Truce Called

Whew!

My son and I have "let it go." It's "water under the bridge." And all things like that.
Arguing with a United States Marine isn't always the smartest thing. But I am still calling this a slight victory for the momma.

I think all children know - in their heart of hearts - when they have hurt their mother's feelings, and even if they don't come around to actually verbalizing "I'm sorry," their actions can give them away: a hug, a favor unasked for, a quick snuggle, or a meaningful look, mouth turned down the tiniest bit at the corners.

Amend made. Apology accepted. And move on with love.

Sons, Daughters, Mom's Birthday

March 3: Who knew that a day that I am really not super thrilled to acknowledge on a vanity level, yet one that still makes me feel special, would actually cause me to feel pretty low?

March 3: It's my birthdate; my birthday. I like birthdays at face value - it's YOUR day! Celebrate another year of being alive! (But just don't go announcing how many years unless you are south of age 30, or north of 90.)

March 3, 2005: My mother died of ALS. I walked into her room at the hospice care center and the nurse pulled me aside and whispered, "It's probably going to be today." Her words slammed into my chest. I wanted to whimper, "But it's my birthday." Instead, I waited a couple of hours and mentioned it casually to her and we both shared a horrified stare. And so it went. My birthday would forever be linked with my mom's death. Then again, my birthday is also forever linked with my mom living, ergo, giving me life.

So, last week my birthday dawned, with the usual - and unusual - mix of emotions it now brings. There were some very random birthday cards left for me in the kitchen from my husband, youngest son, Jack, 13, and daughter, jess, 16. In the card, ostensibly "from Jess," she wrote: "Daddy picked this out; sorry!" Later on, my second oldest son, Kenny, 24, phoned me from the road - which is now his life - to wish me a happy day. When Jess came home from school, she presented me with a gaily wrapped gift: a fragranced candle which read on the outside: "What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?" She knows how much I love candles and sayings like that which make one pause and consider.

By nightfall, I had not heard from my oldest son, Blake, now 26 and a Marine living in San Diego. Nada. Not a peep. And he doesn't have the excuse of being in Iraq in combat this year. In a knee-jerk reaction, I posted the following on his Facebook page: "If I weren't born, then you wouldn't have been born. That is your only hint about what today is."

Suffice it to say that we are both pretty angry with one another at this point. His last words to me were something along the line of if he can't remember his OWN birthday why should he be expected to remember anybody else's?

Clearly birthdays mean more to females than males. Or most males? Some?

Mom's special day is easier for a daughter to acknowledge, than a son?

I want to call a truce.

What do you think?

Safer to Drive High?!

Heard the most absurd thing from another mom of a teenager today. My friend's daughter had two friends stop by after school while she - the mom - had left to run an errand. Upon her return, the two girls were gone and in their place were the following items in the sink: 4 bowls that had been full of Kraft Mac'n Cheese, and 2 with remnants of ice cream. On the counter sat half a dozen "Gushers" wrappers.

"What's all this?" the mom cried to her daughter. "Can't you all put these in the dishwasher? And what's with all the pigging out?"

"It wasn't me that ate all of that!" her daughter cried. "Sara and Emma were hungry!"

Then the mom paused for a light bulb moment; the visiting girls had the munchies from smoking weed. And, one of them was driving her parent's car while impaired.

"Oh, I get it. They were high? And they had the nerve to come to OUR house to satisfy their munchy cravings? And then drove?"

Her daughter looked her right in the eyes and said matter-of-factually: "Do you know that people drive safer when they're high?"

True story. It sends shivers down one's spine.

Hop to it, kids!

Six long weeks ago, I fractured my ankle and tore up some tendons and ligaments, rendering me one-footed and crutch-dependent. My two teens at home have been stunned at having to do things for themselves - like laundry and dinner - and grumpy about doing simple chores that we should have had them doing all along: feeding the dogs and taking out the kitchen trash. Wah-wah kidlets! You are freakin' 13 and 16, a hair's breath away from 14 and 17: man and woman UP!

My not being able to drive has been a terrible inconvenience for all, and both Jess and Jack continue to whine about why I don't just drive with my left foot. You can imagine WHERE I want to place said foot.

My hope is that they and their father, will appreciate all that I normally do, now and after I am a two-footed human being again, sometime by the end of this month. Stay tuned for that near-impossibility. Not my walking again, but rather, the undying appreciation.

Catch your kids doing something good

Everybody needs a little pat on the back, especially our children. Yet there is a fine line between praise for praise sake and an acknowledgment of real achievement or a good deed.

