Ain't Nothin' Like the Real Thing: Being a Mom

Showing posts with label Being a Mom. Show all posts

Thursday, August 2, 2007

Life During Wartime

Yes. You know what I'm talking about. When your house is absolutely quaking with the ramifications of having children later in life: you hit menopause and they hit puberty AT THE SAME DAMN TIME. I should have married and had my kids by the time I married.

See these 2 happy kids? Of course they are not mine. Mine would be sharpening their fangs, growling, glaring, huffing, puffing, whining, rolling their red, evil eyes at me, all the while eating all the food in the house, using up all the cell phone minutes and monopolizing the computer as if they paid for it.

This is Ugly. Very, very ugly.

I can't see, am losing my hair, insane from lack of sleep, bargaining for the chocolate and sweating like an SOB.

I'm not sure I can verbalize any more on this subject.

Friday, June 1, 2007

Bowing Before False Idols

I walked into my 10 year old daughter’s room the other day and noticed that one entire wall was filled with pictures of various stars of the Disney Channel. As a mother, as a woman who was once a little girl, I wept. Wept. Any concern I had that she had taken after her father completely disappeared. She was mine. All mine. Those pictures of Zach and Cody and Hannah and Raven confirmed that my sweet girl did indeed carry a heavy load of my DNA.

I was whisked back in time to my 10th year in 1966, and remembered my bedroom walls covered with pictures of the Beatles, the Monkees, the stars of “The Mod Squad”, Donny Osmond and Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise (whose picture, I’m sorry to say, was always hard to find in the latest editions of Fave, Tiger Beat and Sixteen). As I move my time line to 1976, I see Robert Redford, that infamous picture of Al Pacino as Serpico, Shaun Cassidy and Barry Manilow. The 80’s – who else? The poster man of ALL poster men, Tom Selleck…and a newly issued picture of William Shatner as our Captain, now featured in the big screen version of Star Trek. The 90’s? Well, if I’d had the nerve to do it, I would have put David Duchovny up on my wall. The year 2000? Please. Johnny Depp, alrighty.

Now should you think I developed this fascination for celebrities through any fault of my own, let me correct you. Allow me to introduce you to my mother, Rose.

My mother loved Clark Gable. She snuck off to the theater to see “Gone with the Wind” when she was a young girl and was hooked. Hooked on Gable, hooked on movie stars, hooked on the movies. My grandmother NEVER would have allowed my mother to see such a movie. “For heaven’s sake, Rosebud,” – they called my poor mother Rosebud to distinguish her from the dozen other Rose’s in my family – “they show a woman HAVING A BABY in that moving picture!” Reason enough in my grandmother’s mind to disallow such a consideration. (Please note: Gramma was from the old country and thought the following: seeing a scary movie when you were pregnant produced birth defects and sitting on cement caused kidney problems. We loved her anyway.)

But my dear mother’s legacy of loving the movies, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Chopin, Van Cliburn, Victor Borge, Van Gogh and Monet left an indelible mark on me. Not only did she love them and share them with me, she loved whom I loved.

1964. The Beatles on Ed Sullivan. My mom noted how innovative they were, how fresh, how different and how their music had a great, bluesy/jazzy beat. She also liked that John Lennon spoke his mind and except for that "Jesus" quote, never backed down from a confrontation.

My mother traveled with me through the Monkees (“didn’t Neil Diamond write some of their songs?”), Shaun Cassidy (“lots of talent there, Cookie! Check out his parents!”), Barry Manilow (“such a nice voice and a talented pianist – he likes Chopin! How can you go wrong?”), William Shatner (“Captain Kirk is the ultimate hero!”), and of course, Tom Selleck (she just fanned herself with a dishtowel).

Yes, I come from a history of bowing before false idols. But as my mother watched Star Trek with me and listened thoughtfully to Alice Cooper and Led Zeppelin, I reciprocated. I truly listened to Mozart and Mahalia Jackson. We watched dark film noir starring Robert Mitchum and that squirrelly little blonde guy whose name I’ve forgotten; giggled at Lana Turner, cheered on Joan Crawford as “Mildred Pierce” and was shocked when Bette Davis let her husband die in “The Little Foxes”. We loved William Powell and Myrna Loy in the “Thin Man” series and we watched every single black and white horror movie that Universal ever made. We watched Chaplin, Pickford, Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn.

