Since I was in my early 20s, I have loved having parties. I like to host, am fairly social, and apparently, was not daunted by having 400 sq. foot studio.  In my 20s – little did I know then – it was easy. Invite people for 9 pm, done. Sure, I planned ahead and bought some alcohol.  Food was not on radar though maybe I would spontaneously buy Cheetos and/or Tostitos (hint of Lime) day-of. I would force my inner circle of friends to show up right at 9 after which point I would spend a solid 90 minutes stressing that no one else would come. Everybody did show up – generally once the 11 pm mark hit — and they would all bring a variety of cheap wine, beer or Zima (yes, there was always that guy, but those bad-boys got drank).  The music blasted from the radio, cranked up for the especially good songs like “Bust a Move” or Salt N’Peppa. I would magically wind up with a bottle of Malibu which I would then proffer up at my next party. The bitches got dusty. Even we, 20-something and penny-pinching were not *that* desperate.

That was then. By my late 30s, parties had become more of a Thing. We all started taking hosting seriously and had the human decorum to provide food while we were busy pouring alcohol down people’s maws. These days, people show up within an hour of your start time – some of them within the first 10 minutes, thank the good lord above. But here’s the thing. I’ve learned that while I may have thrown a bad-ass party in my 20s, I know nothing about this new….how do I put it…genteel (or let’s be honest, gentile – shout out!) party planning.

To give you a rough sense of what I mean, here is a comparison.

My parties (MP): Buy excessive amounts of food and then freak out that there is not enough food. Go especially heavy on cheese and crackers which apparently my current friends barely eat, god knows why (seriously guys, wtf?).

Their parties (TP): Plenty of food (quantity-wise and variety-wise) which is carefully and thematically placed around the apartment. There are napkins and plates by any food items, with appropriate shaped forks/spoons at the ready. There are empty elegant-looking small bowls so you dot’t walk around awkwardly holding four olive pits in a napkin whilst searching for the garbage.

MP: Purchase a lot of alcohol but do not think through “mixers” or the fact that some people don’t drink and might want, say, soda.

TP: Have at least 2 bottles of wine per person on hand even though many will be drinking something called a “signature cocktail” which, incidentally, has garnish and special glasses and maybe even a name. Mixture is pre-made so no one is sloppily trying to re-concoct on the go.

MP: Within 60 minutes of the party’s start, have minor conniption that I do not have enough plates because maybe – and it’s possible –  20 people will use more than 75 plates. Remember that people might want lime in their gin and tonics. Remember that I need napkins. Make husband do last minute run for things that include but are not limited to: Tonic, limes, lemons, napkins, simple syrup and one time – really – a soap dispenser (not to be confused with actual soap). Truth be told, husband refused to go fetch a dispenser, making the universally understood rotating finger at temple sign when I asked why not, which led to larger conniption fit on my part (By the by, perhaps in a fit of pity, a friend brought dispenser from her own bathroom. Thank you for that).

TP: As noted, napkins are chicly and appropriately placed by various food items. These napkins conjure up a theme which is echoed by everything else craftily placed around the apartment.  Everything, including name tags if they exist, matches and falls into the aforementioned planned (and yet effortlessly carried out) theme.   Plastic is of a high, pre-ordered, well thought-out quality.

MP:  Dim lights. Carefully and perhaps smugly create a playlist that husband mocks as “not good for parties.” Put on music which no one can hear and/or no one likes because”wow, these songs are depressing” or “Girl on Fire right after De La Soul? Is this a new playlist all of a sudden?” It is not new playlist.

TP: Music is at an appropriate volume and also fits mood of room even though mood of room changes as night goes on. People can be overheard complimenting the music from time to time. Candles have been purchased and strategically placed to create the perfect lighting (see: theme).

MP: I (along with spouse) make sure guests have their first drink – make a show of it, actually –  and do notice if someone has a completely empty glass at which point I offer to refill it and/or point them in the general direction of the drink area. I assume everyone is an adult and can find their own way, plus I’m busy with the important task of making sure I have enough to drink.

TP:  Drinks are offered upon arrival. From that point on, even though I never get myself a second or third drink, my glass is always somewhere between half and completely full. As things wind down and the party slims to the hard-core, the A-level scotch is busted out.

So yeah. Sometimes I miss the good old days when all I did was spend 2 hours worrying that no one would show up at my event. But then I remember: These in-the-know people are my friends and they are willing to help and share their genteel-dom.  I need it and they know it.

