Father Knows Best

There I was, propped in my hospital bed, counting flower deliveries as they overflowed the windowsill, wallowing in my perfect pregnancy gone bad as it culminated in the dreaded C-section. The phone rang non-stop and I took every single call, recounting over and over, step-by-gruesome-step, my water breaking on the kitchen floor, then the drive to CNBC to turn in some work, the Pitocin and the pain, the mean nurse who laughed when I said I couldn't take much  more, the needle in my spine, the doctor tugging and tugging till he pulled the baby free, the post-anesthesia aching of my severed stomach, and oh yeah, it’s a girl.

Yes, it was, and still is, all about me.

Meanwhile, my spouse was the first to hold Molly after she was born, the first to bathe her and the first to bond with her. And when Max and Leo came along, it was the same thing. He held those little babies like they were the most precious, important things in his whole wide world. They were. And they still are.

Parenting didn’t come easily to me. But it came naturally to my spouse.

Long before I got pregnant, I knew I would never breastfeed. I had an aversion to my massive mammary glands and simply couldn’t imagine a baby hanging on to them for dear life. Besides, I wanted to make sure my spouse got the opportunity to participate.

My spouse loved to feed the babies. He measured and mixed that formula with the precision of a pharmacist. He’d hold the little ones in his arms and look them in their eyes, marveling at their tiny faces and rapidly developing minds. I, on the other hand, propped many a bottle with a rolled up towel so I could tend to the overwhelming minutiae and messes around me.

My babies were on perfectly planned feeding and sleeping schedules. That way, I could be too. I never missed out on my eight hours of sleep, not then, not now. Because my spouse has always, always picked up the slack.

My spouse has the patience of a saint whereas I have a hard time being present in the moment. I am always one step ahead, making plans for life’s future glitches. Early on, Molly woke in the middle of the night, crying her fool head off. (I always did the 2 am feeding because I could fall right back to sleep. If my spouse took care of her at 6 am, that meant I could stay in bed until 10 in the morning if I so desired.) I fed her, burped her, changed her and still, she cried. And cried and cried. I carried her around and around our little apartment, pausing outside the bedroom door long enough for her to belt out her dismay, loudly and clearly. I then tiptoed back to the living room knowing what would happen next. He didn’t have to say a word. My spouse reached out his arms, took the baby, spun me around and sent me back to bed.

I am not good with health issues. When Max felt warm, I gave him Tylenol and told him not to mention it at daycare. I once effectively ignored days of the cocksackie virus before the school nurse called me, expressing shock that I hadn’t seen the flaming red sores in poor Molly's throat. I’m not good with judging the need for stitches, antibiotics or emergency room visits. I leave this up to my spouse who serves as the family’s medical barometer. He instinctively knows if it’s strep or a ploy to get out of a test, an infection or an affliction of the mind.  

My spouse is tireless. I’m just worn out. After going on a 25-mile bike ride following a 90-minute hot yoga class, he’ll drag a bucket of balls down to the baseball field and hit and throw to Leo for hours. And then he’ll come home, plant some dahlias in the garden, and toss the football around with Max before going to an indie movie in the city with Molly. Meanwhile, I am busy doing laundry or fretting about what’s coming next.

My spouse loves to go to parent-teacher conferences. He takes a pad of paper and asks pertinent academic questions. I talk to the parents I pass in the hall and ask the teachers everything and anything except how my kid is doing in class.

My spouse is in charge of mornings. I can count on two hands the number of days a year I have to get up and do the dreaded duty. And when I do, I buy bagels or go through Dunkin' Donuts drive-through for bacon, egg and cheeses. He will cook pancakes and bacon, omelets and biscuits, no matter how late it makes him for work.

My spouse takes the kids to museums and bookstores and Broadway plays. He takes them to sporting events and paints their college apartments when they have scribbled on the walls with indelible ink. He sends them news clippings about athletes and scholars and interesting life stories. He points out flowers in the garden and creatures in the sea. He coaches their teams and serves as a surrogate father for any kid who needs a ride, a meal, a bed or a talking to. And he never, ever complains. He sees the good in all people and doesn't preach about it. He simply leads by example.

 

My kids are very lucky to have a father who fills the parenting holes that I leave behind. And they know it.

Molly, the favorite daughter says of her father, “He is the smartest person I know. And he teaches me lots of things. He is very calm but still commands a lot of respect.”

Max, the favorite middle child says, “He supports everything I do regardless of how dumb he thinks it is.”

And Leo, the favorite youngest child knows one thing for sure about his father. “He genuinely cares about other people more than himself.”

