I am writing to see if I can give you a a bit of advice to improve the effectiveness of your protest. I have three points.
1. Representation. I realize your group is diverse, which is appropriate, since you claim to represent the rest of America, not a part of the white-male-oppressor greed machine. But I propose you be a bit more selective about whom you choose to allow camera time. The sweaty, shirtless, one-armed, midget drummer I saw on the news this morning, was not, perhaps, the best choice of visual to coalesce an army of the financially downtrodden. Many people might have a problem aligning themselves with someone they would cross the street to avoid rather than be harassed for spare change in exchange for the mad beats he's banging out on that spackle tub. Not that I have any issue with his being sweaty (who am I to judge?), one-armed, short in stature, or a drummer. But, generally having your spokespeople be clothed is a good first step.
To quote on of your reps*, "I actually quit my job and got a one-way ticket out here for the protests. I just felt like it was really - in a lot ways, this was the last hope for some sort of real change." You quit a job, to protest that there are no jobs? Interesting. I especially enjoyed the young woman who said, "I'm talking about people who have master's degrees, in a lot of cases, who have to work $8-an-hour jobs because there are just no jobs. My generation - I'm 23 - my generation is really like the lost generation." Isn't an $8-an-hour job a job? Hence, negating "there are just no jobs". She and I need to have a come-to-Jesus about what "paying your dues" means. Or did she think getting a Master's degree in Comparative Lit was going to earn her a corner office right off the bat?
2. Handshake. Some of you feel moved enough to speak to the group at large, or loudly rail against the financial monsters and, wisely, you have decided to conserve your energy and not shout your agreement, but use a hand gesture. Let's look at history, shall we? Some of the most memorable social movements had very strong hand gestures. Look at the Third Reich, and the Black Panthers. Very strong, powerful arms movements there. When you agree with what is being said, you raise your hands above your head and waggle your fingers. You guys picked "jazz hands" as your gesture? I'm starting to see a pattern here. Arm gesture = social movement run by lunatics. Hands down, I think.
3. A clear goal. It helps, I think, to know exactly what is is you want to achieve. Protesting against "greed and corruption" in this country, without having and endgame is like protesting against "people being jerks". Is there specific legislation you have in mind? Certain individuals whose actions need to be addressed legally? In addition, painting all individuals who work on Wall Street with the same brush, is like everyone in this country calling you all lazy, unmotivated, jobless losers who want to blame their lack of success on others, rather than the fact they would prefer to sit in a park and compare tattoos. I'm just sayin'.
Don't let that fact that H works in the industry, or that I believe everyone loves Wall Street when the fast, cheap deals are allowing them to buy shit they can't afford, without reading the fine print, and once the market goes south, and the cash dries up, those same morons are in the streets screaming for blood, filming it all on an iPhone they bought using credit, dissuade you from taking my advice. Look past my belief that demonizing big business is the privilege of living in the wealthiest country in the world and that big business provides many of the jobs you all complain about not being able to get. Is that a cup of Starbucks in your hand? And that fact that I was raised by "have nots" who turned themselves into "haves" by the sweat of their own brows and night school, will not color my views at all.
So if you have any interest in getting organized and not just being the lyrics of Billy Joel's "Angry Young Man" come to life, drop me a line. I run a Girl Scout troop of twenty girls. I figure if I add up all of your motivation, it might equal their energy and we can get some work done.
Sincerely,
MM
*PS- When NPR can't even put a positive spin on this train wreck, you are in serious trouble.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Stop touching the fucking buttons!!!!!
Sorry you were exposed to a post in the making, as LM can not keep his sticky fingers of the friggn's keyboard if I leave it for two seconds. Good thing the banking website wasn't up or he might have wired money to Switzerland.
A complete version of that post coming soon. Annoying....
A complete version of that post coming soon. Annoying....
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
When does it stop feeling like pretend?
I just got off the phone with Skip, the manager of the local garage and body shop in town, where I dropped the van off to be detailed this morning. Having improved upon the Extra Butter version of the van I had been driving since August, by adding an ocean of dog vomit to the mix when Reilly had a stomach bug last week, I decided it was time to call in the professionals. There are only so many rolls of paper towels and bottles of Febreeze I can go through before I have to wave the white flag, as much to surrender as to wave the stink away from my face. I think Skip was being a tad dramatic, though, when he called to ask if they could keep the van overnight to continue working on it since it was the "worst case they had ever seen". It's not like I left my car in long-term parking at JFK for three months with a package of raw chicken in the trunk, or had two stolen six packs of Bartles and James wine coolers explode in the back seat after being left in the heat and toppling over. Roll up your sleeves, Skip, and get to work.
I trust Skip, though, since he's done a bunch of work on both cars, including jumping both repeatedly, and after I hung up with him I thought how weird that I'm in that stage in life where I have a mechanic whom I know by name. I also have a plumber, an electrician and a contractor. When the hell did that happen? Once upon a time, when faced with a household emergency, H and I called the "real grown-ups", aka, one of our parents, to give us guidance and provide a trusted source of help. Now I'm the one giving out numbers to new neighbors in town. When did H and I become one of them? Sure, I might look like I should have a mortgage, a 401K and a will, but there are many times when it still feels like pretend and someone is going to come along and say, "I'm sorry. This life was reserved for an actual adult. You can leave now."
It seems with every milestone in my adult life I have felt, at times, like I am playing a role in a movie. As a new teacher, the very first day of school, I was quaking in my stacked loafers and almost peed my brand new, bought-with-anticipated-paychecks Banana Republic trousers. TROUSERS, I tell you! No more khakis and corduroys for me. I had a name plate on my desk and kids were calling me Mrs. H and shit. I had my own chalkboard and overhead projector*! I thought, look at me, all teacher-y, calling roll and correcting homework! Now as long as I could hide from the people from the Board of Ed who were sure to come take my license away and ensure I ruined no young lives.
The coup de gras of this "role" phenomenon though, has been parenthood. Minutes after #1 came screaming out of me I was apparently supposed to be perfectly comfortable with her latching herself to me like a remora. This was my first lesson in faking it. Look at me, perfectly comfortable with someone eating from my body! No discomfort here! Got this lactating thing complete under control! That night in the hospital was comedy, as our eldest woke every hour and H and I stared at each other, wondering if we should ring the call bell, admitting our ignorance as to the needs of our hours-old progeny, or pretend we had even a shred of a clue as to what our kid might want. We chose the latter and slept not a wink**. It didn't get much better the rest of our stay. I remember being wheeled out the doors of the hospital upon discharge, precariously balancing the infant carrier I barely new how to buckle, which contained a child I barely knew how to keep alive, sure at some point somebody would yell, "STOP THAT WOMAN! SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT SHE'S DOING!!!" But no, I probably looked like any new mother, off to start life with her new baby, which is what I was desperately trying to feel like.
