When I take my son to school, we often take the M11. I have spent most of my life mocking/eschewing the public bus, because, well, it’s the bus. If you aren’t familiar with the MTA’s bus service, it’s like the subway but with more stops, less speed and populations that divide along the lines of the very young and the very old.  Despite my distaste, since having kids I often find myself on the bus, mostly hating every second of it. My hatred of the bus stems not just from its snail pace and the fact that no one heeds the “please exit from the rear of the bus” PSA, thus slowing down the travel even more, but because of the preteens (and toddlers) who ride it.

During rush hour – aka the times I need to ride – the bus is packed with middle school kids traveling to school on their own. As you may or may not know, middle-school kids suck the waz etiquette-wise.  These kids scream back and forth (often across the span of the bus) to one another, have no sense that their backpack is in my/my boy’s head/mouth/body region and don’t like to hold on to anything, resulting in them (joyously) hurling their bodies around while “trying” to balance as the bus moves. Meanwhile, the girls are all vying to be the center of attention with the sheer volume/pitch of their voice, and the boys are completely enrapt in their video games, with occasional (loud) whoops of joy or disgust at the mass murder of whatever imaginary village they are attacking. That might sound very sexist of me but trust me, it’s the girls who are loudest and the boys who seem to have an unspoken mantra of “the more violent and loud the game, the better.” (My husband can attest to this bro-code, but I won’t go off topic on his gaming because that really merits its own blog post).

Generally speaking, being on the bus is like being held captive by children/tweens/teens who fundamentally do not get or care that they are in public and/or that other people exist on their same planet. I often wonder if their parents know they behave like this. I can only hope that my quiet 10 year-old will not pull these shenanigans when she travels without an adult. These kids don’t give me much hope.

The good thing about me, if I do say so myself, is that I apparently have no problem scolding these kids, much to the embarrassment/dismay of my own. I believe I have mentioned that I am that crazy lady who has, on occasion, tapped on car windows to inform drivers that they almost fucking ran me over. I’ve also done things resembling the following:

1. Told a 13 year-old girl to keep her voice down (she ignored me. Blatantly. I was ready to take it outside but it was my stop so I didn’t)
2. Told an older teen whose backpack was – it felt purposefully, with attitude –  mashing into the entire left side of my body  – that I hoped my son was never as rude/inconsiderate as he was (he said, “whatever, lady,”proving my damn point)
3. Maybe shushed a 3 year-old who was singing loudly, but I tried to do it on the D-L, all the while giving the kid’s parent the evil-eye a-plenty. By the by, these glares are easier to get away with if you are with your own moderately quiet child. You’re welcome.

Anyway, back to the bus. Today we rode the M11 earlier than usual. We sat in the back which I almost never do because the back is apparently “their” – that’d be the middle-school posse – turf and trust me, the further you are from them, the better, because even non-noise sensitive folks would deem these kids “loud as shit.” But today the bus was nearly empty when we boarded – always a good sign – so we headed to the back, joining an older woman and a quiet tween sitting in that back row with the high, leg-dangling seats.  A stop or two later a girl looking to be nine or 10 boarded the bus. I noted her age mostly because she seemed young to be on her own, younger than the rowdy preteens, which then made me wonder if my own 10 yo could mange the bus system on her own (please, yes, but sadly maybe not yet). This girl walked back toward us and sat down in that “why in the world would you choose to sit here but all kids do” back row. She whipped out her phone and turned on music at a volume that can be called “I just walked into the Palladium in 1988” level. Several heads turned, going from the front of the bus on back. Obviously I was one of the head-turners. Even my boy who kind of acts like one of these ingrate tweens from time to time turned his cranium. The girl averted her eyes. Or to be fair, did not lift her eyes from her phone. Aka she made eye contact with no one.

Two songs later, I turned once again to give her the stink eye, sure she would get the hint. Once again, this child  busily stared into her phone, looking my way not at all. “Why is her music so loud?” my son eventually asked. I toyed with saying “because she is inconsiderate;” or “because apparently no one taught her manners;”or “because she doesn’t give a shit,”  but instead, recalling that he was a boy of seven and not a peer or my beleaguered husband,  I said, “I have no idea.”

An older woman in the front started grumbling about her ears hurting (this may or not be a true part of the story) which I took as ammo/permission.  So, I turned around and firmly, but relatively nicely (for me) asked the girl to please turn her music down. She did, immediately. This was an unusual turn of events as the Jugend typically ignore me. I felt it was a job well-done.

A few stops later, we got off the bus. Naturally, so did the girl. I held the door for her even though I DID NOT WANT TO because *I would show her* but hello, I am not a total animal and she was, well, a child about a quarter of my age.  When we were all off the bus, the girl said to me in a polite, genuine tone, “I’m really sorry about the music. I didn’t realize it was so loud.” I felt a tiny bit (but not completely) like an asshole (though was pleased to not have, say, name-called her to my kid) and told her it was okay, that I appreciated her turning it down. And then she said, “have a nice day” with no irony whatsoever.

That, my friends, is how I got schooled by a child. Who was not the inconsiderate brat I thought she might be, but was instead a courteous and pleasant person who had made a bad judgement call. And apologized for it.

It took me a while to learn to stop judging parenting that was different from my own. Two years and eight months to be exact. With the arrival of my second kid, I quickly learned that there was a price to pay for to my smugness about my well-behaved, rule-following girl and that price was called my feisty, “never met a rule I didn’t think was worth challenging ” (but awesome and funny as hell!) boy.

Actually, if I’m completely honest, it took me a little more than those two years and eight months to stop the judging. I was one of those mothers of a innately quiet, calm girl who thought I knew what was up. The kind you want to give a beat-down for her righteousness.  So I will admit it took a hot minute for me to come to my senses. Perhaps it started with the day the boy was approximately 18 months old and, somehow, wielding a knife upon my return from a 10 second trip out of the room. Or maybe it was the day he lay down on the sidewalk  – nay, the center of 96th street – to have a fairly long, drawn-out tantrum.Then I got waaay less attitude about how well I was doing as a parent.

