The Mamahood

Missing Out

Only a few months into motherhood, I quit my full-time gig and became a full-time freelancer. It was the best decision I've ever made: Because of that, for the past five-plus years, I've not only been pulling down a pretty darned good income (thank you, wonderful friends and clients), but I've also been able to squeeze in every single school event, party, and milestone.

But in two weeks, thanks to a big business trip for a new client, I'll be missing a biggie: the first day of first grade.

I know I shouldn't be too torn up about it. It isn't kindergarten or college. My husband will be there to take the pictures and beam proudly as he walks her over to school—and he's missed out on plenty of other events over the past five years, so it's only fair that he gets a few just for himself. I'll be able to hear all about her first day and her new teacher that evening on the phone. (Should really get a webcam for my husband's computer, now that I think of it.) 

But I have such mommy guilt over it that I haven't been able to tell my daughter yet that I'm missing her big day. I keep holding out hope that the trip will get postponed (even though travel reqs seem to be going out as we speak). I know, in the grand scheme of things, my daughter will never remember that Mommy was in Memphis for her first day of first grade. But Mommy always will.

Marriage Boot Camp

I think every married couple should be forced to go to a wedding every few months. Not so they can prop up the wedding-industrial complex with multiple purchases of pricey china or brush up on their Macarena skills (no one should be forced into that fate). But I always find myself, in the midst of watching the couple tie the knot, taking a long, hard look at my mate and my relationship—and realizing that I'm taking so much for granted.

I am a lucky woman. I have been married for nearly 11 years to my best friend—a fabulous man. He's sweet, he's smart, he has wide-ranging interests. He's a self-taught guitarist and chef, an amazing dad, a triathlete. And a mild-mannered copy editor by day. And he's mine.

But too often, I focus on the little things that drive me crazy. The constant mentions of the "vortex" that he claims sucks keys, t-shirts and other items in (though eventually, apparently, the vortex spits them back to me). The laid-back attitude which often leads to lateness. And the giant stack of magazines and videos piled up in our basement. 

In the constant rush and clamor of our crazy life with two kids, two careers, two cats and one wild dog, we often fail to set aside time as a couple, to laugh and have fun, to go on actual dates. It's a real fault in our marriage.

But at a wedding, I recommit myself to accentuating the positive, to trying harder to make our marriage stronger. To realizing I'm not exactly Miss Perfect myself. And as I slow dance with my husband (I've long since given up even asking him to Macarena), I fall in love with him, just as he is, all over again.

Momcation Fail

I love being a wife and mother. Almost all of the time. Even when it involves settling arguments and cleaning spills, crayon on the wall and worse. But once in a while, a girl needs a break, if only to recharge, sleep in, drink wine and maybe clean out the basement.

I had golden dreams of just such a time this past weekend (the first time in at least two years I've been given such an opportunity. TWO. YEARS. ). I had brunch plans with a friend. Thoughts of a luxurious morning in bed. Maybe a stop at my favorite ice cream place.

And then, right as my husband was about to leave with the girls, he comes home to find my oldest sobbing, with a 102 degree temperature, on my lap. And me, about to sob right along with her.

My husband did try to give me something akin to it. I did get to sleep in. I did get some time off (to visit the farmer's market, and weed our gardens). But it's not the same.

Fortunately, we're planning to try again in a few weeks. Until then, I'll limp along, dreaming of the momcation that could have been.

Check My New Blog...

Because, you know, I have nothing else better to do, I decided to start up a new blog in addition to this one (and Daily Lounge). Head on over to Suburban Omnivore to find out what I'm cooking (and why) in my quest to feed my family a healthier, more locally based diet. You might even find out how I got my daughters to beg for kale!

A Summer Romance, Part Deux

Last summer, my then-five-year-old became betrothed to a wonderful young man (the son of one of my best friends)—much to our amusement.

We figured it was a summer romance, which would fade away as they both headed to different schools, with other gorgeous little kindergarteners.

We were dead wrong.