When it comes to getting around town, I feel like I’ve always been a pretty low maintenance, public transportation-using, walk-when-I can kind of fella. I will avoid cabs at all costs when Midtown is involved, either directly or indirectly. I use the subway multiple times a day.  I am anti Uber because it is run by douche-bags and caters to the 1% in a way I don’t like (note: I use Uber in other cities so am complete hypocrite, but I stand firm (ish) in my NYC conviction).

And then came Via. I would date Via if I could. For five bones, I can get anywhere (basically) in Manhattan. That means I can now get to the East side in 10-15 minutes instead of spending a solid 40 minutes on a bus. With my friend Via, I can relax. I don’t need to freak out that the cab driver is taking me (and surely he is) the most expensive and slow way possible (see: https://underthefalseimpression.wordpress.com/2015/05/20/taxis/) because no matter what, my ride costs the same cheap price.

I’ve been using Via for over a year now with few complaints.  Sure, you might have to walk a couple of extra blocks. Sometimes the wait is too long. More annoyingly, sometimes you take  routes that seem absurd/out of the  way (because they are). And I’ve been annoyed to pay a cancellation fee when I cancel seconds after I book. But I can live with these flaws. I can also handle the fact that you have to share the ride sometimes, because for $5, who gives a shit? Apparently someone wants me to give a shit.

Today, I called a Via. I was still doe-eyed/naive despite my year-long tenure with the service because I DID NOT KNOW WHAT COULD HAPPEN YET. A block after my son and were picked up, a woman got in holding a one year old. Not hers, she told us, she was the sitter. As she clambered in, she cheerily (and okay, vaguely apologetically) informed me, my 6 year-old and the Via driver that the baby she was toting “hates being in cars, sorry!”  She shut the door. The child, Zachary — and believe me, I will remember him probably forever, possibly into my next life even though I don’t believe there is one – immediately commenced what can only be described as a decibel-piercing, ear-plug defying screech that would have made any dog figure out how to immediately end its own life.  This was on 109th and Columbus. We were going to 79th and Columbus. They were going to 20th and 3rd. Aka I knew they were in it for the long haul.

Six blocks later – if that, I’m being generous here – my own lad who is not as pro public transport/walking as I am – in fact, I’d call him anti – turned to me, eyes brimming with tears, and said, “Mommy, can we get out?” I was determined to stay in  because I’d already paid, and it’s $7.50 for two people, not the $5 I freely throw about. I didn’t want to deal with re-hailing a cab (or calling another Via) and I thought I could handle this Zachary, deafening and shock-to-the-system-ish as he was. What was 24 more blocks down an avenue, I thought, especially since I’ve begat two children of my own, one of whom I didn’t really like that much from ages 3-4. In hindsight, this was perhaps a poor judgment call.

Zachary did not let up. Like, I’m not sure I heard him pause to inhale during his tirade. What he did do was become increasingly apoplectic  and, if possible, loud. He also raised the bar by commencing to kick/flail/throw himself around the back of the car.  The sitter tried; she did. She rocked him and shushed him and tried to give him a bottle/feed him (sidenote: I worried he would vomit any milk/snack up due to his exponentially growing state of hysteria, but hell, if it gave me 20 seconds off, I was willing to see where it would take us.). The driver tried. He suggested opening windows. He put the freaking Minion movie on his Iphone and passed that bad boy back to us (and by us, I mean them). He tried to reason with Zachary (“Zachary, what’s wrong?”). My own boy tried. He plugged his ears and woefully looked into my eyes, imploring me through the power of thought/telepathy to get the fuck out of the cab.

On 84th street, I threw in the towel. The thought of even two seconds more with the devil known as  Zach was above my pay grade and coping mechanisms. To quote my boy upon exiting what I feel perfectly comfortable calling actual hell, “I thought I was going to go deaf. I really did. In fact, I wish I had gone deaf because then I wouldn’t have had to hear him anymore.” He was serious and not really being all that dramatic.

Because I cannot blame the anonymous parent who is inconsiderate/rude/crazy/thoughtless enough to have her child share taxis with strangers while he is in this stage of, um, development….I will implore Via: Please don’t do that to me again. I don’t want to break up with you. But if you ever do it again, well…I’ll probably still use you anyway.

