A Prayer for Daughters

I got this from a fellow sor-whore, whose porn star handle is Fluffy LaPort, and it is apparently from Tina Fey's new book, but I can't vouch for that personally.  This is a must-read for anyone with a daughter - someone really gets it!

She very funny lady.  Buy her book here.

"First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.



May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Bea......uty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half. And stick with Beer.


Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.


Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes. And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.


May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

‘My mother did this for me once,’ she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. ‘My mother did this for me.’ And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes."

And yes, my Mother gets MUCH better Mother's Day cards since I had children.

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Psycho

Many of you have probably heard about "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" and author Amy Chua, the uber-competitive mom who says in her Wall Street Journal article, "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior" that Chinese mothers are superior because they A) don't care about the kid's self-esteem, B) believe their kids owe them everything, and C) Chinese parents believe that they know what is best for their children and therefore override all of their children's own desires and preferences. This could explain the lack of a "Chinese Mothers" section in the Hallmark Mother's Day card department.

Amy is a law professor at Yale University, and the author of a couple of books, which for ONCE does not impress me. She is seemingly hell-bent on breaking her children and spending one day of the week on the therapist's couch for the rest of her life.  Her newest book, "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" is a diatribe about how horrible "Western" parents are for caring about our children's "happiness", and how the only way to "win the prize" of successful children is to choose their extra-curricular activities and force them to practice instruments for hours on end while withholding water and bathroom breaks if necessary.

Subtitled, "How to Lose Friends and Terrify Minors."

There is also this little gem (and I quote):  "Chinese mothers can say to their daughters, "Hey fatty—lose some weight."  Because as we all know, A) daughters totally respond to their parents calling them fatty, and B) there are no fat Chinese kids.

PERSONAL MESSAGE TO AMY CHUA: 
YOU WIN. PLEASE STOP.  I'M PURPOSELY MAKING MY CHILDREN SLACKERS SO YOURS CAN SUCCEED.  I'M BEGGING YOU, STEP DOWN! 

Can I give your girls a hug and take them to Dairy Queen?

Generally, I think it's wrong to judge mothers.  Just because something is right to you doesn't mean it's right for everyone else.  Kids are different, families are different, circumstances are different.  Children of working moms are just as happy (or dysfunctional) as children of at-home moms.  Some sugar is okay, but try not to make the main course of every meal a Ding-Dong.  It's okay if you can't eat off the floor, because who would?  Even though I'm taken aback by Amy's mothering methods, my real problem with her is her total narcissism and smug assertion that she is the best mom in the world and all of the "Western" moms are soft losers whose kids won't be FIRST at everything or suffer the consequences.  So I guess what I want to say to Amy is, "Suck it, bitch."

Photo taken 5 minutes after Amy Chua

removed my left kidney with her

bare hand and ate it.

However, Chua and I have quite a bit in common.

FACT:  One of Amy's daughters was so upset about being essentially tethered to the piano until she learned a piece that she actually chewed on the piano.  After my kids' last piano lesson, they told me their teacher took out a block of sharp cheddar, peeled the wax off, and started gnawing on it during their lesson, and it had teeth marks in it where it had been gnawed before.  Amy's daughter has played Carnegie Hall; my children can play "The First Noel".

FACT:  Amy called her daughter "garbage" after said daughter purportedly disrespected her.  My minivan is full of garbage after we leave McDonalds, where I get my children Happy Meals.  I literally buy their happiness.

FACT:  Amy's children have never been "allowed" to be less than #1 in their class, with the exception of gym and drama.  My children have never been allowed to be #1 in their class in gym, but sadly, they seem to headline the drama department.  How to stomp out that success in a subject not of my choosing!!!!?  No more Hamlet, you theatrical loser!

FACT:  Amy revels in her Chinese heritage, and uses this heritage to intimidate her children.  I am part German, and when stressed, I find nothing more effective than screaming at my children in German, because they know that Hitler was evil and insane.  "Get in the van!  SCHNELL!!! SCHNELL!!"  "Achtung!  Ve are late for dance!" and then when they silently sob in their car seats I yell, "Stoppen sie sobbich, du bitte bratzen!"  (Since they are just children, and therefore stupid and malleable, they don't have to know I don't actually sprechen sie Deutsch, I can just make it up and tell them HOW IT IS, damn it. Strike one for German Mother Superiority!!)

