I am not a holiday person. Right out of college, I landed a job as an editorial assistant for a publishing company that put out three monthly magazines: Car Audio & Electronics, Audio/Video Interiors, and Volleyball Magazine. Random, I know. Now that I am a grown-up and have had around eight different jobs, I can tell you that my publishing job was the best damn job I ever had. I got paid to edit letters to the editor (written by teenage boys whose goal in life was to trick out their cars with super-loud boomboxes), set up grand scale audio/video equipment for photo shoots, decorate my cubicle with promotional photos sent by rap artists who hoped to get featured in the magazine, and stay up all night the day before the magazines were set to go to print.
My coworkers were young, hip, artistic liberals who smuggled bottles of tequila, lime and salt into their offices to help get us through those all-nighters. It was the first time I had ever met a woman close to my age who wore her long blonde hair in cornrows, dressed in clothes she airbrushed herself, and kept her maiden name even after she got married. (This was in 1990, when it wasn't as common as it is now. I officially feel old, having just written that comment). What really made an imression on me, though, was that every year, she and her husband-with-a-different-last-name-than-hers skipped the traditional Christmas celebration and instead went camping and surfing in Baja California. Having never been a holiday person, I swore that when I grew up and got married I would have nontraditional Christmases.
Alas, I left the world of publishing in Southern California and after a series of fateful incidents entered the world of appellate law in Maryland. Even though I kept my maiden name after getting married, and my children have hyphenated last names, I have yet to fulfill my ambition of having nontraditional holidays. In fact, my family's celebrations are even more "traditional" than I ever experienced in my childhood. We buy and wrap what seems like a gazillion presents, drive around to see light shows, trek annually to a Christmas tree farm, go to church on Christmas Eve decked out in festive green and red outfits, have a big dinner with special plates and silverware, read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas in front of a roaring fire, wake up early to find Santa's gift's in our stockings, and eat a special Christmas morning breakfast. It's all very Norman Rockwell-like. Apple-pie-ish. Happy Days-esque. Just shoot me.
I get depressed during the holidays. Cold weather and the lack of sunlight bum me out; I question the sanity of the Pilgrims who decided to settle in the Northeast even as they witnessed their friends and families meet their demise as a result of hypothermia or pneumonia. The shopping frenzy at malls overcrowded with bad drivers turns me into a maniac. I miss being with my family in California. I resent the kitchy sweaters with the poinsettias and reindeer with tiny jingle bells around their necks. The repetitive tunes of Deck the Halls and Feed the World drive me to near murderous fury. And the strain of having to hide all of my negativity for the sake of my innocent children who just want to revel in the magic of the season is enough to push me off the ledge. I just can't wait to get it all over with.
One day at work during the week of this past Christmas, my head felt as if it were being crushed between two steel walls that were closing in on me. I concluded that perhaps my headache were a brain tumor (I am a bit of a hypochondrac). That led to thoughts about what would become of my kids if I were to die at this age. Who would bathe them at night, rock Jagger to sleep, read to Skyler in bed, buy their favorite snacks, kiss and cuddle them multiple times per day, spoil and indulge them? I was devastated by the notion of my children growing up motherless.
After a few minutes, my headache went away, and I was filled with an immense sense of gratitude. Thank God I'm not dying from a brain tumor, I thought. Relief washed over me like a shower of ionic molecules neutralizing the negative ions that during the holiday season had become the essence of me. My brain tumor had disappeared, and my children would get to eat chicken nuggets warmed up by their mother that night! (Yep, in the span of about five minutes, I had experienced the symptoms, diagnosed myself, rendered a terminal prognosis, miraculously recovered, and celebrated my second chance at life). How fortunate I am to be healthy and able to take care of my children. The sense of gratitude started to overwhelm me and I started to think that all the things that I had been complaining about were either ludicrous, irrelevant, downright stupid, or just utterly selfish. The rug could be pulled out from under me any second, and then I would have something to really complain about.
I ran into a coworker in the hall who commented on the change in my mood.
"I'm not dying of a brain tumor!" I happily announced to him.
"Did you think you might be? But why were you in your office writing a brief?" His face exhibited befuddlement.
"Well, I had this headache and I thought it could be that, but then it dawned on me that I'm not dying right now from a brain tumor, and my kids won't have to experience the trauma of having a parent die when they are still little. I'm really happy," I explained.
My coworker, who himself had just experienced some devastating losses in his life recently, understood perfectly.
Perhaps it is a function of maturity, or perhaps a function of having experienced real, devastating loss, or just a function of getting a headache that shocked the selfishness out of my system by instilling the fear of my children suffering, or all of the above; I'm not certain what caused the shift in my thought-process. All I know is that it is crystal-clear to me how good I have it and how much I have to lose. It has dawned on me that I complain entirely too much about the little things, and don't spend enough time counting my blessings.
One of my resolutions for 2012 is to keep a gratitude journal. I read in an article about happiness which said that people who focus on the things they have to be grateful for are happier in life, and live longer. I told Skyler about the gratitude journal, and she gave me a pretty little bound book of blank pages.. She asked what "gratitude" means, and I explained simply, that it is thankfulness, and that I want to recognize and acknowledge all of the things in life for which I am thankful.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Saturday, October 22, 2011
The Ferrari and the Chandelier
I posted a comment on Facebook the other day about meeting a new neighbor and finding out that we grew up in the same city 3,000 miles away from Finksburg. The posting elicted many comments from friends, to which I responded with something pithy about ours being a small world. One friend responded that nonetheless, he would not want to paint it. I pointed out that he is lucky he is not married to a woman who spends months poring over paint chips, has her husband paint two rooms, and then decides she hates the colors. My friend told me this story: For his wife, he painted a 20 x 20 room with brick walls. There were lots of nooks and crannies to the brick, so when he painted, he exerted effort to press down with the brush. Hard work. He painted for 9 hours straight. When his wife came home, she took one look at the room and immediately said, "I hate it." The next day, my friend spent another 9 hours painting in a different color.
I confess to being a woman who unfailingly changes her mind about the paint color after a room has already been painted. For this, and many additional reasons, my husband thinks I am High Maintenance. When I express regret about my required level of maintenance, he invariably responds in a resigned tone, "Well, if I want to drive a Ferrari, I have to be willing to deal with the maintenance."
