Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Middle Age

I was reading to my 5-year-old the other day while she played with my hair.  "Hey!" she said.  "There's something white on this one!  And it won't come off!"  That's middle age for you.  It just doesn't come off.  The gray, the extra pounds, the wrinkles - they're here to stay.  I've been looking at my options for the next 30 years (God willing): should I strive for the plump, vulnerable, soft look?  Or should I attempt the seen-it-all, no-nonsense, in charge demeanor?  Which one would make it least likely that, years from now, young women, upon seeing me in the store or where ever, would think, "Getting old sucks!"

Probably neither.  I'm just kidding myself.

With tears in my eyes- a graduation story

  Eighth grade graduation.  What a boring thing to anticipate, for a parent.  At least it's the end of those private school tuition bills.

What a surprise!!!!

The graduation was great!!! Each of the kids had 45 seconds to say something about their SSDS experience. Many of them did it in concert with 1-3 others.

What can you say in 45 seconds? Actually, quite a lot. And the ones that did it together (multiplying the time) were very creative. The kids totally blew me away with their ideas. Rosie did it with another girl and they even thanked their siblings! Most kids didn't thank parents/teachers, but many did. Some of the ones that stood out were: 3 boys- performed a new music composition; 4 boys- did short skits parodying rap music, Shakespeare and something else from English class and 4 girls- Remember the original Charlie's Angels beginning " Once upon a time, 3 little girls went to..." This was based on that and really outlined all their 9 years at school.  Several sets of girls sang, as well as commented on their choice of words. One set some words from the Biblical literature to new music.

I am going to miss the comraderie of all of the moms. But many of the kids will be attending the supplementary Hebrew High school, so we can arrange to see each other on Sunday mornings.

Remember the JC Penney dress purchases?  Here's the final results.

At graduation:

 

And for the semi-formal dance.  Rosie spent an hour with a friend curling her hair.

Isn't my baby gorgeous?

Yes, I'm sending my son to Israel

By Nina

It never ceases to amaze me  -- the looks of horror I get when I tell people I'm sending my 16-year-old son to Israel for the summer.  Even from Jews. 

Well, I'm in the south now and down here people think nothing of asking you straight out, when they first meet you, "What church do y'all go to?"  And then when you tell them you're Jewish and you don't actually go to church, but you belong to Congregation Shearith Israel, three minutes later they say, "Now what was the name of that church you go to?"   OK, maybe it's hard to wrap your brain around the tangle of Hebrew that is Shearith (remnant) Israel (Israel).  This stuff doesn't even rattle me.  It's almost cute.

What I hate are the looks of grave concern when you say you're sending your child to Israel.  You'd think I was sending the kid to Baghdad.  In fact I'm sending him to his homeland, the most progressive, impressive and remarkable nation in modern history.  He will be touring with other teenagers from North America, under strict supervision in what is turning out to be one of the most robust summer tourism season in a few years.  Israel needs that badly. 

I don't want to preach here or get too political on you, but this I believe.  Israel is a brilliant democracy that sits in a very bad neighborhood.  It is surrounded by neighbors who would like it to disappear from the earth.  Egypt is digging tunnels to run guns and supplies to Hamas in Gaza.  Syria and Lebanon, it's puppet state,  have rockets aimed at the Golan Heights and Tel Aviv.  And let's face it, Iran's nukes, whether you believe they exist or not,  are intended for Israel. Only Jordan, ruled by a modern and educated King, understands the utility and potential of "making it work" with Israel.

My son will start his trip in Europe.  He'll tour Prague and visit Auschwitz and see the remnants (that Hebrew word Shearith again) of once thriving Jewish communities where his ancestors  lived, learned, taught, created and prospered.  Then he'll sail into Haifa Harbor, like the Ma'apilim (immigrants)  who survived the Holocaust and made new lives in the Jewish State. He'll see the good, the beautiful, the ugly.  He'll see the security wall and the checkpoints.  He'll see Jews and Arabs struggling to coexist in a complex shared destiny.  He'll hear Hebrew, a language resurrected from the pages of the bible, as a living, breathing modern tongue with its own unique street slang and poetry.  He'll see contradictions and complexities on every street corner. 

