I have not worked my blog for eons. I could use my daughters' b'not mitzvah, my search for a job, or my general malaise as explanations, which they are. But not excuses. Alice Elliott Dark, who has been my best friend since 1971, whom everyone knows from "In the Gloaming", the Dead Fathers' Club, and is best personal friends with Tom Ford (I like to think of him as the female Elise Cagan-as if), has been leading by example: using her blog as a way to communicate in no particular fashion except to sit down and write for all of us who care about what she has to say. Only connect.
Her last blog was about the life and death of her latest schipperke, the breed of dog she seemed to favor in so far as this was not only her second one but was-thanks to her husband-- a "rescue" dog..
I didn't particularly like this dog, Tuffy. Hell, I don't particularly like the breed, which looks like a bat-faced, fluffed-out small dog, but was midnight black which is probably the only positive thing I can say about schipperkes as a whole. Well, that, and I loved Alice's first schipperke: Edie. A good dog. But according to the blog outpouring, Alice's family, and more to the point, Alice, I was so behind the curve in understanding Tuffy, I have no right to mention his name. Whatever. This doesn't mean Alice didn't write so beautifully about him that I finally understood what her love was all about and why she didn't get that I was no fan of Alive Tuffy.
Then yesterday I got an email from some friends who I know from my summer community, telling me that their dog, Sadie, died. Although they let us know on the community's yahoogroup, I felt it only right to let them know how I felt about Sadie's death in a one-to-one email, as it is such a private moment.
How better, therefore, to serve myself by using this personal note as a way to get back into writing. This is what I had to say to her bereaved owners; I am so, so, sorry to hear about Sadie's death. Although I know that a pet's death is inevitable, I always had a secret dream about her ambling blindly over my grave (Note: I only knew Sadie when her eyesight was failing). I'm not being morbid (for the moment), she was just one of those ageless dogs that was not only there, but forced one to be in the moment and there with her (Read: if you didn't see her coming, you'd trip over her. She was pretty much blind and loved being around people of all ages and temperaments). You DO know she was the only dog allowed in our house. I grew up loving dogs, James not so much and our children not understanding what it's like to have one.And yet, Sadie was one of us. She was very wise in picking her owners. And I'm quite sure that part of her magnetism comes from you two. She always was, and will remain, an important part of Raananah legend (Raananah is our summer community); and I get a strange satisfaction that Hanukkah lights were burning the day she died and will continue to do so today and tomorrow (not that I'm saying they'll lead her to Baby Jesus, mind you--that insane I am not) but I can't believe there will be a Raananah family that won't think about Sadie every Hanukkah upon lighting the candles. And higher praise I cannot give.
So, I write this semi-ode to Sadie in the hopes that I truly do get in touch with my feelings about pets, understand more about Tuffy--although Alice and I will never totally agree about anything, which is how I know we just love each other to death--and to let her and those I care about know that I do understand something about animals and respect their existence to do more than provide pelts, keep me looking fabulous and warm, and feed my family and me, be it tartare, made into a soup, or grilled.
Plus, I recently had a vivid dream about owning a Rhodesian Ridgeback named Eddie. I am hoping that one interpretation isn't that, subconsciously, I truly desire to own a South African diamond mine at which young workers risk the loss of their hands to bling me out. I'd rather it means I long to own a hound with Hottentot roots.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
"The worst is not, So long as we can say, 'This is the worst.' "
One of the things I love about New York City is that you just never know. This is also one of the things I love about life. Or so I tell myself.
This past Sunday was a veritable roller coaster.You think I'm kidding? You think I don't know from roller coasters? Check this out: in January, the father of a friend of my twins called up. He was eager to purchase tickets for his family to see Derek Jacobi 's performance in "King Lear", playing at BAM, and wanted to ensure these plans weren't kiboshed by my daughters' b'not mitzvah. Once he opened the door, I begged him to buy tickets for us, too. Not for my husband, the Philistine, but for the goils et moi.
I wouldn't have taken bets that I'd live through the b'not mitzvah. But I did (more about that later). Two weeks hence the girls and I were on the subway headed points south. Brooklyn. The theater, with the look of a refurbished loft space with the most uncomfortable seating ever, portended no good. But once the drama began, everything vanished.
