Mistake

Me, age 40

Caroline, age 10

I am not my best on Halloween.

I know that many people love it, but I have a hard time getting keyed up for a holiday that requires me to be crafty and give my kids a free pass to eat all the sugar they want.

Generally speaking, I try to put on a pleasant smile and go with it. But this year, I’ve done something that I suspect has taken the luster off Halloween – for one of my children, at least.

I’m staying at home to hand out candy while my fanatical husband (who has mapped out the neighborhood with what he calls an optimal candy-acquisition strategy) is taking the kids trick-or-treating. My last words to him, as they all bolt out the front door, are, “Please, please try not to stay out too late!” They are already halfway up the street and completely ignoring me when I add, “The longer you’re out, the crabbier the kids will be tomorrow and the more candy we’ll have. And we don’t need any more candy!” 

Right.

Two hours later, they've not yet returned. Trick-or-treaters have stopped ringing our doorbell, which makes me wonder what my husband and children are doing. My imaginary Halloween cheer has worn off and I’m getting tired. I send him a text:

Is anyone out there? Pretty quiet here.

How are kids holding up?

My husband responds:

We’re still doing well.

On our way to one last street for the finish.

I text back:

Great. Please come home soon or

your kids will be assholes in the morning.

And then:

I saw what you just typed! This is Caroline,

and you called us assholes!

“Oh, shit,” I say. I may have a mouth like a sailor behind closed doors, but swearing in front of the kids hasn’t been an option. Caroline in particular is moody and sensitive whenever I veer into territory that could be construed as crass or sarcastic (or, gulp, disrespectful). I’m sure she is distressed by my text. But why is she on her father’s phone in the first place?! 

  Get off your father’s phone.

:( 

I just want you to get some sleep so you are

not crabby tomorrow. You were kind of crabby

tonight before trick-or-treating and that

was upsetting. I want you to have a great day!

No response. I turn off our outside lights, blow out the jack-o-lantern, and rightly consider tossing the remaining candy in the dumpster. But before I can carry out my plan, the troops return, smelling like autumn leaves and caramel. They are rosy and chatty and high on artificial colors and flavors – except for Caroline, who avoids making eye contact with me and makes a beeline for her bedroom.

After I peel Jane and Owen out of their costumes (fortune teller and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, respectively), I find Caroline (peacock) in bed, blankets up to her eyeballs. Our conversation goes like this:

Me: (trying to act innocent) Caroline, why are you crying?

Caroline: (sort of glaring and crying at the same time) You called us assholes!

Me: (taking deep breath because I know I’m going to be here for awhile) I didn’t mean to call you assholes. It was an accident! It was a mistake!

Caroline: (not convinced, for which I don’t blame her) That was really mean. It hurt my feelings. 

Me: (trying to remain contrite, but how badly I want to put on my pajamas and go to bed…) I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. It wasn’t very nice or respectful of me.

Caroline: (wiping away the last of her tears) Thanks for apologizing, Mom.

Me: (kindly but firmly) But Caroline, in the future can you please stay off your father’s phone…?

I’m certain that when Caroline drifts off to sleep she’s feeling loved and un-assholelike. I, on the other hand, feel terrible, even though my text was not meant for her eyes. What kind of mom calls her children assholes? I go right to my friends for validation.   

My dear friend Katie tells me not to worry. She says it’s not that bad. “I told my oldest son, when he was just three years old, that he was on 'Santa’s shit list.'”

I’m starting to feel better.  

Next, I talk to Tonya, who is always reassuring in a crisis. She asks me, “Does ‘mofo’ count?”

“Yes, I suppose ‘mofo’ counts,” I reply.

“Well, then. When he was a newborn, I called my son a mofo.”

Fair enough. Thanks, Tonya.

But it’s Kylie who brings me the greatest sense of relief, because at least I’m calling my kids assholes and not the other way around. Kylie says, “We were at my mother-in-law’s house with about ten of Howard’s family members for Bennett’s eighth birthday. After Bennett blew out his candles, there was one left, and someone said, ‘Oh, he has at least one girlfriend!’ I was standing next to Howard’s aunt, and I said that I didn’t think Bennett had any girlfriends but that my five-year-old Tate was quite the ladies’ man. To which Tate said, in front of everyone, ‘Mom, you little bitch!’ The room went silent.”

