Cupcakes Are Evil

Random Thoughts on a Rainy Monday

2011-03-21T13:33:00.002-04:00

1. Why is the phrase "salad days" about good times? Salad sucks.

2. When will the depressing recycling of the '80s stop making me feel so old? Neon is on trend, and I am wishing I had saved some of my stuff to share with my 7-year-old daughter. Lord knows I save a lot of things, and none of the other 25+ year old crap I have in my closets is of any use.

And how do today's music stars know anything about the '80s, anyway? Who writes their stuff? Bowling for Soup and "1985," Keri Hilson and "Pretty Girl Rock" (although I don't know if Keri's lyrics intentionally reference two late-'80s ad campaigns (she was only born in 1982 I think), but how can it be that much of a coincidence that she says her name is Keri and she's so very (hello, Keri lotion ad) and then implores the listener not to hate her because she's beautiful (Pantene)

3. Does G-d text? Maybe soon, if the iPhone app for confession is any indication http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/confession-app-roman-catholic-church-sanctions-iphone-app/story?id=12866499

Guess I really need to update my ancient flip phone so I can finally learn to text and navigate the world of apps, especially if we cave to my 10-year-old's renewed pleas for a phone of his own (the double-digit birthday battle for an iPod Touch, which he won for G-d's sake!, apparently has no benefit to us in delaying his supposed need for a phone now). Not that we're Roman Catholic and need the confession app, but perhaps I could inform my 10-going-on-19-year-old that he really shouldn't ride in the front seat, and for that matter, should get his ass back in a booster! http://abcnews.go.com/Politics/child-safety-seat-recommendations-revamped/story?id=13168522&page=1

4. Are people really complaining about rain on the first full day of spring? Are memories that short? The tragedy in Japan happened less than two weeks ago. Maybe our flooded neighbors in Jersey have some justification to lament rainfall, but perspective is really in order, people.

5. March Madness. Why is March such a crazy freakin month anyway? Named for the Roman God of War, known for schizo weather and home to the Ides of March, this month is mostly associated with loss for me (virginity, my mother ... just going chronologically, not necessarily in order of importance)

Now, I have the weird conflict between March 17 as the anniversary of my mother's funeral and the recently-learned fact that my birth mother was/is Irish, and the 17th, of course, is St. Patrick's Day. Somber or celebratory? Only I could have issues with a day uniformly regarded as a happy excuse to party! Either way, I guess I'm good to go for a drink!

Happy Emotional Eating Day

2011-02-14T15:38:00.005-05:00

I hate Valentine's Day. Maybe I am still bitter from all the years of spending it alone. Not alone, actually. Always with some comfort food. To me, Valentine's Day is really all about eating. In fact, one of the foremost thoughts associated with February 14 is Chili's (the chain Mexican restaurant). My best friend from college, my roommate at the time, joined me at Chili's for anti-Valentine food therapy. We would savor some decadent dessert, a pie of some sort as I recall, that involved Snickers(R) and Oreos(R), maybe an Oreo crust with Snickers ice cream filling, topped with hot fudge and caramel sauce? Who can remember the details? The point is that we would not share a slice; we each had our own. Drowning our sorrows in dessert.
That tradition continued for me, sharing the day dedicated to love with my favorite junk foods. The abundance of chocolate made it only too easy to wallow in my misery while ingesting appalling amounts of sweets.
Even when I finally had a valentine (the man I married), I still focused on food. At what fabulous restaurant would we eat? I sat at home for too many years with pints of ice cream and boxes of chocolates. Now that I had a bona fide date, I was all about the fancy meal. I wanted every occasion to be celebrated with a $200 dinner.
I did get over that eventually, but the connection between Cupid and food persists. Now it mostly involves my children. Last night, I made dozens of sugar cookies from scratch for my daughter's class and washed and cut three pounds of strawberries for my son's class. Then, for good measure, I made a cake mix for our family to share for dessert tonight.
I guess I have always been an emotional eater. And on a day when we are force fed an emotion that we may or may not be experiencing, it always helps to wash it down with something indulgently yummy.

Don't Drink the Kool-Aid

2010-06-02T23:54:00.004-04:00

Well, maybe you can drink some of it. The PTA kool-aid, that is. Tonight, for example, drinking was encouraged. This year's installation dinner had an open bar and a DJ. And a school bus! Tell me that isn't a TV show waiting to happen: 44 PTA moms on a big yellow school bus, round trip from the elementary school's parking lot to dinner.
For the uninitiated, installation dinner means the annual gathering when a PTA's Executive Committee is officially installed, each officer getting a pin along with a flower and ribbon in a designated color (presidents get lavender, the treasurer green, and so on and so on). It is so much like a sorority event that I was having TriDelt flash backs (and the 80s music didn't help matters).
Some were calling it a cult. Maybe it is. Looking up the actual definition of "cult," I see that the third entry is "faddish devotion; also, a group of persons showing such devotion," and I think that applies.
PTA just seems like what you're supposed to do. It fulfills every bad stereotype out there (and I think our school outdid itself this year in nasty politicking), but it feels like a required part of the whole elementary school experience. Sort of like hazing for pledges (in keeping with the whole sorority theme).
I'm taking a break next year, at least from official duties on the board. I'm here for the long haul (my daughter is only going into second grade and our school continues through sixth). The drama reached too ridiculous a level this last election cycle, and a step back felt right. Besides, I'm busy planning my nervous breakdown, so I can't have so many damn meetings on my calendar.
For all its faults, though, the PTA is a family of sorts. In fact, when the DJ played "We Are Family," I had to dance because that is, after all, the sorority anthem. But I realized on that dance floor that this group of women feels like a family, too. It reminded me a bit of how I felt after law school; all of us were bonded forever. I might have hated having classes with you, I might not even have known you, but we all graduated and survived the bar exam, and that linked us in a way that not everyone could understand.
And so it is with PTA. There were women in that room I don't think I've ever seen before, and women I will be happy not to see next year. But we all have a shared experience, a common bond, forged at a critical point in our lives as mothers. So, here's to another year and all it will bring.

