TEXTUAL HEALING

My nanny is supposed to be at work in an hour. Anytime the phone rings within an hour of an employee’s designated arrival time, I brace myself for the inevitable “Dog ate my homework” excuse for why they can’t work. I pick up the phone already canceling my plans in my head.

Instead of my French nanny’s voice, I hear a computerized voice akin to a serial killer. It’s the only voice I’ve ever heard with less charm than hers

“You…have…a…cell…to…land…line…text…coming, please…hold.”

I do.

The computerize voice then recites the text:

“Getting on a flight to Paris. Death in the family. Not my fault.”

As they say in French, c’est tout. That’s it. Three lines, 13 words, no class. You see I would feel badly if Frenchie had lost a family member, if she actually lost a family member. But young Frenchie made a Cardinal mistake, just days before, leaving a note to herself to book an Air France ticket on her parents’ miles. Either Frenchie is incredibly psychic or Frenchie’s got some explaining to do. Possibly she can text me the real story, since this one is bullshit.

Every time I get a text, I feel like I’m fifteen. Maybe that’s because texts should really only be sent by fifteen year olds. When I was a teen, I spent hours of my after school time on the phone with the same people I had just seen all day. We’d watch “Days of Our Lives” and eat Doritos, each at our own house, connected by the widespread grasp of Ma Bell. Now, fifteen year-olds spend hours on their Sidekicks or Iphones, texting back and forth, talking about nothing. Each text is stream of consciousness, diarrhea of the brain, meant to be read, responded to and deleted immediately. But that’s what you do when you’re fifteen: waste time and talk about it.

Not when you’re a grown up, with a job, being depended on. Possibly leaving the country on a moment’s notice might warrant a bit more communication than 13 impersonal words. Of course that’s probably why she sent a text, no communication.

I’ve tried to think back on where I may have gone wrong. Sure, part of this was my fault. I hired a French nanny, after all. I’m lucky she didn’t send a text that read: “I surrender.”

With every hiring and the inevitable un-hiring, I’m left picking up the pieces, wondering what I did wrong. Then I’ll talk to a friend or two, each with similar stories, each reminding me there are just a lot of crazy people in the world. Hiring a nanny is a tricky thing. Moms are supposed to thank the nanny profusely for achieving the simple task of doing her job. We’re supposed to treat a nanny like family, but she’s not expected to do so in return. We’re expected to pay on time, give healthy Christmas bonuses, but have no recourse when a nanny decides Paris beckons.

Somewhere out there is a reliable employee. Ideally she will have good English, a reliable car, and good references. But most important, hopefully she’ll have no cell phone. That way when she quits, she’ll at least have to tell me in person.

I’m sure I’ll hear from Frenchie. Undoubtedly, she’ll return in a month of two from her existential crisis in Paris, realize that it’s hard to live without an income, and will have assumed I kept her job for her. She’ll send a text:

“Back from funeral. Can work tomorrow.”

I’ll spend some time thinking of how to respond, knowing there is only one response. But unfortunately, I can’t remember how to say it in French. If only I’d paid better attention in 7th grade, I’d be able to remember how to text; “Go fuck yourself.” But since I don’t, I’ll settle for the alternative.

“Merci, mais non merci.”

Thanks but no thanks.

FACETIME

If you were to look at my Facebook page, you would see that I have a lot of friends, over one hundred to be exact. According to the Internet, I’m connected, maybe even popular. When I first joined Facebook, on a lark sparked by curiosity, my only “friends” were people I already spoke to all the time. But with time, I found old friends to whom I hadn’t spoken in years, long lost high school or college buds all of whom I liked, but apparently not enough to stay in touch with over the years. Our lives had taken different paths, we’d gone our own ways, but are now re-united under the intimate umbrella of the world wide net.

It’s been nice to get back in touch, find out what happened to each, how life turned out. Most people’s stories seem to be the same; exploration in the form of humiliation in their 20’s, a desire to “get it together” in their early 30’s, followed by the inevitable spouse, house, and child in the early to mid to late 30’s, which brings us to now.

A few singles are hanging on, men and women alike assuring anyone who asks that they’re really, really happy with their life but if you happen to know anyone to set them up with, they’d be even really, really happier. A few marrieds are hanging on, assuring anyone who asks that they’re really, really happy with their life, but if you happen to know a good divorce attorney they’d be even really, really happier. The ones with newborns haven’t slept, the ones with toddlers haven’t sat down and the one’s whose kids are hitting double digits long for an infant or toddler, apparently tired of all the sleeping and sitting one does when their kids aren’t quite so needy. And most people seem to like their job until you ask them if they like their job, the question receiving a unanimous, no-recount on this vote needed, “No.” But still, they’re really, really happy.

The chances that I will actually see in person most of my over one hundred friends is slim to none. I barely see my friends who live five minutes from me much less the ones I haven’t seen in years. We’ll be cyber friends forever, but we’ll probably never speak to or see one another again. But I know everything about them, or at least what they put on their Facebook profile. I know what one friend had for breakfast, that another friend’s kid doesn’t sleep through the night, and where another friend traveled on Thanksgiving. I know everything about my “friends”, I just know nothing about my friends. People seem to be too busy, too overworked, too something to actually make, and (God forbid) keep a plan. Possibly, the people I know would have more time to see or speak to actual humans in person were they not spending so much time on the Internet updating their Facebook page every time they have a successful bowel movement.

The older I get, the less real friends I have. I can count on one hand the amount of friends or family members I speak to with any regularity, the number who actually know the details of my current life even less. I have friends and family members who've never come to see my child and I live down the block from two friends whom I never see. But I do know which Facebook friend is on a raw food diet, which one really like her kids’ Halloween costumes, and whose afraid to turn 40. I know the Cliffnotes of my friends lives.

I’ve enjoyed being on Facebook. It’s provided me the opportunity to find old friends whom I’d lost touch with for no other reason than we lost touch. I’ve seen photos of their children, most of whom I’ll never meet due to distance. And I’ve reconnected with a part of my life I’d long since abandoned. But I’ve come to realize that knowing someone isn’t knowing the stats of their life. Friendship isn’t catching up, it’s moving forward. So the next time I go on a raw food diet, like my kid’s Halloween costume, or have a successful b.m., I’m going to call an actual real live human person whom I consider a friend. And if I want to know their response, I’ll click on Facebook, chances are that’s where to find them.

MISS EVENTUALLY

Excuse me, would you mind moving your cart over? That’s all I said to the woman, parked next to me, whose shopping cart is sitting in the parking spot that will soon be mine. I’m at Trader Joe’s, parking spots are a commodity and this is the last in the lot. The woman, either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t want to me hear me. She’s busy trying to figure out how to unlock her car. Apparently, in between the bulk cashews and organic lettuce, she forgot how to unlock her own car. Nonetheless, I’ve got 30 cars honking behind me, angry that I’ve held up the line, each hoping I’ll move on so they can take the spot. I ask again, Excuse me, would you mind moving your cart? She turns to me, winks, and says, “Eventually” and goes back to trying to unlock her own car.

Every time I’m at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s, I’m faced with a similar issue. There’s always some sort of automobile altercation involving two people who in addition to loving sustainable foods, also love Range Rovers. They’ll fight to the end over the last parking spot or the last cumquat. They’ll overpay for organic air, but pass the free sample table 10-20 times saying things like, “Oooh, what’s this?” as if they haven’t already had 30 squares of free cheddar, outed only by the fact that they and the sample girl are now on a first name basis.

I’ve always thought the customers at these expensive healthy markets are so rude because they’re hungry. Tempers can rise when the last real meal you had was cooked kale and barbequed tempeh. Judgment isn’t always clear when you’re on your third day of a 47 day cleansing fast and you’ve run out of Cayenne Pepper, the sole ingredient in your fast other than jicama. People aren’t always nice when they’re hungry.

But these angry people seem to be all over the place. It’s sort of like the three years where everywhere I went I’d see either Jennifer Grey or Jeremy Piven. It got to the point where I started to consider they were the same person since they were never in the same place but one of them was always there. But now instead of Baby and Ari following me around town, angry and hungry are after me. Everywhere I go there’s someone yelling at someone.

From Election Day to yoga class, there they are. The girl who speaks in hushed tones, breathing deeply through carefully modulated breaths is the first to say “No way” when the teacher asks her to move her yoga mat to make room for another. Obama loving, No on Prop 8 voting open minded citizens duking it out in from of my polling place, neither willing to give up the closest parking spot to the building. A woman, kids in hand, screaming at the checker at Babies R Us, “I’ll wait for you outside and cut you!” also has a bumper sticker on her car that reads, “God loves us all.”

Personally, when people like Miss Eventually gives me a wink and an ignore, I want to roll down my window and say, “Well maybe eventually you should go fuck yourself.” But ever since I flipped off that huge angry man who chased me and my husband for 20 minutes through back allies and private roads only to catch up to us and scream, “Now what do you have to say?” I’ve tried to tone it down. Especially when my kid is in my car. I try to remember that it’s not my job to remind everyone else that they’re morons, chances are they already know.

