With Child: A Diary of Motherhood

By Phyllis Chesler and Ariel Chesler

This diary of acclaimed psychologist and radical feminist icon Phyllis Chesler was a pioneering work when it was first published in 1979. A look into the second wave of feminism and the era's changing attitudes toward motherhood and pregnancy, With Child—now with an updated preface from her son—remains relevant for mothers today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chicago Review Press
• Release date: Sep 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641600354

Phyllis Chesler

Phyllis Chesler, author of eighteen books and thousands of articles and speeches is also an emerita professor of psychology and women’s studies at City University of New York, a psychotherapist, and an expert courtroom witness. She is cofounder of the Association for Women in Psychology and the National Women’s Health Network, a charter member of the Women’s Forum and the Veteran Feminists of America, and a founder and board member of the International Committee for the Women of the Wall. She lives in Manhattan.

Book preview

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New Preface

With Child is more than just a book to me. It is a very personal account of the beginning of my life. In 1998, when I first wrote the preface, I was a college student and a mere babe, a child without children. I was able to appreciate the poetry, bravery, and honesty of the book, and yet, parenthood provides an entirely different and deeper lens with which to read it. Now, I relate to the book personally and viscerally as a father of two children who has traveled down much of the path the book describes. Now, the book calls to me both as a parent and as my mother’s son. It carries me to pasts that I could never have seen on my own and allows me to understand my mother in a much deeper way. I am able to see her not just in relation to me, but as her own person.

This diary is not fiction but a fierce reality. It charts the time of my mother’s pregnancy, my own birth, and our relationship, which began long before I was conceived and will last until forever. I am the fetus, the growing clump of cells, the newborn baby in every line of this book and have been given insight into the reality of my creation and into all mothers’ histories. With Child makes me marvel at the capacity of my mother and all mothers to tap into a deep well of strength, hope, and optimism, and their belief in the power of new life and new generations all of which is necessary to embark on the brave, magical journey of motherhood. As a parent, I now better understand the doubt we have in ourselves, in humanity, in the future, in God. And yet, our mothers are unstoppable, each ever willing to serve as Atlas, holding up an entire world (page 183).

In these pages, my mother writes poetically and beautifully. She writes with passion, bravery, and strength. Despite all the injustice and pain, the failings of those around her, and her own limitations, my mother remains childlike, expressing the delight and hope that new life brings, and remaining open to the wonder of the universe. This is her warrior’s tale and she is an ancient bard. She sings a prayer that is her Sh’ma—her motherly prayer, the most important prayer in Judaism. She writes, Hear, O Israel, I am one. Mother and Child. Male and Female. Past and Future. My belly warms the sun-glown stones. I can also hear a fairy-tale-like sound to her story. In colors of blood and air I spin without stopping: colon, foot, eye. By day, by night, for nine months. I weave you: precisely. Faithfully (page 98). This is so witchlike, her spinning me into gold, into body. She recites her thoughts throughout this book in song, with a pulsing rhythm and a graceful melody.

Of course, my mother does not begin her tale with the beauty of children or family, or even her ideals of motherhood. She begins with the fact of her vomiting. This is her truth, the pure physical reality of pregnancy. Child: How imperiously you make yourself known. This morning I vomited. From the start, she directly addresses me. She turns to me for answers that no one has ever been able to give. Her questions are so personal, and so raw; they contain passion and flavor that make them powerful.

When I read this book, I feel my mother talking to me. I see her eyes, smell her cappuccino, and hear her voice. I can always pick this book up if I want to converse with my mother. Her questions force me to ask her questions, too. I want to ask about her childhood, about her past. I want to learn more about my childhood and how she dealt with bringing up a male child. I wonder too how she reared me in a feminist manner and why our relationship has always been so unique.

Although I found her work interesting and was proud, I was jealous of the time and attention it took away from me. I can still recall standing at her office door. It was shut, but that meant nothing to me—I was her one and only son. A mother could always be taken for granted, a mother could always be counted on, I thought to myself. I knocked calmly and entered before she could reply. Her books surrounded her as usual and she was sitting with a pen in hand. I’m off duty! she informed me. I did not comprehend that phrase and replied, You are not a taxi, Mom. I need to talk to you.

