Those Were the Days, My Friend

When I hear the mother of a much younger child — like a baby or toddler — complain about their stress and fatigue, I can't help but smile. 

"Sister," I think to myself, "You ain't seen nothin' yet."

Not that I've forgotten those early days. I remember them all right. I remember checking to make sure my sleeping daughter was breathing. I remember tormenting myself over her first eye infection. I remember crying through a 2:00 a.m. feeding, a sloppy emotional bag of exhaustion and postpartum.

"She hates me," I sobbed to a coworker the next day.

"No, she doesn't hate you," he said knowingly. "She will hate you. But, she doesn't hate you now."

This man, you see, was the father of a teenage girl.

Really, now that I look back, what was all the fuss about? Basically, our job as the mother of an infant is to feed them, burp them, change their diapers and get them to sleep. Along the way you have to support their little head and change them from one adorable outfit into another — six or seven times a day. Their tiny hands curl around your finger and (whether it's just gas or not) they look up at you and smile.

Oh sure, some days are tougher than others. At six months, after I nearly fell asleep in the Sumner Tunnel on my way to work, we finally gave in and tried the dreaded "Ferber Method" so she would sleep through the night. Basically, you teach them how to "self-sooth" by letting them cry for five minutes, comforting them, then letting them cry for ten, then twenty, then thirty, etc. etc. etc. Forty-eight hours later, she was all set, and her mother (that would be me) was permanently traumatized.

But even on those endless nights, life was easier than I realized. If I could go back in time and counsel my younger self, I would say, "Stop. Breathe. Enjoy this."

I'd say, "Sister, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

Here's a short list, in no particular order, of the things that keep me up at night these days:

• Grades. She's in ninth grade, that's freshman year high school. Suddenly, there are hours upon hours of homework. Suddenly, there are tests and quizzes and mid-terms, oh my! Suddenly, good grades count. (And, just as suddenly, they are much harder to come by.)

• Cutting. Sadly, I don't mean cutting class. I mean cutting one's arms (or legs or God knows what else). It bothers me that some of my daughter's friends are doing this. It bothers me that she even knows about such a thing.

• Online safety. Texting, sexting, Instagram, Tumblr, Skype, Snapchat. Just a couple of years ago, we were concerned about letting our then tween daughter have a Facebook page. That was so yesterday!

• Mean Girls. This topic comes at me from both sides sometimes. Within the same week I can be comforting my daughter as the victim of a particularly nasty encounter and trying to help her see how she herself might be perceived as mean.

And last, but not least, there's the time I spend missing and mourning my baby. The days when that baby, practically grown now, barely mutters a single pleasant word to me. When I can tell that I am no longer her bestest, most favorite person. In fact, I'm more like her least favorite, most annoying, barely bearable person.

We used to play that game ... "I love you more. "No, I love you more." "No, I love you more." "No, I love you more."

Well, for now at least, I win. I love her more.

Bad Medicine

All right, as the mother of a teenage girl, there are times when my popularity index dips low. Really low. Less than zero low. From little things, like insisting she eat half a bagel with melted cheese this morning (quick — call Social Services!), to larger issues like grades, curfews and cell phone use. 

One issue that rears its contentious head over and over is Internet time limits. We have rules. However, the rules (like the rule-maker) are not very popular.

This is actually one of the (few, believe me, very few) times to which my husband and I can look back and say, "We did it right." It all started a couple of years ago. Desperate for a laptop, Internet access and Facebook page, my then tween daughter happily agreed to some basic rules. She could only be online a limited number (I think it was two) hours each day. All electronica (laptop, iPhone, iPad) was to shut off at 8 pm. We've heard too many stories about teenagers getting into all sorts of trouble alone late at night and online.

The trick, in hindsight, was to solicit buy-in at that crucial moment when the prospect of getting access was irresistible. Basically, she wanted Facebook so badly, she would have agreed to just about anything. We have friends who didn't make rules when their daughters were twelve and thirteen. For them, it's virtually impossible to set boundaries now that the girls are fifteen and sixteen.

The rules have evolved a bit, driven mostly by late-night homework that necessitates Web access. But, we do still have rules. They provide us with a constant reason for connection. "Turn off the phone now." "You're not online, right?" "No more texting, time's up."

