Cinderello?

While tidying up one recent morning, I came across Oliver’s Cinderella dress which I hung back in his closet. If you remember where this story left off, we had ordered slippers and a dress, but the lace on the latter offended every inch of his sweet skin, so we returned it pronto. I searched for a new one and came across a brand of Princess attire created by two moms who were sick of watching their kids squirm uncomfortably and end up ravaged by rough lace that also prohibited the dresses from being machine-washable. Their dresses are infinitely soft and pretty and are machine-washable, which I think is a brilliant filling of a hole in the pretend play market AND just good common sense for which I am happy to pay. Ol was very pleased. I know that some people aren’t totally comfortable with -hell, maybe they’re completely UNcomfortable or appalled by- my decision to buy Ol the blue satin dress and matching slippers. All told, there are three bows, a rosette and two plastic images of Cinderella’s lovely countenance appliqued to these items, in addition to the subtle sequin banding and velveteen bodice. And I admit that buying the first one online was psychologically easier than walking into a local toy store, doing a thorough search and then purchasing the prettiest, softest one that was reasonably priced. The discrepancy in experience bothered me, about me, by the way. But we are all works in progress, yes? And work through it I have.

At the end of the day, all I care about is that my kids are happy and feel supported, loved and valued for who they are. And so if Ol wants to put on a Cinderella dress after school a few days a week and twirl gleefully about and learn about how you have to lift a long dress when you walk or climb stairs so you don’t trip or ruin it, well great. I truly couldn’t care less. A smile like this one is worth anything really. Well, almost. You know what I mean; I’m not going to suggest he try smoking or tattoos or such, but you get my drift.

I mean really, isn’t he SOO precious!??!

He is very private about it all and will not let anyone speak about the dress when we’re not in our house. This makes me a bit sad and also amazed that he already seems to know that others might laugh. We don’t watch much TV, and we never just flip it on, so the boys really don’t see commercials or random channels. I have never heard anyone say to him that “boys don’t do X or Y”, and Jack is absolutely amazing. When Ol wears his dress, Jack always says, “that is SUCH a pretty dress, Ol. You look just like Cinderella. Your slippers are so nice. Remember to lift your dress when you go up and down the stairs.” They’ll be killing each other with swords, grabbing their privates, potty-talking to beat sixty, and then Ol will decide to slip on the dress, and not a thing changes between them except what Ol is wearing. I love this, and I burst with pride when I see how much Jack loves Oliver simply because he’s Oliver- all that that may be.

If a little girl wanted to dress like a train engineer or a fireman, no one would bat an eye. And this is exactly the same situation minus the gender expectations and stereotypes imposed and imparted by society. It’s like when Jack wanted a pink bike for his 4th birthday, and Tom was a little vexed, and I was like "Really? You would never tell a daughter she couldn’t have a blue bike!" And that was it. We got a magenta bike with white flowers, handlebars and seat, and Jack loved it and then he outgrew it, gave it to his cousin who is a girl, and asked for a green one. End of story. Simple. And now I’m so proud of Tom because he doesn’t bat an eye when Ol twirls, and I love him more because of that. Each and every time.

I haven’t the slightest idea what my kiddos will grow up to be or do, how they’ll identify themselves, where they’ll live, etc. Their current plan is that “because we can’t marry you, Mom, we’re never going to get married. Instead we are going to live together in a house we build. It’s going to be awesome because we’re going to fill it with candy and iPads and snakes -rattlesnakes- and matches.” If I took that as the gospel, I’d be a hot mess because really, what a death-trap hell-hole. You know?

My attitude is that if Oliver grows up and prefers to wear dresses, well, we’ll all have gotten an early start on it, and he will NEVER have felt unloved or unsupported for who he is. And if this is a phase, as was Jack’s “I wanna be a mermaid so can you make me a bikini top?” which I did and he wore for a week and then shoved in a drawer, well the point is still the same.

Life is basically just a lot of time to try all sorts of things and learn from them. Only in that way can one truly winnow through what he is and is not, what she does and does not believe, what’s important and less so. And I hope that my kids always have this wildly enthusiastic and expansive curiosity, that they maintain much of the “just put the dress on and go” attitude that they have now. Cheers to you, my sweet boys!

-originally published on September 30, 2013

Leaning In

Last July, I wrote a lengthy response to the Anne-Marie Slaughter v. Sheryl Sandberg debate over whether women can or cannot have it all. If you recall or reread my essay, you’ll note that I don’t much like that query: “Can Women Have It All? has always sort of bothered me as a question. It’s so nebulous, so one-dimensional. Truly, what does it even mean? The answer is different for each of us and it changes as do we. There are definite societal inequalities -women make just .77 per dollar that men make in the US; some societies don’t value women at all- but by and large, I think that having it all means simply that you as a woman feel fulfilled, be it in your career, your relationships, your life choices, your sense of self.”

