Every night I sit on my daughter’s bed before she goes to sleep. Sometimes it’s for 5 seconds, sometimes five minutes, sometimes fifteen. There are times she has little to say and other times she rattles on and on and reminds me of one of those wind-up dolls that just won’t stop going in circles unless you knock it over.
About two weeks ago she sat on the edge of the bed with me, put her head on my shoulder, and said, “I’m sad.”
Now this could always go either way. It could be a serious plea that needs tending to or it could be her rip-roaring sense of humor that’s trying to get ice-cream in bed or more time out of her room. I always go with the former until I’m sure, because I never want to underestimate her capacity for sadness, even though she is the closest thing to a pixie sprite/perpetually happy camper that I’ve ever known.
Good call.
Seems that her BFF had made “other” plans for Halloween, and after being costume twins and/or trick-or-treat pals since age four, and this shook my daughter to her core. Her eyes welled with tears. She just didn’t understand. But I did. It was sixth grade and junior high and girls make new friends and move on. Even the history of seven Halloweens together did not outweigh the lure of the “new girls” for her BFF.
That night, Pippiiee slept with me.
The undercurrent and lack of enthusiasm about Halloween hung over my house like some big creepy cobweb. I couldn’t get out of my head how this little girl just blew off my daughter, and how her mother did nothing about it. Not that we can or want to force kids to be friends with ours, but to alert me that things were changing. I felt duped. But, I decided not to get involved and to just help my own daughter from the sidelines. She was reluctant to choose a costume or make plans. She said it just wouldn’t be the same. I was heartbroken but knew it was a lesson in cliques and girls that was coming sooner or later. Sooner being the operative word.
I gave her suggestions of other friends to make plans with; and illustrated how lucky she was to have friends in different groups of girls, but also how that could definitely make things more complicated. I even told her to invite friends to our house for Halloween - that I’d order pizza after their finished their sugar indulgence - but nothing seemed right to her.
Then last week she came home from Hebrew School and said, “Me and BFF admitted to eachother that we are both really sad we’re not matching for Halloween, so we are going to.”
And that was that. I didn’t do a thing except stay out of it, and they resolved it themselves.
Later that day I spoke to BFF’s mom, who relayed to me the same story that was going on in my house. Her daughter came home and said that MINE had made other plans and what was she to do; that she sulked and pined for days over the lost tradition.
Both the other mom and I had decided to stay out of it and allow the girls to follow what we thought was a new Halloween path, when the truth is, there was a huge misunderstanding looming. It took two honest eleven year olds to work it out. On their own. With no help from the well-read, highly educated, involved, sensitive, caring mothers.
So, today, the day before Halloween, we took the girls for costumes. No more fairy princesses or plastic pumpkin trick-or-treat bags…this year it’s hippies. Tie dyes shirts, headbands and some funky $3.99 peace sign plastic jewelry. And since neither of us had any of it, $40 later the girls are set and the moms are relieved. Honestly, in celebration of avoiding a preteen catastrophe, I’d have spent even more.
Just when I figured out it was time for me to keep my nose out of her burgeoning social business, a little intervention would have saved two families some sad, cranky preteens and some troubled, annoyed moms.
Next time I’ll be right there ready to stick my nose in. Then I plan to remember Halloween, sit back in the shadows, and see what my daughter comes up with on her own.
It’s hard being straight as an arrow sometimes. It lends it self to being judgemental and feeling uncomfortably holier-than-thou. I tend to have a rather firm grasp on human nature and behaviors, but there is a phenomenon that eludes me.
I was one of two single people at a huge Halloween party last night, and probably also one of two or three who wasn’t drunk, or high, or both.
How do parents reconcile being drunk as skunks or high as kites and going home to children, big or small?
Most of these people also had to drive home, although locally. Most of these people also had babysitters who presumably needed rides home as well. And what happened if one of any number of children across manicured lawn lines woke up in the middle of the night?
“Sorry that I woke you with my hysterical giggling little Joey, Momsie will take this lampshade off her head as soon as she’s done with the bag of Cheetohs?”
And what about teens? How do you teach teens to not drink or do drugs when you are? Is this classic do as I say not as I do? Do these parents think the teens have no clue?
Certainly there are things appropriate for adults and not for children or teens, but I’m not sure I’m on board with drugs and excessive alcohol consumption being two of them. Not with the propensity of teens to abusive and addictive dangerous behaviors.