So basically, that's been the gist of the last nine years. I look like "Mother of Three" right out of Central Casting. Hastily scraped back hair, check, peanut butter-proof outfit, check, minivan, check. I see myself doing things like going to PTA meetings and running Girl Scout trips and I think to myself, this such a cliche. It's not that I don't love my life, in fact, it's quite the opposite. Walking the girls to school*** on a sunny fall morning, when my life looks and feels like a scene out of Pleasantville, as I wave to other moms and our clean, happy children run off to school while the sun shines brightly on the fall foliage. It's an incredibly enjoyable cliche that I adore (mot days), but I still can't get over the fact that it still feels like smoke and mirrors a lot of times and that the other mothers must really know what they're doing. Maybe their vans aren't the "worst case" Skip has ever seen.
Maybe that's the case with any job or stage in life. Maybe new grandparents feel it, new hairdressers, new baristas at Starbucks, even the President feels it. He must sign a bill once in a while and say, look at me being all Presidential, while worrying he looks awkward with the way he holds a pen and all****.
*They had only recently gotten rid of the slates and the dunce cap.
**Note to new parents: ALWAYS let them take the baby to the nursery the first night. You are so tired after labor, should you get behind the wheel of a car, you'd probably be pulled over for drunk driving. Handling an infant is probably not a good idea until you get four consecutive hours of shut eye.
***Back when I had to do that - woot!
***Props to my fellow southpaw.
I trust Skip, though, since he's done a bunch of work on both cars, including jumping both repeatedly, and after I hung up with him I thought how weird that I'm in that stage in life where I have a mechanic whom I know by name. I also have a plumber, an electrician and a contractor. When the hell did that happen? Once upon a time, when faced with a household emergency, H and I called the "real grown-ups", aka, one of our parents, to give us guidance and provide a trusted source of help. Now I'm the one giving out numbers to new neighbors in town. When did H and I become one of them? Sure, I might look like I should have a mortgage, a 401K and a will, but there are many times when it still feels like pretend and someone is going to come along and say, "I'm sorry. This life was reserved for an actual adult. You can leave now."
It seems with every milestone in my adult life I have felt, at times, like I am playing a role in a movie. As a new teacher, the very first day of school, I was quaking in my stacked loafers and almost peed my brand new, bought-with-anticipated-paychecks Banana Republic trousers. TROUSERS, I tell you! No more khakis and corduroys for me. I had a name plate on my desk and kids were calling me Mrs. H and shit. I had my own chalkboard and overhead projector*! I thought, look at me, all teacher-y, calling roll and correcting homework! Now as long as I could hide from the people from the Board of Ed who were sure to come take my license away and ensure I ruined no young lives.
The coup de gras of this "role" phenomenon though, has been parenthood. Minutes after #1 came screaming out of me I was apparently supposed to be perfectly comfortable with her latching herself to me like a remora. This was my first lesson in faking it. Look at me, perfectly comfortable with someone eating from my body! No discomfort here! Got this lactating thing complete under control! That night in the hospital was comedy, as our eldest woke every hour and H and I stared at each other, wondering if we should ring the call bell, admitting our ignorance as to the needs of our hours-old progeny, or pretend we had even a shred of a clue as to what our kid might want. We chose the latter and slept not a wink**. It didn't get much better the rest of our stay. I remember being wheeled out the doors of the hospital upon discharge, precariously balancing the infant carrier I barely new how to buckle, which contained a child I barely knew how to keep alive, sure at some point somebody would yell, "STOP THAT WOMAN! SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT SHE'S DOING!!!" But no, I probably looked like any new mother, off to start life with her new baby, which is what I was desperately trying to feel like.
So basically, that's been the gist of the last nine years. I look like "Mother of Three" right out of Central Casting. Hastily scraped back hair, check, peanut butter-proof outfit, check, minivan, check. I see myself doing things like going to PTA meetings and running Girl Scout trips and I think to myself, this such a cliche. It's not that I don't love my life, in fact, it's quite the opposite. Walking the girls to school*** on a sunny fall morning, when my life looks and feels like a scene out of Pleasantville, as I wave to other moms and our clean, happy children run off to school while the sun shines brightly on the fall foliage. It's an incredibly enjoyable cliche that I adore (mot days), but I still can't get over the fact that it still feels like smoke and mirrors a lot of times and that the other mothers must really know what they're doing. Maybe their vans aren't the "worst case" Skip has ever seen.
Maybe that's the case with any job or stage in life. Maybe new grandparents feel it, new hairdressers, new baristas at Starbucks, even the President feels it. He must sign a bill once in a while and say, look at me being all Presidential, while worrying he looks awkward with the way he holds a pen and all****.
*They had only recently gotten rid of the slates and the dunce cap.
**Note to new parents: ALWAYS let them take the baby to the nursery the first night. You are so tired after labor, should you get behind the wheel of a car, you'd probably be pulled over for drunk driving. Handling an infant is probably not a good idea until you get four consecutive hours of shut eye.
***Back when I had to do that - woot!
***Props to my fellow southpaw.
Sex Ed, Preschool Edition
Contrary to my usual bath policy, I let Little Man take a leisurely bubble bath the other day since it was a dreary, rainy day and I had to clean out the closets anyway. Yes, I am a bad parent and left my four year-old in six inches of bubbly water while I was fifteen feet away putting away his summer clothes. With all the singing and such, I had a pretty good barometer as to his not having drowned.
I came in to the room to check on him, and noticed he was pretty seriously investigating his junk. Thank God it was not “bouncy” or I would have had to throw up. It seemed to be more of an exploratory mission, since when I asked him, “What’s goin' on down there, boy-o?”, he asks, “What are these bumps?”
And here we go again.
Explaining you body’s intimate parts and their functions is one of the most stressful, pressure-filled aspects of parenting. One wrong answer and you’ve just cost your kid thousands in therapy, trying to get over their crippling sexual anxiety.
The girls have a pretty healthy view of breasts, I think, since their exposure has only been to them in their functional role. Little Man, not so much, as he pats my chest and asks, “Why you have these bumps?” What is it with this kid and bumps? But while reproducing and the subsequent nursing are handy ways for kids to develop an appreciation for the practical uses of the reproductive bits, it also can bring up topics of discussion waaaay before you’re ready as a parent to go there. And you don’t get a study schedule either, so you can be all prepared and shit. There’s no warning as to when Junior is going to ask where baby comes from, and it’s usually in front of an audience, or when you’re unloading the groceries. It's basically like One of the World's Most Important Pop Quizzes.
The girls had an early intro to The Human Body 101, as I was pregnant with Little Man when #1 was age four and #2 was age two. At that point though, it was pretty easy to satisfy their curiosity with the basics, which became my philosophy – only give them enough information to answer their question. For example, when four year-old #1 asked of my pregnant belly, “How did the baby get in there?” I told her that daddies have seeds they put in the mommies belly and the baby grows in there. That was enough for her, or maybe she heard me muttering under my breath, “Please don’t ask how it gets in there.” She saved that for later. At seven she asked, at the dinner table in front of the other two kids, how the daddies get the seed in there. Arm in the air, dishing out the broccoli, I break into flop sweats. Where is their damn father? Why is it always me getting caught in these situations? I had two seconds to come up with an answer. “You know how Daddy has a penis*, and Mommy has a vagina? Well they fit together like a puzzle and the seed comes out of the daddy and goes into the mommy’s uterus, which is a special part of a woman’s belly and the baby grows there.” And...crickets. Thank God, no bonus round, like "what does the seed look like?"