I know better than to ask my kids what they think of me. But, I have come to terms with my shortcomings and know that my kids love both of us. I will never give them what he can, but that doesn't make me any less of a mother.

But, it sure makes him that much more of a father.

Happy Father's Day from those who love you best!

Yahoo! Molly's Going to Bonnaroo!

Back in March when my daughter declared she was going to Bonnaroo, I told her she should. After all, you’re only 22 once. I didn’t think about it again.

While she was home between graduation and starting her Teach for America boot camp, her Bonnaroo wristband came in the mail. I asked her who she was going with.

“Some TFA people.”

“Have you ever met them?”

“No. But if they’re going to Bonnaroo, they’ve got to be normal.”

Since then she has been to New Orleans where she found a roommate and an apartment, and then to Atlanta where she is living and training for five weeks before starting her job back in New Orleans in July. She is crazily busy, so busy in fact that I have had to take over faxing the 18-page lease, getting a money order to pay the rent for the weeks she won’t be living in her new apartment and ordering a bed. Luckily, I befriended her new roommate’s mother who dealt with the apartment complex about the two-bed delivery scheduled two weeks before either of them move in. I am so bogged down with the details of my own life, that it's hard to embrace hers. Especially since she is now supposedly a grown-up and I’m supposed to be done. But, she is clearly in an intense program and she's tired and busy and it can't be easy. And since I love my daughter, I do everything I can to make her life more livable.

But that really has nothing to do with Bonnaroo. Which, I repeat, I had put to the back of my mind somewhere alongside the upcoming college tuition bills. 

To remind me to start worrying, Molly sent me a text this morning.

“I’m dying.”

Did that mean she was sick, tired, upset or all three? Whatever it was, it was enough to spark my memory that this was the weekend in the wild.

For the first time, I went on the Bonnaroo website.

Bonnaroo is a four-day music festival in a teeny town in Tennessee. There are 150 musical performances on ten different stages. There are eighty-thousand people there. Eighty-thousand.

I can’t help but think of the port-a-potties.

I continued poking around on the website and learned that the word Bonnaroo was made popular by New Orleans R&B singer Dr. John with his 1974 album, Desitively Bonnaroo. It is now a word that in certain circles has commonly come to mean, “A really good time.”

I clicked on the Health + Safety link. The medical facilities are safe havens. You can’t get in trouble for anything you say to the medical staff. Everything is confidential and if a friend needs help, you are encouraged to stick around to fill in the blanks.

I filled in my own blanks.

I saw that there were some hotels in the area that provided shuttle service to the festival. I asked Molly where she was staying.

“In a tent.”

“With who?”

“My new friends.”

I went to many a musical festival in my youth, the most memorable being Stompin’ 76. My friend Ann and I drove to Galax, Virginia and despite suffering two, yes two flat tires on Skyline Drive in the middle of the night in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the middle of Virginia, we made some mighty-fine memories. And of those memories that I actually remember, very few are sharable with my Bonnaroo-bound daughter.

But, I made it home alive. Just as, God willing, all 80,000 Bonnaroo-goers will as well. 

I x’d out of the website.

Because I’m a mother, I have to cover the basics with Molly. I will tell her not to lose her ID as she is so prone to do. I will tell her to leave phone at home. I will pray that she does not wander into the wrong tent in the middle of the night. But, if she does, I hope those campers will be as welcoming as her new friends. I will tell her to use her sunscreen and drink lots of water. 

And beyond that, I will feign ignorance at what I know will go on. Instead, I will end my plea by telling her to be safe, be smart and have "A really good time."

The 12 Percent

I was one of the 99 percent. My kids, on the other hand, were the 12 percent.

I’m not talking about money, though one might argue the meaning of rich. I am talking about the worlds in which we grew up and the racial makeup of our surroundings.

I went to Springfield Township High School in Erdenheim, Pennsylvania, a suburban school district that, in my eye, was quite inclusive. After all, it included the rich, the poor and the in between. We had the beauties, the cheerleaders, the homecoming queens; Sandy Scott, Kayleen McCleary, Marion Dugan, all so pretty and popular that I still pinch myself when I see them listed as my friends on Facebook. And we had the beasts; the motorheads and potheads who shall remain nameless for the sake of their law-breaking offspring. We had our athletes; Dave Hissey whose son is now a professional baseball player and Nadine Maher who dominated on the hockey field, but can’t beat me at Scramble with Friends, no matter how hard she tries. We had Harold Smoliar, our musical genius and Jim Cramer, a different kind of genius who became a Wall Street guru. Craig Shoemaker, the funniest man alive graduated a year after me and now makes a living making people laugh.

We weren’t so different from any other high school, now or then.

