Earlier this summer, my mom called me and bitched that we never get any time together. “There’s always a kid on your lap,” she said. “They won’t let you talk on the phone. And then, every time you come to my house, you wander off and take a fuckin’ nap.”
“Well, I’m tired,” I said.
“Too bad,” she wailed. “Make some time for me.”
These moments for authentic relating between me and my mom only come about once every five years. So while there were a lot of things I could have said, like “I don’t visit often because you depress me ,” or “your house smells like a bar,” I decided to make this moment of genuine talk work to our advantage.
We made plans to go away for a weekend together. To a cabin in the woods. On an island. I questioned the intelligence of this over and over, but stayed with the plan because it felt right. I wanted to seize the chance to have a real conversation with my mom. I could sense that she really needed time away from her life. I wanted to make that happen for her. I also wanted to chance to change our pattern, which goes something like this: she reaches out in a rare moment of vulnerability, I try to rescue her. She professes a desire for a different kind of life, I encourage it, offer to pay for it, give her inspirational books, and believe it might actually happen.
Dysfunctional people and addicts are not known for their ability to manifest their true desires. In fact, they are not known for even being able to contact their true desires. They lost that skill a long time ago, or maybe never even got the chance to develop it. And, it must be said, self-reflection gets in the way of cocktail hour. So it is with my poor mother. After Part I of the pattern passes, inevitably, Part II arrives: the same old BS. And the daughter, who has been so devoted and giving (and superior and judgmental), despairs and hates her mother again and stops calling.
It’s a fine line to tread for someone who loves an addict or a very injured soul. How does one make space for a self-destructive loved-one without falling into what may be an old habit of Rescue and Reform? Anyone who has grown up in a dysfunctional/alcoholic family knows what a dead end that is. (Or if you haven’t figured that out yet, please give yourself a much-deserved gift and call your local Al-Anon chapter.)
So I told myself that I would not try to fix her this time. I have finally come to believe that I truly do not know what is best for her. I only know what’s best for me. I told myself that she and I would spend time together, but I would keep certain boundaries.
1. I would do what I wanted to do regardless of her level of sobriety or inability to get off her ass.
2. I would not tell her what to do with her life.
3. I would remember that she is in pain that I can’t begin to understand.
4. I would take care of myself.
5. I would expect nothing.
My report to you, Reader, is forthcoming.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Monday, September 15, 2008
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Found Conversations
Things I have said and overheard on Christmas Hawaii trip:
“Look, I’m just trying to understand what everyone wants to do, so there’s no reason to be bitchy with me.” [me, on cell phone, from the beach, to my mother]
“Finish your hamburger or I’ll take away your French fries.” [me, to Jonah at a restaurant]
“Please leave your penis alone.” [me, to Jonah, in airport]
“Do you have any nonalcoholic beer?” [me, to bartender at lu’au]
“I’ve always wanted to do that.” [me, to my brother, at the lu’au, after downing my dad’s beer behind his back and replacing it with a pint of O’Doul’s]
“Awesome.” [my brother to me at lu’au]
“So begins another starch-filled day.” [fit, good-looking dad to his wife in line for a breakfast buffet at the Hilton]
“I’m hot! I’m cold! I’m hungry! I don’t want to eat! I need something to drink! I’m not thirsty! No. No! NOOOOOOOOO!.” [Audrey, every day, in every location]
“Something I’ve noticed about Hawai’i is that it really dehydrates you.” [Jonah, on taxi ride to Kona airport.]
“Your dad says he’s sick today.”
“What kind of sick?”
“Says he’s dizzy, headachey, nauseous.”
“Could it be those 14 beers he drank last night?” [me and my mom to each other, on aforementioned cell phone conversation]
“They’ll split a PB&J. I’ll have whatever you’ve got that’s frosty and alcoholic.” [me, to waitress at Lagoon Grill at the Hilton.]
“You’ve been the most beautiful person everywhere we’ve gone on this trip.” [my husband, to me]
“There’a local bar called Sharkey’s up at Waikoloa Village. But I don’t recommend it because you’ll probably get beat up by some Hawaiians.” [taxi driver to my brother as we set out for a night of drinking]
“Sharkey’s? Nah, you won’t get beat up there. Well, you probably would if it was a Friday. But it’s Christmas Eve. Don’t worry about it.” [bartender at Mariott lounge, who subsequently drove us to Sharkey’s, where my brother did not get beat up.]
“Hawaii is good for Japanese people.” [Japanese fellow on Hilton tram, to our friend Ashwani, after being asked why Hawaii is so popular to people from Japan.]
