by Sylvia Plath
Dear Mother –
Say, but I feel that I’m cut off from all human kind. I don’t even know how I can last one week – I feel like putting my head on your shoulder and weeping from sheer homesickness. They say not to let children be tyrants over you. Fine, but I’d like to know just how you get a thing done on your own if you are continually to “keep an eye” on them – while they play, when they want you to put them up on swings or play ball – or if I should maybe run after them all the time just so they’ll think I’m on the job.
Last night I couldn’t sleep & couldn’t sleep, just because I wanted so badly to spill over to someone. My day begins at 6 or 6:30 with the first cry or bright face bursting in the door. Mr & Mrs. sleep downstairs with the baby who is just a toddler and who “loves to get in to everything.” The 4 year old girl is a “me-do”, always doing death-defying leaps after big brother on the trapeeze. After I get the two oldest washed and dressed. I go down and help with breakfast, after which I do dishes, make beds, pick up and mop the kids rooms, do laundry in Bendix and hang it out, watch the children. There is no cook here, so a woman comes three days a week. I just hope she makes lunch for the kids and me on those days – she is very capable – and I don’t know just whether I’ll be in her way or not when I clumsily monkey about in the kitchen. But I’d love it if you could tell me how to cook some meats and vegetables – (like carrots, peas & beans) – in saucepans & frying pans. Do you always use water in the former & fat in the latter? Cause I cook our lunches when Helen (the lady) isn’t here. (Hah!) After lunch the two youngest are supposed to have naps, while the boy plays around by himself. I hope to be able to rest in my room for an hour, then, although I will do the ironing whenever there’s time – just for the kids who change clothes every day – so every day there’s wash & ironing to do. I get the supper for myself and the children – and hope I feel more like eating as the days go by. After supper, I wash the baby & put her to bed. The two oldest play out till after seven, whereupon I call them in, bathe them & put them to bed. If I have my way, they’ll all be out of the way by eight. By which time I shall probably be so dead that I can no more look at a book than anything. I can wash my laundry in the Bendix, though, so that saves money, I guess.
But after not a wink of sleep last night – being as I was just dropping off when Pinny started having a nightmare at two, and screamed till I got up and told her to be still in a gentle tone that amazes me even yet . . . I have to get used to just how much discipline I should use---and just to what subtle degree I should take over the role of boss.
Even now, as I write, I am so tired I can feel the tears coming to my eyes. In this state I can hardly be the bright and cheerful playmate and creative storyteller I would like to be if I had the energy. The oldest boy can be good if you interest him in a story or something, but oh, no, I can’t devote myself to him . . . The little two year old, who can’t understand a word I say, runs off, and I continually run after to bring her back to “play.” All she does is stuff sand and grass in her mouth and either grin senselessly or bawl like a baby. Thank god she takes an hour’s nap a day. As for Pinny, again, by herself, she would be alright . . . but incited by Freddie, or just out of plain ornariness, she does nasty things like throwing clean dishes on the water while I’m washing them. Freddy is all right when he has his way. Otherwise he’s an unreasonable whining cuss. Excuse the language, but if you could see him shrieking on the top of his lungs, you’d agree. Am I quietly firm and insensible? Do I ignore their fights? Do I try to break them up? How do you inspire kids with awe & respect? By being decisive? By being ominously quiet.
Outside it is lovely. From my window I can see the beach. So I sit here exhausted, seeing no way out, seeing only slavery from 6 in the morning till eight at night, never knowing if or when I can completely relax. My nerves are always on edge. I can for see going to bed and lying awake every night dreading the next morning – and the interminable day . . . Fourteen hours . . . God! I almost wish I’d get the mumps so I could come home. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I’ve completely lost my sense of humor. If they yell any more, I shall burst into tears of angry vexation.
Mrs. Mayo is just doing the wash and the hanging out with me so I can take over myself later, I guess. I don’t know if I can life six whole days till whenever my “day off” comes. And what if it rains? Do I stay in my room and hear them squabbling downstairs? Do I come down for meals? Do I ignore the kids completely? I could just ask to make myself a sandwich for lunch & lie down the beach if it’s nice, I guess.
