Mama One to Three

We just returned from a vacation.  That’s what we used to call spending days away from our daily life and the city: “vacation.”   I have heard traveling with children referred to as a “working vacation,” or at least downgraded to a “trip.”  I am not sure what to call this recent madness–the continuous din of whining, round-the-clock “why mommy‘s,” and the layer of wet sand that covered our hotel room floor.

Our beach trip was planned on an impulse, as most foolish ventures are.  We had not made any plans for the summer; I found myself on a hotel website one night staring at a picture of two beach chairs with fancy cocktails on a table between them.  I booked the room and made an appointment for a bikini wax the next day.

Two years ago we drove the three children (two four month olds and one almost two year old) and the dog to Cape Cod for a week, and then to the Connecticut coast for a second week.  We had rented our vacation houses while I was still pregnant that winter.  It seemed like it was possible at the time.  I swear.

Here are some of the highlights from that trip, not captured in photos: we were stuck in nine hours of traffic driving there, it was the hottest August ever in New England, the television didn’t work, there was a coyote, we had our first peanut allergy experience, and we left the Connecticut house 15 minutes after our arrival once we realized a 1700’s historic home with original floors, doors and furniture was not a safe environment for infants and a toddler.  And that children are not safe for a 1700’s historic home.

This was the first day of our Cape Cod 2009 adventure.

This was any other day.

And here is a fun memory of M refusing to walk on the sand.  (How do two adults carry two infants in car seats plus one toddler plus towels, tents, diapers, bottles and food to the beach from the car and back again?  Not gracefully.  And not without cursing.)

Of course I am exaggerating a little bit of the misery of being away for ten days that August.  After all, we did decide to take another beach trip.  Two years later.  For two days.  With my mother in the adjoining room.  In a hotel where other people clean up.

Our recent get away (is it really a “get away” if you bring everything with you?) was different as the kids are older–all walking, running, climbing and yelling.  Two are still in diapers, but at least they all enjoyed the water and the sand (eventually).  There were many new experiences for them.  And for us.

So, the point of this post is not to convince parents to give up vacationing (or whatever it shall henceforth be known as).  While I am being completely honest when I say I wanted to bang my head repeatedly into the glove compartment during the nine-hour drive to Hyannis, while searching for photos to post here, I did remember very sweet moments from that summer trip.  H and E were still swaddled at night to sleep.  There was a carousal in town that we went on with M over and over and over again.  We drank wine and listened to Pandora radio at night on the deck–just us, not the kids.

We are lucky we can go to pretty places with our children.  There is not a moment of relaxation for my husband or me, but I hope we will have more opportunities to be exhausted, stressed out, yelling-at-each-other messes outside the New York City limits. We do it to prove we can.  We do it for the hysterical, adorable, blurry pictures.  We do it for the memories, of course.

Contrary to the evidence–a wardrobe of old tee shirts, jeans and fraying converse sneakers–I do love shopping.   I love shoes and handbags best.  I am a stay-at-home mom forever shopping for the perfect pair of pumps.  Just in case.

I also love a good cause.  I am bursting with love for this cause:  providing abandoned children in Bulgarian institutions a measure of the happiness, dignity and affection that should fill every childhood.

My friend Melora Johnson is the part of the brains, beauty and heart behind this wonderful organization.  She and her super talented, super generous friends have designed and brought to market extraordinary leather handbags.  One hundred percent of the net proceeds goes to funding and expanding a remarkable program for these forgotten children.  That is 100% benefiting children in the most dire of circumstances.  Forgive my badgering.  These are innocent, lovely babies.  The Baba program funds a “grandmother” visiting each child for hours a week, bringing love in the form of holding, playing, diapering and feeding.  I can’t write this post without crying.

The Bulgaria’s Abandoned Children’s Trust finds local elderly women in the community and matches them to a child within the institution.  They come for 2 hours per day five days per week and during that time the child becomes a human being.  They are touched and washed and fed and clothed.  They are spoken to and sung to and held and rocked and taken outside.  For 2 hours per day they mean something to someone- they become someone’s child.

Please visit Helping Handbags online.  Please support them.  You will have gorgeous handbags (my second one is on its way!) and all of your hard-earned money will directly make the life of at least one child more tolerable.

The story of this organization is beautiful and heartbreaking and will change your life. Its impact on children is exquisite.  I often feel overwhelmed by news stories of suffering. It seems so difficult to help.  This is different.  Go shopping.  Save the world.

This bag rocks.

Thank you, Scary Mommy, for the opportunity to guest post.  Jill’s blog is funny and true, with lots of extras.  You won’t want to leave.

Check out my post “The Thing About Friends.”

I love this quote.

When I do good, I feel good.  When I do bad, I feel bad. That’s my religion.  –Abraham Lincoln

I always try to do the right thing.  Ok, I’m lying.  I want to think that I always try do the right thing, and I want other people to think that too.  I sometimes don’t even try do the right thing in a given situation; often I do.  And then there are moments that just leave me with questions.

This week I am thinking about something that happened.  What, is unimportant.  What is driving me to write about it, other than sleeping children, is an obsession with my response–was I a good person in that moment or a bad person?  If I feel bad, does it mean I was bad–or is it more complicated than that?  When I feel good, does it really mean I’ve done enough?

As I do with all things monumental and profound, I turn to the Internet. While mom’s insight is good, it is limited to a phone call.  And not many friends want to dissect my every motivation and action for hours.  My unrestricted access to the Internet is keeping this issue alive.

I Google “how to be a good person,” then “how to be a good Jewish person”–in case there are big differences.  Interestingly, there are many sites devoted to being or becoming a good person.  There is even a test.  (I didn’t take it; it might spoil the fun.)