“Oh, Kylie,” I cringe. “That is awful.”

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sure it will be a story we hear again. And again.”

My only hope is that Caroline is able to put my Halloween mistake out of her mind for good. I want to chuck the whole memory in the garbage – right alongside the uneaten candy bars I've successfully filched from my kids when they weren’t looking. 

Oh no he didn't

Me, age 40

Every month, I read O magazine for my Oprah fix. I derive a curious pleasure in dissecting what she knows for sure (her words, not mine), how she lives her best life (ditto), and what “Aha!” moments she has stockpiled for my personal edification.

The September 2014 issue is chock full of good stuff. I’m sifting through Oprah’s advice for smart, simple makeovers when I land on Dr. Phil McGraw’s column. His topic is “The way you do anything is the way you do everything.”

“Well, this sounds fascinating,” I say to myself, cheerfully tucking into his article.

Dr. Phil explains that the phrase “The way you do anything is the way you do everything" has become his own personal credo. He writes: “I observed that I was an all-or-nothing person. If I was lazy about just one thing, my attitude contaminated all that I touched… On the other hand, if I aimed to be my best in one area, that commitment raised my game across the board.”

“I like this.” I say. “You’re on to something, Dr. Phil!” After all, who can argue with the suggestion that we bump up all of our efforts to be as productive and excellent as possible?

“You might want to take a look at the areas in your life that could use some improvement,” Dr. Phil says, ticking off bad habits like amassing credit card debt, passing the buck at work, and eating too much junk food. “Even the smallest change can help you turn things around… Start by taking better care of what’s around you.”

“OK, that sounds easy enough,” I respond. But Dr. Phil is just getting started.

“Has your window screen been torn for the last three years?” he asks me.

“Damn,” I whisper. “How does he know that my window screen has been torn?”

“Fix it,” he says.

“Sure,” I say. “As soon as I fold the six loads of clean laundry sitting in my family room and buy my kids their costumes for Halloween.”

Dr. Phil remains impassive.   

I read on. “Is your car a disaster?” he asks me.

“Oh, HELL NO,” I retort. “We are not bringing my car into this.”

Dr. Phil stares at me from the magazine page with a frosty smirk.

“I’ve always been honest about the fact that my car is a disaster. I try to keep it tidy, but it’s a losing battle. How can I ferry my three kids around with their snacks, backpacks, water bottles, soccer balls and dance gear and not have it resemble a landfill?” I ask.

But Dr. Phil does not care to hear my excuses. “Clean it up,” he says.

“Jerk,” I say.

“If you don’t live your life as if everything matters, you’ll never become everything you’re meant to be,” he adds.

“Dr. Phil, your personal credo is bunk!” I yell. “It looks fine on paper, but in practice it’s ridiculous!” Who does this guy think he is? He is certainly not a mother. If Dr. Phil were a mother, he would implicitly understand that not everything matters.

What does matter: that my children are healthy, clean, fed and educated; that they go to bed every night smothered with kisses and knowing they are loved. The rest is just icing on the cake.

I could be an all-or-nothing person like Dr. Phil and tend to the spot(s) on my carpet and clean out all my junk drawers, but then I wouldn't have time to play Uno with my son, take my dog for a walk, or enjoy ten precious minutes alone with a cup of coffee.

The more I stew about Dr. Phil’s philosophy, the more I’m convinced he is mucking up the whole concept of balance. (And, ironically, isn’t balance one of those subjects that Oprah herself loves to wax poetic about?) Instead of feeling compelled to assign meaning to every single aspect of our lives, maybe we should grant ourselves permission to be a little lax now and then. Because, Dr. Phil, I do not believe the way I do one thing is the way I do everything else. I give my family my best, not my screens.

I’m probably overreacting to Dr. Phil’s column, but it’s safe to say I’m finished with him for the day. “I am perfectly capable of living my best life in spite of – or maybe even because of – the orange peels trapped under the seats of my car,” I say to Dr. Phil, shutting the magazine on his smug face. “And that is something I know for sure.”