Book Review

2010-02-24T09:34:00.005-05:00

Part historical fiction, part murder mystery, part romance, The Crimson Rooms by Katharine McMahon (available in stores/online now, see links below) is a compelling read. This is a wholly-satisfying story about Evelyn Gifford, a woman finding her way in 1924 London -- in an inhospitable professional environment as one of the first female attorneys; in the aftermath of World War I and the searing loss of her beloved (almost revered) brother James.
McMahon creates accessible characters that you really care about, which might come as a surprise given the restrained, buttoned-up British kind of tone to the book. The detail in McMahon's writing is fantastic and effectively sets the scenes in your mind. While the overall tone of the novel is quite understated, you will find yourself cheering for Evelyn as she perseveres through challenge after challenge. The formality of the language is lyrical rather than stilted. This is a beautiful book to read.
I took personal interest in Evelyn's story, being a female attorney myself. I can't imagine how hard it was in Evelyn's time to enter court and deal with clients; at least now, people have become somewhat accustomed to the sight of a woman in law. Still, I found the profession to be stubbornly sexist (I haven't practiced in almost 10 years), even before I had my son. Trying to be a mother and a part-time attorney was next to impossible, and I had two male bosses that were generally flexible and willing to accommodate my attempt at balancing parenthood and practicing law.
Evelyn is nowhere near confronting the idea of being a working mom; she has quite enough on her plate. She still lives at home with her mother, aunt and grandmother. Her father has passed away, but not before the crippling blow of his son's death. Evelyn was a poor substitute for her brother, and it seems no one in her family hid their feelings about this. She was expected to be the head of household (a stuffy, oppressive household that McMahon skillfully brings to life); she was somehow made responsible for leading the multigenerational mess of women. The mess grows even messier when a woman and boy show up at the door, claiming to be Evelyn's brother's last, wartime lover and mother of his child. (The introduction of these characters and the effect they have on all the others is absolutely delicious. The relationship Evelyn develops with her young nephew is particularly heartwarming.)
There are so many subplots; in another author's hands, the book could have been a jumbled, not-worth-the-effort disaster. McMahon somehow keeps all the plates spinning in the air. You get social justice, women's rights, family drama, class wars, murder, a poignant love story and even more, all rolled up into one book. McMahon provides us with a rich and thoughtful slice of life and a cast of believable, engaging characters (and there are many!).
You will become engrossed in Evelyn's quietly revolutionary existence. You watch her story unfold and her character grow; I almost felt like a proud parent at the end of the novel. The story will leave you musing the life choices we make and resolving to find the inner strength Evelyn summons when it matters most. You will contemplate love and whether you should hold on to it no matter what, even if it means risking your own life, or whether you bravely choose to give it up in order to blossom as an individual, even at an improbable age. Evelyn is a heroine in every sense of the word. I highly recommend The Crimson Rooms.

http://us.penguingroup.com/nf/Book/BookDisplay/0,,9780399156229,00.html?strSrchSql=crimson+rooms/The_Crimson_Rooms_Katharine_McMahon

http://www.amazon.com/Crimson-Rooms-Katharine-McMahon/dp/0399156224/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1263424954&sr=8-1

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Crimson-Rooms/Katharine-McMahon/e/9780399156229/?itm=1&USRI=crimson+rooms

http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780399156229

http://www.borders.com/online/store/TitleDetail?sku=0399156224

I wrote this review while participating in a blog campaign by MotherTalk on behalf of G.P. Putnam's Sons / Riverhead and received a copy of the book to facilitate my candid review. Mom Central sent me a gift card to thank me for taking the time to participate.
www.Mother-Talk.com

2010: Worse Than 2012?

2010-01-17T19:16:00.002-05:00

It seems fitting that I am not writing my "New Year's" entry until mid-January. I am not a resolution maker. I have never particularly enjoyed New Year's Eve. I am known to procrastinate.
Of course, I can trot out various excuses for being so delinquent. The "holiday season" excuse. The kids-home-on-school-break excuse (surpassed this year by the husband-home-for-two-weeks-between-jobs excuse). And, sadly, the loss of a beloved aunt.
But, the truth is, I just don't want to face 2010. It's a nice round number, has a nice sound to it. But it is the year I turn 40 and my son turns 10. I don't know which I am more upset about.
Funnily enough, I have been saying since 34 or 35 that I looked forward to 40, welcomed it. Wanted my good friend who knows about such things to help me with a five-year plan (35-40). Felt like the best was yet to come and all of that. To some extent, I think it remains true. I am more comfortable in my own skin, more secure in myself -- still nowhere near the self-confidence of my 6-year-old daughter, but in time, perhaps.
But now that I am staring down the barrel of that Four-Oh gun, I am no longer so enthusiastic about the birthday. All I can keep thinking is that I will turn 40 at camp! I didn't even go to camp as a kid, but now I will turn 40 working at one?!? Really? Not quite what I envisioned for my fourth decade.
I might be able to work through that, though. I have until July, and I could probably make some peace with the whole crazy scenario. But I just don't have it in me to overcome that milestone and then have my baby hit double digits four months later. It is too much for one year.
People talk about 2012; my son desperately wants to see the movie. I can't imagine how much programming will be on the History Channel about the end of the world or beginning of days or whatever it is that is supposed to happen on 12/12/12 (or is it 12/21/12? not much of a doomsday fan either; I figure if it's going to happen, it's going to happen. Nothing I can do about it, and Jewish people are not on the saved list as far as I know.)
But I would happily skip to 2011. Someone pointed out that would make me 41 and my son 11. Yes, I know that, and if I got there without having to actually endure turning 40 and him turning 10, that would be fine. I am very familiar with denial, and it works quite well for me.
As we all know, however, there is no fast-forward button to press on life. Not even a pause, which would be infinitely more convenient in my opinion. You're not supposed to wish away your days blah blah blah, so just having a little breather would come in handy every now and then. Time moves so quickly, and it speeds up as you get older.
How can he be turning 10??????? As if that is not gut-wrenching enough, the temple sent a letter about choosing his bar mitzvah date. Now that is just completely out of control. How dare they? And they followed the letter up with harassing phone calls; apparently there was some deadline associated with the letter. Can't they leave an in-denial mother alone? You're a reform shul with small classes as far as I can tell, so what exactly is your rush? You have to put salt in my wound? And I have to pay you how many thousands of dollars to be unwillingly reminded that my baby is growing up? No wonder attendance and affiliation is down at temples.
OK, that was good, actually. A few paragraphs about 10 distracted me from 40. Maybe that can be my game plan: when one birthday becomes too much for me to bear, I will shift focus to the other. Although, now that I think about it, I don't usually break down at the expected times. I had a quarter-life crisis, really unhappy about 25. But fine with 30. For me, it has more to do with what I think life should look like at that age, and what my reality actually is. That's it!!! That is the answer! I will focus solely on the fact that 40 was supposed to look like the Jetsons!