It’s hard to go through life thinking there will be enough because it always feels like there won't be...enough parking spots, free samples, space to exercise. It's hard to remember to take a deep breath and remind yourself there will be more...of everything. There will be enough. And screaming at strangers or taking something away from someone else doesn’t create anything more; it just makes us feel good for a second, until something else makes us feel badly.

So when I see Miss Eventually still struggling with her car when I finish my shopping, I roll myself and my kid over, and show her how to open her car door. My husband calls me Tech support cause I can figure things out, a Mommy MacGyver if you will. Figuring out how to open a car in 2008 isn’t so tough.

The woman thanks me profusely and says she just couldn’t figure it out. I simply respond, “Oh you’d a figured it out.” And while I’m still tempted to ding her car or block her in, I just load my boy and my crap in my KidUV and go home. And while it’s not as gratifying to walk away from the opportunity to be right, getting into it is a bad idea. That kind of stuff catches up with you. Maybe not now, and maybe not a long time from now, but it catches up with you, eventually.

ANYTHING FOR YOU

The first thought the came to mind when my son was born was, “Anything for you.” When I saw his little face, full head of hair, ten fingers and toes, all I could think was, “Anything for you.” And now, I’m standing in the Nordstrom Kid’s Shoe department hoping I didn’t say that loud enough for anyone to hear.

It happens overnight. One day, you’ve got a noodle who just eats and sleeps all day, the next you’ve got a terror who needs shoes. My kid has been toying with walking, or falling, for a while. But now he’s moved up to the big leagues, the Frankenstein walk, and he couldn’t be happier. My kid is a Walkaholic. It’s all he wants to do, unless he has the opportunity to climb, which he considers just walking turned upward.

Walking well is undoubtedly just around the corner. Walking far, coming up on its tail. And running is in my near future. I say mine because it is I who will running after he, my terror, when he discovers that running is like walking on crack. So my kid needs shoes.

Buying a kid his first shoes is a Sunrise/Sunset moment. It’s emotional. As my kid gets closer and closer to crossing each milestone, I get closer and closer to losing a good friend I fondly call, “disposable income.” This makes me emotional. Having a child is like living in Manhattan. From the second you leave the house, you’re twenty bucks poorer.

The problem isn’t just the price, it’s that I love them. One pair after another are really, really cute. It’s not just the tiny Chuck Taylor’s or the mini Ugg Boots, it’s the Prada loafers that have their own special rack with a smart sign and label. The shoes beckon me and remind me that I said, “Anything for you.”

In my mind, I know it’s silly to buy a child anything expensive. Kids like to do things like grow, lose, hurl, maim, and destroy. They don’t know the difference between Gucci and Gap and will undoubtedly not fit into either within 4.4 seconds of their purchase. But still, they’re really cute. I’m tempted. I’m just keeping my promise, “Anything for you.” Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?

I turn the loafers over and am already thinking of the explanation I’ll give my husband for spending 80 or 100 dollars on kid shoes. But they’re not 80 or 100 dollars, they’re $250. I turn them back over, look up and see a sign: Sale. Four letters have never sounded so good. You see, I had a child, not a lobotomy. The only person whose getting overpriced shoes in my house is me. I’m far less likely to grow, lose, or maim.

I feel good leaving the store with a $30 pair of shoes, a chocolate brown loafer with a smart Velcro strap and a green balloon. My kid seems far more interested in the balloon than the shoes and I am happy I didn’t give in and overspend. On the way out, I pass a woman, her cell phone, and her daughter, all three covered in Burberry. The kid is throwing a temper tantrum because she wants her Mom to get off the phone. She takes off her Burberry rain boots and throws them into the aisle. The Mom doesn’t notice as she keeps on pushing the stroller and talking on the phone. At $300 a pop for for the boots, the Mom will find that to be a very expensive phone call.

I live in LA where no one seems to have a job and everyone seems to have money. The kids are as well dressed as their parents, designer duds not out of the question. Me trying to keep up isn’t doing anything for my kid. Doing anything for him means getting over my own desire to have my kid be the best dressed and do what’s right which is to get him what he needs, not what I want him to have. Undoubtedly, I have a lifetime ahead of me of my kid telling me, “But Johnny got a Game Boy, Xbox, PSP, new Car, trip to Europe…” which will be followed by the mandatory parental answer, “Well then you should go live with Johnny.”

At some point in the conversation my kid claim I am the meanest Mom in the world and at some point I’ll believe him. But when my kid can go to college because I didn’t spend my savings trying to keep up with Johnny, he’ll someday realize his parents did do anything for him. Making sure your kids will have a secure future is doing anything. Making sure your kids look great in the process, just an added benefit.

We watch the fountain and check out Santa, but then it’s time to go home. I put my kid in the car and look down. We’re down one man, one shoe gone. We owned the shoes for 30 minutes. That’s a buck a minute. My son’s feet charge more than some call girls. And while buying the shoes again is pricey, the time together is priceless, even if I did just buy a $30 balloon.

OPEN DOOR POLICY

I’m surprisingly handy. It comes from growing up in a do-it-yourself, this knowledge will build character, kind of family. Character building is the term parents use to justify slave labor. When I was 7 my Dad and I were the President, Vice-President and only members of our synagogue’s landscaping committee. At first-grade, I could boast built character, not to mention a keen understanding of how long it takes for a small child to plant 200 junipers. And unlike my husband who grew up in a Manhattan townhouse with more staff working in his house than people who lived in it, I grew up the youngest of three girls; I was the staff. So that’s why I’m doing surgery on my son’s $1000 Stroller System, which is on the fritz and determined to build my character, more.

For those not member's of the baby world’s Sorority, Kappa Kappa Overspending, a Stroller System is merely an overpriced stroller. For $1000, a stroller becomes a “system” giving owners the opportunity to both feel like a total and complete asshole for paying so much for a stroller and the feeling of superiority over those parents who didn’t. Currently, my son’s System is in the sick bay with two flat tires complete with air pump that neither pumps nor supplies air, an adjustable handle bar that won’t adjust, and a handle bar grip that looks like its been chewed to bits by a very angry wolf.

But with the $1000 purchase and the feeling of superiority, also come something only System owners get: real live customer service. I’ve received replacement parts for those not working from Claire, an actual human on the other end of customerservice@expensivestrollersystem.com. We’ve even had a back and forth email exchange, me wondering why I can’t follow the supposedly very easy directions that accompanied my System’s replacement parts and why my hands are too big to properly work the L-shaped Aika style wrench clearly made for small children working in coal mines.

To: customerserivce@expensivestrollersystem.com
Re: Replacement Parts

Dear Claire:
Thanks so much for the parts. My only question regarding the “easy to remove cup holder,” is: how do you define easy?

To: Meredith@overpaid.com
Re Re: Replacement Parts

Dear Meredith:
You may need a hammer, mallet, flat-head screwdriver, Phillips-head screwdriver, a wrecking ball, and a tetanus shot but otherwise the screws should come out after a couple of hours.


You should know that unless a hammer has a Gucci symbol on it, my husband isn’t interested. So I’m on my own figuring this one out. I’ve been at it for a couple hours, me now fairly certain that I might define the word easy a bit differently than my new best friend on the other end of customer service.

Hour three turns into hour four. I’m now cursing directly at my tiny little Aika wrench, Fucking piece of shit, I yell as I give in to the notion that I’m not as handy as previously thought. But before I can yell directly at the System itself, my kid, who by the way can’t walk, crawls by without even a glance my way, climbs himself up the wall so he’s standing like Spider-Man, opens the door and crawls out into the front yard. A Toddler who can’t walk figured out how to escape and I can’t unscrew a screw? I think to myself. This System will not beat me! I say now more determined than ever to finish my mission.

I end my kid’s self-proclaimed liberation and put him to bed, deciding to spend the rest of the evening fixing my System. I’ll open a bottle of wine, watch something stupid on TV, and fix this damned thing, I think. But when I search for the corkscrew, I can’t find it. Instead, I find every cabinet in my kitchen open, a Tupperware massacre occurring on my floor. I go to turn on the TV but the remote has been altered, the TV no longer turns on. In fact, I look around the house and nearly every bit of baby-proofing has been removed, the contents of each cabinet strewn about. I’ve been baby-ransacked! I realize. It seems that I’m not the only Handy Andy in the house, I’ve given birth to a modern day McGyver.

In fact, spend time with any one-year-old and it is clear they are far smarter than their parents. When my son doesn’t like his dinner, he hides it in his pockets, smiling like a Cheshire cat. He may have a toy cell phone and a fake set of keys, but he wants the real thing, knows the difference, and can call Tanzania with the flip of a few cordless phone buttons. He can un-babyproof a house faster than I can say, Watch out, that’s sharp! And he can tell when I’m hiding vegetables in his food even if he can’t see them.

The only thing he hasn’t figured out is how to do is quit. He’s tenacious, has his eyes on the prize and is determined to acquire the phone, remote, or computer no matter where I hide them. He’s figured out how to open doors and how to hide food, and he’s even figuring out how to walk. So if my kid isn’t a quitter, than I won’t be a quitter. And since I figured how to fix our rooftop satellite dish when I was 8 months pregnant (no Gucci on the dish, husband wasn’t interested), fixed our water heater without any prior plumbing knowledge, and repaired all our TVs after the geniuses at Direct TV “fixed” them, I can figure out how to mend a Stroller System desperately in need of repair.