Total lie.
Nothing vanished. Things became clearer. I remembered.
I remembered reading "King Lear" the first time whilst in my junior year at Scarsdale High School. My teacher was Mr. Painter. He was what you wish for in a professor in college and never think you are worthy of in a High School Teacher. Mr. Painter made "King Lear" my most absolute favorite Shakespearean play. I remember finally understanding what tragedy was. My father had already died, so I knew from depression, sadness, and just not getting it. But I learned tragedy from Mr. Painter. And "King Lear".
I remembered thinking that Regan and Goneril were, seriously, the worst, EVER. I remember lumping "King Lear" in with "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" as the two best examples of what people do to each other in the name of love. Cordelia totally ruled. She was straightforward with her father, saying that she loved him as a daughter should love a father, with a love that shouldn't be as powerful as that of a wife loving a husband. (There was a comic book, one of those Classic Illustrated Junior comic books which had Cordelia telling her father that she loved him as much as she loved salt, no more, no less. Salt. Husband. Salt. Husband.)
So, flash forward, and sit with me as I watch this magnificent performance, and clutch my throat. This time around, when Regan and Goneril spoke to their father, all I could hear was a shrill echo of how I sound to myself when I speak with my 87 year old mother: "Are you kidding me?", "Do you honestly think that makes sense?" until I settle down into, a smiling, "Sure, whatever."
I was no longer the tragic Cordelia, doomed and loving daughter. I was the other two sisters, plotting and planning and scaring the crap out of myself.
Stop. Breathe again. Seriously, there I was with my two newly teenage daughters watching one of the most heralded actors playing the most incredible role in a venue near good restaurants. And my children know from sharing good choices in menu selection.
This is so amazingly a good thing, that I dasn't sully it with the photographs my cousin posted on Facebook of his wife and the "Real Housewives of Orange County." And you KNOW I have something to say about that.
Stay tuned.
Feel free to cry.
And reapply lipstick. It's all about moisturizing and accessorizing.
This past Sunday was a veritable roller coaster.You think I'm kidding? You think I don't know from roller coasters? Check this out: in January, the father of a friend of my twins called up. He was eager to purchase tickets for his family to see Derek Jacobi 's performance in "King Lear", playing at BAM, and wanted to ensure these plans weren't kiboshed by my daughters' b'not mitzvah. Once he opened the door, I begged him to buy tickets for us, too. Not for my husband, the Philistine, but for the goils et moi.
I wouldn't have taken bets that I'd live through the b'not mitzvah. But I did (more about that later). Two weeks hence the girls and I were on the subway headed points south. Brooklyn. The theater, with the look of a refurbished loft space with the most uncomfortable seating ever, portended no good. But once the drama began, everything vanished.
Total lie.
Nothing vanished. Things became clearer. I remembered.
I remembered reading "King Lear" the first time whilst in my junior year at Scarsdale High School. My teacher was Mr. Painter. He was what you wish for in a professor in college and never think you are worthy of in a High School Teacher. Mr. Painter made "King Lear" my most absolute favorite Shakespearean play. I remember finally understanding what tragedy was. My father had already died, so I knew from depression, sadness, and just not getting it. But I learned tragedy from Mr. Painter. And "King Lear".
I remembered thinking that Regan and Goneril were, seriously, the worst, EVER. I remember lumping "King Lear" in with "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" as the two best examples of what people do to each other in the name of love. Cordelia totally ruled. She was straightforward with her father, saying that she loved him as a daughter should love a father, with a love that shouldn't be as powerful as that of a wife loving a husband. (There was a comic book, one of those Classic Illustrated Junior comic books which had Cordelia telling her father that she loved him as much as she loved salt, no more, no less. Salt. Husband. Salt. Husband.)
So, flash forward, and sit with me as I watch this magnificent performance, and clutch my throat. This time around, when Regan and Goneril spoke to their father, all I could hear was a shrill echo of how I sound to myself when I speak with my 87 year old mother: "Are you kidding me?", "Do you honestly think that makes sense?" until I settle down into, a smiling, "Sure, whatever."
