anna quindlen motherhood essay

Opinion | Anna Quindlen on a life spent mothering, and…

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Opinion | Anna Quindlen on a life spent mothering, and longing for the mother she lost

Anna Quindlen turned me onto both journalism and motherhood — and the radical notion that you could do them simultaneously and well.

I loved her New York Times columns, which explored family and power, love and grief, and which earned her a Pulitzer Prize in 1992. I love her fiction just as much, mostly because every one of her characters teaches me something about inhabiting the role of mother, daughter, sister, friend.

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Her latest book, “Miller’s Valley,” is no exception. Set in a small farming town from the 1960s to the present, Quindlen’s eighth novel is told through the eyes of Mimi Miller, the daughter of Bud, a farmer who doesn’t know what to make of the progress (or is it peril?) encroaching on his family’s land, and Miriam, a pragmatic nurse with little use for sentiment.

It’s a small moment, but at one point, Mimi laments her mother’s refusal to sleep in on Mother’s Day so she can treat her to breakfast in bed.

“She’d wander in while I was putting a late daffodil in a juice glass and pour her own cup of coffee. ‘Just stay in bed until seven,’ I told her once. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she’d said.”

Miriam bears little resemblance to Quindlen, at least in terms of mothering.

“But I think she’s a really good mother,” Quindlen told me during a recent phone interview. “She is loving but not indulgent. She is strong but not unyielding. She makes sure each one of her kids gets what they need.”

I asked Quindlen how she creates such disparate and enduring mothers, each one ringing as true as the next, even if they have little in common.

“I probably will never understand whether the mothers in my novels owe more to my life mothering or to my life as a motherless daughter,” she said. “The answer is probably both.”

Quindlen’s mother died of ovarian cancer at age 40. Quindlen was just 19.

“My oldest son and I were talking one day about an interview I did with (novelist) Amy Bloom, whom he studied in college,” she said. “I said, ‘Amy said every writer only has one subject, and mine is love.’ Quinn turned to me and said, ‘Yours is motherhood.’ I was really touched that he understood that.

“But even as he said it, I edited it,” she continued. “I said, ‘Yes, motherhood. And loss.’ I think that the mothers in my books grow out of both being a daughter and being a mother, and that has changed and shifted as I’ve become less one and more the other.”

Her journalist’s background shapes her characters as well.

“One of the reasons I’ve been able to write the novels I wanted to write is because I learned so much about the human condition by being a street reporter,” she said. “Every once in a while, someone will say, ‘Your dialogue sounds so real-life.’ That’s because I spent some of the best years of my life writing down what people were saying, word-for-word, on the streets of New York City.”

I asked her whether she misses newspapers.

“Honestly, I’m so deeply relieved not to write a column at this point in time,” she said. “I took a lot of pride knowing I didn’t make any glaring mistakes during my time as a columnist, and I would have been wrong so many times during this presidential campaign. Half my columns would have been an apology for the other half.”

About Donald Trump?

“About all of it,” she said. “There are times you would prefer to quietly despair in the privacy of your own home, and this is one of those times.”

Although her books, including “Miller’s Valley,” are certainly meditations on our current state of affairs.

“One of the things I wanted to do with this book is look at America — not in a heavy-handed way, but a look at the way in which we have serial amnesia,” she said. “We live through impactful, even cataclysmic events, and then we bury them. I like to think I was able to use both strings of my bow in this novel — the intimacy of the family story and the metaphoric thoughts of how we live now.”

I asked her whether she kept a diary growing up.

“No,” she said. “Even as a kid, I had a sense that I was only going to write for money, and I still don’t waver from that. I’m not on Twitter, in part, because of that.”

God love her.

The day I was scheduled to interview Quindlen, I mentioned my excitement on Facebook. More than anyone, I wrote, she is the reason I wanted to become a newspaper columnist.

Dozens upon dozens of Facebook friends chimed in.

“Her writing got me through my early years of parenting,” wrote my friend Joanie. “I literally waited for her column every week. I would settle in with my coffee by the phone — that thing attached to the wall — read Anna, then call my other mom friends to discuss her insights and humor. We never felt alone in our world because of her.”

There’s something especially beautiful in knowing that Quindlen’s writing grew partly out of her own loneliness, at least in the part of her life where a mother should be. That she responds to that longing with words and characters for all of us to cherish and learn from is both generous and a godsend.

“Dickens is my favorite writer,” Quindlen told me. “One of the things I’ve always admired is that combination of really engaging story about flesh and blood and a larger social conscience.”

But Dickens has nothing on Quindlen when it comes to capturing motherhood — the moments, the madness, the heart-pounding joy, the whole-body sorrows.

I’m not sure any writer does, and I’m eternally grateful for her wisdom.

[email protected]

Twitter @heidistevens13

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Reflections from a father, husband, brother, son, friend & business owner

"on being mom" by anna quindlen.

• observations

10 Comments

Yes, I know the point of having a blog is to express your own feelings about things. Yes, I realize that it’s not all about sharing other people’s views. But below you’ll find some well-written thoughts about raising children written by Anna Quindlen and I feel good enough about them that I felt I had to share them with you. Ok? By the way, the emphasis below is mine because… well, that paragraph says it all. /Jim

On Being Mom by Anna Quindlen

If not for the photographs, I might have a hard time believing they ever existed. The pensive infant with the swipe of dark bangs and the blackbutton eyes of a Raggedy Andy doll. The placid baby with the yellow ringlets and the high piping voice. The sturdy toddler with the lower lip that curled into an apostrophe above her chin. ALL MY BABIES are gone now.

