This past Christmas was one of the smoothest of holidays between my mother and me. I had challenged myself to just shut up for a change, instead of lashing back at every perceived provocation. Even my kids noticed that I was doing better. But I guess the karma in my house requires a certain level of maternal confrontation because, as I eased up, my husband (for the first time) laid in. Normally my husband and mother love to chatter away (most often about my failings, but who cares), and he treats her with the respect and love she has earned. This Christmas found him irritable and rude, overall much prickier than his usual self (not a typo for "pricklier," but an adjective meaning "more of a prick"). He ended up snapping at my mom several times, even raising his voice in annoyance. I was so embarrassed (for myself and for him) and hurt (for my mom). On the day my mom was leaving, after my husband had gone to work, I apologized for his behavior. She told me that he'd already done so and that they'd had a good talk. She finished with the pronouncement, "Body of Work, Cathy, Body of Work" in which she is a true believer. With my mom, she can forgive specific injustices if a person's overall behavior is decent. When she forgives, as she did my husband, she forgives. I envy her inability to hold a grudge. She seems to think that one bad moment should not ruin an entire day, whereas I can sulk it out for an entire weekend (and I can't seem to grasp that this ruins my weekend, too).
When the whole mother/daughter dynamic starts making me a nutcase, I flash back to a moment last Thanksgiving. (The background: when my dad left after 36 years of marriage, she was devastated and alone. After a few years, she began a romance with a friend whose wife had died after a very long marriage that spawned thirteen children. As the whole email thing was taking hold, she pushed her friend to send out a daily email to his kids, just as a quick update of things going on in his life. On occasions like Mother's Day, she would push him to mention his wife in his notes, because she's like that. As she's said many times, "Why on Earth would I be jealous of a dead woman.") We're sitting at the breakfast table Thanksgiving morning as my mom checks her email. She says, "Awwww," with that face that shows you think something is sentimental and sweet, and starts reading an email aloud. It's from her friend/partner/boyfriend/whatever-you say-when-someone's-over-70. He writes in his note to his kids (which he also sends to friends, my sister and me, and other relatives) that Thanksgiving was his and "mom's" anniversary, and he goes into detail about their wedding day, their hopes and dreams, and their good life together. And my mom tears up a bit. Not because she's jealous (see: me), but because she thinks it's such a kind and loving note that will mean so much to his kids. That's how she is. I (and my husband and kids) should be so lucky if I became more like her.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Thursday, December 24, 2009
My New Holiday Tradition
My new tradition is so new, I just started it this past Thanksgiving. It worked well enough that I'm breaking it out again for Christmas. The Tradition: because every family holiday ends up with my mother shouting, "You will treat me with respect" and me rolling my eyes, then her threatening to leave early and me huffing and puffing and crossing my arms, I decided to in fact treat my mother with respect. Trust me, it's not all my fault; but once I finally recognized the pattern, I realized I'm the only person whose actions I can control. I saw that when we gather together, my mom wants to be in charge and be the Mother, which makes me act like I'm fourteen years old. She starts telling me what to do, and I start reacting with the equivalent of "You're not the boss of me." Then she takes issue with my snottiness, and I fume at the unfairness. When I go to bed, I berate myself for being such a bitch and promise to be nicer, then it all starts again in the morning.
Thus my new tradition boils down to "Don't take the bait." The only way I can enforce this tradition is by deputizing my two daughters (ages 11 and 9) to simply say "Cathy" when I start to be curt to my mom (I figure that if I'm being disrespectful to my mother, they can be disrespectful to theirs). My younger one does this pretty well, but my older one is like a very biased line judge, her head moving back and forth as she monitors the action, quickly and often unfairly calling fault.
For Thanksgiving, I always drive my mom and my kids out to my sister's the night before (about a 4 1/2 hour ride), and my husband drives out Thanksgiving morning. The drive to and from was my toughest test of the new tradition. I was doing well on the way out until the fight over what I could put on the radio (not between my children and me but between my mother and me). Because my children were both plugged into headphones, I had no monitor and did not do so well. During the Thanksgiving visit itself, I was grading myself as a "C," though my sister said I was definitely in "B" territory. With trepidation, I readied myself for the voyage home. I decided to institute a bonus round, wherein if I scored 100 points, I could treat myself to a reward to be determined later. The highest I got to was 30 (usually earned in 5 point increments by not getting defensive or aggressive to something my mother had said), and I was thinking I could still pull it out, until The Parking Lot. We were driving through the McDonald's parking lot after miles and hours on the road, and I started to rail against the guy not following the directional arrows (yes, I already knew that calling another driver a "dickwad" in front of the children - though not in his earshot - is not what good mothers do). My mother, using a tone of righteous superiority said, "Cathy, you stop that and calm down." As I went on the defensive, I could hear the click, click, click of the scoreboard as my points wound down from thirty to zero.
