humor

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“It’s Appropriate”

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Has this ever happened to you? One of your children is watching something on a screen that seems questionable to you. You ask if it is appropriate for them. They assure you that, yes, it is appropriate.

“Oh. Okay,” you say.

You know they say this because they want you to go away and leave them in peace. You want the same thing, so you choose to believe them because sometimes you don’t feel like taking the time to investigate if it’s truly appropriate. Sure – I can count on my child to know what’s appropriate and what’s not, can’t I? The kids and I would agree on certain things that are clearly not appropriate, such as highly sexual content or gory violence – they wouldn’t want to watch these things anyway (not yet, at least.) It’s all the other things (like bad language, mature themes, silly reality shows) where the line is not always so clear.

Sometimes things are inappropriate but in the opposite direction – not mature enough. Take for instance my 16-year-old son with special needs. He has a penchant for watching shows that some might say are too young for him. I used to tell him he is too old to watch these shows.

“But I like them,” he told me.

Sigh. He likes them. Who am I to force him to watch shows that he doesn’t really get or enjoy, just because they are more age appropriate? For me, there’s a fine line between expecting him to act his age and allowing him to be how God made him. Where is the perfect balance? I’m always looking for it.

My daughter recently reported that this brother was watching “Family Guy.” Oh good, my husband and I thought – that’s semi-appropriate for a teenage boy. Then she told us that it was really a cover for him to watch a children’s show on the computer – he too clearly understands the whole “It’s Appropriate” game. Too bad this cognitive ability doesn’t actually transfer to age-appropriate television for him, but oh well. He did participate in a recent “Simpsons”-fest with his cousins, keeping him somewhat in the adolescent TV loop.

My daughter chastised me for allowing her brother to watch “baby” shows.

“Really? Do I need a critique of my parenting from you?” I asked.

Let me just say that she loves “Dance Moms” and God-knows what other shows that some may say are inappropriate for an 11-year-old girl. It’s amusing to me that my youngest thinks she is the maven of appropriate material. When she was nine she picked the song “Mean” by Taylor Swift to sing in a recital. It’s a great song. We both thought the tune was catchy but neither of us paid much attention to the words. I just thought she was so adorable. As I sat there watching her, I realized the song is about an abusive relationship and my stomach dropped to my toes.

Maybe not my best call in this grey area we call parenting, but the world didn’t come to an end. The video of her singing still makes me smile to this day. Is that really so inappropriate?

 

 

 

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Good Ol’ Teddy

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We recently trolled for treasure at my in-laws house so our kids could pick out some keepsakes. My husband came across his childhood teddy bear, which he decided to bring home with us. I was a little hesitant as Teddy had definitely seen better days. He has black ears, arms and legs and apparently had a white body but most of the fur is gone from so much loving and cuddling. My husband’s grandmother performed a surgical repair to replace his chest and tummy with white fabric. Teddy has reddish eyes with black pupils but almost no nose or mouth to speak of.

Who knew that resuscitating this bear could once again give its owner such joy? Teddy has brought us innumerable laughs. It’s surprisingly been a mischievous break from the daily grind.

On Teddy’s first night in our house, I tucked him into my  husband’s side of the bed so he greeted him when he came to bed. It made hubby smile. We chuckled that Teddy may feel a little awkward having to share my husband’s affection with me. The next night I came to bed to find Teddy perched atop our headboard, lording over the marital bed, my husband joked. I confessed that I thought Teddy was creepy and scary-looking and flung him to the floor.

I have gotten enormous pleasure from surprising my husband by posing Teddy in varying and amusing attire. Part of the rush for me is that I forget about Teddy until I go up to bed, when hubby is generally not far behind – I often have only a few moments, wildly looking around the room for inspiration and humor.  First I tied a bandanna around his head, so he looked sort of like Bruce Springsteen, of whom my husband is a big fan. The biggest laughs so far came when I had him sitting in a chair in our bedroom with my reading glasses on and “reading” on husband’s kindle. It made us both laugh so hard, we cried. The silliness of it tickled our funny-bones – go figure.

If our kids are around, they share in the fun. Otherwise it’s just one of those silly things that keeps life light and fun in the midst of the harder times of being adults.