What did I learn? To share my enthusiasm for music and film and art with my children. The first song either one of my children learned was “Here Comes the Sun” by George Harrison. I have my Beatles posters from the 60’s framed and up on the wall. My Barry Manilow calendar graces my kitchen and we play his albums on my old turntable (When my daughter yelled, “Hey, where’s the other 6 songs???”, I had to explain that albums weren’t like CD’s with all the songs on one side; that you had to flip the album over to hear the rest of it. She was very put out by this ancient technology, and let out a heavy, 21st century sigh. She was even more aghast with my mono version of “Meet the Beatles” which is a worn shade of gray and produces more static than music.) We watch the original Star Trek episodes on VHS tape (“Mom, it’s so cool and CHEESY!”) and DVD’s of the X-Files and Magnum PI. However, I have learned to appreciate what my children love. Through my mother’s talent of finding something good in literally anything and everything, I can sit through Disney Channel sitcoms and laugh with my daughter. Not because it’s funny necessarily, but because she thinks it’s funny. I can listen to my son’s new wave/heavy metal music and smile, thinking of my mother trying to say something nice about “Welcome to My Nightmare” by Alice Cooper. I mean is there any difference between Green Day and White Snake when you come down to it, really?

It can be a struggle to come up with something brilliant to say about “The Suite Life of Zach and Cody”, but I think my daughter is just happy to sit with me and hear me laugh with her. Just as I was with my mom. “The Monkees”, “Gidget” and “Batman” just cracked us both up. I know my son is happy is have me in his room, while he tries to play his own guitar to a new song he just purchased by Alkaline Trio. This sharing forms a unique and long lasting bond that transcends time and teaches some valuable life lessons.

My mother has given me a great gift...to look for things to appreciate in what your friends and loved ones like, even if it really isn't your cup of tea. To find something to enjoy in what others may wrongly dismiss as idiotic or not worth their time. Life becomes more of a shared adventure and bottom line, it just might be fun, you just might learn something, or you just might meet someone who will be important to you the rest of your life.

My girlfriend jokingly once told me, “you’d have fun at a garbage dump.” And I just might. Thanks to Mom.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

The Good Mother

Remember that movie with Diane Keaton and Liam Neeson? Diane Keaton is a single mom who falls in love with Neeson. Her ex-husband eventually takes her to court over custody of their daughter because he believes Keaton's affair with Neeson is "unhealthy" for the child. It was directly very sensitively by Leonard Nimoy -- Mr. Spock from the classic Star Trek series. I won't give you any more information about it....rent it and watch it.

So what makes a "Good Mother"? You don't need to be a single working mom to wrestle with that everyday. And if you have kids with medical problems or other issues, your load is twice as heavy.

Are you a "Bad Mother" if after healing from divorce, you begin dating again? Or are you hoping to show your children what a healthy adult relationship looks like? Now in the movie, Keaton makes an error in judgement concerning her daughter and Neeson. A mistake her ex-husband jumps on swiftly. He thinks he's doing the right thing, she doesn't think she's done anything improper or worthy of being called an "unfit" mother. They end up leaving it in the judge's lap.

Fortunately, I do not have much valid intervention from WAM. He works by insinuation that I'm a bad mother. He's told the kids I have no backbone and am weak willed. Wow. That hurts. He's yelled that I've interferred with visitation. He's spewed that I've "bad mouthed" his wife. Right. Whatever. But bottom line, he doesn't have the balls to back up anything that squirts out of his mouth. There is some functioning part of his brain that knows if he gets a lawyer and drags my ass to court, that he's looking at a staggering amount of documented damage he's done emotionally and physically to both me and the kids. So what's a bully to do but bully some more? The difference is, I've moved on, the kids are moving on and he hasn't.