My daughter's fiance endured mocking from his friends at school when he announced his engagement. ("I don't understand why it's bad to want to marry her," he told his mother forlornly.) My daughter told me that she liked some of the boys in her school, but "I promised H. I would marry him, so I'm going to."

And now they're back, blissfully, at summer camp together. Only now, my daughter calls him "Snuggleboy," and they kiss "only on the cheek, because on the lips is yucchy," and only when the camp counselors aren't looking.

Proof positive that one should never underestimate the power of love—even among mere babes.

Lessons From a High-School Reunion

I wasn't sure I wanted to go to my high school reunion. As my angst-filled journals can attest, high school was not a high point in my life—as it wouldn't be for any overly sensitive girl who hadn't yet embraced her inner geek, who tried desperately but never felt like she fit in. So why would I revisit it? I found myself asking that very same question as I pulled into the parking lot, hands shaking, with an overwhelming urge to turn the car around.

But in the end, I'm glad that I didn't run screaming. Because now that I've survived both high school and the 20-year reunion, I've lived to tell you what I learned.

1. You will second guess your decision to drink like a college student at a high school reunion. I figured a gin and tonic was the perfect way to calm my nerves—but quickly found myself testing my tolerance in ways I haven't since I won a drinking contest in an Aruban nightclub. Better advice? A (doctor-prescribed) valium—especially if you have a long car ride with small children ahead of you the following day.

2. You won't need to fret about the 20 pounds you gained in the 20 years since high school. There were a few people who somehow managed to keep the sleek physiques they had in high school, but the majority of my former classmates (myself included) would have a hard time fitting into their prom dresses or acid-washed jeans.

3. You may find closure. If you have unresolved issues with particular high school classmates, you may discover that seeing them in person makes those issues suddenly melt away.

4. Someone will definitely surprise you. It may be that the kid you thought wouldn't amount to anything is suddenly super successful with a fabulous life. It may be that the person who ruled the school became a loser after graduation. Or you may have a great conversation with someone who didn't give you the time of day in high school, but could become your best friend down the line. But you won't know if you don't go. 

5. You'll be amazed how many people found their mates at high school. Or at least, I was amazed how many, given the size of my school.

6. You'll discover that, for the most part, everyone turned out okay in the end. Granted, the nonattendees could all be homeless and/or living in their parents' basements. But the people who came were all doing well: We had teachers, an architect, an author, a college administrator, a doctor and a seemingly unending supply of nurses in attendance—and a lot of people with happy marriages and happy kids. (Or at least, that's what they were telling us!) 

Happy 20 year, class of 1990—I'm glad I went.

Milestones

The day after tomorrow, my oldest is a first grader, and her first year of elementary school is over. The week after that, she'll turn 6—and she'll be officially through the first 1/3 of her childhood. To me, it's blown by in an instant. I can still distinctly remember how she fluttered in my arms like a little bird when I held her for the first time, five years ago next month.

That's the hardest part of being a parent. As you're cheering your child on through milestones both well celebrated (the end of a school year) and silently, invisibly achieved (my youngest's newfound ability to pronounce those always tough ls and fs), every accomplishment they make is another step away from you.

And though I'm working hard every day to ensure my girls grow up to be confident, well-adjusted, independent adults, selfishly, I wish that I could slow or stop time, and keep them forever as they are now—my sweet, boisterous almost-six-year-old with the loose tooth, who's completely confident in her abilities to conquer anything, and my mischievous, giggly three-year-old who's always on the go (even when she's supposed to be asleep). 

I"m going to miss this particular moment in time, dearly, when it's gone. But I'm excited to see what's next for these two.

Where Will the Helicopter Parenting End?

I feel a bit bad for the poor teen girl in the cell phone commercial—the one whose mom is tracking her every move, surreptitiously, with a big-brother style cell phone app. I know it's meant to be a touching, "poor mom can't let go" kind of moment, but it comes across as a little creepy to me.

