An existential debate has been raging in my home over the last few weeks.  Specifically, the debate involves the existence of the tooth fairy, and whether she is, in fact, me. 

It all began when my 8-year-old daughter, who hadn’t lost a tooth in almost a full year, had one of her upper incisors come loose earlier this summer.  Now, in the ensuing year since last she lost a tooth and the tooth fairy had descended upon her room in the middle of the night, depositing gold coins and a personal letter, my daughter had developed a fairly well-oiled bullshit detector.  And that b.s. detecter was aimed straight at the tooth fairy.  Over the course of the year, she had asked me pointed questions like, “Is the tooth fairy real?” and “Are you my tooth fairy?” which I had managed to artfully deflect by asking her questions back, like “Well, what do you think?” and “Do you want to believe the tooth fairy is real?” which proved to be conversation enders.  Clearly, she was conflicted.  On the one hand, she wanted to believe that her tooth fairy, Azalea Primrose, was in fact real and not a made up entity; but on the other hand, the kids at school were insisting that their parents were their tooth fairies and that fairies on the whole weren’t real.  In recent months, one of my daughter’s friends, “Chloe,” seemed to emerge as the most vocal tooth fairy opponent and backed her theory up with pretty damning evidence: she had apparently coerced a confession out of her mother.  When I asked Chloe’s mom (who happens to be a good friend of mine) about this, she admitted spilling the beans.  “My back was up against the wall!” she wailed, obviously still pained by the memory of the incident.  “Chloe asked me point blank if the tooth fairy was real and then told me not to lie to her or else she would never be able to trust me again.  I had no choice!  And I had tears in my eyes as I admitted it!” 

As luck would have it, my daughter ended up losing the loose incisor on a night that Chloe happened to be sleeping over.  I had no idea how I was going to pull off my tooth fairy duties with neigh-saying Chloe in the bed with my already notoriously light-sleeper of a daughter.  But, by a saving grace twist of fate, my daughter happened to literally lose her tooth in Chloe’s moms car on the way back to our house for the sleep over, so there would be no tooth for me to extract from the room, leaving me free to shove some coins and a letter under the door.  However before the girls went to sleep that night, the two of them bombarded me with accusations, “Are you my tooth fairy?” my daughter asked. “Admit it!  Admit it!” Chloe demanded.  “My mom admitted it, and you need to, too!”  For lack of a better plan, I basically acted as if I was deaf, until the accusations finally died down, as accusations with no confirmation or denial are wont to do.  Then as I kissed her good night, my daughter showed me a letter she had written to the tooth fairy explaining that she had literally lost her tooth in Chloe’s mom’s car and that was why she had no tooth for her.  I felt heartened that even though my daughter was insisting she thought I was the tooth fairy, there was still enough doubt in her mind that she was covering her bases and leaving the tooth fairy a letter to be on the safe side.  But then the next morning, after the girls read the tooth fairy’s letter I had left under the door, they came bursting in with more accusations—all of this right in front of my 4-year-old son who has yet to lose his first tooth.  “You’re the tooth fairy, Mom!” he chanted along with them, much to my chagrin.  Again, I deflected, telling them to let me go back to sleep.  My daughter looked downright distressed, and with tears in her eyes whispered, “Just tell me,” before closing the door behind her.  My husband, who had also said nothing, turned to me and said, “You need to tell her the truth.  It’s time already.”  (Okay, he actually wasn’t that diplomatic, but that’s how I’m choosing to remember it.)  And for the first time, I was starting to believe that he might be right.

The subject didn’t come up again however for several days and I was beginning to think I could get away without having “the discussion.”  Then one day, I came home from the gym to find a letter from my daughter on my desk.

Dear Mom,

Are you my tooth fairy?  Admit it!  Chloe’s mom admitted it.  Tell me the truth!  Now everybody’s mom and dad admit it!  Please write a note and put it on my dresser.

Love,

Daughter

P.S.  I really want the truth or else I will cry.

P.P.S.  Discuss with Daddy.

My first thought upon reading the letter was a simple, “F--k!”  (My second thought was that the lesson my daughter’s second grade teacher had taught on “persuasive letter writing” had been very effective.)  In the face of a letter like that, I knew I could no longer avoid the inevitable.  My daughter came in and asked if I had received her letter.  I told her I had but that we would talk about it when I put her to bed later that night.  Then I did what anyone else would do in that predicament and quickly posted her letter as my Facebook status (I had already posted many times about my tooth fairy trials and tribulations, so my friends were familiar with the situation).  The comments came fast and furious and opinions were truly mixed, ranging from, “You’re f--ked!” to “Don’t tell!” to “It’s time,” to the particularly poignant, “You've been cornered and called out... don't mess with her trust in you (remember, teenage yrs ahead).  Just fess up, have a good cry together, and be done with it.”

I did a lot of soul-searching that evening before our talk. Trying to figure out why the tooth fairy was so important to me, what she represented, what it would mean to my daughter to learn the truth and what the loss of actively believing in the tooth fairy would mean to our lives.  In the end, I decided that while the tooth fairy did indeed represent the obvious—my daughter’s innocence—she also represented possibility; the possibility of the existence of concepts and things beyond our own ability to comprehend.  In some small way, the tooth fairy represented God, the Universe, and all things magical.  And that was something I wasn’t ready or willing to ruin for her, no matter how badly she thought she wanted to know the truth.

In the end, I never actually told her point blank that I was her tooth fairy but I never lied and told her I wasn’t either.  Instead, we had a long talk about the fact that different people believe different things and that it's up to us what we want to believe; that sometimes it's nice to believe in certain things and that no one else has the right to tell us what to believe.  I told her that life is magical and anything can happen if we want it to and that it's her decision whether she decides that the tooth fairy is real or not but that since her brother has not gotten to experience it at all, I would like her to let him believe that she's real until he is old enough to decide for himself.  I also told her that although we don't personally believe in Santa, other people do and it's not for us to try and tell anyone that Santa isn't real; Santa is real to the people who believe in him, just as the tooth fairy is real for those who want to believe in her.  We also talked about how it isn’t for us to judge what others believe, in general.  We talked about God and how some people believe in God and some people don't and how belief is a personal choice.  I explained that life would be boring if everyone agreed on absolutely everything and that it's important to have an open mind; that two people can disagree about something without one of them being wrong.  And although I never actually confessed to being the tooth fairy, I didn’t feel I was lying to her because I think the conversation we had was honest and true.  She seemed to feel really good about the talk and I could tell that as she took in everything I told her, her mind was expanding, opening itself up to the ocean of possibility behind the theory that just because we can’t see and/or comprehend of something doesn’t necessarily mean that it doesn’t exist. 

Afterward, when I told my husband about our talk and about opening our daughter’s mind to possibility and magic, he said, “Well, that’s all great, but why didn’t you tell her that the tooth fairy isn’t real?”  “Who is it for us to say whether she’s real or not?” I asked (obviously having drunk my own Kool-Aid).  “Because you’re the tooth fairy!” he exploded.  “You write those letters!  You go into her room at night and take the teeth and put the money under her pillow!”  I rolled my eyes.  “She knows the truth,” I told him.  “I think...”

A few days later, my daughter lost the other upper incisor (which had suddenly loosened at such a rapid pace since its right side counterpart fell out, it was almost as if it fell out of a broken heart).  As fate would have it, it happened to be the same evening that Chloe was again spending the night.  This time though, Chloe had been warned by her mom to keep her anti-tooth fairy sentiment to herself.  I told my daughter to leave her tooth in the tooth fairy pillow just outside her bedroom door to make it easier for the tooth fairy to navigate.  (And by God, it was—why hadn’t I ever thought of that before?  All those nights of belly-crawling across her creaky floor could have been so easily avoided!)  In my tooth fairy letter to my daughter, on a lark, I added a post-script saying that the tooth fairy had sprinkled some special healing fairy dust on her arms to clear up the stubborn eczema flair-up she was having.  The next morning, there was no mention at all of the tooth fairy, nor, to my relief, was there any debate over her existence.  Later, after Chloe had gone home, I asked my daughter if the tooth fairy had come.  “Yes,” she answered.  “And she left me a really funny letter!  She congratulated me on having a new sister because she thinks that since Chloe was sleeping in my bed again she must be my new sister!”  She handed me the letter and I read it aloud as if reading it for the first time.  When I got to the part about the fairy dust, I said casually, “Well, that sure was thoughtful of her.  Maybe it’ll help your arms.  How do they look?”  Then she held up her arms and—I swear I’m not making this up—they were virtually eczema-free.  “Wow,” she commented casually, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, “I guess it really worked.”

