Mom in the Mirror

Married to my computer

I promised to love and honor my husband, to care for him in sickness and in health. But as soon as my computer came down with a virus, I abandoned my husband for my PC. After all, Gary can take care of himself. But if I don't clean and disinfect my Windows, who will?

As it turns out, it was a pretty serious bug that bit my computer. Kind of like pneumonia. Well, more like SARS, really. It came on suddenly and spread quickly and quietly.

After spending hours on the phone with the IT staff at work, trading e-mails with a programmer, and talking with two young technology turks, I had rid my machine of its symptoms, but the mysterious cause was still making it behave erratically.

By the time I had re-installed virus software, cleaned out my cache, and downloaded all possible browser updates, I wanted someone to pull the plug on me.

I felt like my very life force had been disconnected.

I count on my computer to access e-mail from friends and family, to connect me to news and information sources, and to enable me to work remotely.

But it's really my hard drive for knowledge that has turned a marriage of convenience into something deeper. I am addicted to access -- to the encyclopedic world at my fingertips, embodied by Google, with its reliability and its curious blend of predictability and serendipity.

I am also in love with the simplicity of the relationship. My computer says itch, and I scratch. I tell it where I want to go and it takes me there.

But you learn things about relationships at moments like this, and I now know my machine was programmed with a temper and uses inflammatory language when pushed too far -- Does it really need to ask me if I want to abort?

If I am to recover from this abusive relationship that eats up too much of my time and money, I must accept that I am powerless and turn myself over to a higher power. Higher than Bill Gates, even.

It's time to take inventory and make a list of all I've harmed. It's bad enough that I have virtually left my husband. But my addiction has also turned my son into an Internet orphan.

Even worse, I have become his enabler, a dealer for this electronic narcotic.

A recently released study shows that kids who are six years old and younger spend two hours a day engaged in screen time. That's time in front of a computer, video game, or television.

As soon as I saw these study results, I called home. My son answered and I asked him how long he thought he'd spent watching TV that day. He said, "Five hours."

He is 7, and technically older than the study participants, and he was estimating -- rounding up, I'm sure. But still.

I asked if he'd spent two hours outside (as the 0-6-year-olds in the study did, on average). He said, "No." He paused. "It was raining, though."

I'm thinking of buying him an exercise bicycle.

Meanwhile, I’ll take it one day at a time and try to spread the word.

If you're like me, here are two steps you can take today.

First, is your computer always on? If it is, turn it off. That will at least delay the inevitable.

Second, later, while you're impatiently waiting for it to boot up, spend a few minutes searching your brain's RAM for error messages -– things you've said and done that just don't compute. When you find one, delete it from your behavioral database.

In the end, this trial separation could be the password you're looking for -- the one that accesses those connections you truly cannot recover once they're lost.

A slightly different version of this LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.

Sticky people

Colter came up with this idea that if songs can be sticky (and impossible to get out of your head) then maybe some people are, too. He's sure he's very sticky, but that Gary and I are not. He may be right. He's like a people magnet, whereas Gary and I are both a little quieter and laid back.

What do you think? Could we develop a scale for this quality (sticky at one end and repellent at the other?) and also a treatment? There are some people who have been stuck in my head since adolescence!

Exercising my inner idiot

Now that the water in our pool is too cold for me to swim regularly, I thought I'd try a treadmill. So Gary and Colter and I headed to Play It Again Sports last weekend. I walked around a bit, checked out the machines, then stepped on one. I flipped the switch and went flying. I lost my shoes, skinned my knees, yelled "Help!" until Gary finally stopped laughing and turned the machine off, and generally felt like an idiot. I think we're going to buy a stationary bike.

Weight a minute

I live in the same Florida town as Terri Schiavo, the young woman whose feeding tube has been removed and reinserted in the past few weeks while her husband, parents, and lawmakers battle over who has the right to decide whether she should live or die.

I learned the most surprising fact about the case in Sunday's paper -- Terri Schiavo is on life support because her bulimia caused an abnormal heart rhythm, which led to a heart attack that deprived her brain of oxygen long enough to leave her in a vegetative state.

In "The Lost Lesson of Terri Schiavo," lawyer Gary Fox writes about the culture of "lookism" that led to Schiavo's bulimia and to Fox's victory in a civil suit against doctors who didn't recognize her illness.

