You must always check a silence, not because the baby might have choked, but because it is in the middle of destroying something, thoroughly and slowly, with great and secret pleasure. It is important to remember this — you run back to the room, not to see if the baby needs resuscitation, but to save your floppy disks. Once you realise where the balance actually lies you can free yourself from the prison of worry. I know this. I am an expert. Some people, as they mount the stairs, might listen for the sound of a toy still in use — to me, this was the sound of the baby randomly kicking buttons in a sudden choking or epileptic fit. I used to read the ‘Emergencies’ section in the How to Kill Your Baby books all the time. The How to Kill Your Baby books are so popular that I assume some part of us wants to do just that. If the unconscious works by opposites, then it is a murderous business too, giving birth.
How to Kill Your Baby: A List:
Too much salt, fungally infected honey, a slippy bath surface, suddenly jealous pets, permanently jealous siblings, a stupid or pathological babysitter, the stairs, a house that goes on fire while you are ‘outside moving the car’, a child-snatcher, a small plastic toy, a playful jiggle that is as bad as a shake, an open cutlery drawer, a necklace, a string, a plastic bag, a piece of burst balloon, an electric cord, a telephone cord, a lollipop, a curtain cord, an inhaled sweet, an accidentally suffocating pillow, a smoky room, the wrong kind of mattress, an open window, a milk allergy, a nut allergy, a bee sting, a virus, a bacterial infection, a badly balanced walker, a bottle of bleach, all kinds of weedkiller, both on the lawn or in the bottle, pesticides, miscellaneous fumes, all carcinogens including apples, a failure to apply sun cream, the lack of a hat, battery-produced eggs, inorganic meat, cars. You might also have Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy without knowing it, so it is a good idea to check yourself for this, from time to time.
As far as I can see from the news reports, one of the most dangerous creatures in a child’s life is a stepfather, but the books don’t seem to mention them. They warn against mothers’ endless sloppiness with dangerous domestic objects, but they never mention their taste in men.
When the baby is eight months old, she cries every time I move out of sight. This separation anxiety can get quite wearing — it is so large and so illogical. Besides, I don’t need to be reminded that I’m not going anywhere, I am with this baby all the time. But I wonder if part of the problem isn’t my own anxiety when I leave the room. Will she still be alive when I get back? I picture the court case.
‘And why, pray tell, did you leave the baby?’
‘I . . . A call of nature, your honour.’
He pauses. A ripple of sympathy runs through the courtroom.
‘Well, I suppose even the best mothers must er um,’ though you know he thinks we shouldn’t. ‘Case dismissed. I suppose.’
Mothers worry. Fathers worry too, of course. But mothers are supposed to worry, and fathers are supposed to reassure. Yes, she is all right on the swing, no, he will not fall into the stream, yes, I will park the buggy in the shade, oh, please get a grip.
Is it really a gender thing? Maybe the people who worry most are the ones who spend the most time with the baby, because babies train us into it — the desperation of holding, walking, singing, distracting. Babies demand your entire self, but it is a funny kind of self. It is a mixture of the ‘all’ a factory worker gives to the conveyor belt and the ‘all’ a lover offers to the one he adores. It involves, on both counts, a fair degree of self-abnegation.
This is why people who mind children suffer from despair; it happens all of a sudden — they realise, all of a sudden, that they still exist. It is to keep this crux at bay perhaps — that is why we worry. Because worry is a way of not thinking something through.
I think worry is a neglected emotion — it is something that small-minded people do — but it has its existential side too. Here is the fire that burns, the button that chokes, here is the kettle, the car, the bacterium, the man in a mac. On the other side is something so vulnerable and yet so huge — there is something unknowable about a baby. And between these two uncertainties is the parent; completely responsible, mostly helpless, caught in an ever-shrinking circle of guilt and protectiveness, until a kind of frozen passivity sets in. There is a kind of freedom to it too — the transference of dread from the self to the child is so total: it makes you disappear. Ping! Don’t mind me.
