Lazy Mom Cafe

The Ethan Allen Houses

2011-09-11T16:37:00.000-04:00

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.

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.

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?”

Sometimes when life is surreal—you just have to go with the flow and wait patiently until the commercial ends.

How Not To Be Scared

2011-08-30T19:44:00.000-04:00

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!”

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.

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.

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.

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. “

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.

Please Call

2011-08-13T14:22:00.005-04:00

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"

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…

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.”

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.

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….

It is the beginning of an adult life, of life that is widening beyond…sniff…us

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.”

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.”

Hearing the word NO—my co-worker Debbie, like all good New Yorkers, comes over to assist—“You tell him girl!” she cheered.

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.

Nice, JUST Nice

2011-07-16T20:03:00.000-04:00

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.

The phrase “ That was nice…JUST nice.” Has become a family favorite insult.
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…”
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…

Life is an Open Book Test

2011-07-10T19:50:00.002-04:00

“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.

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.

“If you are unsure of something—ask.” I tell the child as I tuck an emergency $20 in her pocket.

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.

She comes back to me in the lobby of the building. “ I am scared...everyone will be older than I am. “

“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.

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.

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.

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.

Creating Worlds

2011-07-01T10:59:00.000-04:00

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

Trying and Failing

2011-06-11T09:54:00.000-04:00

First 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.

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.

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.

Sometimes the pushing IS too much. I try not to take it personally when she pushes back because usually The Child is right.

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.

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.

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 coffee

Overwhelmed With Love

2011-05-08T08:22:00.003-04:00

“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.

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.

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.

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?

It is NOT Family Day

2011-05-07T07:29:00.001-04:00

“So…what are you doing for Mother’s Day?” Mr. Attorney inquired on our way home from the city after a RATHER long week.
“Nothing….absolutely nothing” I said with complete satisfaction.
There was a very slight pause and then the cross-examination began.
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.
My nice nickname for Mr. Attorney is “20 Questions” because god forbid he is satisfied with just one answer. So the questions begin:

You are not seeing your mother-in-law?—No.
You are not seeing your sister or sister-in-law?—No.
Does your husband see his mother?—Yes.
Does your daughter see her grandmother?—Yes.
And you don’t go with them?—You’re a smart one!

And the questions continue—“Why? Why don’t you see the rest of your family on Mother’s Day? !!”
“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. “

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.

“Don’t you appreciate your mother in law?” Mr. Attorney attempts to wriggle guilt into my perfectly blissful day.

“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.”

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…

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.

Men With Candy

2011-04-30T14:05:00.004-04:00

“Are you talking about The Creepers” she said in an off-handed way that suggested this was all old news to her.

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. “

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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…

Always be aware of Men with Candy.

What We Hope For & What We Dread

2011-04-25T08:28:00.001-04:00

None of them look back.

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.

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.

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.

“Buck-up” I finally said, “It is not college. They will be home in 9 days, go home, go hug your dog.”

And that is what we do— we go back home, pet the cats and wait.

The Harem

2011-04-18T20:34:00.000-04:00

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

What can I say—I am not perfect, but I am persistent.

Freshman Orientation

2011-04-02T09:33:00.001-04:00

“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.

This was parents’ orientation to the high school set in the high schools’ uninspired lunch room.

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.
“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.

“You should be afraid” I threaten.

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.

And these are the moms who ask the questions…lots of questions and I just have to deal with it.

Facebook--the good, the bad and the Noble.

2011-03-19T20:35:00.000-04:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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
cousin…what more could you want from a child who is still wonders how she managed to end up with mere mortals as parents.

Lingering Misogyny

2011-03-11T05:55:00.000-05:00

“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?”
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.
“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.
“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?!!”

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.

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.

Professional Parenting

2011-02-26T09:02:00.004-05:00

Stories from the Trenches

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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….”

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.

Marriage--You Have to WORK at It!

2011-02-19T08:32:00.003-05:00

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.

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.

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?

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.

She's Back....

2011-02-16T17:55:00.004-05:00

The Beast is back!

Just when I thought I could breathe easy and talk about my parental angst about things like:

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?

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.

And there are many more issues I want to discuss, but alas…I must go to that high school orientation.

Mismatched Dishes and Other Signs of True Love

2011-02-13T18:08:00.005-05:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

Shhhhhh!

2011-02-10T20:36:00.001-05:00

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.
She just better not be in an outfit like this.

Mountains of Flesh

2011-02-08T20:25:00.001-05:00

I feel myself sinking into my normal winter sloth…a hibernation really. The only thing I want to eat is pasta. Red wine is my only other desire. I don’t know why I obsess about my weight in the winter when the my body is swathed in layers of cloth rather than during the warm months when there is far more flesh exposed…I think it is all those New Year’s Resolutions

My normal passion of walking in the city is stymied by unforgiving weather. I, instead, am reduced to wandering the hallways of the university like some forlorn and chubby ghost.

I attempt to pull myself out of these winter doldrums by taking out my barely used yoga mat and exercise DVD and following instructions of some overly perky woman with tiny, bizarrely rippling, stomach muscles. Together we bounce through seemingly pointless exercises….SEEMINGLY until the following morning when I realize exactly where all those little tiny muscles are on MY stomach.

This mind-numbing torture goes on for several days until the morning I wake up late and the following morning when I realize I would really rather have another cup of coffee than an earful of “1, 2, 3, 4—inhale, exhale…GOOD JOB. “

This is my downfall…because once I miss a few days—really—what’s the point of continuing during the week—I can make the rest up during weekend when I will have PLENTLY of time…of course on the weekend—the couch beckons like an old boyfriend I know is no good for me. And I fall and the cats and The Beast fall with me. We all lie on the couch like bears in the den—waiting and weighting for the winter to end.

Tiger Mom--Stop and Smell the Bacteria

2011-02-05T19:35:00.000-05:00

We heard him coming. Footsteps pounding down two flights of old wood stairs in our ancient house. He pushed passed everyone lingering in the kitchen…which of course was EVERYONE because it was a late Saturday afternoon and we were hanging by the fireplace in the dining part of the kitchen and watching my mother mangle some poor large piece of meat for dinner. The oven was on and my brother flew by my mother and tossed a test tube into the oven and slammed the door. There was complete silence. “Potentially Dangerous Bacteria” announced my brother calmly as he strode back upstairs to his lab…I mean bedroom.

“See! See! He is going to kill us ALL. He is going to kill the whole town!” my other brother shouted. “ No one believes me.”

Granted…the boys had the third floor of the house and no one EVER went up there. One brother was a WWII naval buff and had, if not the largest, close to the largest, collections of model battle ships. The other brother was the mad scientist with his own models of genes, skulls, human organs and of course the microscope and test tubes etc.

My sister normally tucked in her “squirrel room” with slanted ceilings, odd corners, mountains of books and an electric typewriter humming wandered in to agree. “Did you see the dead frog he had pinned to the cutting board last week that he was dissecting and now Mum is using the same board for the roast beef as though nothing happened.” My father looked up from the Foxfire book he was reading with quizzical amusement and took another sip of coffee, as my mother, never one to be concerned about germs, waved away the apprehensions—“For heaven’s sake—I washed the cutting board—it is perfectly fine. “

Hernan (my Peruvian friend) and I sat by the fireplace with a mound of clay-like mud we had pulled from a neighbor’s ditch attempting to make pottery bowls. Inspired by My Side of the Mountain, we made flimsy shelters from small tree limbs and kite string all over the in the woods near our house and now were attempting to furnish our rustic homes….the old fashioned way.

No one in our family had time to study long hours or practice instruments way into the night. We had agendas of own. We ALL had a agendas—my mother and father included and being a private tutor to four kids who were smart enough as-is was not on the list.

What I find odd about the Amy Chua’s Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom—everyone seems to SO WORRIED about the kids…my concern is with the mother. For heaven’s sake, to quote my mother, does the woman not have anything better to do than torment her children? I am sure the children will be fine, but doesn’t poor Amy have any friends to go out with? Model ships to build? Amateur experiments with potentially dangerous bacteria? Another book to write?

Enjoy your kids and your life. Life does not have to be one long struggle. Sit back and smell the bacteria, enjoy the failed pottery attempts, absurd obsessions with models and relax.

The Piano Teacher

2011-02-02T07:30:00.001-05:00

“Do you know how to play?” the silver haired woman asked the little girl who was sitting on the piano bench.

Just as I was saying “no, “

The Beast piped up: “YES!”

“Wonderful—could you play me something?” asked the piano teacher as she relaxed with smile to hear the performance.

The diminutive Beast composed herself and dove into a dramatic piece of music bursting with emotion. Five minutes later the final notes where softly played and the child slowly looked up in triumph at her audience—the music teacher and me.

“That was beautiful.” Said the teacher, “Was it your own composition?”

“No.” said the Beast, “I made it up.”

This was the Beast first piano lesson so many years ago---I was sitting there thinking…because I am not the nicest person—“this is sort of an expensive play-date with the nice lady” UNTIL the piano teacher launched into an engaging lesson about what a composition is and what notes are… The two of them chatted away and tapped out notes on the piano for a half hour. I have never learned so much in my life….the child also had a good time.

As I sit here now—I hear The Beast working on a song that she wanted to modify. The piano teacher helped her explore the process of arranging a piece of music. This piano teacher is a rare find. She has infused the child with a love of music which I feel is a gift that will always be with her. And the Beast is not alone—every child who enters the teacher’s house is eager to come and excited. I think the excitement is because the teacher listens and teaches to the children—she starts with their interests and builds on it. If only we could all have the ability to pass on passion for what we love to others. Like morning coffee.

Designer Children

2011-01-29T11:05:00.002-05:00

JGH over at Nyack Backyard wrote a piece recently on the new documentary, Race to Nowhere, and it got me thinking about the driven moms in our little town who feel the need to design their off-spring’s future…map it out and drag them along the path to success.

When I first met Ms. Super Care Mom she told me how to DO IT. “What I have is a file…it is really very simple. Every time Princess Perfect volunteers, is mentioned in the newspaper, joins a club, gets an award or performs in a play—I put it in the file and the whole file is handed into the guidance counselor at the end of the year to become part of her school dossier.

“That is amazing.” I said to the beaming mother. But I was thinking “Amazing the guidance counselor has not gone off the deep end dealing with these parents—she probably either has the patience of Job or is just circular filing this C.V. of teenage brilliance.

Ms. Super Care Mom knows all the tricks to push and pull your kid to the top of the heap and they are all based on good child psychology and strong-arming the school system administrators and teachers. It works and you can do it too, but do you want your child on the top of that heap?

The Man and I were raised in oddly similar laissez faire homes-- packed full of kids with parents who were more artistic than focused. We were fed, clothed and loved and then set loose on the world. There was not a lot of individual attention to FORMAL achievements, but rather constant encouragement to try new things…break rules... be independent.

The Beast and her close friends are, for the most part, unfettered by the chains of an over-scheduled life. Yet, they are busy. They make their own busy—they plan, they build, they create. Our mantra to The Beast has always been— “Try it, you may like it….broaden your horizons” And she does.

God help us when it comes time to do college essays—I am sure the child will decide to film some social media driven event or create street art in response to unseen poverty or whatever passion she is into at the moment rather than write the standard college brag essay.

But that is her and this is a new world.

We are no longer in the 1950’s—what is success today, will be not be tomorrow. As parents, we don’t know where our children's successes will lie, so we cannot give them detail directions how to get there. We can only give them the skills to navigate to find their way—to invent their own future and success.

To quote my favorite educator, Jean Piaget: "Education, for most people, means trying to lead the child to resemble the typical adult of his society . . . but for me and no one else, education means making creators. . . . You have to make inventors, innovators—not conformists"

The Beast Blogs

2011-01-26T05:46:00.000-05:00

I knew it was just a matter of time. The Beast has created her own teen daughter blog in response to my mom blog. So if you want the other side of the story check out Thoughts From a Wild Thing.

Getting to Know You...Getting to Know ALL About You....

2011-01-24T20:27:00.001-05:00

The Beast, like her father, is social…very social. With every new school year I am thrown into a group of New Moms because of the child’s ever expanding social connections. Some moms I click with and others not so much. Some I think I would like, but then some horrible character flaw is revealed—like they don’t drink or are republicans.

“I just picked up a bottle of wine—would you like a glass?” Said the New Mom to me.

So far, so good—always wise to offer to another mom, regardless of event (this happened to be an evening birthday party pick-up) a glass of wine. Then she called out over her shoulder as she was getting the glasses “ I hate keeping wine in the house. I think it is dangerous.”

And I thought—“Freak! Guns are dangerous to have in the house—wine is a good thing.” Obviously this New Mom is taking the D.A.R.E. program to the Extremes.

But instead of being thoughtful and inquiring about AA issues in the home…I said: “That’s odd. I hate if we have less than the case of red wine in the cellar—just on the off chance there is another 9/11 event—we want to be prepared…wine is key, that and the 40 bags of Starbucks coffee.”

She stared at me as though to say—“You know--you are letting the terrorists win.” But instead…she just smiled.

The chic still drinks and has the social wherewithal to offer me wine—she has potential. Unlike the non-drinking, pseudo tea-party types who live in the McMansions down the street.

The Man tells me if I were more open-minded and less snarky—I would probably have more friends. I remind him—I would no longer be the woman he fell in love with: A bitter and sarcastic New Yorker.

I will let The Beast and The Man grow our social sphere.

Erotic Capital

2011-01-22T17:45:00.001-05:00

We pulled our red VW microbus up behind the massive black Mercedes with diplomatic plates. It was one of those Technicolor memories from my childhood. The large circular driveway, the huge fountain with that abstract sculpture in the middle, the flags from every country waving in the warm breeze and the grand, glass, rectangle of United Nations in front of us…my sister, beside me, seething…of course.

We had gone into the city on this beautiful, sunny, spring morning (not sure why my sister was not in school—I was barely five) to have a girls day in the city. My mother could not find street parking near the UN where we planned to meet my father for lunch. Rather than go to a parking garage my mother convinced the guard at the entrance of the UN, through smiles and pleasantries, to allow us to park in the stately front entrance normally reserved for heads of state. My sister was mortified. I was…intrigued by this power my mother had over men.

