Go ahead. Judge Me. I Dare You.

Several months ago, I got into a mini-shouting match with a woman while I was walking with my two daughters. Okay, I'm not proud about the fact that I eventually gave the woman the finger, but here's what happened:

At the time it was still pretty cold in New York and my youngest was not a fan of hats. I kept two wool baby skull caps in our diaper bag and would sort of rotate them as we walked. Inevitably, she would let me put it on her for a few minutes only to toss it off or on to the ground just a bit later. 

This game of cat and mouse was getting old and I knew we only had two more blocks to go before the grocery store. So, I decided to give the hat -- and myself -- a rest. 

Enter evil old witch lady. Okay, that's being harsh. But, she was old. And female. I think.

She yelled across the crosswalk, "Put a hat on that baby. She's cold." 

Here's where I pause to say that nothing rattles me more than perfect strangers trying to tell me how to care for my own children. And then here's my tiny addendum: There are certainly many, many times when I am ridiculously appreciative of the random help of strangers. Doors get held open while I try and navigate two kids, a scooter, a stroller, bags and a shoe that is "falling off my foot right now mommyyyyyyy!" and I'm thankful. I'm thankful for the woman who gave me money so I could fill a parking meter when my youngest daughter was screaming and needed a nap and I couldn't find a convenient place to make change. I'm grateful that one day when I was too sick to leave home and my spouse was traveling, my daughter's teacher offered to pick her up for school. I'm grateful for people that let us cut in line at the bathroom when they see my kid doing the pee-pee dance. Point is: I am most of all grateful that it takes a village to raise a kid and most of the time, that village shows up.

So, what was it about this particular exchange? It was her tone that really irked me. And I was tired. And yeah, it was f***ing cold. And I had one kid who didn't want to wear her mittens ("They're itchy!") and another who had just flung her hat off a block earlier. 

So, I yelled back, "Mind your own business!"

She mumbled something and started to approach us.

"What's that lady saying?" My oldest daughter asked. 

"Who knows..." 

She got closer. And here's the part that I found hilarious. She was in fact wearing one of those giant fur Ushanka hats. The kind you'd see a Russian spy or trooper wear on TV. It was like she was saying, in her very dress and manner, "You suck as a mother. And I obviously am rocking this cold weather thing like a mo-fo!"

She got close to us, leaned over the stroller and said so both my kids could hear, "You should be ashamed of yourself."

I said, "You should be ashamed of yourself!" and kept walking.

And then, she screamed back at me, "Well you should be a better mother!"

Cue The Bird. And yeah, I might have said something else that I won't repeat here.

Later, the sane and well-rested part of me figured that she probably just thought she was being helpful and that I'd be eternally grateful for her quick ability to point out my shortcomings.

But, that's where she and anyone else who intentionally or unintentionally judges a mom or dad is wrong.

I have said it before and I will say it again. This parenting schtick is super duper hard. No matter how you come to it. 

And here's the other part: You never know what kind of day has preceded whatever moment you are witnessing between child and parent. 

I should take my own advice, I know. Whenever those stories go viral about parents leaving their kids in the car while they run errands or get gas, I totally judge. But really in the end, all I can say is, "Okay, well, it's not the way I would do it. But I don't need to condemn them for it."

And I can keep airing the dirty, dark secrets of how I raise my girls. Hey, last night they ate SpaghettiOs (which is indeed written like that and defined as "an American brand of canned spaghetti featuring circular pasta shapes in a cheese and tomato sauce and marketed to parents as 'less messy' than regular spaghetti," on Wikipedia.) and watched three episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants. While the combo of these things (heck, one of them by itself) makes me feel nauseas, they loved it!

I am not super strict about bedtimes or how early my kids potty train. I let my kids sleep in my bed when my husband is out of town and they watch a lot of TV when I'm working on a piece of writing. On the other hand, I'm psycho about putting on sun block, installing a car seat and probably a little to crazed about possible choking hazards. But I will never, ever tell you to put a sunhat on your kid because he might get a sunburn. Promise.

So, go ahead. Judge me. I dare you.

Just call me Strega Momma!

Last night, somehow amid the commotion of caring and disciplining two small children, I ended up with a bowl of spaghetti on my head. I'm not naming names here (EVA!), but I had to take a breath and really reel it in in order not to throw a pile of pasta right back. As I've already admitted to my friends, I mostly didn't send another plate flying because I didn't want another mess to clean up, not because I was trying to be a good example.

When I had taken all of the My Little Ponies away, cancelled bath time (yes, I have one of those kids who loooooves bath time) and put the iPad in a closet (after threatening in scary mommy voice that it would stay there for a week), I put the kids to bed and I opened a bottle of wine and got to thinking.

It's not my job to make nice all the time.

I love my kids, but I have never ever felt they should be the center of the universe (even though, let's face it, they usually are).

This morning, I told Eva about Strega Nona, the wonderful 1975 book by Tommie dePaola. She listened with wide eyes and I think, a little bit of fear, as I explained how Strega Nona (which means Grandma Witch) had too much work to do and she needed Anthony to help her watch the pasta while it cooked. She gave him very specific instructions, but he didn't listen and then the whole town ended up covered in spaghetti and Strega Nona had to fix it all with her magic.

