No. 7: Hypocritical, Self-Riteous Closet Case

Two years ago, when our daughter, Tashi, was 12, the whole family was invited to a Bat Mitzvah at the synagogue where she went to elementary school. She was in 7th grade at that point, but all her former classmates would be there, which sent Tashi into a panic. She had trouble falling asleep the night before. She didn’t say why, but I knew. Tashi has two moms.

No. 2: Bribery a Parenting Tactic

I have a friend who used M&Ms for potty training. I didn’t have to do that. At two, my daughter, Tashi, watched a little girl at daycare use a potty and that was that. / From the day she was born until she became a teenager, Tashi was a pleaser. I’d say, “Do your homework.” And even though homework involved sharpening pencils and then losing them and then handstands between every vocabulary word, Tashi did what she was told. / Now, Tashi’s 14 so parenting has evolved into a series of bribes.

Story in Salon.com

Got a story in Salon.com.  Here’s the picture.  This adorable girl is NOT Tashi.

Seven-Year-Old Logic

Last night Tashi asked me what my Lip Service story was about. I said, “It was about how I had one idea about Miami and Mami Vicky had another idea.”

She said, “What idea?”

I said, “Well, when I moved to Miami, I thought no one here would really care about who was gay.”

Tashi said, “We’re gay, right?”

I said, “Well, I’m gay, because I love another woman.”

She said, “Why would anyone care about that?”

I said, “I don’t know.  I really don’t know.”

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

Thank you for parenting me.  As I remember, childhood was pretty good. You were attentive and sweet mostly and while I don’t remember making sculptures out of popsicle sticks or homemade Play-Doh, I do remember  getting lots of your attention.  How did you do it for so many years?

I am having trouble right now.  To be frank, Tashi is bugging the shit out of me.  And Sebastian is a monster.  But the real problem is how Tashi is always underfoot.  I remember this being a problem of yours too.  It is the one thing I remember us consistently fighting about.  You stepping on my toes.  It didn’t bother me, but I remember you getting a little hysterical sometimes, like when you would take a step onto my toes and then fall down.  Well, what goes around, comes around, as they say.  Tashi is just like me.  Somehow she manages to be always under my feet.  It’s hard when I’m wearing my platform flip-flops.

Oh, I know I shouldn’t complain.  I see how sad it makes you now-a-days when I don’t want to sit on your lap.  I saw it on Sunday, when you gave me that look and then patted your thighs and I said, “Oh Mom.”  But Mom, I can’t eat a meal without my little curly girl climbing on top of me.

And why did I think shopping for first-grade school supplies would be fun?  That fiasco was my own fault in so many ways.  First because I’ve raised a spoiled, rotten, persistent princess and second because I let myself get overly excited to get the supplies in the first place.  My elation came crashing down seven minutes into shopping when Tashi begged for the pretty pink scissors.  I agree, they were pretty, but I had already crossed scissors off the list because she has six pairs at home.  I said, “NO NEW SCISSORS!  You have six pairs at home.”  I felt strong for the first hour, but each time she begged I felt her wearing me down.  I stood strong though, thanks to you and all that I learned watching you fend me off all those years.  Still, it was exhausting and I don’t look forward to doing shopping for school supplies again next year or the next or the next.  I know, just eleven more years.

Another thing:  Why did I think bike riding with a 6 1/2 year-old would be fun?  It’s not.  We had fun though, you and I, didn’t we, when I’d jog and you’d ride next to me and we’d talk?  Well, I’ve been trying to replicate those good times.  Today, when we rode to camp because I crashed the van into a parked Jaguar and now it’s in the shop, I said, “Right turn!”  Tashi screamed, “Why are you always talking about bike stuff?” I said, “Bike stuff? I’m just telling you which way to turn.”  My point is, she was being a bitch for no reason.  And she was swerving into traffic.