What would we have to talk about otherwise?

While my daughter thinks our rules are "ridiculous" (yes, she has used that exact word), she hasn't been driven to break them. Or at least she hasn't been driven to break the law to break them.

That's exactly what two teenagers in California have been accused of. Fifteen and sixteen year old friends allegedly mixed prescription sleeping pills in milkshakes and gave them to the parents of the younger girl. The motive? To knock the parents out so they could go online. Yikes!

The parents became suspicious when they both awoke groggy and with headaches. They acquired drug-testing kits from their local police and with results in hand returned later. The girls were taken to Juvenile Hall. 

I'm not sure what boggles my mind more. Wanting to go on the Internet so badly that you would essentially poison someone (your parents no less)!  Or, reporting your teenage daughter to the police to have her arrested. I can only assume that the parents feel (rightly) that their daughter is out of control. I can only hope that earlier intervention — and much of it — was attempted before the family reached this terrible place. The story is circulating online because it's so sordid. I hope that people also realize that it's so sad.

Despite a fairly constant barrage of complaints, I will continue to enforce our family's rules. My daughter has been known to stretch the truth at times, to get away with things when she can, to practice the ancient teenage art of lying by omission. But, by and large, she is a law-abiding if rather sulky citizen of our house.

Truth is, I trust her.

But just in case, I think I'll decline any drinks she makes from now on.

Resolutions Schmesolutions

Happy New Year! Did you make many resolutions? 

Any resolutions?

Myself, I love sitting down and writing out New Year's resolutions. For me, that annual list represents a clean slate, a fresh start. It's like my New Yorker Desk Diary, a Christmas gift from my husband that I can always count on — and always look forward to getting. 

Soon after all the wrappings and bows are cleared away, I open that crisp new datebook and fill in important appointments, deadlines, fitness classes, birthdays and vacations. Yes, of course, my MacBook Pro has a calendar feature which could link to my iPhone and to my iPad. But, despite my obvious allegiance to the house that Jobs built, I'm an old-fashioned gal at heart. I prefer clean white pages, ballpoint pens and the occasional use of Wite Out.

As far as resolutions are concerned, I organize them into categories: myself (lose weight), my business (gain clients), my family (be a better mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend). I usually include some spiritual goals and a handful of things that are just plain fun (see a movie every week, finally make a necklace out of those antique beads, reread all of Jane Austen, bake more cookies).

I begin each year with great hope and typically fall off the resolution wagon some time in February. This makes me exactly like all my fellow human beings. You don't believe me? Just take a look at the parking lot of my gym the first week of January and again the first week of March.

About a month ago, I thought it might be a nice exercise for our family to make some resolutions together. I thought it, but I didn't do anything about it. So, here we are on New Year's Day and my teenage daughter is hanging out with a friend at the mall, my husband is checking his emails after nearly a week off. And, I'm the only one resolving any resolutions at all.

Do I try and think of something fresh? Or, should I just photocopy the list I made last year? Given my near certainty that my success (or lack thereof) will mirror that of years past, why do I bother?

Because I honestly do want that positive feeling, that sense of optimism, that earnest belief that this year could be the year that I finally achieve all of those things on my list. So, maybe I'll only make good on one or two of a dozen items. That's better than none.

And, there's always next year.

So, Happy New Year, everyone. I have to go now and write out my resolutions. In my brand new datebook. With a ballpoint pen.

Emotional Creatures

Holidays are hectic — especially when you have only a limited number of days to reconnect with a seemingly limitless number of family and friends. After spending Christmas at home in Massachusetts, we set out for our annual New Year's celebration in New York.

We would have less than a 24-hour overlap with our good friends from London and we decided to make the most of it. My long-time girlfriend's daughters are just a bit younger than my own teenager, and we hadn't seen them since our visit to the U.K. last June. But, what to do, what to do? It used to be easier getting together; when the girls were little, we could simply rendez-vous in a playground. Today, the common denominator seems to be shopping, but I think there's been more than enough conspicuous consumption this season, thank you very much. I mean really, how many sweaters and jeans and boots and jewelry and iPhone cases does one fifteen year old girl need? (Apparently, a lot. But, I digress.)