Disconnect

Anonymous A, age 10

Anonymous B, age 10

Anonymous C, age 7

After a lovely overnight trip to my parents’ house in Milwaukee, I am heading back to Madison. I’ve been driving on the interstate for a mere 24 minutes – still an hour from home – when I hear a little voice pipe up from the backseat.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” announces Anonymous A.

“You have to go to the bathroom?” I respond, already wishing we weren’t having this conversation.

“Yes, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Why didn’t you go to the bathroom before we left Grammie and Daddo’s house?” I ask. I am trying my very best to not whine.

“Because I didn’t have to go to the bathroom before we left Grammie and Daddo’s house,” Anonymous A retorts.

“OK, fine. So you have to go to the bathroom. The problem is that we aren’t close to an exit right now, so there is nowhere for you to go to the bathroom,” I explain. I am trying to be soothing and rational. I am trying to be a good mom.

“But I REALLY have to go to the bathroom,” Anonymous A says. I’m dismayed to detect an undercurrent of panic in Anonymous A’s voice.

Anonymous C decides to join in the discussion. “When I have to go to the bathroom in the car, Daddy gives me a Gatorade bottle and lets me pee in it.” My face must look stricken in the rearview mirror, because Anonymous C quickly adds, “But that’s only when I have to go really bad.”

Apparently this is becoming a family affair, because Anonymous B speaks up. “Well, if [Anonymous A] has to go really bad, we could use your empty Starbucks cup.”

“That’s enough,” I say. I need to put an end to this nonsense. “There’s an exit in a few miles. We’ll get off and find a bathroom as quickly as we can, all right? No one is using an empty Starbucks cup!”

But Anonymous A is not placated. “I’m trying, Mom, but I can’t hold it,” she bleats. Swiveling my head, I can tell from the droplets of sweat forming on Anonymous A’s nose that she is serious. Our situation goes from bad to worse when Anonymous A breaks out in tears.

“FINE,” I screech. “Here is my Starbucks cup!” I whip off the plastic cap and straw and pass back the cup, remembering how just an hour ago I was cheerfully sipping iced coffee from it. “Shimmy yourself off your seat – please keep on your seatbelt – and do your best to pee in it. Be careful! Be fast!”

I cannot believe this is happening. Who does this?

I consider pulling over but decide it’s safer to keep driving. I focus on the road in order to avoid dwelling on what is occurring behind me. But things become increasingly impossible to ignore, because suddenly Anonymous B starts gagging.

“[Anonymous B], are you gagging?” I ask.

Anonymous B can’t respond because she is, in fact, gagging. So Anonymous C clarifies, “I think [Anonymous B] is going to puke.”

“Why is [Anonymous B] going to puke?!” I wail. But it has gone silent in the nether-regions of my car. As if to answer my question, Anonymous A taps me on the shoulder and, sounding sheepish, says that she has finished. I reach back to cautiously take hold of her cup of pee. Except the cup is alarmingly heavy. Too heavy. With a glance, I ascertain that it is not filled with pee. It is filled with poop.

“Oh. My. God,” is all I can sputter out. I manage to set the cup in my cup holder and frantically cover it with a protective multi-layer cushion of Kleenex. Then I grab my bottle of hand sanitizer and coat myself. “Hand sanitizer all around!” I shriek, pitching it into the backseat.

I take a deep breath and count to ten, trying not to look at the Starbucks cup sitting next to me. I want to get a better handle on this situation.

“[Anonymous A],” I say. “I don’t understand what just happened. I thought you had to pee.” But now that I think about it, I don’t recall her actually saying those words. Perhaps I imagined them. Or perhaps the possibility of a ten-year-old going poop in the backseat of my car did not occur to me.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” says Anonymous A. “I tried to hold it, but I couldn’t.” She sounds contrite, so I’m somewhat appeased.

Meanwhile, Anonymous B is still making retching noises, so I open the windows to air out the car. (In all honesty, my Starbucks cup doesn’t smell that bad. I’m thinking it must be more of a mental thing for Anonymous B.)

