Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Review

In my job as a mother, there is one thing that is missing: an annual performance review.
 
How I long to sit down for a bracing chat with my direct supervisor to discuss my mothering abilities. We would talk about my strengths, challenges, and frustrations. We would set some goals, and I would receive some much-needed validation.
 
Alas, this is a pipe dream, because I do not have a direct supervisor – nor, sadly, do I anticipate getting one.
 
So, instead of dwelling on the fact that I’m doing this mom-thing without a jot of constructive feedback from anyone, I like to imagine I have a fairy godmother who is watching me as I go through the motions of my day, nodding encouragingly as I whip up a batch of homemade mashed potatoes and tsk-tsking me for ignoring the bed linens that need to be washed. I think that my fairy godmother would be thrilled to conduct my annual performance review, and that she would do so with aplomb (as well as a British accent):
 
Fairy Godmother: Overall, I am very pleased with the caliber of your work. Every morning you show up on time with energy and enthusiasm. Your ability to multi-task and your attention to detail are exemplary. I’m impressed that you consistently attend to your responsibilities, even though you’d rather be watching Project Runway or going to Starbucks.
 
Me: Thank you.
 
Fairy Godmother: I see that you worked overtime a remarkable 99% of your days on the job this year. You certainly went above and beyond the call of duty, especially during those middle-of-the-night shifts you picked up without advance notice.
 
Me: Yes, I did. Thanks.
 
Fairy Godmother: I am especially impressed with your meal-planning and execution. If my calculations are correct, you made roughly 1,095 meals this year, and that is a lot of time spent in the kitchen! I’m aware that no one in your family realizes how much effort you put into preparing food, but I certainly do – especially that lovely pot roast with root vegetables you made last week. Nicely done! On a side note, please watch your son’s sugar consumption. He hoards cookies and candy and has got what appears to be a gnarly sweet tooth.
 
Me: Duly noted.
 
Fairy Godmother:  There are a few things that you need to work on, so please take note:
 
  1. You could try harder to do something crafty with your kids every now and then.
  2. Baking brownies or cake (or anything, for that matter) from scratch won’t kill you.
  3. You need to organize your closets before one of your children is struck by a falling object.
  4. You should attend to that pile of mail and notes from school that has taken up residence on your kitchen counter.
  5. You must tidy up the interior of your car. It’s revolting! That chunk of wasabi that fell under your seat when you were eating take-out sushi last April is still there!
 Me: Yes, it is. I appreciate the reminder and will take care of it right away.
 
Fairy Godmother: Now, let’s talk about the dreaded elephant in the room. And by elephant in the room I mean the dirty laundry you still haven’t washed and the clean laundry you still haven’t folded. It appears to be taking over your home.
 
Me: [Silent.]
 
Fairy Godmother: Is there a problem? 
 
Me: I’m sort of traumatized by my laundry, Fairy Godmother. It’s always there. As soon as I get one load finished, there are two other loads waiting to be done. It never goes away.  
 
Fairy Godmother: No, it doesn’t. But it’s gotten a little bit out of hand when you’re selecting clean clothing from a mountain of laundry located in the corner of your dining room – really, of all places! – rather than from your closet or dresser like normal people do.    
 
Me: I will try to be more responsive and timely with my laundry, I promise.   
 
Fairy Godmother: That’s good to hear. We will revisit this topic next year and see if you’re able to reduce the amount of days it takes for a load to be completed. I expect to see some change here.

Me: Absolutely. I will do my best.  
 
Fairy Godmother: Now, as we bring this review to a close, I would like to congratulate you on successfully keeping your children fed, bathed, dressed, educated, and physically fit. Because of your accomplishments, you are eligible for a salary increase and –
 
 
***OK, my imagination is starting to get away from me.
 
I snap out of my daydream and realize with dismay that I need to peel the carrots for dinner, review my kids’ homework, unload the dishwasher and – no surprise here – throw a load of clothes into the dryer.
 
I miss my Fairy Godmother already.  




 

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Skipping

Me, age 39
 
I’m at the mall, where Christmas carols are playing. I get a little upset because it’s not even Thanksgiving yet. Aren’t we rushing things a wee bit?
 
