Eventually our search brought us to Buddy. He apparently had spent the first two years of his life wandering the streets of downtown Los Angeles, eventually ending up in a county shelter. A kind rescue organization saved him from an unhappy fate. His information card said that he would be good with cats and kids. In his picture he looked scared of his own shadow; his fearful eyes betrayed his gruff shepherd and hound features. We were sold.
For a day or two, we called him “Diego” but it became quickly apparent that he wasn’t manly enough for that name. He peed if we looked at him the wrong way. He let the cat be boss and lapped up any attention from the kids. He didn’t beg for food or even bark. He simply wanted to be our Buddy.
I’ve noticed that friends who struggled for years with infertility are often the most permissive with their children, and really, who can blame them? Likewise, I think that it was the exhaustive and lengthy search for Buddy that caused my crazy dog person behavior to develop.
Within days of adopting him, I went doggie gaga. I filled our house with hundreds of dollars of doggie items including a blanket, a dog bed, a training crate, three kinds of squeaky toys, collars and leashes, a doggie toothbrush and grooming kit, and food-filling activity toys for the dreaded few times we had to leave poor Buddy alone.
I signed us up for dog training, took Buddy on twice- daily walks to prevent doggie anxiety and bought a host of dog handbooks and instruction manuals. In fact, I’m certain I spent more time reading these dog books than I ever did reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting or Dr. Brazelton’s Touchpoints when we started our human family.
When I had to go to work I arranged for doggie day care and when I was at work I showed off pictures of Buddy instead of my children. I discussed behavior concerns with co-workers. Why did he lose focus so easily when playing catch? Did he have DADD - Doggie Attention Deficit Disorder? Or perhaps it was like I read somewhere, that he didn’t get enough oxygen in the womb? I think maybe the latter.
It was only when a friend inquired if we could arrange a doggie play date that I suddenly snapped out of my dog-obsessed fog. A doggie play date? Well that sounded a bit too crazy. I had to back off and begin treating my dog, more like a dog.
Since then, I’ve made an effort to pull back from my doggie love affair. I’ve forced myself to feign interest in my human children instead - yeah those are nice straight A’s on your report card, but can you chase the deer away from my roses or lick your own butt? I don’t think so.
I still fight the urge to be a crazy dog person but I have to be honest; if I were to fill out that questionnaire today, the one that asked why I wanted a dog, I would look for this answer: “Do you want a dog who will follow you from room to room because he can’t spend a moment without you, who will look at you with big brown adoring eyes as if you are the most wonderful person that walked the earth, and who will listen to your every word as if it’s the most fascinating thing ever said?”
And that would be the box I would check.
8 weeks, 1 day
Chloe’s friend Libby come over to swim this weekend. It’s funny, I didn’t used to like that girl Libby. She was always bratty and backtalky and had this annoying laugh. But then one day she told my daughter that if she didn’t have her own mother she would want me to be her mom.
Wow! That was such a sweet thing to say. How had I misjudged poor Libby so? Clearly, she is an insightful and intuitive child, and is now welcome here anytime.
Libby’s comment had my eldest daughter mystified. I guess it’s surprising to see your parents through the eyes of another. Like back in college when I brought home my boyfriend to meet my family. On the drive up from San Diego I told him all about my wisecracking dad and my funny brothers and sisters. Likely I said nothing about my mom.
After dinner, on the road back to school, I asked what he thought.
“They’re all great, but your mom is hysterical,” he answered.
I did a double take. “What? You mean my dad, right?” “No, your mom. She is a crack up. Why didn’t you tell me
she was so funny?”
Because I guess I never knew.
The Heightist Amongst Us
I recently came to the conclusion that I’m prejudiced, and I think, if we’re being honest, that most people are. We tend to be wary of people who are different from ourselves.
For example, I am instantly suspicious of the perfectly done-up mom who styles her hair and applies makeup before dropping her kids off at school at 8:00 o’clock in the morning. Overachievers like these are just asking for scrutiny from other moms.