“Look, I’m just trying to understand what everyone wants to do, so there’s no reason to be bitchy with me.” [me, on cell phone, from the beach, to my mother]
“Finish your hamburger or I’ll take away your French fries.” [me, to Jonah at a restaurant]
“Please leave your penis alone.” [me, to Jonah, in airport]
“Do you have any nonalcoholic beer?” [me, to bartender at lu’au]
“I’ve always wanted to do that.” [me, to my brother, at the lu’au, after downing my dad’s beer behind his back and replacing it with a pint of O’Doul’s]
“Awesome.” [my brother to me at lu’au]
“So begins another starch-filled day.” [fit, good-looking dad to his wife in line for a breakfast buffet at the Hilton]
“I’m hot! I’m cold! I’m hungry! I don’t want to eat! I need something to drink! I’m not thirsty! No. No! NOOOOOOOOO!.” [Audrey, every day, in every location]
“Something I’ve noticed about Hawai’i is that it really dehydrates you.” [Jonah, on taxi ride to Kona airport.]
“Your dad says he’s sick today.”
“What kind of sick?”
“Says he’s dizzy, headachey, nauseous.”
“Could it be those 14 beers he drank last night?” [me and my mom to each other, on aforementioned cell phone conversation]
“They’ll split a PB&J. I’ll have whatever you’ve got that’s frosty and alcoholic.” [me, to waitress at Lagoon Grill at the Hilton.]
“You’ve been the most beautiful person everywhere we’ve gone on this trip.” [my husband, to me]
“There’a local bar called Sharkey’s up at Waikoloa Village. But I don’t recommend it because you’ll probably get beat up by some Hawaiians.” [taxi driver to my brother as we set out for a night of drinking]
“Sharkey’s? Nah, you won’t get beat up there. Well, you probably would if it was a Friday. But it’s Christmas Eve. Don’t worry about it.” [bartender at Mariott lounge, who subsequently drove us to Sharkey’s, where my brother did not get beat up.]
“Hawaii is good for Japanese people.” [Japanese fellow on Hilton tram, to our friend Ashwani, after being asked why Hawaii is so popular to people from Japan.]
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
How To Plan a Family Vacation in 10 Easy Steps!
1. Invite alcoholic parents to stay with you, your spouse, and your two small children in a suburban-style townhouse on the edge of a lava field on the Kona coast of Hawai'i at Christmas.
2. Forget to reserve a minivan for your party of six. By divine luck, secure a 4-door sedan one week before leaving. Be sure this is the very last car available on the island, and that it is not large enough to accommodate your entire party.
3. What the hell, invite your brother.
4. Do no research before leaving. Reserve nothing, plan nothing, and laugh that "winging it" is what vacations are all about. Somehow forget that "winging it" with a 3-year-old, a 5-year-old, and two alcoholics in tow is wild and dangerous.
5. Bring along all mental and emotional baggage.
6. Once in Hawai'i, communicate with members of your party by cellphone, no less than 27 times per day. Wish desperately you could throw all the cell phones into the ocean.
7. Toward the end of your stay, become seduced by the notion of staying a few days longer in the warmth and beauty of the island. Don't worry that you're out of antidepressants. Wave off the reality that your change in plans will require dozens more frenzied calls on your motherfucking cell phone.
8. Send parents and brother home. Move into the Hilton at Waikoloa Village. This will cause a surprising amount of inconvenience and irritation among many people close to you, with whom you have plans, appointments, and commitments. Feel only mildly guilty. You're just starting to relax. This could have something to do with being away from your parents again.
9. Plant ass on ridiculous man-made beach at Hilton lagoon. Rent whatever boats and toys the kids want. Watch them have a smashing time.
10. Pretend that money is just a concept.
Bon voyage!
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Girls Should...Exercise 1
I'm posting from Freeland, WA, on Whidbey Island. Last family vacation of the summer. As a bonus, I am staying an extra day...alone. To write and read and walk on the beach. The beach condo on Mutiny Bay that I've rented from a friend has no Internet service, which is a lovely blessing.Thanks to the Island County library system, I am able to reach you.
Here is the first of the exercises from the book, Getting Unstuck Without Coming Unglued by Susan O'Doherty. She asks me to draw a picture of the person who was my primary caregiver when I was a child, with a dialogue bubble starting with the words, "Girls should..." At first I had an image of my mother, but then I had an image of my husband! Instead of freaking out, I went with both. Here is what I wrote:
My primary caregiver then...
