Archive for April, 2010
When I was pregnant, I was inundated by books and magazines telling me what to expect over the next nine months of my pregnancy and then in the first year of my baby’s life. And like any good expectant mother, I read and read hoping to prepare myself for a baby. How do I ensure my whole areola (Yes, I said areola) is in my baby’s mouth? How do I soothe my baby once I know she’s fed, has a clean diaper and she’s not in any pain?
During the first few years, I had a checklist of things to do in order to ensure Molly, Kelly and Jack made it through the toddler years. The list included baby-proofing, reading to them, making eye contact, giving them two choices when they’re in the “no” phase and giving them lots of hugs and kisses. But then something happens, they grow up. They have the nerve to turn three and now what?
New moms, old moms, any kind of moms are at the ready to give you advice about ensuring your baby is getting enough to eat and sleeping through the night, but where are these said moms when your child is being bullied in elementary school? Because I’m telling you, if these moms were around or if I’d read an article about what to say to my daughter to deal with the bully, it would have prevented me from leaping out of the car and running after the girl myself. Thank God I didn’t find the bully. I’m not sure I would have just spoken to her, but instead I would have picked up that fifth grader by the shoulders and shaken some sense into her. But I could have stood having another mom around talking me off that particular cliff. 
A lot of moms stay home when their kids are in elementary school, and I get that this is a safety, maturity issue when it comes to children taking care of themselves. Then moms go back to work full time when their kids are old enough to take a bus home, open the door with a key and heat something up in the microwave for a snack. But I offer you this, this is the age that kids start experimenting. And if that child is lonely or feeling unloved in their empty house, they will drink, smoke pot, invite girls or guys over, etc., etc. They will do all this to get your attention. Where is the book called “What to Expect When You Have an Adolescent”? There isn’t one. There are books on what to expect when you’re expecting, during the first year of life, and during the toddler years, but where is that manual about raising teenagers. I would have liked some advice about what to do when your teen lies to you about where they are staying the night, what to say to your daughter whose heart is broken by her first love, how to handle the peer pressure to fit in, smoke weed, have sex. Where were all those moms to give me advice? To show me the way?
I would have liked to know how to navigate the time when Molly was going off to college and she was asserting her independence by being bitchy and pulling away from me, just like a two year old does. There are plenty of books and magazine articles about allowing your two year old to grow up and be independent by allowing her to make choices. Where are those books about showing moms how to allow your adult child to grow up and move away? Where are those books about letting go?I would have loved someone to say during that time, “Michelle, this is normal. Molly still loves you. She has to do this to make easier to leave you.” It would have prevented me from throwing myself into my crazy CrossFit workouts, considering anti-depressants and locking myself in the bathroom for the entire summer before Molly went off to college so I could cry.
I offer you this. When you have an adolescent or a teenager, read those books about what to expect during the toddler years. I think the same checklist I had when my kids were toddlers could be useful during these ages. They are:
- Baby-proof/make sure they’re safe and secure,
- Read to them/spend one on one time with them
- Make eye contact/pay attention and listen to them
- Give them two choices when they’re in the “no” phase (This works no matter what the age.)
- Give them lots of hugs and kisses…always.
These suggestions, lots of patience and some red wine can go a long way to ensuring both mom and child make it through.
Marty and Monita Murphy's Wedding Day, December 22, 1962
“Come into the bedroom,” my mom said. “I have to show you something.”
Her tone, evasiveness and the fact she rarely made it a point to show me anything had my imagination going crazy.
Sex toys? Was she finally going to give me the sex talk? It was thirty years and three kids too late. Oh, god, were there whips involved? Video tapes?
“Here,” my mom said as she shoved a binder in my hand. A sex manual?
“This is everything you’ll need when we pass away? Your dad and I have–”
“Jesus.” I dropped the binder to the carpet, and wiped my palms on my jeans.
“You don’t have to use that language.” Mom picked up the binder and put it on top of the dresser near where we stood. “Michelle, you’re executor of the will and the oldest–”
“Whoa. Whoa,” I said. “That meant I got to tease Marcia and Mark about ignoring your will and stealing ALL of the money and jewels for myself. No one said anything about…about this.” I pointed to the binder.
Mom flipped open the binder. “Someone is going to have to call this number.”
My dad now joined us in their bedroom. “That’s the number you’ll need to call so they can pick up our bodies and cremate them,” he said.
“Jesus,” I said.
Here’s the thing: In the last two years six of my close friends have lost their mothers. When my best friend from high school’s mom died from cancer, the first one to die, I was wrecked. I loved Chucky like she was my own. A month later another friend from high school’s mom died, and then another and another. At Chucky’s passing, I thought that just sucks. But as these losses kept coming I realized this was not a fluke. And when Bill’s mom died, the woman who loved me despite our divorce, I knew; this, my friend, was the beginning of the end. And while my parents were always the youngest parents of my friends, I know now their time is limited, too.
