Baby on board

maxresdefault As a young 20 something back in LA, there was a story on the news about a woman leaving her beloved Schnauzer in a hot car in the middle of July, only to return and find the poor creature no longer alive. I remember brainstorming with an artist pal about how we wanted to make a social statement about this kind of horrific act. So we came up with this live art installation concept. We were going to call it “Baby on Board” and we were going to glue an infant car seat on the roof of his Volkswagen Jetta, stick a life like baby doll in it, start driving, and observe the reactions from everyone on the road. We roared as we imagined panicked motorists with rolled down windows screaming and pointing at us as we sped along the PCH.

As a responsible human being and a mother of two boys who are my life, I am horrified to think that I even momentarily thought this was a clever idea. I remember back in the Arizona summers when you would hear tragic reports about busy, stressed out parents who actually left their babies in the back seat while they frantically went into an office or lunch appointment.

I lived in fear of making an unforgivable mistake like this due to sleep deprivation, “mom brain,” or just some momentary lapse of attentiveness.

I often became paralyzed with grief over stories like these. Friends of mine were concerned and would ask about my overwhelming depression at those times. I would tell them that I understood how a parent could accidentally do something like leave their beloved child trapped in a hot car and only realize it hours later. For me, I lived in deep gratitude every day that I didn’t make some kind of disastrous mistake like that. As a working, stressed out mom, it seemed all too easy to suddenly lose focus and watch as one by one each of my proverbial spinning plates crashed to the ground.

Once in a while another mom might nod in agreement and tell me that “she got it.” But for the most part, anyone I confided in about this told me that I was crazy and that they knew I would never do something unspeakable like that. But some other parent somewhere, had done just this and had to try to live with themselves for the rest of their miserable life. It was a staggering thing to ponder. (Full disclosure, I am also the woman who recognizes how thin the line is between my happy little suburban life and a few bad financial decisions that land you in Tent City. )

I learned to not share this particular insecurity with other parents. It tended to dramatically reduce the number of mom groups to which I was invited. But I realized that I was right. Tragedy can befall any of us. And yet, most people were so afraid of accepting that reality, they simply dismissed the possibility that anything as careless and shameful as forgetting to take your kid out of the car could actually happen to them.

I tell you this story because Wednesdays are early release days here in Seattle. We’ve just moved into a new house to be in the right high school district (no open enrollment out here). Unfortunately, we are no longer on a bus route for my 8th grader to get to and from his middle school. So I’m back with full time driving duties and frankly, I’m seriously out of practice.

Today over lunch with a friend,I lamented my new chauffeur duties and checked my watch repeatedly, telling her I had to have enough time to get to the bank, the dry cleaner and pick up my son at 3pm. We departed around 1:30 and I popped into the bank to make a deposit.

As I left the bank, I saw I had received several texts from my son inquiring about my whereabouts. Then a few minutes later, another text came in asking who was en route to pick him up. Then finally, a text that just read, “Um…hello???”

Suddenly the reality that it was Wednesday flooded into my consciousness. I became frantic and texted him back that I was on my way. “Are you okay?” I texted. “I’m an idiot.” “I forgot it was Wednesday.” But nothing I could say could quell my horror.

I got to school at 1:47. He was casually hanging out under a tree reading a book. He had been there for exactly 22 minutes. But to me, it felt like 22 hours. I wrapped him into my arms and apologized over and over again. He put on a brave front. “It’s okay, mom. I figured eventually someone would notice I was gone.”

I took him to Baskin Robbins for ice cream and bought him a giant Hulkbuster Funco Pop. If he had asked for the moon, I would’ve found a way to get it for him. He played it up with his big blue eyes and sad pouty face. He was having fun with me.

I told him that this was definitely the moment that would drive him into therapy someday and to please understand and explain to the therapist that this hideous event had nothing to do with my love and devotion for him. Instead it was an illustration of my inability to do anything right as a parent and that he should never think I didn’t cherish him in every imaginable way.

“You do a lot right, mom,” he said, “And I love you. But it is kind of fun to have my own chocolate muffin moment.” He was referring to a vacation where I woke up starving in the middle of the night and scarfed down his older brother’s chocolate muffin. I’ve never been able to live that down. “I guess everyone has a chocolate muffin moment,” he sighed.