I don’t know why I am appalled, seeing as though every year the world seems to launch directly into the Christmas season as soon as Halloween is over. I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but it’s always distressing to me when anything lovely and meaningful gets the shaft, and Thanksgiving is no exception.
 
It all comes down to this: I wish we could savor each distinct moment we happen to find ourselves in. It’s tedious and draining to constantly peer at what lies on the road ahead, ignoring the sweet spot of right now. We will never be able to enjoy this exact sweet spot again, so why are we trying to skip over it?
 
As I depart from the winter wonderland of the mall, I realize with a jolt that I am a total hypocrite. I admit to myself, with a good deal of shame, that in my role as a mother I regularly wish to fast forward through certain moments and jump headfirst into what’s next. I should have learned by now: The minute you catch yourself muttering, “I am so ready to be finished changing diapers,” all too soon you discover that your delectable toddler has turned into a feisty boy, wielding dangerous, pointy sticks to fight off imaginary monsters in the backyard. And the second you say, “Will my son ever stop wielding dangerous, pointy sticks to fight off imaginary monsters in the backyard?” he morphs into a first grader who fails his spelling test and gets in trouble for wrestling on the playground.
 
And so on and so forth.
 
Each moment in mothering presents its own unique set of challenges, but I need to learn how to be fully present where I’m at, regardless of what those challenges are. Because the view from here is inimitable and beautiful and rewarding in its own right. I must relish it before it disappears – and it will, in the blink of an eye.
 
No more skipping. Let’s hunker down and celebrate a divine Thanksgiving.
 
Christmas can wait.  
 
 
 

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Flee

Every January, I get together with ten of my oldest friends. These are women I grew up with; some I’ve known since kindergarten. Nearly all of them are mothers, which means they are as desperate as I am to get a little respite from the demands of family life.
 
Without fail, we count down the days (and even hours) until our departure for our highly anticipated spa weekend. More to the point, we devolve into a bunch of giddy schoolgirls, texting each other about the wine we’re bringing and the facials we’ve booked. With each passing year, we seem to get more hysterical about things.

Take, for instance, my dear friend Sarah, who is my driving buddy from Madison to the resort an hour away. After leaving tire marks in my driveway and shrieking “TIME FOR MOMMY TO GET THE HELL OUT OF DODGE!” to my blissfully empty car, I fly across town at illegal speeds to pick up Sarah, who is standing in front of her house with her bags at her feet, checking her watch. She sees me and within ten seconds is ensconced in my passenger seat. If we could crack open one of the bottles of wine in my trunk, it would already be half-gone. 
 
As I pull away from Sarah’s house, she yells, “PEACE THE FUCK OUT!” at the top of her lungs. To whom, you may ask, is she wishing such tidings of goodwill? That would be her sweet husband and three kids, whose noses are forlornly plastered to the living room window as they watch us peel down the street. 
 
***
 
Sarah and I are far from alone in our almost breathtakingly intense desire to flee our families once in awhile. To get a rare moment to ourselves (or time with good girlfriends, who require nothing but laughter and idle gossip) is important for so many reasons. I’ve asked my friends to describe how they feel when they are able to steal away, whether it’s for an hour or for a weekend, and this is what they said:

  • Balanced
  • Whole
  • At ease
  • Unencumbered
  • Non-suffocated
  • Relaxed
  • Free
  • Quiet
  • Young
  • Lighter

It doesn’t necessarily require a trip out of town to get a break from our duties. My friend Terri says she likes to visit Bed, Bath & Beyond, where she can aimlessly roam the aisles by herself. Margaret loves to read in a coffee shop. Others, like my friend Liz, go running. She says, “My runs are the only time I literally have nothing but myself: no kids, no purse, no car. It’s the ultimate getaway just steps outside my front door.” Laura agrees: “The only time I truly feel free of my family responsibilities is when I go out without my cell phone, which is why I love going for a run. When the sun is right, it can feel like a Caribbean vacation.” OK, Laura, you might be exaggerating a tiny bit (because Wisconsin never feels like the Caribbean), but I admire your good attitude and think you’re on to something. Whether it’s running or shopping or getting a pedicure, it doesn't matter if we're in the Midwest or Mexico: it’s that we’re able to remember who we are without children hanging from our limbs – what makes us tick, what bring us delight, what makes us feel full and content and 25-years-old again.       
 