My mother always had a certain style that appealed. Brought up by a single mother, but in the circle of the upper class of Boston families—she had an easy elegance, a common touch and a warmth that carried her through life with a grace and a charm. She had what I now know is erotic capital.

“You don’t hear women in the U.S. talking about Erotic Capital” said the head with the truly great golden blond die job (I would say it has at least three layers of highlights to create that hair color that is almost too perfect) as she looked down at me over her big boobs.
Ms. Older Woman Sexy is probably around my age, but sans child and husband. She takes time on her appearance—fingernails flawless, eye brows perfectly arched—she is sexy. She is also a lesbian, but that does not stop her from using that capital on everyone. It is an exciting skill which I never really thought about in formal terms, but we were discussing the dress style of the younger people in our group—all of whom are very stylish ….and nice…and smart…very sexy.

I, like my mother, use my erotic capital (mainly my very sexy phone voice)…which I define as the ability to connect with people, mainly men, on the more gut level. My sister, although always more attractive than I (and with the exact same voice), never wanted to developed the skill. She refused. Obviously still scarred by the United Nations experience.

Now that I am a mother—I wonder about this skill of wielding erotic capital. I am not sure how I feel about The Beast manipulating that power. There are debates…mainly among women. Does Erotic Capital help women? Does it hurt women? I am not sure—I look at Hugh Grant and Pierce Bronson and think—they have it and use it. It is combination of charm, connecting with people and humor…and of course that underlying sexuality.
“Why not?” I guess is the true question. Sexually will always be there Why Not use it.

The Secret

2011-01-12T09:17:00.003-05:00

“Your life will become a WAR ZONE.” I tell the eager young man. Slowly the giddy smile fades from his face. “I know you don’t believe me now, but I just want to let you know—you will have extremes of emotions and although there are some exceptional highs there are more lows than you could ever think possible.”

“You will hate your wife. You will hate her with a deep-down pit of stomach burning passion….Just the look of her will disgust you. Of course…she will feel the exactly same way about you too, but MORE SO because she actually had to birth the little monster. Just a heads up…"I said lightly, "but don’t worry—it lifts after the first year and it is it intermingled with a great deal of unexplainable, transformational joy.”

“So…when your new baby arrives and thoughts of murder start to bubble up--just remember it is all perfectly normal and remember this conversation that you think is so bizarre right now.”

“I will expect a thank you card in about 2 years.” I tell him. He laughs. And I said—“I laughed too when our birthing class nurse told me I would want to throw the baby from the window…but lo and behold…as I was heading toward the window with that screaming beast 3 months later—I smiled instead of opening the window.”

This is why I always give alcohol to new parents.

It's that Whole Work-Life Balance Thang

2011-01-04T05:32:00.000-05:00

The Man vacuums around me as I recline on the couch. He actively clatters dishes in the sink. He pretends to be searching under MY couch for something that does not exist.

I am immunized to this type of behavior.

I have always felt housework was a complete waste of time unless company is coming or the health department may have reason to investigate.

He glares from his stance far above my couch. I lie there with pen in hand and my little notebook of New Year’s Resolutions and I happily read while I write:
“More Work-Life Balance”

Snowed In

2010-12-27T16:34:00.004-05:00

Photo from Nyack Snap

It is a blizzard and we cozy in our little stone house. The ham in the oven has infused the house with familiar childhood smell of Sunday dinner. The Beast is reconfiguring her iPod music into folders and subfolders at the dining room table as she sips hot chocolate. The Man and I are happily ensconced in the living room within earshot of the quietly singing child as we sink into our deep, old couches and shift the sleeping cats closer and warm our legs with the heat of our laptops.

This is us--separate, but together.

I was just reading a story about the sharp drop in teen pregnancy in the US. “They”, whoever “they” might be, have not formulated a theory to go with this new data, but some people say it is due to the economy—which makes sense to me. Not because teens do the math and realize it would be EVEN harder to have kids in this economy rather than a booming one, but because families are probably spending more time together as they weather the poor market.

We live in a rather fancy-smancy neighborhood full of Viking stoves, BMW SUVs, Mc Mansions and excessively large flat screen TVs. I have noticed with the tanking of the economy that there has been return to the simple pleasures rather than the fiendish desire for more and more. Even here, in this upper middle class suburb, you don’t really hear people talking about their newest purchase because they are either not making them or they realize there is a new mindset to go along with this stormy economic environment.

I think the recession has stopped a lot of people from feeling the need to keep up with the Jones and just like during a snow storm—to slow down, make sure family is safe and then to happily hunker-down at home and appreciate what they have.

And I think that is what kids want more than the big screen TV or all the status symbols—they want their parent there. So perhaps this return to the essentials is what is helping the teen pregnancy rate. When your whole family is home—when does a teen have time to get intimate? They don’t and hence my theory.

The Egyptians

2010-12-24T08:07:00.003-05:00

“Do you allow your daughter to wear make-up?” a friend at work asked. She also has a thirteen year old daughter and they apparently constantly battle with one another over the detritus of everyday life…Blackberries, Uggs, friends, parties and now apparently make-up.

“No.” I told her. “The Beast does what she wants and I only hear about it later. So there is no permission granted, but I have witnessed make-up on my daughter’s face” I told the horrified mother.

The Beast is smart and very much an old soul. She rarely, if ever, asks my permission to do anything so mundane like putting on make-up. I believe her theory is that she will just start doing something and gauge the response.

About a year ago I came home and the Beast looked up from her laptop and I almost fell into the deep pools of her huge eyes that seemed to swallow everything in the room. I came closer, but not too close --for safety reasons….”Your eyes look VERY large—like you have not eaten for days.”

“It is just a little make-up” she reported matter-of-factly and turned back to her computer.

I thought for a while as I made a cup of coffee…and I thought…”yes. It is just a little make-up…it is not a tattoo, it is not a nose piercing. It is a little bit of make-up that can easily wash off.”

And here I should mention that The Man and I sort of stumbled into parenthood with the idea it would be fun to have a kid around the house. We are often ill prepared for the bigger questions like the one my co-worker asked me—“What sort of message are you sending your teenager if you allow her to wear make-up?”

We are not ones to “send messages”…we have always been fairly basic in our parenting goals…I mean goal: KEEP THE CHILD ALIVE. So that is what I told my co-worker: “For heaven’s sake—it is ‘just a little make-up’—it is not going to kill them. So the girls look like ancient Egyptians…where is the harm in that? “

The tension and the terror melted from my ever nervous co-worker’s face as she broke into laughter…”You crazy.” She said.

Thinking Like a Girl

2010-12-15T20:10:00.000-05:00

“You know what you are doing? You are thinking like a girl.” Mr. Attorney said, in his accusatory court room voice, as we slogged through the rainy day NYC traffic.

“Yo Einstein—I AM a girl.” I informed my passenger.

“No, no, no…that is not what I meant. It is that you are waiting for something to be presented to you at work when you should just be asking for it.”

As much as Mr. Attorney and I fight like cats and dogs about politics, religion, child rearing practices etc…he is someone who I have talked to almost every day for way too many years—so we know one another fairly well. We have been together SO LONG that we can really push emotional buttons….like adult siblings at a holiday get together.

Yet the man is right—I DO think like a girl and I am trying to stop. I am trying to ask for things I want and need….not just in my career, but also at home. And I don’t think I alone am missing this skill. Women at work are ALWAYS the “team players” aka the suckers. Women volunteer to take the kids, volunteer to take on the extra work projects…we volunteer our lives away. Even if we don’t volunteer because…as you know…I am not one for volunteering—we do have a tendency to passively accept rather than actively seek out and demand what we want.

The Beast and her friends seem comfortable and confident in asking for what they want. I hope this new generation of women will maintain this ability to speak-up for themselves as their mothers learn how to.

Girls! Smell the TREE!

2010-12-11T09:03:00.002-05:00

The golden, early morning sun is hitting the bridge that leads to the city that I love. The city, just across this majestic bridge, is awash in that Hudson River Light that seems to pull colors to everything it drenches with light—all skyscrapers and trees and cars are supersaturated with color and shimmer with an energy like the first few hours of an LSD trip. I am overwhelmed with the beauty of the moment and I turn to glance a my carpool passenger to share the beauty of it and the dope is instead looking at an ad on a truck in the next lane over and he says in his is slight Long Island by way of Brooklyn accent—“Look at the gecko!”

And this is when I REALLY wish Ms. Seize the Moment would commute in with me rather than the pragmatic Mr. Attorney. She is someone who truly appreciates the everyday moments of pure beauty. It is all too often in our picturesque little town on the Hudson that we forget how lucky we are to live in a place of splendor. But Ms. Seize the Moment does not forget—she captures the moments and she gives voice to them. Witnessing a grand view of the Hudson from a little curvy mountainside road during a walk—“Girls—come here and look at this view and thank you parents for allowing you to grow up surrounded by beauty.”

The children, her Elfin Princess and The Beast are long suffering, but so completely spoiled by attention and love that they really cannot complain and they don’t because they know we would move to a cul-de-sac development house in a heartbeat just to prove our point.

Last winter we took a long walk through the town which took us past a huge, towering pine tree that was not pretty to look at, but the scent automatically recalled every happy Christmas memory from childhood. The girls strolled pasted, only to be recalled by Ms. Seize the Moment. “Girls! Come and Smell the TREE!” and we all did and we are all better for it.

Don’t forget to stop and smell the trees this Christmas.

Volunteering for Stupid

2010-12-04T08:42:00.003-05:00

“Tell me AGAIN why you want me to take off work to serve my child pizza in the school cafeteria? No, no…it is not that I did not hear you the first time, I am just HOPING there is SANE reason such as the union lunch workers are on strike.” I hissed into the phone at an Ubermom who is shocked I would not want to “treat” the children to “a restaurant day” at school.

And for me…this is the thing about volunteering at the schools—most of the events we are asked to volunteer for are criminally idiotic. And although I like this week’s New York Time piece—“Frazzled Moms Push Back Against Volunteering” they did not mention the REAL problem--the vast increase in number of these dim-witted celebrations. This craziness is what moms should REALLY be fighting against. Remember the day when we had class mothers and we had 3 or 4 holiday parties a year—the last two periods before the end of the day…and the bigger events happened in High School—why? Because the kids could plan the parties themselves in High School.

Although I feel terribly guilty about not helping with the Science Garden at the elementary school—I have no compunction telling the zealous mom organizing Beanie Baby bingo that “if I wanted my child to grow-up white trash I would save some money and move even FURTHER upstate.” Or the chubster mom who came up with the idea of Ice Cream Day—“Are you trying to kill our children—have you seen all these pudgy kids wandering the halls?!!”

I have refused to participate in any number of brainless follies…just on principle and I have never felt guilty. Even though the Times article mentions school events with titles that scream stupid like “Donuts for Dad Day” and “Movie Night” —not a word. The mindset of the moms needs to change to: “I do not want to volunteer for another mind numbing event AND I do NOT want my kid participating in yet another event which glorifies either overeating or getting more stuff.

We have to stop the madness. If someone comes up with a dumb event idea—just say NO.

The Milk Crate Fairies

2010-12-02T18:22:00.003-05:00

Sometimes if I wake up in the middle of night and if I listen closely I can hear The Beast in her sleep laughing or sometimes singing….often there is light-hearted chatter. The Beast’s innately cheerful character bleeds through to her sleeping soul and thus her vivid dreams are often filled with happy magical creatures and wondrous places.

The other night when I came home I walked into the tail end of the Beast’s re-telling a dream to The Husband…I wanted her to tell me too, but she said it was too long, but it was about Milk Crate Fairies. Then she turned and went to her room to write fan-fiction. I have been dying to know what the Milk Crate Fairies look like and what the dream was about, but the child does not do repeat performances.

Typical artist.

Woman Warrior

2010-11-30T21:23:00.003-05:00

“I like this new Woman Warrior persona”—The Husband reports after he has dropped The Beast off at fencing practice.

I do too.

The Wonder Woman breast plate, the smart white jacket, the leather glove, fencing mask and the sword--our Beast has transformed into a Woman Warrior.

For what seems like decades…Mr. Attorney, my carpool buddy, insisted that team sports are especially important for girls. Yet, I could not, for the life of me, find a sport that suited the Beast.
Soccer was full of Peppermint Patty girls.
Softball was dull.
Lacrosse too hostile.
Field hockey was violent
Volleyball was full of girls who were head and shoulders taller than The Beast….

One day against Mr. Attorney’s insanity producing repeating sound track of “sports good for girls—bad mother for not getting her involved”…the scales fell from my eyes and I realized The Beast is just not a team sports person because the outfits are all wrong—she hates looking exactly like everyone else. She is independent! Turning to my tormenter—I told him to shut his ugly gob—he does not KNOW my child the way I do. And like the broken record player that he is…he warbled to a stop with a few minor protests.

Just to prove me wrong, however, The Beast during sixth grade became obsessed with Greek mythology. And suddenly…out of the blue…she wanted to do archery like Artemis. The best I could find in this god forsaken suburb was a fencing class and now the child is on the fencing team.

This is the perfect sport for The Beast because it is elegant and independent with a bunch of team mates backing you up. I love the strength and power this new sport gives her because we all want strong and independent daughters. Tough and autonomous with a team cheering you on.

Boys and Cars and Sex

2010-11-26T12:25:00.007-05:00

Ms. Seize the Moment and I are in my vintage Subaru on the Westside Highway inching down to SoHo in city traffic. It is one of those perfect, fall NYC Sundays…clear and bright and just the right temperature for walking…unfortunately we were still in the car somewhere in 50s. As we waited for yet another red light—we talked and looked out at the blue, sparkling Hudson still filled with boats from the summer—slowly the sensual, thumping sound of urban music drifted into our open car windows and then the deep, eager, testosterone enriched voices of young men in a group. Looking in the rear view mirror I see a BMW full with young guys and they seem to looking in our direction—deducing the beat-up suburban station wagon with the two moms are not the target of their interest…I look around for a car filled with girls.