If not, I’ll just ask my kid who seems to know everything. Just today, he figured out how to flush a toilet. Maybe next, he’ll teach his Dad.

PRE-SCHOOL'D

I swear I’m still crowning when a friend asks me where I’m going to apply to Pre-School. She’s just put her kid on the list for Sunshine, Sunlight, Sunstroke, I can’t remember the name, but apparently it is THE school in LA. The same parents who want their toddlers to go to Pre-Schools that boast independent thinking as part of the curriculum, have to go to THE haircutter, THE pediatrician, THE baby store. So it comes as no surprise that Angelenos want their kids to go to THE Pre-School.

“You know,” my friend warns not moments after I’ve been stitched up and introduced to my 4- second old child, “Fetus’ are turned down for applying too late.”

I know Pre-School is a big deal. I want my now 5-second old child to go having always had fond memories of my own Pre-School experience, but I guess I thought I had a few months, even longer before worrying if he’s going to get into THE school so he can learn to sit in a circle without picking his nose. But I live in LA where being competitive is a competition. It’s never too early to start thinking and worrying about your child’s future and how you’ve ruined it. So with a child not yet days old, my Pre-School panic attack begins.

I talk to friends who have been through the process with their own children. Each suggests I go see Claire Duncan Hayes, Los Angeles’ Pre-School Guru. So I make the drive across town to her Pre-School Workshop. She’s helpful, informative, and frank.

After some introductions, Claire gets down to the real reason we’re all here. We want to know how to get our kid into Sunshine, Sunlight, or Sunstroke. We want to know how to get into THE school that can start our children’s futures off right.

“You” she says without looking up, “You, the Jew from the entertainment business whose kid has a weird name.” she continues again without looking up. No one answers.

That’s all of us, I offer.

“Exactly,” she says. “LA is about as diverse as Buckingham Palace. These schools want someone who adds something different to the experience. None of you are getting in,” she says without apology. “Unless…” she says while looking around the room. “Unless you can stand out.”

Claire spends the next 20 minutes talking about diversity, which is the LA Pre-School buzzword. In addition to “independent thinking,” schools in Los Angeles boast diversity. It makes parents feel better about the fact that while they want their kids exposed to different types of people, they don’t want to live near them.

Suddenly, I hate being white. Worse, Jewish. Where I grew up in the suburbs of San Francisco, being Jewish was by definition diverse, but now I’m just another one of many families going to temple twice a year in between trying to balance making it in the entertainment biz and raising our oddly named children.

Then I realize just how much competition in the form of diversity this town has to offer. At the park, there are the two Moms who adopted a Laotian amputee last year on their way back from vacationing in Thailand. They can write their own ticket. There’s that damned single Dad I met at the pediatrician’s office fulfilling his dying sister’s wish to raise her child. No question there. And of course there’s the Rwandan family I met at Whole Foods who were airlifted out of their war torn homeland, brought to LA where the father happened on a winning Lotto ticket and claimed his 30 million dollars before the interpreter could even translate “You just won the lottery.” They’re rich, they’re African, and they’re in.

Damned double threats, I think to myself as Claire Duncan Hayes continues her lecture on why my son is never going to Pre-School.

And then it happens. There’s an infiltrator in what was otherwise a safe workshop filled with other families whose children’s lives are over. Diversity has exposed itself and is sitting to my left.

Just as Claire is about to go through the list of the city’s best and worst schools, the woman sitting to my left raises her hand. She and I had chatted over the cookie buffet and I learned that she lives in my neighborhood and has a boy born the day before my son.

She and I could totally be friends I think to myself before taking another Stella Doro.

But when she raises her hand and coyly asks, “Um Claire?” Claire responds yes without looking up. “What about cancer? Does that make you diverse?”

The whole room falls silent. For the first time in 3 hours, Claire makes eye contact.

“You have cancer?” Claire asks, “How wonderful!”

“And I’m pregnant,” the girl smugly adds.

“Even better,” says Claire as the rest of the participants murmur things like, “You’re so lucky!” “She’s totally getting in,” and “Nothing good ever happens to me!”

Pregnant with cancer sits gloating while writing down Claire Duncan Hayes’ suggestions for how to handle the interview process. The first being: “Don’t wear your wig to your interview.”

I can’t compete with illness or pregnancy, I lament. But I definitely can’t compete with a young Mom of two with no hair! Suddenly, I hate my hair too, one more thing about me that’s keeping my son from fulfilling his dreams.

One of the ten Jewish agents in the room raises his hand asking, “What can you do if you’re not diverse?”

Claire thinks for a second and then offers, “It’s all about what you are and who you know. So if you’re not someone special, start sucking up to your friends who are. They can help get you in.”

So that’s my angle. I may not be diverse but I am someone special. I’m my son’s Mom, I’ll always be special to him. If my kid can’t go to THE school because there are only two openings and I’m not from a remote village in Uzbekistan, well I suppose he’ll be okay. After all, I’m a Jewish kid who went to a Presbyterian Co-op Pre-School. My Mom volunteered for the day in order to offset the cost and I collected worms in the playground during outside time. I loved the worms, I loved seeing my Mom, and I loved my school, which wasn’t THE school. It was just a school.

So I decide to stop resenting all those who are diverse figuring that each Rwandan or cancer victim would pay their lotto winnings to trade places with me, my biggest worry being will my kid get into THE school, their biggest worries being far more life altering. My kid will go where he gets in, hopefully somewhere that teaches diversity and independent thinking. Regardless, he’ll still pick his nose, still have a hard time sitting in a circle, and still think is Mom is the most special person around.

BLEEDING HEART

Phone conversations with my Dad are short. His conversation style can best be described as concise. Full sentences are often composed solely of the words “Huh?” or “What?” And while he rarely utters the words, “How are you?” he’ll always ask, “How’s the weather?” This presents a problem for me living in Los Angeles where discussions of the weather are, in a word, redundant.

It’s fine Dad, 80 degrees and sunny.

He’s also interested in politics, his in particular. Conversations with Dad consist of 20, 30-minute political monologues I stop listening to one minute in. To say Dad is conservative in his beliefs would be an understatement. Phone calls with him often leave me wondering if “close minded” should be the Third Party.

Dad and I have been disagreeing about politics for years, decades in fact since I moved to 80 degree Los Angeles from my native suburban San Francisco. We’ve been having the same conversation for so long that I take great comfort in the repetition. I’ll remember I haven’t called in a while and pick up the phone. Dad will answer, sound cautiously happy to hear my voice, the caution only released when he realizes I haven’t called to ask for money.

Quickly, we’ll pass over the weather in favor of politics. He’ll say something ridiculously conservative, maybe blaming the world’s problems on some minority group, referring to said group with a derogatory Yiddish slur. I’ll call him Archie Bunker while reminding him we don’t live in the dark ages, he’ll call me a bleeding heart liberal, and I’ll respond with a simple, “Thank you” knowing full well he didn’t mean it as a compliment.

I find the routine of it all reassuring. In a world where there is little to count on, I know that Dad and I can have the same disagreement about politics and the state of the world no matter who’s running the country; or in Dad’s point of view, no matter who’s ruining it.

But lately, a funny thing has happened to my Dad. At 76 he’s turned, how can I put this delicately, open-minded. I figure my Mom’s been keeping something from me.

Mom, have you been putting Prozac in Dad’s oatmeal? I ask in all seriousness.

“No, but your sisters both just called and asked the same thing,” she replies as if she’s the last person in on a joke.

Well, then what have you done with my Dad? And who was the man on the phone? I ask her imaging my Dad tied up in a chair “9 to 5” style, while being forced to watch large images of Liberals ruining the world.

“Funny,” she says. “Both your sisters just asked that too.”

I give Dad a few more tries, sure that maybe our last few phone calls had been a fluke. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well and didn’t have the energy to be contrary. I mean surely he knows that children create their own social and political consciousness because of, or in spite of, their parents’. If he’s going to go on and continue listening and discussing, I might have to change my world-view.

After a few more calls I find Dad relatively easy to talk to, even interested. One time, after telling me that he knows how my husband I voted on a certain issue and I respond, “No you don’t because you never asked” he pauses, thinks for a second and then tells me I’m right. I call my Mom again.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY DAD! I ask, but she insists that phone Dad is my Dad and that she hasn’t tampered with the witness.

My relationship with my Dad is analogous to the Homeland Security Advisory System. At various points in my life, we’ve hovered in between Red and Orange, both states of emergency. We’ve gone through periods where we didn’t speak for months to attempts at closeness that usually fail after the first, “What?” or “Huh?”. Over the past few years, we’ve co-existed at a guarded Blue, accepting and agreeing that what we do best is disagree. And we’ve disagreed our way through my 20’s, into my 30’s, through my wedding and the birth of my first child. We’ve disagreed our way into a state of bliss.

But now the man who used to say to his three daughters, “Women and Chinamen should never get behind the wheel,” is considering voting for the first viable African American Presidential candidate. The gung ho 18-year-old who fought in Korea, wept on a recent flight upon seeing two GI’s on their way to Iraq, commenting to my Mom, “I can remember being their age, I know what they’re headed to.” The once die hard Republican, now so disillusioned by a delusional President has been backed into a corner, forced to do the unthinkable, forced either not to vote or to vote for a Democrat, a black Democrat no less. Dad’s been forced to change the way he thinks which has caused me to re-think.

