You've Gotta' Fake it to Make it

 

When I was growing up, my younger sister and I did a stint in musical theater. For those of you who know me, this might surprise you. We danced (truthfully, I was always told to hold up a prop that encompassed my large, awkward frame during a dance number), sang, and ‘acted’ our 6 and 10-year-old hearts away.

As embarrassing as these productions were, I learned one incredibly helpful lesson from a voice teacher that resonated with me, “You’ve got to fake it to make it.”

This piece of advice has applied to almost every area of my life-relationships, work, and none more readily than being a mother.

I am in a profession where I am supposed to be an expert in my field; rarely is that the case. But, I’ve learned over the years, that if you say something with enough confidence, and sell it in such a way, people will be reluctant to call you on it.

I can only compare it to trying out my fake ID in college for the first time at a seedy, Western bar with my roommate, Gina.

Scary bouncer: “It says here you ladies are from New York, and that you’re thirty-five, but you appear to be wearing Santa Clara University sweatshirts in your ID photos and look about 18.”

Me: terrible New York accent “Ya’ mac, that’s right, ya gonna’ let us in, or ah we gonnah’ needah’ bring dah cah ahround?”

Bouncer: “Alright, look there’s only 6 girls in there, so come on in and try not to throw up in the hay…”

Us: “Okay sir, thank you ever so much.”

In relationships, many of us have sold a possibly “shinier” model of ourselves to our prospective significant others. “I love that obscure sport. I am also a fill-in-the-blank-vegetarian-vegan-religion-ologist-and no, I do not swear-watch trashy t.v.-consider wine healthy since it includes grapes-drink before 12-and yes, that was also good for me” all the while batting my eyes and saving half of my food from our dinner date for when I will devour it on the ride home sans silverware…

Parenting is based on this mantra- just fake it. No one has the slightest idea what they’re doing, and those that pretend to are lying.

Growing up, I remember hearing several “pearls of wisdom” from both of my parents, feeling slight confusion, but refusing to call them on it because they said them with such conviction.

In particular, I remember my mother’s sex talk with me. A lot of people have cringe-worthy memories of their parents coming in, sitting them down, possibly providing pamphlets, and then having a chat about bees pollinating. My mother came into my room when I was a freshman in high school, and without skipping a beat said, “If you’re having sex, I’ll find out about it. I’ll know the exact moment it occurs.” And I was scared into virginity for several years after that. Would she know and did she when it happened? Debatable. But, her method worked.

When I asked my dad a question, ever the philosopher, he would relay a “do as I say not as I do” tale. “Look, hun, I may have had a party or two, not tried as hard as I could have in high school, and dated around a lot, but if you do those things you will end up unhappy and alone for the rest of your life.” Again, scared into submission.

There is no rule book, and no guarantee that the things I tell my son today will ensure he ends up a good person. But, I’m giving it my best shot. I’ve played a lot of roles in my life, some noteworthy, some embarrassing, and some I’d sooner forget…but I’m up here, and just like 20 years ago, I feel like I’m holding a large cityscape of New York in front of me singing and awkwardly moving left and right while shouting off beat, “Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya’ tomorrow” hoping for the best with this gig.

Break a leg parents…

Are Moms Allowed to Get it Crunk?

 

This time last year I woke up in the morning and could have sworn I was back in my college dorm room; this was for several reasons.

I woke up in my bed with the room spinning. As I went to pull a rubber band out of my hair, I was disgusted to find bits and pieces of the previous night’s meal. Before you judge, remember that you were once young and in high school or college too, and are lying to yourself if you have not had a similar experience. But if you haven’t, you are a better man/ woman than me - and hats off to you.

As I mustered the strength to get up, I walked into my living room (that’s odd that this dorm has one…) and saw my clothes lying in a pile outside on my balcony. I saw a familiar-looking, attractive man (score!) asleep peacefully on my couch. I walked into the adjoining room and was shocked to find a neatly decorated nursery, with crib, but no child.

And then it suddenly hit me. Holy shit. I’m hung over, and I’m 28, not 18.

I picked up the receiver and called my dad, who along with my mom had been gracious enough to care for my son the night before, and even offered to allow my son to do his first “Papa and Nonni” overnight, but I assured him I couldn’t possibly spend a night without my son, promising to be home around 11pm. Obviously, that was not how the night panned out. As I relayed the escapades of the previous night to my father, he erupted in laughter. “Hun, you’re a mom now. I’m glad you had this evening but…”

Wait a sec. Am I no longer allowed to get the party started just because I’m a mom? Will I no longer be able to take some “liquid courage”, clear the dance floor (others normally do this for fear of me hurting myself), and show these people how it’s done?! This seemed to be what my father was saying.

Going out as a mother is a different beast these days. No longer am I the carefree early 20-something going out on a Friday (and possibly Saturday) night with friends to a bar where the bouncer knows my name and the bartender knows my drink…

Yes, I’ve traded that life in for this one, which includes a loving husband, child, and rewarding career. But, I’m not dead.

