Lookin' Good Mom

In many households, weekends mean that an overworked, underpaid and utterly unappreciated maternal type such as myself might sleep in. 

But, no. Not in our house. 

You see, summertime Saturdays often mean equestrian events which often mean crack-of-dawn mornings at the stable, packing, tacking and trailering. I'm happy to report that I have nothing to do with any of that. But, I do get up for less horsey tasks: making lunch, for example. Or ensuring that my young champion hasn't hit the snooze button one or two (or six) times too many.

Yesterday was just such a Saturday. I was up at six. I fed the dog, I pulled out a lunchbox and a cooler. I was about to go up and begin my morning nag ritual, but I heard my drowsy daughter in the bathroom.

It never ceases to amaze me how she manages to get herself up for horse shows when a load of dynamite under her bed wouldn't wake her on a school day.

But, I digress.

No one in our house has had time to grocery shop lately, so pulling together a traveling lunch was tricky. (Lately, I've sent the offspring off to work with ramen noodles — I know, I know, FLOTUS would be appalled. But, alas, even this option was out of the question; no microwaves at the showgrounds.) Luckily, I found a leftover piece of chicken which I shredded, added some cheese and rolled the whole thing (with a little extra barbecue sauce for good measure) in a spinach wrap. Voila! I figured she would either love it or it (should I say "I?") would suck. But, it was pretty much the only option. I added chips, some not as fresh as-it-once-was fruit, Goldfish crackers and a strange Oreo line extension dessert, a little package of chocolate wafer sticks with a small cup of white frosting filling to dip them into (the last time I actually did go to the grocery store, my daughter insisted that she "needed" said item). I also packed six bottles of water though, so at least I get good mommy points in the hydration department.

Meanwhile, the teen came downstairs, looking neat as a pin in clean riding breeches, tall black boots and a "Got Schmidt?" tee shirt from her favorite show New Girl. She would change into a blouse, stock tie and jacket before the competition. Her hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail (which I would change into a pristine bun before the competition).

"Can you juggle cars with me?" she asked. I'll explain.

We live in a neighborhood that was built around the same time the colonies were transforming themselves into a more perfect union. Suffice it to say, our founding fathers and mothers didn't really plan ahead for parking. We are very fortunate here in "olde town" that our property actually accommodates three cars. But, it's a bit of a jigsaw puzzle. My Miata (24 years old and counting; really, we can get "antique" plates next year) is her vehicle of choice, naturally. But, her father's sedan was blocking it in. Thus, the need for the aforementioned juggling.

So, remember two paragraphs ago when I bragged about how crisp my daughter looked? Let's now contrast that with her ever-loving mamacita. I was wearing a night shirt, one of those oversized tees, faded, stretched out of shape, and embellished with a huge dachshund that wraps front to back with the words "I long to be around you." My hair was standing pretty much straight up. My makeup from the night before, which apparently I hadn't removed despite some lovely skincare products my mother has given me over the years, was smudged around my eyes. And I was barefoot. So, to facilitate car-juggling — and to complete my lovely ensemble — I grabbed a pair of black Uggs from the coat closet.

This last addition was of great interest to our new puppy. I could practically hear him thinking "Wow! Mom put two chew toys on her feet! Far out!" He nipped and tugged all the way to the back door, where I grabbed keys and headed out in all my glory. To my daughter's credit, my appearance was rewarded with only the slightest of eye rolls.

I consoled myself with the thought that no one could actually see me as long as I was behind the wheel of the car. Unfortunately though, as soon as my daughter drove off, I had to pull back into our property and shut the gate. Naturally, two neighbors chose to walk by just at that moment, as did the sweet man who bags groceries at the store that I haven't managed to get to lately. He usually hands me my purchases with a charming "Lovely to see you as always."

Yesterday morning, despite a rather reluctant and embarrassed wave from me, he said nothing.

Hmmmm ... wonder why?

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

The Sound of Silence

Mornings are not the most pleasant time of day around here. 

We have a teenager. 

(I understand you're tired. I realize you were up late studying math. I apologize that school starts at 7:50 am. I know life sucks. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.)

Today, as usual, my teen daughter grudgingly got herself out of bed and was puttering about in her room. I don't know what she does up there. The alarm (her second) goes off a few minutes before 6:30. Her father drops her at a friend's house at 7:05. In-between, I make her breakfast and lunch (the high school cafeteria "blows"). And, like clockwork, at 6:55, I call upstairs.

"Breakfast is ready."

Today, she came down and started one of those conversations that I hate, the ones where she requests that I change something we've always done. (BTW, she does this in a really condescending voice, like she's a Nobel Laureate and I'm the village idiot.)

