Fung-Shwa

I will admit that I am not a big fan of  mystical/New Age/Woo-woo stuff. I have, at various times in my life, suspended my disbelief long enough to check out aromatherapy, I Ching, herbal medicine, Tarot cards, flower remedies and Deepak Chopra’s ideas about eating according to ones body type.  I did like yoga, and will probably stick with that one (and I have a holistic vet), but otherwise I remain a staunch and resolute believer in Deal With It, Take an Aspirin, and If Your Body Type is “Bigger Than You Want,” Eat Less and Walk More. I would love to believe that sniffing a sprig of lavender and putting a big mirror next to the front door would make me relaxed and wealthy, but sadly I see no evidence that this is true. These are projects best supported by Xanax and windfall inheritances.

Last night as I sat transfixed by the many widget choices available on iGoogle (an activity known to my family as “working”) my dear husband took down the Christmas tree and put the furniture back in it’s customary arrangement. (This was an incredibly selfless and kind act undertaken with no upfront promise of sexual favors, and you may think that I shirked my duty; it might make you feel better to know that I am also in charge of deploying and tearing down my parents’ Christmas tree and decorations, so I am still on that particular hook).  Since I was toiling away in another room, deciding whether to install daily quotes from The Simpson’s or Jack Handy, Rob (the husband) made the daring decision to leave the sofa and chairs in their new “With Tree” locations. Admittedly, there aren’t that many ways to arrange furniture in a room that only has two whole walls, and necessarily focuses on the Ark of the Covenant television set located in the only logical spot.

When I surfaced, he asked how I liked “the Fung Shwa.” Since I believed that Fung Shwa was a French casserole made with truffles and duck confit, it took me a minute. “Oh,” I said with a figurative smack to my forehead, “you mean Feng Shui!” After thanking me graciously, as he often does, for taking the time to correct him, he allowed as how that was what he had meant.

“Well,” I responded, playing for time, “what do you think?” He shrugged.

“I can still see the TV from my chair, and I don’t have to move the couch back where it was.”

That, my friends, is a kind of Feng Shui I can believe in.

Anger

In my family of origin there were four people. Two “had tempers” and two were “martyr lip biters.” I fell into the latter category, and have spent much of my life genuinely astonished by displays of anger. I could not, did not understand, for example, how people could say terrible, painful, accusatory and (frequently) inaccurate things and later say that they had not meant those things because they had “said them in anger.” As far as I was concerned, if you said a thing it was said and could not be un-said, unless one was actually clinically incapacitated at the time of speaking. It was also true when I was growing up that we had a fairly genteel household. There was no rough and tumble pummeling or screaming at siblings; it just wasn’t permitted. My brother could ignore this ban if he was angry enough, but I couldn’t cross the line. I became a sulker, a stewer, a planner of elaborate plots I which I would die, and then everyone would be sorry that I wasn’t allowed to smack my little brother when he cheated at Battleship and then lied about it.

The flip side of being a lip-biting martyr is that, of course, you do get angry, you just don’t express it. I have long been a physical catalouge of unexpressed anger – tooth grinding, tension headaches, stress-related rashes, hair that falls out in clumps, and the odd panic attack. Ironically, if you asked five people who know me well (excluding my husband, who really does know me well) they would tell you that I am very calm, that I “take things in stride” and that I “handle things well.” The truth of the matter is, that until recently, I was “handling”things by suppressing and internalizing them to the point where I was literally falling apart.

I can get angry now, I’ve been working on it. I can almost express it, although I tend to get stuck in the realm of the passive-aggressive. Its tricky to go from St. Annie of Perpetual Calmness to a person who sometimes raises her voice, swears, or snipes. No one likes it much, it causes disruption, and its easier all around if I remain calm and smoothe things over. (Its really not terribly attractive behavior to yell and swear, but sometimes it is natural and human). I am now able to understand that I can argue back with someone who loves me, and that they still love me even if I disagree with them. I can talk politics with my husband, who is a member of the Other Party, and we will still be married and agree on most other things most of the time. I can spar with my mother (a member of the Tribe of Temper) and go out to lunch with her and adore cute babies as if nothing happened. It is a freeing thing, this ability to express anger when I feel it, and I am confident that my natural reserve and compassion will prevent me from becoming abusive or excessive in that expression. It still takes a great deal to make me angry, and I really can’t imagine devolving into a person who could commit acts of Road Rage, or hurl invectives at my child.

At this moment, I am angry at a friend, and working to sort it out in my head so that I can express my feelings without doing harm. It is one thing to raise my voice in the heat of an argument or to rise when I am baited, and quite another to be the sole angry party when one is feeling wronged and the other person is intentionally or negligently oblivious. If a tree falls in a forest and only I know that it was carelessly cut by someone and that it fell on my foot and broke it in two places, does it make a case for legitimate anger on my part when the guy with the axe walks around as if there was no problem?