But deep down, while I realized that I had been given an easy first child (and to be fair to the boy, a fairly easy second child, albeit one with a broad interpretation of the word “no”), I thought I knew better about a lot of things. For starters, I had two good sleepers. I attributed their good sleep to….well, me. I was a Weissbluth groupie. I stuck to sleep schedules military-style and could not understand why anyone would let their children sleep in the stroller when my lord and savior Weissbluth specifically said not to do that. My kids went to bed at 19:00 sharp and I would stare in awe/dismay at parents with their toddlers seated at a nearby table at my 8 pm dinner.What was wrong with these people I wondered.

Another thing that flummoxed me: Attachment parenting. Not because I didn’t understand why it could work, but because I could not understand why on earth I – or anyone –  would prescribe to a parenting approach that would result in MORE people in the bed. As he well knows, I barely want my own spouse there. The thought of accepting/desiring a whole slew of people was unfathomable to me, even if a member of that that slew clocked in at 15 lbs.

Other things: As I would stroll down the street with my kids whom I forced out of the stroller when they were three because “This is New York; we walk places,” I would see seven year-olds lounging like kings in strollers (fine, they may have been four. Whatever) and give their parents a sidelong stink-eye. It’s possible that those parents may have seen my workhorses I mean kids being dragged down the street saying “my feet hurt, mommy” and thought similar evil thoughts about me and my parenting. But my way was clearly better, nevermind that it took us approximately six extra years to get anywhere.

Even harder not to to judge were (and let’s be real, are) the four year-olds on the street with pacifiers stuck in their maws.  What the fuck? But that was then (ish).

As my boy child started to grow, it became apparent that he had different ideas than I did about who  was in charge. It turned out that the parenting magic I thought I had worked to make my daughter behave was more her than me. So as I licked my “I know best” wounds and discovered that paying the boy money to stay in his bed all night actually worked (don’t judge, that’s my job), it finally dawned on me that the the best parenting is what works for you and your particular kid. That most people are doing their level best. And I truly came to at least mostly believe this. And I say mostly because some other parents really don’t make it easy for me. While I think I’ve been clear that I find most kids generally annoying, my judgements – or as I like to say, observations – are really geared toward parents of “older” kids, and by that I mean the 5+ crowd who really do have an amazing capability to act human. For example:

Kids who talk loudly all the time because their parents have never said or heard of the word “Shh.” You know who I mean. These juveniles have no inside voice. Their natural volume hovers around 11. They like to be Heard. Everything they say is Interesting (in their own and evidently, their parents’ minds). I’ve sat through elevator rides, movies, plays and bus-rides where I have heard nary an admonishment from parents for the sound barrier-breaking, hackle-raising decibel of their children. Why, people, why?

The worst is when you are stuck with these kids/parents for the foreseeable future. Like in a play when the child loudly answers questions that the actors ask one another as part of, say, the script. Like in the movies when the child behind me narrates what just happened in case anyone in the theater missed it (side note: Old people do this too). Like on the bus which is such unadulterated chaos around drop-off and dismissal times, it’s hard to even come up with a good example of what I mean. Let’s just say that one time a dad encouraged his five year-old to sound out every word on every advertisement on the bus. Loudly. The dad was proud. Me, not so much.

The Non-shushing sister wife: Parents who never say “Please for the love of god don’t say that again” or some variation thereof. I once heard a kid say “The squirrel doesn’t like the squeaky wheel” 25 times (from when I started counting which was at least 5 rounds in)…and that was just walking down one block until I actually stopped in a store to end the madness for myself. That kid may still be uttering that sentence for all I know. I am acquainted with the fact that kids like to repeat themselves because my own have pulled these repetitive shenanigans. But I nip that monster in the bud by saying things like, “I heard you the first time” or, “You just said that” or “OK ALREADY.” What I’m mostly amazed by is the parents’ patience and/or ability to ignore the endless loop. Do they not hear? Do they not care? Can they tune it out?  Okay, so maybe I’m not judging the parenting but jealous of it. Whichever.

Parents who carry their older kids’ belongings  Listen, to each her own but why in god’s name should I be carrying your back-pack when you are, say, nine? You: Young and able. Me: Your boss. In fact, here’s my bag, thanks.

Parents who take their kids’ garbage for them.  I recently watched a mom let her 10-ish and 12-ish year-olds toss the wrappers from their snacks at her. Like, they opened the snacks and threw the wrappers in their mom’s general direction. The wrappers landed on the floor of the bus. The mom picked them up and continued their conversation as if nothing had transpired. This was not the first time I witnessed something like this. Even my rule-challenging boy child knows not to throw garbage at/toward/near me nor does he hand me wrappers. Not because I’m parent of the year but because there are garbage cans on every corner. Also, it’s not my garbage.

So here I sit, not judging. I like to call it observing and complaining a little. Because here’s the thing: Unlike parenting choices like co-sleeping which is really none of my damn beeswax, when your parenting is affecting my life, I feel I have a small right to have an Opinion. How does whether a parent carries her kid’s stuff affect me, you may ask? It doesn’t. But work with me here. I too am doing my best.

 

I have always noticed that I am a little different than my lady friends on the “making sure things are nice” front. I’ve never cared all that much about shoes, make-up or having perfectly pegged jeans (okay, I did care about that from 1985-7; never got there), but when we were young and fresh-faced, neither did many of my friends. Probably because we were oblivious and cash poor.  I don’t even think I knew there was a 1K price point on shoes until Sex & the City.

As I hit 30 and then moved in with my spouse, the differences between me and the majority of females became more obvious. I noticed that some women seemed to care about things that did not even register for me. The Feng Shui of a room. Various shades/names of paint colors. That maybe one’s shower curtain/towels should or at least could match. That soap dispensers made a bathroom look nicer. People started asking me what style of furniture I liked (apparently, we have something called “Mission style” which my pervy mentality had some trouble getting around. Just saying).

