tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57261797004688940432024-03-19T07:19:47.797-04:00Lazy Mom CafeHousework is for the InsecureLazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.comBlogger148125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-42827199996803083092013-07-07T09:04:00.001-04:002013-07-07T09:26:28.529-04:00Surround Yourself with Strong Women-- Part One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUx9RWJb_uKetS4rv1TktfCrMrxlzvojKalY5i4K6dnQJHuTFeA1v7_NAEE_Iu-xqlzwkKzx7DIzN43OvkgvSyS11JPN4Ybtea545WC0d_ni6QUeUYrUPlDWkUSfTPYFO71rGwI6o5dTk/s1600/Hannah+Rhodes+teapot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUx9RWJb_uKetS4rv1TktfCrMrxlzvojKalY5i4K6dnQJHuTFeA1v7_NAEE_Iu-xqlzwkKzx7DIzN43OvkgvSyS11JPN4Ybtea545WC0d_ni6QUeUYrUPlDWkUSfTPYFO71rGwI6o5dTk/s320/Hannah+Rhodes+teapot.jpg" /></a></div>
HANNAH RHODES<br />
Only the glasses and the soft gray hair sticking out from under the red turban where familiar as I approached the figure in the Aladdin style shoes, the bright, teal, billowing pants and the elaborately embroidered rich, orange tunic bent over a flower bed.<br />
<br />
“Mrs. Rhodes?” my tentative 7 year old self asked. Mrs. Rhodes was our next door neighbor. Her husband had died years ago—they were artists who had lived in the city and moved out to this small old house next to our larger old house. I spent so much time in Ms. Rhodes’s house that I am sure I know it better than even my own childhood home.<br />
<br />
From her tiny kitchen came the best bread, cookies and jams. In the kitchen we would sit at little table and have tea and cookies most afternoons. She would tell me about her travels—she had been everywhere. She had this beautiful Bauhaus teapot she picked up in Paris that was on a shelf above the table along with an eclectic collection other housewares from around the world—an ornate patterned dish from Turkey, a beautiful ceramic baking dish from England, a clay pot from somewhere else. Every piece had a story.<br />
<br />
She had just returned from months aboard where she had gone to Turkey and Greece with her travel companion, an equally old and robust woman. They had, of course, stopped in the Island of Rhodes creating quite a little commotion due to her last name. But today’s story was about Turkey. She smiled at me with her gardening trowel in hand—“Do you believe it?” she said, “this is what farmers wear in Turkey.<br />
<br />
I did believe it, because I believed everything that Mrs. Rhodes told me. She was a wonderful teacher and I credit my love of books and art to Mrs. Rhodes even more so than my own intellectual and artsy family. She was excited to show me her new found Turkish skill—spinning yarn with a spindle top. She brought back one for me too so we could make yarn together. She learned from an old peasant woman in a small village in the hills--Slowly out of a piece for fluffy lamb’s wool a string of yarn would appear created by the spinning motion of the top-like spindles at our feet. Mrs. Rhodes could not wait to knit something with the homemade yarn.<br />
<br />
And that was the thing about Mrs. Rhoades—she was always traveling, always learning and always excited to teach a new skill to someone else. The best skill she taught me was to be a fearless traveler—people around the world are interesting and interested and it a big beautiful world full of amazing things to learn from people and it is all so much fun.
I asked her once—why did she travel so far away? Why did she always go overseas—did she not want to see the United States? “Perhaps when I am older” She said.
LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-63663130147740252252013-06-02T16:05:00.000-04:002013-07-21T18:43:12.211-04:00Don't Be THAT Girl<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Jpqob7JjZZuRMlhRR7C6yDpwJ3DUw9KFm2GASsQ2bdbd9cSUYDmwc7SgYSwfNwLdiyeI6xhTW6VzqoPrWCVM0dyZpRR2BqicsemfTLd8IE2mMbd-uzrWROdx_cjJV02dnLCmVSemEIg/s1600/stranger-danger+2.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Jpqob7JjZZuRMlhRR7C6yDpwJ3DUw9KFm2GASsQ2bdbd9cSUYDmwc7SgYSwfNwLdiyeI6xhTW6VzqoPrWCVM0dyZpRR2BqicsemfTLd8IE2mMbd-uzrWROdx_cjJV02dnLCmVSemEIg/s320/stranger-danger+2.jpg" /></a> </div>
“I always tell my daughters—Don’t be THAT girl. Don’t be that stupid girl who gets into the car with a stranger, takes a drink from someone you don’t know, walks down a deserted street…DON’T BE THAT GIRL—You Hear Me?!” My co-worker relates her maternal warning to me and The Beast. We are both quaking.<br />
<br />
But that is how you feel as a mom—you see news reports, photos on milk cartons, stories in local papers about a girl…a nice girl, who was probably just being polite, not thinking and there she is…gone. Just the shattered family left behind. How could she have been so stupid, what was she thinking? But that is the thing—girls are taught to be nice and it is so easy not to think when you already know how to be polite.<br />
<br />
The other day I was driving The Beast and her friend, The Bulldozer, into the city for a YouTube concert thang that I will not even pretend to understand and I was giving my pre-subway lecture for the benefit of The Bulldozer. " Don’t stare, if there is trouble in the car or some creepy guy—change cars. If someone actually bothers you—call out loud and clear: NO, Leave Me Alone! and New Yorkers will respond and help."<br />
<br />
Thanks to my co-worker The Beast and I now just a code phrase to avoid the long lecture—"Don’t Be THAT Girl." And I pray when the smooth talking guy pulls up in his car or a cute boy offers a drink or the short cut down the deserted street beckons that the fear of Being THAT Girl will overpower all other thoughts.
LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-60274746750556008232013-05-25T19:35:00.001-04:002013-07-21T18:47:33.938-04:00"I Want a Divorce!"“Shhhh!” I said to my friend who had called in a tizzy after a fight with her husband. “Never give them hope. If you mention divorce they see a light at the end of the tunnel. Just tell him that you want to go to couples therapy. Because, really, what is worse for a man than talking to his wife about his feelings…that’s right—adding a third-party.”<br />
<br />
She was unconvinced, but then I reminded her about how difficult it is to move and who would lift the heavy boxes. “Let’s not go crazy. It is a tight real estate market again just try it--mention therapy, wait for the look of horror and then disgust to cross his face when it finally dawns on him that you mean he HAS TO GO TOO, then open a bottle of wine and see how responsive and nice he is.“<br />
<br />
I hear her breathing calm… “I tell you—Therapy REALLY does work.” LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-42249363011461095622012-07-29T08:06:00.002-04:002012-07-29T08:35:43.463-04:00College Crazy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggr4vaqrhOTBQGYaLLsUY7pN4JEJqj3AMFTX4LIXTkqKdkwg4eX3qoU8Rqiz1L1kfj8m20YgkoHB6hgzmwJv22Od8GmkvFYMFpumWXJzCyK0r0IHfb09NsmfiWXssrPucGyxjUXMx1ODo/s1600/college-application.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="298" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggr4vaqrhOTBQGYaLLsUY7pN4JEJqj3AMFTX4LIXTkqKdkwg4eX3qoU8Rqiz1L1kfj8m20YgkoHB6hgzmwJv22Od8GmkvFYMFpumWXJzCyK0r0IHfb09NsmfiWXssrPucGyxjUXMx1ODo/s400/college-application.jpg" /></a></div>
“Your life will be completely taken over by this one obsession.” The deep, dark voice of doom echoes across the small wood table as I sit down to the lunch special at the sunny and cheerful local Chinese restaurant on the Upper Westside. He continues with in a heavy Boston accent; “Every minute will be consumed by the quest of finding the right college, strategies to get in, and then creative financing to pay for the stupid school.”