Virtually all of my friends indicate they do not get enough time to themselves. (I include myself in this group.) And yet, it goes without saying that the consequences of not getting physical and/or emotional space from our families every so often can be tough. We become unproductive, off-balance, stressed-out and short-tempered. My sister, who has three small kids, says she starts to feel terribly isolated. A friend of mine admits, “If there is nothing on my to-do list, I can become overwhelmed by the choices I have. It’s almost like I’ve lost the ability to be spontaneous. Then I become depressed by my inability to make the most of my time alone.” Another friend says, “I never get enough time to myself; there are just not enough hours in the day. Some nights I just cry. I don’t cry because I’m unhappy or angry. I cry as a relief from my exhaustion.”
 
Ann is one mom who is able to carve out time for herself without guilt or excuses, and I admire her endlessly for it. She says, “It’s critical to recharge on my own so I can be ready for my family when they need me. It’s like when our kids were newborns, and the pediatrician said, ‘Sleep when they sleep.’ It’s the same philosophy. You never know when you will be called in for overtime without notice.”

I aspire to be more like Ann, but it is awfully hard – although maybe it’s as simple as doing what Laura does when she can’t go for a run: “I retreat to the bathroom (behind a locked door or two) to take an extra-long shower or read a magazine,” she says. Liz has a similar philosophy: “Sometimes I have to get creative. I read in the car pick-up line at school, and it’s often my favorite 20 minutes of the day. Any time I can be on my own is equivalent to putting on my yoga pants after a long day in tight jeans.”   

However we go about accomplishing it, I think we all need to flee a little bit more, because no one wants to spend her entire life in tight jeans. When we commit to putting on our metaphorical yoga pants and taking better care of ourselves, everyone benefits. As my wise friend Lisa says, “If I am happy as a human being, I am happy as a mother. And a happy mom is a good mom.”  
 
***
 
Unsurprisingly, my friends and I are happy human beings for our two idyllic days at the spa. Between massage appointments and soaks in the hot tub, Liz suddenly gets serious. She proceeds to summarize, in the most eloquent way, why our trip is so critical to her well-being: “Obviously, sitting around in a robe is relaxing. But even more important is the relaxing of my mind. There is nothing to do or worry about. For just a little while, I don’t have to be defined by someone or something else. I’m not the wife, the mom, the helpful neighbor, the overachieving volunteer, the hardworking co-worker, the snack mother, or the carpooler. Although I love those roles in my life, I just get to be me.”

Monday, September 30, 2013

Fallout

If your child hasn’t suffered the indignity of head lice, chances are you can rattle off the names of one or more of your good friends whose children have.
 
I, dear reader, am one of those good friends.
 
Twice I have gone to war against these revolting microscopic parasites, and each battle has left me permanently scarred. I know that I am not alone in feeling damaged for life, which is why I’m writing about head lice today – not to give you the willies, but to remind us all that we are united in our skirmishes against the enemy.
 
When I asked my fellow unlucky friends to describe to me in one or two words what it is like when a child has lice, I received a flurry of responses. These responses were precise and witty and smart and sad. (In many cases, they were much longer than one or two words. No matter. I have chatty friends.) This is how they describe the experience of lice, and yes, it is completely normal that your own head is starting to itch right now:    
 
  • Evil.
  • Demoralizing.
  • I had to relocate my entire life to the Laundromat.
  • Overwhelming.
  • I used to have a stigma that only a certain “type” of family got lice. That stigma has gone out the window. 
  • A pain in the ass.
  • Demanding. I have tried full-on chemical treatments as well as organic ones. Nothing works 100% except sitting and picking out every bug and nit from my kids’ heads, which takes hours upon hours.
  • Tedious.
  • Unfair. My kids are clean and careful, and they’ve gotten it a few times.
  • Exhausting.
  • I appreciate that I have enough money, time and resources to deal with a lice outbreak, unlike many other people.
  • Paranoia-inducing.
  • I feel very intimate with all of my children’s heads.
  • Humiliating.
  • Heart-breaking.
  • I look at everything differently now: movies, haircuts, sleepovers. I get anxious about them. I don’t even really want my kids cuddling together any more.
  • I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.
  • Isolating.
  • Expensive. My washer broke from the 17 continuous loads of laundry I had to do, and I had to buy a new one.
  • Time-sucking.
  • Following my deep-clean of the house, I’m pretty sure you could have eaten off the floor and even performed surgery.
The one word that comes to my own mind when I think about the ordeal of head lice is “fallout.” This is because the aftermath of lice has proven to be almost as traumatizing as the lice itself. Take, for example, the four primary ways that life has appreciably altered for me and my poor family:
 