And then she ran off to go play, leaving me to be the one to wonder:  Is the tooth fairy real?

I came home last Saturday afternoon to find the hubby and kids all showering together after an afternoon spent swimming in the pool.  Communal showering is a pretty regular occurrence in our house on the weekends (so much easier than giving the kids a bath and they like it so much more than being hosed off in the yard) but this time I noticed that my husband was still donning his bathing suit.  Given that our daughter recently turned eight, I understood why he chose to keep it on and it seemed like the right move, but there was still something odd about it.  “The whole thing feels a little weird,” hubby confided in me later.  “On the one hand, I feel like I shouldn’t shower completely naked with them anymore, but on the other hand, it’s not like they don’t see me naked two seconds later when I’m toweling off.”  I totally understood his predicament.  A quick peek seems like no big deal, but the prolonged genitals-right-there-in-your-face proposition of the family shower becomes, at some point, a bit unseemly.  But then again, nudity is nudity any way you slice it.  Is selective nudity a mixed message? 

We kind of decided long ago that we’d be a naked family.  And by “we,” I really mean “me,” since hubby generally takes his cues from me on such matters.  Now, when I say we’re a naked family, I don’t mean that we’re nudists who cook, watch TV and play backyard volleyball in the buff; I mean that we don’t have any issues with walking around naked if we happen to be naked in the proper context, ie. just out of the shower, about to get dressed or even those times we have to traipse through the house minus a top or bottom because the clothing item we’re in search of needs to be retrieved from the downstairs laundry room.  (And okay, there are those times when it’s really hot and I’ll wear skimpy clothes to knock around in that maybe don’t leave a whole lot to the imagination.)  When the kids were really small, it was never really an issue or even a thought.  But as they get older, and especially the times my 4-year-old son points to my chest as I’m putting my bra on and says, “I see your nipples!” before collapsing in a fit of giggles, I’ll admit, it has given me pause for thought.  When is the right time to cover up? 

In recent years I’ve read up on the “proper protocol” vis-à-vis parents walking around naked in front of their children and the general thought du jour is that parents should cover up once their kids start “noticing” their private parts in the form of pointing and giggling.  (Um, whoops.)  The experts say this usually happens by around age three or four.  (I can attest to that.)  But come on, doesn’t that sort of send a weird message?  I mean, it’s normal for a child to have a natural curiosity as their awareness of the difference in the sexes develops.  But is the answer to this natural inquisitiveness really to immediately throw clothes on and go running for the hills?  Isn’t that exactly the opposite message that we want to send?

I have my own complex issues with this subject stemming from my childhood.  You see, I had parents who were obsessive about not allowing me or my younger sister to see them naked.  Those folks stayed as covered up inside their own home (at least when we were present) as they did in public.  There were no robes accidentally falling open, no slightly ajar doors to pass by and catch a glimpse of flesh through, no “special circumstance” allowances for if you happened to be in their room having a conversation with them when my mom was about to get dressed.  “Get out of here!” she would insist.  “I need to get dressed!”  Now okay, in the interest of total self-disclosure, there was one time when I innocently entered their room, not knowing anyone was in there, and encountered my father, stark naked from head to toe, standing in their spacious walk-in closet about to get dressed.  Our eyes met and it was like two deer in headlights; no one moved, no one knew what to do next.  Time stood still for maybe five seconds before my father collected himself and said, “Get out of here!” sending me running to my room, freaked out of my mind.  But that awkward encounter aside, I really wished my parents—well, my mom, at least—would walk around naked in front of us.  The thing was, I knew all my friends saw their parents naked; in their homes, it was no big deal.  I longed for that kind of openness in my family; longed to be able to just casually stroll into my parents’ room whenever I felt like it without feeling like an intruder in my own home and without risking hearing a shrill, “Get out of here!  I’m changing!”  My mother was secretive in general (we weren’t allowed to know how old she was), and the fact that her naked body was a big secret too was just far too titillating for me (no pun intended).  I’ll admit, I was kind of obsessed with seeing what she looked like naked (although that wasn’t as easily accomplished as going into her wallet and checking the age on her driver’s license) and that obsession in general made me feel like a total weirdo.  I knew my interest wasn’t prurient in nature, but even so, I was well aware that a kid shouldn’t have as much desire to see their mom naked as I did.

When I was an adult, I asked my mom why we weren’t allowed to see her naked as kids.  She told me that she had read an article when I was little that said parents shouldn’t let their kids see them naked for fear that the child would compare their own body to their (same sex) parent’s and feel somehow inferior.  Now, I can see the logic in that on some level, but judging from personal experience, that sort of advice was definitely not a one-size-fits-all kind of thing.  For however well-intentioned my mother may have been, her secretiveness surrounding her body was most likely far more detrimental to me than any sort of body comparison I might have drawn by glimpsing her naked.

The thing is, I can see all sides of this issue, which makes it harder to know which side to come down on.  But I think the bottom line is, as is the case in most parenting-related decisions, folks should do what feels comfortable to them.  My husband has decided that he’s not comfortable showering nude in front of our daughter anymore, however I still shower nude with our kids for now.  Maybe in a couple of years when our son is a little older, that won’t feel comfortable for me anymore.  Maybe he’ll even ask me to cover up at some point (causing me to drop dead of embarrassment).  And most definitely our family’s communal showering has an expiration date of its own—we just don’t know what that date is yet.  But for now, I love showering with my kids.  It’s so sweet and innocent and I love seeing those two little adorable naked bodies all lathered up and clean.  And hey, maybe, just maybe, by growing up in a house with parents who aren’t self-conscious about their bodies, my kids will grow up to be adults who don’t have issues with their own bodies.  Or, you know, maybe they’ll join a nudist colony, hoping to capture the comfort and security of their childhoods.  Who knows?  In either event, I’m starting a little “therapy” fund for them for later on.  Just in case. 

There’s one really pretty cool aspect of motherhood that no one tells you about before you have a kid: becoming a mother gives you automatic entrance into a secret society of women you never knew existed before.  Oh sure, you got a taste of it when you were pregnant—the surreptitious knowing smiles you received from frizzy-haired, stained sweatpants-clad women pushing strollers, that at the time you thought meant, “Oh, look what a cute pregnant woman you are,” but only later (after you’d had the baby and started doling out the look yourself to other unassuming pregnant women) realized actually meant, “You have no idea what you’re in for with your designer maternity outfit and perfect hair, but you’re about to become me.”  Your full awareness of the “club” didn’t come however until you gave birth and other mothers would just start talking to you as if the two of you were the oldest of friends while seated next to each other in the nursing mother’s area of the Nordstrom ladies room (thank god for Nordstrom), sharing details about their episiotomy or engorged breasts or newly developed fear of sex—details so intimate you would never have previously discussed these topics with your BFF, let alone a complete stranger.  But the simple truth is, motherhood unites in a way that nothing else can.  Not even forking over a check for a cool grand, being surrounded by a gaggle of my squealing brand new “sisters” and being presented with a t-shirt emblazoned with the letters “DG” made me feel as close to other women as becoming a mother did.

Motherhood transcends everything: race, sex (some of the best moms I know are gay dads), religion and class.  A mother’s love for her child and the accompanying worry, fear, exuberance, insecurity and yes, even boredom, are the most unifying emotions in the world.  If you’ve ever watched your child vomit and found yourself in the unique position of being torn between wanting to comfort your child and wanting to run and grab a wet rag to keep the vomit from seeping into the rug, then you have something in common with the mother standing next to you.  Show me two mothers and I’ll show you two people who won’t be hard-pressed to find common ground.