Also in Sunday's paper was a story on how boys deal with weight issues. Three teens were quoted, one who feels he's too skinny, one who weighs 260 pounds and has never tried to lose weight, and one who says a cause of weight problems is depression. Something he prevents by eating chocolate.

And if that's not enough to indict us as a society that is distracted from some core concerns, there is this local rhetorical question to ponder: "Do treats sour the learning process?" Maybe the question should be whether they sour kids' self-esteem.

A day at the dentist

I'm off from work today so that both Gary and I can have some work done on our mouths. I went for a preliminary visit last week and was told I have five cavities -- FIVE! I'm getting a second opinion. Meanwhile, I haven't cut down on the sugar. Hey -- at least I'm not in New York, where bubble gum celebrated its 75th birthday this weekend. Besides, today I go for a cleaning. May as well get my money's worth.

No d-i-e-t, d-a-t-i-n-g or s-e-x for me

I am having the most maddening experience tonight, and if anyone can help I'd be so grateful. Anywhere I go on the Internet, anywhere the words d-i-e-t or d-a-t-i-n-g or s-e-x appear, my browser inserts a link to a particular website. It's doing it in my blog, it's doing it on the website where I work, it's doing it everywhere I go!!! I've cleared my cookies, I've cleared my history, I've restarted my computer, and I've run out of ideas. If anyone has any suggestions, please pass them along.

Damn daylight savings time

I'm soaking in the bathtub for the first time in months, enjoying the warm water, smelling the berry candle, reading a trashy book, listening to the sounds of a family at peace as Gary and Colter play with Legos in the living room. Then suddenly ... there's crying. It's 8:30 and instead of Colter brushing teeth, he's acting like he's unbelievably overtired. I can't understand why until I remember. Really, it's 9:30 and normally he'd be asleep by now. I'm just not sure whether the extra hour I gained to straighten today was worth the hour of bedtime reading I lost.

My son's friends' parents

I love being with my friends. I like being with Gary's friends. I even enjoy Colter's friends, for the most part. But some parents of Colter's friends are, at their agonizing worst, *those people*.

They're the parents I never want to be: ignoring their kids entirely or yelling at them; disinterested in their kids' homework until the note comes home reminding them that it's late again (hear that yelling in the background?); oblivious to their kids' manners and language until it embarrasses them (hear that yelling in the background?).

Now, I've been known to raise my voice around the house from time to time. I'm not philosophically opposed to yelling. I just prefer that it be deserved (even if it's for something else that happened within the same 24-hour period).

But I really hate socializing with people who are so deliberately not the type of parent I want to be. Because, usually, that's a signal they're not the type of person I want to know.

In fact, they bring out the worst in me and are about to tonight as we head to a party/sleepover for Colter. When we get there we'll have a few beers while they get sloshed, certain there's no way they'll even know whether my child goes to bed before midnight because they'll be passed out by then.

While we're there, I'll politely nod and try not to say anything judgmental, slowly seething and wishing that I could handle things differently. Wishing that they could handle things differently. Wishing that things could be different.

And all night long I'll worry. Instead of enjoying the time alone with Gary, I'll worry that the kids are outside playing in the street while the parents pay no attention. I'll worry that they're jumping from the bunk beds, with the door closed and the adults on the other side somewhere. I'll worry that Colter's hurt.

And I'll wonder whether I'm being overprotective -- Should I have stayed longer? Should I have brought him home? Am I incapable of trusting others?

Why does parenting raise so many questions and so few answers?

---

UPDATE: Colter is home asleep in his bed. Everything had been going OK, the kids were running around outside (in addition to the four we were going to visit, there were four neighborhood kids over), and the grown-ups were finishing dinner. Suddenly, the mother of the house jumped up from the table and said, "I see flames."

The kids were in the backyard, gathered around a citronella candle, lighting sticks on fire with it, then putting them out in a cup of water they kept nearby. I stayed incredibly calm, collected Colter, sat him down and reminded him that my brother died playing with matches. Gary told him some people don't die when they're severely burned, they live with the injuries forever. We also let him know he had about 15 minutes and then we'd all be going home. He didn't even consider arguing. And when it was time to go, he left easily, barely pausing for goodbye hugs before heading to the car, where he promptly passed out.

My little boy is home asleep, safe a little longer.

Whose name is it?