1. I turn into a raving lunatic when I hear the word “lice.”
 
You know the note you get from school indicating that a case of head lice has been detected in your child’s classroom? When I am in receipt of this dreaded missive, our household goes into immediate lice lockdown. I inspect my kids’ heads without delay, refusing to let them leave the kitchen until they are declared lice-free. But wait! Before they can go about their normal business, I mist a liberal amount of tea tree oil (a natural lice repellent found at your local Whole Foods store) all over them, as well as their backpacks, coats and clothing. Unfortunately, the smell of tea tree oil makes my children nauseous, so I am forced to deal with a good deal of gagging and other such nonsense. After this, I strip beds, wash linens, and vacuum the rugs. And then I check my own head, just to be safe. (See #4.) 
 
Once, when my son was in nursery school, the teacher discovered head lice on one of his classmates during rug time (the horror!), and told all of us parents to be extra vigilant. To me, this meant literally stripping Owen naked in the nursery school parking lot and bagging his clothes, then examining his scalp before allowing him into the car to go home. This situation was probably kind of upsetting for Owen (see #2), but as I said, I am a lunatic when lice is involved.       
 
2. My children are going to need therapy someday.
 
My children are no longer able to simply scratch their heads without me swooping in to conduct a thorough investigation. I sense they are growing weary of my watchfulness. Just last week, my daughter Caroline asked me, “Mom, isn’t it possible that my itch might just be a regular itch?” Yes, Caroline, it is entirely possibly that your itch might just be a regular itch, but I can’t keep away. I need to reassure myself that there are no bugs taking up residence in your beautiful hair. I am aware that my alarmist tendencies are likely to give you and your siblings lifelong scalp-related neuroses, and for this I am deeply sorry.  
 
3. I have become a zealot for head lice educational reform.
 
I regularly interrogate my children on the dos and don’ts of head lice. The following conversation, in fact, is typical of what goes on at our dinner table:  
 
Me: Are you ever allowed to share combs, brushes, barrettes, headbands, towels or bike helmets with anyone else?
 
My kids: (in unison) No!
 
Me: Should you lean in really close to other children while you’re playing or working together at school?
 
My kids: (in unison) No!
 
Me: If you hear about any kid having lice, even if he or she is not in your own class or grade, will you tell Mommy right away?
 
My kids: (in unison) Yes!
 
If only other people were as quick to learn. Take, for example, my kids’ music teacher. In the midst of a school-wide lice outbreak, she put on a sort of "wild west" musical performance for parents during which our children pranced onto stage wearing pioneer bonnets – pioneer bonnets that were being shared among all the kids. The millisecond the show came to an end, I bolted to the school nurse’s office, demanding to know why the music teacher hadn’t gotten the memo on proper head hygiene. The nurse was quite considerate with me while I was on that particular tirade, and she has been just as considerate while I have been on numerous others.  
 
4. I wrestle with my own personal head lice demons.
 
It remains a miracle that after exterminating multiple bouts of lice on my children’s heads, I haven’t gotten lice myself. Far less surprising is the fact that I constantly think I have lice. If I have the slightest itch or tickle, I race to the mirror to examine my scalp up close. I never find anything, but it’s easy to convince myself that I have a full-blown case.
 
On my worst days, I hide in the bathroom and use a lice comb to go through every inch of my hair. In many instances, my husband has walked in on me, making me feel as though I’m doing something illicit. Awhile back he was sympathetic to my lice fixation; now he shakes his head ruefully. “Not again,” he moans. “Not again.”
 
***
 
You can see how head lice has addled my brain and affected the mental well-being of my entire family. Is it pleasant? No. Is it to be expected? Yes. I believe we should all get a free pass when it comes to our lice hang-ups.   
 