So thank you, Amy.  You have given me the gift that I never thought I would receive. 
You made me feel like a Good Mother. 
Drinks are on the house.

The Achy Breaky Two Tone Snooky Do

CONFESSION:  I am a minivan driving, school volunteering, Starbucks drinking, child extra-curricular event attending mother of three over forty.  WTF happened?

Last thing I remember was getting initiated into a sorority in college and going to a LOT of parties, and then I vaguely remember dating this guy because he seemed like someone who would really piss off my dad, and then SURPRISE! the joke's on me because I married him and bore three of his children and here we are in this house that doesn't clean itself with that minivan parked at the curb.  Whoosh!  Take cover, Pa, it's a tornado in the trailer park!

It's no secret that I want to believe I am still in my late twenties.  I may not be able to control my varicose veins or my batwings or the family gobbler forming under my chin or the Three-Baby Pooch that rests on the top of my low-slung jeans, but I can control my fashion sense, my taste in music, and my hair.

I confess, I am still stuck in the Gap.  My uniform is Gap jeans or khakis with various versions of the Gap t-shirts or western shirts.  These clothes say to me, "Hey, you could pass for a teaching assistant in college!  You could be in a bar!  There's no way you drive a minivan!"  when what they are really saying is, "Guess the make and model of my minivan?"  Therefore, I have to occasionally mix it up with a funky thrift store vintage shirt or something from Anthopologie.  I guess what I'm trying to say is my wardrobe is confusing.  Like my personality.

I listen to college bands.  I have always had an insanely emotional attachment to music, and there is nothing better than finding the perfect song to express what you're feeling.  It's like someone else 'gets it'.  It never hurts if the lead singer or guitarist is cute.  I love me a good guitarist crush.

 Flavor of the month:

Damian Kulash, from Ok Go.  

He's 35, so it isn't TOTALLY cougar.

I plan on being one of those old women who wear their hair long forever.  It's all I got.  I will let it gracefully go gray, after I am well past 55.  For now, those suckers are getting covered.  I'm a pretty low maintenance gal, but I do spend a chunk of change every 12 weeks or so getting fake color put in my hair.  I want to look sassy, not brassy.  I know it doesn't look like I was born with it, I'm not THAT delusional, but I want it to look like I care about something when I have the jelly donut stains down the front of my Gap t-shirt.

Today, I went in for the quarterly transformation, and my stylist (who is a lovely, perky, cute blonde twenty something who is going to Mexico next week for a wedding as a single, unattached fun-loving home-owning person...what was I talking about?) talked me into doing some layers.  SOME layers.  I love her dearly, but two hours later I left with Billy Ray Cyrus on my head - the light side AND the dark side.  And no one wants to see the dark side of Billy Ray.  When I saw her cutting some big chunks out of my previously unlayered hair, I had visions of Rachel Green from Friends, and some quick math told me that The Rachel hadn't been in style for at least 10 years.

When they spin that chair around and you face the music, if you don't like it, do YOU say something?  I've been seeing this girl for over three years, I don't want to hurt her feelings.  And there is a part of me saying, "They can't glue it back on, honey, just pick up your dignity, pay the bill and get the hell out."  I went home and tried to flatten out the Rachel bump and reduce the look of the Mom Mullet, but to no avail.  Then I looked in the mirror at the back of my head.  Oh no.  The dark side was darker than I thought.  Luke Skywalker had the crown and Darth Vader had the ends and they were fighting for dominance somewhere in the middle.  

Vader layer:  "Yes!  Yes, give in to your hate of the hair color!  The force is strong with this color!  Come to the dark side!"

Luke layer:  "No!  I will never give in to you!  I want to go to the light!  I'm looking into the light!"

Creepy old lady from Poltergeist:  "Don't look into the light!  Stay away from the light!"

Almond Joy commercial:  "Sometimes you feel like a nut..."