I was no longer the tragic Cordelia, doomed and loving daughter. I was the other two sisters, plotting and planning and scaring the crap out of myself.
Stop. Breathe again. Seriously, there I was with my two newly teenage daughters watching one of the most heralded actors playing the most incredible role in a venue near good restaurants. And my children know from sharing good choices in menu selection.
This is so amazingly a good thing, that I dasn't sully it with the photographs my cousin posted on Facebook of his wife and the "Real Housewives of Orange County." And you KNOW I have something to say about that.
Stay tuned.
Feel free to cry.
And reapply lipstick. It's all about moisturizing and accessorizing.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Going Postal
When we moved into our apartment, I was pretty much in shock and awe about owning a piece of New York City. I had never thought about buying an apartment. A mon avis, people bought houses not apartments. James, my husband, believed in ownership; and he had me convinced that the money we had saved in our proverbial nest egg should, indeed, be used to buy a nest. Truth be known, I became landed gentry a month before I became the mother of twins, so at the time I was pretty much flummoxed about everything that was occuring in my life.
I loved the apartment itself, notwithstanding its quirks; still do. Its views are astounding, its size, well, pretty good for a New York City apartment. It's located across the street from a playground, next door to a park. It feels like a treehouse. After living here for a while, things started bothering me. Familiarity, blah blah. I found a way to look past the building's pink hall walls by concentrating on the mail chute, located right outside our door.It is a glass chute with bronze accents, a lovely hall ornament. I enjoy writing notes and hate writing checks. When I do either, I want to put them in motion as quickly as possible. The accessibility of the mail chute makes my life that much easier. Plus it looks way cool.
The mail chute, and our place, is tucked into the northwest corner of the building, with two neighboring apartments, the owners of which have changed six times. With each move, the owners seem to get younger and younger--as do their children--but they constantly are lovely. No, really, I'm not just saying it (as if they read this blog). The two adjacent mothers and I sometimes have ad hoc girl fests in the hall. Actually, I hear them talking and open the door to join in--their daughters are about the same age. Recently, I did so while holding a letter, which I dunked into the chute during our conversation.
"You trust that to work?" asked one of my neighbors.
Work? What work? You put the mail in the chute, it goes down. It isn't a job. There are no moving parts...except the letter. It only let me down, figuratively speaking, once. I had bought my stepdaughter a refrigerator magnet from Florida (before she moved there), popped it into an envelope, and threw it into the slot. I gasped as it adhered to the inner wall of the metallic shoot. "What was I thinking? It's a magnet," I wailed to my husband who, I swear, found a yardstick, shoved it through the slot, forcing the envelope to the fourth floor then repeated the action until he rescued it from the mailbox in the lobby.
I shared that story with her, we laughed and returned to our corners. Why did her reaction stump me? I realized later that, given her age and our age difference, she was too young to know what I did: you can't beat gravity.
I loved the apartment itself, notwithstanding its quirks; still do. Its views are astounding, its size, well, pretty good for a New York City apartment. It's located across the street from a playground, next door to a park. It feels like a treehouse. After living here for a while, things started bothering me. Familiarity, blah blah. I found a way to look past the building's pink hall walls by concentrating on the mail chute, located right outside our door.It is a glass chute with bronze accents, a lovely hall ornament. I enjoy writing notes and hate writing checks. When I do either, I want to put them in motion as quickly as possible. The accessibility of the mail chute makes my life that much easier. Plus it looks way cool.
The mail chute, and our place, is tucked into the northwest corner of the building, with two neighboring apartments, the owners of which have changed six times. With each move, the owners seem to get younger and younger--as do their children--but they constantly are lovely. No, really, I'm not just saying it (as if they read this blog). The two adjacent mothers and I sometimes have ad hoc girl fests in the hall. Actually, I hear them talking and open the door to join in--their daughters are about the same age. Recently, I did so while holding a letter, which I dunked into the chute during our conversation.
"You trust that to work?" asked one of my neighbors.