One sure thing, I don’t feel like traveling to Brewster. My face is a mess, all broken out, my tan is faded, my eyes are sunken. I look hideous. If I could be pretty, I wouldn’t mind so much. But I shall do my best and try to keep the letters heading that way cheerful and light. If I die here, or get shot for letting the dog (yup – a nasty puppy who bites playfully – my leg still has the mark.)
By now you are either saying that I am a selfish creature to tell you my troubles, or “well, I thought it would be like this, but didn’t want to tell her.” However, I know I have no chance of seeing you till after the 6th – which is when Marcia is coming. I hope I don’t take out my troubles on her – but I am rather sad that I drew the baby lot. I don’t see how she can have a worse job with hers – who are old enough to know not to eat sand . . . & who can listen to stories. Maybe when you come down, you could make Bea’s our headquarters, so I could lie on the beach, or rest, or be with you away from neighbors eyes.
Do write me now and then, but don’t expect to hear from me too often . . . more than twice a week!
Your bewitched baby. –
Sivvy
P.S. – c’est la vie!
TO Marcia B. Stern
Wednesday 20 June 1951
ALS* with envelope, Smith College
EXTRA! SWAMPSCOTT DAILY NEWS EXTRA!
HIRED GIRL RUNS WILD . . .
A shocking event took place today in the home of Swampscott’s beloved & respected Doctor M. A hitherto outwardly normal teen-age girl was found chortling hysterically over the mangled bodies of three angelic children. Our reporters rushed to the scene and found her sobbing hysterically in the kitchen. When asked what she had done to the eldest, she cried, “I fed him down the chromium-plated disposal unit in the kitchen sink.” The 4 year old girl was found broiling in the oven, cheerioats and jams sprinkled in her hair. The youngest was found percolating docilely in the coffee pot. The girl was sitting on the floor when the police wagons arrived, dociley feeding her fingers, one by one, to the Mayo’s adorable three month old puppy, Abigail. “The can opener wouldn’t open the special vitiminized dog-food,” she said by way of explanation . . .
And so we trail off.
Seriously, Marty, I thought I would never live through my first day. I arrived Monday afternoon after four with Grammy and Mummy, after a brief sojurn at home with my brother over the weekend. I bade mother a fond farewell, with a little pang of sadness, and was escorted by three jubilant children to my quarters – a huge second floor room with adjoining bath – overlooking the ocean. Imagine, honey, I can hear the waves all night and see the big orange moon sail mistily up over the trees . . . say, lonesome, but I was last night! I know I’m living in the midst of affluence, but I betcha I don’t lift a tennis racket or sail a yacht all summer long.
My Day began last night as I flopped into bed after unpacking and scrubbing Freddy and Pinny. I dozed uneasily till one, when I got up to shush Pinny who had been screaming for fifteen solid minutes over a nightmare. The baby, not yet two, began howling at five. As you may imagine, I was not too disposed to leap out of bed at six when Pinny barged in to be dressed, beaming, noisy & rested. The kids look adorable, but what woik! The toddler – Joanne – can’t understand a word of English, and must be chased at frequent intervals, and Pinny is a daredevil who always wants to emulate brother Freddie. Alone, each would be a joy and quite manageable
. Together, they nullify each others potentialities, if you see what I mean. Freddy can be read to and played with huskily – but the two girls don’t even listen to stories. Joanne can hardly pronounce the word “shoe” and is always doing silly things like eating gravel.
Picture Freddie striking Pinny and shouting and screaming, while the poor girl does the same for several eons, and all the while you’re pulling them apart, Joanne has been squatting cheerily in the corner stuffing her rosebud mouth with sand. God!
Slight items like daily baths, helping with laundry and doing beds and such while keeping the three darlings alive – at the same time – challenge my homicidal tendencies no end, not to mention the heightened sensitivity given to my sadistic-masochistic temperament.
