Mommy-Daughter Matching Outfits

(Picture of my family circa 1978) Note the patterned shag rug in the foreground, and the fabulous tan 3-piece suit on dad)

When I was 6 or so, my mom made matching outfits for us to wear to my first opera. It may actually have been my second opera. I think we went to Hansel and Gretel when I was five and La Boheme when I was 6. La Boheme: A light-hearted romp about impoverished bohemians dying of consumption. (For those non-opera people in the house - and I count myself among you - it's what Rent was based on). In order to prepare us, my mom made paper dolls of all the characters and we "played" La Boheme at home while listening to recordings of the arias. I particularly enjoyed making paper Mimi cough up a lung as she died, tragically young. Just your average suburban family fun. My parents didn't like board games. The outfits my mom sewed are long, to-the-ground skirts with matching vests and little tissue purses (purses for tissues - remember, we were going to the Metropolitan Opera to watch a tragedy).

For this story to make sense, it's important to know that four years ago my parents moved across the country to be near us. Well, to be near our then 2-year-old daughter...and us. Along with my parents came entire Fisher-Price toy sets in pristine shape; all my Barbies with their unfortunate mullet haircuts that had seemed like good ideas at the time; buttons to match pretty much any shirt that has ever been worn by any member of our family; miles of embroidery floss, categorized by color and shade; and my brother's and my bronzed baby shoes and favorite stuffed animals. My husband, daughter, and I live in a house with a garage and plenty of closet space, an attic even, and yet when we need fabric for a craft project or specific size screws for a broken gadget, we call my mom before heading to Michael's or Home Depot. Usually, she's got it. It's kind of a miracle.

Of course, when you grow up with a mother who has cards for every occasion perfectly organized in an under-bed box, your office supply area tends to be a bunch of random boxes filled with envelopes that don't match; rubber bands twisted around bent paper clips; and papers, papers, papers, important papers in recycled folders that are labeled with what was in them three lifetimes ago. It's not that I don't appreciate organization: it's as if my DNA forces me to reject it. Teenage rebellion so imprinted in my bones it's almost physically impossible for me to successfully organize. I try. I really do. I put labels on plastic boxes for my daughter's art supplies: "stickers," "markers," "assorted found and recycled craft stuff," but I can't keep up with it. My desk has several upright cardboard boxes - given to me by my mother of course - and I periodically make decisions: this one's for stamps and envelopes - things that have to do with mail; this one's for all my pages of notes that might find their way into my novel or a script or something brilliant I'm just about to write; and this one is for all the stuff having to do with my daughter's school. Did I mention that I love the semi-colon? My husband and I were working on a script for Nickelodean recently and he kept taking my semi-colons out of the dialogue. When I finally confronted him: "Where are my f#$&%ing semi-colons?" He told me that he'd been taught not to use semi-colons in dialogue because actors don't know what to do with them. Silly actors; semi-colons are your friends. A pause, slightly longer than a comma. A way to really organize a list. Hey, look at that: I'm all about the organization in my writing. M dashes, colons, semi-colons, commas - they are all my friends. But within a week, those desk boxes have begun to infect each other - school papers in with stamps, bills and receipts - where do they go? - in with my jotted note things, checkbooks and notepads sticking out like they're trying to breathe...

I love my mother. I love my mother more every day. Watching her volunteer her time to come to my daughter's school and read to the children, spend extra time running a center for second-language learners who need a little more attention, sew soft, squishy pillows for the school library and colorful aprons for the art hut...I just adore her. The things that drove me mad as a teenager I now find endearing and tender. They were tender then too, of course, but it's hard to take so much tender when your 13, 14, 15, when all you want to do is get out, separate, expand beyond! When I was six years old, I loved that matching skirt and vest. As a teenager and young adult, I considered that outfit proof that my mom wouldn't give me any breathing room at all, ever! "Look," I'd say to therapists and friends and in angry lyrics in my all-chick band, Big Panty (not kidding), "She even wanted us to dress alike - she couldn't stand for me to be different from her! I am different! I am!!!" (the lyrics held the sentiment, but were a little more...well...lyrical.) I've referenced that matching outfit so many times throughout my long, hard-fought differentiation that it's taken on a life of its own.