Apparently teddy bears aren’t just for kids anymore. Or we’re just kids in the body of adults…old and weathered like Teddy.

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Cave-Woman

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Many people begin the parenting experience by making grand proclamations about how they will raise their offspring. Things like, “my child will only watch educational television,” or “my child will only eat healthy foods.”

Then life happens and those strong feelings get tempered, those little babies become people who speak and have opinions, and parents learn to juggle their wants and desires with those of their children.

Sometimes we get beaten down and cave to their incessant demands. In my house, this has played out recently in the form of an iPhone. My husband and I were so proud of ourselves for holding out and not buying an iPhone for our oldest child until he was seventeen, which was last year. “What does he need it for?” we asked. “He has a perfectly good phone. And an iTouch.” Being the dutiful firstborn, he accepted his fate and didn’t press too hard on the subject. So we eventually relented, telling ourselves that he’ll be in college soon.

Ah, but it’s a slippery slope. Now our 13-year-old is lobbying hard. I find that I just don’t feel as strongly this time as I did with our eldest. Maybe because smartphones have become the norm. Maybe because he never seems to have his plain, old phone charged or with him when I need to reach him.

“If we get him an iPhone, it will no doubt be attached to his body and fully charged and therefore he would be reachable, right?” I asked my friend, who also has a 13-year-old boy.

“Absolutely,” she said, “My son’s phone is never dead. I could be dead, but his phone – never,” she chuckled.

Yep, I see an iPhone in the future for this son, once I negotiate this with my husband. Poor guy, he recently attempted to use his legal prowess with our daughter on the very serious subject of her birthday present. He called me one day after dropping her off at school.

“I caved,” he said.

“Oh? On what?” I asked.

“A trampoline. For her birthday,” he announced, defeated.

I’m happy when my husband occasionally caves. Since I spend more time with the kids, I am the recipient of most of the asking, whining, and begging so of course I cave more than he does. I was glad to see my daughter go for his weak spot – it’s a good skill for her to learn. In his defense, he held out for well over a year before caving.

So the trampoline will grace our backyard, where the dog roams too. I’m the one who caved on the dog. I guess we’re even, for now.

Have we lost control or do the things we care about change over time? Once we were rigid about bedtime – now it’s only the eleven-year-old who’s asleep before us. I was talking with a friend about this.

“I’ve lost control of that, among many other things,” she said and went on to tell me that her neighbor has noticed over the years that the lights in their house stay on later and later. The whole world apparently notices our loss of control. What’s the neighbor doing up so late anyway?

I like to tell myself that I don’t cave on the things that I really care about like being a good person and having good manners. Oh, and being a good student – although I confess that I leave the schoolwork to the kids and their teachers. I assume they are doing well if I don’t hear anything negative from the school. I guess I’ve sort of caved on that too.

Ultimately my children will be the captain of their ships and will have to do their own navigating. In the meantime, I’m just trying to have smooth sailing.

 

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My Own American Werewolf

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I used to have a darling third child. He was born six weeks premature but quickly exploded into a blonde dumpling – an anomaly in my house of brunettes. He was an adorable child – fun, funny with a delightful disposition. He was a pleaser and very affectionate, so much so that my husband and I nicknamed him “The Drape” because he would hang on us at any opportunity. A touch smothering but basically adorable.

Now he’s thirteen. His mood generally morose, he is most often found with his head attached to headphones and watching television shows on the computer screen. I have to remind him to do the things he’s supposed to do –  homework, shower, eating, etc. In all of our interactions he’s either snippy, spacey, or both.

“Huh?” seems to be his bewildered response to every inquiry.

I know this is the norm for an adolescent. What sets this child apart in our household is the rapid transformation from adored child to exasperating teenager.

It is my experience that when a child irks one parent, the other parent is able to swoop in and valiantly play defense attorney for the young offender – the champion of the poor, misunderstood child. I think that’s part of evolution, so we don’t kill our young.

For me, adolescence can be summed up by the 1980’s movie, An American Werewolf in London, where the main character, an adorably boyish looking twenty-something, periodically morphs into a terrifying werewolf. Our children, once so pure and pristine suddenly begin “the change” into adulthood. Their faces temporarily appear out of proportion, they get acne, their limbs are gangly, their hormones surge, until they become a creature that we hardly recognize. Oh, how I long for my cute little boy.

