Churchill's Mom

Its official, after a week an a half of second-hand breathing the little one's germs, I'm definitely sick. Here I sit, sinuses thoroughly plugged, headache pounding, throat raw, nursing a cup of hot tea with just the lightest slug of orange flavoured vodka in it (hubs' secret cold fighting recipe) and I'm thinking about Churchill's mom. Let me explain.

A couple of weeks ago I picked up this book at a garage sale. You know I love old books. My brain seems incapable of passing them by at second hand stores and yard sales - anything with a nice fabric-y cover, like the one above often makes its way into my cart, regardless of subject matter. I like them not just as books, but as objects, if that makes any sense. Beautiful end papers, rough edged pages, printing that you can feel the depth of on the page.... these are things that make me sigh with happiness. And so, for a half a dollar or so they make their way home with me, to join their bretheren on my shelves. I don't always read them, but sometimes I do. And this one, due to the simple fact that it is sitting on top of two others of a similar ilk, on the corner of my desk, is one of the lucky ones that gets read. I pick it up while I'm waiting for my iphoto to open up (there's a lot of pictures in there and it is slooooow) and I've found it quite captivating. I really like stories of people's early childhood, whether they are famous statesmen or well known public figures or whatever. I think its because that's where my mind is so much these days, as I watch my very small children tumble through their days. I hear them as they form their first words, or put complictated thoughts into simple sentances and I wonder all the time, 'what's going on in that little brain'. I hope someday they can remember back to these days and tell me what was on their minds. For example, the Baby is obsessed with Bunnies these days "munny" (for some reason he can't say it with a 'b') is the first word out of his mouth most days, and one of the last as I lay him down to sleep. And "munny" is often followed with a breathy "hop, hop, hop" accompanied by the action of course. And I wonder, why are bunnies so much on his mind? We've only seen a few. We see deer much more often, and though they get mentioned, they are no where near as popular as "munny". Though "munny" is on par with "dactore" which of course means 'tractor'. natch.

But I digress. So Mr. Churchill has written about his childhood, and it is fascinating, not so much because of who he is, but rather my interest in is the very different way that children were parented in the United Kingdom in the 1870s. Churchill was born in 1874, and what amazes me most about the way he was raised is how little involved his mother was. Now of course, this is not only an issue of a difference of time, but a difference of class. Churchill's grandfather was the Duke of Marlborough, and was for a time the Lord-Lieutenant. Churchill's father had the office of secretary to the Duke, and was himself a Lord. So they weren't exactly regular people if you know what I mean. And still, I found it surprising to read this:

"She (my mother) shone for me like the Evening Star. I loved her dearly---but at a distance. My nurse was my confidante. Mrs. Everest it was who looked after me an tended all my wants. It was to her I poured out my many troubles, both now and in my schooldays."

and continues:

"My picture of her (my mother) in Ireland is in a riding habit, fitting like a skin and often beautifully spotted with mud. She and my father hunted continually on their large horses; and sometimes there were great scares because on or the other did not come back for many hours after they were expected. My mother always seemed to me a fairy princess: a radient being possessed of limitless riches and power. Lord D'Abernon has described her as she was in these Irish days in words for which I am grateful.

at which point follows Lord D'Abernon's quote

...'I have the clearest  recollectyion of seeing her for the first time. It was at the Vice-Regal Lodge at Dublin. She stood on one side to the left of the entrance. The Viceroy was on a dais at the farther end of the room surrounded by a brilliant staff, but eyes were not turned on him or on his consort, but on a dark, lithe figure, standing somewhat apart and appearing to be of another texture to those around her, radiant, translucent, intense. A diamond star in her hair, her favourite ornament--its lustre dimmed by the flashing glory of her eyes. More of the panther than of the woman in her look, but with a cultivated inteligence unknown to the jungle. Her courage not less great than that of her husband--fit mother for descendants of the great Duke. With all these attributes of brilliancy, such kindliness and hight spirits that she was universally popular. Her desire to please, her delight in life, and the genuine wish that all should share her joyous faith in it, made her the centre of a devoted circle.'

Well. And here is a picture of the Lady, to go with that breathless description. Lovely to be sure. (I wish there was a close-up of that diamond star she wore in her hair, but you can't have everything.) 

So why is Lady Randolph Churchill on my mind today? Because I'll bet she never had to parent her kid when she had a cold. She never struggled through a day of chills and coughs, still managing lunch and laundry and trips to the potty. But of course, who are we kidding. She never EVER accompanied one of her children to the potty in her entire life. That's what Mrs. Everest the nurse was for. And to be honest I have mixed feelings about that. At first I was appalled at the whole arrangement. How strange, to bear a child and then have almost nothing to do with his day to day care. To just hand that over to some other person that you interviewed and hired based on good references from Lady So-And-So. To let someone else feed them and bathe them and read them stories and tuck them in at night, not just when you were away during the day working, but all the time, weekends, evenings, everything! It seems unimaginable. 

And yet. And yet. There are days when I long for a Mrs. Everest of my own. Some capable aproned lady who will take over for me. So that I can don my perfectly fitting riding habit and gallop away on my horse to return Lord knows when. To have all my time be my own, entirely. To never think about what we need to make for dinner, or what my children will eat, or wear or do. There are days when that seems rather wonderful. Especially the days when I am sick. I could withdraw to my rooms, put on a loose fitting and yet beautiful tea gown, and lie abed drinking hot tea with extra lemon and eating toast or blancmange and convalesce at my leisure, never once worrying or even thinking of the welfare of my little ones, knowing always that they were being cared for and that I need not concern myself with it. 

Though of course, I am born at the wrong time (and certainly of the wrong class) for all that. And sick days aside, how much poor Lady Randolph missed! She was not there to hear little Winston's lisping first words, or see how sweet he looked in the bath. It was not she who would run to him when he fell and cried over a scraped knee or broken toy. She did not get to see him eat his dinner with funny gusto, or hear all the unintentionally humourous things he had to say as he started to understand, and misunderstand the world. She did not get to witness the quiet satisfaction of her child engrossed in play and the wild abandon of him running outside in the wind. And at the end of the day, when he was warm from the tub and dressed sweetly in pyjamas, it was not her whose neck he tucked his little face against as she carried him to his crib, not was it she who laid him down with his favourite teddy and ducky and blanket. She did not get to wish him good night and kiss him. And although it can be difficult, it was not she who went to him in the night when he woke in fear and needed to be hugged and held for a moment before he could slide back into soft sleep. And come morning it would not be her face that he saw when first he woke, to be greeted with the hopeful cry of "munny!? hop, hop, hop!" as I am most mornings.

Oh, it almost makes me cry to think of all the things she missed. How could she know of course?It was just the way things were done in the life of a Lady during the time that she lived. And though I wouldn't say no to a riding habit, a stable of horses and diamond star for my hair if offered, I can surely say that no matter what, no matter when, I'm keeping my babies for myself. 

Comments

[Marcia Van Drunen]

beautifully pondered and said, my friend
I'm with you.

[Jen]

It was a totally different time. I agree wholeheartedly. By the way if you'd like to hear more about Jennie Churchill's life there is a great podcast about her here:
http://thehistorychicks.com/?p=1171