Without Warning

It comes without warning: without sign, signal, or symptom.

Then, BOOM! One brief phone call and you go from not having a care in the world to feeling the weight of that same world on your shoulders. The sunny summer days that you've been looking forward to for months seem to cloud over in an instant.

When the rain comes, it feels expected, familiar. The chilly, gray bleakness echoes your current state of being.

It seems incomprehensible that your entire world can change just like that. It takes your breath away. It fogs up your brain and can make the most mundane tasks seem impossible. It even makes you nauseous.

You snap at your kids, burn their grilled-cheese sandwiches, and space out behind the wheel.

The worst is how it sneaks up on you: you wake up in the morning, ready to face another day, happy the weekend is finally here, then the haze of sleep clears and you recall your new reality: all is not well, after all.

Goodbye, Grandma

This Memorial Day weekend, we buried my beloved grandmother. Needless to say, there was a lot of memorializing going on. My grandma was a strong and opinionated woman, especially considering that she was born before women were even allowed to vote in the U.S. But since she spent her childhood wandering from country to country with her family after being forced to flee Marash, Turkey (historic Armenia) as a result of the Armenian Genocide, the inequality of women was the least of her concerns. She was too busy trying to stay alive.

My gorgeous grandma with her three sons
at her 100th birthday party 

My grandmother was warm, generous, and vivacious. She would do anything for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She loved to laugh and have fun. She was a great cook who also loved to eat, and she was always trying to feed us. "EAT! EAT!" was the soundtrack of my childhood.

She was also extremely stylish, took great care of herself, and was concerned about her appearance. Up until the very end, whenever she posed for a photo, she would make sure to take her glasses off for the picture. She got her hair done every week, her nails were always painted, and she never went out without putting on makeup and jewelry first--all this when she was ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD.

She was a force to be reckoned with.

Just as she was concerned about her own appearance, so too did she feel that others should put some effort into how they looked. She was not a fan of sloppiness. Even during the last few years of her life, when her eyesight was failing, she would somehow still notice what I was wearing. If I happened not to have any lipstick on, sure enough I'd hear about it: "Honey, why don't you put on a little lipstick? It looks so nice." She was almost blind yet she could tell I wasn't wearing lipstick from across the room? Hmm...I never quite figured that one out.

Even in her late 90s, my grandma was still willing to get
down on the floor to play with her great-grandchildren.

Whenever I knew that I was going to see my grandmother, I would put extra thought into my outfit. So on Thursday, as I was packing and getting dressed for the trip up to Massachusetts for the wake and funeral, I chose what I was going to wear carefully. I wanted to pay my respects to my dear grandma by looking the way she would have wanted me to look.

(I wish I could believe that she was watching us from above, but I don't--not really. It's a nice thought, though, and who knows.... So I made sure to look nice just in case.)

And you can bet that I most definitely wore lipstick.

Grandma, you are still in my head...and you will always be in my heart. Forever.

I miss you.

Come as You Were: The Return of Grunge

Grunge fashion is back, doncha know?

Yeah, yeah, we've been hearing about the return of grunge for ages, but apparently, the fashion houses are ratcheting it up a notch these days. In yesterday's Style section, the New York Times featured an article about grunge fashion that really went deep into the way early 90s trends are finding their way into high fashion: "Subversion in myriad forms was being commodified on the catwalks....in recent months, the era of Nirvana, Starbucks and heroin chic has been exploited with a rarefied twist."

Ugh, don't you just hate pretentious fashion mumbo-jumbo?

So, despite the fact that actual grunge fashion was basically about wearing old flannel shirts you bought at the thrift store, patching (and re-patching) your ancient ripped jeans until they could be patched no more, and then finishing off the "look" with Doc Martens (usually the only new item in the whole ensemble), various high-end designers, such as Helmut Lang, Dries Van Noten, Jil Sander, 3.1 Phillip Lim, and Saint Laurent are co-opting grunge styles.

Designers have always looked to the past for inspiration. In the 90s, flared hippyish pants (stolen from the 70s) were in style, while more recently, fashion houses tried--and failed, thank god--to bring back 80s day-glo.

But with the resurgence of grunge era fashion, it's the first time that the clothing of my young adulthood--the styles I (supposedly) wore when I was first on my own and trying to find my place in the world--is being co-opted by the fashion houses.