Israel isn't neat and tidy. It's loud and messy.  It is all at once western and eastern, orthodox and progressive, secular and religious.  It is our pride and our pain. These ads express our immense pride in what Israel has achieved amidst staggering challenges.

And that's the way I want it.  I cannot protect Grumble from everything.  In truth, I think life in Israel is safer than life in America. People are connected there in ways that can barely be expressed.  When you ride the bus and someone thinks your baby might be under-dressed and chilly, 5 surrogate mothers will step in and offer their sweater as an extra blanket.  Once in a restaurant where my 5 year old wailed for pizza, the proprietor sent a waiter across the street and got my kid a slice.  When Israeli soldiers were camped out in a field near Efrat during the 2nd Intifada, my friends cooked for them as if they were their own sons and daughters.  That's the kind of place I want my son to experience. 

There will be an armed guard on Grumble's bus.  He will not travel outside the so-called "Green Line" and security reports will determine when and where his group travels.  But there will also be songs and sights and stories I cannot give him in America. For 5 weeks he'll be in a danger zone.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

Wiiiiiii!!!!!!

Our household just got a Wii. 

But hold on, it's mama's toy.  I'm the one that wanted it.  Okay, yes, both Abe and Rose wanted it too, but grumbly hubbie wouldn't have gone out of his way to get one. (If he can order it via the web, it might be purchased.)

Now listen carefully.  If you want one, here's the trick.  Blockbuster, in some stores only, is selling the game console system for list price.  BUT, they only get one or two in at a time, and they only get them in once a week.  So the trick is a) finding which stores will be getting them, b) finding out the day that the delivery gets made and c) calling the store to see if they have them yet (if at all) and d) (depending on the store) going there immediately or putting it on hold til the end of the workday.

I lucked out big time. I called right before lunchtime.  The store near work was unpacking the shipment but had already promised the first system to someone else.  Maybe.... just maybe.... there were 2 systems.  So I walk over there at lunchtime and YES!!!!!  It's mine.

The question here is--- so who's the kid?  (Me)

So said box is sitting on the kitchen counter when I get home.  Rosie strolls into the kitchen, sees it and immediately starts jumping up and down and up and down.  Then she's asking if it's real.  My child seems to think that I would play a trick on her and show her an empty box. (Now a trick is another matter, but it wasn't in this case.)

So now we actually see some maturity here.  Rosie says to me "I guess I'll have to clean up my room before I'm allowed to use it" (Yup) "And I'll have to make sure that my homework is done" (Yup) "and do...(several other things that I've been after her to do) (Yup).  And guess what?  We've already made headway on her room!  And grumbly hubbie actually set it up already so we get to use it.

Gifts are a breeze now.  Please send games and maybe a Wii Fit.  For the teens or the mom?  Both!!!

A post-script to this conversation is that my SIL called me up the next morning.  They bought a Wii system at Costco.  $100 more than list price but with some extras.  It pays to shop mid-week!!!

Sometimes Mom is Right

by Ora

Did you know that the 60's are back?  Just look around at the clothes that are on display in the stores.  And it's not just for kids anymore, it's for grown-ups (read: Moms).  I went shopping with Rose for some much needed dresses.  This kid, aside from the fact that she has more clothes than some nations, didn't want to wear any dresses when she had to get dressed up for religious services or other events. 

But....

She needed a dress for her "semi-formal" dance and another one for her graduation.   But wait, I thought that Rose was only 14 and in 8th grade, how could she be graduating?  Well, the religious school that she currently attends only goes through 8th grade, so therefore there is a graduation.

