Monday Musings: Happy Birthday to You. And You. And You.

If you were to look at my Google calendar these days, you would think D and S are the most popular people on the planet.  1st birthday parties, 2nd birthday parties, 3rd birthday parties, "summer fun" trips to Fairyland, preschool day at the zoo, 3 1/2 birthday parties (I'm not kidding).  On and on.  And on.  I joke that I couldn't "overprogram" my kids even if I wanted to because there's no time in between the birthday parties...!

For many of us, a child's birthday party on the weekend has become like the Thursday night happy hours of college:  Ubiquitous.  And with ubiquity comes obligation.  How can we not go to Mary's birthday party when Mary came to D's, what will Mary's parents think, all that "social etiquette" that I truly thought in naive fashion I would never get bogged down by.   (Spoiler alert:  I was wrong).  And obligation just sort of takes the happy part out of happy birthday, doesn't it?  I realized recently--with more than a little bit of embarrassment--that I have stopped having fun at all these kiddie brouhahas  At a 1st birthday party yesterday, I actually found myself annoyed with D for taking too long to walk through a farm.  Annoyed at my kid for having too much fun at a birthday party.  Yikes.  Wake up call anybody?

I actually had to remind myself that--I love birthday parties (as long as they are not for me).  I love cupcakes, games, hell I even still get excited for silly goody bags with plastic loot.   I love celebrating the people who are important to me.  And I love being present for the milestones of the growing legion of children who are in my little world.   For all of those reasons and more I want to bring back the happy in happy birthday, bring back the fun.  Yesterday at the park, D and S were having a ball, running around, going up and down the slide, feeding the animals, being kids.  Sure, S inhaled a cupcake and proceeded to vomit it--but that's pretty much par for the course, right?!?  My point:  The kids are loving the party and I am going through logistics in my head, wondering how to say hello to everyone and leave in time for naps, thinking about whether S can nap in the car en route to the other birthday party we have to attend later in the afternoon.  On and on.  I didn't stop and smell the roses (or the cow manure as the case may be--the party was at a farm after all) for even a second.  And that is my loss.  

I need to reboot.   See the trail to the little pond as the magical, wonderful event that D sees it as, as opposed to the diversion that adds 10 minutes to my agenda.  And maybe I have to start saying no more.  No the party for the girl in D's school that I don't even know--and that D doesn't even know; no to the playdate with a friend of a friend of a friend; no to the gratuitous events and parties and social occasions that have made me forget how much I love events and parties and social occasions.  Because the joy of these things is more than crossing off "K's birthday party" from your check-list.  The joy is in relishing your presence in these peoples' lives.  Contemplating your good fortune for being included in such milestones. Engaging and re-engaging with the people you love.  The joy is celebrating a single day of noisiness and merriment, cake and sugar comas, knowing full well that you are building a life with these people composed of quieter moments, and the everyday nothingness that, really, is everything. 

"Monday" Musings: Wedding Wonder, Wondering, Wandering

My sister got married last weekend and I have been struggling to find words to sum up everything I feel. The sensory emotions and feelings are clear: "She looked amazing!" "I feel so happy!" "J's such a great guy!" "EEEEEE!" ...But going deeper I find myself almost at a loss as to how to express how moved and genuinely blessed I feel.

It's a truth generally accepted that weddings make us gooey. Watching two people right at the beginning of "the rest of their lives," declaring their love for one and all--come on, it's romantic. But when it's family up there at the altar, or on the mandap as the case may be; when it's your parents "giving away" their baby girl; when your mom tears up when she hears that her son-in-law to-be promise to, "above all," always make your sister laugh; when, in lieu of a traditional toast, your dad--your dad-- sings the lullaby he used to sing to you and your sister every night to all of the assembled wedding guests--well, it all, of course, takes on an even more poignant tone.

For the whole weekend, and thereafter, my mind has been flooded with images of my family. And then, always, images of my sister and me growing up. Neither of us was the type to dream about a wedding--not sure why that is, but I look back fondly about it. We didn't dress our (few) Barbies as brides and we didn't practice kissing on the backs of our hands. Didn't occur to us. We had dolls but we chopped off their hair to see if we could be hairdresses to the stars. One time I reportedly told my dad that I wanted to one day get married on the big new wrap around porch we built when I was 10, but then my sister and I promptly returned to catching frogs and jumping on the trampoline.

I was always the more "girly" of the two of us. When I was a teenager my dad famously and repeatedly told our family that I suffered from "Mall-aria." He was not exaggerating. But time changes things and the compartments we put ourselves in--especially in a family--often prove to be not so rigid, far more fluid: Looking at my sister last weekend, her tomboy tendencies and penchance for "Value Village" duds aside, she was the most stunning, original bride I have ever seen.

The wedding was perfect. In addition to being the union of my sister and her now-husband, it was a family reunion for the rest of us. My cousins and I reminisced about summer sleepovers during which we braided each other's hair and got giddily excited for Putt-Putt golf and Olive Garden dinners; my aunts and uncles got to meet my children; my mom had had three of her sisters in the same zip code for the first time in a decade...all the wonderful trappings of a wedding. It's one of the biggest things that is giving me the "my-sister's-post-wedding-blues": I am constantly amazed by the love, warmth, and interconnectedness of my family and, as I get older (read: cheesier) I miss everything--both the people and the memories--more and more viscerally every day. My time with these people who I have the fortune of calling my family has made me who I am and when I think about it, I'm not all that surprised that I'm having such a difficult time articulating what it "mean" to me because it's just too expansive...it would be the same as trying to explain "who is deepa"...

But more words thrown into that pot only begs sentimentality. The day I have it in me to truly explain the ups and downs, joys and sorrows, raw emotion, loyalty, and glue of a family is the day I burrow into writing that good ole Great (American) Novel, right? More immediately, it struck me how much--especially with it being my sister's wedding--a bride and groom sort of leave their friends and family behind. I remember the day after my own wedding, en route to Tahiti, with--quite literally--not one single care in the world. Though I missed my family after an amazing week with them, the word "sad" would never have occurred to me. This time, on the other side of the equation, I am sort of hung-over, sad for the wedding to be over, confused that it is back to reality, melancholy about the assembled family going in every direction.

We all, in an instant, go back to what we were doing. And it sometimes feels like all the energy, passion, nostalgia, and wonder--it sometimes feels like it was all a dream.

I was amongst the first of my friends to get married. I was 26. By the time I was 27 I was pregnant with D. I'm now 32 and have 3 little crazies. Sometimes it feels like warp speed and sometimes, as any mother knows, it seems like the day will never end. But I can still remember exact moments from my wedding. Nobody had told me to preserve those moments--few people we knew at the time of our wedding had even attended that many weddings! But etched in my mind are certain snapshots from the day, from a certain smile on my mom's face when she saw me in my wedding sari, to the way my cousins could make me laugh, to, of course, the way S looked at me that day.

It is always a little like going into a time machine, attending a wedding. You can't help but think about your own.

But then it gets bigger. At my sister's wedding, I had the sort of mental montage that would be set to a C-minor instrumental in a romantic comedy movie. How different we were growing up; how different we are now; how similar we are now...The variant paths we took, the various interests we have; how our friends are similar, how our friends are different. The way that it still all leads to The Same Thing.

The moment.

The moment when you make a decision for the world to see.

The moment when you are, regardless of age, cast in the role of a daughter, a child for your parents to attend to, protect, watch over.

The moment where nothing is beautiful enough and everything is sacred.

The moment when all the rest of it begins.