[drawing of my haggard mom with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, a frazzled perm, and a dialogue bubble]
"Girls should be pretty and well groomed. You want to be able to attract a man. It's important to be sexy. Iron your clothes, make sure your hair's clean, and use proper English."
Both of my mom's parents had come from homes with no stability or safety. Together, they raised a family that tended to be one paycheck away from broke, but strived to be clean and respectable. It was a point of pride to have a spic and span house, to owe no favors or debts. They were quite strict about boundaries and limits, even when it came what one was allowed to ask for in life. Especially then. About being so strict, my grandma told me, "My mother didn't know what all I did when I was girl. I rode the street cars all over Oakland and San Francisco when I was ten, twelve years old. When I had children [at 16], I wanted them to know that someone gave a damn about them."
My primary caregiver now...
[drawing of my husband with a mild expression and dialogue bubble]
"Girls should enjoy being wives and mothers."
His mother was quite stoic and I don't believe he had any idea how unhappy she was. They don't complain in his family. When I'm with them in Boston I pick up on their sense of duty and repressed conflict. It's one of the things I actually found refreshing when I met them.
In the interest of fair representation, I must point out that my husband is supportive and wonderful. But we had to work to get to a place where it was okay for me to blow off steam about the kids or struggle openly with postpartum life. I don't think he witnessed this kind of thing as a kid.
Here is the first of the exercises from the book, Getting Unstuck Without Coming Unglued by Susan O'Doherty. She asks me to draw a picture of the person who was my primary caregiver when I was a child, with a dialogue bubble starting with the words, "Girls should..." At first I had an image of my mother, but then I had an image of my husband! Instead of freaking out, I went with both. Here is what I wrote:
My primary caregiver then...
[drawing of my haggard mom with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, a frazzled perm, and a dialogue bubble]
"Girls should be pretty and well groomed. You want to be able to attract a man. It's important to be sexy. Iron your clothes, make sure your hair's clean, and use proper English."
Both of my mom's parents had come from homes with no stability or safety. Together, they raised a family that tended to be one paycheck away from broke, but strived to be clean and respectable. It was a point of pride to have a spic and span house, to owe no favors or debts. They were quite strict about boundaries and limits, even when it came what one was allowed to ask for in life. Especially then. About being so strict, my grandma told me, "My mother didn't know what all I did when I was girl. I rode the street cars all over Oakland and San Francisco when I was ten, twelve years old. When I had children [at 16], I wanted them to know that someone gave a damn about them."
My primary caregiver now...
[drawing of my husband with a mild expression and dialogue bubble]
"Girls should enjoy being wives and mothers."
His mother was quite stoic and I don't believe he had any idea how unhappy she was. They don't complain in his family. When I'm with them in Boston I pick up on their sense of duty and repressed conflict. It's one of the things I actually found refreshing when I met them.
In the interest of fair representation, I must point out that my husband is supportive and wonderful. But we had to work to get to a place where it was okay for me to blow off steam about the kids or struggle openly with postpartum life. I don't think he witnessed this kind of thing as a kid.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Beer Night
"As soon as I'm a mom, I'm going to be drinking every day." -from hilarious new comedy, Notes from the Underbelly
My friend G and I get together once in awhile for adult conversation away from our four loud children. This usually involves me walking to her house, picking her up just in time for her to miss putting her children to bed, and the two of us walking to a nearby drinking establishment. We call this "Beer Night." The fact that we typically order foofy cocktails and dessert is irrelevant. G is a known lightweight and never drinks more than one beverage. I am a known lush with a sensitive stomach, so I keep it to two.
This Friday, while sunk into an Ultrasuede lounge chair at Liberty, I continued to drink. And drink. They were playing the Pixies and Al Green, for God's Sake, how could I possibly leave? Plus, we were getting into the juicy details of why it is deadly to belong to a social group of women, and how long we dated our husbands before certain relationship milestones were achieved, and other such topics that we mothers rarely have the opportunity to discuss in any depth due to noisiness of the children.
By the time I had reached the bottom of my third Sidecar, I slurred that I hadn't better drink anymore. G was on her fifteenth glass of water. She was ready to go home and probably ready to stop hearing me talk about whatever the hell I was talking about. We parted outside the bar, and, because I had been drinking, I walked over to QFC and bought a pack of American Spirit lights. While walking the ten or so blocks home, in the dark, and smoking one cigarette after another, I began to feel completely bludgeoned by drink. Naturally, I whipped out my cellphone and called a few friends. (One should never, never do this.)