Yesterday, lazily scrolling through my Facebook feed during a spot of downtime while a babysitter was here, I came across a re-post of a plea to moms to put down their phones when with their children. The friend who re-posted this did so with the quick note “good reminder” headlining its presence on her page, and as many folks do need to put down (hide from themselves?) their gadgets, I started reading the letter.

Almost immediately, I was irritated. Written by a man who, as far as I could tell from his thumbnail pic, resembles Marcus Bachmann (egads!), this call to all the “mommas” out there reeked of condescension, chastising us for not watching closely enough every single move made by our kids. The results of this include a sad slump of your little boy’s shoulders, a delighted spin from your little girl that you missed and that she knows you missed (ignored). We are admonished to “put your eyes back on your prize: your kids,” to take every bit of this in and be completely present because the time is flying and soon your little boy won’t ask you to watch him, your little girl (“such a little beauty queen already” – don’t think I didn’t go ape on that phrase; great messaging Marcus) will stop twirling. His obvious belief that our not watching every moment of their lives will be damaging to them and a serious regret to us later, when it’s too late, was extremely clear. I got angrier.

For starters, Marcus, are you a stay-at-home-dad? Because if you are, you should have said that. For me at least, your message would have been taken differently. I may not have agreed but I’d have respected you for speaking from within the army of at-homers; I’d have known that you too are in the trenches and so at least understand the challenges of experiencing parenthood in that way. If you’re not, if you’re a working father who sees your kids one or two hours a day or if you’re not a parent at all, then please shut your trap. You have NO idea how much of everything I, as an engaged stay-at-home parent, see. No idea how involved I am, how much of myself I give most every hour of every day. No sense of my belief that my kids need to learn that I’m not going to watch and acknowledge and praise and encourage every spin/jump/song/coloring page they do. What’s that teaching them? That their pleasure and sense of accomplishment and self come from without rather than within? No way. I check my phone sometimes because I need and deserve a minute (or 20) for myself, whether that’s spent on a round of Angry Birds or attempting to edit a cover letter for a friend I’m helping with a job application. Maybe I just want to glance over the news headlines because I feel so disengaged with the larger world. Maybe I’m double-checking my older son’s school schedule so I’m not late to pick him up. What I’m not in need of is your presumptuous guilt trip from afar.

It is absolutely true that many parents need to pay more attention to their children, to be more sincerely engaged with them, to involve themselves more deeply in their children’s strengths and weaknesses, their development and health. When I read articles about children who are never read to, I ache. When I read about kids who are never hugged, loved, celebrated, valued, I almost can’t bear it. Those things are critically important to our children, and are some of our most basic and important responsibilities as their parents.

But I don’t think those neglectful parents are who this guy is addressing in his treacly note of patronizing disdain. I think it’s moms like me, and that’s why it riled me up so much.

Women who want to stay home with their children and can afford to do so are a fortunate group: I feel grateful every day that something I feel so passionately about (being an at-home parent) is doable. But these women are also a diverse group; some have no help, some have full-time nannies, some are trying to keep one foot in the career world they don’t want to leave, others are attempting to maintain lives that include identities as mom but also as woman, self, friend, role model, student. Which niche you inhabit can alter your experience of at-home parenthood dramatically.

I’d venture to say that most stay-at-home parents would agree that in some or many ways, their choice to stay home required sacrifice. It is hard every day, it is exhausting and not always fun or interesting. It asks that you be your best self so that you can raise and guide and keep safe and teach the little beings you brought into the  world (don’t even get me started on the anti-choice movement waging war in this country right now. Yep, I’m looking at you, crazy Arkansas.). And this point is the crux of why I just can’t get totally on board with Sheryl Sandberg’s call to Lean In.

Her movement, which I think is sincere in its hopes of encouraging women to be proud of their accomplishments and demand equal recognition/pay for them, nonetheless leaves out a swath of women who don’t have the resources to lean in as she suggests. This, I think, is what Anne-Marie Slaughter was troubled by and spoke out against.

Those resources could be financial: if you have a full-time nanny and/or a partner who is literally always there or able to be there, sure, you can lean in; if your kids are old enough to be in school much of each day, you can probably make something work; if you never wanted to stay home with your kids and lack monetary resources but have extended family around you who really want to pitch in, you could lean in and scrape by.