I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like.

Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.

Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach., T. Berry Brazelton., Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, all grown obsolete.

Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories.

What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations — what they taught me was that they couldn’t really teach me very much at all. Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One boy is toilet trained at 3, his brother at 2.

When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing.

Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow.

I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton’s wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk,too.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, What did you get wrong? (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald’s drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons.

What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

Even today I’m not sure what worked and what didn’t, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I’d done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be.

The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That’s what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts.

It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.

That’s a great essay. Thanks for sharing.Heatherhttp://www.spiritblog.net

It’s funny, I suppose, when I think of all the occasions, events, holidays, and festivities that we as a family have insisted on capturing over the course of our children’s’ lives. “Get the camera, Claire’s trying to walk!” …or,“Look at Joey trying on mommy’s shoes; this will make a great movie.”The movies especially turn out wonderful – I’m certainly not complaining. As life moves forward, they will provide the clearest glimpse back, a buttress to memories that grow blurry with the passing of time.Here’s the thing – I want more. I want to remember…The smell of ‘just washed’ hair, as they snuggle up to me while I’m reading a ‘night-night’ book. The feeling of walking in the house to a rousing cheer of ‘Daddy’s home!’ followed by an avalanche of little bodies clambering up into my arms. The warmth of their bodies as I carry them up to bed, having fallen asleep in my arms from a hard days’ play. The simple pleasures of watching them learn something new.There have been times when I lay in bed at night, and I tell myself “This is a day I want to remember, I want to recall all the nuances, all the emotions, all the colors and smells and sounds.” I try to burn images into memory – to actually will myself to capture each vivid detail.It never works though. Oh you can recall the feeling, in a distantly fond kind of way. It’s a good feeling, in that it captures the essence of the memory. You can never go back and relive it though. Not with images, not with movies, certainly not with memories. I cherish each of those things for providing a glimpse back, but I won’t rely on them.I’ll enjoy my memories while they’re happening, and that will be fine.Thanks Jim for the wonderful post.Mike

This actually brought tears to my eyes. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to include it in my own blog. This is something that we all need to remember…to slow down and enjoy our kids while we still can.

dammit… i hate it when blogs make my eyes well up while at work…wonderful story. plan on passing it on to several family members who i’m sure will have the same reaction…

Thanks for this Jim, great stuff. Having recently gone through some tought times with my oldest it really hit home. I have a second chance to live in the moment a little more!

[…] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Shannon Seery Gude, Tara Repucci. Tara Repucci said: OMG. I love this. I'm bawling but I love this. RT @seerysm this essay http://j.mp/dsiEMQ to remind me to stay present & enjoy our moments […]

[…] like Anna Quindlen’s take on parenting, and about baby Zach and his Angel wings, and Jack’s many unusual questions, and Lily’s […]

WoW, what a warm heart wrenching story that was to read !! I’m so glad I’ve had the opportunity to spend my daughters first 10 years of her life watching her every 1st word,step,mommy & daughters day outings ect. I’ve also a three year old son that I’ve been at home with too !! Nobody said being a mother was easy, its challenging , its lonely, its plain right tough but to see your children as these tiny little bundles ,then all of a sudden, I can do it mom !! I take a step back and say well I must have done something right :D. But with also with a sadness cause my babies are no longer babies anymore ! They don’t come with a manual which is scary when its time for mommy & daddy to take there little joy home but we never forget all those times, no matter how many photos you take, you ll never get that moment back, so enjoy all the ups and downs, god knows there’s enough of them 😉 Sure were well able for it us mammys ! Keep doing the best thing in the world’being a mommy and enjoying the whole experience <3

[…] https://www.thecotas.com/2005/01/on-being-mom-by-anna-quindlen/ […]

I cried, because this is so me. My son will be starting his senior year and my youngest HS next year, and I can’t believe it. Thanks. Glad to know I wasn’t alone in doing these things.

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Anna Quindlen’s A Mother’s Day Message, Essay Example

Pages: 2

Words: 527

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You are free to use it as an inspiration or a source for your own work.

Anna Quindlen, a very well-known an well-respected American poet and essayist very frequently uses her own children as inspiration for her works. Her very telling and descriptive narrative “A Mother’s Day Message” is no exception–this time describing at length watching her children grow up, as well as the challenges that go along with motherhood in general.

The following passage taken from the piece outlines the main idea of the theme of her piece overall:

What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations and the older parents at cocktail parties—what they taught me was that they couldn’t really teach me very much at all…No one knows anything.

She then goes on to explain how all children are different, so it not fair to expect or even to try to predict individual behavior. Admitting she used parenting books and models herself, she warns the reader against making the same mistake she did herself.

However, Anna Quindlen, after using a metaphor regarding photographs to begin the essay, uses a similar one to tie the essay together. She warns prospective parents not to do what she did, which was stress over daily life and obsess of this model or that. She reminds prospective parents to live in the moment–naming that as her one mistake. Naming an old photograph of her children, she finds it disturbing that the details of that day are since gone–all she is left with is an image. Perhaps if the small things in life are not stressed about, we can recall these details and preserve them from vanishing forever.