That was when I realized…

WE are the car filled with girls. In my backseat are three absolutely gorgeous girls--the other half of this mother-daughter outing. Two striking blonds and The Beast with her beautiful mane of black curly hair. I am not sure what they did. THEY are not sure what they did, but they definitely did something and got attention.

“Girls! you are too old to wave at other people in cars—they will get the wrong impression. And believe me—you do not want Ms. Seize the Moment to get out of the car on the Westside Highway and correct their impressions. It WILL be embarrassing”

The girls stopped what every they were “not doing” and we finally parked in the West Village and walked over to SOHO--the day was perfect…. full of unexpected beauty, wonderful food and the excitement of exploring new places...but there are other new places that I worry about.

It is a whole new social setting that the girls are entering into and I wonder how much we can prepare them for dealing with unwanted attention and attention that is wanted but may be more then they are ready for.

The Tale of Two Houses

2010-11-24T19:46:00.002-05:00

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times and, oddly enough, it was the exact same time.

They have been talking about siblings on NPR and I was just thinking about my own two brothers and one sister and I always think about how different we all are...NOT so much in political views or economically or intellectually…but in our general outlook on life.

My brother and I grew up in a cheerful house where we would all hang out together in the first floor kitchen and dining room which was one big open space with a beautiful old brick floor and a huge fire place on the far wall. We would all be together at the big dining room table doing projects or making snacks or pondering over homework while my mother would either be smoking and drinking coffee with her friends or throwing together some barely edible meal—cooking was not one of her creative outlets. Neighbors—both adults and kids were constantly in and out of the kitchen. They would stop by for a cup of coffee and chat and to see what was going on.

My eldest brother and my sister grew up in place that was bleaker than a Dickensian orphanage . It is not that my brother and I were adopted by some kind couple and the other two siblings were left to the demise of our real troll parents, but rather it was just perspective—we lived in the same house with the same parents at the same time.

My sister and eldest brother saw our childhood as one long, painful trial that we just managed to squeak through with our bodies and sanity intact. The ancient house’s heat never worked on the upper floors—we were forced to be in on the first floor together near the fireplace. We had to make our own fun because we never had huge color TVs or vacations in Disneyland like other families. People cluttered the house…commenting and budding in with their opinions on everything that we did.

To my brother and me—our house was warm and cozy and full of life. To my sister and eldest brother—it was a place of non-stop annoyance…cold and drafty and crowded with people.

In my younger years when I lived in Manhattan I went to a therapist, like all true New Yorkers. My therapist explained that it is often the case that siblings grow up in the exact same house but with completely different experiences. “ It is purely personal perceptions.” she said—“Both realities are true.”

I worried when I was pregnant—what if our child did not like us and found our lifestyle depressingly dull? So far my fears have been unfounded. The Beast’s default setting seems to be bubbling over with happiness. She sings in the shower, giggles with her friends, chuckles over computer videos, chatters happily with the cats and acts out an endless stream of stories for us.

I am not sure if you can ever change a person’s default setting from a gray outlook on life into one that is in 1950’s Technicolor, but I am sure with the right combination of mood elevating drugs and regular exercise that perceptions can change.

Parent-Teacher Conference Confessions

2010-11-22T19:16:00.004-05:00

She looks familiar. Then I realize—she is dressed like Mary Tyler Moore from the 1970’s Mary Tyler Moore Show…but she is, of course, older than the show’s main character. She is The Beast’s business teacher. Why my 13 year old child has a business class is beyond me and it just goes to show I should pay more attention to her education.

I am sitting there with this Mary Tyler Moore wanna be because I had officially “requested” a conference with the teacher who gave my daughter the lowest grade the child has ever received.

“I am surprised by my daughter’s grade”-- I tell Ms. 1970’s-Women’s-Business-Suit. “Could you please explain ‘typing technique’ and why The Beast, who is almost fused to the computer keyboard at home, scored so low?”

In a pinched voice the older woman explained that her “fingering” was all wrong.

I stare her down after finally locating her eyes behind her large, round, fly eye-like glasses and paint by numbers eye shadow.

I very quietly whisper, so the other parents who are waiting outside in the hall for their meetings do not hear me, “I expect her grade to go up to match her other grades or….I will challenge your grading methods….whatever they might be…

The large saucers of glass over her eyes flash in the light as they nod up and down with her head--this confirms my belief that her grading is, at best, random. “Oh…The Beast’s grades will definitely go up—I can tell she is catching on.”

“Wonderful” I tell the quick study teacher.

Another successful parent-teacher conference—sometimes you just need to state what you want.

Hands-On-Parenting

2010-11-20T13:58:00.004-05:00

I was at the Middle School a few nights ago for the Parent-Teacher Conferences because I lost the coin flip contest with The Husband.

It is always a surreal experience.

On my way out I see a mom I rarely get a chance to chat with. She was rushing out of the school door. I stop her. “I have not seen you in FOREVER!” I say “Where are you rushing off to?”

“ We have a French test tomorrow!” She tells me.

“WE?!”--I think…”Is this another one of those realistic nightmares where you are back in Middle School and you have a test that you have not studied for”…I am thinking…”but I took Latin in school…not French. This is REALLY not fair.” I guess the other mom sees the terror on my face. “Oh—The Beast did not tell you there is a French test tomorrow? Don't you help her study?”

And this is what sets me apart from good mothers.

“No” I admit to Ms. Super-Care-Mom “In fact--I do not take advantage of any of the on-line tools for hands-on-parenting that the school provides…such as checking to see if The Beast handed in homework or what tests are coming up. I simply ask her how her day was and if she has done her homework and that is basically the entirety of my parental involvement in school. That…and coming here to these horrible one-on-ones”

The other mother looks at me in shock and dismay.

Oddly enough—the child thrives without parental intervention.

Lying about Facebook

2010-11-13T10:12:00.001-05:00

“What do you look at on my Facebook page?” She asked. “You don’t spend a lot of time on it, but I can tell you visit because of the software I installed.”

My first thought was: “These annoyingly clever kids.” My second thought was—“Do I lie or tell the truth?” I lied. “Oh I just check for bad words….you know—THAT and other mom stuff.”

The truth is…I look at her friends sites, because—you know—my obsession with her friends. I especially look at the boys that are friended. I am see a smattering of boys from school, but a growing number from that Quaker Camp we sent her to in the middle of no-where Pennsylvania …Those damn Quakers with their sensitivity and non-violence…bound to attract young and impressionable girls.

These are boys who play Frisbee and go to charter schools in Philadelphia…and probably have video blogs…. These are the boys I worry about.

I will continue to look for mom-stuff on her Facebook page—I can only hope the software does not become smarter.

The BFF Mom

2010-11-10T18:08:00.003-05:00

The Beast often regales me with tales about the “Nice Moms”...the moms who let their kids do all sorts of things…like stay up late on school nights, eat junk food, hang out at the mall, fully fund their child’s every whim. I fall far short on the “Nice “ meter and I am, of course, suspicious of moms who are too high up on that niceness scale. On the opposite spectrum from my low placement…the most dangerous in my opinion… are the BFF moms—the Best Friends Forever moms. They turn motherhood into another popularity contest and there is really no winner.

There are a lot of BFF moms. It is easiest to spot them with their teen daughters buying clothes at The Mall. The mom is wearing an almost identical outfit to her daughter…looking like the sadly unpopular girl from high school who believes if she gets the right cloths, agrees with everything that popular girl says or demands—that she will win her love.

I was in The Mall with The Beast last winter buying, what I hope is, her first and last pair of new UGGS—it was there that we witness a teen daughter—dressed, in all intents and purposes, in pajamas…her beautiful, slim hip bones showing between her short, tight t-shirt and the elastic on her flannel pajama bottoms. I looked at the girl and thought—What would your mother say if she saw you out and about with that perfectly beautiful stomach exposed to the world?! But then I saw her—a tired woman, also sporting UGGS picking up the discarded shoes from her daughter’s shopping spree….she was encouraging the girl to make one more purchase of UGG boots because” they are so cute.”

I stared at the woman in amazement and daughter stared at the woman in disgusted…tossing get another box on their pile to buy. Neither of them looked happy. The BFF mom desperate to seek approval from her daughter, the daughter annoyed by her mom’s attempt to buy friendship.

The Beast is my favorite person. She is so like me and so like The Husband—what is not to love? Yet there are fights and challenges and constant pushing of boundaries. Sometimes with the delicacy of a well trained diplomat I am able to craft an agreement between the two us. But sometimes…sometimes I just have to be the mean, mean mommy. And to quote Ms. Leather-Pants—“I’m not your friend, I ‘m your mom. You don’t have to like me.” And believe me—there are times when she really doesn’t like me. But it is not the end of the world—she can’t drop me as a mother.

The role of BFF is best left to someone else. Too much pressure...not enough power.

Growing Older Gracefully

2010-11-02T18:01:00.006-04:00

I am trying not to stare. I am attempting to subtly catch a glimpse of some anatomical feature of the person walking in front of me which would tip me off to the gender of the person…a waist, hips, some sensual backside curve. I, sadly, can find nothing. The person I am staring at turns out to be a middle aged woman with short hair (short for convenience, not for edgey fashion) in a boxy dark business suit—non-descript earrings and a scarf to denote sex.

Have you noticed the de-feminization of women in the United States as they get older?

I am not sure if it is a resent occurrence because I have only recently started obsessing about women slightly older than I am in an attempt to find a fashion role model. My mother, although not a beautiful woman, was always striking and she had a particular style that was all her own right up into her 70’s.

Now I see middle aged women in suits with no real shape, or in easy-fit mom-jeans. I think there is a certain giving oneself over to the ravages of time rather than embracing a new age. I, of course, blame the media and for women who take the bait--hook, line and sinker. It is not just that the media holds this bizarre ideal of teen beauty as a pinnacle for all women, but they place older women in oddly gender neutral positions…like automatons who take care of children or the house. We are the ones who care about the dirty carpet by the front door. We are the ones who obsess about dust and germs in the home. Or at work—we are the ones who are serious…we are the ones who get things done while the men talk.

Just like in adolescence—I feel with middle-age the need to redefine myself. No longer a young girl, no longer a care taker of a baby, no longer needed for childcare. I want to be more European in attitude. European women take time for themselves, they feel it is their right to feel beautiful at any age. I am guessing—but I think, at least, Parisian woman feel it is more important to shop for the perfect scarf than obsess about germs on their bidets.

I refuse to slip into the asexual role that the media has created for moms of a certain age. The Beast is grown-up and what she needs now is not a maid, not a chauffeur, not an ATM, but a role model. A positive role model of a woman who enjoys life, sex, and really a good meal with friends. I am off to find the perfect scarf.

Think Fast!

2010-10-24T17:03:00.003-04:00

“Think Fast!” an adolescent boy’s voice calls out. I see it out of the corner of my eye a watermelon flying toward me. Without even thinking, like a skilled football receiver, I catch the huge green melon before it smashes into a million pieces on the ancient, unforgiving brick floor in our kitchen/dining room of my childhood home. The watermelon quarterback—my brother…is on the other side of the room. His belief—people do better when they spontaneously react to a situation…this includes ten year old girls catching ten pound watermelons.

He was notorious for this little trick—my mother who looked and sounded like a matriarch from Boston would catch cantaloupes and honeydews with her little proper black leather handbag swinging from her arm. “Oh for heaven’s sake Stephen!” She would chide in her New England accent—“Must I be bombarded by fruit the minute I walk in the door? Please stop playing with the food.”

Although we were annoyed by these surprise attacks—there was something also deeply satisfy about being able to test your reaction time and hand-eye coordination. People go out of their way now to push themselves…to test their skills—executive outward bound programs, training for and running the NYC Marathon. Perhaps all they need is a stealth boy tossing fruit at them. You have no time to doubt yourself when you have a watermelon headed your way. Think FAST!

Building the Fire

2010-10-03T15:27:00.004-04:00

It is Bar/Bat Mitzvah high season for The Beast. Although born and raised an atheist—the child has embraced the Jewish culture—the singing, the dancing, the clapping, the high end catering, the swag….

It was a Bat Mitzvah that brought me, the ultimate non-religious person, to a temple this past Saturday.

I was watching the sailboats out on the river from this beautiful temple perch high on a hill in the Hudson Valley and suddenly in this quiet religious spot I looked down at the translation of what the child was reading in Hebrew. It was about building a fire…which is, of course, symbolic of so many things, but in the setting of the temple on a sunny, fall, Bat Mitzvah day—I could only think of one thing….raising a child.

In this wealthy suburb with houses packed full of goods and the children packed full of school and lessons and events—I thought about this prayer about how to build a fire. This prayer says that a strong fire is built by placing just as much care on the empty spaces as on the places where there is wood. It is about the space that is left between the wood that allows the fire to grow. Too much wood and the fire just smolders and never catches.

With our lives so full—is there room to build a fire? Is there room to grow or have we allowed the busyness of our lives to suffocate what we are actually trying to achieve? The child with so many activities, even if they are all good for her—does she have space to grow into what she want to become? Does she have time to decide what she wants to become? Thanks to religion I had some space in my day to think of The Beast and the need to put some space in our lives so the fire can grow.

Poetry and the Meaning of True Love

2010-09-27T18:56:00.002-04:00

“Why does anyone like poetry?” Asked my attorney car-pool buddy as we sped away from the sleepy suburbs early in the morning towards the always vibrant New York City.

“I like poetry because it reminds me of the deep, gut wrenching feelings of first love and that subtle primal longing for sex that is buried in our day to day thoughts…and, of course, all those other human emotions” I said and then added “But it could be just me.”