"Mom, can I ask you something? I think I've asked you before."

"Um. What?"

"Can you not call and tell me breakfast is ready every day? I really hate it."

I had a hundred snappish comebacks on the tip of my tongue. For example ...

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you got down here faster. And, by the way, your room is a disaster area."

Or ...

"Well, excuuuuuuuuse me for trying to be a good mother and slaving away in the kitchen and making you a nice meal."

Or ...

"Well, that really hurt my feelings. I don't see why you have to be so hateful when everything I do is for you." 

Here's what I said instead ... 

"Okay."

That's it. Really.

I'm so proud of myself I could burst! I feel like I have reached some heretofore unattainable peak of maternal zenliness. I am patience. I am tolerance. I am composure. Look up "grace under pressure" in the dictionary and you will likely see a picture of moi!

My daughter is downright surly in the morning — that's on a good day. And, I do crave appreciation. (For the record, my breakfasts and lunches are quite nice.) But, if she wants to wallow in ... er, I mean ... ease into her busy sophomore life in silence, why shouldn't she? 

There's the rub. The silence is what kills me these days. When my daughter was little, we had such a happy, chattery routine. It included two-way conversations in the early hours and books read aloud together in the evenings. After I tucked her in, we had that little ritual beloved by so many moms:

"I love you.

"I love you more.

"No, I love you more."

Now? No more. 

As often as not, I go to bed while my daughter's still doing homework or studying. I give her a kiss (usually on the top of her head before she can pull away or grimace), wish her "good night" and get the hell out of dodge. When she isn't working, she's engaged with friends online or streaming a show on the iPad via Netflix. I used to get a few back-and-forth words in when I drove her to the stable every other day. But, with her brand new license in her eager hand, she heads off alone now.

When my daughter was little, I missed the quiet I had known before she came into my life. Now, I miss her stories, the jokes, the affectionate banter. I try not to sound desperate or repetitive. I try not to fill the quiet with gentle mom nags: "Have you got everything? Did you remember your permission slip for the photography field trip?"

I try to be silent.

After all, Thomas Carlyle said "Silence is golden." 

We choose our battles, and this ain't one of them. From now on, I won't announce that breakfast is ready. 

Or, as Belinda Carlisle (no relation) said, "Our lips are sealed."

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

Control Freak. Who Moi?

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” 

This quote from author and educator Elizabeth Stone is one of my all-time favorites. It rings so true to me. For the past fourteen years, I have been less than whole. My very center lives in the next bedroom over.

This was fine when she was always accessible. I could hold her, hug her, kiss her to my heart's delight. Alas, those days are over. My daughter is her own person and she is not one to suffer foolish mothers gladly.

Most of the time, I walk around dazed and confused. The love of my life has moved on (not literally, of course, but attitudinally) and I am bereft. Once in a while, though, I am able to see the world through her eyes. This morning, for example, I had a moment of clarity and here is what I observed ...

My daughter's mother is a control freak.

Really, it's true. This mother's dressing room is right outside my daughter's door, and she waits there, listening for the alarm clock to go off. Once it does, she can't just finish getting dressed and mind her own business. Oh no, she has to loiter and say inane things like, "Good morning, sweetie. Did you sleep well?"

I'm not quite sure who this ridiculous person is. But, she looks a lot like me.

For the next thirty minutes or so, this overbearing mother feels compelled to nag my daughter about pretty much everything. Here are just some of the incessant questions and directions that come out of her maternal mouth:

"Make your bed."

"Put your pajamas in the hamper."

"Can you bring that bowl with you when you come downstairs?"

"Do you have your English homework?"

"Do you have your Math homework?"

"Do you have your Social Studies homework?"

"Do you have your gym clothes?"

"Take your vitamin."

"Finish those strawberries."

"Put your phone away."

"Do you want me to call your Music teacher about that assignment?"

"Don't wipe your fingers on your jeans."

"Your hair is tangled."

"What time will you be home?"

"Eat your bagel."

"Wear a hat and scarf."

"Go brush your teeth."

"Hug, please."

"Bye honey. Have a great day."

OMG! Who is this person and when did I become her? 

When I stop and listen to myself, I have to give my daughter props (credit) for putting up with me at all. Her answers may be monosyllabic (and there is certainly some eye-rolling going on), but she isn't completely making fun of me. Well, not to my face.

Seriously, though, is this who she thinks I am? Because I am really much more interesting, independent and just plain cool than my breakfast banter would lead one to believe. So how did we get here?

My daughter's at an age when mornings are unpleasant have-to-haves. Her approach is to get through them in silence. 

Ay, there's the rub. To this mother's ears, her silence is deafening. It is a preview of the years to come when she won't be here anymore. So, my instinctive reaction is to fill that silence. But, I think I'll try and embrace the quiet next time. Maybe we can be together in it. 