My view of the world, my bleeding heart has been shaped by my Dad’s closed heart. His generalizations on the world, formed in part by his own exposure to the worst of everyone as a kid growing up in the Bronx, caused him to develop a protectionist’s way of thinking. I was never a wild kid, didn’t get piercings or tattoos so I rebelled by being open-minded. Liberalism was my smoking, being a Democrat my teenage pregnancy. But with less to rebel against, I question my own beliefs wondering what I really believe in now that I don’t have to bite my nose to spite my Dad.

Phone calls with my Dad continue to be brief. With so much to agree on, there’s less to talk about. I must say I miss sparring with Dad; the discourse was our connection. But it’s also nice to know that even at 76, an old Dad can learn a new trick. Dad called the other day to tell me he’d re-considered not voting after I “Chewed him out so badly.”

What? I respond.

“I’m going to vote for your guy, just like you said I should,” he says again.

Huh? I say in disbelief.

He repeats himself then asks about the weather.

It’s fine Dad, 80 degrees and sunny, I tell him before looking outside to notice it's actually a cloudy LA day.

Dad and I are at a Low Risk Green. Everything’s fine. Everything's sunny.

TYPE-A

I’m doing time on the Precor. It’s got the TV attached, which passes time and helps distract me from convincing myself that I don’t really mind my side fat and I do really mind being at the gym at the crack of dawn. I used to be a runner back when I used to have young knees that didn’t scream “Oil Can! Oil Can!” like the Tin Man with every step I took. When my knees went into running retirement I decided to make the best of the various cardio options at my gym, each promising they’re the ticket to me being side fat free. And though my knees like the bike, my vagina hates the seat. Walking the treadmill, even at a high speed up a steep incline, is torture for a runner, akin to a sex addict being allowed to look at computer porn without touching the screen. Then there’s the Precor, which aims to replicate steep hills while protecting old knees, all with a TV attached to distract former runners from the reality that all if is boring as shit.

I’m watching the news, flipping between Today, GMA, CNN, hoping that one of their shoulder-length haired hosts will tell me the world isn’t ending. Instead, they’re telling me that the world needs a makeover as they introduce Fall Fashion I’d never wear outside of a library. More, after a commercial break.

CNN’s teaser asks, “Are Your Kids Getting Enough Vitamin D?” I have no idea, I think to myself and gut through the NuvaRing commercial to find out.

I’m not a Type-A parent. I don’t read tons of parenting books since most of my friends do. I pay attention to the news, ask my pediatrician for advice, and read what I need to but not to the point of obsession. So even though I know a lot about kids and Vitamins, I’d hate to find out I won’t get an A in parenting because my kid isn’t getting enough D in his body.

And we’re back.

The Angular Blonde Host is now seated next to a Chubby Expert whose name and credentials I miss, but must know something or CNN wouldn’t put her on. She’s listing the best ways for kids to get enough Vitamin D, fall and winter being D-deficient season since sunlight is the best source. My kid probably gets enough D because we live in sunny LA, but you can only get enough from sunscreen-free sun exposure. This presents a conundrum for thoughtful parents; D-deficiency or skin cancer? Chubby Expert suggests tuna instead of sunlight since it contains a chunk of D.

“Well what about the mercury in tuna?” Blonde and Angular asks.

“Oh, no kid gets mercury poisoning from eating one tuna sandwich everyday,” Chubby and Uninformed replies.

I may not be a Type-A parent, but I also am not a Type-Lobotomized parent. The range of exclusion differs, but most Pediatricians will say that if there’s one thing you shouldn’t give your kid, at least regularly, it’s tuna. It contains boatloads of mercury, which can give you brain damage, which is probably worse than a Vitamin deficiency.

But the Chubby Expert has just told millions of parents that a sandwich a day is okay.

With 24 minutes left on my replicated hill climb, I write and re-write my in-my-head letter to CNN admonishing them for putting someone on the news so clearly uninformed. But I sound as moronic as the Chubby Expert with a letter that begins with the line, “ I don’t know her name or where she was from, but you had an expert on who was no expert.” CNN dodges a bullet, my letter writing campaign aborted before Letter #1.

During the commercial for Adult Diapers, I wonder what else is on the news that isn’t partially or at all correct. I wonder how many Experts are no expert at all.

As a parent, you get a lot of grief, even being referred to as “one of those parents,” if you’re perceived as being Type-A. “Our Moms drank, smoked, and didn’t use car seats and we turned out fine,” is a sentiment often touted by those without children or those with children who like to think of themselves as having a relaxed attitude. Since they didn’t die from their Mom’s one-a-day martini habit, they’re sure their kid won’t die from a little funky tuna.

I think about parents who don’t have access to good care or good information. I think about how many parents rely on the CNN’s of the world to be their experts. One basically needs to be some sort of science expert to keep up with all the paint and plastic recalls that are found everyday in children’s products, not to mention the stuff in their food. And while maybe some of us turned out just fine lighting Mom’s Marlboros or holding the steering wheel while she picked the olive out of her glass, maybe some didn’t turn out just fine. They’re not here to tell us.

Its great to be relaxed, better to be informed. And since the Experts aren’t so expert, it’s not so bad to be a Type-A parent if that means you can watch the news and know the difference between an Expert and a Time Filler. So while I’ll try to keep up, I think the best solution is not to take any expert at face value. You can do your own research without becoming obsessed and you should be able to do your own research without friends and family accusing you of “being one of those….”

And if all else fails, turn off the TV, get off the machine, and get back in your car. 6 am is way too early to have to be an Expert.

KID FRIENDLY

It’s Sunday, my son and I are at The Grove watching the choreographed water show. He’s in his stroller, tush dancing to “Celebration.” If Disneyland is the happiest place on earth, The Grove is the kid friendliest. At the Concierge desk, the childless can probably rent a stroller just to feel at one with the masses of shoulder length haired MILF’s pushing their Orbits and Bugaboos through the wide, flat streets that pave the way to retail heaven. The Grove is Los Angeles’ answer to Middle America, a fake sense of community with pristine streets and a choo-choo train. On particularly Middle American days, the MILFs make eye contact with the other stroller pushers. On holidays, they say “hello”, even if they’ve never met. The Grove isn’t just kid friendly, it’s friendly.

That’s why I’ve chosen to take my son to the Grove for the afternoon. We’re on a date, if you will, since his Dad has to work and my tolerance for the three parks on our rotation has grown thin. We’ll run a few errands then have lunch together and my boy will entertain himself with his favorite game, hurling food into the air or mashing it into the table. I’ll eat a decent lunch, giving him the occasional bite of food off my plate and other kid friendly eaters will walk by saying things like, “It’s such a great age” or “I’ve got 4 kids you’ll survive one.” I’ll smile, maybe even offer a, “It is a great age!” or “4 kids? You don’t look like you’re old enough to have one!” And then we’ll all giggle, smile, and nod knowing we’re kid friendly, in a kid friendly mall where mashed food, thrown silverware, and temper tantrums aren’t just tolerated, they’re welcome.

So when the host sits us at a table within close proximity to another patron’s, I don’t worry. No one here will bat an eyelash when my boy screams at the top of his lungs just to hear what it sounds like or channels his inner Ringo Starr by banging on the table like a drum. No one here will care because their kid just did the same thing to the table to the right whose kid just did the same thing and so on and so forth. We’re paying it forward, kid friendly style.

Next to us, a 6 year-old and her two Moms. The Moms are deep in conversation about one of the heavyset Mom’s latest auditions. “I really committed to my choice,” she states proudly. “I know the casting director really loved me.” Their daughter has a table full of stickers and she couldn’t be happier. Until…

“She’s scared of babies,” the short haired Mom tells me almost proudly as her daughter whimpers and hides to get away from my son’s gaze. “She doesn’t like them.”

Odd I think to myself. Why would a 6 year old be scared of a baby?

Well he’s not scared of you, I tell the girl, You can go ahead and say hello, he won’t hurt you. But the girl screams louder, the shorthaired Mom raising an eyebrow my son’s way as she repeats, “She doesn’t like them.” As if babies are demons and her daughter just got spooked.

My son stares at the screaming girl for a while before setting his sights on her stickers. He goes in for the kill, grabbing a long strip of gold stars. I grab them out of his hands, in part because he’ll eat them and in part because I want the two Moms and every other Mom within earshot to know that I’m not one of those Moms, who lets her kid run wild. I apologize and give the stickers back to the crying girl, but my apology is met with a blank stare before the two women return to their conversation about the heavyset Mom’s attempt at stand up comedy. I’m left wondering why the least funny people feel the need to get into comedy. But in light of the crying kid and the sticker incident, I keep my career advice to myself.

Lunch arrives and my son is distracted for a while with his food and my food and the floor. And then out of the corner of my eye, I see what he sees, a shiny silver cell phone, the baby mother load, at the Comedy Mom’s fingertips. The only thing that stands in between my son making a break for the cell phone are two porcelain salt and pepper shakers. At the age of 1, my son is no dummy, he knows that all he has to do is hurl those to the ground and he and the cell phone can be one.