I saw Mr. Attorney's normally placid expression dissolved into, what I first thought, was horror, or perhaps…just disgust. “Why do you ask? Still upset about your son going off to graduate school in poetry? “

Mr. Attorney is THE dictionary definition of pragmatic, yet the deep love for his son overwhelmed his practical soul and he sent the boy, first, to an ivy league college where he studied creative writing, and then, across the country to a graduate program in POETRY. All this money for something Mr. Attorney doesn’t even understand or like.

“You know,” he said, “a parent just wants what is best for his child. I was never upset that he chose poetry, I just hope it is a choice that will make him happy. Or at least as happy as you are about poetry.”

Then I realized…his expression was not of horror or disgust, but of relief. His son is doing something of deep value to people, perhaps not Mr. Attorney’s cup of tea…or warm milk…but others will appreciate his son’s poetry.

It is odd how our children turn out to be our true love. All the gut wrenching love from our younger years pales in comparison to the passion, the longing and the hope that we have for our children. Our one hope that we made the right choices along the way and that our child turns into a happy, responsible and kind adult.

Chalk it up to a "Teachable Moment"

2010-09-18T19:51:00.006-04:00

“I said THE WORD.” She whispered into the phone. “ And he heard it.”

Apparently…It was a long drive home, everyone was tired and it just came out. Everyone heard THE WORD, everyone that is, but The Child. A hush fell over the car and, of course, the pre-teen boy wanted to know why everyone was so quiet. What word had mommy said?

Why one of the adults in the car, all with superior intelligence, could not make up another word to substitute for THE WORD is beyond me…helllllo…organism, octopus, octagon, organic…all possible and plausible substitutes because honestly…no one wants to have to explain to a little boy the concept of an orgasm since we all know it is too elusive an idea for the male mind to grasp…especially coming from a woman. But because it was a car full of egg-heads--the only thought was to elucidate, which is odd since my first reaction is often to lie to my child.

My friend was mortified and was not sure if she had warped the poor child. And I said…
“Pleasssse—Do what every other parent does—chalk it up to a “teachable moment.” “

It is important to remember that you and your child do not live in the 50’s TV sitcom of Leave it to Beaver. Things are just a little more complicated nowadays. Why someone’s father is lying happily on your lawn with an open magnum of wine tucked under one arm after another successful party… why there are so many Mermaids with hairy chests at the Coney Island Mermaid day parade…why there are those inflatable dolls in that store window when it is not even close to Halloween?

It is your choice—lie if you must, but my feeling is—if you have the time and you know this issue of inappropriate drunkenness, cross-dressing or deviant sexual behavior may come up again in your child’s life---this may be your ONE opportunity to express your opinion and help warp…I mean form your child’s mindset. Call it "early intervention." Because if they don’t have your voice in their head— that overly informed friend whom child likes to hang with will happily explain. (You know the friend, the one you WISH your child would stop playing with—the one with the older siblings or with a mother who treats her child like her BFF.)

So…here is your chance—“Drinking can be fun, but with so many opportunities to post photos on line—you should probably never have THAT much wine at someone else’s house because you might find photos of yourself looking silly on the web for all the world to see.” “Some boys like to dress-up like girls—they think it is fun and they do seem to be having a good time, look at how happy they are…Now mommy needs a beer, would you like a smoothie?" “Yes, yes…I am sure it is for Halloween—see how her mouth is opened in a scream?”

Okay, okay—I do lie. I will let that annoying know-it-all friend explain the use of blow-up dolls—I am not going there with my baby.

The Power of the Boobs

2010-09-12T16:32:00.001-04:00

“Have you told her?” Asked a woman I work with.
“Told her what?” I replied.
“ About her new power.” She said gesturing to her chest.
“Ohhhh…I think The Beast has an inkling. The guys at the corner coffee cart gave her a coffee, orange juice, bagel and donut for free this morning—I think she is beginning to suspect something is going on and I beginning to think that I should stop taking her to work on school holidays.”

My co-worker is right—girls need to be told about the power of the boobs. I feel there should be a handbook that goes along with the boobs--like a user’s guide. They could sell it at that teen bra store that I love—Aerie. Not a dreary book like, Our Bodies Ourselves, that tries to convince women that having an orgasm with a man is akin to seeing Loch Ness monster or discovering Camelot. But something fun like a younger girls version of Sex Tips for Girls by Cynthia Helmel…but without the Sex part…please….

Although there are countless joys to having boobs—how they look, how they feel, how wonderfully responsive men are to them…there is the flip side. The boobs attract jerks and pigs. With the power of the boobs comes a responsibility to clearly and firmly establish boundaries with boys.

Of course what scares a mother the most are the dangers of the predators, the scum bags and the generally jerky who will try to use any type of pressure—psychological or physical to get closer to their desire--all require an unequivocal—“I WILL call the police, I WILL file a crime report and I WILL ruin your life…if need be. “ Girls need to be given tools for self defense. I think I will write –“Boobs, the User’s Guide.” Look for it on Amazon at Christmas time.

Character Building

2010-09-05T17:53:00.003-04:00

Being stuck in a foreign country with no money, getting lost in a shady section of the city, having my bicycle run over just before a big bike trip, changing my apartment locks on a cheating boyfriend….all of these events are compartmentalized in my mind not as bad things per se, but as “character building events” in my life. Or at least that is the term my parents would use to refer to these unfortunate occurrences in my life.

Character Building…something that made me a stronger and better person…like exercise and vitamins.

My parents had the belief that rather than stepping in to rescue me from any discomfort or angst—it was their job to remind me that I had choices and the power to do something about the situation. Perhaps it was purely a New England parenting technique, not to be confused with neglect, although the only thing that differentiates it from parental negligence is ACTIVELY not stepping in…choosing to not step in. Announcing that, as parents, they believe “ you can think this problem through and overcome it without them”…and then they neglect you.

I was not always happy with this style of parenting, but there is nothing like being out of money in a foreign country with one more week until your return flight to really make you think and get creative. The more college kids I deal with at work, the more I realize that problem solving is a lost art among kids. I think perhaps it is just too easy to speed dial your mom and ask for help and the parents are more than willing to step-in to rescue their babies.

“My mom is not supporting my quote unquote LIFESTYLE and I am out of money” I heard The Beast, with disgust in her voice, tell a friend when she had to explain to why she could not meet them for lunch. I must be honest—I too have a hard time allowing The Beast to “struggle” when it would be so easy to step in, but how else will she learn that if she spends all her money on earrings from Claire’s that she will be out of luck later.

Mr. Attorney, my car pool buddy, is the exact opposite of my parents and me. Even with his kids well into their late twenties—he is still on the phone with them everyday reminding them to pay their credit card bills, telling them the best car to rent, offering help with all the little day to day activities of their lives. It makes me wonder what is being created by this culture of helicopter parenting that continues well beyond the playground.

Take a look at Free Range Kids for a teen's perspective on hovering parents.

I Don't Like that Kid and I don't Like her Parents Either.

2010-08-29T14:58:00.002-04:00

The party had evolved, or rather, devolved into the kids making-out on the patio and skinny-dipping in the pool. The parents, tucked away in their palatial kitchen-- lined with granite counter tops and high end stainless steel appliances… were apparently oblivious to the children’s activity—I hope. This was not a high school party—this was a 13 year olds’ birthday party.

You know I obsess about The Beast’s friends, but I am not sure if I mentioned it—I have an unhealthy fixation with the parents of her friends too. I know…for someone who refers to her child as The Beast, has questionable parenting practices of her own and relates her personal rag-tag upbringing on-line…one would think I should not talk…yet, chatter away I do.

Perhaps it is unfair to equate house size or level of luxury to parenting style, but just on anecdotal evidence I have noticed a decrease in control/engagement with the child the larger the house or the appliances. McMansions, Viking stoves, Architectural Digest kitchens, Audi in the driveway are all red flags to me. Red flags that suggest the parents are driven, busy and probably pleasing their children rather than parenting them.

When I think back on my own childhood—it was the rich kids in the new development houses that had THE parties. They had the basement rec rooms with the pot and alcohol. I think I witness more pot consumption in suburban basements during my high school years then in my entire college career—which is saying a lot. I can only imagine with these larger houses and busier parents this little pre-view of the Young Teens Gone Wild Pool Party is just the beginning of a long slide downhill into the high school years.

I am thinking boarding school.

Orphans

2010-08-22T17:22:00.003-04:00

“We are orphans now!” my oldest brother gravely announced the day my father died.

“You know…when I think orphan—I think of a hollow cheeked Oliver Twist or perhaps Jane Eyre starving at some horrible charity school with sadistic teachers.” I said…trying to unsuccessfully cheer him up. “ I don’t think about a bunch for middle age people with kids of their own qualify as “orphans” in the strictest sense. “

My eldest brother always had a dramatic flair…in a Shakespearian sort of way…NOT a Barbara Streisand/Judy Garland way…. The rest of us find this personality trait annoying, but my mother always reminded us—he keeps life interesting. Of course she was not the one being roused from a sound sleep to creep down three flights of stairs and out of the house to the local graveyard to “avenge the death” of our missing cat that was probably run over by a car. She was not the one charged with “securing” one part of the house since a mentally challenged person was reported missing from a half-way house and my brother insisted that he was no doubt a "criminally insane murderer" stalking our ramshackle home.

Of course, my parents both agreed that ONLY an insane person would willing stalk a house full of wild children, assorted smoking, chattering adults and too many animals to count.

Yet—my brother is right…this once. Even if it is only symbolic…there is certain feeling like the bottom has dropped out of your life when you realize that your parents are gone.

A friend’s 87 year old mother died a few weeks ago. She had lived a long and happy life and had just come back from Norway where she saw her childhood town, but my friend was so, so sad. Her pain bought back my own clear, sharp, longing after my mother died. It is as if some invisible mooring has been removed from your life and you are waiting…waiting for a line to be thrown to you, but you know it is not coming, yet you linger. Sometimes…just sometimes…a Shakespearean view of life is appropriate.

Social Moves

2010-08-16T19:54:00.001-04:00

“Well…we moved to this little artsy-fartsy town to expand my son’s social horizons.” explained the mom to me when we were introduced at the cool hippie-dippy toy store in my town.

I am often amazed by the parental commitment so many moms have in this affluent suburb. This actually the third mom I have encounter who moved to Nyack because their kids wanted to live here. Barring burning crosses on our lawn or out and out violence—I would be hard pressed to move again unless it is to a beautiful Riverside Drive apartment with roof garden, views of the Hudson and working fireplace.
I would never consider moving because my daughter wanted to go to school with cooler kids. In fact—I think I mentioned we were stuck in the non-hippy-dippy, Red State school for the six LONG years of elementary school before being released into the middle school which has much more of the artsy-fartsy flavor of our little enclave of the super pseudo-liberals.

Still amazed by this act of selflessness on the part of the parents—I curiously asked…”Did you think of other options before moving? Like…
signing him up for a class in the Y or The Art Center that pulls kids from all over the county…or, I know it is daring, going into the city with him? Camp…camp is another good option—kids come from all over to go to camps in the middle of nowhere. “ Because frankly—that would be the most I would be willing to do for The Beast’s “social horizons”.

The mother stared at me in amazement. Apparently no one ever did this little problem solving exercise with her. “Camp” she murmured….”I loved camp. That is a good idea.” Hopefully this bit of Lazy Mom Café wisdom will help the mom to realize that no matter where you move your son—he is still the same person. Classes might help.

Sexy is the New Pink

2010-08-08T15:28:00.002-04:00

Have you noticed? This new sexiness the 13 year olds have? I see it all over Facebook…because I am THAT much of a masochist...yes, yes, yes...I ACTUALLY look. And my gut feeling is that a lot of mothers are not looking because it is just too disturbing to see. Thank you Steve Jobs and Apple for making it SO easy to take photos and post them on line...

Remember when they were little girls…
First there was pink—everything had to be pink. The sneakers, the backpack, the fleece. Then pink and glitter, then purple and glitter, then just purple….then rainbow…then rainbow and peace signs….The Beast made a quick foray into acid green, but …now…NOW…it is sexy. It is odd how you can tell a girl’s age just by looking at the colors they are sporting.

Today--everything is about cleavage or a thick, beautiful, mane of hair or highly mascara-ed eyes—or in my case all of the above. Of course I look at her friends pages too..because I am that type of Nazi mom—pouty lips, glossy hair cascading down perfect faces… One can only sigh with resignation.

I am hoping this experimentation with sexy will go the way of the Barbie pink and the glittery purple to more subtle explorations of adulthood. I am trying to remember when sexy became something that I watched out in my dress style rather than actively seeked out. I think it might have been after spending more time in the city…I think it will take some time…

Coffee

2010-07-18T21:23:00.003-04:00

She was hiding. Sitting on the rock on the beach outside our little cottage. We thought it was a game—“where is mum?” “I found her!” some little voice would call out and my mother with laugh. She was sitting there early in the morning on her rock or the steps down to the beach with her cigarette and coffee.

The desire to sit and think quietly at the beginning of the day is everyone’s desire—I think. I too have a morning ritual which only involves coffee, although I understand and appreciate the joy of smoking. Coffee for us is the one sacred thing that binds us together as a family.

One brother makes pots and pots of espresso with an Italian stove top espresso pot with lots of hot milk.
The other brother must use a “coffee maker” nothing fancy, but it must be plugged in. It must require a paper filter.
My sister, always the gourmet, must have something special—a coffee grinder AND electric drip coffee maker in one.
I…I am closer to my mother. I fill a tea kettle (nothing fancy) with water and go take a shower. When I return I poor the boiling water into my no-name, insulated, French coffee press. I put the top on to let the caffeine and flavor seep into the water. I put my coffee mug on the burner I had just used to heat the water. I put a big spoonful of sugar in the cup. I wait…perhaps I wash dishes, perhaps I put contact lens in…but soon—the coffee is ready and I press the plunger down. In my warm cup, I pour the beautiful dark coffee and leave a lot of room for whole, organic milk. If the weather permits--I go outside and let the little hens wander around the grass as I watch the day begin

The Good Mother Lets Go

2010-06-27T08:40:00.002-04:00

I can feel the world pulling… tugging at my child’s arm…testing my strength as I hold on to her… and I think of Brecht’s play, The Caucasian Chalk Circle.