I’m not here to argue whether or not pot is addictive or if it should be a legal substance. That’s not the issue, and fact is, it’s not legal. Nor is drinking under 21. I’ve heard arguments for teaching kids to handle alcohol responsibly before they can legally drink because they’re going to do it anyway — does that also mean helping them roll a joint, handing them condoms and a copy of Kama Sutra?
Ok, I’m officially an old fart.
Fact is that I gave up smoking pot over 20 years ago and have no interest in going back to it. And while I like a glass of Pinot Noir as much as the next gal, one or two is my limit, and if I’m driving - the limit is one. I take no pleasure in getting drunk at this stage of my life, while knocking back a half dozen martini’s seems to fit the bill nicely for many. I don’t get it. To me it seems very immature and irresponsible.
I guess the bottom line is something I’ve been telling my kids since they could ask “Why?”
Grown-ups get to make their own decisions.
And it will serve me well to remember that, because while it’s true, all I could think of last night were two simple words.
GROW UP.
We all don’t do the same things for fun or find the same things “acceptable.” And I try to teach my kids and live a life of tolerance and inclusion, but this is something I not only want no part of, I do not want to even pretend to condone it.
I tolerate behavior like this by removing myself from the situation. My kids weren’t at this party, so I was nobody’s mama. Nor was I interested in dispensing my blog-worthy self-righteous wisdom to 40 and 50-somethings with bloodshot eyes and the munchies.
I left at 10:30 with an honest-to-goodness headache that I couldn’t shake. But I wasn’t sorry. It’s no fun talking to people who are drunk or high, so I did my best mingling, during the early hours and then went home.
I’m realistic. I know that my kids will undoubtedly have friends and friends’ parents do things I don’t approve of, and that sometimes they’ll be on board as well.
All I can do is my best.
And while sometimes that includes the drive-thru at Baskin & Robbins, it does not include excessive drinking or the use of drugs. Now one may argue that Pralines and Cream is addictive, and you’d get no argument from me.
Are you old enough to remember seeing this on The Electric Company in the ’70’s like I am? Then you too are old enough to be the parent of the two, count ‘em — one, two — cute plumbers that showed up at my door this morning.
They were a day late, but thankfully, short of nothing at all.
Listening closely to one’s inner-voice, and adding oneself to “the list,” while hot talk-show fodder, is daunting. I do acknowledge the inherent value of listening to what’s going on inside me, even when I falter. But eluding me is the skill with which to help my children hear their own inner voices that might provide answers and insights they can simply file away for later.
How do I teach them to not only listen, but to pay painstakingly close attention to themselves, when they have to listen to teachers, counselors, clergy, coaches and ostensibly, me. I’m also trying to teach them to be compassionate citizens and kind friends. It all requires listening to, and hearing, others. When they’re not tuned into someone else, they’re plugged into iPods and Playstations and MTV. Something tells me if I suggested listening to the voices inside their heads, they’d give me a mutual eyebrow raise and offer a dismissive “Yeah Mom,” in unison. Then they would probably call a doctor.
My adult inner-voice unexpectedly jumps out offering unsolicited blatant advice and baring naked truths, whether I like it or not. Just thinking about what I hear, when I let myself, gives me goose bumps. I suppose that’s why my internal banter is the easiest to tune-out amidst the ring tones, to-do lists, barking dogs and conference calls. The most startling and simplest revelations are the ones that ooze through the cracks of my psyche when I’m not paying attention.
What creeps through is usually something I’ve known all along, and have simply – perhaps conveniently - forgotten. Even so, it’s cumbersome and exhausting. What I’m striving to remember is that when the voice I’m hearing isn’t reminding me it’s time to cover the gray or exacerbating the plight of raising a teen and a tween, its shining a light in the darkness, quelling my fears and simplifying my quandaries. These shocking moments often have me saying, “Why didn’t I think of that?” And then it dawns on me. I did.
I accompanied a friend to a workshop to find her best self, her inner “ya ya.” I reluctantly obliged and gave myself over to the aromatherapy and the background music of trickling streams. I figured if I participated in the visionary techniques and doodling exercises, the two hours would pass quickly and painlessly. What I didn’t expect was that by not wanting to discourage my friend or offend our host – by listening to their needs — I allowed myself to become entrenched. As I literally walked through the workshop, the voice inside my head not only became louder, but more melodic. The images in my mind became more vivid. And when I emerged, the clouds had lifted. It was clear as day that my life as a writer, which began when I was twelve, but had been buried under marriage, motherhood, divorce, moving, puppies, PTO and laundry, had now been unearthed in a rented yoga studio among strangers.
