DotMoms

Involvement is the Fountain of Youth

By Donna

"I never thought they'd get old so fast," my sister lamented. She was speaking about our parents, now in their early 70s. However, her comments were not about their chronological age, but their mental state.

"They don't DO anything," she continued. "They don't seem to have any interests outside of what they watch on TV."

My parents have not only accepted senior citizenship –- they've embraced it, she says. While in fairly good health, they seem to relish all the aches and pains and other ailments that accompany an aging body. A great portion of conversations with our mother is spent cataloging them all. It's almost as if she is looking forward to the drama of incipient illness.

We contrast our parents' behavior and attitudes to those of my sister's in-laws. A decade older than my parents, these folks have never lost their zest for life. Retirement for them has meant becoming involved with local charities and museums, where they both volunteer. They read, they play tennis and they travel, taking advantage of educational tours offered by groups like Elderhostel.

Unfortunately, my mother and father have never been "joiners." The word "sport" was never in their vocabulary, and I can't imagine them putting up with the regimentation of a guided tour. The only thing they seem to want to do with their days is cruise Costco for free food samples and bargains.

When my sister started having babies years before I did, my folks moved 400 miles north to be near their grandchildren. We have always had a difficult relationship. We're careful with each other on the phone. I rely on Linda to alert me to things that go unsaid. I wondered if I needed to worry about them.

Then, a couple of months after my sister and I spoke, my mom and dad decided to give up the suburban house they’d owned for 18 years and buy a condo in burgeoning downtown Sacramento. A few weeks later, there was new energy in my father's voice. He had attended his first homeowners' association meeting and, by the end of the night, had been elected an officer. It makes sense, as most of the other residents are young working professionals. They don't have a lot of time to deal with the HOA. Why wouldn't they jump to enlist a retired insurance executive?

"Your mother is on the social committee," he informed me. "She's busy planning parties right now."

"How's her back?" I ask, dreading the inevitable list of problems, doctors and medications that were bound to follow.

"You know, it's stopped bothering her," my dad replied. He sounded surprised, as if it was a question he forgot to expect.

He put my mother on the phone and she sounded like her old self -- energetic and lively. And they didn't once mention "American Idol."

I ended the call satisfied that all is going to be OK, and I made a mental note to myself: "Stay involved, no matter how hard it gets." Because involvement –- with your family, your community, serving others -–is the thing that keeps people young.

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

Kitchen envy

By Donna

I admit it: I was naïve when I married my British-born husband. I thought that having family in another country would be fun, adventurous -- an excuse to fly off to Europe every so often. And for the most part, that's what it has been.

But in my starry-eyed, romantic affianced state, I didn't think about the expense. I guess I just assumed it would all work out. And for the most part, it has.

I grew up in Los Angeles, where I still live. However, my mom and dad and sister and her family moved long ago to Northern California. Like many other families, we shuttle between cities for the holidays.

We spent Thanksgiving as we always do, at my sister's home in Sacramento. For years, we've been trying to talk her and her husband into joining us on one of our visits to Britain. So she wasn't surprised when I brought up the subject in her comfortable new kitchen.

"You know, this time of year it's just $700 round trip," I told her.

She sighed. "The room addition cost a lot more than we budgeted," she said. "We're not taking any vacations any time soon."

My sister's family had outgrown their little house a long time ago, and they spent years planning the new space. It's beautiful. While I'm really happy for her, it's hard not to feel a little bit envious.

"You know, if we didn't fly off to Britain every 12 to 18 months, we would be able to afford a new kitchen, too," I said to my husband on the drive back to L.A.

"Yeah. I've thought of that," he said.

"It would be nice if your family would come and visit us for a change," I grumbled.

He didn't answer. We both understand why things are the way they are. It costs a lot more for a family of five to fly overseas than it does for the three of us. And after all, he is the one who moved away from them. We're the ones who have the need to travel, to stay in touch, to make sure our daughter has a relationship with all of her grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.

Three weeks later, we were drinking tea at my brother-in-law's home. And even though I understand why they haven't come to California since our wedding 14 years ago (before any of the kids were born), I could not help myself. "You know," I said to my sister-in-law, "the weak dollar makes the United States a vacation bargain."

"We want to take you to Disneyland before the boys get too old to enjoy it."

She sighed. "You know we want to come. We talk about it all the time. We just can't do it until we've finished our extension."

Our families on both sides of the Atlantic are almost mirror images. My sister and my brother-in-law each have three children and both have spent years in cramped little houses. Now, the other side of the family will be putting all of their resources into a major home add-on, including a large, modern kitchen.