Still, I begin anew this Christmas Eve.
Thus my new tradition boils down to "Don't take the bait." The only way I can enforce this tradition is by deputizing my two daughters (ages 11 and 9) to simply say "Cathy" when I start to be curt to my mom (I figure that if I'm being disrespectful to my mother, they can be disrespectful to theirs). My younger one does this pretty well, but my older one is like a very biased line judge, her head moving back and forth as she monitors the action, quickly and often unfairly calling fault.
For Thanksgiving, I always drive my mom and my kids out to my sister's the night before (about a 4 1/2 hour ride), and my husband drives out Thanksgiving morning. The drive to and from was my toughest test of the new tradition. I was doing well on the way out until the fight over what I could put on the radio (not between my children and me but between my mother and me). Because my children were both plugged into headphones, I had no monitor and did not do so well. During the Thanksgiving visit itself, I was grading myself as a "C," though my sister said I was definitely in "B" territory. With trepidation, I readied myself for the voyage home. I decided to institute a bonus round, wherein if I scored 100 points, I could treat myself to a reward to be determined later. The highest I got to was 30 (usually earned in 5 point increments by not getting defensive or aggressive to something my mother had said), and I was thinking I could still pull it out, until The Parking Lot. We were driving through the McDonald's parking lot after miles and hours on the road, and I started to rail against the guy not following the directional arrows (yes, I already knew that calling another driver a "dickwad" in front of the children - though not in his earshot - is not what good mothers do). My mother, using a tone of righteous superiority said, "Cathy, you stop that and calm down." As I went on the defensive, I could hear the click, click, click of the scoreboard as my points wound down from thirty to zero.
Still, I begin anew this Christmas Eve.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
No, Virginia, There's Not
Two weeks ago, my younger daughter wailed (quite out of the blue), "I'm starting to think there might be no Santa Claus!" Now personally I hate Santa Claus, but I'm not yet/quite a monster, so I soothingly asked her what she was thinking and encouraged her to believe whatever she chose. Two days ago, I left some trinkets on the steps, meaning to take them up to my closet. The girls came home from school and saw them, then continued to nag me about what they were for. Finally I said, "Just take them. I was going to put them in your stockings but you can have them now." My younger one looked at me in horror and shouted, "You're Santa Claus?" I quickly answered, "Um, no, but sometimes I help." She bought it and was pacified. I couldn't help thinking, "Jesus Christ, you're nine years old. Figure it out."
I've never been big on Santa. I've never used wrapping paper for Santa's gifts that was different from the gifts from Mommy and Daddy. I've never disguised my handwriting. Not once have I suggested a letter be written to Santa (and I never solicit Christmas lists because my children are among the most privileged on earth and the thought of them wanting even more makes me nuts). I got in so much trouble a few years ago when a neighbor girl (whom I love like my own, which makes my mouth a bit freer around her, and I know that's not even close to a good thing) asked if I believed in Santa. I answered, "I believe in Santa as much as I believe in Jesus." She thought it a fine answer. My mother was horrified. Here's the two reasons I hate Santa. 1) The whole concept smacks of praying for gifts (which I literally did when I was seven and prayed to Santa for one of those motorized kid cars, which I did not get) and 2) I think it's mean to tell kids who don't have a hope in hell of getting a bunch of Christmas presents that if they're good they will.
My friend Mary completely disagrees. She thinks that it's a vestige of innocence that should be allowed to flicker as long as it will. In fact, she thinks that belief in Santa is a gift in itself.
I say, "Bah, Humbug" (and I know you saw that coming).
I've never been big on Santa. I've never used wrapping paper for Santa's gifts that was different from the gifts from Mommy and Daddy. I've never disguised my handwriting. Not once have I suggested a letter be written to Santa (and I never solicit Christmas lists because my children are among the most privileged on earth and the thought of them wanting even more makes me nuts). I got in so much trouble a few years ago when a neighbor girl (whom I love like my own, which makes my mouth a bit freer around her, and I know that's not even close to a good thing) asked if I believed in Santa. I answered, "I believe in Santa as much as I believe in Jesus." She thought it a fine answer. My mother was horrified. Here's the two reasons I hate Santa. 1) The whole concept smacks of praying for gifts (which I literally did when I was seven and prayed to Santa for one of those motorized kid cars, which I did not get) and 2) I think it's mean to tell kids who don't have a hope in hell of getting a bunch of Christmas presents that if they're good they will.
