Tedium, a Watch and Apple Jacks

Let's face it, raising kids is tedious. Oh sure go ahead and be shocked and appalled at my claim. How could I not relish each moment with my children as a joyful definition of life's true worth? How can I not see that all the little tasks involved in child-rearing should be done selflessly and with gratitude for the privilege of watching this person grow and blossom. Don't I realize how much I'll miss all of this necessary minutiae when they are grown and gone?

Not yet.

Right now I am too busy controlling my impulse to scream like a petulant toddler that I've spent 4 hours and 20 minutes driving teenager #1 to various locations today: Dr.'s appointment to school for workout to home to check on teenager #2 so he doesn't feel neglected back to school to get #1 from workout to practice and finally back to home do to what I want to do. Of course I'm too tired to do what I want to do and wind up playing far too much Candy Crush in order to have some sense of accomplishment today.

But, oops, I'm not done. People still need to be fed. And teenager #2 needs me to partition my macbook so he can play some computer game which is only available on Windows. And they both need haircuts. And I need to fill out this form "for this thing that has to be in tomorrow because I forgot it in the bottom of my backpack." And where are the F-ing stamps for that check to the tutor which is weeks late because I keep forgetting to buy stamps. And how come we're already out of juice and cereal when I just bought them yesterday? What? Because that's all teenager #2 ate because I was so busy driving teenager #1 around that I didn't make and serve breakfast, lunch and dinner in a timely fashion.

And: "Mom I have no clean socks."

And: "Mom the bracket on my braces just fell off."

And: "Mom what's this green thing on my toe?"

And: "Mom should I be a Mage or a wizard?'

And: "Mom can you drive me to my friend's house which is 45 minutes away? And by the way I have to be picked up at 8 am for a practice which means I'll be in a terrible mood all day tomorrow and will make you suffer for it."

And: "Honey I know you shouldn't, but have you seen this tiny slip of paper with vital work information on it that I left somewhere in the house and of course it's not your fault, but subliminally it really is your fault if I can't find it because the house is such a god awful mess."

Tedium is boredom magnified. And yet all this magnified boredom is quickly driving me to a breakdown of terrifying or comical proportions depending on who's directing this picture. And yet all this tedium is necessary, because, as it has been embroidered on pillows across time, it's the little things that mean a lot. 

Case in point:

When I was the annoying teenager #6 in my mother's life there was a tedious task I needed her to complete. I needed her to pick up my repaired watch from the jewelers. I couldn't, I did not drive yet. Day after day I kept asking her if she had picked up my watch. She forgot. Until one day I remember sitting on my windowsill looking out to the backyard where some folks were putting in a new tree to replace the gigantic one that had fallen in a recent, ridiculous and rare hurricane/tornado in southeastern PA. I sat there in a pool of self-pity and fumed resentment at my mother as I actually thought "Oh sure, she had time to buy a tree and arrange for it to get planted, but she couldn't stop by and pick up my watch." 

Why I wanted that watch back so badly eludes me at the moment. What I do remember is feeling ignored (which I wasn't). Because, of course the watch wasn't just a watch. It was the receptacle for all my teenage angst and unrealized and misunderstood emotions. The watch was my parent's divorce and the fact that I would never have a boyfriend and that there was no more cereal in the house because I ate it all because my mom was so busy buying a tree that she couldn't make me breakfast, lunch and dinner. To her it was just a watch.

I don't know what my kids' "watch" was is or will be. I'm sure I've failed to see the deeper meaning of much of what I view as tedium. And that's not always a bad thing. It teaches resiliency and self-sufficiency. I don't plan to cater to their every whim. But I will indulge some of them, because there will always be moments when they want to feel like they matter most in someone's eyes. And in those moments of confusion and sadness and bewilderment, sometimes a remembered fresh box of Apple Jacks means a lot.

And now back to my real home, the car, because they're about to wake up and there's no milk for the Apple Jacks.

Sick Day

I was sick today. Actually it started yesterday. Nothing major, a head cold but it was the kind where your eyelids ache. Basically I felt like crap.  That was tolerated by my family, even empathized with, for a moment, and then it was back to business as usual.

People wanted food, they needed things found and they needed to convince me how they were infinitely more miserable than I. That’s par for the course for any run of the mill day, but when I’m sick, it only highlights the helpless, narcissistic, overly-entitled realm I have unwittingly created. Yes, I blame myself. Why? Because I have often mistaken making my family happy as part of the fictitious job description I concocted when parenthood seemed like a desirable goal.

