In search of a plot

“I need a plot! What if I die?” this is the text I received Thanksgiving night from my 12 year old son, Levi. He’d finally left the table and was worriedly texting me from the next room.

It all happened because we were enjoying some post repast conversation at my mom’s house. One of the guests, a long time family friend, works at the Jewish cemetery in town. The discourse had shifted to her work and she was astounding us with stories about elderly people who simply refused to contemplate death, funerals and anything associated with burials. My brother-in-law, an uber-responsible physician, chimed in, “It’s just idiotic not to take care of these things ahead of time. Idiotic and irresponsible.”

Suddenly I look across the table and I see Levi, his head in his hands, prone for an anxiety attack. “Why don’t you go play with your cousins,” I suggest.

“No, mom. I want to stay with the adults,” he insists.

“Well, are you sure you can handle this conversation?” I ask gently.

“Yes,” he replies, “I’m sure. But mom, how much is a plot? Because I need to save up and get one.”

Conversation halted and everyone looked at Levi. Several of the adults started to roar with laughter.

“Levi,” I tried to explain, “You really don’t need to worry about that right now.”

“But I’m going to die,” he matter-of-factly refuted, “I don’t want to be stupid, or irresponsible.”

Suddenly I was transported into the celluloid world of my all time favorite Woody Allen movie, “Annie Hall.” I morphed into Alivie Singer’s kvetching Jewish mother and insisted my 9 year old son, Alivie, tell the psychiatrist why he was so depressed.”

Alvie’s mother:
Tell the Doctor why you’re depressed, Alvie. It’s something that he read.

Alvie:
The Universe is expanding.

Doctor:
The Universe is expanding?

Alvie:
Well, the Universe is everything, and if it’s expanding, someday it will break apart and that would be the end of everything.

Alvie’s mother:
He stopped doing his homework.

Alvie:
What’s the point?

Alvie’s mother: What has the Universe got to do with it? You’re here in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is not expanding!”

Doctor:
It wont be expanding for billions of years, Alvie. And we’ve gotta try to enjoy ourselves while we’re here.

Why is it that some kids burden themselves with thoughts like these while others are content to stuff themselves silly with turkey, corn and mashed potatoes? I so want to be one of those care-free people who raises easy, playful youngsters who throw spitballs into the unsuspecting heads of classmates and giggle gleefully when the teacher accidentally strings together words like “under” and “where.” But alas, that’s just not who we are.

I actually remember my first 100% sleepless night. I was about my son’s age and was convinced that the angel of death was coming that very night to take me away. My poor father tried everything to get me to go to sleep. Finally, with a tear in his eye, he implored, “Please, Debbie, just close your eyes. I’ll stand guard all night and I promise not to open the door if he comes. Just go to sleep!”

I guess the sad thing here is that this whole experience just confirms what I’ve known all along; that children really are just mirrors that showcase every flaw, fault and foible of our own misguided psyches. Genetics, my friends, are inescapable.

It’s all kind of depressing. In fact, sometimes I find it so disheartening that I relate completely to Annie Hall’s brother, Duane, (played eerily by a young Christopher Walken), who behind the wheel of his automobile,
confesses to Alvie while speeding down a darkened freeway, “Sometimes I have a sudden impulse to turn the wheel quickly, head-on into an oncoming car. I anticipate the explosion, the sound of shattering glass, the…flames rising out of the flowing gasoline.”

Alvie is stumped for a reply but spits out, “Right,” just as they pull to a stop, “Well, I have to — I have to go now, Duane, because I’m due back on the planet earth.”

Sometimes it sucks to be me. I desperately want to see myself as Audrie Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” or Meryl Streep in “Out of Africa.” But no matter how hard I try, my true alter ego wont let me forget that I’m really just a female version of a Jewish, neurotic, anxiety-ridden Alvie Singer.

Preview of coming attractions…

: Frankly, I’m in the “I’d rather be surprised” school of parenting.

One of my best friends has a teenage son who consistently challenges both her and her husband in every imaginable way. Often as I watch their travails, I feel like I’m sitting at Harkin’s watching my very own preview of coming attractions. and much like I often feel at the theatre, the previews are too detailed, too graphic, and they ruin the movie by telling you exactly what’s “coming soon.” Frankly, I’m in the “I’d rather be surprised” school of parenting. I mean, what’s the point of preparation anyway? It’s not like I’m really gonna alter my child-rearing tactics in order to avoid a whole new array of potential parenting pitfalls.

So the latest one is this: Joey (not his real name), likes to dip into the alcohol and marijuana. Now we’ve all been 17 so that’s not really such an outrageous occurrence. But they’re conscientious parents and have instituted random drug tests in order to curb the undesired behavior. Now Joey, as might be expected, lies about ingesting both the booze and the pot in order to avoid negative consequences. Hard to discern which is worse, but my friends’ have focused more on the lying than the actual drug and alcohol offense.