Sandra Cisneros’s Eleven

The story Eleven by Sandra Cisnernos is, at first glance, an epistolary short story about an eleven-year-old girl and her journal, or diary entries. At closer examination, however, the clear intent, purpose, and means of achieving such, become more and more apparent throughout the story, highlighted by an uncanny tone and voice.

Beginning at the main character Rachel’s eleventh birthday, the major theme of this story is clearly the impressionability, as well as the development Rachel’s narrative takes the reader through, just as if they were experiences through the eyes of the little girl herself.

Throughout the essay, Cisnernos’ word choice, and more broadly her syntax, was what made this story the most effective and frankly genius. Attempting to replicate the grammar, vocabulary, and syntax, while still keeping the adult reader engaged truly is a daunting task. Cisnernos does this fluidly, which is very important to this piece in particular. Without fully comprehending Rachel’s character, it impossible to see the developmental transitions and problems she sees.

Rachel is made to feel very embarrassed by various adults throughout the story, clearly illustrating her struggle with identity as a developing adolescent. Specifically, an example of this is when she is forced to wear the sweater she so hates.

The overall theme of the story, which certainly evoked my own memories of early teen years, was Rachel’s dependence on overbearing people due to her age, but her want and overall need to define herself. Because this was frowned upon, Rachel’s internal pain showed through at various points in the story–primarily shown by Cisnernos’s grammar and syntax.

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A reprise of Anna Quindlen for Mother's Day

• Published: May. 11, 2008, 8:00 a.m.

A friend sent me this Anna Quindlen column. It's from years back. I've read it many times, and every time it makes me cry. I love Anna as a writer, and I love what she writes about motherhood. So often she puts into eloquent works exactly what I'm feeling.

This is one of those time. Click on "continue reading entry" to read her column. On Being A Mom

By Anna Quindlen

All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. Itake great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves.

Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.

Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach., T. Berry Brazelton., Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, all grown obsolete. Along with "Goodnight Moon" and "Where the Wild Things Are," they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories.

What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations --what they taught me was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.

Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One boy is toilet trained at 3, his brother at 2. When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow.

I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language - mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, What did you get wrong? (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity.

That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.

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Mothers by Anna Quindlen

There’s no denying the power of a mother’s love. In Anna Quindlen’s short story “A Mother’s Love”, that power is on full display. The protagonist is a young mother who is struggling to care for her newborn son. She is exhausted and overwhelmed, but she doesn’t give up. Instead, she draws on the strength of her love for her son to keep going.

This story is a moving tribute to the strength of mothers everywhere. It shows that even when we are at our lowest, we can find the strength to carry on – thanks to the boundless love we have for our children. Anna Quindlen’s writing is beautiful and poignant, and this story will stay with you long after you’ve finished reading it.

A daughter’s relationship with her mother is one of the most valuable a child can have. In Anna Quindlen’s short story, “Mothers,” a nineteen-year-old girl who has lost hermother tries to accept the reality that she is gone. The nineteen-year-old girl describesher life situation as if her mother was still alive, mentioning how she used to take careof wedding arrangements or come and stay for a week after the children were born.

Even after her mother’s death, the protagonist still looks to her for guidance and protection.The nineteen-year-old girl is not alone in feeling this way. Many children who have losttheir mothers struggle with the same sense of loss and loneliness.

When a mother dies,a child is left without their protector, their confidante, and their best friend. In “Mothers,” Anna Quindlen captures the unique bond between a mother and daughter and the pain of losing that connection. Mother’s love is one of the most powerfulforces in a child’s life, and when it is gone, it leaves a gaping hole.

The young girl in the story is conflicted between daydreaming and reality, understanding that if her mother were still alive, she would have treasured every moment they spent together. The tale starts when the nineteen-year-old notices two females sitting at a corner table in the eatery: an older woman enjoying quality time with her daughter.

The girl envisions herself in the future with her own daughter, and the thought brings a smile to her face.

Although she is happy for the woman and her daughter, the young girl can’t help but to feel a sense of sadness and longing. She begins to think about her own mother and how she would have loved spending time with her if she were still alive.

The girl then reflects on all of the Mother’s Day’s that she has experienced since her mother’s death. Each Mother’s Day, the young girl would spend time with her father and they would go through old photo albums together. Even though it was a special day for them to remember her mother, the young girl couldn’t help but feel a sense of loneliness.

The young girl then begins to think about the Mother’s Day that is coming up and how she will spend it. She wonders if she will ever find a Mother’s Day that doesn’t make her feel so sad and alone. As the young girl continues to reflect on her mother, she realizes that she is grateful for the time that she did have with her. Even though she wishes her mother was still alive, she knows that her mother’s love will always be with her.

The narrator describes herself as “kind of vest pocket” meaning she feels emotionally empty and stuck with nowhere to go. The narrative was wishing she had valued that moment with her mother when she had that opportunity. The girl seems to hold a regret inside of her because she did not have a good relationship with her mother.

She also points out that her mother had “perfectly nice” clothes but never got to wear them because she always had to wear her apron. The protagonist wasn’t happy with the outcome of their relationship and wants to have a different relationship with her daughter.

The protagonist in Anna Quindlen’s short story, Mother’s Love, regrets not valuing the time she had with her mother. The protagonist looks back on her relationship with her mother and wishes she had been more grateful for what her mother did for her.