I cannot think of anyone who deserves it more than my sister-in-law, who recently completed a chef's training course and manages to turn out five-course meals for 10 in a tiny kitchen that's about the size of my closet.

I'm happy they're doing it. I really am. I'm just sorry we won't be able to return their hospitality to us anytime soon.

As we were having this conversation, my two youngest nephews and my daughter bounded into the room, laughing at some silly joke they had between them. They grabbed some biscuits and bounced back out, to play together some more.

My sister-in-law smiled. "The boys were so excited when they learned you were coming for Christmas. They couldn't wait to see you all."

I smiled too.

A new kitchen would be nice. But moments like this are priceless.

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

The perks of being a sports mom

By Donna

It's 6:00 p.m. and my 10-year-old daughter still has another 90 minutes before her training session is over. It started two hours ago.

We've been here even longer, having discovered that the easiest way for her to squeeze in some homework is to arrive here immediately after school gets out, which gives her about an hour before her workout begins. Since I'm already here, I volunteer at the concession stand. In return, they shave a few dollars an hour off our monthly tuition bill.

We do this on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and my daughter returns for another four hours every Saturday morning. I don't tend to stay. But the traffic in the evening can be dreadful. It's sometimes hard to decide which is worse -- getting stuck on the road or sitting around the gym while my daughter goes through the paces of her Level 5 routines.

At least, the gymnasts put on a good showm, especially if the higher level boys and girls are practicing their floor routines. It's definitely better than staring at the taillights of a hulking SUV that's blocking my view of the road ahead.

My daughter is in the middle of her second year of competitive gymnastics. It's been an interesting journey. At the beginning, I worried about whether she could handle the pressure of 16 hours of gym while she was going to school. I worried that she would be deprived of her friends and playmates. I worried that she would get hurt.

It was rough going at first, but she has proven that she is a very capable young lady. She finished the school year with excellent grades and actually scored higher on her state tests, while leading her team for the season in points. She has formed close friendships with the other girls on the team, while maintaining her best friends outside of gym. This sport has expanded her world and her sense of her own power.

But what is more surprising is that it has opened my world, too. I have also made about a dozen new friends, other parents who are captive audiences at practices and meets. I had not realized how little time I had been spending with other adults since I became a mom. The competitions themselves are emotional events; we hold hands and lend support while our kids perform their somewhat dangerous derring-do, and we laugh and cry together when they succeed. We complain when the judging seems too harsh and hug when the scores are good. We have fun.

We may have been thrown together by our children's time consuming sport, but now some of us see each other for coffee or drinks outside of the gym, just because we like one another.

As I said, it's been an interesting journey -- for us all.

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

Let them eat biographies

A couple of weeks ago, I inaugurated the first meeting of my informal "Mom's Movie Club" by talking a girlfriend into taking in a Friday matinee. The film was "Marie Antoinette," Sofia Coppola's controversial biopic of the French queen, which was famously booed when it premiered at Cannes. (Read more)

My iatrophobia

By Donna

I am a married stay-at-home mother, with a college education and lifestyle that falls squarely into the "upper middle class" checkbox, so what I'm about to confess may strike you as a little bit shocking.

Until last month, it had been years since I had visited a doctor. That's right –- no pap smears, no breast exams -- it had been such a long time, I couldn't even remember. I think my last doctor visit was just before my daughter started kindergarten, a good five years ago.

Do I know better? Of course.

I was not always this way. In the years when I was in the work force (in my 20's, 30's and early 40's), I made time for all my annual checkups. The ironic thing is that I stopped after I left my high pressure, full-time corporate job to stay home with my then-toddler daughter. I now seemingly had all the time in the world, and it was exponentially less manageable.

At some point, I realized that time had passed and I needed to get checked. My friends would talk about their latest mammogram and I would nod (while thinking I really should get off my duff and get one, too). I even lectured friends who were suffering from various ailments that they needed to see their doctors, all while harboring my own guilty secret.

I didn't even have a doctor any longer. My beloved OB/GYN, who delivered my daughter –- a man I had been seeing for longer than I knew my husband -– no longer took our insurance. My last few checkups had been with HMO doctors, but there was a period when our plan was changing constantly, and no sooner did I get started with a provider than we would have to start all over again with a new one. We've had the same plan for a while now, but I don't particularly like the doctor associated with it. So I put off making an appointment.

Years passed and I had a new reason to stay away: FEAR. It had now been so long; what if they found something? I started meeting women –- other moms at my daughter's school -– courageous women who had bad checkups and are fighting various cancers with dignity and grace. Instead of inspiring me to get a checkup, I resolved to keep far away from the doctor. I was afraid that there might be something invisible brewing inside my own body. I felt good, and maybe I would continue to feel healthy if I just didn't have to know I wasn't.

