Vice

Me, age 13

My mother looks an awful lot like a corpse.

She lies flat on her back on the family room couch, covered with a brown afghan. She is utterly still and makes no sound. To reassure yourself that she is alive, you have to get right up in her face to feel her breath on your cheek.

But we don't get right up in her face, because it’s her afternoon nap and we dare not bother her. Unless, of course, the house were to catch on fire or one of us incur an injury requiring stitches – then it might be both prudent and acceptable to nudge her awake. But not today. Today is business as usual.

My three-year-old sister Annie is watching TV, just feet from my mom, but she has the volume turned down so low you can barely make out the songs on Zoobilee Zoo. How many years will it take her, poor thing, to realize that most human beings watch TV with the volume loud enough to hear the conversations between characters?

My five-year-old sister Emily is riding around the house in her little plastic fire truck. Normally she mercilessly bangs the bell attached to the truck, but she doesn’t do this when my mom is napping. Instead, she pretends to mercilessly bang the bell, which is amusing as well as impressive, since it requires a colossal degree of self-control for a kindergartner.

I am in the kitchen with my 11-year-old sister Lizzie. I struggle through math homework while she bakes cookies. The fact that she is able to bake cookies without making a sound is remarkable. Less remarkable is the fact that I need to ask my mom an algebra question but will have to wait a few more minutes until this hour of hushed, suspended reality comes to a close.  

Speaking of which – I hear a rustling in the family room. My mom gets up. No longer a corpse, she comes in the kitchen, pours herself a glass of wine (red in winter, white in summer, white zinfandel every so often for kicks), and begins the evening portion of her job as Mother. This evening portion consists of but is not limited to the following tasks:

• Reminding Liz to wash her cookie sheets.
• Telling me she has no clue how to answer my algebra question.
• Greeting my dad, who is home from work.
• Making dinner, feeding us, refereeing our arguments, wiping up the table, telling Emily to quit banging the bell on her fire truck, loading the dishwasher, sweeping the floor, helping us get ready for bed, tucking us in, making a few phone calls on behalf of the Wilson Elementary PTA, folding laundry, and packing our lunches for tomorrow.

I can’t imagine my mom not doing these things, just as I can’t imagine her not taking a nap every day.

Perhaps there’s a connection between the two?

Me, age 33

“So,” Dr. Kate looks at me with empathy. “Is the Xanax helping?”

I assure her it is.

Until now, I haven’t ever taken anti-anxiety prescription drugs, but things have shifted in my world. Last month we adopted our son, Owen, from South Korea. At nine months old, he has had a difficult adjustment, sleeping fitfully in one- to two-hour spurts. He wakes up screaming, which has had me on edge and in tears, unable to get any rest myself.

Although my husband is struggling too, his challenges are physical. He is exhausted, and he has literally pulled a muscle in his back from carrying and bouncing Owen for hours to get him to settle down.   

For me, I wish it were as simple as a sore muscle, made better by taking two Advil. Instead, my issues are mental. I have been panicky and fretful, wondering how I’ll successfully raise Owen and my twin three-year-old daughters into adulthood. My worry has taken over so that I’ve lost all perspective.   

After prescribing me Xanax for the last few weeks, Dr. Kate is meeting with me today as a follow-up. I tell her that I am starting to feel like myself again. “I take a Xanax at night to help me stay calm so I can try to sleep, even if it’s only for a few hours,” I tell her. “Then, when I get up in the morning, I immediately drive to Starbucks so I can caffeinate myself in order to function.” 

“Well, if your two worst vices are Xanax and Starbucks, I think you’re going to be OK,” she says benevolently. “In fact, I think you’re doing a terrific job of surviving. Whatever it takes for you to be the best mom to your kids right now, let’s just go with it.”

I leave the lovely Dr. Kate’s office with a spring in my step. Although I’ve never thought of myself as someone with a vice, I don’t mind, because I’m going to be OK! I’m doing a terrific job!

My mom had her nap and her glass of wine; I’ve got Xanax and Starbucks. Surely we can’t be the only mothers with vices? I conduct some research among my mom-friends, and I feel encouraged when 100% of them admit to having one or more of their own. I am touched by the diversity of their vices, which include:

§         Thirty minutes of alone-time every afternoon

§         A cleaning lady at least once a month

§         Vodka

§         Chocolate

§         A professional organizer

§         A ten-minute shower each morning

§         Yoga

§         Girls night out

§         Online shopping

§         Manis and pedis

§         Massages

§         Exercise

§         Sugar

I’m deeply relieved to know I’m not the only one who needs a boost to get through the day. (Perhaps I need to branch out a little and experiment with other vices? Some of them sound like fun.)

In the dictionary, there are a few definitions listed for “vice,” and they’re pretty harsh, ranging from “an evil, degrading practice” to “a serious moral failing.” The only one that comes close to describing the vices we have as mothers is “a flaw or imperfection.” Isn’t that the heart of the matter? None of us is perfect when we step into our mom shoes; we all have our shortcomings and struggles. If a cup of strong coffee or, better yet, a strong cosmo can help set things right, then I agree with Dr. Kate. Let’s just go with it.