I have been thinking about that play because of my changing relationship with The Beast. I am sure you know the story—it is originally from the Bible--two women claim to be the mother of a child and the judge tells both women-- whoever can pull the child from the chalk circle can have the child. As the two women pull at the child the good mother realizing the child is in pain—she lets go. She gives up her child to save him.

It is so hard for me to let go of The Beast. She has demanded, for so long, constant attention. From the time she was born she wanted to be carried and shown everything as she grew-up she wanted to explain to me her drawings and tell me stories…but I see the larger world is pulling her. Tugging at her desire for excitement and adventure.

And I know…I know a good mother lets go—but I think it is very fine line between when to hold on and when to let go...and I am not sure where that line is. Yet.

Competition

2010-06-21T19:42:00.008-04:00

I try to avoid it. Competition that is…but sometimes…just sometimes…I get a tinge of cut-throat, I will pull your veins from your neck with my teeth competitive feel.

I blame my parents, of course. Although artists, they were also athletes and they were from Boston, where—if you have never lived there—is a WHOLE different mind-set. Don’t let the goofy regional accent throw you off—those people are competitive—think The Kennedys…they were not an anomaly. From pick-up basketball t to badminton to tree climbing and grades….and OMG games—Monopoly, RISK, Parcheesi…Sun Tzu had nothing left to teach us after our childhood.

“Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance”

“Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.”

I still remember a game of Trivial Pursuit with a boyfriend’s family. The father, on the other team, was not sure of an answer. I gave him a hint, a misleading hint...about a question on Shakespeare. With his new found confidence from my hint—he announce his answer and with utter disbelief—his face fell and he said to me—that was NOT a good hint. I reminded him—I am NOT on your team, what did you expect?

I married a man who is also competitive I OFTEN have to remind him--Hellllo, WE are on the same team.

The Beast is good and generally kind, but she too has the competitive gene. Games are the addiction. We don’t play them often, but when we do friendships and feelings are at risk. Beware.

Listening

2010-06-13T08:11:00.003-04:00

“She is talking about Poe and Poe’s influence on the modern literature and I know I should be listening…I mean REALLY listening rather than just pretending—but I am not…I am making dinner and thinking about whether I need to do a load of laundry.” Ms. Churchlady confessed to me years ago. I did not understand her quandary, or guilt, then. It was not until I had The Beast did I realize the amount of listening it takes to be a parent.

The Beast, like Ms. Churchlady’s daughter, is a born storyteller….so you can imagine the quantity of listening that we do. From the time she could talk she had stories. One of her first longer “works” started with a baby blanket wrapped around her head and shoulders like a shawl. The three year old Beast informed us that she was a little girl from a far away village where the whole village had only a large block of cheese to eat…they had to eat with their hands they were so poor. She did look like a little girl from some post Soviet eastern-bloc country. They were very hungry she continued….and they were very tired of eating cheese in their little village so she was sent out to find food.

Her story was SO long, involved and dramatic that we got the video camera out to film and after about twenty minutes we began to worry that perhaps instead of getting out the camera we should get out the phone and start calling up a.) a psychiatrist b.) an exorcist or c.) psychic who specializes in former lives. Her stories have continued and we continue to listen..some are made up stories, others are about her life outside our realm—both tend to be somewhat scary and totally engrossing.

I was talking to my brother the other day who was wondering why I was so lame and only taking one night course a semester to finish my masters degree. The Beast was grown-up enough to be left alone for longer periods of time he argued.

I explained that I feel my job is to listen…to listen and just be there for The Beast. There seems to be huge push for people to rush through life and get a lot of stuff done, rather then enjoying what we have. When I am not there to listen to The Beast—I feel Mrs. Churchlady’s guilt. I want to see and hear the changes The Beast is going through—she is my creation and I love to see her evolve and grow. I watch and listen to her with a mix of spine tingling terror and deep joy. I am totally engrossed.

Mum

2010-06-06T08:00:00.001-04:00

The police sirens were the first hint that our practical joke may have been played on the wrong person.

“Do you know about April Fool’s Day? It is an important holiday.” said my mother earlier in the day.

At four, I had not yet experienced April Fool’s Day, but our family was one for practical jokes on any day of the year. Plastic bugs tucked into sandwiches, tiny holes punched into paper cups, teeth blackening gum…. Apparently this holiday opened it up to people not living in our house. I was excited…my mother was more so. The older kids were at school so we were alone filling up three boxes each with a few bricks and a note that read: “Ha, Ha, Ha—April Fool’s On You!” We wrapped the boxes , addressed them to our closest neighbors and deposited them quietly on their front doors.

Although we had received a cheerful phone call from one recipient of our prank and a personal thanks with a plate of homemade cookies for another practical joke target…the third victim obviously had not checked her calendar and had forgotten that she lived next to that crazy family who, apparently, had too much time on their hands. Mrs. CIA Plot was that neighbor and her obsessions ranged from cheating politicians to government plots and, of course, terrorists ….the weatherman underground type—not the foreign type. It was, after all, the 60’s

My mother and I wandered next door to explain to the policeman that the box was not a bomb as Mrs. CIA PLOT had suspected, but a friendly April Fool’s Day prank. The policeman was amused, but not Mrs. CIA Plot. She insisted that it could have very well been a bomb.

“For heaven sakes Mrs. CIA Plot” my mother chided “who would want to blow-up a suburban home in a sleepy little town? Someone who does not like historical houses?”

Mrs. CIA Plot’s eyes widened “Exactly—someone who is anti-American—trying to blow-up our colonial houses” she said now with renewed enthusiasm since her hysteria now seemed almost plausible.

“Come on Mrs. CIA Plot, let’s have a cup of coffee and a homemade cookie. We can think of practical jokes to play on the children when they get home.” Said mum. And we did.

I Have Seen the Enemy and it is

2010-06-01T21:48:00.003-04:00

My Sister.

There they are…like two peas in a pod looking through a rack of trashy little teen tops at Marshall’s—our favorite store. I forget, my sister who is now a high-powered administrator at a famous university, was at one time, a parent-heart-attack-inducing, teen. I remember her storming out of the house in her velvet hot-pants and matching velvet kitty ears as a young teen to go to a friend’s Halloween party. My parents trying to talk reason to her and explain to her the ways of the world—but she did not listen. She was beautiful and sexy and she was going to that party in that dangerous black cat costume. Smart, beautiful and rebellious—everything a parent wants and dreads. She was, of course, my elder sister and my hero.

There she was…talking to my daughter…lingering over little tank tops…talking about styling and cut and the fabric. A shiver ran down my spine…I must remember--there will be no consultation with The Aunt about Halloween costumes THIS YEAR—not anymore. I know her and she is still my smart, beautiful and rebellious sister—leading my daughter towards all the fun and she is loving it. They are both loving it.

I think it is time to fight fire with fire—one more fashion intervention with my daughter…I am going to start sending motorcycle magazines to her son… or…perhaps skydiving…. He is young…but I already see “risk-taker, dare-devil” written all over him.

To Facebook or Not to Facebook

2010-05-18T19:36:00.000-04:00

There she is…large eyes, looking up at the camera, something not quite sensual... but very, very close. On the verge. I feel all the girls are on the verge, but I am afraid to think of what that threshold is…

The Beast has been dying to get on Facebook for the last few years, but we have avoided the request by saying she is too young, but now the child is 13 and 13 was the magical number. Unlike our promise to take her to church when she turned 10…THIS promise she did not forget.

I, like every other mother, made my own account first and looked up all The Beast’s friends. And let me tell—these little girls are eager to look older. Older and sexy. The hair on the back of my neck is still standing up. And I would like to mention to other moms—Hello—check your daughters’ security settings—because I can see EVERYTHING and I am NOT a friend…one can only imagine who else is lurking and viewing the girls…our beautiful girls who want so desperately to grow-up.

I used to have nightmares about losing the Beast when she was a baby, a toddler in a store or on a crowded street….now I have the same sort of dream as I watch her slip into maturity and away from me.

I hold my breath. She is leaping into adulthood and I hold my breath for both of us.

The Other Mother's Voice in My Head

2010-05-08T11:08:00.005-04:00

My mother’s high spirited voice is always in my head… “Rules are made to be broken!” / “Let’s do it.” / “Who would know?”/ “Why not?” That is my mother’s voice. But there is another voice that surfaces from the history of my life in times when a high spirited voice does not suit the situation.

Out of the blue...a voice with a British accent whispers in my conscious—clipped, hard and full of clear directives. This happens whenever I am feeling too self-indulgent or too lazy or too fearful—I hear Ms. Filmmaker’s mom. It is her voice that pulls me out of the morass of indecision, of languid contemplation, of paralyzing apprehension.

Ms. Filmmaker’s mom is a woman who survived WWII in England as a child and told us all her horror stories—no candy, no gym suits (they had to wear just their underwear in gym) no fruit, jelly with fake wood seeds to mimic raspberry jelly. She decided not to get married, but instead travel to India to work as a physical therapist for the poor where she actually massaged amputees’ stumps.

Ms. Filmmaker and I were mesmerized by these horror stories of a childhood during wartime and of the exotic and repulsive acts of bravery in India. She was a formidable mother. For the first few years of my friendship with Ms. Filmmaker—I was terrified by her mom. It was not until 3rd or 4th grade did I realize she was not mean, just English.

And like all English—She was a good time and adaptable to any situation. We were hiking through the woods one day with Ms. Filmmaker’s mom when we were about 10 years old--we came across a young couple copulating right in the middle of the trail. Ms. Filmmaker and I stood, like statues, with our mouths wide open taking in the event until her mother said, like a British general,—“come along girls—let’s take a LESS scenic route” and promptly cut a wide trail around the amorous couple.

The woman would bluntly answer any question regardless of topic—hence Ms. Filmmaker and I were able to find out in clear illuminating detail …first how babies were made and, later… in our early teen years, how babies were prevented. Oblivious to potential psychological damage she might be inflicting even questions that were not really meant to be answered honestly were…“Of course you two are fat—you eat like horses and act like sloths. Stop reading those stupid teen magazines and get outside” said the English mom

I can hear both voices of both moms become my own voice with my daughter.

My daughter too will have many mom voices to hear as she grows up—Ms. Filmmaker, Ms. Churchlady, Ms PR… and I hope the chorus of voices full of high-spirits, thoughtfulness and spin will follow her and help her on her way through life.

The Art of Not Volunteering

2010-04-25T10:31:00.001-04:00

I saw her standing there…a smile plastered on her face, her lips barely opening to contain her seething rage—she was trying to communicate to a volunteer mom who does not work outside the home. “Just an e-mail message sent to ALL the parents would be huge help especially to us with very tight schedules.” she was kindly trying explain to the woman, but only getting a blank stare in return.

I was that woman last year. But this year—it was Ms. Churchlady, my favorite Super Mom. History repeating itself.

I still find it hard to stop myself. I see waste, the lack of organization, the petty squabbling and my desire to step in with an excel spreadsheet and a few merged e-mail messages is overwhelming. I can taste the success of a concisely worded, witty e-mail to mothers who want to help, but no one has given them instruction.

When you reach this point—at this exact moment—you must step away. Take a deep breath and cleanse your body of the urge to volunteer out of sheer frustration.

Do not take on one more job because you can do it better. Of course you can do it better—that is why you are making the big bucks. But keep in mind—you can’t do everything and it is not even wise—this event will come and go and no one will remember or care about the lame coordination leading up to it.

Standing in the auditorium lobby of the school during the spring play intermission I spied Ms. Churchlady. Still shell-shocked she was mumbling her mantra—“a form for everyone’s e-mail address, one big list of addresses, a few e-mail notes—that is all it would take. I can do it easily… “ I walked her back to our seats. One more performance—then we are free and clear until next year. I will talk to her later—try to get her to see the light in the Art of NOT Volunteering.

Big Cleansing Breath Everyone

Fourteen

2010-04-24T07:14:00.004-04:00

I woke up suddenly and early, very early for a Saturday and the thought that shook my mind awake was: The Beast will be 14 next year!

I was 14 when I had my first boyfriend. And even though I was a late bloomer—I am praying that The Beast will be an even later bloomer.

Actually I still am a late bloomer…slow to get a boyfriend, reluctant to finish college, vague in my career, unhurried to get married, late having a child, but suddenly everything is going fast. I hear that as we get older we do the same things over and over again so one day blends into the next and one year melds with the next and thus time seems to go fast when in fact—we are just doing the same things over and over again so our life stretches into one long continuously playing loop—until you are jolted awake by a revelation.

I clearly remember the excitement of 14—which, mind you, had nothing to do with the incredibly self-centered boyfriend I had. It was the year that my friends and I went off on a two week bike trip around Cape Cod, on our own, with no adult supervision. We got lost, we fought, we turned a dark shade of tan, lived in youth hostels, and we had best time ever. Ms. Filmmaker still goes back on occasion to that youth hostel on the dunes of Truro because it was such a beautiful place.

Things are different now—kids seem to grow up more quickly in many ways, but in other ways they live in a bubble of parent/school protection. The thought of sending The Beast off to Cape Cod with just a bicycle, some cash and a few traveler checks would not cross my mind—yet we were able to convince three sets of parents that everything would be just fine. And it was.

I am hoping that The Beast is a late bloomer too. She is too beautiful, too soulful, too thoughtful to rush into the complexities of boyfriends. If she rushes anywhere, I hope it is towards her own adventures and passions with her friends.

Getting to NO

2010-04-11T13:36:00.000-04:00

We have just hit the teen years and like every other developmental stage in The Beast’s life—we are woefully unprepared.
The husband and I are almost always on the same page as far as parenting which consists of: Let the little nipper run wild.

But there are times when even we have to say no, but we both have different techniques…well…let me put it this way—I have a technique and the husband just says NO.