The words penis, vagina and uterus also bring up the point of what the hell you are going to call everything. H and I have gone the entirely clinical route. I read somewhere once that using the anatomically correct terms could help, God forbid, if your kid ever needed to tell you about a problem in the area. Personally, I just find it weird. Sure, “vagina” doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, but I don’t want to be talking about her hoo-hoo when #1 gets her period, and I find all nicknames for the male genitalia demeaning. Talk about creating issues. How masculine can you feel, growing up calling it a winky?
Now before you start congratulating me on my wisdom, let me admit, I have made mistakes. The most notable of which, is scarring #2 with my tales of my accidental, drug-free labor with her. I was pretty matter-of-fact about it, but I think the surprising information that there is a third hole down there, coupled with the fact that she is pretty chronically constipated, produced the tears when she asked, "Do you have to have a baby?"
And no matter how careful you are, and how neatly you think you've tied it all up with a bow, your kids will throw a zinger your way that will cause stammering and panic. #1 pretty much knows all the ins and out (no pun intended) of intercourse and birth, etc. , so I thought I was done. Then, snuggling up watching an episode of Gilmore Girls, she blurts out, "So how do people who aren't married have babies?"
Again, H? Nowhere to be found.**
*Thank God we had a small house with one bathroom when they were little, so the girls know what the male equipment looks like.
**One could argue he will be in charge of LM's sex ed class, but I was the one explaining what a scrotum and testicles were during the aforementioned bath.
I came in to the room to check on him, and noticed he was pretty seriously investigating his junk. Thank God it was not “bouncy” or I would have had to throw up. It seemed to be more of an exploratory mission, since when I asked him, “What’s goin' on down there, boy-o?”, he asks, “What are these bumps?”
And here we go again.
Explaining you body’s intimate parts and their functions is one of the most stressful, pressure-filled aspects of parenting. One wrong answer and you’ve just cost your kid thousands in therapy, trying to get over their crippling sexual anxiety.
The girls have a pretty healthy view of breasts, I think, since their exposure has only been to them in their functional role. Little Man, not so much, as he pats my chest and asks, “Why you have these bumps?” What is it with this kid and bumps? But while reproducing and the subsequent nursing are handy ways for kids to develop an appreciation for the practical uses of the reproductive bits, it also can bring up topics of discussion waaaay before you’re ready as a parent to go there. And you don’t get a study schedule either, so you can be all prepared and shit. There’s no warning as to when Junior is going to ask where baby comes from, and it’s usually in front of an audience, or when you’re unloading the groceries. It's basically like One of the World's Most Important Pop Quizzes.
The girls had an early intro to The Human Body 101, as I was pregnant with Little Man when #1 was age four and #2 was age two. At that point though, it was pretty easy to satisfy their curiosity with the basics, which became my philosophy – only give them enough information to answer their question. For example, when four year-old #1 asked of my pregnant belly, “How did the baby get in there?” I told her that daddies have seeds they put in the mommies belly and the baby grows in there. That was enough for her, or maybe she heard me muttering under my breath, “Please don’t ask how it gets in there.” She saved that for later. At seven she asked, at the dinner table in front of the other two kids, how the daddies get the seed in there. Arm in the air, dishing out the broccoli, I break into flop sweats. Where is their damn father? Why is it always me getting caught in these situations? I had two seconds to come up with an answer. “You know how Daddy has a penis*, and Mommy has a vagina? Well they fit together like a puzzle and the seed comes out of the daddy and goes into the mommy’s uterus, which is a special part of a woman’s belly and the baby grows there.” And...crickets. Thank God, no bonus round, like "what does the seed look like?"
The words penis, vagina and uterus also bring up the point of what the hell you are going to call everything. H and I have gone the entirely clinical route. I read somewhere once that using the anatomically correct terms could help, God forbid, if your kid ever needed to tell you about a problem in the area. Personally, I just find it weird. Sure, “vagina” doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, but I don’t want to be talking about her hoo-hoo when #1 gets her period, and I find all nicknames for the male genitalia demeaning. Talk about creating issues. How masculine can you feel, growing up calling it a winky?
Now before you start congratulating me on my wisdom, let me admit, I have made mistakes. The most notable of which, is scarring #2 with my tales of my accidental, drug-free labor with her. I was pretty matter-of-fact about it, but I think the surprising information that there is a third hole down there, coupled with the fact that she is pretty chronically constipated, produced the tears when she asked, "Do you have to have a baby?"
And no matter how careful you are, and how neatly you think you've tied it all up with a bow, your kids will throw a zinger your way that will cause stammering and panic. #1 pretty much knows all the ins and out (no pun intended) of intercourse and birth, etc. , so I thought I was done. Then, snuggling up watching an episode of Gilmore Girls, she blurts out, "So how do people who aren't married have babies?"
Again, H? Nowhere to be found.**
*Thank God we had a small house with one bathroom when they were little, so the girls know what the male equipment looks like.
**One could argue he will be in charge of LM's sex ed class, but I was the one explaining what a scrotum and testicles were during the aforementioned bath.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Quit yer bitchin'
"Little Man is complaining that his tummy hurts, and is lying on the rug during circle time."
This is the phone call I got from the preschool while enjoying coffee with a friend today, during the one, non-family-benefitting event on my schedule this week, and I had to leave and go pick up my sick child. I thought, "He can't help it if he's sick though." Ignoring the fact that I was planning on grocery shopping and taking the dog to the vet after coffee, I race over to the school.
The moment I set foot in the classroom, I know I've been had.* Little Man, henceforth known in this post as Little Asshole, literally can not keep a straight face while telling me, "My tummy hurts." We get in to the hallway and he breaks into a joyful run, asking me where his Lightning McQueen is. Once out side, I sit him down and ask him, "Are you really sick, buddy?" His reply? "No, I just pretending." Grrrr.
After a serious talk about lying, and informing LA that not only will he not be eating any treats or drinking any juice today because of his bullshit tummy story, he will also be taking a nap and going to bed early. Oh, and there will be no playing with Mommy, as she has shit to do that she normally gets done when you're at school, freeing her up to play with you afterwards. Having The Most Boring Day Ever tends to nip the faking-sick-thing right in the bud, just ask #1 and #2. For I will not have that shit.**
So this is an appropriate beginning to what was supposed to be a post about my efforts to stop complaining, which were tried mightily today. Don't worry, I will still save all my bitching for you guys, hopefully spinning it into comedy, but what I mean is, I am really trying to stop the thoughtless whining I seem to do pretty regularly. Like today, instead of calling H, then S, and possibly my sister, to share my outrage, I just let it go.
