The Mom Month

Harry Chapin: the man who made the song that has
 been making parents feel like jerks since 1974

As a working XX parent, I've always wondered what it would be like to be a "Stay-at-home Mom," hereafter known as S.A.H.M. Sure, us working Moms go through all of the "am I a good mother" or "I can't believe I missed that performance" moments. And then there's always the rare occasion when we drop off or pick up our kids from some event wondering if the other Moms think we're Slacker Mom. In fact I can even recall a few times when I picked up one of my children from some soccer game or after-school program only to hear the adult-in-charge say "Well I'm sure you're okay to take (my child) because (my child) looks just like you." Nice. For years I've introduced myself not by name at elementary school auctions or girl scout sleepovers but as My Husband's Wife or My Child's Mom. Everyone was always very nice. And I'm sure the judgement was in my mind, not theirs. But geez, a Mom as "the parent that's never there" does seem to carry a bit more stigma than the reverse. (Working XY's, I know you feel it too. One of my old bosses used to break into "Cat's in the Cradle" every time he missed a parent teacher conference or, gulp, birthday.)

Okay, enough whining about missing first steps (I did) and plays and graduations. I do my best. But, recently, I got to explore the mysteries of those who don't hit the bus or the train or the traffic jams. I got to be S.A.H.M. for a month.

No tuna before noon please  

My last job finished in early March and I didn't start my new gig until April 1st. Suddenly, I was a full-time S.A.H.M. (With a strong XY work-at-home back-up if needed right there. But I can promise you, he took full advantage of the break and deserved every second of it.) So, I went to work. I got up every morning by 6:30 to gets kids up, make breakfast, make lunches, walk one to school, run home, get the other one to the bus stop. I can do this. Yeah. Breakfast was easy. Lunch seemed super easy. But after the third day, my XY wandered out of bed to peer at one of my children's lunches. "You know, you can make other things besides PBJ. You can make tuna." Well, I had been making Ramen soup in a Thermos. Quesadillas wrapped in foil. Lots of PBJ's, yes. But tuna? Hello. I would gladly give up my life for my children 1,000 times but there's no love deep enough to make me open and inhale a can of tuna at 6:50 in the morning. PBJ it was.

I was eager and always ready to run a forgotten homework assignment or project up to school. The lady at the front desk of the school started to chat it up with me. I was doing pretty well with this whole S.A.H.M. thing. But the whole "which day is practice for Child A, and where does the kid we pick up (or is it drop off?)  for tae kwon do live again and what time is that?" is pretty tricky. And while I can orchestrate an entire new business pitch in record time or tell you just at a glance whether a tv script is 30 seconds or 33, I can't for the life of me remember the difference between the (seemingly) thousands of randomly-named parks where soccer, baseball, softball and other unidentified practices are held. (Much to the chagrin of my XY, who CAN'T BELIEVE that I can't remember a park's name and location after one or two, or uh, ten visits.) Then there was the early school release day (what day was that?) and the Friday night practice ("What masochistic coach set up a Friday night practice," I innocently asked. Silly me.)

Tuesday and Fridays only

Over the month, the Moms (and Dads) were all nice and happy to see me every day on the blacktop. Yes, they knew me my name (and always have) and made small talk with me as I stood dorkily waiting for my child. The weather was unbelievably phenomenal so I got to walk miles and miles every day, and when I occasionally saw another S.A.H.M., we'd wave and smile. The excitement of my kids at the simple idea that I would see them off and be at home when they got out of school was wonderful yet heartbreaking (cue "Cat's in the Cradle").

It was a fabulous month. An unbelievable memory. A great way to say goodbye to some great S.A.H.M.'s and other parents that I never got to spend enough time with in the first place. But I think my proudest S.A.H.M. moment was one Monday when my XY looked at our child's clarinet case sitting quietly in the corner of the dining room with panic: "Oh no," he said, "we're going to have to take that up to school." But then, I gently reminded him that clarinet was Tuesday and Fridays, not Mondays.

Score one for S.A.H.M.

What boys have that girls don't

No, this isn’t about the obvious. It’s about the ongoing debate over whether XX's could ever, in our wildest dreams, be as funny as XY's. Like, do we lack the necessary equipment? Are the two somehow related? Is the funny bone connected to that bone?

 

Maybe it’s being around people and parties over the Holidays and hearing women, when they do struggle to burp out a joke, caveat it more times than not with the inevitable “Well I’m not very funny...” Maybe it’s in homage to the late Christopher Hitchens, who wrote the often-misinterpreted “Why Women Aren’t Funny” provocation in the January 2007 issue of Vanity Fair.  Maybe it’s because when I walked out of Bridesmaids last summer I said to myself “that was as funny as a guy movie.” (I am embarrassed to admit it, but I was skeptical that a movie about a female wedding party could run in the same circles as a bachelor party. Shame on me.)

Or maybe I’m just ready for a little LOL. 

Because it appears that, contrary to popular belief, science is proving that men are only SLIGHTLY funnier than women.