I have to drive this train, if I want it to go anywhere, and I am not on ground as firm as that I travel with my family. I can feel my heart pound at the injustice I perceive, I can predict the itchy skin, the headache or the extraordinary fatigue that will result from tamping this down as if my feelings and reactions were ridiculous. But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m crazy, what if I’m over-dramatizing? What if this is a circumstance that nine out of ten other people would accept as “business as usual?” How does one ever know that she is justified in anger, short of a blatant injury like theft, dishonesty or unfaithfulness? When am I allowed to be angry? Who gives me permission?

I do not want to be one of those women who burns with righteous indignation because my child doesn’t get the lead in the school play, or writes to advice columnists when family members refuse to pay their share for an anniversary dinner. There is a line between projecting one’s own standards onto the world and being angry when those standards are not met, and being legitimately unhappy about being treated with disrespect or unkindness. I am so accustomed to believing that I am wrong all the time that I automatically question my anger and challenge myself to make a case, to prove that its acceptable for me to feel what I feel. I give myself tests: would Mary feel the same in this situation? Would Beth? If so, then its okay to be mad. If not, then I need to suck it up.

I guess I had always imagined that by the time I was somebody’s mother, I’d have all of this stuff down. Apparently there are growing pains into middle age, or wherever I am, and they are just as painful and confusing as they were when I was twelve and outgrowing my elementary school friends, or twenty two and pining for unavailable men. I’ll think, I’ll write, I’ll pray, and I’ll talk to people who provide sound counsel. (Well, honestly, I’ll also eat chocolate and watch “The O.C.” DVDs and fantasize the horrific humiliation of my tormentor). Then I’ll either find a way to express the anger that is threatening my equilibrium and peace, or I’ll acknowledge that I just don’t have it in me to stand up for myself and the kind of treatment I deserve as a human being. I think maybe I’ll just go buy the chocolate now.

Morals and Basketball

The children of attentive parents receive moral instruction early and often. Whether the context is religious or secular, conservative or liberal, a firm grounding in right and wrong is the first step in growing humans who give to charity and return lost wallets. We started Sam with simple lessons: it is wrong to take other peoples’ toys, wrong to hit Tyler with the See N’ Say, and necessary to “share” whether you want to or not. As he grew into wider social circles and spent more time away from us, it was necessary to teach general good citizenship, such as the inclusion of “yucky” people in groups. After ten years, though, I still worried that once he was out of my sight, he forgot everything he had learned. Little boys are not known for their gentility, and are easily persuaded to participate in anything that looks like fun, from throwing crayon missiles to stomping ants.

Arriving early for volunteer work in Sam’s classroom, I saw a group of fifth graders playing basketball. They were on a blacktop court with two serious looking hoops. Each team had four members, and there were seven boys and one girl in all. Sam didn’t see me, and I enjoyed the opportunity to watch him when he was absorbed in his “work,” running complicated passing drills, high-fiving his teammates when they made a basket, and pounding up and down the black tar until his face was red with exertion. I was impressed that he knew enough to suggest a “pick and roll,” and admired the fastidiousness with which free throws followed fouls. These ten year olds had made rules, and followed them with no referee beyond their mutually agreed-upon sense of right and wrong.

As I walked towards the fence surrounding the court, I heard my son speaking to a smallish boy in a red ski jacket. “Max, we have to have even teams, and we already have four and four, so you can’t be on a team, you have to be a coach.” Max, apparently preferring to be in on the action, planted himself firmly at the base of a basket and began to yell. “That’s not fair!” he spat.
“Its Sam’s ball and he makes the rules” said Andrew.
“Yeah,” added Marcy. “Plus it wouldn’t be fair if one team had five and one team had four.” Max showed no signs that he was persuaded by this logic.

I looked around nervously for a teacher, or a playground monitor to mediate. There was no one, and Max continued stand beneath the basket and fume while the game whirred back into life. I wondered whether I should intervene, and considered what approach would be fairest. First, there was the issue of disciplining other peoples’ children. Did I have to confine my remarks to Sam’s behavior? Should I tell Sam that they should rotate in and out so Max could have a turn? Could I tell Max that he had to accept the rules because he had joined the game late?

As I considered my options, a second girl ran up to Sam from another part of the playground. I saw him nod, and heard him yell to Max that he could play now; the teams would be even. Max stepped away from the basket, swiped at his eyes and nose with his sleeve, and walked over to join his designated team. With no help from me, the drama had ended. As if nothing had happened, Max went to work guarding the unnaturally tall Kevin, and his team cheered him as he blocked a jump shot. I did not need to impose rules or to act as a referee on that blacktop, because the fifth grade morning recess basketball league had created a solid, fair and enviable moral universe. Perhaps we could learn a few things from them.