But if you choose to stay home either because you wouldn’t make enough by working to offset the cost of quality childcare (I worked in education pre-kids; I know) or because you really want to but would still like to maintain some sense of the you-before-becoming-a-mom, well, good luck leaning in in any big way. The lack of resources issue. I want to, I try to, but snow days, sick days, inconsistent auxiliary childcare…I’m on deck and have to be even with little or no notice. Meanwhile, your partner -likely, the breadwinner- needs to be supported too. My husband is great and his work enables our life, but when he travels 10 days out of 14, it’s all me and that’s a lot.

I’m not writing from bitterness in the least, but I do think it’s worthwhile to remember that many types of mom the world of parents is. More support and less judging would help us all, to both lean in and simply be able to do our best. What’s less frequently granted book tours and media coverage is that the U.S. has pitiful maternity and paternity leave policies, completely inadequate childcare available to the general populace, a definite lack of extended families in the same geographic area as you would find elsewhere. The village has, by and large, dissolved, and the challenges of that are definite. So when I read things like Marcus’ call to mommas to be even better, I kinda want to barf. When I feel I should be leaning in more, I think “on what? the wall?”

I welcome any change that helps to erase gender gaps in pay and expectations, I laud couples who make the best choices for who they are (both parents working, the dad stays home, they opt against having children, etc), but concurrently, let’s remember that in any decision and role there is nuance, shades of gray that also need acknowledgement and understanding. Let’s keep in mind that everyone starts from a different point, with different abilities and reserves and contexts. I’m starting to wander so will now say goodnight. To be continued, perhaps.

-first posted on March 11, 2013

On Personal Growth in My Early 20s

Love Lost, Life Lived, and One Luscious Link

When I was twenty-three, with a broken heart and a mask of bravado disguising a fragile self, I moved to New York. Manhattan. The City. The gauntlet that is one's early 20s had left me feeling battered, and in work, love and life, I sensed I'd lost my way. Intent on starting anew, I hitched my wagon to a vaguely defined position at an educational marketing firm and sublet the living room of a 5th floor walk-up apartment two acquaintances inhabited. Looking back, I realize I was running as fast as I could towards what I hoped would be a brighter horizon; with youthful idealism and a sense of urgency born from sadness, I grasped for opportunities and took those that first outstretched their hands.

As it became clear, neither the job nor the apartment was what it had initially seemed. My boss,  a testosterone-amped alcoholic, alternately hit on and raged at the females in our office (indeed, there were no other men save for a middle-aged manager who seemed perpetually anxious but was unbelievably, furtively kind). We women, mere wisps of women really - girlish waifs in high heels and make-up - just tried to keep our heads down and our assignments completed on time. The hours were long and the stress was high, but "home" was no oasis either.

The apartment was a long, narrow shotgun with a floor so slanted that if you closed the door too forcefully  on your way out, the freezer swung open and remained that way. We each had a bedroom, loosely defined, but no one had an actual door; the only thing separating me from my male roommate, a sweet guy who regularly ordered pot as you would pizza, was a curtain suspended from a wobbly rod. In the meager kitchen, the most prominent appliance was a hot dog toaster, one of those “how did this make it to market?” fad items in which you could toast two hot dogs and two buns concurrently. It, like the apartment, seemed perennially dirty, crusted with crumbs and grease, though I never actually saw it being used. For this domicile I spent half my monthly paycheck.

Life as I lived it that year was vastly different from anything I'd ever expected or experienced. In addition to New York's quick pace and insistence on independence, I found that thin was in, and meals became lonely tributes to the bevy of tasteless, fat-free fare that studded the inner aisles of my neighborhood Gristedes. Things were hard, wild, and exciting, and in the midst of this frenzy, I lost sight of the comfort and succor eating well provides. In many ways, this was a snub to my family and history; at its most basic, and most damaging, it was a repudiation of self.

You see, I grew up in southwest Louisiana, in a small, friendly town about forty miles north of the Gulf of Mexico and on the outskirts of Cajun country. Food was central there: family, traditions, holidays, celebrations, mourning…they all, in some way, constellated around cooking and eating together. And the food was (and is) spectacular. South Louisiana cuisine is a richly flavored one that masterfully incorporates the local gifts of seafood, spice, rice and pork in drawing from a panoply of culinary traditions including those from Spain, France, Africa and Italy. Food doesn’t get much better than a steaming bowl of chicken and sausage gumbo, fresh Gulf shrimp or a hot link of boudin, and growing up with these ingredients, which seemed as common as water and as prized as mother's milk, you are spoiled; your taste buds' bar is set forever higher.