After looking at my hair too long, I decided I was being ridiculous.  I worked all afternoon, but the whole time, Billy Ray Cyrus was singing in my head.  Ross was trying to date me, and then break up with me.  Darth and Luke were fighting, with the Emperor cackling in the background.  Finally, the kids got home from school.

YD:  "Mommy, did you get your hair cut?"

ME:  "Yes."

YD:  "Oh."

Son:  "I like it Mother.  Can I have chips and salsa?"

OD:  "Um, it's like...two tone.  Did you get it colored in two shades?"

My middle schooler called me Two Tone.  Oh my God, I had to get back to blonde unattached home-owner before she left for Mexico, because what if she never came back and only she knows the chemical formula for the color in the Luke Skywalker side of my hair?

My hair is now officially bipolar.

And a pseudo-mullet.

I called extremely cute stylist and told her I was worried about the Dark Side.  She told me that it's always hard to see the highlights in the lower layers.  We sat in silence for a moment, and then I got some Mom Balls and said, "Yeah, well I need the layers to match."  I am scheduled to go in at 11:30 today, and now I'm even more afraid.  What if I've offended her?  What if, to make her point, she goes over the top and makes me really light on the bottom layer?  What if it actually tips the balance so the top half of my hair is Joan Jett and the bottom half is Blondie?  Will I love Rock n' Roll, or will I be in Rapture?

What have I done?

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 19

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Titty cheese.


I nursed all three of my children, and was happy to do it.  There is something magical about nursing a baby - the closeness, the bond, the toe-curling pain when a greedy little piggy latches on to your cracked pre-mastitis nipple...but I digress.

Current Husband never tasted breast milk.  He was a little grossed out by the whole leaky pipes deal, particularly since we tended to have a lot of icky nursing pads in the garbage, which honestly smell like rotting roadkill if not taken out promptly.  I have friends whose husbands happily relieved their engorged breasts during nursing if the babies were full, but CH was never that guy.  

Therefore, I will not be taking CH to Klee Brasserie in Chelsea, NYC, because of this article in the March 9, 2010 New York Post.  (Observations by me are in blue, lest you think they are part of the NY Post story and I somehow end up getting sued):

Wife's Baby Milk in Chef's Cheese Recipe
This Chelsea restaurant has gone from brasserie to brassiere.
Chef Daniel Angerer is letting diners at Klee Brasserie munch on cheese made from his wife's breast milk.
(Say what, hoobastank?)
"It tastes like cow's-milk cheese, kind of sweet," he told The Post.
The flavor depends on what the cheese is served with -- Angerer recommends a Riesling -- and "what the mother eats," said Angerer, who once bested Bobby Flay on TV's "Iron Chef."
Breast milk doesn't curdle well due to its low protein content, so a little moo juice has to be added to round out the texture, Angerer said.
(WAIT!  DID HE JUST RECOMMEND A WINE TO ACCOMPANY HIS WIFE'S BREAST MILK?  Uh, Chef, I just made a mousse out of the 4000 mounds of winter dog shit in my yard, do you have a wine recommendation?  Hey Chef, I'm banging your wife, is there a wine you would recommend?  Chef, I have a human liver and some fava beans, do you have a nice Chianti you could recommend?)

"Just wait until you see the innovative ways 

I plan to cook the baby poo...."

After blogging about his efforts with the human cheese, customers started demanding a sample, he said.
"The phone was ringing off the hook," the chef said. "So I prepared a little canapé of breast-milk cheese with figs and Hungarian pepper."
(When people call me demanding my biohazardous body fluids, I tend to lean toward the figs and Hungarians myself.  It's a no-brainer.)
The response has been generally positive from those who've tried the cheese, although many customers are too squeamish to attempt it.
(Like me.  Hungarian pepper freaks me out, too.)
"I think a lot of the criticism has to do with the combination of sex and cheese, but . . . the breast is there to make food," said Lori Mason, the chef's wife.
(Wait...we get to have sex with the cheese?  Do you call Daniel "The Breast" at home?)