And today, for the first time in 33 years, I saw those matching outfits in the flesh. Or in the faux-velvet, I should say. From the miracle closet, my mother pulled out those matching outfits and I waited for the anger, the frustration, the feeling of not being able to breathe, of being shrink-wrapped or straight-jacketed, or otherwise...

What I felt was...tenderness. Love. All the love that my mom must have poured into those black faux-velvet matching skirts and vests over three decades ago were intact, in the material. For a moment I thought my mom and my daughter would wear them on Christmas eve. It took me a long, confused moment to realize that she had saved them with the hope that I would one day wear the grown-up one. My daughter was, of course, thrilled. "Let's wear them on Christmas Eve AND on Christmas Day!" she cried. "Sure, hon," I said, wondering if photos of us would be fodder for her therapy in twenty years. Something will, chances are, whether we put on these outfits or not.

Chet Baker and peace in stormy L.A.

A quick note about the last blog entry: Thanks for all the feedback I've been getting about the story I wrote of challenged fertility and coming to peace with the family you have vs the family you pictured. Thanks also for the amazing personal stories that readers/friends are sharing. Most of you are emailing or FB-ing them rather than posting them, due to wanting anonymity or not wanting to have to register. To that end, we are working on a website dedicated to the project. I'll keep this blog going here and let you know when the site is up and running. At that point, you can post your stories anonymously or signed, and without having to sign in. Stay tuned...

It's been raining in Los Angeles for days. It's not a Los Angeles rain; it's what I imagine a Seattle rain or London rain might feel like. Falling asleep to the gentle pounding, waking up to a glary gray sky and windows spattered with drops. My two best friends from childhood live in those cities and I picture them wet, mossy, moody, cozy, a little sad. I looked away from the keyboard as I tried to type "moody" and I accidentally typed "mossy." I left it in because I liked the way it sounded. Mossy. That's how I feel right now: a little mossy. My husband and 6-year-old daughter just headed out to see Tangled and do some Christmas shopping, generously giving me a couple hours to write. Now that I've come back to it, if I don't have some writing time every day, I feel out of sorts, off, irritable. I remember reading Rainer Maria Rilke "Letters to a Young Poet" in college and he wrote about how a writer has to write every day. Over the years I'd question myself - am I a "real" writer? I don't write every day. Now I realize that a day when I write is a better day.

I have the IPod on shuffle in a docking station and some songs are just right - an Elvis Costello ballad, an old standard sung by Mel Torme, a silly Belle and Sebastian tune, but something just came on that is like that screech across the record album, "Ain't no cure for the summertime blues," sung by some bad country act. One of those - why do I have this on my IPod - moments? I'm getting up, excuse me...okay I'm back. Well, that was a big bummer. Turns out it was James Taylor (who anyone who knows me knows I love love love beyond reason and beyond criticism) on a recent Covers album he did. It was orchestrated like bad contemporary country and I am now working on flushing that sound from my memory lest it color my deep love of JT. Okay, got on Beck, singing Debra - "I wanna get with you...and your sister, I think her name's Debra..." That's so much better. Ahhhh.... Even though he's a scientologist. I probably shouldn't have typed "scientologist" into my blog. They're probably reading this as I type, internet spiders honing in on anyone who mentions the word.

Yesterday I was driving down to Playa Del Rey to swap some clothes at this awesome designer swap place - http://giveplustake.com/ - feeling aware of my privilege and of the fact that we are living slightly above our means right now and fighting the urge to go get a thai massage just to really drive that home - and I passed a long line of parents and children, huddled under umbrellas, outside the police station. It took me a second to put it together: Toy Drive. Every year the police station by our house collects new toys then has a toy drive at which parents can come get free toys for their children. The parents have to bring the children with them. I think the rule is that one child has to be there for each toy. I wonder if they're wrapped - the presents, not the children. If not, doesn't it ruin the surprise? I guess the surprise is pretty limited when you've stood for hours in the rain to earn your own present. Or does it give it that much more values? I've been struggling with how to help my daughter see the value of what she has, without stooping to the "There are children in Africa who would kill for that spaghetti you are poo-pooing! What's it like to be those children, standing in the rain with your parents, watching them accept your gifts from police officers? Normal, I imagine. Just like anything, it's just the way those families do Christmas. Is it any weirder than parents shopping without you, sneaking presents into stockings and claiming Santa Claus?