If there is a parallel universe to the dating world for married people with kids, it is making mom friends. For the record, I hate using the term “mom” or “mommy” to describe anything other than myself. But sometimes it is a necessary modifier, and here there is really no way of getting around it. In my 9 years and 7 months of being a parent, I have discovered that finding great new friends is as rare as finding a guy you’d want to date more than once (or twice, or hell for like six months because let’s face it, you were kind of a sucker for losers once).

My intro to platonically sweating women started when my daughter was born and I took her to endless “mommy and me” lunches. I should have been put off by the name, but I was keen and thought I was being proactive or something. The law of numbers – I foolishly thought – would dictate that I would like at least one of these women. I did not. Particularly loathsome were the ones who talked about their abundant milk supply, but that’s a different post entirely (read: still scarred by breastfeeding). I kept going back because, well, that’s what I had done with men when I was single. I was repeatedly reminded that most people generally suck, but week after week I trekked to 104th and Broadway, hopeful. It took a while, but even I, hot to trot on the friendship front, threw in the towel after three months. Okay, actually what happened was I went back to work, otherwise who knows, I might still be at those events. Leading them, even.

Flash forward to the following summer when my daughter was toddler and I was still an eager – earnest if you will – new-ish mother who was determined to make friends. Sure, “mommy and me” hadn’t worked, but I had made other friends in my life, what could be so hard? You may recall me from your own newly minted days at the playground: I was the one pathetically trying to make eye contact with any woman (aka you) in the vicinity with a like-aged child. Or hell, a child under the age of four. Let me tell you, while I was not so good at men rejecting me (I would not handle tinder well, like, at all), I got good at rejection from women. Most of my targets looked away, possibly unaware of my intention, possibly alarmed, possibly actively scared. I rolled with it. I was like the passenger on the plane that you pray doesn’t talk to you but does. A few of these women felt bad for me – or perhaps were also eager and naive – and  struck up conversations. None of them were to be my friends.

Finally I realized that a) I didn’t like that many people (see: most people suck) and b) women could smell desperation just like their male counterparts. When I say I”finally” realized, I mean maybe two point five years in. I was a little dense and had developed a thick rejection skin. So, I tried to slow my roll. I dialed it back. I wouldn’t stop my pursuit, but I would also let them pursue me. I figured I was cool (by my own assessment), I would meet folk one day. And I did.

I narrowed my focus to the women I might actually have something in common with other than, say, having kids. I chose carefully: Were you thinking of moving to the suburbs (out). Did you refer to yourself in the third person as mommy whilst talking to adults (out). Was small talk easy or did I find myself talking about the weather (again) (in). Did you at least pretend to get my sense of humor (also in). Could you handle that I had an edge (aka could be a little, well, let’s call it “verbally observant” about other people and their foibles) despite my eager to make friends outward self? (definitely in, and if you participated in said observations, marriage material).

It wasn’t far from my dating checklist. And it wasn’t immediate. But then I found my crew, and like my husband, they accept me for who I am, judgey (I mean observant) eager beaver and all. I’m not going to say that I don’t still have “mom friends,” that I don’t still date around a bit. But that “mom friend” group is separate and distinct from my friends who are moms. Thank goodness.

I have a mild to moderate version of RBF: That’s resting bitch face to those of you not in the know. The perks of this are plentiful (though if one more person tells me to “smile!” I might commit violence slash become a hermit),  but I am most appreciative that something about my grill made it so that no one touched my pregnant stomach (except okay, one woman in my building I’d never seen before who got down on her knees and kissed my 7 month belly while praising Jesus and/or fetus in Spanish. This RBF didn’t know what to do with that so she did nothing except maybe mumble a meek thank you). My trusty RBF has also meant that in my nearly 10 years as a parent, not once have I gotten a comment like “Your daughter should be wearing a hat!” or “Why don’t you have socks on your baby?!” or the like. If someone thought to say that to me, something about my mug stopped them cold. #Winning.

But there are two weak links in my RBF lifestyle.  The first involves moments where I am out and about enjoying myself. Then my guard is down and/or my RBF is in hiding because I’m, well, laughing and smiling and having fun. This might lead people to conclude that I am okay with their unsolicited advice.  To be clear, I am not.