She’s tired, I know.  She slept in bed with me last night because Victoria’s out of town and also because there was a big spider in her room, which was no Daddy Long Legs.  I killed it and then took it’s picture and we looked it up on the Internet.

Can’t say exactly what kind it was because I’m no arachno-specialist, but it was brown and hairy with a very big butt.  Also, Tashi didn’t sleep that well on account of it being crowded and with Beast breathing in our faces all night.  He gets protective when Victoria’s not around.  So I should have some compassion.  I remember how I could never fall asleep because it was so much fun being in your bed with you and Chaucer whenever Dad had poker night.

I know I should quit my bitching.  It wasn’t that bad sharpening all 48 pencils and putting Tashi’s name on them with the Sharpie.  She did a bunch of them herself and only cried twice because she messed up and couldn’t erase.  For some reason she thought her initials were N-H.  When I asked how she got that she said, “Nataaaasha.”  And it’s okay that I didn’t get to read the New York Times last night because I had to turn the light off for her.  And we did make it to camp safely, although we were an hour and a half late and I didn’t get to work until noon.  No big deal. I’m just writing to say that I like being a parent.  It’s the parenting that’s annoying.  I appreciate you doing it for me.  Thanks Mom.

Love,

Andrea

If I Were Her Age, I’d Want to be Friends

Today while Tashi and I were walking home from Sophie’s house, because Tashi had a sleepover, she told me she watched Peter Pan, the real movie, which meant it had actors instead of animation. I asked which she liked better, cartoons or real people and she said, “That’s a hard one.”

She told me Peter Pan was very sad. I asked why and she stopped walking. She said, “Peter came to the window and Wendy was having a party.” Her face got squished up and then she put her hands over your eyes and cried, real tears. She said, “Peter couldn’t go in.” 

I watched her in pain and started to cry too. Then we both laughed.

We talked about how movies that make you cry are really good, even though they make you cry. 

She asked me if Peter Pan was real and I said no. She asked if Mama Mia was real and I said no. Then she asked about the Sound of Music and I said, yes. I think that’s a true story. 

She was wearing hot pink, glittery disco pants, a pinkish-purple, Puma T-shirt and hot-pink high tops. Mima took her shopping yesterday for your birthday. 

She is a mix of super hip and cool and so sensitive and sweet. If I were her age, I’d definitely want to be friends with her.

For Posterity, the Princess Phase is Over

Dear Posterity,

I realize I’ve been writing post-it notes about the fun or cool or noteworthy things that have been going on lately and not writing them down anywhere, except on post-it notes.  So right now, on the day after Christmas, while my family is at a kid’s birthday party and I am home alone because Victoria took the kids and gave me a pass, I will write them down.

1.  Tashi gave away all her Princess possessions.  The princess phase is OVER.  On the day before her 6th birthday, we cleaned out her closet and her toy chest (which is actually  her whole room) to make way for new toys.  We do this every once in a while.  I talk about how she has so much and how there are many children who don’t have very much at all.  I think she understands this concept because two years ago Tashi and I went to a small town in Guatemala and stayed in a little bungalow and the  woman in charge of the bungalow we stayed in lived in another bungalow right next to it.  She had a daughter named Luna, who was a year or so older than Tashi.  The two girls played together on hammocks outside our bungalows.  Luna and Tashi were playing inside our bungalow one night with two Brats that Tashi brought with her.  They were Teen Brats, not the slinky, sexy, hoochie-mama adult Brats.  Luna loved these Brats. I mean, LOVED.  She talked about how bella they were and once she discovered them, that was it for swinging on hammocks.  Before we left, I asked Tashi if she wanted to give Luna one of her Brats.  Tashi did.  I don’t remember how that went down, maybe Tashi was struck by how little Luna had. Luna had one doll to her name.  But I doubt it.  I probably made a deal with Tashi, which I do often.  ”You give Luna one of your Brats and I’ll let you eat dinner tonight. Deal?”

