This evening, I found a list of the "26 Moments That Restored Our Faith in Humanity" on BuzzFeed.
Most of them were pretty humbling: a doctor who opened his office with free health care for Hurricane Sandy victims; a young bride who married her quadriplegic veteran fiancé; a soccer team that let its manager, a student with Down Syndrome, start a match. There were people who saved animals, people who helped the homeless, people who defended injustice. Random acts of compassion and kindness and care.
Then, I saw this note. I was sitting alone with my laptop in our dining room — my husband was upstairs napping between our Christmas party commitments; my teen daughter was working on her book review of The Handmaid's Tale — so no one was really within listening range. But, I couldn't help myself.
"Oh!" I said aloud and my eyes began to water.
Here's why:
Wow, does this resonate for me. My own "wee one" is not so very "wee" anymore. And, I'm sorry to report that snuggling left the picture many many moons ago, I'm afraid. Along with bedtime stories and holding hands at crosswalks.
What a lovely, generous act. (I only wish I had thought of it first.)
When my daughter was little, she was — as Mary Poppins would say — "practically perfect in every way." I don't think this is my over-romanticizing the past. Really, she was an easy-peasy child. And, this made it easy-peasy for me to be a good mom. She was agreeable, compliant, cheerful, sweet. I rarely — if ever — raised my voice.
How times have changed, my friends.
These days, I am torn between frustration over her actions (or, often, inactions) and self-recrimination over my own. Whether she realizes it or not, I don't enjoy shrieking at her. It isn't fun to find fault. I don't leave her room feeling good or proud or victorious. Generally, I slink off and berate myself for losing my cool.
I felt I had a lot of support from other mothers years ago when we were struggling with daycare schedules, breast-feeding and potty training. But, the issues of raising a teenager don't seem to be shared as much. Take a look at typical Facebook posts by moms about their high schoolers:
Joey made the honor roll ... again. ;)
We were just thrilled when Susie's softball team took the state championship.
Here's Kayla helping out at the homeless shelter.
And, yes, I know I am guilty myself. What will my little equestrienne do with yet another blue ribbon?
Puh-lease!
For all the sharing out there, I don't think we're broadcasting our real feelings. Here's what I'd like to see (or, let's face it, post) if we were all being honest:
Why does my teenager hate me so much?
I went to college for this???
She's a monster and I'm scared to go into her room.
Last night, I attended an ad industry holiday party. Although we all had professional stories to tell, one conversation quickly evolved into a group therapy session with myself and other parents of teenagers earnestly listening to our slightly older peers. You see, they had already lived through the terrible teens and come out the other side. "It will get better," they assured us. "They'll come back around." "You have to trust that you taught them the important stuff already."
Being the mother of a teen is tough. And, as my best friend always urges me to remember, "If she likes you, you're not doing your job."
It helps to hear other stories. For one thing, it's gratifying to know that you're not alone. For another, some of the stories are so much worse that you gain perspective. You realize your own little spawn of Satan ain't so bad after all.
So what if you spend an inordinate amount of your life policing and nagging, checking homework and reviewing grades? I have heard many grown people wish that their parents had pushed them harder. I've never once heard a person complain the other way.
I recently found this online, edited it a bit and sent it to my daughter. (I wish I could tell you who wrote it in the first place, but like so many things that go viral, it's virtually impossible to find where it started.)
My promise to my child. I am your mom first, your friend second. I will guide you, lecture you, flip out on you, drive you insane, be your worst nightmare and hunt you down like a bloodhound when needed because I LOVE YOU! When you understand that, I will know you are a responsible adult. You will NEVER find someone who cares, worries about and loves you more than I do!
Hear, hear!
O tannenbaum! Like so many people, I have warm memories of Christmas trees.
Growing up in midtown Manhattan, I would often accompany my father to purchase our tree from one of the sidewalk vendors. Like everything in New York City, these trees were available for, shall we say, a premium; some years, we had to wait until close to Christmas in order to negotiate a better price. Until I was old enough to object, my father used me as a pitiful little accomplice. He would coach me en route. "Oh Daddy, this one is so nice. I know it's our tree. I just know it." My father (who was a professional actor with Broadway credits) would then sheepishly admit to the seller that he didn't have quite enough for the tree his small daughter had fallen in love with. Eventually I became too big (and too self-conscious) and my role was handed down to my sister, whose performance was even more Dickensian than mine. Step aside, Little Nell, step aside.
My mother had a beautiful collection of ornaments that seemed fragile and precious and altogether magical. A Santa from her years studying in Germany, gold and silver stars with shiny streamers, glass balls, endearing felt creatures. I loved helping with the tree as long as I lived at home, and looked forward to seeing it each year when I visited from college.
So, of course, I knew that Christmas trees would be important to my own holiday traditions.
