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[halofriendly]

Today is not Instagrammable

A struggle to keep The Best Mom Ever myth alive IRL

I'm taking a hiatus from Instagram and Facebook for 40 days. Yes, it’s Lent, or so I’ve heard. I’m not Catholic. I’m just tired of looking at everything through Clarendon-colored goggles. Anyway, the only filters that could make today look good are #senseofhumor and #wine.

But let me back up a bit first.

On Saturday, my husband leaves for a business trip. He travels a lot. This is not my first rodeo. I got this. I’m a good mom.

I start my solo mom-ing stint strong, with new puzzles, home-cooked meals, Alexa playing classical cello, and a smug sort of zen.

But then it’s Sunday.

We begin eating leftovers from that home cooked meal. Soon we'll move onto frozen microwavable mac-n-cheese. But there are pureed carrots in that mac-n-cheese, so I’m still a good mom.

I monitor the kids’ screentime, until it no longer serves me to do so. I have shit to do, people.

Besides, the kids are playing Minecraft together. Peacefully even, for the most part. We do have to make a rule that they cannot blow up each other’s houses, which I always know has happened because G suddenly bursts into tears. Either that or puberty has hit early. Really early. She’s 7.

Anyway, maybe it’s all the blowing up, but G’s disposition seems to change over the course of days. She used to be the girl who left me daily love notes—You’re the best mom ever!—but now she says, Mommy, you're being annoying.

And C, my 11-year-old, is mad at me for selling the dining room rug. I mean, really, really mad at me. He likes that rug, mostly because I don’t like it. We have that kind of relationship.

The kids start to fight for control of Alexa. “Alexa, play It’s Raining Tacos!” “Alexa, play Eminem but only the songs with parental advisory warnings.”

That night, I run out of wine.

Later, the dog barfs three times. On my bed. I don’t tell the kids, who are also in my bed.

Finally, the sun comes up on Monday morning, and it’s a new day! Rich with promise and by promise I mean school. Between 9:00 and 3:30, the world is my oyster, if the dog would just stop staring at me with pleading, take-me-to-the-dog-park eyes. But this is why I buy doggy melatonin.

Finally, I’m in a good work groove. I have a huge deadline this afternoon, but I can do this. I just need one solid hour to focus in this Google Doc and then—

The Internet goes down.

If I had real papers on my desk, I would pick them all up and throw them into the air in a rage. As it is, I have nothing to throw except a can of La Croix, and it still has a little warm, flat seltzer in the bottom, because don’t they all?

So I swallow my rage with that last bit of backwash, and leave for my afternoon driving zigzag: from our west side home over to C’s east side school, then to northeast side dojo, then over to G’s northwest side school, then back to our west side home—then figure out the Internet problem and get my work done.

Time is ticking, but I got this. Then C says, "I need pants for the school play tomorrow. Black. Jeans. Size medium."

I say, "I thought the play was the day after tomorrow." I maybe yell this, actually.

"No, that's the one for the parents; we have one for the school tomorrow."

Frantically, I text another mom to ask her to pick up G for me. “No problem,” she says, hopefully not just because I just gave her a bottle of gin last week to thank her for always helping with our kids.

Then I frantically text my work colleague to say our deadline is at risk and I'm the reason. “Shit is hitting the fan here,” I type. A little melodramatically, I now realize. Especially since my colleague does not have kids, and therefore thinks maybe now I have cancer.

I point my decidedly-swagger-free family SUV to the nearest mall-type place. First stop, TJ Maxx, because I’m not paying full price for a pair of pants my shorts-365-days-a-year son will never wear after the play. There are no black jeans size medium on the boys' rack. So I browse the girls' rack. If I take the tags off, he’ll never know, right? But none there either.

So I drive over to Macy's. I call my colleague and she says nice things to me and I’m in tears, because that’s what happens when someone is nice to a strong independent woman in distress. And I look up and realize I’ve mindlessly migrated to the home goods department. I find comfort in the home goods department, apparently.

Do they even have kids clothes at Macy’s? Or is it all nonstick pans and silk blouses and Frango’s? Ah yes, there it is. The boys’ department. And there they are. Black. Mother fucking. Jeans.

They don’t come in “medium,” however, so I do some quick math. My son is 11-1/2, so a size 12 should work. But he’s a little lean, so maybe a size 10. Fuck it, I get both. Because I’m not coming back here today.