I told Eva that the next time she throws food, I'm going to have to make her stir the pasta pot all night. And if she stops, it will start to take over our house and then maybe all of Brooklyn. Then I had to stop, because she really was looking at me like I had just told her Maleficent was about to become her new mother.

This all made me remember when my first grade teacher, Mrs. Gavette, first read Strega Nona to us. I was partly scared ("so let me get this straight -  a grandmother who is also a witch makes this guy watch over a pot of pasta, he forgets about it and then the whole town is in grave peril and the grandma who is also a witch is ticked.) and partly amazed by her very clear resolve.

A friend of mine once told me that she struggles being a parent most on the days when she feels like all she does is reprimand her kids. No real praise. No warm fuzzies. Just a lot of, "No, I said not to do that," "I'm taking away the candy," "No more TV if you keep acting like that," and so forth. But then she reminds herself, "It's not my job to be their best friend. It's my job to make them into good people."

My grandmother could whip out a witch hat if I was up to no good. She once left me a note on my bed when she was visiting that said she "had a bone to pick with me." To this day, I make my bed every day! When my mom was growing up, Grandma frequently told her that it wasn't her job to be my mom's friend.

Today, I decided I'm pulling out my inner Strega Momma. Let's face it, we all need to be a Momma Witch sometimes.

So yeah, baby girl Elise, when you want to go running across a busy street near the park and I hoist you over my shoulder and exclaim loudly that, "I'm stronger than you!," you'll know you've just been schooled by Strega Momma!

Just call me Strega Momma. Momma. Strega Momma.

Thursdays With Marthe

This is a photo of me with my friend Marthe.  We share a lot in common.  Our mothers are best friends, we're both married to total rock-steady guys and we're (more or less) stay-at-home moms to pre-school children.  We’re also the same age.

But Marthe, whose name is the French version of Martha, has the added complication of living with advanced ALS, the eventually deadly “Lou Gehrig's disease.  At present she can only move her right arm and her head.  She uses a 400-pound motorized wheel chair to get around, her home has been re-modeled to accommodate her increasing disability and she gets her nutrition twice a day from a feeding tube in her stomach.

The joy of her life is her two-year-old son August, born before she knew that the occasional foot drop she suffered was the harbinger of a deadly disease inside her.  He is the picture of healthy, like a cover-of-a-cereal-box boy.  He is playful, outgoing and exuberant and loves his ”Mama” more than he can actively express.  He goes to daycare five days a week now as it's impossible for his mom to care for him and she really can't safely be alone with him.

Her greatest fear is that he'll grow up without really knowing her and so every Thursday afternoon she and my mom spend a few hours together so that my mom can write up her life story.  So that when August is 15 or so and hates high school, or doesn't make the basketball team, or thinks he's met “the one” he can reference his mom's experiences and feelings at the same age.

And what a slew of experiences she has had. My mother has transcribed her experiences running marathons; training as a paratrooper in ROTC; leaving the business world to go back to school to become an ICU neuro-nurse, learning to fly a plane. 

Sadly, these are just memories now as the disease progresses.  Marthe suffers seizures from time to time, the worst when she's alone.  But she knows the signs of an impending “grand mal” and can open the necessary medication with the help of her teeth.

I saw Marthe in Atlanta a few weeks ago.  We met with our kids at a playground, Marthe and company arriving in a wheelchair-equipped van.  Her mom came to help and my mom came along too.  We laughed about the normal day-to-day stuff you deal with as parents.  I told her how my Eva had recently gotten a karaoke machine and then wanted to test it out at our local Applebee's. 

She told me how she deals with the restrictions of her "handi-capability" as she terms it.  She has come up with her own strategies for handling her active son. "I rig up a baby walker with a rope and can cart him around the house on my wheel chair," she told me.  Sometimes she will throw gold fish crackers in the path that she wants him to follow in the house, or if she needs him to get away from something. 

When he is doing something that he's not supposed to do, Marthe has a way of getting him to pay attention.  She says she read it in a book once, but can't remember where. She will raise her voice slightly, in a different “mommy tone” entirely, and say, “August, look at me.”  He stops whatever he's doing and rushes to her feet.  He places his hand on her lap and listens to what she has to say.

Why do I write about Marthe?  My mom friend? My contemporary? My inspiration?  Because I don't know what else to do.  When I am frustrated, when I question why God would do this, to this family, to these people, I have to write.  It's the only way I know.

I complain about wrangling two kids at the playground on a daily basis.  Marthe doesn't complain at all and she can't wrangle one bit.  I complain when our dishwasher needs to be emptied or there's a pile of laundry on my bedroom floor.  Marthe has to wake her husband up at night if she wants to change positions in bed. 

Marthe will tell you she most likely will not see August start Kindergarten. She talks very honestly about her death, how she wants to be memorialized and where she wants her ashes spread.