My husband would argue that I've taken it a little too far.
Yes, I'm a Christmas tree junkie. I trim four trees each year: living room, dining room, guest room and my now teen daughter's room. (Six years ago, I was very sick, having contracted a hateful intestinal virus after some surgery. We pared back; we only had two trees.)
The first year we put a tree in our then little girl's room, she was distressed to realize that it was the smallest tree in the house. This wasn't meant as a slight. First of all, despite a bunch of "Baby's 1st Christmas" ornaments, we had less trimmings for her. Also, a seven-foot tree felt — I don't know — awkward for a person who was barely three feet high herself.
Still, we listened. The next year, one of our trees was taller than we expected. And, since my daughter's ceiling is actually higher than those in other rooms, the giant fir became hers.
Of course, this tradition necessitated amassing another tree's worth of ornaments. We started with teddy bears of all types: knit, wooden, quilted in tartan plaid, small jointed plush. A year or two later (I confess these Christmases run together), an art director I work with gave her a box of classic cartoon characters (Bullwinkle, the Chipmunks, that scientist dog guy whose name I can't recall). My best friend gave her a collector's set of exquisitely carved Alice in Wonderland figures. There were Mickey Mouses, Snoopy and Woodstock, Disney Princesses and a bevy of Barbies, decked out in festive finery (yes, they certainly know how to put the ho in ho-liday).
Just as the decorations in her room evolved from fairies to horses, her Christmas tree eventually went equine as well. People gave her horse ornaments, rider ornaments, saddle and boot and bridle ornaments. She had (multiple) sets of lights with glowing plastic steeds where bare bulbs would otherwise be. She had a hand-embroidered garland of "tack" (that would be equestrian equipment for those of you who don't spend every moment of discretionary time at a stable, as I — alas — do). My husband brought her a beautiful painted pony from a business trip to Prague, which proudly serves as her topper.
This year, much to my wonder, she demanded a smaller tree. Much smaller. (Really. Except that it's symmetrical and actually has several branches, it could be a Charlie Brown tree.) This surprised me. She has the space; heaven knows she has the ornaments. No, she was adamant. She wanted a tiny tree.
Lesson learned: don't fight the fights that aren't worth fighting. Okay. We'd just pull a few (a very few) of her decorations and keep the rest packed away. On the bright side, she saved us $25.
My husband was coerced into tree-shopping and installing prior to leaving for a weekend with friends. As per usual, I set about trimming solo. I complain (I complain a lot), but I enjoy this all-day ritual. I listen to my favorite Christmas albums, sip coffee in the morning and egg nog in the afternoon. By dinnertime, the three main trees were up and, if I do say so myself, they looked stunning. I had to wait on the tree in my daughter's room because she needed to go through her ornaments and decide which fortunate few would be on display this year.
We sat together on her carpet. She unwrapped and passed judgement; I rewrapped. A fairly large assortment of 'maybes' was quickly whittled down to a choice dozen or so that ended up on the tree. I was surprised by some of the choices — both affirmative and negative. The thing is, to my daughter, they are all just ornaments. To me, they are distinct memories. Each and every one is associated with a particular giver back in some particular December. I seem to forget where I leave my phone on a fairly regular basis, but I do remember the back story of all our Christmas ornaments.
My strategy this year was to let her have her way. If the bristly brush squirrel ornament somehow ranked higher than the bejeweled carousel horse, well, so be it. I was proud of my ability to hold my tongue.
Until a small wooden rocking horse was moved from the 'maybe' pile to the 'no.' I couldn't help it; a disappointed "Oh," escaped.
She looked at me quizzically.
"That's from the first Christmas tree I ever had that was my own. In my tiny apartment in Greenwich Village." I turned it over for her so she could see the date: 1984.
She nodded almost imperceptibly. Then, she took the little rocking horse back and put it on her tree.
A is for Affection
Which I still can't help feeling
B is for Boots
That raise our debt ceiling
C is for Careless
Missing coats, gloves and hat
D is for Denial
That she ever acts like a brat
E is for Edge
That she drives me right up to
F is for "Fun"
That's a band. Hm. Who knew?
G is for Girly Girl
Something she just disdains
H is for Horses
And for saddles and reins
I is for Ice Cream
Orange Leaf, Ben & Jerry
J is for Jumping
Which this mom finds quite scary
K is for Karma
Which I humbly try to teach her
L is for Lackadaisical
She can be such a lazy creature
M is for Memories
Of the toddler I miss
N is for Not
Quite ready for her first kiss
O is for Old
The years passed in a wink
P is for Purple
Neon orange and pink
Q is for Quizzes
And last minute study
R is for Riding
With a really good buddy
S is for Silly
The way she acts with her corps
T is for Team Harmony
A club I "made her" sign up for
U is for Unyielding
She stands firm, she's no fool
V is for Vicious
Like those mean girls at school
W is for Wreck
Or what she calls her room
X is for Xanax
Which relieves doom and gloom
Y is for Yo Yo
An emotional whirl
Z is for Zealous
And how much I still love my girl.