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The possessed man who sit across the table from me was, at one time, a happy-go-lucky guy whose only concerns were NYC real estate and art. He is another friend who is part of the One Perfect Daughter Club. His strikingly beautiful, blue eyed, blond haired daughter was adopted from Texas. The little troll of a man with his piercing dark eyes and leprechaun beard said—“yes, yes—we tried to play the race card because, you know, my wife is Cuban, but the kid looks like some corn-feed cheerleader from one of those square states.” He said with real disappointment in his voice.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
“Yeah…that beauty is a real millstone around the neck--if only she looked like you, she might have been awarded the Lord of Rings scholarship.” I said in an attempt to cheer him up that was unsuccessful.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Another friend tells a tale of college admission intrigue….
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
“I don’t care what else you write” she said to her son” —you just better get in there that you have two mommies. The admissions people will overlook the fact your parents’ names are Suzy and Betsy—so write about it and make it good. “ said my friend as she related the story of prepping her son to write his college essay.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Apparently it is not until you are in the mix do you really get caught up in. Mr. Troll, I thought, would never get involved in something as trivial as college selection, but low and behold—he talked of high school summer programs leading up to the college applications, special trips to Cuban for that fruitless race card…and all the other strategies that the REALLY “crazy” parents were trying. And you have got to wonder—is all worth it?
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Although I live in a town where many parents have been thoughtfully building a clear trajectory for their children from preschool to Harvard—we, of course, have not. We want our child to be successful in life, but what is success? If the path to a successful adulthood leaves out childhood— what is the point?
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
As The Beast approaches college age her interests are varied—writing, world history, international travel, online design communities, Japanese anime, Chinese language, music, cooking…to be honest…we are not even really sure anymore—we can only hope her eclectic interests point her in the direct of a college that is ideal for HER….with lots and lots of scholarship money.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-51884371415322918362012-03-10T15:00:00.000-05:002012-03-10T15:00:24.774-05:00Texting and Boyfriends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYw2vx6x3CEaqnUxmPGe4dBYoZQQMgBHzknODq-gaiEjV9LMRGTS86UTjEIKWAVxopOpoEEiQAoC8Cxbie794shmdcHpG2xlW1BdBHNk2-mj9icb3rKkaN1U9VWKt_qtVsX8g_i7eWAwQ/s1600/Text-messages-relationships.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="372" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYw2vx6x3CEaqnUxmPGe4dBYoZQQMgBHzknODq-gaiEjV9LMRGTS86UTjEIKWAVxopOpoEEiQAoC8Cxbie794shmdcHpG2xlW1BdBHNk2-mj9icb3rKkaN1U9VWKt_qtVsX8g_i7eWAwQ/s400/Text-messages-relationships.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
“Do you read my text messages?” The Beast asked feigning nonchalance, but I could tell there was anger behind the question. <br />
<br />
“Sweetheart, I can’t even manage to go on the school’s Parent Portal to check whether or not you handed in homework. I am not even sure if I can turn on your phone.” <br />
<br />
“You can’t” she said triumphantly “It is locked” and then added with pride—“with a very difficult password.” <br />
The Beast is just like her father—smart and annoying with all things electronic. I, on the other hand, would still be using a rotary phone if I could find one anywhere. <br />
<br />
Not sure what started this line of questions...so I decided to asked one of my own: “Should I be reading your text messages? Is there something I should know, but you don’t want to tell me?” I tried to sound concerned, but not panicky—the way I really felt. <br />
<br />
“Zoe’s mother read her text messages and found out she was dating Craig and she told Zoe she had to break-up because she was too young to date.” <br />
<br />
“Really? Did Zoe break-up with Craig?!” I said—intrigued by the power. <br />
<br />
“Of course she did.” My daughter said—with anger clearly in her voice. “ Her mother said she had to.” <br />
<br />
“Interesting.” I said. “would you break-up with someone if I told you to? Even if you felt I was wrong?” trying to gauge just how much power I had without knowing it. <br />
<br />
The Beast looked straight ahead through the windshield as we passed the strip malls and the odd accountant offices on our way to the orthodontist’s office—not saying yes or no. The husband and I raised a polite and honest, but hard-headed child so I did not expect an answer. <br />
<br />
It is strange about our car conversations when we go to the dentist—it is just far enough away from our house to provide the beginning of the a good story, but never quite long enough to get full satisfaction. We pulled into the parking lot and, of course, we were late and the conversation could not be rekindled. <br />
<br />
But I guess these are the questions:<br />
How much can you dictate your child’s life? <br />
Why didn’t Zoe ’s mother know she was dating someone before her stealth text reading? <br />
What works better--an iron grip or constantly reminding them—that we love them and want them to be safe. <br />
<br />
So I said to The Beast on the way home. “ I want to tell you ‘ No drugs, no sex, no alcohol’, but these are things I can’t stop you from doing…I can only hope (to quote Ms. Churchlady) that you make good choices.” <br />
<br />
I have mixed feelings about the whole texting scandal…I am not sure if I am more angry at—Zoe’s mom for reading her daughter’s texts or for Zoe for blindly obeying her mother. Does she not know that “Good Girls Seldom Make History.”LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-82075665378294081332011-09-11T16:37:00.000-04:002011-09-11T16:37:52.036-04:00The Ethan Allen Houses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUdRvz64WI8oKDMB4URc6SLOJJd-GrIEXF2yP31UfSC6xvOeJ2goV4m1FWRGxGOyUt9ZYz-T-9_n_5ncrcHe8_aE7Y2bTx4ahzL9K-nofHwOoHPRokQUBQExp7aUkV0jYlQ87Wn7_o4U/s1600/garden_gnomes_exodus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="282" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUdRvz64WI8oKDMB4URc6SLOJJd-GrIEXF2yP31UfSC6xvOeJ2goV4m1FWRGxGOyUt9ZYz-T-9_n_5ncrcHe8_aE7Y2bTx4ahzL9K-nofHwOoHPRokQUBQExp7aUkV0jYlQ87Wn7_o4U/s400/garden_gnomes_exodus.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Six pairs of gnome eyes stare at me from my desk…the gnomes are refugees from daughter’s room as we tear apart walls and paint. They mix well with the silk screened poster of a horse in vibrant primary colors (a gift for my daughter on her birth), the Native American “courage” fetish (my sister gave me that when I started a new job so many years ago), the big pink H (brought back by The Beast and the Husband from their visit to the Sesame Street backstage over a decade ago) and the cup from Lithographers’ Union (scored at Housing Works Thrift Shop in NYC). These tokens of my past and present are mixed in with my old philosophy books, poetry collections and theater of the absurd books that my father passed down to me. This is one small corner of our house. But everything in our house is a memory and also a reflection of who we are…who we were…who we want to be. <br />
