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.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Book Review
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
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
Sunday, January 17, 2010
2010: Worse Than 2012?
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!
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!
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Battle of the Bulge
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!
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!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Gratitude
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
And The Award Goes To ...
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 : )
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 : )
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Tanzania Bound
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 ...
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 ...
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