Fellow mom blogger Kyran Pittman penned a post recently that resonated with me. Her fabulous Notes to Self blog is my new favorite, and in it she offered a sneak-peak excerpt from her upcoming memoir. To read the full excerpt I encourage you to go to her blog, but the jist of it was that inside every honest woman there resides “a creature that can’t be domesticated.” I love that line and have pondered its meaning in recent weeks.
After 18 years of mostly happy marriage, a successful writing career, two kids, one dog, two consecutive suburban homes, a sensible sedan and several SUVs, sometimes I still wake up in the night panicked, wondering if my life has purpose. The security I spent years chasing down seems suffocating at 3 a.m., and that’s usually when I feel it stir, the seed of something I dare not feed or water. It’s a violent urge, this desire to shatter the wife and mommy mold I’ve strapped myself into so that the woman I lost along the way can claw her way back out.
As Kyran so eloquently says, this creature in each of us is restless and untamed. Like all wild things, it has an inclination to roam, a feral desire for danger, and a limited ability to form attachments – it will not be tied down. This creature, whoever she is, would not play nice at PTA meetings or bake brownies for Bible study. Nor would she even consider spending precious down time trolling recipe websites for 20-minute weeknight meals. She is Thelma and Louise. She is Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. She’s the maneater Darryl Hall warned young men about, the one who only comes out at night.
Discontent is an elusive emotion. It’s rarely biting enough to spur change, yet it nags like a hungry child, whining incessantly but never satisfied with the very thing it demands.
My husband is not immune to these restless musings. We joke about quitting our day jobs, running off to Mexico and opening a taco stand. Pulling the kids out of school and traipsing around Europe for a year. Or moving to the mission field and living on faith and donations. But then he laughs, sets the alarm, and sleeps like a baby, while I stare at the ceiling and wonder how I will do this – live this life I’ve chosen – for the next 25 or so years.
But come morning, the creature slinks back to its cage. Routine relegate discontent to a dim corner of my consciousness I will not have time revisit any time soon. As I rush the kids out the door in a flurry of backpacks and briefcases, my “to do” list already dictating my day, I pause, suddenly aware of a low but steady purring, seemingly announcing the approach of a very large cat. I look around, expectant.
“Mom – you got new messages on your Blackberry!” my son shouts behind me, and I turn to see him scrolling the screen, fascinated with technology as only an 11-year old can be. I take the droning device from him and turn it off. Then I slide into my leased SUV, whisk out the driveway of my expansive corner lot, and chauffeur my kids to their pricey private school. Next it’s off to work, where I will spend the next eight hours earning nearly enough money to pay for the various trappings of my middle class life.
I do what I do to keep what I have. Like it or not.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Don't I Know You From Somewhere?
Imagine a place where every disparate segment of your life collides. In this alternate universe you can spend quality time with people from your past, your present and possibly even your future. Your ninth grade nemesis is there. So is your first crush. Your high school prom date is chatting with the guy who dumped you for your (former) best friend. Your husband and your ex are chumming around too, bonding over music trivia.
Your old boss has shown up, and frighteningly, so has your current boss, along with a whole posse of girlfriends – college roomates, bridesmaids, work friends and PTA pals. Your pastor has dropped in, oh, and just for good measure, some of your crazy relatives did too: first, second, even third cousins and their kids. These people have no common interests and no real desire to get to know each other. Their sole purpose for being here is the fact that they have (or had) some kind of relationship with you. The problem is most of them know WAY to much about you (I mean, who introduces their Bible study friends to their drug buddies from back in the day?) Naturally, there are all kinds of alarms are going off in your head since clearly these people should NOT be mingling. But it’s too late. Even if you leave now, everyone will still be here when you get back. Watching. Waiting. Posting. Tagging.
Welcome to the very weird world of Facebook.
I just got a friend request from someone whose name was only vaguely familiar. Her picture offered no clues, but since she knew me by my maiden name I assumed it was a legit request and not some MLM team building scheme. I accepted. Turns out she and I were buds back in junior high – 7th grade according to her. A mere 36 years ago. She gushed that she was so excited to “find” me (really? She looked?) She assumed I remembered her – I’m still not sure I do, but I’m playing along. She wants to know what I’ve been up to. So… how exactly do you tell someone what you’ve been doing since you were 13? Who remembers? And why would you even want to? There’s a reason nobody goes to junior high reunions.
Of course now I’m in a junior high school friending freefall because accepting a friend request from one former acquaintance now opens you up to everyone else on their FB page – people who may also think they remember you from somewhere. I’ve already had two more requests from people I can’t place. It’s the “If you give a pig a pancake” rule of social networking.
Used to be there were old friends, former friends and new friends. This new category of FB friends has me baffled, because here the old become the new, former become the current, and nobody ever drops off the rolodex.
So where do you draw the line at ignoring people and hoping they just go back into the once closed door of your past where they belong? Is it rude to simply not respond to friendship requests on FB? Or is there a polite way to say “thanks…but no thanks.”
Your old boss has shown up, and frighteningly, so has your current boss, along with a whole posse of girlfriends – college roomates, bridesmaids, work friends and PTA pals. Your pastor has dropped in, oh, and just for good measure, some of your crazy relatives did too: first, second, even third cousins and their kids. These people have no common interests and no real desire to get to know each other. Their sole purpose for being here is the fact that they have (or had) some kind of relationship with you. The problem is most of them know WAY to much about you (I mean, who introduces their Bible study friends to their drug buddies from back in the day?) Naturally, there are all kinds of alarms are going off in your head since clearly these people should NOT be mingling. But it’s too late. Even if you leave now, everyone will still be here when you get back. Watching. Waiting. Posting. Tagging.
Welcome to the very weird world of Facebook.
I just got a friend request from someone whose name was only vaguely familiar. Her picture offered no clues, but since she knew me by my maiden name I assumed it was a legit request and not some MLM team building scheme. I accepted. Turns out she and I were buds back in junior high – 7th grade according to her. A mere 36 years ago. She gushed that she was so excited to “find” me (really? She looked?) She assumed I remembered her – I’m still not sure I do, but I’m playing along. She wants to know what I’ve been up to. So… how exactly do you tell someone what you’ve been doing since you were 13? Who remembers? And why would you even want to? There’s a reason nobody goes to junior high reunions.
Of course now I’m in a junior high school friending freefall because accepting a friend request from one former acquaintance now opens you up to everyone else on their FB page – people who may also think they remember you from somewhere. I’ve already had two more requests from people I can’t place. It’s the “If you give a pig a pancake” rule of social networking.
Used to be there were old friends, former friends and new friends. This new category of FB friends has me baffled, because here the old become the new, former become the current, and nobody ever drops off the rolodex.
So where do you draw the line at ignoring people and hoping they just go back into the once closed door of your past where they belong? Is it rude to simply not respond to friendship requests on FB? Or is there a polite way to say “thanks…but no thanks.”
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Judgment Call
I recently read a blog by Irene Vilar, a self-described “abortion addict.” Irene had 15 abortions in 16 years, but today has two young children – she claims finally yielding to motherhood saved her from the cycle of habitual pregnancy termination. She also admits getting pregnant with the intent to abort – often waiting until the second term of pregnancy to end it. Her blog promotes her recently published memoir entitled Impossible Motherhood, which cites among other things, a background of neglect and abandonment that led her to end more than a dozen pregnancies. Her tone is one of measured remorse; she’s sorry, but it’s not her fault.
Whenever I read controversial pieces, I’m always eager to see how people weigh in. Many read this blog and expressed feelings of sadness, outrage and disgust. Others extended compassion and understanding. Some politicized and still others proselytized. Not surprisingly, quite a few people were harshly critical. But what struck me was the number of people who were quick to label anyone judgmental who dared question this woman’s choices. In response to one particularly caustic comment, one irate reader ranted: “Who are YOU to judge HER?” It’s a fair question.
As a Christian I know all about withholding the first stone. I’ve made some very poor choices of my own, including two abortions – one in high school and a second in college. Am I morally superior to Irene Vilar because her aborted children outnumber mine? Of course not. Some will of course argue that abortion is not a moral issue to begin with; I’ll table that for another discussion. What I’m wondering though, is when did it become virtually impossible to criticize someone or something without having the “J” word hurled your way? Frankly, in this case, I think if you put yourself out there and write a book about unconventional behavior, you are asking for reactions. Reactions do, after all, sell books.
I’m not purchasing the book but I do have a reaction. I find it abusive and irresponsible to abort for sport. To purposefully skip your birth control pills (which Irene says she did repeatedly to rebel against a domineering husband) is reckless and foolish. I also think describing abortion as an addiction minimizes the very real problems that afflict millions of people – dependence on drugs, alcohol and other destructive substances and behaviors. That Irene felt empowered killing babies she says she intentionally conceived is more mental illness than addiction. That she will now parlay her troubled past into talk show appearances and an income stream is akin to taking blood money.
True, I have never met Irene and did not read her book, so I’m ill-equipped to comment on the whole of her life circumstances. I can draw conclusion only from the facts provided: her pregnancies occurred primarily in the confines of a marriage to a man who did not want children. But he did not force her to abort; she never told him about the pregnancies.
For her part, Irene blames her choices on a “hypersexualized society that at once values the perfect mother, but also expects women to be sexually attractive to men and to achieve professionally.”
So it is society’s fault she had 15 abortions. A society that unfairly made her choose between her sexuality, her career, her marriage and her unborn children. Given her current age of 40, the timeline for these archaic ideas she felt beholden to was around the mid-80s through late 90s, so I can’t say I’m buying that idea. But if you want to play the blame game, then you are essentially admitting there is blame to be assigned.
15 children died at this woman’s whim – that’s more than half of your average kindergarten class, just to give some perspective. Who bears the burden of guilt here is not for me to decide, but I do have an opinion about it. And I don’t think that makes me judgmental.
To read Irene’s blog: http://community.todaymoms.com/_news/2009/11/02/3453446-after-having-15-abortions-motherhood-saved-her
What do you think of this story? Can you judge behavior without judging the person? And where do you draw the line?
Whenever I read controversial pieces, I’m always eager to see how people weigh in. Many read this blog and expressed feelings of sadness, outrage and disgust. Others extended compassion and understanding. Some politicized and still others proselytized. Not surprisingly, quite a few people were harshly critical. But what struck me was the number of people who were quick to label anyone judgmental who dared question this woman’s choices. In response to one particularly caustic comment, one irate reader ranted: “Who are YOU to judge HER?” It’s a fair question.
As a Christian I know all about withholding the first stone. I’ve made some very poor choices of my own, including two abortions – one in high school and a second in college. Am I morally superior to Irene Vilar because her aborted children outnumber mine? Of course not. Some will of course argue that abortion is not a moral issue to begin with; I’ll table that for another discussion. What I’m wondering though, is when did it become virtually impossible to criticize someone or something without having the “J” word hurled your way? Frankly, in this case, I think if you put yourself out there and write a book about unconventional behavior, you are asking for reactions. Reactions do, after all, sell books.
I’m not purchasing the book but I do have a reaction. I find it abusive and irresponsible to abort for sport. To purposefully skip your birth control pills (which Irene says she did repeatedly to rebel against a domineering husband) is reckless and foolish. I also think describing abortion as an addiction minimizes the very real problems that afflict millions of people – dependence on drugs, alcohol and other destructive substances and behaviors. That Irene felt empowered killing babies she says she intentionally conceived is more mental illness than addiction. That she will now parlay her troubled past into talk show appearances and an income stream is akin to taking blood money.
True, I have never met Irene and did not read her book, so I’m ill-equipped to comment on the whole of her life circumstances. I can draw conclusion only from the facts provided: her pregnancies occurred primarily in the confines of a marriage to a man who did not want children. But he did not force her to abort; she never told him about the pregnancies.
For her part, Irene blames her choices on a “hypersexualized society that at once values the perfect mother, but also expects women to be sexually attractive to men and to achieve professionally.”
So it is society’s fault she had 15 abortions. A society that unfairly made her choose between her sexuality, her career, her marriage and her unborn children. Given her current age of 40, the timeline for these archaic ideas she felt beholden to was around the mid-80s through late 90s, so I can’t say I’m buying that idea. But if you want to play the blame game, then you are essentially admitting there is blame to be assigned.
15 children died at this woman’s whim – that’s more than half of your average kindergarten class, just to give some perspective. Who bears the burden of guilt here is not for me to decide, but I do have an opinion about it. And I don’t think that makes me judgmental.
To read Irene’s blog: http://community.todaymoms.com/_news/2009/11/02/3453446-after-having-15-abortions-motherhood-saved-her
What do you think of this story? Can you judge behavior without judging the person? And where do you draw the line?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Lighting is Everything
Every time I look in the mirror lately there seems to be something new to lament. A deepening wrinkle. A freshly emerging sunspot. A slackness to skin that was formerly taut. Have I always been so vain? Or is the very approach of the big five-oh making me just a wee bit paranoid about my appearance?
Whatever the reason, I find I have fewer and fewer of those “high five yourself in the mirror” moments these days. You know the feeling, when you get a new dress or perfect pair of pumps that make you want strut and twirl. You may not actually say so, but on some level you know you look good.
So I’m chatting with my plastic surgeon recently (O.K. not really but he’s the guy who does my Botox who happens to be a plastic surgeon). Anyhow, he passes me a hand mirror and asks if I mind if he “makes a few suggestions.” Sure I say, bracing myself. He very gently offers that I might consider an upper eyelid lift to get rid of that “tired look” and shave a few years off my apparently haggard appearance.
As he uses his thumbs to lift my drooping lids and show me what I might look like if I were fully awake, I have to admit I’m tempted. But then I remember that the reason I look tired is because I am tired. Bone tired. Everyday. All the time. There’s no surgery for that.
After stopping at the mall for a skin-tightening eye cream and a sugar-free vanilla latte, I go back to the office, pausing briefly to check my appearance in the poorly-lit bathroom. Now I look wired and tired.
My friend Helen and I discussed this very subject the other night as we sat in very flattering light admiring each other. She said she actually moves into better light for photos now that she knows what angles works for her. We joked about finding pocket lights that could be whipped out of our purses at a moment’s notice to chase away unwanted shadows and make sallow skin glow.
On the heels of that conversation, I came up with a few tips for all of us ladies of a certain age who want to avoid being blindsided by unflattering images of ourselves:
· Resist checking your reflection in windows of any kind. If you do, you will find yourself thinking things like “when did I get a double chin?” for the rest of the day.
· Avoid last minute makeup checks in rear view mirrors. Your lipstick is fine but you’re likely to find one of those long granny hairs sprouting from your chin. And you won’t have tweezers.
· Do not look at your thighs in three-way dressing room mirrors. These are sadistic trick mirrors that add pounds and cellulite where none previously existed. I can’t prove it but just go with me on this.
· When plucking eyebrows, skip the magnifying mirror. You will frighten yourself silly. Just make a waxing appointment – it’s easier on the psyche.
Lastly, use the purse compact judiciously. Mirrors that small are ok for looking at portions of your face, like your lips, for instance, or a lone freckle. Holding it at arms length to get a full face view tends not to be pretty.
Then again, it could just be the lighting.
Whatever the reason, I find I have fewer and fewer of those “high five yourself in the mirror” moments these days. You know the feeling, when you get a new dress or perfect pair of pumps that make you want strut and twirl. You may not actually say so, but on some level you know you look good.
So I’m chatting with my plastic surgeon recently (O.K. not really but he’s the guy who does my Botox who happens to be a plastic surgeon). Anyhow, he passes me a hand mirror and asks if I mind if he “makes a few suggestions.” Sure I say, bracing myself. He very gently offers that I might consider an upper eyelid lift to get rid of that “tired look” and shave a few years off my apparently haggard appearance.
As he uses his thumbs to lift my drooping lids and show me what I might look like if I were fully awake, I have to admit I’m tempted. But then I remember that the reason I look tired is because I am tired. Bone tired. Everyday. All the time. There’s no surgery for that.
