Today would have been my mother’s sixty-first birthday. It seems odd to me that I remembered this year when I it has slipped my mind for the majority of the past years.
As I have written before, my mother died when I was in college, and, while people still give me that pained sympathetic expression when I tell them for the first time, it no longer bothers me to talk about it and it has become part of who I am like my height or eye color.
Remembering her birthday this year, brought to light the fact that I really think of my mother less and less often now, which may be a symptom of my busy life, but is a state of being that would have been unbelievable to me sixteen years ago, as I was a zombie wandering around my college campus, bursting into tears at the drop of a hat. Now that I am a mother myself, shouldn’t my own mother be more present in my thoughts instead of less? After thinking it over for a while, and really being honest with myself, I came up with the answer that I knew I didn’t want to face. I don’t think about my mother that much because I am pissed at her and would rather not think about that.
Crazy, right? To be angry with someone who has been gone for so long, someone who, when she was alive, was the center of my universe. We never, ever went through that Oh-my-God-you-are-so-embarrassing-and-I-hate-you teenage phase, so why, now that I am a grown woman in my thirties with three children, am I acting like a child? Because I think she brought some of this on herself.
My mother was the quintessential, hard-working, Irish mother. Up before everyone in the house at the crack of dawn, she never stopped. When she was working full-time, she still made sure we got to all of our activities and sports and, in the evening, did all the laundry and housework. Cleaning was a religion to my mother and she worshiped the Holy Trinity of bleach, Murphy’s oil soap and Lysol. She worked from sun up to sundown and we found her, every night, asleep at nine o’clock with a book on her chest after reading two pages.
Like all of us mothers, she was tired, all the time, I’m sure. But then other issues began to crop up, and what gets me angry is how she ignored symptoms of a disease that would eventually kill her. By the time her lupus was diagnosed, it was advanced enough to be life-threatening, an unusual circumstance with this particular disease. What if she had gone to the doctor sooner, as I’m sure my father urged her to do? What if she had taken better care of herself?
I suppose I look at the end of my mother’s life through the prism of my own, which is not fair, since how she lived, and eventually died, drastically affected the way I live. I am no hypochondriac, but when I have an unusual symptom, or find a weird spot, I get it checked out - as soon as possible. My mother, of the genetically amazing cholesterol levels, was a strict adherent to the United Kingdom diet – the exact opposite of the Mediterranean – heavy on meat, refined carbs and saturated fat, while strictly limiting fresh produce. While I do enjoy my sweets and love the occasional burger, the way I cook has been described half-jokingly by my father as “having too many colors”. As for exercise, my sister and I would call my mom “The Phantom Jogger”. She would emerge, every few minutes out of the blackness of our patio in the summer time, into the light from the French doors, doing this little half-in-place-half-moving jog, in her mom jeans, polo shirt and loafers. This lasted about ten minutes and was followed by leg lifts on the family room floor. You all know my morning appointments with the treadmill and while I will not claim fitting into my jeans is not the main motivation, I will say staying healthy is a close second. And at least I sweat enough to not be able to wear said jeans while working out.
As a mother, I can fully understand how working through the pain becomes part of the job, with its lack of sick days and all. Feeling like crap becomes the rule, rather than the exception. It took me two weeks of having a hacking cough to finally cry uncle, demand H take a day off, and drag my ass to the doctor. But it was only two weeks. My mother must have been sick for years.
This post I am seeing, is really just a big pile of emotional vomit, but since I’ve given up on journaling, you people get to see all my uglies. I’m sure this is not going to be my dad's favorite post, since I’m kind of harshing on my mother a bit, and for that I’m sorry . At the end of this stream of consciousness I have just unleashed upon you, I suppose there is a point. Take care of yourselves. Eat right, exercise, take your vitamins, go to the damn doctor. You owe it to your kids to eat a salad and break a sweat every once in a while.
Nobody loves a martyr. Not because they’re no fun at cocktail parties (they do make good designated drivers if you can ignore all the beleaguered sighing), but because you know what makes a martyr a martyr? They die.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
I only throw foodstuffs, not plates...