The martyred mother is someone uplifted, someone who has given everything. She is the reason we are all here. She is also, and even to herself, a pain in the neck.
I think mothers worry more than fathers because worry keeps them pregnant. To worry is to possess, contain, hold. It is the most tenacious of emotions. A worry — and a worrier — never lets go. ‘It never ends,’ says my mother, ‘it never ends,’ meaning the love, but also the fret.
Because worry has no narrative, it does not shift, or change. It has no resolution. That is what it is for — not ending, holding on. And sometimes it is terrible to be the one who is held, and mostly it is just irritating, because the object of anxiety is not, after all, you. We slip like phantoms from our parents’ heads, leaving them to clutch some Thing they call by our name, because a mother has no ability to let her child go. And then, much later, in need, or in tragedy, or in the wearing of age, we slip back into her possession, because sometimes you just want your mother to hold you, in her heart if not in her arms, as she is still held by her own mother, even now, from time to time.
Anne Enright, ‘Worry’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 177-79.
Obavezno pripazi na tišinu, ne zato što ti se dijete možda ugušilo nego zato što vjerojatno upravo sada nešto uništava, temeljito i polako, s ogromnim i tajnim zadovoljstvom. Bitno je upamtiti – do sobe ne trčiš da provjeriš treba li dijete oživljavanje, već da sačuvaš diskete. Kad jednom shvatiš gdje je zapravo ravnoteža, možeš prestati biti rob brige. Znam to. Stručnjakinja sam. Dok se penju stubama, neki možda osluškuju zvukove igranja – no za mene je to bio zvuk djeteta koje nasumično pritišće dugmad telefona u iznenadnom naletu gušenja ili epilepsije. Prije sam neprestano čitala dijelove iz poglavlja „Hitni slučajevi“ iz knjiga Kako ubiti svoje dijete. Pretpostavljam da su knjige Kako ubiti svoje dijete toliko popularne da neki od nas to upravo i žele učiniti. Ako nesvjesno djeluje prema načelima suprotnosti, onda su to krvnička posla, roditi.
Kako ubiti svoje dijete: Popis:
Previše soli, pokvareni med, sklisko dno kade, kućni ljubimci koji su odjednom ljubomorni, starija braća i sestre koji su vječno ljubomorni, glupa ili bolesna bejbisiterica, stube, kuća koja se zapali dok si vani i „preparkiravaš auto“, baba roga, mala plastična igračka, zaigrani trzaj koji je loš koliko i drhtavica, otvorena ladica s priborom za jelo, ogrlica, žica, plastična vrećica, komad puknutog balona, električni kabl, telefonska žica, lizalica, konopci od zavjesa, bombon u nosu, jastuk koji guši, zadimljena soba, kriva strana madraca, otvoreni prozor, alergija na mlijeko, alergija na orašaste plodove, ubod pčele, virus, bakterijska infekcija, naherena hodalica, izbjeljivač, sva moguća sredstva za suzbijanje korova – bilo na travnjaku ili u bocama – pesticidi, raznorazna isparavanja od kojih su sva kancerogena, uključujući i ona od jabuke, neuspješno nanošenje kreme za sunčanje, izlazak bez šešira, jaja iz baterijskog uzgoja, prerađeno meso, automobili. Možda si skupio i Munchausenov sindrom a da ni ne znaš pa je dobro povremeno se testirati i na to.
Koliko vidim iz vijesti, jedno od najopasnijih bića u djetetovom životu je očuh, ali čini se da se oni ne spominju u knjigama. One upozoravaju na beskrajnu neopreznost majki u baratanju kućnim predmetima, ali nikada ne spomenu i njihov ukus u muškarce.
Nakon što beba navrši osam mjeseci plače svaki put kad joj nestanem iz vidokruga. Ta anksioznost pri razdvajanju ponekad je prilično zamorna – toliko je dalekosežna i toliko nelogična. Uostalom, nije da mi treba podsjetnik da nikuda ne idem, s tom sam bebom cijeli dan. Ali se zapitam nije li možda problem i moja vlastita anksioznost od napuštanja sobe. Hoće li još biti živa kad se vratim? U glavi mi osvane slika sudskog postupka.