Deals worked so well for so long.  But now that Tashi’s six, she’s constantly trying to strike a deal with me.  ”I’ll have one cookie and you can have one cookie.  Deal?”

However it happened, Tashi gave Luna a Brat and I was so proud of my sweet, generous girl.  The next year I went back to Guatemala alone and brought Luna another Brat.  A gift from Tashi.

My point about Luna is that we talk about Luna whenever we clean out her toy chest.  So I think she understands that some people don’t have as much stuff as she has.  I worry a lot about this concept and don’t know how to actually teach my children to appreciate all they have.  I’m working on it.  I wanted to donate toys to needy children this year for Xmas, but didn’t figure out how to do that in time. I will next year.  I hope.  I want to.

So the day before Tashi turned six, she was really cool about clearing out and giving away her old things.  Not cool about everything.  She clung to a Barbie head that looks demented, in my opinion.  Not only because it’s just a head, but because it has blue lipstick, which is probably nail polish or maybe permanent marker, and other “make-up” and the hair…I just don’t like that thing.  But I didn’t make any deals about it because Tashi gave away four princess costumes, two sets of wings, two magic wands, three crowns, her Ariel backpack, a Sleeping Beauty bag, plastic glass slippers, and more.  I couldn’t believe it.  My girl is growing up.

There’s more, but I’m tired.

Love,

Andrea

One of these Things…

My friend, Lauren Beiley, invited me to a Jewish Federation symposium called Women with Muscle. I didn’t really want to give up my morning (because I’m writing a book and I need my mornings!) and so I asked her if she really needed me there to fill up space and if so, I said I’d do it. She said she didn’t need me, but that it might be enlightening. Lauren fills space at my events all the time and I could use some enlightening, so I went.

I dressed up because I know what the Jewish women of Miami are like. I grew up with them. They are fancy. I walked into the private house in Pinecrest in my kick-ass jeans and a tight button down shirt that makes me feel sexy and went straight for the food. It was breakfast time and they had fruit salad and bagels and rugalah. I saw Lauren. She came over, we hugged, she thanked me for coming. I said, “Why am I the only one eating?”

She said, “These are Jewish women. I told them not to bother with food.”

I sat next to a girl I played tennis with in high school. Hadn’t seen her in years. I stared at her heals. Three inches, maybe two and a half. She had nice feet and bony ankles.

I crossed my legs and noticed you could see the monkey on my sock peeking out under the bottom of my jeans. Tashi gave me these socks–blue and green stripes with a red heal and a monkey face on the top of the foot. I realized my socks matched the stuffed monkey on my keychain, which I held in my hand because I don’t like to wear a purse. Other women wore jeans, but not many. Everyone wore a purse.

Most were wearing silky blouses or dresses and high healed, strappy sandals.  And lots of make up.  I put on eye liner and mascara this morning, but somehow I still felt like I often did growing up, especially amongst this same crowd, like an oddball.

The symposium was enlightening and really, at 41, I don’t care who wears what or who eats rugulah. But, does everyone feel like the kitty in bunny ears, or just me?

We Got the Swine

Tashi had Swine Flu.  At least I think she had Swine.  Might of well have been Swine, it was for sure the flu.  I know because we spent 5 hours at Miami Children’s Hospital Monday.  I took her to Children’s because I didn’t want to have to wait, like we always do, at her regular doctor. I’m an idiot, obviously.  But they did test her for the flu and did an ex-ray for lung stuff like pneumonia and bronchitis and her regular doctor doesn’t have an ex-ray machine, so I was smart to take her to Children’s. Just that every other parent in Miami was smart like me.

My daughter is a superstar.  She had to get her nose suctioned by what looked like a vacuum cleaner with a nostril-sized hose.  The nurse shoved it in and flipped the switch.  Tashi backed up a little bit and flailed her arms.  When the nurse approached her for a second round, Tashi stood strong.  I was so impressed, I offered to buy her the biggest lollypop in the world, which I didn’t do.

