Ataraxia, a brainy friend of mine said about a photo I posted the other day, and so crazybusy was I what with work, preparations to speak in front of people at a college, kid-wranglin’, and the most basic human hygiene that I didn’t have a chance to do even cursory research into what it meant ’til today:

For the Epicureans, ataraxia was synonymous with the only true happiness possible for a person. It signifies the state of robust tranquility that derives from eschewing faith in an afterlife, not fearing the gods because they are distant and unconcerned with us, avoiding politics and vexatious people, surrounding oneself with trustworthy and affectionate friends and, most importantly, being an affectionate, virtuous person, worthy of trust.

For the Pyrrhonians, owing to one’s inability to say which sense impressions are true and which ones are false, it is the quietude that arises from suspending judgment on dogmatic beliefs or anything non-evident and continuing to inquire.

The words had barely sunk into my brain when it was time to go to the pool. Lately our routine has been thus: Pathetic keening complains over the application of sunscreen, jumping up and down exhortations to hurry mommy please hurry, then mad dives into the deep end with me fast upon their heels. I am meant to be a sort of living buoy, a safe island for little ones to paddle around like so many giggling ships and to be grabbed upon when the ability to float wanes. A moment of peace came that day when they stroked toward the edge en masse and put their heads, two curly blond and one sleek brunette, together. And then they were off to the slides, tossing instructions over honey-brown shoulders to stay in the pool and wait without moving, Mom, stay there!

This time I did, and not only because I forgot my book on the bedside table and would have had nothing to do in my deckchair but FWP¹ and envy the other mothers. A brutal heatwave had broken the night before in an hours-long thunderstorm. This had the dual benefits of bringing up the water to the very rim as well as allowing the populace to luxuriate in their own homes’ cool air instead of making the heat-drenched and surly trek to the pool. Kids gone I was the only person left; the lone lifeguard looked at me with what seemed like pity and I sunk to my chin in the coolness.

There are so few moments of real rest for the mother. Even under the protection of another — whether father, teacher or lifeguard — tentacles² of concern radiate out. And yet they were almost the only ones there, surrounded by professionals. They didn’t need me. This was as ataraxia-like as it got.

But I’m always scheming, always planning ahead. Since January my eldest and I have been deep in a tour of preteen-friendly media, a tour whose purpose is to give her philosophy to carry her through these next several turbulent years. We’ve made our way through this and this and are now, at her request, watching this. But when, it’s been occurring to me lately to wonder, when is the appropriate moment to introduce her to this, without which no education can be considered truly complete? How can you act like an adult if not for the example of Winston Wolfe? How can you understand the dynamics of the foot massage without this conversation playing in your head? How can you be rounded without wondering how well Jules succeeded in trying to be the good shepherd?

Surely it is not appropriate to show such a film to one under eighteen — and even without the blood and violence and splattered brains what child of that age would understand a non-linear narrative highlighting the differences between our protagonists’ paths? More to the point, how could I dream of introducing her to The Bride, who, I believe, should be absolutely required study for anyone audacious enough to love, for who hasn’t at some point felt the swirl of admiration, adoration and absolute hatred she felt for Bill? Who hasn’t?

But by the time I saw that film it was too late. I could see my past in The Bride but the art was too late to inoculate me against future hurt. Will I get the opportunity to give this to my child? When, in the narrow window between eighteen and the-time-she-leaves-the-house, will it be right?

I picture Christmas 2019, shoving aside wrapping paper and young ‘uns to demand that she watch with me, for surely by the time she’s twenty she’ll have had her heart cracked open enough to understand. I gave her Buffy in time, I think, in time that the lessons are in place when she’ll need them. “Oh,” I want her to think when the time comes. “Someone else has gone through this. So many someone-elses have had this happen to them that they wrote a show about it. Buffy made it, and I will too.”  I hope she finds the rest in time, and it both thrills and terrifies me to think of how very much philosophy she will have to acquire without my assistance.

These thoughts are not conducive to ataraxia.

And then they came back, neon-hued streaks down the side of the pool screaming into the water all around me. “You waited for us,” they babble. “We told you to wait and you waited for us!”

And I say, Yes. Yes I did.

1. fiddle with phone [↩]
2. This word has only the most positive connotations for me. [↩]