We have a solarium in our house that measures about 19 X 15 and has a 15-foot high ceiling. I am decorating this room in the style of Spanish Modernist Revival (Google it; this blog post is already too long). This style calls for a wrought-iron chandelier. So, being an internet-research junkie, I studied articles about chandeliers and, specifically, the size required for a room of those dimensions. For the first time in my life, What I Learned In Math Class actually came in handy. I had to perform various calculations in order to determine the proper size of chandelier.
In case you're curious, the formula goes something like this:
Take the width and length of the room, add, and convert to inches. To look proportional to the room, your chandelier of choice must be at least this many inches in diameter. As for the height at which the chandelier should hang, in a standard room with an 8-foot high ceiling, the chandelier should hang around 6 1/2 to 7-feet off the ground. For every additional foot of ceiling height, add three inches to the distance from the floor.
Having determined that we need a chandelier that is at least 38 inches wide, I set out to find a Spanish Modernist Revival style chandelier. I found the perfect bronze wrought iron chandelier that was 44 inches in diameter and 46 inches in height. It was located In Virginia, a mere two hours drive away. One rainy Saturday, Randy and I packed the kids up in the truck, charged their DVD player, and lugged a week's worth of snacks to keep them satisfied during the trek to fetch my perfect chandelier. (The road trip with the kids merits its own blog post).
The box fit in the back of our Pilot, but only if it were tilted up so that it totally blocked Randy's rear view and nearly touched the back of our children's heads in the second row seats. I forgot to mention that it weighed 65 pounds.
Six hours later, we were back home. When Randy opened the box, he discovered it contained approximately one million parts, including hand-made, hand-painted ceramic pieces delicate as eggshells, and that the instructions for assembly contained no words, just numbers and arrows. In very small print barely discernible to the human eye. Under extreme pressure, compounded by the dog's humping his leg and Jagger's periodically throwing Matchbox cars at his head, Randy managed to assemble my chandelier. Sadly, that was the easy part.
Next came the hanging. Being a subscriber to the home-improvement magazine Family Handyman, Randy was fairly confident he could install it himself, and of course I encouraged him to do so. And that is how Randy found himself renting 15-foot high scaffolding. The scaffolding sounded easy enough, except that he had to actually assemble the platform that would elevate him 15 feet in the air. Guess who he had for help in assembling: a Ferrari. More precisely, a Ferrari who has a fear of heights. Have you ever tried to assemble steel scaffolding with only a fearful Ferrari for assistance?
The highpoints of the experience were: (1) Randy got stuck about 7 feet up off the ground holding a heavy piece of scaffolding up as he teetered precariously on a narrow plank. Sure he could have let go so that he could climb down, but the heavy metal equipment would surely have toppled over and killed me or the kids, or fallen through the windows. (As an aside, I suppose that if the scaffolding had caused my untimely demise, Randy could have stopped the chandelier project. But let's not go there.). We had to make an emergency call to our friend who helped put up the second level of scaffolding so that Randy could come down. (2) One of the aforementioned delicate eggshell pieces broke when the chandelier toppled over (but thankfully didn't fall off) while resting atop the scaffolding. Randy superglued it back together.
The following day, Randy and two buddies hung the chandelier while I took Skyler and Jagger to Skyler's chorus practice. There were two of them wiring the chandelier for an hour, while the third stayed on the floor ready to dial 911 in the event of a scaffolding emergency. When I got home, the trio was already enjoying a celebratory beer in the garage, and they proudly told me the chandelier was hanging. I rushed over to the solarium, eager to behold my cherished lighting fixture. It truly was a beauty to behold! Unfortunately, it was also a beauty that I could hold: It was hung too low.
Whenever I tell someone my most recent home decorating fiasco, they ask why we didn't hire someone to hang the fixture for us. It would be very expensive, for one thing, and we have a lot of other rooms left to decorate. But I have to admit, too, that I enjoy the process, and the stories that I can share as a result of the decorating nightmares. As owners of Ferraris like to say, "It's about the ride. The destination is just an excuse."
 |
| Randy standing on the first level of scaffolding, trrying to assemble the second level. If he lets go of the part he is holding, it will fall and crash through the windows. |
I posted a comment on Facebook the other day about meeting a new neighbor and finding out that we grew up in the same city 3,000 miles away from Finksburg. The posting elicted many comments from friends, to which I responded with something pithy about ours being a small world. One friend responded that nonetheless, he would not want to paint it. I pointed out that he is lucky he is not married to a woman who spends months poring over paint chips, has her husband paint two rooms, and then decides she hates the colors. My friend told me this story: For his wife, he painted a 20 x 20 room with brick walls. There were lots of nooks and crannies to the brick, so when he painted, he exerted effort to press down with the brush. Hard work. He painted for 9 hours straight. When his wife came home, she took one look at the room and immediately said, "I hate it." The next day, my friend spent another 9 hours painting in a different color.
I confess to being a woman who unfailingly changes her mind about the paint color after a room has already been painted. For this, and many additional reasons, my husband thinks I am High Maintenance. When I express regret about my required level of maintenance, he invariably responds in a resigned tone, "Well, if I want to drive a Ferrari, I have to be willing to deal with the maintenance."
We have a solarium in our house that measures about 19 X 15 and has a 15-foot high ceiling. I am decorating this room in the style of Spanish Modernist Revival (Google it; this blog post is already too long). This style calls for a wrought-iron chandelier. So, being an internet-research junkie, I studied articles about chandeliers and, specifically, the size required for a room of those dimensions. For the first time in my life, What I Learned In Math Class actually came in handy. I had to perform various calculations in order to determine the proper size of chandelier.
In case you're curious, the formula goes something like this:
Take the width and length of the room, add, and convert to inches. To look proportional to the room, your chandelier of choice must be at least this many inches in diameter. As for the height at which the chandelier should hang, in a standard room with an 8-foot high ceiling, the chandelier should hang around 6 1/2 to 7-feet off the ground. For every additional foot of ceiling height, add three inches to the distance from the floor.
Having determined that we need a chandelier that is at least 38 inches wide, I set out to find a Spanish Modernist Revival style chandelier. I found the perfect bronze wrought iron chandelier that was 44 inches in diameter and 46 inches in height. It was located In Virginia, a mere two hours drive away. One rainy Saturday, Randy and I packed the kids up in the truck, charged their DVD player, and lugged a week's worth of snacks to keep them satisfied during the trek to fetch my perfect chandelier. (The road trip with the kids merits its own blog post).
