Mid-CenturyModernMoms

The old nasties

A funny thing happened this weekend.

The competition cheer squad (which, for the record, does NOT include Roo's mean girl) had practice all weekend and finished up with a surprise team builder: a whiffle ball game, cheerleaders against the parents.

Now, first of all, that's hilarious from the get-go because I am NOT the athlete. My kid did NOT get her abilities from me, that's for sure.

So -- heh heh heh -- I called the role of "official photographer" for the team. The other parents went for that as far as fielding was concerned, but when it came to taking a turn at the plate, there was no escaping it.

"Come on, Janet, DO IT!" they all called to me.

And I immediately shot back in time to elementary school -- and being picked last for any and EVERY team.

Yes, I had my own versions of mean girls, 1950s and '60s style.

In fact, when my incredibly gorgeous daughter started on the high school cheer team, I had a visceral response that I chronicled here, which I called the Sally Smith effect -- the ability for a certain type of girl/woman to make me feel instantly inferior.

My first at-bat was less than stellar, but the second? I swung, made contact, raced over to first base (SAFE!!!!) and even scored on a series of parent hits that followed.

But here's the funny thing. You see, we have a little high school reunion coming up this fall. It's a big, scary number. I graduated from high school in 1970, so you can do the math.

Facebook has been an amazing tool to make this reunion happen. I have friended and been friended by people who I haven't heard from or thought about in -- ahem -- a lot of years. People who I was actually friends with, and people who were, well, um, not on my hit parade.

I guess the years fuzz out the memories some, huh?

So because I am a big girl now, I posted my photo of a-swing-and-a-miss on my Facebook account, followed by the declaration that I also got a hit and scored a run ... "so take THAT, elementary school mean girls who always picked me last for the team!"

I was unprepared for the comments that followed -- from friends who I know were in the same boat as I was ... and from schoolmates who clearly weren't.

In fact, here is the comment that rocked me on my foundation:

"I was there... I remember those awful feelings and how mean some of the girls were... I hope you didn't think I was a mean girl. That's so long ago, see you at the reunion?"

Um. Yes, my dear, you WERE a mean girl. Don't you remember?

This reunion is going to be VERY interesting ...

Crossposted at From the Planet of Janet

The new nasties, part two

My daughter is freakin' awesome.

I just wanted to say that out loud for everyone to hear.

Last week, I mentioned the mean-girl issue we are having.

It hasn't gone away, but the cheer coaches have addressed the issue of hazing and harrassment through Facebook and Formspring in a generic manner, telling the girls in no uncertain terms that this kind of behavior will lead to suspension from the team.

Funny thing, after that, the mean girl in question made an overture of "peace." Not reconciliation, but an expression of an attempt at civility -- at least in public.

Roo accepted that.

On the surface.

But the relationship between these two girls has been irreparably broken. Both Roo and I know that this has not been resolved but has merely been hidden away from more public view.

Roo no longer posts to certain social media. I watch her friends' pages regularly for things that I need to know -- and things that need to be reported. She tells me if she has had anonymous postings of the nasty kind.

She and I are a united front against bullying and harassment.

But here is where we differ.

I know that if this were me -- if I were the one in Roo's shoes -- I would be whimpering in a corner in the fetal position.

Not my kid.

She gets up and goes to summer school and cheer practice every day with her head held high.

"I just ignore them," she told me the other day. "What else am I going to do?"

You go, girl. You be yourself -- the awesome, amazing, adorable, fan-freaking-tastic Roo-girl.

Meanwhile, the raging Mama Bear within me stays on guard -- and is gratified by the one piece of the karma wheel that I can control:

You do NOT want to mess with the daughter of the official cheer team photographer.

Hey, I said SHE was awesome. I didn't say I was.

Crossposted at From the Planet of Janet

The new nasties

Back when I was a teen, girls were mean.

When someone wanted to hurt someone else, it was easy. Just start a whisper campaign. Rumors and gossip spread like wildfire, but they would just as quickly die down when another juicy rumor surfaced.

Today girls are still mean, but they have so many more resources at their disposal.

There is texting. There is Facebook.

And then there is Formspring, a forum for people to ask "questions" of -- or make comments about -- others.

The Roo-girl once joined a Facebook group that was called something like "Formspring: causing teen suicides since 2009." (I looked for it to get the exact title, but it seems to have gone away.)