Whenever my daughter is particularly ornery or moody, I remind myself that she is going through a perfectly normal developmental stage. She is stretched between her past as a little girl and her future as a woman. She is struggling with all of the changes in her body and her world. And, I try to understand and empathize, shrug it off.

My dear daughter, I'm also struggling with these changes. More than you will ever understand — until, that is, you have a daughter of your own. So, the next time I start nagging, you have my permission to shrug it off too.

Parenta Non Gratis

I remember when I was a very popular mom. I remember when my daughter said, "Please" and "Thank you," and actually seemed to enjoy my company.

I remember because that magical time was a mere 40 hours ago.

On Saturday, after my daughter's riding lesson, I took her to the mall. I bought her a cute bra, a pair of wedge sandals for a trip we're planning, a skirt, two pairs of shorts, a few tops, and a tall caramel Frappucino. For that one brief shining moment, we were more than mother-daughter. We were pals, girlfriends, BFFs.

Do I treasure these little excursions? Oh yes.

Am I bribing my tween to be nice to me? Abso-bloomin-lutely!

The rest of the weekend was unusually pleasant too. We went out for tex-mex Saturday night, met friends for brunch Sunday morning, after which, my daughter got to show off her new pony. We chilled at home, baked brownies with white chocolate chips and crushed Oreos on top, and caught up on an episode of Downton Abbey en famille.

Monday morning came (too quickly, as usual) and I still remembered our lovely weekend together. My daughter? Um ... not so much.

Her alarm went off and I could hear her grumbling. I should know better (I really really really should know better) but I couldn't resist peeking into her room. She was standing, looking somewhat stunned, in front of her dresser with puffy eyes and bed-head.

"Hi sweetie," I ventured, stepping down into her room. She glared at me, of course. But I am one fearless mother; I walked right up to her and kissed her on the top of her head.

"Ugh!" she uttered, "You kiss me too much."

Okay then. I retreated downstairs to the kitchen to make her breakfast, pack her lunch and tidy up some dishes that had been soaking overnight. I noticed that her phone had 12 app updates waiting, so I logged into the iTunes account on her behalf. About fifteen minutes later, she stumbled down.

Although we have a no-cell-phones-before-school rule, she is allowed to quickly check and make sure her friend is walking. She immediately noticed the updated apps.

"Why did you update my apps?" she demanded. "I didn't want you to!"

Okay then. I brought her the pizza bagel I had made. "Here you go," I said. Again, she gave me the glare, that affectionate look I know so well. I went to get a coat for her but stopped short.

"Aaaaaaaaaaagh!!!!!" she had screamed from the bathroom.

"What?" I came running.

"My hair!!!!!"

"What about it?"

"It doesn't work!!!!!"

"Can I help?"

"NO!!!!!" She pushed past me and headed back upstairs. Apparently, her hair would "work" better in her own bathroom — and away from me.

A few minutes later, she and the hair had returned. She grabbed her jacket, her backpack and her lunch box, and muttered, "Bye."

"Wait a minute," I advised as I caught up to her by the back door. "I need a hug." She stood stiff and still as I embraced her. For good measure, I planted one more kiss on her cheek.

"Ugh," she said. "You kiss me too much!"

I just smiled which made her turn back and lecture, "Seriously, I mean it. Something has to change around here."

Okay then. I can think of many things I'd like to see change. Our morning routine, the level of civility (or lack thereof) in our home, or maybe her attitude for a start.

But, the kisses? They're not negotiable.

There's Got To Be A Morning After

Before I had my daughter, I was absolutely, unequivocally a morning person. What better time to write, take a yoga class, make a sweet cup of coffee and sit quietly with a book? Even now, with my schedule revolving entirely around my tweenager, I still enjoy my mornings when I can. One of my favorite things about vacations or weekends away is sneaking out before anyone else is up. In New Orleans, I comb the French Quarter. In Florida, I stroll along the Gulf. In New York, I walk forty blocks north towards Columbia University and forty blocks back to my mother's apartment just to watch my hometown come to life.

Of course, everything is different when you're a mom.

They say, "Change is good." Well, mornings with a fourteen year old girl? Um, not so much.

There is the struggle — emotional, intellectual, sometimes physical — to pry the girl out of her bed. There are the seemingly endless negotiations ... "Two more minutes, Mom, just two more minutes." There's the need for constant nagging, for staying in the doorway even though you have dozens of things to do downstairs because you know with absolute certainty that if you walk away her head will be down on that pillow again faster than you can say ...

"You're gonna be late for school. Get up NOW."