Do you mind if I move these? I ask the two Moms sure they will say, “Oh no problem and why don’t I move my phone, here have a sticker!” Instead, the two women look at me, don’t say a word, and go back to their food. Do you mind if I move these? I ask again. It’s just that he’ll want to throw them and I’d hate for him to…

“Whatever,” the Comedy Mom says as she moves them across the table leaving her cell phone in its place, undoubtedly for that call from Spielberg whose scoured the world to find a heavyset 45 year-old comedienne with the charm and timing of Hitler. For a moment, I think I should suggest she move it, but then I don’t. If my son happens to grab her cell phone or happens to get food on it, well, whatever…

The two return to their conversation, undoubtedly about the Comedy Mom’s newest Can-Can routine, while exchanging a not so subtle eye-roll pointed in my direction. The eye-roll speaks volumes, saying loudly, “She’s one of those Moms….”

When I think of the word “tolerance”, I can’t imagine two people who could use it more than a family that consists of two Moms and their adopted dark skinned baby, but just because people preach tolerance doesn’t mean they have it. And apparently, just because someone has a kid doesn’t mean they’re tolerant of other people’s. Had we been dining at Spago, I could understand the disdain, but we’re at the Grove, Kool and the Gang is blasting, a kid nearby is holding a balloon animal. If you’re not tolerant of kids here, then you’re just not tolerant of kids.

I like to think that all parents are just trying to do the best they can. But when I come across parents like these ladies at The Grove, I’m reminded that an asshole with a kid is still an asshole. The kid may soften the blow, but a baby won’t make you tolerant.

And so it becomes clear that the kid with the stickers hates babies because her Moms do. Kids learn to like and dislike what their parents do. My kid will probably love The Dave Matthews Band, Rufus Wainwright, Neil Diamond, sushi, the South of France, and bad reality TV, just like I do.

And he’ll definitely hate assholes with kids, just like I do.

We pay our check, leaving a generous tip in anticipation of the server’s time spent cleaning up the floor mat of Sweet N Low’s, courtesy of my one year-old, and we get up to leave. We head outside where the sun is shining, the water fountain is dancing, and Lou Rawls is singing. A woman and her two daughters walk by, look at my son, and say, “What a great age!” I look at my boy, then respond, “You know what, you’re right. It is a great age.”

SEXY WOMEN

I’m at the gym. It’s 6 am and I’m wearing clothes I picked out in the dark. Not my best look but since my gym has a ratio of 99% gay men to 1% potentially straight it’s too hard to tell at 6 am women, I don’t really care.

Being that there are so few women, one tends to notice the others around. There’s the girl with the brand new boobs who hoists them like a shelf and the clog wearing perky trainer whose voice registers in an octave only heard by whales and dogs. There’s the heavy set lesbian (even at 6 am, there’s no hiding for her) who passes her cardio time with a complete set of tabloids and the girl in the short shorts who might want to wear longer shorts the next time she does squats.

And then there’s the girl with the pin. She’s easy to spot, hard to miss because she is wearing, as she has been for the past 6 days, a large pin on her shirt which reads:

“Sexy Women Vote For Obama.”

I don’t know if she’s gay or straight, but even at 6 am, one thing is fairly certain, this woman is a total and complete moron.

A pin worn to the gym is in and of itself stupid. The chances of being impaled by an Obama pin are not wasted on me and I spend my 37 minutes on the Precor picturing what happens when she drops a weight on her chest, the pin opens, jabs her in the heart, blood spouts out, and she dies; the headline reading, “Sexy Woman dies due to Obama stabbing.” But that’s not the real problem here.

Political views aside, it’s her choice of words that’s got me all wound up. “Sexy Women Vote for Obama.” Does that mean that non-sexy women vote for McCain? And who decides whose sexy enough to vote for Obama because I was gonna vote for Obama, but I’m wearing an outfit I picked out in the dark so I wouldn’t wake my husband as I snuck off the gym to work out for an hour before my kid wakes up and wants to play his new favorite game, “Lets throw food on Mommy” which makes me feel, to be honest, not so sexy. So can I still vote for Obama?

I don’t mind that the Pin Girl has an overly healthy opinion of her own sexuality, but I do mind that the very important decision of who should run the country comes down to how sexy you are. And I’m wondering how the Pin Girl would feel if she were to tell a man she was voting for Obama and he replied, “Well that’s because you’re sexy.” That guy would probably get a slap on the face and be accused of being a sexyist.

We live in an era where young girls look up to Paris Hilton over Hillary Clinton where Wall Street boasts the lowest number of female executives to date in a country with the fewest females holding public office in 30 years. Even Pakistan has had a female President and yet we are defining our voting habits by how sexy we are.

Since becoming a parent, I’m constantly reminded that two people, one of whom is me, will define my son’s view of the world. I’ll expose him to his favorite food and develop his love or hate of music. He’ll appreciate theatre if I do and have a strong sense of family if I encourage it. And his view of women will also be defined by one of two people, me. Personally, I want my son to learn that women are sexy but I’d also like him to learn that women are smart, whomever they vote for, as long as they vote.

I’m at the gym and there she is, the Pin Girl, bench-pressing a grueling 7 pounds. I decide I’m going to stand up for all women and tell her what I think. “Sexy Women Vote for Obama?” I’ll say. “How bout Smart Women Vote. Period.” Then I’ll walk away with my gym full of gays cheering me on. But before I can get over there, I hear a crash. She’s dropped her weights on her chest.

“Fucking pin!” she screams as she rubs her chest.

I turn around, head back to my workout. I take that back. While it’s smart to vote, it’s even smarter not to wear sharp metal objects to the gym.

And by the way, if you’re smart, you’ll vote Obama, no matter how sexy you are.

NANNYGATE, PART DEUX

Claudia needs three weeks off every summer while Aida needs to bring her son to work. Laela isn’t actually a nanny, doesn’t know how to change a diaper, but “really likes kids.” And though Jennifer lives in a one-bedroom apartment with her son, her mother, and grandmother, she doesn’t want to work too many hours because she wants to stop working to become a nurse.

“Taking care of sick people is fun, “ she tells me. “It’s like taking care of a baby, but sick!”

Jennifer looks disappointed when I remind her that my son, while a baby, is perfectly healthy.

In my two-week immersion into Nanny Gate 2008, I have interviewed well over 20 candidates and have whittled the 20 down to 5 who have worked for me at least a day to see if they just might be the one. Each comes with her own file folder full of glowing recommendations from families claiming to have wept upon her absence, wishing their children didn’t have to go to school so they could keep her on.

Ann, a 50 year old nanny who took three years off from “the baby biz” to work at Curves is my first test. Looking at her resume, filled with perfect reviews from former bosses and nursery schools at which she’d been employed, I’m optimistic, even enthusiastic, until she starts work. Within five minutes, she asks me to hold the baby so she can “take a breather to wipe her brow.” It’s clear her time working for Curves was not spent on the gym floor.

Judith, a self -proclaimed “Super Nanny” with 25 years of credentials comes to her interview enthusiastic if ebullient. But that enthusiasm fades quickly into her workday when simple tasks like: following directions or folding a child’s laundry is required. “I don’t understand this, what is this?” she barks while pointing to my son’s pajamas. When I confirm that yes indeed my son’s pajamas are in fact pajamas, she seems perplexed. “I don’t understand. How do you want me to fold these? I don’t know what these are!” she says again as she throws them on the floor. Judith might be a Super Nanny, but she's also Super Angry.

And these are the ones that made it past the interview.

I remember the days when I, like these nannies, worked for an hourly wage. I remember counting my ten dollars or fifteen dollars per hour until my rent was made, my car was paid for, and hopefully my food. If my boss asked me to work extra hours, I was thrilled, knowing that I’d have a few more tens or fifteens toward covering my nut.

When I worked as a personal assistant, and met my boss for the first time she said, “I’m very particular, I like things done a certain way.” What I heard was that she was very particular and liked things done a certain way, which is what I did. I did things her way and we got along famously. But every nanny I’ve met comes with her list of demands, her career pre-nup if you will, listing the conditions, benefits, and payment required for her to do her job.

Jillian, a French nanny who charges $19 an hour, “But is willing to negotiate”, will work for $18 an hour as long as I am willing to pay for her gas to and from work. A simple request, but when was the last time a teacher got paid for his drive to work or a nurse for hers? People shouldn’t be treated poorly because they clean a house or take care of a child to make a living, but they shouldn't be treated better either. Adding up the expenses of Jillian’s requests and benefits, she’d make more than my husband and I combined. So needless to say, I said “au revoir” to Jillian, wishing her “bon chance” and remembered that a French nanny would be lovely if only she weren’t French.

I start another week immersed in Nanny Gate 2008 wondering if I’ll find a suitable candidate before my new job starts, a movie I’m writing, for which I’ll probably get paid less than my nanny. It’s my first big writing job, there’s not much room for negotiation, but I’m happy for the opportunity, happy to have a job. It's easy to "dignify" yourself out of a job, demand your way into the unemployment line. Somewhere out there is a nanny who wants to work and is happy for the opportunity and realizes there's not a lot of room for negotiation.