I also started catching on that there were good and not good ways to apply make-up. Naturally, I fell into the latter category despite many tutorials from well-intentioned Sephora employees (whose own make-up never inspired much confidence, by the by). It’s not that I apply too much or am garish, mind you (see: Sephora staff). It’s just that less is not always more but can instead just be less. I did learn that there is something called “primer” (it’s not helpful, I got sucked in) and that some people own more than one mascara (still do not get why). I discovered that people don’t always use the same lip shade and have a wide variety of colors from which to choose (whazza). During this period of discovery, I was mostly still rolling out of bed and hoping for the best, though with a little more moolah on hand, I did invest in some expensive make-up that I never wore . So yeah, the differences between Me and Them blipped faintly on my radar, but I did not feel like some outlier to the female race. I felt kind of low-maintenance, at least on this front.

Then I got engaged and suddenly I was Out There. They (aka other women, aka good friends) would speak about wedding planning/minutia and my eyes would glaze over. While I knew enough to want a large and charge (yet subtle!) ring (I was not a complete moron), I realized that whatever gene I lacked on the home furnishings/decor and make-up front also affected my wedding planning skills/outlook.  I did not understand details like favors, bridesmaids, the importance of a first dance, seating arrangements and having a color scheme, so I avoided all of these things. Most of all I could not grasp why in the world anyone would want – or need –  a year-long engagement, though this seemed the norm amongst my friends at that time.

My engagement was 3 months long and most people who knew me didn’t try to talk me out of that (as an aside, my husband likes to joke that after he proposed, I called the venue and said, “it’s a go” which I DID NOT DO NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES YOU SAY THAT. I digress). But my good friends knew it was pointless to tell me April might be too rushed after a February proposal. A few bravely said things like, “You might find that it’s hard to plan in such a short time” or the like. But here’s the thing: When you lack a certain female gene – the one that cares about “making things nice” or, say, match-y – nothing really takes that long. If you don’t care whether you have square or round vases (I didn’t), you’re kind of good to go.

Why am I talking about my engagement/wedding 11 years ago you might ask? Because now, in my 40s,  I’m starting to wonder if my making-things-nice deficiency is starting to do me wrong. Maybe I’m not really low-maintenance but instead am uber lazy. Maybe I don’t care about making things nice – including and especially zhoozhing up my own self –  because it requires….effort.

Part of the reason I am questioning things (“things” being my apparently male genes) is that I can no longer rest on my youth to make my non-fussed upon face look presentable. Another reason is that  even though I still mostly don’t are about this type of thing, I live in Manhattan, a land of (beautiful) people who do.When I am out and about – south of the Birkenstock, overalls-wearing UWS (even I’m not that bad, people), I am reminded that 99% of women here look way more together – or at least put-together –  than I do.  And then to top it all off, there are my good friends who are annoyingly attractive and rude enough to also be fashionable. They look (effortlessly) put together. Their hair is did. They have some light, well-applied make-up. Everything works.

So, here I sit, the opposite of whatever that is. I’m okay being defunct at making “things” nice – I couldn’t do it differently if I tried my very best –  but I have started to try to make “me” nice. Or nicer.  I try to remember to at least put on some under-eye concealer when I go out (which is really for the best. Like, my own dad once asked me – with alarm – how I got a black eye. I did not have a black eye). I try to wear lip gloss (when I remember). I make sure my collar/shirt is not tucked in spazzily. I dry clean clothes to iron them.

There are even times when I say to myself, “I am going to actually do my make-up tonight,” and settle in for the 2-3 minute application process. On these occasions, if (and only if) prodded,  friends respond to my prideful mugging of my made-up face with comments like “You’re wearing mascara?” Not in the “oh, you never wear make up, it looks so good!” way that I’m fishing for, but in a “I really can’t tell and that’s a little sad for you” manner. It’s a vaguely disheartening, but I persevere, changing nothing in my routine the next time around, but hoping for a different outcome/reaction anyway.

I know I could do more. I could take the time to straighten my hair, especially since I have hair envy of everyone I hang out with including my 10 year-old daughter, who got the thick, shiny tresses mine aspire to be. But in moments of trying to give a shit, the net result is always the same: I sweat a lot (that dryer is some hot shit), curse even more, and end up looking sort of like Cameron Diaz in “Being John Malkovitch,” which in case you don’t remember, was not a good look. I also know I could get make-up application advice on, say, youtube from a variety of savvy 13 year-olds, all of whom clearly know more about make-up than I do, despite having lived 30 fewer years.

But….I’m low maintenance and lack that gene. Or I’m just lazy. Whichever.

Upon hearing this, those of you who know me might be thinking, “are you mental and/or unwell?” It’s a fair question.

As you may have gleaned by now, I’m not a touchy-feely kind of gal. I might cry at Coke commercials (it’s happened, and don’t get me started on the ones for St. Jude’s hospital), but I didn’t cry at my wedding or on either of my kids’ first days of school, and I certainly didn’t cry when I gave birth (I didn’t even know that was something people did. Apparently it is). Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled to meet the beings who caused me to gain more than a third of my fighting weight and who had occupied — one more aggressively and perhaps angrily than the other – the space formerly known as my stomach (womb, whatever). But cry? No. I am not sappy that particular way.

Coupled with this un-sappiness is the fact that as some of you also know/have read, I don’t like babies or young children all that much. I thought I would like kids more after I had my own. I do not. Most of them are annoying. Almost from birth, I couldn’t wait till my kids turned five. That seemed like the golden age, the time when things would a-change. And I was right, they did, and all for the better.

Before then, in the pre-five years (I had a total of eight of them. Nine if you factor in that my son was actually 6 before anything was remotely “golden” with him), people doled out their similarly-themed observances at random moments. For example, during my kids’ public meltdowns or as I sat looking like I might poke my own eyes from boredom at the playground, parents of older children would (unsolicited) tell me things like “Cherish every moment, it goes faster than you think.” One person actually said this to me in the waiting room of my pediatrician’s office as I held the crying, alien form that was my 1 week-old daughter. My life had been so fully uprooted at that point that my understanding of the English language was mostly limited to yes/no/I have no idea, and I barely comprehended what, exactly, had happened to me (see: When filling out the forms registering my kid with the pediatrician’s office,  I wrote my mom’s name under “mother”). Even in that coma-like state, the one thing I did know was that nothing felt “fast.” But I nodded and smiled as if I got it.