As it is Wednesday, I am sitting in the enforced prison that is gymnastics. I have no idea why this is the one extra-curricular where all the moms stay for the duration of the lesson, perched in the elevated observation area, intently watching their budding Nadia Comenices. I have been given the hairy eyeball, on more than one occasion, for tapping away on the laptop, having fully accepted the fact that, at five years old, #2 is taller than most professional gymnasts and if I had any serious hope for her, I’d have been at this gym three years ago, so I'm not missing any Olympic moments here. So at least if I have to sit here, and try to ignore the three year old who is currently peering over my shoulder, breathing swine flu down my neck, as her mother debates the benefits of Pilates versus Zumba on her cell phone, you guys will benefit.
On the way to tumbling jail today, some morning show was discussing an elderly couple in Pennsylvania who have been married for eighty years. The dj’s were astounded at the longevity of this pairing and asked the couple to give tips for staying together, happily, for so long. After the usual, “respect each other”, “laugh a lot” stuff we’ve all heard before, the wife chimes in with, “Fight. Fight every day.” I snarfed my coffee and immediately this woman became my hero.
She went on to explain that couples should not let little things back up, causing big, explosive, laundry-list-of-things-that-pissed-me-off-since-I-married-you fights. Instead, she advised, have it out right away and clear the air. I have to say I heartily agree. I find that if I send H a quick email - after he has left shaving cream all over the sink again, or piles of his work clothes around the bedroom for the past four days, making it look like he has melted, several times, like the Wicked Witch of the West - along the lines of, “Listen jerkoff, I’m not the maid. Pick up your shit”, I feel my blood pressure drop ten points right after I click send.
On the opposite side of the spectrum, I recently read an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love, who has a new book out about her unexpected second marriage. She describes how peaceful this union is compared to her first, as she and her hubs are both confrontation-averse. She goes on to say, “The Buddha taught that most problems – if only you give them enough time and space – will eventually wear themselves out.” I guess this theory has some validity, but frankly, I’d rather hit you in the head with a frying pan verbally and be done with it. Plus, I have tested how long it would take H to notice all his empty shampoo bottles in the shower, and only got up to three before I was too embarrassed to leave them there, again, when the cleaning lady came, and threw them out.
This “tackle it now” philosophy pretty much guarantees my children see H and I bicker about minor things on a regular basis. If we had to run into another room every time we called each other out on something, we’d have to hire a nanny. Of course, if we ever have a serious issue to discuss, we shelve it and take it up after bedtime, but I think it’s healthy for my kids to see one of us be unhappy with the behavior of the other, express our displeasure, and have the other party respond in a constructive way. I generally leave the “jerkoff” and “shit” out of those discussions. I think having them experience mature conflict resolution will benefit them in the future. And, no, none of them were in the room for the Great Forgotten Dry Cleaning/Syrup Bottle Throwing Incident of ’07.
I’m sure there are plenty of people in our lives who witness how H and I interact and think I’m a stark-raving bitch at times (I’m looking at you, Pop), but it works for us. In the end I think it comes down to your comfort level with conflict and fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective), I’m really comfortable with it. If I didn’t feel like I could tell H how annoyed leaving yesterday’s fermenting lunch container moldering in the kitchen sink instead of putting it in the dishwasher makes me, then I wouldn’t feel like I could also tell him on a regular basis that he is the best thing that ever happened to me. To quote my sister, “Irish women. They love hard and they hate hard. Gotta love ‘em.”
On the way to tumbling jail today, some morning show was discussing an elderly couple in Pennsylvania who have been married for eighty years. The dj’s were astounded at the longevity of this pairing and asked the couple to give tips for staying together, happily, for so long. After the usual, “respect each other”, “laugh a lot” stuff we’ve all heard before, the wife chimes in with, “Fight. Fight every day.” I snarfed my coffee and immediately this woman became my hero.
She went on to explain that couples should not let little things back up, causing big, explosive, laundry-list-of-things-that-pissed-me-off-since-I-married-you fights. Instead, she advised, have it out right away and clear the air. I have to say I heartily agree. I find that if I send H a quick email - after he has left shaving cream all over the sink again, or piles of his work clothes around the bedroom for the past four days, making it look like he has melted, several times, like the Wicked Witch of the West - along the lines of, “Listen jerkoff, I’m not the maid. Pick up your shit”, I feel my blood pressure drop ten points right after I click send.