In With Child, my mother asks the same questions that I have asked myself as a parent, that I have asked my wife, and articulates the same fears I now know too well. Know that I’m terrified of the enormous responsibility. What if I have to choose between my work and you—and can’t she writes (page 3). She never took breaks, never relaxed her mind, but I guess she just couldn’t (and still can’t) allow it. This is because of the importance of her work as well as the time she devotes to it. In a sense, despite technically being an only child, feminism was my older sister, the more important one who got all the attention.

However, feminism has had a profound and positive effect on my life. At birth, I was thrust into a world of feminism. It nourished me in the womb and flowed into my bloodstream. I embraced its theories and made them my own. Ironically, I never truly became involved with feminism in my youth, despite my exposure to thousands of books, articles, and events. I was surrounded by feminist leaders, including my own mother, so I took the movement for granted. It was only when I ventured out on my own to college that, without my mother’s encouragement, I began to take women’s studies courses. I loved them instantly and discovered an affinity for my mother’s work. It is often frightening for me when I compare my political views to those of my peers. Although my friends are intelligent, liberal, and even progressive, that doesn’t always mean they are feminist. I have come to realize that like my mother, I, too, am a radical feminist.

Over the years, many of my friends have asked me what it’s like to have a book written about my birth. Is it weird? they ask. Does it cover your conception? I guess the answer to both questions is yes, but I don’t usually think of it as odd. Who else has a gift like this? What better birthday gift could I have received? It is a tangible, never ending gift to celebrate my life. I feel so blessed, so lucky to have this book. I can’t believe that I didn’t even read it until I was about fourteen. Perhaps I wasn’t ready for it until then.

In fact when I was younger, I was embarrassed by this book. I hated the attention I often got because of it. I remember being ashamed when my mother read to my fourth-grade class and described my strong bond with her as a marriage. Because of you, I’ll return to Earth, transformed: no longer a virgin, but a mother, married to a child. I was so humiliated that I wrote a parody. My piece was entitled With Mother and it was hilarious, at least to a fourth-grade sense of humor. Apparently even then I was attempting to come to terms with this book in my life.

I wonder what I would be like if I didn’t have this book or if my mother were a traditional mother. As a child, I wasn’t aware that my experience was different from many of my friends. To me, the way I grew up was normal, although our household was different from theirs. For example, I’d be more likely to cook eggs for my mother than she would be to cook anything for me. I used to make her feel guilty about that, but now I understand that she was doing so much more for me.

I was lucky enough to have been brought up to be myself, without restrictions or expectations about my identity. I was nurtured and allowed to develop my own beliefs. I was not treated as a child. I almost instantly held adultlike status, and I received respect as an individual from the time that I was born. Although this respect quickly brought responsibility (mental, spiritual, and physical) and premature maturity to me, it was worth it. In fact, my mother seemed to consider my wishes even before I was born.

When she was about six-months pregnant, I visited her in a dream. I told her, from the womb, what I wanted, what I felt, and she listened. I wanted a name that belonged to me, one that I chose. My mother writes, I dream a wonderful dream. I give birth to a little blond boy…. Have you really visited me in a dream? Are you requesting a name that begins with A?

I love my name, what it means, and how it sounds. I am glad to be a Shakespearean spirit, a lion of God, a secret name for the city of Jerusalem, a small city in Israel, and even a little mermaid if people must insist on it. At times my name is my only path to my roots, my origins, a past that I yearn to know. It is at times my only connection to my father, who is Israeli. It is only when I say my name properly that I feel truly visible. When I say Arriael, using that rolling r that I love, in that sweet Israeli way, I feel like me.

Ever since my mother’s dream that mind-melding night, she and I shared the truth until we understood one another. Reading about my own birth in this book was quite wondrous. The entire birth scene was so strange, terrifying, fascinating, real, unreal, miraculous, shocking, joyous, and overwhelming. I wish that I could remember it all and could give my own perspective. In a way, now I can.