Above all, we need to remember that many mothers have walked this path of lice madness before us, and many more will follow. It’s our job to hold their hands along the way, commiserating as best we can. 
 
Let’s fight the good fight, ladies, regardless of the fallout.

Friday, September 6, 2013

Thanks, Mom. I love you, Mom. You're the best, Mom.

Me, age 39
 
My friend Lisa is over for dinner to celebrate the start of the school year. We are swapping stories from our summers and congratulating each other on surviving. I feel bedraggled after the non-stop activity of the last couple months, but Lisa says that her husband and kids did something to radically boost her own flagging spirits.
 
“I got out of bed last week,” Lisa says, “and I went downstairs to find a huge poster hanging in our dining room. It said ‘THANK YOU, MOM!’ and the kids had covered the paper with descriptions of all the things I did for them this summer. They had bought a bouquet of flowers, and each of them had written me a thank-you card. It was unbelievably thoughtful and renewing.”
 
As Lisa talks, my husband, who is listening to our conversation, shrinks into the couch, sheepish. Neither he nor my children has done anything to acknowledge my efforts this summer. “Lisa, you have to stop telling Laura all this,” he entreats. “It’s making me look bad.”
 
“No, honey, it isn’t,” I reassure him.  
 
OK, I’m lying. 
 
Formal – or even informal – recognition of my toil and time does not come naturally to those in my family. This is an unfortunate fact that I must accept. And – glumly – I do. But who wouldn’t love to wake up to posters and flowers and thank-you notes, acknowledging the million things we do for our kids?
 
Since my dinner with Lisa, I’ve been trying not to feel envious of the sincere display of appreciation showered on her. Instead, I remind myself that for many children (and husbands too, apparently), gratitude must be taught and reinforced. As a result, I launch a household campaign of gratefulness, pointedly thanking my family for loading the dishwasher, taking out the trash, making their beds, etc. etc.   
 
Sadly, my tactics don’t seem to work as effectively as I had envisioned (which is to say that I have yet to hear anyone thank me for anything), so I resort to more drastic measures: If my kids and husband are unable to produce words of gratitude on their own, then I will put the words directly in their mouths for them. To that end, I come up with a sort of chant that is easy to memorize. It goes like this: “Thanks, Mom! I love you, Mom! You’re the best, Mom!” I instruct my family to say it with vigor, like they really mean it.  
 
Now, when I hand them their freshly folded clean laundry or make their favorite meal for dinner, I give them a little nudge and nod my head encouragingly. And I hear the sweet (if forced) sound of gratitude: “Thanks, Mom! I love you, Mom! You’re the best, Mom!”
 
I am aware that, to a certain extent, my family is humoring me (I know this because the exclamation points never quite make it into my kids’ delivery), but I’ll take it for now. I remain optimistic that one day, my kids and husband will say these words from the heart – spontaneously, meaningfully, and without being cued. And that will be lovely.
 
But if they want to throw in some flowers and cards too, I'd appreciate it.
 
 

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Servidora

Me, age 39
 
I’m having lunch with my friend Margaret, who is telling me about the foreign exchange student she hosted this summer. I think welcoming a foreign exchange student into one’s home is commendable, but when you’re the mother of four kids, it’s downright heroic. I try to express my admiration, but Margaret waves me off.
 
“I have to tell you about Javi from northern Spain ,” she says, referring to the student himself. “Javi’s family has a nanny and a housekeeper, and it sounds like the housekeeper does all the cooking. Javi’s mother doesn’t work, and she doesn’t drive either because she says it’s too much responsibility with her four boys in the car.”
 
My jaw is starting to fall into my bowl of crimini mushroom soup. Margaret goes on, “They live in a five-bedroom apartment, so they have no need for lawn care. They often eat meals at their country club, and they also spend a lot of time at their grandmother’s house, where there’s yet another housekeeper who cooks.”
 
“So what does Javi’s mom do all day?” I ask. Margaret has no clue. We cannot fathom the existence of this mysterious mother from northern Spain, who presumably has ample time to sit on her couch and eat proverbial bonbons.  
 