And if not, I hope my kid knows how to spell check and write jokes because he and I have got work to do.

NANNYGATE

If someone doesn’t show up for work is she quitting her job or just being an asshole?
Me, Wednesday Sept 3, 2008



One of my husband’s favorite theories is, “Hope is a terrible strategy.” He says things like this all the time as if repetition per theory justifies the exorbitant amount of money he spent to go to an Ivy League Business School to learn such things. A day doesn’t go by without him quoting some hero of wealth with a quick, tight theory that encapsulates a moment. Instead of admitting that I’m not listening or worse yet, that I have little interest in business, I nod and occasionally quote back to him some theory just to make him feel like he’s had an impact. But the notion that hope alone is nothing to bank on resonates with me, especially since becoming a Mom. Especially since deciding to hire a nanny.

I long ago stopped hoping my nanny would get my name right or that she’d show up when expected. So after spending 3 hours waiting for her to arrive on time to work on a Wednesday morning, after two weeks off with pay followed by a paid Labor Day Monday, it comes as no surprise to me when my phone finally does chirp the ring of doom.

“Hello, Merta? It’s me, Dalia. My Mother broke her leg.”

She pauses as if she’s given a complete and logical explanation for why she’s three hours late for work when she’s been given countless warnings about missed days of work, and hasn’t called until now.

Well did she break your phone, too? I ask not half or even a little bit kidding.

“Maybe Friday should be my last day,” she says with a decisiveness that betrays her lack of emotion on my behalf.

Recognizing that losing a nanny is a chaos inducing inconvenience rather than a life spent starving in Darfur, battling cancer, or finding out you’re related to one of the morons on MTV’s “The Hills, I try to keep it all in perspective. But since I’ve had more nannies than children, my patience has worn thin.

In one year of Motherhood, I’ve had two nannies; both excellent at the job as long as one doesn’t consider showing up for work a job requirement. There were always last minute illnesses, surprise children’s school conferences and the inevitable “mother with a broken leg” excuses. Each excuse requiring a day, two, four off from work, unpaid and unaccounted for. I’m left wondering if I’m the only person in America that actually needs to work. Because it seems like there’s an awful lot of people who don’t mind missing out on a day or seven of work and a day or seven of a paycheck.

Every Mom who hears my story feels my pain, even those who do have cancer and are related to morons on TV. But with every offering of sympathy also comes the inevitable, “Haven’t you been through this like…a lot?” Yes, I’m quick to respond. I give people too many chances. I guess I was just hoping…” my voice trailing off, me knowing that I sound about nannies like 20 year-old girls do about boyfriends, hoping it will all work out knowing that it’s a terrible strategy.

Others offer a more cynical opinion. “It’s just how they are. They live a flip flop kind of life, they’re not reliable,” one relative suggests not explaining if the “they” so politely referenced is Nannies or Hispanics in general. Another asks where our nanny was born, then seems confused, “But California has all those cheap Mexicans who will work for free. I didn’t know they were so uppity like the girls from the Islands. They’re very high maintenance.” Suddenly, it seems that a crap employee is no longer just that, they’re a representation of a whole race brought down in one fell swoop.

Instead of joining the cynics, I opt to get back on the horse, get back out there, and start interviewing others. Out of three appointments I make, two candidates don’t show up, one never calling to cancel, the other saying she’s “just too tired.” The third, a lovely girl from Pensacola, peaks my interest until she explains that she’s hoping to get into nannying “to get out of bartending” I feel like she just might not be the right fit as I imagine my son’s first word being “highball.”

I make three more appointments for the following day. Each potential Nanny from a varying country around the world; one Guatemalan, another Israeli, another Russian. One by one, before each woman’s appointment, my phone rings, each canceling her interview.

With each passing cancellation, I begin to miss my old Nanny more and more. Maybe I should call her, I think to myself, just to see if she really meant to quit. Sure she wasn’t reliable and was so forgetful she could forget her own name, but at least I knew her bad qualities. When your kids are involved, the devil you know is better than the nanny you don’t know.

But settling for someone who’s unreliable, uninterested, and quite frankly unavailable is not a solution. Maybe that’s what got me here in the first place, settling for someone sub par to take care of the person who matters most to me, my son. Sure we can’t do any better, women go from settling for bad boyfriends to bad nannies simply out of fear of the unknown. There’s no one race lazier or more unreliable than another, but you get what you settle for in any aspect of life. People are as reliable as you require them to be, as concerned as needed.

The truth is, my son is the most valued thing in my world, I shouldn’t settle for anything but the best, wherever the person is from. So until I find the right person, I guess it’s just he and I, napping, playing, trying to get our work done. I know I’ll find the right person; she’s out there somewhere, at least I hope so. Sure, it’s a terrible strategy, but sometimes hope is all you’ve got.

1000 GOODBYES

I can’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my image. It’s far too un-hip of a thing to think, much less say out loud. I’d sound like one of those Moms, you know the kind who ceases to have a personality, much less an interest of her own the minute the kid comes out. I’m not like those Moms; I’m hip and groovy. Those Moms spend their days scrap-booking…

That reminds me, I’ve got to get my kid’s scrapbook together, he’s almost a year and if I don’t do it now, then I’ll never…

Well anyway, I’m not like them. Those are the kind of Moms who cut their hair short the second the kid is born…

That’s what I forgot to do, make a haircut appointment. If this kid pulls out anymore, I’ll be bald. Now, I just look like I’ve got payus…

Well anyway, I’m not like that. I have a life of my own. I’m not just someone’s Mom; I’m my own person. For the record, I’m never ever going to be referred to as “Mommy”, that’s so…

The sweetest thing happened, my kid is trying to talk. He almost said my name. I can’t wait until I hear his voice when he says Mo…

You’re right. I’m just like them. We may look different and live in different places, but all Moms have one thing in common: we don’t want to say goodbye. There, I said it.

I’ve been missing my kid lately. He’s not even gone and I miss him. I’m starting to wean and quite frankly, he may be ready, but I’m not. I thought I’d hate it, me being the food source for a human being. “Gross,” I’d think to myself. Especially after I saw that lady walking through Target nursing what looked like a tall 2 year-old or a small 37 year-old, I vowed never to be one of those freaky, crunchy, Moms who can’t let her kids go. But now that I have to start letting him go, I’m overcome with sadness and despair and the overwhelming notion that I don’t want to say…well I’m not ready yet.

It’s not about the weaning. He’ll be fine; so will I. I’ll have more freedom and anyway, the timing is right. My kid doesn’t know the difference; he won’t miss it. Nothing worse than a baby whose got to wean its Mom. It’s supposed to be the other way around, but some Moms get too close. They need to be needed. But I fear becoming interchangeable, just another on the long list of people who adore him. I never thought I’d get so attached, but since we were attached, it makes sense.

Modern Moms aren’t supposed to miss their kids. We’re not even supposed to like being around them. We’re supposed to hate breastfeeding, worship our nannies before God, and describe our parenting strategy as “Here ya go!” As we long to pass off our child to anybody with a pair of open arms.

But that’s not how it happened for me. Don’t get me wrong. I do actually worship my nanny, but she’s not a replacement for me, she’s an addition. Another set of arms so I’m not “on” all the time and so that I can continue to work. But I find myself feeling a lot more 1950’s than I could have expected. Sure, I’m not wearing pearls while cooking and cleaning…

I’m obsessed with my Swiffer. Swivels and cleans, genius…

Anyway I’m not like that. But I do enjoy my time with my kid, my husband, and I don’t get bored of either. And while I like my time at work or going out with friends, I find a disproportionate amount of that time is spent missing my kid. Then, suddenly I feel like I’m back in 1950, the little Missus, referring to herself as a “we” when talking about her child.

Motherhood is as lifetime of goodbyes. From the moment your child is born, it’s no longer just the two of you. And for every milestone your child crosses, he or she becomes less and less a child, more and more his or her own person. The weaning lasts a lifetime. The goodbyes are endless and there’s a loss every time. And while Motherhood forces you to say goodbye to your freedom, your sleep, sometimes even your waistline, you can live with those losses. But from the second you have your child; you feel like you’re already saying goodbye. A child is just passing through, yours only to nurture, not to hang on to without letting go.

I swear my Mom cries every time she sees me. We don’t live close so we’re always saying goodbye, me always laughing as she wells up, mascara cascading down her cheeks. “Moooooom,” I say as I roll my eyes while mock singing “Sunrise/Sunset.” But now that I have a kid, I can see that my Mom cries when she sees me because she knows that she’s also going to have to say goodbye. She had a career, an active social life, a long marriage, and still, she dreads saying goodbye to her kids.

It may not be politically correct, it may make me less edgy and hip, but I’ll miss my kid every day of my life. My success as a parent will be marked by his ability to say goodbye to me and by my lack of desire to say goodbye to him. I’ll do it when I have to. I’ll say it. I just won’t be happy about it.

Motherhood is a raw deal, the short end of the stick. It’s a lifetime of goodbyes, thousands to be precise. I’ll dread each and every one. I’ll long to have him back, but will begrudgingly let him go. He’ll laugh and roll his eyes, but at least I’ll have said it.