And I’m equally leery of the earthy granola types with their long flowing gray locks, scuffed clogs and gauzy skirts, because I know that if we engage in conversation I’ll have to hear the dreadful details of their vegan diet, or worse, their silly lies about not owning a TV.
Though sometimes our biases are cultural, usually they’re learned from our parents. My brothers and sisters and I recently noticed something about our mother that we didn’t see as kids. It’s embarrassing to admit, but she harbors a prejudice. Though we’ve made efforts to reform her, like a lot of people who are prejudiced, she won’t admit to it. She denies it completely.
Our mother, I’m afraid, is a “heightist.”
I’m sure it sounds crazy, but my five-foot-eight mother looks down on short people, and yes, I mean both figuratively and literally. Sure she has many, well maybe a couple, short friends, and she’s not out there actively preaching heightism. I mean, she’s not doing crazy things like suggesting heightist segregation or burning crosses on short people’s lawns. But I honestly believe that she thinks short people are a few rungs lower than her on the evolutionary ladder.
Any time my mother meets someone new, she comments on the person’s height. When I brought home that 4.0, pre-med student boyfriend, I assumed he’d be a mother’s dream. But at barely five feet, nine inches tall, he received a lukewarm welcome. I knew instantly his height was to blame.
Recently, my mom met a couple that my husband and I had befriended, and afterwards I didn’t hear, “What a friendly pair.” Instead it was, “What a nice tall couple,” as if that were the ultimate compliment.
My eldest sister was the first to notice my mom’s heightist tendencies. When her second son failed to reach the 50th percentile on his growth chart, my mother could not hide her disappointment. Year after year, she would ask if her grandson had grown, and whenever she heard the bad news she would lament, “I guess he’ll take after his other short grandma then.”
I didn’t think too much about it until I had kids of my own, and it became a habit to call my mom after each doctor’s visit, to relay the latest findings. Reports that my middle daughter was in the 90th percentile made my mom giddy with delight. The fact that she went on to be the tallest girl in her elementary class was icing on the cake. She was her grandma’s dream.
Unfortunately my eldest daughter became a cause for concern early on. At doctors’ visits she barely checked in below the 30th percentile. Soon I received the “She’ll take after her short grandma” comments too.
“She’s young and still growing,” I would lamely protest, desperately trying to keep my girl in her grandma’s good graces. But now that Chloe is already fifteen and still only 5’2” my mom is not buying it anymore.
I’ve tried to distract her with reports of my daughter’s A’s, or her various awards and artistic accomplishments. But they are of no consequence. She could be a Rhodes Scholar or a Nobel Peace Prize winner, but in the eyes of her grandma, she has committed the ultimate betrayal: she’s short.
My daughter knows it too. Recently, I hung up the phone after another height conversation with my mother and noticed my eldest daughter standing there, wearing a mock look of despair. “I’m a disappointment to you and Grandma, aren’t I?” she asked dramatically, before collapsing onto the chair in giggles. Of course, because of her height, she didn’t have far to fall.
Luckily, m
y kids understand that Grandma means no harm. I’ve explained to them the likely cause of her height prejudice. As a child, she towered over the other children. She was 5’8” in the seventh grade, a head taller than her classmates, and certainly an unusual sight in the 1940’s. It would be years before the boys caught up, and in the meantime they teased her mercilessly.
Eventually my mom learned to appreciate her height and all its benefits, but like a WWII veteran who befriends his Japanese neighbor yet still worries that he might attack him in the night, my mother has learned to forgive the short people of the world, but she will never forget.
Though I’m tall like my mother, I don’t share her “heightist” feelings. Short people have shown me no ill will.
Also, I know that the height-challenged among us are very often good people and have families that they love and care for much like I do.
I could never be a heightist, because after all, some of my best friends are short.
