Your Mom (Not Grandma)

     “Is that your mom’s painting,” my nine-year old asks barely glancing at the watercolor landscape of the Point Reyes lighthouse outside San Francisco, the one my mom, his grandma lovingly painted to commemorate another one of our mother/daughter adventures up the PCH. He doesn’t mean to but his words hurt me – reminding me of loss. Not just mine but his and his brother’s. Because no matter how many times I correct him to say Grandma Cathy showing him pictures of her in her floppy Disney hat with her name embroidered on the brim and her arsenal of cameras, purses, and fanny packs overwhelming her short, round body, she will only ever be my mom.

     Dead before he was twelve weeks along, the secret of his presence in my body frozen on my lips never uttered because I was told not to tell before I was three months pregnant, I didn’t even get to say the word grandma to her.  She never cuddled his sweet milk and Baby Bee smelling body to her expansive chest rocking him in the glider I bought with my inheritance wanting to pretend it came from her.

     I try really hard to show both my boys pictures of her even if they remind me of the pain I’ve buried. I tell anecdotes of her ability to fall asleep anywhere or how she travelled the world visiting the pyramids of Giza and dating a man with six passports before he dumped her for the heiress to the Goodyear fortune. But they half listen and rarely connect this person they’ve never met as someone related to them. They only know their Grandma Josie, their dad’s mom who spoils them with the junk food, video games, and hugs.

     Yet, I see her in my six -year-old’s flair for art. He's the child she longed for just one generation too late. He'd have gladly accepted her gifts of watercolors and sketch books filling them with more than scribbled margin notes about how I had no talent so lay off the art supplies. They would have created wonderfully imaginative, funky junk sculptures together from his hoard of toilet paper rolls and discarded wrappers. She hoarded too.  He even moves like her a deliberate pokiness, going at his own speed.

     But she’s also in my nine-year-old and his love of books. Brat that I was, I'd complain to her face that books were not appropriate birthday gifts, so where was my Barbie. But he snatches them out of the gift-wrap and dives in openly soaking up their worlds and knowledge the way I did in secret when she wasn't looking. He's cuddly like her, but also possesses her hang-dog expressions and ability to make me feel guilty.

     Why is that seeing her personality reflected back in theirs both warms my heart and pricks it at the same time? Probably because the boys and I both got cheated out of these moments.

     And I know how hard it is for them. My own Grandma Marguerite died when my mom was sixteen and was stuck in my memory as her mother no matter how many stories and photos she shared.  My mom probably felt the same way when I said “your mom” before she corrected me to Grandma Marguerite. And I wonder if she cried in private the way I do wishing there was a key or magic spell between the worlds, some Harry Potteresque ring where I could call her up for just a second so they could meet and hug and know the wonder of themselves, the people I love and loved the most.

     But I can’t create connection where there is none. I can just continue to recant my stories of her reminding them of the woman who would have loved and spoiled them with gifts and tight hugs against her ample, squishy, motherly bosom.

     Yet I know part of her still lives in my parenting style, the good: my zany antics of dancing in the kitchen and playing dress up and caring more for having fun than if I look stupid to the other parents at the park. The bad: her paranoia of public toilet seats and dirty cups; her obsessive checking to make sure the door is locked three times before leaving the house. After all, I am the woman she made me to be – her love and compassion and sense of fun and adventure and creativity all live in me.

     But be sensitive when a mom loses her mom, because she’s not just mourning her own loss but her kid’s loss too that she mourns. The loss of Grandma to Your Mom and all the connections in between.  

Day-Trip Dilemmas

     My palms sweat, my heart races, and my mind crashes like an overloaded hard drive over the simple prospect of going on an outing alone with my two sons. I search the internet for ideas to entertain two rambunctious boys begging Google to give me the answer, the perfect daytrip to wear them out but not make me loathe every second. But with each click of the mouse my mind comes up with five reasons why that’s not a good idea.

     Now let me preface this by saying that I love my boys, and we have had some lovely adventures together. But we have also had some miserable, scream crying, tantrum launching misadventures that left us all a little shell-shocked and mom in need of a fifth of Scotch even though the Instagram picture looks like we’re having fun.

     For one their idea of fun and mine don’t always align. I am an impulsive, adventurous spirit who loves bike rides, hikes, museums, and shopping. My kids on the other hand think Chuck E. Cheese or Dave and Busters is the ideal way to spend a day. If there isn’t an electronic device controlling the adventure, then what’s the point. But I persistently soldier on and try to broaden their horizons, but they are young. I mean I remember hating my mom for dragging me out to Pioneer Village while she drew Victorian churches and school houses, and I threw rocks at the dirt and cursed her under my breath when I wasn’t whining.