I was reminded of this “society of motherhood” phenomenon recently through a rather freak occurrence.  I met my friend “Betty” the same way I’ve met most of my more recent friends: in Mommy & Me.  We became friendly when our sons were in the same preschool class and started playing Scrabble together on Facebook, where we discovered we share the same um, well let’s say, dark sense of humor.  Anyway, one day, Betty challenged me to a game and some sort of crazy glitch happened.  Suddenly we were not alone; inexplicably, there was someone else in the game with us, some random woman we’ll call Molly Morton.  So this Molly Morton took her turn but then forfeited the game (ostensibly when she realized she was playing with two complete strangers).  Facebook Scrabble—in case you’ve never played (and you shouldn’t; it’s incredibly addicting)—has a chat box wherein you can chat with the person/people you are playing with during the game.  In it, I noticed Betty had written, “Wtf?” regarding Molly Morton’s bizarre (albeit brief) presence in our game.  So Betty and I started having a little fun, chatting back and forth, joking about how we never really liked Molly anyway, how she was a bitch, a whore, a druggie, etc.  Essentially we were trying to top each other to come up with the worst back-story we could for this poor Molly Morton person.  We found our maligning of this woman’s character to be hilarious—not because we’re overtly cruel people, but we do happen to be huge fans of the movie, “Heathers,” so draw your own conclusions.  Besides, in our defense, we knew Molly Morton would never see what we were saying about her, so no harm, no foul, right?  After we completed the game, I rechallenged Betty and titled the new game, “I miss Molly Morton.”  Then, in chat, I wrote, “That Molly was a total c--t, but I have to admit, I kind of miss her.”  (I know, not the classiest choice of words, but what can I say?  I’m a whore for a laugh.)  When Betty played her turn, she wrote back, “BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”  Now, I appreciated Betty’s laughter, but it was oddly more enthusiastic than I would have expected given that it was in the same general area as we’d already been joking.  And it was as I was pondering her reaction that I noticed my gargantuan guffaw:  evidently when I hit the “rechallenge” button, it rechallenged everyone who had ever been in the game, which meant that Molly Morton was back in the game and had seen my title and what I had written about her!  She had forfeited again, naturally (who wouldn’t?!) and was probably even considering hiring a security detail.  I’d like to be able to say that I was mortified by my blunder, but instead I started laughing hysterically trying to picture what this poor woman thought when she logged in to the game and saw that this total stranger had called her a c--t and said that she missed her.  She must have thought Betty and I were off our rockers.  I laughed so hard, I was actually crying; my husband must’ve thought I had lost my mind when he came into the office and saw me sitting at my computer, alone, unable to stop laughing long enough to explain why I was laughing in the first place. 

Now, had it been anyone else, they probably would have just left it alone at that point.  But not Betty and me!  We continued to challenge Molly, always with titles like, “Come back, Molly!” and “Play with us, Molly!”  And Molly always forfeited without saying anything.  Betty and I decided it would be funny to up the stalking ante and try to Facebook friend request Molly, so we did.  She ignored our requests, which only fueled us.  It became a personal mission for Betty and me to try and get Molly Morton from Mississippi (that’s all we could glean about her from her Facebook profile) to play Scrabble with us. We deliberately made ourselves sound insane, writing in Scrabble chat, “Why won’t you play with us anymore, Molly?  Don’t you like us anymore?  We miss the way it used to be between us!”  We cracked ourselves up trying to imagine what Molly Morton from Mississippi could possibly be telling her friends:  “So there are these two random women who are stalking me to play Scrabble with them!”  After weeks of this, we decided to both try and friend request her again.  This time she wrote back:  “I don't have a clue who you are.  I think you have me confused with someone else.”  We had a response!  Encouraged, we continued pestering her to play with us and she continued forfeiting, until one day, she actually played her turn and wrote, “So who are y’all anyway?”  We had done it!  We had gotten Molly Morton to play with us!

From there we discovered that Molly was a year older than me and a year younger than Betty; she was also a mom but had married young and now had two teenagers and one toddler, lived in the same small town she had grown up in (although she had briefly lived in a few other cities) and was still happily married to her high school sweetheart.  Molly affectionately referred to Betty and me as “the crazies,” and thought the back-story we had created for her was hilarious.  From that moment on, the three of us started playing Scrabble together daily and haven’t stopped since.  That was almost nine months ago.

Molly loves hearing about our lives in Los Angeles (Betty and I were both born and bred here) and we love hearing about what it’s like being a woman and mom in the South.  Molly has taught us things we SoCal gals couldn’t possibly have known.  Like, how referring to someone as “precious” when talking to a third party is really code for “not precious in the slightest.”  And how the term “bless their heart” is really the genteel Southern way of saying, “F--k them.”  (Oh, how Betty and I ran with that one!)  Molly explained how all the children where she lives wear smocked clothing with their names embroidered on everything they own; Betty and I explained how in L.A. you think twice before calling your child’s name in public, let alone putting their name on anything they own.  From time to time, Betty and I still mess with Molly, making up fanciful stories about wild weekends in L.A. and fake trouble we get into at our kids’ school, and Molly good-naturedly eats it up.  But we also discuss the stuff of real life: kids, hubbies, careers and what makes us happy.  And when Molly became pregnant with her fourth child—a pregnancy she was cautiously optimistic about due to prior miscarriages—she told us first.  “I can’t tell anyone about my pregnancy except for the two crazies I play Scrabble with,” she joked.  And it was true; in a weird way, our relative “stranger” status made us safe to confide in.  

Then a few months ago, while discussing upcoming summer trips (Betty’s enviable trip to Costa Rica; Molly’s frequent weekend get-a-ways to Florida), I mentioned that I would be going to New Orleans in July with my husband.  “Why, New Orleans is only a 45 minute drive from me!” Molly wrote.  “Really?” I wrote back.  “Could you come meet us?”  “Sure!” Molly responded.

Then, the week of my trip, I asked Molly what day was good for her to come and we exchanged cell phone numbers.  “Seriously???” Betty asked.  “Are you guys really going to MEET?”  I knew exactly what Betty meant.  It was like getting to meet your pen pal as a kid—who got to do that?  I certainly never met Mary Healy from Michigan though we spent a year or two writing to each other.   It was worlds colliding—would I really meet this woman who I had called a c--t before I knew her, halfway across the country??? 

Almost as soon as I landed in New Orleans, I began texting with Molly to determine if we could really nail down a time to meet.  Between Molly’s schedule and the schedules of the friends my husband and I were with, it didn’t work out for the original day we had scheduled to meet.  But we agreed to meet for brunch my last day in New Orleans.  That morning, my husband and I walked into the appointed café in the French Quarter and immediately I spotted Molly who was sitting with her husband and 3-year-old son.  We hugged hello as if old friends, not two people who had never met before. 

We spent a lovely two hours together and our husbands got along great.  By now Molly was very pregnant and I could tell she was uncomfortable and hot (New Orleans in the summer is like being trapped inside an oven set to broil), but she was a trooper.  When it was time to leave, we hugged tightly and she promised they would come out to Los Angeles soon—which would mark their first trip to California. 

When I returned, Betty was eager to hear about how it went.  “Was it weird?” she asked us.  Not at all, Molly and I both told her; in fact, it was anything but.  And that’s the thing about being a mom; it makes you instantly a sister.  Whether you live in a big city or a small town or a village in Timbuktu, we are all the same.  Our struggles may vary, but at the heart of it, we are all joined by a common desire: for our children to have the best lives we can possibly give them.  We don’t need a sorority pin or letters on a sweatshirt or a secret handshake to identify us; our children are our secret handshake, the Barney song is our sorority song, the spit-up on our clothes are our letters.  We are all proud members of Kappa Kappa Mama.

My husband has been nagging me to get my son’s hair cut.  It’s led to frequent conversations that can be classified as “more than discussions” but “less than arguments.”  They go like this:

Husband:  “You really need to get the kid’s hair cut.”

Me:  “What are you talking about?  It looks great.”

Husband:  “It’s covering his eyes.  He can’t see.”

Me:  “Oh, please.  You’re being dramatic.  He can see fine.”

Husband:  “Oh yeah?”  (POINTS TO SON, WHO RUNS INTO THE WALL.) 

Me:  “But he loves his hair long.”

Husband:  “No, he doesn’t.  He wants it cut.” 

Me:  “What makes you think that?”

Husband:  “Because he told me!”  (THEN, TO SON)  “Do you want your hair cut?”

Son:  “Yes!”

Me:  “No, you don’t.  You love your hair.”

Son:  “I look like a girl.”

Me:  “You don’t look like a girl… much.”  (TO HUSBAND)  “You told him to say that.”

Husband:  “No, I didn’t!  He tells me all the time!  He wants his hair cut!”

Me:  “He loves his hair.”  (THEN, QUICKLY)  “Oh, would you look at the time?  I have to go... mulch.”  (BEAT A HASTY RETREAT.)

See, here’s the thing: I have an unnatural attachment to my children’s hair.  It started with my daughter, whose hair I couldn’t bear to have cut until she was three (and it had grown so long we could tuck it into her skirt).  And even then, I nervously hovered over the hair stylist, making sure she only cut off the raggedy ends and no more.  Afterward, I mourned the execution of the beautiful curly locks that never did grow back.  Since then, my daughter’s hair has been regularly cut every six months, but never shorter than just below shoulder length.  Fortunately, she is on board with keeping her hair long, but occasionally she says, “I want to get my hair cut this short,” indicating a length that would make me actually go into convulsions were it to be cut that short, and I smile like I don’t care and say, “Whatever you want, honey.  Maybe even shorter would be nice.  Like up around your ears.”  Then I hold my breath until she says, “Yeah, you know what?  Let’s just keep it long.”  (Oh, don’t act like you don’t use psychological warfare on your kids to get your way, too.)