Not surprisingly, they are getting it completely wrong. The fashions they are copying--the layered, plaid, flannel shirts, the ripped black outfits--are what people think was worn back then. But it wasn't really. Maybe the icons of the era--Eddie Vedder, Kurt Cobain, etc.--wore stuff like that, but normal, everyday young women sure didn't.

Here is the heroin-chic grunge look as romanticized by 3.1 Phillip Lim:

Note the plaid shirt tied around the waist, the ironic (or is it meta?) T-shirt, Doc Marten-esque clunky black boots, and short skirt. A short skirt in the early 90s? Uh-uh, wrong.

In reality, girls just weren't this cool back then. Mostly we wore ill-fitting floral prairie dresses with tights and Doc Marten rip-offs. Or overalls. Let's not forget the lovely Farmer Jane look that was so popular then. Our jeans were stone-washed and high-waisted, and our hair was full of split ends.



Here is what the early 90s actually looked like:

These are authentic photos of actual young adults living the dream in 1991. The photos were taken in Missoula, Montana--where many kids from the Northwest went to college, bringing their "grunge" fashions with them.

(Interesting story: the guy with the long hair was from Spokane, Washington, played guitar, and actually KNEW the dudes from Alice in Chains. He had been in Montana for a while and was living without TV, so when I informed him that "Man in a Box" was on heavy rotation on MTV, he almost pooped his pants.)


Do you see any plaid flannel? No. Do our outfits scream HEROIN CHIC? No. White shirts, jeans, sandals--that was pretty much it.

We wore old clothes because we couldn't afford to buy new ones. We all definitely had Doc Marten-type shoes and even a plaid flannel or two, but it's not as if we dressed like Kim Deal every day of the week.

When I see the models strutting down the runway wearing their fake-grunge get-ups, it makes feel like I'm mis-remembering the era.

Was it really that sexy and dangerous? Did we really have such a laconic, jaded, f-off approach to life? Did I miss something?

No, I didn't miss anything. Because I was living it. It just didn't actually look like that. Besides, it was the music that was interesting, not the fashion.

Regardless of how much over-priced designer plaid flannel is bought by the naive masses, the feeling of excitement upon hearing, for the first time, a brand-new song called "Smells Like Teen Spirit" is never coming back.

Mama's Gonna Help Build the Wall

You hear a lot about attachment parenting these days. I'm all for it: I carried my babies on my body more than I pushed them in a stroller, I breastfed both kids until they were old enough to ask for it using four-word sentences and perfect grammar, I co-slept with my youngest until she was one, I never let my babies "cry it out," etc., etc. I'm no Mayim Bialik but I truly believe a parent cannot "spoil" a baby.

With my babies in 2008--
safe and sound

The problem with attachment parenting, however, is that you can spoil a toddler. And that's when things get difficult. At some point, you have to begin detaching.

Some kids will separate on their own. They'll strut into the classroom without looking back (and break your heart in the process). But most kids need a little push.

A push to go off and explore on their own, without mommy or daddy holding their hand. A push to make their own discoveries, accomplish their own feats, and, yes, make their own mistakes. They need to get hurt, because unless they learn and understand on their own where the dangers lie, they won't be able to protect themselves as they get older. They also need alone time to learn how to amuse themselves, and soothe themselves, too,

It's a fine line. Too much coddling and they might end up clingy and insecure. Too little coddling--too much detachment and "tough love"--and they might end up, well, clingy and insecure. 

I think I've established a good balance. My kids are reasonably confident and independent, yet they also have a healthy awareness of potential dangers. They are happy to go off and play or explore by themselves but they know not to venture too far, do anything too risky, or talk to strangers. 

Non-helicopter parenting can be scary. In addition to worrying about the Big Horrible Things that could happen, there are the everyday smaller-but-still-scary moments to deal with. For example, at this moment my kids are playing outside. They've been out there for hours while I've been doing some much-needed spring cleaning. I think they're in the back yard--at least that's where they were 20 minutes ago when I last checked--but I don't see or hear them. Am I worried? No. Well, a tiny part of me thinks they could've gone off and gotten themselves lost, run over, or abducted. While my rational side knows that's ridiculous, it doesn't mean I don't worry.