Upon reaching my house, I stripped off my shoes and earrings and handbag and whatever else was on my body, trudged upstairs, and collapsed on the bed.
"Oh, Honey, you don't look good," said my beautiful and saintly husband.
"Yeah, I'n rilly fffucked," I mumbled. "Can I haff a towl a barff on?"
He ministered to me with water ("I need a sippy! I can siddpup. Can I haff a sippy?"), and a towel, and he lay beside me on the bed, chuckling and clucking.
"You're really attractive like this," he joked. I didn't even have the coordination to flip him off. I just had to take it.
I awoke to a rainy morning and a colossal headache. The alarm was going off. I had to get up and take Audrey to The Little Gym. I could not believe this was expected of me. But Matt, well, he was lucky enough to tear some ligament in his knee a few weeks back and so has to be excused form such duties. So I fucking went, in sweats and ponytail and hollow eyes, and took every opportunity to lie down on a soft mat. I began to develop a new understanding of why my parents never did anything like this with me. They were always hungover.
So, I've apologized to G, and the friends I called, and I hope I will remember all of this the next time I'm tempted to drink too much. Clearly my new meds have lowered my tolerance. Not such a bad thing, since I shouldn't really be drinking anyway. Too much alcoholism in my family, plus I'm a depressive, plus I have to get up in the morning and be on my game for the kids. Plus I learned some scary statistics from a psychiatrist I saw over the summer.
More on that later. For now, I must play with Jonah who is whining to be played with (he wears on me like a chronic disease), and shower and serve a nice brunch to my step mom and half brother.
Happy Spring.
My friend G and I get together once in awhile for adult conversation away from our four loud children. This usually involves me walking to her house, picking her up just in time for her to miss putting her children to bed, and the two of us walking to a nearby drinking establishment. We call this "Beer Night." The fact that we typically order foofy cocktails and dessert is irrelevant. G is a known lightweight and never drinks more than one beverage. I am a known lush with a sensitive stomach, so I keep it to two.
This Friday, while sunk into an Ultrasuede lounge chair at Liberty, I continued to drink. And drink. They were playing the Pixies and Al Green, for God's Sake, how could I possibly leave? Plus, we were getting into the juicy details of why it is deadly to belong to a social group of women, and how long we dated our husbands before certain relationship milestones were achieved, and other such topics that we mothers rarely have the opportunity to discuss in any depth due to noisiness of the children.
By the time I had reached the bottom of my third Sidecar, I slurred that I hadn't better drink anymore. G was on her fifteenth glass of water. She was ready to go home and probably ready to stop hearing me talk about whatever the hell I was talking about. We parted outside the bar, and, because I had been drinking, I walked over to QFC and bought a pack of American Spirit lights. While walking the ten or so blocks home, in the dark, and smoking one cigarette after another, I began to feel completely bludgeoned by drink. Naturally, I whipped out my cellphone and called a few friends. (One should never, never do this.)
Upon reaching my house, I stripped off my shoes and earrings and handbag and whatever else was on my body, trudged upstairs, and collapsed on the bed.
"Oh, Honey, you don't look good," said my beautiful and saintly husband.
"Yeah, I'n rilly fffucked," I mumbled. "Can I haff a towl a barff on?"
He ministered to me with water ("I need a sippy! I can siddpup. Can I haff a sippy?"), and a towel, and he lay beside me on the bed, chuckling and clucking.
"You're really attractive like this," he joked. I didn't even have the coordination to flip him off. I just had to take it.
I awoke to a rainy morning and a colossal headache. The alarm was going off. I had to get up and take Audrey to The Little Gym. I could not believe this was expected of me. But Matt, well, he was lucky enough to tear some ligament in his knee a few weeks back and so has to be excused form such duties. So I fucking went, in sweats and ponytail and hollow eyes, and took every opportunity to lie down on a soft mat. I began to develop a new understanding of why my parents never did anything like this with me. They were always hungover.
So, I've apologized to G, and the friends I called, and I hope I will remember all of this the next time I'm tempted to drink too much. Clearly my new meds have lowered my tolerance. Not such a bad thing, since I shouldn't really be drinking anyway. Too much alcoholism in my family, plus I'm a depressive, plus I have to get up in the morning and be on my game for the kids. Plus I learned some scary statistics from a psychiatrist I saw over the summer.
More on that later. For now, I must play with Jonah who is whining to be played with (he wears on me like a chronic disease), and shower and serve a nice brunch to my step mom and half brother.