<br />
Like my childhood home, we live in a busy, messy house which constantly annoys The Husband. We do not live in an Ethan Allen Showroom House. Sometimes when I pick up The Beast from a random birthday party at a McMansion development and I am forced to enter these showroom style homes. Here, where every bit of personality has been scrubbed from living spaces, I desperately search for information about the parents. I look for books, travel souvenirs, hobbies, interests, yet there is nothing to help me. <br />
<br />
Walking past the matching wing chairs that flank the seemingly never used fireplace and into the perfect kitchen which makes me clandestinely look for Alice from the Brady Bunch—I wait for The Beast to collect her things from the basement “family room” after a sleep-over. I smile at the flawlessly coiffed mom in leisure attire. She is holding a small dog that is so perfectly groomed he looks like a plush toy come to life. I think—drugs would make this experience truly enjoyable or, maybe, scarier. I wait for the commercial to start, because for a second I think I am transported to a commercial for a cleaning product when suddenly I remember—“oh that is right—this IS reality. “ I continue to search for clues about who these people are or what they do or what they are interested in…a photo of a vacation, a memento of an event, signs of interest in cooking, music, art so I can strike up a conversation….but there is nothing but clean. I finally sink back into the alternate commercial reality and I know my lines…“How do you keep the white rug by the fire place so clean?” <br />
<br />
Sometimes when life is surreal—you just have to go with the flow and wait patiently until the commercial ends.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-17957238264159857812011-08-30T19:44:00.000-04:002011-08-30T19:44:02.160-04:00How Not To Be Scared<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3qslW2UvqqcnmTtVlLNEvYLfR2AEa6uvuUFkDi2BiqZuMpRFSE9mibI1pfPQD9-5T7m66VHevx6WBzi7r7luqUt9Ccd-3Jmi5FKyGrNkNRzA-FD1pSI-d3qAczGFDBdkGwiUW8dgpfE/s1600/bussie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3qslW2UvqqcnmTtVlLNEvYLfR2AEa6uvuUFkDi2BiqZuMpRFSE9mibI1pfPQD9-5T7m66VHevx6WBzi7r7luqUt9Ccd-3Jmi5FKyGrNkNRzA-FD1pSI-d3qAczGFDBdkGwiUW8dgpfE/s400/bussie.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Laughing and screaming through the summer storm, as thunder rumbles around us and rain starts to pelt us, we tumble toward to our red VW microbus. A mass of rubber boots, rain ponchos, shorts and tan little bodies all pile into the side door of the bus. Before anyone is in their seat….or for that matter…before even the door is closed…we are traveling to the front beach to better experience the storm moving over Cape Cod. This was my mother’s reaction to storms—“Let’s get closer so we can see it better and really feel the thunder in our chests!” <br />
<br />
My grandmother, on the other hand, was home at the beach house hiding in a back bedroom with the curtains drawn and the lights out and jumping in fear with every thunder bolt or flash of lightening. <br />
<br />
I asked my grandmother once, why was it that she was so scared of storms whereas her daughter loved them. She said that her mother was deathly afraid of storms and she passed that trait on to my grandmother when she was little. <br />
<br />
My grandmother said she was determined not to do the same to my mother—she wanted my mother to be strong and fearless. My grandmother realized she would have to pretend not to be afraid of anything. So all through my mother’s childhood, my very fearful little grandmother would bravely sit quietly through storms, swim with my mother in the cold and rough Marblehead waves and keep her eyes open on scary amusement park rides. <br />
<br />
My grandmother said with pride—“and see your mother is not afraid of anything. She won swimming championships, she traveled to NYC and started a new life by herself and now she runs toward the storms. That is what I always wanted for my daughter—to be brave and strong. “<br />
<br />
So as I watch The Beast running towards her future with a wild abandon that excites and frightens me—I want to grasp her hand like when she was little crossing a busy street, but instead--I smile calmly. I take a deep breath and try my best to convince her I am not scared because I too want my daughter to brave and strong. <br />
<br />
LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-82723007999027167992011-08-13T14:22:00.005-04:002011-08-13T15:13:35.566-04:00Please Call<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEM-l7ttZV-MgcWkuRrwwmDQRMaX2TPHsqUoYXPgG6uRL8GJ2fG59IBC4ypoCYvH-Mrm8fR9a27IS459e333_a0HJ2N_2kya4Vnu6qlwhOa6Qf0Kuj3Ez_yPmgLtRtSH6BTh5HqsmiyyM/s1600/Riding+Subway.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEM-l7ttZV-MgcWkuRrwwmDQRMaX2TPHsqUoYXPgG6uRL8GJ2fG59IBC4ypoCYvH-Mrm8fR9a27IS459e333_a0HJ2N_2kya4Vnu6qlwhOa6Qf0Kuj3Ez_yPmgLtRtSH6BTh5HqsmiyyM/s400/Riding+Subway.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I tell my child all the time--"It is not that I don’t trust you or that I feel you lack common sense…you just have no idea HOW incredibly morbid by imagination is—please call when you get to where you are going" <br />
<br />
The Beast, unlike her mother, thinks the best of everyone. I am sure she has Beethoven’s 9th symphony cheerfully playing in the background of her psyche at all times, while I have the 5th symphony as the sound track of my life—that of death approaching me and all my loved ones…<br />
<br />
At the subway turnstiles I steel myself …”I love you. Remember to stop and think if you are unsure. Never be too polite to tell some creepy guy “NO!” and I mean LOUD. Remember “NO!”…no other word is needed—everyone knows what it means and people will help….but you will be fine. I will be the one to worry—remember…PLEASE CALL WHEN YOU GET THERE.” <br />
<br />
She takes her Metro Card out and like a pro slides it through the turnstile and turns briefly to me with a smile to tell me to be brave. She is off—without a concern. She knows where she is going—she has the inspirational Ode To Joy theme song playing in her head as she bounces down the subway stairs and off to SoHo and her new life as a teen writer.<br />
<br />
It is so hard to let go—and to balance my clawing fear against the knowledge that independence is something to be encouraged—hanging with city kids in niche bookstores, eating exotic food from hipster food trucks, daydreaming in cool designer boutiques….<br />
<br />
It is the beginning of an adult life, of life that is widening beyond…sniff…us <br />
<br />
She arrived back at my office after her solo subway travels. She had a glow of success radiating from her. The office IT guy comes up and says, “You know, city kids ride the subway all the time by themselves. It is not a big deal.” <br />
<br />