My Old Hair

For women of a certain age, hair becomes an issue. When I was a child, my hair was cut into a blunt bob until I was old enough to beg for long hair. Despite my ineffectual use of a brush, it was a look that worked for me in elementary school. In high school, I affected the same Farrah Fawcett wings of hair worn by every other girl in my school, and during my years as a young professional woman I had a “Rachel.” In between, I flirted with layers, grew out layers, straightened, permed, highlighted, and bleached.

To my surprise, my hair is now getting old. It is turning not gray, but actually white, and this alien old lady hair is growing in at both temples and along my part. A Hair Care Professional has informed me that I have a number of options, including highlights to blend the gray, or all-over permanent color to cover the gray. (White hair, for some mysterious reason, is always referred to as “gray” in this context). Both of these choices involve large sums of money, standing appointments for maintenance, special color-preserving shampoos, and large-denomination Pottery Barn gift certificates at Christmas. They also involve the cycle of colored hair characterized by three days of too much color, two weeks of great color, and four weeks during which the color fades daily until it looks wrung out and drab. This last stage is, of course, followed by the shock of newly applied color, which makes one’s hair appear to be seven shades darker or two shades blonder than it was only hours earlier.

I liked the idea of hair color when it was fun, but I bitterly resent the notion that I “should” color it to obscure signs of advancing age. I admire women with beautiful gray or white hair, like Heloise or the model in the J.Jill catalogs whose beautiful, young faces contrast stunningly with their, long silver hair. The problem is that my hair isn’t silver, it is reddish brown with white bits at the temples and near the part. It looks very much like a bathtub with hideous rust stains. Currently, I color it with temporary color that washes out in twenty four shampoos, and leaves big dark stains on my pink bath towels. Every twenty four shampoos I reevaluate whether I should let it go white, have it professionally colored, or go another twenty four shampoos and see if I have a hair-related epiphany. So far, I have gotten as far as making and canceling two appointments at the salon, and buying one more box of temporary color.

Coupled with the issue of color, is one of length and style. My mother, a former Wellesley girl, has a number of rules regarding a woman’s appearance. Prohibitions include tattoos and piercings of any kind, “vulgar” amounts of gold jewelry, and long hair on women “of a certain age.” I believe myself to have passed that age about two years ago, but I cannot bring myself to get either the short, wash-and-wear “old lady” cut or, the longer and slightly fluffier variation, the “fat lady” cut. I am also avoiding the “suburban mommy cut,” which generally involves long layers that can be tucked behind the ears. I have had this cut in the past, and it actually looks pretty good, but makes me feel vaguely Stepford. Add beige highlights and a pair of khaki Capri pants and I’m interchangeable with every mom at the grocery store.
At the moment, my hair is growing past my shoulders, an awkward amalgam of ancient layers, split ends and seasonal frizz and curl. It is pretty much reddish brown. One day, I may see a magazine picture, or have a conversation, or see someone on the street, and be seized by the sudden, desperate need for a haircut and highlights. In the alternative, I may wake up one morning at peace with the decision to be permanently finished with coloring and “styling.” For now, I am looking a little suburban, a little Lady Godiva (although always fully dressed in public), and mostly confused.

On Gratitude

This is the time of year when Americans focus on all the things for which they are grateful, as part of Thanksgiving. I am always grateful for my family, the roof over my head, the good food I eat, my access to good medical care, the availability of meaningful work, free speech, and a whole set of less important (things like my stand mixer and my iPod).

I also have one big surge of gratititude every year for the young man who died and gave my mother years of life. About a week before Thanksgiving in 2002, my mother was on dialysis, and had been approved for a kidney transplant. Her kidney had failed several years earlier, as the result of poorly controlled hypertension, and she then began years of dyalisis which involved the insertion of a shunt, and thrice weekly sessions hooked up to the giant machine that cleaned her blood. She could no longer travel, she was often exhausted, and after a long life as a dynamic and involved person she felt useless and hobbled. She was on “the list,” but could not receive a transplant unless a donor was found who was a good match. My brother and I couldn’t donate because of our family history of hypertension and diabetes, which made it inadvisable for us to give up our own kidneys.