„A zašto ste, molim Vas, recite, ostavili dijete?“
„Ovaj… Zov prirode, časni suče.“
Zastao je. Val suosjećanja ispuni sudnicu.
„Pa, vjerujem da čak i najbolje majke moraju um, um“, iako znaš da to zapravo ne misli. „Slučaj je zaključen. Pretpostavljam.“
Majke se brinu. Očevi se isto brinu, naravno. Ali majke bi se i trebale brinuti, a očevi bi ih trebali umirivati. Da, ništa joj neće biti na ljuljački, ne, neće pasti u potok, da, ostavit ću kolica u hladu, oh, daj se molim te saberi.
Je li to stvarno pitanje roda? Možda se najviše brinu oni koji s djetetom provedu najviše vremena jer nas djeca tome uče – očajna su od želje da ih čuvaš, šetaš, pjevaš, zabavljaš. Djeca zahtijevaju da im se daš u potpunosti, ali onaj svoj smiješni dio. Kombinaciju „svega onoga“ što tvornički radnik daje pokretnoj traci i „svega“ što ljubavnik nudi predmetu svog obožavanja. U oba slučaja uključen je poprilično visok stupanj samoodricanja.
Baš zato oni koji se brinu o djeci zapadnu u beznađe; sve se dogodi iznenada – odjednom shvate da još uvijek postoje. A sve to da bi tu nedoumicu zadržali podalje – možda se zato brinemo. Jer briga je način da nešto ne promislimo do kraja.
Mislim da je briga zanemarena emocija – to prakticiraju sitničavi ljudi – ali u tome ima i nešto egzistencijalno. To je vatra koja gori, gumb koji guši, to je čajnik, auti, bakterija, nepoznati čovjek. To je, s druge strane, nešto jako ranjivo, a opet ogromno – kod djece nešto nedokučivo. U središtu tih dviju neizvjesnosti je roditelj: potpuno odgovoran, najčešće bespomoćan, zahvaćen u vječnom vrtlogu krivnje i zaštite, sve dok ne dođe do ledene pasivnosti. Ali tu je i djelić slobode – prijenos strepnji sa sebe na dijete tako je potpun – zbog toga nestaneš. Ping! Ne obaziri se na mene.
Majka mučenica je netko uzvišen, netko tko je dao sve. Razlog je našeg postojanja. Uz sve je to, čak i samoj sebi, nepodnošljivo naporna.
Mislim da se majke brinu više nego očevi jer ih briga održava trudnima. Brinuti se znači posjedovati, sadržavati, držati. Najčvršća je emocija. Briga – i onaj koji se brine – nikad ne otpuštaju. „Nikad ne prestaje“ odnosi se na ljubav, ali i na teret.
Jer briga nema narativ, ne miče se niti se mijenja. Ne možeš je odabrati. Zato tome i služi – da nikad ne prestane, nikad ne nestane. A ponekad je strašno biti onaj za kojeg se uhvatila, dok je većinu vremena samo iritantno, jer predmet brige, na kraju krajeva, nisi ti. Iz glava naših roditelja nestajemo poput duhova ostavljajući ih da se drže za ono što nazivaju našim imenom jer majka nema moć puštanja svog djeteta. A tad, tek puno kasnije, ponovno se, bilo zbog potrebe ili tragedije, ili zbog godina koje su prošle, nađemo u njezinom posjedovanju, jer ponekad samo poželiš da te majka drži, u svom srcu ako već ne u rukama, jednako kao što nju nosi njezina majka, čak i sad, povremeno.