When my son came along, I thought it would be different; since he was a boy, I wouldn’t have a weird preoccupation with his hair.  And for a while, it was different.  I took him for his first haircut at eighteen months without incident, and got him regular haircuts after that.  But around the time he was three and a half, his hair started growing in thicker, in adorable, shiny, moppy, loose waves.  I deliberately started postponing the next haircut, enjoying watching that gorgeous hair grow and grow, watching my son morph into a mini Leif Garrett.  But around his fourth birthday, I caved and took him to get it cut after my husband threatened to take him to get a buzz cut (what is it with men and buzz cuts, anyway?).  I explicitly told the guy cutting his hair, “Leave it long, just trim it up so it doesn’t stick out on the sides and cut it away from his eyes a little to make my husband happy.”  Then I proceeded to watch in horror as more and more of my son’s lovely tresses got lopped off by this man’s trigger-happy scissors.  After, as he dusted my son off and spun him around so I could examine the final product, I remember an audible gasp leaving my lips.  You see, I just couldn’t wrap my head around how the phrase “leave it long, just trim it up” could possibly be translated into “please give my son the Dumb & Dumber haircut.”  When the stylist asked me how I liked it, I said icily, “I’m sure my husband will like it,” (which was probably all that mattered to him anyway since he was my husband’s stylist to begin with and obviously knew who buttered his bread) and the reason I know I said it icily was because later he told my husband that I was pissed.

So you can probably see my trepidation in getting my son’s hair cut again, even though I will concede that it’s getting a tad long.  The plain fact is, I don’t trust anyone to trim it without hacking it to smithereens (I would do it myself, but I was never good at geometry and I believe successful hair cutting requires a certain “spacial” aptitude that I simply don’t possess).  His hair is well past his ears now and flops in his face quite a lot, so much so that he needs to constantly push it out of his eyes.  It’s so long, I was able to put it up in a ponytail yesterday.  But it’s sooo cute, I tell you.  (I mean, women stop me on the street to gush over how adorable he is “with all that hair,” so I do have independent verification on this fact.)  And the idea of cutting it… well, put it this way, it would probably cause me to take my last breath since it’s almost as if his hair strands are the arteries carrying the oxygen supply to my heart (okay, I know it’s a cheesy analogy, but I’m desperately trying to rally support here). 

The irony of it all is that my children are obsessed with my hair as well.  It started when each of them were nursing infants, tugging at my hair as they fed.  It continued as they got older and even once they each weaned.  To this day, it is not unusual for me to be besieged by both kids, each leaning up against me pulling on my hair (and they are eight and four now).  When I put my son to sleep at night, the last thing he has to do before I leave his room is get in a quick tug on my hair; sometimes, more times than not, he summonses me back for another tug before he will finally close his eyes and settle in for the night.  If I come home from the gym with my hair still up in a ponytail, he will indignantly order me to let it down, as if I am Rapunzel and he is the witch needing to climb up my hair to the top of the tower.  When I awake each morning, it is to the insanely torturous feeling of having my hairs pulled out of my head one by one by said son, whose favorite thing to do upon waking is to come hop into my bed, snuggle up close and render me bald.  (In light of all of this, I can only imagine the emotional maelstrom that would occur if I were to actually cut my hair short.) 

So okay, we can examine the psychological roots (no pun intended) of my obsession with my kids’ hair; you don’t have to be Freud to figure out that their hair probably represents their youth, and in keeping it long, I am symbolically keeping them my babies longer.  But like most things, the “why” doesn’t really factor into the reality of the behavior, does it?  (Sort of like how intellectually you may be able to understand that you’re getting your period and therefore are more prone to being irritable, however that knowledge doesn’t necessarily keep you from being a bitch on wheels, ya know?)  And the truth is, my son looks cuter with his hair moppy, and my daughter’s long hair has become her “signature” look (even though she’ll no longer let me put her hair in the half-head Bo Derek braids that I used to love her in and that used to be her signature look). 

Look, they are going to have their whole lives to decide how to wear their hair.  And maybe when they’re teenagers, they’ll want Mohawks or they’ll want to dye their hair pink or blue or green and that will be their choice (oh, who am I kidding—over my dead body).  The point is, shouldn’t it be my prerogative to decide how long their hair should be while they’re still young?  In light of all the hair pulling I endure, is that not too much to ask?*

*(That’s a rhetorical question.  I don’t really want to hear dissenting views.  “My house, my rules” is what my mom always used to say.)

I tend to learn things the hard way. And unfortunately, some lessons I apparently feel the need to learn over and over again.  One of those is that bigger is not always better.  The first time I leaned this lesson was when I was nine.  I was at a grab-bag party where everyone brought a wrapped gift and then each kid got to pick one from the pile.  My mom had colluded with another mom to make sure I got that mom’s gift, which was some sort of card game that my mom wanted me to have.  She coached me on exactly which present to choose, so I knew the game plan going in.  However, when it was my turn to pick, my eye went straight to the big, shiny square box in the back.  It was the biggest present, and to my 9-year-old mind, surely had to be the best.  So I threw out my mom’s plan and went with my own, choosing the big, shiny square box.  I excitedly opened it and discovered it was a babyish magic mirror.  I can still vividly remember the sick feeling in my stomach, as well as the look of utter betrayal on my mom’s face.  But it was a good lesson for me: bigger isn’t always better.  

The latest incarnation of this lesson learned was when I threw my daughter’s 7^th birthday party.  Recalling the slumber parties that started around the time I turned seven, I decided to make her birthday an “Un-Slumber Party,” meaning that all the girls would come to our house in their pajamas and stay late, but not actually spend the night.  It was also the first drop-off party sans parents, but given that it wasn’t a full-fledged slumber party, I decided not to cap the party at a few girls, and allowed my daughter to invite all the girls in her grade and a few others.  After all, how difficult could it be to entertain fifteen 7-year-old girls for a few hours?  (I mean, these were well-behaved girls we were talking about.  It’s not like I would have dared throw a party like that for boys.)

My plan called for the girls to be dropped off at 5:30pm and picked up at 9pm.  Normally the parties I threw were a strict two hours, but given the activity, dinner and movie I had planned, I thought the extra hour and a half was necessary.  For the activity, I decided to hire my friend—we’ll call her Beth—to do jewelry making with the girls.  I knew Beth made professional-quality jewelry, was super creative and great with kids to boot, so it was a no-brainer.  My plan was that as the girls arrived, Beth would help them start making their bracelets, which would also double as their party favor, further simplifying my life—no need to go out in search of the perfect favor!  Besides Beth, I would have my sister and my best friend there for back-up reinforcements.  (Oh, and my husband, but let’s face it, in terms of helping hands, husbands are like the calories in broken cookies: they don’t count.) 

Ever the control freak, I even had a timeline schedule for the party:

4:30 – Beth arrives to set up jewelry making

5:30-5:45 – Girls arrive

5:30-6:30 – Girls engage happily and quietly in bracelet making; I start preparing dinner

6:30-7:00 – Girls eat dinner; Beth “finishes” bracelets with clasps

7:00 - Start movie (“Annie”)

7:45-8:00 – Pause movie and serve cupcakes; sing Happy Birthday

8:00 – Resume movie and pass out bags of popcorn

9:00 – Parents pick up kids; give the girls their finished bracelets

9:15 – Pat myself on the back for a job well-done

A solid plan, right?  Unfortunately, that’s not how it went down.  Not even close.

The trouble started a few days before the party when Beth and I went to get the beads and supplies at the craft store.  Beth had been in AA and sober for the past two years, but that day something didn’t seem quite right with her.  I asked her if everything was okay and she assured me that everything was fine.  We parted that day with her taking the beads home to get them sorted and make a few example bracelets.  I had a nagging feeling that I should keep the beads in my possession, but I pushed the thought out of my mind and stuck with the plan.  The day of the party, I called Beth to confirm that she’d be at my house at four-thirty.  Although it was after noon and she had only just woken up, she told me she would absolutely be there. 

The rest of the day I spent setting up for the party.  I was just about finished, when at 4:30, Beth called to tell me she was running late and would be there in half an hour.  (She only lived a few minutes away and was notorious for running late, which was why I told her to come so early in the first place.)  I wasn’t worried; as long as she had a few minutes to set up before the first guest arrived, it would be fine.  Then five o’clock came and went and still no Beth.  At 5:20 the doorbell rang and I breathed a sigh of relief—finally, Beth!  But alas, it wasn’t her; it was the first guest arriving early!