She looked him up and down and said “No! It is a big deal for me and I am proud. You cannot take that away from me.” <br />
<br />
Hearing the word NO—my co-worker Debbie, like all good New Yorkers, comes over to assist—“You tell him girl!” she cheered.<br />
<br />
And that is what we give our kids when we let them go—we are giving them a confidence and a pride that no one can take away from them. <br />
LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-1087296657480084232011-07-16T20:03:00.000-04:002011-07-16T20:03:37.272-04:00Nice, JUST Nice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLx-38EvpWgwAtTzgbLiMmaufUGW_gU1PD7Qxm7urMpZ_C2zb1kQfCP9wh9ogf1TybHDw-EhnlaL6clsfm_659UXDkI8BMa6Q667pvIt5bu22VF0b48cjvZGY4jhVrv2X8oJfG5FdpqEo/s1600/La+Maison+Rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLx-38EvpWgwAtTzgbLiMmaufUGW_gU1PD7Qxm7urMpZ_C2zb1kQfCP9wh9ogf1TybHDw-EhnlaL6clsfm_659UXDkI8BMa6Q667pvIt5bu22VF0b48cjvZGY4jhVrv2X8oJfG5FdpqEo/s400/La+Maison+Rose.jpg" /></a></div><br />
As we walked toward the adorable la Maison Rose in Paris that some famous artist had painted once and was now café for tourists like us—The Husband, The Beast and me, two older British ladies were walking out the door. One exclaimed in her loud, exacting English accent—“that was nice…JUST nice.” To which the still diminutive Beast, unable to control herself, automatically mimicked the condescending phrase with voice and pinched facial features to a T. Leave it to the British to travel around the world and make judgmental pronouncements STILL and even about food. <br />
<br />
The phrase “ That was nice…JUST nice.” Has become a family favorite insult. <br />
And I bring this up now…because as The Child and I were biking down to the beach she said in all seriousness—“It is nice hanging out with you, but I would like to have a friend come up.” I looked at her and I said: “I am nice...JUST nice?? She smiled—her teenage smile and said…” Well…” <br />
I have known for a while that the mommy and me days were numbered, but I thought, here, at our little family beach house that time might be frozen—but apparently time stops for no one, anywhere…<sniff>LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-71818810145035283452011-07-10T19:50:00.002-04:002011-07-10T19:50:45.608-04:00Life is an Open Book Test“You are not going to know everything when you walk in the door. No one does. Remember that” I tell The Beast as I check to make sure she has the map I printed out for her and the voluminous list of cellphone numbers of everyone in the city she may need to contact in case I am abducted by aliens. <br />
<br />
It has been a week of new experiences, really new experiences, for The Beast. She has gone from going to a little camp in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania with a bunch of nice, crunchy Quaker kids to a competitive writing workshop at the center of the world and intellectually sparing with kids who are older and come from backgrounds that are far different than the comfortable middle class suburban kids she is used to. <br />
<br />
“If you are unsure of something—ask.” I tell the child as I tuck an emergency $20 in her pocket. <br />
<br />
I guess like everyone--It is just before an event that I always have my greatest doubts. “ Is this too much for her? What if she hates it and hates me?” I think as I put extra money on her Metrocard.<br />
<br />
She comes back to me in the lobby of the building. “ I am scared...everyone will be older than I am. “<br />
<br />
“You will be fine. You will have a great time. I promise. Just remember to ask questions.” I said making sure she had tissues in her bag. <br />
<br />
I met The Beast at the Starbucks a few blocks away 5 hours later. I had my sister by my side for moral support in case there were tears. But The Beast was bubbling over with the energy of a new found passion. She loved it. She loved the other kids, she loved the writing, she loved the “literary excursion” to a gallery and she loved the teachers. <br />
<br />
Yes—she said that she felt like the young country bumpkin from upstate NY, but they accepted her. She said she had questions and she got answers. She looked and sounded grown-up. It was heartbreaking for me. <br />
<br />
We walk down the bustling, beautiful streets of SoHo toward the subway and I breathe a sigh of relief. It is true what a teacher told me once—life is an open book test—you just need to be brave and ask the questions to get the answers.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-37220961348304400742011-07-01T10:59:00.000-04:002011-07-01T10:59:58.398-04:00Creating WorldsI sit in this modern, loft-style office with high ceilings and open offices down in SoHo and I strain to hear my daughter as she chats and laughs in the conference room down the hall of this prestigious writers’ organization. She is talking about writing—her writing... She has been writing for years and like the bad mother that I am, I did nothing to really encourage it… until this year. I PUSHED her to apply to a writing program.<br />
<br />
Many years ago before she even learned to write the Beast created little worlds hidden on windowsills behind curtains or tucked away in bookshelves. Pulling open a drawer one would come across a carefully thought out scene of Polly Pockets in the middle of some magical event. When she did learn to write I would find little scraps of stories or character descriptions like bits of worlds that were floating around in her mind looking for a home in one of her stories. <br />
<br />
Here, The Beast is in her element—talking to other writers—there is an excitement in her voice I have not heard before. The woman who runs the workshop comes to me and says that The Beast is young for the workshop but very socially aware (thank you NPR, the News Hour and mostly Jon Stewart) and mature, they will try to squeeze her in. I tell them—she is an old soul…she has a warmth that can only add to this workshop for high school students. And it is true, The Beast, unlike her mother, is not just thoughtful, but also kind. <br />
<br />
The e-mail comes a few weeks later. They feel that The Beast will be a bridge for the other kids in the workshop. She will be the one to bring the group together. First I tell The Husband with victor’s glee that the pushing The Child actually worked this time and then I gaze at my beautiful, smart and nice child and thank Fate for those recessive genes not evident in her parents—maturity and benevolence.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-46615007218438552892011-06-11T09:54:00.000-04:002011-06-11T09:54:24.235-04:00Trying and FailingFirst using his fingers to create horns on his head, he then pantomimes swinging a devil tail and he then points at me—The Evil Mother. <br />
<br />
I am not evil, but rather—not perfect. I feel imperfection is the hallmark of my parenting styling. The saintly mother, the knowledgeable mother, the good mother, the PERFECT mother just have too tough a job. Because mistakes will happen…miscalculations, misunderstandings….how can you survive with that type of pressure. <br />
<br />
My theory is sometimes you try and succeed and sometimes you fail. If I never pushed, the child would still be clinging to the railing at the top of water slide rather than rushing on to the next Pirate’s Plunge waterslide with a giddy triumphant smile plastered on her 9 year old face. <br />