After stopping at the mall for a skin-tightening eye cream and a sugar-free vanilla latte, I go back to the office, pausing briefly to check my appearance in the poorly-lit bathroom. Now I look wired and tired.
My friend Helen and I discussed this very subject the other night as we sat in very flattering light admiring each other. She said she actually moves into better light for photos now that she knows what angles works for her. We joked about finding pocket lights that could be whipped out of our purses at a moment’s notice to chase away unwanted shadows and make sallow skin glow.
On the heels of that conversation, I came up with a few tips for all of us ladies of a certain age who want to avoid being blindsided by unflattering images of ourselves:
· Resist checking your reflection in windows of any kind. If you do, you will find yourself thinking things like “when did I get a double chin?” for the rest of the day.
· Avoid last minute makeup checks in rear view mirrors. Your lipstick is fine but you’re likely to find one of those long granny hairs sprouting from your chin. And you won’t have tweezers.
· Do not look at your thighs in three-way dressing room mirrors. These are sadistic trick mirrors that add pounds and cellulite where none previously existed. I can’t prove it but just go with me on this.
· When plucking eyebrows, skip the magnifying mirror. You will frighten yourself silly. Just make a waxing appointment – it’s easier on the psyche.
Lastly, use the purse compact judiciously. Mirrors that small are ok for looking at portions of your face, like your lips, for instance, or a lone freckle. Holding it at arms length to get a full face view tends not to be pretty.
Then again, it could just be the lighting.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
TMI
Remember when there was such a thing as “polite” conversation? When people didn’t talk openly about bodily functions, extramarital liaisons, personal fetishes or unseemly addictions?
I miss those days.
I’m not superficial. I relish heart-to-heart conversations with good friends, and thanks to months of counseling, consider myself to be pretty “authentic.” I’ve worked hard to be real, transparent, approachable. Hey, my life is chronicled in a blog. But unless you are my doctor, I’m pretty sure there’s no reason you need to know what’s going on with me “down there.” If you are not my pastor, I will not be discussing my questionable late night Internet habits with you. And if you are not my husband, the specifics of what brings me to the brink are none of your business.
Apparently, not everyone feels this way. There are in fact a whole lot of people who think that when I ask how they are, I REALLY want to know. As in:
“Hey how’s it going?”
“Crappy. My husband left me for another woman, the slut. Now he won’t even pay child support. The kid’s are angry and think it’s my fault because I gained so much weight.”
Alrighty then.
Or
“Hey welcome back! How was the honeymoon?”
“Great! You know I never had an orgasm during intercourse before so I didn’t know if I could. But boy was I wrong! It was fantastic!”
Okie dokie.
Or
“How was your visit to the spa?”
“Good until after the Brazilian bikini wax –I always go Brazilian you know. Anyhow, I got an ingrown hair and man does it hurt. Have you ever heard of that?”
Can’t say that I have.
It could be argued that at least among good friends, sharing the intimate details of one’s life indicates a certain amount of bonding and trust. But casual conversation should not rival truth or dare drinking games when it comes to being candid. So the question is: when does sharing your life cross over into showing your behind? Translated: exposing waaaay too much of your personal bid-nez.
Here’s the distinction: Heartfelt communication is typically unrehearsed (meaning you haven’t said it a dozen times before and then paused to wait for a reaction). And it isn’t manipulative – it isn’t secretly attempting to elicit pity, shock, envy, or disgust. TMI, on the other hand, paints a picture in the listener’s head that proves nearly impossible to erase, even after several hot showers.
As a person who blogs about menopause, I realize the soapbox I’m on leads to a slippery slope. There is something about aging that makes you just want to share the experience with others.
A few weeks ago, my mom and I were shopping for a new mattress and the salesman was trying to get mom to buy a waterproof mattress pad. I immediately piped up, “No she doesn’t want that. They are way too hot with all that vinyl underneath.”
The salesman went on the defense and claimed the mattress pad was not hot, that no one had ever complained it was hot, and that it was specifically manufactured not to be hot.
I glared at him, the beginnings of a hot flash creeping up my neck, and snarled “Obviously the people making vinyl mattress pads are not sweaty, menopausal women.” Snap!
The poor guy actually blushed and went to busy himself with some pillows that suddenly needed restacking.
So I got the last word but broke my own rule in the process. Right then and there I made a mental note to stop using the “M” card in public. Unless I’m with very close friends of a certain age who actually want to discuss how many months it’s been since Aunt Flo showed up, I’m keeping my estrogen-challenged lips sealed.
But that's probably TMI.
I miss those days.
I’m not superficial. I relish heart-to-heart conversations with good friends, and thanks to months of counseling, consider myself to be pretty “authentic.” I’ve worked hard to be real, transparent, approachable. Hey, my life is chronicled in a blog. But unless you are my doctor, I’m pretty sure there’s no reason you need to know what’s going on with me “down there.” If you are not my pastor, I will not be discussing my questionable late night Internet habits with you. And if you are not my husband, the specifics of what brings me to the brink are none of your business.
Apparently, not everyone feels this way. There are in fact a whole lot of people who think that when I ask how they are, I REALLY want to know. As in:
“Hey how’s it going?”
“Crappy. My husband left me for another woman, the slut. Now he won’t even pay child support. The kid’s are angry and think it’s my fault because I gained so much weight.”
Alrighty then.
Or
“Hey welcome back! How was the honeymoon?”
“Great! You know I never had an orgasm during intercourse before so I didn’t know if I could. But boy was I wrong! It was fantastic!”
Okie dokie.
Or
“How was your visit to the spa?”
“Good until after the Brazilian bikini wax –I always go Brazilian you know. Anyhow, I got an ingrown hair and man does it hurt. Have you ever heard of that?”
Can’t say that I have.
It could be argued that at least among good friends, sharing the intimate details of one’s life indicates a certain amount of bonding and trust. But casual conversation should not rival truth or dare drinking games when it comes to being candid. So the question is: when does sharing your life cross over into showing your behind? Translated: exposing waaaay too much of your personal bid-nez.
Here’s the distinction: Heartfelt communication is typically unrehearsed (meaning you haven’t said it a dozen times before and then paused to wait for a reaction). And it isn’t manipulative – it isn’t secretly attempting to elicit pity, shock, envy, or disgust. TMI, on the other hand, paints a picture in the listener’s head that proves nearly impossible to erase, even after several hot showers.
As a person who blogs about menopause, I realize the soapbox I’m on leads to a slippery slope. There is something about aging that makes you just want to share the experience with others.
A few weeks ago, my mom and I were shopping for a new mattress and the salesman was trying to get mom to buy a waterproof mattress pad. I immediately piped up, “No she doesn’t want that. They are way too hot with all that vinyl underneath.”
The salesman went on the defense and claimed the mattress pad was not hot, that no one had ever complained it was hot, and that it was specifically manufactured not to be hot.
I glared at him, the beginnings of a hot flash creeping up my neck, and snarled “Obviously the people making vinyl mattress pads are not sweaty, menopausal women.” Snap!
The poor guy actually blushed and went to busy himself with some pillows that suddenly needed restacking.
So I got the last word but broke my own rule in the process. Right then and there I made a mental note to stop using the “M” card in public. Unless I’m with very close friends of a certain age who actually want to discuss how many months it’s been since Aunt Flo showed up, I’m keeping my estrogen-challenged lips sealed.
But that's probably TMI.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Junk in theTrunk
I work as a marketing writer and many of my clients are plastic surgeons. Recently I had the pleasure of researching a new procedure that claims to “improve your rear view.” Intrigued (who doesn’t want to look better in their True Religions?) I read on. But this was not a nice little nip and tuck to make your butt look leaner, meaner, tighter or cuter. This was a popular form of plastic surgery to make your butt bigger. Bigger.
Excuse me?
The procedure is called the “Brazilian Butt Lift” (because ample posteriors are apparently greatly admired in Brazil) and to perform it, the doctor takes fat from elsewhere in your body so that it can be repurposed and injected into your tush. Oh, and the cost of adding a bit more junk to your trunk? Just under four grand. Right. Cuz I know when I get dressed in the morning I often think “Wow, if I had four thousand dollars lying around l’d run right out and get myself a little Ba-donk-a-donk!”
I come from a culture that places a high premium on generous hindquarters. We write songs about them, make videos and movies about them, and squeeze them into too-tight pants at every opportunity. Since I only dated black guys until I was well into my twenties, the fact that I have a “bubble butt” was always considered an asset (pun intended). Still, when it came to body types, I always wished for the opposite of what I had, thinking long legs, boyish hips and big boobs were the ideal. My petite curves made me self conscious, and left me always battling the fear that I was just a little too plump. I remember one guy I dated attempting to pay me a compliment by offering an affectionate swat and exclaiming “Damn girl, you’re really packing some hams!”
I took up jogging shortly after kicking him to the curb in hopes of trimming some slices off those hams. That remark, along with hundreds of others that preceded it (jokes about “Trudie Booty” followed me well into adulthood) made me long for a flatter fanny.
So that leaves me wondering. Who are these women who are paying big bucks for a bigger butt? My inside informants in the plastic surgery industry tell me it’s women of all backgrounds, mostly in their 20s and 30s, some single, some married, some moms. What, nobody over 40? Now there’s a surprise.
So maybe it’s just a generational thing, a byproduct of now ubiquitous thong underwear, Victoria Secret catalogs, J-lo, Shakira and the ever-bootylicious Beyonce. My generation, we avoid dressing room three-way mirrors, put on robes before walking away from the bed nude, don sarongs for a beachside stroll, and will spend half a paycheck on a perfect pair of black pants that seem to diminish our derrieres.
One thing’s for sure, beauty trends fluctuate more than my hormone levels. Straight hair, skinny jeans, chunky jewelry, big butts – in one day, out the next. Regardless, from where I sit, when you ask a girlfriend “Does this make my butt look big?” the answer you are praying for is not now, not ever, an enthusiastic “yes!”
Excuse me?
The procedure is called the “Brazilian Butt Lift” (because ample posteriors are apparently greatly admired in Brazil) and to perform it, the doctor takes fat from elsewhere in your body so that it can be repurposed and injected into your tush. Oh, and the cost of adding a bit more junk to your trunk? Just under four grand. Right. Cuz I know when I get dressed in the morning I often think “Wow, if I had four thousand dollars lying around l’d run right out and get myself a little Ba-donk-a-donk!”
I come from a culture that places a high premium on generous hindquarters. We write songs about them, make videos and movies about them, and squeeze them into too-tight pants at every opportunity. Since I only dated black guys until I was well into my twenties, the fact that I have a “bubble butt” was always considered an asset (pun intended). Still, when it came to body types, I always wished for the opposite of what I had, thinking long legs, boyish hips and big boobs were the ideal. My petite curves made me self conscious, and left me always battling the fear that I was just a little too plump. I remember one guy I dated attempting to pay me a compliment by offering an affectionate swat and exclaiming “Damn girl, you’re really packing some hams!”
I took up jogging shortly after kicking him to the curb in hopes of trimming some slices off those hams. That remark, along with hundreds of others that preceded it (jokes about “Trudie Booty” followed me well into adulthood) made me long for a flatter fanny.
So that leaves me wondering. Who are these women who are paying big bucks for a bigger butt? My inside informants in the plastic surgery industry tell me it’s women of all backgrounds, mostly in their 20s and 30s, some single, some married, some moms. What, nobody over 40? Now there’s a surprise.
So maybe it’s just a generational thing, a byproduct of now ubiquitous thong underwear, Victoria Secret catalogs, J-lo, Shakira and the ever-bootylicious Beyonce. My generation, we avoid dressing room three-way mirrors, put on robes before walking away from the bed nude, don sarongs for a beachside stroll, and will spend half a paycheck on a perfect pair of black pants that seem to diminish our derrieres.
One thing’s for sure, beauty trends fluctuate more than my hormone levels. Straight hair, skinny jeans, chunky jewelry, big butts – in one day, out the next. Regardless, from where I sit, when you ask a girlfriend “Does this make my butt look big?” the answer you are praying for is not now, not ever, an enthusiastic “yes!”
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Don’t cha wish your mom was cool like me?
“You’re waaaay to old to be listening to Miley Cyrus mom. Seriously, you need to stop. It’s not cool.”
I turned from the video I was glued to on You Tube and for once my son’s sarcasm left me speechless. All the possible responses like “Hey it’s a free country!” or “What’s it to you?” seemed hopelessly lame. Besides, at least on the surface, my son is right. At 49 I am decades past the age when I could justify downloading Miley. Sadly, the hours of Radio Disney my daughter listens to in the car have infiltrated my subconscious and hijacked what remained of my musical taste. Which is why I walk around the house humming silly little ditties like “Party in the U.S.A.” by Cyrus, and “Crush” by David Archuleta. It was only a matter of time before they made their way onto my iPod. Wasn’t it?
But let’s digress, shall we? My unabashed enjoyment of what used to be called “bubblegum pop” might have something to do with my own adolescence. I was not a cool kid – short, shy, frizzy hair, too black to be white, too white to be black. An A-student and sheltered only child, I hung with what others probably called the nerds until around 9th grade when I suddenly developed, lopped off my girlish pony tail and invested in shiny platform Candies, tight Dittos jeans and cropped halter tops. This earned me a tenuous spot on the fringe of the in crowd where I almost blended in, but for my ineptitude when it came to music. I never seemed clued in to what was popular until way after the fact.
I remember one conversation (amazing you can recall particular humiliations as far back as age 14) where an especially cool girl said to a group of equally cool girls (and me) how much she liked Bette Midler. Me, wanting to fit in piped up, “Oh I LOVE Beth Midler!” The cool girls turned their collective heads to shoot me daggers of disdain, as the ringleader sneered, “It’s BETTE Midler,” before tossing her hair and effectively dismissing me.
Although I can tell that story like it happened last week, I am completely over the trauma of it. Really. I consider myself popular enough, thin enough and most days competent enough to pass muster, so I’m not out there still trying to fit in or be cool. Plus I rocked my black dress at my 30-year high school reunion, so it really is all good.
But am I chasing lost youth by listening to songs written for and/or by pre-teen girls? Upon reflection (because as a mom blogger it’s what I spend a lot of my time doing) I don’t really think so. The fact that I know all the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song notwithstanding, I remain unconvinced that occasionally grooving to teeny bopper top tens veers me towards the edge of a mid-life crises. These frothy, pointless songs just make me feel good. They tempt me to lock my bedroom door and sing along with my hairbrush. They help me to stop taking myself so seriously.
So the next time my son accuses me of being too old for my playlist, I’m going to smile and answer him with a loud, off-key chorus by teen queen Selena Gomez: “Tell me, tell me, tell me something I don’t know, something I don’t know, something I don’t know!”
Tune in for my next post, “How to annoy and embarrass a pre-teen boy without really trying.”
I turned from the video I was glued to on You Tube and for once my son’s sarcasm left me speechless. All the possible responses like “Hey it’s a free country!” or “What’s it to you?” seemed hopelessly lame. Besides, at least on the surface, my son is right. At 49 I am decades past the age when I could justify downloading Miley. Sadly, the hours of Radio Disney my daughter listens to in the car have infiltrated my subconscious and hijacked what remained of my musical taste. Which is why I walk around the house humming silly little ditties like “Party in the U.S.A.” by Cyrus, and “Crush” by David Archuleta. It was only a matter of time before they made their way onto my iPod. Wasn’t it?
But let’s digress, shall we? My unabashed enjoyment of what used to be called “bubblegum pop” might have something to do with my own adolescence. I was not a cool kid – short, shy, frizzy hair, too black to be white, too white to be black. An A-student and sheltered only child, I hung with what others probably called the nerds until around 9th grade when I suddenly developed, lopped off my girlish pony tail and invested in shiny platform Candies, tight Dittos jeans and cropped halter tops. This earned me a tenuous spot on the fringe of the in crowd where I almost blended in, but for my ineptitude when it came to music. I never seemed clued in to what was popular until way after the fact.