The box fit in the back of our Pilot, but only if it were tilted up so that it totally blocked Randy's rear view and nearly touched the back of our children's heads in the second row seats. I forgot to mention that it weighed 65 pounds.
Six hours later, we were back home. When Randy opened the box, he discovered it contained approximately one million parts, including hand-made, hand-painted ceramic pieces delicate as eggshells, and that the instructions for assembly contained no words, just numbers and arrows. In very small print barely discernible to the human eye. Under extreme pressure, compounded by the dog's humping his leg and Jagger's periodically throwing Matchbox cars at his head, Randy managed to assemble my chandelier. Sadly, that was the easy part.
Next came the hanging. Being a subscriber to the home-improvement magazine Family Handyman, Randy was fairly confident he could install it himself, and of course I encouraged him to do so. And that is how Randy found himself renting 15-foot high scaffolding. The scaffolding sounded easy enough, except that he had to actually assemble the platform that would elevate him 15 feet in the air. Guess who he had for help in assembling: a Ferrari. More precisely, a Ferrari who has a fear of heights. Have you ever tried to assemble steel scaffolding with only a fearful Ferrari for assistance?
The highpoints of the experience were: (1) Randy got stuck about 7 feet up off the ground holding a heavy piece of scaffolding up as he teetered precariously on a narrow plank. Sure he could have let go so that he could climb down, but the heavy metal equipment would surely have toppled over and killed me or the kids, or fallen through the windows. (As an aside, I suppose that if the scaffolding had caused my untimely demise, Randy could have stopped the chandelier project. But let's not go there.). We had to make an emergency call to our friend who helped put up the second level of scaffolding so that Randy could come down. (2) One of the aforementioned delicate eggshell pieces broke when the chandelier toppled over (but thankfully didn't fall off) while resting atop the scaffolding. Randy superglued it back together.
The following day, Randy and two buddies hung the chandelier while I took Skyler and Jagger to Skyler's chorus practice. There were two of them wiring the chandelier for an hour, while the third stayed on the floor ready to dial 911 in the event of a scaffolding emergency. When I got home, the trio was already enjoying a celebratory beer in the garage, and they proudly told me the chandelier was hanging. I rushed over to the solarium, eager to behold my cherished lighting fixture. It truly was a beauty to behold! Unfortunately, it was also a beauty that I could hold: It was hung too low.
Randy confessed something to me when he was up on the scaffolding on the first day: he doesn't care for heights. Then, when I told him the chandelier was too low, he told me that when he and his buddy were up on the scaffolding carrying the 65-pound chandelier, arms outstretched above their heads for an hour as they hooked up the wiring, the scaffolding shook violently under the weight of two grown men and one heavy lighting fixture, and he was scared to death. I understand that his recounting of the harrowing experience was meant to discourage any requests to re-do the hanging of the chandelier. But when I stand beneath the chandelier, it touches my face. Surely, even a Honda would ask that it be re-hung.
After I read the Facebook story about my friend's repainting the brick walls, I told Randy that it turns out I am actually not high maintenance at all! Although I confess to be the type of woman who always hates the colors she picked for the walls as soon as the painting is completed, I have never actually made Randy repaint. I happily announced to Randy that I am not a Ferrari, and not even a Honda. I am more like a bike. The look on his face told me that he begs to differ.
Friday, June 24, 2011
My How You've Grown
My, how time flies. It seems like it as only yesterday that I was following Skyler's bus to McDonogh for the first day of summer camp. The memory had not even receded in my mind, when, on the first day of summer camp last week, Skyler asked, without the slightest hint of amusement in her voice, "Mommy, you're not planning to follow the bus again, are you?"
I tried to sound indignant at the mere suggestion that I would do such a crazy thing. It was acceptable when she was only five years old and it was her very first time to go to summer camp, but for God's sake she is six now. "Pfhhh," I snorted as I tossed my hair, "Of course not."
Truth is, the thought did cross my mind. But the thought was fleeting and lasted only several days. After all, I have grown up as a parent.
Yeah, yeah, I know, I should be gushing about the ways in which my kids have grown up, etc., but this is MY blog, and I want to gush about the ways in which I have become a more mature mommy. Although I considered following the bus, I didn't. In fact, I made a point of driving away from the drop-off spot and onto the main road ahead of the bus, just in case Skyler looked back. I was not going to give her the satisfaction of thinking even for even a nanosecond that I was behind her bus. I nearly got myself killed making a left hand turn in front of oncoming traffic so that I could be securely in front of that bus.
Part of my fear about putting my kid on the bus for a full day of summer camp has its genesis in the guilt I feel about not being the kind of mom that keeps her kids at home, safely ensconced within the walls of our abode, busy with creative and edifying activities, spending days dotted with trips to the zoo and library and pool, fed with homemade nutritious lunches and snacks. My friend says that the guilt/angst of being a working mom really began with the industrial revolution, when people began to work away from home in factories rather than out on the field on their farms. (Yes, I know stay-at-home (SAHM) moms have their own set of worries/fears. But, again, this is MY blog. I suppose it goes without saying that I love my kids more than life itself. But I have to work for economic as well as psychological reasons. The economic reasons are obvious. But the psychological ones are a bit more complicated.
I was prepared to do some internet research on the "complicated psychological motivations" for electing to work outside the home when I got distracted by a child-related disaster needing my immediate attention. I don't remember exactly what the urgent event was, but take your pick among the following representative options: (1)Jagger dumped out Skyler's neatly organized box of colored pencils for sketching fashion designs; (2) Skyler couldn't find her favorite plastic cup; (3) Jagger and Skyler climbed into the hamper which serves as their "boat" and couldn't get out. You get the picture.
In the midst of attending to the latest domestic catastrophe, it dawned on me that I didn't need to conduct any research. The "complicated psychological motivation" for working outside the home can be summarized pretty succinctly: If I stay home to take care of the kids all day, I will lose my sanity. I'm willing to bet all the shoes in my closet that summer camp is more fun than staying home with a mother who has lost her marbles.