I waited to feel sad, guilty, even enraged at the social injustice. But this weird feeling came over me as I sat at the red light and watched the families huddled under big umbrellas, socializing, laughing, sharing free cups of hot chocolate. I felt a little jealous. It looked like such a community. It looked comfortable and friendly, if a little cold and wet. The kids were running around on the slippery patch of grass outside the station. The line was moving pretty fast. It was about half as long as the previous year when it was standard L.A. sunny outside. I wondered if the parents on line felt lucky that it rained, if they'd get a better pick or maybe even extra gifts this year. I am so glad we are building the public charter school that I'm sure I'll write more about in this blog over time, as it's the center of our family's social/educational/emotional/physical life right now. I finally feel like we have a community in L.A. It changes everything.

Chet Baker just came on my IPod - "Although I can't dismiss the memory of her kiss, I guess she's not for me..." oh God I love his voice. Crap, just got followed by Gloria Estefan, put on the IPod by my husband, I swear. Yep, my husband likes Gloria Estefan - should've put something in the wedding vows - "in bad musical taste and good..." I jump up, run over, turn it off, flip to "artists," select Chet Baker, ahhhh...now it'll be all Chet for the rest of the morning. Perfect for a rainy, chilly, L.A. day. Two sweet neighbor boys just brought me a bag of lemons from their lemon tree. Dominic was just a baby last time I looked, now he's got a mohawk. The gratitude is seeping back in as I write all this down. It doesn't take a masters in psychology and a license in marriage and family therapy - (Both of which I have by the way. Just saying) - to know that writing is therapeutic. That the act of slowing down and honing in, noticing the details of the day, recording them, brings a sense of purpose that's hard to achieve any other way. The wind is picking up outside and against the pale sky the undulating trees look unstable, overwhelmed by the sudden dramatic weather. Tonight we will take my dad out for a belated birthday dinner, then come home and start a fire in the fireplace. We will drag my daughter's futon in and cuddle up. Tonight's plan is a family camping trip in the living room. For now, Chet Baker's trumpet, stormy winds, a cup of mint tea, and gratitude. So much gratitude.

Best Laid Plans: Family Edition

I was writing the following blog entry, which I didn't post yesterday because halfway through the writing I realized I want to build on it and move it into book-land. (Yes, I understand the irony that just a few posts back I was ruing the "book-dealiness" of blogville). So I'm exploring the idea of a book but I want to post this here now because so many people I talk to and hear from are going through intense stuff right now, especially in terms of building their families and reflecting on how they thought their family would look and how it actually does...

OKAY, back to the school for a teacher / staff appreciation event, then pick up my daughter, then playdate, then writing group. Busy busy. Here's the entry:

I just got two emails, back to back, from two of my favorite women in the world,
and my heart is hurting. One is splitting up from her husband and the other,
while in a happy marriage, is feeling really low about career and life. Both are
looking at what it means that they are coming up on 40 / in mid-40s, and do not
have children. My heart hurts. I am sending them love. I am thinking about
having children, how easy we think it will be, what an ordeal it's been for so
many of my friends, what an ordeal it's been for us. I am loving my daughter.
I am feeling sad. I am feeling grateful. I am writing this to these women I
love and to all women who struggle with the decision to have children, or the
ability to have them, or the regret of not having them. I'm writing this to my
friends who had more than they imagined they would and love them incredibly but
are tired and cranky and their feet hurt. Basically, we all struggle on this
one.

I feel like half the people I know are dealing with some sort of fertility
thing. Environment? Waiting too long? Stress? It took my husband and me a
year and a half to get pregnant the first time around even though I was
thirty-one and healthy and all tests came back normal. We had just made an
appointment with a fertility doctor, which we triumphantly canceled after the
pee on the stick turned blue. Pee on the stick makes me think of Hotdog on a
Stick which is a truly strange name for a food stand. I digress. My daughter is
a miracle.

