Musings of a Midlife Mama and Other Stories

I interviewed Margaret Dilloway, a friend and the author of the critically acclaimed debut novel, HOW TO BE AN AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE. The novel is about the strong pull of tradition, and the lure and cost of breaking free of tradition. Set in California and Japan, it tells the story of Shoko, a Japanese woman who married an American GI as a way of improving her and her family’s fortunes, moved with him to the States, and tried to learn how to be a proper American housewife; and her grown daughter Sue, who finds her own life as an American housewife is not at all what her mother would have wanted for her, or even what Sue had hoped for herself. When Shoko’s illness prevents her from making a long-awaited trip to Japan to be reunited with her brother, she asks Sue to go in her place, and the trip changes both women’s lives in unexpected ways. With beautifully delineated characters and unique entertaining glimpses into Japanese and American family life and aspirations, this is also a moving mother and daughter story. Interspersed with quotations from Shoko’s guide to being an American housewife, this is a warm and engaging novel full of surprising insight.

The memoir I’m working on, HOLDING ON AND LETTING GO: A MOTHER’S STORY, is about how wrecked I was when my oldest daughter went off to college.  It’s the exploration of my relationship with my daughter and why I continued to hold on to the past and discover why it was so difficult to let her go.  My interview with Dilloway allowed me to ask about her relationship with her mother, and how this novel enlightened that relationship.  As Dilloway says, “ this novel is a conversation with my mother I never got to have.”  Dilloway’s mother passed away when Margaret was twenty.  Dilloway, a stay-at-home mother of three who lives with her family in Hawaii, says this book “gave me a chance to rewrite her [her mother's] life with the happy ending she wished for and wanted so badly for me.”

Margaret Dilloway, Author

You said your novel is a continuation of a conversation you wished you could have had with your mom.  What would the gist of the conversation?

Just a conversation that says, “Hey, this is where I’m coming from, I understand where you’re coming from, and I love you unconditionally.  I’m sorry I was hard on you.”  Something like that.

After writing the novel, do you see your mother differently?  If so, in what ways?  If not, why not?

I had been thinking of her and her background for some time, recording her stories and so forth.  But the book allowed me the luxury to really think deeply about our differences and commonalities. I really FELT how she had felt, coming here [to the United States from Japan].  It’s like the difference between hearing a news story filled with facts, and a novel filled with emotional truth.

What’s something you wish you would have held on to?

The thought that my mother really just wanted me to be happy, whatever that meant to me.

What’s something you would have wished you let go of a long time ago?

I wish I would have let go the visceral recollection of every harsh word and action.

What’s the best and worst parenting advice you’d ever gotten?

My paternal grandmother told me, “I did everything wrong. Don’t do ANYTHING like me.”  That was probably the most interesting piece of advice I got.

The best: “Let your kids be who they are, and enjoy them.”

The worst: “Don’t let your baby eat with his hands, because it’s too messy.”

Do you believe in the labels of good mom and bad mom?  What makes a good mom?  Bad mom? (The Bloggess has a blog about good mom, bad mom and how her and her writing partner don’t believe in these labels.)

Sure, you can be a bad mom.  A bad mom is neglectful of her child’s emotional or physical needs. A good mom provides food, shelter, and teaches character traits such as empathy and responsibility.

I sure don’t think women should be hung up on labels.  I wouldn’t call someone a “bad mother” because she works or doesn’t work, or brings store-bought cupcakes or doesn’t push their kid to excel in every single area.  The primary goal of parenting is to raise independent good citizens.  I think everyone should do the best they can, and as long as they’re providing these very basic necessities, the kid ought to be fine.

What’s the difference between raising boys and girls?

I don’t think there’s much of a difference.  You teach them the same moral values, and you are respectful of their individual temperaments.

This is your first novel.  What’s the best part of having a novel published? What’s the most surprising part?  What single piece of advice would you give to a writer hoping to get published?