8 weeks
It’s the Fourth of July weekend and it’s supposed to be 105 degrees. This will be one of those rare times when I won’t secretly sabotage my husband’s air conditioning. He isn’t satisfied that it’s cold enough in the house until he sees icicles hanging from our noses. So whenever he’s in the other room I sneak by and crank up the thermostat. Then, about the time when I’m finally able to shed my sweatshirt, he begins sweating profusely and complains, “Hey, who touched the thermostat?”
But I’ll let him have his way with the thermostat today. 105 degrees is hot, even for me. Earlier I half-heartedly suggested that we head to the beach even though I don’t much like going to the beach because of the hassle of packing up the car, making the lunches and the struggle to find parking. Strangely, the kids don’t want to go either.
Last week I read aloud from one of those women’s magazines that you shouldn’t bury yourself in the sand at the beach anymore because of the risk of E-coli contamination. Seems there’s lots of fecal matter in the sand these days. I guess I underestimated the effect this would have on my kids.
“I’m never going to the beach again,” the middle one announced. Her sisters quickly echoed her sentiments. I should have known they couldn’t handle this sort of information. They’re all rather OCD. My husband accused me of being passive- aggressive by telling them about the E-coli.
Who me?
I think it’s good that my husband and I don’t agree on everything, like the air conditioning and revelations about fecal matter in the sand. It’s good for my kids to see two different views. Like yesterday when Chloe complained that there was a new girl at summer school who shared her name. Up until now she was the only Chloe. My husband suggested that she make friends with the new girl and perhaps even start a same-name club. In retrospect, it’s possible that his suggestion was better than my idea of taunting the girl until she decided to change schools.
With the beach idea nixed, my husband decided to focus his energy on the Great Yurt Deception. He spent the morning showing the kids pictures of various yurts in different parts of the state. His ruse seems to be going pretty well. Chloe, our least outdoorsy child, has surprisingly given her endorsement. “I guess it won’t be that bad,” she said. Odd, I thought she’d be the last to cave. I had better check her backpack for drugs.
Tomorrow, the Fourth of July, Chloe’s friends’ parents are coming over for dinner. It’s finally safe to have people come to our house now that the damn yard signs are down. I haven’t wanted anyone to visit for the last month because of those stupid signs, the ones that read, “This family is a proud donor” to our schools’ education foundation. On previous, more flush years a sign has graced our yard, but not this year. In this town, not having a yard sign is akin to wearing a scarlet letter. Thankfully, we live on a cul-de-sac so few people know of our shame.
I feel badly for my poor friends who live on the main drag. The whole town can see if their yard is minus a sign. “Oh, the McCartans can afford to go skiing in Mammoth but they can’t cough up a measly $500 to support their children’s school?” The absence of a sign is made more obvious by the fact that their neighbors have the extra-special Platinum Donor sign, the one given to those who pony up $2500 or more. I heard that the McCartans have temporarily gone into hiding.
Whenever those yard signs are up I like to broadcast my modest lifestyle, hoping to invite pity instead of scorn. It’s not that hard. I drive my dented and scratched “vintage” Volvo wagon to the grocery store where I parade my Target wardrobe. When I run into friends I’m quick to manipulate the conversation: “Is that coffee from Starbucks? How is that place anyway? I would love to try it one day, but I don’t dare splurge on store-bought coffee. So, tell me, are you going to your condo in Hawaii again this summer? That’s great. Oh, us? We’re staying in a yurt.”
I had a job scheduled to start in August, but now it’s been canceled or postponed or something. I haven’t had that many calls this year. Even though we need the money, I’m secretly glad. I find work so irritating now. I didn’t used to. Before I had kids I worked weekends, long hours and traveled, and actually really enjoyed it.