Monday Musings: "The One Girl It Scares Me To Think I Might Not Have Met"

My sister is getting married on Saturday...! After the months of planning, outfit-coordinating, last minute runs to Trader Joes for 15 pounds of salted cashews (!)...here we are. The week before my sister marries the person who will be her husband, who will be a dad to her kids, who will, knock on wood, sit with her on the proverbial front porch years and years from now, rocking in chairs (sleek robotic ones for my sister and Jeff, perhaps), talking about their life well lived.

I can't believe it. I am so excited for them, and so, so happy to have this awesome guy joining our family. So, in honor, I am reprinting the blog Jeff wrote a few months back, during "Male Week," about his imminent entry into my crazy (but lovely--in my opinion!) family!

***

On a sunny day, the joke always goes like this:

Me: “Am I golden brown?”
P: “No, you are burnt red!”
Me: “No, really I’m turning golden brown, like toast? Aren’t I?”
P: (silence)

The reality arrives when I lay in bed and the sheets feel like sandpaper on my skin. In the morning I see more similarities between me and strawberry jam than golden crust on my toast. When I have kids, will they give me a hard time too? What will their jokes be? Will they get a laugh at me for being the whitest guy on the beach? Will they get a laugh at me being the only one to pause for sunscreen application at family gatherings involving my new family? I certainly hope so because my fiancée P does. It makes her laugh, which is inevitably followed by her touting her built in sun-block, and then complaining about her chances of becoming burnt toast. Our children will probably complain about the same thing – Woohoo! (at least they won’t have to look like dad the lobster). Thinking of them doing this as I search for the ultimate SPF makes me happy. It brings me back to the present, and the events that will lead up to my kids making fun of me.

I’m getting married this summer. I’m engaged to the one girl it scares me to think I might not have met, but did, and now can’t imagine living without. Polaroid cameras, riding the zipper at the fair, and our rowboat quest for fried dough that almost ended in MIT sending out a search party brought us together. Building bicycles, animation machines, and a life and family together has made us inseparable.

Bringing our families together has and will be fun, a little bit chaotic, and at times confusing. For me it was a learning experience to maneuver myself into the thanksgiving chaat line, and my voice into her family’s excited conversations, but I’m almost a pro. Although I’m pretty sure I’ll never shake off the “too quiet” ruling (which every non-Indian seems to get), really it’s because I have a hard time talking while I’m eating. At least I won’t get the “doesn’t eat enough” ruling. I’m not being polite with my trips back to the kitchen I just love eating at P’s house.

We are planning our wedding with P’s parents, MotaDad (he is by all means a BIG DAD, the Indian Papa, a true Ganesh, and I’m excited to say my future father-in-law) and Ammi (who made my jaw drop and my heart grow the first day she referred to me at ‘beta’ (which was four years after we met!). I’ve been to almost every kind of wedding now, and let’s face it, Indians know how to celebrate. My first experience was P’s sister’s wedding (MD and Ammi’s first daughter and my soon-to-be super-sister-in-law) and it was a labor of love that will be remembered for generations. I remember MotaDad greeting us: barefoot, stick dancing, and bear hugs all around. I also recall my attempts at bhangra dancing, 3 suit changes, and 300 Aunties and Uncles wanting to make sure I was “enjoying the festivities”. I think I still am. (Occasionally I’ll get an email to confirm that. Thanks Uncle!) Slowly I started to feel like part of the family as more and more my name became “Jeffuchi.”

Soon I’ll be on the mandap with P. Our wedding ceremony will be mostly Hindu but not entirely traditional. I won’t ride an elephant (I would if I could) or a horse in the barat, or wear a kurta or sherwani. But the barat! Holy Moly I’m excited for it, and it’s just the beginning. My family will probably need a little help……ok a lot of help. P jokingly suggested we help by starting the barat at the bar. I want it to involve both families – my brother, my mom, and hopefully my soon-to- be brother-in law, as well as all of the aunties and uncles and cousins that have shown me how it’s done. I’m sure my family will get the hang of it, and I predict any formal separation of families (i.e. who’s dancing and who’s not) will end when the dhol drummers begin. I know P’s family will be jumping.

Ever since I’ve been engaged that’s how I picture MotaDad and Ammi – joyous and jumping. It makes me happy. I remember visiting last spring to talk with them about my future with P. I was so nervous the first half of my visit I couldn’t sit still or eat, and somehow tea time that day involved a table of food. I did eventually talk, and asked MotaDad and Ammi for their blessing. MotaDad stared at me for what seemed an eternity, tried to give me a hard time being the jokester he is, but couldn’t hold his laughter.

For that split second of eternity waiting for his reaction, I had a strange thought. I looked at my arm and imagined it turning golden brown.

But it didn’t have to. Now I’m “Jeffuchi"...

But yeah, I still get sunburned.

Monday Musings: Baby Got Brains

D. just got his very first "report card"...! We are alerting the proper agencies now that we have confirmed that D is "proficient" in "stacking objects" and that he is "in the process of mastering" certain "social courtesies." Mensa, you reading?

It was such a funny moment, reading D's report card while holding my middle son and making my littlest one's bottle. Looking at our baby, S., it's almost impossible to imagine that, in three short years, she will have traded in the spitting up and constant napping for the perpetual "why?" verbal dance and something approaching cognitive thought.

Unless of course she is already far smarter than we give her credit for. According to this article which sites a bunch of studies in support: Even young babies have complex thought-processes and are able to explore and understand cause and effect and even probability. The author goes as far as to posture that babies are "sometimes smarter than adults":

Babies are captivated by the most unexpected events. Adults, on the other hand, focus on the outcomes that are the most relevant to their goals. In a well-known experiment, adults saw a video of several people tossing a ball to one another. The experimenter told them to count how many passes particular people made. In the midst of this, a person in a gorilla suit walked slowly through the middle of the video. A surprising number of adults, intent on counting, didn’t even seem to notice the unexpected gorilla...Adults rely more on what they already know. Babies aren’t trying to learn one particular skill or set of facts; instead, they are drawn to anything new, unexpected or informative.

(I can completely imagine myself ignoring the gorilla...I'm such an "adult"...!)

Obviously there is no need to stop the presses in order to declare that we don't give our kids enough credit. Sometimes the sympathy and common sense that my children express and articulate teaches me. And by "sometimes" I mean "often." But there is something about a study like this that does give me pause. Because I DO believe that we over-program our kids these days, and I DO think that summers should be about playing and doing things such as contemplating clouds...but if all those neurons are firing away like mad men (Oh, thank you for being back "Mad Men"!) in my kids' heads, then isn't it a bit negligent of me not to teach them three languages, get out the math flash cards, enroll them in six different sorts of martial arts?

Well, before we all "add to cart" every Baby Einstein offering on Amazon, take heed of the article's take-away message:

Sadly, some parents are likely to take the wrong lessons from these experiments and conclude that they need programs and products that will make their babies even smarter...

But what children observe most closely, explore most obsessively and imagine most vividly are the people around them. There are no perfect toys; there is no magic formula. Parents and other caregivers teach young children by paying attention and interacting with them naturally and, most of all, by just allowing them to play.

Oh well, thank God. Cause I have lots of "slow parenting" (not to mention praciticing certain "social courtesies" with the babies) that I need to attend to...!

Monday Musings: Who you gonna call?

Jennifer Aniston just won a parenting award. And a recent poll concluded that most people would rather have the child-less actress babysit their children than call up Anjelina Jolie, mother of 6, for the job.

It got me thinking. Oprah is a God-figure to the world on topics like marriage and parenting--but she isn't married and doesn't have any kids. In the same babysitting poll (who conducts these sorts of things, anyway?!) , Ellen DeGeneres and her partner Portia de Rossi, who have no children, topped the poll of more than 10,000 moms that asked which star they would feel most comfortable leaving their kids with.