Well, the other day Joey comes to his mom and says that he’s been invited to his friend Scott’s house on Saturday night for a beer pong party. They intend to get good and hammered and then stay overnight to sleep off the stupor. Joey preempts his mom’s concerns by clarifying that no one will be getting behind the wheel of a car, Scott’s parents will be home, and he really ought to be rewarded with the opportunity of going to the party since he is, after all, telling her the truth while not yet under any type of guilt-ridden duress.

What to do? She asked my advice. I wanted to say, “Are you kidding? I have no frickin’ idea on this one. My kids are children for Gods sake. They’re never gonna be 17 year old man-boys who want to partake in ugly adult activities. How in the hell would I know what to do?” But I self-edited and just said, “Um…I guess you should let him go. After all, I do remember being a teenager. If you say no he’s just gonna do it anyway and lie about it.” Then I added something to the effect of “I guess a vice you know about at a supervised party is better than one you don’t know about that drives around under the influence with five other teenage boys who all believe they’re immune to mortality.”

I’m not sure she appreciated my aphorism.

But the question hasn’t left my mind since our conversation. Eventually I too will have to make decisions of this magnitude. And frankly, I don’t have a clue about what the right thing to do is. I remember how my parents forbid just about everything. Consequently, I remember lying –a lot. I know some people consider their adolescent kids to be pre-adults and rather than participating in long, drawn out arguments, would rather just be “friends” with their kids so they green light pretty much everything. I’ve even heard tell of parents who actually enjoy a few puffs of the cannabis plant along with their youngsters.

I spoke with a teetotaler pal of mine the other day and she looked at me askance when I announced that in our house, a few sips of wine now and again wasn’t verboten. “We believed more in the European model of parenting,” I added, feeling more than a little ashamed to admit it.

What is right, I wonder. There will likely be scores of perplexing problems ahead. Yet I go through life wondering why I’m the only progenitor who missed parent orientation and is going through the experience blindly without access to that mythical handbook everyone else seems to have in their possession. It’s scary. And frustrating.

I guess that’s why I’d rather skip the previews and just be stunned by whatever reality awaits me.

4 Comments

Up up and away (from the movie theatre as fast as our little legs could take us).

Like many of you, I couldn’t wait to take my kids to see the movie “Up” last weekend. We rarely go to the movies as a family. Eli, my 5 year old, has sort of a movie phobia. (I think it’s the noise and darkness that freaks him out), and Levi, my 8 year old, couldn’t possibly be less interested in sitting in one place for 120 minutes watching a stagnant video screen. But, is as usually the case, I forget who we are and imagine that we’re an ordinary American family who loves the cinema and I cart us all out on opening day of a hot new movie only to be reminded that this is a totally futile exercise.

It started out kind of weird. This large short man in a too-tight jacket that wouldn’t quite button, got up on the stage at Cine Capri and welcomed us to the theatre. He made it a point to introduce the film and let us know that he was there for us should we have any issues or grievances during our time in the theatre. Then the half hour of previews began. The sound was so out of control loud that my kids started to freak out and rock catatonically as they covered their ears and screamed. Yikes. I immediately approached the large short man and insisted they lower the volume, which they did which kind of surprised me and shocked my friend completely. “Are you ever embarrassed to say anything?” she asked me. “No.” I casually replied. “And anyway, he invited me to share my opinion.”

The movie finally started at a decreased decibel level and within the first three minutes I started to sob uncontrollably. This was a sad film. Never mind the fact that it was animated, Pixar and supposedly for children, it was downright depressing. And since I’m obsessed with aging, grief and loss, it hit way too close to home for me. I pretty much proceeded to weep throughout the film.

By the time the terrifying Doberman appeared, I was starting to think that maybe this excellently crafted piece of cinema was not a kid’s flick. My little guy shrieked at the sight of the menacing dogs and it all went downhill from there. Through my tears I could see my older son fidgeting and my youngest was clinging to me as Carl struggled to save the bird and avoid canine catastrophe. Finally my boys couldn’t take it any longer. The fighting was too much, too scary, too realistic? Who knows what it was that set them over the edge. But whatever it was, they wanted out. My husband was really enjoying the film. So I happily volunteered to remove myself and the boys from the theatre.

We waited outside for the last 20 minutes, them shaken and terrified, me exhausted with tear-swollen eyes and a runny nose. Finally the rest of our party emerged from the show.
“So, how’d you like it?” I asked. “It was great,” they replied. “Not much of a kid’s movie,” I added. “No. I had heard it really wasn’t.” my husband responded. “Um…why didn’t you tell me that?” I inquired peevishly. “Well,” he continued, “you really wanted to see it and I wasn’t really sure…so I figured we’d give it a shot.”

“OK, here’s the rule for next time,” I chirped with a saccharine lilt, “Anyone who knows we’re about to embark on a potentially disastrous mission with our children is hereby obligated to say something BEFORE we actually do it. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” he sheepishly smiled. “Oh, and by the way, I got tickets for all of us to go see ‘Monsters Vs. Aliens’ at the IMAX this weekend, how does that sound?”

I looked at him dubiously. “You’ve got to be kidding, right?”

He just smiled and waltzed away.