She describes her mother as being “kind of vest pocket”, meaning she was always there for her emotionally but never got to experience life herself. Her mother always wore an apron and always had perfectly nice clothes but never got to wear them because she was always working. The protagonist wants to have a different relationship with her daughter so that her daughter will never have to experience the same regrets.

A mother’s love is one of the most powerful forces in the world. It can inspire us to achieve great things, comfort us in times of trouble, and fill us with hope when we need it most.

Anna Quindlen is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and bestselling author whose work often explores the complexities of familial relationships. In her short story “Mother’s Love,” she captures the special bond between a mother and her child, and the strength that it gives them both.

The story follows a young woman as she reflects on her relationship with her mother. She remembers all of the little moments that have meant so much to her over the years – from being whispered to sleep as a child, to being given words of wisdom and encouragement as a teenager, to being comforted after a heartbreak as an adult.

Each memory is a testament to the power of a mother’s love. It is a force that can never be underestimated. It is the light that guides us through life’s darkest moments.

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Saturday, May 10, 2008

Mother's day words of wisdom from anna quindlen, 4 comments:.

Happy Mother's Day! Love, Jennifer

Thanks for sharing. I loved this. And I laughed very hard about driving thru McDonalds without the food. Haven't done that yet, but have done similar things. I hope to remember today to live in the moment! I'm also going to try to jot down the little tiny joy moments that I get from my kids today, and maybe blog about it :).

Incredible -- love that. Should repost the whole thing on my blog too. (I hate pointed readers to Anna's Mt Holoyoke Commencement Speech about giving up on being perfect and instead becoming ourselves and someone pointed in the comments to your blog and this essay. Love what you wrote About yourself. Will read more Mommytown now! (link to commencement speech: http://www.mtholyoke.edu/offices/comm/oped/Quindlen.shtml)

Unbelievable perfect timing for this new mom of a three month old. Thanks for the honesty and humor and challenge. UGH! I think I feel normal today!

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Anna Quindlen: Over 50, And Having 'Plenty Of Cake'

Anna Quindlen is a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer whose new memoir, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, explores her past, present and future. Courtesy of the author hide caption

As a little girl, Anna Quindlen wasn't afraid of a whole lot. She frequently got into trouble and occasionally shot off her mouth. But as she grew older, the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer became what she calls a "girl imitation."

"[I became] nicer, sweeter, less outspoken [and] less combative," she tells Fresh Air 's Terry Gross. "All of the qualities that you need to be a good opinion columnist tend to be qualities that aren't valued in women. And I think that was a bit of a challenge for me when I became an op-ed columnist [for The New York Times ] and has been a challenge for many of us who do that as a living."

Lots Of Candles, Plenty Of Cake

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It wasn't until she turned 50, Quindlen says, that she realized she didn't care any longer about what people thought about her.

"After all those years as a woman hearing 'not thin enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough, not this enough, not that enough,' almost overnight I woke up one morning and thought, 'I'm enough,' " she says.

Quindlen's new memoir, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, explores her past, present and future — her relationships with her parents and children, her faith, her career and her feelings about herself over the past five decades.

Many of Quindlen's essays over the years have documented the time she's spent raising her children. But having children wasn't something she initially wanted to do. While in college, Quindlen's mother died of ovarian cancer. Almost overnight, she became a surrogate mother for her four younger siblings. She tells Terry Gross that the experience initially turned her off from wanting to be a mother herself.

"I just thought, 'I never want to do this. This is too hard,' " she says. "And I went into my 20s thinking that this was something I never wanted to do.'"

A decade later, Quindlen changed her mind. She says she's not sure what changed.

"My husband is still asking that question because he spent all those years with a woman who said she never wanted to have kids and who literally woke up one morning when she was 30 and said, 'Let's have a baby,' " she says. "And I honestly can't explain to you how that happened. It was as if the on-off switch got thrown. I'm still a little puzzled by the progression, but so happy about it."

After she had her three children, Quindlen says she continually compared her own child-rearing skills with her mother's parenting style.

"She just had that gift for making you feel as if you'd hung the moon. Each of us felt like we were her favorite," she says. "And certainly, it's true that when I had my own kids, I would feel like if I got anywhere close to being Prudence Quindlen on any day, I was doing a good job."

Related NPR Stories

Book reviews, 'lots of candles': growing older ecstatically, books we like, suburbia interrupted in anna quindlen's new novel.

A Sign Of The Times

But Quindlen says she knew being a stay-at-home like her mother was never an option for her. After taking care of her siblings, she returned to Barnard, where her professors repeatedly emphasized to her and her classmates that they were going to go on to do great things.

"And that was when second-wave feminism was just crashing on the shores of the country," she says. "Many of my professors were feminists, there was so much going on in the world of journalism — there was a sit-in at Newsweek , there was a class-action suit against The New York Times . I just threw my lot in."

Quindlen was hired by The Times , she says, in part because of the class-action lawsuit filed by seven women against The Times in 1974.

"I am an affirmative action hire," she says. "And that is only a problem if you don't cut the mustard. These [seven] women brought the suit. The Times settled it and said they would be hiring more women, promoting more women, and hiring women in parity with men. And there were a whole group of us who were hired in very short order, many of us quite young, and it was entirely because those [seven] women went out on that limb."