MY NEW BRA

It’s late, time for guilty pleasure TV viewing. Since “Bret Michels Rock of Love” is on hiatus, I’m mainlining Pirate’s Booty and am instead watching Kathy Griffin’s show on Bravo. Kathy’s Mom is getting a new bra, her first in 17 years. Mom wants to tell everyone about it. She’ll even show you if you ask. She didn’t know she needed one, but once she got her new bra, she realized how long it had been, how long she’d needed to make the change. 17 years is a long time.

I’m about to go onstage. It’s the first time I’ll have “performed” in front of an audience since I quit being a failed actor. I’m about to read an essay I had published earlier this year on the stage of a theatre I had performed on so many times before, performing someone else’s lines. Now, it’s just me and a music stand, an audience, and my own words. I started acting 17 years ago. 17 years is a long time.

I didn’t so much as quit; I just stopped trying. I could deal with the poverty; I just couldn’t deal with dreading any annual event where someone I’d known since I was 6 might politely ask, “What’s new?” To which I could only respond, “Nothing.” The universal remote control of my life was on “Pause” and I wanted to be on “Play.” Then I got to an age where standing still, without any progress, just stuck in effort, was no longer cute. And so I just sort of stopped.

“I’m listening to the world,” I’d tell my actor friends who’d look at me like I was mainlining more than snacks. “Sometimes you’ve got to listen to the world. Chances are it’s telling you something.” Once I listened, I heard the world say, “It’s not happening.” And so, like that, I was no longer an actor, and became a failed actor, not on strike, but quit for good.

I come from a long line of non-quitters, live in a city full of dreamers who don’t quit things unless they’re married to them, living in a country, which promises rewards to anyone who works hard. But the truth is, you can work as hard as you want, and if you’re working at the wrong thing, you might as well have never tried. It’s hard work to admit your failings and listen long enough to know when it’s not happening and never will. Whether it be a job, a friendship, or a romance, sometimes it’s just not gonna happen no matter what you do. The biggest effort is being willing to close doors, say no to a dream, and no longer have the option of coming back. It’s an effort to change.

I don’t mind admitting that I failed. I don’t mind because I worked hard and then, maybe a little too late, realized it wasn’t happening. My life will be as much marked by the doors I’ve closed, the people I’ve said goodbye to, the dreams I’ve traded in for new ones as it will be marked by the things I accomplish. If there’s anything I’m proud of, it’s knowing when to quit and being willing to make a change. It’s hard to admit we’re not who we were, not good at what we wanted to be good at, or haven’t achieved what we think we should. It’s hard to look in the mirror and give yourself an honest glance and admit that your life is as ill a fit as that 17 year-old bra.

I’ve just gotten offstage. I’ve performed here a million times, but tonight I’m a writer reading my own stuff. My husband and a buddy are waiting for me in the lobby. There’s the inevitable high fives and “good jobs”. I look back at the theatre where I’d performed so many times. It’s nice to revisit my old life and even nicer to leave. My husband pulls the car around. I hop in, turn back to my old stomping grounds and can’t help but think, “I’m so glad I’m not an actor.” 17 years is a long time.

HUSBAND PROOFING

It’s late. We’re watching TV. There’s a beer commercial or another interchangeable ad in which the girl is unattainably hot. The guy is a doofus bordering on…my husband interrupts, “Why does every ad make the guys look like morons?”

“Research,” I reply.

My front door is open. There’s the unmistakable smell of carcinogens. Something’s burning and yet no one’s home. The images in my head are Movie Of The Week worthy. A torch-bearing bandit played by the actor who plays “Bo” on Days of Our Lives, takes my husband and kid. Maybe Valerie Bertenelli plays me, hopefully in her skinny phase so people don’t think I’ve let myself go.

I follow the smell of fire to the kitchen. No fire here, just a pot of water left burning on the stove, next to it 3 uncooked eggs. No bandit here, just one husband, who started something, which had the potential to burn my house down, without finishing it.

We have a lot of these incidents in our house. Ever since the baby came, I feel like I’m following him around, my husband not the baby, making sure everything is safe for him, my baby not my husband, so that I don’t have one more reason to be up all night grinding my teeth down to sandstone. Ovens are rarely turned off and safety gates usually left open. Toilet seat safety locks remain unlocked without fail and our floor is a smorgasbord of hazards like coins, shoes, and dry cleaning bags, all of which are met with a gleam in my son’s eyes as he thinks to himself, “I wonder what that plastic bag tastes like?” You see while my house is baby proofed, I can’t figure out a way to husband proof.

I’m faced with two choices: put on an orange vest and become the family default Safety Patrol or nag. Trust me, every woman gets accused of nagging, every man distracted to forgetfulness. As far as I can tell, no woman wants to spend her time reminding her husband about the minutia of life. Truth be told, for every nagging wife, there’s a husband who forgot to finish what he started. I can’t help but wonder, which came first, the chicken or the eggs left burning on the stove?

Before you think that I think I’m perfect, I don’t. It’s just that my flaws won’t say…kill our kid. And before you think I believe all men are actually morons, I don’t. They’re just very distracted. We all are.

I can’t remember a time when my husband and son were playing together when a Blackberry, a magazine, or a computer weren’t involved. Technology, it seems, makes us feel like everything coming in is important, timely, must be handled immediately. The Blackberry buzzes “Incoming!” and we feel like we’ll miss the boat and be passed up by some other colleague or friend who’s armed with their technology all the time. Time spent with our kids feels like wasted time, we’re not “getting things done.” But isn’t the whole point of technology to free us up so we aren’t locked in an office, unable to spend time with our own families? We’re distracting our lives away to the point of missing out.

Drive down the street you’ll see a Mom driving a Suburban full of kids yet she’ll be texting while driving like she’s 16 year-old trying to find directions to the kegger. Go to a park on any afternoon and most parents, Moms and Dads, will have half their attention on their kids, the other half on the cell phone call they’ve been on for the past hour. Look around a busy restaurant, you won’t find a table where at least one patron doesn’t have their head down, hands under the table, answering emails or texts that need “immediate attention.”

All parents will face a day when we’ll go to kiss our kids and they’ll push our face away, roll their eyes, and squirm out of our reach. They’ll dread spending time us for fear that they’ll miss an email, or won’t be able to get anything done while wasting time with Mom and Dad. We’ll long to have the moments back of uninterrupted kid time, which we squandered adding friends to our Facebook page or checking our stock portfolio on our iPhone.

TV Dads are portrayed as morons, but in truth we’re all morons if we miss out on our own lives. It’s a lot of pressure having a family, whether you’re the primary earner or the primary caretaker, but it takes discipline to turn off that pressure and show up for your own life. It takes discipline to unplug, unclog, and turn off whatever beckons, “Incoming!” and be with your family, friends, and loved ones long enough to cook breakfast without burning the house down or drive down the street without turning your car into a death bomb because you just “had to answer that text.” And while it seems like “getting things done” is moving our families further forward, sometimes the real forward movement is standing still, spending uninterrupted, distraction free time with the people we love. There’s a lot of discipline in doing nothing.

We’re watching TV. It’s a beer commercial or another interchangeable ad in which the girl is unattainably hot. The guy is a doofus bordering on…my husband interrupts, “Why does every ad make the guys look like morons?”

I think for a moment, grab the remote, “I don’t know,” I tell him as I turn off the TV, roll over, and snuggle into my spot. We’re foot-to- foot, cheek-to-cheek, doing nothing. Minutes feel like hours when you’re doing nothing. We’ve got time on our hands, just to be together. That's forward motion.

CALIFORNIA ON MY MIND

My brain is full. Really. I’m starting to forget things. Not my kid’s name, I’m talking the other kind where your brain is full with crap like the age difference between Kevin and Matt Dillon or the name of all of Ron Perelman’s ex wives. Then the name Pol Pot randomly pops into your head and you find yourself unable to remember who, or what, the fuck was Pol Pot.

Hmm, Pol Pot, wasn’t he a General for the ummmmmmmm Vietnamese Army? No. Right, Pol Pot was a place in uhhhhhh Laos. Yes, Laos. No, not Laos. Didn’t I order Pol Pot last week when we went to Dim Sum? No, that was Har Gow, not Pol Pot.

See, my brain is full.

I do this for two hours, me trying to remember who Pol Pot was. I don’t dare ask my husband who’ll surely remind me that I’d know the answer were I not the product of the Public School System; the California Public school system no less. “California” is a curse word to East Coasters who often say it with a whisper or disguise it as “Out West,” that’s New York for stupid.

My husband’s a native New Yorker, “Manhattan” he’d be quick to interrupt before reminding you he’s the recipient of not one, but two Ivy League Degrees. “Double Ivy,” he’d boast. So instead of asking the Prince of Manhattan, I wait until I’m alone with my computer and ask the Prince of Technology, my beloved Google. I can’t get through a day without Googling something. But if my brain fills up with more irrelivencia like the name of Chelsea Clinton’s first boyfriend, I’m going to forget to Google and then I’ll definitely be screwed.

You see my kid, while not even a year old now, is someday going to need more from me than making sure he doesn’t bonk his head on his head or that he doesn’t spend the day with a diaper full of har gow. Right now I know everything and can solve any problem, but the kid is eventually going to start talking, which means learning and asking questions. He’s going to need to know who Pol Pot was, how the Boston Tea Party started, or the capital of Mozambique. Then I will be outed as a total, utter, complete moron; a “Californian.”