Fact is, even when we embrace our childhood dreams and doodles we usually do so momentarily, and then we throw them out with the Mr. Goodbars. And now I want to keep them all – even though I don’t like peanuts.
Does my son’s obsession with baseball mean I believe he’ll be a major league pitcher some day? Probably not. But I do try to recognize his dedication and enthusiasm as we determine all the different ways his adult life can harness not only his love of a sport, but his capacity for passion.
While I don’t know for years in which direction my eleven year old fashion designer-chef-marine archeologist, today-she-wants-to-be-a-mineralologist daughter will go, I want her to hold onto each dream and sketch and savor each morsel she bakes along side Betty Crocker. Because you just never know and it seems like the answers to life’s biggest questions are often quite cliche. Right under our noses.
I have heard countless times about the famous comedian who was charged with being the funniest kid at the Thanksgiving table and one too many stories about the CEO whose entrepreneurial spirit kicked in with their first lemonade stand. What about the architect nephew who built Lego cities or the astronaut high school pal who liked to climb to the top of the ropes in P.E. and swing upside down? How many doctors do I have to meet who had a burgeoning interest in science at age eight, before I admit that my children’s interests, based solely on propensity, might be the truest indictor of their future aptitude, success and hopefully, happiness?
I have charged myself with the tasks of listening very carefully and of being brave. Of not being afraid of what, or who, might jump out from around a hidden corner in my life or what might pop into my head at any moment. I don’t want to be drowned out by life’s modern Muzak.
Where my children are concerned, I’m leaving my mind open to the possibility and probability that their future began yesterday, and that there is much more ready to unravel at any moment.
And while that’s a little scary, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I love working with three-year-olds. They say the cutest things when you can understand them. They look adorable whether they’re wearing mini grown-up clothes or tee shirts with Dora splashed across the front. The essence of three is right between baby and kid, and they all vascilate between the two with ease multiple times each class period, sometimes multiple times within the same rendition of itsy bitsy akaveesh. That’s spider, in Hebrew.
Don’t get me wrong, the 3’s can be pretty annoying as well when they roll their eyes or lie to my face. But it’s my job as one of their teachers to help them figure it all out when they’re at school; how not to knock down anyone else’s block tower unless their friend says it’s ok, how to use inside voices and walking feet and how to not sneeze on the graham crackers.
With seventeen three year olds under our walking feet, the other teacher and I are fortunate to sometimes have some additional help in the classroom in the shape of our boss (and my friend who reads this blog sometimes - hi - you know who you are) and on every other Wednesday we’re visited by a someone else.
And that’s when help is in the shape of a tall male social worker.
I’m usually pretty much a chatterbox, and I’m always happy to talk to another adult, especially one who seems to have insight into the children around me. The social worker being in the classroom also gives me the opportunity to spend some one-on-one time with kids and not feel like others are being left out.
Since the beginning of the school year the other teacher and I have had nice conversations with this guy, and since I have a radar for such things I know that he does not wear a wedding ring and has never mentioned a wife or significant other. He has mentioned two sons, a house, a garden, a patio, and a local health food store.
And today? It just sort of happened. Before I even knew it, deep from the untapped, latent resources of my single woman mind, I slung a first-class flirting zinger at him. It was not a subtle flirt, but a downright outright flirt that flew over the heads of the three years olds aound us and probably since he is a guy, right over his head as well.
Anyway, it was a hoot. I thought I was perhaps losing my touch but I’ll be darned it’s all right there sometimes naughty mind. Not that my flirt was even PG-13 rated, that would not have been appropriate being in preschool and all, but I was relieved to know that I still had it in me. The rest probably isn’t far behind.
What a relief!
I did call my boss to make sure he was single. “Are you interested?” she asked me. “I don’t know,” I said, “I just wanted to make sure that I wasn’t wasting good material on someone who is married.”
And then I mentioned my provocative prowess to someone else said to me, “Well maybe he’s gay.”
Sensitive, garden, health food store.
Shit, he’s probably gay.
No offense, I’d rather have wasted it on a married guy.
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Half of my waking moments I live in a fantasy world. (Oh c’mon, if you were me you would too)
One half of that I’m Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City and the other half I’m Kathleen Kelly from You’ve Got Mail. No, I’m not wishing I was Sarah Jessica Parker or Meg Ryan. Work with me.