Since the restaurant began offering customers a taste, Mason has been inundated with creepy queries, she said. (Like, "Hey, would you make some cheese for me out of your wife's breast milk?")
"Some people who clearly have issues have . . . e-mailed me saying, 'I wasn't breast-fed as a child, so can I taste your breast milk?' " she said.
Mason politely declines the offer.
"I'm not here to walk people through their psychological problems," she said.
No Lori, of course not.  Your psychological plate is full with strapping on the double breast pump for your morning and evening milking schedule for the restaurant.  That Titty Cheese ain't gonna make itself!  And no Funyuns for you today, it might taint the milk, and we wouldn't want Mayor Bloomberg sending back the appetizer, now would we?
That said, Mason is now prodding her husband to make gelato.
Prodding him, is she?  So the gelato isn't going to be made out of HER bodily fluids...tit for tat, indeed!
After inquiries from The Post, health bigs said yesterday that even though department codes do not explicitly forbid the practice, they have advised Angerer to refrain from sharing his wife's milk with the world.
"The restaurant knows that cheese made from breast milk is not for public consumption, whether sold or given away," a spokeswoman for the city Department of Health said.
 The End.

Don't get me wrong.  If Dan and Lori want to make Titty Cheese at home and serve it on Ritz, that's great.  And if he wants to make Titty Tiramisu or Titty Tarts or Titty Yogurt at his restaurant, as long as he labels it for exactly what it is and doesn't slip it in (oh yes, I just said that) other dishes, go for it.  And perhaps the argument can be made that it isn't that different from getting a cow's bodily fluids and pouring it on our Trix.

So why does this all seem so...so...icky thump to me?  Is it picturing the source?  Is it that a cow can't look at me and say, "This would be great in custard...moo."  Or is it looking at Lori's lovely dimpled face and thinking "I'd really rather have a margarita with you than eat cheese, or anything else, pumped out of your breast"?

I am sure Daniel and Lori are lovely people, and their baby is a sweet little biscuit.  All I know is that I am suddenly feeling a little lactose intolerant.  There is something magical about nursing a baby, but there is something porno about eating Titty Cheese with figs and company and then paying for it.  To each his own, fo shizzle.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

I'm a Teen Mother, But Not In THAT Way.

Yesterday I officially became the mother of a teenager. 

I did not cry, but I did get a little teary when posting my Facebook status about how when she was born, she changed me.  She did.  That chubby little bugger who kicked the crap out of my uterus and sent stomach acid flying up my esophagus every night and gave me bulging veins in places veins aren't supposed to bulge and came so fast I couldn't get the epidural I had been counting upon popped out and changed everything.

Mothers speak reverentially about the moment their first babies are born.  They say things like "I loved her the moment I saw her" or "she was so beautiful" or "she looked like an angel".  I've never been one of those moms.  I didn't particularly like babies growing up, and I wasn't a very good babysitter.  Let's be honest, I blog about my life, which tells you I can be more than a little narcissistic.  I even joked to the mom of a boyfriend in high school that I liked to poke babies in the soft spot on their head.  (Fairly certain she went home and urged her son to dump me like a bag of kittens.) 

When I saw my daughter for the first time, I turned to CH and said, "A girl, huh?  Was really hoping for a boy, I don't think I can handle girls.  She looks like Grandpa Ryan.  Does she have all digits?  Is there a strawberry birth mark?  Okay, then get me a Diet Coke and a Tylenol, stat."  Mmmm.  Mother love.  Nothing like it.

After entertaining people in my hospital room for the next five hours, I settled into my bed for some well-deserved sleep.  A few moments later, a nurse came into my room with a screaming baby and turned on the lights.

RN:  (sing-songy voice) "Your baby is hungry!"
ME:  (sing-songy voice) "Then feed her!"
RN:  "We have on the chart that you want to nurse."
ME:  "Does that have to start now?  Because I spent my day in labor, I could use some sleep."
RN:  "Well, it does start now.  Because the baby is here and she's hungry."
We stared at each other for a moment while the baby's screams got louder and more urgent.  I considered nuking the nursing idea.  It seemed like a bad time to change my mind - I might look selfish.  Clearly I just wanted to sleep.  Isn't this why God let us invent formula?   The nurse was a very good starer.  Damn it.
ME:  "For Christ's sake...really?  I guess.  How do we do this?"