About a week before Thanksgiving that year, the “transplant beeper” went off, letting us know that a donor kidney had been found. In the middle of the night my father, mother and I drove the 60 miles to the hospital where the surgery would be prepared. We were greeted by the surgeon, my mother was wheeled off to be prepped, and my father and I settled in on hard plastic chairs for the night. Off and on during the night, I went to the the hospital’s chapel to pray for my mother, the surgeons and attendants, my father’s spirits, and the family of the donor, who we knew had been killed in an accident. The next morning we were allowed to see my mother, already more pink and less yellow than the day before. The surgeon was cautiously optimistic, and although she would miss Thanksgiving dinner at home, we would all have much to be grateful for.

We subsequently discovered that the donor had been a young man attending a local high school who had died in a motorcycle accident. As a mother, I cannot imagine the pain that the boy’s family endured then, or that they feel to this day. I imagine that this week is as sad and difficult for them as it is joyous for my family. I  hope that they know that by choosing to donate organs they gave many people the gift of years of loving their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, parents and children. There is nothing “right” about losing a child on the brink of his adult life, but if there is anything good, it is that so many lives were saved by the loving choice that his family made during a time of tremendous pain and grief.

Have you signed an organ donor card?

On Compassion

 ”Compassion is the basis of morality.”
- Arthur Schopenhauer

About a week ago, our local paper ran a story about a 33-year-old woman who had just given birth to premature triplets, and was jobless, in debt, and living in a shelter. She was trained as a medical transcriptionist, and had worked, but  lost her job and her home before going into the hospital for a period of bed rest followed by the birth of her babies. Medicaid had paid for the hospital stay and the early care of the triplets, but there was clearly no family support (her own mother lives in the shelter with her and her children), and no support from the father of the triplets. It was the policy of the shelter to limit occupants to relatively brief stays, other area shelters were full, and it was unclear where the woman and her babies would go when their time at the shelter ran out.

My heart went out to this woman for a number of reasons. Aside from the fact that we are both woman, mothers, and human beings, her situation created a painful “there, but for the grace of God go I” moment for me.  At 34, I was also pregnant and unmarried, and ordered into the hospital for 7 weeks of bed rest.  This resulted in the loss of all of my ongoing legal cases because I was a solo practitioner and could not meet with clients or attend hearings from my hospital bed. The difference was that I was supported with great love by my parents, by the rest of my family, by my (now) husband, and by a network of friends and colleagues. I lost some time, I lost a job, I lost a lot of income, but I felt completely safe. I knew I had a place to go after my son was born, I knew I was going to be married as soon as I was allowed to stand up and get dressed, and I was constantly aware of a huge safety net that kept me from falling too far even though I had made a mistake. I felt compassion, rather than judgment, from everyone around me. I was well-educated, I had money in the bank, I had a “nice” family, and the father of my child was in and out of the hospital at least twice a day.

This woman had no safety net, and was on the edge of living on the streets because she made a decision, as I did, to bring an unplanned pregnancy to term because it felt like the right choice. Making that choice brought me a beautiful child, a hastening of the marriage that had already been planned, and the beginning of the best part of my life. It brought this woman, my doppleganger, poverty, anxiety, judgment and a complete lack of security at a time when all new mothers are overwhelmed and exhausted even if they have only one infant.

As one would expect, because of the story in the newspaper there was an outpouring of support. Money, baby clothes, and rent-free living situations are flowing freely at the moment, and it is my prayer that this will be enough to see the woman through a difficult time, and to get back on her feet.

There is also the response that I knew would be forthcoming; a response that is compassion-less, judgmental, vindictive and based on fear and stereotypes. To whit (from the newspaper): “[t]hose poor kids should be put up for adoption. Mommy has had sex with a stranger, is homeless. She has no clue how to raise kids let alone take care of herself.”

I am going to take a (metaphorical) deep breath, and thank God for my own great good fortune. Then I am going to remind myself, and anyone reading this, that we are all in this “life” thing together. I admit that it is hard to feel great sympathy for child predators, axe murderers, and certain other (arguably) evil types. In this instance, however, we are talking about a woman who made a mistake that many (including me) have made before her. She has been amply punished for that mistake, and as humans we have an obligation not to judge but to feel and express compassion towards her and her three babies and to help them move forward into a life with more security and greater potential.

Maybe this woman will make other mistakes. Maybe she won’t be Mother of the Year. Maybe she’ll do something(s) that you or I would find immoral, unpleasant or sinful. On the other hand, maybe she’ll love her children, raise them as well as she can, and try to do a little better every day.

We can’t know her future any more than we know our own, and we should not judge her dispassionately based on her past. We should wish her well, feel joy that her children are alive and healthy, extend a helping hand and treat her with compassion because she is one of us. Regardless of our own religious, political or ethical beliefs, we can’t be anything but human and flawed; we would all do well to remember that rather than trying to set ourselves apart as superior beings. There is only one of those, and I’m pretty sure He would expect us to treat her with compassion, too.