But lately, when I work people have accused me of having a bad attitude. “Let me get this straight. You want me to be on the Westside by 9AM? Oh, why am I acting grumpy? Oh I don’t know, maybe because I had to wake up at 6AM, start the laundry, make three lunches, drop my kids at three places, and then drive in traffic for 90 minutes so I could come here and sit at my desk all day waiting to meet with you, which never happens until 6:30PM, right when I need to leave so I can get home before my youngest goes to bed at 8:00PM. Then I have to finish the laundry, tidy the house, call my mom, and check my kids’ homework. Why am I grumpy, you ask?”
Oh dear, I guess I do have a bad attitude. That’s rather embarrassing.
I think what I dislike most about working now is that I feel a constant need to explain myself, especially if I’m working with other women. I assume that they feel sorry for me for being in such a lowly position after so many years, and that I must be pretty dim. So I feel compelled to tell them that I was climbing the ladder once, but decided to climb back down a few rungs after having three kids. Once they find out that I have kids they’re much nicer to me. I’m not a threat anymore.
Who knows? Maybe these women aren’t judging me. Likely they’re more concerned with what they’re ordering for lunch, or whether their shrug style sweaters will ever come back in style.
What’s odd, is that I never feel the need to explain myself to the men I work with. They don’t give me that look, the one that implies they pity my lowly station.
Probably since I’m a woman they just think it’s normal.
Too Saggy For the SAG Awards
I had a few extra minutes to spare before leaving for my office at the Screen Actors Guild Awards, so I thought I’d try on my old black crepe suit to make sure it would look okay when I had to wear it backstage at the show days later.
When you work behind-the-scenes on an awards show, you’re supposed to dress to blend in. The production companies sometimes rent tuxedos for the men who might be caught on camera, but the female workers are expected to wear their own awards-show-appropriate dress. You know how so many of us have those lying around.
Well actually, from my years of working on awards shows, I do happen to have a small collection of semi-formal wear lying around. But the problem is that most of these items are getting a little old and tired looking, much like their owner.
So I spent most of the weekend racking my brain, wondering what I could wear to this year’s show, but then I remembered this black crepe suit that I bought about 15 or 20 years ago. I wore it when I worked on the Oscars the year before my first daughter was born.
I remember thinking at the time that I looked simply fabulous in that suit. Very chic, indeed. I’m sure I even fantasized that I’d be mistaken for one of the celebs.
It’s quite possible that the other people backstage might have been thinking,
“Oh, dear, the poor child,” but I was confident I looked great.
So I was excited when I remembered that I still owned
that suit. It was surely the solution to my problem. I had paid a pretty penny for it, and I remembered that it hung beautifully. Maybe enough time had passed that it had come back in style?
Oh, if only that were the case. As soon as I removed the suit from its storage bag, I became immediately aware that the suit in my mind’s eye looked nothing like the one I now saw before me.
Perhaps it looked better on?
First I pulled on the pants -- the waistline came within five inches of my armpits. Uh oh.
“Look at mommy’s pants!” my youngest shrieked. “Ha, ha, ha,” she laughed, over and over again.
“Very funny. Don’t worry. I know, they’re a little high- waisted, but no one will see the pants because the jacket hangs over them,” I said, trying to convince myself more than her.
I did have my doubts. The pant legs were quite wide. Really, you could fit two of me in those pant legs. But, maybe really wide legs are back in? Didn’t I read that somewhere?
I put on the blazer, buttoned it and looked in the mirror.
Hmm.
I looked nothing like the glamorous girl of my memory.
Nope. Instead, I looked ridiculous.
The blazer, with its giant shoulder pads, hung on me like it was three sizes too big. I walked into the den to show my husband. “What happened? Do you think this suit always looked this bad? I don’t understand. Why is the coat hanging on me like it was meant for a linebacker?”
I was genuinely baffled.
“It’s because you used to have a chest,” my husband explained, matter-of-factly.
Oh, God. Really? Was that it?
Here I thought I was lucky to have kept my weight down to what it was before having three kids. But I see now that even though my weight is the same, it has somehow shifted within my body. Unfortunately it shifted south, far from where it was needed to help this out-of-date suit.
Is That The Shirt You're Wearing Page 4