Anonymous C is relishing every bit of this. He asks me to hold up the cup so he can get a better look at it. I shut down Anonymous C with a glare and explain that we are no longer speaking of the Starbucks cup or its contents. We are done. Anonymous A is safe in her seat and that’s all I care about.

As we drive home, I spend a good chunk of time wondering why things seem to devolve so abruptly into chaos for me and my family. Why do we suffer from these disconnects? Take today, for instance. There was an evident breakdown between Anonymous A and what she was saying (or rather, not saying) to me and what I was hearing (or rather, not hearing). In general I’m a pretty good listener, but things still managed to get all muddled. I don’t know if it’s worth replaying the gory details in my mind, or if I should let go of the matter. I suppose every family must have its share of disconnects, but are they as disquieting as this one? 

Bigger picture, I see that a disconnect also exists between what I thought motherhood was going to be like and what it’s actually shaking down to be. Before I had children, I imagined that I would be a graceful, unruffled mother, someone equipped to prevent unsavory things from happening – someone who could get her kids to the bathroom in time. I expected that I would be able to rise above the messiness of the world, making my kids’ lives extraordinary and serene. I thought I could keep their childhoods unsullied.   

I laugh, because this vision of motherhood in my head has turned out to be miles away from reality. Just like I’m still miles away from Madison. With a cup of poop as my co-pilot.    

Every moment is not a moment

“Aaaaaargh! How has child-rearing got so… so complicated? It’s as if you have to keep them on some sort of permanent high of engagement and happiness.”

From Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy,

by Helen Fielding

Me, age 40

Over a breakfast of egg sandwiches and café-au-lait, my good friend Sarah and I catch up on things.

She’s talking about a woman she knows. “I can’t call her for mom support because she doesn’t feel real to me,” Sarah says. “She will literally stop a conversation with another adult to get down on the floor and play Legos with her children if they ask. She thinks every moment with them should be quality time. This is frustrating because I don’t believe that every moment needs to be a ‘moment.’”

I feel the same way. Maybe it’s because I was raised by parents who didn’t hover: once in awhile they played with my sisters and me, but usually they tossed us the garden hose (or Monopoly game or Play-Doh) and told us to go have fun.

Sarah continues, “My kids are signed up for after-school activities, but all they want to do is ride their bikes, play on the jungle gym, and run around outside. I let them do that the last few weekends, and they arrived at dinnertime hungry and dirty. It was great. To me, that is just as important as playing Legos with them.”

My twin daughters have never been into Legos, but Sarah’s point is spot-on. Years ago, I learned that trying to coordinate one moment after the next is not only impossible: it’s insane.

When my girls were one-and-a-half, for example, I took it upon myself to orchestrate a trip to a little local beach. Never mind that they were perfectly content splashing in the plastic baby pool in our backyard: I packed up our stuff, pried them away from the pool, and drove across town. All while congratulating myself on being such an awesome mom.

In the parking lot of the beach, I got out of the car and was at once dismayed to find that the air reeked of algae. But hell if we were going to turn around and go home! I had made us a picnic lunch and coated the girls in sunscreen! We were going to do this!

I threw the girls and our supplies into the double stroller. After only a couple steps, however, I realized that there was no paved pathway to the beach, only sand.

Have you ever attempted to push a double stroller – or any stroller, for that matter – through sand?

It was not a pleasant experience for me or my daughters.

Once we finally arrived at our destination, I took one look at the water and muttered a few choice words. The reason it stunk like algae was because algae absolutely blanketed the water like a fuzzy green comforter.

“Time to go, girls!” I hollered, trying in vain to turn the stroller around. I was sweating, my daughters were wailing, and I wondered why we hadn’t just stayed at our house, where their idea of adventure was as gratifying and uncomplicated as pulling all the tissues out of a Kleenex box and feeding Cheerios to our blind dog.

***

As I leave my breakfast with Sarah, where this whole conversation started, I think about another friend of mine. Like many moms, she has come to accept that it’s OK to not coordinate every last moment for her children.