<br />
Sometimes the pushing IS too much. I try not to take it personally when she pushes back because usually The Child is right. <br />
<br />
So on this day I stand there patting my daughter’s back as she hugs me in angry exhaustion after being overwhelmed by a day that was far too packed with activities….activities that I thrust upon her. <br />
<br />
The Beast cannot see her father’s one man show—that is only for my benefit. Because, really, what is marriage for— if not for deeply moving moments like these when you can truly relish your partner’s failure. <br />
<br />
The Beast forgives her imperfect mother. I think that is what is key. To forgive the mistakes and realize the thought behind the action. Realizing the man’s thoughts—I reach out and swat at him and tell him to do something constructive like get tissues and make coffeeLazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-90875862914471726812011-05-08T08:22:00.003-04:002011-05-08T09:41:27.514-04:00Overwhelmed With Love“It is all very surreal.” I told my doctor the day after The Beast was born. The Beast, swaddled in a baby blanket, lay tiny on my legs that were propped up slightly so I could examine her little alien features. I did not feel a deep maternal connection to this little being. I felt terror and exhaustion. <br />
<br />
The doctor looked at me and she said, “I know.” She picked up the little alien and continued, “Let me tell you what happens.” She said in her doctor-patient mode voice, “ It all feels new and scary and this little baby goes home with you and you love her now, but in 2 weeks your love will double and every two weeks your love will double for her. And this is what is really surreal—there will come a time—at about six months when you feel you could not love another being more than you love this little creature and then it will happen—your love will double. It is really overwhelming and it does not stop. But you will get use to it—sort of” she said and handed back the little creature and told me to try to rest. <br />
<br />
The Beast looked at me with her dark, dark unfocused eyes—I put the little Beast on my chest and relaxed into the sterile hospital bed. “I normally trust modern medicine,” I thought—“we will see…”as we both fell asleep. <br />
<br />
The Beast still sometimes falls asleep leaning against my chest with my arms wrapped around her just like that first day. And what my doctor said turned out to be true. If I am not careful I am overwhelmed with love. It could be something so simple as seeing The Beast practice the piano or striding down the street toward us—suddenly it hits me-- like having the wind knocked out of me and I think: How is it possible to love anyone THIS much?LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-59196451208482109382011-05-07T07:29:00.001-04:002011-05-07T07:29:45.279-04:00It is NOT Family Day“So…what are you doing for Mother’s Day?” Mr. Attorney inquired on our way home from the city after a RATHER long week. <br />
“Nothing….absolutely nothing” I said with complete satisfaction. <br />
There was a very slight pause and then the cross-examination began. <br />
This is where I should mention that Mr. Attorney views my world, my upbringing, my relationships to my relatives, my hopes and aspirations as though he is Margaret Mead who has just stumbled upon some wild, completely undocumented tribe. <br />
My nice nickname for Mr. Attorney is “20 Questions” because god forbid he is satisfied with just one answer. So the questions begin: <br />
<br />
You are not seeing your mother-in-law?—No. <br />
You are not seeing your sister or sister-in-law?—No. <br />
Does your husband see his mother?—Yes. <br />
Does your daughter see her grandmother?—Yes. <br />
And you don’t go with them?—You’re a smart one! <br />
<br />
And the questions continue—“Why? Why don’t you see the rest of your family on Mother’s Day? !!”<br />
“It is not F-ing Family Day genius…it is MOTHER’S Day. If my mother were alive I would send her a card and call her and thank her for always being there for me, but she is not, so I don’t. I am the mother—I get the card and the flowers and the ability to do whatever I want on MY DAY. “<br />
<br />
You would think this little declaration would definitively settle in Mr. Attorney’s mind what my position on Mother’s Day is…a day FOR ME…a mother. <br />
<br />
“Don’t you appreciate your mother in law?” Mr. Attorney attempts to wriggle guilt into my perfectly blissful day.<br />
<br />
“I think over the years of traveling together we have clearly established that I am from Venus and you are from Uranus and we will never see eye to eye on anything. Why must you rain on my happiness? I know what you are trying to do, but PLEASE don’t even attempt the Jewish guilt on me—I am an atheist by way of Episcopalian—the ONLY guilt we feel is for not using the correct fork during a meal.”<br />
<br />
His little bespectacled face crumples in thought as I pull up to his old Buick parked in the commuter parking lot in the small old-fashioned downtown. “Isn’t that a beautiful car?” He says. He knows my answer because he knows me…<br />
<br />
I throw him a bone, because I don’t want start a fight on design and safety of cars at the end of our commute. “It’s you.” I tell him. “Have a good Family Day!” I call out to him as I drive off to luxuriate in MY Mother’s Day Weekend sans family.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-75766923015687612382011-04-30T14:05:00.004-04:002011-05-01T07:15:45.596-04:00Men With Candy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnELadBhr6ll1wP2E0GHCWOrGiQZ8COf7dNoJcbyfHnTQoGVO4VVbrc1qwFMOPmjNVK3iVXhSv1m9FG94qxEjjvCPq544HU0_8yT3rAUnkr_uz2myWaiDx8IR0Cw1IGUbLBK1G6ToNTcg/s1600/child-catcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="308" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnELadBhr6ll1wP2E0GHCWOrGiQZ8COf7dNoJcbyfHnTQoGVO4VVbrc1qwFMOPmjNVK3iVXhSv1m9FG94qxEjjvCPq544HU0_8yT3rAUnkr_uz2myWaiDx8IR0Cw1IGUbLBK1G6ToNTcg/s400/child-catcher.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
“Are you talking about The Creepers” she said in an off-handed way that suggested this was all old news to her. <br />
<br />
We all know them. Something a little off or, as my sister used to say, “charm oozing from every pore.” At my age I need only scan a room once to tell exactly who The Creepers are. Sometimes The Creepers are friends of the family or relatives who have married into the family. I can still remember my mother warning us—“girls, uncle Bob is nice, but a little icky—so decline any invitation to sit on his lap. “<br />
<br />
Sometimes Creepers are friends of friends—Ms. Filmmaker and I were reminiscing the other day about the parties my parents’ friend used to throw. They were full of artists from the city, wine flowing freely, dishes of flaming French concoctions and, of course, Andre—a little French Creeper. <br />
<br />