Currently, my Friday nights consist of time spent with my child and his father, maybe an hour or two at the park, child in bed by around 9pm (this is a dream, obviously), mommy and daddy share a small glass of wine, and we’re in bed by 10pm. This is not a bad thing.

Last night, just like last year, my company held their “beginning of the year kickoff party” complete with dinner and open bar. As I sipped on my Crown and 7-Up, (Mommy didn’t come to play…) I felt people watching my alcohol consumption. Several asked me if we’d hopefully have a repeat performance from last year (I omitted the part of the story where my husband had to carry me up the stairs to our apartment, me kicking and screaming, neighbors not at all concerned that this man may be taking advantage of me, rather mortified and apologetic for him after viewing the state I was in). And this year, I had even scaled it back; I was vomit-free, my child was safely being taken care of by Grandma in the comfort of my home, we were back by 11 pm, and I woke up this morning to only minor confusion with hearing a child call, “Maaaa-ma!”  Whose kid is that?

So my question is, are we too hard on moms who go out for a good time every once in a while? These women deserve to go out sans child every now and again.

As I floated this thought by my own mother at her home last weekend (who happened to be imbibing a screwdriver at 11am because, “they’re healthy for you, what with the OJ and all, and this goddamned heat”) she agreed.

There’s nothing wrong with a mom going out once in a while for a release.  Does that always have to be to a bar or nightclub?  Of course not.  But this world was made possible because of mothers, so ladies I say “Cheers!”

If Rosie Did It, So Can I...

 

This may come as a real shock to you, but I have a functional vagina. For those of you who know me and may have thought it was just a frigid, barren land where things go to die, I’ve had you fooled. And thanks, by the way.

I’ve had a kid come out of there (quickly -- much appreciated, birthing hips!). However, there is a curse to the functional vagina:  It completely changes how I am viewed in the working world.

If you are a pregnant woman in the workplace, life is awesome. Women constantly look at you with their heads soothingly cocked to the side and say things like, “How you holdin’ up sweetheart?” To which you should only respond (even if you are feeling 100%), Sigh… “Oh, I’m hangin’ in there” and then gingerly slouch away. They’ll look after you with solemn admiration—another brave soldier doing it all. With men, it’s even better.  Hopelessly devoid of uteri, none of them fully understand what is happening with your body, even if they’ve had preggo wives or partners, so they think that you may give birth at any second. To remedy this, they do things for you: carry things, pick things up, give you their chair to sit in. This will never happen again.  Enjoy it.

After you have your child and you’re back to work, things change. You’re back, baby weight in tow, and without the sympathy vote.  And, if you’ve chosen to breastfeed you still can’t even drink.

My husband came home from work the other day to relay a story he shared with several female coworkers.  He was telling them about something cute our son had done. What that cute thing was, I can’t remember. Regardless, you could tell that they thoroughly enjoyed the tale.

Now, here’s the thing. Men and women telling stories about their children while at work are received very differently.

When a man tells a story to his female coworkers, they ooh and ah and look at him as though he is the greatest man to walk the face of the earth. He works hard but he’s also a family man. Gee, how does he do it? His wife is so lucky. (My husband is an incredible dad, don’t get me wrong, but when he goes in and offers up a story about our son, unsolicited, to his female friends, it is always received well.) These stories might actually make him more attractive to his superiors. 

When a woman walks into her workplace, men don’t care to hear about her children (I don’t blame them. I don’t care to hear about them either). The women who share stories openly about their kids for all to hear are turned into walking vaginas, and not the young, hip 20-somethings with their snooty Brazilian waxes…

When a woman opens her mouth and shares a tidbit about her child’s stool, people see her as a mother and not a professional. Plus, that’s just gross, and no one cares, so keep that one to your selves, ladies.

There is still a “glass ceiling” of sorts made up of ovaries, stretch marks, and diapers, and unfortunately none of those things are attractive.

But what do you think? Please feel free to leave any thoughts in the comment section, and thank you for reading.

Am I Cool Enough for Mom Jeans?

 

My freshman year of high school, my mom drove me to school while beating out her favorite song at the time by Chumbawamba, which had a chorus that went something like “Pissin’ the night away, I’m pissin’ the night away.” If you’ve never heard it, check it out and you will instantly feel my pain. There was my sweet, Italian mother, singing loudly and cheerfully out the window as we pulled up to the drop off area of my Private Catholic high school. It was humiliating.