It's odd, no? Kind of like when you are going to get a haircut--and the hairdresser has horrible hair. Or a facial and the aesthetician has bad skin. Or a pedicure and...heh.

Who do you go to for parenting advice? Do you take parenting advice from people without kids?

Monday Musings: Let He Who Has Not Sinned...

It has become a universal refrain amongst the most open-minded, wonderful moms I know that "I don't judge another mom based on anything." I say it myself, I understand why we say it: We realize parenthood is really difficult and that what may work for me may not work for you. It is aspirational, in a way, so that when we see the mom feeding her little girl excessive amounts of Pixi Stix on the plane, we try to understand that that may be the one way that her darling daughter will sit still, it might have been a promised treat, maybe they are organic Pixi Stix....!

I understand it but sometimes I wonder what we are doing to our own moral compasses to take so much pride in not judging anything. When do we cross the line between being open-minded to becoming unopinionated in a borderine-lobotomized way?

This sort of obtuse question came to mind last night as I was (for the first time in many weeks) reading the New York Times magazine cover to cover (oh how I have missed you!). Did you catch the article called "Love in 2-D" about the growing legion of Japanese men seeking love and companionship with...body-pillow girlfriends? Yes. That's right. There is a growing number of adult males in Japan who are in "relationships" with body pillows printed with these sort of pre-pubescent wide-eyed anime characters on them. They take the body pillows on dates, some have sex with them, they say things like "a 2-D relationship is much more passionate than a 3-D one" and, of their "companions," "she is my life's work."

Reading this article, my mind was racing. Terms like child pornograpy and sociopath jumped around in my head. But another, probably highly-conditioned portion of my mind kept reeling in my gut reaction and telling me to not judge, to be empathetic, to put myself into these mens' shoes. Obviously they are lonely. Obviously they have been hurt. Most probably would love a real relationship and are using these pillows as a substitute till they get there.

Right?

Who knows. I am just curious about this phenomenon of being tolerant of everything. I think part of being a mature, thoughtful, sensient person in the world involves seeing nuance in situations. I hope to raise empathetic childrend. But, end of the day, I am also pretty sure that the idea of a grown man romancing a pillow of a 10 year old girl in a bikini is objectively disturbing. And yet--I recoil at the idea of coming to such a conclusion. Such a judgment. Because I don't judge...!

Maybe it's the fact that I wouldn't want even these Japanese pillow-lovers to judge certain aspects of my life. Maybe it's the internalized belief that we never truly understand what somebody else is going through, or what is really going through somebody else's mind. Maybe it's the greatest acknowledgment of the human condition to not judge--because, really, we all do what we need to do to get through the day. I don't know. But I do wonder about the amount of pride I have taken in being ostensibly "non-judgmental." Why is it so important to me?

...Incidentally, has the NYTimes Magazine always been so child-centric? In case you missed it, check out this beautiful article about an inspirational lesbian couple fighting to keep the child they have fostered since she was a 2 week old with crack in her bloodstream, incapable of even a moment of sleep. And also this piece about the messages we give our children, as told from the point of view of a columnist who grew up living in fear.

Monday Musings: Bittersweet Goodbyes

My sister-in-law and brother-in-law moved from the Bay to Baltimore this past weekend. For five years, my husband and I have had the luxury of having both of our sisters live short car rides away. It's meant that "keeping in touch" was not a real process and we didn't have to work too hard at it. It's meant that we have all become family in that way that can only occur when there aren't confines of time, occasion, hotel rooms, the pressure to "bond."

My brother in law is a doctor and his (super prestigious) fellowship is taking him to The Wire-town. In my heart of heart of hearts (because I have to dig deep to get beyond the urge to kidnap them), I know this is going to be an amazing experience for these guys. How often do 30-something year olds with an infant get the chance to go on a one year adventure in a new city, to reinvent themselves without the pressure to sink roots? Not that often. And I am so excited for them!

But then there is the fact that our go-to people are leaving and that we have surmounted many hurdles to get to the strong, unbreakable relationship we currently hold. The fact that my memories of my married life are intertwined with my memories of them. The fact that my eldest is semi-cognizant of what is going on. Try explaining "fellowship" to a 3 year old who is struggling to understand that his Bhua isn't going to be ten minutes away anymore, in the cool condo with the awesome fish pond.

"Why can't Bhua and Swaph (yes--he calls my sister-in-law Bhua, but has foregone the analog for her husband...!) stay here mommy?," he said the other day.

"Because Swap has a job in Baltimore, baby," I said.

"We don't need doctors in Berkeley mommy?"

"Well, we do, D, but Swap got a really super amazing fun like running around in the park all day job in Baltimore so they have to go for a while," I said.

D was quiet.

"Hmmm," he said.

D's pregnant pauses, punctuated by "Hmmms" often yielded awesome results. I couldn't wait.

"What D?" I said.

"Bhua can stay here then," he concluded.

This was D's first real goodbye and, at the risk of ascribing sentiments to a toddler that he doesn't really feel--I think this experience has been one of the first times I have seen D sad.

Yesterday, apropos of nothing, D said: "But mommy? If Bhua and Swaph leave that means that they can't eat pizza with us, right?"

What a kid's perspective. It leveled me.

We have eaten pizza in the courtyard of these guys' house countless times, endless evenings around a wood-burning pizza oven during which my sister-in-law concocts delicious, thin crust pizzas, kids run rampant, nights linger. D has been to more of those nights than any other events thus far in his 3 and 1/2 year old life.

"Yup, that's right, D," I said, trying to think of something to make him feel better. What could I say? "But you can tell them how much you've loved getting pizza with them?"

Lame attempt, I know, but I was sad too. It was affecting my cheerleading.

"But I want them to get pizza with us forever for the rest of my life forever," he said (whinily, I have to admit....!)

Me too, I wanted to scream! But Mommy-Protector took over.

"They want to get pizza with you for the rest of your life forever too, D., but for a little while the have to go away."

D got really quiet but it was as if you could hear his freakily absorbant mind churning. It's the most amazing thing to witness this little kid learning about life and love and loss. Figuring things out. Conceptualizing the magical, wonderful world around him. His sense of time is both hilarious and profound because, for him, there is only "yesterday" and "tomorrow." He will say things like "Mommy, remember yesterday when we went to the zoo" when in actuality we went to the zoo 3 months ago. Zen in an odd sort of 3 year old way and just one of the many reasons I wish I could Innerspace myself and live in D's pre-frontal cortex for, like, a day.

But back to the pizza.

"I don't want them to go away mommy," D said. No longer whiny. Just poignantly plaintive.

"I know baby," I said. "How about we have pizza tonight, wouldn't that be fun," I said, all false cheer.

D was quiet.

"Does that sound like a good plan, D?" I said. D loves "plans."

"I don't think so Mommy," he said. I was shocked of course. What kid doesn't want pizza?

"I'm going to wait to have pizza with Bhua and Swaph," D continued. "When they come back home. Tomorrow."

Monday Musings: Love in the Time of Stochasticity

I was on the phone with Comcast the other day for, quite literally, 57 minutes. Good times, those long tete-a-tetes with your cable provider, no?

We had to switch our modem from a business unit to a residential one and, for some reason, the minute we did, nothing worked. No tv, no internet, no phone. It was all Little House on the Prairie. I sent bird signals to my sister to pick up milk.

It was frustrating. We get so used to feeling "connected." Whether it be via television, the internet, or (for some people) the phone (and that parenthetical is there because I am the WORST phone-person in the history of the planet--ask my mother-in-law.) We get so used to feeling like we have knowledge--of everything--right at our fingers and that we can be in touch, not only with information, but with the people we love (or socially network with. heh.) at the drop of a hat.