I welcomed the first guest and then in quick succession, the rest arrived right on time (apparently, if you offer free baby-sitting service on a Saturday night, parents are very prompt).  And these girls were raring to go and ready to be entertained.  They raced through my house, screaming like banshees, clearly in need of some direction and activity.  At 5:45, panicked, I called Beth’s home, certain she wouldn’t be there; she had to be on her way already, right?  But to my horror, she answered.  “Where are you?” I asked, trying to mask the rising hysteria I felt.  “I’m on my way, Kim,” she said calmly, sounding vaguely annoyed that I was bothering her.  “Please hurry,” I told her.  “The kids are all here and need something to do!” 

As my best friend, my sister and I tried to wrangle the girls (wondering the whole time how sweet, innocent little girls could be so wild and willfully disobedient), my husband asked me what my back-up plan was.  “I don’t have a back-up plan!” I hissed.  In desperation, I decided to start the movie.  I rounded up the girls and turned the movie on.  However, since it was still light out and the girls were clearly amped up and ready to party, many of them were unable to sit still enough to watch the movie and soon grew antsy.  It was now after 6:00 and still no sign of Beth.  I started to have a sinking suspicion that maybe Beth had fallen off the wagon; she had seemed a little off when we spoke earlier, but it just seemed too random.  What were the chances that she’d relapse today?  On the day of my daughter’s 7^th birthday party, of all days?  My husband implored me to switch gears and come up with an alternate activity, but I was unable to adapt; unable to abandon my original plan.  Plus, if the girls didn’t make bracelets, I had no party favor to send them home with!  The general consensus between my husband and best friend was that Beth was in some sort of pill or alcohol induced stupor and that’s why she was a no-show, but I didn’t want to believe it.  They concocted a new plan which consisted of me calling Beth and telling her to take her time coming over, and asking if she could leave the beads and supplies outside her front door for my husband to pick up.  (My best friend had some jewelry making experience and would improvise on the fly.)  I was about to call Beth, when suddenly my doorbell rang.  I hurriedly threw open the front door to find Beth walking up the walkway carrying a muffin tin of beads in stiff outstretched hands as if trying not to spill them as she swayed side to side, ostensibly trying to find her center of gravity, as one would expect a newly walking toddler to do.  “Hi, Kim, I’m here,” she slurred brightly, as if she was right on time.  I stared in complete horror as I watched her approach.  For one, I couldn’t believe she drove in that condition.  And two, I had no idea what I was supposed to do with her now that she was here. 

But alas, I had a schedule to get back on.

I turned off the movie, rounded up the girls who had long ago stopped watching the movie and were now wreaking havoc throughout my house, and sat them down to do the jewelry making.  It was 6:30; we were off my schedule by a full hour now.  To the girls’ credit, they jumped head long into the bracelet making.  Beth kept her sunglasses on and moved almost in slow motion as she tied off the elastic for each girl, so my best friend jumped in to help to make things go a little faster.  Thankfully, in the frenzy of making the bracelets, the girls didn’t seem to notice that Beth was um, “off.”  Since it was late, the girls were hungry, so while they were making their bracelets, I was also throwing hot dogs and pasta at them, which they eagerly gobbled up.  Finally, when the girls had each made at least one bracelet and had finished their dinner, I restarted the movie and turned my attention along with my sister and best friend, to helping Beth finish off the bracelets.  Beth was moving at a snail’s pace and with her reflexes compromised, was dropping more bracelets than she finished, causing beads to go flying in every direction.  My best friend, sister and I were restringing each one as fast as we could attempting to recreate whatever elaborate pattern the girls had made—and failing miserably.  At the same time, we were also trying to rein in the wilder girls who decided it would be fun to drag each other by the hair across the wood floors.  At some point in the midst of all the pandemonium, I somehow managed to light some candles and serve the cupcakes.  Several of the girls decided the frosting would make a good facial mask and paraffin for their hands, so I had to set about getting all of them cleaned up while keeping the frosting damage to my house to a minimum.  I finally got them all settled back into the movie, completely forgetting about the popcorn part of the plan, and rushed to help Beth finish the bracelets which were still not even close to being done. 

At 9:00, the parents started arriving and I almost cried at the sight of those beautiful people coming to take their daughters off my hands.  I redirected Beth to finish whatever bracelet was on deck for the current departing child, while also trying to distract the parents’ attention away from her, lest they notice she was high as a kite and wonder what the hell kind of operation I was running.  Somehow, by 9:15, we had managed to clear out the house, miraculously sending each girl home with at least one bracelet and none of the parents any the wiser. 

When all the dust had settled, my house looked like a bead factory and a cupcake factory had collided and exploded.  Beth was sitting and happily making more jewelry with my daughter and 11-year-old niece who were unaware that she was clearly three sheets to the wind; they just thought she was a super cool adult who talked to them on their own level.  I hid out in the kitchen under the auspices of cleaning up, and whispered on the phone to my best friend who called me the second she got home to recap the madness of the evening.  She assured me that none of the kids knew we were off schedule and in constant crisis mode, and that they all had a good time.  However, later when I asked my daughter how she liked her party, she admitted it was her least favorite party she had ever had.  It was just too much for her—too loud, too many unruly girls, too much chaos (clearly the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree). 

I never discussed what transpired that night with Beth (who stayed and strung beads until she had sobered up) and she maintains that she hasn’t had a drink in years.  As for my daughter, for her eighth birthday a couple of months ago, we dialed it way back.  She got to invite three friends who we took bowling and out to dinner.  Then we all came home, had a small cake and watched a movie.  Only one of the girls spent the night, which ended up being ideal.  After all was said and done, the next day I asked my daughter what she thought of this year’s party, and eyes twinkling, she said, “I loved it, Mom.  It was perfect.” 

And this time, we learned the lesson together: sometimes less really is more.           

Recently, I attended a parenting lecture by the resident “parenting expert” at my kids’ school.  Most of what he had to say was pretty standard fare except for one little gem that I thought was pretty clever.  He said that whenever a situation comes up that requires him to say no to his children, he explains to them that as a parent, he has two jobs.  The first is to keep his kids safe.  The second is to make his kids happy.  But when the two jobs are in conflict with each other, he must always choose job number one, keeping them safe.  I thought this was good advice and even went home and repeated it verbatim to my 8-year-old daughter who thought it made good sense as well.  (Didn’t bother sharing with my 4 ½-year-old son though, since he is convinced my only job—and sole purpose in life, for that matter—is to make him happy.)

But as much as I liked this new two job description, there was one little hitch that really nagged at me:  sometimes my kids wanted things that were safe and would make them happy but were more trouble for me than I felt like taking on.  Say, like taking them outside to play in the scorching heat (I’m not a huge fan of melting) or in the freezing cold (okay, fine, I’m not a huge fan of extreme temperatures, period).  Or making them the tuna noodle casserole from scratch that they love but takes over an hour of intense labor to make (not much of a cook, either).  The point is, what about door number three?  What about there being a third job that involves making me happy?

There is a pervasive message in our society that goes like this: once you become a mother, your needs cease to exist and your importance becomes secondary to your children’s.  And if you want a really excellent example of this attitude, get rear-ended as I recently did.  Whenever I mention the accident to anyone, the conversation goes like this:

Me:  “I got rear-ended by an airport shuttle a few weeks ago.”

Random Individual:  “Oh no!  That’s terrible!  Were you hurt?”

Me:  “Yes, as a matter of fact I was.”

Random Individual:  “Were the kids in the car?”

Me:  “No, just me.”

Random Individual:  “Well, thank goodness.  Because that would have been awful.” 

Now, naturally I’m relieved that my kids weren’t in the car with me.  But after having this same exact conversation with countless people, it’s like, what am I?  Chopped liver? 

Yet that’s the implication of course across the board.  Once you have children, you stop being an individual.  You stop having needs of your own.  Your happiness is now supposed to be solely derived from seeing your children experience joy.  Life is lived merrily vicariously.  But is that really realistic?  I say no.  If you want to be truly fulfilled as a person and a mom, you must take yourself into account and not feel guilty for doing so.  Sometimes that involves saying no to a request from your children that you know is going to send you over the edge to say yes to.  And hey, it really doesn’t make you a bad person to say no to letting your kids write with chalk all over the driveway when you know it will take you hours of scrubbing to get it off (I still have chalk writing on my driveway from May—of 2008).  Other times it will involve saying no to your children because you’re busy doing something for yourself.  And, if you’re so far gone that those words—“doing something for yourself”—sound foreign and strange, and if when reading them you heard yourself make an involuntary noise that sounded like “Hrmph,” read on for ideas on how to actually do something for yourself (you may remember some from back before you had kids):  

Find time to read:  There’s nothing like reading a good book to make you feel a little bit more like yourself.  Whether it’s a trashy romance novel, an engaging self-help book or Oprah’s latest book club selection, letting your mind wander off into another world for a while is so helpful in terms of recharging your batteries.  To find the time: try books on tape in the car when you’re running errands without the kids or when they’re sleeping in the car or listening to their own music with headphones.  Also, leave a book or magazine in the bathroom and linger a few extra minutes each time you go.  (What?  You deserve a bathroom break!)

