Winning

I won!

I know Good Parenting is not about winning. Good Parents do not think in such terms. Good Parents aim to mold character, to encourage personhood, to cultivate citizenship, to give 'em wings and let 'em fly, yaddah yaddah yaddah. But I don't aspire to Good Parenhood anymore. I'm just looking to survive. And in this struggle for survival, I do relish a rare victory.

Hugh is now 16. When it comes to attitude, however, Hugh has been 16 since he first started talking at age 2. Arguing, actually, in beautifully articulate, perfectly pronounced, complete sentences. A toddler trial lawyer, he soon was racking up victory after victory against the opposition. Us. Me and Keith, the pitiful parents.

Hugh thrives on conflict. Chaos energizes him; a knock-down, drag-out fight gives him purpose and power. Keith, the most conflict-averse person I have ever known, never stood a chance. I am more of a fighter--but I am also the mother of another child and a teacher and a writer and a homeowner and a churchgoer and a citizen and. . . so Hugh soon realized that if he stuck to something long enough, eventually I would get distracted and he could plunge ahead and claim the prize. Which he did, and does, over and over and over again. It's a good thing parenthood is not supposed to be about winning, because we never win.

But I did, last night.

And you want to know the really horrible thing? I shouldn't have. Hugh was in the right. And I still feel good about winning.

It was around 10:00 and I was heading to bed. Hugh came into the hallway. "Gross! Totally disgusting! Sarah's diabetic cat pooped in my laundry basket!" Keith and I had gone for an over- night getaway to New Orleans and Cleaning Sarah had stayed overnight to care for the pets and make sure Hugh didn't decide to stage a Guys Gone Wild event in our absence. Cleaning Sarah has a diabetic cat that needs constant injections; hence the diabetic cat spent the night as well. And some time during the night, evidently, the diabetic cat took a shit in Hugh's dirty laundry.

Without thinking, I responded, "Eww, that is disgusting. So get a plastic bag and clean it up, will you, before Wimsey decides she has a new litter box."

Hugh spun on his heels, threw his arms in the air, and bellowed, "I'M not cleaning it up. YOU clean it up!" And you know, he was right. The diabetic cat was there because Cleaning Sarah was there, and Cleaning Sarah was there so that Keith and I could have great food and great sex in New Orleans. All to our benefit, none to Hugh's.

But he was bellowing. And I was tired. So I shifted into Parent Power gear. "Hugh. I. Said. Clean. Up. The. Poop." "I WILL NOOOOOTTTTT." On and on it went. Sooooo stupid and pointless. Such bad parenting.

And then I remembered. He's a just-turned-16-year-old American male. Duh.

"Hugh, until you clean up poop, all your driving privileges are revoked. I'm going to bed."

All was quiet. He cleaned up the poop.

Cue the theme song from "Rocky."

Caught in the Headlights

"Gosh, premature births are scary."

Hugh sits next to me, trawling Youtube on his iPhone.

"Eewww, I didn't know unborn babies kicked so hard. I mean, gross, you can see their feet."

I'm ignoring him. Well, not ignoring Hugh per se. I'm ignoring the fact that he has anywhere- anytime access to women birthing preemies, to in utero kicking babies.

God, I feel so old. So out of time. Like a medieval peasant plopped down on Lake Shore Drive in the middle of rush hour. Who are these people that post videos of their labor online for the viewing pleasure of my just-16-year-old son? And who is this 16-year-old male-o'-mine who chooses to watch online videos of strangers giving birth while negotiating driving time for the weekend? And who am I? I think I'm supposed to be the parent--but that can't be right. Parents are authorities. They know what they're doing. They're in charge. They Have Direction.

They don't stand in the middle of the street, horrified and confused by the oncoming traffic, panicked, staring into the headlights.

What we have here is a failure to communicate

We like to listen to the radio in the mornings--NPR's Morning Edition.

Hugh comes stomping downstairs. "Why is the radio on?!" he bellows.

I am in Zen-Mom Mode. I ignore the fact that the radio is always on in the mornings. I reply, oh so gently, "Your dad and I like to listen to the radio."

"They're talking about bears!" Hugh shouts in outrage and stomps back upstairs.

Teenagers are just so odd.

Unacceptable

Five days into my resumption of white wine drinking, I have to admit, I think maybe perhaps it could be it does kinda look like there's a chance I was sleeping better and less headachey while I was teetotalling it.

Bloody hell.

Life in iPhoneland

OK. I'll 'fess up. I've resumed drinking white wine, a week before my self-imposed "nothing until" date. I blame the iPhone.

Dweedle dweedle, beep, rrriinggg, brrrooomm, chachingchaching, nannooonannoonannoo, auyoogah auyoogah, . . . until I crack. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" "Oh, sorry, just looking for a ring tone."