So, in a fit of cultural self-righteousness, I ordered tickets for a show. I'm a long-time fan of Eve Ensler and her Vagina Monologues, and her current off-Broadway production sounded promising. Emotional Creature is about "The secret life of girls around the world." Well, our little group would only represent girls from two continents, but (from the parents' perspective at least) any glimpse into their secrets would be most welcome. In fact, I originally reserved seats for only the girls and the moms. Then my friend's husband asked to join us ("It might help me understand them") and my own husband was coerced into coming as well.

In a high-energy 90 minutes, we were invited into multiple secret lives. Some were painfully familiar. There was a dorky teen who tearfully faced the popular girls gauntlet in the cafeteria. There was a girl whose parents thought she was studying, but who was actually procrastinating by taking countless "selfies" with her smartphone camera to update her online profile. There was a "thinspiration" Hunger Blog of wannabe anorectics. "Celery!" announced one, "It has no calories!" "Help me!" pleaded another, "I just ate a whole bag of donuts!"

There was a little bit of tough language ("c*nt" comes to mind, and, perhaps in homage to earlier work, "vagina" was thrown around pretty liberally). And, one young lesbian relived her thrilling first kiss only to tell us how her love interest spurned her at school the next day. There was a teen pregnancy and a suicide fantasy. But, all in all, the tales of U.S. teens were pretty tame.

I knew we were in trouble when the stories moved overseas. We heard a heart-wrenching monologue from an underage Eastern European prostitute. "I am garbage; I am receptacle." Ten rules for surviving rape and slavery from a teen mother in the Congo. "Never look at his eyes. Never feel sorry for him. Never lose hope." And, another young woman in Tanzania who climbs a mountain to plead to her god to save her from genital cutting. "I cannot believe you would want my clitoris cut. I just discovered it!" 

The youngest of our three girls was sitting next to me and I was concerned about her. In hindsight, I think I probably bugged the crap out of her, reassuringly stroking her shoulder and patting her thigh. 

Then again, I didn't dare so much as look at the two dads. Yikes.

Nevertheless, everyone seems to have survived the experience, and my own daughter announced, "I loved it! If I lived here I would see it again and again."

The highlight for me was a brilliant monologue spoken by a fifteen year old girl in a toy factory in China. She was proud of her work as well as her ability to project her thoughts across space by focusing and sending her message out to the world inside the Barbie heads she manufactured. She shares with us that a new Barbie is created every three seconds and that there are more than a billion of them out there. She sharply contrasts Barbie's world with her own.

"She live in dreamhouse? I live in nightmare house!"

But, by the end of her story, she is defending Barbie, explaining that she is much smarter than we give her credit for and that she actually hates shopping. "Free Barbie!" she chants, "Free Barbie!" And the audience joins in.

The final number, despite some really raw stories that preceded it, was full-on girl power. And, I was very happy to be there with my own emotional creature:

I am an emotional creature.
Why would you want to shut me down
or turn me off? 

I am an emotional
I am an emotional, devotional,
incandotional, creature.
And I love, hear me,
love love love
being a girl.

Christmas Eve Gift, Revisited

Only 1 shopping and wrapping and cooking and cleaning day left until Christmas. So, with about a thousand festive things left on my holiday "To do" list, I'm going to repost an essay from last Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Our family has a tradition that dates back longer than I can remember. It started with my mother's own childhood, growing up in Mountain Grove, Missouri. On the morning of December 24th, the first person to shout "Christmas Eve Gift!' wins. My family takes this pretty seriously — my enthusiastic younger brother has been known to call people minutes after midnight to declare "Christmas Eve Gift" victory.

The game is not unique to my family. If you Google "Christmas Eve Gift" (with the quotation marks), you'll get over 600,000 hits. I'm a working mother and didn't have time to read them all, but the handful I did peruse were sweet reminiscences much like mine in the paragraph above.

This friendly (and sometimes not-so-friendly, sometimes downright ruthless) competition frustrated my husband to no end. 'What do you win?" he demanded. "Why is there no gift? This is lame!"