This Comcast phone call took place as my husband was in the air, on the way to India to see his grandmother who had, seemingly out of the blue, fallen into a coma. Hands were wrung, logistics were hashed out, tears were shed and, as the sum total of it all: My husband knew in his heart that he had to go be with his grandmother and grandfather. And I loved him even more for that being the case.

Yet, there I was, left with details like getting our On-Demand back on (normally something firmly in my husband's domain...having to do with that blasted "technology"...), so that our eldest did not revolt against the world because of a day without the Berenstein Bears.

"I don't understand," I said. "Our--what is the word? Our white box thing? Our router was working fine before we switched the other thing," I concluded, super proud of myself for coming up with the word "router."

"I here you ma'am," Mister Super Comcast Tech Guy said, "but I can see here by proxying into your system that the new modem is working absolutely pristinely (ed: pristinely? really?), but that it can't connect to your router."

Connections. We try to make them all the time. We try to make sense of things in the everyday that are--let's face it--pretty random. In the last week, here are some of the things that have happened: Michael Jackson died, Farah Fawcett died, my husband's grandmother went into a coma, my brother-in-law's grandfather passed away, one of our best friends was hospitalized for a staph infection, my sister's wedding invitations went out, I decoupaged a table, my middle son learned to love blueberries and finally said "mama" instead of "papa" (which is, believe it or not, what he called me)...

What does it all mean?

None of "it" mattered during the Comcast call. "It" was rendered meaningless because, unless I got Sprout On Demand back, my kid was gonna torch the house.

"Is there something I can do to re-set the router," I asked, plaintively?

"Of course, let's try it again," Mister (kind of annoying) Super Comcast Tech guy said...for the ninth time...

And again, off we went to regain our connectivity.

One of the first things my husband and I talked about when we heard the news about his grandmother was, of course, the fate of his grandfather. What happens to somebody when your connection to the world and your lifeline is taken from you after 60-some years of marriage? What becomes of you? How do we make life worth living for him if the worst case scenario comes to fruition? How do we connect him to us? What will we be like when we are in the same situation--hopefully, knock-on-wood, pray to whatever god(s) you believe in-- years from now?

My husband's grandparents don't have a traditional love story, but they have a love story nonetheless. One that takes them from Ghaziabad to Kampala and back again. One that includes the addition of a daughter-in-law (my mother-in-law) who added much needed laughter and love to the house and glue to the family. One that has allowed my husband to have memories of being a 3 year old toddler, bouncing on the knees of his beloved Vaddi Mummy.

Love is random and it has no script. Kind of like conversations with cable service-providers.

"I give up, I don't know what to do," I told Mister (now super annoying) Super Tech Comcast guy who--honestly?--at this point (minute 49) was losing patience with me.

"I think you need a new router ma'am," he said, oozing false politeness.

"But I don't understand," I cried, appealing to rationality in a world where it doesn't exist (aka Comcast). "The router worked fine today. It only stopped working when we changed the modem!" I said (mentally patting myself on the back for using both "router" and "modem" in one sentence).

"I can't explain it ma'am," he said. I gritted my teeth. Of course you can't, I thought.

"But sometimes, if you have had a modem and a router together for a long time, and you change the modem?"

Yes, I thought, waiting for some sort of fancy technical voodoo retort.

"Sometimes the router remembers the old modem...," Comcast-Tech-Guy said, trailing off.

Sometimes the router remembers the old modem?

"Sometimes the router remembers the old modem...and misses it..."

Wow. My router misses my old modem.

They had been together for 5 years.

As long as I've been married.

Random.

What does it all mean?

Who knows.

Love is all around us.

Monday Musings: Ode to My Joy

On the way out of my sister-in-law's place yesterday, my husband joked, "Based on how much we do, Father's Day should be, like, from 7 a.m. till noon. Then it should be a continuation of Mother's day..."

We all laughed and my sister-in-law and I exchanged that sort of running-joke-knowing-glance. Yes, moms do alot. Yes, moms--let's be honest--do more than dads, more often than not. Yes we give birth, we nurse, we know how much milk is in the fridge.

But you know what? This journey--and let's be clear, parenthood is nothing if not a journey of Homerian proportions--would be a horribly whiter shade of pale without these guys by our side. At least for me--and I think for most of you as well. I was telling someone the other day that having a partner in parenthood isn't about tallying up who does what, and who does more--it's more about having somebody to have adult conversation with during a day of non-stop baby logistics, going to sleep next to someone you love at the end of a hard day, knowing that you entered into this whole thing with your co-conspirator in life.

So my ode to my joy, my husband, the only person in the world who can make me laugh and cry at the same time, who makes up songs with me about Castro and nachos, who diapers babies as often as I do and who, when I feel like I am drowning in the mundanity of it all, can make me feel plugged in and alive:

Thank you.

Thank you for convincingly still declaring that you think I am beautiful after 3 kids in 4 years.

Thank you for understanding the notion of something approaching equal parenting even though we have never discussed it as a philosophy.

Thank you for never, ever allowing me to take myself too seriously...but at the same time knowing when I need to be serious.

Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you for being able to laugh at yourself (there's a lot to laugh about...!)

Thank you for consistently, persistently, continually, striving. To be better. At everything.

Thank you for my children, my life.

And one request--Not about helping me during night feedings; not about not going on so may business trips. Not about schedules, expectations, formula, groceries, drop off, pick up, date nights, phone calls. Not about any of the trappings of this life with three kids under 4. My one request? Please please...PLEASE Get rid of those shoes.

Monday Musings: HELP...I Need Somebody...

Why is it so hard for us to ask for help? And, furthermore, why are we so incapable of asking our friends for what we want?

In the last month or so I have done a couple of things that have made me feel supremely uncomfortable. When my husband was out of town for a week, I called out to friends (mostly couples) to see what they were up to on a Saturday night and asked if I could join in--it was one of those weekends that ended a week of constant, round-the clock, childcare duties and, while I often dream about early nights in bed watching t.v., those dreams usually include my husband next to me. In a nutshell: I wanted to be out, with people. Then, in planning a party for my sister's upcoming wedding, I solicited help from other people, foregoing my usual refrains of "Don't bring anything," "It's not a big deal!," "Seriously, I got it covered!"...

I'm not used to asking people for anything. And I know I'm not alone in this respect.

I've talked about this a few times with close friends--this sort of inability to be anything less than The Woman Who Does Everything (And Looks Fabulous While Doing It.) On the one hand, I think we all realize that everyone we know at this point is busy--with kids, work, family, life--and why would we want to add any more stress to that. On the other hand--at the risk of cuing the 80s soundtrack--isn't that what friends are for? To help when you're having a party, to talk you through whatever you are going through even though it is 3 a.m., to watch your kids for a few hours so you can get a haircut...I could go on and on...

It's the weirdest thing. I love being the go-to person for people. I love helping people--and a part of that is selfish because I love the feeling I get after I have helped somebody. This sort of small sense of fulfillment, in the world of everyday craziness. And yet--at the same time--it takes me forever and a day to let somebody be the mirror image for me. To let people help me--whether that means bringing spinach dip to a dinner soiree or letting somebody see my cry when I am scared.

Why is that? What is this image so many of us are trying to project? I know that nobody wants to seem needy, weak. But I also know--we all know--that nobody is Superwoman. I don't know anybody who wears a cape and can fly. And, for the lucky amongst us, we know that we have fabulous, loving people in our lives who are ready and willing to transcend that divide between friend and family, who would feel privileged and honored to be in our inner circles, who already love us, warts, (stretch-marks, those extra 5 pounds) and all.