Quindlen stayed at The Times for more than two decades. In 1992, she won the Pulitzer Prize for commentary. Three years later, she left to become a full-time novelist and then joined Newsweek in 1999, where she wrote a biweekly column until 2009. She continues to write stories and personal essays.

Leaving The Catholic Church

In Lots of Cake , she frankly describes her decision to give up alcohol as well as her reasoning for recently leaving the Catholic Church.

"The pedophilia scandals, the church's reaction to them, and their constant obsession with gynecology — taken together at a certain point, it was probably two or three years ago, I said, 'Enough,' " she says. "Every time I sit in the pew I ratify this behavior, and I'm not going to ratify it anymore."

Quindlen says she realizes that she doesn't need a service or Mass to get what she needs out of her faith.

"I think not going anymore made me realize how much of the good had been imprinted deep inside me, and how much of the rest I didn't need," she says. "I don't have to listen to the Gospel on Sunday to know the stories of the New Testament. They inform so much of what I write that they're practically like a news scrim that goes through my brain 24/7. And I don't have to listen to a sermon to know what to think or feel about them. It's almost as if I absorbed completely what mattered most to me, and the rest could go."

But Quindlen says she still relies on her faith.

"I still walk around some mornings and look at the world and think, 'Oh my God. This is so fantastic, and there's so many opportunities to do good and to be happy,' " she says. "And I think that comes from some deep-faith place that started in religion and now transcends it."

Interview Highlights

On religion and faith

"I haven't lost my faith, but I've lost my religion. I still believe in something so deeply. ... I've never really gotten past that quote from Anne Frank in her diary, where she says that people are really good at heart. But I feel like the Catholic Church — no — the Catholic hierarchy has been disinviting people like me, and especially women like me, for so many years that I finally took the hint."

On 'uber-momism'

"The problem with the 'uber-momism' is that you convince yourself that you can never make mistakes. Second, if you do, it will be tragic and traumatic. And third, that you have control over the entire situation, which is what's led to this 'helicopter parenting' we talk about all the time. I was the best mother when I stood back, provided appropriate oversight, but basically got out of their way so they could be themselves. And that's kind of the opposite of 'uber-momism.' "

On relating to her classmates at Barnard after caring for her mother and siblings

"Having looked after someone who's dying, having given [my mother] morphine, having made school lunches for your siblings — and then going back to a place where the biggest concern is, 'Am I going to ace this gut course?' It makes you feel like you've been taken out of one world and thrown back into it again. And I think, when I was in my 20s, I had a hard time adjusting to the prevailing concerns and speed of life for my peers."

On caring for her siblings after her mother's death

"In retrospect, it's probably the single biggest thing that made me what I am today. There's no question that you're either going to fold in a situation like that, or you're going to develop reservoirs of strength you didn't even know you had."

On raising feminist boys

"Society is opposing you at every turn. One of our sons said to me later, 'It was a little bit like having your skin stripped off.' When you have a daughter and you say to her, 'Look, things are not going to be fair for you. People might treat you in a certain way because you're female — might say this thing or that thing' — that's kind of easy. When you're saying to your boys, 'OK, there's a certain kind of privilege that comes along with being a white man and you should not take that' — that's a kind of craziness. That's asking them to be different from people — certainly different from the macho men who they might see on TV or hear around them. I just felt like the payoff ultimately was going to be so great. And as my one son says, about being a feminist boy, 'Chicks dig it.' And that's been his guiding principle."

On contraception

"Hello! What is this, 1962? It's being debated — it has no traction in the world. None of us are out there saying, 'Gee, should you be able to buy the pill or should you not be able to buy the pill?' All of this is an attempt in a rapidly changing age to put the genie of freedom back in the bottle, and guess what? It does not work. We are accustomed to living a certain way. Our daughters take certain things as bedrock. And a couple of guys in Washington arguing about this? Or presidential debates? They're not going to change that."

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Mothers by anna quindlen.

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            For the longest time, I was convinced I was just going in circles, always coming back around to where I began; never making progress, and not quite getting over that missing piece in my heart where a mother's love should vacant. In Anna Quindlen's "Mothers"," the narrator is desperately yearning for a relationship with her mother, who passed away when she was just nineteen years old. Similar to myself, she aches for what she deems, "a relationship that will never exist " (31), as I sadly know all too well to be true with my own mother. Perhaps the only thing harder than losing someone we love, is loving someone who we never got to have in the first place. Growing up with an abusive and manipulative mother throughout my childhood, I identify with the author's utter despair over the fact that she will never have that mother-daughter bond ever again, just as I will never have the chance of having one.              To enumerate, the speaker implies that, "For a long time, it was all you needed to know about me, a kind of vest pocket description of my emotional complexion: Meet you in the lobby in ten minutes - I have long-brown hair, am on the short side, have on a red coat, and my mother died when I was nineteen"" (31). For much of my youth, it seemed the fact that I never really got to have a mother defined me. Suffering from abuse can leaves us shattered, to the point that not only do we grow up believing that we deserve it, but it becomes a part of us that follows us everywhere, like an ominous entity constantly lurking in the shadows of our mind, just waiting to pounce and interfere with daily life. Whether it was a casual meeting with friends, going to school, or even working with colleagues, I felt as if I was inadequate; missing something. Therefore, connecting with others became a daunting task, one that I am still working on today.              Any time I would meet someone new, I often felt I could never possibly relate to them, as I often idolized their relationships with their parents, particularly their mothers.