I remember one conversation (amazing you can recall particular humiliations as far back as age 14) where an especially cool girl said to a group of equally cool girls (and me) how much she liked Bette Midler. Me, wanting to fit in piped up, “Oh I LOVE Beth Midler!” The cool girls turned their collective heads to shoot me daggers of disdain, as the ringleader sneered, “It’s BETTE Midler,” before tossing her hair and effectively dismissing me.
Although I can tell that story like it happened last week, I am completely over the trauma of it. Really. I consider myself popular enough, thin enough and most days competent enough to pass muster, so I’m not out there still trying to fit in or be cool. Plus I rocked my black dress at my 30-year high school reunion, so it really is all good.
But am I chasing lost youth by listening to songs written for and/or by pre-teen girls? Upon reflection (because as a mom blogger it’s what I spend a lot of my time doing) I don’t really think so. The fact that I know all the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song notwithstanding, I remain unconvinced that occasionally grooving to teeny bopper top tens veers me towards the edge of a mid-life crises. These frothy, pointless songs just make me feel good. They tempt me to lock my bedroom door and sing along with my hairbrush. They help me to stop taking myself so seriously.
So the next time my son accuses me of being too old for my playlist, I’m going to smile and answer him with a loud, off-key chorus by teen queen Selena Gomez: “Tell me, tell me, tell me something I don’t know, something I don’t know, something I don’t know!”
Tune in for my next post, “How to annoy and embarrass a pre-teen boy without really trying.”
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A Little Respect
Mothers tend to set the civility standard in the home, teaching children about table manners, acceptable social skills and the need to respect their elders. We navigate the sassy years, the rebellious years and the defiant years, believing that with any luck, the values we’ve instilled in our offspring will take root and bear fruit. We hope to raise children who engage in heated discussions without becoming boorish, who listen attentively to teachers, professors and eventually bosses, even if they disagree with them. Children (and later adults), who respect those in positions of authority.
Truth be told, any of us would be mortified if one of our children shouted out the words “You lie!” to a teacher during a classroom discussion. And yet we find ourselves at a chapter in our country’s history where this kind of outburst is considered defensible by some, under the umbrella of free speech.
This is not a political commentary so don’t start drafting rebuttals to what you think I’m about to say. I’m simply wondering how, as adults, we have managed to set such low standards in terms of what is and is not acceptable behavior, standards we are modeling for our children, our youth, and the rest of the world. The South Carolina congressman’s blatant display of disrespect for our nation’s highest office, in my opinion, is representative of the gradual yet steady erosion of etiquette standards we formerly held dear, things we used to teach our kindergartners: Don’t interrupt when someone is speaking. Show consideration for others. Be courteous. To me, respecting others even in the face of huge ideological differences is essential if we are ever going to move forward as a nation, as families, or as individuals. To refuse is to behave like the red-faced toddler who jams his fingers in his ears and shouts “La! La! La! I can’t hear you!” because he doesn’t like what you are about to say.
In one of my recent blogs, I shared my own failings when it comes to losing my temper. I too have been given to angry tirades, ususally directed at my children, and have been publicly contrite about my admittedly bad behavior. When I looked at the replay of Joe Wilson flying into a rage and heckling the president of the United States on national T.V., I felt embarrassed. Later I was saddened and angered when I heard various talk radio personalities practically high-fiving each other as they discussed the outburst. One particular pundit was ecstatic that someone finally had the guts to “speak their mind.”
The following day I sat down and talked to my children about what happened. My son, who just started middle school, is hyper-aware of disciplinary consequences for breaking rules, and immediately wanted to know if the man who insulted the president would be punished. “Can the president fire him? Will he go to jail?” he asked. I told him I thought the main consequence for Mr. Wilson was a high degree of shame and embarrassment. Like the kind I felt the last time I yelled at my kids in public.
So I guess my question is: When did we all become so angry that we have lost all measure of self control? And again, I don’t mean just politically – I think what’s happening in that arena is symbolic of a greater national virus more insidious than any flu pandemic. We rage at store clerks who service us too slowly; hold wait staff in contempt if our order is served up wrong; think murderous thoughts towards drivers who dare to merge in front of us; and scream at teachers and coaches who constructively criticize our kids. We judge and demean those with different religious beliefs and sexual orientations than our own, and are puzzled when they don’t see things our way. Are they blind? Deceived? Stupid? Or is it possible that as we point our fingers in judgment, we really do, as the Scripture suggests, judge ourselves accordingly.
As a suburban working mom, I’m not likely to solve the world’s ills any time soon. But I do want to give a call out to my fellow members of the “motherhood sisterhood” to remind us all that we remain among the most influential members of a society for whom manners and social decorum have become optional. Our voices ring loud and true because they have the ability to shape the next generation’s views and behaviors. So let’s take a stand. Let’s decide not to raise kids who use shout-each-other-down tactics to make a point, who slander those with differing beliefs or lifestyle choices, or who demonstrate disdain for authority figures.
We begin by modeling good behavior. By treating our children and those around us with respect. By practicing the very things we preach.
Truth be told, any of us would be mortified if one of our children shouted out the words “You lie!” to a teacher during a classroom discussion. And yet we find ourselves at a chapter in our country’s history where this kind of outburst is considered defensible by some, under the umbrella of free speech.
This is not a political commentary so don’t start drafting rebuttals to what you think I’m about to say. I’m simply wondering how, as adults, we have managed to set such low standards in terms of what is and is not acceptable behavior, standards we are modeling for our children, our youth, and the rest of the world. The South Carolina congressman’s blatant display of disrespect for our nation’s highest office, in my opinion, is representative of the gradual yet steady erosion of etiquette standards we formerly held dear, things we used to teach our kindergartners: Don’t interrupt when someone is speaking. Show consideration for others. Be courteous. To me, respecting others even in the face of huge ideological differences is essential if we are ever going to move forward as a nation, as families, or as individuals. To refuse is to behave like the red-faced toddler who jams his fingers in his ears and shouts “La! La! La! I can’t hear you!” because he doesn’t like what you are about to say.
In one of my recent blogs, I shared my own failings when it comes to losing my temper. I too have been given to angry tirades, ususally directed at my children, and have been publicly contrite about my admittedly bad behavior. When I looked at the replay of Joe Wilson flying into a rage and heckling the president of the United States on national T.V., I felt embarrassed. Later I was saddened and angered when I heard various talk radio personalities practically high-fiving each other as they discussed the outburst. One particular pundit was ecstatic that someone finally had the guts to “speak their mind.”
The following day I sat down and talked to my children about what happened. My son, who just started middle school, is hyper-aware of disciplinary consequences for breaking rules, and immediately wanted to know if the man who insulted the president would be punished. “Can the president fire him? Will he go to jail?” he asked. I told him I thought the main consequence for Mr. Wilson was a high degree of shame and embarrassment. Like the kind I felt the last time I yelled at my kids in public.
So I guess my question is: When did we all become so angry that we have lost all measure of self control? And again, I don’t mean just politically – I think what’s happening in that arena is symbolic of a greater national virus more insidious than any flu pandemic. We rage at store clerks who service us too slowly; hold wait staff in contempt if our order is served up wrong; think murderous thoughts towards drivers who dare to merge in front of us; and scream at teachers and coaches who constructively criticize our kids. We judge and demean those with different religious beliefs and sexual orientations than our own, and are puzzled when they don’t see things our way. Are they blind? Deceived? Stupid? Or is it possible that as we point our fingers in judgment, we really do, as the Scripture suggests, judge ourselves accordingly.
As a suburban working mom, I’m not likely to solve the world’s ills any time soon. But I do want to give a call out to my fellow members of the “motherhood sisterhood” to remind us all that we remain among the most influential members of a society for whom manners and social decorum have become optional. Our voices ring loud and true because they have the ability to shape the next generation’s views and behaviors. So let’s take a stand. Let’s decide not to raise kids who use shout-each-other-down tactics to make a point, who slander those with differing beliefs or lifestyle choices, or who demonstrate disdain for authority figures.
We begin by modeling good behavior. By treating our children and those around us with respect. By practicing the very things we preach.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Mommies Behaving Badly
“You don’t have to yell at me,” she whimpered. “When you yell it hurts my feelings.”
“Obviously, I do have to YELL since when I told you to stop five times NICELY you ignored me. So now I’m MAD and now I’m YELLING!”
When I finished taking a bow for this “mommie dearest” caliber moment, my daughter melted down in tears, while I stood there fuming, embarrassed yet defiant in the face of the sideways glances we were drawing from other obviously happier families nearby.
My husband put his hand gently on my shoulder in the manner of someone coaxing a suicidal jumper off the side of a bridge. Tentatively, (lest he risk being yelled at himself) my husband suggested that perhaps I was overreacting. Maybe, I was being a little hard on our daughter, who is, after all, only seven. He of course was right. In an instant I saw this small person who adores me every day of her life cowering in the face of my irrational rage and felt the shame rise up and choke the anger right out of me.
What she did and why I was yelling was beside the point. The fact that I had lost all manner of self control was a bigger and more pressing concern. After feeling like a jerk for several minutes I kneeled down in front of my daughter and hugged her to my chest. “I’m so sorry sweetheart,” I said. “Please forgive me. Mommy was angry but I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I was wrong.”
My daughter, still wounded, wouldn’t look me in the eye or hug me back just yet. Instead, she said something so deeply convicting I physically stepped back as if slapped. “You always say that mommie,” she whispered. “But then you do it again.”
Before I go on, let me set the context here. It was a sparkling day in San Diego, Labor Day Weekend, the last summer hurrah before the back-to-school rush. We had just finished an amazing lunch at a bay-side café and were getting into a boat my husband rented for us. Life was good, right? It was one of those days that you plan out in your head before they happen, visualizing your perfect, happy family making perfect happy memories together that your children will one day recount as they describe how fortunate they were to have parents like you. Unfortunately, images like this are always quickly annihilated by the reality of my family dynamic. Which, to be brutally honest, is characterized by the fact that being on vacation with my kids for any extended period of time often irritates the hell out of me.
There are certain moms whom I imagine love spending down time with their kids, splashing in the hotel pool, renting jalopy-sized bicycle contraptions, laughing at endless knock knock jokes and teasing away bad moods with a tickle. Perhaps they were born with more patience. Surely they are younger and less hormonal than me. Possibly, they are medicated. No matter. Here’s how I roll on family vacations:
“Stop running in the hotel hall! Please don’t wrestle on the bed. Keep your voices down there are people next door. Can you PLEASE stop teasing your sister. Don’t run around the pool! Stop arguing. I SAID stop ARGUING. Did you hear me? I SAID did you HEAR me? "
And so it goes. Vacation is over. I’m back at work. The kids are back in school. And I miss the little dears terribly (really). Upon reflection, I find it ironic that the thing that bugs me most about them is their repetitious pattern of bad behavior – promising to stop doing something and then, when I turn my back, doing it again. And again.
Can't imagine where they get that from.
“Obviously, I do have to YELL since when I told you to stop five times NICELY you ignored me. So now I’m MAD and now I’m YELLING!”
When I finished taking a bow for this “mommie dearest” caliber moment, my daughter melted down in tears, while I stood there fuming, embarrassed yet defiant in the face of the sideways glances we were drawing from other obviously happier families nearby.
My husband put his hand gently on my shoulder in the manner of someone coaxing a suicidal jumper off the side of a bridge. Tentatively, (lest he risk being yelled at himself) my husband suggested that perhaps I was overreacting. Maybe, I was being a little hard on our daughter, who is, after all, only seven. He of course was right. In an instant I saw this small person who adores me every day of her life cowering in the face of my irrational rage and felt the shame rise up and choke the anger right out of me.
What she did and why I was yelling was beside the point. The fact that I had lost all manner of self control was a bigger and more pressing concern. After feeling like a jerk for several minutes I kneeled down in front of my daughter and hugged her to my chest. “I’m so sorry sweetheart,” I said. “Please forgive me. Mommy was angry but I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I was wrong.”
My daughter, still wounded, wouldn’t look me in the eye or hug me back just yet. Instead, she said something so deeply convicting I physically stepped back as if slapped. “You always say that mommie,” she whispered. “But then you do it again.”
Before I go on, let me set the context here. It was a sparkling day in San Diego, Labor Day Weekend, the last summer hurrah before the back-to-school rush. We had just finished an amazing lunch at a bay-side café and were getting into a boat my husband rented for us. Life was good, right? It was one of those days that you plan out in your head before they happen, visualizing your perfect, happy family making perfect happy memories together that your children will one day recount as they describe how fortunate they were to have parents like you. Unfortunately, images like this are always quickly annihilated by the reality of my family dynamic. Which, to be brutally honest, is characterized by the fact that being on vacation with my kids for any extended period of time often irritates the hell out of me.
There are certain moms whom I imagine love spending down time with their kids, splashing in the hotel pool, renting jalopy-sized bicycle contraptions, laughing at endless knock knock jokes and teasing away bad moods with a tickle. Perhaps they were born with more patience. Surely they are younger and less hormonal than me. Possibly, they are medicated. No matter. Here’s how I roll on family vacations:
“Stop running in the hotel hall! Please don’t wrestle on the bed. Keep your voices down there are people next door. Can you PLEASE stop teasing your sister. Don’t run around the pool! Stop arguing. I SAID stop ARGUING. Did you hear me? I SAID did you HEAR me? "
And so it goes. Vacation is over. I’m back at work. The kids are back in school. And I miss the little dears terribly (really). Upon reflection, I find it ironic that the thing that bugs me most about them is their repetitious pattern of bad behavior – promising to stop doing something and then, when I turn my back, doing it again. And again.
Can't imagine where they get that from.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Of Mice and Young Men
My son, who will start middle school in a few weeks, still believes in Mickey Mouse. During a recent trip to Disneyland I fully expected him to exhibit general disinterest in the more magical aspects of the Magic Kingdom, but his wide-eyed excitement upon seeing the smiling, world-famous rodent was clearly genuine. Imagine my surprise when he cut in line with his little sister to take his turn at a photo op. I didn’t have the heart to tell him what my seven-year old has been trying to explain for the past two years: Mickey really is just a guy in a suit.
Let me backtrack a bit by saying that my son has not been sheltered or excessively babied, nor is he behind the curve when it comes to being socially savvy. At eleven he’s a text-book tween with his peach fuzz and mood swings, a fascination with cell phones, and musical tastes that run from vintage Beatles to Coldplay. Yet, he continues to cling to a symbol of childhood innocence that is at once sweet and silly. I mean, as good as the Disney costumes are, Mickey, Buzz, Woody and Pluto et al are clearly not real.
Which brings me to my dilemma. There’s a parental crossroads we all arrive at when our children no longer believe everything we tell them. It’s healthy and normal and signifies their transition into becoming autonomous individuals. And while I haven’t researched this, I believe the shift begins when they first learn you’ve sold them a bill of goods regarding the tooth fairy, Easter bunny, Santa and Mickey. Because if mommy lied about those things, what else is she making up?
I realize that not fessing up to these fibs is only delaying the inevitable. But I rationalize that my kids have the rest of their lives to live in the real world. Is it wrong to let Puff the Magic Dragon have one final romp with his little boy before adolescence banishes him to his cave forever?
My son told his friends at summer camp about his trip to Disneyland, and I’m not sure how the subject came up, but someone mentioned that they’d actually seen the guy who wears the Mickey costume remove his head piece. My son remained poker faced during the exchange, but it was his first topic of conversation when I picked him up. And (I’m not proud here) like the Grinch, I thought up a lie and I thought it up quick: I told him Mickey has body doubles, just like Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones. "It helps him be in two places at once and keeps him from getting hurt during stunt scenes in Fantasmic," I explained.
Silence ensued. We stared at each other while he digested this whopper. Looking into his eyes I suddenly realized that I was the one who’d been fooled. My son knew the truth about Mickey – and has probably known for quite a while. But like the tattered blanket he sometimes still sleeps with, I think he finds comfort in holding onto a belief that connects him to simpler time. It’s also just like him to avoid hurting my feelings by admitting he’s outgrown the mighty mouse. He changed the subject quickly to more pressing issues, like the limits on his texting plan.
