Breathing room

“Hey can you help me out?” my neighbor asks on the phone. Dreading this question, I grit my teeth. “Can you pick up Sasha from school today?”

Of course I want to help but it’s all I can do not to scream, “No! On principle, I refuse to do pick-up. I don’t believe in treating kids like rock stars, traveling in their own personal limousines. For God’s sake, let her walk!”

Obviously, my principles don’t always apply. It’s sensible not to allow a kid to travel alone on narrow streets, inconsistent sidewalks, or steep hills. During my son’s first school years, it was sweet to accompany him; sometimes we held hands as we walked along and I got to hear about his day. However, we bought our house because it’s five blocks from Gabe’s school on a flat street with adequate crosswalks. Continue… »

Millie and Me

I’ve had a revelation about my mother-in-law, Millie. Let me just admit up front I’ve never liked the woman.

Our relationship has been mostly one of tolerance, a precarious pretense that we don’t bother each other. I have my list of gripes: Millie’s bigotry, her lack of curiosity, her provincialism. I turn up my nose at what I perceive as her low-brow interests: the bowling team of “girls”; the forays to the casinos to play the slots; the television that’s left on, at full volume, 24 hours a day. Our aesthetic differences can be summed up by the crocheted doily skirt on the toilet paper roll that resides in her bathroom. Enough said.
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Missing: My Brain

I miss my brain.

I miss conversations where I had something to offer other than a floaty, under-water feeling, a blank mush that used to be my frontal cortex that can no longer be counted on to fire. I watch and listen to adult activity and think, “Do something now,” but my brain is on strike. “Ya talkin’ to me?” I smile gamely, hoping some version of my former thoughtfulness becomes available. But all that remains is blank space.

Conversations aren’t the only challenge. There’s also the grocery store trip where I come back with everything but the crucial ingredient for the recipe. Or I go online to order a prescription and instead answer a bunch of meaningless e-mails and log off—no re-fill.

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Worry Wart

I was prepared for motherhood to change me in myriad ways. I thought the adage, ‘Life will never be the same,’ meant that my body, sense of humor and priorities would be different. But one thing I never counted on is that since the birth of my son, I’ve gone from dare-devil to worry-wart.

I have become my mother.

It’s a family joke that mom is known for phrases like, “Be careful. Slow down. Don’t run. You’re going to fall.”

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Mom Worry

I knew motherhood would change me in myriad ways, that physically, emotionally, spiritually — life would never be the same.

But there’s one change I never expected and am not too proud of. Overnight I’ve transformed from a dare-devil to a worry-wart. No longer am I the give-me-a-destination-and-I’ll-go-there-girl, Hong Kong, Katmandu, Rio, all the better.

Now I’d just as soon not drive on the freeway.

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Escape

You escaped today, walked out on the laundry moldering in the washing machine and the egg-encrusted dishes in the loaded dishwasher.

Instead, you’re driving out of your suburb that, yes, is such a great place to raise a kid, but sometimes you just miss a little grit, a little novelty, some thread of your old life where you were free to walk out on a street and be surprised.

So you’re driving away, not to the school where you’re supposed to be volunteering, but heading over the bridge and strolling down Clement Street. You stop in the Goodwill, buy a sweater and a basket, get your dim-sum, sit on the bench to eat it, hanging with the Asian teenagers talking loud on their cell phones, yelling swear words, trying them on.

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