Happy Spring.
Monday, February 26, 2007
How to Be Complicit in Someone's Death
"So how's Grandma doing?" I asked my mom over the phone.
She sighed. "Well, she won't use her walker, and she's back up to smoking a pack and a half a day."
"Unbelievable."
"Yeah, I know. I get so furious at her every time I bring her cigarettes over to her house that I just want to throw them at her."
Mm-hm. I suppose not buying them for her in the first place would be out of the question.
She sighed. "Well, she won't use her walker, and she's back up to smoking a pack and a half a day."
"Unbelievable."
"Yeah, I know. I get so furious at her every time I bring her cigarettes over to her house that I just want to throw them at her."
Mm-hm. I suppose not buying them for her in the first place would be out of the question.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
This is the Way it Goes
It was a week of extremes: kids dripping green snot, Audrey up 5-6 times per night, sitter on reduced schedule, Nana busy with bridge and whatnot, umpteen hours of yoga training for me, and, oh, yes, Valentine's Day (a holiday that is rotten to the core and only fun for little kids). Plus, Jonah was anticipating our trip to CA by asking every few seconds, "How many days now until we go on the airplane?"
But the really crazy thing was that my grandmother entered the hospital. She was doing so poorly that my mother was inspired to call me and tell me if I wanted to see Grandma again, now was the time.
After hanging up the phone, I walked up two flights of stairs to the attic, where Jonah and Matt sat playing with a train set.
"I have to go to Centralia tomorrow," I said. "My grandma is not well. My mom said I better go."
I wanted to say, "She's dying," but since Jonah was present, I refrained. Instead, I tried to make the gravity of the situation clear in my hushed and steady delivery.
"Oh, no, is she dying?" he asked.
"Great Grandma Lorraine is dying?" asked Jonah.
My eyes popped out of my head as I gave Matt a look that spoke volumes about his honed skills of subtlety and my opinion about that.
Matt cringed and said, "Jesus...I'm sorry."
"She's pretty sick," I said, kneeling down in front of Jonah.
"Is she sick from smoking?"
Matt and I exchanged incredulous glances. "Yes," I admitted. I didn't know for sure if that was true, but one can surmise that fluid in the lungs and a failing heart weren't brought on by a lifetime of healthy living. It's no wonder Jonah picked up on this, since my mom bitches constantly about my grandma's smoking and I bitch constantly about her smoking. He's asked a lot of questions about it, such as the great and obvious question of all time: "Why do they do it if it's going to make them sick?"
I still haven't figured out a way to explain in clear terms that we grownups are bonkers.
But the really crazy thing was that my grandmother entered the hospital. She was doing so poorly that my mother was inspired to call me and tell me if I wanted to see Grandma again, now was the time.
After hanging up the phone, I walked up two flights of stairs to the attic, where Jonah and Matt sat playing with a train set.
"I have to go to Centralia tomorrow," I said. "My grandma is not well. My mom said I better go."
I wanted to say, "She's dying," but since Jonah was present, I refrained. Instead, I tried to make the gravity of the situation clear in my hushed and steady delivery.
"Oh, no, is she dying?" he asked.
"Great Grandma Lorraine is dying?" asked Jonah.
My eyes popped out of my head as I gave Matt a look that spoke volumes about his honed skills of subtlety and my opinion about that.
Matt cringed and said, "Jesus...I'm sorry."
"She's pretty sick," I said, kneeling down in front of Jonah.
"Is she sick from smoking?"
Matt and I exchanged incredulous glances. "Yes," I admitted. I didn't know for sure if that was true, but one can surmise that fluid in the lungs and a failing heart weren't brought on by a lifetime of healthy living. It's no wonder Jonah picked up on this, since my mom bitches constantly about my grandma's smoking and I bitch constantly about her smoking. He's asked a lot of questions about it, such as the great and obvious question of all time: "Why do they do it if it's going to make them sick?"
I still haven't figured out a way to explain in clear terms that we grownups are bonkers.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Give Up
Last night, Matt and I went to a rock club to see Dan Savage read from The Commitment and Neal Pollack read from Alternadad. Alternadad is a book in which Pollack writes of his angst about losing street cred now that he's a parent. Apparently, he grew up in a suburb with nerdy, stable parents who drank highballs at cocktail hour and played golf on the weekends. He couldn't fathom what a "cool" parent would look like, so he assumed there was no such thing. This was a problem when it came time for him, a self-proclaimed hipster, to become a dad. How was he going to pull it off?