We go back there today. Neither size fit, of course, so C, G, and I head to Macy's together after karate is done at 7, and we exchange the 10 slim and 12 slim for a 10 regular "taper” and from the dressing room C says, “These are good,” and I cry again. This is more of a thank-god-I-won’t-have-to-eat-my-young type of cry. It’s very complex.

I’m guessing I’m the only person who’s ever cried at Macy’s twice in one day.

We also buy a red sequined dress for G for $10 because it is $10 and it makes her really happy and also I’m too tired to care anymore. And I give the kids each a quarter for the giant gumball machine by the front door. Here, take my money, everyone, just take it.

Then we drive straight to the new “healthy” fast food restaurant for whatever the kids want because see above. They don’t have wine there, but they have sweet potato fries, and those make the world look a little rosier too.

We return home and it’s past everyone’s bedtimes. The Internet is still down. There is no Alexa, no Minecraft—no Nest thermostat. Shit! Yet, the house is quiet.

And finally the kids are in bed—my bed, mind you, but still. They’re breathing their little sleep breath, and moaning their little sleep moans, so content, C in his new black jeans, and G in her red sequined dress, and the dog burrowed under the covers somewhere, too. And I’m a good mom. For the next nine hours, I’m the best mom ever.

[halofriendly]

Listen all the way through

What I learned from my dad’s record collection

After conditioning us to buy with a click, and read on a screen, Amazon is opening brick-and-mortar stores, where we can touch paper books with all our digits. Mega brand Giant Bicycles is trying an online platform that requires pick-up at your local bike shop, from a real person with grease under his fingernails. And while I just ripped all my old CDs onto my computer, Urban Outfitters is now selling turntables and vinyl to a generation that grew up with smartphones and streaming. The more we gain on perfection, it seems, the more we revolt against it.

I grew up with vinyl, except back then, we just called them records. Our family even joined one of those 6-albums-for-a-penny record clubs once, and we each got to pick one for ourselves. I chose ABBA, and played Chiquitita over and over again, which required lifting and resetting the tone arm on the still-spinning record, a triumph of fine motor dexterity. Maybe this is why we mostly listened to albums in their entirety, in the sequence in which they were intended (and why, in my mind, Queen’s We Are the Champions must always follow We Will Rock You). In my teens, I would also acquire INXS, RATT and AC/DC, apparently faithful to bands with four-letter names. But it’s not my record collection I remember so much as my dad’s.

At six feet four, with a Tom Selleck moustache that predates today’s hipster facial hair fetish, my dad is what you might call the strong, silent type. For many years, he smoked a tobacco pipe, and would pause while speaking to take quiet puffs of Borkum Riff, while we all waited patiently for him to resume his story. As long as I can remember, he’s had music playing, in his home near Seattle, at his cabin in the Methow Valley, in the car in between—and not just in the background. He consumes his music like a good bourbon. And in a way, it consumes him: one minute, his mood might reflect the world-weary melancholy of Madeleine Peyroux, and the next, the laddish exuberance of Buddy Holly. From a young age, I’ve been fascinated with my dad’s music, as a way to eavesdrop on his world, the way a child might eavesdrop on the party going late downstairs.

When I was little, I’d lie on the living room carpet (which always smelled strongly of dog and faintly of nicotine), as bass notes vibrated the foam faces of my dad’s homemade oak speakers, and study the album covers. My early childhood was scored by Chicago X, which I probably remember best because the cover looked like a foil-wrapped candy bar, and, well, I was into candy bars; Creedence Gold, whose four silhouetted profiles opened in die-cut succession; Simon & Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits, with Paul’s newsboy cap barely containing a broad triangle of hair, and Art straining to get out from behind it; Around the World With Three Dog Night and its psychedelic hot air balloons; Bette Midler howling down the microphone on The Rose; the anatomical joke I didn’t get until 40 years later on Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours; and A Star is Born, depicting a rapturous Barbra Streisand melting before Kris Kristofferson, naked.

Flipping through my dad’s records was like flipping through my grandma’s Spanish-language Cosmo magazines: these were peep holes to another world, a mysterious world, a grown-up world. And while I could memorize the lyrics, I couldn’t understand them. At that young age, metaphor was, thankfully, lost on me. The Rose was about a flower. Queen Bee was about bugs. Life in the Fast Lane was about driving the family Pinto down the left lane of I-5.