Andre had spotted us—young and pretty, and of course, Ms. Filmmaker had her newly acquired big boobs. He introduced himself with his French accent clearly annunciated. He stood just a little too close…granted he was European and they do stand closer than Americans, but something was definitely predatory. The host of the party seeing Andre staring intently at The Boobs wandered over and said to us. “Hello girls! How are you finding your FIRST year of high school? How old are you now? 14? In FOUR more years you will be 18 and adults. Imagine that FOUR MORE years.” He said looking pointedly at Andre. Andre excused himself to get a drink and never returned to complete our conversation on art and Paris. <br />
<br />
Some of the Beast Friends still have the look of little girls, but more and more of the girls are looking like women—beautiful women who do not know how beautiful they are. This innocent beauty draws Creepers like flies to honey. <br />
<br />
I see the man on the bench outside the library of our little downtown as the Beast and her Friends stride away from me with their new found freedom of teenage-hood. And I see the man…The Man With Candy—his face lights up as he stalks with his eyes the glossy bouncing hair, the big boobs, the long legs, the happy chatter. A salacious smile spreads across his face—“Hello girls!” he says. The girls look at one another and laugh and keep on walking--Ms. Church Lady’s daughter’s, The Bulldozer, says in stage whisper—“ That’s weird—he is like my grandfather’s age.” Thank god for The Bulldozer and The Beast’s band of women warriors—smart and strong and confident. <br />
<br />
<br />
Ms. Filmmaker and I were just beginning to learn about the world full of Creepers at 14. The Sharks, The Icky Types, The Play on Your Sympathy Jerks---there are a number of varieties, but they are all just Men with Candy….waiting, hoping, seeking an unguarded moment when they can sleaze their way into your life. I talk to The Beast about Men with Candy, to be on the lookout for them and not to be fooled into a bad situation because they play on your sympathy or your need to feel older. Her eyes glaze over—“I know what I am doing.” She says. <br />
<br />
“I know, I know beautiful girl that you are smart and thoughtful, but humor me and listen. “ She is a good girl—so she did listen and I hope my voice will be in her head when the high school dropout ten years her senior attempts a pick-up line on her or an older artist suggests going to his loft to see his etchings…<br />
<br />
Always be aware of Men with Candy.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-28233223943154524162011-04-25T08:28:00.001-04:002011-04-25T08:45:05.091-04:00What We Hope For & What We Dread<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0a8xeLnX6kdrGlsqx2g4I3qzaJQz3iSOXaY8Zco8XixsWBlzpYAq4XXY4cjMOelvvC6P0L_eNZKZYWjfZCJY0TyVTaI3LjZBuGGOrhqGLCZJIC6UpUFKoD6EKROXqxz5MiC5nd5alFUg/s1600/airplane+on+ground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0a8xeLnX6kdrGlsqx2g4I3qzaJQz3iSOXaY8Zco8XixsWBlzpYAq4XXY4cjMOelvvC6P0L_eNZKZYWjfZCJY0TyVTaI3LjZBuGGOrhqGLCZJIC6UpUFKoD6EKROXqxz5MiC5nd5alFUg/s400/airplane+on+ground.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
None of them look back.<br />
<br />
We are there on the balcony of the departure area of JFK at 6 a.m. on a Sunday morning watching our children rush happily towards their gate for international flights below. We, a tired crew of parents, stand there scanning the group of kids for any sign of slight hesitation…any hint of fear, of home sickness, of missing us, but of course, there is none of that. Not even a look back or a wave. <br />
<br />
This is what we strive for— brave, bold children who are unafraid of the world. Yet the look on the parents’ faces is not satisfaction for a job well done, but heartbreak. It all really does go so quickly from the tearful pre-school drop off to the sudden interest in international travel…without us. <br />
<br />
I look over at a dad—barely holding it together. “She is just like her older sister—she never looked back. But there is something about the baby leaving…it is harder…” his sentence trailed off. I look to The Man, hoping he would have something comforting to say, but I could tell…he was close to the edge too. <br />
<br />
“Buck-up” I finally said, “It is not college. They will be home in 9 days, go home, go hug your dog.” <br />
<br />
And that is what we do— we go back home, pet the cats and wait.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-15313409948548330702011-04-18T20:34:00.000-04:002011-04-18T20:34:32.063-04:00The HaremI peer in the large window next to the front door as I wait for someone to answer the door bell. It looks like a harem scene from some Technicolor movie set in ancient Bagdad not a girls’ sleep-over party. Young females in brightly colored loose pajama pants and tight little tee shirts lounging around on couches and rugs while one girl plays the guitar. Their eyes highly painted, their toenails vibrant with nail polish…I see The Beast skipping in with her mane of black curly hair and ancient Egyptian eye makeup—all smiles with an armful of board games. <br />
<br />
These early teenage years are full of odd contrasts. There is something so utterly gorgeous about these girls that it just takes your breath away and at the same time they seem to totally lack awareness of this beauty. This is what I find both comforting and scary.<br />
<br />
I am standing outside the house because although normally I am cautious, sometimes I forget. An hour ago I dropped The Beast off at this sleep-over party house and drove away. Although not an old friend of the Beast, the girl host seems like a smart, confident child and The Man and I had gone to high school with her mother. <br />
<br />
BUT…I heard the girl had a slightly older brother…and what exactly did the parents do? The last time I saw the parents they were at a Halloween Party… dressed a little oddly and I assumed they were in custom for the holiday. Yet, in this artsy-fartsy town, you should really never assume that type of thing. It was actually the older brother factor that was nagging at me…that and the fact that I had not seen parents at the drop off. I did, however, see a dog. <br />
<br />
“The dog is my friend.” I thought---he is a means to get back into the house. I call The Beast on her cellphone—“You forgot allergy medicine and they have dog. I am going to drop some off.” I said nonchalantly so as not to tip her off to my real purpose for returning to the house—to spy. <br />
<br />
Waiting for the door to open I take in everything like a film noir detective—nice house—older house and not too big, Toyotas in the driveway not BMWs or Audis, bookshelves full of books in the living room and then the best thing I see—the mother coming to answer the door. <br />
<br />
What can I say—I am not perfect, but I am persistent.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-91884856954790786302011-04-02T09:33:00.001-04:002011-04-02T09:42:37.068-04:00Freshman Orientation“I swear to god if you make this meeting a second longer than it has to be by raising your hand, I WILL slap you.” I whisper at Ms. Music Teacher. This is where it gets ugly and a husband has to intervene. Ultimately I win this battle, but only to lose the war because there is a woman with even more esoteric questions sitting just outside my slap zone. <br />
<br />
This was parents’ orientation to the high school set in the high schools’ uninspired lunch room. <br />
<br />
