Everybody Into the Pool!

I went for a three-day summer jaunt to Calistoga this past week. But instead of lounging in a mud bath and being massaged, I spent my time in the pool with two eight-year-olds, my daughter, Miranda, and her good friend, Marlena.

My sister, Kathy, rounded out our little family. It wasn’t a true nuclear family, more of an extended one, auntie, mommy, daughter, and friend. But we had a good time watching movies in the room, eating cupcakes for breakfast, not setting eyes on a vegetable or anything green. I even conveniently forgot everything on my “must-do” list.

It was as close to a wild weekend as I get traveling with my daughter. My sister, Kathy, is a firm believer in being in the moment. This means whatever the girls want, they get. Our bedtime routine includes eating huge bowls of vanilla and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in bed while watching a “Harry Potter,” movie.

“But,” the guilty mother part of me says, “what about brushing your teeth?” To which the rest of my family looks bored, yawns and goes to sleep, at midnight.

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Listening to Children’s View of Love

I drive my daughter, Miranda, to camp in the morning along with her best friend. I’ve been doing it most of the summer. With a little pal in the back seat, my daughter doesn’t demand my attention. So, I turn the radio on and listen to my NPR programs. That is until the radio announcer started talking about dying children in Iraq, and I quickly shut it off.
And quickly tune in to what my daughter was saying to her friend.

“Diana and Jeff are in love. I saw the love at the party.” My daughter’s very serious tone drew my attention like a laser to the back seat. I slowed down and angled my head so I could hear more clearly.

“Yeah, sure,” Her friend said in an equally serious tone. “They’re boyfriend and girlfriend. I saw the love too.”

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Everything Has its Place

My stomach was reeling from a mixture of too much Chardonnay and too much pumpkin pie, when I realized there’s no room in my living room for a Christmas tree.

I had to have a tree, my mother was coming for the holiday and she was bringing presents. A tree was the necessary showcase for her beautifully wrapped gifts. And what of my daughter? Miranda couldn’t be the only one in her public school with no tree.

I slowly spun around the room looking for what furniture we might tuck into the garage until the relatives leave. There’s a couch, a chair, a coffee table, a bookshelf, all necessary for social and familial functions.

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Which is Scarier? Movies or Real Life?

“Guys, Mom is going to the movies.”

“With scary parts, like monsters?”

“No, a chick movie.”

“What’s a chick movie?”

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Depressed But Hopeful

I am scrolling through my mental Rolodex.

Can’t call her, I say to myself, she’s got troubles of her own. Can’t call her, she’s worn out with my story. Can’t call her, she’s as lost as I am.

Alright then, I get to pace around here, hoping the confusion in my head and my frayed nerves will let up.

Depression has been a part of my life since girlhood. It only became clinical after my first child 10 years ago. I got professional help and, to my utter surprise and delight, completely recovered. After many years, my husband and I found a rhythm.

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I Should Have Started Her on Thai Food When She Was Two

The 7:30 a.m. dilemma.

What to pack for my daughter’s lunch?

Mimi’s dining palette is limited. There are about five things in the universe that she will actually eat. Costco dinosaur nuggets are at the top.

She can have them every meal, every day, but I worry she’ll get bored or teased by her schoolmates.

A bean and cheese burrito is a possibility. But last week only a bit of burrito was left in its foil; then earlier this week I found an entire burrito un-foiled in her lunchbox.

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I Don’t Want Apologies; I Need Understanding

“You owe her a string of apologies,” says the therapist, after listening to my husband in a private session. At least, this is where one fantasy took me this morning.

Our debts are climbing, my husband is sleeping at his friend’s house, the Genie has broken on the garage door, and our son scratched the front of the dishwasher with a pair of scissors.

The signs indicate there is trouble.

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Mommy - It’s Time to Do Something for YOU

Motherhood is not a glamorous job and all too often lacks the recognition and respect it deserves.

Luckily, my mother rarely concerned herself with what others thought of her, but she did get tired. And she did wish she had some time to herself, maybe even time for a self-indulgent manicure.

When it got really bad, she would exclaim, “I’ve had it up to here” pointing almost to the top of her forehead. We never thought she would point to the very top of her head, although I believe it did happen once when she spontaneously left for a weekend in Aspen by herself.

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This Mother Has Our Vote

Ours is a household of political junkies, so when my daughter turned 18, I wrapped her birthday presents in voter registration forms.

Now eligible to buy lottery tickets and cigarettes, join the Army, and vote (but not drink), she sat down with me at the dining room table piled high with Voter Guides, newspaper clippings, endorsements, and a small forest’s worth of glossy political ads.

Too bad about the drinking age thing, because we both could have used a good stiff one to get through the mountains of spinformation in front of us.

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High Expectation May Be Too High

Last Thursday I went to hear Madeline Levine talk about her new book called The Price of Privilege. She writes about an epidemic of depression, anxiety and substance abuse in children in middle to upper class areas, such as Marin.

Since my daughter is only two, I do not have experience raising an adolescent in Marin, but I do have a great deal of experience teaching adolescents.

Looking back on my high school teaching career, a major cause of this burgeoning epidemic is clear: the emphasis on performance rests at the heart of the problem.

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