I'm trying to let people in. I'm trying to not always be "fine!" I obviously don't want to be a constant parasite on people but I am getting okay with asking somebody to pick something up on the way to my house, or to drop me off at the airport. These were things that would have horrified me before. And I gotta tell you, in addition to making life easier, letting people in--really letting them in--has an added bonus: It makes friendships even deeper.

Win-win, no?

Monday Musings: I Know The Secrets That You Keep...

Do you sometimes wonder about the secrets your fellow-moms are carrying around with them?

D has been in preschool now for almost a year and, during every drop-off and pick-up I find myself wondering about these other moms, what their stories are.

What were they doing right before the slapped on a bit of Chap-stick for the drop-off scene? Do they sometimes let their kids eat cereal for dinner? How much tv do their children really watch?

What is their marriage like, what time to they start drinking wine, do they miss work if they are at home, do they wish they were at home if they are at work?

Does that woman wear a thong under her Juicy Couture track suit? Are those pajamas under the luxe Burberry trench?

My imagination goes nuts.

There is this special thrill to knowing the secret lives of other people. And there is a thrill in divulging secrets too, no? Entire sites, like Post Secret, are devoted to allowing us to release secret thoughts that we don't ordinarily allow to see the light of our real lives. My friends L and C even started a site called shameover where people can write about the silly things they did after that one-cocktail-too-many.

The preschool universe is the perfect milieu for concocting fanciful stories of what "the mom next door" is really like. For the most part, you only see these other moms for brief snippets of time and yet, the logistical constraints of the event--we all get there at a certain time, we all have to do certain things, we all leave shortly thereafter-- give a crucible-like structure to your daydreaming. Last week, while I was putting D in his car seat and a mom I didn't know was doing the same for her bundle of (3-pm-post-snack-energy) joy, I heard her whisper to her daughter, "Just please help me here and be good and I will give you candy when we get home."

I laughed out loud. I have uttered the same thing countless times. But in the Montessori preschool parking lot, where the organic kale is to the right and they are handing out mom-of-the-year awards to hemp-clad women on the left, bribery of any sort and bribery by CANDY? The word verboten comes to mind.

I of course immediately liked this mother. I wondered if she wanted to join me for a playdate. Sans kids...! I sneaked glances at her and into her car to find some clue as to what other secrets she might have. Maybe she hated breastfeeding too. Maybe she chooses the museum to take her daughter to based on its proximity to the restaurant she wanted to go to for lunch. Maybe she still, after three years, couldn't get it together to keep diapers and wipes in supply and had midnight-hour dashes to the Safeway.

I have had so many revealing moments like this. The sleek, sophisticate mom in that impossible -to- maintain camel coat who pulls out a random Hello Kitty coin purse to pay for a bakesale item. The almost-but-not-quite Goth momma whose rear-view mirror has myriad Christ iconography. Who are these people? Where did they come from, how do they live?

It reminds me of the question that always comes to me on vacation, when we are lingering over yet another latte or mimosa at noon or 3 in a random cafe: Who are the rest of these people? What life do they have that allows them to be here right now?? It's just like that. Except writ small, on the scale of child-raising mundanity.

Or maybe I am making too much out of nothing? Maybe those people at the cafes are just fellow tourists, wondering the same thing about everyone else. Maybe the mom with the Burberry and pajamas wasn't up till dawn at her swingers party but was instead...just sleeping. Maybe we are all just boring old moms. It is possible...

On yet another day, taking D to school, I was next to yet another anonymous mom dropping off her child. I noticed said mom sneaking looks into my trunk as I unloaded stuff for D's school project. I knew the look well and tried to be the secret-whisperer from her end.

"I wonder why she always comes to school with wet hair?" she easily could have been thinking.

"I wonder if she feels embarrassed about driving that SUV."

"Is that the mom who has had 3 kids in 4 years?"

Then I noticed exactly where she was looking and I didn't have to try so hard to read her mind.

Sitting there in my trunk was a people-watcher's dream. That Indian mom? The smiley one with the rambunctious little kid who comes to school in an SUV and always has wet hair? She has a box in her trunk with a blonde wig, a bag of Fritos, and--get this--eighteen boxes of temporary tattoos...!

What does it all mean??

(You don't think I am going to tell you do I? Even boring old moms need their secrets...)

Monday Musings: Remember Why You Started This

From the time I was twelve until the time I was twenty-six I kept a journal every day of my life. Every single day. Sometimes, in fits of masochism, I go back and read some of these volumes. There are embarrassing odes to denim jumpers my mom wouldn't let me buy, self-righteous soliloquies on the perennial journal subject that "nobody understands me," and please oh please don't get me started on the bad poetry (For about six months, I wrote various renditions of "Leda and the Swans"...I can still hear WBY groaning in his grave...)

I'm not sure exactly why my "journaling" (I wonder how many words owe their existence to Oprah) ended. And it didn't exactly end. But, regardless of my efforts to the contrary, I have not kept up a daily journal since I was twenty-six. Which doesn't mean I don't try. In fact, for the last months I have been attempting to do some consistent writing again. And the other day, turning the page of my journal du jour, I came upon the following phrase, greeting me on what I thought would be a blank page:

"Remember why you started this."

Remember why you started this?

At first, I was creeped out. It was as if my journal was auditioning for a bit part in a horror movie. But the thing is, although I felt immediately affronted by my very own journal...the quote was in my handwriting. I had written it. It was me talking to me.

Since I was a kid, whenever I got a new journal, I would flip to random pages and write short notes to myself. I'm not sure why I started doing this but, as the years went on, the little blurbs became time-capsules of sorts. Reminders of the moment in which I began a particular journal. In one of my early journals, these snippets included such choice aphorisms as "Stay real" and "Be you." Gag much? They got a tad bit better with swiped phrases such as: "It's never too late to be the person you want to be." And in later journals, they became a little less yearbook-y: "Do you still like the phrase about the blue canary in the lighthouse." (Confused? Google "They Might be Giants.")

But this one? "Remember why you started this?" I couldn't remember when I wrote it, or what it meant.

Like I said, I hadn't kept a daily journal in a while--did I mean remember why I started writing again?

I got this beautiful, leather, handmade journal (thank you E.) right after I got married--did I mean remember why I married my husband?

I hadn't written in the beautiful, leather, handmade journal since I had had D.--did I mean remember why we decided to have kids?

Truth be told: I don't know. But the somewhat amorphous fortune-cookie advice couldn't have come at a better time. I was having one of those weeks when one part of my head was perpetually devoted to waxing nostalgic about my life pre-kids. We went to a party with all three kids and, in the course of 2 hours, I didn't manage to have a full conversation with even one person. We spent an entire Sunday in what we call "survival mode"--the world in which once breakfast for the kids is over, and the kitchen is clean, it is time to prepare lunch...and once lunch is over, and the kitchen is clean, it's time to prepare dinner...and, oh yes, there are myriad bouts of crying and whining and negotiating with 3 year olds in between.

I know you know what I mean yes?

Of course you do. And those days/weeks/months are horrible. And anybody who claims not to feel like that sometimes post-kid? I don't understand them. But...Remember Why You Started This....

Because those long days and those parties where you leave more exhausted than fanciful? Those days when you are solely taking care of little people's needs, those countless hours of cleaning (organic) Goldfish crackers out of various crooks of your home (Is that just me?)? Those evenings without concerts, those afternoons without cocktails, those days of derrieres and those fortnights of absolute fatigue? They're hard. But they are the the short term. They're the price to pay. They are the admission ticket for holidays of boisterous dinner tables, reliving beauty through the eyes of our kids, being able to give unconditional love, and learning how to receive it in our adult-lives...On and on...