You must always check a silence, not because the baby might have choked, but because it is in the middle of destroying something, thoroughly and slowly, with great and secret pleasure. It is important to remember this — you run back to the room, not to see if the baby needs resuscitation, but to save your floppy disks. Once you realise where the balance actually lies you can free yourself from the prison of worry. I know this. I am an expert. Some people, as they mount the stairs, might listen for the sound of a toy still in use — to me, this was the sound of the baby randomly kicking buttons in a sudden choking or epileptic fit. I used to read the ‘Emergencies’ section in the How to Kill Your Baby books all the time. The How to Kill Your Baby books are so popular that I assume some part of us wants to do just that. If the unconscious works by opposites, then it is a murderous business too, giving birth.
How to Kill Your Baby: A List:
Too much salt, fungally infected honey, a slippy bath surface, suddenly jealous pets, permanently jealous siblings, a stupid or pathological babysitter, the stairs, a house that goes on fire while you are ‘outside moving the car’, a child-snatcher, a small plastic toy, a playful jiggle that is as bad as a shake, an open cutlery drawer, a necklace, a string, a plastic bag, a piece of burst balloon, an electric cord, a telephone cord, a lollipop, a curtain cord, an inhaled sweet, an accidentally suffocating pillow, a smoky room, the wrong kind of mattress, an open window, a milk allergy, a nut allergy, a bee sting, a virus, a bacterial infection, a badly balanced walker, a bottle of bleach, all kinds of weedkiller, both on the lawn or in the bottle, pesticides, miscellaneous fumes, all carcinogens including apples, a failure to apply sun cream, the lack of a hat, battery-produced eggs, inorganic meat, cars. You might also have Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy without knowing it, so it is a good idea to check yourself for this, from time to time.
As far as I can see from the news reports, one of the most dangerous creatures in a child’s life is a stepfather, but the books don’t seem to mention them. They warn against mothers’ endless sloppiness with dangerous domestic objects, but they never mention their taste in men.
When the baby is eight months old, she cries every time I move out of sight. This separation anxiety can get quite wearing — it is so large and so illogical. Besides, I don’t need to be reminded that I’m not going anywhere, I am with this baby all the time. But I wonder if part of the problem isn’t my own anxiety when I leave the room. Will she still be alive when I get back? I picture the court case.
‘And why, pray tell, did you leave the baby?’
‘I . . . A call of nature, your honour.’
He pauses. A ripple of sympathy runs through the courtroom.
‘Well, I suppose even the best mothers must er um,’ though you know he thinks we shouldn’t. ‘Case dismissed. I suppose.’
Mothers worry. Fathers worry too, of course. But mothers are supposed to worry, and fathers are supposed to reassure. Yes, she is all right on the swing, no, he will not fall into the stream, yes, I will park the buggy in the shade, oh, please get a grip.
Is it really a gender thing? Maybe the people who worry most are the ones who spend the most time with the baby, because babies train us into it — the desperation of holding, walking, singing, distracting. Babies demand your entire self, but it is a funny kind of self. It is a mixture of the ‘all’ a factory worker gives to the conveyor belt and the ‘all’ a lover offers to the one he adores. It involves, on both counts, a fair degree of self-abnegation.
This is why people who mind children suffer from despair; it happens all of a sudden — they realise, all of a sudden, that they still exist. It is to keep this crux at bay perhaps — that is why we worry. Because worry is a way of not thinking something through.
I think worry is a neglected emotion — it is something that small-minded people do — but it has its existential side too. Here is the fire that burns, the button that chokes, here is the kettle, the car, the bacterium, the man in a mac. On the other side is something so vulnerable and yet so huge — there is something unknowable about a baby. And between these two uncertainties is the parent; completely responsible, mostly helpless, caught in an ever-shrinking circle of guilt and protectiveness, until a kind of frozen passivity sets in. There is a kind of freedom to it too — the transference of dread from the self to the child is so total: it makes you disappear. Ping! Don’t mind me.
The martyred mother is someone uplifted, someone who has given everything. She is the reason we are all here. She is also, and even to herself, a pain in the neck.
I think mothers worry more than fathers because worry keeps them pregnant. To worry is to possess, contain, hold. It is the most tenacious of emotions. A worry — and a worrier — never lets go. ‘It never ends,’ says my mother, ‘it never ends,’ meaning the love, but also the fret.