Talk on the phone to your BFF:  My best friend lives on the other side of town so while it’s not always convenient to see each other, we make time each day to talk on the phone—often multiple times throughout the day.  If you stay home with your children, you know only so well that an entire day can pass in a blink of eye without you so much as speaking to another adult (you know this because you’ve found yourself desperately striking up conversations with the UPS guy).  Picking up the phone if only to say, “Ugh, the baby isn’t napping again!” is a great sanity saver.  To find the time: try multi-tasking.  Chat while making the kids’ dinner or while doing a load of laundry.

Practice Abhyanga (Ayurvedic self massage):  Abhy-what?  Basically abhyanga is daily self massage with warm oil and is great for you both mentally and physically.  I do a modified version that only takes a few minutes right after my shower each morning: while still wet, starting from my feet up, I use a blend of oils—my favorite that I mix myself in a large bottle that I keep in the shower is a blend of safflower oil, almond oil, sesame oil and lavender essential oil (all organic, cooking-grade oils, aside from the essential oil)—that I rub in a circular motion into my skin, covering my entire body up to my earlobes (but not my face).  The oil absorbs into my skin fairly quickly so that by the time I get dressed I’m not oily, just well moisturized.  I was introduced to this technique by an Ayuvedic pratitioner and it’s a lifesaver for dry skin and is great for circulation, digestion and emotional well-being.  It’s super easy to incorporate into your routine and fun as well because you can experiment with different vegetable oils (viscosity and scent vary) and different essential oils, depending on whether you want to be calmed or energized.

Get moving:  It is amazing how much better we feel about ourselves when we exercise.   Exercise is proven to reduce anxiety and depression and give you more energy, plus a regular exercise routine will make you stronger and more toned, which in turn will make you feel happier about the way you look.  It’s easier to fit into your life than you may think too.  The easiest way is by purchasing some equipment like a couple of light dumbbells, a yoga mat, some resistance bands and a few different workout DVDs to rotate between (note: this route takes a lot of self motivation to keep up).  Joining a gym is another great way to get going.  Usually there are trainers who can give you a program to follow on your own or there are group classes that you can take (my favorite).  When choosing a gym, look for one that has a childcare facility; if working out doesn’t involve having to find a sitter, you’ll be far more likely to do it!  (Gym memberships don’t have to cost a fortune either; your local YMCA is a terrific place to start and they often have childcare.)  If the gym is not your thing and you like being outdoors, find a friend who also wants to get active and make a standing date to go for a hike or a jog together.  If you make a commitment to someone else and get to gab with your pal at the same time, you’re much more likely to stick with it. 

Eat chocolate:  Chocolate is good for you!  And eaten in moderation, it can make you happier (it stimulates endorphins which give you a pleasurable feeling and contains serotonin which acts as an anti-depressant) and has numerous health benefits like keeping your heart and cardiovascular system performing well.  I like to buy dark chocolate (you don’t get the same health benefits from milk or white chocolate) that has at least 70% cacao content.  So forget the guilt and go ahead and eat a little every day!

Stay connected:  Social networks like Facebook and Twitter and web groups specifically targeted towards your interests (mommy group, anyone?) are great for helping to stay connected to family and friends and the community at large.  (Momologie has a great new community specifically for moms who want to connect with other moms—you can join at www.bigtent.com/groups/momologie.)  I’m part of a couple of local parent yahoo groups that have been an invaluable resource for everything from getting basic parenting advice to doctor referrals to consumer recs.  (I have also experienced random acts of kindness, like the time I posted a question about creating a master holiday card address label file and a mom on the board told me to send her all my addresses and she would create the file for me—which she did, no strings attached.)  Getting and giving advice in a group like that is a terrific way to feel like you have a support system for any tough situations that come up.

Staying fulfilled as moms is not something frivolous that we should feel guilty about.  It’s our duty to keep our minds, bodies and spirits actively engaged and happy because an unhappy, unfulfilled mommy is no good for anyone.  Our children want their moms to be happy, even if it seems they don’t want it if it’s in direct conflict with their own happiness.  It’s up to us to model to them that adults have needs as well that have to be addressed.  And it’s not a bad thing to teach them that the world doesn’t always revolve around them and their needs.  So now when my kids ask for something, there are three filters I filter their request through:  1) Is it safe for them?  2) Will it make them happy? and 3) Will it make me happy?  

After all, if “Happy Wife, Happy Life” can be a saying, why can’t “Happy Mommy, Happy… ?”  Okay, well I don’t actually have a good rhyme for it, but just because it doesn’t have a good rhyme, doesn’t make it any less valid.  And hey, if you have a good saying of your own, feel free to leave it after the jump (I’m a sucker for a good new saying).

Okay, so I’m going to throw out sort of a radical admission and I’m hoping no one will call social services on me, but here goes:

I don’t play with my kids.

I know, it’s controversial, it’s blasphemous, it’s downright un-American.  And yes, I’m well aware that other folks play with their kids because they post about it on Facebook all the time and they work it into casual conversation: “Oh, no, I’m sorry, I can’t go out and get drunk with you.  I promised the girls I’d play Polly Pockets with them.”  But I’ve never been one to cave to peer pressure (except for layered scrunchy socks in the 80’s and I’ve forgiven myself for that horrible misstep) and I don’t intend to on this issue.  I’m not playing with my kids.

Now I’m not talking about the occasional board game (although Chutes & Ladders and Candyland are off limits in my house because I simply can’t take being so close to the end and having to start all over.  Seriously, how is that fun?!), or video games that I actually enjoy as well (Super Mario Bros. = greatest game of all time).  I’m also not talking about books, which I’ll happily read to my children (even though some of them, like “My World,” are over my head.  “My spoon.  Daddy’s spoon.  ‘The moon belongs to the man in the moon.’”  Huh??).  I’m talking about make-believe games.  The games that require me to get down on the floor and pick up Barbie dolls or Justice League figurines and act out some sort of scenario with my children, which I generally regard as a slice of hell.  The irony, of course, is that that’s all I liked to do as a child.  I couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning and start playing Barbies, continuing with whatever juicy storyline I had conjured up the day before.  In fact, it got to the point where I was entering junior high school panicking that I might never outgrow playing Barbies and worried that I would have to take it underground and carry that dirty secret with me for the rest of my days.  But in time, I did outgrow Barbies along with my desire to play make-believe (well, outside of a few episodes years later with an adventurous boyfriend), apparently so much so that the idea of doing it now makes me want to pull my eyelashes out one painful lash at a time.

So I have this theory and it’s going to sound self-serving (because it is), but I believe it has merit.  It goes like this: the more we entertain our children, the less able they’ll be to entertain themselves.  It’s no different than anything else in that regard.  Whatever we do for our children, they won’t learn to do for themselves.  That’s why we stop feeding them their food and let them learn to hold a spoon on their own.  It’s why we let go of their hands so they can take those first few tentative steps all on their own.  It’s why we stop wiping their asses and let them do it themselves (even though we know from the skid marks in their underwear that they are far from mastering the technique).  But there are folks who buy into this theory—except for the idea that their children should be somehow expected to play by themselves, which I don’t understand at all.  Playing is as natural for children as being clutter blind is for men.  How many times have you seen your child pick up some sticks or a couple of rocks or an old cardboard box and start playing with them?  (At which point you ask your husband, “Why do we even have toys?”)  Yet we live in a culture that constantly implores us to do more, more, more!  Schedule more ballet classes!  Sign-up for more sports teams!  Arrange more playdates!  And if all else fails and your child has—gasp—a couple of hours to kill where nothing has been scheduled, it is your job to fill that void by being the perfect playmate.  But in doing so, we are robbing our children of just being with themselves.  And children who never learn to be by themselves, grow up to be adults who can’t be by themselves.

