My Foot Is Too Big for the Glass Slipper: A Guide to the Less Than Perfect Life

by Gabrielle Reece

  “I take full responsibility for hiring him,” I said.

  “You asked me what I thought and I told you it was a bad idea,” he said.

  “No, actually, I didn’t ask your opinion at all,” I said.

  A friend said her husband has a rule, and it’s a good one: “You can tell me what to do, or you can tell me how to do it, but you can’t do both.” That’s pretty much how I was feeling at that exact moment. I got in the shower, and Laird followed me in.

  “Hey, let me fume a little,” I said. And he backed off.

  Usually we fight when we’re tired, overworked, and frustrated.

  When an argument is over, it’s over. Once he’s apologized and you’ve accepted it, or you’ve apologized and he’s accepted it, guess what? It’s done. By accepting the apology you’re saying you’ve also agreed to move on, and not belabor the issue a second longer.

  If you’re not ready to do this, if you feel like you need another seven minutes (or seven hours or seven days) of rehash, then say so. It’s completely permissible to say, “I’m sure I’ll forgive you before the end of the next Ice Age, but it’s not going to be today.”

  KICKING CHARMING TO THE CURB

  But all of this—the dedication to keeping sex alive, taking daily opportunities to give your guy some props, cultivating empathy for what it’s like for him in your marriage and in the world, and making an effort to fight fair—is only in play when your partner is committed to the relationship.

  What do I mean by this? It’s not simply being under the same roof sucking up the same air and eating your mac ’n’ cheese.

  I had a friend who’d gotten married pretty young. She had a great guy. Smart, funny, cool. If she needed the tire replaced on her car, it was done the next day. What he never got was that part of his husband job was also to take a little time to ask my friend how her day was, or to stop and tell her she looked pretty that day. Weirdly, he never asked what she’d done that day, or even where she’d been. They got along, but there was this place where they didn’t intersect.

  It’s not as if we need to be monitored, we don’t need a chip implanted in our asses, but we do need to feel as if our guy is keeping an eye on us, is watching out for us. Mr. Charming, if he is to be truly charming, needs to know when to step it up on this front, to realize that you’re not his drinking buddy, his mom, his sister, or his daughter. You’re his queen. And you need to be treated that way. This isn’t chivalry, exactly. It’s more like when you mist a flower and it perks right up.

  Laird is as good at showing me this type of attention as he is at surfing, but I’ll tell you this: if, in a few years’ time, it was all me, all the time, with the Shiny Eyes and the Interludes and the compliments, and I’d made sure I’d communicated my thoughts and feelings on his lack of commitment and got no response, I would seriously reevaluate.

  A WORD ON CHEATING

  If you’ve got a guy who’s out there actively screwing around, who’s more interested in succumbing to his hardwiring than in making an effort to be in a relationship with you, then don’t bother. It’s time to move on.

  Most men think it’s their own gender out there shaking the trees for someone new, but women can truly excel at being unfaithful. Our reasons for doing it are generally varied and complicated. Most of us aren’t “Ooh! I’d love to tap that,” which is pretty much the beginning and the end of the male impulse. Women step out for a number of reasons: the need for companionship, intimacy, tenderness, affection. Sometimes we’re throwing down a gauntlet. Show me the chick who has to tell the back of her video-game addicted husband’s head she’s unhappy two dozen times, and I’ll show you the chick who gets it going with the pool boy.

  Men are straightforward. Their wives aren’t putting out, so they sneak in a nooner with the temp. But women are devious. We’re better liars and better manipulators and just all around better cheaters. It’s amazing to me that the CIA isn’t completely comprised of females. We’re shifty and, when we get to the land of cheating, ruthless.

  Oh dear husband, you tool, I have cheated on you, and not only have I cheated on you, but see that toothbrush you’re brushing your teeth with right this very minute? He brushed his teeth with it only hours ago.

  A guy would never do that.