In this case, Mom actually came through with picking out dresses that Rosie liked.  The pink is for graduation, although since the ceremony is in a synagogue, she'll be wearing a black T-shirt underneath (must have your shoulders covered and not too much bodice showing).

                     

Now the dance is also supposed to adhere to the school dress code, but I think that these kids have had enough of that, so the turquoise dress will be worn as is.

We got both of these dresses (the dance dress about a month ago) at JC Penney.  This store has turned into a wonderful Mother-daughter compromise store.  The compromise being she likes the clothes and mom likes the prices.  And best of all (in Rosie's eyes) is that said store is located at nouveau-riche gigantic mall (excuse me Collection) that is hip to go shop at.

Oh, and by the way, I had picked up a dress in a similar (but quieter) fashion that she even liked for herself!  Wow.  And she liked it on me.  Will wonders never cease?

Packing Season

T'is the season.... for packing them up and shipping 'em out.

Abe (PDD, NVLD, etc.) just received word that he is going to start at C next week.  C is a residential, therapeutic school.  From the outside, C would make a wonderful bed and breakfast since most of the buildings are on the historic register.  Their brochure talks about horse back riding and swimming and trips to Europe.  But underneath that, serious emotional and academic work goes on (although Abe is starting for the summer program).

    

I really can't imagine my slob of a son living in such an elegant place, but time will tell.

In any event, I have to get him packed to move over there.  It's a cross between packing for camp and packing for college.  For camp, you send totally grungy clothes that you don't care when they get lost, but for college you assume that the clothes will make it through the year, but probably some still get lost.  And of course, Mom is the one doing all of the packing because 17 year old boys can't be bothered.  The only thing that Abe will pick out to bring are his electronics and his books.  Mom gets to (needs to) get everything else together, label it, pack it and make sure that it gets shlepped over to school.

Rose, on the other hand at 14, will be going to camp for 2 months towards the end of the month.  Everything needs to be "just so" for her.  She makes all of the decisions on what to bring and it's waaaayy more than Mom thinks should be to camp.

Rosie whines "Mom, come help me pack...." but really she just wants approval on her choices.  Mom isn't really allowed to make any decisions on what to bring, but the mom is allowed to iron on labels, fold the clothes and place them into the suitcase and duffel bag.

Two kids, two totally different packing strategies. But the  net result is going to be several weeks of details then lots of quiet around the house.  I'm looking forward to the relaxation, but then I get to start worrying about how Abe is going to handle the program at C.  But that's another story.

Looking Backwards, Looking Forwards - Musings

As a first time mother, you don't know any  better.  The second time 'round, you're just too tired to care.

I hope that you had a happy Mother's Day!!!

Our dreams (plans) for our children change over the years.  A parent can keep those dreams until you get hit in the face that they must be modified.

Looking back, I can see that some of my hopes for Abe (17.5 yo, PDD, ADHD, NVLD, etc) were too expansive.  When he was born, I hoped for a wonderful kid who was going to have a wonderful life.  He's a wonderful kid (when he wants to be) who has had a hard life in terms of figuring out how to deal with his disabilities.  I still hope that when he's older, he'll think that he had a good childhood.

When Abe first started at an out-of-district, special education  placement school in the middle of 4th grade, I had dreams that he would be back in the mainstream during the high school years.  When Abe went to a high school SPED placement, I had dreams that he was going to graduate "on time" and go onto a regular college.

Now my dreams look somewhat different.  I want him to repeat 11th grade so that he can have more time in the therapeutic environment of the residential school that he's starting at the end of June.  I still dream of him going off to college and living an independent life, but I know that he is years away from that.  Abe's going to get there, but it's going to take him longer than other kids.  But I have faith that he's gonna get there (ya gotta have faith, baby).

My dreams for Rosie (14 yo, NT, ADHD) were never different than mine for her brother.  Be a good person, be of good intelligence, learn at nice schools and have a wonderful life.  I never dreamed that I would expose my children to the harshness of both parents having cancer or to domestic discord; but that's some of my legacy to them.