Pre-schoolers need to know they are doing a good job with potty training, reciting the alphabet, getting dressed, sharing toys, eating their veggies and the like, so that they keep on undertaking these essential life skills. Obvious compliments continue as a child grows for things such as homework accomplished (although at some point you kind of need to quit doing that, because completing homework is something that one simply needs to do, period), being kind to friends and/or siblings, scoring a goal, giving a good performance on stage, or winning an art, music or academic contest and the like. Even being well-mannered should be cited with a smile and exclamation of "I'm proud of you."

Applauding actual achievements or good behavior is essential for building self-esteem. But to glorify almost everything they do ("Oh honey! You remembered to chew your food!") may lead to a child's sense of entitlement or a bloated sense of self.

If your kid is clearly not cut out for singing or dancing or, say, baseball, you don't want to totally dash their hopes or tell them point blank, "You stink," (siblings, sadly, seem very capable of verbalizing that assessment), but you might want to instead gently steer them towards another venue or art or sport.

Not all of my children were the best at certain things. We encouraged and supported them when they wanted to play a particular sport, for example, but if and when it became clear that they were, uh, awkward, shall I say, we didn't overly gush and give them false hope; they almost always figured out for themselves that the sport in question may not be their forte`. The next year, we would simply suggest another sport or activity in which they might be better suited and find more success in, ergo, gain more self-esteem.

Nobody's perfect, even our children. Messes are going to be made, decisions may have "disastrous" results, grades can slip, mediocre performances in sport or in the spotlight will occur. Nagging about the negative can have long-term effects. More then once I have had to remind my kids that it is not they who are the disappointment but, rather, it is/was their action that is causing my disappointment; sometimes I can see that they have understood that distinction. When it appears that perhaps they cannot, damage control of sorts needs to be implemented.

"This may not have been terrific, but that (action, comment, etc.) was great; I'm really impressed by you on that score." A quick salute to a positive can often encourage your child to take the initiative when next they are faced with a situation that could rapidly turn from not-so-great to worse.

Nobody likes to be "yelled" at, yet eventually kids, teens and sometimes, adults, discover that doing the next right thing is the better part of valor.

Catching your child doing something good applies to offspring of all ages. Example: although I am not wild about 24-year-old Kenny's choice of rambling the country sans employment, I do offer props (and I am sincere!) about his travel web site, his creative skills and his ingenuity in general; he needs to know I love him, even if I haven't embraced the whole "hobo" thing. Last week one of my teens got an "A" on a test in one subject, and a much lesser grade on another, yet I managed to put the undesirable result out of my head, instead throwing a mini parade in regard to the "A." It's progress, not perfection.

Extol your sweetie pie's actions and accomplishments when you can - and when they are real. If you role model giving compliments and cheers, maybe, just maybe, your child will one day do the same toward you.

I'm pretty much still waiting for those "yay's," but they will be uttered. Someday. Right?

Moms Gone Wild

"By and large, mothers and housewives are the only workers who do not have regular time off. They are the great vacation-less class."
Anne Morrow Lindbergh


Yes, I am a mother, to four fine children. For over 26 years now, my maternal instincts have been in overdrive and there is no foreseeable finality to that. It never gets old, this motherhood gig, but it does - on occasion - make me weary. And that is when the mom becomes the woman becomes the girl. And she goes wild.

Every year for the last decade, my college roommates and I get together for a long weekend. We have convened in such locales as Martha's Vineyard, Jackson Hole, Chicago, New York City and Las Vegas (twice). We doff our mommy hats and become 20-something college kids, sans work, husband, offspring (okay, we do check in a few times; we're not completely irresponsible!). Still. For four days we do what we want, when we want. Nobody whines "Mom!" or "Honey!" We smile at the handsome men we pass, and in Vegas we squeal at nearly-naked men at Chippendales-type clubs. We stay up way past midnight, giggling and weeping and philosophizing. We do not change diapers, or wake up early for bottles, school buses, or cranky, sleepy teenagers. We rock and we roll in the symbiotic rhythm forged long ago as girls on our college campus in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts.

The magic and memories that are created during these annual escapes help us to rejoin the sorority of motherhood with renewal and a reaffirmation that we are, in fact, women first.

"Mrs. Evans." "(Blake, Kenny, Jack, Jessie)'s mom." I am those, I am her. But first, I am Julie.

Sometimes I forget.

This past year, I enjoyed the mini-reunion with my roommates as well as a milestone high school reunion. Both were essential in reclaiming the girl within the woman within the mother.

In July, there was a warm-up of sorts to the "official" October reunion. Dozens of former students at Weston High School circa 1970's, met up in Westport at Splash bar. Two of my girlhood friends stayed at my house for the weekend, and it was as though time had stood still as we primped to leave. I poured myself into a slinky, red-salmon sundress and the three of us jumped into my Mustang convertible, leaving my two bemused teenagers in the dust, as it were, as we headed off into the sultry summer evening.

