I’m one of those psychoanalysis junkies who never really believed in penis envy—until now. In college, my feminism professors made gender politics seem so clear-cut, as if there existed a definable, external war and I merely needed to choose a side. And if I chose the right side—the side protecting women’s rights—I’d never have to choose again. I could have it all: a fast-track career, motherhood, myself. Really, there was no need for a penis, because the vagina was much more comprehensive. I was still a girl then—a million years away from becoming a mother—and the world seemed my (vaginal) oyster. Remember that song, “What It Feels Like for a Girl?” In it, Madonna never mentions what it’s like to be a woman.
A decade later, I’ve been knocked up, wrung through labor, and delivered into motherhood. I know what it feels like to become a human milk machine and a radio transmitter of baby cries. Gone are the gender-neutral schoolbooks and notepads, and here to stay (for a while, at least) are the mothering blogs and grocery lists. The capacity to give birth is extraordinarily empowering. It’s also equally disempowering. Unlike men, I can give birth. Unlike the gods, I can’t control most things about that birth or about the baby who is born.
Lately, consumed by this role of Mother, I find myself craving some of the things I see displayed on the other side of the fence. As evidenced by this blog, I’ve been gravitating toward male role models and masculine movies. For the first time in my life, I feel drugged by masculine energy. I’m as thrilled as my son to spot the latest digger truck, and I’d give anything to trade my apron for a suit, briefcase and cigar. My experience is especially polarized because my particular offspring happens to be a boy. Through my intense identification with him, I seem to be losing track of my internal girl. What do girls like? God, if I remember. The only world I see is the one of cars, trains, balls, and the occasional dinosaur.
It’s not exactly that I want a penis. And honestly, I think the cigar would get old after one puff. Really, I’m just a little tired of having a vagina. My womb—long tied up with the birth of Jack and now overcome by the birth of a new self—is a little worn-out. More than anything, I’m desperate for a little balance. Even the male role models I’ve recently lionized—Adam Lambert and Roger Federer—are androgynous figures more similar to Madonna than they are to Rambo. Adam Lambert, from his sexuality to his style of dress, celebrates all things ambiguous, and Roger Federer swiftly puddles into a flood of tears—joyful or anguished—every time he steps on the court. Secretly, I wish to be like these feminine men: powerful and potent masculine forces who embrace every ounce of their feminine selves. Honestly, I’d even ditch the masculine dynamics if I could just get the feminine ones straight; although I’m the one with the vagina, Adam Lambert more proficiently applies make-up, and Roger Federer more comfortably transmits his deepest emotions.
After all of these years, I’m still looking for tidy answers to complex problems. The world I’ve graduated into isn’t nearly as simple as the one I read about in college. The truth—terrible and painful and sometimes downright intolerable—is that I can’t have it all. I have to choose. If I have another child, I will have to castrate (at least temporarily) the potency of my writing. If, on the other hand, I pursue my writing to the exclusion of another child, I will lose the opportunity to enjoy the full power of that beautiful womb a second time. Even if I find a way to balance both roles, each will be a compromised version of a more complete experience. All just isn’t a choice. I cannot be a woman and a man, a mother and a father, a full-time writer and a full-time mom.
I’m not sure what kind of woman and mother (and man) I will eventually evolve into. I’m not sure what choices I will make. In the mean time, I think I will try to find some female mentors—androgynous gals who sometimes feel like one of the boys. Katy Perry is a good start. Of course, she’s not a mother. I guess I’ll just have to forgive her for that. It’s so hard to find everything in one person, in one body, in one lifetime.