I’m a stunning (as they both are in different ways) famous columnist in the city (any city) with the sweetness of a children’s bookstore owner, who meets a very successful and handsome (that could be Mr. Big OR Joe Fox) on the internet and we meet in the park surrounded by flowers as a golden retriever (that I already happen to have) comes running by.
This detailed visual is just in case you happen to living, at times, in a dreamworld of your own and our paths cross. Imaginary worlds have fuzzy boundaries. I want to make sure you recognize me.
The other half of the time I’m a single mom, writer, blogger in the midwest who has an intimate relationship with probate court but no sex social life. Well, not one that I can talk about on a PG blog.
Necessity is not the mother of invention. Insanity is.
But on a lighter, saner note, I just watched one of my all-time favorite movies with my daughter, and at eleven I must say she is now a bonafide chick flick afficianado. She got as involved and excited as I did watching You’ve Got Mail and it was her first time, my umpteenth. I feel like even though she is growing up and moving on with so many things, perhaps this is just a sign that now there will be new and different things we can share.
And the whole group of me is keeping our fingers crossed on that one.
We often look back to reassess how we could have moved forward, differently, and to determine if there were clues we missed, signs we ignored. And while I try not to live my life as woulda-coulda-shoulda, sometimes hindsight provides not only the cliche 20/20 vision, but also a peek into a crystal ball.
In literature foreshadowing is a technique classically employed by writers to incinuate future ideas and happenings. Good writers do it by writing between the lines, mediocre writers graffiti it all over a story and bad writers leave it out. Foreshadowing creates intrigue, even if not noticed until later.
In life, like in literature, foreshadowing can be a good tool for helping us realize that the writing was always on the wall.
And sometimes, we read too much into things in the past and should just leave them as. is.
My ex-husband was a physician in a very high profile specialty, which in addition to the twelve years of training and hundreds of hours of work per week, was part of the lure. He enjoyed being the center of attention, being placed on a pedestal by everyone (but me) and being part of a group of elite assholes — his words, not mine. Although I wholeheartedly agreed, and still do.
When he had chosen his definitive path and specialty, we started attending conferences, as a family when appropriate, so that he could mix and mingle with like-minded assholes (anyone sensing a theme here?), make connections and further his career. In all honesty he was good at that, and it was the right way to go about making inroads into a small group of specialists.
We were in Florida, in winter. It was the first conference we attended for his specialty, so I was busy meeting people and he was busy reacquainting himself with colleagues and letting it be known that he had gotten a fellowship, and what road he’d be taking.
We were sitting in the lobby of the hotel, either before or after dinner, when two, tall, blonde, buxom, tan women in their twenties slithered walked by in high heels and little black dresses.
“That’s what all the wives of these doctors look like,” my then-husband said.
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The sight of two well-dressed single moms out for dinner in an upscale restaurant on a Saturday night seemed to send little beads of sweat dancing upon the Maitre d’s brow and had the coiffed clientele fanning themselves with the wine list. It must have been sensory overload.
Denise* and I, both divorced, were out celebrating my 42nd birthday. I wasn’t dating anyone with whom I cared to share my birthday, but that didn’t mean no celebration. I’d worked hard to be present and accounted for in a life sans-a-man, which for me is like being Sans-A-Belt, only not made of polyester. It’s a style of being that lets me breathe and look my best without being pinched or having to hold it all together. But in my case, it is tres chic and does not involve white shoes.
Denise and I we were both anxious to get in on the latest trend of the wrap-around porch style salad bar and have faux Brazilian cowboys dropping beef on our plates, no pun intended. Though surely just pricey masquerades for the all-you-can-eat Sizzler of our youth, we were intrigued to see, and taste the hullabaloo. We were women and we were roaring – or maybe it was our stomachs growling. Nevertheless we were ready to have a good meal, good wine and a good time.
We arrived on time for our reservation, perhaps even a bit overdressed, were greeted by the manager, and gave her our name.
“Oh,” she said.
She looked at me. She looked at Denise. She looked again. What were we? Playing tennis?
“Are you waiting for the rest of your party?”
“No, we left the men at home,” Denise offered.
“It’s just two?” she finally asked.
You’d have thought we up and slaughtered the cows, and chickens and pigs ourselves and stomped in and slammed them on the counter, demanding payment.