Unlike most Angelenos I do in fact read the paper. I know things. I keep up on current events, but the events I keep up on are usually in the Arts and Entertainment section. I’m not an US Magazine reader; I’m not interested in the name of Nicole Ritchie’s baby….

Harlow. Damn it! Why do I know that? Nicole Ritchie’s never had a job and yet, I, who couldn’t give a shit, know her illegitimate baby’s name. Crap, why do I know that baby Harlow is illegitimate? Why?

This is why my brain is full. While I don’t read those mags, you’d have to live under a rock to escape the current pop culture blitz we face everyday about the lives of people who’ve never actually had jobs.

For the record, I read the New Yorker for the essays and the Calendar section for the movie reviews and Vanity Fair for everything. That’s not totally moronic, is it?

The truth is, I grew up in a fairly academic, politically spirited household. We talked about politics over feelings and could debate how any current President had ruined the country. You had to know stuff, a lot of stuff, or you’d be left in the dust, passed by another kid who’d read the paper, watched the news long enough to have something to talk about with our Dad whose sole interest after talking about how horrible the weather is, is to discuss how horrible any current administration is. Knowledge is my family’s connection.

But as an adult on my own, I’ve become unconnected from their interests and connected to my own. I’ve developed my own passions and now have my own family with our own dinner table conversation, which is all well and good as long as my kid wants to know that Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe were married and that Richard Nixon covered up the White House swimming pool to make room for a tennis court. So either I’ve got some reading to do or my son is going to look elsewhere for help with his homework.

The truth is, parents want to be seen as all knowing, like we have all the answers. But in reality, we’re just learning along side our kids. While I can’t remember a time my Mom didn’t know the answer to something, there’s a good chance a few times she winged it or looked up the answer before telling me. But I can’t remember those times; I can just remember that she always had the answers. So since I’ve got 5 or so years to brush up on my facts, I’m not going to worry about it. I should probably read more than the Entertainment section of the newspaper and might want to read a book that isn’t found in the “chick lit” section of the bookstore. But at least I read, at least I’m passionate and open to learning new things. That’s a far more valuable lesson to pass on to my kid than something anyone can look up on Google. And worse comes to worse, if my kid asks me who Pol Pot was and I can’t remember, I’ll say with confidence and passion, “The Dillon Brothers are exactly one year apart.”

And for the record, Pol Pot was the Prime Minister of Cambodia and the leader of the Communist movement Khmer Rouge. I remembered that without Googling. So I guess my brain isn’t full. It's almost full, but there's still room. Now that’s California.

CRAWLING TOWARDS LAST PLACE

I’m the Tonya Harding of crawling. I’m not proud of it. In fact, I hate myself for it. I promised myself I’d never be one of those Moms, but I also said I’d never date anyone longer than 2 years without getting engaged. 4 ½ years later, I learned never to proclaim “never” because some friend with a good memory will remind you that you’re doing exactly what you said you’d never do and then your credibility is shot.

Case in point, I said, “I never want to be a competitive Mom, checking my kid’s progress against other kids’…” But since I’ve never actually met a living, breathing Mom (or Dad for that matter) who isn’t competitive when it comes to their kid, it shouldn’t surprise me that I’m on the verge of tears looking at all these little Nancy Kerrigans crawling by my boy. I’m not unhappy for this herd of heads and butts cruising by my guy, I’m just sad for mine. He’s been trying for weeks now, up on all fours, a step, then another, then crawling…backwards. My son’s transmission is stuck in reverse and he can only scoot himself back until he gets his giant head stuck into a tiny space. While the other kids are one unified pack of asses in the air, playing together, my guy is perfectly content playing by himself, bashing a ladle into the ground, or sucking on his big toe like a finger. All his friends are moving forward, taking the next step toward a new milestone, and my guy isn’t even in neutral, he’s in reverse and he’s alone.

I find myself willing him to crawl at all possible times. Tummy time turns into “Tummy Hour”, me with a whistle around my neck coaching him through drills. Time spent in the car seat, stroller, or someone’s arms is restricted to only what’s necessary so as not to stunt his time working out. I rock him back and forth on all fours, giving him a push with an encouraging, “Craaaawl,” but he won’t budge. Finally, at last resort, I get down on all fours, my ass high in the air, my low rise jeans sliding low below my rise, and with one foot in front of the other, I show him how it’s done. But instead of my kid emulating my moves, I turn around to find my husband in the doorway, bordering on a full on pup tent at the site of me down on all fours, panting and crawling like some sort of infant replicating porn star. He suggests maybe we should “hit it” while the kid naps. This infuriates me.

“How can you be turned on when our son might be retarded? Don’t you love your son?” I scream. “His buddies aren’t going to play with him now that they can move and he can’t!”

But he remains un-phased and says, “The kid’ll crawl when he’s ready to crawl. It may not be when you’re ready for him to crawl, but he’ll crawl.” This infuriates me even more.

“You just don’t love him like I do,” I say.

But my MBA husband is suddenly some sort of Zen baby guru and tells me that while he used to think I was the sanest woman he’d ever known, this crawling thing has brought out my “Female Gene.” That’s husband for irrational.

Then I lose it. “I beg to differ. Irrational is asking to “hit it” in the midst of a fight. There will be no hitting it, not until my little boy crawls and my big boy apologizes for accusing me of being a crazy female just because I’m worried my kid’s life will be ruined because he’s the last to crawl.” Wait…

That is a little extreme. I know my kid is fine. I just don’t want him to be…Hmm. Why is this bothering me so much? Why do I care what the other kids are doing when I know my kid is moving along at his own pace, content where he is? Could it be? Could my husband be rig.. No, that’s impossible. If there’s one thing married women know it’s that husbands are never, ever….righ…Are they?

Rationally I know there’s a wide range of normal for kids. My guy got his first tooth at four months, others don’t see a tooth until much later. Some kids are walking by their first birthday, others are barely standing by the same time. They’re all normal; each on his or her own timetable. But it’s easier to remember that when your kid is the first to giggle, rollover, or talk, not when your kid is crawling towards last place, back of the pack.

The constant questions from strangers don’t help. When I was pregnant, I was able to dodge the onslaught of intrusive questions gracefully, without feeling obligated to tell every Tom, Dick, and In-Law how much baby weight I’d gained, if I wanted a boy or a girl, or even though my then unborn child was still unborn, would I be planning to have another. But for some reason, now that he’s here, the barrage of competitive questions and comments: “You know so and so’s kid was crawling at ... “, ”I bet the next time I see him, he’ll be ….”, “You know when my son was a baby….”, feel like judgments against my boy and judgments against me.

It’s not enough to have a happy, healthy baby, he also has to meet everyone else’s expectations. He has to crawl when the UPS man thinks he should, talk when his friends do, and be just like every other baby. Even worse, my concerns about him not crawling have made me into what I hate, an obsessed parent frustrated because my kid isn’t on my timetable.

In reality, knowing your kid is the only one in a group not to do something is terribly painful. At 9 months, my boy doesn’t know the difference. He’s not feeling crawling shame, worried the cool kids won’t like him, but I am. I know what it’s like to be left out, I know what it’s like not to feel like I can't keep up, I know what it’s like to feel like I just can’t move my life forward to the next age appropriate milestone. Every adult knows what it’s like to feel stuck, unable to get the transmission out of reverse and get out of the tiny space you’ve backed yourself into. So while I’m watching my kid rolling while the others are crawling, it’s really my pain I don’t want him to experience. I want to shield him from being left out, from being alone, from being “the one” who just can’t hang with the others. I want to shield him from being me.

There are those parents who are just hyper competitive about life, so they’re hyper competitive about their kids. They’re usually the ones who start every sentence with, “You know me, I’m just not a competitive person…” and then they say something really competitive. But for most parents, we’re making the best choices we can for our kids with the information we have, which is often very little. There’s a lot of guesswork and fear when it comes to our little ones and the only way we’ll know we made the right choices is to see our kids grow up well. Every time someone else does something different with their child, or every time a child surpasses another, it calls into question our choices as parents. The differences in parenting remind us that there’s no insurance guaranteeing our kids will be okay. All we really want as parents is for our kids to be okay.

Husbands are a lot of things, but “right” is an attribute I rarely want to give to mine. But right now, faced with the fact that I’ve claimed my child might have a life ruined simply because he’s the last of his buds to crawl, I have to admit, my husband just might be..is probably…is definitely right.

Let’s keep that part to ourselves. Once he finds out, he’s going to revisit the hitting it thing and quite frankly, I’m exhausted because the kid started crawling today. It happened just like that, just like my husband said, when he was ready. And while I’m so happy for him, I’m sad for me. In all my time willing this kid to crawl, I forgot to take into account that he’d be crawling; on the move, full mobility to destroy everything in his path. Gone are the days of toe sucking and ladle banging, he’s got stereos to take apart, screen doors to plow through, computer cords to chew. He’s even trying to stand. He’s moving toward the next milestone. My house is in shambles and I can’t take my eyes off him even to pee, but he’s on the move. He’s in motion. Now I can see that he’s always been moving forward, it’s me who was stuck in reverse.