It all started after an argument with H, where I was claiming he wasn't supporting my work at the school and with scouts, etc. Yes, I had PMS at the time, and yes, I realize how ridiculously touchy-feely that sentence is, but I wanted him to stop rolling his eyes when I told him about another meeting I have to attend. H asked me a question during our too-long-progesterone-fueled discussion of this topic that really got my wheels turning. "How can I be supportive of something that makes you so miserable and you choose to do it? Do you get anything out of this at all?"
What? I almost gasped in disbelief. I'm doing this for the kids! I love spending time with #2 and her troop, and raising money for the school! Was he serious? But when I really thought about it, all he really hears is kvetching when I talk about the PTA and Girl Scouts, so why would he think I love all this stuff? Why would he be psyched for me to do more of it? That would be insane.
I started thinking about complaining, in general. We all do it. It's a national pastime. We are tired, stressed, overworked - in the office or at home. Think about the last time you asked someone how they were. They probably said "fine" but then your discussion progressed to your both complaining about work or the kids' soccer schedule***. When's the last time someone told you they were "great". If they did, you'd probably tink they were medicated or annoying. It seems we commiserating is the easiest way for us to relate. Why do we feel more connected to others sharing their troubles? I know there's some biological, Darwinian explanation about empathy, etc., but wouldn't it be a whole lot nicer if we all shared our good news without worrying like the other person thinks we took some X with our Wheaties?
Complaining also takes a lot of energy physically and emotionally. Think about an annoying incident you've had recently and retell the story to yourself. As you go through it, you experience the same rise in blood pressure and negative feelings you did the first time. Why do you want to feel that twice? Is another person saying, "Boy, that really sucks", worth it? Unless it involves them making you feel not crazy, which I often do, asking H if my reaction was appropriate to a certain annoying stimulus (the answer is no, more than I think probable). After looking at it though, just every day chatting-while-picking-the-kids-up griping, is really sucking the life out of me.
So my plan is to radically cut back on the day to day moaning. Sure, it might be harder to come up with a positive topic of conversation during my daily interactions, when groaning over the math homework is such comfortable common ground, but perhaps sharinging, instead, how great the Girl Scout camping trip**** was will leave both myself and my conversational partner feeling a little more upbeat.
Will this work? We'll see. So far this week, I feel a lot happier. Plus, as I disclaimed before, I will still keep bitching up a storm here. Don't change my name to Mary Sunshine just yet.
*I posthumously apologize to my mother for the time in second grade I found a quater on the playground and used it to call her office and leave a message for her to come get her daughter at school. In my defense, didn't my mother, or the secretary, think maybe they should call and speak to an actual adult before she came and got me?
**Oh, Tina Fey, how I love thee.
***We are on the field Saturdays from 9-1. What the hell are we going to do when LM starts playing? Build a yurt and live on the field?
****Thankfully, my troop did not stay over as was one of my fears being a troop leader. It was exhausting and awesome. I can barely lift my arms to type though, after rowing a boat full of seven year-olds across a huge lake.
This is the phone call I got from the preschool while enjoying coffee with a friend today, during the one, non-family-benefitting event on my schedule this week, and I had to leave and go pick up my sick child. I thought, "He can't help it if he's sick though." Ignoring the fact that I was planning on grocery shopping and taking the dog to the vet after coffee, I race over to the school.
The moment I set foot in the classroom, I know I've been had.* Little Man, henceforth known in this post as Little Asshole, literally can not keep a straight face while telling me, "My tummy hurts." We get in to the hallway and he breaks into a joyful run, asking me where his Lightning McQueen is. Once out side, I sit him down and ask him, "Are you really sick, buddy?" His reply? "No, I just pretending." Grrrr.
After a serious talk about lying, and informing LA that not only will he not be eating any treats or drinking any juice today because of his bullshit tummy story, he will also be taking a nap and going to bed early. Oh, and there will be no playing with Mommy, as she has shit to do that she normally gets done when you're at school, freeing her up to play with you afterwards. Having The Most Boring Day Ever tends to nip the faking-sick-thing right in the bud, just ask #1 and #2. For I will not have that shit.**
So this is an appropriate beginning to what was supposed to be a post about my efforts to stop complaining, which were tried mightily today. Don't worry, I will still save all my bitching for you guys, hopefully spinning it into comedy, but what I mean is, I am really trying to stop the thoughtless whining I seem to do pretty regularly. Like today, instead of calling H, then S, and possibly my sister, to share my outrage, I just let it go.
It all started after an argument with H, where I was claiming he wasn't supporting my work at the school and with scouts, etc. Yes, I had PMS at the time, and yes, I realize how ridiculously touchy-feely that sentence is, but I wanted him to stop rolling his eyes when I told him about another meeting I have to attend. H asked me a question during our too-long-progesterone-fueled discussion of this topic that really got my wheels turning. "How can I be supportive of something that makes you so miserable and you choose to do it? Do you get anything out of this at all?"
What? I almost gasped in disbelief. I'm doing this for the kids! I love spending time with #2 and her troop, and raising money for the school! Was he serious? But when I really thought about it, all he really hears is kvetching when I talk about the PTA and Girl Scouts, so why would he think I love all this stuff? Why would he be psyched for me to do more of it? That would be insane.
I started thinking about complaining, in general. We all do it. It's a national pastime. We are tired, stressed, overworked - in the office or at home. Think about the last time you asked someone how they were. They probably said "fine" but then your discussion progressed to your both complaining about work or the kids' soccer schedule***. When's the last time someone told you they were "great". If they did, you'd probably tink they were medicated or annoying. It seems we commiserating is the easiest way for us to relate. Why do we feel more connected to others sharing their troubles? I know there's some biological, Darwinian explanation about empathy, etc., but wouldn't it be a whole lot nicer if we all shared our good news without worrying like the other person thinks we took some X with our Wheaties?
Complaining also takes a lot of energy physically and emotionally. Think about an annoying incident you've had recently and retell the story to yourself. As you go through it, you experience the same rise in blood pressure and negative feelings you did the first time. Why do you want to feel that twice? Is another person saying, "Boy, that really sucks", worth it? Unless it involves them making you feel not crazy, which I often do, asking H if my reaction was appropriate to a certain annoying stimulus (the answer is no, more than I think probable). After looking at it though, just every day chatting-while-picking-the-kids-up griping, is really sucking the life out of me.
So my plan is to radically cut back on the day to day moaning. Sure, it might be harder to come up with a positive topic of conversation during my daily interactions, when groaning over the math homework is such comfortable common ground, but perhaps sharinging, instead, how great the Girl Scout camping trip**** was will leave both myself and my conversational partner feeling a little more upbeat.
Will this work? We'll see. So far this week, I feel a lot happier. Plus, as I disclaimed before, I will still keep bitching up a storm here. Don't change my name to Mary Sunshine just yet.