I felt parental shame wash over me anew. But then I realized something huge. “Well, most people have those muffin moments when they’re too little to fully comprehend them,” I pronounced. “Luckily for you, I waited till you were 14 and had the smarts and sophistication to handle it, before I traumatized you.”

It really is all in how you look at things, isn’t it?

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So, what do YOU do?

Political correctness has paralyzed me! Last night we were at a party. I was excited to meet a slew of new and interesting people. It was a family event at someone’s home so kids were happily racing around, playing Wii, watching videos, etc… Someone asked my husband what he did? “I’m a Pediatrician,” Mark responded. Then I piped up and asked the inquiring man what kind of work he did. He answered with a complex I.T./consulting/mathematical response that left me speechless. Then I looked at his wife and wanted desperately to know what she did “for a living.” But something inside me said, “no. That’s not an okay question to ask.” But I wanted to know. The potential to meet a new friend who might have similar interests, might share a common language, might connect to me at a deeper level was impelling me forward.

“Do you work outside the home?” I thought about asking. But her children were older and of course she worked outside the home at this point in her parenting career. Something must be wrong with her if she didn’t work outside the home I surmised. But I couldn’t be sure. “And what kind of work do you do?” I toyed with asking. This way I could leave her the out to say she chose to volunteer or offered aide at her children’s school instead of punching a clock at some corporate warehouse or laboring menially in a cubicle under fluorescents.

She looked at me inquisitively. She’s probably wanting to ask me the same thing, I mused. Finally I came up with, “So do you exercise?” Why I asked that I have no idea. She smiled genuinely and shared that she was training for the Komen three day breast cancer walk. She walked nearly 20 miles a day she told me. Hmmm? I thought to myself. That takes an awful lot of time. Must not work outside the home. Good thing I didn’t embarrass myself by asking. Later I followed up on a clue she let slip about working with children.Turned out she was a preschool teacher. But by the time I realized that, it was too late to delve into the details.

Throughout the night I found myself in similar situations with numerous women. No one asked me what I did. I asked no one what she did. It was as if we had all signed a tacit agreement upon entering. We will not ask about careers, professions, or achievements because somehow the mere asking about these things suggested some type of judgement. But in failing to ask, I failed to find a path inside these women’s souls. I left at the end of the night feeling as if I hadn’t really met anyone, hadn’t really shared any part of myself, hadn’t really explored or revealed anything to anyone.

Sometimes I wonder if we, as women, miss out on genuine connection because we are working so desperately to avoid offending one another. I have met very few women who actually do nothing all day long. But the delicacy required to inquire about a woman’s daily activities seems almost paralyzing. The fear of insulting or sounding judgmental freezes us and renders us completely inept at conversing. It keeps us locked up inside ourselves and isolated.

Does anyone know the right way to forge ahead in these types of situations?

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Kids say the darndest things

It’s my worst nightmare. On the way home from school today, my 11 year old son, Levi, asked me the standard question I usually pose to him. “So mom, what did you do that was interesting and exciting today?” “Not much,” I replied. It was a slow day. I had run errands, sent out a few query letters on a new script I was hoping to sell, worked out. Then it was time to pick up the boys. I guess I felt somewhat disappointed in myself when I took mental inventory of my day. But it wasn’t until my 7 year old, Eli, piped up that I truly plummeted into the abyss.

“She did nothing. Like she always does,” he said in a cheery, non-judgmental tone. He was simply stating a fact, as he knew it. I was crushed. Memories of my tween pals and me sitting around after school lamenting the uselessness of our stay-at-home mothers flooded my memory banks. Pay-back really is a bitch.

I’ve spent my whole adult life trying to show myself and my children that women count, that motherhood is not a straight path to uselessness, that I can be there for my kids and still have a productive, meaningful career. I’ve accepted the fact that I don’t make nearly as much money as I did before embarking on the motherhood track. But money isn’t everything, is it? My husband constantly insists that we are co-earners; that without me doing my part to manage our home and children, he wouldn’t be able to go to work every day and earn exponentially more than me. “I am the glue that holds this family together,” he asserts.