Battle of the Bulge

2009-12-05T22:47:00.002-05:00

I am always perplexed by the glut of articles at this time of year about avoiding holiday weight gain. All of this focus on not overeating just makes me hungry. It also presupposes that I am mindful of caloric intake in the first place and make healthy choices at all other times throughout the year.
I am in a major sugar phase, unfortunately, especially for breakfast (see the "Pour Some Sugar On Me" post) so I am off to a bad start daily. I have been better about eating lunch and making it something nourishing. Dinners have always been fairly healthy, but portion control is foreign to me.
I guess that's why the idea that eating gets somehow ramped up for the holidays makes no sense to me. If the vegetable lasagna that is supposed to feed a family of four barely satisfies my husband and I, is Thanksgiving dinner really any more of a threat to my waistline?
Actually, my waist is the least of my problems. It indents at the proper places so I have a curvy shape. I've always liked my waist. Oh no, wait a minute, I take that back. I like my waist for its proportion to my big chest and fat stomach; it seems pleasingly small to me in comparison. Sadly, I am apparently what is called short-waisted, and this is a major problem.
Short, curvy women with big chests need a torso. Too often, they don't seem to be blessed with one; I sure wasn't. Basically, my breasts slide down like tear drops onto my muffin top which rests comfortably on the blubber covering my C-section scar. My midsection is like a melting snowman, each roll blending into the next and increasing in size on the way down.
You'd think that looking like a beach ball head perched on top of this melting snowman middle would compel me to diet and exercise. Of course, you would be wrong. I hate almost every photo of myself because it makes me think of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from "Ghostbusters." Although the snowman analogy works well for me, too. My dark, deep-set eyes with the black circles sink into my round face just like two lumps of coal on Frosty (yummm, I love the Frosty at Wendy's).
Now, don't get me wrong. I am not some self-hating obese ogre (although I might be medically defined as obese by current weight charts given my short stature). I have my good features, too; it's just easier to harp on the not-so-good ones. I was never a SkinnyMinny, so I guess I should have seen it coming. The massive upper arms that give new meaning to flabby, flapping arm fat. The back fat. The shelf butt. The cellulite creeping down my thighs dangerously close to my knees, making my nice legs not so nice anymore. At least I still have nice-enough calves and slim ankles. I never thought about my ankles until a girl in college complimented mine, lamenting how hers were so fat. Who has fat ankles in college? This girl is a waif, a tiny wisp of a thing. She should have seen my postpartum ankles after weeks of bed rest, then she would know about fat ankles.
But isn't that how women are? Never satisfied with their own bodies, always admiring someone else's whatever, wishing theirs were more like hers or hers or hers. Isn't that how cosmetic surgeons stay in business? Body dysmorphic disorders and the vain quest for lost youth?
I had peace with my body once. For a very brief time after having my first child, I had newfound respect for my body and what it was capable of. It was the closest I ever came to that "I am woman, hear me roar" feeling of empowerment I had read about some women having during pregnancy. (These must have been the same women suddenly craving sex more than ever while pregnant.) Alas, the blissful contentment I had with my physical form did not last long. And that was about nine years and 25 pounds ago.
Actually, I have no idea what I weigh. I refuse to own a scale. My husband bought one last year when he decided he wanted to lose weight (and did so effortlessly by changing his eating habits somewhat ~ no big exercise plan, no drastic measures ~ men suck like that). I was tempted to get on at times, but never did, for fear that the offensive number would remain there somehow and be revealed to him when he weighed himself next. What if I weighed more than him? How embarrassing would that be?
I believe your clothes are as good a guide as any. Having the whole host of double-digit sizes in my closet, I can safely say that you know how you are faring weight-wise by how your pants fit. I don't think I will ever see a single-digit size again, and that is OK. I weighed 118 pounds at my physical for college, and even then, I was at the upper end of the 5-7-9 store at the mall in my podunk town. I'm really not into numbers anyway.
So bring on the latkes, the Christmas cookies, the peppermint bark and all the alcohol at all the parties. I eat crap I shouldn't all year long, so why should now be any different? Eat, drink and be merry!

Gratitude

2009-11-25T23:21:00.002-05:00

It's Thanksgiving Day in less than one hour. I have no real reason for being awake. I do not host this holiday. The sole side dish I, as a dutiful guest, am responsible for can be easily made anytime tomorrow afternoon.
Yet I feel compelled to write and give thanks for my many blessings. I truly feel so grateful tonight, and in some ways, that is surprising. Tomorrow will be unlike any Thanksgiving my family has had in as long as I can remember. We are not engaging in the usual routine this year, and that is incredibly sad for so many reasons. But none of those reasons is permanent, so there is hope that next year might return to normal.
In the meantime, we are blessed to share the day with the dearest of friends ~ the kind of people that exemplify true friendship, the kind of friends that feel like family. My husband and I will be there with our two beautiful and special children, and his amazing parents. And, as I said to my wonderful husband earlier this evening, that is a lot more than a lot of people have.
Maybe I am feeling Lifetime-movie-level of emotional because of my period. Maybe it's just the start of the holiday season. Maybe it's creeping closer and closer to 40. Whatever it is, I took note tonight of how warm and content I felt, while doing nothing more than sitting in the living room with hubby and kids. The same monotony that can drive me mad on any given day was deeply comforting tonight. (Actually, that is probably a precious lesson from the Leaches, thank you Mary and Jackson and all of you ~ those garbage trucks are on the road every day : )
So I sit here typing in my happy home, and a tear taps the desk every so often, as my chest swells with appreciation for all that I have. I have a family and friends and my health, food to eat and a house and a car. That house is not the biggest in the neighborhood, and I often say that we must be the last family in suburbia with only one car, but I am blessed not to care about those kinds of things. What a curse it must be to constantly look at what everyone else has and want more. I feel so fortunate to value the things that tend to be intangible rather than material. After all, that house is so much larger than any I ever thought I would live in, and I truly love our car. Money is not the only thing that makes people rich.
Maybe I will buy a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau tomorrow. Instead of feeling sad that I didn't get it this year because our plans are different, I think I'll enjoy the bottle with my husband and silently toast Mark and Becky and Sel et Poivre and this very same night so many (too many) years ago when I first learned about "Beaujolais Nouveau est arrive!" and saw the parade balloons being blown up for the first time.
I am blessed with a wonderful life ~ warts and all. And I am so thankful that I know enough to be thankful for it. Wishing everyone everywhere a happy Thanksgiving.

And The Award Goes To ...