But as I said, I know better. I turned 50 in May, and would like to live to see my 10-year-old daughter grow up. She needs me to take care of myself, even if I'm too neurotic to do it for me. So finally, I confessed my secret to one of my friends and got a referral to her doctor, who is nearby and on our PPO. I gathered up the nerve and went in to see him.

I was sheepish when I handed him my new patient history, indicating it had been something like six years since my last pap smear, but he was cool about it. We discussed my perimenopausal symptoms (normal for a woman my age) and he said I still had plenty of estrogen left (good news and bad news –- after 35 years, I'm kind of looking forward to NOT having a monthly period).

The results of my pap smear and mammogram came in, and all is well. I am over that particular fear. For the moment.

Now ... about the dermatologist.

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

Yes, I Mean YOU

by Donna

This morning’s commute was especially harrowing. I’m not talking about bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic on the freeway. No, this was even more frightening: the daily fight to get my daughter to our neighborhood school, safely and on time.

Things have certainly changed since I was a kid. I walked to school every day without supervision – as did just about everyone else I knew. Today, it’s rare to see a child walking or riding a bike – at least, unaccompanied by an adult. It’s too dangerous. There are too many cars on the road, too many drivers talking on cellphones instead of watching for children in crosswalks, too many people in too much of a hurry to notice they are passing through a school zone.

And the worst offenders are other moms – like you and me. This morning, I had to navigate around cars that were double-parked, cars parked in crosswalks and cars parked in red zones.

Moms: I realize that your children are as precious to you as mine is to me. I know you want to see them walk through the school gates safely. I understand that it’s sometimes a struggle to get your kids out the door on time, and that you probably have an employer who is unsympathetic when you show up late. But for Heaven’s sake – please stop parking in the red zones! You are impeding the traffic flow, making it just that much harder for the rest of us to get our children to school on time. On top of that, when your SUV is parked in a crosswalk, you are blocking the view of the vehicles behind you, endangering the lives of the children who are using it.

I have a novel idea for when you can’t find a space right in front of the school: park on the nearest side street, GET OUT OF YOUR CAR and walk your children to the gate. You will both have the pleasure of a proper send-off, with the added benefit of the peace of mine that comes from being part of the solution instead of the problem.

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

Not so desperate

By Donna

One hour into the meeting, my mind started to wander, as it always does whenever I'm supposed to be listening to a panel of talking heads.

I find it somewhat ironic that since leaving the work force to become a stay-at-home mom and becoming involved in my daughter's public school, I spend many more hours in meetings than I ever did in the corporate world. There are PTA meetings, fundraising meetings, room parent meetings, school council meetings –- and this one, held monthly by our district for parent advocates of students in Title I programs.

With two hours to go, I inexplicably started thinking of the previous night's episode of "Desperate Housewives." I've been disappointed with the series this season, especially with the direction the producers have taken Felicity Huffman's character, Lynette.

Lynette used to be the one woman on the show that I could identify with. A former advertising executive who had always been a success, she discovered her Waterloo once she quit her job to raise her four children  -– without much help from her workaholic husband. For the first time in her life, the road to success was not clear, and the consequences of failing would be way too high.

Lynette's quest to rein in her kids and bring them up to be good citizens was a struggle I could relate to, and made her a lot more interesting and sympathetic than the corporate schemer she's been this season. I feel that taking her away from Wisteria Lane shows a real lack of imagination by the producers, none of whom are likely to have much experience as a stay-at-home parent.

How much more interesting -– and real -– would it have been to have Lynette volunteer at her children's school, where she could put her talent and experience to the real challenge of improving the quality of their education … with limited funds. I would love to see her find creative ways to raise more money, convince other parents to get more involved, and see her finesse the sometimes disparate agendas of teachers, administrators and other parents.

I glanced around at the 200+ parents in the meeting room. These women (about 90 percent of the group was female) did not look glamorous. Most had jobs outside the home; jobs that were docking them their hourly pay for attending this meeting. Many were wearing headsets, indicating that they didn't understand English well enough to listen without the help of an interpreter. I imagine a good number of them had never finished high school, let alone college, and yet they were there, because they recognized the importance of educating their kids. And in the process, they had educated themselves well enough to follow the intricacies of the discussion of learning methods and theories that were being presented that day.

I remembered why I was there and returned my attention to the panel of experts, and wished I could see more women like these portrayed in prime time.

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

Culture clash

By Donna

My mother was born in Havana, Cuba and immigrated to the U.S. in 1953 -- one year before she met my Massachusetts-born dad.