A mother always has hopes and dreams for her children.  Those wishes have changed over time as to specifics, but the basics of wanting the best for your kids always stays.

Not Quite Malibu Barbie, but Darn Close!

written by Judy Merrill Larsen

For the past twenty-one years, I've driven mom cars.  You know the type--they can haul car seats, little league teams, coolers and ice for lacrosse practice, 7th grade social studies projects, and all sorts of car pool arrangements.  Not to mention juice boxes, happy meals, and pizzas.  Once the juice stains have faded (for the most part), you can load the car up for that first drive to the dorm.  And then back home that summer.  Then, load it up for that first apartment.  Oh, and trips to the vet for the dogs so they can cover the windows that aren't open with nose prints and the ones that are open with drool.  It's a car that screams MOM.  MIDDLE-AGE.  SUBURBS.

 

 

I went from a Taurus wagon for the first 7 years, to mini-vans (two!) for the next 6 years, to a Saturn wagon for the past 8 years.  It's what my kids affectionately refer to as "The Silver Bullet."  It's what my sons drove to learn to drive.  They less affectionately asked if I paid extra for all the squeaks and pings it makes as I motor along.  It shouts "practical" and "paid for."

 

 

 

What it doesn't shout (or even whisper or sing) is "fun" or "sexy" or "carefree."

But, this does.

 

And, for the past two weeks, I've been behind the wheel of my first ever convertible.  Now, I'm not a car person (exhibits A through C above!).  But, there's something about a convertible that fills me with glee.  It's impractical, I know.  I'm 48 for cryin' out loud.  Some of you might be wondering if maybe I'm having  little mid-life-menopausal-type crisis.  Nope.  I'm just finally at a point in my life where what I drive doesn't have to take into consideration my kids.  It can be, dare I say, for me.  For fun.  And when a friend mentioned a few weeks after we'd had lunch that the lease on her 2005 convertible was up and it had fewer than 9000 miles on it (Yes.  You read that correctly) and that she had a good deal to buy it but she wanted something else, I casually mentioned it to my husband that night at dinner (because, we'd been talking that perhaps it was time to hand down the Silver Bullet to one of our more-or-less deserving children) and the next day we took it for a test-drive on one of the first sunny, warm days we'd had since last October.  And I felt like Malibu Barbie--only with brains and not in a bikini.

And no, the kids cannot borrow it.  There's a perfectly good 2000 Saturn wagon they can use.

Kiddie Throw-Down

>By Melanie Lynne Hauser (AKA, Mrs. Cranky-Pants)

My husband and I met the new neighbors the other day. A young couple, they moved in during the winter so we haven’t had a chance to get to know them until now. But last weekend was sunny and warm and everyone was out in their yards cleaning up from this horrible winter, and finally we all introduced ourselves.

They seem very nice. They bought the house to our left from the original owner at a song and have had to do a lot of work on it, but they seem capable and energetic.

And of course, my husband and I were charming. Totally. Except –

Actually, we were not.

For some reason – and I had one of those out of body experiences while it was happening, watching the words come out of our mouths and wondering who on earth were these horrible people? – the main point my husband and I made was –

We are cranky and old and settled in our ways.

We ticked off all the things we hope they don’t change about the exterior (yards are small here, and there is only about twenty feet between their house and ours). We ticked off all the things we always wished the previous owner would change but didn’t – things that affect our property adversely.

Then it got to the subject of kids. They asked us about a local restaurant. We said it was nice, except for all the screaming kids. They asked us about our backyard theater (my husband has a mini-drive-in in our backyard, and we host summer movie parties). We said it was great, they were invited anytime, but boy, we learned our lesson last summer. And we will not be having any family movies because of all the screaming kids!

They asked us about the neighborhood in general. We said it was fine. Except for all the screaming kids. Finally, at the end, as they were desperately trying to get away from us, the woman hesitantly revealed she’s pregnant and due this fall.