     Plus maybe it’s just me, but I need another adult to talk or at least field half the questions of “Are we there yet? and “How much longer?”

     When I was pregnant, I dreamed about the fun outings we’d have making memories together filled with adorable conversations where we learned from each other, and made daisy chains and sang songs. In reality, after half an hour of a complete in-detail description of my son’s friend’s new YouTube video about a Minecraft cactus named Pete, my ears start to bleed. And Minecraft or Roblox or Smashy Road are the only topics of conversation my oldest wants to have. While my youngest speaks a language all his own and yells at me when I don’t understand what he’s saying.

     So do I suck it up and head to the arcade all the while hoping for spontaneous blindness and deafness from the bright lights, perpetual pinging sounds, and screams of happy children? Or do I slap on my uber-eager chipper face in an attempt to convince them that they love the Art Museum and cannot wait to see the new abstract art exhibit?

     Or there is always the beach but lugging all the beach chairs, sand toys, towels, sunscreen, snacks, and change of clothes alone over hot sand does not sound tempting. Plus, the added fact that I have one child who likes to be in the water and one who likes to sit on the sand and dig sand castles, but how do I supervise the both of them. Maybe not.

    Theme parks means a lone rider or a battle to the death for who gets to sit with mom. Water parks means grabbing the screaming six-year-old out of the wave pool while chasing the nine-year-old from slide to slide.

     I honestly don’t know how single moms do it. I now realize why my own mom drank lots of wine or sent me to summer camp.

Over-thinking it: This is Your Brain on Motherhood

Husband: I’ll take the kids for a couple hours so you can enjoy and get stuff done.

Me: Should I clean the house? No, I should do some writing? But I really need to clean out my files? I should check Pinterest for ideas. Oh look, I can check Facebook? No, I should read a book? Or maybe watch a movie? But I really should watch one of my shows on DVR? Actually, I should call a friend? Or write the thank you notes I haven’t done from Little Timmy’s birthday? But this is my time. I should lie out by the pool and relax? Or I could buy a new bathing suit? Or go to the gym to fit into my bathing suit? Or maybe go shopping by myself to buy a new bathing suit?

2 hours later.

Husband: So what did you do with your free time?

Me: Spend two hours obsessing over what I could do with my free time.

Dear Lady Road Ragging in the Target Parking: A Life Lesson in What Not to Do

     Dear Lady yelling out the window of your white sedan,
     My six-year old did not need to pick up any of your "motherfucking" f-bombs hurled angrily out the open window of your car when we were just there to pick up my allergy meds. And my nine-year old certainly didn't need to pick up your nasty, entitled, impatient, profanity spewing attitude. Yes, I understand that you were annoyed that the man in the gold sedan wouldn't move over in the narrow parking lane so you could maneuver your car to one of the better spots closer to the front door. I'd be really frustrated too and most likely quietly muttering a few of those choice words under my breath so my kids didn't hear them.
     However, it did not warrant you screaming like a banshee out the window that you were going to "Cut you mother-fucker" if he didn't back up. Nor did it merit a trip out your door to bang on his window and continue to threaten to beat the shit out of him among many other disturbing acts you promised to visit upon the said mother-fer.
     My nine-year-old tried to dive back in the car cowering at your tone and threats. And I had to run for the door with my hands over my younger sons ears as he whimpered. And they are used to seeing me foam at the mouth when I'm angry and not batting an eye.
     Now, I'm not saying they haven't heard language or voices raised in anger before. Again, there mom is a hot-headed Celt and my oldest learned the "f" word on the kindergarten bus.
     But what they didn't need to see but maybe did need to learn was that there are some things worth getting angry about and then there are the miniscule, ridiculous, little nothings that over-privileged people blow up about because in America, most of us have no real problems.
      Yes, we have poverty and racial discrimination and women are still treated less than men. I am not belittling those issues. But the average middle-class American's food worries are whether or not to buy the organic cookies or the gluten free ones, not whether or not they have enough money to feed the whole family. Most of us don't have to worry about war or famine or dying of vaccine and basic healthcare preventable diseases.
     We live in a world of some much "muchness" you would think we'd be deliriously happy with the plenty we've got. But no, we are yelling in the Target parking lot because we can't wait three minutes for the gold sedan to pass into the other road so we can score our prime spot.
     I mean I don't know you and maybe you really do have some worthy problems or something bad happened that left you roiling with anger. But to jump out of your car screaming every expletive ever coined and threaten bodily harm to a perfect stranger seems like the wrong venue for your pent-up rage. And my kids definitely did not need to see you lose your shit over a lousy right of way.
     And gentleman in the gold sedan, I use that term loosely as you should have done the gentlemanly thing and backed up instead of refusing to move to prove whatever machismo fueled ego kept you stock still and in her face. She should not have been raging at you, but you were not being kind either and backing up when you were both at loggerheads.
     I didn't stay to witness the end of your vapid performance play out. I had allergy prescriptions to pick up and children to reassure. But I hope it was worth it and that your parking spot and right of way was everything you hoped for. But actually, I hope you calmed down at some point that day because no one else needed to be on the end of that rage trip, including you.
     As for my sons and I, we spent the ride home talking about how we shouldn't get angry over trivial things as you provided a valuable life lesson on how not to act. Your immature tantrum gave them a prime example of adults acting worse than kids.