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Essays Related to Mothers by Anna Quindlen

1. anna quindlen: evan's two mom's.

In Ann Quindlen's, "Evan's Two Moms", Quindlen gives several examples as to why gay adoptions and marriages should be legal. ... In her first paragraph she states that, " a judge in New York approved an adoption of a six-year-old by his biological mother's lesbian partner"(410). ... Quindlen goes on to tell about the rights that straight couples have and take for granted versus the fact that gay couples are being denied those rights. ... Quindlen tells how the Bible was an influence on the definition of what marriage is; "marriage is by definition the union of a man and a woman...

• Word Count: 451
• Approx Pages: 2
• Grade Level: Undergraduate

2. one true thing

In the novel "One True Thing- by Anna Quindlen we are presented with a paradigm of a "perfect family- who complies with gender-based assumptions. ... Quindlen contrast her dismissed qualities and her deeper nurturing abilities. ... Just as Ellen recognizes other aspects of her mother in the formation of the book club, Ellen also recognizes what her mother gave up for her father, that she has always "deferred to him-, in order to safeguard the marriage for the sake of her family. ... Clever driven and ambitious, Ellen had always been encouraged to emulate her fathers literacy brilliance, not he...

• Word Count: 844
• Approx Pages: 3

3. One True Thing

• Word Count: 834

4. Gay Marriage and Its Effect on

On the other hand, Anna Quindlen is asking in her essay "Evan's Two Moms" to legalize gay marriages. ... I heard the doctor saying to my mother that I"ll be dead in less than 24 hours. Please take care of my mother and my young brother. ... I went outside the room to make sure that Tom's mother is okay. ... Quindlen, Anna. ...

• Word Count: 980
• Approx Pages: 4
• Grade Level: High School

5. Black And Blue

Her mother regarded her someone else's problem as soon as she got married. Bobby's mother may have sensed that Bobby was abusing her but always stayed by his side. ... When I was kid my mother always said - "In order for others to respect you, you need to respect your self". ... Anna Q. did a very good job in raising many issues and explaining what some women go through in their marriages. ... Writing stile of Anna Quindlen had made reading of this book agonizing and treacherous. ...

• Word Count: 1072

6. Abortion

That would not only affect the mother's life, but that would affect the baby's life also. ... In some ways I agree with Anna Quindlen's article "Abortion Is Too Complex To Feel All One Way About", when she says, " But I don't feel all one way about abortion anymore, and I don't think it serves a just cause as many of us do. ... All mothers can vouch for that. ... Mothers are able to make their own decisions. ... It should be between the mother, her religion, her conscious, and her God. ...

• Word Count: 1148

7. Equality and Chivalry Do Not Mesh

Divorcing mothers stand roughly a 90-percent chance of winning real custody of the children, thus child support. ... As Anna Quindlen comments, "Boys could have it [sex]; girls couldn't. A girl who was not a virgin pretended she was- (Quindlen 134). ...

• Word Count: 1987
• Approx Pages: 8

8. Imigration

Anna Quindlen, in her essay "Making the MosaicaE, states that all Americans are part of the mosaic, which is far from being complete. According to Quindlen the real American is "a pilgrim with a small "p"aE. ... They do want to learn the language, but they do not want to forget their mother language. ...

• Word Count: 1202

9. Disorder

Unfortunately, the father may rape the children and silenced them by threatening to kill the mother or the children if they say anything to anyone. ... Over 60% of young men, aged 18-22 who are incarcerated for Homicide are convicted of killing their mothers' batterers. ...

• Word Count: 7108
• Approx Pages: 28

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Anna Quindlen on motherhood

1 October 2010

Today’s brain food is about the sisterhood of moms – the sisterhood that knows the wondrous joy and dark lows, the fog-headed sleeplessness, the constant company of little people in the bathroom, the desperate need for Five Minutes of Silence, Please.

For those of us who have made it through the trial by fire of new parenthood and come out the other side, today’s readings by the brilliant Anna Quindlen are a poignant reminder of all that we’ve been through and all that we have to look forward to. For those who are in the early days of their transition to parenthood, this is a message to say there is an older and wiser life in your future, and it doesn’t take 18 years to get there.

I was in a restaurant this summer when a couple and their baby – probably seven months old – were seated at the next table. The parents looked like zombies. They spent the meal in dull silence, while their lively baby looked around curiously at the surrounding diners, occasionally pausing to take in a spoonful of baby food. It was like seeing the Ghost of Christmas Past – the ghost of my past – and I remembered the first time my husband and I took our newborn son out for dinner.

It had probably taken us an hour to get out the door, with the requisite rounds of poop changing, wet wardrobe changing and baby gear checking that are part of the new parent hazing program. By the time we got to the restaurant and sat down, no doubt we looked as dazed as the parents I saw this summer.

Nearby was a mom, dad and two older kids finishing their meal. As they passed our table on their way out, the mom stopped suddenly, put her hand on the table, and said to us with a kind smile, “It gets better.” I’m sure we looked completely confused. “The first year is the hardest. It gets a lot easier.” She gestured at her children. “And then it really does go by fast.” We smiled and nodded, but at the time we thought it was kind of strange.