And as they slinked away, casting horrified looks over their shoulder, I asked my husband, “So. Do you think we’ll ever see them again?”

Part of me is appropriately embarrassed about our general crankiness. Goodness, but we are turning into crotchety old people!

But part of me is not. Because I feel, after spending the last eighteen years of my life stuck in kiddie land, I have earned the right to spend the rest of my days in sophisticated, adult world.

Look. We all have had kids, we all have loved them. Because they were ours. Honestly, though – do any of you really love kids? All kids, regardless of parentage? Do you truly adore their loudness, their messiness, their need to be the center of attention, their temper tantrums, piercing screeches that even dogs can’t bear, utter disregard for the world around them?

I will go on record here and say – I certainly do not.  I barely tolerated it when they were related to me.   And I think I’ve earned the right to say that, after spending the last eighteen years of my life being a good PTA/room parent mom. I paid my dues. Now I get to enjoy a life devoid of spilled milk.

The thing that really gets me, though, is how the world has changed since I was a young ‘in. (Cue cranky old lady music here.)

When my monsters – erm, I mean, my angels – were tiny tyrants, I did not inflict them upon the world. No, I spent the best years of my life stuck at home with them, like a good mother should, forgoing trips to the mall, leisurely afternoons at the coffee shop, art fairs, movies – society in general.

But today, young mothers don’t seem to want to stay at home, as I did. They seem to think it’s perfectly OK to bring their offspring everywhere they go. I can’t go to a coffee shop these days because all the tables are taken up by young mothers chatting about the latest super duper Hummer of a stroller, while their toddlers run around the shop screaming and pulling out paper napkins by the fistfuls and tossing them on the floor and spilling milk. All the while, their mothers chat away, seeming not to notice.

All those years I sat at home, I imagined another world, a world where adults could hang out with other adults, talk about world politics and art and culture, sip lattes in quiet, eat wonderful dinners in peace, the only sounds the soft, cultured melody of a violin. I dreamed of this utopia, I wept over it –

And now, I’m still weeping. Because the world has changed and this next generation of mothers has totally ruined it for all of us who knew that children should not be inflicted upon the general public, and I’m mad. And cranky.

And scaring off neighbors, apparently.

So I propose a truce. I promise not to accidentally-on-purpose trip your toddler – the one who’s running around my table at Starbucks, waving a sticky hand in my face and screaming at the top of his lungs –

If you promise not to bring him there in the first place. Or at least, if you promise to act properly mortified and usher him out and head back home where you both belong; that will grant you a reprieve. But then you have to promise not to bring him back until he’s seventeen.

Now, excuse me. I have to go yell at the neighbor kids to get off my lawn.

Independence Day

By Nina Rubin

A story in the New York Sun entitled "Why I Let My 9 Year Old Ride the Subway Alone" quickly shot to this paper's "most emailed" list, and also prompted a story on Slate.com.  It all reminded me of Jaws first independent subway trip when he was 12 and in 7th grade. 

In a provoking (in a good way) account in the New York Sun, writer Lenore Skenazy outs herself as a mother who let her 9-year-old son ride home by himself on a New York subway and bus. Yes, he transferred. She reports that her son arrived "ecstatic with independence." And also that half the people she has told "want to turn me in for child abuse." Only half?

Skenazy understands why other parents recoiled at a decision that wasn't all that daring, rationally speaking. It's not simply that parents think of every horrendous kidnapping story and so decide not to take any chance—however tiny—that something unspeakably awful will happen to our children.

So when did the notion of parent-as-bodyguard begin to prevail, and does it connect to the endless tug of war over where and how mothers should spend their time?

Unlike the Manhattan mother of the 9 year old, Jaws' blow for independence was completely unpremeditated and a tad defiant, but luckily for all of us, it had a happy ending. Now that he's 21 and alive and well, I still love telling about it.  It was a turning point for all of us.  A true Independence Day.