And here lies a natural segue to the second weak link: Old people. Here I am talking mostly about the 80 year-old plus crowd, though I do think that this particular type can be as young as 72. This crew does not give one shit what your face looks like, either because their RBF trumps yours or because they are old and cranky and have Rights. Mostly I respect the crank. These people have lived, man. I get it. So I can handle standing behind an old woman arguing with the Zabar’s fish dude that no, no, not *that* piece of white fish, that’s the worst one. The other one. No the other one. Can’t you see where I’m pointing? Or the fact that they can be quite aggressive with their use of the cane they may or may not actually need. Okay! Power to you all. In fact, props. If I could get away with any of that today, I’d be all over it, and I look forward to the day when I can scream out my opinions without abandon  (e.g. “You just hit me when you walked by and didn’t say anything, you rude young man,” as I heard just yesterday).

But when the two RBF weak links converge, bad things happen. I had the pleasure of learning this first-hand last Saturday when an octogenarian blind-sided me by reproaching my parenting in front of my two kids. It all started with….wait, I have no idea.

Just as an aside, my rule about kids in restaurants is this: Only take them if they can behave. I have no interest in watching your children race all over restaurants or in listening to them fight with you about what they do or don’t have to eat, or in sitting next to crying/screaming babies. I’m sure you don’t either. As such, my kids do well when we take them out to dinner because if they don’t, they go home. My friends have similar policies because we are normal and courteous human beings who don’t think our kids are cute when they act like animals.

Back to Saturday. There we were, two adults and four children chatting and laughing and minding our beeswax. That is, until an elderly woman felt the need to get up from her own table (right next to ours) and inform me that “as a grandmother,” she felt she had the right, nay, the authority, to tell me that my son was about to poke his eyes out with the small straws he and his friend were playing with, and that I should really have him/them quit it.  For the record, boy child did not blind himself/others with a straw nor was he running with said straw, nor was there any commotion around the straw. Nor, should you be curious, was the straw made of iron/wood/glass or any sort of material known to maim medium sized children.

But the reproach was most shocking not because I have perfect angels for children (though like I said, zero tolerance restaurant policy), but because because until that moment, they were doing nothing wrong. There were not the standard warning/judgmental glares that I myself have been known to dole out.  It was seemingly out of the clear blue. I was initially willing to let the admonishment go because, well, the speaker was old. But then – THEN – the woman went back to her seat and her table (consisting of what I presumed was her spouse and three surly mofos in their 50s-6os) *applauded* her.

It was on, people. I won’t go into many details because they don’t really matter. I will say this: It did get ugly (one particularly loathsome gentlemen immediately started screaming that we were “awful parents,” an yes, my friend and I did get up and give a piece of our collective minds to their table, maybe while using semi wild hand gesticulations). The management did get involved….and the 84 year-old and her cronies did leave. Rather quickly. And first. Which, as my daughter pointed out, means we won.

So word to the wise: Don’t mistake any joy on my face for an opening to criticize me or my children.  Because underneath lies the RBF, and underneath the RBF is a whole lot more. Judge away, I know I do. Just do it silently.

Like many women, I sometimes struggle to love my body. I am fit and mostly pleased with my arms and legs, but I have always carried any extra weight in my stomach, even before kids (though I have ogled bikini pictures of my younger self and thought YOU HAD DEFINITION IN YOUR ABS you moron, what was your problem? But that’s not what I would like to discuss right now). Since having kids – and especially since having a daughter  – I have really fought to accept and even embrace my body, flaws and all.

This mostly works. I’m 44 and have concluded that unless I want to cut carbs (never going to happen) or stop drinking (ditto), I will not lose the 5 pounds I think I “should” or at least could lose. Things slow way the hell down metabolism-wise in your mid-40s and unless you are ready to make some serious changes (see above), you will live with a little extra poundage despite rigorous exercise. So yes, I have a little bit more of the midsection flab than I find optimal. Namaste.

Here’s the thing. While bopping along accepting yourself, there are three words that will stop you in your tracks: Are you pregnant?

NO, NO I AM NOT.

This just happened to me and let me tell you, it did not feel good, particularly as I was wearing a dress I fancied myself looking somewhat desirable in. Like maybe a tiny little bit sexy or at the very least cute. It was a dress I pimped around all summer, unawares that it might make me look like there was a small child inside.

If you’ve never been asked this bitch of a question whilst not with child, let me talk you through the immediate slash semi-long lasting effects these words will have on your psyche.