2009-11-17T21:38:00.003-05:00

ME! For Mother of the Month. My friends and I joke about the Bad Mommies Club. We commiserate and console each other when we have done something (or failed to do something) that makes us feel like terrible mothers. The kinds of actions and feelings and thoughts that are OK to share and laugh about now that the kids are in elementary school, but would have been closely-guarded secrets if any of us knew each other when the kids were infants. I don't think new moms can be in the Bad Mommies Club. Fundamentally, women don't trust each other enough to tell the truth. Especially not when you are sinking or swimming in the shark-infested waters of first-time motherhood. Don't shake your head at me and say no. If you think about it, I bet you'll count on only one hand the women in your life who actually know all there is to know about you ... or close to it. You might only get to one or two. Women are tough.
But that's all another post ... back to bad parenting du jour. My son just turned 9. Predictably, he wanted a sports party and Madden 10 as his gift (as if the party shouldn't be enough!). So I dutifully went to Game Stop and purchased the stupid $50 game for Wii. I hate the Wii. I did not want to ever get my kids the Wii. Water under the bridge. Moving on.
Of course, one of my son's good friends bought him Madden 10. I was callously told to return mine (sniffle, sniffle ... he wanted his friend's, not mine) which I did. But now I had the chance to be the big hero and find the Alien Hominid game his friend could not find (despite valiant attempts by his generous mother and the incredibly kind gesture of his friend telling his mom they should give my son theirs).
Welcome to the over-my-head world of "it's a Game Cube game but you can play it on Wii ... blah blah blah." My son never had any other game system or whatever these hateful things are called. I only know from Wii and I know very little about that. Start talking about compatible games and different controllers and a memory card? I am completely lost (and quite horrifed that I am now the parent who just doesn't understand). "Don't worry, Mom, I know what to get," my son reassured me (kindly neglecting to mention that I just didn't get it because I am old).
So three stores later and some birthday money later, my son was the proud owner of Alien Hominid with two remotes and a memory card. Whatever that meant. All I knew was he was happy and that made me happy (in between being furious with him for not being appreciative enough, a thank you would be nice! Grrr...).
He and his sister (yes, the 6 year old) happily played the game. My son had friends over, and they enthusiastically played the game. Never once did it occur to me to look at the game, what it was, how it was played or what it was about. Just bought the game, no questions asked. No research. No previewing. No clue. Just bought the damn game.
So it came as quite a shock when my son casually informed me the other night that the game is rated T for Teen. "No," I countered, "you can't have a game for teens. You are not a teenager as much as you would like to think otherwise. You can only have games rated E for Everyone," I asserted, feeling very pleased with myself that I even knew the games were rated. "Well, Mom," he chortled from the back seat, "the game is rated T." I insisted, "You must be mistaken, we'll check when we get home."
We also were going to look up what "2012" is rated because he had announced that we should see the movie. And, the reasoning went, since he saw "Dark Knight" (borrowed from the library long after its release and after much lobbying by my son, the kids fell asleep watching it and I stayed up to see the end, good flick) he should be able to see anything. What did rated R mean anyway, I can see that in middle school, he boasted. "No you cannot see rated R movies in middle school. You have to be 18 or older." "Well, I saw PG-13 movies, and I'm not 13," he challenged. Ouch. Yes you have. He continued, "And Alien Homid [as the kids call it] is T. What is gore?" This was not going in a good direction.
Sure enough, we get home, I demand to see the case the stupid used game came in, and there is the T glaring up at me like a scarlet A. I was crushed. I could not believe what a lapse in judgment this was. How could I purchase something for my child without fully understanding what it was? How could I be exposing both of my kids to some bloody cartoon that I bought just because he played it at his friend's house and wanted it for his birthday? What kind of awful parent was I? (As it turns out, pretty bad. Seems he has played even worse games at other people's houses. Never occurred to me to ask the play date mom what games she allows her kids to play. Come to think of it, I never asked any play date mom ever if she had guns in the home. Just call CPS already.)
I was really in shock for the rest of the night. I could not believe I never looked up what the game was or what it was rated. I just took for granted it was semi-appropriate; I didn't even give it much thought actually. This from the mother who was ready to go to the mat to prevent my second grader from seeing "Spider Man 3" in the theater for someone else's birthday party. Was this mom kidding me? A PG-13 movie in second grade?!? Maybe that was OK for moms with older kids, but my son is my first, and I will not have him rushing through childhood. Second grade was simply too young for PG-13. I looked it up on my trusty in-the-know parent resources like www.commonsensemedia.org and became even more convinced this was not acceptable. I was going to take a stand and teach a lesson. Just because everyone else is doing something does not mean that we have to. Sorry, you just cannot go to this party. End of story. (Until I was overruled and he went.)
But at least I had tried. I had done my due diligence. Here, I totally dropped the ball. Bad Mommies Club all the way. Well, add it to the list. (I am only slightly vindicated by my belated search for Alien Hominid on Common Sense Media's website ~ it's not even there : )