As for me, I’m grateful that for now he’s letting me play pretend, so I can savor the magic of his childhood just a little bit longer.
Let me backtrack a bit by saying that my son has not been sheltered or excessively babied, nor is he behind the curve when it comes to being socially savvy. At eleven he’s a text-book tween with his peach fuzz and mood swings, a fascination with cell phones, and musical tastes that run from vintage Beatles to Coldplay. Yet, he continues to cling to a symbol of childhood innocence that is at once sweet and silly. I mean, as good as the Disney costumes are, Mickey, Buzz, Woody and Pluto et al are clearly not real.
Which brings me to my dilemma. There’s a parental crossroads we all arrive at when our children no longer believe everything we tell them. It’s healthy and normal and signifies their transition into becoming autonomous individuals. And while I haven’t researched this, I believe the shift begins when they first learn you’ve sold them a bill of goods regarding the tooth fairy, Easter bunny, Santa and Mickey. Because if mommy lied about those things, what else is she making up?
I realize that not fessing up to these fibs is only delaying the inevitable. But I rationalize that my kids have the rest of their lives to live in the real world. Is it wrong to let Puff the Magic Dragon have one final romp with his little boy before adolescence banishes him to his cave forever?
My son told his friends at summer camp about his trip to Disneyland, and I’m not sure how the subject came up, but someone mentioned that they’d actually seen the guy who wears the Mickey costume remove his head piece. My son remained poker faced during the exchange, but it was his first topic of conversation when I picked him up. And (I’m not proud here) like the Grinch, I thought up a lie and I thought it up quick: I told him Mickey has body doubles, just like Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones. "It helps him be in two places at once and keeps him from getting hurt during stunt scenes in Fantasmic," I explained.
Silence ensued. We stared at each other while he digested this whopper. Looking into his eyes I suddenly realized that I was the one who’d been fooled. My son knew the truth about Mickey – and has probably known for quite a while. But like the tattered blanket he sometimes still sleeps with, I think he finds comfort in holding onto a belief that connects him to simpler time. It’s also just like him to avoid hurting my feelings by admitting he’s outgrown the mighty mouse. He changed the subject quickly to more pressing issues, like the limits on his texting plan.
As for me, I’m grateful that for now he’s letting me play pretend, so I can savor the magic of his childhood just a little bit longer.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
It’s Too Late…Baby
We live in a feel good society that encourages the pursuit of happiness and self fulfillment. We delight in stories of people past their prime who take risks and succeed against the odds, like the 90-year old who gets a college degree, or the universally inspirational Dara Torres, the 41-year old mom who became an Olympic swim champion. Just last week on America’s Got Talent, a weathered-looking Midwest grandma wowed the crowd with her stand-up comedy routine, and you’d be hard pressed not to root for her. The message of the day it seems is “it’s never too late so go for your dreams!” But a headline I recently read made me question the wisdom of that philosophy.
You may recall the story of Carmen Bousda who made history by becoming the oldest woman to give birth at the age of 67 back in 2007. The single mother from Madrid had come to the U.S. for her fertility treatments, and later admitted lying to doctors at the clinic about her age, saying she was 55, so as to not be rejected as a patient. She was so desperate to give birth, she even sold her home to raise the $60,000 dollars needed for treatments. On July 15, Carmen passed away at the age of 69, leaving behind suddenly orphaned two-year old toddlers. Carmen had cancer.Now it could be argued that any mother at any age can die of cancer – it’s one of those unpredictable curves life throws you that no one has a crystal ball for. And in her defense, Carmen had good reason to expect longevity; her own mother lived to the age of 101, so she may have anticipated that giving birth 18 years past menopause still gave her a decent shot at living to see grandchildren. Parenting is a gamble is so many ways, and for Carmen, fulfilling her lifelong dream of becoming a mother – even if she might not live long enough to raise them –was a chance she was simply willing to take. Who could fault her for that?
At the risk of sounding judgmental, I’m picking up the first stone.
Let me start by saying just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. I think motherhood is more than a path to personal fulfillment; it’s not something you pursue simply because you want to experience the thrill of carrying a life inside you. Or because you want to know what it’s like to be a mother. It’s not a cure for loneliness or a replacement for meaningful adult relationships. Motherhood is at heart, a selfless rather than selfish pursuit, as anyone who has children can tell you. Do I think at some point it is simply too late to have children? I do. And while I do not presume to be smart enough to determine what that magical number is, I will say that if you have to lie to the fertility doctors to obtain treatment, you are too old. Period.
I feel sad for Carmen Bousda, and whatever circumstances and life choices left her longing for babies at an age when it was no longer a prudent option. As a former fertility patient myself, I can relate to the joy she must have felt when doctors gave her the good news that she was pregnant. At the same time, I question the wisdom of her decision to buy into the idea that “it’s never too late to pursue your dreams.” Her dream left two children tragically parentless, and for them it will always be too late to play patty cake, go to the park, or read bedtime stories with their mommy, who undoubtedly loved them. But to quote a familiar Bible passage, “love is not self seeking.” Perhaps the pursuit of happiness should not be either.
You may recall the story of Carmen Bousda who made history by becoming the oldest woman to give birth at the age of 67 back in 2007. The single mother from Madrid had come to the U.S. for her fertility treatments, and later admitted lying to doctors at the clinic about her age, saying she was 55, so as to not be rejected as a patient. She was so desperate to give birth, she even sold her home to raise the $60,000 dollars needed for treatments. On July 15, Carmen passed away at the age of 69, leaving behind suddenly orphaned two-year old toddlers. Carmen had cancer.Now it could be argued that any mother at any age can die of cancer – it’s one of those unpredictable curves life throws you that no one has a crystal ball for. And in her defense, Carmen had good reason to expect longevity; her own mother lived to the age of 101, so she may have anticipated that giving birth 18 years past menopause still gave her a decent shot at living to see grandchildren. Parenting is a gamble is so many ways, and for Carmen, fulfilling her lifelong dream of becoming a mother – even if she might not live long enough to raise them –was a chance she was simply willing to take. Who could fault her for that?
At the risk of sounding judgmental, I’m picking up the first stone.
Let me start by saying just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. I think motherhood is more than a path to personal fulfillment; it’s not something you pursue simply because you want to experience the thrill of carrying a life inside you. Or because you want to know what it’s like to be a mother. It’s not a cure for loneliness or a replacement for meaningful adult relationships. Motherhood is at heart, a selfless rather than selfish pursuit, as anyone who has children can tell you. Do I think at some point it is simply too late to have children? I do. And while I do not presume to be smart enough to determine what that magical number is, I will say that if you have to lie to the fertility doctors to obtain treatment, you are too old. Period.
I feel sad for Carmen Bousda, and whatever circumstances and life choices left her longing for babies at an age when it was no longer a prudent option. As a former fertility patient myself, I can relate to the joy she must have felt when doctors gave her the good news that she was pregnant. At the same time, I question the wisdom of her decision to buy into the idea that “it’s never too late to pursue your dreams.” Her dream left two children tragically parentless, and for them it will always be too late to play patty cake, go to the park, or read bedtime stories with their mommy, who undoubtedly loved them. But to quote a familiar Bible passage, “love is not self seeking.” Perhaps the pursuit of happiness should not be either.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
I Scream, You Scream
People tell you childhood years fly by and encourage you to enjoy the fleeting days of Christopher Robin and Pooh. I know I’ve tried, but in my mad-cap rush to get things done and race through my to-do list, entire days disappear in a blur of activity – I’m inexplicably proud of the fact that I can band aid a boo boo, clean up spills, make snacks and text a friend all at the same time. Then, like you, I catch myself operating at warp speed and vow yet again to simply slow down. But have you noticed that when you pause long enough to catch your breath you practically get run over by all of the other people who are in a frantic, pointless rush?
Case in point: last weekend I was lying by the pool dozing when I found myself suddenly humming the familiar but nearly forgotten strains of “Pop goes the Weasel.” It took me several moments to realize the tinkling tune that had invaded my consciousness was actually coming from a rapidly-approaching Ice Cream truck. The realization spurred me into action since I knew I had only moments before I heard my children’s stampeding feet as they came at me bug-eyed with arms waving, shouting: “MOM! it’s the EYE! SCREAM! TRUUUCK!
As I scrambled to find my wallet, my daughter’s sense of urgency was almost amusing as she raced from the front yard to the kitchen and back again. “Hurry mom, he’s going to leave! Hurry, he says he’s not going to wait!” I looked at her with a knowing smile. “Of course he’s going to wait – he saw you come in to get money,” I said reassuringly. “No!” she shouted. “He said he couldn’t wait – he’s going to leave. HURRY!”
Catching the wave of her panic, I rushed outside and sure enough, the ice cream truck had made a U-turn and was pulling down the street, away from my now nearly hysterical daughter. I rushed after it, money in hand, and thanks to a good rear view mirror he stopped. But when we got to the order window he actually looked annoyed with us, drumming his fingers impatiently as the kids decided what they wanted. Was there an ice cream truck driver’s convention I didn’t know about? Some unknown mileage quota to meet? Isn’t the job of driving an ice cream truck supposed to be inherently leisurely? I mean by anyone’s standards this is not high-pressure sales.
We purchased our popsicles and Eskimo pies and ate them slowly in the street, the way ice cream should be eaten on a hot summer day. As we stood there smiling and increasingly sticky, the truck driver raced away, practically leaving skid marks in his haste.
Later as I repositioned myself by the pool, I thought what a sad place the world has become if ice cream trucks don’t have time to slow down. So the kids and I came up with a new motto. In the spring we will remember to stop and smell the roses. But in the summer, no matter how busy we are, we will always pause to savor the ice cream.
Case in point: last weekend I was lying by the pool dozing when I found myself suddenly humming the familiar but nearly forgotten strains of “Pop goes the Weasel.” It took me several moments to realize the tinkling tune that had invaded my consciousness was actually coming from a rapidly-approaching Ice Cream truck. The realization spurred me into action since I knew I had only moments before I heard my children’s stampeding feet as they came at me bug-eyed with arms waving, shouting: “MOM! it’s the EYE! SCREAM! TRUUUCK!
As I scrambled to find my wallet, my daughter’s sense of urgency was almost amusing as she raced from the front yard to the kitchen and back again. “Hurry mom, he’s going to leave! Hurry, he says he’s not going to wait!” I looked at her with a knowing smile. “Of course he’s going to wait – he saw you come in to get money,” I said reassuringly. “No!” she shouted. “He said he couldn’t wait – he’s going to leave. HURRY!”
Catching the wave of her panic, I rushed outside and sure enough, the ice cream truck had made a U-turn and was pulling down the street, away from my now nearly hysterical daughter. I rushed after it, money in hand, and thanks to a good rear view mirror he stopped. But when we got to the order window he actually looked annoyed with us, drumming his fingers impatiently as the kids decided what they wanted. Was there an ice cream truck driver’s convention I didn’t know about? Some unknown mileage quota to meet? Isn’t the job of driving an ice cream truck supposed to be inherently leisurely? I mean by anyone’s standards this is not high-pressure sales.
We purchased our popsicles and Eskimo pies and ate them slowly in the street, the way ice cream should be eaten on a hot summer day. As we stood there smiling and increasingly sticky, the truck driver raced away, practically leaving skid marks in his haste.
Later as I repositioned myself by the pool, I thought what a sad place the world has become if ice cream trucks don’t have time to slow down. So the kids and I came up with a new motto. In the spring we will remember to stop and smell the roses. But in the summer, no matter how busy we are, we will always pause to savor the ice cream.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Faithful are the Wounds of a Friend
When our children are very little, the tiniest scrape or scratch sends us running to the medicine cabinet for first aid. Often, a kiss is all a boo-boo really needs – the ability to heal a hurt is one of those God-given talents unique to mothers. As our children age, however, the hurts they endure are often not visible to the naked eye. Some we will hear about, others we will sense but not be able to identify, and many we will never learn of at all. And for the most part, these emotional bruises will not heal with merely a well placed kiss.
My son and his best friend broke up. The friendship ended abruptly for reasons that are too convoluted to make much sense to an adult. The final result is that two boys who spent the past year and a half joined at the hip, heads together laughing at an inside joke, and talking on the phone for hours during Club Penguin marathons now behave like virtual strangers when they pass in the hall. The other boy has moved on to different friends with different interest than the ones he shared with my son, while my boy, though still popular, hangs back a bit now, unsure of his footing in the hierarchy of near middle-school boys. He sees, suddenly, that you can be in one day and out the next, with little or no warning and often no clue as to what you did wrong. The tide turns, the clique realigns, and like pre-school musical chairs, somebody becomes the odd man out.
For me the split feels personal and ragged and sharp; I try not to meddle but it is difficult. This boy’s mom and I are good friends too. What happens to grown up friendships when their children no longer want to set up play dates and sleepovers? For me and the other mom, it means tippy toeing around the subject of our kids and trying not to place blame. It means finding ways to get together without kids as part of the equation. And I suspect it means figuring out if our own friendship has enough emotional glue to withstand this emotional storm.
For now I struggle to find words to encourage my son that don’t sound completely parental and lame. He will make other friends. This won’t always hurt. He and this boy may end up being best friends again. It really will be O.K.
In the meantime, I’m on a desperate search for a heart-shaped band aid. One for him. One for me.
My son and his best friend broke up. The friendship ended abruptly for reasons that are too convoluted to make much sense to an adult. The final result is that two boys who spent the past year and a half joined at the hip, heads together laughing at an inside joke, and talking on the phone for hours during Club Penguin marathons now behave like virtual strangers when they pass in the hall. The other boy has moved on to different friends with different interest than the ones he shared with my son, while my boy, though still popular, hangs back a bit now, unsure of his footing in the hierarchy of near middle-school boys. He sees, suddenly, that you can be in one day and out the next, with little or no warning and often no clue as to what you did wrong. The tide turns, the clique realigns, and like pre-school musical chairs, somebody becomes the odd man out.
For me the split feels personal and ragged and sharp; I try not to meddle but it is difficult. This boy’s mom and I are good friends too. What happens to grown up friendships when their children no longer want to set up play dates and sleepovers? For me and the other mom, it means tippy toeing around the subject of our kids and trying not to place blame. It means finding ways to get together without kids as part of the equation. And I suspect it means figuring out if our own friendship has enough emotional glue to withstand this emotional storm.
For now I struggle to find words to encourage my son that don’t sound completely parental and lame. He will make other friends. This won’t always hurt. He and this boy may end up being best friends again. It really will be O.K.
In the meantime, I’m on a desperate search for a heart-shaped band aid. One for him. One for me.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
How to Hug a Porcupine
We worked on the project for two months. A fifth-grade research paper with supporting artifacts, visual aids and audio visual to culminate in a 15 minute in-class presentation that would make any parent proud. I edited rough drafts. Offered presentation tips. Typed a final draft. The teacher said parents were encouraged to attend, so the date was circled on my calendar for weeks. Then, driving home from school a few days ago, my 11-year old son unexpectedly blurted out: “Mom, I don’t want you to come.”
Willing myself not to react, I took a breath and calmly asked, “Why not?” Looking desperate he said “I just want to do this on my own, O.K.?” And although I feigned a quick recovery, he saw me wince, a reaction he was quick to interpret as manipulative, and fumed “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d be upset!” As I bit my lip to avoid another blunder, he jammed in his earphones and spent the rest of the drive staring out the window.
I’ve blogged on this topic before and will undoubtedly do so again, since this new relationship with my pre-teen son is still unfolding. One of the more interesting changes in our relationship dynamic is that our disagreements seem wrought with gender-based landmines. Our dialogs often sound more like lover’s spats than mother/son disagreements. He plays the role of the emotionally distant boyfriend who chafes at being questioned, while I vacillate between nagging girlfriend and spurned lover who will do anything to get the guy to notice me.
On the surface, his desire for me to skip his presentation is of little consequence – I know I’m making too big a deal of it. Besides, my arguments that other mothers, dads and even grandparents have all shown up without incident have fallen on deaf ears. But it is what I read into this sudden line in the sand that pains me; the unspoken message: “Mom, you are not needed here.”