Now I understand that the woman was extending her hand in the sisterhood of moms, and I appreciate her words as heartfelt empathy from one who has been there.

I treasure these two essays by Anna Quindlen, novelist and former columnist for the New York Times and Newsweek . You may have seen the first essay, “Goodbye Dr. Spock,” which has been justifiably well circulated – though often in abbreviated form – since it was originally published in Newsweek , November 2000. It is also the opening piece in Quindlen’s book, Loud and Clear , a collection of her wonderful and incisive essays. “Goodbye, Dr. Spock” is a poignant look back on raising children by a mom whose kids are grown, and its a piece I come back to again and again.

The second essay, “Playing God on No Sleep,” published in Newsweek in 2001, is about the dark side of motherhood. Quindlen wrote the essay after Texas mom Andrea Yates, who had suffered postpartum depression for years, tragically drowned her five young children. I find Quindlen’s words on the issue brave, sensitive and wise.

I’m including the full text of “Goodbye Dr. Spock” here, as Newsweek.com no longer has the full text available on its site, and most references I’ve seen for it online are not the full version. Between Amazon.com and Google Books , you can piece together the full essay online, but to make it easier for you I’ve included it complete here.

Newsweek.com does still have “Playing God on No Sleep” in its archives, so I’m including an excerpt with the the link to the full article below.

1. “Good-bye Dr. Spock,” Anna Quindlen, Newsweek, November 2000

If not for the photographs I might have a hard time believing they ever existed. The pensive infant with the swipe of dark bangs and the black button eyes of a Raggedy Andy doll. The placid baby with the yellow ringlets and the high piping voice. The sturdy toddler with the lower lip that curled into an apostrophe above her chin.

All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost adults, two taller than me, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets, and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.

Everything in all the books i once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach. Berry Brazelton. Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early childhood education, all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages, dust would rise like memories.

What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations and the older parents at cocktail parties – what they taught me was that they couldn’t really teach me very much at all. Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can only be managed with a stern voice and a time-out. One boy is toilet trained at three, his brother at two. When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome.

As a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. First science told us they were insensate blobs. But we thought they were looking, and watching, and learning, even when they spent so much time hitting themselves in the face. And eventually science said that we were right, that important cognitive function began in early babyhood. First science said they should be put on a feeding schedule. But sometimes they seemed hungry in two hours, sometimes three, sometimes all the time, so that we never even bothered to button up. And eventually science said that that was right, and that they would best be fed on demand. First science said environment was the great shaper of human nature. But it certainly seemed as though those babies had distinct personalities, some contemplative, some gregarious, some crabby. And eventually science said that was right, too, and that they were hardwired exactly as we had suspected.

Still, the temptation to defer to the experts was huge. The literate parent, who approaches everything – cooking, decorating, life – as though there was a paper due or an exam scheduled is in particular peril when the kids arrive. How silly it all seems now, obsessing about language acquisition and physical milestones, riding the waves of normal, gifted, hyperactive, all those labels that reduced individuality to a series of cubbyholes. But I could not help myself. I had watched my mother casually raise five children born over ten years, but by watching her I intuitively knew that I was engaged in the greatest – and potentially most catastrophic – task of my life. I knew that there were mothers who had worried with good reason, that there were children who would have great challenges to meet. We were lucky; ours were not among them. Nothing horrible or astonishing happened. There was hernia surgery, some stitches, a broken arm and a fuchsia cast to go with it.

Mostly ours were the ordinary everyday terrors and miracles of raising a child, and our children’s challenges the old familiar ones of learning to live as themselves in the world. The trick was to get past my fears, my ego, and my inadequacies to help them do that. During my first pregnancy I picked up a set of lovely old clothbound books at a flea market. Published in 1933, they were called Mother’s Encyclopedia, and one volume described what a mother needs to be: “psychologically good: sound, wholesome, healthy, unafraid, able to deal with the world and to live in this particular age, an integrated personality, an adjusted person.” In a word, yow.

It is good that we know so much more now, know that mothers need not be perfect to be successful. But some of what we learn is as pernicious as that daunting description, calculated to make us feel like failures ever single day. I remember fifteen years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton’s wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil (see: slug) for an eighteen-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can walk just fine. He can walk too well. Every part of raising children at some point comes down to this: Be careful what you wish for.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the “Remember When Mom Did” Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language – mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, “What did you get wrong?” (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald’s drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch The Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages six, four, and one. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

Even today I’m not sure what worked and what didn’t, what was me and what was simply life. How much influence did I really have over the personality of the former baby who cried only when we gave parties and who today, as a teenager, still dislikes socializing and crowds? When they were very small I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I’d done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be.

There was babbling I forgot to do, stimulation they never got, foods I meant to introduce and never got around to introducing. If a black-and-white mobile really increases depth perception and early exposure to classical music increases the likelihood of perfect pitch, I blew it. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact, and I was sometimes over-the-top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That’s what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.

2. “Playing God on No Sleep,” by Anna Quindlen, Newsweek, 2 July 2001

So a woman walks into a pediatrician’s office. She’s tired, she’s hot and she’s been up all night throwing sheets into the washer because the smaller of her two boys has projectile vomiting so severe it looks like a special effect from “The Exorcist.” Oh, and she’s nauseated, too, because since she already has two kids under the age of 5 it made perfect sense to have another, and she’s four months pregnant. In the doctor’s waiting room, which sounds like a cross between an orchestra tuning loudly and a 747 taking off, there is a cross-stitched sampler on the wall. It says GOD COULD NOT BE EVERYWHERE SO HE MADE MOTHERS.