The nurse got me all situated with the nursing, and then went out to the nurses' station to tell everyone what a horrible bitch of a mother was in Room 435.  I was tired, grumpy, and sore in places I'd never seen.  I was feeling resentful about the whole thing, and I looked down at Grandpa Ryan, the girl I wasn't supposed to have, and there she was.  Nursing.  And it all fell away...the exhaustion, the crankiness, the soreness...no wait, that stayed...and I just watched her in wonder.  I mean, really.  With some cooperation from CH and God, I had just built a human baby and given birth to her, and here she was, like some crazy science experiment with half of CH's DNA and half of mine.  Here was the person who had been kicking and moving around INSIDE of me for the past 40 weeks, in my arms, and no longer tethered to me in a physical way.  And she was MINE.  Wow.

 

Oh, the photographs of this child.  I think she's 10 or 12 weeks here.

Somehow, we got through the next thirteen years, and she's still here in one piece.  Against all bets made by the family (I know about the betting, people), she's this amazing, beautiful, smart, funny funny funny, coordinated girl.  She plays the cello.  She does ballet and does a mean hip-hop routine.  She watches Project Runway and SNL with me, and we listen to Ok Go and Blue October and Regina Spektor and the Beatles together, and we both love Twilight.  She's not perfect.  She can get full of attitude and throw down a little temper, and she bickers with her sibilings.  She's disorganized like me, and she's a little grumpy like her Dad (yes, CH, that's you) and she can perfectly imitate Catwoman and the mice in Cinderella (poor Cinderelly!) and the Bill Hader-sportscasting alien character on SNL.  And she's MINE.

Tonight CH and I sat at the dining room table at our dueling laptops, and she came out in her flannel pj bottoms and tank top, looking so much more like 16 than 13, and told us goodnight.  I looked at CH when she left and said, "We only get her for five more years".  Five years!  How can I possibly tell her everything she needs to know to make it in the world in five years?  To not fall in love with being in love and make sure she holds out for the 'good one'?  To figure out what she really loves to do and chase that dream?  That people can be mean, but they're only words, and can't affect her if she doesn't let them?  To tell her she is amazing, and have her believe it - really believe it - without letting it go to her head?  That the Golden Rule really matters?  To wash her face every night and use lots of lotion and sunscreen?  That using the F-word is okay, but make it count.  So much to do, so little time.

I'm so glad she was a girl.  I'm so glad that nurse won the staring contest.  I'm so glad I didn't poke her in the soft spot as a baby. Yesterday I officially became the mother of a teenager.  I'm so glad she's MINE.

Can I just tell you that this post was supposed to be about how I shopped for two months for the perfect teen birthday gifts, and then CH swooped in with the best gift that took him 10 minutes and one phone call, and I was a little bitter and am withholding sex from him, and suddenly here's this emotionally wrought post about motherhood.  Would anyone like a Estrogen chaser with their tumbler of Motherhood on the Rocks?  You opened the blog, I can't be held responsible for filling you with nostalgic despair.

More on the Mommy Wars

February is the month of love.

And I love comments.

Yesterday's post about "To Hell With All That" and the Mommy Wars inspired some interesting comments and e-mails on both the blog and Facebook.  Thanks to Dixie and others who are passing the blog (Butthead:  "Huh huh, she said passing the blog") and welcome new batch o' readers.

I think the Mommy Wars is an issue many moms deal with regularly from the kid ages of 5 to 12, and after that you are so worried about keeping the kids free of babies and STD's and police records and broken hearts and academic probation that you quit caring what other parents think.  But since Oldest Daughter is 12, the only experience I have with teenagers is from when I was one.  (Rut Row.  Must get daughter micro-chipped.)

I started writing a response to Mifocals comment yesterday, who doesn't have kids yet but is scared pantsless to have one (which, by the way, WILL get you pregnant, Mifocals), but the response got long-winded (imagine that) and I decided to post and open it up to you, the purported readers.  I think it's all motivated by guilt.  Before the kids go to school is a blur because you are so tired and trying to figure out how to operate your new baby.  Then when school starts, At-home moms feel like they should be "using" their degree if they have it, or that what they do at home isn't valued and they are looked down on by others.  Working moms feel guilty they aren't delivering Monogrammed Clown Cupcakes to school and being June Cleaver.  Meanwhile, we are all beating ourselves up when everyone, working in or out of the home, is probably doing a great job.  In the words of Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend, The Kids Are Alright.