Work? What work? You put the mail in the chute, it goes down. It isn't a job. There are no moving parts...except the letter. It only let me down, figuratively speaking, once. I had bought my stepdaughter a refrigerator magnet from Florida (before she moved there), popped it into an envelope, and threw it into the slot. I gasped as it adhered to the inner wall of the metallic shoot. "What was I thinking? It's a magnet," I wailed to my husband who, I swear, found a yardstick, shoved it through the slot, forcing the envelope to the fourth floor then repeated the action until he rescued it from the mailbox in the lobby.
I shared that story with her, we laughed and returned to our corners. Why did her reaction stump me? I realized later that, given her age and our age difference, she was too young to know what I did: you can't beat gravity.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Let's Get Biblical, Biblical
I attended my twins' "Open Class" night at their Hebrew School recently. The class is small and filled with delicious, quirky children. For years I have watched them grow and learn; and despite my boredom with most parent evenings, I look forward to the event, especially since I no longer have to scrunch myself into those little kid chairs where you're eating your knees while trying to pay attention to children stumbling through Hebrew text. They are all in the bar/bat mitzvah class, and have moved on to more sophisticated discussions.
On this particular day, they were scouring through biblical hints as to why there is such a thing as a bar/bat mitzvah, as the ceremony itself is never actually mentioned in the Talmud. I arrived an hour into the class (Okay, I enjoy it, but not for two hours), and settled into an adult-sized chair as they were talking about Genesis 22, the "binding of Isaac" story in which God tells Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, in the region of Moriah. Try as they might, my girls couldn't totally ignore me, especially as their teacher asked me to join in one of their study groups. I remained quiet as I watched each group knock heads, discuss, giggle, and go back to the text.
When the teacher called upon everyone to gather together again and the story of Abraham was brought up, a strange image popped into my mind...that of Julie Schenecker, the Tampa mother who killed her two teenage children, ostensibly for being "too mouthy." Horrific story. Horrific. And yet, it occured. How do you shoot your child in the face? How do you bind your child to be sacrificed? I raised my hand in class, and began to ramble on about how parents of teenage children are always shocked to see their delicious, sweet smelling and obedient children transform into lanky beings who could kill you with a glance and hurtful response.
Who doesn't want to theoretically beat down teenagers whose ability to ignore you is matched only by their sense of how to make you feel like a harpy? So, maybe it was Abraham who thought, "Aha! Way to prove my love and commitment to this new God, and get rid of the mouthy kid who is driving my wife and me nuts." And then, whilst raising his knife to carry out the task, he stopped. Was it God who stayed his hand, or was it that which keeps most of us from beating the crap out of our kids when they get snarky? Or is it the same thing? Was it God being a new god, getting the hang of it before he realized who He was and then absented Himself? Do I have to capitalize His name? I don't know, which is what makes me one of them thar fence-sitting agnostics.
In any case, this opportunity to think aloud in a classroom setting was delicious on so many levels: despite the detours I took, I actually spoke in paragraphs; I knew that, save the teacher and my glaring daughters, my audience was otherwise engaged and I could have been reading the American Constitution in Urdu for all they cared, and I mortified my kids in a safe environment. Does it get any better than that?
On this particular day, they were scouring through biblical hints as to why there is such a thing as a bar/bat mitzvah, as the ceremony itself is never actually mentioned in the Talmud. I arrived an hour into the class (Okay, I enjoy it, but not for two hours), and settled into an adult-sized chair as they were talking about Genesis 22, the "binding of Isaac" story in which God tells Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, in the region of Moriah. Try as they might, my girls couldn't totally ignore me, especially as their teacher asked me to join in one of their study groups. I remained quiet as I watched each group knock heads, discuss, giggle, and go back to the text.
When the teacher called upon everyone to gather together again and the story of Abraham was brought up, a strange image popped into my mind...that of Julie Schenecker, the Tampa mother who killed her two teenage children, ostensibly for being "too mouthy." Horrific story. Horrific. And yet, it occured. How do you shoot your child in the face? How do you bind your child to be sacrificed? I raised my hand in class, and began to ramble on about how parents of teenage children are always shocked to see their delicious, sweet smelling and obedient children transform into lanky beings who could kill you with a glance and hurtful response.