On the opposite side of the spectrum, I recently read an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love, who has a new book out about her unexpected second marriage. She describes how peaceful this union is compared to her first, as she and her hubs are both confrontation-averse. She goes on to say, “The Buddha taught that most problems – if only you give them enough time and space – will eventually wear themselves out.” I guess this theory has some validity, but frankly, I’d rather hit you in the head with a frying pan verbally and be done with it. Plus, I have tested how long it would take H to notice all his empty shampoo bottles in the shower, and only got up to three before I was too embarrassed to leave them there, again, when the cleaning lady came, and threw them out.
This “tackle it now” philosophy pretty much guarantees my children see H and I bicker about minor things on a regular basis. If we had to run into another room every time we called each other out on something, we’d have to hire a nanny. Of course, if we ever have a serious issue to discuss, we shelve it and take it up after bedtime, but I think it’s healthy for my kids to see one of us be unhappy with the behavior of the other, express our displeasure, and have the other party respond in a constructive way. I generally leave the “jerkoff” and “shit” out of those discussions. I think having them experience mature conflict resolution will benefit them in the future. And, no, none of them were in the room for the Great Forgotten Dry Cleaning/Syrup Bottle Throwing Incident of ’07.
I’m sure there are plenty of people in our lives who witness how H and I interact and think I’m a stark-raving bitch at times (I’m looking at you, Pop), but it works for us. In the end I think it comes down to your comfort level with conflict and fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective), I’m really comfortable with it. If I didn’t feel like I could tell H how annoyed leaving yesterday’s fermenting lunch container moldering in the kitchen sink instead of putting it in the dishwasher makes me, then I wouldn’t feel like I could also tell him on a regular basis that he is the best thing that ever happened to me. To quote my sister, “Irish women. They love hard and they hate hard. Gotta love ‘em.”
Monday, February 1, 2010
Mr. Doubtfire
In the anthropological study that is being a stay at home mom, I have encountered an entirely new species. Among the usual mix of regular moms, stay at home dads, inattentive, over-dressed moms, distracted, Juicy-wearing moms, texting away on their cell phones, and nannies congregating around the suburban watering hole that is the playground, is The Grandpa.
More and more, as of late, I have been seeing men in their mid-sixties at my usual daily stops – library class, gymnastics and school drop off/pickup - with small children in tow. Over the course of time it became apparent to me, that these guys were not just there filling in for a sick parent, this was their regular gig. They are the childcare provider.
First I thought, “Way to go, Grandpa!”, thinking it very enlightened of these men, most of whom may have had very little hands-on experience caring for their own children, to take an active part in the raising of their grandchildren. I fell into the usual trap I complain about - heaping accolades on men when they do something women have been doing for years with little to no recognition - and thought it was going above the call of duty for these men to provide free, reliable childcare so their children could work. And then I found myself in close quarters with The Grandpa on a regular basis and I began to wonder if they really knew what they were getting into.
Now I am not saying these men can not care for their grandchildren well. I personally know grandfathers (my own and H’s dad included) who do a very fine job when they are on duty, but in my cultural study, it appears, at times, The Grandpa may have bitten off more than he can chew. While his former dad-unpreparedness - back in the 70’s, he would take the kids to the park with nothing but one clean diaper in his back pocket - has been replaced by his daughter or daughter in-law’s diaper bag prepped with snacks and water, Purrell and Band-aids, he lacks the physicality parenting small children requires. I can practically hear his vertebrae scraping together as he bends himself into a pretzel to retrieve Little Olivia from inside the tube slide. Trying to wrestle a two year old, who does not want to leave the library, into his coat, while the four year old incessantly asks for pretzels, and you can practically see it pass through his mind that spending the next ten years on the couch watching golf might not be as boring at is once seemed.
Having not been immersed in modern parenting culture of speak in a sing-song voice while disciplining, he is often the lone, yelling voice on the playground (other than yours truly, of course). He is not entirely sure how to interact with other parents when their grandchild is the one to hit or bite, not placating the offended mother with obsequious apologies. Everyone kind of averts their eyes. It is truly refreshing though to be around someone who hasn't had a big gulp of the "everybody wins" Kool Aid and has the adult children he raised to prove the validity of old school parenting.