But I need more time with them. I just started liking my mom and dad. Yes, yes, I love my parents, always have. And I’ve hated them, too, the way teenagers do. But it’s been in the last five years or so that I’ve really started liking them. My mom and I say “I love you” now when we hang up the phone. My dad hugs me when I leave his house. For the first time ever, my dad and I had a conversation. We sat in his dining room shooting the shit without our usual agendas (Mine: You were an alcoholic and my childhood sucked. His: I did the best I could and you think your childhood sucked, try being me.). After our talk, I felt awe. Dad felt it, too.
So I need some more time. You see that don’t you? I know. I know I’m being selfish. I need to let go. I need to be the one who calls that $%$@@!! number. At forty-six, I need to grow up.
But I how I wish my mom had shown me her sex toys.
Forget love, do you like your parents? Do you like your kids?
Thanks for asking.
I’ve finished my memoir, HOLDING ON AND LETTING GO: A MOTHER’S STORY. Currently, I’m hunting, I mean looking for an agent to represent the memoir. So I wait for the rejections to come in until an agent (it could be more than one, but I’m not greedy) who LOVES my story and HAS to see it published. In the meantime, I’ve been biding my time by:
Crying-This doesn’t have anything to do with waiting. I’m just weepy in general.
CrossFit-There is something to be said for workouts that numb your body and mind. “What memoir?” “What agent?”
Writing-I write grocery lists, notes for my kids to do their chores and posts for this blog and another one, Page A Day Writers. I love sharing my writing and have even considered posting my grocery lists.
Living my imagined published author life-This involves such imaginings as going on whatever program Oprah has at the time because she has to talk to “the brilliant author of the memoir that changed her life.” If Oprah doesn’t have a show, then it involves going to her house, maybe the one in Montecito. Stedman can be there, too. But not Gayle. I want Oprah’s attention for myself. I also write my own reviews of the memoir. Of course all of them are glowing and there’s plenty of adjectives like breathtaking, poignant, page-turner and winner.
I have already received two rejections from agents, one more personal than the other but both equally suck to get. When I got the rejections, I had a pity party for a few minutes. Then I found the elite company I was now in and all those published writers who have had their share of rejections. Here’s what I found:
- Stephen King was rejected for Carrie dozens of times. One of the publishers rejected King with: “We are not interested in science fiction which deals with negative utopias. They do not sell.”
- Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D H Lawrence “for your own sake do not publish this book.”
- Animal Farm by George Orwell “It is impossible to sell animal stories in the USA.”
- Judy Blume received “nothing but rejections” for two years. “I would go to sleep at night feeling that I’d never be published. But I’d wake up in the morning convinced I would be. Each time I sent a story or book off to a publisher, I would sit down and begin something new. I was learning more with each effort. I was determined. Determination and hard work are as important as talent.”
Dr. Seuss, JK Rowling, Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind, and Anne Frank were all rejected, numerous times. I’m in good company, right? Still, how can I take the sting out of these rejections? And when I say sting I mean, how can I prevent myself from hurling my computer through the window and vowing never, ever, ever to write again.
So what do I do? Put my butt in the chair and write. Dear Agent, Please like me. Love, author.
How do you handle rejection?
I used to be the President of the Man-haters Club. My ex-husband dubbed me so. And while my presidency didn’t cause the divorce, I’m sure my extreme dislike for men didn’t help our relationship.
A lot has changed since that time including letting go of my childhood and the things that happend to prime me for my presidency, my marriage to David and the birth of Jack. 
Jack has taught me many lessons about boys, love and acceptance. Here are some:
- Bugs are fun. Hunting for insects, worms and all things crawly and slimy is a daily occurance for Jack. He thrills at finding a caterpillar or an earthworm. He also loves to disect these creatures. Jack knows how I feel about “killing” but I can’t do anything about his innate need to hunt and kill. “Mom, they’re only bugs.” True that.
- Dirt and mud rocks. Jack is fascinated by dirt, playing in the dirt, wallowing in it, and getting it under his fingernails and in his ears and up his nose. And mud? Forget about it. Ever since Jack could walk he’d find a water source and soon turn dirt into a mud bath.
- Guns are cool. In fact, anything military is cool. I’m working on this one. I’m a peace lovin’ hippie at heart. But since the age of four, after his cowboy phase, Jack’s been wearing fatigues, Army helmets, and carrying (toy) guns. I’ve noticed this doesn’t change when boys become men. Case in point, my friend Fleet, who I met at the Taos Summer Writers’ Conference and is a Vietnam Vet. He sent this email for Jack while he was doing business in Afghanistan: “Tell Jack man hey.underwent three rocket attacks,small,and one RPG.Acted as door gunners on the Blackhawk chopper,greatfun can still shoot,fired grenades,did well.This is a wondrous, sad, beautiful country.The US is doing the hard,right thing.Nation building,in meaningful ways.We are doing it right.Talibani can either get on board or perish,up to them. From Shank, F.” I’ve taken Jack to GI Joe’s surplus shop in El Cajon a number of times. And I want you to know this and this alone should give you some indication of my “support” of Jack and his obsession with all things military. GI Joe’s is a scary place.