Who doesn't want to theoretically beat down teenagers whose ability to ignore you is matched only by their sense of how to make you feel like a harpy? So, maybe it was Abraham who thought, "Aha! Way to prove my love and commitment to this new God, and get rid of the mouthy kid who is driving my wife and me nuts." And then, whilst raising his knife to carry out the task, he stopped. Was it God who stayed his hand, or was it that which keeps most of us from beating the crap out of our kids when they get snarky? Or is it the same thing? Was it God being a new god, getting the hang of it before he realized who He was and then absented Himself? Do I have to capitalize His name? I don't know, which is what makes me one of them thar fence-sitting agnostics.
In any case, this opportunity to think aloud in a classroom setting was delicious on so many levels: despite the detours I took, I actually spoke in paragraphs; I knew that, save the teacher and my glaring daughters, my audience was otherwise engaged and I could have been reading the American Constitution in Urdu for all they cared, and I mortified my kids in a safe environment. Does it get any better than that?
Friday, February 4, 2011
Outlaws
I was never one of those gals who flipped through bridal magazines in my teens and twenties Instead, I dreamed longingly of boyfriends, soul mates. I didn't think about having children at all, frankly. Do some women actually have biological clocks set in some other time zone or parallel universe? Are mating and propogating actually all in the timing? How does desire fit in? Who knows. The fact of the matter is I became a wife at 41 and mother of twins at 44, and, shudder as you might, it's all turned out just fine.
Although I had a black belt in blind-dating, was less discretionary than I might have been in being bedded or boyfriended (See Dead Father's Club), the truth remains that Henry was the love of my life before I met my husband, who still becomes flummoxed when I mention Henry's name. This is to laugh, as I was19 the last time I saw Henry and 36 when I met my husband, James. If and when Henry thinks of me, I'd just as soon have him remember a hot 19-year-old at a time when he and I equalled spontaneous combustion. (Not that his current child bride creates lacunae in his life.) My love for James, while certaily not less combustible at its onset, grows deeper and more befuddling every day. When I did think about marriage, all I wanted was to marry an orphan. The last thing I needed was another familial minefield through which I had to tiptoe. Having a stepfamily and living grandparents gave me all the emotional entertainment and exercise I needed.
My boyfriend, husband, and love of my life,James, had run away from home at 17 to join the Navy and had barely spoken to his mother since then; I hadn't at all. James' father had died (Surprise!) when James was eight. His modern family--a curious mash of half-brothers, a disappearing sister, and a schizophrenic, ex-Vietnam vet brother--was way out of my comfort zone; but if he wasn't engaging with them, who was I to complain. So much for injecting myself into a new tangled web of emotions, disappointments and expectation.
What I had never figured on was stepchildren. Right. Them; how would I have known? But here we have it, and it's to die. Although my stepson and I don't talk so much, really, who has major conversations with a 25-year-old man? The good thing is he is happy, getting healthier, and is engaged to a top-drawer woman who knows who he is. They are both very much of the Queens borough.
My stepdaughter and I talk almost every day. She and her husband live in Florida, in a town that is half cattle/ horse farms and half new developments which offer space, nature trails, swimming pools, club houses and community in a very affordable manner. (Is it for everyone? Perhaps not. But it is fungible and affordable.) She is neurotic and loving and the mother of boys 11 months apart. It is an unusual relationship. I love her very much and feel the need to bitchslap, er, guide her every once in awhile. But we laugh. And we dish. We've even gotten to the point where we can dish her father, Mister Love of My Life. And it gets me to thinking. I wonder if having a mother-in-law would have been so terrible after all?
Although I had a black belt in blind-dating, was less discretionary than I might have been in being bedded or boyfriended (See Dead Father's Club), the truth remains that Henry was the love of my life before I met my husband, who still becomes flummoxed when I mention Henry's name. This is to laugh, as I was19 the last time I saw Henry and 36 when I met my husband, James. If and when Henry thinks of me, I'd just as soon have him remember a hot 19-year-old at a time when he and I equalled spontaneous combustion. (Not that his current child bride creates lacunae in his life.) My love for James, while certaily not less combustible at its onset, grows deeper and more befuddling every day. When I did think about marriage, all I wanted was to marry an orphan. The last thing I needed was another familial minefield through which I had to tiptoe. Having a stepfamily and living grandparents gave me all the emotional entertainment and exercise I needed.