I imagine it's only going to get harder as my kids get older and the dangers become increasingly likely to actually occur. After all, the chances of a toddler sustaining serious injury while on the playground, or running off and getting himself kidnapped are slim. But it sure seems like the odds of an older child getting into real, serious trouble are much more likely. When I think about all the potential dangers that lurk down the road, I break out into a cold sweat.

I'd do anything to protect them.

And then Pink Floyd pops into my head:

Hush now baby, baby don't you cry
Mama's gonna make all of your
Nightmares come true
Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you
Mama's gonna keep you right here
Under her wing
She won't let you fly but she might let you sing
Mama will keep baby cosy and warm
Ooooh Babe Ooooh Babe Ooooh Babe
Of course Mama's gonna help build the wall

What sounded atrocious to me when I first listened to "The Wall" back in high school doesn't sound quite so awful now. I get it. It almost sounds appealing.

And that's the scariest part of all.

Who Knew Smacking My Kids Would Actually Work?

Before you trip all over yourselves rushing to the phone to call Child Services, of course I don't actually hit hit my children. I've never even spanked them--not really, anyway.

See, I'm very physical with my kids: I am always hugging, grabbing, squeezing, tickling, and generally smooshing them. They are still young enough to allow me to maul them, and you'd better believe I'm taking advantage of this. Because I know that the day is coming--very soon--when they won't want me touching them with a ten-foot pole, let alone my actual arms. Sigh.

Along with the hugging and kissing comes rough-housing--wrestling, butt pats and grabs, pretend torture, etc. One of my son's favorite games (which he's loved since he was two) is called Red Ants and involves me giving him tiny pinches all over his body while yelling "RED ANTS! RED ANTS! RED ANTS!" (Hey, I never claimed it was a good game.)

Well, a few weeks ago, I'd had it up to here with my son's lack of pleases and thank yous. This kid is the sweetest, most considerate boy you'll ever meet, so his rudeness was confounding, especially since he used to be very polite as a toddler.

I was always saying, "'Can I have some cereal'........what?" or, after handing him something on a silver platter, "What do you say?" (in that horrible lilting voice us moms use when we are this close to strangling our adorable spawn). I got so sick and tired of hearing myself, I felt like bashing my head against the wall until I could no longer speak.

It was sort of like the older he got, the more demanding he decided to be. Oh, hell no.

So I made an announcement: "From now on, if you don't say please or thank you, I'm going to slap you across the face. Like this." And I gave him a tap on the cheek. Nothing that would hurt him, of course--just a little something to get his attention. Before the slap, I would give him a glare--a last chance kind of thing.

It was all done in a tongue-in-cheek way. I treated it sort of like a joke (except that it wasn't)--never angry, always slyly smiling. My son would nervously laugh every time he got a slap.

But my point was clear.

And I'll be damned if it didn't work! Like a charm.

After no time, all he needed was the glare and he'd be pleasing and thank you-ing up a storm.

And now he just does it! A regular little gentleman he is.

Hey, it worked for me.

Turtleneck Man, Dalmatian Man, Arm Man...Oh, My!

During college--especially freshman year when we hadn't met many people yet--my new dorm friends and I did that thing where we gave people we continually saw around campus but didn't know nicknames. I remember doing this mostly with hot upper-classmen guys. We had no idea who they were (yet!) but we talked about them so much that we needed identifiers. Let's see, there was Turtleneck Man (my crush--he was very JCrew), Dalmatian Man (my roommate's crush--hippie dude who walked his dalmatian around campus), and Arm Man (lovely, muscley arms, duh), just to name a few.

We later discovered their real names: John, Glenn, and Steve. The nicknames were much more fun. There was a thrilling sense of mystery--who were these guys and what might the future hold?--that you just don't get with a John, Glenn, or Steve.

There were a few girls/women we named, too. We poured over the freshman Facebook (a book with photos of all incoming freshman--yeah, The Facebook was a cool college thing before Zuckerberg and the Internet turned it into a needy housewife thing) and even though names were included with the photos, the wise-asses on our dorm floor sometimes gave nicknames to the odd ducks. The one I remember best was Ugly Susan. I think her name was Eunice in real life and, as I recall, she was quite dorky-looking, and we resembled each other not at all. But one of the guys saw something there, so.... (I was just happy she was Ugly Susan instead of Pretty Susan).