I find something and keep reading, relating to each paragraph, sometimes happily and sometimes with a bit of regret.  I find this section particularly wonderful, simple, confusing in light of my current confusion.

When confronted with a situation that leaves you uncertain as to whether you are taking the right action, ask yourself one question: “What is motivating me to act in this way, my yetzer tov (good inclination) or my yetzer hara (evil inclination)?” Just answering this question will usually determine the appropriate course of action. –Rabbi Joseph Telushkin (“13 Ways To Become a Good Person: Jewish pointers on living a good and ethical life,” Reform Judaism Magazine, Spring 2006)

This week I am in the grey area between feeling I am a good person, and thinking I am bad.  Recent experiences have shaken my view of myself.  I am not someone who does well in the grey area.  I like going through my day without drama, with most things going my way.  Here is a shocking fact: I like life to be easy.  I am a very good person when things are easy.  Most days are good enough for me. (It helps that I’ve lowered both my standards and the bar of what I call civilized behavior.)  When situations fall out of my comfort zone, I get nervous.

I don’t follow a religion, yet I find many writings of religious scholars comforting.  There is   value to me in both the Torah and the New Testament.  There seems to be a universal good we all aspire to reach; I want to know how close we have to get to that determination for the bell to ring.

Perfection is ultimately unattainable.  It seems, to my disappointment, that much of life is the grey area–we do our best knowing we will fail miserably at times, be only adequate at others. I repeat: there are times I don’t even try; I do what I want and hope the universe will give me a pass.

I will force myself to end here.  There are school applications to be done, dishwashers to load and wine to be opened.  This quote perhaps makes clear the reason for my angst.

Wisdom is knowing what to do next; virtue is doing it.  -David Star Jordan, The Philosophy of Despair

Sometimes I know and often I am confused about the next right thing; sometimes I just ignore that wisdom.  This is probably true for others as well.  I can’t be alone in wondering if I’ve followed through on all the next things on any given day.  Of course, there are days I know I have not. Tonight I wonder: what is the acceptable margin of error?

(Forget what I said.  This is perfect.  And it makes me look like a good person.)

My husband is a good provider.  He has a sometimes exciting, always demanding job that he truly enjoys.  Our family is lucky–and he and I are grateful–he has this opportunity because it has in many ways defined our life here in the city.  To be certain, it has given us a life here in the city.  Important to both my husband and me is that one of us be home with our children; we decided this before our first child was born.  We are fortunate that I have been able to stay home these past three and one-half years.  I have gotten to share many moments of joy and discovery at home with my children.

Okay.  The other side of the stay-at-home mom coin is this: it’s a really boring, frustrating, unglamorous and identity-sucking lifestyle.  And that’s most of the time.  I am often looking for distractions to my life–online shopping (shout out to my peeps at J.Crew), wine, lots of television, some books.  Writing a blog seems like a more constructive use of my free time than trolling Facebook (not that there is anything wrong with that).

Naturally, when a friend posted on Facebook (this was before I was writing my blog) that a national television show was looking for a NYC mom who hates her eyebrows to appear on an upcoming segment, I jumped at the chance!  Who wouldn’t?

I told my husband, family and friends that I was going to have my eyebrows scrutinized and plucked on national television (again, who wouldn’t?) because it would give me a great blog post (I was thinking about my blog, just not writing it).  I went to the set that day sort of nervous, kind of excited and ready for anything.

Overall, it was a fun day.  I met a few of Rachael Ray’s viewers who had also volunteered for the segment (I have never seen The Rachael Ray Show; I had to fake this to fit in).  I had my makeup and hair done.  I talked show business with the producers.  I smiled in front of a studio audience.  I sat inappropriately close to Rachael Ray (who is so cute in person).  I felt like I was living a life more fun and interesting than my own.  And I had something to talk about for a few days.

So when the segment producer e-mailed me with the upcoming air date, I should have been amused and looking forward to seeing myself on television, right?

(This is me without makeup by the way; the made up version is better.  See picture and link at end of post.)

I was filled with dread.  During the time between taping that segment and learning when it would air, I had discovered something about myself–what Oprah would call an “A-ha moment” (I think that’s what she says; I don’t watch Oprah either).

First: I have developed an obsession for the domestic sitcoms of the fifties and sixties: Leave It to Beaver, The Dick Van Dyke Show, I Love Lucy.  I cannot get enough of these shows.  Few sitcoms can compare with these classics.  I love the wives on these shows.  Yes, they represent old fashioned, anti-feminist, stereotypical ideals of mothers and women.  I still like them.  I think June Cleaver rocked; she got everything done around the house, cooked meals for her family and was never in a bad mood!  I still want to be Laura Petrie.  And Lucy Ricardo–what can I say?  I root for her every time.  Funniest character ever.  Best show.  Period.

Why this is relevant: I began having a very uneasy feeling about having appeared on national television to have my eyebrows plucked by Rachael Ray’s best friend (who is also really cute).  I had told everyone that I was subjecting myself to this for blog material.  I told the segment producer that. It seemed reasonable.  And then a feeling that started as a dull pain in my stomach made its way to my brain, and it hit me: I am the housewife desperate to share in her husband’s limelight.  Oh Lucy, why won’t they put us in the show?  I have internalized quite a bit of the classic American sitcom.

Ironically, it is liberating to have this knowledge–my insecurities about no longer having a career, an income, validation and solo bathroom breaks are wound deeply into my being.  I saw an opportunity to chase a bit of excitement and I went for it.  Opportunities outside of preschool, the playground, birthday parties and time-outs don’t really come my way anymore.  Appearing on television for any reason, including hair removal, gave me a connection to a world outside of my own.  I liked the attention.  Every so often, I need to hear the applause at the Tropicana.  And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Debut of my eyebrows on Rachael Ray.