My boyfriend, husband, and love of my life,James, had run away from home at 17 to join the Navy and had barely spoken to his mother since then; I hadn't at all. James' father had died (Surprise!) when James was eight. His modern family--a curious mash of half-brothers, a disappearing sister, and a schizophrenic, ex-Vietnam vet brother--was way out of my comfort zone; but if he wasn't engaging with them, who was I to complain. So much for injecting myself into a new tangled web of emotions, disappointments and expectation.
What I had never figured on was stepchildren. Right. Them; how would I have known? But here we have it, and it's to die. Although my stepson and I don't talk so much, really, who has major conversations with a 25-year-old man? The good thing is he is happy, getting healthier, and is engaged to a top-drawer woman who knows who he is. They are both very much of the Queens borough.
My stepdaughter and I talk almost every day. She and her husband live in Florida, in a town that is half cattle/ horse farms and half new developments which offer space, nature trails, swimming pools, club houses and community in a very affordable manner. (Is it for everyone? Perhaps not. But it is fungible and affordable.) She is neurotic and loving and the mother of boys 11 months apart. It is an unusual relationship. I love her very much and feel the need to bitchslap, er, guide her every once in awhile. But we laugh. And we dish. We've even gotten to the point where we can dish her father, Mister Love of My Life. And it gets me to thinking. I wonder if having a mother-in-law would have been so terrible after all?
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Persona Non Grata
Every once in a while, one of my personas manages to wriggle her way out of the obfuscatory synapses of my brain. I find it easier to let her have her say than to medicate. Say hello to one of my little friends...
I give up. Seriously. I earned my degree in clinical social work. I have made my living interacting with teenage girls, trying to help them navigate their way through this minefield-laden developmental stage. I have earned a reputation of "being on the same page," as it were, with clients and their respective families. Yet, when it comes to the home front and the attempts I have made with my own 12-year-old twin girls, I have no recourse but to throw in the Porthault towel. This confession is painful...terribly, terribly painful. I can only hope that it will, at some point, lead to doors that are opened and not slammed in my face as they are today.
No matter how many times I sit my girls down in the hopes of deepening our precious (and fragile) mother-daughter relationship, when I broach the subject of my current affair, they absolutely refuse to even try and see how it has allowed me to flourish sexually, emotionally, intellectually and socially. I thought, and continue to hold on dearly to the belief, that being honest with them about my profligate nature and their father's emotional vacuum will ultimately strengthen us as a family unit. It might sound evocative, but I do believe it will lead them to evolve as I have.
Wait. Hear me out. It isn't as though I am sleeping with our rabbi...any more. I did understand how that affaire de coeur might have made things a tad dicey when we all took to the bima for the girls' b'not mitzvah this year. That is why I ended the relationship, and not, as some would have you believe, because his wife swallowed a bottle of clonazepam. She is an adult; her decisions are her own. (Besides, the bottle was only half-filled with .5 mg meds, anyway. Who was she trying to kid?) Stolen moments in the synagogue's library, knowing glances during the Aleinu, a light touch over the challah platter: all put in the past tense.
Doing the right thing left me feeling bereft, emotionally empty, and filled with doubt as to whether or not I was sexually attractive. Feeling dubious took its toll on all of my decision-making processes. Who was I to choose what to make for dinner, whose turn it was to borrow my Ed Hardy T-shirt, or to debate the existence of God. "Don't you understand that I am a person, too; I have needs?" I continued to ask my family, individually and as a group. I laughed inwardly at my husband's feigned indifference, the blank stare he took to using as a response the moment I entered a room. He cared. Perhaps too much. My daughters, on the other hand, continued to respond in manners that ranged from piercing screams with their hands over their ears to wearing three sets of headphones as soon as they came home from school. I ached; and like a young child who skinned her knee, I started to feel as though the ache would never go away.
And then, at a Community Board meeting I mistakenly attended, I met him. He was unlike any other man in my life: short, rich, and the Mayor of New York City. Our eyes met as he was being lambasted by some shrew determined to impress him with her knowledge of the Department of Education. As he rolled his eyes, I coyly stuck my finger in my mouth and faked a gag reflex. He laughed. I lowered my eyes and tossed my hair. Before the meeting was over, a member of his security team had slipped me a piece of paper, a street intersection scribbled on it. Forty-five minutes later, his limousine slowed down, the back door was flung open and his patrician voice echoed within the car, "Get in." So it began.