The best part is having your work acknowledged and getting some “street cred” for being a writer.

Most surprising: How long the process took.  The novel didn’t get published for two years after I signed the contract, and there was a lot of editing work, too. Rest assured, it’s not the same for every single novel.

Advice: Read and write a lot, and keep trying.

You’re writing a new novel, what’s it about?

It’s called “The Cupcake Queen” and is about a cupcake baker whose dead husband is haunting her.  It takes place in Hawaii and Julian, California, both of which are really haunted places.  There are tons of ghost stories in Hawaii, and I wanted to take advantage of my new location.  Also, I like cupcakes.

What conversation would you like to have with your mother?

Yesterday the Rolling Stones came on the radio singing, “Brown Sugar”. And I thought of Mick Jagger and the rest of the Rolling Stones who are still touring and making music and they’re in their sixties.  Name a woman rocker who is doing the same.

“I think it’s because we don’t accept women growing old, getting fat, or getting lines on our faces,” I told David.

“What are you talking about? ” David asked.  “It’s because the Rolling Stones were more famous than any other woman singer or band. There up there with Beatles and The Who.  And there are more men in rock ‘n roll than women.”

Okay, maybe.  But then what about a band like Heart who rocked in the seventies and eighties.  Ann Wilson, who struggled with weight all her life, starved herself in the seventies because of the pressure to be thin.  When she started to gain weight, this became the focus instead of her powerful voice. Nancy Wilson, Ann’s sister, became the cute one.  Are we making these comparisons between Mick Jagger and Keith Richards?  I mean both of them look like caricatures of their former selves with their deep, grooved lines in their faces, but they’re still selling out stadiums and people talk to them about their music and not the way they look.

In the “Huffington Post” last week there was an article about the controversy  regarding the writer Jonathan Franzen, who has been receiving star treatment from the literary community for his latest family saga, Freedom. Franzen was on the cover of “Time” and the “NY Times” did a book review praising him for his work. Why aren’t best selling authors like  Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Weiner, who both write about families, get the same kind of accolades?  As women writers we are categorized into “chick lit,” “mommy lit”, “hen lit”, etc.  Where are these categories when it comes to male authors?  Weiner points out the only time the playing field is leveled is when women authors are writing in genres, like mystery and horror, that men will read.  Why is that?

Am I outraged about all this?  Yes.  But I’m sad, too.  I’m sad that Heidi Montag from “The Hills” had ten plastic surgeries, including G cup breasts and a nose job at the age of twenty-two, a mere year older than my oldest daughter.  I’m sad pop music is full of examples of young women who are looked at for the weight on the scale (Remember the flack Jessica Simpson got from gaining weight?) or how seductive and sexy they can be (Think Lady Gaga’s, “Alejandro.”).

We are more than this.

We are CEOs of Fortune 500 companies like PepsiCo, WellPoint, and Xerox.

We are  world leaders of such countries as India, Germany and Australia.

We are Nobel Prize winners in chemistry, physiology and literature.

We are more than bodies.

What do you think?

On 2005’s Australian MTV Awards, Anna Nicole Smith  sashayed across the stage dressed in a haltered flamenco dress of red and black.  As she made her way to the podium she waved her hands above her head and then ran them up and down her body.  The crowd roared.  The more the audience clapped and hooted, the more Smith preened at the podium.  Finally, she leaned into the microphone and drunkenly asked, “Like my body?”

Yesterday while getting ready for work, I watched a segment about websites showing young women how to starve themselves.  As one of the recovering anorexics who was being interviewed said, “These websites are assisted suicide for people like me.”  Anorexia has one of the highest suicide rates of any mental illness.  Eating disorders, like anorexia, affect mostly young women who are usually the oldest in their families, are smart and high achievers and who are trying to achieve perfectionism by controlling their bodies.

Last night at the gym, I listened to two gorgeous “middle of their lives” women talk about how they wouldn’t be caught dead in  bathing suits while doing anything besides lying on their backs.  Then they proceeded to point out all their flaws, including their butts, thighs, and stomachs.