"Mom, Mom, stand still." Click. Hugh's fingers twiddle across the screen and then he chortles. "Look!" A hideously fat version of my face stares from the iPhone screen.

"Hey, a Spanish translation app! I told you this would help my grades."

"Listen, this is totally cool." Hugh fidgets on the iPhone screen and his voice, sounding as if he's underwater, booms out. "Isn't that cool?"

Hugh walks around the house, the phone an inch from his ear, blaring out the Grammy Award-winning song "Fuck You." "Great," I say to Keith, "$200 for a transistor radio." Hugh overhears. "What's a transistor radio?"

"Just think, Mom. Now we'll never be lost again."

If only.

Stuck in the "way back"

We are about to enter the realm of iPhonedom. Hugh's in charge of the driving and directions on this trip. Keith, I guess, is in the passenger seat; at least he's the one with the wallet. Me? I'm the drugged dog in the pet carrier, wedged in the "way back" of the station wagon, in between the suitcases and the cooler.

I just don't get the cell phone. I know that's like saying "I just don't get chocolate" or "I just don't get the Beatles" or "I just don't get Jane Austen." I mean, there are things one cannot and should not and does not live without. But here I am, cellularly inept. Not only does it take me an uninterrupted hour to compose and send a four-word text message, not only do I not know how to take a photo or check email or go online or play music or watch videos with the thing, I have trouble using it to make a phone call, mostly because it's lost, forgotten, or uncharged. I think I could have a cellular disability; I know I'm cellphone-intolerant.

Hugh assures me, however, that all will be well, I will be well, once we're settled in iPhonedom. So what the heck. I like to travel. I even like moving. Just hope the new neighbors will cut me some slack.

Pondering the Inner Bitch

Today a friend forwarded to me an article entitled "The Bitch Factor: Irritability in Perimenopause." My first thought was, "Geez, have I become such a bitch that my friends feel impelled to address it via email?" But I quickly cast that uncomfortable notion aside and instead sat and pondered the meaning of menopausal bitchiness. I wonder if it's all really about hormones. Couldn't it be, instead--or perhaps in addition-- the result of a new sense of urgency? Turning 50, I've realized I probably have less time left on this earth than I've already lived and that, unless I'm extraordinarily lucky, a good chunk of my remaining earth time will be spent in an increasingly physically and (gulp) mentally limited state. I gotta get moving here. So much to finish and to start and to try and to see and to eat and to share and to buy and to read. . . so, dammit, wouldya shut up and just get the fuck out of my way?

And then, of course, there's always the possibility that actually I've always been this bitchy, deep down inside, but menopause just gives me the excuse to shrug off any self-censorship and give the Inner Bitch total control.

Whatever. She's out now. It's best to kneel and pay homage.

Ominous

Last night I dreamt LSU fired me and I discovered I really love doing housework.

Disappointments

I. I read recently that if one must choose only one anti-aging procedure, one should choose to have one's teeth whitened. Who am I to dispute the wisdom of a woman's magazine? Thus yesterday, armed with a coupon, I had my teeth "professionally whitened." Translation: I spent 30 minutes with my mouth clamped around a large mold filled with foaming bleach and trying not to gag on the ever-widening pool of spit in my mouth. And then the very nice woman gave me a mirror and exclaimed, "Isn't that amazing?" Except it wasn't. Just my ol' teeth, perhaps marginally, oh-so-subtly whiter. Certainly no one will look at me and say, "My, isn't she looking youthful?"

II. Last week I finally received the doctor's release from my post-surgery boot. When I walked into the hair salon, Haircutter Guy greeted me with an enthusiastic "Hey! Hurray! No boot!!" And then continued, "But awwww, look, she has to wear those special clodhopper orthodopedic shoes." Except they weren't special shoes. They were just, you know, my regular, ordinary, "umm, what's wrong with these" shoes.

III. Awhile back I invested vast sums in a Clinique's Repairwear Laser Focus Wrinkle and UV Damage Corrector. According to Macy's, "At 12 weeks, the visible wrinkle-reducing power is remarkably close to a dermatological laser procedure. 63%, to be exact." Hmm. I didn't take Before and After photos (as Hugh sternly points out), but, well, I don't think I quite made it into the 63% range. I switched to a less expensive ROC product that in appearance and consistency exactly replicated the alien ooz that coats Bill Murray in his classic scene in Ghostbusters: "I've been slimed. . . I feel so funky." I ended up giving it away in our regular Christmas tacky gift exchange. (Hey, one year I received a bag of 1980s shoulder pads.) Now I'm on an Olay product that looks and smells just like sour cream. Fitting, as my face increasingly resembles a baked potato.

