothers could learn something from her.


Sources:  Biggs, Michalove, and Reeves.  Reputation and Representation in Fifteenth-Century Europe.  Koninklijke Brill.  The Netherlands.  2004.

Bardsley, Sandy.  Women's Roles in the Middle Ages.  Greenwood Press.  Westport, CT.  2007.

Codex Ashmole 61.  http://www.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/teams/sgas4frm.htm

The Babees' Book.   www.yorku.ca/inpar/babees_rickert.pdf