I tried to sound indignant at the mere suggestion that I would do such a crazy thing. It was acceptable when she was only five years old and it was her very first time to go to summer camp, but for God's sake she is six now. "Pfhhh," I snorted as I tossed my hair, "Of course not."
Truth is, the thought did cross my mind. But the thought was fleeting and lasted only several days. After all, I have grown up as a parent.
Yeah, yeah, I know, I should be gushing about the ways in which my kids have grown up, etc., but this is MY blog, and I want to gush about the ways in which I have become a more mature mommy. Although I considered following the bus, I didn't. In fact, I made a point of driving away from the drop-off spot and onto the main road ahead of the bus, just in case Skyler looked back. I was not going to give her the satisfaction of thinking even for even a nanosecond that I was behind her bus. I nearly got myself killed making a left hand turn in front of oncoming traffic so that I could be securely in front of that bus.
Part of my fear about putting my kid on the bus for a full day of summer camp has its genesis in the guilt I feel about not being the kind of mom that keeps her kids at home, safely ensconced within the walls of our abode, busy with creative and edifying activities, spending days dotted with trips to the zoo and library and pool, fed with homemade nutritious lunches and snacks. My friend says that the guilt/angst of being a working mom really began with the industrial revolution, when people began to work away from home in factories rather than out on the field on their farms. (Yes, I know stay-at-home (SAHM) moms have their own set of worries/fears. But, again, this is MY blog. I suppose it goes without saying that I love my kids more than life itself. But I have to work for economic as well as psychological reasons. The economic reasons are obvious. But the psychological ones are a bit more complicated.
I was prepared to do some internet research on the "complicated psychological motivations" for electing to work outside the home when I got distracted by a child-related disaster needing my immediate attention. I don't remember exactly what the urgent event was, but take your pick among the following representative options: (1)Jagger dumped out Skyler's neatly organized box of colored pencils for sketching fashion designs; (2) Skyler couldn't find her favorite plastic cup; (3) Jagger and Skyler climbed into the hamper which serves as their "boat" and couldn't get out. You get the picture.
In the midst of attending to the latest domestic catastrophe, it dawned on me that I didn't need to conduct any research. The "complicated psychological motivation" for working outside the home can be summarized pretty succinctly: If I stay home to take care of the kids all day, I will lose my sanity. I'm willing to bet all the shoes in my closet that summer camp is more fun than staying home with a mother who has lost her marbles.
Friday, December 31, 2010
New Year's Eve
It's new year's eve, and never mind that I am frantically writing a post to my blog an hour before the clock strikes twelve. I don't think I would rather be at a party wearing a glamorous dress and fabulous shoes, sipping champagne, and counting down the seconds to a new year. I'm just not in the mood.
Instead, I feel as if I am being chased by ghosts of 2010, and think that if I could just put those ghosts to rest before the witching hour, I can have a fresh start in 2011. There are cases I postponed that I cannot possibly complete in 40 minutes, topics I wanted to blog about but procrastinated until I forgot about them, projects that I started but didn't finish, friends that I meant to catch up with but never did, activities I meant to do with my children but put off for another day, relationships that I damaged and couldn't repair. There is so much pressure -- self-applied, I admit -- to bring in the new year with a clean slate, levity and glee.
So I take a deep breath. And exhale.
I resolve not to dwell on the past or project too far out into the future. To steal a quote, "We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand – and melting like a snowflake."
Instead, I feel as if I am being chased by ghosts of 2010, and think that if I could just put those ghosts to rest before the witching hour, I can have a fresh start in 2011. There are cases I postponed that I cannot possibly complete in 40 minutes, topics I wanted to blog about but procrastinated until I forgot about them, projects that I started but didn't finish, friends that I meant to catch up with but never did, activities I meant to do with my children but put off for another day, relationships that I damaged and couldn't repair. There is so much pressure -- self-applied, I admit -- to bring in the new year with a clean slate, levity and glee.
So I take a deep breath. And exhale.
I resolve not to dwell on the past or project too far out into the future. To steal a quote, "We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand – and melting like a snowflake."
Monday, November 15, 2010
Sweeping the Floors of Hell
When I was a first year law student, I went to a party thrown by a second year student at a rented house, and there were a lot of people I didn't know. I was standing next to this very debonair guy, when a group of people walked in, including a woman who shall remain nameless. She was dressed in wrinkled khakis and an ill-fitting thermal type top, and her blonde mane was frizzy and unstyled. Her face was pale, and she had conspicuous bags under her eyes. If a picture of that scene were to be placed in a kid's activity book for child to figure out "what's wrong with this picture," the answer would be "her face" because the expression on her face did not match the party atmosphere around her. I coolly leaned over slightly to my side and said to the guy standing next to me in my typical blase bitch manner, "My God, she looks like she's been sweeping the floors of hell."
I'm fairly certain the aforementioned debonair guy spewed out beer, and absolutely certain he doubled over with laughter. As nothing facilitates bonding faster than cruel and juvenile humor, the guy -- Derek -- and I became friends from that moment onward. Derek insisted on borrowing one of my lipsticks so that he could quote me on the bathroom mirror in that house.
Although that incident took place 15 years ago, I have never stopped feeling bad about being snarky to a total stranger. She didn't hear me, thank God, and I don't think she even knows I exist, but because my playground brand of name calling made me feel so bad, I have never forgotten her. This is my mea culpa to her.
She should get the last laugh, because although I was a bitch that night, karma is even bitchier, and my recent experience is proof of that. One of Skyler's classmates had a costume party at her house the other day. Although we had all planned to attend, for various reasons Randy and I decided to just drop Skyler off. Randy had been mowing the yard all day, and he was wearing his lawn-mowing "uniform" of camoflauge pants, red fleece pullover, and Crocs. Needless to day, he did not feel "presentable," in his state, so I escorted Skyler into the house for the party while Randy, my mother, and Jagger waited in the car so we could get lunch afterwards. Having handed Skyler over to the hostess, I turned around to leave. As I did so, I saw a woman who was wearing baggy jeans, a loud purple tshirt and a long sweater that could have been mistaken for a bathrobe. Her hair was haphazardly pulled back, she was wearing no make up, and she had extremely dark circles under her eyes. In short, she looked like she had been sweeping the floors of hell. Why in the world, I wondered, would someone attend a party looking like that? No sooner did that thought surface than I realized that I was looking at my reflection in the window. To my horror and dismay, I had become a sweeper of hell's floors.