Now, as can easily be surmised by past posts, I am not your picture perfect Family Circle mom. I am proud that my kids know how to cook what they like to eat; they’ve been taught how to do the laundry-though they frequently “forget” when they’re down to their last pair of boxers; they know what to do in an emergency, they understand to look for a bargain first, and they can carry on a friendly conversation with someone they just met. Ultimately, I know they can survive in the wild. So, well done to me and to husband, I’ll pat myself on the back for that.

And yet, I am still entirely too concerned with their happiness. So I do too much for them. I look for their lost phone, and make sure the socks they like are clean for the game they’re nervous about, and I make that dish they prefer, and I help them buy that pair of shoes and I make it easier for them to take out the trash.

I do this so that it will be easier for them to be happier in that moment. I do this so they don’t get upset. I do this so I don’t have to deal with them being upset. I do this because it’s what I’ve always done. I do this because there was always an underlying layer of sadness and resignation as I grew up. So I did this because I felt if I could just make everyone happy (and by everyone I mean my mom) then I could relax and be happy. And there it is, my gooey nougat-ey center. Enjoy.

You’d think after 46 years of trying this without lasting success I would maybe try something new. Of course old habits are hard to break. Not so hard when husband and teenagers 1 & 2 are being big stupid jerks. And in those moments, when we hate each other, the way loved ones do, and we all feel like crap because no one likes to feel mad, or sad or shame, I fear and convince myself that that moment could be what makes it all turn to shit. And I am wrong, because that moment is more important than the short-lived happiness that comes from a found phone. That moment when we feel like crap and as if nothing could be worse is just a moment. And then dust begins to settle, the world continues to turn, something else requires our attention or interest and before you know it we’ve bounced back and realized that doom did not prevail. And, more importantly, that we survived and managed to feel happy again.

So on this sick day, I will do my best to do less. I will not fear disquiet in others. I will let the men in my life find their own damn underwear. I will remember that I can’t make my family happy, I can only help them see that they have what they need to survive when they are not happy. And I will make them bring me soup, because I’m sick, damnit.

The Grocery Store Dilemma

Okay the grocery store, let’s do this.

Let me preface by saying that I do not have the luxury of time or financial surplus to shop at organic grocery stores with artistically arranged produce and a different aromatherapy for each aisle. I shop at the normal everyday grocery store of which Gwyneth Paltrow and Jessica Alba would heartily disapprove.

So here we go. I hate grocery shopping. I do. The whole process of preparing a list (if I happen to be organized that day), slogging through the aisles, trying to fit everything in the cart, taking everything out of the cart to put on the conveyer belt, packing everything up in my reusable bags (if I’ve remembered them), taking the bags out of the cart and putting them in the trunk (unless the trunk is full of sports equipment or Husband’s unloaded purchases from Home Depot, in which case I have to cram them into the back seat), driving home, dragging the groceries into the house and then finding space for them in the cupboards filled with condiments and special ingredients I paid too much for for that one recipe that no one wound up liking, putting the bags away and then having the hateful teenage offspring trudge into the kitchen to open and slam shut the cupboards and refrigerator declaring there is nothing to eat in their lovably scornful way; that whole process has definitely lost its luster.

I’ve got it down to a science though. I can do the whole farcical outing door-door in an hour or less. This boggles Husband’s mind since when he goes it is a two hour affair and he comes home with enough food to feed a family of eight and seems to be under the impression that our house, or at least our refrigerator is twice it’s actual size. And, because he’s a man, the entire thing becomes a bizarre competition as he proudly declares how much money he saved. I never beat him on money saved. I do beat him on overall grocery bill though since I did not buy five boxes of Apple Jacks just because they were on sale if you bought all five.

But even though I have it down to a science and can go and be back and have the groceries tucked away before a single person has woken up I cannot escape the ESPN commentary on my overall performance in the event. The “did you remember to get this,” and the “didn’t they have any of that?” and the “don’t you know I always need blank?” That’s right, everyone’s an expert all of sudden. Just like all of us armchair experts during the Olympics who shake our heads at the poorly executed triple sow cow and the doubled toe loop as if we could really distinguish one jump from the next. So it is with grocery shopping in my house. The rolled eyes at my forgetting something or choosing a undesirable brand seems equivalent to Tonya Harding’s maiming of Nancy Kerrigan.