(I can tell him all about cool parents. You know, the ones who let you drink tumblers of champagne on New Year's Eve and hold your hair back for you later when you vomit? Sooo cool. The ones who smoke so much pot they can't remember why you shouldn't? The ones who are so open about sex that you have to hear about it all the livelong day? Oooh, yes. Growing up with cool parents was grrrrrreat! It was so great that most of my life I never wanted to have children.
Not that I'm bitter. Because of my parents, I got my binge-drinking out of the way before I left high school and delayed having sex because I was terrified of getting knocked up young like my mom. So how could I complain?)
I empathize with old Neal. I have expended a great amount of energy on the same question (which may have been more ridiculous on my part due to my lack of actual coolness). It's a common concern.
I remember a woman in my graduate program telling me, wistfully, that she envied the moms who dressed in stretch pants and Keds. She herself cut her own hair, shopped in thrift stores, and made a personality trait out of her super-alternativeness. She was also, at the time, the mother of a small toddler, and pregnant.
"Wouldn't it be nice to just not care anymore?" she said as we drove past one such unhip, uncaring mom pushing a stroller up East John Street. Inwardly, I sort of rolled my eyes at her hipster snobbery. I mean, God, if you have to try that hard to be cool, then aren't you really trying too hard?
(I understood the larger concept, though. I was battling my own issues about becoming a teacher and having to buckle down in grad school. I couldn't even smoke pot anymore, because it was too expensive and it made me too stupid in class the next day. While my friends went to noisy rock shows and my roommate drank $50 bottles of wine, I was reading Piaget, writing papers about multiculturalism, and shopping for my bananas on sale at Safeway.)
Last night, my one question for Neal Pollack was, how do you know when you are just trying too hard and it's time to quit? Sean Nelson, the MC for the evening, beat me to it. During the post-book-reading Nelson/Pollack tete-a-tete, he asked Pollack a related question: Is it even possible to stay cool once you become a parent?
"At a certain point," Pollack admitted, "you just have to throw up your hands."
"And drive the Passat wagon? Metaphorically?" said Sean.
"Not even metaphorically," said Pollack.
Soon the standing crowd of people near the bar turned their attentions to each other. Poor Pollack stood onstage, eyes afire at the crowd's impudence, and interrupted his own story about a holier-than-thou vegetarian mom he and his kid encountered at the LA aquarium to shout, "Hey! Do you guys just want to drink?"
I felt for him. We were in a club, and a band was about to come onstage, and there were alcoholic beverages to imbibe and cute people to look at, and suddenly the whole parenting discussion just wasn't that funny or interesting anymore. And Pollack became just…a dad. Who was coming to realize it was time to get off the stage.
I guess that pretty much answered my question.
(I can tell him all about cool parents. You know, the ones who let you drink tumblers of champagne on New Year's Eve and hold your hair back for you later when you vomit? Sooo cool. The ones who smoke so much pot they can't remember why you shouldn't? The ones who are so open about sex that you have to hear about it all the livelong day? Oooh, yes. Growing up with cool parents was grrrrrreat! It was so great that most of my life I never wanted to have children.
Not that I'm bitter. Because of my parents, I got my binge-drinking out of the way before I left high school and delayed having sex because I was terrified of getting knocked up young like my mom. So how could I complain?)
I empathize with old Neal. I have expended a great amount of energy on the same question (which may have been more ridiculous on my part due to my lack of actual coolness). It's a common concern.
I remember a woman in my graduate program telling me, wistfully, that she envied the moms who dressed in stretch pants and Keds. She herself cut her own hair, shopped in thrift stores, and made a personality trait out of her super-alternativeness. She was also, at the time, the mother of a small toddler, and pregnant.
"Wouldn't it be nice to just not care anymore?" she said as we drove past one such unhip, uncaring mom pushing a stroller up East John Street. Inwardly, I sort of rolled my eyes at her hipster snobbery. I mean, God, if you have to try that hard to be cool, then aren't you really trying too hard?
(I understood the larger concept, though. I was battling my own issues about becoming a teacher and having to buckle down in grad school. I couldn't even smoke pot anymore, because it was too expensive and it made me too stupid in class the next day. While my friends went to noisy rock shows and my roommate drank $50 bottles of wine, I was reading Piaget, writing papers about multiculturalism, and shopping for my bananas on sale at Safeway.)