On Stress

           A while back, I drove into a woman backing out of her driveway. I apologized profusely, went home, cried, and later paid for the $937.00 worth of repairs. I confess that I was totally distracted at the moment of impact; I had not slept well, I had a toothache, and I was preoccupied with the PTA, my actual job, Christmas gifts and whether I had remembered to refill some prescriptions.

A week later, Sam was at a friend’s house, and due home for dinner at 5:30. At about that time, a thunderstorm blew through the neighborhood, and I called his friend’s mother to say that I would pick him up. Alyssa explained that she was happy to drive Sam home, but couldn’t find her car keys. Everyone was looking for them, and she couldn’t imagine where she had left them. When I arrived at her house to collect Sam, Alyssa sheepishly told me that the keys had been “found” in the ignition of her car.

The same week, I hosted one of those parties where someone is selling something. As the demonstrator began to talk about rubber-stamping, the phone rang. It was my friend Molly, saying that she still planned to come to the party, but had lost her wallet. She arrived an hour later, explaining that her whole family had hunted for the wallet (including driving back to the mall), that she had cancelled all of her credit cards, and that she had then discovered the wallet in her bedroom.

I am not a bad driver any more than Molly and Alyssa are careless people. As mothers, our heads are full of facts, plans, deadlines, food preferences, and worries. We can diary birthday parties, school concerts, family trips, half days, the administration of heartworm pills, and library due dates, but where do we keep track of which kind of juice bags are currently favored, which Junie B. Jones books we have already read and whether we already gave Bobby a Harry Potter Lego set for his birthday last year? If we work outside the home, there is another set of deadlines, impending crises, and priorities to be juggled, and probably another calendar. Its all in our heads, and there is just too much.

Even if we can manage our own lives and control the activities of the house in general, there are wild cards like husbands, and almost-teenagers. While many working men keep meticulous planners documenting meetings, deadlines, and client information, it is a rare husband who writes his plans on the “family” calendar. I am sufficiently clever to figure out that a flier welcoming us to “Monday Night Golf League” means I can write “Rob/Golf/5:30-8:30″ on the calendar for several consecutive Mondays, but I cannot guess which nights he intends to travel out of town. I cannot look at the school newsletter when it comes home on Fridays and guess which sports, school and community activities my son will attend, which are “lame,” and which are “lame” until he finds out that her friends are going. I cannot predict that, the day before the orchestra performance (in the dead of winter) the teacher will inform us that the boys are to wear “short-sleeved white shirts.” These episodes and schedule changes invariably involve meals planned for four and eaten by two, emergency trips to Target, tears, and un-budgeted cash flow.

Most of us do too many things. Anyone who is not “stressed” is inherently suspect, and I have witnessed and participated in numerous “stress-offs” in which women one-up each other (in the nicest possible way) about the demands of their children, jobs, husbands, and volunteer work. No one can sit down to dinner as a family, and no one has a free evening during the month of November. Keeping up with the Joneses has become a panic-inducing scramble of activities that “everybody” does on top of the necessary business of maintaining a home and family. Regular meals, doing homework, clean clothes, haircuts and dental checkups are necessary, but what about softball, Brownies, teaching Sunday school, or the neighborhood association?

It is impossible to enjoy a child’s soccer match while worrying about buying the wrapping paper for the gift for the birthday party after the game. Enjoyment requires relaxation and focus. If we could be mindful of where we were, and what we were actually doing, we would be less likely to lose our keys, our wallets, or our ability to concentrate on the activity at hand. These are not new ideas; there is a “voluntary simplicity” movement, and many books have been written about paring down our busy lives to the essentials. The problem is one of unilateral vs. bilateral disarmament: will my son be the one child who does not invite the whole class to his birthday party this year? Can I really tell my stepdaughter that she can’t make last-minute plans to go to Water World with her friends if it requires me to drive to an ATM, wash and dry her favorite shorts, and find someone else to watch her brother while I got my hair cut?

We probably can’t return to some vague, mythical “simpler time,” but we can de-escalate in small steps. We can say “no” to activities that require too much time or energy. We can refuse to sign up for every class, sport and enrichment activity that presents itself. Our children don’t have to whittle toys by lamplight for entertainment, but we can, through conversation and example, teach them to identify and pursue only the activities they truly enjoy.
This morning I sat briefly on my porch steps, turned my face up to the sun, and enjoyed the smell of my coffee. Every time a “to-do” came into my head, I erased it. It was hard work, but it was a start. Maybe, if we learn to do less and live in the present, we can all cut our “losses,” whether they are keys and wallets or moments of genuine peace and joy.