My dad, due to the hours he worked, sometimes had to pick us up from school in his giant blue PG&E work truck. This was not cool. If we were whining, he would loudly say, “Do you want me to give you something to cry about?” Well, I’m already crying, so… If I couldn’t fix something he would tell me I needed to be “smarter than what I was working with” and when he took me to the father-daughter dance my senior year of high school, he was a better dancer than me. People actually cleared the floor and tried to see who his daughter was. They couldn’t figure out why he was dancing with me all evening (I do a dance that can only be likened to Elaine from Seinfeld, it appears as though I may be having a mild seizure). Again, mildly embarrassing.

In my eyes my parents were not cool, nor had they ever been.

The other day while trying on a new pair of jeans at a local department store, my friend turned to me, color draining from her face, and gasped “God no! Why is your ass crack that long?!? Are those mom jeans???” You know the kind; they are pulled up to just under your boobs, and make your hips look like you’ve just shoplifted a small country down to your crotch.

I couldn’t believe it. My son is not even two, and I’m in mom jeans already? This can’t be. I’m cool. As I checked my jeans out in the mirror, hands down the most unflattering thing I’ve seen on my body since a neon pink and green track suit I owned in the 80s covered with different members of New Kids on the Block, I came to a startling realization maybe my kids will think I’m not cool.

As I drove home with my son in the car seat, me singing ‘Bust a Move’ to my heart’s content, both of us bobbing to the beat, I tried to remember when I first thought my parents had lost their own version of cool. In all respects they are attractive, intelligent, fun individuals who apparently had a real good time in both high school and college, but I never thought of them with that adjective in mind: cool.

My parents spent every waking minute with us (my 3 siblings and myself) growing up. Something that is difficult to do, but one of the only ways you can ensure your kids are not up to anything. I never saw them drink, they never went out without us, and all vacations were taken together.

I was 13 when I started having them drop me off a block away from my destination. I couldn’t bear the thought of being seen with them. These people clothed me, loved me, helped me with my homework and were a hell of a lot of fun, but I was at the age where I couldn’t allow people to know we were related. They were just not cool. Thankfully, I grew out of that, but it took me having a son to see it for myself.

Because, you know what? Parents aren’t cool. They shouldn’t be; they don’t have to. I don’t want to be the “cool mom” from Mean Girls - “You kids need any condoms? Alcohol?” I want my kids to only know the version of myself that I create for them. “I got straight A’s and never went to one party, always came home by curfew, never dated…”

So, I’m zipping my mom jeans up to my chest, rolling the windows down, and “now you know what to do go bust a move.”

New Addition

In the first picture of me holding my child, I’m wincing. I’m not making a face that most women would show off to friends. I am in utter shock-maybe because I was hoping the weight would leave with him (it did not) or maybe because my mother was holding my hand while snapping away shots of my son crowning because “You’ll want these pictures as memories to look back on.” No, no one wants these pictures to look back on…

When my son entered the world, and the nurses asked if I would like him placed on my chest, I hesitated. My mom was in the room. My husband. I panicked and then I said yes. I had told my husband prior to delivery, half jokingly, half serious (alright, more serious than joking) that I would prefer seeing our child cleansed and swaddled prior to holding him-maybe in a cute outfit, maybe in something matchy or designer, cute shades?

That changed.   

I remember my friend telling me that as soon as I saw my child, it would be like looking into a mirror- I would be seeing myself. I would be lost in a sea of overwhelming love. That wasn’t how I felt. I was looking at a child 10 shades lighter than me (thank you, Irish husband). I had also toyed with the notion of doing what the celebs do and leaving with some lipo, a boob job, and a new ass- I hadn’t fully clinched that deal at that point and was nervous about that too (never did pan out).

When we left the hospital days later, my husband dutifully wheeling me out, child in arms, balloons and flowers in the car, it hit me, “They’re letting us leave with him? What the hell will we do now? Which nurse comes home with us?!” Terror seized me.

I had read every baby book in preparation for having my son. I had interviewed trusted women in my life- several of whom expressed genuine concern with the idea of me rearing a child (appreciated). The nursery was ready. I had prepared our dog by having daily chats with him about the upcoming addition to our household and what would be expected of him. This seemed to me to be sufficient.

But…

How do you measure being a good mother? How would I know if what I was doing now would somehow make my child a better person? Or, at least not screw him up royally for the rest of his life, resulting in thousands in therapy.

I have learned since having my son to have a sense of humor. Apparently most toys when thrown in the toilet can be rescued if reached quickly, dog bones aren’t really that bad for kids, going to work with vomit down your back that is not yours from the night before is not that bad, working in a daily shower for yourself is a win.

Am I a good mother and do I have this figured out? No. I hate kids’ shows, I can’t stand children’s music. I can’t even watch Kids Week on Jeopardy. But, I’m happy he’s here. He’s got a great sense of humor and he dances just like me. Which we’re working on.

So, to vent my frustrations and buy some time in between spying on him while he learns to sleep in his toddler bed, rather than get up and rearrange the place, I thought I’d blog, not just about parenting, but daily things most people deal with. Enjoy my humble thoughts and opinions.