So the question of course is will I respect his wishes and stay home, or enforce my rights as a parent and show up as planned? I am undecided, but wonder if he would even notice my presence in the back of the classroom. These days, I can stand right in front of him and be made to feel virtually invisible. Poised as he is on the edge of puberty, his gaze seems permanently fixed on points in the future – a future filled with friends and freedoms that make a mother’s care increasingly irrelevant. Clinging to the childhood that is already behind him only makes me look desperate, and causes him to recoil all the more. His well-aimed barbs are strategic attempts to peel away the paper-thin layers of my parental control. I’m working on letting go.
So how do you hug a porcupine? The obvious answer is very carefully but the truthful one is, you don’t. You give it some space and bide your time. Once you’ve earned its trust, it may eventually come close enough to let you into its bristled, prickly world.
If you’re lucky.
Willing myself not to react, I took a breath and calmly asked, “Why not?” Looking desperate he said “I just want to do this on my own, O.K.?” And although I feigned a quick recovery, he saw me wince, a reaction he was quick to interpret as manipulative, and fumed “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d be upset!” As I bit my lip to avoid another blunder, he jammed in his earphones and spent the rest of the drive staring out the window.
I’ve blogged on this topic before and will undoubtedly do so again, since this new relationship with my pre-teen son is still unfolding. One of the more interesting changes in our relationship dynamic is that our disagreements seem wrought with gender-based landmines. Our dialogs often sound more like lover’s spats than mother/son disagreements. He plays the role of the emotionally distant boyfriend who chafes at being questioned, while I vacillate between nagging girlfriend and spurned lover who will do anything to get the guy to notice me.
On the surface, his desire for me to skip his presentation is of little consequence – I know I’m making too big a deal of it. Besides, my arguments that other mothers, dads and even grandparents have all shown up without incident have fallen on deaf ears. But it is what I read into this sudden line in the sand that pains me; the unspoken message: “Mom, you are not needed here.”
So the question of course is will I respect his wishes and stay home, or enforce my rights as a parent and show up as planned? I am undecided, but wonder if he would even notice my presence in the back of the classroom. These days, I can stand right in front of him and be made to feel virtually invisible. Poised as he is on the edge of puberty, his gaze seems permanently fixed on points in the future – a future filled with friends and freedoms that make a mother’s care increasingly irrelevant. Clinging to the childhood that is already behind him only makes me look desperate, and causes him to recoil all the more. His well-aimed barbs are strategic attempts to peel away the paper-thin layers of my parental control. I’m working on letting go.
So how do you hug a porcupine? The obvious answer is very carefully but the truthful one is, you don’t. You give it some space and bide your time. Once you’ve earned its trust, it may eventually come close enough to let you into its bristled, prickly world.
If you’re lucky.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Can I Be Done?
When my daughter was about four, she’d get tired of the food on her dinner plate, push it away and announce “I’m done.” To which my measured reply was: “You’re not done until I say so. Keep eating.”
At age six, she still has a tendency to leave certain foods untouched, but since she’s figured out the game well enough to try and make me think she’s submitting to authority, she asks, “Mom, can I be done?” My reply hasn’t changed, but her wording did get me thinking.
There are an awful lot of things I’d like to be done with. My short list includes night sweats, hairline grays that refuse to take color, and random chin hairs that seem to sprout overnight. It’s especially nice when you find one of these hairs by accident, say while checking your makeup in your review mirror, on your way home from seeing friends.
I’d also like to be done with all things Bikini Bottom. Unlike Bob the Builder, Dora the Explorer or The Backyardigans, Sponge Bob seems to outlive all developmental stages, apparently remaining hilarious to audiences from pre-school to pre-teen and beyond. If your children are young and you are still a Sponge Bob newbie, you might say: “But I like Sponge Bob – it’s funny!” I said that too. Six years ago. Back when it was still funny. When you have seen the driving school episode a gazillion times, trust me, you will want it to be done.
While I’m kicking over some pop culture sacred cows, can I be done with Hannah Montana? I know tweens and moms love her wholesome image, her hunky dad and her quirky antics, but can’t we all really see where this is going? She will grow up and long to pursue grown up roles. To achieve this she will need to shed the squeaky clean Disney image, and like the Britneys and Lindseys before her, she will fall from grace and leave a lot of karaoke-crazed little girls in the dust. I hope I’m wrong – but I’d still like to sever the relationship now, before things get ugly.
I’d like to be done with ridiculous news fillers masquerading as headline news. Does anybody really care what a beauty pageant contestant thinks about gay marriage? Does anybody care what Perez Hilton thinks about what she thinks about gay marriage? Spare me.
I’d like to be done with people who respond to a polite “thank you,” with the ubiquitous “No worries.” Call me old fashioned but in my book, “You’re welcome,” is still the correct answer.
Public displays of butt-crack tattoos? Done. People who shout into cell phones while shopping, dining or simply walking down the street. Done. And any coffee drink that requires more than a three word description while ordering (it’s just so nineties) - totally done.
Well it felt good to get all that out of my system. And I know what you’re thinking. “Is she done yet?”
Done.
At age six, she still has a tendency to leave certain foods untouched, but since she’s figured out the game well enough to try and make me think she’s submitting to authority, she asks, “Mom, can I be done?” My reply hasn’t changed, but her wording did get me thinking.
There are an awful lot of things I’d like to be done with. My short list includes night sweats, hairline grays that refuse to take color, and random chin hairs that seem to sprout overnight. It’s especially nice when you find one of these hairs by accident, say while checking your makeup in your review mirror, on your way home from seeing friends.
I’d also like to be done with all things Bikini Bottom. Unlike Bob the Builder, Dora the Explorer or The Backyardigans, Sponge Bob seems to outlive all developmental stages, apparently remaining hilarious to audiences from pre-school to pre-teen and beyond. If your children are young and you are still a Sponge Bob newbie, you might say: “But I like Sponge Bob – it’s funny!” I said that too. Six years ago. Back when it was still funny. When you have seen the driving school episode a gazillion times, trust me, you will want it to be done.
While I’m kicking over some pop culture sacred cows, can I be done with Hannah Montana? I know tweens and moms love her wholesome image, her hunky dad and her quirky antics, but can’t we all really see where this is going? She will grow up and long to pursue grown up roles. To achieve this she will need to shed the squeaky clean Disney image, and like the Britneys and Lindseys before her, she will fall from grace and leave a lot of karaoke-crazed little girls in the dust. I hope I’m wrong – but I’d still like to sever the relationship now, before things get ugly.
I’d like to be done with ridiculous news fillers masquerading as headline news. Does anybody really care what a beauty pageant contestant thinks about gay marriage? Does anybody care what Perez Hilton thinks about what she thinks about gay marriage? Spare me.
I’d like to be done with people who respond to a polite “thank you,” with the ubiquitous “No worries.” Call me old fashioned but in my book, “You’re welcome,” is still the correct answer.
Public displays of butt-crack tattoos? Done. People who shout into cell phones while shopping, dining or simply walking down the street. Done. And any coffee drink that requires more than a three word description while ordering (it’s just so nineties) - totally done.
Well it felt good to get all that out of my system. And I know what you’re thinking. “Is she done yet?”
Done.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
It's the Gift, Not the Thought That Counts
I was flipping through my latest issue of Real Simple today when I came across an ad that really shocked me. The picture showed a close up of a yummy looking egg dish and the headline in big bold letters declared: “Mom deserves the best...get her the non-stick frittata pan.”
Excuse me?
How is it possible in 2009 that a modern magazine (Real Simple no less) can feature an antiquated ad suggesting that because I’m a mom I will be thrilled to receive some sort of appliance for Mother’s Day? Because the obvious aftermath of unwrapping that pan, or any pan, is that I will then use it to cook something. For somebody else. New washing machine? Go do some laundry why don’t ya! Vacuum cleaner? Start sucking it up honey the dust bunnies are waiting.
I happen to be married to a guy who basically gets it, so I’m confident I won’t be getting the aforementioned frittata pan on May 10. But since I have a platform to vent, I thought I’d make a short list of dos and don’ts when shopping for moms – ladies feel free to weigh in with your own hit list:
First, do not get me chocolate, cookies or any kind of baked goods. As every mom in America knows, Mother’s Day falls a scant 17 days prior to Memorial Day, the beginning of yet another long and unforgiving swimsuit season. Now is not the time to trip us up.
Don’t take me to some overpriced all-you-can-eat brunch. See reason above.
Unless you went to see Vicky, do not buy me a “warm” robe, “cozy” slippers, or “comfy” pj’s. I do not want to look or feel like my mother on Mother’s Day.
Do think outside the box. Why not create a really cool playlist of songs you think I’d like and then send me off with a tall, cool drink to chill out and groove.
Make me a mimosa. Because champagne is fun, especially in the morning, and because it’s impossible not to smile when you say “mimosa.”
Take the kids to a matinee. This may surprise you but I actually love my home when I’m the only one in it. No one leaving piles to be picked up. Nobody bugging me for snacks, sex or both. It also lets me do the things women like to do when they are alone, like put a shower cap on and deep condition my hair or pass gas freely without having to hold it in until everyone else leaves the immediate vicinity.
I’d love to hear from my readers on what their ideal Mom’s Day gift is. It would be funny to hear what some of the all time bombs are too. In the meantime I’m calling Calphalon to invite them to wake up and join the 21st century. Who knows, maybe I’ll go ahead and order an egg pan while I have them on the phone.
Excuse me?
How is it possible in 2009 that a modern magazine (Real Simple no less) can feature an antiquated ad suggesting that because I’m a mom I will be thrilled to receive some sort of appliance for Mother’s Day? Because the obvious aftermath of unwrapping that pan, or any pan, is that I will then use it to cook something. For somebody else. New washing machine? Go do some laundry why don’t ya! Vacuum cleaner? Start sucking it up honey the dust bunnies are waiting.
I happen to be married to a guy who basically gets it, so I’m confident I won’t be getting the aforementioned frittata pan on May 10. But since I have a platform to vent, I thought I’d make a short list of dos and don’ts when shopping for moms – ladies feel free to weigh in with your own hit list:
First, do not get me chocolate, cookies or any kind of baked goods. As every mom in America knows, Mother’s Day falls a scant 17 days prior to Memorial Day, the beginning of yet another long and unforgiving swimsuit season. Now is not the time to trip us up.
Don’t take me to some overpriced all-you-can-eat brunch. See reason above.
Unless you went to see Vicky, do not buy me a “warm” robe, “cozy” slippers, or “comfy” pj’s. I do not want to look or feel like my mother on Mother’s Day.
Do think outside the box. Why not create a really cool playlist of songs you think I’d like and then send me off with a tall, cool drink to chill out and groove.
Make me a mimosa. Because champagne is fun, especially in the morning, and because it’s impossible not to smile when you say “mimosa.”
Take the kids to a matinee. This may surprise you but I actually love my home when I’m the only one in it. No one leaving piles to be picked up. Nobody bugging me for snacks, sex or both. It also lets me do the things women like to do when they are alone, like put a shower cap on and deep condition my hair or pass gas freely without having to hold it in until everyone else leaves the immediate vicinity.
I’d love to hear from my readers on what their ideal Mom’s Day gift is. It would be funny to hear what some of the all time bombs are too. In the meantime I’m calling Calphalon to invite them to wake up and join the 21st century. Who knows, maybe I’ll go ahead and order an egg pan while I have them on the phone.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Sleepless in the Suburbs
The thing about being a mid-life mom is that your body throws way more curves your way than your kids ever do. Just when you’ve got the parenting thing down pat, you begin to lose control of your bodily functions. Okay, I’m not using Depends yet. But when my hormones started going haywire a couple of years ago, my internal thermostat began to reset - I used to perspire; now I sweat. My moods went from even keel to completely off kilter. And I have turned into a nocturnal creature, an exhausted shell of a woman who craves sleep more than sex, food or oxygen.
If you read any books on perimenopause, you’ll see insomnia listed as one of the most common symptoms. Before you experience it for yourself, however, you may think it is easily remedied. A glass of wine. Soft music. A warm bath. How hard can it be to fall asleep? As a two year veteran of the sleepless sisterhood, I can say with some assurance that it is virtually impossible.
Let me pause here to say that it’s not that I haven’t slept at all in 24 months. Most of the time I’m so tired I fall right to sleep once I hit the pillow. I just don’t stay asleep long enough for it to matter. As if wired to some invisible, sadistic alarm, my body jolts awake without fail between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. most every night. I don’t look at the clock anymore, but I can tell from the pitch darkness of my bedroom that it is still hours until daybreak. And then I do what millions of other hormonally challenged women do to pass the time.
I wonder if I should have bought those black pumps instead of the brown ones. I have imaginary do over conversations with people I’m still angry with. I stress about bills I haven’t paid and feel guilty about all of my parenting mistakes. I think about men I didn’t marry, vacations I never took, and as I roll over for the umpteenth time, check to see if I can pinch an inch around my mid section while making a mental note to get to the gym this week.
When I can’t sleep, I become curious about who else is up. I never actually get out of bed; it would be like admitting defeat; but if I did, I would log onto FB or head over to the open-all-night Walmart, just to reassure myself that I am not alone.
Are you in the sleepless suburban sisterhood? If you are, you will recognize others of your species by their markings. We are the women wearing layers of concealer atop our permanent undereye circles. We keep Viseen and Nodoze in our purses. We smile and nod a lot when people talk to us in an attempt to hide the fact that we have mastered the art of napping mid conversation. When we are with one another, we cluster and cluck about our mutual exhaustion, marveling at the effortless energy displayed by women half our age. When we were young, with so much yet to accomplish, we wished for more hours in a day.
Be careful what you wish for.
If you read any books on perimenopause, you’ll see insomnia listed as one of the most common symptoms. Before you experience it for yourself, however, you may think it is easily remedied. A glass of wine. Soft music. A warm bath. How hard can it be to fall asleep? As a two year veteran of the sleepless sisterhood, I can say with some assurance that it is virtually impossible.
Let me pause here to say that it’s not that I haven’t slept at all in 24 months. Most of the time I’m so tired I fall right to sleep once I hit the pillow. I just don’t stay asleep long enough for it to matter. As if wired to some invisible, sadistic alarm, my body jolts awake without fail between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. most every night. I don’t look at the clock anymore, but I can tell from the pitch darkness of my bedroom that it is still hours until daybreak. And then I do what millions of other hormonally challenged women do to pass the time.
I wonder if I should have bought those black pumps instead of the brown ones. I have imaginary do over conversations with people I’m still angry with. I stress about bills I haven’t paid and feel guilty about all of my parenting mistakes. I think about men I didn’t marry, vacations I never took, and as I roll over for the umpteenth time, check to see if I can pinch an inch around my mid section while making a mental note to get to the gym this week.
When I can’t sleep, I become curious about who else is up. I never actually get out of bed; it would be like admitting defeat; but if I did, I would log onto FB or head over to the open-all-night Walmart, just to reassure myself that I am not alone.
Are you in the sleepless suburban sisterhood? If you are, you will recognize others of your species by their markings. We are the women wearing layers of concealer atop our permanent undereye circles. We keep Viseen and Nodoze in our purses. We smile and nod a lot when people talk to us in an attempt to hide the fact that we have mastered the art of napping mid conversation. When we are with one another, we cluster and cluck about our mutual exhaustion, marveling at the effortless energy displayed by women half our age. When we were young, with so much yet to accomplish, we wished for more hours in a day.
Be careful what you wish for.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Watching the Second Hand
I read an article on time management recently and the author described one of the women profiled as a “full time student and full time mom.” I come from a generation of women weaned on the Helens: Reddy and Gurley Brown, which means I wholeheartedly believe a woman can do it all. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve had to concede you really can’t do or have it all at the same time. Especially not when you have kids. So while I think you can be a full time student OR a full time mom, you can't be both in a 24-hour day. In the past six weeks, I’ve learned this lesson first hand.