  But let me tell you: no good ever comes from it. If you’re going to go down that road, you might as well just have the courage to leave. If your Self on Monday, who hasn’t yet had the interlude with the pool boy, could have a conversation with your Self on Wednesday, after it’s happened, she would probably say, “Don’t do it. Not worth it.”

  But for some reason those two Selves never seem to talk.

  The worst of it is not that you’ve betrayed someone to whom you’ve made a promise, but that you’ve broken your own code; most of us don’t aspire to cheat, be devious, or betray. And we don’t feel good about ourselves after we’ve done those things.

  All this said, I do believe in the value of a Get Out of Jail Free card, especially if we’re talking a one-night stand and it’s not connected to a web of dishonesty.

  You’ve got to trust your instincts to tell the difference. If you have the sense that your guy is keeping a lot of his life hidden, there’s some dishonesty there. If he spends a lot of time away from you that’s unaccounted for, or spends a lot of time going out with the guys and getting toasted, or if he quickly closes his computer when you enter the room, or takes his phone into the bathroom with him (to text in secret or to prevent you from seeing his texts), something’s up, something he’s keeping from you. You’re no longer sharing a life.

  But if the foundation is solid and the relationship is good, you really can forgive, forget, and move on. Life is long and often complex, and humans are, by their nature, deeply flawed.

  And we’re not princesses, after all.

  10

  DON’T GET IMPALED ON THE WHITE PICKET FENCE

  Not long ago I read a magazine story entitled something like “I love my kids and hate my life.” It was about how, despite how much we love our children, and how empty and loveless our lives would be without them, we parents are basically miserable. Mothers are less happy than fathers, and the more children you have, the less happy you are. The author wasn’t talking about joy, about the mystery and miracle of unconditional parental love, but about how day-to-day life sucks when you’ve got kids underfoot.

  The piece went on to talk about how part of the misery might be a result of all the hyperparenting going on, the over-the-top ambition middle- and upper-middle-class parents have for their children, and the sheer daily horror of being in the car so much, “Driving Miss Daisy” as a friend calls it, shuttling kids hither and yon for hours on end, all day long.

  True confessions: I’m a little amused by all this outrage.

  What did people think having a family was going to be like?

  My four-year-old can tell you that the commercials are make-believe, why do adults seem to have trouble with this concept?

  LOWER YOUR EXPECTATIONS, SERIOUSLY

  Buying into the white-picket-fence scam begins at the wedding. No, I take that back: any single chick who’s out there planning her wedding before she’s even met the guy is setting herself up for a big reality smack up the side of the head.

  Somewhere along the way the wedding ceremony has morphed from a man and a woman celebrating their union in front of family and friends, to a celebration of the bride’s need to be princess for a day. The focus is no longer even on the couple; it’s a day of lavish overspending so that the chick will feel magical, so she will feel as if her life as a boring single person who lives on premade food from Trader Joe’s and watches five hours of Law & Order reruns on a Saturday night is about to end, and she’s going to be a Mrs., starring in her own edition of the West Elm catalog.

  This never happens. There are books and television shows and movies galore that are being released into the culture every seventy-two hours that refute this version of matrimony; th
ere are cousins and college roommates and high school best friends who get drunk on occasion and spill the beans about the reality of married life; there is the divorce rate, which hovers just under fifty percent and has for forty years.

  And still, the myth of the white picket fence remains.

  The best thing that can happen to a couple is that on their wedding night, she throws up and he stinks up the bathroom with his man farts. Instantly, they become real to each other.

  So, one way to avoid having your completely unrealistic expectations dashed to smithereens is to attempt to understand what you’re getting into. Keep your head on straight. When it comes to the wedding, never lose sight of the fact that going into debt for what is basically just a party isn’t worth it. Even if it means you get to wear a tiara. Not worth it. Just ask MasterCard. They don’t care if you were a princess for a day, they’re still charging eighteen percent interest. When it comes to Mr. Charming, remember last summer when his allergies were in full bloom, and he flung himself on the sofa for a week and watched all of the Star Wars films, and sneezed and moaned and his mother came to visit and made his favorite cobbler and rubbed his feet and whispered about you behind your back? That is what you’ve married.