One parting shot before I literally crumble into bed – my one avenue for getting acquainted with Swampscott “young people” was opened today. It was my first venture “outside the swinging ivy hedges” – the beach with the kids & Mrs. M. As soon as Mrs. took Joanne back, a lean young male slicked back his hair & approached the three of us who were gaily building sand castles. “Say, I don’t want you to think I’m fresh, but didn’t I see you in Maine.” Funny thing, but I could have hugged the old thing – the lanky dumb type if ever there was one. Demurely I blushed and refused the offer of a ride home, waved a nonchalant farewell to his “Anytime you want a tour of Swampscott, lemme know,” and crossed the street to my domicile, warmed to the depths of my cold little heart. I think that made me decide to last another day at least.
Hope you are finding older ages more “playable.” I hear chris* is usually off on his own anyhow. Bet he adores you by summer’s end. Are they all cuties??
Your cohort,
Syl
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Thursday 21 June 1951*
ALS with envelope,
Indiana University
Thursday
Dear mater –
Well, let’s hope this sounds a bit more cheery than my last tear-stained missive. Life is looking up, and I think I’ll live. Even got my sense of humor back. Funny, but the thing that gave me back my sense of proportion was a gawky boy. I took the kids down to the beach the day before yesterday, and after Mrs. Mayo took the youngest back, I saw a young blade slicking a comb through his hair and approaching. Hah, hah, said I. Just as I thought: “I don’t want you to think I’m fresh,” says he, “but didn’t I know you in Maine?” “Sorry,” says I. Turned out he goes to B.U. and works as a milkman in the summer. I politely grinned at the offer of a ride home and “a tour of Swampscott any time” and headed back to the maison with my charges, feeling that human kind still had the right attitude toward life. Probably he’s the only male who will speak to me all summer, but at least one did.
This afternoon is Mr. Mayo’s afternoon off, so he is playing with the kids, leaving me some spare time, thank goodness. Remember how beat I was after the farm job? Well, all I need is a few days to get used to the routine. I really don’t work hard at all, and “variety is the spice of life” – each day has variations on the theme.
Dr. Mayo is here at odd times – a skinny, nice sort of man – and he has a nurse-secretary, who works in his office here five days a week. She takes all the phone calls, and there’s an elaborate system of 1-2-3 buzzes, and an exchange which takes calls when he’s out. If ever anyone says “No one’s home” just tell them to “ring through.”
Mrs. Mayo is very nice – and does a lot of the work with me, such as there is – and often minds one or another of the children while I take them off somewhere.
Only one thing bothers me a little, and that is as to how closely I should watch the children. For instance, this afternoon I felt that I was “tagging along” – and wondered just how much of that I should do when she or he plays with the kids. If I wander off, I feel that maybe I’m not doing my job, and yet I would like to sit out with a book if I could.
Well, I’ll get up my courage and ask her sometime.
Be cheerful, and just hope they like me –
Love,
Sivvy
P.S. Just talked to you – hope no one overheard! Never can tell! But rest easy.
Got package! Merci!
TO Marcia B. Stern
Thursday 21 June 1951
ALS with envelope, Smith College
Thursday – in the brief and only too elusive interval between 1:15 and 2:00, whilst infant sleeps, Pinny naps, and Freddy rebelliously “rests” downstairs.
From my airy and flowery suite I am overlooking sun and sea. Longing to be free and able to lie in sun on sand for hours in halters, I sit in my room where I could hear little ones should they yell, screech, or have appendicitis. Pinny is now calling me – “Marcia,” she says or “Phyllis.” I told her all about you, so she gets nomenclatures confused occasionally. By this time, I could use a nap, too. Back a wee bit weary from lugging almost-two-year-old Joanne over sand and sharp stones. Took Pinny and said Joanne to the beach for most of the morning. There are so many kids around here that I’m going to spend the summer getting names and poppas & mommas straight. Mr. Carey* (one of the many Blodgett relatives) came down to the beach this morning with two of his four infants (Bimbo and Lee Lee) and sat and made “nice conversation” with me. Seems he was wounded in the war – face looks grafted. Anyway he’s a Yalie from Pierson (thinks J. E.’s dreadfully gloomy – at which I bit my lip and said “mmm.”) Seems he didn’t have high enough an average to go to Harvard med, so he went to graduate school for a year, then worked a year as he got married, and finally the war got him – so he never went through. As you may imagine, I felt very queer telling him about Dick’s success when he asked.