This rude awakening coincided with the feeling I have been having lately of inadequacy, for lack of a better word. It seems like the women around me can breezily hold down a full time job, tend to their young children, prepare gourmet meals using organic ingredients and home grown herbs, work out at the gym daily, drive their kids to their sports and lessons of every variety, keep their houses as if they were personally trained by Martha Stewart, and still look like...well, MILFs. I just don't know how they do it.
I read this quote recently: "There comes a time when a woman needs to stop thinking about her looks and focus her energies on raising her children. This time comes at the moment of conception. A child needs a role model, not a supermodel." --Astrid Alauda, on the "hot mom" trend.
First of all, who in the world is Astrid Alauda? I've never heard of her. And I don't care for her philosophy. Since when did trying to be a good mom and trying not to look as if one has been sweeping hell's floors become mutually exclusive? Is striving to be a "hot mom" just a "trend" (I remember my mom going to aerobics classes, shopping for designer jeans and purses, and getting her hair professionally styled regularly when I was 14 years old, and she still does!!)? Is it really a good idea for anyone -- people with or without kids -- to stop caring about their appearance? I think not. Watch this momma put away her broomstick.
I'm fairly certain the aforementioned debonair guy spewed out beer, and absolutely certain he doubled over with laughter. As nothing facilitates bonding faster than cruel and juvenile humor, the guy -- Derek -- and I became friends from that moment onward. Derek insisted on borrowing one of my lipsticks so that he could quote me on the bathroom mirror in that house.
Although that incident took place 15 years ago, I have never stopped feeling bad about being snarky to a total stranger. She didn't hear me, thank God, and I don't think she even knows I exist, but because my playground brand of name calling made me feel so bad, I have never forgotten her. This is my mea culpa to her.
She should get the last laugh, because although I was a bitch that night, karma is even bitchier, and my recent experience is proof of that. One of Skyler's classmates had a costume party at her house the other day. Although we had all planned to attend, for various reasons Randy and I decided to just drop Skyler off. Randy had been mowing the yard all day, and he was wearing his lawn-mowing "uniform" of camoflauge pants, red fleece pullover, and Crocs. Needless to day, he did not feel "presentable," in his state, so I escorted Skyler into the house for the party while Randy, my mother, and Jagger waited in the car so we could get lunch afterwards. Having handed Skyler over to the hostess, I turned around to leave. As I did so, I saw a woman who was wearing baggy jeans, a loud purple tshirt and a long sweater that could have been mistaken for a bathrobe. Her hair was haphazardly pulled back, she was wearing no make up, and she had extremely dark circles under her eyes. In short, she looked like she had been sweeping the floors of hell. Why in the world, I wondered, would someone attend a party looking like that? No sooner did that thought surface than I realized that I was looking at my reflection in the window. To my horror and dismay, I had become a sweeper of hell's floors.
This rude awakening coincided with the feeling I have been having lately of inadequacy, for lack of a better word. It seems like the women around me can breezily hold down a full time job, tend to their young children, prepare gourmet meals using organic ingredients and home grown herbs, work out at the gym daily, drive their kids to their sports and lessons of every variety, keep their houses as if they were personally trained by Martha Stewart, and still look like...well, MILFs. I just don't know how they do it.
I read this quote recently: "There comes a time when a woman needs to stop thinking about her looks and focus her energies on raising her children. This time comes at the moment of conception. A child needs a role model, not a supermodel." --Astrid Alauda, on the "hot mom" trend.
First of all, who in the world is Astrid Alauda? I've never heard of her. And I don't care for her philosophy. Since when did trying to be a good mom and trying not to look as if one has been sweeping hell's floors become mutually exclusive? Is striving to be a "hot mom" just a "trend" (I remember my mom going to aerobics classes, shopping for designer jeans and purses, and getting her hair professionally styled regularly when I was 14 years old, and she still does!!)? Is it really a good idea for anyone -- people with or without kids -- to stop caring about their appearance? I think not. Watch this momma put away her broomstick.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Parenting Just Got A Little Bit More Complicated
We have lived in Finksburg for almost three years now, and I have yet to meet a couple of our neighbors. I think it has something to do with the distance separating all the houses, which are on around two acres each -- we don't just happen to see each other on the way out of the house.
For the same reason, the kids don't just happen to see each other playing in the front yard, so Skyler doesn't have regular playmates in the neighborhood. But recently, some of the neighborhood kids have been coming over and ringing the doorbell to ask if Skyler can play outside. Randy and I were pleasantly surprised by their overture, and we were more than happy to let Skyler play with them. Our enthusiasm was, of course, curbed by my public-defender-job-and-CNN/HLN-addiction-triggered paranoia about all things bad that can happen to little kids. Nonetheless, we let Skyler play with her new friends on her playset in our yard or in her basement playroom, and we didn't think about the fact that the kids were much older than Skyler. There is a boy who is in the 7th grade, and two girls who are in the 4th grade.
The other day, Skyler came running up from the basement to announce that one of the girls was having a bonfire at her house and wanted Skyler to come. It was going to start at 9 pm. Although Skyler was still on summer vacation, I told her she couldn't go because (1) it would be past her bedtime, (2) she is five years old. What I did not tell her is that (1) I don't know the people who would be at said bonfire, and (2) five year olds have no business going to bonfires unless they are camping with their parents. Skyler went downstairs and loudly announced, "Bad news, guys. My mommy won't let me go to the bonfire." After a noticeable moment of quiet, Skyler came running back upstairs and announced, "Mommy, I'm going to the bonfire, and you'll just have to punish me for it later."
I remember reading an article about the Academy-Award winning actress Gwyneth Paltrow (yes, I say that with some sarcasm) who grew up in Manhattan with her director dad and movie star mom. Gwyneth said that when she was in high school, she would sneak out of her house by climbing out her bedroom window and go party all night. She used to leave notes for her parents that went something like this: "Dear Mom and Dad, I'm going to a party and then clubbing afterwards and won't be back until tomorrow morning sometime. I'm prepared to take whatever punishment you deem appropriate."