I am fairly confident that he will come out okay on the other side of adolescence, if I don’t kill him first. I see little glimmers of hope from time to time – watching him laughing with friends or playing charmingly with little kids. Deep down the sweet little boy is still there. Even werewolves must love their mothers, right?

It is clear to me now that my experience of adolescence as a parent to three boys has all been one giant preview to the main event that awaits me in the near future. My daughter turns eleven next month.

Pray for me.

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The Secret to a Good Marriage

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We have all read the standard advice about how to have a good marriage. Strong communication, scheduling date nights, and not going to bed mad are some of the most frequently cited. I agree that these are excellent ideas. However, I have recently discovered what can be described as the purest display of love and devotion, an act that says, “I really care about you.” This pearl of wisdom, this key to marital harmony – leaving a spare toilet paper roll on the back of the toilet when the current one is perilously low. It’s really that simple.

I don’t know when this paying the roll forward started in my house. We didn’t discuss it. We just quietly started doing it. Nineteen years into our marriage and we’ve figured it out. A small act of kindness goes a long way. We’ve all experienced being stranded without a roll. It’s a horrible feeling of helplessness and extreme vulnerability. That spare roll is saying, hey, I’ve got your back – both literally and figuratively.

I was discussing our acts of bathroom kindness with my sister.

She said, “Yes, that is what that Love Languages theory is all about. You feel loved by acts of kindness. So do I. It must be in the genes.”

Gary Chapman, a marriage counselor, came up with this theory. He says each person has a primary love language that we must learn to speak if we want that person to feel loved. They are: words of affirmation, acts of service, receiving gifts, quality time, and physical touch. My sister proceeded to tell me that her husband has been doing the dishes lately, a task that she usually took care of. When she asked him why he was so eager to do the dishes, he told her that he knows it makes her happy when he does things around the house without being asked. Flowers and perfume aren’t her thing. Hence, he shows her his love by doing the dishes. What an interesting concept.

So many people routinely test their spouse to see if they remember the right occasions, buy the right gift, say the right things. This is a set-up for failure and disappointment all around. Everyone wants to be a good spouse. Maybe it’s as simple as stating what makes you happy, and meaning it. No hidden agenda or test.

I read an article by Sally Quinn several years ago that stuck with me. She was talking about seating at dinner parties. She suggests that you seat partners apart from each other. It allows each spouse to have a conversation with someone else, to learn something new, which makes for interesting conversation on the ride home. More importantly, it allows you to watch your spouse across a room, engaged in conversation with other people. Perhaps it reminds you why you liked him/her in the first place. We get caught up and focused on the things that irritate us about our spouse. We forget to look at our partner as we first knew them – adorable, witty, funny, personable. Or whatever traits drew you to the person in the first place.

Years of marriage build a bond that can’t always be seen. A look passed between you can speak volumes. You can read each other’s minds.

It’s the small gestures that help build big relationships. One roll at a time.

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The Closet of Many Sizes

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The Jewish holidays are upon us once again. How to make them meaningful? Who to invite over?  What will my menu be? And the most difficult question…what will I wear? Not in the fashion sense-who’s looking at me way. But in the what- will-fit or what-size-am-I-this-year way?

Thank goodness for the closet of many sizes.

My weight, like many people, fluctuates. Some may view me as chubby, others might see me as thin-ish. What really matters is how I see myself. I can accept growing older and my changing body. I can try to hide the lumps and bumps that come with my life experiences. Four c-sections and nursing babies came with a price to my body. But I don’t need to give in to food and give up on keeping my weight at a place that’s comfortable for me.

Sure it’s difficult.  I love food. The challenge is finding the balance of enjoying food but not letting it get the better of me. How can I drop that extra 10 pounds? Here it is – the secret to losing weight…eat less and get off your tush. Simple? Yes. Easy? Not so much.