“I always used to plan these huge birthday parties for my son, with classmates and presents, and he enjoyed none of it,” she says. “I think for a long time I needed to do these parties because that’s what you’re ‘supposed’ to do. But then I realized a few years ago that all he really wants for his birthday is a day with his favorite people – his family. And maybe some cake.”

Type A-

Me, age 40

 

My friend Janet owns a company called Type A, LLC.

 

As the name indicates, Janet is bewilderingly well-organized. She has an MBA and the uncanny ability to remain poised at all times. She helps small businesses get a better handle on the details of their everyday operations – think budgeting, audit preparation and website content, for instance – and she does this while appearing to never perspire.  

 

I used to be like Janet.

 

I am not anymore.

 

Not so long ago, I balanced my checkbook to the penny. I swept up dust-bunnies from under the bed before they could procreate. Piles of things – junk mail, bills, banana peels, socks – made me nervous.

 

But then my kids came along, and it became necessary for me to resign as a Type A human being. I’ve discovered, in fact, that the words “mom” and “Type A” don’t cozy up together real well within the same sentence – for me, anyway.

 

My new status, I’m proud to announce, is Type A-. And, to be completely honest, on my craziest days I am closer to Type B+.

 

I have a firm and capable grasp on what needs to get done to keep my home and family in basic functioning order: I feed my kids, get them to where they need to be (more or less) on time, and make sure they’re wearing clean underwear. But beyond that, it’s a crapshoot. Dust bunnies? They’re everywhere. Stop by my house and you can pet one. Where’s the toilet paper? you ask? We’re all out, but I’m going to Costco the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, just use Kleenex. Is that the interior of your car, Laura, or a peat bog? Both are correct: it’s the interior of my car and it’s a peat bog. It smells like decaying plant matter, no?

 

It’s nice to see how far I’ve come. At one time, these things would have put me into a state of apoplexy. Now, I view them as the signposts of a very full and frenzied life with children. Just recently, for example, my sister-in-law Betsy was visiting from out of town. Like Janet, Betsy is supremely disciplined and put-together; I’m positive she never misplaces her postage stamps or drives an automobile that stinks like decomposing vegetation. Betsy was enjoying a glass of wine and keeping me company in the kitchen, all while I ignored the dirty dishes on the counter, failed to mop up a pot of boiled-over pasta, and yelled ineffectually at the kids, who were running in and out of the room screeching. Betsy asked if I needed a hand. “No thanks,” I replied with a cheerful shrug. “It’s all good!” She looked at me, askance. “What has happened to you?” she said. “Kids have happened to me,” I answered. She nodded sagely, clinked my wineglass, and toasted me for having loosened up so much.

 

As Betsy and I downed our Pinot Grigio, I said a silent thank-you to my burgeoning Type A- approach to life. I didn’t necessarily ask for it, but I’m doing my best to make the most of it.

 

I’d like to think that if Janet herself sat down with me to discuss my own process improvements, strategic planning and communications strategies, she’d pat me on the back and tell me I’m doing OK. My efforts are a far cry from perfect Type A work, but they’re enough to get by. And right now, that’s all that matters.

 

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you fabulous moms out there, whether you are Type A, Type B, or somewhere in between.

Wallpaper

Me, age 38

 

Twice in the last week I’ve almost been hit by a car.

 

Granted, I am sitting in my tank-like SUV both times these near-accidents occur, so I don’t fear for my life. I do, however, find myself wondering how the other drivers have managed to not actually see me or my car, which, embarrassingly, is as imposing as an armored military vehicle.

 

“Am I invisible or something?” I mutter to myself, posing what I feel is a legitimate question that seems to pop up regularly, especially at home among my family members.

 

Just the other day, for example, after growing out my inch-long pixie cut for a whopping three years, I am finally able to scrape my hair into a ponytail. Although scraggly and unimpressive, this ponytail represents a major personal accomplishment, so I am ecstatic to show it off to my husband. After parading in a circle in front of him, elatedly demanding, “Do you notice anything different about me?” I am dismayed when he replies, “Um, no, I don’t. Is there something different about you?”   