The first thing you will do is pull up the picture that spawned this comment and look at both the zoomed in and zoomed out versions of it for a solid 20 minutes.  You may run to a mirror and examine yourself front-on, sideways (from both sides) and hell, even backwards because I don’t know, your legs are decent and not pregnant-looking so at least you have that going for you. Conversely you may decide you don’t need to look in the mirror ever again.  You will debate burning/destroying/donating the outfit that led to this question. You will make approximately 600 people affirm that you do not look pregnant (even though okay, you can see that in that particular picture – and it is clearly the picture’s fault – maybe it a tiny bit looks like you have a baby bump, but STILL. At least all your other friends are excellent liars/ego-strokers and they lull you into a perhaps false sense that all is okay).

You will nonetheless spend the next one to three days wondering if you should in fact cut those carbs you have refused to cut (which you will remember you are considering doing while eating pizza). You will stop thinking you look pretty bad-ass for a lass your age and start wondering how many other people also wondered/are still in the process of wondering if you are pregnant. You will debate the merits of buying a shirt that says “not pregnant” on it and/or updating your facebook status to report that you are *not* with child, like whatever the opposite of a sonogram might be (you do not actually end up in this crazy land, you just circle it and maybe instead write this blog).

To be fair, there have been times when I have wondered whether someone is pregnant, thinking my Magnum P.I. self may have detected the beginnings of a belly. But here’s what: I’ve never actually asked because I understand that a woman must be giving birth before it is appropriate to throw this question her way. So please, for the love of god, do womankind a favor and don’t ever utter/write the words “Are you pregnant?! Smiley face Smiley face” unless you are 99.9% sure she is, which means that at least one of the following has happened:

1. She is crowning
2. She has explicitly told you or someone you know very well that she is pregnant
3. There is no 3

If you are wondering if a woman is pregnant, she’s not  – until she lets you hold her newborn.

After I had my daughter – not immediately mind you, but within a year or two, I kind of felt like i had the parenting thing down. Not that I knew everything  – I wasn’t a smug asshole. But my girl was calm. As her friends (“friends” –  they were 2 for god’s sake) tore through the house chasing each other, she would find a bookshelf and carefully look through each book.  Quietly. If we told her “no” one time – going near a socket, putting a toe into the street from a curb – you name it — she never did it again. Ever. Sure we had to give her time outs and she had tantrums as she got older, but we had a rule-following, people-pleasing kid. Of course, we didn’t know this. We thought it sort of had to do with our strict (but loving!) parenting.

Then I birthed a second child.  My son is fantastic. He is funny, clever, spunky….and he questions the shit out of everything. He follows rules. Ish. Like, when he feels like it. Like after he’s tested said rule a few thousand times. While my daughter would sob through time-outs, remorseful, horrified to be punished, my son….how do I say this…took it like a man. Time-outs were sort of a joke even though we devoured episode after episode of Super Nanny who assured us that time outs worked with any child. Boy would sit there, don’t get me wrong. Sort of like he was appeasing us  –  “oh, this routine again?” – all the while plotting his next move. Taking away his favorite things – dessert, TV – no problem! He wouldn’t ask to watch TV or for a cookie until the punishment period was over. He would act like these things had never really been that important to him in the first place. Would actually say things like, “I don’t really like chocolate that much anymore” or “I was getting kind of sick of TV anyway.” It was hard to feel as if the punishment was resonating.

But there’s something else that’s sort of amazing about having a second child (other than it kicks your sorry, smug ass). It shows you how these beings, these extensions of yourself are…really not that at all. They are these unique entities who are of course influenced by you, but really are their own selves from day one. They are shy and thoughtful or charming and witty because that’s who they are. And if I hadn’t had this crazy look-me-in-the-eye-and-lie-to-me-without-me-ever-knowing-even-though-you’re-only-six second kid, I really may not have appreciated how much is them, and how little is me.

Sometimes I think I was meant to parent in the 1970s, when it was okay to ignore your children and when kids were allowed more freedom than seems acceptable in today’s universe where, apparently, even dogs need strollers and Bjorns. Today, not only is there attachment parenting, but it applies to canines as well.

Me? I like my kids independent. I want them to have grit. I like them to know what it’s like to compete and even lose. I want them to know that they are not the center of the universe and that no, they aren’t great at everything. That when they ask me to play, I might say no and they will still have enough imagination to be able to find something to do. And if they don’t, I’ll ignore them until they do.