We have one child. People love to ask me about it, as if there isn't a sad,
private story behind it, behind everything. "Just decided to have one, huh?"
the dweeby engineer guy who sat next to me on the airplane coming back from
Maryland asked, just yesterday. "She must be really spoiled, huh?" I've found
the best way to go is just ride along with it, like when a wave takes you or in
martial arts, follow along with the hit rather than pushing against it. So I
say, "Yep, just one. Spoiled rotten. Queen of the world." I just surf it and
move away from the subject before the part that is straining against my tight,
aching gut comes out and yells, "Do you want to hear? About the miscarriage?
The silent weeps on the toilet when I feel my period coming?" The other thing
that continues to floor me is how often people like to point out that you have
an only child and imagine that she must be spoiled, expect everything her way.
Can you imagine if I went up to the ubiquitous two-child families and said in a
friendly, we're-all-in-this-together voice, "Oh, you decided to have two, huh?
You must really divide your attention and not give either of them the love and
care they deserve, huh? They must be really insecure, right?"

Over the years, I've lost count of the silent weeps I've had on the toilet as I
see that first evidence of my period, still trying to convince myself that it's
just the normal spotting of early pregnancy and that the cramps are eggs
implanting rather than fleeing my uterus. I've lived through that even worse
moment after the excitement of the positive pregnancy test, trying so hard not
to tell anyone, but of course it sneaks out here and there, when suddenly you
feel the cramping, and the bleeding, and the miscarrying. And after it all, when
you bump into the mom at the park who has two, notice her eyeing your stomach,
realize you talked to her about your nervousness at being about to have two
under the age of two. Not a problem, anymore, you say.

I've used the ovulation kit, thrown out the ovulation kit, pretended we're not
trying anymore as if I can trick my reproductive organs into relaxation, visited
the absurd Beverly Hills reproductive endocrinologist's office where they
actually have a concierge, left that office and decided not to do the drugs. My
husband and I looked out at the stunning view of the hills while the concierge
offered us tea and we agreed that we'd prefer an affordable doctor to one with a
concierge. Concierge. I can't stop typing it, it's just so ridiculous. We've
decided against fertility drugs in the light of some scary stories, then
second-guessed our choices as years have gone by without a single pregnancy
scare/hope/reality. I've taken all the crazy suggestions - shot egg whites up
my hoo-ha, stood on my head after sex, forced all sorts of weird vitamins on my
husband - and the not-so-crazy suggestions - thyroid pills, acupuncture, oil
shot through my tubes - that feels good - several times. I've fought with the
insurance company repeatedly when they denied our claims, citing "infertility"
as not covered. "Fertility TESTING," I've yelled into the phone many times,
fighting back tears, tears, always more frigging tears, with this stuff, "I have
a child. I'm not infertile." Except, after 2 years, then 3, then 6, pass,
apparently I am.

I've walked away from this post three times now. Done some laundry, poured some
tea, made a few business calls. This is painful. But I remind myself it's that
good pain, that get-it-out pain. It's a big infertility splinter and it'll feel
a lot better after it's out. And I am soooooooo not alone. I know that.

Last Spring, my husband and I did five weekends of all-day seminars to qualify
to Foster-to-Adopt. I'd been working as a therapist with families dealing with
child protective services and thought the workshop would be a piece of cake. "I
know all about the trauma, the horrors, the abuse," I said when people asked if
we were prepared to deal with all that. I wasn't cavalier, but I was confident.
Over-confident, it turns out. By week three, when we were really thinking
about how it looks to bring a child with severe trauma into our home, into the
home of our kindergarten-aged child who still needs all of us, every minute of
every day, I began to have my doubts. We are currently on pause in this
process.

A few months ago, I was driving with our five-year-old daughter - our only child
- and talking about some of the new babies in our lives. Many of my best
friends are about to hit 40 and the ones who can are getting knocked up just
under the wire. There are also the ones who can't, or whose husbands didn't
measure up to the vows they took, or who waited just a little too long to
decide. It is not easy. So my daughter and I were talking about the rash of
new babies and how they will be like little cousins, or almost siblings, to her
and she said, "I wish I had a sibling." Venice Blvd got all blurry in front of
me. One thing about being a mom, you get really emotional, and even better at
holding it together. I tear up in front of my daughter, I've cried in front of
my daughter several times, even wept when our puppy died. But I do not fall
apart in front of my daughter. If I'm really a mess, I hand off and fall apart
in the other room. I think she needs to know that I am human, but that I am
also sturdy. So I kept driving, wiped the tears quietly, and told my daughter
that we were still trying and we didn't know what my body would do, but we were
planning to build our family, by adoption or biologically. It was silent for a
while. Then my daughter said, "But one thing, Mom. Even if we have another
baby, you'll always love me the most, right?" I thought my heart would burst.
Having one child is a precious thing. It's not better or worse than having
more than one, but it is different. I was never an only child.