We then, in turn, looked at each other. No spinach between the teeth. We looked good.
“Yes,” we said in unison. “Just two.” I leaned over the podium and pointed to the page and spot where Denise’s own name was clearly marked in the 7pm line with a very legible numeral two. What? They thought we weren’t coming?
A short conference, audible sigh and shoulder shrug later, we were handed off to Hostess Tiffany* who led us to our table in the back of the restaurant, following and passing many empty tables before us. We were seated at the outside of a table set for four.
“Just two, right?” Hostess Tiffany muttered.
“Yes”, we laughed, “just two”.
The busboy came over, smiling, with a pitcher of water.
“Just two?” he asked, already knowing the answer. I gave the go-ahead for Denise to have a turn at this herself.
“Yes indeed,” she said, “Just two!”
He nodded, said something in Spanish, or perhaps it was much more authentic Portuguese, and clinked and clanked the additional silverware plates and glasses from our midst perhaps annoyed that merely moments before he had meticulously set the table for four.
Our server came by to explain how we flipped the little icon if we wanted more protein on our plates, and how the gaucho-clad waiters would simply come around and serve us. We simply needed to ravage the salad bar.
“And it’s just two, right?”
“Right”, we said. We were obviously the talk of the wait staff.
We needed to take a shuttle to the salad bar but were impressed with the selection. On our way we passed tables of twelve, six, eight and yes, two. But none were tables of just women. This concept was obviously some macho secret club where women were supposed to be accompanied by a testosterone toting chaperone. We dared to be two women alone on a Saturday night, primed to eat beef.
We prevailed. We ate, we talked, we drank. The waiters came and went and we didn’t know, or care, if they thought we were an odd couple that night.
Many tasty tidbits later, we left the restaurant as we had entered it, just two. Yes, we had some pains in our stomach, but not from too much meat, from too much good girlfriend laughter amidst the absurdity of being thought absurd.
During our departure we passed by tables and saw food we had never been offered. It didn’t make it to the back of the back room? We paid full price. Perhaps they didn’t think we were hungry or wanted to taste those baby lamp chops? They’d have gone nicely with the Pinot we were drinking. The garlic filet mignon? That would certainly have tickled our palate.
But it was time to go. Our humor and friendship overrode the insensibilities.
We’ll never know if they thought the reservation for two was a joke, or if they were really put off by two women eating together, alone. They had no way to know the party of two wouldn’t be a man and a woman — or two men — or women who were a couple. This was not a ladies night; we paid the same price two ‘big and tall’ men would have paid. Yet, we were paid little if any attention and felt slighted in the constant undercurrent noting our lack of numerical prowess.
A few months later I took my family to a similar restaurant to celebrate birthdays, graduations and anniversaries. I knew my teenage son and his friends would love the idea of getting more simply with the tip of their hand, so to speak. I knew my parents and friends would enjoy the wall-to-wall windows, wine selection and trendy expanse. Ok, it might not have been Saturday night, but there I was — a single gal with a party of nine at an extended table in a premier location right near the salad bar, no shuttle needed.
The baby lamb chops? They were delicious. And yes, I had more than just two.
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It’s a contest! The first ever Kvetch Blog, complete-with-prize, contest! Of course choosing a winner, and if there is one, is completely up to me.
The task at hand is the fact that I need a clever costume idea for an adult-only Halloween party. I don’t want to be a cowgirl or princess, witch or clown. I’m thinking clever, tongue-in-cheek, makes you think and laugh.
Two years ago (with a live ex husband looming in another state) I was a Black Widow Spider. It was great and very funny. And I must say that the long black wig attracted a lot of attention.
My idea this year was to wear jeans or black pants, a gold sparkly shirt, gold jewelry and carry a shovel.
Gold Digger.
And while a couple of people laughed at the idea, it really conveys an inaccurate message. Luckily my friends were nice enough to remind me there won’t be any single men there so it’s not like it matters. Bitches. But my single gal humor really doesn’t translate in this married world I live in. My sister friend (who also came up with the title here) suggested I be a gold digger by way of panhandler — actually this had her in stitches — but once again I think it would evoke sympathy and teeters on pathetic, which really isn’t what I’m going for either.
So there ya go. Its in your hands blogosphere.
WHAT SHOULD KVETCH BE FOR HALLOWEEN?
It’s not rocket science, brain surgery (eh-hem) or nuclear physics — so play along.
And yes, things were much funnier (and easier) when everyone was alive.