My sister and I used to crab off the wharf in our backyard and lay traps for red swamp crawfish alongside our house where a small gully retained enough rainwater to encourage them to move in. One sassafras tree, so tall I thought it'd certainly dwarf a Redwood, shaded the northwest part of our yard; filé for gumbo is made from ground sassafras leaves, and I enjoyed that bit of before-and-after right there in our lawn. Sunday lunches were spent at my maternal grandparents' house, just a couple miles from ours. The meal - always spaghetti and roast, green salad and garlic bread, a huge wedge of Parmesan, iced tea and some sort of perfect pie - was led by my Sicilian Papa at one end of the rectangular metal table and my French-Cajun Nanny at the other. He was a fiery soul, loving and loud and eternally demanding "more cheese!"  She was a beautiful, elegant woman, as kind and patient as Job.

I left my hometown for college in the Midwest, and although my undergraduate years were sublime, I was acutely aware of how ill-prepared I was for the academic rigor and how much I missed the eccentric personality of Louisiana. During that challenging transitional period, I found accomplishment soothing, and as senior year dawned, my grades had become nearly perfect as had my waist-size. The latter was not purposeful but the compliments I received in response were seductive, quietly suggesting that my physical self was something else I might "achieve." I aced graduate school on an appallingly restricted diet and started work with a heady yet conflicted sense of invincibility and concern. A year later, things ended with the man I thought I'd marry, and I was devastated. With no studies left to master, I suspect I looked more closely at myself, the one entity on which I could always count. In New York, this came to a head and even though I surely wouldn't have admitted to it, I believe I recognized that in some small way. And so, each time my parents –adventurous travelers and enthusiastic eaters- came to visit, I gave myself a reprieve and eagerly anticipated the restaurant experiences we were sure to have.

The Night of the Seafood Sausage, as I’ve since taken to calling our dinner at Chanterelle, the venerable, now-shuttered, Tribeca institution, provided me one of the culinary highlights of my life despite the fact that I remember only one dish: the Grilled Seafood Sausage in Beurre Blanc. That evening, a beautiful night that did justice to Chanterelle’s looming windows, I paid no heed to presumed calorie counts, welcomed the bread basket with open arms and banished any consideration of just how much butter might be in the sauces. I simply had to have that sausage and ordered it without hesitation.

Et voilà. One perfectly arced link: stuffed with generous chunks of lobster, shrimp, scallops and white fish to the point at which the casing began to shrug with exertion; grilled to a golden hue and slick with heat and moisture; nestled in a languid pool of beurre blanc so ethereal it must have defied laws of physics. I smiled and gingerly picked up my fork and knife. The blade found the slightest resistance in the hot collagen’s taut skin but soon sliced cleanly through. Eyes wide, absorbing the delicacy in front of me, I speared a perfect round with my fork, pulled it gently through the pale yellow sauce and placed the bite on my tongue.

I was rendered speechless. Reflexively, my eyes shut, my chewing slowed, my taste buds thrilled with the assault of flavors from which they’d been largely deprived. My first conscious thought might have been, “I will absolutely hate to share even the smallest morsel of this with my parents.” Yet when you taste something so truly remarkable, share it you must if only so that others will believe your proclamations of greatness.

Exceptional seafood is often best when left to shine on its own: boiled shrimp with cocktail sauce; steamed crabs served alongside nothing but a bib, shell crackers and maybe a lemon; oysters on the half shell with a mild mignonette waiting in the wings. And so in some ways, ordering that sausage went against my better judgment: what if the meat was overcooked? what if the flavors of each sea creature were muddled, the whole made less than its parts?

For reasons then mystical but understood to me now, I took a leap by ordering that link. The indulgence of that sausage wasn’t simply that it was stuffed with incredible seafood or that it was literally full of calories, fat and cholesterol. I don’t remember it so clearly more than a decade later just because it was perfectly prepared. No, the taste of that dish lingers on my lips because it was a moment of freedom in which I learned, relearned, much. I have since come to believe that enjoying food is as much about what you’re eating as it is when, how, and with whom; that if you're open to experience, life is ever so much richer; and that the joie de vivre inherent in many Louisiana families isn't something to let go of.

I have never regretted the three years I lived in New York. There, because in Manhattan you either sink or swim, I started to become my truest self. As I winnowed through the sorts of jobs, friends, men and identities I didn't want, I gained a confidence I'd long sought. That meal at Chanterelle demonstrated to me, retrospectively of course, that even the smallest steps can shift life's tectonic plates in grand ways.