*I posthumously apologize to my mother for the time in second grade I found a quater on the playground and used it to call her office and leave a message for her to come get her daughter at school. In my defense, didn't my mother, or the secretary, think maybe they should call and speak to an actual adult before she came and got me?
**Oh, Tina Fey, how I love thee.
***We are on the field Saturdays from 9-1. What the hell are we going to do when LM starts playing? Build a yurt and live on the field?
****Thankfully, my troop did not stay over as was one of my fears being a troop leader. It was exhausting and awesome. I can barely lift my arms to type though, after rowing a boat full of seven year-olds across a huge lake.
Friday, September 16, 2011
First steps
“Don’t cry, don’t cry. Breathe...smile...wave.” That was my internal dialogue this morning on the porch, dear readers, as I watched both girls leave to WALK TO SCHOOL ALONE. I was not at all prepared for this. I knew #1, being in fourth grade, would be able to walk the quarter mile to and from school by herself, in fact, she did so yesterday, asking me at pick up, “Can you drive #2 and LM home, and I’ll meet you there?” But when the principal answered my inquiry as to whether #1 would be able to walk #2 home in the affirmative, I was blown away. I also realized that even I am not immune to helicopter parenting.
Helicopter parenting, where parents “hover” over their children, helping in every aspect of their lives, is a modern phenomenon so pervasive; it has rendered our children essentially helpless when not with their parents. I have seen its affects on my own children, who although intelligent, I now realize, have been ridiculously sheltered. I thought I was immune to this shit. I don’t do #1’s homework, LM isn’t wearing a life jacket in the 18 inch deep kiddie pool (yes, people actually do that), but when #1 asked, over the summer, if she could walk to and from school this year alone my first, internal, reaction was, “Have you lost your damn mind???”
I blame the media, with their messages of doom and danger, making us think pedophiles lurk around every corner waiting to snatch our children away the minute we dare to take our eyes off of them. It’s part of the alarmist nature of modern parenting where only the power of our own worry can prevent the unthinkable from happening, from swine flu (that never really amounted to much, but I was at my CVS at 5:30 in the morning with the kids regardless) to head injuries (remember that baby helmet?).
Realizing what a choke-hold I had on my girls’ burgeoning independence, I tried my best to back off a bit this summer. They started walking the dog together in the evening, following the same route they take to school. They began ordering their own food at the pool snack stand, and going to the bathroom, without me, on our field trips. Baby steps.
But nothing could prepare me for the sight of my girls walking away, laden with backpacks and lunchboxes, happily chatting away like actual, real people who exist apart from me. That’s the crux of it, dear readers. These little people were, literally, a part of my body, or attached to it, then completely dependent upon my care for so long, how can it not be difficult to see them as their own separate entities? Modern life gives us the luxury of not, you know, sending our kids to lose appendages in the local mill at the ripe old age of four, but at some point we need to cut the cord, even if every talking head on the TV and parenting rag offers me nothing but advice to the contrary. I know in my bones it’s right.
But it still didn’t stop me from grabbing Little Man’s Diego binoculars from the car and watching them for as long as I could.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
"We're Off Cupcakes and Back to Doughnuts"*
I'm sweaty, my kitchen is a mess and everything is stained red. No I didn't kill anyone, although I'm sure that was your first thought, but I had to whip up a batch of red velvet cupcakes. I'm officially a "Mom" now since I recently purchased one of those snazzy, Tupperware, double-decker, cupcake caddies that safely totes twenty-four little cakes, rather than what I had been using - ratty gift boxes reinforced with packing tape. But even with this new purchase, I AM SO OVER CUPCAKES.
Cupcakes have been a fad for quite a while now, starting with the now-famed Magnolia Bakery in Manhattan in the 90's, then Sprinkles in Los Angeles circa 2003, with the idea spreading over the past ten years like a sugary Ebola virus, until every town, city and hamlet had its own cupcake shop. Some of these places are great. Magnolia, in NYC, has wonderful cupcakes, which can be purchased from the sullen staff, bloated with their own hubris at having landed a minimum wage job that entitles them to yell at tourists who just want to eat a cupcake on the non-existent bench out front and talk about Aidan ala Carrie and Miranda. But many of the shops you are lured into these days, with their adorable displays and pun-based names, like Babycakes, serve what can best be described as lumps of sickly sweet dough, topped with equally nauseatingly sweet lard. Crumbs, a chain trying to be the Starbucks of cupcakes, with their marble-topped tables and black and white photos, is a prime example. Although their classics are good (I even sent KK a giant red velvet one for her birthday), in an effort to outdo the everyday cupcake, they have come up with such tooth-rotting combinations as the BaBa Booey** - chocolate cake filled with peanut butter frosting, topped with peanut butter and chocolate cream cheese frosting and rimmed with peanut butter chips. You all know I love sweets, but this is even too much for me. Sure, they're assholes at Magnolia, and you're forced to eat their goods sitting on the Bleecker Street curb, while some fashionista on the way to Cynthia Rowley lets her Maltese takes a piss on you, but at least you can taste more than sugar.
It seems everyone is ready to ride this frosting wave until the bitter end. Can't figure out what to do with your life, but have decent credit? Take out a loan and open a cupcake shop!!! Stay-at-home moms, empty-nesters, former tattoo artists, name your niche and there's a shop for you. It seems if you can operate an Easy Bake oven you qualify. And speaking of former tattoo artists as bakers, when did cooking school become the new tech school? Have you watched any reality cooking shows recently? I don't know about you, but these were the same guys hanging out at the smoking wall at my high school and now their making French meringue? Odd.
The chefs' attire and body piercings aside, I think cupcakes are just inherently wrong. They are cake's lazy, ne'er do well younger sister - trying to achieve all the results with half of the work and failing miserably. Real cake has layers of cake and frosting, so that each bite can have some of each. Try to get a bit of each while eating a cupcake, and you wide up covered in crumbs and butter cream after it collapses when you have to unwrap it in order to gnaw at it from the sides and bottom. Watching my kid eat a cupcake makes me want puke. Little Man takes the entire glob of icing off in one giant mouthful, forcing me to imagine his little arteries hardening at the sheer volume of saturated fat entering his system at once.
As a mother, I can not cut cupcakes completely out of my life. They are, after all, the end-all-be-all of elementary school class parties*** - quite handy not requiring utensils or plates, and children do love them (even though their mothers avert their eyes in horror when they are consumed). I need not be worried though, as apparently, cupcakes' time in the sun is almost over and they are about to be eclipsed by French macarons, which are beautiful to look at, come in interesting flavors, and are less likely to be nicknamed after a giant-toothed, big-lipped radio sidekick. Not sure if I'll be eating many of them though, since I don't have access to a high-end bakery these days and they haven't made it to the 'burbs. Also, they're French, and French women annoy me. I'd be effortlessly thin too if I had government-funded babysitting. When your kids are around all the time, so are their cupcakes.