So it is not just the act itself of grocery shopping, but the ritual scoring of the event by my bevy of boys, my panel of three whose expertise barely extends past Campbell’s soup and the frozen food section. It all adds up and makes me loathe grocery shopping beyond reason. I would give it up altogether if I could, except for the clause in the unspoken parental contract that I continue to feed my children. It’s one of those basic requirements that my lawyer just can’t seem to get me out of.

So I will keep buying food that no one likes, yet they all consume before the day is out. And I will continue to give them ”the look” when they question my motives. And I will still feel guilty every time I forget my recyclable bags. And I will forever wonder with woe and incredulity as to why it always rains on the one day I can grocery shop. Because I am a mother, and we all need something to complain about.

Snow Day: Magic or Myth?

When my kids were little snow days began with a kind of magic. A Norman Rockwellian magic full of the promise of snowmen, sledding rosy cheeks and hot chocolate. Even shoveling the snow was a novelty thanks to whatever genius created the kid-size shovel.

Of course, like all magic, there is preparation involved. Layers of clothing must be forced over the head of wiggly children. Snow pants must be found and, with any hope, still fit from last year or be able to be passed down to the next child in the line of succession. Jackets need to be zipped, the farcical and pointless mitten ritual obeyed and hats must be put on and thrown off innumerable times. They are ready, and now must wait while you get ready, which you do in lightening speed before the whining reaches intolerable levels and their sweat bastes them into an inevitable frostbite threat. Time for the magic to begin.

They step out into the sparkling, powdery playland, which of course, must be documented with many photos, seemingly candid, but carefully reshot until the perfect Holiday card shot has been acquired. They fall into the snow, followed by a shared moment of joyous laughter from the snowy mischief, until the snow actually touches the skin between where their mittens end and their jacket begins. Complaints of cold and wet parade out of the rosy cheeks, pleas to go back into the house follow, one mitten and both hats have already been lost and only two minutes have passed.

But wait, children there is more magic.

“I’m cold”

Don’t you want to build a snowman?

“I want to watch Pokemon”

How about a snowball fight?

“(tears) Mommy why’d you hit me in the face with the snow?”

Mommy didn’t mean it, let’s go sledding! You’ll love sledding!

“I want to go inside.”

Sledding first. It’ll be fun. Let’s have some fun! Isn’t this fun!

Somehow you convince them to drag the sled six blocks to the nearest acceptable hill. They are frowning, but you know, you just know their lives will be transformed by the thrill and magic of sledding. A block and a half in, you find yourself carrying both sleds. A block later one of them is on your back. Snow from their boot is falling into your pants, which are not snow pants, because you are a grown up and it didn’t occur to you to buy snow pants. You get to the hill, which is full of other families determined to have fun and they have sledded that hill into a deathtrap of ice and “sled jumps” of exposed roots and rocks.

You go down once with both of them reviewing your life’s regrets and successes as you realize this ride down the hill may be the last thing you ever do as you dodge children, trees and your mounting fatigue. The walk back up the hill seems like a journey out of Lord of the Rings. Once at the top, you do what any responsible parent would, you let them go down by themselves. After the battle of who sits in front and the brief tutorial on steering, you push them off to euphoria or certain death. It goes well until a third of the way down when one falls off, creating another “sled jump” and the other heads directly for a tree. You run down the icy slope, slip several times, only worrying about your dignity for a fleeting moment, you scoop up one and overrun the other just in time to act as a barrier between said “death tree” and your first born. When the magic of that moment is over, you pick yourself up, grab the overpriced sled, carry one child, hold the other one by the jacket and make your way home swallowing the curses you have for the snow and all it’s magical bullshit.

Once inside, the disrobing, if filmed, could win an Oscar for comedy or tragedy depending on the angle and the editing. Once inside, you still can’t let go of the need for magic and memories, so you actually make hot chocolate. You don’t have the mini marshmallows, so you put a couple of big ones in there. Your children, who look at you with pity and disdain, eat the marshmallow, take one sip of the cocoa, complain about the temperature and go watch whatever mythological swill Nickolodeon offers at this time of day. Which, by the way, is only 10:15am.

And you put your head down on the kitchen table and lament the failed magic trick. One more thing you have ruined for your kids.

And then two weeks later it snows again. You take a deep breath of fortitude, determined not to force your own magic down their throats again. And then a little hand pokes you in the head and the little voice attached asks “Mommy, can we go sledding?” 