Since I’ve gone back to working a 40 hour week, my time and my heart are divided. I spend my days with virtual strangers with a scant three hours left over each evening to connect with my children. I can’t surprise them and swing by Baskin Robbins on the way home from school – it’s well past dinner time when we drag in each night. I can’t chauffer them to tennis or dance – my sitter does that now. I’m not even there to help with homework – they do it with teacher’s aide in the after-school homework club. I’m a full time writer. And a part time mom. And it hurts to put the words on paper.
I write because I love the written word. But I work because I prefer to write with a roof over my head. My decision to abandon the freelance life was made amid the pressure of a floundering economy and a need for two steady incomes, and I’m so thankful to be working in a field I enjoy. But at the end of the day (literally) I miss my babies.
When I had the luxury of being a full time parent and part time writer, I would sit at the park with other SAHMs and wonder aloud how working mothers did it. We, feeling stressed and harried with our carbon copy to do lists, thought we knew what it meant to be busy. Playdate. Costco. Post office. Bible study. Drive through Mickey D’s. Teacher conference. Dentist appointment. Sooooo busy. But we had our children with us, which often slowed us down, but brought with it a comfort we would not recognize until it was gone.
My son is in 5th grade and basically gets it when it comes to the economy and the reason mommy went back to work. He was doing pretty well with it too, until he realized I don't get off work in summer just because school is out. His dreams of lying around the house for three months are being replaced with long days at summer camp. My first grader remains somewhat clueless, but will surely ask why mommy isn’t driving on the next field trip. My response to these disappointments is tempered; I don’t want them to see how much more it disappoints me.
There are parenting theories about time, quality versus quantity. Having been on both sides of the debate, I’ve concluded that when it comes to being a mom, there is no quality or quantity; there is simply time. 24 hours in a day of your son or daughter’s childhood that slips by in a blink. For the working mother, that time becomes achingly precious. As I drop them off each morning, their small silhouettes diminishing too quickly in my rear view mirror, I tell myself I am doing the right thing. And then I will myself to keep driving, counting the hours until I see them again.
Since I’ve gone back to working a 40 hour week, my time and my heart are divided. I spend my days with virtual strangers with a scant three hours left over each evening to connect with my children. I can’t surprise them and swing by Baskin Robbins on the way home from school – it’s well past dinner time when we drag in each night. I can’t chauffer them to tennis or dance – my sitter does that now. I’m not even there to help with homework – they do it with teacher’s aide in the after-school homework club. I’m a full time writer. And a part time mom. And it hurts to put the words on paper.
I write because I love the written word. But I work because I prefer to write with a roof over my head. My decision to abandon the freelance life was made amid the pressure of a floundering economy and a need for two steady incomes, and I’m so thankful to be working in a field I enjoy. But at the end of the day (literally) I miss my babies.
When I had the luxury of being a full time parent and part time writer, I would sit at the park with other SAHMs and wonder aloud how working mothers did it. We, feeling stressed and harried with our carbon copy to do lists, thought we knew what it meant to be busy. Playdate. Costco. Post office. Bible study. Drive through Mickey D’s. Teacher conference. Dentist appointment. Sooooo busy. But we had our children with us, which often slowed us down, but brought with it a comfort we would not recognize until it was gone.
My son is in 5th grade and basically gets it when it comes to the economy and the reason mommy went back to work. He was doing pretty well with it too, until he realized I don't get off work in summer just because school is out. His dreams of lying around the house for three months are being replaced with long days at summer camp. My first grader remains somewhat clueless, but will surely ask why mommy isn’t driving on the next field trip. My response to these disappointments is tempered; I don’t want them to see how much more it disappoints me.
There are parenting theories about time, quality versus quantity. Having been on both sides of the debate, I’ve concluded that when it comes to being a mom, there is no quality or quantity; there is simply time. 24 hours in a day of your son or daughter’s childhood that slips by in a blink. For the working mother, that time becomes achingly precious. As I drop them off each morning, their small silhouettes diminishing too quickly in my rear view mirror, I tell myself I am doing the right thing. And then I will myself to keep driving, counting the hours until I see them again.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The One That Got Away
I am officially hooked on FB and have re-connected with various BFFs from my past life. It’s fun and funny, and strangely empowering. You get that “fifteen minutes of fame” rush every time you make a mundane comment and half a dozen people weigh in on it. Suddenly, you’re the EF Hutton of cyberspace. My issue is that unlike many who have connected with old flames via social networking, I have not found a single former squeeze. I recently posted my frustration on my wall – I mean, where are these guys?
Last summer I attended my 30-year high school reunion and had an absolute blast. There’s a certain comfort level that comes with age – you no longer have to prove anything and can just relax and enjoy catching up with people who were largely responsible for the person you’ve become. I laughed and shared family pics with friends who knew me when – but every now and then I found myself looking over my shoulder for a face I’m not sure I’d recognize. In my mind and in my heart, he’s frozen in time, forever 19 and the one that got away.
Almost everyone has someone who haunts the high school hallways of their past. It could be an unrequited love, a first crush, love or heartbreak. Mine was most if not all of those – a boy who stole my innocence and my trust, so much so that over 30 years later I ponder the question “What if?”
Let me pause here to say I love my husband. Really. My online search has nothing to do with wanting to reignite some fantasy old flame; that would truly be a bridge to nowhere. No, it’s more about trying to understand the real nature of love and its ability to linger long after a relationship dies. And it’s a desire to merge fantasy with reality; because this boy in my memory is not 19. He’s nearly 51, his lean teenage body undoubtedly gone soft around the middle, the hair I tangled my fingers through grown thin and frosted with gray. He is married or divorced. He is a father, possibly a grandfather. Like me, he’s celebrated successes and setbacks. And I realize (though I find it hard to believe) he may not even remember me.
The lesson here, if you believe things happen or don’t for a reason, is that some things from your past are better left to memory.
I’ll let you know if I find him.
Last summer I attended my 30-year high school reunion and had an absolute blast. There’s a certain comfort level that comes with age – you no longer have to prove anything and can just relax and enjoy catching up with people who were largely responsible for the person you’ve become. I laughed and shared family pics with friends who knew me when – but every now and then I found myself looking over my shoulder for a face I’m not sure I’d recognize. In my mind and in my heart, he’s frozen in time, forever 19 and the one that got away.
Almost everyone has someone who haunts the high school hallways of their past. It could be an unrequited love, a first crush, love or heartbreak. Mine was most if not all of those – a boy who stole my innocence and my trust, so much so that over 30 years later I ponder the question “What if?”
Let me pause here to say I love my husband. Really. My online search has nothing to do with wanting to reignite some fantasy old flame; that would truly be a bridge to nowhere. No, it’s more about trying to understand the real nature of love and its ability to linger long after a relationship dies. And it’s a desire to merge fantasy with reality; because this boy in my memory is not 19. He’s nearly 51, his lean teenage body undoubtedly gone soft around the middle, the hair I tangled my fingers through grown thin and frosted with gray. He is married or divorced. He is a father, possibly a grandfather. Like me, he’s celebrated successes and setbacks. And I realize (though I find it hard to believe) he may not even remember me.
The lesson here, if you believe things happen or don’t for a reason, is that some things from your past are better left to memory.
I’ll let you know if I find him.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Cougar Country
Some of you have complained about my lack of entries of late. Truth be told, the freelance writing biz put a squeeze on the budget and I’m back in the working mom world at a 9-to-5. Which leaves precious little time for blogging...but here we go.
I was minding my business at Trader Joe’s when a young male clerk started chatting me up. Since everyone at Traders is clearly delighted to be working there and usually chats everybody up, I thought nothing of it. But as I gathered my bags full of nitrate-free turkey bacon and two buck chuck, the following comment from a fellow TJ’s employee rang loudly in my ears: “Joey sure likes the cougars!”
I paused. I turned. I pretended not to hear the good natured laughter aimed at Joey, and I presumed, me. As I left the store I honestly could not decide whether I was flattered, insulted, or both. For those of you not up to speed on the new definition of another word for a California mountain lion, a cougar is a “Hot, 40-something female on the prowl for younger men.”
Hot? Me?? I clean up pretty good but that particular day I was looking anything but hot or on the prowl. Still, I have to admit as I pondered the incident and relayed it to my amused 50-something husband, I was at least flattered to be noticed. As a mom, I don’t often feel especially sexy, so being singled out by a man half my age gave my ego a much needed boost. But here’s the rub: I’m not sure sexy is the look I’m aiming for at 48 ½.
Let’s consider Cloris Leachman. I don’t watch Dancing With the Stars, but I know millions of people saw her shimmy and shake her bodacious 82-year old ta-ta’s in the faces of a nearly speechless panel of judges for several weeks before she was booted off. And while she garnered a fair amount of praise for her hutszpa, I’m not aspiring to be an octogenarian who looks good enough to dance on reality TV. Is being Botox-ed, artificially bronzed and harnessed into a Miracle Bra what passes for aging gracefully these days?
I started working out with a trainer last week. Spending eight hour days in a cubicle does nothing for a girl’s rear view, and I’m not willing to concede defeat to middle age spread just yet. So I’m on the elliptical machine and upon learning my age, my trainer, this muscle-bound boy of about 22 exclaims “Wow – you look good!” A few minutes later as I was laboring over crunches he pronounced, “Just think, you’re gonna be a smokin’ hot grandma!”
Uh-huh. If you’re like me the terms “smokin hot” and “grandma” used together creep you out. Because where I come from, grandmas wear house dresses and support hose and offer the plush comfort of a soft lap (not rock hard abs) to sink into. So I guess what I need to figure out is what aging gracefully means for me. I’m not planning to let myself go (hey, I am working out with a trainer). But I don’t want to become so obsessed with looking young that I end up being one of those women who makes heads turn for all the wrong reasons – face lift gone bad, boob job gone south.
For now, I’ll content myself with enticing my unsuspecting prey in the organic vegetable isle at Trader Joe’s. After all, I’m not a grandma yet.
I was minding my business at Trader Joe’s when a young male clerk started chatting me up. Since everyone at Traders is clearly delighted to be working there and usually chats everybody up, I thought nothing of it. But as I gathered my bags full of nitrate-free turkey bacon and two buck chuck, the following comment from a fellow TJ’s employee rang loudly in my ears: “Joey sure likes the cougars!”
I paused. I turned. I pretended not to hear the good natured laughter aimed at Joey, and I presumed, me. As I left the store I honestly could not decide whether I was flattered, insulted, or both. For those of you not up to speed on the new definition of another word for a California mountain lion, a cougar is a “Hot, 40-something female on the prowl for younger men.”
Hot? Me?? I clean up pretty good but that particular day I was looking anything but hot or on the prowl. Still, I have to admit as I pondered the incident and relayed it to my amused 50-something husband, I was at least flattered to be noticed. As a mom, I don’t often feel especially sexy, so being singled out by a man half my age gave my ego a much needed boost. But here’s the rub: I’m not sure sexy is the look I’m aiming for at 48 ½.
Let’s consider Cloris Leachman. I don’t watch Dancing With the Stars, but I know millions of people saw her shimmy and shake her bodacious 82-year old ta-ta’s in the faces of a nearly speechless panel of judges for several weeks before she was booted off. And while she garnered a fair amount of praise for her hutszpa, I’m not aspiring to be an octogenarian who looks good enough to dance on reality TV. Is being Botox-ed, artificially bronzed and harnessed into a Miracle Bra what passes for aging gracefully these days?
I started working out with a trainer last week. Spending eight hour days in a cubicle does nothing for a girl’s rear view, and I’m not willing to concede defeat to middle age spread just yet. So I’m on the elliptical machine and upon learning my age, my trainer, this muscle-bound boy of about 22 exclaims “Wow – you look good!” A few minutes later as I was laboring over crunches he pronounced, “Just think, you’re gonna be a smokin’ hot grandma!”
Uh-huh. If you’re like me the terms “smokin hot” and “grandma” used together creep you out. Because where I come from, grandmas wear house dresses and support hose and offer the plush comfort of a soft lap (not rock hard abs) to sink into. So I guess what I need to figure out is what aging gracefully means for me. I’m not planning to let myself go (hey, I am working out with a trainer). But I don’t want to become so obsessed with looking young that I end up being one of those women who makes heads turn for all the wrong reasons – face lift gone bad, boob job gone south.
For now, I’ll content myself with enticing my unsuspecting prey in the organic vegetable isle at Trader Joe’s. After all, I’m not a grandma yet.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Can I have chips with that?
Apparently I’m part of what they call the sandwich generation, which Wikipedia defines as a group of people (mostly women) who simultaneously care for their aging parents and young children. Turns out Merriam-Webster officially added the term to its dictionary in July 2006, nearly six months after I learned that my dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. At the time, I was juggling the stresses of a full-time job, catering to the needs of a first grader and pre-schooler, and managing an occasional hook-up with my husband who was in grad school. Clearly, I didn’t have the time or energy to expand my parenting responsibilities, but as an only child, the as-yet-to-be-fully-defined duty rested squarely on my already slumping shoulders.
My first task was to relocate my parents closer to me, which required moving them out of the house they’d lived in for 50-plus years, the place I still thought of as “home.” We made the move quickly, intensely conscious of the sand seeping out of the hour glass of my dad’s memory; the sooner he changed environments, the less traumatic things would be. Thankfully, the move went smoothly. Mom and Dad settled nicely into their new community and made fast friends with their 55 and over neighbors. Having them nearby meant my kids were able to spend more time with their grandparents and I was feeling like the whole thing was no big deal after all. That’s when reality set in.
My mother and father cannot drive. Dad lost his license with his diagnoses and mom never learned, having come from a generation of women who derived security from their dependence on a man. Which means that, as is the case with my children, routine trips to doctors, dentists, grocery stores, haircuts, etc. require that someone eek out time from their already jam-packed schedule to accommodate. That someone is me. I learned pretty quickly that seniors need to see their doctors and dentists a lot. Because if a bridge can break once, it can break at least three times. A routine cold can turn quickly into bronchitis. When you are over 80 a prescription refill requires an office visit. And those are the needs. The wants like manicures, salon visits and a simple trip to Tar-Jaay all take time I do not have, pushing back deadlines I will not meet.
I am not whining (although I have on occasion). Mostly I am thankful for the slow progression of a disease that plays by no predictable rules. And I am thankful that I have a loving relationship with my parents that makes caring for them more privilege than obligation. But I would be lying if I didn’t say there are days I feel stretched thinner than the cellophane on the leftovers I will heat again for dinner tonight. There are times when I audibly sign when I see my mother’s caller ID on the phone, wondering what need she has that will once again throw the details of my day planner into a tailspin.
People a lot smarter than me figured out a long time ago that you really can’t do it all. But the truth is, I find myself sandwiched between the important and the urgent on almost a daily basis, unable to address one and leave the other undone. I’m no martyr. Many, even some of you reading this have it tougher than me. I’m just a mother and a daughter parenting from a double-duty position best described as a rock and a hard place. It’s where you can supposedly find out what you’re made of. I’m thinking turkey and Swiss on wheat. Gotta keep my strength up.
Comment on this Blog- do you or someone you know parent your elderly parents? What do you find most challenging? Most rewarding?
My first task was to relocate my parents closer to me, which required moving them out of the house they’d lived in for 50-plus years, the place I still thought of as “home.” We made the move quickly, intensely conscious of the sand seeping out of the hour glass of my dad’s memory; the sooner he changed environments, the less traumatic things would be. Thankfully, the move went smoothly. Mom and Dad settled nicely into their new community and made fast friends with their 55 and over neighbors. Having them nearby meant my kids were able to spend more time with their grandparents and I was feeling like the whole thing was no big deal after all. That’s when reality set in.
My mother and father cannot drive. Dad lost his license with his diagnoses and mom never learned, having come from a generation of women who derived security from their dependence on a man. Which means that, as is the case with my children, routine trips to doctors, dentists, grocery stores, haircuts, etc. require that someone eek out time from their already jam-packed schedule to accommodate. That someone is me. I learned pretty quickly that seniors need to see their doctors and dentists a lot. Because if a bridge can break once, it can break at least three times. A routine cold can turn quickly into bronchitis. When you are over 80 a prescription refill requires an office visit. And those are the needs. The wants like manicures, salon visits and a simple trip to Tar-Jaay all take time I do not have, pushing back deadlines I will not meet.