Big news from the U.K. Kate is great ... with child. Royal watchers everywhere are thrilled.
But the poor Duchess of Cambridge has a rare condition called hyperemesis gravidarum. This is the formal medical term for acute morning sickness. In addition to what must be acute misery, Kate now has to be careful about dehydration and weight loss.
Let's face it, she didn't have a whole lot of weight to begin with.
When I was pregnant, nearly sixteen years ago, I suffered from severe morning sickness myself. Except, in my case, the term "morning sickness" was really a misnomer. My nausea was not limited to any particular hour. It hit — and hit hard — pretty much all day, every day. And, while most expectant mothers feel some relief after about week twelve, mine lasted twenty-four weeks.
What can I say? I was always an overachiever.
My doctors were concerned. It was probably around the third month of my term when they called in one of their colleagues to have a serious heart-to-heart.
"You know," he told me, "It's not a good idea to diet while you're pregnant."
I explained that I wasn't dieting; it was just that nothing stayed down. He didn't seem convinced and prescribed a pint of ice cream each night for a week, followed by another visit.
"Sure," I agreed. "I love frozen yogurt."
"No," he corrected me. "Ice cream. The real stuff. Not light, not low-fat. A full pint of high test Ben & Jerry's each night and then we'll see."
I did eventually stop throwing up and I did gain weight. In fact, by the time my now teenage daughter was born, I had put on an absolutely respectable 29 pounds. Oh, but those first six months were horrible!
Kate is currently in hospital and under the finest of care, I have no doubt. But, if she were my BFF, here's some advice I would give her:
1. Figure out where the best public restrooms are on your way to and from work — just in case.
Please note: this first and fairly important suggestion is proof positive (as if proof were needed) that Kate Middleton is, in fact, not my BFF. She doesn't have to work, and I sincerely doubt she spends much time in public restrooms. But I digress ...
2. Try to find a McDonald's that turns its milkshake machine on at breakfast time. I don't know what's in it (chalk, maybe?), but a chocolate milkshake is a powerful early morning nausea prophylaxis.
3. Keep breath mints, a travel toothbrush and toothpaste in the glove compartment.
4. Crab rangoons. Really. Deep-fried cream cheese and crab. Not high on my hit parade until I was pregnant, but they did the trick thereafter. Today, my daughter is firmly convinced that this particular craving is responsible for her own predilection for pu pu platters.
5. Ginger. Yes, I know everyone recommends drinking ginger ale. (That's why my husband can't stand it as a healthy adult — because of all the times he had to drink it as a sick child.) But, there are other more sophisticated ways to imbibe. Kate should have one of the royal staff swing down to the nearest sushi bar and order a heaping side of pickled ginger. Then eat it delicately with bejeweled chopsticks. Hold the raw fish and seaweed, by all means.
They say there's a chemical released after a woman gives birth that makes her forget the excruciating pains of labor. (Otherwise, we would all be — and have — an only child.) So, while I certainly know how long I was grunting and groaning, I can't recall the physical sensation of those fourteen hours. But, I can absolutely remember the non-stop nausea. The times I dipped behind a dumpster, had to ask my in-laws to pull over on our way to a wake, and struggled through a lovely birthday dinner, knowing full well I was going to experience it twice. Ugh.
Was I miserable? Of course.
Was it worth it? Of course.
Did it give me something to hold over my daughter's head whenever she displeases me? You betcha.
Good luck, sweet Kate. And do try the crab rangoons.
A couple of weeks ago, my teenage daughter and I went to Ohio for a long weekend visit with our close friends there. In addition to our usual activities (shopping too much, eating too much), we planned to take a roadtrip to Cincinnati to visit the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center.
I expected to be moved by the experience and I was. There was an actual "Slave pen," the building in which slaves were corralled like livestock until they were sent out to the auction block. There were dioramas and paintings depicting slave conditions. There were artifacts and dramatizations of individual stories — a young boy who left his family to flee north; a girl who hid in rafters above her grandmother's porch for seven years rather than be raped by her master anymore. There were inspiring stories about abolitionists, black and white, who risked everything to attain and secure the right to freedom for everyone.
I expected to be moved by a truly horrible and shameful chapter of our country's past. But, I didn't expect so much of the museum to be devoted to the world's current slave trade and to the plight of millions of women denied education, healthcare and freedom today.
In the exhibit "Invisible: Slavery Today," we learned that — right now — an estimated 12-27 million people are literally enslaved. As defined by the museum, 'Each victim is induced into slave-like exploitation through fraud, force or coercion. They are subject to physical abuse and/or psychological intimidation. And, they are not readily able to free themselves from their situation.'