God bless The Grandpa for trying. I have one in my life currently, that I interact with on a daily basis at Little Man’s preschool. The poor man is caring for twins. It seems every day he has some question about potty training or napping and I love him for being so proactive. If I thought that stay at home dads have it hard, at least they have the common denominator of their youth when hanging with the moms. The poor Grandpas have nothing. Knowing how lonely and boring the playground can be, I make an effort to engage any adult in at least some mundane banter. With Gramps, conversation can be quite difficult, as they usually interact with you as if you were their daughter. It makes it kind of awkward when you’re complaining about your contractor, thinking home improvement would be common ground, and he tells you you’re going about it all wrong.
So mad props to The Grandpas out there. While grandmas have been doing this practically since the dawn of time with no parade thrown in their honor, I am glad my son will grow up seeing even more men tying shoes and changing diapers. And while I joke about some of the quirks of this situation, don’t think for a hot minute I won’t be packing up the diaper bag for H’s dad once in a while after he retires next year.
You in, Pop?
More and more, as of late, I have been seeing men in their mid-sixties at my usual daily stops – library class, gymnastics and school drop off/pickup - with small children in tow. Over the course of time it became apparent to me, that these guys were not just there filling in for a sick parent, this was their regular gig. They are the childcare provider.
First I thought, “Way to go, Grandpa!”, thinking it very enlightened of these men, most of whom may have had very little hands-on experience caring for their own children, to take an active part in the raising of their grandchildren. I fell into the usual trap I complain about - heaping accolades on men when they do something women have been doing for years with little to no recognition - and thought it was going above the call of duty for these men to provide free, reliable childcare so their children could work. And then I found myself in close quarters with The Grandpa on a regular basis and I began to wonder if they really knew what they were getting into.
Now I am not saying these men can not care for their grandchildren well. I personally know grandfathers (my own and H’s dad included) who do a very fine job when they are on duty, but in my cultural study, it appears, at times, The Grandpa may have bitten off more than he can chew. While his former dad-unpreparedness - back in the 70’s, he would take the kids to the park with nothing but one clean diaper in his back pocket - has been replaced by his daughter or daughter in-law’s diaper bag prepped with snacks and water, Purrell and Band-aids, he lacks the physicality parenting small children requires. I can practically hear his vertebrae scraping together as he bends himself into a pretzel to retrieve Little Olivia from inside the tube slide. Trying to wrestle a two year old, who does not want to leave the library, into his coat, while the four year old incessantly asks for pretzels, and you can practically see it pass through his mind that spending the next ten years on the couch watching golf might not be as boring at is once seemed.
Having not been immersed in modern parenting culture of speak in a sing-song voice while disciplining, he is often the lone, yelling voice on the playground (other than yours truly, of course). He is not entirely sure how to interact with other parents when their grandchild is the one to hit or bite, not placating the offended mother with obsequious apologies. Everyone kind of averts their eyes. It is truly refreshing though to be around someone who hasn't had a big gulp of the "everybody wins" Kool Aid and has the adult children he raised to prove the validity of old school parenting.
God bless The Grandpa for trying. I have one in my life currently, that I interact with on a daily basis at Little Man’s preschool. The poor man is caring for twins. It seems every day he has some question about potty training or napping and I love him for being so proactive. If I thought that stay at home dads have it hard, at least they have the common denominator of their youth when hanging with the moms. The poor Grandpas have nothing. Knowing how lonely and boring the playground can be, I make an effort to engage any adult in at least some mundane banter. With Gramps, conversation can be quite difficult, as they usually interact with you as if you were their daughter. It makes it kind of awkward when you’re complaining about your contractor, thinking home improvement would be common ground, and he tells you you’re going about it all wrong.
So mad props to The Grandpas out there. While grandmas have been doing this practically since the dawn of time with no parade thrown in their honor, I am glad my son will grow up seeing even more men tying shoes and changing diapers. And while I joke about some of the quirks of this situation, don’t think for a hot minute I won’t be packing up the diaper bag for H’s dad once in a while after he retires next year.
You in, Pop?
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