On Mommy Swaps

A while back, I was sucked into the lurid world of a Fox “reality” series in which two families trade mothers for a couple of weeks. In order to heighten the drama, the selected families were very different. In the episode I saw, a wealthy suburban family in which the father was a Japanese-American plastic surgeon and the wife a pretty blonde socialite type, “swapped” with an African-American family in which both parents worked tough hours and the kids talked back and listened to rap music. The first family lived in a sprawling dream house with a pool, owned a second home by a lake, and ate out frequently and expensively. The second family occupied a modest, single story home, and had clearly become adept at stretching a dollar. As the hour drew to a close, it became apparent that the producers were emphasizing the self-centered and vacuous nature of “rich mom” and the earthy, humble goodness of “poor mom.”

Even with my husband groaning “could it be any more obvious?” every few minutes, I was absorbed. I smiled when “poor mom” walked into “rich mom’s” room-sized closet and contemplated at least forty pairs of shoes neatly lined up on shelves, and I winced when “rich mom” attempted to bully her daughter-for-the-week into eating fewer carbs because she was overweight. Although I did not find “rich mom” particularly sympathetic, I felt for her when she discovered on waking up in the morning that there was no coffee in the house; I myself am capable of committing serious crimes when my first cup is denied or even seriously delayed. I could see it all coming, but it was still fascinating. I was also interested to note that no matter what surface differences there were, both families had essentially the same goals of health, happiness and success for their children, and both families were working, in their own way, towards reaching them.

I’m still thinking about the show, although I am now considering the discoveries that would be made during a less dramatic swap. If there were no cameras, no music, and no need to hook the interest of the average channel surfer, what would it be like to trade families and households? Another woman coming in to run my house would probably find my husband charming and helpful, and my son basically well-mannered and appealing. My house is big and comfortable, there is a well established routine of cleaning, cooking and laundry, and I have built a schedule that allows periods of “mommy downtime” that I can use to write, read or work on a project

We do, however, have three cats and two dogs. Its necessary to “cover” the door when coming in or going out of the house, because the dogs and one of the cats will almost always be waiting to escape, and the dogs don’t come when called. In fact, they have been known to roam the city for twelve hours at a time before deciding to return home filthy and limping. Some of the animals are also accustomed to sleeping in beds with people, and insist on doing so; one dog sleeps under the covers in our bed. Furthermore, my house always smells vaguely of animal, and there is always a thin layer of hair covering the carpet and furniture no matter how often I vacuum. There is no real floor on our bedroom because three summers ago I ripped up all the yucky carpet, planning to reveal the beautiful old floor underneath. There was nothing but particle board underneath, and until we can afford new flooring, we have particle board with rugs over it. We live in the midst of student renters who “party like its 1999″ almost every night except during finals and when they are passed out or home for the weekend.

While I am able to tolerate the chaotic elements of our home-farm-zoo, there are many things that might make it difficult for me to survive two weeks in someone else’s house. I am not particularly fond of noise, and would become quickly psychotic in a household full of loud children, particularly if they are given to verbal or physical fighting. I would also fail to thrive in a home with more than one electronic noise source at a time. It is a well established rule in my house that if a stereo goes on upstairs, the television goes off downstairs. I am only good for about an hour of cartoon noise wafting from any part of the house, and become increasingly hostile in the presence of a child sitting dumbly in front of the television set for any length of time. I hate chewing gum, most processed foods, humorlessness, and apathy. I require morning coffee, periods of total silence, and gracious acknowledgement of my home cooked dinners regardless of quality. In fact, the more experimental and unappealing the meal, the more likely I am to sulk until someone notices my efforts.

It now occurs to me that, in the unlikely event of a mommy swap, my family might be happier and better off with their new, probably more tolerant and relaxed mommy. They would be free to watch TV around the clock, snap their gum, eat Beefaroni, and fight over the floor pillows. They could have an orgy of noise any time they wanted to: the TV on in the living room, a CD playing upstairs, one computer roaring with synthesized race car engines and maybe that horrible tweedly Gameboy music to top it all off. No one would be bustling around picking up dirty socks, turning down the volume, or insisting that everyone come to the table for a meal with two servings from the fruit and vegetable food group. If the “new mommy” could stand the noise and the animals, she’d be on Easy Street, and no one would miss me for a while.