My dad especially loved the Eagles, and I still remember the Navajo bird and pocked paper of On the Border, the elaborately embossed cow skull and eagle wings of One of These Nights, the eerie glow of Hotel California, and the disappointingly sober aesthetic of The Long Run. Twenty years later, as I embarked on a soul-searching road trip around the U.S., my dad put Desperado on a cassette tape for me, and I swear I could smell musty cardboard and warm vinyl every time I pushed play.      

Life and music get more complicated as we get older. My parents divorced. Hell, my grandparents divorced. And my own heart lost some elasticity from repeatedly swelling with each new love, and contracting with each new loss. In those once-innocent songs, I could now hear desire, regret, jealousy, disappointment, loneliness. To hear those hidden messages, you don’t even have to play the record backwards; you just have to play your life backwards.

I don’t remember ever fighting with my dad, but somewhere along the way he fell off his pedestal, like I suppose every parent must eventually. It’s possible, actually, that I pushed him off. I moved from Seattle to Bend, started my own family, and cast a critical eye northward: My dad could be quick to condemn people’s politics or religion or driving, and slow to emerge from a sullen mood. But what upset me most was seeing these things in myself.

* * *

Last summer, my dad developed cancer in his bladder and in his one remaining kidney (the other having been removed ten years prior). During a biopsy procedure, he went into kidney failure, and I made an urgent trip from Bend to Seattle to see him in the hospital. There he was, all six-feet-four of him crumpled into a tiny bed, barely covered by the faded tie-in-back gown, his face flecked with days-old stubble and ashen with days-old worry. The little room was overwhelmed by the constant interruptions of nurses, doctors, dietitians, housekeeping staff, kitchen staff, siblings, and daughters, and he met each one with respectful attention, cheerful accommodation, and honestly more grace than I’d ever given him credit for. Later, while my dad slept, his wife conferred with his providers, my oldest sister sat vigil in the corner, grading fourth-grade homework under her itty-bitty book light, my middle sister and stepsister sent their love from far away, and my mom flooded us with heart emojis. At that moment, my dad’s only flaw was his mortality.

And anyway, isn’t there something about our flaws that’s not just acceptable, but also essential? My dad and I are a lot alike: we both feel deeply, which often makes us impatient, indignant, and insufferable, but which also makes us compassionate, thoughtful, and creative. We will both die some day, which makes us everything.

We all have a side A and a side B, and each requires the other.

My dad’s moustache is white now, and he looks like his late father. His back curves a bit more each year, and has gradually brought his eyes closer to mine. His record collection is long gone, and I admit my heart broke a little when I found out. They were artifacts of our family history—scratches, skips, warps and all—a history you can’t hear in a digital file, can’t feel on a jewel case. My own children won’t have my artifacts, either. There’s actually a built-in CD rack in our circa-1980s house, but it’s empty. A smartphone is plugged into the receiver, and gives us anything we want, and then takes it away again.

To be continued.

[halofriendly]

Screen limits, self-care and dogs

More unsolicited advice for surviving Trump

I guess it’s good that we’re seeing so many posts lately about how to cope with the current onslaught of bad news—how to stay engaged, even outraged, without losing our minds. These voices at least serve as permission to feel this way: overwhelmed, craving relief, feeling guilty for craving relief, and afraid we’ll miss something if we let down our guard even for a second. But as someone smart said, the resistance is a marathon, not a sprint. Let's make sure we get past Mile 1 without pulling a hammy. With that in mind, and because I love lists, I crafted my own plan for coping. Mine isn't the first list, but it's my list. Thought I'd share it, in case it helps inspire yours.

1. More paper, fewer screens.

More in-depth analysis, fewer clickbait fire alarms. More thinking, less reacting. I’ve starting reading my New Yorkers cover to cover, and savoring the diverse perspectives. I’m not saying this is unbiased media. (There is no such thing so stop looking for it. Use your own critical thinking.) But they are at least well-informed opinions, informed by facts. I’ve also installed social-media blockers on my devices to enforce limits, since I can't seem to do it myself. And less screen time means more time for novels and movies and music too; stories can carry us away, and can also stitch things back together.