We've been through so much, he and I, and our differences have made us each much stronger. When his daughter was thrown in the ring, upon whose shoulder did he cry? Well, certainly not those of the former New York State Superintendent of Banks, whose body parts resemble nothing as much as those of a college football player. And when critics mocked his handling of the snowstorm, with whom did he laugh whilst mocking a Queens accent and drinking a talkative Vouvray? (Of course they had to shovel the snow on East 79th street in order to allow egress into his home. How else was he to negotiate the mountains of snow, by standing on his wallet? Get real.)
I want my daughters to know how intoxicating power is both in wielding and watching it work. I want them to feel free in discussing their inner lives with those they love. But for now there is no talking to them. For now they think our talks are intrusive and embarrassing. They pretend to ignore the girlish gait I have regained. I am the Worst. Mother. Ever. But time will reveal what they fight to ignore now. One day, God willing, they, too, will grow up to become the other woman.
I give up. Seriously. I earned my degree in clinical social work. I have made my living interacting with teenage girls, trying to help them navigate their way through this minefield-laden developmental stage. I have earned a reputation of "being on the same page," as it were, with clients and their respective families. Yet, when it comes to the home front and the attempts I have made with my own 12-year-old twin girls, I have no recourse but to throw in the Porthault towel. This confession is painful...terribly, terribly painful. I can only hope that it will, at some point, lead to doors that are opened and not slammed in my face as they are today.
No matter how many times I sit my girls down in the hopes of deepening our precious (and fragile) mother-daughter relationship, when I broach the subject of my current affair, they absolutely refuse to even try and see how it has allowed me to flourish sexually, emotionally, intellectually and socially. I thought, and continue to hold on dearly to the belief, that being honest with them about my profligate nature and their father's emotional vacuum will ultimately strengthen us as a family unit. It might sound evocative, but I do believe it will lead them to evolve as I have.
Wait. Hear me out. It isn't as though I am sleeping with our rabbi...any more. I did understand how that affaire de coeur might have made things a tad dicey when we all took to the bima for the girls' b'not mitzvah this year. That is why I ended the relationship, and not, as some would have you believe, because his wife swallowed a bottle of clonazepam. She is an adult; her decisions are her own. (Besides, the bottle was only half-filled with .5 mg meds, anyway. Who was she trying to kid?) Stolen moments in the synagogue's library, knowing glances during the Aleinu, a light touch over the challah platter: all put in the past tense.
Doing the right thing left me feeling bereft, emotionally empty, and filled with doubt as to whether or not I was sexually attractive. Feeling dubious took its toll on all of my decision-making processes. Who was I to choose what to make for dinner, whose turn it was to borrow my Ed Hardy T-shirt, or to debate the existence of God. "Don't you understand that I am a person, too; I have needs?" I continued to ask my family, individually and as a group. I laughed inwardly at my husband's feigned indifference, the blank stare he took to using as a response the moment I entered a room. He cared. Perhaps too much. My daughters, on the other hand, continued to respond in manners that ranged from piercing screams with their hands over their ears to wearing three sets of headphones as soon as they came home from school. I ached; and like a young child who skinned her knee, I started to feel as though the ache would never go away.
And then, at a Community Board meeting I mistakenly attended, I met him. He was unlike any other man in my life: short, rich, and the Mayor of New York City. Our eyes met as he was being lambasted by some shrew determined to impress him with her knowledge of the Department of Education. As he rolled his eyes, I coyly stuck my finger in my mouth and faked a gag reflex. He laughed. I lowered my eyes and tossed my hair. Before the meeting was over, a member of his security team had slipped me a piece of paper, a street intersection scribbled on it. Forty-five minutes later, his limousine slowed down, the back door was flung open and his patrician voice echoed within the car, "Get in." So it began.