- Bodily noises and functions are natural and can be funny. While I still don’t even like to say the word “fa**” (rhymes with smart), Jack lets them rip all the time. The funniest ones are when he makes a big production out of it (at my expense) and bends over and fa**s. Leaving the toilet seat up (when he remembers to put it up in the first place), peeing outside when the urge overtakes him, forgetting to flush the toilet, all are slaps in my prudish face. And he could give a rat’s ass about my feelings on this matter.
- Actions speak louder than words. Jack is a doer, a goer. He doesn’t have time to make polite dinner conversation. He’s too busy fighting the fight, killing bugs, getting dirty. Jack has taught me to shut up, go out into the world and do.
I’m grateful for Jack and David and what they’ve done for me. I’ve opened my heart, and because of this my relationships with all the men in my life has changed. For the first time in my forty-six years, I had a real conversation with my dad. I look forward to the other things Jack will teach me.
Now I’m going to shut up and go play with Jack in the mud.
What have the boys, men, women, or someone younger or older, a different religion, a different ethnicity, taught you?
“I had two, TWO periods last month,” Amy said shocked.
Nothing shocks Amy. She is the least reactive and emotional person I know. And we’ve known each other a long time. Amy and I went to high school together.
“Two periods,” Amy said again as if I hadn’t heard her the first two times. We were sitting on the patio of a trendy wine bar. The inside of restaurant was loud, packed with too many young people who chattered and guffawed.
“Did you hear me? More than one period last month.”
I shrugged, unshocked even though I was the most reactive and emotional person I know. “Two periods, schmoo periods. Welcome to perimenopause.”
I say perimenopause because this is easier to swallow than MENOPAUSE. It’s like those of us who call middle age, the middle of our lives. This has a cheerier feeling to it, a more half full than empty feel, right?
“But you don’t understand,” Amy said panicking. “Since I was fourteen my periods have been twenty-eight days a part. Like clockwork. What’s going on with my body?”
“It’s no longer your body,” I said. “It’s another reminder we don’t have control over anything including our vessels.”
Lately, I’ve had gentle, okay not so gentle reminders of this. Six months ago I went to my opthamologist who informed me with great cheer that this was the beginning of my farsightedness. From here on out, I could expect my vision would only get worse until my early fifties and then the good news my eyes would settle into wearing reading glasses for the rest of my life. Dr. Eyes said. “And you can put away your high heals for flats and start wearing elastic waistbands.” I told him to get bent. Not really, but I must of said something feisty because my husband had the appointment after me, and he told me Dr. Eyes said, “Michelle has a lot of energy.” The next time I get my eyes checked by Dr. Eyes, I’m going to wear a red pair of fuck me-fuck you stilettos. Flats and elastic waistbands, my ass.
I have a shoulder injury. Shit, I said it. In all of my thirty years of working out, I’ve never had an injury. But let me tell you when you never stretch, when you lift weights incorrectly without generating the power from your hips, when you push yourself like you’re twenty years old and a guy, well you’re bound to get hurt. Now my hurt shoulder is a constant reminder I’m not a young guy.
My teeth are falling apart. I grind my teeth at night (even with a night guard in) like a crazy woman. Whatever, you know what I’m saying. I have small teeth to begin with. I can’t afford to make them any shorter. And my gums are receding, another perk to getting older. Bacteria love to wreak havoc on my gumless teeth. Six cavities in my hole-y teeth last time I went to the dentist. I don’t need anymore holes in my head or my teeth.
So you don’t think any of this is funny? Do you think renaming the seven dwarfs for menopause: Itchy, Bitchy, Sweaty, Sleepy, Bloated, Forgetful & Psycho is humorous? Is hair growing on your chin hilarious? Ha! What about your six-year-old son noticing you’re not wearing a bra because the breasts aren’t quite as perky, to put it mildly, without one. Chuckle.
I will go kicking and screaming into this one big descent, as Nora Ephron the author of I Feel Bad About My Neck calls it, the steady spiraling down of mind and body, breasts and earlobes and nose. I will continue to dye my “prematurely” gray hair. I will cut my thinning hair short so it looks fuller. I will follow my hairdresser’s advice, bangs not botox, to cover my worry lines on my forehead. I will use lightening creams for my age spots and wear night cream for my wrinkles. I will wear uncomfortable shoes and tight clothes because I can. And I will laugh all the way.
I concede some of you are still not amused because you are too young to understand, but you will. Maybe there is a man or two reading this who are married to women like me who are feeling really sorry for themselves. But let me remind you that middle age has fun things in store for you, too. Can you say hair migration from your head to your ears and nose and shoulders and back? So you are not immune. Finally, there may be some of my fellow perimenopausal friends who don’t feel any of this is a laughing matter, and I say to them, lately there has been too many unfunny things happening in our world: earthquakes, economic recessions, and seventeen year old girls killed by registered pedophiles. Maybe getting older isn’t funny to you. Okay, fine. But what is the alternative to aging?
Exactly. Now that’s not funny.