I am not whining (although I have on occasion). Mostly I am thankful for the slow progression of a disease that plays by no predictable rules. And I am thankful that I have a loving relationship with my parents that makes caring for them more privilege than obligation. But I would be lying if I didn’t say there are days I feel stretched thinner than the cellophane on the leftovers I will heat again for dinner tonight. There are times when I audibly sign when I see my mother’s caller ID on the phone, wondering what need she has that will once again throw the details of my day planner into a tailspin.
People a lot smarter than me figured out a long time ago that you really can’t do it all. But the truth is, I find myself sandwiched between the important and the urgent on almost a daily basis, unable to address one and leave the other undone. I’m no martyr. Many, even some of you reading this have it tougher than me. I’m just a mother and a daughter parenting from a double-duty position best described as a rock and a hard place. It’s where you can supposedly find out what you’re made of. I’m thinking turkey and Swiss on wheat. Gotta keep my strength up.
Comment on this Blog- do you or someone you know parent your elderly parents? What do you find most challenging? Most rewarding?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Changeling
The dictionary defines a changeling as a strange child left by fairies in place of your real bundle of joy. This fable confirms what I’ve been suspecting for weeks. The boy in my son’s bed wearing my son’s pajamas is not really my son. Oh he looks just like him. And if I bury my nose in the crown of his head and inhale deeply, there’s that singular smell that is his alone, a scent that can still make my knees buckle with maternal love. But I am not fooled. These fairies are good at what they do.
I found his yearbook on the table and flipped through it. Not much to see or even read; he’s only in fifth grade. Suddenly a page gave me pause. There in the middle of the 4th grade class photo in his still childish scrawl was one word written beneath a picture of an unsuspecting nine-year old girl. “Hottie.”
First I am stunned that he knows this term and how to use it. Next I look closer to see what kind of taste he has (oh come on, so would you). Then I laugh and ponder what to do with this newfound information. Blackmail opportunities abound and he will be mortified if he knows I’ve seen this. I store this information to use at an opportune time.
Then I wonder. Who is this boy with shadows of manhood dusting his upper lip and body? I’m alarmed at his need for deodorant and the way his size S/M boxers have begun “tenting up” unexpectedly when he’s feeling restless, agitated or anxious. But what gives the imposter away is all in the eyes. My son, my first born, even when he didn’t get his way always had a softness in his eyes I could connect with. He hated to think he might have done something to disappoint me. But this child in front of me now manages a steady gaze full of barely concealed defiance. He does not back down or look away when I rebuke him. And dare I say there’s a hint of mockery in his expression too – the realization (so soon!) that mom does not know everything.
I don’t like the word “tween” because I know that it is merely a marketing term invented to help retailers push tons of useless products on a completely fabricated demographic. Eight to twelve-year olds do not need starter phones, laptops with training wheels or anything at all that sports a picture of the Jonas Brothers. If you get sucked into that you will soon be running an eBay store trying to sell all the techie toys your kid just had to have but has now outgrown. Which is why my son (in his assessment) is the lone child in his peer group who does not have his own calling plan, email address or My Space page. Most of my reasoning on this is simple: I will not waste money on things he does not need. The underlying reasons are more complex; I don’t want him to grow up.
My daughter, who is six, has a deep conviction that she is the boss of everybody. Actually, as a little African American girl in a sea of white kids at our local private school, she delighted going to school on November 5 and telling anyone who would listen that Obama was now the boss of everybody. But that may be another blog. The point is she’s got the “girl’s rule” thing down pat. And I’m O.K. with that. I figured we’d face the mother/daughter battle of the wills eventually. But my boy, now that’s another story. He’s my baby, my pie, my cub, my man child. And already he is slipping away. A friend whose sons are grown and gone recently said to me “They weigh on your lap for such a short time, but they weigh on your heart forever.”
Tonight my son told me that money makes the world go around. He was feeling flush with cash, having just gotten a ten from his grandma. I chuckled when he said it and replied, “Well I’m glad you’ve got the world figured out. Who told you that anyhow?” “Mr. Koo-rabs” he said with authority. I racked my brain for a moment – PE teacher? Playground Aid? “Who is Mr. Koo-rabs?” I asked as I walked right into it because it dawned on me in the instant he rolled his eyes and said, “You know. Mr. Crabs. On Sponge Bob!” I smiled, relieved, at least for the moment and nodded, “That’s my boy.”
I found his yearbook on the table and flipped through it. Not much to see or even read; he’s only in fifth grade. Suddenly a page gave me pause. There in the middle of the 4th grade class photo in his still childish scrawl was one word written beneath a picture of an unsuspecting nine-year old girl. “Hottie.”
First I am stunned that he knows this term and how to use it. Next I look closer to see what kind of taste he has (oh come on, so would you). Then I laugh and ponder what to do with this newfound information. Blackmail opportunities abound and he will be mortified if he knows I’ve seen this. I store this information to use at an opportune time.
Then I wonder. Who is this boy with shadows of manhood dusting his upper lip and body? I’m alarmed at his need for deodorant and the way his size S/M boxers have begun “tenting up” unexpectedly when he’s feeling restless, agitated or anxious. But what gives the imposter away is all in the eyes. My son, my first born, even when he didn’t get his way always had a softness in his eyes I could connect with. He hated to think he might have done something to disappoint me. But this child in front of me now manages a steady gaze full of barely concealed defiance. He does not back down or look away when I rebuke him. And dare I say there’s a hint of mockery in his expression too – the realization (so soon!) that mom does not know everything.
I don’t like the word “tween” because I know that it is merely a marketing term invented to help retailers push tons of useless products on a completely fabricated demographic. Eight to twelve-year olds do not need starter phones, laptops with training wheels or anything at all that sports a picture of the Jonas Brothers. If you get sucked into that you will soon be running an eBay store trying to sell all the techie toys your kid just had to have but has now outgrown. Which is why my son (in his assessment) is the lone child in his peer group who does not have his own calling plan, email address or My Space page. Most of my reasoning on this is simple: I will not waste money on things he does not need. The underlying reasons are more complex; I don’t want him to grow up.
My daughter, who is six, has a deep conviction that she is the boss of everybody. Actually, as a little African American girl in a sea of white kids at our local private school, she delighted going to school on November 5 and telling anyone who would listen that Obama was now the boss of everybody. But that may be another blog. The point is she’s got the “girl’s rule” thing down pat. And I’m O.K. with that. I figured we’d face the mother/daughter battle of the wills eventually. But my boy, now that’s another story. He’s my baby, my pie, my cub, my man child. And already he is slipping away. A friend whose sons are grown and gone recently said to me “They weigh on your lap for such a short time, but they weigh on your heart forever.”
Tonight my son told me that money makes the world go around. He was feeling flush with cash, having just gotten a ten from his grandma. I chuckled when he said it and replied, “Well I’m glad you’ve got the world figured out. Who told you that anyhow?” “Mr. Koo-rabs” he said with authority. I racked my brain for a moment – PE teacher? Playground Aid? “Who is Mr. Koo-rabs?” I asked as I walked right into it because it dawned on me in the instant he rolled his eyes and said, “You know. Mr. Crabs. On Sponge Bob!” I smiled, relieved, at least for the moment and nodded, “That’s my boy.”
Monday, February 9, 2009
Parenting is not a competitive sport
I have a friend who makes every mom I know, myself included, look like a slacker. She has five children under the age of 12. She’s always dressed to the nines as if she walked right out of Ann Taylor. She got her MBA last year when her youngest was not yet two. This year she successfully ran for City Council. She’s also gorgeous, smart and funny. Oh, and her size two jeans are a little loose right now so she’s been hitting the drive through at In ‘N Out to see if she can pack on a few pounds. Just being around her should make me feel like staying in bed. But strangely, it has the opposite affect. I find myself energized, inspired and motivated in her company. It’s not that I want to be her or even be like her. It’s just that her competence seems catching.
I spent much of young life competing with other women. Competing for boys and later for men. Vying for attention from professors and bosses. Angling for position, especially in those dangerous Bermuda Triangles otherwise known as three-way female friendships. You know the drill: two little girls can be the best of friends but add a third to the mix and somebody’s going to get her feelings hurt. I’m sure that’s why Carrie had Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha in her posse; the odds of the whole group turning on her diminished significantly with a fourth wheel.
Thankfully, sometime in my mid forties I seemed to turn an emotional corner and checked that competitive gene at the door, casting it off like a wardrobe pick from Forever 21 that just didn’t fit who I was any longer. I don’t want to one-up other women. I want to celebrate their accomplishments and delight in their successes. But to be honest, I don’t always feel sincerely excited when they brag on their kids.
I hate those bumper stickers that shout out how your kid is an honor student at yada yada elementary school. It always begs the question, “Who gives a you-know-what?” It’s like those holiday letters that shamelessly boast how little Amanda just won the Pulitzer Prize, and Sammy, who is 11, was just accepted to Harvard. While I take any overt bragging with a grain of salt, there’s still something inside me that knots up when I hear parents gush openly about their children’s accomplishments. There’s an element of throwing down the gauntlet involved; as a mother, you’re chomping at the bit to shout “Oh yeah! Well let me tell you about MY kids.” But honestly, you don’t want to go there. Plus, if your kids are anything like mine, amazing in my adoring eyes but on the whole, pretty average, what are you going to say? “Michael got a B- on his book report – which was great because I only helped him with about 90% of it.” Or “Abby finished her science project at 10:30 the night before it was due. So proud.”
My son was a late talker. Looking back he was perfectly normal. But as a first time mom I remember feeling panicked about his development, especially when we’d go to the park and other mom’s would begin the “So, what is your baby doing now” discussions. Truth is, so much of how your children develop and turn out has little to do with you. But even as I said that I know you don’t believe it. Deep down, you think like me that if you just read to them more, cut off the cable, shop organic, recycle, maybe then you would feel proud – not of them but of yourself.
My close friends and I often swap stories from the frontlines of parenting. It’s that self effacing kind of talk that makes everybody relax and feel better. If my girlfriend’s kid is having trouble in school, it evens the playing field and allows me to share what I’m losing sleep over these days. It also provides a platform of trust so that when we go on to share our children’s successes, there’s a “we’re in this together” camaraderie that makes it easy to be happy for one another.
I’m having lunch with my size-two, city council member, MBA-holding, mother-of-five friend this week. I’ll dress up; partly because I know she will. I’ll also anticipate the easy laughter, the “if she can do it I can do it” feeling that comes from being around someone who is living to make a difference. Then I’ll pick up my kids from school, help my son with his math homework and read Junie B. Jones with my daughter, and remind myself that I am making a difference too.
I spent much of young life competing with other women. Competing for boys and later for men. Vying for attention from professors and bosses. Angling for position, especially in those dangerous Bermuda Triangles otherwise known as three-way female friendships. You know the drill: two little girls can be the best of friends but add a third to the mix and somebody’s going to get her feelings hurt. I’m sure that’s why Carrie had Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha in her posse; the odds of the whole group turning on her diminished significantly with a fourth wheel.
Thankfully, sometime in my mid forties I seemed to turn an emotional corner and checked that competitive gene at the door, casting it off like a wardrobe pick from Forever 21 that just didn’t fit who I was any longer. I don’t want to one-up other women. I want to celebrate their accomplishments and delight in their successes. But to be honest, I don’t always feel sincerely excited when they brag on their kids.
I hate those bumper stickers that shout out how your kid is an honor student at yada yada elementary school. It always begs the question, “Who gives a you-know-what?” It’s like those holiday letters that shamelessly boast how little Amanda just won the Pulitzer Prize, and Sammy, who is 11, was just accepted to Harvard. While I take any overt bragging with a grain of salt, there’s still something inside me that knots up when I hear parents gush openly about their children’s accomplishments. There’s an element of throwing down the gauntlet involved; as a mother, you’re chomping at the bit to shout “Oh yeah! Well let me tell you about MY kids.” But honestly, you don’t want to go there. Plus, if your kids are anything like mine, amazing in my adoring eyes but on the whole, pretty average, what are you going to say? “Michael got a B- on his book report – which was great because I only helped him with about 90% of it.” Or “Abby finished her science project at 10:30 the night before it was due. So proud.”
My son was a late talker. Looking back he was perfectly normal. But as a first time mom I remember feeling panicked about his development, especially when we’d go to the park and other mom’s would begin the “So, what is your baby doing now” discussions. Truth is, so much of how your children develop and turn out has little to do with you. But even as I said that I know you don’t believe it. Deep down, you think like me that if you just read to them more, cut off the cable, shop organic, recycle, maybe then you would feel proud – not of them but of yourself.
My close friends and I often swap stories from the frontlines of parenting. It’s that self effacing kind of talk that makes everybody relax and feel better. If my girlfriend’s kid is having trouble in school, it evens the playing field and allows me to share what I’m losing sleep over these days. It also provides a platform of trust so that when we go on to share our children’s successes, there’s a “we’re in this together” camaraderie that makes it easy to be happy for one another.
I’m having lunch with my size-two, city council member, MBA-holding, mother-of-five friend this week. I’ll dress up; partly because I know she will. I’ll also anticipate the easy laughter, the “if she can do it I can do it” feeling that comes from being around someone who is living to make a difference. Then I’ll pick up my kids from school, help my son with his math homework and read Junie B. Jones with my daughter, and remind myself that I am making a difference too.
Friday, February 6, 2009
What Not to Wear
Long before I got pregnant with my first child, I made a decision not to schlump. Having worked for years in the fashion industry I could not imagine trading in my leopard-heeled pumps for Aerosoles (or God help us, Crocs). No, I would be different. Babies or no babies, I vowed to maintain some semblance of sartorial integrity, no matter how exhausted I was. I mean, how hard is it to do a quick blow dry, throw on a cute little shift with some fun little flats and head out the door? Turns out it’s harder than getting a stimulus package through the Senate.
So it was with great shame and embarrassment that I found myself at Starbucks one day wearing food-stained sweats and generic gym shoes, with my hair pulled up in a scrunchie. As I sat there eating my words along with a blueberry scone, I prayed I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. Or at the very least that they wouldn’t recognize me.
I’m someone who routinely passes judgment on strangers I see on the street. I’m not proud of this habit so feel free to judge me for it. But whenever I see women in their “mom” clothes with their “mom” hairdos getting into their “mom” mini vans, I muse with a mixture of condescension and pity that they have obviously abandoned a very basic female instinct. I mean, we come out of the womb wanting to look good. Any five-year old in Hannah Montana lip gloss and glitter can tell you that. So what gives? Do we lose the inclination to appear alluring after childbirth, or does spending hours in the presence of sticky little people who don’t care whether our accessories match eventually make schlumping acceptable?
Almost every morning I run into a mom whose daughter is in the same class as mine. We don’t really know each other; we usually do the “fake smile and look away quickly” thing. This is partly because I am often in a hurry. It’s also because this mom’s daily display of cleavage is so confrontational it leaves me somewhat speechless. While she appears to have just shown up from her shift at Hooters, the woman may very well have a PhD for all I know. What I am sure of is that IQ aside, she surely does not know how to spell schlump. How can I tell? Because each day at exactly 8:12 a.m. she arrives in the first grade line up perfectly flat ironed, eyelined and lip glossed, long legs taking their provocative sweet time to reach from her very short skirt to her stiletto-heeled boots. Hate to admit it but the girl’s got it goin’ on. And to be honest, I wish she’d go away.
There was a song when I was growing up called Harper Valley PTA. It describes a small town scandal that ensues when a certain in your face mom comes to a faculty meeting wearing a mini skirt and go-go boots. I remember thinking as a kid that the song was a real hoot; Moms didn’t wear mini skirts. And they certainly didn’t wear boots. Obviously, this is no longer true. What is true is that I suddenly find myself playing for the wrong team. I seem to identify with the song’s local biddies who are prepared to stone any mom who dares to look like she’s actually still having sex. Plus, let’s face it. No matter what you’re wearing envy is never flattering. So I decided to stop being critical, suck in my muffin top and go over and say hello to the woman I’d spent most of the year giving stink eye to. And guess what? She was so friendly and down to earth, she invited me out for coffee and now we’re BFFs!