This morning I went and got weighed. I was up causing me to be depressed.  I’ve been working out, tracking points.  Then I started thinking about Anna Nicole Smith (God rest her soul. What pain she must have been in.), all those young women who have been lured by those sites giving tips on how to starve themselves, and my friends lamenting about their thighs.  I have been every one of these women.  Okay, I haven’t sashayed across a stage while asking millions of people, “Like my body?”  But I have been desperate for people to notice me and it seemed important to be thin in order for this to happen.  I haven’t subscribed to any of those websites promoting eating disorders but I have starved myself for many years in order to be perfect.  And I’m embarrassed to say how much time I’ve wasted on “if only I had a six pack” and “if only my breasts were perky.”

Yeah, I gained weight today, my breasts aren’t what they used to be and I don’t have a six pack, but I’m blessed with the body I have.  I’ve given birth to three healthy and beautiful children, and breastfed every one of them.  This ol’ body can deadlift two hundred pounds, do chest-to-bar pull ups and clapping push ups.  I’ve come a long way from the girl who thought if she was thin, then everything was right with the world.  But I continue to work on being grateful for all the things I have. I’m a work in progress.

One thing is clear. Like my body?  Yes.  Yes, I do.

Have you had body image problems?

Jack's kindergarten photo

For David.

It’s that time of year again.  School begins.  Jack starts second grade tomorrow.  I won’t say the obvious.  Okay, I can’t help it.  Where did the summer go?  Where does time go?  Second grade?  I remember dropping him off for kindergarten two years ago.  I didn’t want to let go of his hand.  I was scared to let go, but not in the way you might think after reading this blog.  Jack had trouble with impulse control.   For instance, when he was in preschool he threw wooden blocks at his preschool teachers and other kids.

So was I surprised when we got the call from the principal during the first week of kindergarten saying Jack was in her office for being one of some boys who flushed paper towels down the toilet?  Yes.  Yes, I was. And I was surprised the next week, too, when Jack found himself in the principal’s office again.

“Boys will be boys, Michelle,” the principal said.  “They’re learning to control themselves.”  Control?  I’d been dogged by the “c” word all my life and now Jack was learning how to negotiate this, too.

Kindergarten was a tough year for David, Jack and me.  On those days, I’d go to school to pick up Jack and pray all the way there he didn’t get a pink slip,  he had kept his hands to himself and he didn’t have to pick up trash during lunch rather than playing because he’d gotten in trouble. On those days when David picked him up, I prayed I’d get a call from David saying Jack had a great day.

I know now that getting in trouble wasn’t easy on Jack either. Bless his heart.  We were all trying to find a way to make it better.

The first three months of first grade didn’t go much better.  One day when Jack had gotten yet another note home, I cried right there in the middle of the hall.

“Mama, don’t cry,” Jack said.  “I’ll do better.  I promise.”  And he did.

To my friends, Kim and Kimberly, to the principal and all the other moms of sons who told me, “This too shall pass.”  To his first grade teachers who told Jack everyday he was destined for greatness, I say thank you.

Jack is the funniest boy I know.  He’s smart. He told his sisters today, “I have a thought every second into my conscious.”  This summer he got an award at camp for “demonstrating daily the lifelong values of caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility.”  When one of his sisters got a speeding ticket, he offered the money in his piggy bank to help pay for the ticket.  Jack teaches us every day about heart, spontaneity, and having fun. He is my mirror. I see how he struggles with anxiety, worrying and fitting in, all those things I struggle with, too.

On the last day of first grade Jack said, “That was the best nine months of my life.”

We smiled at each other.  “I’m glad to hear it.”

Then he got serious.  “But is okay if I get sent to the principal’s office in the first couple of days of second grade.  You know I’m going to have a whole summer to forget what they taught me during first grade, and I might slip.  I’m just saying…”

And I’m just saying let the fun begin!