I want the child to get to NO on her own. I want her to think through the process as to why something is not a good idea and realize on her own (with constant suggestions from me) why walking bare foot into town is not a good idea…why being dropped off in the city for the day is not a good idea without a friend…why wearing certain outfits to school could be problematic… I want her to develop her own judgment. Or, at the very least, have my voice echo in her head when I am not around.

Although getting to NO is difficult in these new teen years—I find it somewhat similar to the toddler years. The first NO to something is always the hardest. In the toddler years—crying, begging, heart wrenching pleading. Now with the teen there are accusations about being out of touch with today’s culture and basic lameness on the part of the parents etc. But the next NO is often much more of a negotiation and more convivial—the Beast will say, before I even open my mouth, “Please, spare me the lecture—I am only wearing these shorts outside in the backyard.”

Slowly we get to NO or some close approximation.

5 Essential Party Planning Tips

2010-03-28T19:01:00.002-04:00

It is that time of year—The Beast’s birthday MONTH…because in this family we celebrate the ENTIRE month.

Now that the child is older I was hoping to get away from the big home parties, but the child hates to leave friends out—so once again we had a house full of screaming, giggling girls and one husband constantly saying: “SHHHHH.” It is a sad battle, but one that seems inevitable.

As a public service to newer mothers I have compiled some essential tips for a perfect home party—just follow these simple rules:

1. Pick a Theme
o A theme will help you and YOUR child focus. (Sweetheart, put down that troll, we can do a troll party next year, this year is your Beautiful Butterfly Birthday party...don’t you want to wear those beautiful butterflies wings we just bought you?) The child re-focuses and you are saved countless dollars.
o Once you have a theme—there is no need to go to one of those expensive party stores. Dollar stores, Target clearance shelves, on-line cheap-o-party stuff...spend enough to get free shipping and use any money left over for alcohol for parents.

2. Invite with Care
o Nothing ruins a party faster than a brat. Generally by age three the brats and their oblivious parents have been clearly identified via various nursery school functions or other peoples parties.
o I have never been a supporter of inviting the whole class or all the girls or all the boys.
o We all know there are some kids who are better at parties than others. You may love little Betsy who reads constantly and you should invite her, but remember to invite the fun, high energy kids...you know who they are and you should invite at least two. And the bonus is that their parents tend to be fun too.

3. Do NOT Try to be Too Creative
o Now is NOT the time to be Martha Stewart. The kids will not appreciate it and the other parents will just hate you for it. It is a lose-lose situation.
 Buy a cake—do not make cute themed cupcakes.
 Buy cheap decorations—do not paint murals on Kraft paper and hang them up...you will just embarrass your child.

4. Have Grown-up Refreshments
o Nothing is more appreciated by parents at a party full of wild, screaming kids than a beer or a glass of wine.
o Cheeze Doodles are fine for children, but spring for some cheese and crackers for the adults or something to go with the beer.

5. Buy Decorations that will Double as Prizes or Giveaways at the End of the Party
o Let’s be honest, by the end of the party you will never want to see another butterfly, dinosaur, monkey etc. Give those inflatable dinosaurs, absurdly large flowers, and coconut shaped cups away—I promise you. You will never use them again.

This year’s theme—A Literary Masquerade Ball where all the girls came as their favorite fictional character. We had Alice in Wonderland, the Queen of Hearts, Olivia the Pig, Eloise at the Plaza, PipPi Longstocking, Tom Sawyer, two T.S. Elliott Cats, Ralph from UP, several characters from present day novels, King Tut and the Beast was Artemis , goddess of the hunt and protector of maidens. Way to Go Artemis!

A good time was had by all. No brats, no fights, just happy children and happy wine drinking adults.

Red Wine--Dieter's Delight!

2010-03-14T18:10:00.003-04:00

Drinking does not just improve parenting…but apparently it also helps to keep the weight off. In the New York Times Blog, Well, the post on “Women Who Drink Gain Less Weight” by Tara Parker-Pope finally gives women the green light to drink some red wine with dinner…not that I ever felt the need for a green light in order to drink... But for anyone who was waiting--the time has come to get out the corkscrew.

“The link between consumption of red wine and less weight gain was particularly pronounced in the Archives study. Some studies have suggested that resveratrol, a compound present in grapes and red wine, appears to inhibit the development of fat cells and to have other antiobesity properties.”

Those French women are right again.

Condoms

2010-02-18T19:43:00.003-05:00

The strip of condoms swung into my line of vision .” What are these?” asked the annoyingly curious Beast as she proudly waved the prize she found in the detritus that had fallen from by bag.

I had not thought of condoms in…say 10 years…until a bunch of them were shoved into my hand as I walked by the Columbia University main gate on the Upper Westside.

Often people are at the Broadway gate handing out free samples…mints, gum, soda, coconut water…whatever the marketers are interested in testing with college kids. So when a tiny, wrinkled, Asian woman in an apron with large pockets handed me a wade of some individually wrapped circular shaped objects it took me a while to realize these where not mints, but the new NYC condoms…curtsey of NYC….thank you Mayor Bloomberg.

Not knowing what to do with them—I tucked them in my bag for later disposal. I few days later at home while I emptied my bag the snake of brightly colored condoms fell out. The Beast was intrigued. I tried to be nonchalant—“oh…that is something they were handing out…free samples.” I said—hoping that would end the conversation.

But the Beast persisted. “ It is sort of big for a mint and it feels funny…squishy.” I always remember Ms. SexEdLady’s mantra—“capture the teachable moments when they happen.” Taking a deep breath, I elucidated as quickly as I could the purpose of the squishy sample.

The Beast, still intrigued, would not let the free sample go…so with further explanation AND a demo with a banana—I felt I gave a rather comprehensive overview of the purpose and use and even history of condoms followed by a warning not to touch boys because even condoms will not protect you from cooties . The Beast was completely and utterly disgusted…thankfully.

In case you ever doubted, I am here to tell you— it is true what the experts say—Children DO listen to their parents. Perhaps it was a year later while walking along the Hudson River with one of The Beast’s friends, the girls discovered an unwrapped, probably used, condom lying just off the path. The friend was curious and wanted to investigate further, but the Beast knew exactly what it was…”Oh that is like a rubber glove for a penis.” Horror tinged with nausea crept over the friend’s face as she dropped the stick she was planning to use for a closer inspection. Another successful sex ed intervention and I did not have to say a word.

Thank you Ms. SexExLady!

Teen Bra Heaven--Aerie

2010-02-17T16:42:00.005-05:00

This is a public service announcement for all moms with tween/teen daughters.

We all know the initial excitement of getting the first bra soon fades…especially when Target’s girls section is no longer an option--things become a little more complicated. And what shopping experience can be worse than being the mother of a tween/teen looking for a bra—let me tell you…not too many.

After a quick look at Lord and Taylors where their bra selection seemed limited to push-ups and dowager LARGE cups styles, we tried H & M—too sexy, Victoria Secret’s…no way. I was just about call it quits at the mall and take The Beast into the Town Shop on the Upper Westside—until we came across Aerie—the prefect mix between J Crew and Victoria Secret’s—a sort of clean-cut sexy—if that is possible.

A fresh faced girl in jeans and t-shirt showed us the their system. They have drawers of bras categorized by chest and cup size —so you can try on every style they carry in your size in one sitting. There is a little call button in the dressing room so you can call for assistance without getting dressed and tracking down the sales person and all the bra styles are named with girl names. Once you find the style you like—you just go to that rack, pick your size and your favorite colors. It is brilliant and simple.

Three bras and $75 later--happy daughter and relived mother.

Wednesday Weigh-In

2010-02-10T10:40:00.002-05:00

The winner is…(Drum roll):
Ms. HR and Ms. Smarty-Pants Scientist
They tied—both reduced their BMI by 1.5.
CONGRATULATIONS! A really, really cool prize is on its way to you…as soon as I figure out what it is…

And perhaps they are thinking it is just sour grapes on our part, but the rest of us…me and my one pound/.2 BMI reduction and the others from the Sloth Club feel that we need a different method—so the new diet challenge beginning TODAY is percentage body weight. Send your weight to me at lazymomcafe@gmail.com. The competition will end June 10th giving us 4 months to recreate that perfect body.

FItness Friday/Saturday--Last Day

2010-01-30T16:43:00.004-05:00

I am SO sleepy. This cold weather has just slowed me down completely. That and my new found passion for baking bread (How crunchy is THAT?). Anyhoo…YAWN…the first phase of the competition ends tomorrow.

Since I do not have a scale I had to run to Ms. PR house this afternoon to do a quick weigh-in and to my surprise…I had not gain weight as I suspected. I actually lost A POUND! Okay, okay—granted it was 13 pounds short of what my goal was…but I am not giving up. In fact--Ms. Seize the Moment, Ms. HR, Ms. Proud Procrastinator and I are continuing on in our quest for the perfect body. However, this time we are doing percentage of weight lost rather than BMI or poundage.

So the final day is Sunday for the Phase I competition…so please send your final BMI number (in strictest confidence) to lazymomcafe@gmail.com and I will crown the winner tomorrow.

Not to scare anyone off—but Ms. HR came back with her new BMI and she has dropped 1.5 BMI numbers. I, on the other hand, have dropped .2 BMI.

If you want to join phase II of the Iron Mom competition—please e-mail your weight (again in strictest confidence ) to lazymomcafe@gmail.com .

Fitness Friday--1 Week to Go!

2010-01-22T19:19:00.000-05:00

Okay, Okay…My wallowing has stopped. I believe my present sluggishness is actually a hibernation gene that is still linger in my modern body from pre-caveman days…the days when giant sloths roamed the land—as soon as the temperature drops below freezing outside the only activities I can do are read, eat and, in the evening, drink red wine. Even watching “films” requires too much emotional investment. I have re-ordered my Netflix queue to send me only comedies. The foreign documentaries on personal struggles have to wait.

Ms. Seize-the-Moment and I have decided to extend our competition since we are obviously LOSERS…or rather—we are NOT losers, but lazy and slovenly. But I must be honest—lazy and slovenly has a certain appeal which Puritanical Americans refuse to recognize. It saves money—no need to run to the gym and use gas and spend money, no need to clean your house—lying on the couch and reading doesn’t make a mess. It is really a “green” way of living.

We, of course, will have our final Winter Weigh-In on 1/31 and the victor will be crowned. I am not sure who to place my bets on. Ms. HR is using a diet which I can tell is working by just looking at her. And Ms. Proud Procrastinator, for all her talk about not doing anything, seems to do a lot. The chic certainly does not procrastinate with exercise. I tried, and failed, to sabotage Ms. Smart-Pants-Scientist last night at the Mother-Daughter book club by suggesting the garlic knots and pizza, but the woman has control.

So…for anyone who feels they could lose more weight—June is our next goal and we REALLY mean it. Let me know if you want to join-in. We are accepting applications for a limited time only. I am definitely losing fourteen to twenty pounds!

Fitness Friday--2 Weeks to Go!

2010-01-15T09:27:00.003-05:00

Is everyone back on track with eating right and exercising? Good for YOU!

I am still wallowing in self-loathing. Of course, I blame Ms. Seize the Moment for feeding me a meal with enough calories to nourish a small nation for a day. Those foodies—they are very tricky with their claims: “ Olive oil is good for your, dark chocolate—it is almost health food….” 10,000 calories later I am lying on my couch in a comatose state of caloric overload. Thank you Ms. Seize the Moment. That woman will do anything to win the competition.

The trick…apparently…is not to give up…at least that is what my self-help books tell me.

In times like this I think of Ms. Filmmaker’s English mother who never pulled her punches about “disgustingly fat people.” Oh…the ever sensitive English, of course, it is far more difficult to turn down a piece of lasagna oozing with fresh, melted mozzarella than a piece of toast with the tar-like Marmite spread on it.

Niche Mothering

2010-01-12T07:18:00.002-05:00

I KNOW there are mothers who are better than I am…at…say…volunteering at the school, pushing their child towards academic excellence, getting camp forms in on time, knowing the school holidays… I know because there are Ubermoms all around me in this upscale suburban town that I call home.

However, as much as these Ubermoms try to make me feel insecure—I KNOW that I excel at other, more important, aspects of motherhood. I consider myself a niche mom. My focus is the cultural stuff….Family Art Projects at the MoMA—we are there. Modern dance at City Center—present. Experiencing fondue at a French restaurant on the Eastside—an absolute must for little girls. Carnegie Hall kids--a prefect day. Experimental theater—kids love it. ( Nothing like strobe lights and scantily clad dancers swimming above you in a see-thru Plexiglas swimming pool to get the kids revved up about theater.) Europe over Disney for a family holiday—Venice is SO much more enchanting than the Magic Kingdom plus the wine is better too.

The next time you find yourself accidentally in the middle of an Ubermom competition—who worked the hardest volunteering at the school, whose child won some major award for ending world hunger, who has just placed their child in the most exclusive, most expensive camp on the East Coast—screw them. Focus on your niche mothering. You are not here to be the CEO of your kid’s life. You are here to enjoy your life with your kid.

See you at the museum!

Fitness Friday--A Day Late

2010-01-09T17:59:00.003-05:00

I must confess--I actually GAINED a pound since the last time we spoke. But I am back on track…now that I finished my final holiday bon-bon….
I also read a few articles in the New York Times about weight loss and one article pointed out that slower heart rate exercises are better for burning fat than intense exercise that is better at burning carbs . So if you want to sprint off that pizza you just ate—fine. However, if you are trying to lose the saddle bags on your thighs—a long, long walk is more effective.
Anyone up for a long, long, walk in this cold, cold weather? Not me. But soon.

The Power of Imagination

2010-01-03T16:34:00.001-05:00

The husband is creative. His imagination runs wild and fast. A lot of his creative work is unknown outside the immediate family. And I am sure that there is work that he has done just for himself that even WE don’t know about. Like my daughter’s little homes for fairies—I often stumble upon an artwork that my husband has randomly created for fun like the fire breathing man fireplace he made for the patio, but on a smaller scale.

Although I always knew he was creative, his true brilliance was not tested until we were stuck at a highway McDonald’s in the dead of winter with a tired, cranky four year old waiting for a tow truck and nothing packed for distracting The Beast since we had planned only a short trip.