So, here’s my little guide – clues that we are/were meant to be a 1970s parent:

1.You’ve said things like “Go play” or “I was not put on this planet to entertain you,’ or “You have a room full of toys, I’m sure you’ll find something to do.” Actually, my preferred variation is something like “You’re bored? Really? Fine. I’m going give your toys to a kid who will appreciate them. No, really, I will. Move, I’m going in.”  I also may have piled toys into a category of “for kids who will play with them.” I have not had the cojones to actually follow through on this threat, but give me time, my kids are still pretty young. To those non-1970s parents reading this (perhaps in horror): Remember me fondly this winter when your kids are clambering all over you and you are debating the pros/cons of hermetic life. The above technique will give you a solid hour or two of quiet. You’re welcome.

2. You of course use/used car seats/seat belts, duh. You might ignore your kids, but you don’t (typically) neglect them. But you look back fondly on a) lying down in the back of a car – either across seat, or say, on the floor and/or b) traveling in taxis on the flip seats facing backwards. You may have actually stood up during some taxi rides. You vaguely wonder whether that was really all that unsafe. You alarm other parents by not always buckling your kids in seatbelts in cabs going 15 miles/hour (for the record: I always buckle other people’s kids in because I only believe in neglecting my own kids).

3. You don’t think the idea of leaving a responsible 8-9 yo alone for a few minutes is crazy and wish you could let your children travel to school alone before they can, say, vote, which now seems to be the accepted norm. Back in the good old 1970s, I took buses alone at 7. Seven. And things were not so coo mo dee back then in NYC. Today it’s safe, but we don’t let kids out of our sight for reasons that are unknown to me.

4. You don’t understand why the hell everyone has to “win.” Seriously. Why are there no losers anymore? When my daughter was in second grade, she had a mock-marathon at school which coincided with the real NYC marathon. I told her, “I don’t care if you come in first, just don’t lose.” I realize that many people would not say this to their children. I do. Here’s how that conversation went:
Child: “No one loses.”  Me: “Of course they do.” Child: “No. They stagger the start time so you can’t tell.” Me: “There are still losers. Trust me. Don’t be one of them.” Child: silent because she thinks I’m so wrong it’s not worth arguing about (and she’s probably right because this is how things roll now). I also have trophies for both of my kids for just showing up at, say, gymnastics. No great feats necessary, just being there is enough to deserve accolades. And don’t get me started on how there are “no math groups.” There are. And by now the kids know whether they’re in the smart group so let’s call it what it is. You aren’t going to be good at everything (but be in the best math group, okay?).

5. You are incensed when children don’t immediately love obvious classics like The Secret Garden, The Narnia series, and The Phantom Tollbooth. What is happening, people? These are not books kids (okay, my kids) find great. I am raising miscreants.

6. You have no problem asking your child to get you a drink/open a beer. In fact, you look forward to the day they can mix you a cocktail.

And that, my friends, is what I’m talking about.

When I think about it – and I have thought about it – the reason I loved and can re-watch “Sex and The City” an obscene amount of times is because of the amazing way it showcased female friendships. Those women were there for each other. That was really the theme more than either sex or the city, and the writers of the show understood precisely how single women in their 30s need and rely on each other in both deep and shallow ways. (As an aside, this is why I truly do not get “Girls” – other than the fact that I am old. Those women don’t even seem to really like each other. Where’s the beauty in that?)

But the thing is, women and girls have always needed and relied on one another, as singleton 30somethings or not. Or at least I have. I never trust women who say they have “mostly male” friends. That’s some craziness.

As a teenager, I always had the group of friends I was actually myself with and not some “bitchy” or “I will make up lies about dates I’ve been on to sound sophisticated” version of myself that I may or may not have adopted to seem more secure than I was. I mean, hypothetically.

Then there was my raging feminist college self who made amazing friendships – ones I thought would last for the rest of my life. And some did, but not necessarily the ones I would have predicted then. We thought anyone who called us “girls” was sexist, we went everywhere in groups and somehow did not see a disconnect between our outspoken feminist rhetoric and the fact that most of our male friends and boyfriends were in (non-national) frats. We were women, you heard us roar, never mind any potential hypocrisy. For the record, at 44, I am a-ok with you calling me a girl. In fact, please do, unless you are a Republican.

In my 20s, I went to grad school and met the women I would go out with constantly for the next five years, almost without saying. It was more a matter of who was joining in the outings than whether we were doing anything at all (shout out to the gay men and one LJM who completed our awesome posse). We worshipped “Party Girl” because how could you not. We fancied ourselves hip even though we all lived on the Upper West Side and were in grad school and had to, like, study. We didn’t judge each other’s terrible decisions (there were a lot of those) and we knew what to say after each and every break up (and dear god, there were a lot of those too).