Tanzania Bound

2009-11-12T09:01:00.003-05:00

No, I'm not really going to Tanzania (not even really sure where it is). But an email from the Women Gender and Health Department at some university described an opportunity to be an intern for six months in Tanzania starting in January 2010. And reading the email made me incredibly sad ~ wistful, really.
Of course, they are looking for college students (or maybe it's a graduate program), so I am not eligible. And I would never really leave my family for six months. But it sounded so exciting and exotic and perfect. And the fact that I could not do it, the fact that I don't have opportunities like that anymore, was so disappointing. I was crestfallen. And why?
I wasn't a women's studies major in college; I have no interest in the medical field. The internship is not even something a younger me would have known about or done. So why should the adult me care? [At least it made some sense the other morning, feeling like I had been punched in the stomach when dropping my husband off at court and seeing the female attorney walk by in her crisp black-and-white ensemble. Clearly not a mom, as she wore a white coat, the perfect length to complement the black suit she had on with some pair of fabulous shoes, and shiny, straight black hair. Didn't see her face because it was just a split second view of her profile I had, but boy did it make a lasting impression. I thought about her on and off that day, feeling sad every time. Again, why? That could have been me? Not really. I am completely missing any style gene or ability to do makeup and hair, so I would never have looked like that, even if I had continued practicing and never had kids or married my husband. Do I miss law? Sometimes, in a big picture kind of way, like wishing I still said those words or knew what case the continuing education brochure was talking about. Was it the painful contrast between her look and mine? Her, looking so glam; me, looking so mom, in the derogatory way people refer to mom jeans or mom style (lack thereof), wearing my "pajamas," which consisted, ironically, of the long-sleeved, hunter green shirt with the logo of the bar review course we took, no bra (which is not a pretty sight for big-chested me) and a pair of what I think are my friend's hand-me-down, bright plaid (think lime green and a turquoise-y blue) Old Navy maternity pants, with blue fuzzy socks stuffed into red canvas flat shoes, teeth not brushed and hair touched only by a comb made up of two or three passes through the knots with my fingers. The thought for a split second of "these are the kind of women my husband sees at work every day, and this is the woman he comes home to ... ick"]
If you asked me at any given moment, I would tell you I don't regret my choice to leave law. I wouldn't want to be the childless female partner with a high-powered career. So why should it upset me so much to see this woman lawyer?
I guess it all represents a loss of some kind. Loss of youth, loss of freedom. I often think that is why "Grey's Anatomy" makes me cry every week (have to try not to forget it's Thursday tonight! Days off school mid-week really mess me up). A good friend suggested the show upsets me because I want my relationship with my husband to be more like Meredith and McDreamy's. But I don't want their relationship (would anyone? aside from the sex ...), and I don't think that is what triggers the waterworks.
At least in seasons past, the show captured that college-y camaraderie, the tight bonds and the all-consuming personal dramas, the ability to stay up all night talking about Big Topics and then blow off classes the next day. I did that, though (too much), so why would I long for it? I wouldn't really go back if given the chance, so why feel so blue about it? Is it because you can't blow off the kids and the mortgage for the day and sleep in? Would I want a life that empty? (Although it felt quite full at the time, in college and law school ...)
Maybe it's just a case of "the grass is always greener." No one seems to want exactly what they have at the moment (there's a line in a song about that, how happiness is wanting what you've got, yes, it's Sheryl Crow "Soak Up the Sun" It's not having what you want/It's wanting what you've got)
I frequently lament that I was not cut out for motherhood, that I should have been a cat lady, but truth be told, I do want what I have, and I am happy with it. But that doesn't stop me from wondering about my parallel universe (anyone remember "Singles"? In a parallel universe, you and I are a smoking couple). I am endlessly fascinated by people who choose not to have kids. Actively decide "nope, not for me." How brave. How incredible to know yourself so well and be honest about it.
Maybe that is the element that gets me down. I have never known myself well enough at the actual time I had to make a life choice. [It could be argued that I still do not know myself and that I have never really made a choice.] Motherhood is what teaches me so much about myself, my relationship, my issues. I wouldn't even be aware of most of the crap on my mind if it weren't for being a mom. So is it the wistfulness about the time travel of "if I knew then what I know now"? If I knew myself as well as I do now, would I have majored in women's studies? [I did have a lesbian music phase (Melissa Etheridge, the Indigo Girls, etc.) which seems at least stereotypically appropriate (and please know I say that with love, not from being homophobic -- I really wish I had gay friends in my daily life, I miss mine so much)]
Is it reviewing your life and wanting to combine the best of each part? Like curating a fabulous museum exhibit, picking and choosing what pieces of your own puzzle would fit together into the ideal? So, let's see, I would be a mom in the city with gay friends, politically active and attending salons where smart people discussed Important Things ... um, yeah, not so much. That is not me either. (Not trendy enough or intellectual enough to pull that image off!)
I think it is just the curse of suburbia, the fodder for books like "Little Children" and shows like "Desperate Housewives." Everyone wants what we have, right? The proverbial picket fence and two kids and the minivan in the garage? No one wants to know the reality is a lawn that your husband does costly chemical battle with in an effort not to have weeds, no minivan ~ a crossover sports utility vehicle with 100,000 miles, but still not in the garage because that is so full of house crap (ladders, rakes, shovels etc.), old crap (boxes that have moved every move with you since the apartment in the city before kids) and sports crap because, yes, you do have those two kids, and do they ever generate a lot of stuff.
We want to move out to the suburbs, for the space, for the house, for the American Dream. And find ourselves feeling trapped and suffocated and caged. Ironic (dontcha think? I was a huge Alanis Morissette fan, too). Some of us more than others, some days more than others. But an ironic twist nonetheless.
And I have to leave this train of thought for my gig as a substitute lunch monitor, which is so deliciously related to this post, but, of course, all another story ...

Disney Down the Drain

2009-11-09T21:56:00.002-05:00

I find that I take a hate to things and then refuse to like them no matter what. There is no rhyme or reason to this. It happened with Martha Stewart (pre-jail) and mocking her hyperperfection. My stand becomes so principled that I resist even the hint of giving in. When my son was in pre-K and we had to decorate posters about them, I criticized the elaborate creations parents were bringing in, rolling my eyes at how carried away people got ... and then entered Michael's for the first time and spent a stupid amount of money on stickers (they were 3-D!) and other miniature embellishments (I am a sucker for mini anything). I would never admit it was fun or that I maybe liked it just a little bit. I hated Martha Stewart and her ilk, and I was not, nor would I ever be, one of "those" moms.
So it comes as a surprise that I am feeling a bit sad that our first Disney trip is not happening this year. There was lots of build up that it might. My father-in-law is celebrating a big birthday in February, and all he has ever wanted for about the last decade is to see Disney through my kids' eyes. (My in-laws are incredible like that.)
I have never been a big Disney fan. I just can't stand all the hype and the gushing and the schmaltz. I am sentimental about a lot of things, but feeling like it is my children's birthright to see Disney World is just not something that pulls at my heartstrings. I am a mean mom (just ask my kids). I don't feel badly for them to be practically the only people they know at this point who have not been to Disney.
Since when did it become taken for granted that every family must mortgage their future to journey to the Mouse? (I actually called him a crack dealer in an old blog, but I haven't yet figured out how to import those entries ... I was worried I might get tracked down and sued and banned from all parks.)
My kids will be just fine without a trip to Florida (actually, the state of Florida is one of those things I took a hate to, so I wholeheartedly believe my children can live their whole lives never entering the state and be all the better for it). But I do love my father-in-law and would do just about anything I could to make him happy because he deserves it (along with my mother-in-law, of course). So I played along with his Disney birthday wishes and embarked on the overwhelming search for all things Disney. There is just a ridiculous amount of information out there. The official stuff, the unofficial stuff, the websites, the enewsletters, the mom panels ... it is really unbelievable to me how much time and energy people have to devote to the Disney empire, especially when it costs so freakin much to go there.
I have to pay these people to torture me with their confusing layout of resorts and levels of accommodations and intricate system for internal transportation? I have to consider dropping five figures to have the privilege of learning lingo about dining plans and character meals and park hopper options and the names of different firework shows and parades?!? Seriously?
But my father-in-law and I do share a love of lists and researching things to death and gathering suffocating amounts of information. So I dove in and tried to embrace Project Disney 2010, but I was never genuinely excited about it or daydreaming about my kids' eyes lighting up. I was really just going through the motions for my father-in-law, and becoming more and more convinced that the whole damn thing is a cult. The process drove me nuts; the sheer volume of ink (virtual or printed) devoted to this operation astounded me.
But I made it through and came up with rough ideas and dates and even some quotes to guide the big family discussion. Which was over before it really got started because it is just too much money to go. It was always too much money, but somehow this faux planning frenzy got under way, and I guess I was more invested than I thought because when it abruptly came to an end the other night, I was bummed.
Me, the anti-Disney mom, feeling sad that we won't go this year? Why should I care? Why aren't I relieved? Maybe part of me is, but maybe part of me was also getting sucked into the Disney magic. Or maybe I was just annoyed that all of my hard work investigating and planning was rendered useless. I mean, I spent hours and hours on this Project Disney 2010, only to have it fall apart in the end. Just when I had started getting a handle on it all ... oh well. There's always next year.