My friend Mary completely disagrees. She thinks that it's a vestige of innocence that should be allowed to flicker as long as it will. In fact, she thinks that belief in Santa is a gift in itself.
I say, "Bah, Humbug" (and I know you saw that coming).
Friday, November 20, 2009
Under the Rug
Last night I saw a commercial for the new Hugh Grant movie (who stole my heart with "About a Boy" and gave it back with "Music and Lyrics"). I was horrified by the brunette astroturf on his head. I admit, I'm obsessed with the scalps of all actors. If you can see the scalp through the part, you know for sure the hair is real. Compare the parts of actors and actresses in any movie. With the women, you can see their scalps 98% of the time. With the men, I'd say about 40%. I've lost track of many a movie plot because of my rug obsession. (But seriously, who could not be distracted by that dead squirrel on Robert Redford's head?) (To a lesser extent, I'm also obsessed with seeing if an actress can pull her eyebrows together.) To be fair, sometimes an overzealous hair stylist can fluff around the part so much that you can't see through it. In "All the President's Men," the young Dustin Hoffman in quite a few scenes sports a bouffant which obscures his part. In other scenes, though, you can clearly see his scalp. I try to keep this in mind, especially when I examine George Clooney's head. My sister's friend reminded that George's dad still has a full head of hair. Still, I worry.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Words to the Wise
The three best bits of advice I've heard (so far):
1) From my younger daughter, then in the second grade:
I had volunteered in her classroom, and I was my regular, slightly impatient self. Afterwards, she said to me, "Mommy, you have to try to be nice to everybody or else they won't be excited to see you." The next time I went in, I made a point of saying something nice (and sincere) to every kid and calling each by name. Sure enough, in a matter of weeks, they loved me.
2) From a long-haul trucker I heard on the radio:
After Hurricane Katrina, I was listening to NPR's coverage of the clean-up efforts. A bunch of truckers had volunteered to shovel out the debris. The reporter was discussing this with one of the truck drivers, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, and she asked him how one actually goes about cleaning up a mess of such huge proportions. He paused a moment, then answered, "You start at the front, and you work toward the back." Yes, you do.
3) From my mother:
"Never underestimate the male ego."
1) From my younger daughter, then in the second grade:
I had volunteered in her classroom, and I was my regular, slightly impatient self. Afterwards, she said to me, "Mommy, you have to try to be nice to everybody or else they won't be excited to see you." The next time I went in, I made a point of saying something nice (and sincere) to every kid and calling each by name. Sure enough, in a matter of weeks, they loved me.
2) From a long-haul trucker I heard on the radio:
After Hurricane Katrina, I was listening to NPR's coverage of the clean-up efforts. A bunch of truckers had volunteered to shovel out the debris. The reporter was discussing this with one of the truck drivers, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, and she asked him how one actually goes about cleaning up a mess of such huge proportions. He paused a moment, then answered, "You start at the front, and you work toward the back." Yes, you do.
3) From my mother:
"Never underestimate the male ego."
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Cowardice of My Convictions
I cringe when I think about how many times when I was younger I let a man make me do something I really didn't want to. Yes, I know, no one can make me do anything. But in my twenties, I just didn't have the confidence or the gumption or maybe the self-respect to say, "No, that's not happening." I assumed that, these years later, since I like and trust myself more now, I would easily be able to stand up for myself. More so, I would have bet the farm that I would stand up for my daughters. And yesterday I didn't.
I am not an anti-vaccine zealot, nor do I believe it causes autism. My (almost) nine- and (just now) eleven-year old girls have been vaccinated up the wazoo (actually, just in the upper arms). Yesterday, at my older daughter's checkup, the pediatrician told her she'd be getting four shots: the H1N1 (at my request), the tetanus booster, the bacterial meningococcal booster, and the first of three doses of Gardasil. Gardasil, of course, protects against HPV and cervical cancer. Having dealt with HPV myself, I certainly would love to eliminate that risk for my kids. But I've spoken with a lot of friends about Gardasil (which I admit doesn't exactly count as research), and I have several reservations. My first concern is long-term effects. I don't want to be like those mothers who took DES during their pregnancy and consigned their daughters to adult cancers because the longitudinal research wasn't in. Further, a friend whose daughter has some neurological issues said that her neurologist said "absolutely not" to Gardasil, because of seizure and migraine possibilities. I had pretty much decided to wait on the Gardasil vaccine until my daughters were older, giving the research time to progress. Since my one girl is just eleven (and still very child-like), I'm certain she has some time before she'd really need it.