Formspring makes the whisper campaigns look like rainbows and unicorns.

We are currently in the midst of some drama in our house. The specifics are unimportant, but the outcome is a Formspring vendetta (with a little Facebook thrown in for good measure) that is so intensely cruel and malicious that it makes my head spin -- and my little girl cry.

We have a new philosophy about the particular mean girl in question: Walk away and pay it no mind because the girl is only as powerful as you allow her to be.

So Roo pushes on, while petulant little girls write trash and pump it into cyberspace, where it travels far and wide. And forever.

She hurts.

And I? I want to hurt someone.

Crossposted at From the Planet of Janet

Oh, my baby ...

Sixteen years ago Sunday -- at 10:32 a.m. -- I gave birth to 7 pounds, 4 ounces of Barbie pink and unconditional love, with a little high-maintenance drama thrown in for good measure.

We named her after my grandmothers -- both of them deceased, as is Jewish custom. Through their names, she carries a legacy of the strong women of my family. Matriarchs with the ability to make things happen.

And don't you dare cross me, young lady.

Sixteen years ago, I had no idea what was ahead of me. Up till then, I had raised boys.

As a former tomboy, I was mentally equipped to handle snips and snails and puppy dog tails. I was clueless when it came to sugar and spice and everything nice.

But I learned.

Fast.

I learned how to make tea parties. I learned how to french braid hair. And I learned to love the color pink.

As a joke, my girlfriend used to whisper in her ear, "Can you say 'Nordstrom'? Can you say 'Nieman-Marcus'?"

But we quickly realized the joke was on me.

Because I had somehow -- in my my infinite wisdom -- given birth to the girliest of girly-girls.

Dollies? Yes.

Lace? You bet.

Jewelry? Even at the age of 2.

Her birthday present at the age of 4 was trip to the mall with Mom to buy clothes -- topped off her choice of a lacy dress from the cart in the middle of the mall.

She wore that dress until the lace frayed and tore.

The years flew by.

She was in kindergarten. Fifth grade. Middle school. High school.

She learned to read. She learned to write. She learned to put together "outfits." She learned to wear makeup.

She learned to cheer.

Now she learns to drive -- and prepares to apply to college.

Where did my baby go?

She has been replaced by a lovely young woman.

Still Barbie pink, filled with unconditional love and high-maintenance drama.

And now she is 16.

Happy birthday, my beautiful Roo-girl.

Fly with the eagles ...

Crossposted at From the Planet of Janet

There's a first time for everything

Since the first time I wrote a post for Mid-Century Modern Moms, I have been the consistent face of Monday here.

No, I'm not quitting, but for the first time in nearly two years (!!!!), I am postless.

Do I not have stuff to say?

Well, yeah, I do. But I'm writing this after midnight on Sunday, following a whirlwind vacation week that took us many places, and I'm exhausted.

I'll write about it later. For now, I just need to say this was a recharging week that I needed very very very very much.

And life is good.

Love and marriage go together like ...

Sixty years is a long, long time.

Come August, that's how long my parents will have been married.

Due to the difficulties of getting 22 people in the same place at the same time, we celebrated this month, instead of two months from now.

A four-day weekend with my parents, my two brothers, my sister, everyone's spouses and all 10 grandchildren, plus my oldest sons' significant others.

To be completely upfront about this, it was all my parents' doing. They planned it ... and paid for it. A beautiful holiday at a mountain spa. Lounging by the pool. Massages. Cocktails. Breakfast, lunch and dinner.

It was like being in paradise.

At the heart of it were my parents. Two people who have known each other since the eighth grade.

Who married at the age of 20.

Who raised four children.

Who have been together for richer and for poorer ... in sickness and in health.

And who, after 60 years of sharing a life together, still look at each other with a fire that burns bright.

My parents and I have had our difficulties over the years.

But at the heart of it, they are role models for the ages.

And when all was said and done, Wonderhubby looked at me at the final celebration dinner Saturday night and grinned.

"I hope we can make 60 years," he said.

I grinned back, knowing that we have 53 more to go before we hit that milestone. "Sure, and we'll be saying 'I love you ... uh ... what's your name again??' "

He laughed.

But I hope we make it.

Crossposted at From the Planet of Janet

The post where I say nothing -- and everything

Every once in awhile, I am speechless.

It doesn't happen often. The last time I was rendered incapable of having the words to express an important moment, Z-man spilled the beans on his sexual preferences.