Clown cupcakes I made for first grade room party:

  I'm kidding, Mandatory Reporters.  Thanks for the image, TheBloggess.com.  

And seriously?  WTF?  Who made these, John Wayne Gacy?

 It all really comes down to the Golden Rule, but it's a tough cycle to break.  Guilt and fear (of screwing up your child) are powerful motivators.  So everyone tries to justify what they are doing, which makes other people defensive and then they justify what they are doing and then things get ugly and then Mommy is in handcuffs in the squad car.

So tell me all about it, People.  Do you think there is a conflict?  Why do you think that is?  How do we resolve it, or is it even solvable?  I'm curiouser and curiouser... I promise I'll try to stop being all academic and Gandhi-like tomorrow and go back to the usual pointless crap I post.

A side note to my Book Club from last night:  Please.  I am begging you.  After my second martini and my fourth brownie, CUT ME OFF.  Because really?  I know it was too much information.  Let's give everyone else a chance to talk too.  I'm bringing water and the duct tape next time.  Remember, friends make friends shut up.

I Love Books. And Moms. And the Lead Singer from Ok Go.

February is the month of love.

And I love books.

Lots and lots of books.  Lately I've been fantasizing about going to a hotel about 1 mile from my house and spending the weekend.  The kids and CH can visit the first night and use the pool, but I'll just sit in the hotel room and read and eat Chinese takeout.  There is a Starbucks conveniently located across the street.  It would be a slice of heaven.

Since we bought George the Superpet, I've been spending time teaching him tricks.  He can sit, lay, speak, and read.  George pre-reads all of my books and tells me if they are worth the time and aggravation of me reading it and telling my kids to quit interrupting and ultimately making me feel like a neglectful and verbally abusive parent while not comprehending anything I'm reading because I am anticipating when the next small person will approach and say "Can I have a bagel?" or "Where is my iPod?" or "My snake has mites". 

Don't believe me?  Here is George reading in his chair:

He really loved "The Girls From Ames"

This week, George the Superpet is reading "To Hell With All That - Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewife" by Caitlin Flanagan.  He loves it, and so I started reading it too, and now I am wondering why the hell Caitlin Flanagan felt it necessary to track my life and record it in her absurd yellow book like she's my own personal Jane Goodall, watching me make coffee and observe my developing turkey gobbler chin and packing lunches.  Because the book is pretty much everything I think about wifery, and I'm beginning to consider suing her for taking every idea I've ever had on the subject.  Was it necessary for her to be THAT good?  Couldn't she have saved something for me to write about?  Sheesh.

Caitlin (Ms. Flanagan if you're nasty) writes about the dichotomy between the working mother and the at-home mom, and how we, as women, are always willing to vilify the other side as "the wrong choice".  As soon as you have children in school, you are expected to take sides in the Mommy Wars, with one side saying Betty Freidan and Gloria Steinem worked so you could have that job and free yourself, and Martha Stewart and PTA's across the country saying that the real freedom is being home with your kids and making a perfect souffle or running the talent show.  

Caitlin is funny and witty and I can relate to so much of what she says.  She had me at hello.  I've always struggled with the issue of what kind of mother I am, and I've done it all:  I've worked full time.  I've worked part-time.  I've job shared.  I've been home full time.  I've owned my own store and brought the kids in with me.  I've started my own business from home.  And since I've done it all, I am here to tell mothers across the world what I have learned:  

THERE IS NO "RIGHT" KIND OF MOM.  WE'RE ALL ON THE SAME TEAM, FIGHTING THE SAME FIGHTS.  STOP TEARING EACH OTHER DOWN - MOTHERS UNITE!