Last night, my one question for Neal Pollack was, how do you know when you are just trying too hard and it's time to quit? Sean Nelson, the MC for the evening, beat me to it. During the post-book-reading Nelson/Pollack tete-a-tete, he asked Pollack a related question: Is it even possible to stay cool once you become a parent?
"At a certain point," Pollack admitted, "you just have to throw up your hands."
"And drive the Passat wagon? Metaphorically?" said Sean.
"Not even metaphorically," said Pollack.
Soon the standing crowd of people near the bar turned their attentions to each other. Poor Pollack stood onstage, eyes afire at the crowd's impudence, and interrupted his own story about a holier-than-thou vegetarian mom he and his kid encountered at the LA aquarium to shout, "Hey! Do you guys just want to drink?"
I felt for him. We were in a club, and a band was about to come onstage, and there were alcoholic beverages to imbibe and cute people to look at, and suddenly the whole parenting discussion just wasn't that funny or interesting anymore. And Pollack became just…a dad. Who was coming to realize it was time to get off the stage.
I guess that pretty much answered my question.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
School Daze
My kindergarten sat on a large landscaped lot about 10 blocks from my stucco house in Milpitas, CA. I went there because it was free. I crossed a four-lane street with traffic lights by myself to get there, then found my way to a painted green line on the expansive playground blacktop, where I waited for the bell to ring.
My son gets lost going to the bathroom in our house. This is one reason why, despite the fact that there are other options, I am lobbying for him to attend his default neighborhood public school for kindergarten next year. It's two blocks away. I can stand at the end of my yard and watch him make it to the crossing guard.
Another reason is that I just can't bring myself to get into the kindergarten hysteria that descends upon a certain Seattle demographic this time of year. There's this attitude that if you don't get accepted into one of the "good" public schools, you must do dire things to afford a private school or your kid will never learn how to read.
"OMIGOD did you get your app in for [blank]????" In the Little Gym class lobby, the preschool parking lot, and the book group, it is THE topic of conversation right now. I hear many expressions of fear, angst, disgust at the application fees. There is much eye-rolling at the non-aligned deadlines of Seattle Public School applications and those of virtually every private grade school in town. Parents swap test score data and free-and-reduced-lunch numbers when they run into each other with their dogs and kids and paper cups of coffee.
Some of these parents are friends, good people that I respect and like. Yet the whole thing gets my Irish up. I hate the notion that where you go to school makes you who you are. I hate the attitude of many parents that their kid will be, by default, elite or advanced or gifted. (I really hated this when I was a teacher. Those parents were a pain in my ass.)
This feeling took hold for me when Jonah was going to a little co-op down in a fancy zip code. The kids were 1-2 years old. It was a play class. The kids wandered around like cats, exploring objects, bumping against one another, climbing on pillows. The teacher sang songs with hand motions and made each kid feel special. It was lovely and developmentally appropriate. But some parents were pissed because the teacher wasn't using flash cards.
It's not all about the fucking flash cards.
Anyway, what makes some kids so special that they get to go to exclusive schools, and other kids not so special? I mean, who do these parents think they are?
This came up in a conversation yesterday with my husband. He blinked at me as if I had just told him I wanted Jonah to go to an elementary school that does weapons pat-downs at the door.
"I don't understand this," he said, shaking his head. "You complain about the crappy schools you went to and how your parents weren't involved, and now when you have some options..."
I know, I know. But look - I come from a place where to ask for something better is to invite a swift kick in the ass. Who do you think you are? Once I brought up the idea that I might change to a different high school, and my mother threw a screechy tantrum.
Maybe if I had my druthers Jonah would be learning to read while taking backpacking trips with Outward Bound. For the next ten years. (Of course, he'd have to be strapped with a GPS unit.)He would be completely out of the normal school loop until it came time to apply to college.
Because for me, the normal loop sucks. In the normal loop, life becomes all about the flash cards, the tests, and where you are in the pecking order of the lunchroom. I have never flourished in this kind of environment.
My husband, however, has and does. He was the kind of kid for whom public schools are made. He blossoms in regimented environments. He enjoys competition. And if it weren't for those traits, and quite possibly the great schools he attended that helped him develop his large brain, we'd be fuckin' broke.
So I guess we just start trying stuff and see what happens. In the meantime, I need to relax my judgment. Stop thinking about what's best for Society and think about what's best for Jonah. It is okay to do that. It's good to do that. It makes me less angry to do that. I don't need to be fighting these old ghosts.
My son gets lost going to the bathroom in our house. This is one reason why, despite the fact that there are other options, I am lobbying for him to attend his default neighborhood public school for kindergarten next year. It's two blocks away. I can stand at the end of my yard and watch him make it to the crossing guard.