 

“Yes, there is something different about me!” I shriek, shaking my ponytail in his face. “You haven’t seen me with a ponytail since 2001! How can you not notice?!”

My husband shrugs his shoulders, tells me my hair looks nice, and goes back to reading his newspaper. “Oh, my God,” I say, leaving the room. “It’s true. I really am invisible.”

Next, I find myself in the kitchen with my three children, who appear to not grasp that I exist in human form. I am forced to whistle in their faces like they’re dogs to get them to lift their gaze from the inane game they’re playing on the iPad. When I ask them what they would like for a snack, they apparently don’t comprehend the English language because no one responds. I start tapping my foot like a nervous tic as I grow more frustrated. “Do you want a pear? Graham crackers? Strawberry yogurt?” They stare at me blankly, so I embark on a brief experiment: “Do you want CHEETOS?” I ask. “Do you want CHOCOLATE CAKE? What about CRACK COCAINE?” I am aware that I sound like I’ve lost my senses, but it doesn’t matter because my kids have already turned their attention back to the iPad, happily snackless.

 

I cannot be the only mother who feels like she’s invisible, can I? After devouring a magnificent book of essays edited by Leslie Morgan Steiner called Mommy Wars: Stay-at-Home and Career Mom Face Off on Their Choices, Their Lives, Their Families (which, incidentally, should be required reading for every mother, and it has nothing to do with the stay-at-home vs. career thing), I realize I’m in good company. In her essay “Being There,” Reshma Memon Yaqub describes her mother:

 

“She was never the domestic type… She never cozied up to the stove or the mop. She threw ugly looks at the dishes that insisted on piling up around the sink, mocking her with their ketchup stains. But still, she did her home thing and she did her mom thing, and she did it well. She simply, if somewhat reluctantly, accepted her fate… She was always there, always in the background, almost like wallpaper, which, to a kid, is just about the highest compliment you can give a mom.”

This perfect nutshell of a phrase – “She was always there, always in the background, almost like wallpaper” – resonates deeply with me. Maybe I am around my kids so much that I’ve literally blended in with the walls! Maybe, like Reshma says, it’s a compliment that I’m invisible to them!

 

In “Happy,” Anne Marie Feld talks about her mother in a similar way:

 

“In home movies, my sister and I, long-limbed and small-bodied, dance and do gymnastics in the foreground. My mother lurks in the background, head cut off, washing dishes or zooming diagonally through the frame on her way somewhere else.”

I decide that I’m a lurker, too, lingering in the background of my children’s lives. Like Anne Marie’s mom, I am mostly invisible to my kids – headless or limbless or hidden behind a gargantuan pile of laundry – but if you look close enough, I’m there. Part of the scenery of their childhoods.

 

***

 

Just when I’ve gotten comfortable with the idea of being akin to wallpaper, something extraordinary happens. I’m alone at Starbucks, drinking coffee and catching up on a work project. “Excuse me,” says an older gentleman sitting at the table next to me. “Don’t you usually come to Starbucks to read a book?”

“Why, yes, that’s what I usually do,” I respond. “But today I’ve got work to do, which is not nearly as fun.” He smiles at me. I try not to gape.

 

“For years, I’ve noticed you reading here. You always look so happy when you read.”

I’m having a difficult time processing his words. He’s noticed me? For years? I always look happy? My head is reeling. As I turn back to my laptop and coffee, I savor the sweet fact that perhaps I do not pass through the world as invisibly as I thought I did.

 

But the million-dollar question remains: Did he happen to notice my new ponytail?

Man hands

I am a sucker for deep-tissue massage. When I peel myself off the table after being massaged, I want to feel like a piece of tenderized meat. For years I have searched for the perfect massage therapist to really get in there and work out the kinks, but everyone I go to has left me dissatisfied and wanting more.

 

Today, I have an appointment with Natasha. A friend recommended I try Natasha because, in her words, “she doesn’t mess around.” I am intrigued. 

