Trying and Failing

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

“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

“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

“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

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.