The other line people threw at me  was “You’ll miss this phase when it’s over.” Well, no. YOU might have. I did not. I did not/have not missed (to name a few): The “why” phase (Here’s why: Because); Pointing at every object I passed and naming it (to increase their vocabulary!); Referring to myself in the third person (i.e. “let mommy do that” because allegedly babies/toddlers don’t understand pronouns. You know what? I bet those mofos do); Participating – with my hands, voice and body – in some sort of “wheels on the bus” rendition at “mommy and me;” The poop-up-back diaper changes; Two kids screaming for my attention at once….I didn’t cherish those moments and I don’t regret that I didn’t. They sucked and I am glad I can talk about them in the past tense.

But now something is happening. Not only am I mostly loving these so-called golden years with both my kids, but my older one is about to turn 10, is on the brink of tweendom. That means that we have less time with her ahead of us than behind. It means that only one more Presidential cycle will pass before she can vote. It means that those years I rushed through are truly in the past, and even the phase after that is coming to a close.

While her brother still fits comfortably, perfectly in my lap, she does not.  His hands feels small in mine – hers…well, I don’t know because we don’t hold hands very much anymore.  I have accidentally worn her socks. She knows songs I don’t know. She picks up on subtleties. We crack up together in a similar way that I do with girlfriends. It is quite amazing, and nothing at all like years 0-5 ore even 5-9.

Other things are also happening. She is fine with affection at home, but turns her head when I go to kiss her goodbye in front of school. She is embarrassed when I talk (nicely – not in my taking on the elderly way!) to strangers. She cringes at the thought of what we, her earnest parents, might do in public that will be unacceptable (luckily she finds her father far more mortifying than she finds me. Told you I was cooler, husband).  None of this makes me cry – I relish it. It’s part of what I’ve been waiting for.

So what happened today? Well, today is the first of two performances of the 4th grade play. A 75 minute production where the kids have memorized their lines, cues, scenes and several songs. My kid and her classmates have  been working all year toward this day. It is A Big Deal in her grade, among her friends, at her school.

On our way in this morning, she was nervous and excited. When we arrived 15 minutes early, she asked me to come into the building with her – for the first time in two years. She was a little bit of a jittery mess. But then…then she saw some friends. And they were nervous and excited too. They all hugged each other, chattering away about the play, and she turned to me, smiled, and said, “It’s okay, I don’t need you.” And then she ran up the steps to school and didn’t look back.

That, my friends, made me cry. Not because it shouldn’t have happened, but because it should have, because it did.

 

My kids will end up in therapy. I’m sure of it. To start with, they’re from New York City where people walk around with parrots on their bare heads and/or have tattoos that say “fuck” on their necks. They are taught to bustle by people in need and to avoid eye contact. So there’s that working against them.

They also have me as their mom. Don’t get me wrong, I actually think I’m a fairly normal person (despite, say, coming to fisticuffs with the elderly and teenage contingents of our population). I just think that having kids can bring out the worst, most unhinged versions of ourselves (and the best! But that’s not what I want to talk about today). And your parents’ unique craziness – well, that’s what lands you in therapy.

Part of my personality is that I try to tell it like it is. Sometimes this means I say things that others might consider un-motherly.  A friend recently (and possibly involuntarily) said “Aw, be nice” when she heard me tell my (7 year-old) kid “That joke wasn’t your best. Not that funny.” What I saw as honest discourse (and please note, the kid agreed with me), she saw as “mean.” This startled me.  So I started thinking about other things I say/do that might be….how do I put this…outside the realm of normal parental behavior.  I have come up with many, but for the sake of brevity/my own dignity, I have only listed a few.

Number one: I don’t like other people needing me. I don’t mean emotionally. That I’m okay with. I mean on an errand-boy level. My general ethos is “The less I need to do, the better” along with its partner “Do it your own damn self.”  This attitude, I have learned, does not always lend itself to children, particularly young children. I am mostly on the other side of having kids who need help with every little thing, and for that I am grateful. But when it comes to kids, there’s always something. They need you, or think they do. Sometimes it’s real. Sometimes it’s not; I sniff out the not and toss it right back at them.

Those things kids don’t like doing because they suck/are an enormous pain in the ass?  I don’t like doing them either. So when my kids ask for help I do not believe they need (i.e. Can you get me some water? Will you put my homework folder in my backpack for me? Can you cut this apple? Can you spread the cream cheese on my bagel?), they get some sort of variation of “I am not your servant” in reply. If they’re lucky I’ll also add, “oh, and actually, can you get me some water while you’re up?” Some might think this is overly harsh and that parents should help their kids when they can. I’m not one of them and my kids are intimately familiar with this fact.

Upside:  They are resourceful and know how to open a bottle of beer.

Number two: I have a “things must be in order” OCD which they have fucked with.  Gone are the days when it seemed every toy in our house migrated to/became permanent residents of the living room. But even though their stuff is back in their rooms,  I like to know there is order behind their closed doors. I also think kids should be responsible for keeping their rooms organized.

Objectively – if I can step away from my own crazy for a sec – they do a decent job.  They try to please me, they do. Even the crafty boy child, whose general mantra is “rules, schmules” does pretty well on the clean-up front, maybe even better than his older sister.

But my expectations are high. To help them avoid my OCD wrath, I have tried to teach them that like-things must be with their brethren – markers with markers, trains with trains. You catch my drift. They, it seems, sometimes do not.  Either because they don’t care with the same passion that I do (fail on my part); because they are trying to clean up quickly (understandable); because they don’t notice (epic fail on my part. Epic); or simply because they are normal human beings who make mistakes (whatever), there is not always a tyrannical-level order to their belongings. This is not okay as they have not-so-gently learned.

Walking into what others might deem a tidied room, I have screamed things like “This is what you call cleaning up?” Wire-hanger style, I have flung items out of bins saying, “Does this look like a costume?” or “THIS IS NOT LEGO,” tossing the offending object into a pile in the middle of the room for my children to sort appropriately when I have finished my tirade/it is safe for them to exist again. They have mastered that timing.

Upside: Boy child cried when he didn’t have time to put his legos away before school the other day. That’s what I’m talking about (that’s a joke, people, I felt bad).