Even though I know where it's coming from. Because as a mom in this  new age of hyper-aware parenting, allowing kids the kind of freedom I enjoyed growing up is considered tantamount to neglect. By the time I was my oldest's age, I know I was playing out in the yard without a parent breathing down my neck. It'll be at least a few years before I'd consider doing the same thing—probably about the time my mom decided I was able to go off on my own with a "see you at dinner time" to run around the neighborhood with my pals.

We've bumper-padded childhood to the point where kids may not learn the valuable life skills they need to survive. We've cushioned the sharp edges, uprooted playground equipment, and overscheduled our kids' lives to the point where they no longer get that chance to run wild, to discover new things—to maybe test their fledgling life skills in the face of real life.

But even though I know all this overattention is smothering, I can't stop myself from doing it. I hyperventilate at the thought of letting my kids walk alone to the school five doors away from our house, in the presence of countless neighbors who know my kids and would step in if something happened. I have a hard time considering leaving them with a teen neighbor, even though she's a lovely, responsible girl who is already much older than I was when people entrusted me with their kids. And I'm thinking my daughter will likely be legal age to drive before I'd consider letting her go hang out at a mall with her friends.

It's a shame, really. Because the kids haven't changed a bit—but somewhere, at some point, we parents did.

Green with Envy

Every evening, as I wander the neighborhood with my rabbit-chasing puppy, I find myself discovering that the grass really is greener, pretty much all over my neighborhood.

Because I start every spring with great expectations: This will be the year when I turn my overgrown front yard into a charming English garden (just a touch on the wild side). And by year's end, I have a somewhat lovely but totally overgrown mass of green (with plenty of weeds thrown in for good measure).

Unfortunately, I bought a house in a neighborhood populated with the types of people who can manage a landscape. There are an abundance of able-bodied retired folk, who have nothing left to tend to but their luxe emerald lawns (so soft and plush I want to lie down and nap on them). There's also a significant number of stay-at-home moms who have kids in school—and so have a leisurely morning to spend planting pansies and keeping the dandelions at bay. And of course, there's a small minority of working couples with no kids, who may not be tending their gardens during the week, but aren't spending their weekends constantly running kids around to karate practice and birthday parties, or ensuring their kids don't run into the street after a ball.

I can literally walk down any street in my neighborhood and pick out the houses of women in my working-mom boat—the overgrown, brown-patched lawns, the virtually nonexistent (or ridiculously ungroomed) landscaping, the days' worth of newspapers thrown into the bushes.

I know that someday I'll be one of the retired folks, tsk-tsking at the miserable mess of my neighbor's piecemeal attempts at home upkeep. Until then, I'll be spending my time growing girls instead of begonias.

Taking My Daughter to Work...When I Work From Home

I love the whole concept of take our daughters (and sons, if you have them) to work. They get a chance to see what you do all day, and what it's going to look like when they finally hit the workforce (unless, of course, by then we're all wearing Jetson suits and working from our home pods).

Next year, when my daughter's finally old enough (and they won't plan a field trip on the same day), we have a few options for her. She can take the early morning train into the city with her father, get a glimpse of how he edits stories speedily and sends them on their way (and engages in whatever newsgathering activities they have planned for the kids—corporations here now have very fancy programs set up for the kids). I could probably take her into the city and let her try her hand at creating clever advertisements at my main client's place—it'll be a rare treat to be in the city for a day for both of us.

But in some ways, I'd like to have her really see what I do all day. So she'd stay home with me, curled up on the couch with a laptop and a dog. I'd let her help me with my content matrix for a client—and pick our entertainment to accompany the activity (audiobook or movie?). We'd take a laundry break—then later, a lunch break to cobble something together from the kitchen. And then interview a few people for a story that's due next week. And maybe shop for some clothes for my daughter online. (She's growing like crazy, you know.) I'd let her borrow her dad's laptop to pull together a great blog post about our day together, then we'd head out on our route of pickups and errands.

I wonder what she'd think of my work day, my type of work, my attempts (often lousy) to try to balance my work and life. And I wonder what her work life—and her work-life balance—will look like when she's the mommy.