So you tell me. What makes a Good Mother? I work full time, I have a great 4-year relationship with a wonderful man. My kids have a good relationship with Sam and I have a loving relationship with Sam's son, Thomas. Should I not have tried to move on and just stayed home, totally devoted to my kids? Or is it right to show them that I am a person, that I need adult time -- that most people do not want to be alone and enjoy the companionship of someone of the opposite sex?

Maybe it comes down to the bottom line choice: if my daughter was vomiting with 103 degree fever and Sam and I had a date, no, I wouldn't go out. If my daughter ever needed me to be somewhere for her, I would be there. The same holds true for my son. They come first before me right now (at ages 16 and 10) because one day they will be grown and on their own. And what I want them to remember is that Sam made me happy and I made him happy. That I worked so we could have a nice place to live and because I enjoyed what I did. But that most of all, through everything, that I was a pretty Good Mother.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Welcome to the Pork Farm

Upon facing another day where my jeans size is 18 (okay, 20 comfortably), I walked into the health club that I have been a member of since its doors first cracked open during the Johnson Administration. I went consistently before I was married, before I had kids, before my life spun totally and completely out of control. However, several years have passed by since I plucked up the courage to cross the threshold. I don’t know what I thought would happen. I mean there were times when I would actually drive to the health club, sit in parking lot for 10 minutes and leave to go get a donut and coffee (with extra cream and sugar). But this time I actually walked in and nothing happened, except that I realized my married name was still on the membership card and that ferry had crossed like 6 years ago. Of course, that’s a whole other story….abuse, infidelity, kids, divorce, suicide attempt….but let’s hold off on all the really juicy stuff until I tell you what happened on my first venture into the health club in probably 10 years.

I didn’t die.

Didn’t die of embarrassment or humiliation or from the fact that my major muscle groups haven’t moved like that in near decades. No one looked at me like I was the worn-out, ugly, stupid hag that I thought I was. Well, maybe they thought it -- but if they did, they hid it well.

I hear and read so many stories about women stuggling with weight and self esteem. I married a man who thought that you should just shut the hell up and move. Get to the club you lazy ass…and there’s golf, karate, running, bowling, this, that, etc. However, he said this in the same breath as “where’s my dinner, how come there’s no fruit in the house and I need my baseball pants washed by tomorrow.” Followed by “see you later…I’ve got a fantasy football meeting….say hi to the kids for me. Bye.” So you can see where some of my issues lay. However, I will take total responsibility for my tonage. No one held me at gunpoint and wouldn’t release me until I shoved a Big Mac and large Chocolate Shake down my throat.

Anyway, it would be lovely if we could all get to the healthclub and go for a manicure and maybe stop at the mall for a little shopping, maybe ring up the Queen to see if she’d like to join us for an afternoon cup of Earl Grey…but you know, there’s like…life. There’s kids and shopping and laundry and cooking and homework and the PTA….and dishes and the cats and the gardening and social obligations and and and. Oh, and working full time. Finding any time for anything is an undertaking of monumental consequences. When a mom wants to do something, she needs to consult: her kids and their schedules including piano lessons, guitar lessons, soccer, pre-set playdates, birthday parties, school parties; any commitments all ready in place to co-workers, family, neighbors, local church. Are there any upcoming: dental appointments, doctor appointments for children, mother, father, grandparents? When is registration for school, baseball, field hockey and the YMCA summer camp? Oh, and what about work? Any projects coming up? Any promises made to cover for a co-worker? You get my drift. Never mind the stuff that blindsides you like your car won't start in the morning or you hear your youngest throwing up at 3 am.

I think as moms, single or married, we struggle with alot and honestly benefit from sharing our journeys. I struggled through 15 years of a bad marriage, I struggled through divorce and depression, I struggled with getting fat, I struggled with bad health, I struggled with isolation and having no family other than my children. The only thing I never struggled with was wonderful friends and wonderful kids. God blessed me completely, total and unequivocally when it comes to that. They have kept me afloat when all I wanted to do was check out permanently.

But that's another story for another day....