What feminism really brought us was the choice to do what we need to do in our individual lives, and how feminism failed us is in not bringing the men up to speed in their half of the bargain.  I see homeschooling moms ripping on the public school moms, who rip on the private school moms, who rip on the homeschooling moms.  I see moms criticize other moms for not volunteering enough at school, and then for volunteering too much, and then for not doing a good enough job at their UNPAID volunteer work.  I see working moms criticize at-home moms who turn around and criticize working moms.  By tearing each other down, we don't make our particular method look better, it makes us all look equally bad.

How many dads do you hear saying "Has he ever been room parent?" or "He is ruining that kid's self-esteem."?  Probably not many.  And this is because most dads don't judge each other by their parenting skills, and they've managed to absolve themselves from the responsibilities of room parenting and intensive self-esteem instruction.  Hero time!

Both of my grandmothers were bona fide farm wives.  They were home with the kids and worked their asses off (sorry Grandmas, I said a bad word, but I feel it was necessary.)  My mom, on the other hand, was a full-time nurse in management and also worked (still works) extremely hard, and my sister and I were latchkey kids.  So I became an at-home mom for the most part to "be there" for my kids, as though somehow my mom wasn't there for us, when she was there if we needed her.  So what did Oldest Daughter tell me yesterday?  That IF she has kids, she is planning on being an attorney who makes partner, and she'll hire a good nanny.  It is the cycle of post-feminist motherhood.  Erma Bombeck said it best when she said 'The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank'.  You're going to want what you didn't have as a kid, but no matter how green the grass looks, there is a vat of shit underneath through which you will inevitably have to wade.


I was in blissful Gavin Rossdale/Edge-type love with the book, and then Caitlin went and took a side.  And I had to disagree with her.  And it was like I found the perfect husband - he was hot, he took out garbage and fixed things and scraped my windshield and brought me coffee and was great with my friends, and then he was gay.  We could be great friends and go to movies and terrific restaurants and think Robert Pattinson or the lead singer from Ok Go was hot even if he was too young, but we couldn't be married.  And I was sad. 

She said the at-home moms are the way to go, and the kids really need you at home.  Maybe I could go along with Caitlin to some extent if she recognized that she's an at-home mom who had a nanny waiting on the front steps when she brought her babies home, and has a housekeeper and a gardener, and is a published writer with regular work.  She has the best of all worlds, I don't doubt most of us would jump at the chance for our own version of her scenario.  I don't judge her for her choices - Yay for her!  I want her life!  But I take issue with her judging others' choices.


For the most part, we're all good moms.  I think most of us yell and lose our cool.  I think most of us wish we were better cooks/organized/housekeepers/moms/wives to some extent.  And there are times when I certainly think To Hell With All This...but when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter what the other moms think about how I parent.  I love my kids, and they love me.  We laugh, and we hug, and we cry, and we stomp, and while we have our ups and downs, I think we're all going to come out of this relatively unscathed with lots of great stories to tell the daughter- and sons-in-law who will join us.  And so will you.


Congratulations.  I just named you Mother of the Year.  February is the month of love, so take a minute to love yourself and the choices you make.  Feel better?  Good.  Let's go get some coffee and eat some brownies and tell those kids to shut the hell up.

 

 

Sweet Caroline, my calves hurt!

Where it began, I can't begin to knowing
But then I know it's growing strong
Was in the spring
Then spring became the summer
Who'd have believed you'd come along?

With Neil Diamond Month coming to a close, I'm feeling pressure to get some other songs up. What is Neil Diamond Month without Sweet Caroline? Huh? Or Soolaimon (soolay...soolay...soolaimon!)? Or who can hear Heartlight and not think of E.T.? How can I not write about Coming to America and call myself a fan? These are the things that keep me up at night.

Another thing that keeps me up at night is pain, particularly when I exercise. I try really hard not to exercise because my body seems to not like it. When I was an asthmatic kid, I was told not to exert myself. Okay. (And don't think for a second that my high school friends didn't LOVE to razz me about my trifecta of asthma, my speech and debate letter, and the Flock of Seagulls haircut. Don't even get me started on your haircuts, girls!)

Last spring, Mommy got punished. (I realize this is an older bit I wrote last year, but it was very traumatic and bears repeating. And I can make it work with the song, so zip it.)