Happy Birthday To Me

2009-11-07T21:39:00.004-05:00

Nine years ago today, the world changed forever. It is the anniversary of the Bush/Gore election debacle, after all. It is also the day my son was born.
Considering how political I became after his birth, it is incredible to me that these two events intertwined in such a profound way. Even then, I was a politics buff, having been hypnotized by Bill Clinton on a street corner in Philadelphia. (Not that kind of street corner!) Actually, if I really think about it, I was somehow interested in politics from a very young age. My mother always loved to tell the story about taking me along with her to vote and how I yelled out that she should vote for Jimmy Carter. But I digress ...
November 7 was always the day planned for my son's birth. I was late, and my doctor did not induce until 7 days past due date. For whatever reason, I had obsessively fretted throughout my pregnancy about being induced. Everyone I knew who had been induced ended up having a C-section, and I did not want a C-section. Why I felt this way is beyond me. I just seem to make things up and fixate on them for no apparent reason. I did this leading up to my wedding also, deciding that I absolutely had to have clear skin on my wedding day (the pouty internal tantrum I threw about the honeymoon locale had not gone very far; while Aruba might have seemed so unoriginal to me, Bora Bora was simply not happening ~ but does remain on my bucket list). So, I started seeing a dermatologist and taking Accutane ... and proceeded to have a unicorn zit, as I named it, for my big day (yes, because it protruded like a pointy horn from my forehead).
It took a lot of effort on my part to come to terms with being induced. This was really all for the best, I ultimately convinced myself. My doctor would be able to deliver, not the tall, foreign-sounding woman he had brought in to the practice who I disliked intensely. I would be able to vote and then leisurely proceed to the hospital. It would be a wonderful day.
And it was ... just not the way I had planned. My water broke in the middle of the night, early hours of Nov. 6. I labored all day and all night to no avail. I was not dilating, I believe. So I was given Pitocin, intervention #1 (I read Naomi Wolf's "Misconceptions" while on maternity leave and became belatedly empowered with all sorts of information that went to no good use during my second pregnancy when I was determined to have a VBAC, wanted a midwife and ended up hospitalized with placenta previa and warned that I might lose my uterus, part of my bladder and massive amounts of blood when the baby was delivered since I actually had accreta (www.marchofdimes.com/pnhec/188_1128.asp) but that is, of course, all another story).
In the early hours of Nov. 7, what had been a dream pregnancy ended in an emergency C-section. There were decelerations, the baby was not getting enough oxygen, they ripped me out of the labor/delivery room into surgery (performed, of course, by the tall, foreign-sounding woman I disliked intensely) and my 9-pound son was placed in NICU.
I was in a deeply drugged state and remember very little about the first couple of days of my son's life. I do remember urging my husband to vote. He was going home to shower and change and pack some things to stay at the hospital with me, and I kept telling him he had to vote. "We live in New York, Michelle," he reminded me, "Gore will win." I remember later emerging from sleep or pain med-induced fog and asking who the president was and being told we did not know and that I was missing the story of my life. I remember being so sad to learn my first child had been born into a Republican administration (and telling him so).
November 7, 2000. It is my birthday, too (www.mothersmovement.org/opinion/06/levine_0611.html). I have always wondered why the child's birthday is not celebrated as the parent's birthday as well. Aren't we both born that day? I think parents should also receive gifts and have parties on their children's birthdays. Next year, for double digits, I think I'll register at the liquor store. For those who like to plan ahead, I prefer my scotch to be single malt, Glenfiddich is a fave. Please do not buy vodka unless it is Grey Goose (Stoli or Absolut would do in a pinch), and no rum except for Malibu. Maybe I'll be able to drink myself into a deep enough coma that I can miss the 2012 match-up between Sarah Palin and Hillary Clinton.

Extra Hour My Ass

2009-11-03T09:13:00.002-05:00

I hate this time of year with getting dark early and changing clocks. Time zones, fall back -- I don't grasp any of it. I think Ben Franklin actually had something to do with all this, and he is my man having founded Penn and all, but still ...
The main problem is the "gain an hour" routine. I have enough unrealistic expectations as to what I can get accomplished in any given time frame, so the last thing I need is an extra hour taunting me and beckoning with false promises of more time. There is no such thing as more time. Once you have kids, there is never enough. People might feel this way regardless of parental status, but from personal experience, I can attest to the abhorrent lack of time with children under your roof.
It's all about them and their schedules. As a matter of fact, the time change was only made worse by coinciding with Halloween, my son's little league playoffs and World Series (and Hebrew school and soccer) and now a day off from school for Election Day. I don't need any of those things lengthened. Longer school day? Sign me up. Add 60 minutes to the already draining weekend? Not so much.
I hate Halloween. There, I said it. Never liked it, try to play along for the kids, but generally not a fan. Ironic since I love candy so much but I can just binge on my own time, thank you very much (and buy the good stuff rather than collecting everyone's chewy, gooey, gummy junk that I throw out anyway). So having Halloween fall out on a weekend is particularly annoying as it just leaves more time to deal with the whole costume/trick-or-treat thing. Why don't we just pile up some cash and burn it? It would be more efficient than running around looking for my son's costume. What a waste!
He wanted to be some fake GI Joe character. As far as I could tell from the catalog I showed him, there was a white costume and a black costume (um, hi, but what happened to normal camouflage GI Joe from our childhood? and my son hasn't even seen a GI Joe movie or show to my knowledge so why the sudden interest?)
In a rare burst of planning ahead, I bought the black GI Joe costume when the shelves were still plentiful with candy and decorations and the racks full of neatly-packaged costumes. Feeling very impressed with myself, I proudly presented the costume to my son ... who promptly burst my bubble telling me I bought the wrong one. "Mooooooommmmmmmmmmm," he whined, "I said Snake Eyes." Come again? "This is Duke, I want Snake Eyes." But it's black, I protested, you wanted the black costume. "Well, this is the wrong one." End of conversation (if you can call the exchange between a surly almost-9-year-old and me a conversation).
Commence Operation Find the Correct Costume Two Days Before Halloween. Good luck. Sure enough, the Snake Eyes package is now prominently displayed at the front of the picked-over racks ... but not in his size. Three stores and much aggravation later, I got the damn costume. Which he proceeded to wear for a total of maybe two hours, not even with the stupid mask and visor thing it comes with because masks are prohibited in the school Halloween parade and he didn't want to wear it on his own time. What the difference was between the first costume I got and the one he eventually wore I still have no idea, and the whole thing got tossed in the trash as it was covered with silly string and shaving cream from our friend's party. Fabulous. Now remind me why we do any of this in the first place?
I guess it is my punishment for not being a crafty mom who loves the occasion, dresses up and throws an annual party and creates some fabulous homemade costume that wows the neighborhood. My kids are stuck with store-bought me. If it weren't for their father, those poor children might never have had a homemade birthday cake or baked-with-love school celebration cupcakes (oh, right, those are the root of all evil, how could I forget?)
Of course, every cloud has its silver lining or whatever the half-full people say. Overall, the weekend was a success. My son's team won the World Series, my daughter said it was the best Halloween ever, and a good time was had by all. And I guess, in the end, that's all that really matters ... it is not the rush-rush-rush of preparation or the stress of running out of candy for the trick-or-treaters or buying the wrong costume that anyone remembers. It's just the happy memories made along the way, and that's all any of us want for our kids.