 

I pull up to the bare-bones building where Natasha works and am struck by how it resembles Communist-bloc housing. Emblazoned in Russian in the front window is “Madison Hot Stone Therapy and Massage.” (I know it says this because, in smaller letters below, is the English translation.) Inside the shadowy and unquestionably not spa-like office, I meet Natasha. She is sturdy and robust, and my eyes immediately wander to her hands. They are like paddles. This is a little scary, and part of me wants to run. The other part of me is desperate for a decent massage, so I stay put.  

 

Speaking in a thick Russian accent, Natasha welcomes me and inquires about my “problem areas.”

“My entire body is my problem area!” I reply with a nervous barking laugh.

 

Natasha doesn’t smile. She leads me to her massage room and confirms that I want a deep-tissue massage instead of something lighter. When I nod, she says in her throaty voice, “I come from Soviet Union. In my country, deep tissue massage is very…intense. This is all right with you?” There is no turning back now. I am game.

 

After I disrobe and get settled on the table, which is covered with a bright homemade afghan (presumably from “her country”), Natasha begins. It takes approximately 4.5 seconds for me to realize that I have met my match. She starts with my ears, squeezing the lobes and cartilage in a way that is terrifying. I break out in a sweat and try to focus on my breathing. I never knew my ears were sore and needed to be massaged! I think feverishly. But clearly they do, because this hurts like a bitch!

                                                                                                                                                            

Natasha has a talent for seeking out many other body parts – my calves, my palms, the arches of my feet – where I wasn’t aware I was amassing stress. When she kneads these places, I feel my muscles protest against and then submit to her hands. It’s not exactly a restful experience, but my body is kind of enjoying being flattened like bread dough.  

 

As Natasha moves from head to toe, it is evident that she is more than a massage therapist: she is actually able to identify my medical conditions.

 

“You have asthma?” she asks. Yes, I do, but how in the world does she know that? As if reading my mind, she says, “I know because of the freckles you have on your body. In my country, we believe in ancient Eastern medicine. Everything is connected. ” I am skeptical of Natasha’s ancient Eastern medicine (how do freckles relate to lung function, anyway?) until she announces a few minutes later, “Ah! You also have sluggish digestion!”

“Yes,” I respond. Apparently there is some quality about my arms and legs that has alerted Natasha to the fact that my digestive track resembles an iron vault – what goes in does not, in fact, come out. I don’t understand the correlation between my arms and legs and intestines, but I’m becoming a fast believer in her Soviet way of looking at things.

 

“Are you successful in having bowel movements?” Natasha demands. Golly, this is a personal question, but I don’t see how I can possibly lie, seeing as though I am essentially naked and putty-like on the massage table before her.

 

“No, not exactly,” I sigh.

 

“Massage will help,” she declares. “Come back regularly and you will notice big difference.”

After all of my health concerns have been addressed, Natasha takes my massage to a different level by asking about my children. She wants to know how many I have, how old they are, and what they are like. She also wants to know if they cause me any stress. Before I can answer, tears are rolling down my cheeks. What has this woman done to me? I am falling apart! Who cries during a massage?! Of course they cause me stress!

 

She murmurs that she knows how challenging it is to raise children, because she has five of her own. By validating my struggles and saying all the things I need to hear, she turns the massage into a therapy session, which means my emotional state is now as pulpy as my muscles.     

 

Maybe it’s the warmth of the Soviet afghan or her soothing guttural voice or the way she very kindly causes me bodily pain. Whatever it is, I’m sold on Natasha.

 

When my massage is over, I feel emptied of all anxiety. Not only has she pounded out every ounce of frustration from my muscles, but she’s also managed to scour the dim corners of my mind. I make another appointment with her (how could I not?) and stumble to my car feeling light-hearted, optimistic and healthy. I feel – to quote Natasha – connected. It’s as if my entire being has been aligned.

 

As a mother, how often do I feel aligned? Never, but I suspect it’s something that might be good for me. If I can achieve this state of relaxation, even if it’s only once a month, maybe I can learn to better read the signs of stress as they accumulate in my body and deal with them before it’s too late.     

 

“There really is something to this mind-body stuff, isn’t there?” I exclaim to myself in wonder.

 

And then I drive home and proceed to not have sluggish digestion. Once. Twice. Three times. All in the same afternoon.