The Husband started by dipping the ends of two stray French fries into a pool of red catsup and strutting them across the table singing “we are off to see the wizard.” Followed by my daughter stacking the little half and half containers to create the tin man. The Big Mac container became the “Great and Powerful Oz”

The husband and the daughter put on the entire “show” of the Wizard of Oz using only the remains of a happy meals as the cast and set-- 20 minutes later the production was over, the car was on a tow truck and we were headed home. Unfortunately the cast and set had to be tossed in the trash on the way out the door, but the memories stay with us forever.

Relatives

2009-12-27T16:25:00.002-05:00

“Have you ever wanted to slap the Beast?” said my sister in subversive tone at our annual family Christmas get-together. We were looking for the rest of our dysfunction crew in the swarm of New Yorkers and tourists entering the main hall of Metropolitan Museum as we sat drinking in the balcony bar overlooking it all. With, of course, the string quartet playing…

“No…not yet,” I said, and then added, since she seemed disappointed—“ but I HAVE wanted to slap your son.” Seeing the look of horror on my sister’s face—I tried to back pedal…but it was too late. She did not want to hear my theory that boys belong in a large field with a ball to run wild with until they drop from exhaustion. That girls in general were mellower and threats of taking away their favorite skinny jeans, eye liner pencil, etc. normally was enough to stop dead in its tracks any ill behavior.

It is funny—as you get older the family dysfunction evolves as you do. It has moved from criticism of partner choice to choice of parenting styles.

We are too harsh on the Beast. The child does not even have an Xbox or a PlayStation. No TV in her room—oh the horrors! Thank GOD we finally got her UGGS so we do not have to hear about THAT anymore.

The small town Massachusetts brother does not even show-up to family functions any more—he was the first to have a child and we have been back-seat drivers on his parental journey since day one. Granted—they did try to home school the poor child—something I think is bizarre—because, honestly, free public education is a gift from god. But my brother sends his son to these family gatherings because the child loves New York City and all things not small town. Oddly enough, against all bets placed by his nasty aunts and uncles, the Country Cousin has grown up smart, handsome, strong and nice.

The other cousin is a fairy—slight, with long blond hair and pale, pale skin. When she was little she could not stop hopping and jumping and skipping. It was as if she could not stand to be held by gravity for any length of time which furthered my theory that the child was an ethereal creature. Her parents tried to make her a normal child—scolded her for her constant hopping and skipping. The child did transform. At the tender age of twelve she turned into, what looks like, a sultry sixteen year old. Whereas the beast does not seem to understand the power of her new body, the Fairy Princess seems abundantly aware. Heaven help the Upper Westside boys and her parents.

The youngest cousin, the Wild Child , the one who inspires violence in normally pacific, coffee drinking mothers, is an artist. His parents don’t seem to truly understand his artistic temperament. The child is brilliant and thoughtful and demands attention and is oh so annoying if he does not get the attention he requires.

Yet childhood slips by so quickly…it is only a matter of time before the Wild Child grows up and transforms. And I wait patiently with the napkin drawing I got from him yesterday…signed and dated. Just waiting to cash it in.

Hellllooo European retirement.

Dreams

2009-12-23T07:22:00.004-05:00

It started with the evil ducks and their glowing red eyes who surrounded the house.

My husband was concerned that The Beast was having these dreams. “Where did these evil ducks come from?! What has she been watching on TV? She is only three—how does she know they are evil? How does she know what evil is?”

“For heavens sakes—they are dreams—dreams are always odd.” I said. Unconcerned about what seemed, to me, like a perfectly normal dream.

I have always had graphic dreams that tend to be beautiful and sometimes highly disturbing—A bright aqua sea with huge, warm, beautiful waves washing up on the deck of my ferry as I cross I a large body of water that I can only assume is the Aegean Sea.... Flying just above treetops of a dark forest without the aid of wings... Playing on a beach with waves that change colors as they crash on shore... Picking my way through bloody bodies on subway stairs in a war torn city that looks vaguely like New York City, but not quite.

It was not until I met my husband and started telling him my dreams did I realize that perhaps they were not THAT normal.

The Beast continued to have dreams of beauty and terror--Monsters in jewel covered caves that had to be beaten back by The Beast with her magic arrow. Strange worlds that exist under the earth that are hidden behind secret doors in a town made completely of fancy woodwork….We could never find a TV show that would account for these wild nighttime flights of imagination.

I am pretty sure these psychedelic dreams come from my side of the family. My mother had them, I have them. My brother and sister used to share the same dreams and they would wake up singing the same song from their shared dream.

Who knows where these dreams really come from? Perhaps another lifetime or another world that has seeped into our psyche while we sleep.

Underage Drinking versus Violent Death--Which is Worse?

2009-12-21T18:25:00.002-05:00

I am not that thrilled about the DARE program…mainly because I don’t like police in the schools AND they talk about alcohol like it is a bad thing…ANY amount of alcohol. But I have to say…WHATEVER those police officers are saying to those kids… IT is having an impact.

The other day I was at our infamous Mother-Daughter Book Club discussing yet ANOTHER disturbing “Young Adult” read called Catching Fire. If you have a tween/teen at home—I am sure you are all too familiar with this Sci Fi series. It is set in a bleak future after the world has been ravaged by the effects of global warming. The plot is slightly complicated, but the bottom line is that the world of this book is rather hostile and oppressive and the main event of the first book was the Hunger Game--a game in which children from different districts of this new society are forced to fight one another to the death.

Of course the graphic nature of the deaths and the various other examples of man’s inhumanities to man in the book were all taken in with a blasé “we have seen/read it all before” attitude by the girls in the book group. Yet, oddly enough—a scene in the book that the mothers did not even really take note of (because we are obviously drunks by DARE standards) shocked the girls.

The scene in question was when the main character, a teenage girl was given a bottle of alcohol by an adult so that she could get drunk and drown her sorrows. This act, above all the other horrors the book illustrated, was greeted by the girls with: “can you believe that?!” and “Oh My God! What was he thinking-- giving her alcohol!” Go figure. How did underage drinking somehow become worse than murder?

I have to say—Hats Off to the police. Could the police please start a program about helping out at home and getting homework done on time?

Slug Fest Sunday

2009-12-20T10:36:00.004-05:00

It is freezing. The ONLY things I want to eat are pasta, bread and red wine. Although I have logged many miles walking at the mall and around town--I have not unrolled by yoga mat all week. Ahhh.
I did, however, read a fun book called the Urban Hermit by Sam MacDonald. It is a “memoir” of a Yale grad who spent all his money drinking and eating and ended up 100 pounds overweight and in debt. His solution to his weight and money problem was funny, effective and life transforming. Check it out. They have it at the local library.

Decemember Disclosure

2009-12-13T14:45:00.003-05:00

Hello!
Christmas is just around the corner and I want to encourage everyone to shop locally. AND I don’t mean the local Target or god forbid the local Wal-Mart. If you live in my artsy-fartsy town or close by…go to the Sign of the Times—they have great toys and games and there is basically no price difference—plus they have nothing but cool toys—so there is no need to worry that you will get a groan from some bratty child.

Two other wonderful shops are Nyack Wine Cellar and Palmieri Wines and Spirits just in case you are looking for something for me.

For the kid who is too old for Sign of the Times—Nyack General Store on North Broadway by the knitting shop—which also looks nice, but is really not my thing, has more great things.

And of course my favorite bike store-Nyack Bicycle Outfitters (also on North Broadway), they have wonderful inexpensive and expensive TREK bikes. It is a great experience buying from Jim because he will adjust the bike for you and you can always ride in with your bike if there is a problem…A MUCH better feeling than buying some cheap bike from Wal-Mart. You might save $20-$50 at Wal-Mart, but you will get far more service if you buy from Jim.

However—if you must just do some massive holiday shopping for all the NON-Special people in your life…you know teachers, postman, assistant at work, your brother’s kids, your kid’s friends…just click on the little Amazon widget on your right and I will get 4% percent commission and you will be done with all that annoying Christmas Shopping. Plus—I offer suggests that you can take…or not.

Happy Shopping!

Fitness Friday--Exercise Tips

2009-12-11T12:03:00.000-05:00

In order to save time I will distilled the exercise tips that I have received so far

Proud Procrastinator and Smarty Pants Scientist are both strong believers in a variety of exercise so as not to get bored doing the same old thing day in and day out. However, their “variety of exercise” sounds more like an “Iron Man Contest” than anything I would even consider doing—They SO Driven. So they Lose!

Michele, who did not join the contest, but who always has positive suggestions—says: Just KEEP doing it. Sort of like Nike’s Just Do It…but with more oomph. I like the tip, but she is NOT in the contest…so she can’t win.

Ms. Seize the Moment--I am not completely sure what her thoughts on exercise are because her e-mails to me are SO FULL of expletives and it is hard to cull the information out from ALL the naughty words—who knew weight-loss was SO emotionally charged? Although I did not ask for a “Helpful” tips about exercise—it was implied. And I would share Ms. Seize the Moment’s rants because they are fun, but the sheer volume of curse words prevented me.

My exercise tip is not to make it a big deal—just unroll your yoga mat and start doing some crunches. If your don’t have time to do 30 minutes of exercises—screw it—work on the areas you obsess about—for me: Saddle bag thighs, jelly belly and wings of flesh on my arms. If you have time to do more—it is just a bonus. Although I think my tip is excellent for its laziness quality, I believe the best tip came from Ms. HR.

Ms. HR believes that ideally you should walk before you eat. If you are going out to lunch—walk to the restaurant and walk back. Before dinner—take a walk. Simple and easy. No exercise equipment needed, no plans, just move your butt. She is the winner!

As soon as I find the DVD, “Trouble Zones” by Juliann Michaels-- it will be shipped off to Ms. HR. And I must say…I saw Ms. HR at one of those annoying school events and she looked MARVELOUS! Congratulations!

Don't Eat That Cookie that Fell on the Floor!

2009-12-10T07:21:00.005-05:00

Oh...never mind...I guess I little dirt never hurt anyone.

For anyone who has ever felt guilty about not cleaning enough around the baby--here is the study for you.
Of course, I never felt guilty...but if you do/did...you are released from the name tag "bad mother."

Check out Free Range Kids Mom's article on the dangers of being TOO CLEAN.

Look! Interview with Famous Mom Blogger!

2009-12-09T17:57:00.002-05:00

Hey,
Take a look at my interview with famous Mom Blogger Liz Gumbinner of Mom 101 and Cool Mom Picks!

Reading Camp

2009-12-08T05:28:00.003-05:00

“I’m thinking READING CAMP.” Said Ms. Seize the Moment in a hushed, anxious tone during one of those motherhood insecurity phases before you stop reading those idiotic child rearing books that list baby/toddler milestones.

“I am thinking that you better start sharing whatever drugs you are taking.”I said with all the sympathy of a NYC Policeman.

“What? You don’t think reading camp is a good idea?” she said in sheer disbelief.

“Sweetheart—the girls are three. No one wants a little egghead reading War and Peace at four…except perhaps my brother. It just isn’t right. I am happy that The Beast has stopped gnawing on her board books. “

“Okay…okay—how about private swimming lessons at a hotel pool in New Jersey?”

“Back to my first point about the drugs--really—what have you been taking? Please go back to Feng Shui-ing your house…because some energy must be lodged in the crazy zone of your home….maybe a crystal or wind chime will release it.”

I don’t know about anyone else, but I read What to Expect When You’re Expecting like it was a Steven King novel so when someone gave me What to Expect: The First Year I tossed it. And What to Expect: The Toddler Years….please…like you don’t get ENOUGH advice when you have a kid.

Honestly—when getting gifts for new mothers—think wine or hard liquor.

Proud Procrastinator!

2009-12-04T18:09:00.004-05:00

Hey,
Take a look at MY guest post on the Proud Procrastinator! We are two peas in a pod...hanging on the vine...refusing to be picked...because we like the view.

Fitness Friday--5 Weight Loss Tips from Ms. PR.

2009-12-04T05:24:00.002-05:00

Hey Slimming Slackers,

Since I did NOT get ONE diet tip from ANYONE …the prize will not be awarded.

Here are some tips from the ALREADY slender MS. PR to keep us going….
1) Don’t be afraid to throw food away—especially bad food. True—we hate to waste, but REALLY putting extra pounds on your thighs is NOT saving the planet. If you find that you can get by with just eating half your breakfast sandwich—give the other half away. Or if you feel you need the protein of the egg—just toss the top half of the roll—you still have all the taste and protein minus 100 calories of bun. The same goes for desserts—offer to share or just toss half.

2) Take snacks with you. If you are organized and have a modicum of self-control--bag a few small fun snacks to have with you at all times so you will not be tempted to run into Starbucks and get that 5,000 calorie chocolate, caramel, nut cookie bar to go with your skim milk latte. OR, if need be--Buy those little snack packs—sure they are bad for the environment, but when you lose weight—you will be helping the earth by taking up less room.

3) Don’t hesitate to take the stairs—it will give you exercise and make you look energetic and young, plus there is that added calorie burn.

4) If you find yourself eating something that you do not TRULY enjoy with all your heart—stop immediately. Put down that left over toast from your child’s breakfast, that store bought cookie that some evil person left on your desk. Only eat truly enjoyable calories.

5) Remember—denial is a bad thing—limit food, but don’t deny yourself pleasures. Make a list of non-negotiable food that you cannot give up. For me this would be coffee, with whole milk and sugar, good bread and red wine. I just need to adjust my food intake accordingly—so I only drink coffee during the day and have a huge dinner.

Next week’s challenge—send in your favorite exercise tips…

Prize for next week—exercise DVD by Jullian Michaels “Trouble Zones” She has some wonderful butt and ab exercises!

Boys

2009-12-03T16:36:00.002-05:00

I have been looking at boys. Not in the creepy way, the way some old men look at teen girls, but in a scientific way because I am the mother of a daughter who is close to dating age…and by “close” I mean several years away.