Pimping for a Play date: Procuring Friends for My Kids

     I dread summer. It actually sends me into a panic attack because it means not only scheduling day camp, vacation, and being entertainment central for two little people. But it means, I must procure my kids playdates or have them chase me around the house for two and a half months whining about how bored they are, and who can they play with. 

     Why is it now my responsibility to hit up the mom dropping off her kid at school for a phone number so my kid can play with hers? And why do I have to call her up like a blind date and beg her to get out her calendar so we can see when Mercury and Venus line up allowing our nine-year-old boys to play Minecraft at their house or ours? 

     Why does my son hand me the phone number he got off his schoolmate and expect me to call or text this random stranger so our kids can bond? Can’t he dial and ask himself? He did finally figure how to dial the phone this year, for emergencies. 

     Or why do I have to take to Facebook trying to artfully type up the least pathetic plea to my other mommy friends to schedule a playdate or meet at the park or pool. And then try not to take it personally if they don’t respond. Because honestly, sometimes it feels like if I’m not B.F.F.s with the mom then my kids have a slim chance in hell of playing with her kids.

     Because let’s face, if you are not popular in this social media heavy, helicopter parent world we live in; then your kid is not popular. 

     Unfortunately, the sins of an introverted parent being visited on the poor, innocent child. I literally break out in a sweat at the mere thought of calling up a strange mom to beg her for a play date. Even R.S.V.Ping the old fashioned way via phone makes me feel awkward & 12 again. I'm much better texting or responding to an evite the way nature intended. Social media bring my preferred detached vehicle for talking to those I'm not comfortable with.  So I try hard to like other moms posts and strike up inane conversations about calories, and workouts, and popular culture hoping they’ll like me enough so my kid can have someone to play with this summer. 

     Since, long gone are the days of calling your own friends up on the phone or hell, walking to their house and knocking on the door to ask if “Little Johnny can come outside and play right now”. One because, no one plays outside anymore. The boogeyman, skin cancer, or allergens might get them. And two, no one is usually home but on their way to soccer camp, underwater ballet, or Krav Maga. Or if they are, then their mom or dad needs my phone number, social security number, and blood type and will schedule you in for thirty minutes next July. 

     I seriously feel like I am pimping out my kids, working hard to make sure they look like the most attractive offer out there. Concealing their proclivity to argue over who gets to be player one or that my oldest is basically an over grown puppy, all impulse & no forethought. Instead, I try to promote Child 1, an outgoing, happy-go-lucky child who loves sports, is computer savvy, and very bright. And Child 2, my artistic, curious, lovable, curly-haired cherub who won't eat all your sweets & open all your crafts. 

     Because it all falls on me. If I don’t procure the playmates, then they don’t play with anyone but me. And a whole summer of me make Jack a dull boy & mom a raving, snarling lunatic. 

      My mom had it seriously easy compared to this. She occasionally knew the mother of the kids I hung out with. Usually, I just had to be home at a certain time, and I was free to pop in and out of whoever house. Sometimes, I had to ask her for a ride if it was too far to bike there. So I ran ragged with whomever was on the apartment playground till I was too hot or hungry or tired. I made my own friends judging them on their desire to swing & make mud pies. I would never have even thought about asking my mom to schedule a play date. I mean, how embarrassing! 

     But like the disappearance of cassette tapes and the ozone layer; free play is a thing of the past. So I must take a deep breath, make a glass of wine or two, and dial the number I’ve been given and try not to sound too desperate or nervous as I ask a perfect stranger for permission for her kid to entertain mine.