Perhaps I could be persuaded to enjoy two weeks in the home of a family in which the parents were artists. Deep in the woods, with walls of glass, a potbellied stove and constant classical music, the house would include a vegetarian family, a well-stocked library, and no television set. I might miss watching The Food Network for a while, but I would get over it while lying on a well-worn leather sofa reading “Paris Match” in French and drinking espresso from the machine on the counter. The only sound in the house would be the crackling of the fire, a faint strain of Mozart and the whisper of pages turning as I read, the (handsome and generous) father painted in his studio, and the (quiet, intelligent) children drew clever pictures at the kitchen table and fixed their own healthy snacks.

I’d miss my life, though. After a week or so, I’d be itching to jump up and fix a peanut butter sandwich. I’d miss the comforting lump of beagle next to my leg under the covers, and I’d even miss the rap music and engine noise of “Need for Speed” on the computer and the sound of my husband and son laughing as they played. I’d like to think that after a little anarchy my family would miss me too. We all want good things for our spouses and our children, but the little differences in how we make life “good” can add up to an infinite number of different lifestyles, tastes and choices. Like snowflakes, no two households are really alike, and I think there really is “no place like home….”

On The Telephone

I am not a fan of the “connected” lifestyle. In the same way that I feel perfectly justified in lying on the living room floor until the girl selling magazines stops ringing the doorbell and gets off my porch, I feel that I am permitted to choose whether or not to answer the house phone or cell phone. The fact that someone has chosen that moment to speak to me creates no obligation on my end; it merely presents me with a choice.

Many people, including the ones that I live with, pick up the phone whenever it rings unless it is clear from the caller identification feature that a minute of our time is being sought by TruGreen, Chemlawn or “Unknown.” Even as I plead “I don’t want to talk to anybody right n-” they are answering, bringing me the receiver and making gestures of “too-late” helpessness. Whether or not I am ready to discuss treats for the Halloween party, the fall-out from a heated meeting or my willingness to be a substitute Sunday school teacher, I am “on.” Both of the men in my family believe that if someone calls, one should make oneself available, and that my policy of taking calls only when I actually want to talk is rude and offensive.

I argue that there is no reason to have caller identification and an answering machine if one is obligated to respond any time someone chooses to interrupt. Yes, I am a “screener,” and completely unapologetic. There are people who inhabit the very outer orbits of my consciousness, and who sometimes decide, when they are very bored, or drunk, or nostalgic, to call me and talk for two hours about the minutiae of their lives. These are not people who need my help or even care about me very much. There are also people who are important to me, but who have issues that require frequent, extensive, soul-searching, agonizing, discussion and resist resolution. I will always return these calls, but sometimes I need a break so that I can return, fresh, to the fray.

Finally, there are in my life people who are single and/or do not have children. No matter how dearly I love them (and I do) it is sometimes difficult to communicate the necessity of supervising bath time, bedtime, and homework, or the desire simply to spend an hour interacting with the “live” people in front of me. I am not, not not discriminating against people who live differently than I do, but (she said defensively) I have been reminded by single/childless friends in tones both sarcastic and wounded that I have “changed,” and that I am “basically a soccer mom.” I would not these people at their workplaces and expect them to be available for a 90 minute stream-of-consciousness discussion about books and movies, and I am similarly unavailable during the time that I choose to spend with my family. Since I historically have difficulty saying “this is not a good time to talk,” it is far easier for me to screen the call and return it when I do have time.

Its important to note that I do not leave anyone in distress because I “want to be alone” or with my family. Through the miracle of caller identification and the digital answering device, I know who is calling, and can usually gauge the level of urgency as the message is recorded. If there is any doubt about the appropriate response, there are almost always clues; I have learned to pick up quickly in response to words such as “emergency,” “fracture,” “hospital,” “disconnection” and “principal.” Messages involving the key words “chat,” “checking in,” “saying hi,” or “next week” can wait until I am done watching “The Office.” I will always pick up calls from my parents, Rob’s parents, friends and family experiencing medical crises, expecting babies, or waiting for important news. If I don’t pick up, I call back, and if I don’t call back, trust me, its for a damned good reason.

So if you call, and I don’t answer, I may indeed be sitting two feet from the phone reading the final installment of Harry Potter. If you need me, I will be there. If not, I assure you that we will (eventually) have a much pleasanter chat if you allow me to enjoy my peace and privacy when I need them.

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?