Yeah that never actually happened. After I said hi to her I kind of wandered away and we’ve never spoken since. But I have made some positive changes. I attempt a blow dry at least two mornings a week, maybe a little lip gloss on good days. Still working on the cute little shift and flats. Other days I take the kids to school in the same sweats I slept in. But strangely I’m O.K. with that. When I schlump over to Starbucks for a soy latte and blueberry scone, I don’t mind if somebody I know sees me. But to be honest, I still hope that perhaps they won’t recognize me.
So it was with great shame and embarrassment that I found myself at Starbucks one day wearing food-stained sweats and generic gym shoes, with my hair pulled up in a scrunchie. As I sat there eating my words along with a blueberry scone, I prayed I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. Or at the very least that they wouldn’t recognize me.
I’m someone who routinely passes judgment on strangers I see on the street. I’m not proud of this habit so feel free to judge me for it. But whenever I see women in their “mom” clothes with their “mom” hairdos getting into their “mom” mini vans, I muse with a mixture of condescension and pity that they have obviously abandoned a very basic female instinct. I mean, we come out of the womb wanting to look good. Any five-year old in Hannah Montana lip gloss and glitter can tell you that. So what gives? Do we lose the inclination to appear alluring after childbirth, or does spending hours in the presence of sticky little people who don’t care whether our accessories match eventually make schlumping acceptable?
Almost every morning I run into a mom whose daughter is in the same class as mine. We don’t really know each other; we usually do the “fake smile and look away quickly” thing. This is partly because I am often in a hurry. It’s also because this mom’s daily display of cleavage is so confrontational it leaves me somewhat speechless. While she appears to have just shown up from her shift at Hooters, the woman may very well have a PhD for all I know. What I am sure of is that IQ aside, she surely does not know how to spell schlump. How can I tell? Because each day at exactly 8:12 a.m. she arrives in the first grade line up perfectly flat ironed, eyelined and lip glossed, long legs taking their provocative sweet time to reach from her very short skirt to her stiletto-heeled boots. Hate to admit it but the girl’s got it goin’ on. And to be honest, I wish she’d go away.
There was a song when I was growing up called Harper Valley PTA. It describes a small town scandal that ensues when a certain in your face mom comes to a faculty meeting wearing a mini skirt and go-go boots. I remember thinking as a kid that the song was a real hoot; Moms didn’t wear mini skirts. And they certainly didn’t wear boots. Obviously, this is no longer true. What is true is that I suddenly find myself playing for the wrong team. I seem to identify with the song’s local biddies who are prepared to stone any mom who dares to look like she’s actually still having sex. Plus, let’s face it. No matter what you’re wearing envy is never flattering. So I decided to stop being critical, suck in my muffin top and go over and say hello to the woman I’d spent most of the year giving stink eye to. And guess what? She was so friendly and down to earth, she invited me out for coffee and now we’re BFFs!
Yeah that never actually happened. After I said hi to her I kind of wandered away and we’ve never spoken since. But I have made some positive changes. I attempt a blow dry at least two mornings a week, maybe a little lip gloss on good days. Still working on the cute little shift and flats. Other days I take the kids to school in the same sweats I slept in. But strangely I’m O.K. with that. When I schlump over to Starbucks for a soy latte and blueberry scone, I don’t mind if somebody I know sees me. But to be honest, I still hope that perhaps they won’t recognize me.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Wonder Years
Sometimes I wonder why I waited so long to have babies. Oh I know the official reasons: didn’t meet my husband until 30; wanted to travel, pursue my career; ambivalent maternal instincts. But never mind all that. What was I thinking?
I ran into a friend from MOPS the other day. I struggled to recall her name even though she was someone from my second go ‘round with Mothers of Preschoolers. Not that long ago really since my daughter is only six. Still, it seems like a lifetime has passed since I rushed off each Friday morning, baby in tow, to join my pre-selected group at a table of twelve. Week after week I’d scarf down runny-in-the-middle egg dishes, glue beads on ditsy little crafts and make small talk with other new mothers who were, for the most part, about half my age. No wonder I’ve repressed so much of it.
Don’t get me wrong. Like many first time mothers I desperately needed the adult interaction MOPS offered; it was supposed to be a way to connect with women who were experiencing the same season of life – with all of its unique joys and challenges. It promised a chance to make lifelong friendships while bonding over discussions of cloth versus disposable, to binky or not to binky, and what various shades and textures of poop actually mean. Trouble was, I had my first child when I was just shy of 40 and none of the women I met were actually in my season of life. Like me they were comatose from 3 a.m. feedings, obsessed with developmental milestones and blindsided with love for their Baby Gap-attired tykes. But there the similarities ended.
I remember spending several weeks struggling to find some common conversational ground with my table mates. But really, how do you discuss anything of consequence with a woman who has the word Juicy splayed across her BE-hind? I found myself checking my watch while humming Steely Dan’s “Hey Nineteen” when I realized I was almost old enough to be what MOPS calls a mentor mom; someone who has raised her kids and can help teach the young’uns a thing or two. And then I went to a dark place in my head. I did that thing where you begin calculating: “When I’m 50, my son will be starting puberty, and when I’m 60, my daughter will be picking out prom dresses, and when I’m 70...” That's when I thought, not for the first time, they really should have MOPS at night so we could serve cocktails instead of coffee cake.
Eventually MOPS did deliver and I connected with several women my age. Wonderful, smart, amazing women who, like me, began their journey down motherhood lane a few years past their reproductive primes. And as promised, these mid-life moms have become lifelong friends, my girls, my better-than-therapy answer to every curve thrown my way. We celebrate and commiserate as we share the same season of life with its unique joys and challenges – hot flashes and Happy Meals, frown lines and fruit snacks, Barbie and Botox.
We also share an optimism that comes with the wisdom of age. Because now if the kids don’t sleep through the night it’s of little consequence. Neither do we. Kinda makes you wonder.
I ran into a friend from MOPS the other day. I struggled to recall her name even though she was someone from my second go ‘round with Mothers of Preschoolers. Not that long ago really since my daughter is only six. Still, it seems like a lifetime has passed since I rushed off each Friday morning, baby in tow, to join my pre-selected group at a table of twelve. Week after week I’d scarf down runny-in-the-middle egg dishes, glue beads on ditsy little crafts and make small talk with other new mothers who were, for the most part, about half my age. No wonder I’ve repressed so much of it.
Don’t get me wrong. Like many first time mothers I desperately needed the adult interaction MOPS offered; it was supposed to be a way to connect with women who were experiencing the same season of life – with all of its unique joys and challenges. It promised a chance to make lifelong friendships while bonding over discussions of cloth versus disposable, to binky or not to binky, and what various shades and textures of poop actually mean. Trouble was, I had my first child when I was just shy of 40 and none of the women I met were actually in my season of life. Like me they were comatose from 3 a.m. feedings, obsessed with developmental milestones and blindsided with love for their Baby Gap-attired tykes. But there the similarities ended.
I remember spending several weeks struggling to find some common conversational ground with my table mates. But really, how do you discuss anything of consequence with a woman who has the word Juicy splayed across her BE-hind? I found myself checking my watch while humming Steely Dan’s “Hey Nineteen” when I realized I was almost old enough to be what MOPS calls a mentor mom; someone who has raised her kids and can help teach the young’uns a thing or two. And then I went to a dark place in my head. I did that thing where you begin calculating: “When I’m 50, my son will be starting puberty, and when I’m 60, my daughter will be picking out prom dresses, and when I’m 70...” That's when I thought, not for the first time, they really should have MOPS at night so we could serve cocktails instead of coffee cake.
Eventually MOPS did deliver and I connected with several women my age. Wonderful, smart, amazing women who, like me, began their journey down motherhood lane a few years past their reproductive primes. And as promised, these mid-life moms have become lifelong friends, my girls, my better-than-therapy answer to every curve thrown my way. We celebrate and commiserate as we share the same season of life with its unique joys and challenges – hot flashes and Happy Meals, frown lines and fruit snacks, Barbie and Botox.
We also share an optimism that comes with the wisdom of age. Because now if the kids don’t sleep through the night it’s of little consequence. Neither do we. Kinda makes you wonder.
A Different Kind of Mommy
I’m in the express lane at Walmart having just snapped at my kids (loudly and in public) for the third time when I realize I’ve become a different kind of mommy. In my head, I always imagine myself as the upbeat, easy going, “Good Jaaaahb!” kind of mommy. In reality, I’ve morphed into a dour, humorless drudge who is quick to correct, slow to smile and easily annoyed. How had this happened? When had this happened? And how would I ever afford the therapy bills my kids were sure to send me 20 years from now?
I began to notice the change in myself when my son was five and my daughter was barely out of diapers. It was not dramatic or immediately apparent to others. It was more of an internal shift, the puzzle piece slipping slightly out of place. The balance sheet no longer adding up. As I struggled to find my equilibrium in the midst of working, maintaining a marriage and parenting two children, I sensed my confidence in my ability to pull this thing off begin to waver. First, it was just a shadow of insecurity, worrisome like a hangnail, the barely visible little thread you begin to tug at the edge of a sweater. You give it a little pull thinking it will snap right off, but instead, the entire thing starts to unravel. So it was with my emotional grounding. First you get irritable. Then you stay irritable. You yell a little. Then a lot. You begin, as they say, to lose it.
It was easy to explain at first. The shorter temper. The intolerance for toys scattered about. The rush towards bedtime (skipping entire pages of Good Night Moon just to get the lights out sooner). And the ever-present edginess that settled in like an unwelcome houseguest. I’d find myself gritting my teeth while making breakfast, snarling out commands like a mama-kazi drill sergeant determined to whip the recruits into shape. To my added dismay, my kids developed an immunity to my mood swings. Rather than cow them into submission, my ongoing outbursts served only to toughen them up. They became mostly unfazed by my irrational rants, choosing for the most part to ignore me.
For a while I chalked it up to my age. It is true that Pampers and peri-menopause cannot happily co-exist. It is also true that at 48, I have a lot less stamina for getting down on the floor to play Candyland, at least if I expect to be able to get back up.
But it wasn't always this way. There was a time I felt more connected to it all. I recall tearful goodbyes at daycare when my son was very young – he trotted off happily to play with his pre-school pals as I sat in the car weeping in a guilt-induced heap, wracked by a sadness unique to working moms. Today I pull the car to a rolling stop, pushing my tender offspring from the still moving vehicle while shouting over my shoulder “Have a good day!”
There’s a theory that everything you buried in your 20s and 30s claws its way to the surface in your 40s, demanding a day of reckoning. I think that’s probably true, but I’m too busy to spend any meaningful time in self analysis. So I plow ahead, hopeful that since I know I have a problem, things can’t be all that bad. Right?
We’re driving in the car and I’m lost in thought about nothing in particular when my son pipes up: “Mom, why are you mad?” “I’m not mad,” I reply evenly. “You’re making the mad face.” “I am NOT making the mad face. I’m not making any face. I’m just driving.” “You were making a mad face. Like this,” he says, pursing his lips and scowling in his best imitation of me on the war path. I clench my teeth now and snarl: “I did not make that face and I. Am. Not. MAD!” My son looks out the window, murmuring, “Sheesh. You don’t have to be so mean.”
And maybe that’s it. I catch my self doing exactly what I tell my kids not to do: Being a bully. Finding fault. Behaving badly. When what I intend to be is kind, loving, and generous with praise. Do I need therapy? Hormone replacement? A martini?
In the end, I think what I need is forgiveness. Oh not the religious kind – I got that years ago, and thank goodness, too. No I think what it comes down to is I have to let myself off the hook and accept that the mother in my head does not exist. Really, I’m not sure she ever did. Most days, I do the best I can. Some days, I miss the mark by miles. There are times when I celebrate my family, delight in my children’s silly antics and am so thankful I could burst. But on those days when the glass seems half full, my work load is outrageous and I’m bloated, exhausted and overwhelmed, I’ve decided to lighten up. Take a deep breath, count to ten, and give myself a much needed time out. And when, after even the most unwarranted outburst (mine) the kids still want to cuddle and kiss and simply be close to me, I realize that maybe different isn’t the worst consequence of mid-life motherhood. It’s just, well...different.
I began to notice the change in myself when my son was five and my daughter was barely out of diapers. It was not dramatic or immediately apparent to others. It was more of an internal shift, the puzzle piece slipping slightly out of place. The balance sheet no longer adding up. As I struggled to find my equilibrium in the midst of working, maintaining a marriage and parenting two children, I sensed my confidence in my ability to pull this thing off begin to waver. First, it was just a shadow of insecurity, worrisome like a hangnail, the barely visible little thread you begin to tug at the edge of a sweater. You give it a little pull thinking it will snap right off, but instead, the entire thing starts to unravel. So it was with my emotional grounding. First you get irritable. Then you stay irritable. You yell a little. Then a lot. You begin, as they say, to lose it.
It was easy to explain at first. The shorter temper. The intolerance for toys scattered about. The rush towards bedtime (skipping entire pages of Good Night Moon just to get the lights out sooner). And the ever-present edginess that settled in like an unwelcome houseguest. I’d find myself gritting my teeth while making breakfast, snarling out commands like a mama-kazi drill sergeant determined to whip the recruits into shape. To my added dismay, my kids developed an immunity to my mood swings. Rather than cow them into submission, my ongoing outbursts served only to toughen them up. They became mostly unfazed by my irrational rants, choosing for the most part to ignore me.
For a while I chalked it up to my age. It is true that Pampers and peri-menopause cannot happily co-exist. It is also true that at 48, I have a lot less stamina for getting down on the floor to play Candyland, at least if I expect to be able to get back up.
But it wasn't always this way. There was a time I felt more connected to it all. I recall tearful goodbyes at daycare when my son was very young – he trotted off happily to play with his pre-school pals as I sat in the car weeping in a guilt-induced heap, wracked by a sadness unique to working moms. Today I pull the car to a rolling stop, pushing my tender offspring from the still moving vehicle while shouting over my shoulder “Have a good day!”
There’s a theory that everything you buried in your 20s and 30s claws its way to the surface in your 40s, demanding a day of reckoning. I think that’s probably true, but I’m too busy to spend any meaningful time in self analysis. So I plow ahead, hopeful that since I know I have a problem, things can’t be all that bad. Right?
We’re driving in the car and I’m lost in thought about nothing in particular when my son pipes up: “Mom, why are you mad?” “I’m not mad,” I reply evenly. “You’re making the mad face.” “I am NOT making the mad face. I’m not making any face. I’m just driving.” “You were making a mad face. Like this,” he says, pursing his lips and scowling in his best imitation of me on the war path. I clench my teeth now and snarl: “I did not make that face and I. Am. Not. MAD!” My son looks out the window, murmuring, “Sheesh. You don’t have to be so mean.”
And maybe that’s it. I catch my self doing exactly what I tell my kids not to do: Being a bully. Finding fault. Behaving badly. When what I intend to be is kind, loving, and generous with praise. Do I need therapy? Hormone replacement? A martini?
In the end, I think what I need is forgiveness. Oh not the religious kind – I got that years ago, and thank goodness, too. No I think what it comes down to is I have to let myself off the hook and accept that the mother in my head does not exist. Really, I’m not sure she ever did. Most days, I do the best I can. Some days, I miss the mark by miles. There are times when I celebrate my family, delight in my children’s silly antics and am so thankful I could burst. But on those days when the glass seems half full, my work load is outrageous and I’m bloated, exhausted and overwhelmed, I’ve decided to lighten up. Take a deep breath, count to ten, and give myself a much needed time out. And when, after even the most unwarranted outburst (mine) the kids still want to cuddle and kiss and simply be close to me, I realize that maybe different isn’t the worst consequence of mid-life motherhood. It’s just, well...different.
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