“What does Javi think of you?” I ask. Lacking the live-in help to which Javi is accustomed, Margaret must seem as alien to him as his mother seems to us.   
 
“Well, all of his clothes were definitely ironed when he arrived, and they were definitely wrinkled when he left. But he made no comment to me about what I do – or don’t do, in this case – around the house,” Margaret says. I nod my head in understanding. Ironing kids’ clothes is not on my radar either. There are too many other things to do.
 
It’s funny that Margaret and I are having this conversation, because lately my nine-year-old daughters have been complaining about their own household chores. Just last week, for example, I asked them to strip their beds so I could wash their sheets; in response, they gave me serious attitude, whining, “You make us do so much work, Mom. It’s like we’re your servants.”
 
“Really?!” I fancied saying to them (but didn’t). “Allow me to walk you through the innumerable mind-numbing duties required of me daily, none of which I am compensated or acknowledged for – unless there’s no clean underwear in your dresser or fresh fruit in the fridge. Then I get an earful.”
 
I can’t expect my daughters to appreciate all the work that goes into being a mother, so I don’t engage them in my repartee. Instead, I toss their sheets in the washing machine and start making breakfast. Taped to the inside of one of my kitchen cabinets is a clipping from Real Simple magazine that provides the validation I and so many other mothers need, whether they stay at home or are employed full-time. In fact, I have practically memorized the text because I gaze at it every time I grab a stack of plates, like now:
 
$112,962
The yearly salary a 2012 stay-at-home mom would earn (that is, if she were paid), as determined by the career-advice website Salary.com. The income was calculated by combining the average wages, plus overtime, for the jobs a mom typically performs, including laundress, janitor, driver, cook, facilities manager, psychologist, and CEO of the household.
 
***
 
As Margaret and I finish up our anything-but-dull lunch, she offers one last nugget of information about Javi. “He did say that he likes my cooking,” Margaret admits. I’m not surprised, because Margaret is a marvelous cook on top of everything else.
 
We aren’t paid for any of the work we do in our homes, but I’m confident if you pitted Margaret – or me, or any of my fellow mom friends – against Javi’s mother and her entire household staff, we would win hands-down. I’d put my euros on it.
 
 

Monday, August 5, 2013

Make mine extra spicy

Me, age 38
 
I’m feeling kind of guilty.
 
The kids are filing into the school building, waving one last time to us parents as we holler our goodbyes. I take a look around and notice some moms and dads wiping tears from their eyes. As for me, I am trying to hide the huge smile on my face.  
 
It’s the first day of school, but not just any first day of school. My daughters are in third grade, and Owen is starting kindergarten – full-day kindergarten – which means I have turned a major corner in my life as a mother: all of my children are officially in elementary school.
 
As I leave the playground (childless, for the first time in eight years!), I think about how buoyant I feel to have reached this milestone. I might be worse for the wear, but I have survived. As I hum the Rocky theme song to myself, I run smack into my good friend Anne Marie, who has likewise just bid farewell to her youngest. She tells me how devastated she is now that she’s done with the “little kids at home” chapter of her life. “I’m so sad,” she cries.  
 
Back to my feelings of guilt: while Anne Marie is trying her best not to burst into tears, I’m ready to burst into song. Does this make me a bad mom?
 
I’ve chatted with my own mother about my elation in sending my children off to school, and she tells me I have nothing to feel bad about. She confesses that when she took my littlest sister to kindergarten, she did cartwheels across the playground.  “You really did cartwheels?” I ask her, incredulous.  
 
“Well, no, sweetie,” she responds. “But I felt like doing cartwheels. It’s pretty much the same thing.”

She has a point. I could do cartwheels myself, but I have no time to spare. I need to get home because I’m hosting a party at 9am sharp. It’s time to celebrate, and what says “celebration” better than “Bloody Mary bar”?
 
I’ve invited all the neighborhood parents to my morning fete, and my sun-filled back porch is stocked with everything to make it extraordinary. Through the years, my three sisters and I have perfected the Bloody Mary bar, which I’m delighted to unveil today to my fellow moms and dads. A Bloody Mary makes everyone feel better, whether they are stifling a sob or breaking out in a victory dance like me. 
 