I don't think Skyler came up with her remark on her own. But it doesn't matter, because she still said it, and I'm sure she will learn things from other kids in the future. Randy and I have never really talked about how to handle in-your-face defiance from our children. Frankly, we didn't think we would have to think about it quite so early in our parenthood. Also, we were lulled into a false sense of security because Skyler has always been a pretty compliant child who liked pleasing her parents. We don't spank our kids. So, when Skyler said that to me, I just gave her my sternest expression and said in an authoritative voice, "Excuse me? Where did you learn to say that? The answer is no."
That time, it was enough to persuade her that hers was a very bad idea indeed. Afterwards, I explained to her as patiently as I could that she would not be allowed to do certain things until she gets older, and that I'm just trying to keep her safe and healthy. I also explained in terms that a five year old would understand that there is no way on God's earth that I would allow a child of mine to behave like Gwyneth Paltrow.
I have to say, I don't know if I'm cut out for parenting an older child.
Randy and I are starting to talk about how to handle situations like that with Skyler, who is growing up really quickly. For starters, we aren't going to let her play with much older kids (my sister, a 3rd grade teacher, pointed out that there is a reason why older and younger kids are segregated on the playground -- they are on different developmental planes.). We are going to make a point of planning playdates with the other kids in the neighborhood who are around 5 or 6 years old, rather than the 10 and 12 year olds she was playing with that day. I'm also explaining certain decisions to her, such as why she can't walk around the neighborhood in the evening with the 6th graders who invite her out. Fortunately, she hasn't rebelled.
The other evening we were driving home after dark and we saw those same kids riding their bikes near our house. I reminded Skyler that she would not be allowed to go outside if they came and asked for her. She explained that they would not be coming around. I asked how she knew, and she said that she told them not to come during school nights because she is not allowed to play with older kids on school nights. It's not totally correct, but it's close enough and, therefore, good enough, for me.
For the same reason, the kids don't just happen to see each other playing in the front yard, so Skyler doesn't have regular playmates in the neighborhood. But recently, some of the neighborhood kids have been coming over and ringing the doorbell to ask if Skyler can play outside. Randy and I were pleasantly surprised by their overture, and we were more than happy to let Skyler play with them. Our enthusiasm was, of course, curbed by my public-defender-job-and-CNN/HLN-addiction-triggered paranoia about all things bad that can happen to little kids. Nonetheless, we let Skyler play with her new friends on her playset in our yard or in her basement playroom, and we didn't think about the fact that the kids were much older than Skyler. There is a boy who is in the 7th grade, and two girls who are in the 4th grade.
The other day, Skyler came running up from the basement to announce that one of the girls was having a bonfire at her house and wanted Skyler to come. It was going to start at 9 pm. Although Skyler was still on summer vacation, I told her she couldn't go because (1) it would be past her bedtime, (2) she is five years old. What I did not tell her is that (1) I don't know the people who would be at said bonfire, and (2) five year olds have no business going to bonfires unless they are camping with their parents. Skyler went downstairs and loudly announced, "Bad news, guys. My mommy won't let me go to the bonfire." After a noticeable moment of quiet, Skyler came running back upstairs and announced, "Mommy, I'm going to the bonfire, and you'll just have to punish me for it later."
I remember reading an article about the Academy-Award winning actress Gwyneth Paltrow (yes, I say that with some sarcasm) who grew up in Manhattan with her director dad and movie star mom. Gwyneth said that when she was in high school, she would sneak out of her house by climbing out her bedroom window and go party all night. She used to leave notes for her parents that went something like this: "Dear Mom and Dad, I'm going to a party and then clubbing afterwards and won't be back until tomorrow morning sometime. I'm prepared to take whatever punishment you deem appropriate."
I don't think Skyler came up with her remark on her own. But it doesn't matter, because she still said it, and I'm sure she will learn things from other kids in the future. Randy and I have never really talked about how to handle in-your-face defiance from our children. Frankly, we didn't think we would have to think about it quite so early in our parenthood. Also, we were lulled into a false sense of security because Skyler has always been a pretty compliant child who liked pleasing her parents. We don't spank our kids. So, when Skyler said that to me, I just gave her my sternest expression and said in an authoritative voice, "Excuse me? Where did you learn to say that? The answer is no."
That time, it was enough to persuade her that hers was a very bad idea indeed. Afterwards, I explained to her as patiently as I could that she would not be allowed to do certain things until she gets older, and that I'm just trying to keep her safe and healthy. I also explained in terms that a five year old would understand that there is no way on God's earth that I would allow a child of mine to behave like Gwyneth Paltrow.
I have to say, I don't know if I'm cut out for parenting an older child.
Randy and I are starting to talk about how to handle situations like that with Skyler, who is growing up really quickly. For starters, we aren't going to let her play with much older kids (my sister, a 3rd grade teacher, pointed out that there is a reason why older and younger kids are segregated on the playground -- they are on different developmental planes.). We are going to make a point of planning playdates with the other kids in the neighborhood who are around 5 or 6 years old, rather than the 10 and 12 year olds she was playing with that day. I'm also explaining certain decisions to her, such as why she can't walk around the neighborhood in the evening with the 6th graders who invite her out. Fortunately, she hasn't rebelled.
The other evening we were driving home after dark and we saw those same kids riding their bikes near our house. I reminded Skyler that she would not be allowed to go outside if they came and asked for her. She explained that they would not be coming around. I asked how she knew, and she said that she told them not to come during school nights because she is not allowed to play with older kids on school nights. It's not totally correct, but it's close enough and, therefore, good enough, for me.
Forget The Farmer's Almanac -- Ask The Yellowjackets
Jagger tried to eat a dead bee that he found on the morning room floor the other day. I was able to fish it out of his mouth before he could swallow (I know, big ick factor) but didn't even think twice about how a bee got into our house. A couple of days later, our nanny said she had smooshed about four bees in the room, and she believed they were coming in through the wall. I pooh-poohed this notion. We had never had bees in the house before, and I didn't know how they could possibly have gotten in through the walls.
The next day, I got home from work and she said that there was a beehive hanging off the frame of one of the windows of our basement. (For you Californians, basements are not merely the basements that you hear about on TV -- scary storage spaces where boogeymen hang out. Basements on the East Coast are part of the living space of your house). Again, I dismissed this.