Feel a wee bit guilty about the cooking angle. Mrs. M. asked me if I could, so I confessed that about all I know how to do was make scrambled egg and cheese. I get “light suppers”, but either she or a visiting made (maid!! sp!!) whip up hot lunches. Here’s hoping I can take over before the summer’s over. Funny, but I also feel guilty (yipes! what a guilt complex the girl has!) when I’m hitting a lull during the day. I’m tempted to carry a book along, but then again don’t want to loaf under eyes which might possibly be disapproving. I sometimes feel I’d rather have a rule book of duties to consult than a dubious feeling that I shouldn’t ever quite relax.
Upstairs is my province completely, including the picking up angle. Dishes also. Laundry too. I hear that there will be piles of college girls around this summer to help care for the 30 odd kids from about six houses right heah. Personally, as long as you come down, I don’t give a d-a-m-n about socializing with all various and sundry females. All I want is someone to talk to – I suffer from silence, unfortunately. We can have our days off together, and I can’t wait to pack up a picnic lunch with you and head to a quiet, readable place along the shore. If I could sleep late one a.m. a week, I should appreciate it no end – but I won’t unless I get away.
Wait till you see my adorable charges. Joey, the youngest, is the cutest, and usually sweet tempered. Pinny and Freddy are dear (separately) and all right unless they fight, which always is holy hell, what with both kicking, screaming ferociously and sobbing. The one member of the family I don’t care for is the little dog who has rawther sharp teeth. She actually bit me, yesterday, lightly on the leg, after being asked politely to stop hanging so viciously on to my dungarees, which she was gnawing, while growling ominously.
Saw your house today – only two white mansions and some rolling green lawns separate us – your room, I hear via the mouths of babes and sucklings, is on the 3rd floor – no doubt even more sumptuous than your present one.
Art coming Swampscott-ward about July 6?? J’espère . . . j’espère.
Letter from Dick* was waiting on arrival here, or did I tell you? Just a chatty note. I had the most hideously real nightmare about him last night . . . so ominous it actually frightened. Seems I broke a date (trivia, trivia) with him to go out with a rakish fl
y-by-night male. On returning from a vile time, I was greeted by mother and Dick, (who had taken Jane Anderson to the Prom.) It all ended by my holding my children (Freddy & Pinny) in my arms, and seeing Dick recede step by step, never coming back, just shaking his head sadly and saying reproachfully as he faded off, “Oh, Syl.” Night came, and I got into the car with my charges, saying “You fool, you fool” and knowing, like Scarlett O’Hara, that playing fast and loose had ruined me. (Hope I can get down to Brewster sometimes . . . just to keep an eye on him.) My, but there is a moral to that nightmare, huh! Twill be many a moon before I flirt with strange males with a clear conscience. Hope you meet Mrs. Mayo’s brothers*. . . . The one I’ve seen is a doll, and I would feel quite smug if you captured his fancy! I felt like so much superfluous protoplasm in his presence – (looking very sloppy in my old dungarees and shirt . . . all I’ve worn since I got here.)
This letter has run wild. I’m sure you’ll love it down here. And we can discuss our families together. I would enjoy seeing your good browned visage again.
Bon jour . . .
Syl
TO Melvin Woody*
Friday 22 June 1951
ALS, Smith College
Friday
June 20*
2:38 p.m.
Dear Mel . . .
Here I sit, like a bronze statue, to be galvanized into action only by the querulous cry of either of my two slumbering charges. At last I feel somewhat a master in my own domain. Brazenly I sit in the sun on my own big private porch overlooking the sea . . . and there is something about the achingly bright expanse of blue that makes me feel infinitely placid, infinitely calm, infinitely spacious. I must live by the sea, I think, for the immensity of it relegates man’s absurdities to the stature of petty children’s squabbles. Something there is about the ceaseless, unperturbed ebb and flow . . . about the vast masses of green-blue water . . . that heals all my uneasy questionings and self-searchings.