There are so many moments of motherhood that are pure beauty. On good days it is all "Madonna with Child(ren)", with perfect lighting, a great soundtrack, the wind whipping through our hair, propelling the little sailboats of our maternal lives on their charted courses. But sometimes? Sometimes when it's a little tougher and the waters get a little choppier? Remembering why we are doing this--remembering why we started this--it can get us through the day. It can give us solace. It can propel us to safe shores during those moments when the wind just isn't there.

Monday Musings: Kinda Great Expectations

Judith Warner knows how to stir the pot. This article, making waves throughout the internet and on chat-boards, tells us that if we want to be happy as mothers and as people, we need to lower our expectations. Going one step further than the usual cry to not sweat the little things and to give ourselves a break, Warner hypothesizes that our desires to be better and do more is actually tied up in a refusal to accept our own mortality:

If one were to be highbrow about it, one could see the desire for self-surpassing – the refusal to accept, for example, a muffin top, or a greater need for sleep – as a refusal to accept mortality, which is of course the ultimate self-limit.

Warner has a litany of Undone Things that rings true to every mom: Unorganized photos, art that isn't hung, those extra 5 (10) pregnancy pounds. Who doesn't have a to-do list that never goes away? But she decides that "living life to the fullest" does not necessitate fulfilling these sorts of goals. In fact, she says, living life to the fullest requires re-adjusting what we expect of ourselves.

I guess I agree. In part. If your to-do list is becoming your jailer and you never feel like you can relax and just be, I think it's time to re-evaluate. But throwing out all self-improvement aspirations? Isn't that a bit much?

Sometimes I wish I didn't want so much. Not as in things (okay sometimes things!), but in terms of the self-improvement goals that Warner seems to loathe. It would be easier if I didn't care about making photo albums and keeping the house in better shape.

But...I do want to make photo albums. I do want the house to be in better shape. Is it bad to want to be more? I don't think so. Yet, you read the comments to Warner's piece and it seems that moms everywhere feel oppressed by scrapbooks and are collectively waiting with baited breath till they get the okay to do...nothing...

I'm all about realistic expectations. But sometimes this sort of thinking is simply a justification for complacency. Nothing great about that expectation.

Plus, I am not letting my muffin-top win just yet.

Monday Musings: I Want A Good Card

Mother's Day is next weekend. Men are panicking to find "the perfect gift," FTD is trying to swindle guilt-ridden adult children, brunch spots are readying tepid high tea events and, in a light of shining joy in an otherwise somewhat silly day--children are writing their moms cards.

What can you say in a card to sum up what your mom means to you? At any given point in my life, I have wanted to write my mom effusive praise--"Thank you for struggling with every fiber of your being to give us the life we take for granted"--and tongue-in-cheek sarcasm--"Thank you for doubting my fashion choices every step of the way."

At D's preschool, we were told to bring in certain supplies so that the kids can "make Mom a mother's day surprise!!" (Yes there were two exclamation points in the instruction). Regardless of the fact that it's hardly a surprise, let alone a welcome one when when I am rushing to the 24 hour Walgreens at 11 pm to procure craft items for my "present"--I am secretly giddy at the prospect of getting a Mother's Day card from my first born. Maybe not this year--he's only 3--but in the years to come. As much as I appreciate my husband "celebrating" me on a random weekend in May, I am not his mother. I love hearing him tell me that I am a good mom. But he luckily tells me that all the time. It doesn't have to be relegated to one day at an over-priced brunch where I sip really bad champagne.

But my kids. Will my kids tell me I am a good mom? What will they say in their cards to me? I am hoping it will not be "Thank you for letting me watch so much t.v."

At my 11th hour Walgreens run, I took a look at some of the Mother's Day card offerings, thinking about how I would receive some of the (admittedly canned) sentiments from my children.

"Thank you for being my best friend."

No thank you.

"Thank you for putting me on this earth."

My abilities stopped then??! All downhill afterwards??

"Thank you for always believing in me."

Hmm, not bad, but it triggers "The Wind Beneath my Wings" which in turn triggers my gag reflex.

"Thank you for always, no matter what, making me feel safe."

I would take it.

"Thank you for teaching me the meaning of family and unconditional love."

Sold. And if it's written on construction paper with glitter--even better.

Monday Musings: That's What Friends Are For

We had such a great weekend--the perfect combination of time with the kids, time by ourselves, and time with friends (at a secret Dave Chappelle show in Oakland no less!). I spent much of Sunday in that cozy, fuzzy cocoon that, if you had to label it, would be called gratitude. Not much of a phone person, I even mustered up the energy to pick up the phone and call one of my best friends from law school. She and I are on constant contact on email but, obviously, there is nothing like a real conversation, where you hear someone's voice and where topics proceed in real time versus the weird timing of emails back and forth. I hung up the phone with a buzz--that is what time with good friends does right?

Apparently, it does more than that. According to this article, strong friendships may actually better your health and increase your life expectancy. Among the many mind-blowing statistics in the article: Women suffering from breast cancer who are without close friends are four times as likely to die from the disease as women with 10 or more friends. And, this anecdote blew me away as well:

Last year, researchers studied 34 students at the University of Virginia, taking them to the base of a steep hill and fitting them with a weighted backpack. They were then asked to estimate the steepness of the hill. Some participants stood next to friends during the exercise, while others were alone.

The students who stood with friends gave lower estimates of the steepness of the hill. And the longer the friends had known each other, the less steep the hill appeared.

“People with stronger friendship networks feel like there is someone they can turn to,” said Karen A. Roberto, director of the center for gerontology at Virginia Tech. “Friendship is an undervalued resource. The consistent message of these studies is that friends make your life better.”

Take a second to digest that: Friendship can actually change your perception of adverse situations!

It reminds me of a scene from the Sex And the City Movie (which I didn't even really like...) Remember when Miranda calls Carrie on New Years Eve? The scene of Carrie getting up and rushing over to Miranda, telling her "You aren't alone," that beautiful version of Auld Lang Syne playing in the background--it's one of the best miniatures of what friendship means that I have ever seen...

Ever since I became a mother I have appreciated my friendships so much more. The simplest acts of human kindness make me well up now (why is that? do they inject cheesiness when they take out the baby?) so the wonderful, loving friendships I have in my life bowl me over, when I really think about it.

But here's the thing: It seems like lots of us have stopped making new friends. Think about it--when is the last time you met somebody you connected with and really got to cultivate a new friendship with her? We all have the usual rigamarole of why this is so, not the least of which is that--um--we are moms and are therefore busy. But is that it? Do we just not have time for new friends anymore?

According to this clip it's more than that. Entitled "Why Is It So Difficult To Make Mom Friends," this video chronicles women who explain their stumbling stones in finding kindred spirits amongst other moms. To wit: There's even an eHow post on the topic of "How to Make Mom Friends."

It can't be just time, can it? Are moms too judgmental to become close with other moms? Are our social interactions too focused on children to give friendships a chance? I wonder if that part of us that is curious to meet new people and experience new things gets dimmed a little post-children. Because of fatigue and time limitations, yes...but also because of complacency...we don't need new friends anymore, like me might have in college, or when we moved to a new city. We are fine with how things are...

I vacillate on the take-away from this though. On the one hand, I never feel like i have enough time for the wonderful friends I have. Perhaps the goal, then, should be to make more time for our friends in meaningful ways. Don't just play catch-up and replay the same jokes over and over again. Engage. Learn. Grow.

On the other, who wants life to be crystallized exactly where we are right now? We have to live and learn and change (hopefully for the better) and that means meeting new people and not being static. And though it's harder to make new friends now than it was in college--when the magical perfect storm occurs, and you do actually meet a new friend with whom you can laugh and cry as if you have known her forever...man can it be amazing.