Upon our return home about one in the morning, Jess and two of her friends were still awake, a bit dumbfounded that we three old broads were nowhere near ready for sleep.

As they rehashed their own evenings, so did we, roaring with laughter out on my porch, until Jess inquired at three a.m., "Mom, when are you going to bed?!"

"When I'm good and ready!" I replied, relishing the role reversal of sorts.

At the big reunion in October, only three wayward souls brought their spouses to the event. Thanks mainly to the advent of Facebook, most of us didn't need to steer conversation in the direction of what one did for a living, marital status, or how many children one had produced, because we had already done our due diligence online. For a night, we weren't defined by career, spouse, or offspring accomplishment. Instead, we essentially transported ourselves back to a simpler time and sat lazily around linen topped tables as if it were the high school cafeteria. We casually draped ourselves across one another's laps or shoulders; this was not done in an adulterous fashion, but innocently, nearly out of old habit.

We unearthed the boy inside the man, and the girl inside the woman, in a way that no one in our present lives could or can do. It was a precious evening. And for this mom of two current teenagers, going back to the future turned a key into understanding better the teen that I was, with the teens that I had produced.

Going "wild" for a night or two is something in which I believe mothers need to indulge. I don't mean flashing your boobs in an inebriated state, of course, but rather flashing your girlhood with eyes clear and heart wide open. Mothering yourself, if you will, while not abandoning the mommy-hood that is as deeply ingrained in you as anything else.

Check back in with the girl who became the woman who became the mom. It's a priceless vacation.

Mommies Who Drink Too Much This past summer, Diane Schuler sped drunkenly down the Taconic Parkway - the wrong way - tragically killing her daughter, six other people, and herself. The ensuing outrage, even bewilderment, over mothers who drink far too much, detonated for weeks. Mothers have sought relief and solace in alcohol for a very long time; Diane Schuler just put a very public face onto the excess of drinking. "My kids are driving me to drink!" exclaim many moms at times, followed by a laugh. It is not uncommon for mothers of young children - infants, toddlers, pre-schoolers - to get together for play groups and, while the kids busy themselves with one another, the mommies sip a glass of wine. Or two. And on occasion, a mom may make it a chardonnay hat-trick. She then tucks her child into his or her car seat, and drives. Full disclosure: I am not judging or nor being holier-than-thou. Because I have been there. Not there-there watching this happen to others, but there-there as in participating, by being the one mom who enjoyed the alcohol a little bit too much. By also being the mom who would eventually pick up her preschooler and kindergartner (her third and fourth children, respectively) at after-school care at five in the afternoon, with a Diet Coke can full of white wine, or beer. And get behind the wheel of her car, mercifully - and amazingly - never driving the wrong way down a one-way street. Or into a pole or a tree or a ditch. I am the mom who very shortly after a number of these trips with her wine roadie - my "mommy juice" I called it -put down the drink for good. This was over 10 years ago. The strongest thing I drink now is pure, unadulterated Diet Coke. I am far and away not the only mommy who drank too much. If you visit a local 12-step meeting you might be surprised to observe the number of mothers of young children. And they aren't the bedraggled, low income or perhaps uneducated people that society often stereotypes alcoholics to be. They are your neighbors, your small and large business owners, the ones with the Masters degrees, the multi-volunteering moms... even your friends. I am also describing the still actively drinking mothers, the ones you notice imbibe a tad too much socially, and those who fly under-the-radar; the women who couldn't possibly abuse alcohol because they - what? - seem too perfect, too together, too nice? Let me tell you, although I am far from perfect and my have-it-all-together days don't necessarily equal the headless-chicken days, I was and still am, well, nice. I didn't look as though my body and my mind had begun to crave alcohol. I lived in a decent-sized house, I had the ubiquitous Suburban, I had just sold the magazine I had founded. My drinking hadn't destroyed my marriage, hadn't made me lose my house, my job, nor my children. What it had made me lose was Julie. I had lost Julie and thought perhaps I could find her in a bottle, that maybe, too, that drink would help me feel less overwhelmed and stressed about suddenly being a stay-at-home mom to four kids under age 15. That being a little bit buzzed would make the kids' fighting, screaming and needing me less intense. The drink did none of those things. The drink just made me drunk. A drunk mommy, not a better mommy. I wasn't a daily drinker. One doesn't need to drink every day or evening to be an alcoholic. It's a disease that is cunning and baffling; insidious. And it begets denial. Which is why many people who probably should stop, simply don't. My younger two kids have never seen me drunk (that they remember). I was able to be present-and-accounted for during my older sons' teen years, and of course for the present ones. Getting sober was the best thing I could have ever done for my family. If someone reading this perhaps recognizes a little of themselves in me, please do not feel ashamed to admit to a problem. And to seek help. I know I felt more ashamed to keep on drinking; it took courage and love to stop.