On Nostalgia

I still remember the night in 1979 when I looked out the window of the Oberlin Inn and watched snow fall on Tappan Square. I felt a peace, and a rightness about my audition for the Oberlin Conservatory earlier that day, and about the little college, the town, and the world in general. Unfortunately, when my acceptance letters arrived in the spring of 1980 I decided to attend a conservatory in Boston because it was more prestigious and had the cache of being East Coast as opposed to keeping me in the Midwest for another four years. As it turned out, it was a bad choice, and within two years I was fighting my way back into Oberlin not as a cello student at the Conservatory, but as an English major in the College.

Its not nearly as easy to transfer into a good school as it is to get in as a freshman, and its even harder when you want to pursue an academic degree and you have spent the past two years studying nothing but chord progressions and the evolution of the symphonic form. I was “summoned” to Oberlin for an interview based on the mixed feelings of the admissions panel about my prospects. The head of admissions told me that they were “on the fence” and would like me to go to Oberlin and persuade them that I was a good fit with the school notwithstanding my atrocious high school math grades and my recent history of picking The Wrong School. I took a day off from my job as a waitress, drove the four hours to Oberlin, and managed to convince the panel that I deserved the fresh start I so passionately wanted at the school with the town square, the Conservatory where I could still play my cello, and the fantastic English department.

Today, my husband called me from Oberlin. He is a travelling salesman, selling math and science textbooks to high schools and middle schools, and his territory includes Ohio. He had never seen my alma mater, and called to tell me he was in Oberlin, wondering “where the college was.” Since we live in a town with a gigantic, sprawling, state university, it is understandable that he failed to identify the small, compact college that emerges from the middle of country roads and cornfields like something out of a pop-up book. There are, I believe, dormitories at our local university that house the equivalent of Oberlin’s student body.

There aren’t many buildings at Oberlin College, but I lived, and learned and loved and cried and wrote and did a lot of growing up in most of them. I ate at Dascomb, played quartets in the Conservatory, dropped off papers in Rice, and learned to love Edith Wharton in Peters. I lived in a beautiful single room in Talcott, ditched fetal pig dissection in Kettering, read Northrup Frye in the “moon” chairs of Mudd Library, and ate blueberry whole wheat doughnuts with my roommate Joan in East Hall.

Every year I fell in love with one of my gay friends (First Larry who composed to the poems of Sylvia Plath, then Andrew who acted scenes with me for Shakespeare 301, then Jeff who played the viola in my quintet), and every year I realized that they were going to persist in their gaiety but were the dearest and most loving friends I could hope for. Every year I watched “Its a Wonderful Life” before going home for Christmas, and “The Graduate” before going home for the summer. When the time came to graduate, I was so despondent about leaving that I could not enjoy the lovely “Illumination” ceremony that takes place in Tappan Square the night before commencement. I was convinced that there was no other place that right for me, and that I would never really be happy again.

Its funny to see my beloved school through the eyes of my husband, who is willing to be persuaded because he loves me, but who sees only a small-ish group of buildings in the midst of the cornfields instead of the complex, charming, big world I have always described. “If Talcott’s on your right, then the Conservatory’s on your left,” I babbled to him excitedly “I lived there my last year! If you park in the Con lot you can get out and go to the Oberlin Co-Op, or you can drive out and see the Museum and where I took Art History classes.”

It was love at first sight for my school and me, it was my Camelot, and although I’m a little teary just at the moment thinking of a crisp fall day on Tappan Square with a weekend of Dreiser ahead of me, I feel tremendously blessed that there was such a time in my life. We should all be so lucky.

On Staying Home

If I am doing the right thing, my son will look back on his childhood and remember that I was a room parent and a soccer coach, and not that our curtains needed to be replaced for 5 years and we only ate out once a week. Maybe by the time he has a family of his own, our society will appreciate and support time spent raising children and caring for elderly parents as much as we appreciate and support time spent earning and spending money.

I am actually an attorney, and I should probably be working full time instead of sitting around writing blog entries. Every clue I get from the world around me points to the notion that I should be Earning to my Full Potential. If I earned a real salary, we could replace the living room curtains, buy groceries without keeping a running tab in the supermarket, and plan family vacations involving plane fares and hotels. Christmas could be lavish, Rob could pick out a new car instead of buying my parents’ used Hondas, and we would never sweat another emergency bill from the plumber, the vet or the mechanic.

As it is, I do legal consulting work for a firm about an hour away from here. I do not make as much money as I could, and I do not make enough money to make a significant financial contribution to the household. When I took my present “job” it was supposed to involve many more hours, much more work, and the ability to earn what I needed to earn while working at home. It would have been perfect, but apparently there just wasn’t as much work as the boss thought there was going to be; I work on a sort of freelance “feast or famine” basis.