She is a reminder, I think, that we must appreciate what we have.  I don't mean to sound trite, but there's a reason the cliches work when you're talking tragedy or rites of passage.  They are the most appropriate way to acknowledge what's happening. So, this mother's day especially, I'm grateful for friends like Marthe. And, it should be noted, for my own mom and her place in all of this. My mom, who first got to know Marthe's mom and then Marthe, and now is helping Marthe get her story down on paper.

While we were at the park that day, August picked a flower and handed it to her.  Then, my daughter Eva followed suit and returned with a flower for me.  We were calling them our “mommy flowers.”  When we took this picture, Marthe asked me to place her flower in her hand.  She couldn't reach, or move her arm to do it.

We smiled, and later decided to keep our already wilting “mommy flowers.”  I'm not sure where mine fell later that day.  Eva asked for it back at one point while we were driving in the car and I acquiesced.  Then, later, I couldn't find it.  But just before I handed it to Eva, I remember thinking that even though the petals were already drooping, their vivid color remained so vibrant.

 

Why I Wish Tim Gunn Could Be My Own Personal Parenting Guru

I wish Tim Gunn could live with me.  Every time I feel like a complete mommy failure the fabulous Project Runway star could just appear, a stoic presence in some cute little pinstripe suit, all six foot two of him, and with his usual words of wisdom and a clean pocket square to dry my tears with. He would pick me back up, outfit my children in looks fit for Suri Cruise, and - voila! - we'd make it work together.

This idea recently came to me when a good friend, about to have her second child, asked me for my best advice for handling two kids together. I quickly recalled one day in particular when my youngest was still a newborn. One afternoon, my older daughter, who was still mastering potty training, ran into my bedroom, "Mommy, mommy, mommy! I can't...." and then she peed all over herself in front of me. I had a newborn baby stuck to one boob and couldn't do a darn thing about it. At the time, a dear friend of mine texted me, "At least you know urine is sterile," and somehow, that made me laugh and I was able to make it work. When I finished feeding one child, I was up and getting paper towels and fresh clothes for my other kid. It's just what you gotta do.

We all have our own "make it work" moments and stories. My mother in law likes to tell me about the time she was ridiculously exhausted, like near comatose, and watching six kids at once (her four, her sister's two) one afternoon. She dozed on the sofa while they drew in crayon on her new wallpaper. Her thought, before she let her eyes close, "I can always paint over it." She made it work, people.

It's what we all do as parents. We make it work. Every day. Whether we go to work or stay home, whether we juggle one, two or more than three kids. Whether we live in houses, apartments, on communes or campsites. We all have to make this thing called parenting work.

So, here's where Tim Gunn comes in. He's always trying to get the Project Runway designers to see that even if they lack the proper supplies (who knew taffeta was so pricey?) or don't have enough time to finish sewing, there's always something else that can be done to make the situation work. And if it's not perfect, that's okay too.

Is your little one pooping in her pants on the playground? Make it work, he'd say.

Toddler kicking you in your pregnant belly and yelling, "I don't want a new sister!" What's that you hear? "Make it work."

Eleven o'clock on a work/school night and your kids are still awake? Oh, you actually need to get some "actual" work done? You know what I'm gonna say, "Make it work."

Nobody wants a bath? Make it work, my friends.

Your kids' babysitter tells you she doesn't know who Punky Brewster is when you reference the 80s child star. You old hag! Stop crying and make it work!

I cannot count the multitude of times when I need to just make stuff work because anyone with kids knows from experience, you cannot plan worth shizz when it comes to kids. Someone gets all cranky, someone's wheels start to come off in the middle of a grocery store aisle, someone gets puked on and that's it! Plans? Out the door!

That's when it's time to channel an inner Tim Gunn and say to no one in particular (or, heck, say it to that crazy lady who just told you your daughter needs to be wearing a hat in this weather!), "I can make it work."

Take me this morning. I woke up to my four-year-old flicking my nipple and asking in a snarky voice, "Mom, what's this thing?" She had pulled down my pajama shirt and was just staring at me. Later, her younger sister let forth an epic Number Two during a close commute on a crosstown bus.

Guess what I did? I called upon my inner Timmy G and I made it work.

In all seriousness, though, wouldn't life be so great if we could just make it all work? If we could actually be okay with whatever came our way while parenting - instead of fighting the incessant urge to control everything?

Why, as parents, are so worried about this concept? Making it work means admitting defeat, in a way, doesn't it? But it doesn't have to.

Throwing on the TV instead of reading three books aloud because you actually have something else you need or want to do while you're with your kids? Why do we, as a culture, think of this as akin to showing the kids porn or feeding them cat food for dinner? We are that crazed about being perfect parents that we can't just let stuff work the way it's gonna work sometimes.

And, you know what, it's not gonna always work the way we want or hope or ever expect.

What Tim Gunn, and anyone else who tries to "make it work" is actually telling us to do is to forgive ourselves, to accept our greatest parenting triumphs and the things we perceive as the fails. Tim Gunn says "make it work" and we can be confident that we can and will. The only one who can make this parenting thing work is you.

So, next time the parenting racket has got you down, get back up and make it work people! We've got a runway show to produce and some kids to raise!