Pour Some Sugar On Me

2009-10-29T17:28:00.005-04:00

ahhh, the '80s. Def Leppard (I am proud to say I owned "Pyromania," and yes, I know the title of this post was not on that album -- and it was an album, just to date myself). Graduating high school. Off to my first big city (Philadelphia, see yesterday's post) and the rest of my life. Actually, the song reminds me of frat parties (one in particular and it was around Halloween, how apropos) and Henry Carter Brogden Franklin (who was a hero in a half shell that year, yes the Ninja Turtles, how funny they reemerged as toys for my son's generation).
Sorry, getting sidetracked (as if you couldn't tell by all the parentheses). The point of the sugar reference is to cereal. Yes, cereal. I love cereal and can eat a box at a time, I'm afraid. I eat completely childish breakfast foods and am not afraid to admit it. Sometimes I eat oatmeal (steel cut -- the microwaveable kind by Silver Palate or McCanns -- plain or with craisins) but a lot of times I eat kids' cereal ~ and not even necessarily my own kids. Sometimes I buy a sugar cereal that is just for me.
We all love Frosted Flakes so that is hard to keep in the house. My son and I love Fruity Pebbles (he mixes them with Cheerios, which redeems me somewhat, no?), and my daughter and I can inhale Cocoa Pebbles by the box. We all like Corn Pops, Apple Jacks. They go for Froot Loops and Trix sometimes, which I am immune to, no temptation there. Same with Lucky Charms (although it's really only my daughter who asks for it and then only to pick out the marshmallows).
To prevent sharing, I just recently struck upon Reeses Puffs because I am really the only one in the house who eats or likes peanut butter (aside from allergic kids, are there really other children in America that don't eat peanut butter? I still love a PB&J for lunch, and have one often. I guess I eat a lot of child-like meals ... help Larissa! STAT! check out www.nydailynews.com/blogs/mothership_meals).
So it was with much chagrin that I read http://blogs.babble.com/strollerderby/2009/10/27/dont-eat-these-cereals/ telling me that all of these cereals are the worst in terms of lack of nutrition and being marketed to kids (sadly, Reeses Puffs was number one!). Not surprised. Is anyone really falling for the "Smart Choices" marketing campaign?
Well, maybe. A related post to the one above tells about a California woman who actually sued Cap N' Crunch for misleading consumers. She thought crunchberries were real fruit. Really. You can't make this stuff up (www.loweringthebar.net/2009/06/reasonable-consumer-would-know-crunchberries-are-not-real-judge-rules.html). Luckily, the FDA is on the case and recently observed that some of the products bearing the "Smart Choices" label are almost 50 percent sugar (www.chicagotribune.com/business/chi-sat-food-labels-1024-oct24,0,1713245.story).
So? I mean, really. What else are my kids eating for breakfast? Well, actually they are not even the ones eating this cereal for breakfast. They stick to mini pancakes (the frozen kind) or waffles (again, frozen). Sometimes there are leftover made-from-scratch-by-mom chocolate chip pancakes, but is that really any better than the frozen stuff they consume? Marginally, perhaps, and it still has sugar.
No one has time to feed their kids a sensible breakfast of eggs, fruit and OJ -- or whatever a fictitious sensible breakfast is supposed to be. No one has time to do battle over every decision of every day (although it feels like we do that anyway, doesn't it?) so what is the big deal with breakfast as long as it's something? And what if it's not and the child first eats at snack? I mean does all of this really matter? Do you know your child is eating any of the healthy stuff you try to send for lunch anyway? (As a substitute lunch aide in an elementary school -- again, another post -- I can tell you that, no, your child is not eating much of what you send, the garbage can is.)
I always plan to make healthy breakfast bars or muffins or some such thing, but only my daughter would really eat them. And she would still probably eat some handfuls of dry sugar cereal as well, so what's the point? Overall, I color myself lucky that my kids eat certain vegetables and fruits without too much resistance and call it a day.
The reports won't really prevent me from buying or eating the bad stuff. It's all about choices. That's what we teach our kids, isn't it? Good choices. Bad choices. Empower them with the ability to choose at all (probably at the root of a lot of behavior problems in kids today). So, I choose a big, fat bowl of cereal. Want some sugar with that?

Empire State of Mind

2009-10-28T09:55:00.006-04:00

Rainy day here in New York. Fitting, I say. The gods are crying for the Mets fans. Our plight: Yankees vs. Phillies. Game one tonight if the rain quits. Alicia Keys and Jay-Z will perform their cool tune "Empire State of Mind" (www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmTql9e7A-4&feature=related). There's a freakin rally scheduled for today. Ugh.
I'm a lifelong Mets fan. I was pregnant with my son in 2000 (http://mlb.mlb.com/mlb/history/postseason/mlb_ws_recaps.jsp?feature=2000) and was so devastated watching the Mets lose (which apparently happened on my mother's birthday ~ interesting, another thing to be mad at her for, but that's all another post), that is probably why he was born a Mets fan.
So he is fairly upset with me for saying I'd root for the Phillies. I don't buy the whole "support New York" thing; I am a true-blue, bitter Mets fan and hate the Yankees. They're like the spoiled older sibling who does no wrong and is universally regarded as perfect no matter what you do. The Mets could cure cancer, and the Yankees would somehow market it as their accomplishment.
Plus, I actually have a deep connection to Philadelphia. Went to college there. Lived there after that for a couple of years (my Will and Grace years, another post). I love that city. Don't misunderstand: my love affair with New York City is first and foremost, but Philly was like training wheels for me. As a little girl, I always dreamed of living in Manhattan; I wanted to go to sleep and wake up there (seems I was a borough snob even before living here), and I was lucky enough to have that dream come true. But in between growing up in podunk Poconos in a town without a traffic light and making it to the big city, I had a stopover in Philadelphia and it will always hold a special place in my heart.
I understand the Phillies beat us and we hate them. I just hate the Yankees more, and given this Sisyphean task of choosing between bad and worse, I have to go with the Phillies. Mets are out. I don't carry the grudge that far. Yes, Phillies beat us that year, so what, we have been beaten before and we will be beaten again. The Yankees have always been a thorn in our sides and always will be.
I must admit, though, that I softened after reading the New York Post and them wanting to win it for George. The man is decrepit and likely has no idea what is going on, but if it brings him some peace for his team to win another one (number 40?) then so be it. I won't be upset if the Yankees win, I'll just be happier if Philadelphia repeats.
My son will forgive me one day ... or not. He can just add it to the list.