I recently read somewhere on the internet (I know, this is the start of many a lie, but I swear this one is true) that people in other countries laugh at Americans because we play with our kids.  Their contention is that parents are not supposed to be playmates; we’re supposed to be role models.  This notion resonated with me.  Of course, it’s not my job to play with my kids!  It’s my job to be a role model!  And if you think about it, back in the day when our ancestors were working the land and modern conveniences didn’t exist, their concerns surrounded frivolous things like milking the cow so that there would be fresh milk for breakfast, pulling feathers off a freshly killed chicken and inventing stuff that was sorely needed, like indoor plumbing.  I guarantee the parents then didn’t worry about whether their children were being properly stimulated (and the reason I can say this with absolute certainty is because I have seen every single episode of “Little House on the Prairie”).

In many ways, it’s easier to play with our kids; at least that makes the incessant whining stop.  I get it.  But try this experiment now that summer is coming up: don’t schedule anything for your children for a whole day.  Okay, I know it sounds crazy and downright suicidal, but hear me out.  Don’t schedule anything and… make it a no TV day.  (I’ll wait while you restart your hearts.)  You’ll want to have your own “project” that you’ll be busy with, ie. cleaning out the garage, revamping your filing system or reorganizing your closet; something that you can really sink your teeth into, but that won’t be enticing to your children (like now would not be the time to decide to bake and decorate four dozen cupcakes).  Be prepared for a lot of whining.  And when I say a lot, I mean a lot.  This whining will be inversely proportionate to how much time your children have actually spent entertaining themselves in the past.  But be strong!  Do not give in!  You, after all, are too busy to play with them.  You have to sort through all of Daddy’s old boxes and determine if his Little League Most Valuable Player of 1977-78 is something he’s actually going to miss one day (screw it—go ahead and chuck it).

Be prepared for your children to ramp up the guilt.  They don’t know this Mommy and they won’t like her.  You will hear things like:

“You never play with us!”  Classic over-exaggeration.  However you’re not going to be brought down this easily.

“But I’m so bored!”  Good.  The first step towards recovery is admitting there’s a problem.  I like to respond with an oldie but goodie:  “Only boring people get bored.”  Let them ponder that for a while. 

“What am I supposed to do?”  Don’t get sucked into suggesting things here.  They are just trying to keep you engaged.  And no matter what you recommend, they will have an answer at the ready as to why those are the lamest suggestions of all time.  Best to just shrug or say, “I don’t know, but I have faith that you can figure something out.”

“I have nothing to play with!”  My favorite response to this one: “Okay, if that’s the case, then you can collect up all your toys and we’ll give them to the children who don’t have any.”  (Incidentally, no toys have ever been collected at my house as a result.)

“This is the worst day of my life!”  Sounds dire, but this actually means they are at their breaking point.  They have given themselves over to the situation and all that’s left now is…

Silence. 

Now, this silence will worry you at first, because we all know that silence means something very bad is happening, like the pet fish is being squeezed to his untimely death or your bedroom is being decorated with new Crayola wall treatments.  But this is a different type of silence, I promise.  And if you tiptoe past your children’s rooms (don’t, under any circumstances, allow them to see you), you’ll find that they have found something to busy themselves with.  Depending on the ages of your kids, you may not hear from them again for a couple of hours.  You are not out of the woods yet, however; as soon as they tire of whatever they’ve found to do, it will be as if the reset button was pushed and they will be back to whine anew.  But if you stay strong, they’ll eventually skulk off and find something new to do in no time.  And just like if you want to get a tough stain out, you need to wash and repeat, here too, over time, you will need to wash and repeat.  As in, wash your hands of it and repeat.  This will be the beginning of a new life for you.  A life in which you can catch up on your email or flip through the latest issue of Vogue knowing your children are off playing on their own and perfectly content to do so.  This will also be a new life for them as well; a life in which they will learn to enjoy themselves and their time alone. 

And all right, I’m not going to lie; there might be some dead fish along the way.  But hey, that just means one less job for you!        

I was talking to my friend the other day and she told me that she had already received three playdate solicitations for her son who is entering kindergarten in the fall.  The school had just held an orientation for the incoming students and already the parents were jockeying for position, clearly trying to secure friendships for their children and allowing four months for those friendships to marinate and take hold before the first day of school come September.  “I was looking forward to having the summer off from the constant stream of playdates,” my friend confided.  Which made me wonder: has the “first day of school” rite of passage, in which a child enters knowing no one and has to—gulp—make their own friends, gone by the wayside?

I remember many a first-day-of-school scenarios from my own childhood.  The one in particular that stands out in my mind the most is when I started a new school in the fourth grade.  It was a traumatic first day for many reasons: a) I was one of only a few new students to a class that had been together since kindergarten; b) it was an Orthodox Jewish school and I knew no Hebrew, no prayers and very little about being Jewish in general, aside from the fact that each December we lit candles, recited some mumbo jumbo and then got presents for eight nights; and c) I was wearing the brand-spanking-new, super uncool back brace I had been sentenced to for 22 hours a day to treat the curvature in my spine I had just recently learned I was blessed with (talk about the cards being stacked against you, huh?).  My mom didn’t bother to arrange any playdates for me prior to school starting—probably because moms back then didn’t arrange playdates period.  (If you wanted to play with another kid, you stood outside your house and waited for another kid to wander by.  Then you played with said kid.  Very low-tech stuff.)  Anyway, my mom did manage to find out that a friend of a friend of hers had a daughter entering the same school and that she would be in my class.  I’ll call this girl “Robyn,” because, well, that’s her name.  The information I was given about Robyn was that she had blonde hair and had been told to be on the lookout for me.  (Wonder how that conversation went: “Just look for the girl wrapped in metal.”)  The first day of school came and I looked around the classroom for Robyn.  There was only one blonde girl there and she obviously wasn’t Robyn, as she was clearly hipped out to the lay of the land.  I was stumped and not a little bit disappointed until suddenly, the classroom door swung open and a woman entered, followed by a slightly frightened looking blonde girl.  In my exuberance to see this kid I had heard about all summer, I yelled out, “Hi, Robyn!” (I know, so tragically dorky, but this was well before I knew about playing it cool.) Robyn turned and looked at me and gave me a huge smile; evidently I made her day as well by being her own personal welcome wagon.  And that was all it took.  From there we became best friends, which we remain to this day. 

What I remember most about that day was the trepidation I felt in starting a new school that was quickly replaced by the pride I felt in making a friend that very same day.  The gratification I felt in discovering I had the ability to go into a scary new place and then leave that same day better off than when I’d arrived.  Each new daunting start, be it a brand new school or a new camp or summer school gave me added confidence that I could go into a new situation and come out with new friends.  All of this set me up for college, where I needed to find not just new friends but a surrogate family, and within 24 hours of being dropped off at Tioga Hall, I became tight friends with half a dozen girls, several of whom have remained close friends.   

I wonder though—where would I have been if my mother had stepped in and arranged all my friendships for me?  Would I have been able to navigate the shark-infested friendship waters of junior high and high school without her there to get the ball rolling? (Or worse—would she have accompanied me to the first few days of 7^th grade to help me acclimate and meet people?!)  Would I have locked myself in my dorm room with my social recluse roommate and stayed there playing Tetris for the remainder of the year, leaving only to go to class and fetch take-out food?  (To be fair, I played an awful lot of Tetris anyway and was—not to brag—the reigning Tetris queen in my dorm, but only to the detriment of my Calculus grade and not to the detriment of my social life thankfully.) 

But when did arranging our children’s social lives become part of the already long list of parental duties?  Because quite honestly, I love my kids and hope they have lots of friends, however I don’t really want to be their social director.  Sure, I’ll arrange playdates for them with the kids they ask to play with, but I’m not going to sit with the class roster and strategize about which friendships make the most sense for them and then hound the parents of the coveted children for playdates.  I have enough on my plate trying to manage and maintain my own friendships (not to mention my Facebook friendships which are of course vital, natch).  And call me old-fashioned, but quite frankly, I want my kids to experience what it feels like to make a friend on their own.  And okay, maybe they’ll choose social suicide by opting to befriend the one really weird kid in the class; or maybe they’ll choose to elevate their social status by befriending the popular “bad” kid who I won’t approve of.  But that’s really for them to decide, isn’t it?  For if Robyn’s mom had stepped in and arranged other playdates for her so she wouldn’t be known as “the friend of the weird chick with the brace,” or if my parents had actively tried to find me other friends when, in later years, they started disapproving of our friendship, we would have been robbed of what has turned out to be an amazing thirty year friendship.  (And incidentally, because my brace was never an issue for Robyn, it ended up being a non-issue for all of the other kids as well.) 