And the rabbit comes out of the hat again.

Fake it 'Til You Make it

So I want to be lighthearted and funny for you. I want to be edgy and insightful and simple and honest. I’d like to turn a phrase that is efficient and illuminating all in one. I want to be the blog post that you need right now. But I’m tired.

I’m not talking about physically tired (again), that’s a given. I am bone-crushingly psychologically and emotionally tired. It’s not just the one step forward two steps back marathon of getting somewhere as if you are walking up the down escalator. That does crush the will to stay on the path of parental fortitude as prescribed by therapists, books and common sense, but there is something that makes that journey even more exhausting.

Pretending everything is okay.

And

Pretending everything is going to be okay.

Yes in the grand scheme of disaster and tyranny, everything is okay and will be. But in the microcosm of my self-importance, in the galaxy of my tiny existence everything is not okay. It is what it is, and I‘m tired of spinning that as extraordinary and unique and quirky and modern. I’m ready for the hard work to pay off and I’m not entirely sure that phrase is based in any kind of truth beyond farming.

So putting all spin aside, here’s what’s left: I’m not sure I have what it takes to be a parent. I know it’s kind of late in the game for that epiphany, and it’s certainly not helpful on any level, but I can’t pretend it’s not true. Some things I do work, many things I try don’t and the only barometer I have is the kids in front of me. And I am terrified of failing them. They don’t deserve that.

Fake it ‘til you make it. There’s another aphorism that has gotten me through more than one potential catastrophe. So I will pretend to be strong when I want to crumble. I will be okay with being hated when it serves a greater purpose. I will smile at work as if my life is an Emmy winning sitcom. I will tell my terror to take a seat in the waiting room until it is dulled into a coma by back-dated People magazines.

And I will whisper to you on occasion that I have no idea what I’m doing because they say the truth will set you free. And some day I would like to talk to whomever “they” is to see the data that supports their claims.

Alpha Spouse & The Martyr

So spouses, partners, significant others…there’s a can of worms for you. They are the one person in the world that can make you believe in your heart of hearts that you are not alone. And they are the one person in the world who can make you feel in your heart of hearts that you are completely alone.

And I have a good one. A really good one. He’s truly a good man. A prosecutor with the DA in one of the most horrifying units, not a big drinker, not a philanderer, very funny, not an asshole, he’s a good man. I know he’s got my back, and I have his. I love him, and yet…sometimes he’s just wrong. When there’s something to be wrong about, it’s him who is wrong. Which means, that from his perspective I am just wrong. And of course he’s wrong about that too.

So how do you parent with someone when you disagree? When, really, he’s just wrong.

Seriously, I’m asking the question.

So let’s figure this out. There’s this whole united front theory. You have to present a united front when parenting. Otherwise your clever clever children will quickly divide and conquer. (Why my children can’t employ their velociraptor cleverness to actually do the thing for which we are desperately trying to present a united front for is another post.) This means, that when you disagree with your co-parent someone has to compromise. And let’s face it the alpha spouse wins that rock paper scissors nine times out of ten.

Yes, the alpha spouse. Even the most evolved marriages have them. Most marriages are in fact made up of an Alpha Spouse and a Martyr. Sometimes you switch roles, but that’s usually when the alpha spouse really just wants to win again and beat you at martyring.

I am not the alpha spouse. And, as mentioned before, my husband is a good man. He is also a lawyer. He is paid to persuade. And win. On the other hand, I am an actress. I study human nature and their objectives and tactics. So, I (sometimes) get paid to play a part. So when I have to be part of a united front in which I do not fully believe, I play the part of a believer. And, sometimes, when we are deciding on our united front, I play the part of the alpha spouse.

It ain’t a perfect system. It’s not always like this though, often we agree. And when that happens, it is a miraculous blending of two into one and I am not alone. And when it doesn’t happen…well it sucks to feel so alone in a crowded room.

And yes, we talk about it. I express what I feel in brave moments, he tells me how he’s feeling in sensitive guy moments. And sometimes we both do it in delightfully passive aggressive ways. But yes, we communicate. We try to hear and adapt and hope that we are inching ever closer to a consistent balance. Yes, balance, not equality, because I’m not sure total equality is possible. At least not in marriage. Because when the scales are tipped one way, as can happen when one of you gets a promotion, or is fired, or has a shitty day, or the best day of your life, there needs to be counter balance or else the see-saw slams to the ground and someone’s butt gets bruised.