So, when we adopted the practice with our own daughter, I made sure there was always a gift. A funny, seasonal knick-knack (which I chose based on its appropriateness for any of us, but bought specifically for her since I always let her win). It might be a wind-up dancing elf, a small box of chocolates, an ornament, a Pooh Bear dreidel, or (her favorite) a tiny naked baby doll from Japan wearing a Santa hat. This year, it was an adorable felt donkey ornament. I figured it was close enough to a horse if my daughter won it. And, it's the symbol of the Democratic party if my liberal husband won.

As per Christmas Eve usual, the tween walked away with the prize. I don't think she was impressed. She told me, ever so sweetly, that she thought it would look better on the big tree downstairs and not on the smaller one in her room. Clearly the adorable ornament wasn't as adorable as I thought. Oh well.

That's all right; we have another annual tradition. My husband meets his best friend for lunch (if the long nap he takes each year afterwards is any indication, we are probably talking 'liquid lunch'). So, my daughter and I go out together for our own meal. This was especially fun back when I was working at an agency in Boston and rarely saw her midday. She was just three or four years old the first time we had our special Christmas Eve luncheon. We went to a chic and charming little bistro, called ... Friendly's.

That particular day, Friendly's was overcrowded and understaffed. There were a couple of waitresses who weren't moving very quickly, and one waiter, who seemed to be pulling most of the waitering weight. He was amiable and efficient, and even though the kitchen mixed up our sandwiches (how do you mix up grilled cheese?), he kept his sense of humor and made everything right.

We felt bad that he was working — and working so hard! — on Christmas Eve. So, we decided to leave him a "Special-Secret-Santa-Christmas-Eve-Tip." I went and paid at the register while my daughter wrote "MERRY CHRISTMAS" (phonetically) in crayon on her folded placemat. We slipped an over-the-top generous gratuity inside and raced out, giggling wildly.

From then on, we made a date for our Secret Santa lunch. Once Friendly's closed (after more than thirty years; my husband worked there as a teenager), we moved on to other local restaurants: Bertucci's, Pizzeria UNO. Each time, we made it a point to converse with our waitperson and find out what he or she was doing for the holiday. Each time, we left a regular tip for our meal plus a generous Christmas bonus. Each time, we ran out of the restaurant, thrilled with our little secret and laughing.

Last year, we went to a coffee shop in neighboring Salem. The joint was jammed and our waitress was terrific! She noticed that we had made a list on one of our napkins and asked if we were still shopping? No, I told her. The list included friends' houses at which we planned to drop off goodies on the way home.

She said that she herself was almost finished. She was a single mom, she explained, and just needed two more presents, the big ones, for her teenage son and daughter. When she got off at 5:00, she was going to rush over to the mall to get them each an iPod. It occurred to me that she had probably waited until the last minute to get these special gifts because she didn't have the cash sooner. My daughter and I were excited — it felt like we had hit Secret Santa pay dirt! We did what we could to contribute to the iPods and our giddy dash out of the restaurant was even more exhilarating than usual.

I enjoy most (all right, many, or at least some) meals with my daughter. But, I treasure the time we spend together at lunch every Christmas Eve. Joining forces to help someone is powerful stuff. We don't have the resources of Oprah or Warren Buffett or Bill Gates, but we can make a difference in our way.

Maya Angelou once said, "I have found that among its other benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver." I'll think of this as my daughter and I joyfully run down the street together after our lunch this afternoon.

May your soul find liberation and joy this Christmas Eve too.

The End of the World As We Know It

"I lived through the Mayan Apocalypse and all I got was this lousy t-shirt." Yes folks, it is 12/21/12 and ... we're all still here. What a relief.

I believe there are many things wrong with this world. Let's face it, I think we'd all like a "do over" when it comes to the environment, social justice and such. Nevertheless I'm not quite ready to hang it all up yet. I have faith in the future. Really.

Of course, there are some phenomena to which I could easily say "Ch’abej chik." (That's "good-bye" in the K'iche dialect of the Mayan language family — you gotta love the Internet!)

Here are just a few of them:

My teenage daughter's inability to get up in the morning — despite two insistent alarms followed by two insistent parents.

My teenage daughter's attitude when I try to help her or correct her or teach her or talk to her or drive her places or buy her things or ... or ... or ... well, pretty much all the time.