Because worry has no narrative, it does not shift, or change. It has no resolution. That is what it is for — not ending, holding on. And sometimes it is terrible to be the one who is held, and mostly it is just irritating, because the object of anxiety is not, after all, you. We slip like phantoms from our parents’ heads, leaving them to clutch some Thing they call by our name, because a mother has no ability to let her child go. And then, much later, in need, or in tragedy, or in the wearing of age, we slip back into her possession, because sometimes you just want your mother to hold you, in her heart if not in her arms, as she is still held by her own mother, even now, from time to time.
Anne Enright, ‘Worry’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 177-79.
Obavezno pripazi na tišinu, ne zato što ti se dijete možda ugušilo nego zato što vjerojatno upravo sada nešto uništava, temeljito i polako, s ogromnim i tajnim zadovoljstvom. Bitno je upamtiti – do sobe ne trčiš da provjeriš treba li dijete oživljavanje, već da sačuvaš diskete. Kad jednom shvatiš gdje je zapravo ravnoteža, možeš prestati biti rob brige. Znam to. Stručnjakinja sam. Dok se penju stubama, neki možda osluškuju zvukove igranja – no za mene je to bio zvuk djeteta koje nasumično pritišće dugmad telefona u iznenadnom naletu gušenja ili epilepsije. Prije sam neprestano čitala dijelove iz poglavlja „Hitni slučajevi“ iz knjiga Kako ubiti svoje dijete. Pretpostavljam da su knjige Kako ubiti svoje dijete toliko popularne da neki od nas to upravo i žele učiniti. Ako nesvjesno djeluje prema načelima suprotnosti, onda su to krvnička posla, roditi.
Kako ubiti svoje dijete: Popis:
Previše soli, pokvareni med, sklisko dno kade, kućni ljubimci koji su odjednom ljubomorni, starija braća i sestre koji su vječno ljubomorni, glupa ili bolesna bejbisiterica, stube, kuća koja se zapali dok si vani i „preparkiravaš auto“, baba roga, mala plastična igračka, zaigrani trzaj koji je loš koliko i drhtavica, otvorena ladica s priborom za jelo, ogrlica, žica, plastična vrećica, komad puknutog balona, električni kabl, telefonska žica, lizalica, konopci od zavjesa, bombon u nosu, jastuk koji guši, zadimljena soba, kriva strana madraca, otvoreni prozor, alergija na mlijeko, alergija na orašaste plodove, ubod pčele, virus, bakterijska infekcija, naherena hodalica, izbjeljivač, sva moguća sredstva za suzbijanje korova – bilo na travnjaku ili u bocama – pesticidi, raznorazna isparavanja od kojih su sva kancerogena, uključujući i ona od jabuke, neuspješno nanošenje kreme za sunčanje, izlazak bez šešira, jaja iz baterijskog uzgoja, prerađeno meso, automobili. Možda si skupio i Munchausenov sindrom a da ni ne znaš pa je dobro povremeno se testirati i na to.
Koliko vidim iz vijesti, jedno od najopasnijih bića u djetetovom životu je očuh, ali čini se da se oni ne spominju u knjigama. One upozoravaju na beskrajnu neopreznost majki u baratanju kućnim predmetima, ali nikada ne spomenu i njihov ukus u muškarce.
Nakon što beba navrši osam mjeseci plače svaki put kad joj nestanem iz vidokruga. Ta anksioznost pri razdvajanju ponekad je prilično zamorna – toliko je dalekosežna i toliko nelogična. Uostalom, nije da mi treba podsjetnik da nikuda ne idem, s tom sam bebom cijeli dan. Ali se zapitam nije li možda problem i moja vlastita anksioznost od napuštanja sobe. Hoće li još biti živa kad se vratim? U glavi mi osvane slika sudskog postupka.
„A zašto ste, molim Vas, recite, ostavili dijete?“
„Ovaj… Zov prirode, časni suče.“
Zastao je. Val suosjećanja ispuni sudnicu.