We have an agreement that my daughter has to do a handful (a tiny munchkin-sized handful) of chores each day before she leaves. She has to make her bed, put her pajamas away, hang her towels, tidy up her desk and dresser. Gasp! I know, I know, I am the Simon Legree of mothers. These dreaded chores, which, as you can imagine are performed with so much graciousness, are no longer an issue. Officially. In one of my rare acts of laying down a law and then actually sticking to my guns afterwards (mixed metaphor, but you get my point), I decreed that she was hereby forbidden to bitch and moan about them.

Did you ever notice how incredibly adept tweens are at non-verbal communication?

Whether it's her age or all the manual labor, her attitude in the morning is — shall we say — not her greatest asset. Sullen, impatient, resentful. At best, she tolerates me. At worst? Let's not go there. Between the time her feet touch the carpet until she heads out the kitchen door to walk to school, we enjoy thirty-five minutes of quality family time.

Not.

It could be worse. I read once that the Dalai Lama suggests meditating on those less fortunate than you in order to feel satisfied with your lot. In that spirit, I will now count down a list of things that would be less pleasant than a typical morning with my daughter.

Here goes:

10. A root canal ... with a holistic dentist who doesn't believe in novocaine

9. A three-hour dance recital in which your little ballerina is on stage for four minutes

8. Back-to-back episodes of Jerseylicious

7. The swine flu

6. Trying on a bikini ... in florescent light ... in February

5. Repeating trigonometry

4. Eating a grilled SPAM sandwich on white bread with mayo

3. Cleaning out a flooded basement

2. Trying to catch a miniature long-haired dachshund who has been skunked

And the number 1 thing that would be less pleasant?

1. Being fourteen again myself

There. I feel much better now. So, to all my readers ... "Good morning! Have a nice day."

Morning Glory

"Good mornin', good mornin'!"

Y'know the scene in Singin' in the Rain when Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds and Donald O'Connor realize that their evening was so late ... it's early? They've pulled an all-nighter figuring out how to transform the silent movie The Dueling Cavalier into the talkie The Dancing Cavalier. With their problem solved, they realize that the sun is already on its way up — which, this being an MGM musical, gives them yet another reason to sing and dance. It's a famous and memorable sequence in a well-loved Hollywood classic.

It's also a terrific way to torture your tween. Trust me.

You see, I am my daughter's alarm clock, among the many many (thankless, overworked, underpaid) jobs I have. Don't get me wrong; she has a clock. She has a clock that she picked out herself two years ago. She has a clock that has a brightly lit display in which every digit is a different fluorescent color. She has a clock that has an alarm so loud and so shrill that I can hear it three rooms down the hall even if I'm in the shower.

Unfortunately, my daughter, an otherwise normal and healthy young woman, is apparently deaf and blind at 6:30 in the morning. Which is why yours truly must take on the role of said clock. She sleeps right through the alarm. However ... she can't sleep through me.

When she was little, I couldn't wait to wake her up. She was a good sleeper and she was always sweet and cheerful in the mornings. She was happy to get up. She was happy to see me. We typically snuggled a few minutes before choosing an outfit (that we actually agreed about, imagine that!) and starting our day together. Since I worked full-time in a city an hour away, those minutes we had together before I dropped her off at daycare were particularly precious to me. To both of us, I think.

Well ... suffice it to say that mornings are different now. Like everyone else her age, my daughter can't seem to get enough sleep. We've tried earlier bedtimes. But, she has too much homework and too many activities (and, between you and me, too many friends with Facebook accounts) to get to bed any sooner than she already does.

Of course, the problem, she insists is that school starts too early. Not that she's staying up too late. (Nah, going to bed late and getting up early couldn't possibly be related, right? Those two factors could never turn a perfectly normal tween into a stark-raving, fire-breathing, head-spinning little monster, could they? Didn't think so.)

Here's our new routine. "Good morning, sweetie," I offer cheerfully.

She doesn't move.

I walk in and open all the blinds. Her room has seven windows on three walls; when the blinds are open, it is b-r-i-g-h-t. I adjust the bedspread and the covers and her stuffed animals (mostly horses but a few squirrels — I'm really not sure why), all of which are now on the carpet.

She doesn't move.

By now, I'm feeling some pressure. Let's see, I still need to make breakfast, pack lunch, double check that all homework is complete and in the backpack, get a sense of any after school plans, start my own day. So, I begin coaxing, then coercing, then nagging, then threatening.

And, if at any point, I really want to make her cringe, I sing ...

Good mornin', good mornin'!

We've talked the whole night through,

Good mornin', good mornin' to you.

Good mornin', good mornin'!

It's great to stay up late.

Good mornin', good mornin' to you!

I never have to sing it twice.