"I know this is impossible to imagine," I said. "It's beyond impossible for me
to imagine. But what all my friends with more than one kid say is that you love
them all differently, but you do love them all equally. I think that's the deal
with having more than one kid."

It got really quiet in the car. Finally I got to a red light and looked over my
shoulder. My daughter was sitting in her booster seat, silently crying. Tears
ran down her cheeks and her face was crumpled, but she didn't make a sound. It
wasn't the scream-y, tantrum-y, disappointed cry of a five year old. This was
the quiet crying I know so well. I reached back to touch her leg and she kicked
me off. The car behind us honked and I looked forward. It was a green light.
I started driving.

"Do you want me to hold onto you the best I can right now?" I asked.

"No."

"Let me know if there's anything I can do. Otherwise I'm just here, okay?"

Silence. My daughter sat in the backseat realizing what it would mean to share
love. It was heartbreaking. I know that if we are able to have more, it will
be wonderful and the love will multiply and it'll be great if we can get
pregnant and I'm sure that adopting would be incredible and on and on and all
the things that people say to me all the time. But for this child, the reality
of it would also be devastating.

-------------------------------

Last month it hit me that I'm gonna be 40. Soon. Really really soon. And I
asked my husband, "Are we gonna do this? Make a final push? Give it the old
hollywood try? Fertility? IUI? IVF? Start the adoption process? Or is it time
to shut it down?"

We hadn't fully decided when another of my good 40-year-old friends popped out
her first and probably only baby and I was talking to my daughter about how many
years difference there was between the two of them and what it would look like
at different ages when they'd play.

"So when I'm 8, how old will she be?"

"Two."

"And when I'm 13?"

"Seven."

We did the math game for a while and then I said casually, "There'd be about
that spread if I have a baby, too."

And without a pause, she said, "I decided I don't want that. You can stop
trying to do that."

I asked for more details, said that it still might happen, and she said, "No, I
think you should stop trying."

At that point it occurred to me that while I'd been very upfront about the basic
process of baby-making, I certainly hadn't shared that it was also a
recreational activity, so our daughter thought she was freeing me from an
activity that there's no way I'd be doing otherwise. We left it that it could
still happen, but that I had registered her input. Since that conversation, it
feels like a big ball of pressure is lifted. My "only" daughter is not
traumatized by being an only. My faulty uterus, or pokey tubes, or hostile
mucous or whatever the heck's going on in there, is fine. We are a family. A
small family. A different-looking family than I'd pictured, that's for sure.
But an amazing family. I wish that - whatever that looks like - for all the
women I love. I wish that for everyone.

Do what's right for your kid...

...is what people say to justify leaving public schools that don't fit their kid's learning style, to talk to the teacher about making changes to curriculum, to judge whether they need more homework, more discipline, a gentler touch, and on and on. Obviously a helpful phrase. And a necessary one. Having spent the last several years in public mental health working often with cases referred by Department of Child and Family Services for abuse, neglect, cases I try not to think about too much but that still show up in dreams, I know that not all families have the knack of doing what's right for their kids. That's the really painful reality and it tends to make me more compassionate with parents, usually from higher socio-economic backgrounds and high expectations of schools and life in general, who expect schools and classes to be exactly geared toward their child's learning styles and needs at all times. Or the hyper-attentive parents in the playgrounds, or the over-scheduling afterschool activity parents, or even the home-school / un-school / make sure your child is happy at all times parents. I get it. I feel for them.

That said, I feel like the phrase "you have to do what's best for your child" without any mitigation or parameters is becoming another American problem. It's that old entitlement thing that gets me right in the gut. When parents use that phrase "I have to do what's right for my child" to attempt to torpedo a teacher or a school or a program that's working out for the other 19, 30, or 140 children in the same program. Or when parents use the phrase "I have to do what's right for my child" to do what's right for them, never bothering to get down low and check in with said child. He or she may be thriving in an environment that is uncomfortable for the parent. And what about at least adding to the phrase so it goes something more like, "I have to do what's right for our child and all the children of our community." Or at least try. I feel like there'd be a lot less whisking out to private school if parents felt that all the children in the public schools are their children.