In my 30s, as my liver spoke up for itself, I found myself more grounded and less into going out five out of seven nights/week. I met my spouse as did many of my friends. But the men didn’t divide us or cause rifts; they eased us into a different level of friendship. This was the decade where – like the women on Sex and The City – I knew that the group of friends I had made over time was here to stay. These were the women who were there through cross-country moves, for the aforementioned break-ups, the babies, and through the worst of the worst, 9/11. I had my group and even though we didn’t all live in the same city, there were weddings and visits and the security of having known each other for a decade (or even two).

But now I’m in my 40s. I never expected to make new friends in my 40s, and I didn’t slash don’t have the energy or the drive to seek it out the way I did in college or grad school (okay, I may have stalked one or two people. Hi!). But I have made friends, and in some ways – in different ways – these friendships are even more powerful because they are a choice (none of us really needs new friends) and because our kids are involved and because they kind of took me by surprise.

Whether I’ve been friends with these amazing women for 40 years or just 4, every one these women in my life gets “it”. We all understand, appreciate and maybe even respect each other’s crazy. We know each other’s faults and have accepted them. We might be aging, but we still have fun together, youth be damned.

And then there’s the more serious stuff like sick or dying parents, spouses getting ill, life not working out exactly as our feminist, hot, hipster selves thought. And we all get that too. We toast it, we mourn it, we show up for it. Because we are girlfriends.

So thank you to all of you – you know who you are – for all the years of love in the past, and all the years of love to come.

My kids are finally, FINALLY back in school (then they are off for 2 days next wk but I digress) Here is my assessment on the going back to school process from 4 different perspectives:

Boy child (6):
A month out: Gets class list, is thrilled not to have teacher he doesn’t want, comments (positively) on two friends in class, doesn’t discuss again.  Does not ask anything about teacher (who is new).

Two weeks out starts acting like he is approximately 3.4 years old – melting down about nothing, waking up in the middle of the night, begging me not to go out when I go out (like once,  but that begging makes me want to sprint out nightly).

Day before school: Mentions something along the lines of “THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE” and when asked why it is “because I have to go to school tomorrow.”

Day 1: Must wake boy even though he has been waking before this hour for entire summer. Comes home telling me he hates school, likes one child in class, claims teachers are focusing on teaching class how to “walk. And I’m serious, mommy.”  Reviews class list at home and is surprised to see a name (as in, he didn’t notice them in classroom during 7 hours there). Pry any info out of him possible, which includes  how he likes the kid at school who pulled his pants down at recess and how his skinny, Southern Belle (12 year-old) looking teacher is “much stricter than she looks.”

Girl child (9)

Starts obsessing about 4th grade class list in August (school starts on 9/10).

3 weeks later gets class list. Pours over each name including those not in her class. Calls friend to discuss. Asks to see the class list several times in the following weeks. Obsesses over teacher (who is new) and what she will look like and what her personality will be and whether she will be strict. Guesses at her age and hair length (based on name alone). Also speculates on new kids in grade.

Day before school: Is mostly excited about school. Likes her class. Has listed everyone who might make trouble and there aren’t many. Tells me she’s not nervous because “I know the drill.”

Eve of first day: Is nervous. Worries she wont sleep. Sleeps though does wake up early and is ready to go an hour before we need to leave.

Day 1: Detailed report of day, lunch, who she sat with, what the thinks the year will be like and why….without prompting.

Mother (that’d be me):

Is proud for obsessing less about class list than she has in past which lasts until mid August.  Gets class lists. Pours over the names. Has several lengthy discussion with friends about the classes (particularly girl child’s). Does several regression analyses on class dynamic data.

Before first day: Has ordered winter coats, made sure clothes in closet fit and are season-appropriate. Has washed backpacks, re-attached key chains, has packed extra clothes for boy, and feels like genius for having both schools’ IDs at the ready.

Can’t wait for school to start as it has been 1,000 weeks since they were in school last. Cries privately when boy tells her he hates school and debates transferring him immediately. Asks boy about who he likes in his class other than pants-less kid. Gets nothing. Enjoys 30 minute long convo with girl about first day of school.