2. Beware before you share.  

Do not forward anything without, a) reading the whole fucking thing, b) reading the publication date and the source of that thing, c) verifying on Politifact and Snopes, and d) knowing what you want people to do with it. I've re-posted a gajillion articles in the last week, and they each seemed so urgent. But it’s like trying to dig a hole on the beach; it just keeps filling back up with more sand. The bad news just keeps coming. Let’s pace ourselves.

3. Talk to real people.

People online suck, absolutely suck, 100% suck, but people out there—walking their dogs, shoveling snow off their driveways, picking up their kids or their prescriptions, buying milk and apples and diapers, roosting at coffee shops, driving buses, pumping gas, pouring beer—they're 99% awesome. 

4. There is no right way.

Accept that everyone is dealing with this in his or her own way, and there's not a right way. Some of us are protesting and organizing and calling representatives and signing petitions and writing postcards and knitting hats and posting articles—while others are so overwhelmed we just need the occasional video of animals on trampolines. Wherever you are, resist the temptation to judge the other. I remember being at a funeral once and amid all the grown-up gloominess, there were kids playing and laughing. My first reaction was indignation; my second was perspective, and gratitude. Not only did their innocence add levity, it was a profound reminder of the circle of life.  

5. In case you forgot already, there is no right way.

So, yes, on that note, please do post photos of your kids and pets, your new Fluevogs or hair color, the alpenglow on the mountain, the sunset over the city, your workout, your lunch, your beer, your favorite Buddhist quotes and SNL jokes. We could probably use the reduction in blood pressure, and a nice, cleansing wash of good brain chemicals. Besides, it reminds us that the world isn't completely shitty, which means it's worth fighting for. That’s hope. And to quote Rogue One, rebellions are built on hope.

6. Don’t self-destruct.

Exercise, sleep, eat vegetables, drink water, go outside, hang with friends, don't be too hard on yourself, you know. All that self-care stuff you can get from any Oprah magazine. The world needs you, badly. Now’s not the time to leave us.

7. Play with puppies.

They have no clue what is going on in the world, and isn’t that refreshing.

8. Hope.

[halofriendly]

To the parents of the boy having a tantrum on top of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park, at sunrise on Wednesday, August 31, 2016, I hope you did not hear the people in the crowd gathered that morning who were criticizing you and your son for ruining their experience. I hope you did not run, embarrassed, to put your child in the car because those people were loudly demanding it. I hope you did not drive away hiding your faces like I thought I saw you do. I hope you were not crying behind your hands. I hope you know that there were probably as many people quietly supporting you that morning as there were loudly condemning you. (Why is it always that way.) I wish I’d said something to those people, whose ‘tween son was joining them in their passive-aggressive bullying (and who were acting like children themselves), about how their experience couldn’t be half as difficult as yours surely was, and how your family needed our compassion, not our criticism. But rather than stir up conflict with them, I was compelled to seek connection with you. So I walked toward you to tell you that I empathized. Our own son, who is now almost 9, used to have intense tantrums, between ages 3 and 6 mostly, and tapering gradually since then. He’d scream and cry so hard he’d be spitting, for literally hours, sometimes hitting and clawing at us, and sometimes backed into a closet with eyes wide, howling like a wounded wild animal. I remember one plane trip where a flight attendant gently asked if there was anything she could do. Do you have a parachute, I wanted to ask. It was hard to say what triggered the tantrums, and even harder to figure out how to arrest them. When our son was small enough to pick up, and we were at home when a tantrum happened, I’d carry him, flailing, around the block for some fresh air, and find a spot at a park to sit with him while he calmed down, and I’d hope that no one saw us because if they did, they’d surely wonder if he was being abducted or abused. When he got too big to pick up, well, we started therapy, and the conclusion was not a diagnosis of any kind but rather a shrug and some book recommendations about helping our highly sensitive child regulate his emotions—and helping us regulate ours. These tantrums can be so stressful for the entire family, something I am guessing you know, and something that occurred to me the moment I heard your son crying out. Like so much about parenting, it’s hard enough without other parents making it harder. And so that early morning on Cadillac Mountain, I wanted to do my tiny part to make it a tiny bit easier for your family instead. I wanted to tell you that, despite what those others were suggesting, you are not bad parents, and your son is not a bad kid, and you are not alone. But just as I was about to say all this to you, you ran to your car with your son, and then you were gone. And I’m still thinking about that morning, and wishing I could bring you a hug or a strong drink and urge you to hold each other tight and let go the rest, and to remember that every morning there is another sunrise.  

With love.