„Pa, vjerujem da čak i najbolje majke moraju um, um“, iako znaš da to zapravo ne misli. „Slučaj je zaključen. Pretpostavljam.“
Majke se brinu. Očevi se isto brinu, naravno. Ali majke bi se i trebale brinuti, a očevi bi ih trebali umirivati. Da, ništa joj neće biti na ljuljački, ne, neće pasti u potok, da, ostavit ću kolica u hladu, oh, daj se molim te saberi.
Je li to stvarno pitanje roda? Možda se najviše brinu oni koji s djetetom provedu najviše vremena jer nas djeca tome uče – očajna su od želje da ih čuvaš, šetaš, pjevaš, zabavljaš. Djeca zahtijevaju da im se daš u potpunosti, ali onaj svoj smiješni dio. Kombinaciju „svega onoga“ što tvornički radnik daje pokretnoj traci i „svega“ što ljubavnik nudi predmetu svog obožavanja. U oba slučaja uključen je poprilično visok stupanj samoodricanja.
Baš zato oni koji se brinu o djeci zapadnu u beznađe; sve se dogodi iznenada – odjednom shvate da još uvijek postoje. A sve to da bi tu nedoumicu zadržali podalje – možda se zato brinemo. Jer briga je način da nešto ne promislimo do kraja.
Mislim da je briga zanemarena emocija – to prakticiraju sitničavi ljudi – ali u tome ima i nešto egzistencijalno. To je vatra koja gori, gumb koji guši, to je čajnik, auti, bakterija, nepoznati čovjek. To je, s druge strane, nešto jako ranjivo, a opet ogromno – kod djece nešto nedokučivo. U središtu tih dviju neizvjesnosti je roditelj: potpuno odgovoran, najčešće bespomoćan, zahvaćen u vječnom vrtlogu krivnje i zaštite, sve dok ne dođe do ledene pasivnosti. Ali tu je i djelić slobode – prijenos strepnji sa sebe na dijete tako je potpun – zbog toga nestaneš. Ping! Ne obaziri se na mene.
Majka mučenica je netko uzvišen, netko tko je dao sve. Razlog je našeg postojanja. Uz sve je to, čak i samoj sebi, nepodnošljivo naporna.
Mislim da se majke brinu više nego očevi jer ih briga održava trudnima. Brinuti se znači posjedovati, sadržavati, držati. Najčvršća je emocija. Briga – i onaj koji se brine – nikad ne otpuštaju. „Nikad ne prestaje“ odnosi se na ljubav, ali i na teret.
Jer briga nema narativ, ne miče se niti se mijenja. Ne možeš je odabrati. Zato tome i služi – da nikad ne prestane, nikad ne nestane. A ponekad je strašno biti onaj za kojeg se uhvatila, dok je većinu vremena samo iritantno, jer predmet brige, na kraju krajeva, nisi ti. Iz glava naših roditelja nestajemo poput duhova ostavljajući ih da se drže za ono što nazivaju našim imenom jer majka nema moć puštanja svog djeteta. A tad, tek puno kasnije, ponovno se, bilo zbog potrebe ili tragedije, ili zbog godina koje su prošle, nađemo u njezinom posjedovanju, jer ponekad samo poželiš da te majka drži, u svom srcu ako već ne u rukama, jednako kao što nju nosi njezina majka, čak i sad, povremeno.
Translation commentary
Ana Marija Mašić
Even though the story was short, it was occasionally quite challenging for translation. The first problem was an expected one, and this is fighting the urge of following English syntax. Once I managed to liberate myself from that, my translation started sounding way better. Another thing was localization of certain parts. For example, “child-snatcher” could be easily translated literally in Croatian; however, one solution seemed to be working way better and this is “baba roga“, a witch from Slavic mythology who was known for kidnapping children and threatening to eat them. It is sometimes used by parents to intimidate their ill-behaving children. Nevertheless, I really enjoyed the translating process and I grew quite fond of the story.