True Colors

Since I was twelve or thirteen, I have been taking quizzes to find out who I really am. When I started, these questionnaires often appeared across from ads for “Love’s Fresh Lemon,” and promised to tell me whether I was “Date Bait or Total Turnoff” based on answers about my clothing, after school activities, and ability to wait until a boy called me. Lying on my flowery bedspread, I admitted on paper that I was a member of the Chess Club, that I owned no “cool, peasant blouses,” or “perfectly broken-in jeans,” and that I sometimes called boys I liked. I knew my answers paved the road to Total Turnoff land, but I clung to the possibility that my choices were not as blatantly nerdish as they seemed. I imagined a Personality Scientist somewhere who wrote the tests based on reams of data corresponding to each answer on the quiz. Maybe there was a high correlation between playing chess and being “Date Bait,” no matter what anybody said.

During college and the dating years, I was reeled in by quizzes with names like “What is Your Seduction Style?” that required data about everything from the color, cut and pattern of my underwear to my favorite vacation spot – Cancun, the French Riviera, Nantucket or Aspen. Needless to say, “a cottage in northern Michigan with your parents” was not among the choices. As I matured, secure in my ability to get a date, and even a husband (who is happy to be seduced in any style), I gravitated towards tests like “What is Your Fragrance Personality” and “What Your Favorite Breakfast Food Reveals About You.” As always, these glossy lists of inquiring paragraphs and lettered choices promised to resolve my longstanding identity crisis based on the answers to a few, simple questions. It was therapy without the Kleenex.

In addition to magazines tests, I have recently discovered the world of the Internet quiz. Sites such as emode.com and ivillage.com tease me with the chance to discover what colors suit me best, what city reflects my personality, which character I resemble from “Friends,” what career would be most fulfilling, and whether or not I am a good friend. Not content with mere fluff anymore, I have learned my I.Q. (okay), my E.Q. (pretty good), my Stress Index (stratospheric), my Spending Style (irresponsible), and my Diet Downfalls (many).

Every time I pick up a pen or set my hand on a mouse for a round of quiz taking, I secretly hope that I am on the verge of discovering the Truth after years of spent trapped in the life of an impostor. I list my choices, fascinated to learn that I am a Romantic dresser who prefers woody fragrances, and should be living in Seattle and working as a taxidermist. With the gentle guidance of the Personality Scientist, I will finally be able to plan meals, choose sandals and pick a time for parent-teacher conferences, confident in the knowledge that every choice reflects my real personality.

The path to self-discovery, however, is not easy. A recent magazine quiz asks the following questions. For a romantic evening with my “spouse or significant other,” do I prefer: a) dinner by the fireside at a cozy, country inn, b) sushi and drinks at an exciting, new nightspot in town, or c) cuddling at home with pizza and a video? None of the answers is correct. If my husband and I drove to an inn in the country, ate dinner and drove home it would take at least eight hours, and we would exhaust our babysitting budget for 2004. We both hate sushi, and if I have a drink I fall immediately into a deep and peaceful slumber. If we stayed home and watched a movie, the romance would be severely hampered by our ringing phone, our children fighting over the remote, our dogs begging for crusts and our pizza-induced acid reflux.

After a long pause, I choose the sushi option. The cozy inn in the country and the roaring fire might be seen clichés. Choosing an evening at home, although closest to the truth, seems to label me as dull and narrow-minded. As I circle “b” on the page, I consider the fact that my inaccurate choice may totally destroy the validity of the test results created by the Personality Scientist. What if “sushi” choosers are charismatic daredevils who love to surf at dawn off Maui, and have multiple piercings? By lying, I risk getting a result that is not a true reflection of my personality, but of a cooler, better one. I may briefly enjoy tallying my points and reading that I am a “hip, happening mom who hasn’t lost her groove,” but I will know that if I had answered truthfully on question number 16, I would read that I was “more Betty Crocker than bedroom bombshell.”

The truth though, is complex. Some days I am pretty hip, and some days I am Betty Crocker. As I grow older and more comfortable with myself, I more frequently ignore the Magic Quiz Answer when it doesn’t suit me. I’ll admit that I really was a “Total Turnoff,” in the eighth grade, and that my seduction style at age twenty-three genuinely was “too shy to try.” These days, though, I know that my preference for blue over yellow doesn’t really mean that I’m “a confident, enthusiastic leader.” It just means I really like blue. People who actually know me will attest that I am rarely “enthusiastic,” never “confident,” and a “leader” only under extreme duress. Perhaps some day I will meet a Personality Scientist on a plane, or see one explaining the basis of her work on “Oprah,” and I will come to understand why my preference for cheese over chocolate as a snack food means that I should be living in Utah. Until then, I will continue to take quizzes and search for my True Self. With a grain of salt and a bite of sushi.