Except for the fact that we were as white as the driven snow.

There were three black kids in my graduating class of over 350. There were no Latinos and the closest we came to Asian was a girl with a Chinese father and a Jewish-American mother. There may have been a grandmother or two who spoke Italian, but there was clearly no need for any English as a Second Language classes.

I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to say that no one would have voted me “Most Likely to Grow Up and Send Children to a School Where they Would be a Minority,” if there were such a category in my high school yearbook.

But I did.

Last week, our local newspaper featured a story on the racial imbalance in the Teaneck schools (Click here for news story). Along with churning out numerous professional athletes, performers and producers, Teaneck’s other claim to fame is in being the first school district in America to voluntarily integrate its schools. Shortly after we got married, my journalist spouse began covering the politics and schools of Teaneck, subsequently falling in love with the character of the town. When we bought our first house across the street from the Board of Ed offices, we were confident that the schools were good, the administration strong and the student body diverse.

Somewhere in the next twenty years, the racial balance tipped; in part due to more and more white Orthodox Jews moving into town and choosing to educate their kids in religious schools and in part because more minorities were moving in and staying in the public schools. Whatever the reason, the result is a high school where 12.5 percent of the students are white.

I never had a single close friend who wasn’t white until I moved to Teaneck. The closest I came was my friend Daphne from Argentina (Don’t Cry for Me) who I knew and loved when I was in my twenties. Today, the people who pass through my house on a regular basis are African, as in African-African, African-American, Dominican, Puerto Rican, Panamanian, Armenian and Haitian. Our friends, black, white and tan are Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Catholic and everything in between. We were often the only white faces watching basketball games in the Bronx. Our kids have been in classes with as few as one or two other white students. Leo was the only one in his prom limo of 22 who was born to two Caucasian parents.

Outsiders looking in as well as a good number of insiders looking out are quick to blame race for too many of the town’s problems. Through the years friends and foes alike have questioned our choice to live in a town like Teaneck. People love to pick on Teaneck. Any time there’s a disturbance or an arrest or a high school prank (which is actually cited on Wikipedia), it turns into a bigger deal than it has to be and I find myself picking up my pom-poms to cheer for and defend the town I call home.

 

I feel lucky to have landed where I did. Teaneck is a town that changed my heart and opened my mind. My friendships have broadened and my life is richer. But my kids are the ones who are truly lucky. Because when it comes to understanding the ways of the world and the people in it, growing up among 88 percent who are not your mirror image is a whole lot better than being surrounded by 99 percent who are.

Public Displays of Praise

 

“Saw Leo got a big trophy – never seen him so happy in my life,” my sister Emily e-mailed me the other day.

“Where did you see that?” I wondered, knowing I hadn’t posted the picture. After all, it’s one of my rules. No public displays of praise.

“Facebook.”

“Facebook? You’re his friend on Facebook?” I asked with a tinge of envy. “Did he post the picture?”

“No. Some girl did, but he was tagged in the photo.”

Monday night was Teaneck High School’s Senior Athletic Awards dinner and Leo was the recipient of two significant honors. The first recognized him as the baseball team’s Most Valuable Senior. The other was the Coaches’ Award marked by a trophy the size of his throwing arm, for being the most coachable male across all of the high school sports, a team’s biggest asset and one who goes above and beyond for the good of the team.

I hadn’t expected the awards, but I wasn't surprised either. After all, Leo's a good player, a hard worker and a committed athlete.

But I was surprised when I got called up to the podium with him to receive an award of my own. I was recognized for what may very well be the first Baseball Ironwomen's Award. Apparently someone noticed that in all the years of watching both my sons play high school baseball, I had only missed two games. One was for Molly’s college graduation. And the other was for Leo’s prom, a game that none of the seniors attended.

As I stood up on stage with my son in front of hundreds of people on Monday night, I felt uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Those of you who know me know that I’ll do anything for my kids and their friends, but I’ll complain the whole way through. I’ll feed, bathe, drive and finance any child (and now young adult), but not without letting them know just what a major imposition it is. I crave accolades, acknowledgments and awards, but when I get them, I feel guiltily sheepish.

I’ve often wondered, in this world of selfies and self-promoting, how this attitude has filtered down to my children. As my loyal followers have read in my Proud Parents blog, I am the ONLY parent who NEVER posts anything about my how GREAT my children are.

“I’m proud of you Leo,” I said after the awards dinner Monday night.

“You shouldn’t be proud of me just because I got an award,” he responded.

He’s right. It’s not the award I’m proud of.

And because of that, I'm breaking my rule. Maybe a little public display of praise isn't such a bad thing after all.