I never planned to be anyone but Julie Manushkin. In fact, just the other day someone said to me, "You don't seem like the kind of person who would take her husband's name."

Oh? What kind of person is that? Independent? Strong-willed? Feisty?

That's me, whatever my name.

I didn't expect to get married, and when faced with the proposal and the desire to bind myself to another for life, I really didn't mean to take his name.

Why would I?

My stance was part defensive feminism -- maybe he should take my name! -- and part loyalty to my father and his family. But the day after that ring was on my finger, it suddenly felt wrong to sign my name Julie Manushkin. Like it or not, I was a Moos.

Sometimes, I wonder whether women who kept their names are judging me. Sometimes I wonder whether I'm judging them.

Back when I was about to be married, no one questioned my decision to keep Manushkin. Gary's parents never suggested it would make me a less legitimate member of the family, and my friends didn't point out that perhaps subconsciously I thought the marriage might just be temporary.

And no one questioned me when I decided to "take" Moos (do I have to give it back?). But still, I question myself.

There are some easy answers. Gary's family and family name are simpler than mine. Also, Moos was five letters shorter than my maiden name.

Another factor: Moos couldn't be butchered as badly as Manushkin.

Standing only 5 feet 4 inches, I didn't especially like the moniker "Munchkin." The only time Gary remembers his name being messed up was when a 4th-grade teacher called him "Moses." Hard to complain about that.

Usually, when people hear Moos, they ask whether it's "moos" like a cow or "moose" like with antlers. Either way, I'm an animal, not a short person.

And even at its most mangled, it's not unpronounceable. In fact, it's sort of cute. When Gary's name is misspelled, he's Gray Moos.

Growing up, I was used to people being unable to spell my last name, but it always annoyed me to have to repeat it. And repeat it. And repeat it. My dad actually avoided the chant --- "M-A-N" (pause) "U-S-H" (pause) "K-I-N" -- by using the name "Marsh" when making reservations. But he wouldn't give it up entirely and follow in his brothers' footsteps by shortening Manushkin to Mann.

At least one of my cousins kept Mann as her last name when she married. Another cousin kept her unmarried name and gave it to two of her three children as their middle name (the third child received a variation of it for his first name). I have some friends who did the same.

Not us. Colter got a name all his own, and it had to be just right. Nothing out of a baby book or a soap opera or our own histories. We named him after someone unique and heroic: an adventurer, a pioneer, an individual.

We never considered giving Colter my previous surname, although we did have friends who formed a whole new last name for their child by combining their two names. That wouldn't have worked for us: Mooskin? Sounds like a rug. And Colter Mooskin sounds like a trapper (which is sort of appropriate since John Colter, his namesake, was, in fact, a trapper with the Lewis and Clark expedition who captured our imagination when he appeared in a story told by Charles Kuralt).

Because I was pregnant when I adopted Gary's last name, there was a certain parental pragmatism involved. I guess even before Colter was born, we knew we'd be getting lots of calls from school about him. I figured if we all had the same last name, it'd be easier for them to reach us. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Does it make us more of a family that we're Julie, Gary and Colter Moos? I don't think so. Would it make us less cohesive if we were Julie Manushkin, Gary Moos and Colter Moos? No. But see how much longer that took to read and how unnatural it sounded?

Imagine Julie Manushkin-Moos. Hyphenating was never even a hypothetical possibility. That's because it involves adding letters and subtracting minutes, hours, maybe years off my life. It also seems to lie about the work a little dash can do to blend two families together.

Remember Romeo and Juliet? Would they have lived happily ever after as Capulet-Montagues? Of course not. The star-crossed lovers needed to unpack more family history than was contained in their names. Creative punctuation could not have saved them, because it is not the name that makes the family, but the family that makes the name.

In the end, Shakespeare was wrong. Sometimes, a Rose by any other name is a Rosenberg.

A slightly different version of this LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.

From Rest In Peace to RIP

Colter and I were walking through the halls of his school yesterday when he noticed some Halloween decorations and said, "I don't understand what RIP is. Why is it on those graves?" I explained to him that RIP was an abbreviation for Rest In Peace. He asked again, and another 7-year-old who was with us explained again. More slowly. Colter dropped it.

Last night as he was falling asleep, Colter suddenly opened his eyes and said, "I know why it's RIP. That's because when people die it rips their heart in half. They take half with them to heaven and the other half stays down here."

I think he may be on to something.