I'm feeling my role as president of the community association of my daughter's school this morning. Feeling the responsibility, the weight. I'm not light this morning. My desk has so much friggin crap on, which I try to "organize" by sticking different types of crap into different cardboard box things, but there is no order. I turn my head to the left and there's the two pieces of felt waiting for me to sew a pillow with my daughter for her secret santa, who apparently likes orange and blue, elephants, and beards. So that's all incorporated into this upcoming project. And I am not a crafter. This is potentially going to be one sad pillow. Wait. Wait. Here's that power of positive opportunity...my daughter and I are going to kick that pillow's ass. Yea.

There's just so much stuff here, laundry running and dog hair to be vacuumed, random beeping - the coffeemaker? the washing machine? something deep inside my head trying to remind me of something? I feel guilty writing this, but I miss the quiet non-responsibility of the hotel. Where any mess was mine and minimal and clean-up-able and where the linens had no stains and someone came in and made my bed. Where I walked downstairs in the morning and ordered a starbucks, charged it to the room, wandered around, the quiet, the peace. I was lonely there and I missed my family. But now that I'm back, I'm already struggling with this low-grade irritation feeling, like a little infection that keeps nudging at my brain. Off to couples' therapy now. I find that keeps things honest at least. I think I need to make a list, get some stuff done, then when I pick my daughter up, just concentrate completely on sewing a blue and orange bearded elephant pillow and being with her. Computer will be off. Texting off limits. Dinner will be simple. Bedtime will be early.

Cynicism Hooray.

Cynicism Hooray is what my husband just said I should rename my blog because I'm in a dark space tonight. Tough re-entry made tougher by the fact that none of the video of the holiday concert shows my freaking daughter! I get that each parent filmed their own kid, but my kid happened to be way on the bottom right-hand corner and basically cut out of all the video I've seen and it's turning me all nuttato. I'm suddenly a crazy mother, screaming into the wind, "What about my child? Does no one film her?" And of course particularly blaming my husband because if not him, then who? To which he countered - "You brought the camera - our camera - our only camera - to take photos of you and Big Man Tesh..." Or something like that. I may have embellished. And he may be right. But that doesn't dim my sense of self-righteousness and indignant fury! Okay, that's out.

What I want to write about tomorrow is the overused refrain, "Ultimately, you have to do what's right for your child." It's not a bad phrase. And obviously, we all do have to do what's right for our child, our family, our tribe. But what's the relationship between that and our responsibility to our community? Other families? Other children. More on that...stay tuned...and hope that this cranky passes in the night.

Home for the Holidays

Home from Maryland, about to take a long bath, which I've been missing - my hotel room in Maryland had no bathtub. Probably a good thing, as I would've spent as much time in the tub as I did flipping through late night t.v. and eating the John Tesh Amway snack packs they left for me in a gift bag. So happy to be home and also already missing the anonymity and zero responsibility of a hotel room. I've returned home to my daughter reminding me that I have to help her make a felt pillow in the shape of an elephant with a beard for one of the kids in her class - her secret santa - apparently he really likes elephants and beards. I am not crafty. Nana is crafty. But my daughter specifically wants me to help her with this sewing project, NOT nana. I feel it's like a challenge to my craft-challenged ways. I will try.

Just downloaded the video of the holiday concert I missed this morning, taken by another mom in the class, and she somehow managed to exclude my daughter from pretty much every second of the song. In my fragile post-travel state, it just rubs in the fact that I missed it. Basically, I'm a finalist in the pissy wet blanket contest tonight instead of the positivity contest. Give me a hot bath with lavender suds and a good night's sleep and tomorrow I'll write the story I want to share.

Getting on the plane...

One last thing I have to share that is just cracking me up as I wrap up this Hagerstown experience. I decided to comment on John Tesh's FB page and let him know about my blog, because who knows, maybe he wants to read it? Stranger things have happened, (like me crying at a John Tesh concert, for instance). In order to comment, I have to "like" him. So I hit the old FB "like" button, and now, instead of the suggestions I used to get on my profile page, like "maybe you'd like Franz Ferdinand" I do! or "Fight to legalize gay marriage" I will! Now I'm getting "Looks like you would like Yanni." AGGGGHHHH!