Fighting Over Crumbs

2009-10-27T09:10:00.004-04:00

There are times when I am brutally reminded that I live in suburbia. Not that there's anything wrong with that ... it can just feel depressing sometimes. Perfect example: when the PTA moms (and, yes, I am technically one of them) get their panties in a bunch about cupcakes (and to be fair to the increasingly active dads, their boxers or briefs ~ for those men and women going commando, that's another post).
At a recent meeting, there was mention that birthday celebrations might be reduced to one per month. Each child will be recognized on their actual birthday with the usual crown or pin, song or whatever, but celebrations will be one time for all birthdays that month. I don't even recall that banning cupcakes was mentioned. Healthy choices are being encouraged (i.e. fruit platters), and the entire issue is being clouded with allergy concerns, wellness concerns and education (time away from instruction) so it gets confusing ... and loud.
You might have thought someone had threatened children's lives. The immediate and frenzied reaction was truly something to witness. Now, I love my kids as much as the next person, but do I really think that not having a cupcake or a donut or whatever on their birthday is going to scar them for life and irrevocably alter their early childhood? NO. (My daughter is a summer birthday anyway, so she is already discriminated against by these standards.) I also do not think that childhood obesity has a damn thing to do with snacks in school. The cupcake the obese child is eating has nothing on the crap he or she probably eats at home while sitting around watching TV and playing video games.
Within days, local news reported that a district in the neighboring county actually did ban cupcakes (www.newsday.com/long-island/nassau/cupcakes-out-west-babylon-schools-ban-home-baked-goodies-1.1521806). The buzz was intense. Allergy moms pitted against non-allergy moms. Socialists threatening libertarians. OK, not really. But you would have thought people were fighting over something more substantial than a cupcake. With cries of "you can't tell me what to feed my child" and "it's freedom of choice," you definitely would not walk into the room and think the virulent debate was about baked goods. After all, not having cupcakes on your birthday in school is unAmerican! Call O'Reilly, Beck and Hannity QUICK!
The passion exhibited over this topic depresses me. With everything going on in the world, with everything one could expend energy on, people get riled up and active about cupcakes?!?? Really??? It just disturbs me.
Lots of parents who are also teachers in other districts (some on LI, some in the city) say it's only a matter of time before the state makes school food-free (obviously, aside from lunch). There are too many parties anyway. Don't even get me started on Thanksgiving celebrations ...
Point is: it seems to me that a lot of time and energy will be spent on an issue that is going to be decided for us in the end. How can we channel the motivation and the interest surrounding cupcakes to something more productive and beneficial to the community as a whole? That's my mystery for the month. I fear it will never be solved.

Arbor Day Friday

2009-04-24T10:14:00.000-04:00

Quite the green week this week, huh? Arbor Day, it seems, has a much longer history than Earth Day. According to www.arborday.org (it has its own .org!), the national observance was founded by J. Sterling Morton in 1872 to be celebrated on the last Friday in April. And there is your "you-learn-something-new-every-day" tidbit, brought to you by the letter Q.

I do believe the universe tries to communicate with us by so-called coincidences and other signs. So, I find it particularly interesting that in the last 24 hours I have come across two quotations that resonate with me on the same topic. Last night (cramming for my book club meeting tonight), reading A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby (didn't know he was British until last night either), a character quotes Oscar Wilde as having said, "One's real life is so often the life that one does not lead." Then, this morning in an Executive Momorandum (Marisa Thalberg's fabulous group, www.executivemoms.com), an audience member at the luncheon this week quoted Carl Jung as saying, "The most profound psychological impact on a child is created by the unlived lives of their parents."

This is the stuff I love to dwell upon. What is the life I am not living? Where is the line between childishly, self-indulgently pursuing one's own interests and dreams, and owing it to our kids to chase our destinies? How are parents supposed to strike that balance between feeding their own souls and still nurturing their little ones? This is why I am so inspired and impressed by groups like Mamapalooza (www.mamapalooza.com) and Joy Rose. That rock star rebel spirit of keeping a part of your individual identity alive amidst the endless giving that motherhood demands.

Of course, that always brings me to my biggest unanswered question: what is my individual identity? I don't know if I ever really had one, which makes it all the funnier that I bristle so at the notion of being trapped in a suburban cliche. Shouldn't I be relieved to have a ready-made and societally-accepted persona dropped into my lap? No (heavy sigh), it all makes me struggle even more with myself.

To me, motherhood is such a conundrum. How are you supposed to be responsible for raising another human being and teaching them everything about the world or at least attempting to equip them to be functional, contributing members of society, when motherhood is first revealing things to you about yourself! I have learned more about myself and my relationship with my husband and so much else since I had kids. Actually, it even started when pregnant with my first. So, if it takes decades to get to a certain comfort level in one's own skin, and as a new mom you are first processing new ideas and epiphanies and concepts, how the hell are you expected to care for a new life at the same time? Don't they always tell us on the plane to put on our air mask first?

Well, those are my random thoughts for the moment. Please tell me yours. Enjoy the sunshine!

My Earth Day Birth Day!

2009-04-22T17:13:00.000-04:00

On April 22, 1970, I was not yet born (don't be horrified, it was just three months later I entered the world), but Earth Day was welcomed. Senator Gaylord Nelson, a Democrat from Wisconsin, proposed the idea in order to demonstrate the "broad and deep support for the environmental movement" (http://www.epa.gov/history/topics/earthday/02.htm). The occasion has endured, and its message is more vital than ever.

Today, all these years later, I embark on my own mission: to demonstrate that soccer moms (hockey moms, whatever moniker has been assigned for the moment) are not political props to be conveniently trotted out during an election cycle and then promptly dismissed once the votes are in; to demonstrate that motherhood is not the pretty picture society (or lying women) would have you believe ~ and that is OK; to demonstrate that moms are multidimensional and should be treated as such ... I have a lot to say about a lot of different things. I hope you will laugh along the way, recognize yourself in some of what I describe and come away feeling better that you are not alone.