Number three: I don’t really have a problem telling my kids they’re boring. Because sometimes they are boring. I will say,  “That’s not that interesting” as they tell me verbatim about a show they watched on TV or as they tell me – for the trillionth time – about something “cute” the cat did. I also say things like, “Only other kids want to hear stuff like this” or  “This is what your brother is for.” When it gets especially bad, I come right out and tell them, “I’m bored.” They roll with it (for now).

Upside: They know when they are actually saying something interesting. They are both pretty damn funny.

Number four: I have a similar attitude when it comes to telling them they are doing something weird/awkward. I was okay when my son spent months walking around with one ball-length bright pink glove on (think Cinderella meets Michael Jackson). If that was his style, respect. But headbands pushed abnormally low on forehead? Several necklaces piled on at a time to be “pretty”? Seventeen stuffed animals smushed into a backpack just “to have”for the trip to school?  These are the lines I draw. So I will say necessary and helpful things like, “Kids will make fun of you for that, trust me.” Or “That outfit? No. Just no.” or “Did you look in a mirror today?”  My view is, I’d rather they hear it from me than another kid  – who may actually be nicer about it than I am, but that’s not the point.

Upside: Unclear.

So these are my flaws/foibles/peccadilloes. My husband has his own set, though I’m guessing he doesn’t want me to be his spokesperson on that front.

But then there’s this. Recently, two of my sisters told me how they carefully, carefully chose a porcelain dog to give me as a college graduation present. This was in 1993 aka twenty-three years ago. They were 7 and 10 at the time. They approached me upon exiting the graduation ceremony (nervously, eagerly, they tell me) and presented me with their gift.  I took it and put it in my graduation robe pocket, then moved along to a group of friends. I may/may not have said thank you. The thing is – I don’t remember this at all. No dog, no pocket, nothing. Them? Crushed enough to remember it to this day. Me? Nada.

So knowing that, I’m sure I have inadvertently done similar to my kids.

Upside: What my kids end up talking about in twenty years might not be my Joan Crawford OCD moves or my honest assessments of their physical and emotional weaknesses, but something else entirely. That renders my introspection/this blog moot, but does nonetheless merit a shout out to their future therapists:

You’re welcome for the business.

 

 

Here’s what happens in your 40s: Things change, and not always (or ever) for the better. Sure, I am more comfortable in my own skin and have stopped giving a shit what people think (see: altercation with a 13 year-old on the bus who thought it was important to voice every thought she had at the loudest volume she could muster.  I took it as my civic duty to tell her that she needed to be quiet and that there were other people on the bus. She took it as her civic duty to ignore me. But this is not what I’m trying to talk about).

What am I trying to talk about? Glad you asked. The first change I’ve noticed since hitting 42 is gaining weight despite maintaining the same diet/exercise regiment as 5 lbs/years ago.  If anything, I am more rigorous at the gym than I used to be. Body has not really gotten that message, or if it has, it is very nonchalant about it.  Another change that comes to mind is also body-related: My hands. What happened to them? It’s like we are at war: They are determined to look old and vein-y; I am determined to keep them youthful by slathering them with lotion and exfoliating them daily. They are winning. But it’s not over.

The main change I’m thinking of, the one that is the most insulting and quite frankly, rude as all get out,  is the change in my mental capabilities. In order for my life to, say, function, I need lists and google calendar reminders.  Lots of them. Once upon a time, lists were things old people needed. Way back when, when colleagues said things like “don’t you need to write anything down?” I would look at them  pityingly, point my index finger at my skull and say “It’s all up here” or other such nonsense. To be fair, it was all up there. I didn’t forget or lose track of things. I didn’t miss deadlines. I knew where I had to be and when. To-do lists/reminders were for the weak-minded, the sorry-ass folk who did not have my mental acuity.

It’s not that my brain has completely failed me. I still have a moderate grasp of the English language and some basic math skills (though have been stumped by my 4th grader’s homework. Like, actually stumped. How the hell am I supposed to figure out how three 8s, when combined – using only the three 8s and a math symbol like + or what have you – can result in the number 6?)*. My trusty brain has also maintained a steady and I’ll say it, impressive capacity for critical information such as:

• My childhood phone number
• The birthdays of classmates I have not seen since 1989
• Which celebrity is married to which other celebrity/whether they have children/how many/who the single celebrities are dating
• Madonna’s full name, birthday (including year) and some important facts about her childhood in Michigan
• Every word to the two songs I sang at my 6th grade graduation in 1982 (yes, some of you were there and reminded me there were three songs. Fine.)

But there are a growing number of things that now take some serious concentration/are no longer at the ready. Like the word that’s at the tip of my tongue  but I can’t quite conjure up immediately (one time it was my child’s name); like remembering to bring a wallet when leaving the house (forgetting it 1-10 times does not teach this old dog any sort of new trick); that the olive oil will not magically appear in my cupboard unless I remember to buy it. My brain has also started to conduct some inconsiderate and outright embarrassing antics which include, but are not limited to:

• Instructing me to use my metro card at the gym
• Making me conduct searches for my phone while I am on said phone as I frantically tell the person on the other end that I have lost my phone
• Failing to recognize people who know me well enough to hug me hello on the street
• Remembering the plot line of any book I have read in the past ten years, even within a week of finishing it

Where once I wrote nothing down – I’m not even sure I owned a calendar – today , I make lists. I have to put reminders in my calendar with normal things like “school contract due” or “movies with Jane,” but also for things like  “get candle/matches/cake” (for my own child’s birthday party) or “call super” which might seem obvious when one of two toilets in my home stops functioning completely, but alas, is not obvious. If I need more than one item (or in fact any item at all) at the drugstore? List. That errand I need to run or check I need to write? Reminder in google calendar or it doesn’t happen.

For Friday 2/26, Google Calendar Notification: Write blog. Click “Publish.”

 

*For all of you who think you solved the 4th grade math problem, number one, congrats, that’s further than I got. Number two, cubed roots were not allowed. Now what.

 

Growing up, I had a mother who worked and I loved it. In part this was because her working allowed me a lot of freedom. But more than that, I loved being able to say my mother was a lawyer. It made her sound important and accomplished and like she knew what was up. I was proud of her.