This is not quite that dramatic, but still, it has been a weekend filled with drama, tears, angry text messages, more tears, temper tantrums by people who are too old to have them and more tears.

And I am processing.

It's something I will write about eventually. I'm sure I will have to.

Because blogging is like breathing. Every time I think I will just give it up, I realize that I can't.

But for the moment, I can't blog about this either.

Part of it is because I'm not sure I can stand listening to the haters again.

Part of it is because I'm still so raw that I can barely breathe.

And like I said, blogging is like breathing.

So ... not yet. 

Crossposted at From the Planet of Janet

It takes more than talent to be a star

Last weekend we went to see the Drama King shine as the title character in "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown."

Monday, I wrote about how proud I was.

On Saturday, we went to see him a second time and yesterday, I posted photos of him from that closing performance.

But what I didn't tell you was what happened during that final show.

The Drama King was sick. I-have-no-voice-oh-my-God-what-am-I-going-to-do sick.

Yep, the leading man had laryngitis. He had a speaking voice, but no singing voice.

At. All.

This is a tough position to be in while performing in a musical.

He opened his mouth for his first song and croaked out a few words. The look of panic and self-disgust that crossed his face physically hurt me.

He managed to make his way through the song somehow and bolted off-stage to wait for his next cue.

Now.

He COULD have done this:

Lord knows he wanted to.

But instead he did this:

 

He stood tall and talk-sang his way through the rest of the show. At the end, when he took his curtain call, THE CAST gave him an ovation.

It was an amazing moment. I hope he realizes what a phenomenal thing he did. The show must go on -- and it did.

Even without a singing voice.

Crossposted at From the Planet of Janet

He's a good man, Charlie Brown

There is nothing like getting nachas from kinder.

Huh?

That's a Yiddish expression (anglicized for our viewing audience) that means extreme joy/pride in one's children.

And that's me in a nutshell. This weekend I saw my son, the Drama King, perform the role that I have always said he was born to play:

That round-headed kid.

Yep, the title/lead role in "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown."

If you have seen it -- or even never heard of it -- it is a collection of little scenes and songs based on the Peanuts characters of Charles M. Schulz. I saw it once, years ago, and have listened to and loved the music since.

And from the time he has been interested in theater, I knew my boy WAS Charlie Brown. It's a perfect part for him -- the self-deprecating, insecure, lovable loser with a permanent case of bad luck.

I wish I had a photo of him in his yellow shirt with the black zigzag on it. Maybe next weekend, when I go back and see him perform again.

The truth of it is that the show -- done in a 40-seat theater and produced by one of DK's friends -- was less than stellar. Some of the other performers are frankly -- ahem -- not endowed with talent. One, in fact, was unable to find the key of her song, picking one out of the air instead. The singer in me cringed noticeably.

But my boy? My boy shined bright.

This is not just mommy pride. He really is talented, having played lead roles in community theater and college plays over the years.

If only he would get over his fear of failure and actually go for the BIG productions.

Meanwhile, I'm just going to enjoy the glow of seeing him do what I KNEW he could do and, in doing so, making me -- and him -- happy.

After all,  even Charlie Brown knows that “Happiness is anyone and anything that's loved by you.”

Crossposted at From the Planet of Janet

Freewheeling

First she has to get a pillow to sit on.

Then she reaches down and pulls her seat in close.

And then even closer.

She looks in the mirror, and she likes what she sees.

Then her hand snakes forward and gives a little twist to the right ...

And the engine roars to life.

Oh my stars. My little girl is behind the wheel of a car.

Yep.

The Roo-girl finally had her first official driving lesson, which then, according to our state law, finally validates her learner's permit and allows her to get behind the wheel of a large deadly weapon with her mother in the death seat.

Please hold me.

Actually, she is doing well. A little nervous yet and not paying as much attention to detail to suit me, but we're all still in one piece.

And she is pleased with me as well.

I am actually a very calm driving instructor, even though I must tell you that there is nothing in this world -- and I seriously mean NOTHING in this world -- more frightening than sitting in the death seat of a car with your child behind the wheel.

But she views me as very straightforward, issuing instructions in measured tones and never raising my voice.

Calm on the outside.

Inside, however, my stomach lining is rapidly being eaten away.

I should get an Academy Award.

Crossposted at From the Planet of Janet