The dieting world is a multi-billion dollar industry for a reason – people want to look good and be healthy.  My favorite weight loss program was Weight Watchers, which helped me get a handle on my weight a few years ago. But then I got lax and whoop, there it is – the weight creeps back up. We all have heard the reasons why people overeat – because we’re happy or sad or lonely or bored. We eat because we’re hungry or because food’s delicious – whatevs. No matter the reasons, we’re alive therefore we eat.

I learned about healthy eating from my mother. She was so darn healthy, it was annoying at times.  She was very aware of what she ate but not in an eating-disorder kind of way. She always kept her weight in check, generally looking better than I did. She truly could have a bite of something delicious, or just one cookie – that is not in my genetic code.  I admired her healthy eating and emulated her as much as I could, but unfortunately I am more of a textbook glutton.

I hate my closet of many sizes, yet love it all the same. The jeans from when I was my skinniest hide in the corner, mocking me and daring me to ever fit into them again. Then there are my “fat jeans,” my reliable, comfortable old friends – I hate fitting into them but am grateful they are there to welcome the larger me . I can’t bear to shop for a bigger size.

I will mentally set my brain to “lock-down,” and try to control my excess eating and exercise more. My food strategy can be compared to the mullet – business during the week and a party on the weekend. It takes some will-power and determination. And a touch of vanity. I make no grand proclamations and take it a day at a time.

Starting tomorrow of course, after a last supper of Peppermint Patties and Chardonnay.

 

 

 

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Sultry Housewife

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Lauren Bacall died recently. The NY Times banner that came over my phone read – Lauren Bacall, Sultry Movie Star dies at 89.

Sultry, I thought, what an awesome word. Then I thought, what are the chances that I would be remembered as “sultry?” Sultry housewife? Sultry blogger? Unlikely. A girl can dream though.  If I’m not sultry, how will I be remembered? And no, nothing is wrong with my health. I’m just speculating, something a blog allows me to do.

Funny? I’d like that. Authentic? Yes. Earnest? Definitely not. Kind? Most of the time. Smart? About some things. Outgoing? Most certainly. I never married a Humphrey Bogart-ish celebrity but I did marry Brad Stillman – a legend in his own right. Yes, he proofread this and allowed it to stand as is. He too has a sense of humor and is very humble about his greatness. He thinks I would definitely be remembered for having excellent taste in men.

People don’t use the word sultry often. I think it’s a great word. It’s sexy, but in a classy way. It also makes me think of another word not frequently used – slatternly. Sultry means “attractive in a way that suggests or causes feelings of sexual desire.” Slatternly, on the other hand means “untidy and dirty through habitual neglect” or “of, relating to, or characteristic of a slut or prostitute.” The line between sultry and slatternly…where is that line? I just hope I end up on the right side of it.

Don’t worry, I’m not in danger of sliding to the dark side.  Been there, done that, in my younger days. No, like Lauren Bacall, I’m deep down just a nice Jewish girl.  While “sultry” may be the word most associated with Lauren Bacall, her friend Sally Quinn also described her as “funny, razor sharp, mischievous, iconoclastic, self-deprecating and openly vulnerable. She shared her life with her friends and radiated a feeling of trust that was always returned.” Wow, she sounds like the kind of person I would like to hang out with.

Does sultry housewife have to be an oxymoron? Must these words be mutually exclusive? I don’t think so. I recently heard a lecture on relationships. The speaker talked about how women (and men) put their best self forward whenever they go “out.”  Out to work and out with friends. Yet often we wear our least attractive, most comfortable clothes when we are in our homes.  What a novel idea – to look as nice in the house as you do when you go out?  Put your best self forward for your spouse or partner. Not in a June Cleaver, pearls and formal dress kind of way, but in a way that says I’m in this relationship and care about nurturing it and keeping it fresh. I can get with that notion.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ll hang on to my sweatpants. I’m not crazy. But I will wear them sparingly.  Just like Lauren Bacall probably did.

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Dietary Indiscretion

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My dog had tummy troubles last week.  Judging by the quality and quantity of what he was producing, the poor guy’s system was clearly out of whack.

What to do? Should I use the model I apply to my children…wait a few days and hope the problem resolves or call the vet?

I called the vet, described the dog’s symptoms, and went in to get some pills.  When I asked the vet what was causing my pup’s poop problems she explained it was colitis.

” What causes that?” I asked.