It seems that every January I am born again and once again I realize how young we all are. Each year I see how vast, how small the world is, and how much, how little I know about who I am. Maybe this is because my birthday falls right after the new year. Everyone is thinking about themselves, everything is new. I feel younger each birthday, or at least I remember my past.

On January 4, 1978, my mother writes, Tonight I descend, tonight I rise. Tonight I am halved, tonight I am doubled. Tonight I lose you forever, tonight I meet you for the first time. Tonight I cheat death. Tonight I die.

January 6, 1985. I crawl out of bed to be with my mommy. I stumble into her bed to cuddle with her on my birthday. I am here next to you, Mother, just like I was that first day. Your bed is special and it relaxes me more than anywhere else in the world. It is my earth-womb, the replacement for my first sleeping quarters, your stomach. You also awake at this time in the morning and we smile at one another, know that this is a rare and wonderful occurrence. Soon we fall asleep, with my head resting on your belly, attempting to return to my first world.

January 6, 1978. It is 5:17AM. Today I am born, today I am ended. I am wide awake. I am completely exhausted. I am freed form my mother’s body but enslaved by mine. I see everything around me, I am blind. I feel alone. I am surrounded by too many bodies. Everything is new to me, but I’ve seen it all before. I am cold, I am warmed by my mother’s body. I have my entire life ahead of me, and my last one behind me.

My mother’s last line of the book asks, And who could be closer than we two? To which I reply to her, No one mother, no one.

Ariel Chesler

Part One

PREGNANCY

May 1, 1977

Child: How imperiously you make yourself known. This morning I vomited.

My teeth are chattering. My fear—such fear!—seems to rise up out of history, to swirl through my bowels, all the way up to my teeth. I’m afraid of you. Who are you, that I tremble so?

Why am I having a baby? How many women have asked themselves this question? Am I any different, any freer, than those mothers who never asked?

I am without the hystory of female askings. I ask as if for the first time.

I’ve heard mothers try to talk about pregnancy, or children, in the midst of adult conversation. Always, they risk indifference—from others with something larger to say. As if an individual tale of pregnancy isn’t important. As if all mothers—or children—are alike.

Little one: This journal will be a record of my askings; a record of our beginnings; a record of our awakening; a record of the fact that before you, there was me. Who in the middle of my life—in chaos—choose you.

Know that I’m terrified of the enormous responsibility.

What if I have to choose between my work and you—and can’t?

What if I can’t earn enough money?

What if I can’t transform myself into a mother-person?

Do all women die in childbirth to be reborn as mothers? Does your coming mean my death?

Why am I having you? Do I think you’ll always be there for me? Do I believe that only you, an unborn child, are my true beloved, my marriage mate, till death do us part? I do.

Why am I having you? Am I afraid I’d regret not becoming a mother? Have they finally gotten to me: those who say that all else for women is ephemeral, unsatisfying?

Have I lingered in your father’s arms, these many years, just waiting for you? Can I leave him, now that you’re here?

Am I bored with my work? Or is it the growing knowledge that I won’t be allowed to do my work, that has me turning to thoughts of you?

Listen, child: I hear them at my heels. My breath grows short. I choose you to throw them off my trail. I choose you so that when I’m next accused of daring too much, of wanting too much, of having too much (for a woman), they’ll pause, and see us—only a mother and child—and call off their inexorable laws.

Are you my cover? Can women hide behind children without becoming very small ourselves?

To embrace what has been is foreign to me. Women have always had children. Children have always had women. Despite this, despite everything I know, still I choose your existence. In doing this, I accept my own.

I am every woman who has dared to hope that despite everything, a child will sweeten her days, soften the blow of loneliness and old age.

I am every woman who has ever honored her mother by becoming a mother.

You are my emissary to the next century. You, child, are my life offering to all the mothers who have preceded me.

The great and greatly silenced Mothers. There’s a shelf in my local bookstore marked Child Care, with books by male experts on annual expected growth rates and separation anxiety; books praising natural childbirth; books damning obstetrical procedures in America. Here’s a book on how to form your own child care center.

Twenty books in all.

I find a handful of precious, brave books, all published in the