  That “for better and for worse” part in the vows? It’s real.

  Which doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot of deep happiness and life-changing awesomeness. There is. But there’s a lot of crap, too. Even behind the white picket fence.

  DEALING WITH THE WHAT IS

  I’m a gig-mom, a hybrid of the working mom and the stay-at-home mom. My career has ramped down since I’ve had my kids, but I continue to do the occasional gig, appearance, lecture, magazine cover, training class, and fitness workshop.

  Recently, I did a lecture and the group hosting it said they didn’t care what I said, so long as I didn’t get into the Mommy War mess. Even though they insisted that I remain authentic and honest and speak my mind, they didn’t want me to speak my mind about that.

  It’s a hot-button issue because all of us, wherever and whoever we are, suspect we’re supposed to be doing something else. When life is particularly challenging, we feel this most strongly. When our kids seem too needy and we’re too broke to purchase new tires for the car and it feels as if we haven’t gotten out of our yoga pants in six months, and our marketing director sister-in-law, with skin that looks newly facialized and a handbag that costs a month’s mortgage, enthuses about her new project at work, we think we’re idiots for not having a quote unquote real job. Conversely, when we’re hammered at work and eating crap microwave burritos at our desk and we rush home to see our kids, who sob when the babysitter leaves, and we try to have some quote unquote quality time and all the kids want to do is watch TV, we think we should resign and stay at home.

  But how about this: the grass isn’t greener on the other side. The grass is greener where you water it. And the grass that is watered consistently and also fertilized is greenest of all.

  Forget those other moms. Or better yet, wish them well. Because for each and every one of us, some days it’s the elevator, some days it’s the shaft.

  Look at your life and deal with the What Is.

  Right here, right now.

  You’re at home with your kids. Good for you. A big part of being a mom is being there. Period. No matter who you are and how you nurture. You’re a warm, sentimental snuggling mom, or you’re a straightforward, no-nonsense mom, but you’re a mom who is there. Your joy and your challenge is that. Being there. With them. All the time. So much so, that you’ve forgotten who you are, besides being the slave to these tiny tyrants.

  This is my life. For now, for these few years when my girls are small, I’m in it. I am the mom, the overseer, and the person on duty. Last fall, while we were on Kaua’i, I got a gig in L.A. and I needed to go for a week. I took Brody with me.

  Other times, I’ve had to go to New York, or abroad, and I put on my warrior/tour guide/secretary/professional organizer hat. I pack up the girls—book their tickets, launder their clothes, match their socks, find their hairbrushes, put together snacks, charge up the electronics, all in addition to getting myself together—and haul them, and their babysitter, who watches them while I’m at work, along with me. Could I leave them all at home? Of course. Do I prefer to take the shit storm on the road? Absolutely.

  Bela, at sixteen, has her own life. She comes and goes. But while my other girls are little, they’re with me. Of course I realize that I’m absurdly lucky to have such flexibility. But just because I’m lucky that doesn’t mean I don’t lose it on a regular basis.

  Working-in-an-office moms have other issues. You’re an attorney, a teacher, a phlebotomist. Every morning you leave and every night you come home, hoping you’ll have some time to be with your kids before you have to get up and do it again the next morning. Maybe there’s a house-husband whipping up the noodles with butter (served with baby carrots from a bag), or maybe you have a nanny. Or maybe you have to scoop the kids up from daycare before six.