We've been through so much, he and I, and our differences have made us each much stronger. When his daughter was thrown in the ring, upon whose shoulder did he cry? Well, certainly not those of the former New York State Superintendent of Banks, whose body parts resemble nothing as much as those of a college football player. And when critics mocked his handling of the snowstorm, with whom did he laugh whilst mocking a Queens accent and drinking a talkative Vouvray? (Of course they had to shovel the snow on East 79th street in order to allow egress into his home. How else was he to negotiate the mountains of snow, by standing on his wallet? Get real.)
I want my daughters to know how intoxicating power is both in wielding and watching it work. I want them to feel free in discussing their inner lives with those they love. But for now there is no talking to them. For now they think our talks are intrusive and embarrassing. They pretend to ignore the girlish gait I have regained. I am the Worst. Mother. Ever. But time will reveal what they fight to ignore now. One day, God willing, they, too, will grow up to become the other woman.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Dead Fathers' Club. Part One
I know I wrote, en passant, about being a co-founder of the Dead Father's Club with my college friend, Alice, way back in 1971. Have I not been therapized enough that this is still a big deal? Yes, and yes. If you are following me thus far, you either have lost a parent (through divorce or death) or you haven't. If you have, you know that if it happened when you were a child, before you totally convinced yourself that death was a reality, this is what it is like: you are standing on a small rug, and someone pulls it out from under you, and you fall and get hurt; and no one can make it better. Because you learn at a young age you are not safe. There is danger. And those who you hope will keep you safe are busy keeping themselves alive. And that is the name of that tune. And when I speak of the Dead Fathers' Club, which I will do on numerous occasions, keep it in mind. The first thing you must realize about children who have been abandoned, be it by death or divorce, is that their first feeling is that there is no one who can be trusted. Adults lie. They will lie again. So how, as a child., do I protect myself?
My husband's father died when he was eight. He and I have very few things in common, but the fact that the truth about life and death can be shocking is among them. He grew up in a Greek Orthodox community. I grew up as a Jewish American Princess. They lied to him, too. We both had stepfathers. It was never the same.
Why am I mentioning this now? Because today was the first day of my twin daughters' winter break; and I practically begged them to come with me to the remake of "True Grit", done by the Coen brothers (love them), about an independent, articulate, wounded 14 year old daughter who wants to avenge the murder of her father.
This, to me, felt like a potentially bonding experience. I mean, I went to the the damn Harry Potter movies, despite my lack of interest, just so they'd know I was there--not that I think there should necessarily be quid pro quo...but knowing what I knew about the movie, and about them, I thought they'd enjoy it. I know, movies are tricky (not to mention the fact that one has to sit through at least six coming attractions. Doesn't anyone remember that we all have short attention spans?)
And I am delighted to say, although they DID ask me how long it was; they enjoyed the remake, too. I have precocious daughters who will, I hope, never truly know what it is like to be fatherless children where no one, no one, can make it better. But that they called their father at work and said, "If someone killed you, I would try and kill them," makes me happy. Is there something wrong with this picture? Ahhh, keep it to yourself. 'Tis the season.
My husband's father died when he was eight. He and I have very few things in common, but the fact that the truth about life and death can be shocking is among them. He grew up in a Greek Orthodox community. I grew up as a Jewish American Princess. They lied to him, too. We both had stepfathers. It was never the same.
Why am I mentioning this now? Because today was the first day of my twin daughters' winter break; and I practically begged them to come with me to the remake of "True Grit", done by the Coen brothers (love them), about an independent, articulate, wounded 14 year old daughter who wants to avenge the murder of her father.
This, to me, felt like a potentially bonding experience. I mean, I went to the the damn Harry Potter movies, despite my lack of interest, just so they'd know I was there--not that I think there should necessarily be quid pro quo...but knowing what I knew about the movie, and about them, I thought they'd enjoy it. I know, movies are tricky (not to mention the fact that one has to sit through at least six coming attractions. Doesn't anyone remember that we all have short attention spans?)
And I am delighted to say, although they DID ask me how long it was; they enjoyed the remake, too. I have precocious daughters who will, I hope, never truly know what it is like to be fatherless children where no one, no one, can make it better. But that they called their father at work and said, "If someone killed you, I would try and kill them," makes me happy. Is there something wrong with this picture? Ahhh, keep it to yourself. 'Tis the season.
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