I am listening to a seemingly endless presentation as I sit with the supermoms. Ms. Music Teacher, decides she wants to ask a question. It is not that I am against questions, but really, why not use a phone or e-mail. “ Let’s be honest—HOW many people have a kid in orchestrate AND band and who also want to sing in the choir—stick a cork in it Ms. Mozart. It is not like you are going to get class participation points.” I tell her in my own sensitive way. <br />
“No…I really feel it is an important question and there may be other parents who have the same question and are afraid to ask.” she insists. <br />
<br />
“You should be afraid” I threaten.<br />
<br />
Thanks to The Beast and her non-clique personal philosophy—I am familiar with a number of the moms— the artsy, work from home type moms who are writing books or jetting off to photograph a dying population of pray rug weavers in the Himalayas. And also the super moms who are my favorite clique to hang with. They are busy, focused on their careers. I am, of course, not a supermom, but these are my people. These are people who work on the major scientific problems of the day and still have time to remind me to sign The Beast up for kindergarten. These are people who can get 400 kids under the age of ten to sing in-tune and still volunteer, these are people who run Brownie troops and then jet off to Japan for business. And it is not JUST the moms—these are women who managed to balance the art of having a career AND a life. They organize their lives for maximum satisfaction and they get their husbands on board faster than a conductor on a German train. <br />
<br />
And these are the moms who ask the questions…lots of questions and I just have to deal with it.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-2029437769750444062011-03-19T20:35:00.000-04:002011-03-19T20:35:22.211-04:00Facebook--the good, the bad and the Noble.I like to occasionally scan the Facebook pages of The Beast and her cousins for signs of deviant behavior…not that I REALLY want to know, it is sort of like a roadside accident—you are drawn into the horror of teenage-hood and you pray that your kids are crawling out alive and not too damaged. <br />
<br />
There are, of course, the references to piercings, the possible tattoos, the eventual squabble over girlfriends, boyfriends, and even just the regular sibling bickering between the cousins since they are all only children. However, one incident left me begging to be unfriended. <br />
<br />
A girlfriend issue with the eldest country cousin got his small town buddies into a tizzy of name calling. The city-cousin, younger, but more sophisticated than most of us will ever be, stepped in and verbally bitch-slapped those country bumpkins while distancing herself from the country cousin’s stupidity. <br />
<br />
Sometimes the city cousin’s parents worry about her because she acts years beyond her age, but she bright, beautiful and has a deep sense of integrity and a personal bravery that is so hard to find. <br />
<br />
Once you look beyond the nose piercing, the possible tattoo, the bravado of youth, the fairy princess is there sticking up for her dopey older <br />
cousin…what more could you want from a child who is still wonders how she managed to end up with mere mortals as parents.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-69094969748935019522011-03-11T05:55:00.000-05:002011-03-11T05:55:34.270-05:00Lingering Misogyny“What the fuck is wrong with you?!!” I said…in the nicest way possible to Mr. Attorney on our way home from the city on a Friday afternoon. “Why would you even mention that Lara Logan was a former swimsuit model and had a child with a married man, not her husband?” <br />
Mr. Attorney, although he often tries to push my buttons for sport, seemed genuinely confused. He had that hurt puppy dog look followed by a Scooby Doo turning of the head dopey reaction. <br />
“I was just giving background information” he said recovering from the mental deficient look that had crept on to his face after being accused of misogyny. <br />
“Really? Really? Like if a man had had a similar experience of being gang raped by bunch of men on the street—you would mention: ‘Well….he had been voted handsomest male in his class year book… had been listed as one of the sexiest men alive by People magazine.’ Would YOU?! Would you?! Let me tell you. NO you would have NOT mentioned such shit because he was a man. But with a woman you perpetuate this fucking misogyny. What is wrong with you?!!” <br />
<br />
Let me be clear—Mr. Attorney is not a misogynist, but he definitely still has the general mindset that remains in America and elsewhere that places women in a different category, a lower category, than men. For some reason the fact that Lara Logan is sexy lessens everything about her. Her intellect, her bravery as a reporter going into war torn countries, her grace under fire are not mention but rather that she is sexy.<br />
<br />
Perhaps my reaction was too strong, but being the mom of a now young woman—I have no patience for this type of lingering misogyny that is so prevalent it goes by unnoticed. So remember—if you hear this type of crap—confront it. Don’t let it continue. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaxWtV_ozq5-GcFKv46i-l27Wi5u5lg5qwQahCqqjBOrRql37FmmlcHOZDigJm_fJzWF_Jg3GBwaeVIzCKi2kF35gmmhWj96vJovbj1RCwdtMeg7SpkeMNCQjGBUuJN89iqZT4H4Btm-w/s1600/lara-logan-2-15-11.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="248" width="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaxWtV_ozq5-GcFKv46i-l27Wi5u5lg5qwQahCqqjBOrRql37FmmlcHOZDigJm_fJzWF_Jg3GBwaeVIzCKi2kF35gmmhWj96vJovbj1RCwdtMeg7SpkeMNCQjGBUuJN89iqZT4H4Btm-w/s400/lara-logan-2-15-11.png" /></a></div>LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-76326886424292958632011-02-26T09:02:00.004-05:002011-02-26T17:35:54.666-05:00Professional ParentingStories from the Trenches<br />
<br />
I am waiting for the Beast’s fencing class to end. I am trying to read my New York Times in the little café area outside the fencing room. But there is a constant chatter, no banter, no…no…the more I listen—I realize it is the retelling of war stories—MOM war stories. I pull my attention away from the art and culture section that I have been craving like a like a crystal meth addict all day and look up at my distractions. <br />
<br />
There they are-- two moms, professional parents—you know the type—one-upping one another with tales of their difficult lives: one child was on a traveling sport team, while the other was in a gifted program on Saturdays at a local college. There was more…a lot more…boy scouts, school team sports, volunteer service, bar mitzvah preparations….they barely had time to chauffeur them from one activity to the next. The lists were getting longer and longer. They both had two children. <br />
<br />
After that first night at home with the baby Beast—we were pretty sure we were single kid sort of parents—so I bow out of these busy mommy competitions on lack of team members alone.<br />
<br />
I always try to avoid the martyr mommy syndrome---I first encountered this ailment shortly after The Beast’s birth. Many mommy martyrs start with birth stories and I have heard a ton of these tales doing playground duty those first few years of parenthood …the many hours of labor, being stitched up after the gargantuan baby finally arrives…all NATURAL…naturally. <br />
<br />