*One of the best 30 Rock quotes ever. Play the bottom one.
**Sure, some of the proceeds of this cupcake go to charity, but a tie-in with Howard Stern's (who I surprisingly kind of like) crony might not be the best marketing tool.
*** I love that my kids' school is so old fashioned we can still bring in cupcakes. Because there is no more half-assed way to celebrate a six year-old's big day than individual packs of mini-muffins.
Look...pretty colors!
Welcome to the new Mean Mommy! When I was changing the kids ages in my profile (where the hell did FOUR years go?), I decided it was time for a makeover (and I need to keep myself honest and have my photo be no more than a year old otherwise I'd be using my wedding photos, like some of you cheaters on Facebook). While I would also like this makeover to include a new pair of shoes for me, this was far more practical.
Enjoy!
MM
(And, yes, for those of you on RSS, this post was originally titled "Look...see how pretty I am!", and then I realized I had also put a new photo of myself and...ew, tacky)
Enjoy!
MM
(And, yes, for those of you on RSS, this post was originally titled "Look...see how pretty I am!", and then I realized I had also put a new photo of myself and...ew, tacky)
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Blackberry Reflex
I was determined to start writing regularly this week, now that all three children are in school four mornings, so I raced off to the grocery store, zoomed home and only unpacked the frozen foods and immediately perishables so I could quickly squeeze it in before Little Man has to be picked up. I didn't even let the discovery of an empty cardboard Land O' Lakes carton, that once contained a pound of butter, that apparently, fell out of one of the bags on my last shopping trip, melted in the late summer heat, and seeped in to the floor mats in the trunk of the van, convince me I need to slow down when I am transporting large quantities of food. I'm hoping this changes the scent of the van from unidentifiable funk, to movie theater popcorn butter though.
In line today, waiting for the cashier to finish with the order ahead of me (annoyed that the slacker college guy was bagging to day, sure as he was to ignore my carefully laid out system of frozen foods, followed by dairy, then meats, dry goods and lastly produce, and throw random things in bags together, making my hasty half-unpacking more difficult, and ensuring there'd be some warm ground turkey left behind and found upon my return from pre-school pick up), I pulled out my phone to check my email and text messages. Isn't that what we all do? It occurred to me how technology has not only made us constantly, annoyingly reachable, but is also preventing any down time or basic social interaction.
Remember being out to dinner, circa 2000, and your dinner companion needed to use the restroom? What did you do? Maybe you surreptitiously snuck looks at the people around you. H and I play a game called, "What's Their Story?" where we try to figure out what's going on at the tables around us. For example, "They are obviously on a third date. Holding hands, but still look nervous." So when one of us took a leak, the other did some recon. Or maybe you sat there uncomfortably, counting the minutes until your mate returned so you didn't feel like a loser. Now? We all whip out of mobile devices. Why have a quiet moment, possibly not looking busy and important? Or figuring if the couple at the next table is getting divorced?
Commuting was formerly a mine field of awkward interactions with strangers back in the day. When I first began commuting into New York City in the mid-nineties (we used these magical coins called tokens), I developed the blank stare popular on trains and buses that allows one to look straight ahead at the person sitting across the aisle on the M6, but not really see them . It was kind of peaceful, zoning out that way. You could also sneak glances at all the werdos around you for entertainment, like women who put on a full face of makeup while commuting - this one woman I rode with every morning carried the entire contents of a MAC counter, I swear. Lined her lips and everything. The only escape from the freak show was reading material, and even that was no guarantee. There were always those annoying over-the-shoulder newspaper readers on the subway, so blatant about it, you wanted to ask for part of your subscription fee. But sometimes, reading was a way to have an interesting conversation with a stranger.
One time on the subway, I was reading Naomi Wolfe's The Beauty Myth (while sporting my Rachel shag and my black tights and Nine West pilgrim shoes), for which the subtitle is How Images of Beauty Are Used Against Women , when this big, burly construction worker (not an assumption, he was carrying a genuine hard hat, or he was one of The Village People) asks me in his gravely Brooklyn accent, "Geez. That book any good?" Rather than blow him off, I explained the basics of the book and he and I had a pretty lively discussion about second wave feminism all the way to 78th Street. Would that have happened if I was taping away on some device? I think not. I think about all the chance encounters that are not happening because we are looking down instead of around us. How many people won't meet on a train or in line at the post office because they are checking Facebook? Maybe we need to be looking at actual faces more.
Our reflex to remove ourselves from our surroundings and hide behind our portable technology is robbing us of that daily interaction that keps us human, and the moments of doing nothing that keep us sane. I am threatening to knock down my own glass house here, since I send PTA emails and text about play dates when I'm in line longer than five seconds, but what am I missing out on? The playground can be kind of boring after the first twenty minutes, so the temptation to make a few calls or send a few funny texts can be great. A and I have been friends for seven years since we struck up a conversation at the playground. To be completely honest, he saved me when #1 was crying to go on the swings and I was nursing #2, so a phone call to anywhere but an asylum would have been out of the realm of possibility, but still. Another friend, also met by the jungle gym, referred me to the pre-school my kids have gone to for the past seven years and I became the board president of. What would have happened if I was on the phone instead?
I hope we are at the height of this technological obsession, maybe there will be a backlash, with people unplugging, but I doubt it. Don't even get me started with this younger generation who think it perfectly acceptable to whip out a phone during a lull in conversation or at the dinner table - and I'm talking about people in their twenties. Will the basics of human interaction be forever lost? I'm not sure what the answer is, but I have decided to put myself on a Blackberry detox plan. I have it on "phone calls only" during the day. I turn it off completely when in the house with the kids and turn it on again when H is supposed to send me his nightly ETA text (and then, his inevitable "I missed the train" text). And when I do answer him, if I am with the kids I say, "Excuse me, I have to answer Daddy." How will they learn to use technology responsibly if I am constantly dropping out of conversation with them to look at my phone? They deserve some respect as well.
I will try to fight the urge, when waiting at school pick-up or in line at CVS, to check my phone, instead of chatting with a fellow mom or smiling at the old guy in front of me who is sure to pay for his hemorrhoid cream with nickels. I don't think I'm going to meet the editor of my book in line for groceries, but do I really want to tempt fate?
In line today, waiting for the cashier to finish with the order ahead of me (annoyed that the slacker college guy was bagging to day, sure as he was to ignore my carefully laid out system of frozen foods, followed by dairy, then meats, dry goods and lastly produce, and throw random things in bags together, making my hasty half-unpacking more difficult, and ensuring there'd be some warm ground turkey left behind and found upon my return from pre-school pick up), I pulled out my phone to check my email and text messages. Isn't that what we all do? It occurred to me how technology has not only made us constantly, annoyingly reachable, but is also preventing any down time or basic social interaction.