My teenage daughter's deep-rooted belief that she is the center of the universe and that we are all merely satellites orbiting around her magnificence.

My teenage daughter's perpetual friend drama.

My teenage daughter's incredibly stinky horse laundry and how my car smells every time we leave the stable.

My teenage daughter's selective hearing when it comes to anything we tell her or ask her to do.

My teenage daughter's selective eyesight when it comes to clothes on the floor, unmade beds, or open drawers and closet doors.

My teenage daughter's logical behavior. Like when she comes home famished and simply has to make a packet of ramen noodles because she's "so starving." BUT, when I open her lunchbox, lo and behold, there's an untouched sandwich.

My teenage daughter's insatiable appetite for the latest technology. For YouTube, for Facebook, for Instagram, for texting.

My teenage daughter's — shall we say — "creative" study habits. "But Mo-o-om, I'm multi-tasking."

My teenage daughter's radio stations. Although, now that she's found Pandora, radio stations are so passé. Jeez.

My teenage daughter's stubborn streak and her complete and total refusal to ever ever ever say "I'm sorry," "You were right," or "Thank you." (Unless, that is, she needs or wants something and then her sincerity is sincerely astounding.)

That's right. These are things I could easily do without forever after. Or at least until the next false alarm: be that Rapture, Judgement Day, Armageddon, zombies, aliens, or super novas. And, there are many (oh so many) more. 

And yet, I am truly glad we've made it through. Because, if today had indeed been the end of days, what would I miss?

You guessed it. My teenage daughter.

They Are All Our Children Too

I am at a loss for words.

I am a writer. For nearly thirty years, I've made my living by my pen (or, these days, by my keypad). I've entertained you with tales of my "alien" every two to three days for the past twenty months. But, words are failing me now.

Since Friday, I have been at a loss.

What can anyone say about the tragedy that took place Friday morning in Newtown, Connecticut? How could words possibly do justice to the agony and despair that families there are feeling? And, how do I, a mother with an unharmed daughter who will see another birthday and assumedly many more thereafter, have the right to say anything at all?

I've written about it before, and I firmly believe it. When I became a mother, I became everyone's mother. When someone else's baby is hurt or sick or sad, I easily and immediately project my own child onto the one who is suffering. It's common for people to witness profound grief like that we're seeing in Newtown this week and say, "I can't imagine!" The thing is ... I can imagine. What I can't conceive is how a mother could ever go on afterwards.

Yet they do.

As a country, we owe every parent of every person killed at Sandy Hook an apology. Not an "I'm sorry for your loss," but a deep and sincere admittance that we let those innocent babies (and brave adults) down. They say, "we get the government we deserve." We have sat back while our elected leaders were bullied by gun manufacturers, enthusiasts and associations. And who were the ultimate victims of our inaction? The very people that we are here to protect. Our children.

There is a beautiful song from the show Miss Saigon, called "Bui Doi" (or "dust of life"). These lyrics have been playing and replaying in my mind:

They are the reminders

Of all the good we failed to do

That's why we know

Deep in our hearts

That they are all

Our children too

Today, President Obama made a speech — and a commitment to the American people — about gun control and ending the senseless violence we have experienced. It was both passionate and rationale. And long overdue.

"But the fact that this problem is complex, can no longer be an excuse for doing nothing. The fact that we can’t prevent every act of violence, doesn’t mean that we can’t steadily reduce the violence and prevent the very worst violence."

I can already hear the self-satisfied response of some: "But, guns don't kill people. People kill people."

Wrong. People with guns kill people.

And, if you think an incident like Sandy Hook Elementary School couldn't happen in your town, at your school, think again.

The president and, by his appointment as leader of the task force, the vice president have their work cut out for them. Obama has promised a definitive recommendation by January which he has pledged to push through. He has encouraged Congress to address these issues immediately.  

If he is unsuccessful, I suggest that every mother in this country descend on the capitol. I know of nothing more powerful than a mother's love for her children. It takes work, but this is still a country in which the people can demand — and obtain — justice.

No, we cannot completely safeguard our families. But, as the president said, "We have a deep obligation to try."

The children of Sandy Hook are all our children too.