This is not a joke, and that is not the punch line. Or maybe it is. The woman was me, the sampler real, and the sentiments it evoked were unforgettable: incredulity, disgust and that out-of-body feeling that is the corollary of sleep deprivation and adrenaline rush, with a soupcon of shoulder barf thrown in. I kept reliving this moment, and others like it, as I read with horrified fascination the story of Andrea Yates, a onetime nurse suffering from postpartum depression who apparently spent a recent morning drowning her five children in the bathtub. There is a part of my mind that imagines the baby, her starfish hands pink beneath the water, or the biggest boy fighting back, all wiry arms and legs, and then veers sharply away, aghast, appalled.

But there’s another part of my mind, the part that remembers the end of a day in which the milk spilled phone rang one cried another hit a fever rose the medicine gone the car sputtered another cried the cable out “Sesame Street” gone all cried stomach upset full diaper no more diapers Mommy I want water Mommy my throat hurts Mommy I don’t feel good. Every mother I’ve asked about the Yates case has the same reaction. She’s appalled; she’s aghast. And then she gets this look. And the look says that at some forbidden level she understands. The looks says that there are two very different kinds of horror here. There is the unimaginable idea of the killings. And then there is the entirely imaginable idea of going quietly bonkers in the house with five kids under the age of 7.

Full text of “Playing God on No Sleep,” Anna Quindlen, Newsweek, 2 July 2001 at Newsweek.com

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Perception Of Negative Attributes Of Single Mothers, Their Causes, And Consequences With Reference To The Selected Works Of Angela Thomas And Anna Quindlen

• Salma Jabbar

When we turn the pages of social history of the matrimonial relations right from the inception of human civilization, we come to know that co-parenting is the norm and single parenting is an exception. It is natural and in the fitness of things that both the parents should jointly take-up the responsibility of raising, nourishing the kids both physically, intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually so as to make the children as a responsible citizen of the society. At times differences between the couples crop up due to the unsurmountable incomparability of temperaments and maladjustment of relations. Things come to such a pass that living of the couple together becomes next to impossible and separation becomes imperative for the smooth and peacefully living as co-parents. Separation or single living takes place due to the death of the spouse, divorce, desertion, or separation from the live-in-relations. Both the parents as single father or single mother have to face numerous problems in raising the kids, meeting their financial needs, and suffer from depression, anxiety, and social stigma particularly in the social setup of the mindset of the people of Indian subcontinent. However, by proper brainstorming, understanding and patience the single parent particularly the single mother can tide over his or her problems in raising their children on healthy lines and live a smooth and peaceful life as a single father or a single mother. Angela Thomas and Anna Quindlen are role models for single mothers in successfully overcoming their problems in raising their kids as single mothers. The pieces of advice given by Sujata Parashar, an Indian author and social activist can also go a long way in sorting out their problems after embracing the life of single motherhood.

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Horoscopes Written by My Mother

By Bess Kalb

Aquarius Your zodiac alignment this month is governed by Venus, the planet of intuition, something my daughter Bess seems to lack. Perhaps if she weren’t an air sign she would see a pulmonologist about her goddam cough before she bursts a blood vessel in her eye. It sounds like bronchitis, which can turn into pneumonia if you don’t stay on top of it. While she’s at it, she should see an allergist, too. It could be all the dust in her apartment from those horrible sea-grass carpets that were so trendy about three years ago and now make the place look like a West Elm took over a Tommy Bahama.

Leo With Saturn rising in your heart chakra, you might feel the astrological pull of stubbornness in your sixth house. Like when Bess was in labor and waited thirteen hours before she got the epidural. That poor anesthesiologist—she sent him away twice before admitting to herself and everyone within a five-mile radius of Mt. Sinai that she needed the drugs. Why try to be a hero? This is a girl who acts like she’s been to war if she gets a middle seat on a five-hour flight.

Aries Your Virgo full moon is leaving you feeling unmoored this month, and the planetary pull of Mercury is interfering with your sense of purpose. Now is the perfect time to heed that warning, just like how Bess should absolutely see a dermatologist about the spot on her back that developed during her pregnancy. I know she says it’s just a “skin tag” that her general practitioner (who saw her on Zoom, by the way) says is “normal,” but the approaching vernal equinox means it’s possibly Cancer.

Capricorn Your earth-sign alignment is keeping you grounded, while capricious Neptune is on the cusp, so look out for forces trying to destabilize you. Like Bess’s new friend Liz, who invited Bess’s family to rent a ski house with her family next winter. You know a fun way to spend Presidents’ Day weekend? Not staring at an X-ray in some E.R. in the middle of Vermont going, “Can you at least save one of his legs?”

Gemini With Mars ascendant on the eastern horizon, Gemini is poised to help you exceed expectations and reach new heights of success this month. Just like when Bess’s little brother Will tested out of the math class in his high school and they had to bus him to the local college just so he wouldn’t be bored out of his mind. No matter how hard she tried, Bess never got a math grade higher than A-minus. Which was, to put it diplomatically, generous. ♦

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