I'm not talking about "Oh, is Big Daddy going to spank me?" kind of punished, but actual, public, physical punishment. Mommy attended a Boot Camp workout with a bunch of crazy people, and it took four days to sit down without crying out in pain.

I should have known what to expect by the person who invited me in the first place. She's a clean, organized mom who is uberfit and very energetic, like the head cheerleader/prom queen/track star all rolled into one. I say this with the greatest affection, because I have witnessed her drinking beer and eating dessert, so she's not scary-perfect. She sent a chipper e-mail to a group of moms from the school, saying, "Hey, let's all get together and exercise! One of the moms is a trainer, it will be SO FUN and we can all do it TOGETHER!!"

After deleting the e-mail that was clearly not meant to come to me, I got a follow-up call from her: "Julie, you have to come, it will be fun! You are always talking about getting in shape; this is a great way to do it with a bunch of people of varying fitness levels! It's only an hour, YOU CAN DO IT!"

And then I said yes. Because I have absolutely no spine, and if someone asks me to do something, anything, my first response is to say yes and then spend the rest of the time trying to figure out how to get out of the commitment. I knew full well that I was the weak link in this fitness chain. I'm the mom who wears workout clothes so people think I work out. I'm the mom who will sometimes drive the block and a half to school because it is too cold to walk or it might rain.

After I said yes, I remembered that this session was to be called "Mom Boot Camp," not to be confused with "Making S'mores" or "Singing Around the Campfire" camp. This was not a "Mom scrapbooking party" or a "Mom candle party" or a "Mom sex toy party." This was a "Work your ass off until you cry like a baby" party, and I had already RSVP'ed.

Another friend, who is secretly at the same yoga level as Madonna, e-mailed to plead with me to come to Boot Camp, as she was purportedly out of shape. I met her in the park that fateful morning, me in my dumpy tank top and black sweats, she in her skin-tight Lycra shirt that showed off her sinewy guns. Damn her. Cheerleader Mom showed up next, fresh from her MORNING workout (yes, I mean before Boot Camp!), so damn her, too. Then Trainer Mom showed up, chewing a bar of steel and spitting out bullets. Damn them all!

The Big Engine That Couldn't looked for an escape hatch, but the session was starting. We all ran around the park, past the group of City workers spreading mulch at the play set and anticipating the show. We then progressed to the park picnic tables, hereafter known as the Den of Pain, to climb up the tables in rapid stair steps and then down into lunges, triceps curls, dips and push ups. This was followed by sprints up a hill that has a 10% incline, and then over to the tennis courts to do Navy Seal crunches and jumping jacks.

Hands, touching hands
Reaching out
Touching me, touching you...

Let me make a few small observations. First, I don't do sprints unless the ice cream truck is at the top of the hill, so I didn't. Another mother in pain joined me as we pretended to power walk up the hill while the suckers sprinted it. Second, I don't have triceps, I thought those became extinct during the dinosaur age. Third, anything the Navy Seals are doing should not be on my list of activities, and therefore I threw my legs up in the air and waved them like I just don't care. Finally, anyone who has survived one vaginal childbirth, not to mention three, knows that all the Kegels in the world won't get you through a session of jumping jacks dry. It is just a fact. In my one moment of comfort, I was doing push ups on the picnic table benches, and every time I would rise, I would see a Nazi symbol and a "f*ck you" carved in the table, no doubt by an empathetic teenager. Indeed.

I'm not sure how I got through that hour and fifteen minutes, but I lived to tell about it. The rest of the day I flaunted my post-workout body for my husband, throwing in terms like "feel the burn" and "quadriceps" and "optimum heart rate." The next morning I woke to a world of pain I hadn't known since labor. Who injected lead into my legs? Why do these children need me? How can I get to the hospital?

And when I hurt
Hurtin' runs off my shoulder
How can I hurt when I'm holding you?

I do not belong in something called "Mom Boot Camp." I am too old, too soft, and too weak, and not one of those women brought snacks. Someone needs to remind these fitness-obsessed moms what reckless abandon looks like. And that is exactly why I went back. With donuts. And that time, good times never seemed so good.