At 18 I went to college and became, among other things,  a raging feminist. I was sure I saw sexist slights everywhere. Women had rights and I was happy to tell you about them if you asked, or even if you didn’t.

In my 20s, still feminist, though less on rampage, I became one career-focused mofo. I was sure I was going to become a United States Senator (D., NY). I had worked on Capitol Hill for Senator Feinstein for a couple of years and I was going back to grad school to study public policy  – to then head back to D.C to begin my political ascent. I was going to Make A Difference. I Was Going Places.

During grad school, I began to question whether I wanted to go back to D.C., but I was still determined to find some kind of profession that would Matter, even if it wasn’t becoming an elected official. One spring morning during my second semester of school, a fellow student asked, “Do you want to work for Clinton’s pollster this summer? I have a friend who works there.” It was 1996. I wasn’t up to much else, so I said okay.

Before being allowed the opportunity to have this unpaid internship, I had one of the more grueling interviews of my life. I remember my interviewer asking me, “What’s the one issue or policy you changed Dianne Feinstein’s opinion on?”  I was a confident and smug kind of fella,  but I was fully aware that I hadn’t changed the Senator’s opinion about anything. Mostly because I was busy answering her telephones and accepting that she was going to call me Allison (and not my actual name or anything approximating it) for the entire two years that I worked for her.

I got the internship which later morphed into a full-time job and then a career.  I felt lucky. I immediately clicked with the work and was good at it. I loved the adrenaline of the place, I loved being busy and I was given a lot of responsibility. While my friends struggled with what they were going to do, I was on A Path and Watch The Fuck Out.

By 30, still career-minded, I had graduated from being the schmuck taking copious notes on midnight phone calls with clients to a Vice President at a small boutique firm where I was expected to drum up business, especially if I wanted to move “up.”  But here’s the thing. Even though I didn’t have kids and wasn’t even married yet, I didn’t really want to go “up.” I was sort of a-ok where I was. I didn’t want to put the effort into “taking it to the next level” because at the end of the day, all I really wanted to do was go home and watch “The Bachelor” whilst conference calling friends to discuss. I was career-minded, it was just…I also wanted a life, even if that life was watching TV alone.

By the time I was pregnant with my first child I had moved to a different firm where I was less stressed but also less happy. No one -including and/or especially me – gave a shit whether I moved up the so-called ladder. While I may have lost my earlier ambition – or let’s be real, any ambition at all — what I did know with absolute clarity was that no way in hell did I want to be home with my kid. No thank you. Not happening.

After 16 weeks with my newborn daughter – with help both from a paid person and my mother – I was ready to not be alone with her every day. I went back to work, ready, if not to take on the world, to at least go to the bathroom without another human being in the room.  But the thing was, that work-life balance people talk about – that I had experienced as a single woman 5 years earlier – that’s some real stuff.  For me, the conflict was not being away from my child, but being away from my child and bored, perhaps to tears. I was still certain I didn’t want to be at home but I was also certain that being in a dead-end, boring job wasn’t the answer either.

Vaguely kicking and screaming (and yet vaguely to aggressively relieved), I quit my job and freelanced. I wasn’t home, mind you (even though I was home), I was a consultant. It worked for a while.  A couple of years and a second child later, the freelancing had dried up, but I still felt I owed my brain something, anything. So, I started to write (and finish) a book.  And it was great and somewhat fulfilling. But I felt lost.  I missed the bustle of rush hour. I missed having deadlines.  Many of my friends’ careers took off as mine….did not. While I missed caring about my professional life….I didn’t actually miss the work itself. This tug-of-war – thinking I should care about work but not actually caring – tormented me. For years.

My spouse kept telling me “work is over-rated” and I kept telling my spouse, “Just  because I’m not working, it doesn’t mean I’m your personal maid service.” (Aside: These were not our best conversations). The thing is, I wasn’t ready to be someone who didn’t work, so even though I wasn’t actually working, I tried to occupy my time with things that were Not My Children. And in order to make my younger, ambitious self feel better, when  people would ask if I worked/what I did and I would say “I’m a writer” or “I freelance.” Even when I had nothing going on. It made me feel less….lame. It made me feel like my younger self would like me better.

Then something happened. Both my kids started school full-time and I started to kind of….enjoy them. And not just because they were in school for a chunk of the day, though I’m not going to lie, that helped.  But it turns out that the babies/toddlers I hid from (and I did that – I hid from them) became actual likable kids who are unique and witty and smart and kind. Also, they fetch things for me and offer to give me massages. It’s not a career. But it’s fulfilling and rewarding in other ways, and I actually I revel in being with them more than I thought possible (unless they’re in a bad mood and then not so much). I still give a shout out to my brain when I can – I’m now working on a second book and I have this blog. But when people ask if I work, I finally say “no.” (Before adding “but I”m writing a book!” because let’s be real, I have a little fight left in me)

All said and done, there are still days when I feel I owe the 18 year-old ambitious, take-no-prisoners me an apology or an explanation of some sort.  But then I think – what the hell did she know? She was just an 18 year-old girl finding her way in the world. So I’ve stopped worrying that she’s judging me because she’s still in there somewhere. She’s grown up a bit and has learned to pick her battles.  Her priorities have shifted. She’s okay with being called a girl (in fact, feel free), but if you call her by her husband’s last name….hear her roar.

 

I have learned a thing or two since having kids, but what has struck me most – okay, maybe not most, but what has struck me repeatedly – is the difference between the way I approach social dynamics/invitations/getting to know other people in my kids’ grades versus the way pretty much everyone else does.

Here is what I’ve noticed.