Instead of vigorously looking for something outside the house that involves Serious Money, I have clung to the mantra that I “sort of have a job,” hoping that some day, beams of light will break through the clouds, and I will find myself, as promised, working 20 hours a week from home and bringing in enough cash to ease pressure on Rob and improve our quality of life. In the meantime, I have tried home-party sales work, selling on e-Bay, and making and selling crafts, to earn some money while being “allowed” to stay home and available to my child, my husband and my parents.

The truth is that I am not “really” working because we are willing to trade a pretty significant financial pinch so that I can be at home. I am certainly not idle; in an an average week I keep our house clean, our clothes washed and folded, our bills paid, our meals planned and cooked, Sam chauffered, our papers filed, and our medical appointments made and kept. I also spend as much time as possible with my parents, who are both in their 70s and live locally. I try to take a meal to them once or twice a week as well as being available to drive to and from medical appointments or spend serious chunks of time at the hospital when one of them is a patient. I am a PTA member and room parent, I have coached rec league soccer, and I am a member of several community organizations. Silly stuff? Maybe, but I see it as the grassroots work that makes the world go around; when done well and with intention, it is a blessing on everyone involved. I know that I will never reflect on my life and regret that I didn’t spend time with my son when he was young, or with my parents when they were elderly.

I know that there are millions of women who have no choice. They have no husbands, husbands who are out of work, husbands who don’t earn enough to support a family, and ex-husbands who pay inadequate support. I am aware that many of them would like the luxury of staying home to care for their children, and that their work is what puts food on the table and provides health care for their families. I am really just a pathetic, whining, excuse-making sponge. At least that’s how I see it in my darkest hours. There are women running to get their kids to school, get themselves to work, juggling day care, doctor visits, play practices, soccer practices, and homework sessions with three kids while I am a “stay at home mom” to one measly kid.

I also know that there are women who have to work not for financial reasons, but for reasons of sanity – they are passionate about their work, and/or they know that they would lose their minds if forced to stay home and arbitrate fights over Weebles and the last Cheerio. More power to them for knowing themselves well enough to make a decision about working that benefits them and their children. I also know that there are women who work not from strict financial necessity, but so that their families can have certain things like vacations, nice cars, or new carpet. Again, this (clearly) wouldn’t be my choice, but it is a valid life style that works for many families.

[Note: if this were actually published anywhere, I would anticipate a hailstorm of letters, and I could write them myself using the words "whining," "out of touch," "sexist" and "selfish." I am lucky to have a husband who lets me stay home with our shredded curtains. I am discriminating against men by assuming that they should always have to work while women should get a choice. Don't imagine for a moment that I don't know those things.]

I don’t think women should have to work outside the home unless they (and their partners) have decided that it is the best thing for their family. I wish that our society had the ability to support single moms so that, if they chose to be at home during their childrens’ formative years, they could. I wish that we did not have laws that require the poorest women to go to work or to school, leaving their children in the substandard daycare they can afford with “vouchers”, in order to qualify for benefits that allow them to eat and receive medical care. I have never understood why we demonize “welfare mothers” and separate them from their children. Their children need their mothers’ time and attention far more than my son (who has every possible advantage) needs mine, but I am fortunate enough to have a choice.

I also wish that it was really acceptable for women to decide to stay home if they are financially able to do so. There are countless websites and articles in womens’ magazines on the topic of “work-at-home” opportunities, and about entrepreneurial moms who started businesses in their basements. That says to me that there are millions of women who really want to stay home and just be with their children and run their houses, and that they are desperately trying to find a way to do that. If having discretionary cash flow is less valuable to a family than having mom at home, why is that an unacceptable choice?

I’ll readily admit that there are countless women who manage to work and spend time with their kids and help their parents and support the community. My own mother worked and did all of those things. Since I have only this one life, though, it is my personal choice that to the greatest extent possible I am going to use my energy to “work” for the people I love. For as long as I possibly can, I choose to be available to have lunch with my mom when she’s sad, or to bake cupcakes for the 5th grade Halloween party, while throwing away J.Jill catalogues so I won’t be tempted to spend money. I would rather plan and cook from-scratch meals and eat in my kitchen than be at work all day and have the money to go out three nights a week. I would rather wear clothes from Target and pay to have my coats re-lined than miss school activities because I have to attend a client meeting.

I would like for the choices of all women concerning work to be respected and supported as long as those choices are in the best interests of their families.

On Reading

Even a cursory run through the digital cable directory makes it clear that there are many addictions beyond the usual drink, drugs, sex and food. One can also develop the need to shop, gamble, play computer games, surf the internet, exercise to the point of illness, get plastic surgery or engage in high-risk activities. Although I admit to a somewhat pathological relationship with food, my real addiction is, and always has been reading.