Here is “To Sir With Love” because it reminds me of the first day of school.  What has your child or a teacher taught you?

The other day while driving in my car I listened to NPR. Yes, I listen to high brow radio, but this isn’t what this post is about. Is it?  A story came on about Joshua Braff whose professor asked who he and the rest of the MFA students liked  to read.  Braff responded John Irving.  There was collective snickering throughout the classroom. Braff’s classmates had thrown out Flannery O’Connor, Raymond Carver and William Faulkner.

“… and DeLillo … of course … Joyce,” Braff added to make himself feel better. Although Braff felt ridiculous at the time to admit to his guilty reading pleasure, he now stands behind what John Irving has done for writers in terms of craft, characters and story.

This got me  thinking about my guilty pleasures both writing and otherwise.  Here’s my list (You’re welcome, Melia Lore.) of some of my guilty pleasures:

1. Marshmallows-Straight out of the bag big fluffy sugary marshmallows. A marshmallow’s ingredient list includes Corn Syrup, Sugar, Dextrose, Modified Corn Starch, Water, Gelatin, Tetrasodium Pyrophosphate (Whipping Aid), Artificial Flavor, Artificial Color (Blue 1).  This is why I don’t read the ingredient list  and why it’s a guilty pleasure since I know these little chemical bundle of joys could cause some serious internal damage.  Teeth be damned.
2. Claim Jumper’s Ice Cream Sandwich-Nestled between two giant chocolate chip Heath Bar cookies is three cups of vanilla bean ice cream.  On top of this masterpiece is both hot fudge and caramel syrup.  Until now, I’ve never considered the calories or the Weight Watcher points of this guilty pleasure, and it turns out there’s a reason.  The two cookies alone are about 1500 calories.  Yikes.  I want you to know I’m not totally gross.  I share this indulgence.  But now I’m questioning the sanity of using this cookie concoction to celebrate my weight loss accomplishments.
3. People Magazine-This magazine is all about mind-numbing, candy brain lovin’, good times.  Heavy on the photos and light on the text.  Here’s another confession, I read the New Yorker for the cartoons.  I’ve been known to laugh hysterically in the doctor’s office while my kids look at me as if I’ve gone mad (or more mad than usual).  But seriously, who has time to read the New Yorker articles?  I don’t.  Or should I say, I don’t make the time.  But I see this as no different than those men who claim to “read” Playboy. Come on, really?  The articles?
4. Pop music-I love catchy, uncomplicated music.  I love songs by Jason Mraz and Dave Matthews, and oh, yeah country music, without the twang and the sappier the story the better.  Jazz and classical music are a little too complicated for my brain.
5. Give me romantic comedies, mind fluff, any day over dark, dark, dark movies.  I’ve never seen “Sophie’s Choice,” although I read the book, because visually I couldn’t stand to watch her choice.
6. I have read Carver, Faulkner, Hemingway, and other literary giants.  But can I tell you something?  I love a good story.  And as a working mom with three kids and now three dogs, I need stories that leap from the pages and grab me by the throat.  I need stories I can read at the end of the day, for fifteen minutes before my eyelids become so heavy I have to put the book down.  The next night I need to be able to pick up the book, and start reading where I left off without missing a beat.  I can’t read dense prose that has more than three hundred pages.  Right now I’m enjoying reading “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” and “The Adventures of Captain Underpants” with Jack.  These are funny stories and they have pictures.  Come on. Who’s with me?

There are reasons for guilty pleasures.  For me, it’s about comfort, fun, levity, escape, denial. These are all ways I lighten up. Maybe one day when life is a little lighter and less hectic, I will turn to “Moby Dick” while sipping my herbal tea and nibbling on my organic home grown oranges and apples.  In the background there will be something jazzy playing on the stereo.  But until then, here’s to marshmallows and Jason Mraz.

What’s your guilty pleasure?