I did go to a giant candy store the next day. They had everything, including candy cigarettes, which I loved as a kid with the powdered sugar that puffed out if you blew on it. But please, those things need to be discontinued.  Candy cigarettes with powdered smoke!  That’s like a candy gun with bubble-gum bullets.  They also had Razzles, which I’d forgotten about until just now. Yum–an acquired texture. Now I’m going to eat the whole pack.
They also had the biggest lollypop in the world. But get this. The biggest lollypop in the world cost $69. Fucking hell. My child is brave, but it wasn’t a butt suction. And even if it was, $69! So what if it was the size of a bike tire.  Instead, Tashi got the extra medium.

What Happened to My Budha Baby?

Sebastian is seven and a half months old, but has entered a new phase, which is a total regression. He sleeps like a newborn—nursing every three hours. Victoria’s been bringing him to the bed, if he sleeps in his crib at all, and sleeping with a giant, 21 pound baby who thrashes all night, is not cozy like one might imagine. We’re exhausted.

I’m starting to think he’s taking advantage of us. I would have scoffed at this idea a month ago, as if a baby can be conniving. But this baby seems to know what he wants and knows how to get it.

Yesterday Tashi and I were reading a book and Sebastian grabbed it. Tashi said, “No Sebastian, that’s mine,” and pulled it away. Sebastian cried like he’d been dropped on his head.

Tashi then said, “I’ll give you this book when you turn two, but if you rip it, you can’t have it.”

I thought that was so sweet, but it did nothing to pacify Sebastian.

What happened to my budha baby?

Last night, Pipa and Elsa came to dinner and we made the mistake of complaining about being tired and telling them how Sebastian’s been sleeping with us. Elsa told us about a show she watched where all the pediatric experts of the world have proven that letting your baby cry himself to sleep will make him a confident and self-sufficient. “Sleeping with your baby,” Elsa said, “makes him dependent forever.”

Two days before Victoria brought me an article she printed from the Internet reporting how all the leading pediatric experts had proven that sleeping with your baby creates life-long confidence and self-sufficiency.

I tell Elsa that there’s evidence on both sides.

My dad says, “Let him cry.”

I say, “How long do you think you could let him cry?”

“I could outlast him, I’m sure I could,” he says, like he’s so tough, and I realize my dad is the absolute perfect person to sleep through a baby crying.

“Well, you’re not normal,” I say.

But last night I was hardened, having nothing to do with what Elsa told us. I know the theories, I just haven’t wanted to let my baby cry without going to him. And Victoria is the same way. Last night though, we needed a break. And Sebastian was on my last nerve.

“Let’s let him cry,” I said. “I think we’ll be better parents if we sleep.”

“Okay.”

I put him in his crib. He was on his hands and knees squawking. He looked at me with love in his eyes and smiled that funny smile of his where his cheeks look like marshmallows and his lips turn into a squiggly line and his chin pokes out. But I did’t fall for it. I said, “Goodnight sweety,” and patted his butt.

I got into bed with Victoria and turned off the light. Sebastian started to cry.

“How long do you think we can last?”

“Ten minutes?” Victoria said.

“Ten minutes?! I’m thinking forty-five.”

After ten minutes Victoria went in to tell Sebastian that she is there. That he is safe and that he should go to sleep now. This is what one of the theories suggests—reassure the screaming child.
His cries got louder and more desperate.

“At least he feels reassured,” I said.

We listened for fifteen more minutes. “Should I reassure this time?” I said.

“No way, that backfired,” Victoria said.

Victoria suggested we make love. 
“Music’s too distracting,” I said.

Victoria started to pray. I caught a few words, “Maria…mujer…Jesus…”

We lay next to each other without talking for who knows how long until the cries diminished. Then built up again. Then diminished. Then stopped.

“Goodnight sweet darling,” I said.

“We did it.”