“Stress,” she offered.

Nope, I thought, that’s not it – our pooch does not lead an especially stressful existence.

“Dietary indiscretion,” she suggested.

Bingo. That’s it, that’s the ticket right there.

It’s the puppy’s first spring in the world. He has so much to see, smell, and sample.  Twigs and mulch and yard clippings – oh my! That was clearly the cause of his problem. The pills quickly fixed him up.

Then it occurred to me that my dog and I have something in common. I too suffer frequently from dietary indiscretion.

Dietary indiscretion. Such a brilliant commentary on my eating habits. Beautiful in its simplicity. Thankfully, I have no symptoms of colitis. But any extra weight I carry around must be due to serious indiscretion in my diet.  If only a pill could help me. The happy pantry items, the refreshing alcoholic beverages, the comfort food I turn to in good times and bad all contribute to this problem. Sure, the dog-walking has increased my level of activity; not only the walking itself but the repeated bending over to pull those indiscriminate objects out of his mouth. But oh, to live the life of a dog, where I only ate once a day and someone would command me to “leave it” whenever I was about to throw discretion to the wind and put an ill-advised morsel into my mouth.

Unlike my dog, I am supposed to have free will.  Maybe I’ll use it to control my consumption this summer.  Or maybe not.

 

 

 

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I Don’t Wanna

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Several years back there was a scene on one of my favorite television shows, Will & Grace, where Grace asks Will, her best friend, to walk her down the aisle for her wedding.

“I don’t wanna,” he replied.

“You don’t wanna?” she asked, incredulously.

I have adopted this as one of my favorite mantras.

Most everybody has experienced this feeling of wanting to avoid something hard or painful, or just plain inconvenient.  Like most people, I’ve got lots of balls in the air that I’m juggling, and most days I keep those balls in the air. Occasionally they come crashing down.  When that happens, what I want to do most is simply stick my head in the sand.  Because of the excellent writers of a hit sitcom, I now have the words to apply to these feelings.

Sometimes it’s less serious situations when the “I Don’t Wanna” comes into play.  For instance, a social obligation, a work function, or a school activity…ring any bells?

Usually it’s the big matzah balls of life that trigger my I don’t wannas.  For instance, last summer the sleep-away camp doctor called about my daughter.

“Have you noticed a goiter on your daughter’s neck?” she asked.

Anyone who’s watched Seinfeld knows that I imagined a goiter the size of a second head. I hadn’t seen my child for three weeks, but I had never noticed a goiter before she left.  Time for a maternal gut-check—Did I not notice a goiter? What kind of mother could have missed a goiter?  Fortunately, her goiter was in reality very subtle and unnoticeable to the untrained eye.  It turned out she has Hashimoto’s Disease, an autoimmune disease that attacks the thyroid, is easily treatable and for which you see an endocrinologist. Seriously? This is my fourth kid and I have to deal with new and exotic illnesses? I really don’t wanna.

On a bigger scale, it seems that I have to begin contemplating how the rest of my disabled son’s high school career will play out.  I met with a “transition” counselor at his school recently.  She gave me a notebook with a lot of information and advice on applying for services with various agencies and scenarios of the different options available to my son.

First of all, the notebook made me chuckle. Through various projects and committees over the years, I have categorized people into “notebook” people or “folder” people.  Notebook people are extremely organized, with papers neatly arranged by tabs.  Folder people are those who have all of their papers shoved into a folder.  I fall into the latter category.  I think of myself as a relatively organized person and can put my hands on the papers I need – I’m just not motivated to put them into notebook form.

But I digress.

I don’t wanna think about the next few years of my son’s life. I want a typical fifteen-year-old with typical fifteen-year-old problems. The thought of applications, forms, evaluations, assessments, meetings and decision-making makes my chest tighten. I have put the notebook away for a while but I know I will open it one of these days and do the things I need to do.

I realize that “I Don’t Wanna” is essentially a manifestation of denial. I suspect it is a universal feeling that people use to cope with stressful situations. Denial often gets a bad rap, but I find it can be healthy in small doses.  A petulant child lives within me and sometimes pays me a visit in trying times.  Instead of crossing my arms and stomping my feet, I just enjoy a few quiet days of  “I don’t wanna” and my semi-ignorant bliss before doing what needs to be done.