The following morning I thought to mention it to Randy so he could look at it. He came in talking about needing to call an exterminator. I thought he meant "at some point in our lives." But as soon as I got to work Randy called to say an exterminator was on his way to our house and Randy was leaving work to meet the man. When the exterminator arrived, Randy wasn't home yet, so I had the pleasure of talking to the exterminator by phone. Evidently our house was the scene of an attack of the Yellowjackets. They had made a humongous bee hive at the window, and they had infiltrated our house -- they had built hives inside the walls and were coming into the house through the vents. Just in the few hours that I had been at work, the nanny had captured nearly a dozen from just one room.
Apparently, the number of bees in the summer is directly correlated to the inches of snow in the winter. The exterminator said that last summer he was extremely busy attending to bee calls. This summer it was even worse. The last call he got was for the same problem as ours -- bees in the walls. In that house, he forced "safe" chemicals into the walls to kill the bees. The bees tried to escape, and THOUSANDS of them came out of the vents and into the house. It sounded like a horror movie.
At our house, the exterminator duct taped plastic trash bags over the vents on the floors to catch any bees that escaped. He then put on his bee suit (I haven't forgiven Randy yet for not taking a picture for my blog of the exterminator in his bee suit), took down the hive outside, and sprayed the "safe" chemicals into our walls. (Check with me in 20 years -- if I'm alive and don't have an extra arm, that will be the proof that he was right about the chemicals being safe). The exterminator said that there would be a lot of bees coming out over the next couple of days. If it got bad, we were instructed to call him for a second shot of the chemicals. Fortunately, thousands of bees did not come ito the house through the vents. It was more like around one hundred, not all at once and not all through the bagged vents. The bees kept coming for a few days afterwards. One day, Jagger tried to eat one again. (Yes, Mama, we are feeding Jagger enough. He just likes to put things in his mouth.) Unfortunately for Jagger this one was not dead, and it stung his lip on the way to his tongue. Jagger's lip swelled up to about five times its normal size, and he screamed bloody murder. But he was okay, and Benadryl brought his lip back down to its usual sweet shape.
Our lives have not turned into a horror movie about bees. But according to the exterminator, it will be a very scary-cold winter.
The next day, I got home from work and she said that there was a beehive hanging off the frame of one of the windows of our basement. (For you Californians, basements are not merely the basements that you hear about on TV -- scary storage spaces where boogeymen hang out. Basements on the East Coast are part of the living space of your house). Again, I dismissed this.
The following morning I thought to mention it to Randy so he could look at it. He came in talking about needing to call an exterminator. I thought he meant "at some point in our lives." But as soon as I got to work Randy called to say an exterminator was on his way to our house and Randy was leaving work to meet the man. When the exterminator arrived, Randy wasn't home yet, so I had the pleasure of talking to the exterminator by phone. Evidently our house was the scene of an attack of the Yellowjackets. They had made a humongous bee hive at the window, and they had infiltrated our house -- they had built hives inside the walls and were coming into the house through the vents. Just in the few hours that I had been at work, the nanny had captured nearly a dozen from just one room.
Apparently, the number of bees in the summer is directly correlated to the inches of snow in the winter. The exterminator said that last summer he was extremely busy attending to bee calls. This summer it was even worse. The last call he got was for the same problem as ours -- bees in the walls. In that house, he forced "safe" chemicals into the walls to kill the bees. The bees tried to escape, and THOUSANDS of them came out of the vents and into the house. It sounded like a horror movie.
At our house, the exterminator duct taped plastic trash bags over the vents on the floors to catch any bees that escaped. He then put on his bee suit (I haven't forgiven Randy yet for not taking a picture for my blog of the exterminator in his bee suit), took down the hive outside, and sprayed the "safe" chemicals into our walls. (Check with me in 20 years -- if I'm alive and don't have an extra arm, that will be the proof that he was right about the chemicals being safe). The exterminator said that there would be a lot of bees coming out over the next couple of days. If it got bad, we were instructed to call him for a second shot of the chemicals. Fortunately, thousands of bees did not come ito the house through the vents. It was more like around one hundred, not all at once and not all through the bagged vents. The bees kept coming for a few days afterwards. One day, Jagger tried to eat one again. (Yes, Mama, we are feeding Jagger enough. He just likes to put things in his mouth.) Unfortunately for Jagger this one was not dead, and it stung his lip on the way to his tongue. Jagger's lip swelled up to about five times its normal size, and he screamed bloody murder. But he was okay, and Benadryl brought his lip back down to its usual sweet shape.
Our lives have not turned into a horror movie about bees. But according to the exterminator, it will be a very scary-cold winter.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The Art of Grieving Part I
It's a Friday night, the kids are in bed, and I am up working on a case that is bothering me very much. I can't divulge much about it, but suffice it to say that it involves a young child who wants desperately to be with her mother, and is grieving because the powers that be won't let her go home.
Suddenly, I've started thinking about this puppy that I had when I was 14 years old. Her name was Chubby, and she was one of a litter of six that came from our family dog, Bowsey. Although Bowsey was "our" dog, I never really felt like she was "mine." I loved her, but we didn't have that special connection. We gave away most of the dogs in the litter, but my parents let me keep Chubby. I thought she was a boy initially. She was so cute, as puppies can be. As you can guess, she got her name because she was a fat ball of fur. I tried to resist, but as soon as I was told I could keep her, I loved her with abandon.
Now that I am older, and I look back on the way I loved my puppy, I sort of marvel at the fact that I already knew to be cautious about love. Although I was only 14, I already knew about the pain of loss, albeit in a limited way. Maybe I subconsciously experienced the grief bourne of loss when my father had to leave the Philippines ahead of us and we were separated for a year, or when my maternal grandmother died when I was only four. Maybe those experiences already primed my heart to be reticent. I'll never know for sure.
But my first conscious experience of grief was when I was around 10. My cousin, Ate Betty, had come from the Philippines and was staying with us in California. She had had a teacherous journey from the Philippines and made her way via Mexico, where she encountered some very bad people. I heard about the dangerous situations she had endured and was very relieved when she finally arrived. When she made it to California, she came to stay with us, and I thought it was for forever. Ate Betty was wonderful. She obviously adored me, my sister and brother. She helped me organize my special Avon perfume bottles on top of my bedroom dresser, told me stories about our cousins in the Philippines, taught me how to give myself a manicure, and laughed at things that I said that I intended to be funny. She used to say "by and by" when she meant "later" and "come again" when she didn't hear something we said. I loved her so much, and I didn't know anything about holding back to protect myself from hurt.