Plus, it just might lower your cholesterol...!

Monday Musings: Good Stuff

A funny thing happened on the way to the forum, er, grocery store. I think I saw D begin to learn abstract thinking. We were playing the "you know what else is good" game (what, you don't know this one?!?) It goes something like this:

D: Trees are good, right Mommy?
Me: Yes, trees are very good!
D: You know what else is good?
Me: What baby?
D: The sky!
Me: Yes, D, the sky is very good!
D: You know what else is good?
Me: What baby?
D: Pirates!

This can go on for hours. But yesterday, on the way to the supermarket, D changed it up on me and, after proclaiming all sorts of tangible objects that we passed by as "good"--trucks, the road, a gas station--D said "you know what else is good Mommy?"

"What baby?" I said

"Love is good mommy."

I was taken aback.

For the millionth time I realized that we don't give our little ones enough credit. In between breakfast, lunch, dinner, bath, thirty minutes of educational television (heh)--amidst all the noise, they are becoming these people. What I wouldn't do to get to visit D's mind and brain processes right now! The stuff he is starting to say these days (not counting the constant repetition of what he "needs"--candy, apples, toys)--some of it is actually poetic. The other day we were sitting on the roof, basking in the warm sun of a perfect Berkeley evening.

"It's still beautiful day right Mommy?" D said, looking over to the hills that were starting to get dark. "Beautiful day" is what he calls the morning.

"Yup, it's still beautiful day."

"It's not dark yet?"

"Nope, not yet."

"The dark is over there but soon it will be with us right Mommy?"

"Right D."

"And sometimes the dark comes to the whole world but we can still remember the beautiful day right Mommy?"

"Right D."

I want to remember the beautiful day and these beautiful moments. These little snippets of dialogue. Of insight into a nascent, sponge-like mind. It's become true to the point of cliche that the best way to experience the simple joys in life is to see the world through a child's eyes. To appreciate how green a tree is. To laugh from the belly over the fluttering of a moth. For me, I find wonder every day in watching D's mind evolve, his thoughts become complex. Seeing him make connections and articulate his (amazing, hilarious, bizarre, wonderful) ideas.

"Love is good, right Mommy?"

"Yes, D, love is very good."

"Do you love me mommy?"

"Yes D I love you very much."

"Good, that's good Mommy! You know what else is good?

"What D?"

"I love you too!"

Monday Musings: The Long and Short of It

I've been thinking about J. Alfred Prufrock quite a bit lately. He's an old friend of mine, whose words I re-visit often. And more than ever, it seems like I am measuring out my life in coffee spoons. It's a necessary evil of being the mom to a newborn that the world becomes small, and that life gets parsed out into 3 hour intervals. I should be used to it. But even now, going through it for the third time, I find myself baffled by how monotonous and commonplace life can seem at one moment...and then how grand it can seem the next...

We all want to be these amazing parents, we all have these wonderful hopes and dreams for our children and can envision picturesque scenes of what family will look like 10 years down the road. But, for now, we are nursing children, pureeing vegetables, agonizing over "play based" versus "academic" preschools.

We all want to be wise. Soulful. Grounded. We all want perspective. These are our lofty, long-term goals.

But, in day to day life, we get angry, we are short-sighted. We "sweat the small stuff"...

How to balance the goals we have for ourselves as the people we hope to become, and the challenges and mundanity of the everyday?

On the eliptical machine last week (for the first time in, oh, 2 years...!), I was thinking about perspective. Taking a step back and seeing the bigger picture. Perhaps I was influenced by the Zen-like 60-somethings at my gym who exercise for joy as opposed to me who just wants to fit into my jeans! I don't know, but for some reason I found myself thinking about our vantage points on the world, our frames of reference, and how we go about achieving perspective on our surroundings. To me, it comes down to short term versus long term...

In the short term, this recession sucks. It is oppressive and it is sapping our contemporaries not only of money but also of hope. But, in the long term--we are likely gaining an appreciation for the things that matter--friends and family, most of all--in a way we can't even articulate yet. (Plus, according to every analysis of the recession that you read, people are "staying in" more and playing tons of board games...which, in my book, is always a good thing...bring on the Scrabble...!)

In the short term, breaking D.'s horrible eating habits and, as a byproduct, watching him not eat for meals at a time is breaking my heart. In the long term we will all be happier.

In the short term, nursing my baby seems shackling. Long term, I know I will be proud that I was able to do it and--who knows--I might miss the feeling of her little body against mine.

In the short term, I am itching to DO SOMETHING. In the long term: I know I will.


I came upon an article recently that set forth a "process" by which to make decisions and it sort of dovetails with the long term/short term divide that sprung from my 29 1/2 minutes at the gym. The process is called the 10-10-10 model. When you are confronting a choice, you ask yourself: How will my decision affect me in 10 minutes; 10 months; 10 years.

Should I have that second (fifth) glass of wine? In ten minutes: Yes I would be glad that I did. In ten months: Who will remember this night. In ten years: Seriously? Decision: Have it...!

Okay, seriously: Should I embark upon a new and slightly scary business venture. In ten minute: I will feel uncomfortable and fish out of water. In ten months: I will be stretched even thinner than now and might be frantic. In ten years: If it works out I will be so happy and proud that I took the plunge. Decision: Hmmm...

Try it. For real, just try it. Should you take the pay cut for the job you love? Should you splurge on the concert tickets? Should you go out or work on that novel?

10 minutes, 10 months, 10 years...

If you're thinking that this "model" seems simplistic--I agree. But, the hook of the article introducing it tugged me in: "Have you ever gotten the feeling that you're not living your life--it's living you?" Yes, yes I have. Plus, for me, the gimmick just works. It's a template to superimpose onto situations and that lends a structure to large and amorphous things. Which for me is good. And which, for me leads to that magical land called perspective.

Let us go then, you and I...

Monday Musings: Daddy's Girls and Mommy's Boys

I am an unapologetic "daddy's girl." Not in the way that my voice goes up ten octaves when I say "dad" and not in any sort of MTV "Super Sweet Sixteen" way. I didn't ask for and wasn't given ponies when I was a kid. But, nonetheless, part of my heart belongs to my dad. ( For what it's worth, almost everyone who meets my dad wants to give him part of his or her heart...but that is for another post...!)

You would think that my ability to label myself a daddy's girl, with all the stigma that entails, would make me sympathetic to the plight of the mommy's boys of the world. What's wrong with a boy being close to his mother right? I have two little boys and I obviously want to have a good relationship with them when they are adults...but ever since I was pregnant with my eldest, 4 years ago, I joked that I would do anything in my power to prevent unleashing "another Indian momma's boy into the world."

Indian Momma's Boys. Every Indian girl I know jokes about them but I can't think of one true example of the specimen. According to the NYTimes, though, they are live well and kicking--at least in India. This article--somewhat mysteriously featured on the front page of the Business section--has commerce experts weigh in on the “huge, continuing umbilical cord between mothers and sons" in India. Citing A.R. Rahman's profuse thanks to his mother during his Academy Awards acceptance speech, as well as the curious case of an Indian judge advising the feuding, billionaire Ambani brothers to take their disputes out of court and to their mother, the article paints a picture of Indian males as a uniformly doting bunch of slightly sappy little boys, constantly calling their moms.

What is it about the term "momma's boy" that makes us bristle? Obviously, if unpacking the term yields a child-man who demands to be taken care of by his wife as if she were his mother, that is one thing. We all have children to mother, we certainly don't need to take care of our husbands in the same way. But if it just means a grown man who is close to his mother, why is it so difficult for so many of us to stomach?