The boys seem…nice. Nice, smart and handsome. I don’t recall boys being nice or smart or handsome when I was in middle school—but perhaps my standards were too high or perhaps we just have better acne and hair care products now. These nice, handsome, smart boys scare me. They are just a little too confident.

I know The Beast and her friends are growing up, but I don’t see a lot of boy craziness—yet. Perhaps these girls are different…

In pre-school the girls would play with Barbies and sometime a headless Ken would be added to the Barbie line-up. I would ask—“do you want me to try to put his head back on?” But they would reply that there is no need…he did not have any speaking parts…he was just a body.

I remember in kindergarten boys did not seem to exist to my daughter and her friends. I asked The Beast one day who sat at her table and she said “no one” and I said…”no one?!” I confronted the teacher and she explained that two boys sat with the Beast—which in the Beast’s mind—was “no one.” I had her seat moved.

Then, towards the end of elementary school, The Beast would mention boys—as an irritant and later as something funny.

Boys are just now beginning to be talked about as people. Annoying people, but people none the less. The Beast reported the other day—“Sydney said that ‘ All boys are jerks.’” And as a mom I had to let her know…”Sydney is correct. And boys don’t change that much when you get older—keep that in mind”

Shopping with the Tween

2009-11-29T21:57:00.002-05:00

I know that my approval of any piece of clothing is the kiss of death—so I try to show no expression when The Beast is making her choices in the dressing room. I try not to encourage her one way or another. I am like a character from the Body Snatcher after my body had has been snatched. I watch and hold my breath, my eyes glaze over—I have only veto power for clothes that look too sexy or that are too expensive.

Of course, I put my mother through the same torture. My only regret is that my mother is not here to witness my pain. She would take SUCH joy in hearing my mall stories. Of course she had several years of my parenting woes to enjoy before she died. She would call up and say like a child eager at story-time—“tell me! Tell me! What did The Beast do today?”

And I would tell her…so many stories I had to entertain my mother with “oh—today, when we were out in public, she would not talk—she would only beep—I am sure it is just a matter of time before special services shows up” Or “She told the whole pre-school how we lost her at IKEA...NOT because SHE wandered off—but because we did—it is so important to confirm with the spouse who is watching the child.” Or “The school had ANOTHER draw your family project and guess what we were happily guzzling in the picture—who could have known that a three year old could draw wine glasses so well.”

Well…I just picked up a bunch of clothes for The Beast from “Santa Claus”—clothes that I would not necessarily buy, but she would. Perhaps she will accept them from a mythical being.

The Formula--Body Mass Index!

2009-11-26T13:40:00.004-05:00

Okay…Ms. SP Scientist has come up with the formula. Whomever drops down the most in BMI number is the WINNER. There is even a website that you can go to and plug in your height and weight to get your exact BMI#--for those of us who are mathematically challenged…although I think I am the only one who is in this Mensa crowd.

Click Here

Just as an example--right now…my BMI # is 24.3….SO close to the “overweight” zone—but I swear—it is all muscle—plus I am “big boned” from the Swedish side of the family…. I am aiming for a BMI of 22.…so a 2.3 drop in my BMI number will be my goal for the end of January. And of course even a BMI of 23 would be wonderful.

So…no need to give away your actual weight--just send a discreet e-mail to lazymomcafe@gmail.com with your present BMI #. I will not open the e-mails until the end of January when you send your new and improved BMI #.

And not to brag…but the Beast and I…Along with Ms. Churchlady, and Ms. Leatherpants all did the Turkey Trot this morning. Granted….Ms. Churchlady and Ms. Leatherpants ran—but hey…5 miles is 5 miles.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Church, Sex and Faith

2009-11-25T15:04:00.002-05:00

“Ssssunday Ssssschool. Sssssalacious Sssssunday Morning Sssssex “ whispered the serpent in my ear…I mean, Ms. Churchlady.

Okay…perhaps she did not say those EXACT words…but something very close… like—“We can take The Beast with us to Sunday School so you two can have some together time on Sunday Morning” (wink, wink-nod, nod) I know Catholics and those Watch Tower people are good at “building” their flocks through fear and little booklets—but who would have THOUGHT the Episcopalians would stoop to using sex to increase congregation size. I mean, REALLY—these are people who believe they will go to hell if they use the wrong fork during dinner. I guess times are hard for religion.

Something shifted when we had The Beast...some friends who seemed perfectly normal started to act strange. (Not Ms. ChurchLady—she was not Ms. Churchlady then) There was a lot of talk of god and religion from people who seemed about as far away from spirituality as the strip mall down the street.

The husband was about as thrilled by this friendly religious advice as I was by the baby advice I was given while eight months pregnant...”oh really—thank you SO much for that insightful tip on breastfeeding—who would have known a homeless man who is sleeping on a traffic island in the middle of Broadway could be such a wealth information on lactation...I guess I will just throw away all those baby books I have been pouring over for the last 7 months.”

The husband explained to one of his old poker buddies that we were not interested in baptizing The Beast in his church because we did not believe in god. Yet the born-again man kept on trying to sell us his salvation—The church had community, youth groups, etc. I finally heard the husband say in frustration-- “Look man—I am SURE the Klan has great barbeques and ‘community activities’, but we aren’t joining them either. ”

You may think we don’t like god, but that is not true at all. And as far as religion—I LOVE religion. ...those ancient mystery cults, those crazy Zoroastrians, the Buddhists, the Taoists....I minored in religion as an undergraduate. I swear—when I saw Vatican City…it took every ounce of knowledge I had from years of philosophy and history classes to stop me from genuflecting to the pure beauty of it all.

For those who wonder about why we would choose not to toss our child blindly into a religion just as a safe-guard for the potential afterlife—remember Paul Tillich: “Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is one element of faith. “
But…if anyone would like to take The Beast on a non-denominational Ssssunday morning trip or have her for a Sssssaturday into Ssssunday sssssleepover—feel free. The Husband and I will find Ssssssomething to do.

The Competition is ON!

2009-11-23T18:24:00.002-05:00

Although we are already beautiful—OF COURSE--We are all going to be trim and in shape in a few months!

The contestants are Proud Procrastinator, Ms. Seize the Moment, Ms. Smarty-Pants-Scientist, Ms. HR and…ME.

Ms. PR , who is actually proud and happy with her current weight has offered give us some tips. So thoughtful of her…

Ms. Smarty-Pants Scientist wants to come up with a different formula than the percentage body weight thing… so I told her to send us the formula to plug in the numbers—because frankly, just figuring out my percentage body weight was a challenge. (I AM the mom who started looking for a math tutor for my daughter in 4th grade because the math homework was already too hard for me. )

Just about everyone is already on the fast track to losing weight. Ms. HR is on a VERY calorie restrictive diet and is walking A LOT. Ms. Smarty-Pants Scientist has been doing all sorts of training. I think Proud Procrastinator is jogging. Ms. Seize the Moment and I seem to be the only slackers/whiners.

Last chance to join. The first prize I am giving away on Friday…or maybe Saturday will be a copy of Get Your Body Back: Lose Weight, Gain Energy, and Get Fit After Having Your Baby By Anita Weil Bell

Fitness Friday!

2009-11-20T08:18:00.001-05:00

Okay—I was going to call it something else—something less positive, but I have been reading books about being more positive and being less sarcastic—so I have been basically mute the last few days in order to practice this new: if you have nothing NICE to say, say nothing at all.

The gantlet has been thrown down by the Proud Procrastinator and Ms. Seize the Moment, who is SO competitive I cannot take yoga classes with her any more, is up for the challenge. Who else wants to join?!

The Challenge: Who ever loses the largest percent of their body weight by the end of January WINS! What exactly is the prize…I am not sure…but something really, really fun. AND we will have weekly prizes too.
As an example:
I am hoping to lose 10% of my bodyweight—which if I did the math correctly would be 14 pounds—but frankly—I would be happy with 5%.
So…if you are up for the challenge—e-mail me at lazymomcafe@gmail.com.

I do have to warn you…Ms. Seize the Moment is very competitive. She has been known to “accidently” push skinny little vegan women from their perfect “downward squatting dog” poses in yoga class. So if you find there is a rash of mistake pizza deliveries to your house…you need look no further.

Friends

2009-11-19T05:34:00.002-05:00

The Husband thinks I obsess…and it is SO true. One of my obsession is friends….The Beast’s friends.

I would not say I have a lot of friends…mainly because of this blog… and my personality in general. But I have TRUE friends. And I think there is nothing more important in life than true friends. Ideally friends who have known you for a long time.

My best friend in the whole wide world is Ms. Filmmaker. She has always been crazy, silly, creative, deep and endlessly interesting to me. I met Ms. Filmmaker when we were both on our way to our first day of kindergarten. We chatted a mile a minute and giggled then and we do the very same thing today.

When the Beast started Public School I was frightened…very frightened. As I may have mentioned before—we were zoned to the one elementary school that was NOT artsy-farty… Many of the mothers looked like aging Barbies and the kindergarten class looked like a box full of Kelly dolls.

Taking a deep breath, I dropped my Asian/Hispanic looking child in to the mix. She loved the Kellies. She loved the long ,blond hair, the pink clothes, the blue eyes of the Kelly doll students, but sometimes they were friends and sometimes not. This was not the warm fuzzy German Pre-school where everyone played nice. This was not the “movement class” where all the kids dressed kooky.

We were now in the land of the pink Hello Kitty outfits and the light-up sneakers. The Beast’s red Blundie boots, the wildly striped winter tights and the Basque beret were a dead giveaway that we did not live in the development down the street. My vintage Saab, my basically all black wardrobe and distinct lack of make-up set us apart from day one.

I did not have the time nor inclination to start expanding my wardrobe color palette since I worked “Outside the Home” and the child had no intentions of giving up her beloved Blundies. But this turned out to be a good thing, because being yourself (as my mother always told me) is in the only way to find true friends. Plus we were too lazy to work on actually fitting in.

The Beast navigated quietly through a social network of queen bee girls (which we called the “pill girls” because they were really quite unpleasant) and found the interesting girls. We tried Daisy’s and we BOTH discovered one true friend each and then through love of art the Beast found another good friend.

The Beast is now in Middle School and the friend issue still lingers heavy on my mind not because she is lacking friends, but because I believe it is your friends more than your parents who truly help you navigate and succeed in the world. They are your mirror. We have been lucky—The Beast is still close to girls she met when she was three and her new friends all are interesting and nice. Once she entered the Middle School, where all the schools come together, the artys-fartys types now outnumber the more socially conservative groups and dressing kooky and doing interesting stuff is prized.

The beast still sees some of the queen bee girls from her old school and there is even a joke among her friends about one girl who was notorious for befriending girls and then dropping them. The joke is that all the “dropped” friends are forming a club called: “The Former Friends of XXXXX XXXXXX” since there are so many of them.

If you can’t join them—at least make fun of them.

Looky, Looky, Looky!!!

2009-11-17T17:22:00.004-05:00

I have a guest post on Nyack Backyard. About CHICKENS! Take a look. Click Here

And if you want to give the gift of chickens to a poor family...go to Heifer International and give a flock of baby chicks for $20. Talk about a great warm fuzzy feeling and you don't even have to volunteer for the bake sale.

Click Here for Warm Fuzzy Feeling

Parent-Teacher Conferences

2009-11-13T17:42:00.005-05:00

It is that time of year again—the Parent-Teacher Conference— so I asked my favorite teacher-friend. Ms. Seize the Moment, for some tips for a successful meeting.

TEN Tips (plus one) from a Real Elementary School Teacher

1. Don’t make excuses for your child—you know if your kid is a lazy little loafer and the teacher knows too. Admit it and ask for help. The teacher has dealt with lazy little loafers for years and she can help you.

2. Don’t threaten the teacher if she calls to let you know your child is not doing his/her homework—this is her way of showing you that she is paying attention to your child—unlike you.

3. The Parent-Teacher conference is actually about THE CHILD, not you. Although “Child” is not included in the title of the meeting, it is implied. Please stop talking about YOUR busy life because you are just enlightening the teacher as to why your child is having such a problem with social skills.

4. Do not send love notes to male teachers—it is just wrong…wrong and creepy—plus he shows the notes to the female teachers and you know how heartless those women can be.

5. The same goes for partially nude photos of yourself…. (Yes—these tips are here for a reason—not everyone seems to know these little social graces)

6. Do not fight, insult or in any manner disrespect your spouse during a Parent-Teacher conference—this is NOT a reality show, this is your life and the teacher does not really care what you think about one another because she has already formulated the opinion you are both selfish jerks for not even being able to hold it together at their kid’s school.

7. Please do not defend your child’s BAD, BAD MANNERS—if the teacher is bringing it up—it is not just to make polite conversation—again—do not make excuses such as boys-will-be-boys or she is too young to understand. The teacher works with children the exact same age as your child everyday and probably has done so for years—she knows better than you do what is age and gender appropriate for your child. Obviously your kid is missing the mark and it time for you to step-up to the plate as a parent. Have you heard of words “consequences” and “following through?”

8. When the teacher asks you to read more with your child—this is not your queue to go out and buy the child “educational video games” or any other game…she really means—open a book with your kid and read.

9. The teacher knows that TV is often a parents lifeline, but for god sakes turn the damn thing off once and while and take your kid to the library, a museum, a hike in the woods. When parents engage their child in outside activities it shows.

10. Do not talk bad about other parents or kids unless there is something dangerous that the teacher REALLY needs to know—like Billy’s father has a problem with the zipper on his pants when he is around little girls or little Katlyn has formed a S & M club in the girls bathroom—then and only then is the teacher interested in hearing your story. All other opinions—please keep to yourself.

11. Being on the PTA or School Board does not entitle your child to Prince or Princess status—just keep that in mind and please stop mentioning your associations during the Parent-Teacher meeting. The teacher is more than aware of who is on the PTA/School Board.

Guest Post from Nyack Backyard

2009-11-11T10:07:00.003-05:00

Hey!
Take a look at JGH's guest post on The Mommington Post about mom blog marketing.