Remember being out to dinner, circa 2000, and your dinner companion needed to use the restroom? What did you do? Maybe you surreptitiously snuck looks at the people around you. H and I play a game called, "What's Their Story?" where we try to figure out what's going on at the tables around us. For example, "They are obviously on a third date. Holding hands, but still look nervous." So when one of us took a leak, the other did some recon. Or maybe you sat there uncomfortably, counting the minutes until your mate returned so you didn't feel like a loser. Now? We all whip out of mobile devices. Why have a quiet moment, possibly not looking busy and important? Or figuring if the couple at the next table is getting divorced?
Commuting was formerly a mine field of awkward interactions with strangers back in the day. When I first began commuting into New York City in the mid-nineties (we used these magical coins called tokens), I developed the blank stare popular on trains and buses that allows one to look straight ahead at the person sitting across the aisle on the M6, but not really see them . It was kind of peaceful, zoning out that way. You could also sneak glances at all the werdos around you for entertainment, like women who put on a full face of makeup while commuting - this one woman I rode with every morning carried the entire contents of a MAC counter, I swear. Lined her lips and everything. The only escape from the freak show was reading material, and even that was no guarantee. There were always those annoying over-the-shoulder newspaper readers on the subway, so blatant about it, you wanted to ask for part of your subscription fee. But sometimes, reading was a way to have an interesting conversation with a stranger.
One time on the subway, I was reading Naomi Wolfe's The Beauty Myth (while sporting my Rachel shag and my black tights and Nine West pilgrim shoes), for which the subtitle is How Images of Beauty Are Used Against Women , when this big, burly construction worker (not an assumption, he was carrying a genuine hard hat, or he was one of The Village People) asks me in his gravely Brooklyn accent, "Geez. That book any good?" Rather than blow him off, I explained the basics of the book and he and I had a pretty lively discussion about second wave feminism all the way to 78th Street. Would that have happened if I was taping away on some device? I think not. I think about all the chance encounters that are not happening because we are looking down instead of around us. How many people won't meet on a train or in line at the post office because they are checking Facebook? Maybe we need to be looking at actual faces more.
Our reflex to remove ourselves from our surroundings and hide behind our portable technology is robbing us of that daily interaction that keps us human, and the moments of doing nothing that keep us sane. I am threatening to knock down my own glass house here, since I send PTA emails and text about play dates when I'm in line longer than five seconds, but what am I missing out on? The playground can be kind of boring after the first twenty minutes, so the temptation to make a few calls or send a few funny texts can be great. A and I have been friends for seven years since we struck up a conversation at the playground. To be completely honest, he saved me when #1 was crying to go on the swings and I was nursing #2, so a phone call to anywhere but an asylum would have been out of the realm of possibility, but still. Another friend, also met by the jungle gym, referred me to the pre-school my kids have gone to for the past seven years and I became the board president of. What would have happened if I was on the phone instead?
I hope we are at the height of this technological obsession, maybe there will be a backlash, with people unplugging, but I doubt it. Don't even get me started with this younger generation who think it perfectly acceptable to whip out a phone during a lull in conversation or at the dinner table - and I'm talking about people in their twenties. Will the basics of human interaction be forever lost? I'm not sure what the answer is, but I have decided to put myself on a Blackberry detox plan. I have it on "phone calls only" during the day. I turn it off completely when in the house with the kids and turn it on again when H is supposed to send me his nightly ETA text (and then, his inevitable "I missed the train" text). And when I do answer him, if I am with the kids I say, "Excuse me, I have to answer Daddy." How will they learn to use technology responsibly if I am constantly dropping out of conversation with them to look at my phone? They deserve some respect as well.
I will try to fight the urge, when waiting at school pick-up or in line at CVS, to check my phone, instead of chatting with a fellow mom or smiling at the old guy in front of me who is sure to pay for his hemorrhoid cream with nickels. I don't think I'm going to meet the editor of my book in line for groceries, but do I really want to tempt fate?
Thursday, September 8, 2011
How did I get here?
I know you all expected a summer recap post, but that requires a lot more mental energy than I currently posses, so the Top 5 Best and Worst Moments of Summer 2011, as suggested by my friend J, will have to wait and I will start fleshing out ideas I squirreled away on my Blackberry all summer.
I can hardly believe this time last week I was reading and sunning myself on the beach (read: covered in 110 SPF, wearing my Yankee hat, chasing the shade around the umbrella), since I am already so immersed in Girl Scouts, PTA and all the other minutiae that runs my life. But, yes, not seven days ago, while counting the hours until classy-Solo-cup-cocktails-on-the-beach time I was reading a great book called What Alice Forgot.
The premise - a young woman wakes up on the floor of a spin class, to find she is a gym-obsessed, forty year-old mother of three, when her last memory is being a chocolate-loving, twenty-nine year-old, pregnant with her first child. The concept is really fascinating. She ten must go about living her new life with the perspective of her old (younger) one until her memory returns. During this time she sees her life, and the problems associated with it, with a whole new perspective. Think about yourself ten years ago. How different a person are you now? What has happened in those ten years, by your own doing or not, that has subtlety changed you on the deepest level? What would that younger you think of the older you you have become? And I don’t mean the choices you have made. I have gone on, ad nauseum, about how this was not the life I thought I would be leading many moons ago, but I mean the PERSON you have become living this life.
When I compare the “Marys” of 2001 and 2011, the contrast is sharp. Like the main character, Alice, I was also pregnant with my first child, and like Alice, was romantically dreaming about my baby, and eating everything I could get my hands on and not exercising in even the most rudimentary sense, to “protect” my unborn child. But even before I became pregnant, I could easily convince myself to skip the gym, or the laundry, or the grocery shopping to do something more important, like watch VH1’s I Love the 80’s. I was pretty easy on myself. Ten years later, it seems I have become my own taskmaster. Like Alice I am “tapping away on my mobile, jangling my car keys, ready to go, go go”. As Alice regains her memory, the voice of her older self starts to creep into her internal dialogue.
Lamenting about her lost memories the voice says:
‘Well, bad luck. Deal with it, honey. Have a shower. Time for coffee and an egg white omelette before the kids get up.’
The way this bossy, acerbic voice kept popping into her head was really freaking her out.
‘It’s hardly a matter of life and death, is it Alice?’
‘Oh, shut up’, she said back to her forty year-old self, ‘No offense, but you sound like a bit of a bitch, Alice.’
This is exactly the kind of internal dialogue my younger and older self have all the time, expect my older self always wins. Every morning twenty-seven year old Mary says, “Oh FUCK NO” , when the alarm goes off at five, and thirty-seven year old Mary barks, “Get up and get moving! Run, shower, pack those lunches you were too lazy to pack last night when you chose to watch The Bachlorette instead. Slacker.” When I have a cold and want to lie on the couch and watch bad, daytime television, Old Mary snarks, “Those dishes won’t wash themselves, dinner isn’t prepped yet, and what about those PTA emails you have to answer? No Say Yes to the Dress for you.” It’s like I’ve become that blonde asshole in Karate Kid, screaming at myself, “NO MERCY!!!!” with blonde bangs plastered against the vein popping out on my forehead.