When I told their pediatrician that I had some concerns about Gardasil he said, "I have a concern about Gardasil, too. I'm concerned about parents who are concerned about it." He then told me that it's been successfully used in Europe for twenty years and that plenty of research backs it up. He added that his daughters had been vaccinated. Then he gave me a look that said, "Gotta problem with that?" And I gave in.
I haven't told anyone about the Gardasil, because I'm so ashamed that I didn't say no. I had made a decision that I thought to be in her best interest, and I allowed myself to be bullied out of it. Now, since she's had the first of three doses, I figure that I have to proceed. If I've hurt her, at least she should have the immunological protection. Almost as much as I worry about her future health, I worry about her having a mother who can't (or won't) stand up for her.
I am not an anti-vaccine zealot, nor do I believe it causes autism. My (almost) nine- and (just now) eleven-year old girls have been vaccinated up the wazoo (actually, just in the upper arms). Yesterday, at my older daughter's checkup, the pediatrician told her she'd be getting four shots: the H1N1 (at my request), the tetanus booster, the bacterial meningococcal booster, and the first of three doses of Gardasil. Gardasil, of course, protects against HPV and cervical cancer. Having dealt with HPV myself, I certainly would love to eliminate that risk for my kids. But I've spoken with a lot of friends about Gardasil (which I admit doesn't exactly count as research), and I have several reservations. My first concern is long-term effects. I don't want to be like those mothers who took DES during their pregnancy and consigned their daughters to adult cancers because the longitudinal research wasn't in. Further, a friend whose daughter has some neurological issues said that her neurologist said "absolutely not" to Gardasil, because of seizure and migraine possibilities. I had pretty much decided to wait on the Gardasil vaccine until my daughters were older, giving the research time to progress. Since my one girl is just eleven (and still very child-like), I'm certain she has some time before she'd really need it.
When I told their pediatrician that I had some concerns about Gardasil he said, "I have a concern about Gardasil, too. I'm concerned about parents who are concerned about it." He then told me that it's been successfully used in Europe for twenty years and that plenty of research backs it up. He added that his daughters had been vaccinated. Then he gave me a look that said, "Gotta problem with that?" And I gave in.
I haven't told anyone about the Gardasil, because I'm so ashamed that I didn't say no. I had made a decision that I thought to be in her best interest, and I allowed myself to be bullied out of it. Now, since she's had the first of three doses, I figure that I have to proceed. If I've hurt her, at least she should have the immunological protection. Almost as much as I worry about her future health, I worry about her having a mother who can't (or won't) stand up for her.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Dieting for 8 Year-Olds
My 8 year-old daughter has put herself on a diet. She is a big girl, tall and sturdy and strong. She's the fastest runner on her softball team (and I have the times to prove it). The pediatrician said her weight is fine and that people just come in different shapes. But her friends are those tiny wraiths with toothpick arms and countable ribs. So she put herself on a diet, which scares me to death. She said she wants to eat healthier, and who could complain about that? She's been chosing to forego her evening snack, and certainly nobody really needs one. A few days ago, she said, "Mommy, look at my belly. When I was chubby, it was out to here, and now I'm skinny. I'm so happy!" I gulped and said, "Honey, you know I don't care about that. I just want you to be healthy and strong. I always think you're beautiful." But I know how I feel when I'm skinny (and I know how I feel right now when I'm not). What am I supposed to do?
Last night was Halloween, and my husband and a few neighborhood dads took their daughters trick-or-treating. One of the dads mentioned to my husband (in I assume a congratulatory tone, though I didn't ask because I didn't want to get even more pissed) that he could tell that our 8 year-old had lost weight. Fuck him.
Last night was Halloween, and my husband and a few neighborhood dads took their daughters trick-or-treating. One of the dads mentioned to my husband (in I assume a congratulatory tone, though I didn't ask because I didn't want to get even more pissed) that he could tell that our 8 year-old had lost weight. Fuck him.
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