Father:

Does not ask to see class list and in fact may have those emails sent to spam. Asks when school starts several times between Sept 1 and Sept 8th when boy kid starts school. Asks “how was the first day” in passing.

We have a sailboat. Husband is avid sailor which he told me on date one. Of course, this was the same date that he put the sailboat “away for the winter” (barely knew what this meant at that time). Eight months later I was initiated into the world of sailing. I feigned more interest than I had (the relationship was going well! I knew he loved it!) but over the years have gone from fakery to vague hate to acceptance to even some level of enjoyment. In spurts. But that’s not what this post is about. This post is about swimming.

A natural part of sailing is, apparently, windless days. On those days, we let our kids swim off the side of our boat. When we first had them swim, we would both get in, but as they’ve gotten older, they often go without us, tirelessly jumping off the side, sometimes doing a lap around the boat to test their strength. Our main rule is to “stay near the boat.”  And even though they are both strong simmers,  we make them wear life jackets. We also sometimes attach “lines” (this is what ropes are called on a boat I’ve learned) to the boat so they have something to hold onto if the current gets strong. As their swimming skills have improved, the lines and jackets have seemed less necessary, but we are (we thought) not morons, so the life jackets have always been required of them and any kid who swims with them. We have been more lax with the lines.

We recently set off on a two week sailing trip (yeah. note: I am home early). On day two, we were anchored near something called Duck Island. I’d never heard of it either. Many other boats were around (also anchored) and it was hot. Boy child (age 6) was eager to swim and got in first . He had on a life jacket, but we had not attached any lines to the boat. Boy jumped in and was immediately terrified by the current (which has never happened) and starts saying things like “I need help!” with varying levels of urgency. Within a minute, husband jumps in and says “Wow the current is really strong.” Which is the opposite of reassuring but kind of gives everyone involved a sense of how bad it must feel in there. He swims to boy (who is now some distance from the boat – like, too far for comfort even with no current) and tries push him back toward the boat while fighting the current himself. Boy is now freaking the fuck out and so is girl child (who is 9 and is standing next to me on boat watching this all go down). I find a line and I start throwing it to boy praying I will reach him despite having no clue how to tie the damn line to the boat (as in, I’m holding one end while violently throwing the remainder in toward child).  Turns out, when you’re scared your kid is unsafe, you have a more powerful throw than you thought you might.

Meanwhile I can see that spouse is floating further and further away from boat but my main focus is on boy. I’m trying to coax him into calmness (You are going to be okay! I promise, you can do this! You are a great swimmer! You’re almost here!) while I also scream things like “Grab the rope! Grab it! Shit! The rope didn’t go far enough.” Boy eventually grabs onto rope, I pull him in and he is hysterical. Turn attention to spouse who starts saying  (more like yelling so I can hear him from the distance) “Get help, I need help!” and I’m there like the dumb blond who knows shit about how the boat operates despite this being my 12th summer on boat.

Kids start screaming things like “My daddy! Something is going to happen to my daddy!” and I’m wildly poking buttons on the stupid radio that has an emergency button but needs to be ON for said button to work. I have no fucking idea how to do this (12 years in) and it is not obvious. As in, there is no “power” or “on” button. So I tell the kids to figure out how to turn on radio (they do, and I don’t know if that says more about them or me) while I blow this emergency horn that I miraculously know where to find. I blow this horn (holding it above my head even though it’s deafening from anywhere within mile radius) what feels like a zillion times while pointing at drifting spouse who is also waving his arms.

Kids then hand me radio and I try to tell the radio people where we are and I’m saying something like “Um…we’re anchored off of duck island and my husband is caught in the current” while trying to use calm voice so as not to frighten terrified kids even more (as if this mattered). The radio dude (coast guard? No idea) says “ma’am where are you? What are your coordinates?”  The fuck? But as I’m trying to sound like I have a single clue (by saying things like “we’re not on the harbor side” which I am only parroting from spouse who happened to say these exact words about an hour earlier) I see a nearby motor boat heading toward husband. So I politely thank the boat authorities (who seem not at all reassured by my claim that “a motor boat is coming to help.”). Motor boat fetches spouse. He arrives back at boat intact.

Needless to say, it was intense and kept me up all that night. Not because I thought anyone was near drowning but because it was scary and I kept picturing boy’s terrified face as he used all strength and determination to swim toward me and his only hope of safety.

And also needless to say, we – especially husband – have a newfound religion: Boat Safety.