After college, I moved to NYC, and there was no longer any need for these nicknames. There are just too many people in Manhattan--you don't tend to repeatedly run into the same people unless you already know them. Sure, there's Deli-Worker Guy and Creepy Dude from Downstairs; but because these people aren't terribly interesting, you don't talk about them much and therefore only need basic identifiers, rather than cute nicknames.

Abs of Steel has two young kids,
so her abs are extra-impressive!

But once my husband and I moved to the suburbs, nicknames became necessary again. We began to see the same strangers over and over again around town. We needed a quick way to identify these folks: That Blonde Mom With The Two Girls Who We See At The Pool just wasn't cutting it.

What Sven looks like

My husband, who has a seriously awesome way with words, is usually the nicknamer. Pretty soon we were talking about Abs of Steel (a super-fit, bikini-wearing mom we'd see at the pool), Sven (a Nordic-looking, convertible-Beemer-driving dad with long blonde hair), and Robert Plant (who's nickname really should be Schlubby Robert Plant, because I only wish we had a dude who looked like RP in town). It made conversations much easier.

NOT, unfortunately, what our
Robert Plant looks like (except
maybe the hair)

But unlike at college where we didn't usually end up becoming friendly with those hot upperclassmen or nerdy freshman we nicknamed, once you've lived in a small town for five or six years, you tend to start meeting people.

Yup, we now officially know Abs of Steel. And Sven, too. AWK-WARD!

Nice folks, though.

I Will Not Allow My Kids to Drown Me in Paper

I feel kinda bad throwing out my kids' artwork, I really do. But it's not as if I can keep EVERYTHING. Especially with this bout of cold of weather we've been having (yeah, it's called winter). All that indoor recess at my son's school equals dozens of flip books, paper monsters, and paper airplanes being brought home. Mountains of paper! And it's not even the good kind of paper, it's that thin, highly-rippable manilla crap public schools can afford love.

And then there's the junk masterpieces my little princess brings home from preschool. All I can say is, thank goodness she only goes three days per week.

I try to be sneaky about throwing their stuff out. I shove it way in the back of the recycling bag we've always got going. But inevitably, my son, who's an epic trash collector (he's about one bad-parenting episode away from growing up to be "Hoarders" material), will notice the corner of bright red paper peeking out from behind the truck-load of newspaper.

"HEY! WHY ARE YOU THROWING AWAY THE PAPER AIRPLANE/MONSTER/GIANT SQUID/GERM I MADE?"

Sigh.

So out it comes to live another day, adding to the general squalor of our family room, and getting increasingly wrinkled and ripped until it's sufficiently forgotten about (or, as is more likely the case, replaced by 10,000 newer pieces of junk) that I can shove it back into the recycling bag. But this time I make sure to push it way, way down to the bottom so no telltale red is visible to my son's eagle eyes.

Seriously, how is it that he can't find his socks lying in the middle of the family room when I'm screaming at him to get dressed in the morning so he doesn't miss the bus, but he can detect a millimeter of red paper poking out over the newspapers in a bag all the way across the room?

I've heard of selective hearing, but now apparently there's selective seeing, too.

Hey, I'm not a monster. I keep some stuff. But unlike some moms who are all, "OH, THIS IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING EVER BECAUSE MY GIFTED, PERFECT CHILD CREATED IT!" I'm able to see things as they really are.

And fruit of my loins or not, my kids can make some crap.

So while this gorgeous piece of art my son created (which I love so much I went so far as to frame it--see? I'm not horrible) that helps me recall the beauty of spring when it's 10 degrees outside is a keeper:

This one is not:

Sure, it's purty, but if your kid cranked out masterpieces the way mine does, you'd be choosy, too. So, goodbye, colorful leaf!

And this drawing by my daughter that might just look like a bunch of scribbles to you, but which is actually an adorable rendition of the My Little Pony pegasi Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy (notice the wings?) is a keeper:

(I especially love the way she runs out of room for her name and is just like "screw it" and puts the "TTE" at the beginning. Note to any pregnant ladies out there: think long and hard before you give your child a name that's longer than five letters, because it's just cruel.)

This one, however, is destined for the circular file:

Yeah, it's cute and all. But what does it tell about my daughter, really? That she can use a glue stick and make a couple of scribbles, that's what. Adios, Elmer Elephant!

I just hope I'm not scarring them for life.