I, of course, never one for pain or personal suffering of any kind— was screaming “DRUGS!” from the get go, promptly followed by “knock me out and get it out.” Because REALLY—what is modern medicine for? <br />
<br />
The mothers notice I am looking up from my paper and then invite me into their Homeric story telling session with an encouraging question. “Oh but it must be so difficult with a girl—right?” They say pulling me forward into their web of saintly motherhood. I am tempted, but as I think—I come up blank. I enjoy The Beast, I am charmed by her friends and for the most part, they are pretty independent and have always been so. “well…I start—she wears A LOT of eye makeup….And” I say fishing in my memories for something—“She was a little snippy with me the other day when I tried to get her out of bed for school….” <br />
<br />
The mothers waited with encouraging smiles—but I just couldn’t do it. Life is good. We do stuff, but fun stuff. I sometimes end-up sitting in places like this one, but I view it as an opportunity to A) read my New York Times or B) Get a Blog post. Their smiles fade and they turn back to their Blackberries to check their schedules.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-49045567992847490292011-02-19T08:32:00.003-05:002011-02-20T18:59:48.330-05:00Marriage--You Have to WORK at It!I was telling a happily, single, older woman, co-worker about what I had done for Valentine’s Day with my husband which was not much because…REALLY everyone knows it is one of those holidays that is just there to make everyone feel like losers—like New Year’s Eve. Millions of desperate people looking for the one good time on that one night of the year. You can cut the angst with a knife. The same goes for Valentine’s Day. <br />
<br />
The older woman said to me in a serious voice: “ you know…with marriage—You really have to WORK at it.” I looked at her for a split second before we both dissolved into a school girl giggles. This is when she pulled up the study on happiness and marriage. Apparently single women are the happiest, followed by married men, then single men and then married women. “ Interesting” I said. I normally question studies because I am like that—annoying. But this one seemed to ring true in my gut. <br />
<br />
There is an inordinately large body of work designed to tell women how to make men happy….from marriage books, to so called women’s magazines which are all about how to please your man—what to cook for him, how to dress for him, what to do in bed…for him. I, of course, blame THE MEDIA for selling this mind set and women for buying this huge load of crap. Not that I am an expert, but you don’t see magazines for men on how to treat women well. Do you? <br />
<br />
I have been around the block…so to speak and I can guarantee you—men are pretty happy furry creatures to begin with. They don’t need a lot of care and feeding—they just want you to stop asking them if your butt looks big—because then they have to think. My advice, not that anyone asked, is to have fun—men will come along for the ride. No instructions needed.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-64839556997171008502011-02-16T17:55:00.004-05:002011-02-16T18:02:31.643-05:00She's Back....The Beast is back!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2WU5ZUKsJXuYvDJ_CsvVPGL0LRbVl6ggdCd8UCx9SpHtFdtcg3mdsPrBCOzx4IGu3va36ym6AhGlGo0TKofFE2KXE2RFb76e1xr8lvcI_Qa-H-0xRY48ofUhrpwFPkHyWf86ZVMKRoU/s1600/door+open.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2WU5ZUKsJXuYvDJ_CsvVPGL0LRbVl6ggdCd8UCx9SpHtFdtcg3mdsPrBCOzx4IGu3va36ym6AhGlGo0TKofFE2KXE2RFb76e1xr8lvcI_Qa-H-0xRY48ofUhrpwFPkHyWf86ZVMKRoU/s400/door+open.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
Just when I thought I could breathe easy and talk about my parental angst about things like: <br />
<br />
1) Should I attempt to talk about contraceptives one more time or will it turn her into a nun due to the grossness factor, or perhaps, will it make her more intrigued about the whole process? <br />
<br />
2) Is it okay to go to high school parent orientation either with a travel cup full of wine or down a glass ahead of time? The only reason why I ask is that I feel I would have had a much better time at those seemly endless kindergarten orientations if I had brought a bottle of wine for all us nervous moms. <br />
<br />
And there are many more issues I want to discuss, but alas…I must go to that high school orientation.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-4761787950416875082011-02-13T18:08:00.005-05:002011-02-13T18:48:21.363-05:00Mismatched Dishes and Other Signs of True Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLun3MVXyW9s-AK_sXv6YZBq12XhSyrr0kOAGE7eTCYX2zDppZouuUiCufQv3SlxnoDCWB9xsaDUF85dlo8Zx7D7jO7d5BQicgkVGP4bJyuAt0-IIP9vVDu-cLHRXEPNcyoaKsit8JFjM/s1600/mismatched+dishes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLun3MVXyW9s-AK_sXv6YZBq12XhSyrr0kOAGE7eTCYX2zDppZouuUiCufQv3SlxnoDCWB9xsaDUF85dlo8Zx7D7jO7d5BQicgkVGP4bJyuAt0-IIP9vVDu-cLHRXEPNcyoaKsit8JFjM/s400/mismatched+dishes.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
He has an easy cat-like walk— unhurried, gracefully and strong. His face with its large dark, dark eyes competing for attention with full beautiful lips—it is a face that I will always love to look at. <br />
<br />
We met in high school, but never connected. 20 years later we did and 9 months later we decided to have a baby and 9 months after that—the Beast was born. <br />
<br />
I was, at first, reluctant. Our styles did not match. He loved the country, having a house, driving cars. I loved the city, the energy, the people and taking cabs. I tried to explain—it seemed so clear to me. Our first date alone was enough to illuminate our differences: I was wearing a small black Betsy Johnson dress—he, shorts with hiking boots. But he was so sexy—a summer romance seemed like a good idea. <br />
<br />
But, of course, things snowballed… I tried to stop it, but he promised me that mismatched dishes are not something to break-up over. And it was a true to credit to my former therapist and my slowly evolving maturity that I took our mismatched dishes, not as a sign of a doomed destiny, but rather as true love.LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5726179700468894043.post-48432302442567116142011-02-10T20:36:00.001-05:002011-02-11T08:32:55.652-05:00Shhhhhh!I think the Beast has forgotten about my blog. Be very quiet. She has gone off to plan her birthday party or bake Valentines day treats for friends or research European vacations for us....I don't know what she is REALLY up to. I think she might be a spy from the former Soviet Union. Children become so secretive and scary when they turn teenagers. <br />
She just better not be in an outfit like this.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFys2uJjKLBDb-h99CCgBQyLBJBPcsOwPpd0igEQQyT5fVcDiD4n7MVCe0fE6UNBglLeZ_cOFscEa0x6f207l12XDfqmBqPNV71pxyCDJW9NFikpeRLXC34J8voLTCs-vGz0T1R3CdJS8/s1600/Secret+agent+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFys2uJjKLBDb-h99CCgBQyLBJBPcsOwPpd0igEQQyT5fVcDiD4n7MVCe0fE6UNBglLeZ_cOFscEa0x6f207l12XDfqmBqPNV71pxyCDJW9NFikpeRLXC34J8voLTCs-vGz0T1R3CdJS8/s400/Secret+agent+girl.jpg" /></a></div>LazyMomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11969292025516432018noreply@blogger.com0