It is your child’s birthday and you are planning a party. Me: Stress about how far in advance (from date of party) would be too early invitation-wise aka what would make me look like complete, desperate loser as opposed to an organized, together parent. Debate a “save the date” for the party to get it on people’s radar but decide since my child is neither being bat mitzvah’ed nor getting married, this move may be (but is not 100% necessarily) excessive. Convince myself that sending an invitation to a child’s party six weeks out is socially acceptable, and in fact, people appreciate it. Get gently told to calm the fuck down (by them).  Wait an additional two days to two weeks (in my good years) to send invitation. Spend the better part of a day selecting the “best” evite site (evite vs. paperpless post vs. punchbowl – I could go on) and then choosing an invitation that looks “age-appropriate/casual/masculine/classy/breezy.” End up settling on an invitation with balloons (or something) that was probably the first invitation in the bunch. Send evite. Check evite nine times per day (slash hour) until I discover “notify me when guests reply” function.  Notice that some people don’t reply. Ever, as in now the party is in two weeks. The worst offenders are those who have viewed invitation because….hello, what’s the delay. Some don’t even view it (please, someone, explain this to me). Go through what can only be called phases of grief with these non-responders: Denial (they will respond, I know it! Maybe their emails changed? I bet it went to their spam folder!); Anger (what in the literal EFF is wrong with them?); Bargaining (fine, I will send a gentle reminder about the party, but only through the evite system); Depression (maybe they hate me/kid); Acceptance (it will be fine if only 3 kids show up, really. Small parties are better).  Just when I’ve gotten to the acceptance phase – or at least when I have exited the depression phase –  their kid shows up at my kid’s party. Naturally, the only way to handle this is to greet them warmly and pretend nothing happened that was VERY WRONG and made me QUESTION THEIR MORALS.

Them: Send some perfect looking invite (or actual paper invitation) two weeks out. Party is planned last minute but the cake is nevertheless perfect and homemade and there is a theme (see: https://underthefalseimpression.wordpress.com/2015/12/22/entertaining/). They may/may not check RSVPs during the few days before the actual party, but it’s all a big, non-discussed mystery. I don’t know what these people do or how it works out for them, but it does. There is no stress other than perhaps the fact that every invitee is attending.

 

Playdates in general: Me: Do the asking. 

Them Get asked. Okay, this has morphed over time, but this was my entry into playdates.

Unwanted playdates: Here I mean those times when your child is invited to a playdate with a kid he/she doesn’t really like. I have forced my child to go on one playdate with this kid already (“be nice, give him/her a chance/you never know!” – I do think this is fairly universal behavior except for the complete assholes out there) but at this point, I know there’s no way in hell my kid wants to go on another one.(“I’m not doing that” or “Please don’t make me” are sentences my children have uttered at the suggestion).

Me: Feel immense guilt the second I receive the email with the request because I know I need to decline, but I feel bad, because maybe this kid doesn’t have friends, or maybe the kid isn’t really that bad, never mind that my kid is N-O-T not interested and at this point, is practically a teenager. Spend the next six minutes to one hour stressing over how to reply to this unwanted playdate invitation. Solicit advice. Am instructed on how they would handle, which is first and foremost to let it lie for a while. I take this in. I nod in agreement. I then reply within the hour (which, incidentally, feels like “letting in lie”) so as not to be rude. In fact, I am worried I have already been rude not replying within seconds. Somehow find self writing”Sure!” or “Sounds good!” or things that seem to not include “no thank you” or “sadly, we are busy.” My children begin to hate/resent me when I inform them of pending plan. I promise this playdate is the last. I assure them that I mean it this time.

Them: Ignore email for days to plant the seed of “no fucking way.” Eventually respond with a cheery, “Oh, that’s so nice of you to ask.” They continue on to explain how busy they are and/or that they don’t really do many playdates and/or “maybe soon!” if they want to throw the requestor a bone. They do not send kid on unwanted playdate. They do not think about the email/playdate ever again.

Class/grade dynamic, child 1: Me: Know first/last names of entire 72 child grade by 1st grade. Know at least half the parents’ names by this point, which families live on the East/West side vs. Downtown, know (generally) the season/month/actual date of all girls’ birthdays. Might/might not know all kids’ siblings names as well as well as what grade they are in. May fake level of knowledge (as in, pretend to be clueless, as in “Oh, Jane lives on the Upper West Side? I had no idea!”) so as not to appear like a lunatic and/or someone who lacks hobbies/employment/a life.

Them: No idea, but just know it’s not the above or anything approximating it.

Class/grade dynamic, child 2: Me: Know all of children’s name (except 3, maybe 4) in 36 child grade by 1st grade. Know who has older siblings because most do. Know the names of 5-7 parents. Have no real idea where anyone lives unless they are at my bus stop. Birthdays? Who cares.

Them: Ditto. (more…)

Where to begin. Well, let’s talk about the past thirteen years of “sleep.” When you are married to a snorer, sleep must always be in quotation marks. Why? Because you are often not actually getting any. Instead you are lying in bed fuming, maybe crying actual tears, experiencing emotions which vacillate between rage and self pity.

I can’t say I was duped into this lifestyle. Very early on I knew that my then boyfriend was a snorer. It’s not like it’s something you can hide, like the fact that you untuck the sheets in a very, very annoying way. At first I had hope. I *am* a light and crappy sleeper, but surely he could not snore that loudly all the time. Also, I was falling in love. Also, it never occurred to me that it would get worse because it seemed fairly dire as it was.

The good news was that he was willing to try (this was back in 2003). He agreed to sleep on a wedge. He used “breathe right” strips. He may have asked a doctor about his snoring and if there was anything to do about it. He came home with Prilosec and Sudafed which he agreed to take if he felt “stuffy” (which in my mind was every day and in his mind was 2% of time).

I was also willing to do my share which did not involve acceptance because there is legitimately no way to accept something that keep you awake/on high alert every night, but did involve determination. I purchased a wide variety of ear plugs (Mack wax are the best). I googled the shit out of “snore remedies.” I spent a couple of hundred dollars on ear plugs that actually have white noise built into them. I remember back to that magical day thinking I had the solution and was maybe going to sleep again. If you’ve never slept with white noise right up against your eardrum, which you probably have not, you do not realize that it makes you feel like you are drowning/vertigo-ing/maybe going to die. You might try wearing them again hoping that you’ll get used to the sensation of plummeting to the earth as if on a crashing airplane as you try to sleep. You don’t. You then feel angry at the company that manufactures these ear plugs for giving you false hope.  You death-stare the earplugs in your drawer every time you see them. Ultimately, you give in and throw them out.

By the point I realized I might be in trouble of the life-long variety, we were living together. But I remained optimistic because I did not know any better. We invested in white noise machines. We bought a king sized bed. We faced away from one another when we slept.