It was a Saturday in early spring, and Jaws and a pack of 7th grade friends (boys and girls) had tickets to a Mets game.  Back then we lived in a suburb of Long Island on the same train line that stops at Shea Stadium where the Mets play.  Not every parent was comfortable sending kids alone on the train to Shea Stadium, but having grown up with parents who rode the subways and allowed me age-appropriate opportunities to strike out on my own, I was fine with it.  Going to the ball game with a group of friends seemed to me like the perfect way to give middle school kids some rope and and have a lot of fun.  Jaws and his friends would take the train. They'd get off at Flushing Meadow, walk across the pedestrian bridge to the stadium, watch the game, rinse and reverse.

However, it rained buckets that Saturday.  And as I dropped Jaws off at the train station, the bedraggled group was debating whether or not to bag the game and wondering if it would be "called" and rescheduled. I was certain the game would be called, but I suggested that they all go for pizza downtown and call me when they figured out Plan "B."  So imagine my surprise when Jaws called and hour and a half later and said, "Hi Mom. We're in Times Square."  That's 42nd Street and Broadway...the heart of New York City.

When I recovered from this startling news, stopped yelling that nobody had given anybody permission to embark on this kind of freelance adventure, and made him promise swear in blood to be home on the 5:44 train, I hung up and actually laughed. 

I had to give them credit.  They came up with quite a cool Plan "B."  And they had cell phones.

Despite its legacy as a den of iniquity and a gritty urban crossroads, Times Square circa 2000 was hardly a scary neighborhood anymore.  I should know.  I worked at 44th and Broadway for 7 years at the only major advertising agency west of Madison and north of 23rd street. I'd seen Times Square morph into a respectable commercial crossroads where rising rents had driven out most of the peep shows, the Tads $4.99 steakhouses the Cuban-Chinese restaurants and even Papaya King.  (Poor suburban kids, they'll never have the Papaya King experience.) Increasingly, hotels and chain stores like Disney, Nike and Urban Outfitters had moved in, turning the once tawdry landmark intersection into, well, a suburban mall without a roof. 

The kids had a swell time, stuck together in their little rat pack, and were indeed on the 5:44 which chugged into the Port Washington station at 6:50.  From that day onward, New York City was fair game.  Jaws took some more group forays into the city to see movies, go to museums, and just "hang."  By 10th grade he got active in the Reform Jewish youth movement, and luckily for me, once independent suburban chapters on Long Island and Westchester couldn't afford youth advisors anymore and the NY region merged.  Hallelujah!  Now there were meetings at the denominational HQ's in midtown Manhattan, and "cool" kids from NYC private schools and elite public schools like Stuyvesant and Hunter were on my kid's radar. Even better . . . no more 11:00 pm pick-ups in godforsaken Long Island suburbs like Massapequa and Plainview.  Eventually I didn't have to drive anybody anywhere but the Long Island RR train station.  Some parents were horrified, but not me.  By 10th grade my kid had the subways down pat and had bright, committed Jewish friends in Brooklyn, Queens and Riverdale, the fancy part of the Bronx. 

My kids was worldly.  A subway maven.  He pored over the subway maps as if they were the Dead Sea Scrolls. Once, when I was trying to figure out how to avoid Penn station and take the subway from midtown to Woodside, Queens where the Long Island Railroad kicks in, I called Jaws on my cell phone.  "Oh yeah Mom, it's easy," he said. "Take the Shuttle to Grand Central and then the #7 to Woodside." 

We never looked back, none of us, from that Independence Day. Riding public transportation and figuring it out, has made my kids stronger, more curious and far less "flappable."  If only Atlanta had more public transportation...well, we're working on it.  Meanwhile, Grumble is an airport pro...he's been flying to NY, Washington and Florida on his own for years and will be doing a rather daring little maneuver over Memorial Day weekend, going from L.I. to Manhattan and then taking the subway to Brooklyn.  Are you impressed?  I am.