And is this phenomenon--of an Indian momma's boy--even true? Something about the article seems off. Like the author is trying to hitch her wagon onto the ever-growing Slumdog star. Are we really supposed to believe that these movers and shakers in present-day India are, as a rule, still so tethered to their moms that the "[h]and that Rocks the Cradle Can Call the Shots," as the article's title proclaims? If so, how does this phenomenon translate to the Indian men we all know here in the U.S.? And what is it about being Indian that lends itself to being more prone to being a mommy's boy?

As usual, I have no answers... It's my hope that we all establish wonderful, deep relationships with our children. It's my heartfelt goal to have my children love me the way I love my parents. My dad is currently in town visiting which means everything in my house has been fixed; all the toys have new batteries in them; our taxes are being done; we are going to fancy dinners; my kids are saying "Bapu" in their sleep they are so excited; I feel a sort of visceral joy and support that can only come from a truly selfless, loving presence in your vicinity. It is my fervent desire to be such a presence to my children...

But, at the end of the day, I would be lying if I said I would be okay with anybody ever labeling my sons as "momma's boys." So there it is...!

Monday Musings: What's It to You?

I was talking with my friend this weekend about how difficult it is to get our kids to (1) eat food; (2) sit still; (3) do our housework. You know, the usual. Half way through our conversation, she told me that she and her partner are seriously considering the second baby. We made jokes about how masochistic we are ("we" being the ever-growing club of people who, despite our jokes and eye-rolls, decide to have more than one child), referred to the recent news about the baby boom (there goes Harvard!), reminisced about our pre-baby days when we would have been hung over at the exact same time we were having a debate about strained pears...called it a conversation, said our i love yous, hung up.

I thought about my friend for the rest of the day. Thought about everything she and her partner have been through in their lives. Thought about how, without the science that gets maligned by people like Octo-mom, she would never have gotten the chance to be a biological parent, since she is gay.

I wish every single person who is opposed to gay marriage, or gay parenting, could see my friends, how strong their marriage is, what an amazing son they are raising. Every child should be so lucky to have such parents. As moms, we have insight into the inner-sanctum of many of our friends' parenting styles and all of us have our secret skeletons. Mine are not so secret (hello, I am writing a blog) and include such things as feeding my son Cheez-it(s), letting my 3 year old continue to drink out of a bottle, etc etc. My friend? The one I was talking with today? She's kind of perfect. Like, perfect in that way that her 2 year old son speaks Spanish, can spell, gives his toys to other people at the playground, likes asparagus, gives the best hugs in the world, slept through the night at 2 weeks. Just off the top of my head. And the clincher is that my friend--as much as the odds dictate otherwise, considering her son just spontaneously started speaking Chinese one day...heh...--is not Aggro Mom. She is laid-back, quick to laugh, okay with messes, prone to drinking wine at 4:59 p.m... like somebody else I know very, very, very well...!

Bottom line she is one of the best parents I know. She has an amazing marriage. And every day she has to fight just to be in a situation where she is allowed to be so good at what she is doing.

Some things are not fair. Like, that I can't remember the last time I had an uninterrupted night of sleep, and like that I cannot own these shoes. Other things are truly truly unjust. That's where I put the fact that large swaths of our country refuse to recognize my friend's right to be married to the person with whom she has chosen to live her life, raise her children, grow old.

Who are these people who would take away my friend's beautiful marriage from her; who would make it so that her lovely son does not have married parents? Why do they care so, so much about something that does not affect them in the least. Do they know that have caused poor Portia de Rossi to issue a network television "apology" for marrying Ellen?!? (Watch and feel very, very sorry for the poor innocent "gay" dog...!):

As we all know, parenthood is so, so amazing, but so, so difficult. Nobody should have to add nationwide scrutiny about his or her marriage and right to have children in the first place to all of the judgment and other social mores we already juggle...

Monday Musings: Constructive Criticism

Last week I wrote about the Elle magazine article "Die Mommy Die" , which deals with the issue of the culture of incessant child-based chatter, especially at the workplace. I was amazed at the amount of discussion and commentary the post brought on, both on the blog and off, including correspondence from people at Elle who were, actually, of two sides on the topic...

Apropos to this blog, one comment in particular got people talking. A poster who signed off as "Jack" said: "...I would dare say the poor children are better off in the care of a stranger at daycare, or dumped in the woods to be raised by wild dogs than with a resentful, selfish "mommy."

Whoa there man, who are you talking about? Oh wait. You're talking about me...!

Well, in response, I received a plethora of personal messages along the variety of" F#@$ Jack." Not going to lie, it felt great to get the (electronic) support so thanks for everyone who wrote!
But, in all honesty, when I first read "Jack's" comment, all I did was laugh and forward it along to two friends with the message "Wowza, glad I have acquired a thick skin." Truly, I wasn't fazed and I thought about my husband telling me that "once you have haters on your blog you know you've made it." So maybe I should start planning my "I made it" party (note to planners: I want cake...lots of cake).

As recently as two years ago, the situation would have been completely different. When I first had D, I would live in fear of hushed words or sidelong glances at playgrounds or anywhere else--signals that I must be doing something wrong. Like many moms, I was unsure of myself constantly and the idea that I was somehow not raising my child properly could level me. I had many nights of wondering how, how, how am I going to do this because, frankly, I felt like there was this little guy counting on me and I had no clue what to do to be his mom.

So what happened between now and then (besides being too tired to worry about what other people think)? I suppose I have climbed the mommy learning curve...but it's more than that. For better or worse; and whether true or not: I have developed the belief that I am a good mother. This is in the face of much damning empirical evidence to the contrary: My eldest subsists on air and water alone; my second-born wears clothing that bares his brother's name and I would be hard-pressed to find one item I have actually procured solely for him; tonight I rocked my youngest to sleep to my version of "Cause I Got High" ("I was gonna learn a lullaby, but then I got high...") And that's just the tip of the you-so-crazy-mommy iceberg...

But it's true. I feel like I'm good at this thing. And I feel as if my kids are lucky to have me. Isn't that egotistical? ("Jack" please don't answer that, it was rhetorical). Here's why: I enjoy them day to day, and I think they enjoy me. I can vividly remember when D was about 18 months old and when I was still getting the hang of the whole "motherhood" thing. The days that I felt I had "done good" were pegged with some activity that I could hang my hat on: Today I took D to the museum, or today D and I did 8 puzzles. It was how I knew to mark time and mark progression: Through accomplishment. These days it is different and that is how I know that I am different. How I feel as a mom is not based on where I took the kids on a particular day but rather what sorts of moments we shared, and--alert: cheesiness to follow--how they, especially my eldest who obviously is the most cognizant, look at me at the end of the day. Today we didn't leave the house. We didn't go to the park; we didn't do any crafts; and D did not learn how to do calculus (damn him!). At the end of the day, when I tucked D into bed, he looked me in the eyes and said "Mommy can I have a hug, I am a very lucky boy." I of course died. He went on: "Thank you so much for laughing with me today we are so funny."

I mean: COME ON...!

Don't get me wrong. Some criticism still burns me to the bone. When my husband tells me something he thinks I am doing wrong with our kids (and when, after days of pretending I disagree with him, I realize that he is right...) I feel a sort of disappointment with myself that is actually physically jarring. Same with my sister; same with my parents; same with the people I am lucky to call my friends.

But the lesson that has come from being able to process, filter, and move on from much of the criticism that motherhood intrinsically invites into your psyche? Being able to shrug off the stranger telling you your child looks jaundiced (yes that happened); the old lady whispering to you that your son shouldn't be out in the 80 degree Berkeley weather in "just that shirt"; the waitress attesting that "nursing 2 years is really the only way to go"?

"Wowza"--myriad thanks to my children. Liberation is mine.