The Merritt Sisters’ Recipe for an Unforgettable Bloody Mary Bar
 
What you will need
 
Plastic spears
Toothpicks
Lots of ice
Lots of vodka (we suggest the 1.75L Kirkland Signature Vodka from Costco) 
Bloody Mary mix (we like Zing Zang)
Worcestershire sauce
Celery salt
Ground pepper
 
Build your Bloody Mary in a cup over ice. Mix 3 oz Bloody Mary mix, 1 ½ oz vodka, a dash of Worcestershire sauce, and pinches of celery salt and ground pepper. Stir well.  Add your fixins to taste. Make it spicy – or not. It will be good either way.
 
Fixins
 
Artichoke hearts
Bacon slices (cooked and chilled)
Banana peppers and/or pepperoncinis
Beef jerky sticks
Celery stalks
Cheese curds – white, cheddar, Cajun, etc.
Cherry tomatoes
Cucumber slices
Hot sauce (or Tabasco )
Lemon wedges
Lime wedges
Olives – stuffed with garlic, blue cheese, jalapeno, etc.
Pickled asparagus spears
Pickled Brussels sprouts
Pickled green beans
Pickled mushrooms
Pickles – dill and/or sweet spears
Shrimp (cooked and chilled)
String cheese
 
***
 
My porch table is an awesome sight with its bountiful spread of fixins. But what’s even more awesome is taking that first sip of spicy, vitamin-packed, vodka-based goodness and toasting to the start of a new school year.
 
Cheers!

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Skinny jeans

Me, age 39

My friends tell me that their pre-teen daughters are pitiless when it comes to dishing out unsolicited fashion advice.

Caroline and Jane, my nine-year-old twins, haven’t started tearing apart my wardrobe, but I’m bracing myself for the day it begins. I anticipate that their input will be brutal.

My friend Jody, for instance, says, “I have an 11-year-old, but her attitude at times is more like that of a 15-year-old. She goes from being my sweet little girl to a scary person I don’t even know.” Jody explains that her daughter’s most common critiques of her outfits are, “Um, NO, Mom,” and “That looks too old lady.”

Amy’s daughter is 10. She’s been giving Amy grief all summer, asking her, “Mom, why do you always wear jogging shorts and a T-shirt?” Amy, bewildered, responds, “Because it’s hot outside and I’m spending the day picking raspberries?!”

Mari says that her 12-year-old often tells her, “Mom, your boobies are showing too much.” But, paradoxically, she’ll also complain that Mari’s work outfits are totally boring.

Sara, whose daughter is only eight, says that she’s already started offering suggestions about her style. “She says things to me like, ‘I’m not sure I like that necklace with that top,’ or ‘You should wear this dress instead of the one you have on.'”     

I’m quaking in my cute little ballet flats (which I swear are cool) as I imagine the criticism I’ll receive in the not-so-distant future. But in the meantime, I’m doing just fine when it comes to getting dressed, thank you very much! In fact, striving to be “on-trend” (as they say on Fashion Police), I’ve decided to give skinny jeans a try.

Skinny jeans are a stretch, figuratively and literally speaking, for someone as short and roundly-assed as I am. I always gravitate to boot-cuts or flares because they create the illusion that I’m taller and more proportioned than I really am, whereas skinnies make me look like an inverted triangle in a profoundly unflattering way.

However, I recently found a decent pair of skinny jeans that I think look all right on me. I feel a bit hippy – OK, a lot hippy – but I’ve summoned every shred of self-confidence to wear them for my sister’s birthday party tonight.

With apprehension, I ask my daughters for their feedback. To my delight, they actually approve of the skinnies! They tell me I look awesome. I’m glowing; I feel like a million bucks.     

As I head for the door, eager to depart for the evening, I encounter my six-year-old, Owen. He eyes my new jeans and leans in for a hug. As I kiss his sweet head and tell him goodbye, he starts rubbing my thighs.

“Um, buddy, what are you doing?” I ask.

With his response, Owen single-handedly demolishes all of my poise and assurance while revealing that he might be my toughest fashion critic after all.

“Mmmmmm,” he says, oddly enraptured by my ample curves. “I love your legs, Mommy. They look so fat in those jeans.”


Sunday, July 21, 2013

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.