But often things are left unsaid. Not because we are cowards, or not reflecting on our marriage, but because we’re tired and Teenager #2 has wrestling practice and Teenager #1 has a chemistry exam, and there’s nothing for dinner, and we can’t afford another pizza, and someone’s toothbrush fell in the toilet and we don’t have time to be united and sensitive and balanced. We don’t even have time to be married.

And suddenly love looks entirely different than before kids. Love looks like a dishwasher full of clean dishes, or a gas tank re-filled, or a bed made, or underwear actually making it to the hamper. And you realize, they really do listen sometimes, and you remember you are not alone.

Showing our Parental Cellulite

With the Olympics coming up, it feels right to talk about the oft overlooked, yet perhaps most competitive of sports...Parenting.

It happens from the moment we give birth and compare our choices to that of the parent in the bed next to us. From the unspoken understanding that our child is in fact cuter than any of the others in the nursery to every single benchmark in our children’s’ lives we measure our success based on the degree of success or perceived failure of our fellow parents. We breathe a sigh of relief that our child spoke their first word and stepped their first step before the “So and So’s” across the street. And we lament and fret sleeplessly over the fact that “Mr. & Mrs. Perfect’s” son is reading chapter books at age 3 ½ while our child is playing with an empty box.

We do it. We do it consciously, we do it unconsciously, it soothes us and tortures us and drives us to say and think ridiculous things. It justifies our actions and paralyzes our instincts and it has nothing to do with our children and everything to do with the reality that we feel desperately unequipped to parent.

I would like to say that I have found a solution to such practices; that my obvious wisdom as gleaned through the arrogance of having a blog on parenting has shed light on this unspoken yet rampant plague of parental competition. I would love to say that if I wasn’t so relieved that someone else’s child got a worse grade than mine on that last English assignment.

And I truly believe with my whole heart that the entire issue can be summed up, as in all things, with how we communicate on Facebook. You’ve seen it, you’ve done it, You’ve posted that picture or video that shows your child’s excellence and superiority to the average bear. They got into college, they burped their first burp, they scored the game winning shot, they said something disarmingly precocious and advanced for their young years, they told you they loved you in a better than Hallmark way. They achieved, they succeeded, you obviously did something right while graciously claiming none of the credit except in your own soul which writhes and twists every day with the fear of screwing your kid up.

And those victories are great, and they should be celebrated and liked and shared. They absolutely should. But what would the world look like if we shared our failures as well? Not for sympathy, not for bucking up, not for fishing for compliments. What if we shared our failures or struggles simply to erase the shame of them.  The other day, one of my Facebook friends posted that her child had a massive tantrum over something the rest of the world would surely consider trivial, and I was so happy. Not at her child’s suffering, but at the bravery to say, “Hey this is not all unicorns and the Brady Bunch. Sometimes the rainbow gets graffiti-ed.”

“But Mary, if we erase the shame, aren’t we just justifying bad choices and behavior and issuing a guilt free get out of jail free card.” Sure, that could happen, if we weren’t moral humans who torture ourselves at every misstep. Just as our children know that getting a D isn’t great and they feel horrible about it, we know when we’ve blown it as a parent and whatever torture we deal ourselves is a hundred times worse than what others may think or say. Just as sharing our victories gives us and them hope, sharing our screw-ups may bring an end to all the suffering in silence. Surely I can’t admit that I gave my child no vegetables with dinner last night and that, in fact we ate a sodium filled frozen dinner, for then it would be known that I am an imperfect parent.

Well, you are. We all are. And we want to be better. So we read books and blogs and go to seminars and compare ourselves to others because we are responsible for this human being whom we love more than, well, every other thing ever, and in order to wake up tomorrow and try again we have to feel we’ve done something right. So we post a post that proves that “I got this.” And we need to keep doing that and…we need to sometimes let the world know “I don’t got this.” Because parenting is so hard, brutally unforeseeably hard and perpetuating the myth of unicorns and the Brady Bunch creates an unrealistic ideal that distracts us from our real job: seeing our kid for who they truly are and helping them learn how to stand on their own two wobbly flawed and fabulous feet.

So keep posting the good stuff, by all means. But let’s occasionally show our parental cellulite as well. I’ll start.

I can’t get my kids to brush their teeth and I’ve stopped trying.