  Then, finally, you’re home, and the clock is ticking on mother-children time, and it’s tough. Kids have their own rhythms. You can’t nurture them on demand. On the other hand, you experience the deep satisfaction of providing food, shelter, and clothes—or at least some of those things—for your children. They literally couldn’t survive without you. Also, you have an identity out in the world; you’re not just Sarah and Michael’s mommy. You also get a little downtime at work, hanging out in the break room, bopping downstairs for a latte. The kind of breaks mothers at home never get, unless they’re blessed with children who nap.

  These are the trade-offs.

  I see the word “trade-off” and it seems like such an old-fashioned concept, like a black-and-white TV. Even though we give lip service to knowing that we can’t “have it all,” I think we secretly believe that we can, and because we don’t, we need to change something, quit our job if we have one and stay home with the kids; get a job and put the kids in day care if we don’t. That damn grass is always beckoning from the other side of the fence.

  Deal with the What Is.

  Do the best you can.

  Do the best you can do and be honest. If your kids get on your case and say, “You work all the time!” it’s just something you have to hear. You can point out that this is life. That people work for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is providing for their children. Point out that you’re there for them every night and every weekend.

  Perhaps you decide that Wednesday evenings are going to be your night together. Maybe you make an effort to get off work early that day, and have your one-on-one time or your one-on-three time. You do a special mommy-three-kid dinner night. And maybe Sunday you have a crazy kid-centered brunch. Whatever it is. You try to carve out time so that you can make those moments mean something.

  I’m all for bringing kids into adult-land. It’s all well and good to race home and throw on your sweats and roll around on the floor with the kids, but it’s equally as good for them to come into your adult world. Maybe once a month your kid spends the last few hours of your workday with you. You pick her up, or someone drops him off, and you set up a little desk, and they get to see what it’s like being you.

  Last year Laird was featured on Oprah’s Master Class series, and one day Reece decided to watch it. She’s adores her father and complains often and loudly about how he spends more time in the ocean than he does with us.

  One afternoon after I’d picked the girls up from school, Reece asked if we could stop by the surf barn to see him. On the way, she launched into a rant that shows, if nothing else, the girl has a talent for sermonizing.

  “Did you know that not counting sleeping Daddy spends more time with the Ocean than with us? Besides Sunday, but that’s if there’s no swell. All the time he plans his days around what the Ocean is doing.”

  I tried not to laugh, but I was amused at her ability and willingness to lay it all out there, a daughter’s privilege. C
ould you imagine if I, as his wife, let loose that kind of diatribe?

  Then, from the backseat, comes Brody’s little voice: “Yeah, he loves the Ocean more than us!”

  I tried to explain to the girls that being in the Ocean was both Daddy’s job and what makes Daddy Daddy. I said that when you love people, you try and understand what they need, and help get them it. “When you want to go off and play with your friends, Dad doesn’t guilt you out about it, does he?” I said. I think I might have even thrown in something about “How do you think we buy toys?”

  Reece is no pushover. I could tell she wasn’t convinced and was just waiting for me to stop talking. Finally, she said, “I know it’s his job, but he likes it too much. Even when he hangs out with me what do we do? He takes me surfing. Where? The Ocean.” She was committed.

  I think she moved off her position a little when she watched the documentary. I could see by the expression on her face that she had a new appreciation for what her dad did, for what he has done, and for how he views the world.

  Don’t be afraid of showing your kid what it is you do all day. You can take a kid who’s seven or eight to the office, and let her watch you working the phone, or making a decision or arriving at an agreement, having your assistant coming in and out and buzz buzz buzzing. Then, when you tell them at home that you’re going to work, they know what that means. They still might not have any real clue what you’re doing there, but they know that something happens there. It’s not just this mysterious place that takes you away from them.

  OBLIGATORY BASEBALL METAPHOR

  Often, I think of it like this: rather than running around bemoaning how overwhelmed you are, consider a baseball game. The pitcher and first baseman are working all the time. They’re part of the game, part of the outcome, part of the action. They’re not just standing in the outfield, twiddling their thumbs. The game is won or lost depending on how they play.