But right now I feel more like goopy, home-made paste than super strong duel pump epoxy. I want to scream “I am not my mother,” at the top of my lungs. And I love my mother. I really do. I just didn’t want to make the choices she made. I wanted more. I was part of the “have it all” generation of women who grew up believing we could work, love and parent simultaneously, without ever missing a beat. It was a rude revelation to wake up at 35 and realize we were sold a bill of goods; that no one can have it all, that growing up meant making choices, choices that we would have scoffed at when we were young, single and full of potential.

The whole thing makes me angry. I’m angry that Eli sees me as a loser who doesn’t do anything all day long. I’m angry that maybe he’s right. I’m angry that if I got one acceptance letter from a reputable film studio I’d suddenly feel like I existed again. I’m angry that I spend countless hours writing stuff I’m really proud of that never sees the light of day. I’m angry that men get to go to work at some remote location, while women, even in 2011, are still primarily responsible for maintaining the home and managing the family, whether they work beyond the confines of their homes or not.

All I’ve ever wanted was for my kids to be proud of who I am. I never wanted them to see me as merely an off-shoot of themselves, a gelatinous being who only existed to meet their ever-changing needs and demands. And yet, try as I have, that’s where I netted out. It’s more than a little depressing.
My husband insists that being there for our boys, sharing in their daily travails, listening to theirs tales and troubles is all that life is really about. Often I believe him. But sometimes it’s hard not to wonder about all we women walk away from when we choose the road to maternity.

I heard the biographer of Steve Jobs on some news show the other day. He said he asked Jobs on his death bed, why, after so many years of reclusive isolation, he finally wanted to tell his life story. Jobs answered that he wanted his family to know who he was. Sort of astonishing. Jobs was so busy changing the world that those closest to him hardly knew him at all.

Sometimes I think life is one of those no-win situations. I guess Steven Wright was correct when he said, “You can’t have everything. .. Where would you put it?”

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I’m gonna make it after all…really?

Imagine Mary with two boys, a husband and endless loads of laundry.

Note to self: when vacationing without children, do not go anywhere particularly kid-friendly. I say this because I’m out in Jackson Hole, Wyoming with my husband enjoying some seriously needed down time. Not much to do. Nowhere to be. Simple pleasures of hiking, biking, moose-watching, and so on. But there are kids everywhere. And each one is cuter than the next. Why? Because they’re not mine. And on top of that, the whole “absence makes the heart grow fonder” stuff is definitely true. I miss my kids.

I miss them so much it hurts. That seems weird to me. Because most of the time that I’m with them I spend fantasizing about being away from them. Don’t get me wrong. I adore my children. But trying to manage a home, pursue a meaningful career, and take care of two young boys is more than overwhelming to me. I want to be the June Cleaver of sitcom fame. But I’m not. I’m more a child-laden version of Mary Richards from the Mary Tyler Moore Show. Imagine me, in the middle of a snowy Minnesota roadway, tossing my infamous beret into the air and trying to catch it victoriously while also reigning in two impish little creatures who think it’s just fun to dart into the street between racing taxi cabs. It’s really not a workable scenario.

I really am torn between being a full-time mother and using my time on the planet to create meaning for myself personally. It’s a conundrum in which many of us find ourselves. We gave up lucrative and often fulfilling professions to be moms. We don’t regret it exactly. We know, deep in our souls, that bringing precious life into this world and raising it with care, love and respect, is clearly our highest calling. But that doesn’t help get us through the daily monotony that clouds our psyches and makes us question the reason for our very existence.

This vacation was supposed to help me relax. Help me stop struggling with the big issues that harass me on a daily basis. But seeing all these kids and happy families makes me feel selfish and more like a maternal failure than ever before. Why am I here alone, without my kids, when everyone else seems to be managing exceedingly well with their children in tow. None of these mommies needed “alone” time. They all look perfectly well adjusted, capable and happy. What is wrong with me?

Maybe next year I’ll go somewhere where they don’t allow kids. “Out of sight out of mind” as they say. Perhaps I’ll find a nice all-inclusive adult-only resort somewhere in the Bahamas where I wont feel bad about myself for being there. Of course, there’ll probably be tons of childless women there who wont have c-section scars or cellulite. That might highlight a whole different class of personal flaws for me. I guess maybe I just can’t win.