Another reason is that I just can't bring myself to get into the kindergarten hysteria that descends upon a certain Seattle demographic this time of year. There's this attitude that if you don't get accepted into one of the "good" public schools, you must do dire things to afford a private school or your kid will never learn how to read.
"OMIGOD did you get your app in for [blank]????" In the Little Gym class lobby, the preschool parking lot, and the book group, it is THE topic of conversation right now. I hear many expressions of fear, angst, disgust at the application fees. There is much eye-rolling at the non-aligned deadlines of Seattle Public School applications and those of virtually every private grade school in town. Parents swap test score data and free-and-reduced-lunch numbers when they run into each other with their dogs and kids and paper cups of coffee.
Some of these parents are friends, good people that I respect and like. Yet the whole thing gets my Irish up. I hate the notion that where you go to school makes you who you are. I hate the attitude of many parents that their kid will be, by default, elite or advanced or gifted. (I really hated this when I was a teacher. Those parents were a pain in my ass.)
This feeling took hold for me when Jonah was going to a little co-op down in a fancy zip code. The kids were 1-2 years old. It was a play class. The kids wandered around like cats, exploring objects, bumping against one another, climbing on pillows. The teacher sang songs with hand motions and made each kid feel special. It was lovely and developmentally appropriate. But some parents were pissed because the teacher wasn't using flash cards.
It's not all about the fucking flash cards.
Anyway, what makes some kids so special that they get to go to exclusive schools, and other kids not so special? I mean, who do these parents think they are?
This came up in a conversation yesterday with my husband. He blinked at me as if I had just told him I wanted Jonah to go to an elementary school that does weapons pat-downs at the door.
"I don't understand this," he said, shaking his head. "You complain about the crappy schools you went to and how your parents weren't involved, and now when you have some options..."
I know, I know. But look - I come from a place where to ask for something better is to invite a swift kick in the ass. Who do you think you are? Once I brought up the idea that I might change to a different high school, and my mother threw a screechy tantrum.
Maybe if I had my druthers Jonah would be learning to read while taking backpacking trips with Outward Bound. For the next ten years. (Of course, he'd have to be strapped with a GPS unit.)He would be completely out of the normal school loop until it came time to apply to college.
Because for me, the normal loop sucks. In the normal loop, life becomes all about the flash cards, the tests, and where you are in the pecking order of the lunchroom. I have never flourished in this kind of environment.
My husband, however, has and does. He was the kind of kid for whom public schools are made. He blossoms in regimented environments. He enjoys competition. And if it weren't for those traits, and quite possibly the great schools he attended that helped him develop his large brain, we'd be fuckin' broke.
So I guess we just start trying stuff and see what happens. In the meantime, I need to relax my judgment. Stop thinking about what's best for Society and think about what's best for Jonah. It is okay to do that. It's good to do that. It makes me less angry to do that. I don't need to be fighting these old ghosts.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Signs of Life
We just spent a week in Boston with my in-laws and I didn't have to take even one Xanax. I believe this is a sign of spiritual and cerebral health.
Other signs of health:
Other signs of health:
- There is a reasonable amount of frozen food piled in the freezer drawer. When I have to rearrange the boxes of frozen waffles, Trader Joe's tamales and assorted Processed Organic Crap every time I open the freezer, just so I can shut it again, all is not well in the village. Likewise when the refrigerator shelves boast nothing but a few whithered carrots and a jar of mayonnaise. If there is no frozen food and the fridge is stuffed with fresh produce and meats, I'm either exceedingly energetic or about to go mad.
- The ratio of time I spend on housewifery and on-the-clock mothering is equal to or less than the time I spend writing, doing yoga, or dancing around the attic with Harvey Danger on my iPod.
- The strength and fortitude to "waste" baby sitter time on the above.
- When my feisty 2-year-old starts torturing her big brother, I knock her down with tickles and start a rolicking game of chase with them both throughout the house. This happens far less often than I'd like to say. But it replaces the depressed behaviors, such as yelling and hiding in the bathroom.
Last night we got home in the middle of the night after ten hours of travel and a drive from Sea-Tac in freezing rain. Matt and I put the children to bed directly, then scarfed frozen junk food (Amy's Quiche Florentine) while standing at the kitchen island. We continued our snippy argument over who was more of a jerk in the airport.
"You know," he said, "sometimes when you get tired, you act like you're about 12 years old."
I laughed.
Health.
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