Eighteen

I'm in the middle without any plans
I'm a boy and I'm a man...
I'm eighteen and I don't know what I want...

I'm eighteen and I like it.
-alice cooper

My youngest child is eighteen years old and I’m never waiting up for him again.

Through the years I have taken lots of parental stands, for no other reason than I think it’s the right thing to do. I should provide meals for my children, but not necessarily home-cooked. I should attend every sporting event, including those of their friends. I should ask if they’ve done their homework, knowing they will lie. I should remind them to wear their seat belts, not to text while driving and to be careful.

And I should wait up until they get home at night.

Poor Molly had a 10:30 curfew throughout high school to accommodate my neuroses. When Max came along, I felt bad and just stayed up later. With Leo, I take to my bed, but leave my bedroom door open and the hallway light on knowing I won’t fully fall asleep until he has slammed my door shut sometime between midnight and 2 am.

College really throws a curve ball at the whole staying-up-till-they-get home thing.  After all, they are just going out when I’m going to bed. But, since my spouse rises before the sun, he often meets them on their way in.

Last night I had an encounter with recently-turned-eighteen Leo.

“I’m going to the beach tomorrow,” he said.

“Great. How you getting there?”

“Driving.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because first of all, you haven’t gone to get your new license so it’s still illegal to drive with a car full of kids.”

Eye roll.

“And because I don’t trust that car to make it there…And because I’m tired of always being the one to pay for gas and putting the wear and tear on the car. And besides, it's not YOUR car. Can’t anyone else drive?”

“No.”

“And it’s illegal,” I repeat.

“Mom. I’m eighteen. I am responsible for my own actions. I won’t get a ticket. I know how to drive. And if I do, it’s my problem, not yours,” Leo continues.

“Your problem? I’m the one who’s going to have to come bail you out of jail. Or pay to fix the car because you didn’t check the oil again and you blow up the engine. I’m the one who’s going to have to drive you back and forth to baseball an hour-and-a-half away three days a week because you have no car,” I rant.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says.

“Fine,” I say. “Drive.”

I then switch to a diatribe about sunscreen and beach towels and watch your phone in the sand and I won’t be here in the morning when you leave.

He grabs his car keys.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“To get gas. And something to eat.”

“It’s almost eleven o’clock.”

“Mom. I am eighteen years-old,” he restates.

Molly has gone off to her new life and Max is lying on his bed watching TV after working a basketball tournament all day long. My ever-loving spouse nodded off in the middle of overtime in the OKC-Spurs game.

I tell myself that if anything happens to Leo I will surely get a call on the home phone. And so, I go to bed. And fall asleep. With my door shut and the lights out. After all, he is eighteen years-old.

Sometime during the night he returned home alive.

And sometime during the night, two girls and a boy found a place to sleep in my house.

When I woke up this morning, I checked my phone which I always leave downstairs (knowing if I had it next to me I would never get a wink of sleep). There was a text from Max sent at 2:30 am warning me that his girlfriend, Oksana, and her friend were going to sleep in Molly’s room.

I don’t know for sure, but I suspect it was Leo’s friend, Saul, who was under the blanket in the basement.

“And this,” I said to myself. “Is precisely why I should stay up until they get home.”

I grabbed my iPod and sneakers and headed out on a four-mile walk with John Prine and Taylor Swift singing their sweet ballads in my ears.

As I was walking, I realized that why I thought I should stay up was the very reason I shouldn’t.

Had I known there would be a houseful of people, this is how it would have gone down:

“We got this, Mom. Go to bed,” they would have said.  

But, they knew I wouldn’t let them. I would have insisted on the tan sheets rather than the blue. I would have fussed about Molly’s messy room and the fact that I had JUST washed her sheets and remade her bed and now would have to do it all over again today. I would have told Saul to sleep on the couch and not the recliner because the recliner is going to break if everyone keeps sleeping on it. I would have tucked the sheets in tight so his drool could be washed away in the morning. I would have told them not to forget to turn the lights out and would have dug through the linen closet for towels and matching washcloths that they wouldn’t touch.

I would have lain in bed listening to the stairs creak as they staggered to the attic bedroom at dawn and fretted that Leo was going to be too tired to drive the broken car to the beach. I wouldn’t have slept a wink and been unfairly peeved at my spouse who can sleep through anything. And I would have gotten up early to make sure they all had bagels in the morning.

Instead, I slept eight hours straight and didn’t hear a thing.

When I got home from my walk, Leo was gone.

I got a text from him an hour-and-a-half later.

“Got here. I didn’t drive. Kayla did.”

And I smiled. Because he is eighteen and I never have to wait up for him again.