I taught myself to read before starting school, and it has been one of the greatest pleasures of my life. As a child I read greedily and constantly: Betsy Tacy and Tib, Little Women, The Five Little Peppers, Harriet The Spy, Pippi Longstocking, Little House on the Prairie, Heidi, Polyanna, The Little Princess, Nancy Drew, The Boxcar Children, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, books about horses, books about orphans, books about magic, books about witches, books by Elizabeth Enright, C.S. Lewis and Madeleine L’Engle, cereal boxes, magazines, and (in desperation) my parents’ books.

 

I had to be reminded not to read at the dinner table, and my most common punishable infraction was not coming when called to empty the dishwasher or set the table because I needed “just a minute” to finish the chapter. Summer vacations required selection of books for the car, the location of a local library during summers in Maine, and of English-language bookstores (summers in Europe). To the extent that my family had a religion, it was reading; my parents read, my brother read (although he read the same things over and over again), my uncles and grandmothers read, and my parents friends read, discussed and lent books.

My best friend was also an avid reader, and we spent endless hours “playing” the books we had read. We knew kids who didn’t like to read, but they were of relatively little use to us – they could play with us if they wanted to, but we first had to explain the characters, the plot and the scenery to be imagined. How could someone play “Heidi” if they didn’t understand that Heidi was nice, Clara was not nice, and Peter was the dud role because he was a boy?

I was a happy English student throughout High School, enjoying Shakespeare, Norris and Dreiser as my friends groaned, and went on to be an English major, thus guaranteeing myself an excuse to read constantly for another four years. I developed a love for fiction and a suspicion of non-fiction, and a taste for poetry and dramas. Law School was a bad call for many reasons (about which more another day) but it was the only time it was actually difficult and tedious to read. Reading property law, unless you are an enthusiast is to “regular” reading as eating plain Ryvita is to eating a warm slice of homemade bread with butter melting on top. If I had finished my assigned reading, I rewarded myself with something light and entertaining, like The Shell Seekers.

When I was pregnant, I had to lie in a hospital bed for 7 weeks due to the inconvenient incompetence of my cervix. After a brief flirtation with The Home Shopping Network, I read. Constantly. Family and friends brought in bags of used mysteries, brand new novels, and books they had just finished and enjoyed, and I devoured them fro the minute I was awakened for a pill at 6:00 a.m. until I fell asleep, stopping only when there was an actual human being in my room who needed to speak to me. It was a splendid coping mechanism, and prevented me from going quite insane.

Had I suspected during all of those years of reading that my pleasure would some day be rationed, I might have enjoyed it even more. I certainly didn’t enjoy bed rest in the hospital, but viewed in hindsight as carte blanche to do absolutely nothing but read (and incubate) for nearly two months, it was a rare opportunity. I also look back fondly on my college habit of getting up on Sunday and reading the entire novel-to-be-discussed-on Monday in one long sitting. I now sneak reading in between work, household chores, volunteer activities, chauffering, cooking, family activities, and sleeping.

These days, there is always a pile of books somewhere waiting until I have time to read them, and a list of books waiting until I have time to get them so that they be added to the pile. I have a system for the order in which the pile is read: 7-day library books, then regular library books, the borrowed books, then my own books. Like breaking the glass in case of emergency, I make exceptions if I am very sad and need cheering up; under those circumstances I can pick whatever I want to read, out of order. I also have an expiration date policy: books that do not appeal to me when they come up in rotation (these are usually books that have been lent to me by someone who loved them) have to be returned to their source or given away, no matter how uncomfortable the necessary conversation. (“Thanks for lending me this book that you found life-changing, but it just looks really boring to me and I am choosing not to read it”).

Always in my pile? Cook books, collections of food writing, chef memoirs, and anything new by Anne LaMott, Alice Hoffman, Elizabeth George, or Jan Karon. Sometimes in my pile? The newest trendiest book club-by books (The Life of Pi, Peace Like a River), well-written chick lit (guilty pleasure I) and mysteries (guilty pleasure II), funny stuff (David Sedaris). Never in my pile: biographies (unless they are about chefs), romances, self-help, books about what’s wrong with America, my children, the public schools, the church or my eating habits, spy thrillers, historical fiction, books by Mitch Alblom, books by Nicholas Sparks or political tomes.

What I am dying to read: Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini and Home to Holly Springs by Jan Karon. Well, and the final Harry Potter. Maybe, if I can dust faster, cook smarter, nap less and say “no” to watching “Jeopardy,” I can get a fix in soon?