In an age where we do so much for our children and they have so much less freedom than we had when we were kids, can’t we let our children’s friendships be something that they navigate and control on their own?  Let’s not rob them of learning and honing an invaluable skill that they will have—and need—for life.  I say let’s let that first day of school be the scary, intimidating, exhilarating and independent experience it was always meant to be.* 

*And yes, that means no lurking in bushes and peeking in the classroom window for you either (you know you were going to).  

Last week I had coffee with a “pre-mommy friend,” meaning that we were friends before we each became moms.  We hadn’t seen each other in almost five years for no other reason than, well, since having kids, life just got away from us (sound familiar?).   After reconnecting on Facebook last year, we’d become active in each other’s “status” life, but recently decided we just had to take it out of the virtual realm and sit down face to face.  Not ten minutes into our coffee, we had cut through all the b.s. and were dishing to each other about how we really felt about motherhood and how different our lives have become since having kids.  “Oh my god,” she exclaimed, after a little while.  “It feels so good to have a real conversation instead of talking about preschool, playdates and hot lunch committee!  I had forgotten what real conversation was like!”

I nodded fervently because I knew exactly what she was talking about.  It’s a phenomenon that has taken hold of the best of us and turned us from intelligent women able to discourse on current events, politics and feminism with ease, into women who find having a lively debate about which is the best binky on the market, super stimulating conversation.  It’s as if having children renders us unable to engage in anything other than “momversation.”

I noticed this phenomenon at play at my last monthly dinner with my old college pals.  Two of our friends couldn’t make it (they happened to be the ones who, like me, had older children), leaving me with the three women who had all just recently had their first child.  I watched as the conversation devolved into a forty-five minute discussion about breastfeeding and pumping.  Listening to my friends and feeling very removed from the subject matter, I observed the passion with which they discussed the best angle for pumping and how to maximize the amount of ounces one could produce in a sitting, and thought to myself, “There’s no way I was ever this boring.”  (Sorry guys, if you’re reading this.)

But of course, I had been that boring.  I used to love talking about breastfeeding.  I’ve also been known to give impassioned dissertations on Sophie the Giraffe, co-sleeping, and adding sugar to children like they’re coffee (anti, not pro stance).  I could spend hours talking to my mommy friends about our kids’ allergies, bowel movements and random maladies—the more mysterious, the better.  And when I wasn’t talking about said topics, I was googling them, turning my brain into a veritable Kiddie Consumer Report guide.

In Mommyland, momversation is a form of currency.  Being fluent in it makes for automatic kinship with women who are otherwise strangers.  I once showed up for a library storytime only to find the library closed.  There was one other mom who I didn’t know waiting as well, and after noting the closed library and lack of other moms and children, she and I quickly deduced that we had gotten the day wrong.  Faced with nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, we started chatting as our kids played together on the library steps.  Two hours later, we exchanged numbers and said our goodbyes, both grateful for the impromptu playdate and our ability to fill all that time with pleasant chitchat about other library storytimes, gym classes we liked or didn’t like, and advice on integrating a second baby into the family (she was imminently due with her second child).  Driving away, I marveled at what I had just done; at no other time in my life before I was a mother would I ever have just met someone randomly like that and then sat and hung out with them for the next two hours.  Having a child in your arms is like knowing the secret handshake to an exclusive club you were previously unaware even existed. 

However (there’s always a however, isn’t there?), while momversation can be a great unifier, bringing moms together from all different walks of life, sharing all sorts of useful mommy-related information, the fact of the matter is, it’s also something to hide behind.  For if all of us moms could just keep debating about which stroller was really, truly, for once and for all, the very best stroller on the market, we could avoid talking about what’s really going on: that we have all become women we no longer recognize.  We wouldn’t have to discuss how we feel about our post-pregnancy bodies or our secret fear that no man other than our husband will ever look at us as a sexual object again (hell, there are days we wonder if our husband still would if we weren’t the only game in town).  We could avoid admitting that our careers, which used to define us, we now feel strangely ambivalent about; that our husbands, whose little quirks we used to find endearing and who, prior to the baby being born, could do no wrong, we now have no patience for; and that while we love our kids dearly, spending hours on end with them is just, well, plain boring and sometimes downright excruciating.  Truth is, it’s a cruel fact of motherhood that no one tips you off to the harsh realities of what to expect; it’s almost like allowing a recruit gang member to believe his gang initiation is going to involve carnations and scones instead of a beat-down the likes of which he’s never seen before.

I can’t remember when the momversations stopped for me exactly, but I do remember that a few years after my daughter’s birth, some of my close mommy friends and I started tentatively broaching the rather delicate issue that, well—deep breath—maybe Mommyhood wasn’t exactly everything we dreamed it would be.  And from there, over time, the floodgates opened and we began to share with one another our most intimate, personal feelings on motherhood, our bodies, our children, our husbands, our careers—or lack thereof—and everything else we could think to talk about that didn’t specifically involve our children.  (And yeah, every once in a while someone would just be bursting at the seams to discuss the newest stroller on the market, so we would.  It’s a slow recovery process, after all.)  Granted, it wasn’t always easy to peel back the layers and reveal that we weren’t the happy-go-lucky Carol Brady types we always assumed we’d be; admitting what feels like failure is never a walk in the park (and who can really pull off a shag haircut besides her, anyway?).  But because we braved it out, my friendships with these women have become closer and more rich than ever before, and the notion that we’re all in it together and share the same feelings has made each of our journeys so much easier to reconcile, and most importantly, so much less lonely. 

And over time, as a result of all these conversations and the bare bones honesty we have shared, we have slowly started to feel like our old pre-mommy selves again; only now, we’re stronger versions of those selves simply because we’ve gone through the rather harrowing experience of being “jumped in” to motherhood. 

Mother's Day presents an opportunity not only for us to celebrate our moms, but to acknowledge another mother as well-- Mother Earth!
 
Fortunately, these days, it's not difficult to make choices that are better for people and the planet. So this Mother's Day, whether you're honoring your own mom or encouraging your children to honor theirs (hint, hint), here are ideas that almost any mother will love:
 
· Instead of conventional flowers which may travel long distances to reach us (most are from South America) and are heavily sprayed with chemicals, choose locally grown, organic flowers <http://www.organicbouquet.com/>  or handmade (paper flowers can be made from newspaper and other pre-used paper or check out these pop art daisies  from www.eco-artware.com, made by self-taught artist in Cape Town, South Africa). Or think about substituting with flowering branches or any other natural materials you can find locally (and legally). If your mom loves veggies, a gorgeous edible bouquet might be just her style.

·When it comes to cards, handmade is meaningful, fun and earth-friendly, when you use materials you have on hand, that is. Think outside the envelope! Sure you can make a traditional 4x6 card, but what if you turned a shoe, a mirror, a pair of glasses or any other item you could throw away, into a unique, personal card that shows your creativity and that mom will treasure.

· Handmade gifts are good for the Earth, especially when they use items that would otherwise be thrown away. Awesome charms to wear on a necklace can be fashioned from ordinary objects with meaning for your mom. For instance, if she's a teacher, turn a pencil into a charm. Here <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qTbBAVZj7-c> 's how.

· Another simple do-it-yourself craft any mom would love (especially if she owns one lots of earrings), is a jewelry holder made from a picture frame. Simply take an old picture frame, repaint if you want, then staple screening to the back. On the front, screw in some cup hooks and voila, attractive, handmade storage for necklaces, rings, bracelets and earrings. 

. If you want to buy something to add to mom's jewelry collection, consider an item made  from recycled silver like these wonderful hoops <http://celebrategreen.theopenskyproject.com/barbara-michelle-jacobs-twig-hoop-earrings.html> , cast from a twigs from Central Park in NYC. Or if your mom deserves extravagance this year, check out the award-winning designs from recycled gold with ethically sourced diamonds from Todd Reed <http://toddreid.com/> (well, a mom can dream, can't she?). 

· Chocolates are another favorite gift for mom. Happily there are many organic and fair trade choices available like these melt-in-your-mouth truffles from Coco-Zen <http://stores.homestead.com/CocoZen/StoreFront.bok> . This mom-run company also has chocolate lotion <http://stores.homestead.com/CocoZen/-strse-75/Chocolate-Lotion/Detail.bok>  with an aroma that will feed mom's soul.

· Perhaps the best gift of all is the gift of time spent with mom. Depending on your mom's likes (and your location), try a new activity like geocaching <http://www.geocaching.com/> , archery, or playing a new board game. Head to the library and turn the tables--the child can read to the mom! Share a drawing or craft project, take photos of her with your digital camera and turn them into a book <http://www.artscow.com/> . Ask her to tell stories of her childhood. Activities that have little impact on the Earth, but a big impact on her heart are just perfect for any mom.