The study, conducted by Dr. Laura “Giggles” Mickes (okay, I’m kidding about the “Giggles” part) at the University of California, San Diego, featured a whopping 32 undergraduate men and women. After writing cartoon captions, additional men and women were brought in from the outside to score the overall  “funniness”  of the captions and then attribute them to either a male or female author. The bottom line: men did score “slightly funnier” overall, but both men and women assumed that the funniest captions were written by men and the lame ones written by women.  Not the case. And, no surprise to my cocktail party friends mentioned above, women rated their funny bones much lower, giving themselves a score of 1.5 out of 5 versus men, who gave themselves a score of 2.3.

Seriously? So this "comprehensive" study proves we can make funny like the boys. Of course this was not news to funny XX's  like Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett, Mae West, Mary Tyler Moore, even Marilyn Monroe.  I call her out because I know she regularly fought her funny girl image as she wanted to be seen as a “serious” actress.

 

In fact, it was Marilyn’s story that came to mind when my goddaughter came to me feeling very disappointed a while back. Seems that after being cast as Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh and the Genie in Aladdin, she landed the role of Miss Hannigan in Annie. She thought having the title role meant having the best role. I had to explain to her that the comedy roles were better and much harder. My logic worked; she rocked it as Miss Hannigan, no parental bias of course. Suffice it to say, Carol Burnett would have been proud.

Fortunately you don't need a "study" to find real proof. I believe the greatest gift to funny girls is Saturday Night Live. From Gilda Radner and Jane Curtain to Tina Fey and Amy Pohler, to Kristin Wiig and Maya Rudolph, these ladies aren’t me-toos, they’re kicking male counterpart butts outright. They've taught us that we’re no longer making funny like the boys, we’re making funny, girl-style. Agree or disagree but I laughed out loud at least four times in Bridesmaids (including once that reduced me to tears), and only twice in Hangover 2. Okay, the first Hangover rocked it, but I'd put Bridesmaids right up there.

This topic has a lot of mileage, I know that. From The New York Times to The Huffington Post, most conclude that men only THINK they are funnier than women, and women tend to reinforce it. But like the late Mr. Hitchins, I think what boys have that girls don’t is confidence. From what I see, looks like us XX’s need to tap into some of that joke juice. Because before we can convince the world that we’re as funny as men, we need to believe it ourselves. And once we do that, watch out mathematicians, because that stereotype ain't working for us, either.

When the child becomes the parent

Dad passed away yesterday, one week after I wrote the story below. 

My Dad has cancer. Our family is now part of that club that no one wants to belong to. But once you’re in it, you’re forever a member. Your mind flashes back to all of the stories of friends and family from the past and suddenly you’re hearing them again. But this time, you’re hearing them in a language you actually understand. You’ve been initiated.

No more radiation, No more chemo. Dad is dying. The man who raised my sister and me along with Mom. The man who left the house every morning wearing a tie, a Mad Men-worthy hat with briefcase in hand. The man who meticulously twist-tied every single light on the Christmas tree (sometimes a 2-day process) while we waited anxiously to hang the first ornaments. The man who believed without a doubt that road trips were to be conquered with relish. And the only good reason for a stop was an empty tank of gas. The fact that he traveled with three females (two of whom had infamously small bladders) must have been a great test of his will. 

 Dad and Mom are from an era when you do not ask of others. They are honest, hearty, hard-working native Nebraskans. One does not need help. And for the last 61 years as a married couple, they never asked for it as far as I know.

Enter bone cancer. It came into our lives quickly. After metastasizing slowly from his kidney. A diagnosis at the end of March quickly escalated to hospice three weeks ago. A new world. A different language. The club has new members.

His request was (and still is) simple, really. “Let me die at home.” Mom, 84 like him, bravely led the charge. But as quickly as the cancer grew, so did the job. When I arrived to help out a few weeks ago, Mom was exhausted on every possible level. She was going to do it all.  Because that’s what people like my parents do. I took her to ER the next morning.

That was the moment when it was time. Time for the child to become the parent. My sister and I have shared the blurry trek from Washington State to remote Northern New Mexico. There, we’ve helped order hospital beds, moved furniture and art, coaxed Dad to suffer the indignities of helplessness as he took on a quiet newfound dignity, even handed over driver’s licenses to pick up the controlled substances that make him forget the terrible pain that is eating his body. We learned to navigate the volunteer system, hire experienced caregivers in a small New Mexico town (“This isn’t Albuquerque you know,”) and convinced Mom that yes, the retired minister neighbor and his outgoing wife, yes, the neighbor who lost her husband to ALS and yes, the man who survived cancer really do want her to call.  They’re in the club after all.

This trip, I brought my two children. To see their grandpa. To let him see them. In his brief good moments, he shared gifts and wisdom with them. He openly stared at them as they sat, uncomfortable but sagely understanding under the scrutiny.

We’re heading back home now.

An early goodbye with lots of hugs and quickly-wiped tears, an hour and change drive to the closest public airport, a hefty layover and then the last flight. Home stretch. My 12-year-old daughter and I decided to watch the in-flight movie: A sappy, painfully predicable love story.

And then, I lost it. Have you ever seen anyone openly sobbing during a ridiculously cheesy movie on a plane? That was me. My daughter looked over with concern. I wiped the tears quickly and apologized.

She looked at me, said “it’s okay,” laid her head against mine and gently patted my arm. In that moment the child once again became the parent.