Progeny

We're no longer sleeping on the floor. Our bed finally arrived and, astoundingly, we actually learned from our mistakes and paid the delivery guys to set it up. Massive, solid, wooden, it now bestrides our bedroom, a furnishings colossus. It is, very clearly, a bed for spawning progeny. Sadly, our spawning days behind us, Keith and I will have to bequeath it to one of the boys and let them produce the progeny.

Owen, however, is not quite on board the progeny-producing project, as he "can't really see the point of babies." Our hopes rest with Hugh. He surprised me the other day when he declared that he and his future wife would adopt. Thinking that his plans constituted a heart-warming affirmation of his own adoption, I was delighted. . . until he added that his wife of course will be incredibly hot and he doesn't want her figure wrecked by pregnancy. Before I could bellow my response, he went on, "And we're only having one child because I'm going to buy it the best of everything, you know, designer clothes and stuff."

Maybe we shouldn't get our hopes up.

Calvinettes

On Wednesday I colored my roots. On Thursday a box of clothes and a new pair of boots from J.Jill arrived by FedEx. On Friday I got a manicure,today a hair cut. On Monday I am having my teeth whitened.

Perhaps it's not surprising, then, that I can't get the Calvinette motto out of my head:
Grace is deceitful and beauty is vain,
but a woman that feareth Jehovah,
she shall be praised. (Proverbs something: something)

Yes, Calvinette. I was a Calvinette. In the Dutch Calvinist immigrant sub-culture in which I was raised, one could not be a Brownie or Girl Scout or Indian Princess. One might get tainted by the secular world. So instead we had our own uniformed sex-segregated child movements: Cadets and Calvinettes. It seemed so normal then. It was only when I grew up and realized there were no Lutherettes or Loyolaettes or Wesleyettes that I first thought maybe we were all a bit odd.

One progressed up the Calvinette ranks from Gleaner to Reaper to Something to Sower (what would come between sowing and reaping--Waterer? Weeder? Fertilizerer?) by earning badges in skills and achievements ranging from Bicycle Repair or Water Safety to Reformation Heroes and (my personal favorite) Old Testament Women.

Apart from the Bicycle Repair badge, little that could be described as "feminist" appeared in Calvinettes. Certainly conformity rather than competition structured our troop. There was no sense, really, in mimicking my brothers' quest for as many Cadet badges as possible. In Calvinettes, our counselors (mothers dragooned into service for a year) made sure we all earned enough points to move up the ranks in step with our age group. We learned to sew and to embroider (or at least we were supposed to. . . I failed miserably but got promoted to Reaper all the same); we had lessons in how to sit down properly after singing the hymn in church (you smooth your skirt as you are sitting; you do not sit and then half-hop up and pull out the wrinkles); and best of all, once we hit 8th grade, we no longer had crafts and Bible study under the watchful eyes of the mothers but instead "Charm Course," in which two single women in their late teens taught us such important life skills as how to perk up limp hair with a lemon rinse and where to sit in the front seat when on a first date (in the middle). Even at 13 I thought it somewhat ironic to recite "Grace is deceitful and beauty is vain" and then to spend the next two hours learning how to apply blush and lip stick. (Yes, I was the sort of 13-year-old who knew what "ironic" meant.) Still, anything was an improvement over embroidery; moreover, by age 13, a regular-church-going child is already an expert in negotiating ambiguities, inconsistencies, and contradictions. The Bible was full of them; the adults at church, even more so.

Here I am, an aged Calvinette, with my painted nails, my new clothes, my about-to-be-white teeth, and my freshly colored and cut hair (not in the least bit limp or in need of a lemon rinse). Grace is deceitful and beauty is vain. They do, however, make life a bit more livable. I don't think Jehovah minds, really.

Cravings

Day 9 of my Month Without Wine.

A friend said, "And don't you feel so much better?"

Well. No.

I'm actually a better person after a glass of wine; it files down some of the sharp bits, slows the pace inside my head, makes me easier and gentler. And besides that, my body just consistently rejects healthiness. I try to eat right and exercise regularly not because it makes me feel better--it never has--but because it makes me look better. I went for a couple years without chocolate (a long, sad, complicated story, centering on my vulva--you don't want to know more) and at some point in there, my sister-in-law exclaimed, "Don't you just look at chocolate now, and think, blecchh?" I could only stare at her in wonder. No, no, I looked at chocolate and thought, "I want you, I need you, I long for you." And when I was pregnant, one of the many manuals I read advised, "Listen to your body. Heed your cravings. They will tell you what you and your baby need." Hmm. Had I followed that advice, I'd have consumed nothing but hazelnut coffee and brownies--the only foods I consistently craved, the only foods that never made me sick--for nine months.

My spirit is low-fat and vitamin-enriched but my flesh craves cake. And Sauvignon Blanc with a citrus finish.