In the book, the difference is so jarring between the two Alices, you hate forty-year old Alice and hope she never regains control. Her children like the mother who has forgotten about ballet and piano lessons and what constitutes a healthy meal. Her husband likes her more and they seem to have more fun. But at the same time, the laundry didn’t get done, and homework wasn’t turned in, and PTA projects Alice was running started to fall apart. Young Alice is fun, but can she keep a family running? The changes in Alice’s personality are almost a direct result of the life she is trying to create, and the question I ask is, is it entirely avoidable?
It was easy for me to be easier on myself when it was just myself I was affecting with my choices, like Cocoa Puffs for dinner. But now with three (sometimes four) people to look out for, I often feel I can’t let my guard down, or when I do, I spend so much time digging out of the hole I’ve created (like when you go to the beach for a week and refuse to answer any PTA or Girls Scout emails on your Blackberry), it hardly seems worth it (OK, the week at the beach was). I often think of a quote from The Story of Us, where the husband asks the wife where to goofball he married went. Her response? “Where is the girl in the pith helmet? You beat her out of me!”
I do not disown my own role in this situation, and think anyone but myself beat the girl in the pith helmet out of me, and this is why I was so moved by this book. Stepping back and seeing how my life and the way I run it has altered my thoughts and perception of myself was kind of shocking. It was a “how did I get here?” kind of moment. There are benefits to the way I am now, significantly less back fat*, and drawbacks, significantly less relaxation, and I need to find a balance between the two.
Maybe for you, your two selves are not that different, or maybe they differ in good ways, but I think no matter what, this is sort of an interesting exercise we should all partake in every ten years. We should all take some time to remember how the world didn’t end when you decided to slack off for the day, and maybe be inspired to eat cereal for dinner while watching Mo Rocca riff on Hypercolor tshirts.
*I had quite the roll of it after birthing #2. H tried to make me laugh by telling me I was not starring in the Ron Howard movie “Backfat”. But, seriously, I hand handles back there.
I can hardly believe this time last week I was reading and sunning myself on the beach (read: covered in 110 SPF, wearing my Yankee hat, chasing the shade around the umbrella), since I am already so immersed in Girl Scouts, PTA and all the other minutiae that runs my life. But, yes, not seven days ago, while counting the hours until classy-Solo-cup-cocktails-on-the-beach time I was reading a great book called What Alice Forgot.
The premise - a young woman wakes up on the floor of a spin class, to find she is a gym-obsessed, forty year-old mother of three, when her last memory is being a chocolate-loving, twenty-nine year-old, pregnant with her first child. The concept is really fascinating. She ten must go about living her new life with the perspective of her old (younger) one until her memory returns. During this time she sees her life, and the problems associated with it, with a whole new perspective. Think about yourself ten years ago. How different a person are you now? What has happened in those ten years, by your own doing or not, that has subtlety changed you on the deepest level? What would that younger you think of the older you you have become? And I don’t mean the choices you have made. I have gone on, ad nauseum, about how this was not the life I thought I would be leading many moons ago, but I mean the PERSON you have become living this life.
When I compare the “Marys” of 2001 and 2011, the contrast is sharp. Like the main character, Alice, I was also pregnant with my first child, and like Alice, was romantically dreaming about my baby, and eating everything I could get my hands on and not exercising in even the most rudimentary sense, to “protect” my unborn child. But even before I became pregnant, I could easily convince myself to skip the gym, or the laundry, or the grocery shopping to do something more important, like watch VH1’s I Love the 80’s. I was pretty easy on myself. Ten years later, it seems I have become my own taskmaster. Like Alice I am “tapping away on my mobile, jangling my car keys, ready to go, go go”. As Alice regains her memory, the voice of her older self starts to creep into her internal dialogue.
Lamenting about her lost memories the voice says:
‘Well, bad luck. Deal with it, honey. Have a shower. Time for coffee and an egg white omelette before the kids get up.’
The way this bossy, acerbic voice kept popping into her head was really freaking her out.
‘It’s hardly a matter of life and death, is it Alice?’
‘Oh, shut up’, she said back to her forty year-old self, ‘No offense, but you sound like a bit of a bitch, Alice.’
This is exactly the kind of internal dialogue my younger and older self have all the time, expect my older self always wins. Every morning twenty-seven year old Mary says, “Oh FUCK NO” , when the alarm goes off at five, and thirty-seven year old Mary barks, “Get up and get moving! Run, shower, pack those lunches you were too lazy to pack last night when you chose to watch The Bachlorette instead. Slacker.” When I have a cold and want to lie on the couch and watch bad, daytime television, Old Mary snarks, “Those dishes won’t wash themselves, dinner isn’t prepped yet, and what about those PTA emails you have to answer? No Say Yes to the Dress for you.” It’s like I’ve become that blonde asshole in Karate Kid, screaming at myself, “NO MERCY!!!!” with blonde bangs plastered against the vein popping out on my forehead.
In the book, the difference is so jarring between the two Alices, you hate forty-year old Alice and hope she never regains control. Her children like the mother who has forgotten about ballet and piano lessons and what constitutes a healthy meal. Her husband likes her more and they seem to have more fun. But at the same time, the laundry didn’t get done, and homework wasn’t turned in, and PTA projects Alice was running started to fall apart. Young Alice is fun, but can she keep a family running? The changes in Alice’s personality are almost a direct result of the life she is trying to create, and the question I ask is, is it entirely avoidable?
It was easy for me to be easier on myself when it was just myself I was affecting with my choices, like Cocoa Puffs for dinner. But now with three (sometimes four) people to look out for, I often feel I can’t let my guard down, or when I do, I spend so much time digging out of the hole I’ve created (like when you go to the beach for a week and refuse to answer any PTA or Girls Scout emails on your Blackberry), it hardly seems worth it (OK, the week at the beach was). I often think of a quote from The Story of Us, where the husband asks the wife where to goofball he married went. Her response? “Where is the girl in the pith helmet? You beat her out of me!”
I do not disown my own role in this situation, and think anyone but myself beat the girl in the pith helmet out of me, and this is why I was so moved by this book. Stepping back and seeing how my life and the way I run it has altered my thoughts and perception of myself was kind of shocking. It was a “how did I get here?” kind of moment. There are benefits to the way I am now, significantly less back fat*, and drawbacks, significantly less relaxation, and I need to find a balance between the two.
Maybe for you, your two selves are not that different, or maybe they differ in good ways, but I think no matter what, this is sort of an interesting exercise we should all partake in every ten years. We should all take some time to remember how the world didn’t end when you decided to slack off for the day, and maybe be inspired to eat cereal for dinner while watching Mo Rocca riff on Hypercolor tshirts.
*I had quite the roll of it after birthing #2. H tried to make me laugh by telling me I was not starring in the Ron Howard movie “Backfat”. But, seriously, I hand handles back there.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)