One day, Ate Betty's "grandparents" (technically, the woman was a sibling of a grandparent, but in the Filipino culture, your great-aunt is regarded like your grandmother) came from San Diego to take her to live with them. Ate Betty was my father's brother's daughter. She was very close to my parents. So I didn't understand the factors that went into the decision for her to leave us and move to San Diego. I remember that she went reluctantly. I remember crying so hard I could hardly breathe. I remember someone saying to get me water so I could calm down. I remember flinging myself on my parents' bed and refusing to get up to say goodbye to her. She came in say goodbye, and I remember being so distraught that the only thing I could manage to say between sobs was "don't go." But she explained that she had to go. Then she was gone.
We still talked to her, and she eventually got married, moved to Texas, and visited us regularly. In fact, I am flying out to see her in October. But it wasn't the same as having her live with us, and the memory of that separation was painful to me for a long time. That experience taught me to hold back just a little bit.
But Chubby was the most adorable little dog in the world, and when I learned I could keep her, I couldn't help but love her completely. As you've probably predicted, my story about Chubby had a sad ending. She got sick before her first birthday and died in her sleep. When I first realized she was dead, I called my mother at work crying. She tried to console me, and I pretended to be consoled. By then I had become pretty good at hiding my feelings and for the most part cried only in private. Perhaps no one in my family realized it, but I was extremely heartbroken. Almost 30 years later, I still cry when I think about Chubby. At a young age I developed a sense of empathy for anyone who loses a pet. Even at age 14, I knew, through personal experience, that losing a pet is just as painful as losing a person. Some people think that losing a dog (or any other kind of pet) doesn't have the same impact. But trust me, your heart breaks into just as many pieces. If you have ever lost your beloved pet, you and I share a bond, for we know the terrible feeling of grief for the selfless creature who brought so much happiness into our lives and asked for so little in return.
I'm not really sure what the point of this post is. I guess it's a vignette of the way in which a young person learns to be a little bit afraid to give her heart so readily to someone she loves. I guess it's my mind pondering the ways in which the little girl in the case I'm working on will be scarred by the forced separation from the mother she desperately loves. I guess it's my ode to a puppy I loved so intensely even if only for a short time. I guess it's only the tip of the iceberg on the topic of grief and loss.
Suddenly, I've started thinking about this puppy that I had when I was 14 years old. Her name was Chubby, and she was one of a litter of six that came from our family dog, Bowsey. Although Bowsey was "our" dog, I never really felt like she was "mine." I loved her, but we didn't have that special connection. We gave away most of the dogs in the litter, but my parents let me keep Chubby. I thought she was a boy initially. She was so cute, as puppies can be. As you can guess, she got her name because she was a fat ball of fur. I tried to resist, but as soon as I was told I could keep her, I loved her with abandon.
Now that I am older, and I look back on the way I loved my puppy, I sort of marvel at the fact that I already knew to be cautious about love. Although I was only 14, I already knew about the pain of loss, albeit in a limited way. Maybe I subconsciously experienced the grief bourne of loss when my father had to leave the Philippines ahead of us and we were separated for a year, or when my maternal grandmother died when I was only four. Maybe those experiences already primed my heart to be reticent. I'll never know for sure.
But my first conscious experience of grief was when I was around 10. My cousin, Ate Betty, had come from the Philippines and was staying with us in California. She had had a teacherous journey from the Philippines and made her way via Mexico, where she encountered some very bad people. I heard about the dangerous situations she had endured and was very relieved when she finally arrived. When she made it to California, she came to stay with us, and I thought it was for forever. Ate Betty was wonderful. She obviously adored me, my sister and brother. She helped me organize my special Avon perfume bottles on top of my bedroom dresser, told me stories about our cousins in the Philippines, taught me how to give myself a manicure, and laughed at things that I said that I intended to be funny. She used to say "by and by" when she meant "later" and "come again" when she didn't hear something we said. I loved her so much, and I didn't know anything about holding back to protect myself from hurt.
One day, Ate Betty's "grandparents" (technically, the woman was a sibling of a grandparent, but in the Filipino culture, your great-aunt is regarded like your grandmother) came from San Diego to take her to live with them. Ate Betty was my father's brother's daughter. She was very close to my parents. So I didn't understand the factors that went into the decision for her to leave us and move to San Diego. I remember that she went reluctantly. I remember crying so hard I could hardly breathe. I remember someone saying to get me water so I could calm down. I remember flinging myself on my parents' bed and refusing to get up to say goodbye to her. She came in say goodbye, and I remember being so distraught that the only thing I could manage to say between sobs was "don't go." But she explained that she had to go. Then she was gone.
We still talked to her, and she eventually got married, moved to Texas, and visited us regularly. In fact, I am flying out to see her in October. But it wasn't the same as having her live with us, and the memory of that separation was painful to me for a long time. That experience taught me to hold back just a little bit.
But Chubby was the most adorable little dog in the world, and when I learned I could keep her, I couldn't help but love her completely. As you've probably predicted, my story about Chubby had a sad ending. She got sick before her first birthday and died in her sleep. When I first realized she was dead, I called my mother at work crying. She tried to console me, and I pretended to be consoled. By then I had become pretty good at hiding my feelings and for the most part cried only in private. Perhaps no one in my family realized it, but I was extremely heartbroken. Almost 30 years later, I still cry when I think about Chubby. At a young age I developed a sense of empathy for anyone who loses a pet. Even at age 14, I knew, through personal experience, that losing a pet is just as painful as losing a person. Some people think that losing a dog (or any other kind of pet) doesn't have the same impact. But trust me, your heart breaks into just as many pieces. If you have ever lost your beloved pet, you and I share a bond, for we know the terrible feeling of grief for the selfless creature who brought so much happiness into our lives and asked for so little in return.
I'm not really sure what the point of this post is. I guess it's a vignette of the way in which a young person learns to be a little bit afraid to give her heart so readily to someone she loves. I guess it's my mind pondering the ways in which the little girl in the case I'm working on will be scarred by the forced separation from the mother she desperately loves. I guess it's my ode to a puppy I loved so intensely even if only for a short time. I guess it's only the tip of the iceberg on the topic of grief and loss.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)