You could try it sometime, if you wanna.

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Am I a Dance Mom?

I think of myself as a generic, run-of-the-mill mom.  Like many parents who benignly neglect their children, my kids spend hours in front of the computer searching God-knows-what.  Apparently my 10-year-old daughter is a fan of the show “Dance Moms.” I have never seen the show.  Don’t get me wrong – I enjoy watching television.  Binge-watching shows with my husband is a favorite activity.

For some reason, reality shows hold no allure for me.  Judging by the number of them on television, I gather I am in the minority.  My daughter is a big fan of this reality, dance mom show.  I was vaguely aware that it seemed to spark an interest in dance in her as I saw her twirling around the house in my peripheral vision.  She wanted to take a dance class, so I called a local dance studio.  Ignorant of all things dance, I didn’t have the words to make this request so I had to speak in the universal language of television.

“My daughter doesn’t know how to dance, has never taken a dance class, but she’s a big fan of ‘Dance Moms.’ Which class would you recommend for her?” I asked. This clearly was not their first Dance Mom inspired inquiry. The woman on the phone totally got it and pointed my daughter towards Broadway Jazz.  She loves it.

She happily attends her weekly class and always enjoys it.  I thought she looked so cute, picking out appropriate clothes to wear each week, doing her hair up into an intricate bun – sometimes with accessories on it.

Then she casually mentioned that the cast of Dance Moms was coming to town.  She reluctantly asked if maybe she could go – she said they would even be teaching a dance class.  Her reluctance showed that my daughter knows me well.  Surely I wouldn’t agree to waste money and time on something so frivolous, would I?

I mentioned it to my husband, who was on the same page as me.  Still, the 10-year-old gently and systematically kept asking, eventually showing me the website where I could find all of the information.  What to do?

I sought the advice of a friend who is the mom of my daughter’s best friend.  She was enthusiastic and thought her daughter would love it as well.  Really?  She would consider it?  Would I?  Could I?

“You talk about making memories.  This would definitely be an experience your daughter would remember,” she said.

She had me there.

So I surprised my daughter, and myself, by buying tickets and planning to attend this event. It included meeting the girls from the show, having your picture taken with them, and taking a class taught by a teacher from the show.  Four hours of fun.  She was so excited.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought.  I tried to keep the curmudgeon in me in check and mustered up excitement and enthusiasm for my child.  The event was well-organized and not a complete mob scene.  The mother-attendees were a mix of typical suburban moms, like myself, and what appeared to me to be true dance moms.  There were many adorable girls, appropriately dressed, and then there were others who reminded me of Jon Benet Ramsey.

I realized where my daughter got the bun idea from. What I thought was darling and adorable when she created it at home, suddenly looked pedestrian in a sea full of buns.

The dance girls seemed like typical girls, though a little precocious. “Please turn off your flash when you take pictures…it hurts our eyes,” they requested.  They seemed bored with the endless picture-taking.  Who wouldn’t be? I only met one mom from the show – a school principal I’m told. She seemed normal and nice.  The other Dance Moms were busy selling merchandise so I did not interact with them.  My friend and I agreed there would be no merchandise purchases; the memories would have to be made through the experience and pictures of the day.  Our girls were so excited because they ran into some of the girls from the show in the bathroom! Can you imagine? They use the bathroom too!

The dance class was cute.  Our girls were on the younger and less experienced side, so they happily positioned themselves in the back of the room.  They warmed up, learned two dances, and got to dance in front of the people from the show.  At the end, each of the four girls from the show did a dance routine.

On the way home, the girls were chatting about the day.  “Did you see why we were so skeptical about it?” I asked.  My friend shot me a glance to silence me.  I was grateful for the restraint.  No need for grumpy old me to be a buzz-kill.  They experienced the day through the fresh eyes of children, not through my cynical lens.

I am pretty sure my daughter is not going to be a professional dancer and that I am not going to be a dance mom. While I was reluctant to indulge in this activity outside of my comfort zone,  I saw how much fun she had.  Maybe I’m just a mom who was happy to give her child a fun day she will always remember.

That’s what I was going for.

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