Concerning Children

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Of course, if there was any way that Jessie could have the children with her and have her way with them, as she does in the kindergarten— But you can't do that with little children,—you cannot separate the child from its mother! When they are older, they go to school, of course; and, when they are older yet, they go to college, and so on. But the little child needs its mother every hour. And, as its mother cannot possibly give it every hour, we have to have the nurse-maid. If mothers had no other claims, then, of course, you would have the highest ideal relation. Cassie Wells's mother has given up everything else. She doesn't go out with her husband at all. Says that society has no claim beside that of the child. Of course, he stays at home with her—mostly.

I'm sure a man ought to value his wife's society more than any other, especially when she is such a devoted mother. She takes all the periodicals about children, and reads all the books; and then she modifies it all to suit her particular child. I never knew any mother so conscientiously given up to the care of a child. She really talks of nothing else. And, when that child is sick,—and she is extremely delicate and always having dangerous illnesses,—her mother is simply glued to her bedside: they can't drag her away. It is a pity that the child is not better material; for she isn't particularly bright, nor very well behaved, I think. But, then, her mother is doing everything that can be done.

Jessie says that child is being mothered too much,—that she needs more freedom and an impartial outside management. But, then, Jessie is a good deal of a theorist; and, after all, she isn't a mother. Nothing can really equal the mother's care for her own child! Still, we simply can't do it,—all of us,—as families increase. We owe something to our husbands, I am sure; and we have our social duties; and our health is not always equal to such a strain. No, the mother must have help; and that means the nurse-maid. It's no use talking about Jessie. Even if she would do it, there's not enough of her to go around! We never can expect that "faculty with children" in everybody: they simply don't have it. Most girls don't care much for children, nor know anything about them. Of course, after they become mothers, it is different. Then it all comes to them.

Now, if nurse-maids could be mothers first— But I argued that out before. If they were, they wouldn't be mothers of our children; and motherhood only teaches how to do what is best for one's own children. Besides, we couldn't hire them then, because we would not separate mothers from their own children; and, if they had their children and ours, too, they would not treat them fairly. And we would not want them brought up with ours, either. No, they've got to be "maids," that's sure.

Now the average young girl does not know or care much about children. Therefore, she has to be trained. (What a comfort it is to be really logical!) And, as there is no place to train them now, we have got to make a place. It all comes round to the training school for nurse-maids. That's the logical outcome.

Again, since we must have private nurse-maids under our orders,—really a servant,—we cannot expect ladies to take such positions. And—this ought to be bracketted with that last—since we cannot, of course, pay more than so much, that is against ladies doing it, too. Some people can, I know. Jessie told me of a very nice girl she knew,—a classmate in college and a trained kindergartner,—who was unable to get such a position as she wanted, and took a place with some very rich people as a sort of lady nurse-teacher to the children. But she said it was perfectly horrid, especially in travelling, having to eat with servants and be treated as such. I can see that it would take a kind of heroism, and we cannot really count on heroic nurse-maids. No, it has to be from the lower classes that we take our nurse-maids. I think that is proved. The average employer simply couldn't pay them enough to attract a higher class of labour. These are really questions of political economy in part, you see.

The ordinary young girl of the lower classes,—that is the raw material of our nurse-maid. Naturally, she is ill-mannered or unmannered, and careless and ignorant and all those things. Therefore, we must train her. In order to do that, we must first provide the training school, and, second, make her go to it. Now I wonder how we could do that. The higher wages would be an object of course: that would have to be insisted on. And we might "create a sentiment." That's it! That's what we must do,—create a sentiment.

But it's no use doing anything till we've got the school. And I worked that out as having to be done by private endowment. That involves agitation, of course; and we must set about it. We can get teachers plenty, there is so much interest in child-study now; and it will be a splendid thing for the lower classes to take their young girls and train them thoroughly in the theory of child-culture. It will make them so much better mothers afterward, when they do marry, after spending some years in taking care of our children,—putting their theories in practice! But wait. That looks queer. Looks as if the rich people were furnishing elaborate instruction free,—to young women of the lower classes,—and then paying them good wages for practising on the children of the upper classes, so that the poor women might be better mothers afterward.

I must have made a mistake somewhere. I'm going to reverse that position, and see how it would work. Suppose young girls of the upper classes took elaborate instruction in child-culture, and then practised on the children of the lower classes, in order to be better mothers afterward. That seems more satisfactory, somehow; yet it means a lot of work. It would do our girls good—I can see that—and do the children of the lower classes good, and, no doubt, make the girls better mothers. Besides, I'm wasting time,—"arguing in a circle," John would say; for that upper-class-girl hypothesis wouldn't give us nurse-maids. Now where was I? Mothers have to have help; i.e., nurse-maids. These have to be private servants at low wages: therefore, ladies would not do it. Therefore, we must have our children taken care of by girls from the lower classes. They are not suitable persons to take care of children as they stand: therefore, we must train them.

Now I mean to really work for this thing,—to create a sentiment. I'll begin early in the autumn, as soon as we get back. And I'm so glad I'm going to have such a lovely summer to make me fit for it. You see I'm very much pulled down. Little John has been such a care, and the nurse-maids I've had have been so unreliable. Why, the child has been sick again and again just through their carelessness. I'm sure of it. And mother said I simply must go away and build up, for the child's own sake; and John agreed with her—for once. And there's such a lovely arrangement for the summer: nothing ever happened more conveniently. You see Jessie is such an enthusiast about children. And she has planned to be at home this summer. Our home is perfectly lovely, anyway, and very healthy,—quite in the country, and yet within easy reach of town. They're going to have the Summer School of Child-study there at Seabay this year, and Jessie has several of her class visiting her. And she said, in her solemn, funny way, that they must have specimens to work on,—first-class specimens! She insisted on little John, of course, and she's persuaded Clara and George to let her have their three for a while; and the little MacAdoos are to be there, too. It will be a regular picnic for the children. It took a long time to bring me round to it. But, then, it's my own lovely home. I know how healthy it is. And mother will be there. And one of Jessie's friends is a doctor, and in a children's hospital, too. She ought to see that everything is right for their health. So, if they are happy in that lovely old place, and healthy and well taught and safe, why, I suppose I can leave.