If you are married to/living with/dating a snorer, you will be shaking you head sadly along in sympathy because you will know that nothing I have listed works (though the wedge at home is far better than the nights in hotel rooms with no wedge). If you are not married to snorer, you will be thinking how lucky you are, and might be smug about it. You have ever right to be smug. It may be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

With a snorer, there are mediocre nights, bad nights, and nights where you contemplate the following, in no particular order: Moving out (into own, quiet, space); How you may never sleep again, like ever, which could be another 50 years; Divorce; How it is really, really unfair that you are being subjected to this kind of life and what this means for your physical, mental and emotional self; Homicide; How no one else has it as bad as  you do; Waking him up every 3-6 minutes to beg/scream at him to shut the fuck up. Oh wait, you don’t think that, you actually do that on the worst nights. That also does not work. You may also yell at him to do a damn sleep study/get an apnea mask. He may/will refuse. This will enrage you more, particularly if this conversation is in the middle of the night when you are already convinced that there may be some grand plan to keep you awake forever, and it’s working despite your best efforts to fight it.

To those of you who are the problem (aka snorers) in your relationship, a quick list of things never to say (you’re welcome):

“You’re exaggerating/It’s not that bad” (You have no idea, and it is, oh dear god if only  you were right.)

“But you’ve always had sleep issues, even before we met” (OWN the snoring. Own it. Apologize for it. Daily)

“You’ll get used to it.” (I won’t and you wouldn’t either. No one on the planet would, never mind that your kids have)

“No one ever complained before you” (Wimps, liars, deaf folk)

“I don’t do it on purpose.” (You do. I know you do)

 

First, a quick-shout out and intense moment of gratitude that my children are back in school. Dear god, THANK YOU, wasn’t sure I was going to make it.

Back to the topic. I like to make me a solid new year’s resolution come January 1, but I am of the mind that a resolution needs to fall into the camp of “actually doable”(AD) and not “never going to happen in this lifetime” (let’s just call it NGH). If you lack awareness about your limitations or have convinced yourself you are indeed capable of dramatic change that you have yet to accomplish by, say, your mid 30s, hopefully this post will help you. You can test whether a resolution falls into the NGH camp by gauging friends’ reactions when you tell them your resolution. If they smile and nod encouragingly without any sort of comment other than “oh, that’s good,” you, my friend, have made an NGH resolution. When you hear things like “ooh, I like that one” or “maybe I should do that!” Then? AD. #Nicelydone.

For example, I don’t make resolutions to be more patient because I realize that if I am not patient at 44, it’s not in my future, and so resolving to do so is really just setting myself up for failure. Another example of an NGH resolution for me: Be more fun as a parent. Like it or not, I am not the fun-maker in my family. I may actually be the fun-killer, like  let-me-see-how- quickly-I-can-wipe-that-joy-off-your-face type. I am not goofy or silly (nor do I want to be) and “pretend play” may have been my own personal hell. One time when my daughter was maybe 5, we saw a family board the subway. The dad was with the son who was in a stroller and the mom and her clone of a daughter sat down across from us. The daughter was 9 or 10 and she and her mother were giggling and whispering. After watching them with wide (perhaps jealous) eyes for a while, my own lass turned to me and said, “I think that’s that girl’s aunt.”  I said, “why?” incredulously because, again, they looked like different-aged identical twins, and my kid said, “because they’re having so much fun!” This was apparently not her experience with mothering. Ergo I do not resolve to be a more fun parent. It’s not in me. I’m okay with that.

I sometimes slip. It’s easy to go NGH on everyone’s ass because let’s face it, we are all hopeful. And delusional. A couple of years ago,  having just read The Silver Linings Playbook (which is, incidentally, so much better than the movie), I glommed onto the protagonist’s mantra which was “it is better to be kind than be right.” Wow, I thought at the time, that is a seriously deep and beautiful idea that sounds AD if I inwardly repeat it to myself the next time I’m ready to have words with a stranger who is occupying the entirety of a pole on the subway.  Or, say, with my spouse on any given evening.  I was so confident that this concept was AD and not NGH that I even talked about it with other people who looked at me with that glazed over eye/fake smile face I alluded to above. That should have tipped me off, but instead, their facial expressions made me think they had not reached the same kumbaya place I had. I felt sorry for them.

Turns out, I really like being right. Especially when it comes to my spouse. So, gave up on that one around February 5th of that year.

So, what’s an example of AD you may be wondering? I have made two resolutions I can think of that I truly kept, and by “kept” I mean the change has been permanent and has lasted year after year. The first was to actually read The New Yorker that was arriving at my home each week (via a subscription my mother purchased – in my kid’s name no less – because “No grandchild of mine will grow up in a home without The New Yorker.”) I was pleasantly surprised – having snubbed its pretentious ass for my entire life up until that point – that it’s actually really good. The other was to read the NYT book review every week. Done.

But I’m human and I’m down with improving myself, so even though I eschew these NGH official resolutions, I do think about littler changes (as opposed to resolutions) I can make. These tend to hover in a no-mans land but really, when push comes to shove and they have to choose a team, they are also NGH. Still, I persist. A few examples:

1. Stop weighing myself every day because what the fuck. Check in: Weighed myself New Year’s day morning, with the justification that I wanted a good barometer for the year. Luckily, I was on the low end of my 3 lb weight range and that has meant I have not gotten on scale since.
2. One drink/day max. Check in: The kids were still home for 3 of those days.   
3. Try not to get so ruffled by younger child’s dramatic mood swings. Check-in: Lost shit Joan Crawford/wire-hangers style on January 2nd. Will spare you details.
4. Don’t answer “ye-es” in an annoyed fashion when offspring say my name the approximately 30 times/hour that is their current average. Check-in: Succeed 11 out of 30 times.
5. Stop eating mini Oreos every night even though deep-down I know they are less caloric because they are mini. Check-in: Switched to dark chocolate. But still have 2 full bags of the minis and it would obviously be kind of wasteful not to finish them, or so I reasoned on 1/3.

Now, my actual resolution? Write down one thing that makes me happy every day. And that, people, I have done every one of the past four days. #Actuallydoable.