It is hard to accept (or imagine) that conditions today are in some ways worse than they were for enslaved Africans in the 18th and 19th century. Technically, there are no "owners," so there is no accountability whatsoever. And, slaves can be purchased for as little as $100 (compared to 10 times that much in the 1850s). So they are no longer valued property. They are disposable.
The scope of the issue was mind-numbing. So, to drive home the human aspect of all of this, the museum included individual stories: narratives of real people (many of them children) who had been abducted, coerced, blackmailed or tricked. Many were savagely raped, beaten or drugged into submission. And, while the bulk of the stories took place in other parts of the world, there were some that started — or at least ended — right here in the U.S.
Walking through this exhibit, I watched my daughter with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I didn't want to crowd her as she discovered these terrible truths. But, as a mother, my natural inclination was to shield her from them. I think we all left this particular exhibit feeling overwhelmed and absolutely helpless.
Emotionally exhausted (and physically tired too — the museum is massive), we stopped in the gift shop on our way out. Most of the items for sale were handcrafts made by women in developing countries. (There was one truly tasteless item: a souvenir shot glass that seemed profoundly inappropriate.) But, there were also books that related to the museum's exhibits. That's where I found Half the Sky.
Half the Sky is written by Pulitzer Prize winners Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn. The title comes from Mao Zedong's declaration that "Women hold up half the sky." The book guides us through true stories of women who have survived unthinkable situations and, perhaps more importantly, steps that can be taken by governments, non-profit organizations and even individuals to improve conditions all over the world.
I can't recommend this book highly enough. I devoured it and my daughter will read it next. She isn't always keen on the books I suggest — sheesh, is that an understatement! — but she left the slavery exhibit feeling the same sense of despair that I did. As soon as she's read it, we'll look at the resources listed in the back and see how we might make a difference together.
You (and your teenagers) can learn more about Half the Sky here.
Over the years, I have written a lot of marketing copy for financial services firms. So, I'm intimately familiar with the concept of "diversification."
Investopedia.com (how cool is that name?) defines it this way:
A risk management technique that mixes a wide variety of investments within a portfolio.
My retirement savings, as modest as they are, benefit from this type of strategy (and, thank goodness, from the steerage of a so-much-smarter-about-money-than-I-am financial advisor). But it occurred to me recently that I forgot to apply the principle of diversification to a rather important part of my life. Parenting.
I am the mother of an only child.
There are certainly pros:
• Only one student's college tuition to plan for. (Although, one student means four years at about $50,000 per year, so this is no very great solace once I do the math.)
• We only have to coordinate all-day field trips to one athlete's events. (I know moms who juggle hockey, dance, swim meets and softball on a regular basis.)
• We were able to afford a horse for our besotted equestrian offspring. (More than one, believe me, would be much more than impossible.)
• Travel, on the other hand, is still possible. After a child is two years old, their seat on an airplane is full fare — regardless of the size of their little tush. A weekend away or a family vacation becomes exponentially more expensive with multiple kids.
• I only have to keep track of one young person's unexplainable eating eccentricities. ("When did you stop liking Pop Tarts? Oh, I know. The week after I bought two double-sized boxes of them.")
• I only have to help with one person's homework. And no, geometry is decidedly not more fun the second time around.
• I only have to nag one person to keep her room clean. (And, in a related observation, I only have to re-make one person's bed on a regular basis.)
Then again, and especially these days, there are also cons. Big ones.
• If I had hoped for a child who shared my love of acting, singing and dancing, well ... that show has opened and closed.
• If I wanted a daughter who would love my hometown, New York City, as I still do. No dice. She is the country cousin to my city mouse.
• And, if I'm persona non gratis for some egregious maternal crime (like taking the video games off of someone's iPhone because she — shall we say — stretched the truth about playing them after hours), then I am thoroughly, completely, totally and universally despised.
Aye, there's the rub.
An old friend of mine, one whose intelligence I have always respected and admired, apparently put more care into planning all this than I did. With her four children (and several more now thanks to a recent remarriage), she has managed to enjoy all the ups even in times of downs. For example, when her eldest daughter was a teenage pill, her younger ones still doted on her. Now that they are teens themselves, their older sister is coming back around.
I love this friend very very much. But, I am very very jealous.
Of course, the situation puts undue pressure on my daughter as well. She has to be "the smart one," "the athletic one," "the kind-hearted one," "the artistic one." When it comes to siblings, there's no one else for her to share these daunting roles with. She has to be every type of superlative offspring all in one.
It's a little late now, but I confess that I sometimes daydream about my "other children," the ones who would remain sweet and affectionate and never fall out of love with me. Alas, all my eggs are in one basket. Actually, there's only one.
Good thing she's a good egg.
