CurrentMom

Not the Corner Office

Truth Thursday

Halleluyah.  An article about mothers who work outside of the home that doesn’t focus in on the so-called “mommy wars” about SAHMs and WOHMs.  One that doesn’t force our hand in the “lean-in” debate. One that doesn’t say that you can’t have a rewarding career without giving up a lot at home, and vice versa.

Instead, the New York Times article last week, entitled, “Coveting Not A Corner Office, But Time At Home” describes my ambition to a tee.  I want a rewarding career, one in which my work is valued and I enjoy my organization’s mission and think my colleagues are interesting, dynamic, complex people with whom to work. I want some modicum of recognition for a job well done, and for a career with a long trajectory of relative success. 

But I don’t want any of it to come at the expense of my family life. My home, with my spouse and children within its four walls, is the sanctuary of my world. I love those four people more than anything else, and their happiness, well-being and success is one of my key objectives. I want to be there as much as I can to enjoy their company, make them dinner, accompany them to their various activities, and cheer them on when they play soccer or field hockey, or win an award, or need a shoulder to cry on, or fail a test, or take a big step in their own ongoing life stories.

I am one of the most fortunate people I know, because I have found a way to have both. Between my more than a decade of consulting work, and now, with a flexible and family friendly office and an understanding supervisor and staff, I have been able to carve out a work life that gives me what I need in the office, as well as supports my need to take care of my family. It almost never asks me to choose between the two.

Liminality

Truth Thursday

We gazed at the moon, and heralded the end of Shabbat, the day of rest. We blessed the wine, the candlelight, the scents of the earth, put our arms around each other’s waists and welcomed a new week with a song I used to sing in a whisper to my children when they were young:  "shavua tov, shavua tov -- a good week, a week of peace, may gladness reign and joy increase."

It was a beautiful bar mitzvah ceremony and party, on the night of the fullest, brightest moon of the year, and, coincidentally, on the summer solstice, so it was also the longest day of the year, and the one with the most light.

For me, it harkened back to the darkest, shortest day and night of the year, just six months ago, when I was sitting on the precipice of change.

I’m still not sure what has been the hardest transition for me, in this season of many transitions. Moving back into full-time work, with office and managerial responsibilities? Turning 50? Lying in wait for my oldest child to graduate from high school and begin his college career?

These big three seem to have all collided … and colluded to make me feel very unsteady over these past six months.

Roto Mom - Or, The Other Side of Helicoptering

Truth Thursday

This may amuse, or even satisfy, those of my friends who have long thought, silently (or not so silently) that am too loose with my kids – allow them too much freedom too early. Or that I'm not paying close enough attention to their comings and goings. That’s not to say there aren’t rules, because that’s different. But I’ve always been the mom who allowed my kids to walk to town sooner than their friends, take the bus alone, do things on their own. I don't hover.

My sister and I were raised in a family that placed a great premium on independence, both because of its inherent value and because of our circumstances. We grew up to be New York City kids, adept at riding the subways, navigating the mean streets alone, taking the train to school from the age of 11.

We both feel incredibly fortunate to have had that experience. It has prepared us for life in a positive and empowering way. 

I have always wanted the same for my children, except that we live a bit more in the suburban, go-car-go culture than I would have liked. But we have public transportation, and schools close enough to walk to. So they have figured it out. My oldest has been getting himself everywhere by himself for years – he hoofs it on his own, takes the bus or metro. Even flew to Israel on his own when he was 14 (to stay with family.)

Each summer I put them on a plane to fly alone to Boston to visit their grandparents. They walk to middle school, have learned how to take the bus to “downtown” and the youngest is about to leave for 6 weeks of sleepaway camp without a worry.

But this weekend tested me in a different way, and I felt more like a mother bear than I have in a long time.

Popsicle Toes

Truth Thursday

I’m peering down at my not-yet-chipping ice blue toes, painted this past weekend with a new color from the fabulous Butter London makeup line.

Blue. Since when did one paint one’s toes with blue nail polish? It seems so teen-y, so young, so un-me.

But over the past few years, I have discovered that I really enjoy the alternative looks in nail color. For a few years it has been really dark browns and purples, close to black, that feel a bit goth. I’ve gotten used to these dramatic colors on my toes, and just this year, I actually let them migrate up to my hands a couple of times, both times with exhilarating results. I like how much they look like a young, cool person’s nails. 

And how far a cry they are from my mother’s Misty Lilac and Strawberry Pink nails.

For the first decade of my life, my mother did not use nail polish at all. She barely wore makeup, except for the bright gash of Revlon’s Persian Melon lipstick (which sounds a lot prettier than it was – a pinkish orange, which was the exact wrong color for my mother’s olive complexion.)

Then one day, when I was about 10 or 11, my mother started painting her nails. Never a real manicure. She was a do-it-yourself person, always at home, with cuticle sticks and emery boards and pinks and reds and berry colors galore. Once she started, she never stopped. To the day she died, she had one of those colors on her nails, in the dim hope that they might distract from the ropy blue veins that pervaded her slender hands.

I was not impressed. As a teen who preferred overalls and Earth shoes to dressing up of any sort, I thought painted nails were anti-feminist, a product of the male-dominated military-industrial complex, and as a result, not for me. Also, anything that my mother did at that stage of my life was anathema to me. So I continued to bite my nails and ignore any siren call of adorning them.

Graduation Day

Truth Thursday

 

I get frustrated when I open a Huff Post parenting tidbit and find that it is, once again, targeted to parents of young children. There are so rarely essays, blogs, books dedicated to one’s life as the parent of a teen (or two or three.) You can read about how to get your child into college, but you can’t read about how to process the concurrent joy and grief that accompanies living with a high school senior for whom breathing the same air as you is painful.

So, in response to the latest HuffPo maudlin top ten list – “20 Things Every Parent Should Hear” – I offer you my thoughts on “15 Things To Remember on High School Graduation Day.”

This is for me and my son, almost 18, and graduating from high school on Monday.