Growing up, I was very aware of the differences between the two sides of my family. Holiday gatherings at my paternal grandparents' home were quiet and proper, and always ended on time.

This is a contrast with my mom's family, who never arrived at our home earlier than an hour past the invitation, and partied -- loudly -- into the wee hours of the morning.

My parents had different temperaments and different reactions to the events that can rock a family. Some of these were a result of their personalities, but I've come to realize that others originated in the fact that they each were raised in very different parts of the world where accepted standards of behavior were sometimes diametrically opposed.

It made life interesting, in the ways of that old Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times."

After 50 years, my parents are still together. This gives me hope, because I ended up doing much the same thing.

This Cuban-American Jewish girl went off and married a stiff-upper-lip Brit.

My husband tends to wear a suit and tie when everyone else is California casual, because he actually feels better in more formal dress. He winces when I chat familiarly with total strangers, and is forever accusing me of being too loud (in the way that he thinks most Americans are too loud).

I have new respect for my parents and their ability to stick it out for five decades.

I've been thinking of our differences a lot the past couple of weeks, after our return from the U.K. to attend the funeral of my father-in-law.

A death in my mother's family is an emotional thing to behold: Mass displays of weeping. Drama. More weeping. More drama. And this goes on for days.

But when we arrived in London, my brother-in-law greeted us almost as if nothing had changed since the last time we saw him. It was much the same with my husband's mum and just about everyone else in the family. They were all so "life goes on" normal.

I found it admirable, if somewhat disorienting. And not a little bit weird.

Yes, everyone was sad. Yes, my husband's dad was missed. I even detected a few small tears. But there was work to be done, a funeral to plan and an estate to settle. This was no time for histrionics. In fact, my in-laws don't seem to believe any time is right for huge displays of emotion.

We had a nice visit. Our daughter got to spend time playing with her cousins. We took them ice skating. We visited a museum in town. We went shopping. We walked the dog. Aside from the fact that Grandpa wasn't with us -- and the little matter of his very low-key funeral -- it was a lot like every other visit we've made.

And yet it was not. My husband and his family know very well that everything has changed, and now, one month later, they talk about it. Very calmly. My mother-in-law confesses that she has a hard time in the mornings, when she wakes up and remembers that she's alone. Then she gets up and gets on with her day.

I wish I were more like them, but it's not my nature. Like the folks on my mom's side of the family, I'm an emotional person and don't hide it well. When I am upset about something, I am hard pressed to think of anything else, and everyone around me hears about it.

I don't think the way I deal with grief is better or worse - just different. And as I tell my daughter, it is the differences between people that make life interesting.

Like that old Chinese curse.

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

The sandwich years

By Donna

"Call me. My dad may not make it through the night," my husband wrote me via text message on the Tuesday following Christmas. It was my husband's first day back at work after two weeks off spent visiting his father in a hospital overseas (he'd concluded that staying there would not be any more help and so he returned on Christmas Eve to spend the holiday with us in California). When my brother-in-law called us a few hours later, we knew my father-in-law had not made it through the night.

We are now at the age sociologists call the "Sandwich Years," when many of us find ourselves caring for both our children and our aging parents. Several of my friends lost their folks in recent years; I have been fortunate that my own mother and father are younger and in pretty good health. They are difficult people and my relationship with them is prickly; I wonder how I will take it when they start to fail.

And I worry about my daughter, an only child with a mother 40 years older than she. I don't want to lose my health just as she's coming into her own. When my husband gave her the news about her grandfather's death, she just burrowed into his arms and sobbed, which set us both off again. You're never quite sure how much your children understand or how they will react to this kind of news. I vow to take better care of myself for her.

But there's no time to think about any of that -– not right now. We are too busy dealing with the details of traveling to a country 6,000 miles away. Focusing on minutiae like airline tickets, pet sitters and putting vacation holds on the newspaper and mail keeps the sad thoughts at bay.

When I speak to my brother-in-law, he's in much the same frame of mind. After my husband immigrated to the States, Dave became responsible for the immediate needs of the family. He's the one who's been making the arrangements and the distraction may have been good for him.

I suspect when we get there, we'll hoist a glass in honor of my father-in-law. We'll remember the good times; we'll have a good laugh and a good cry. And we'll take comfort in gathering the family together.

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

Fashion statement

By Donna

Is anyone else out there as tired of low-rise jeans as I am?

I’m not saying this out of prudishness –- really I'm not. I actually think they're cute on teenagers (except when they show a little bit too much derriere. OK, maybe I am a little bit of a prude). I've even worn them myself… back in the 1970s... the first time they were in style... when I was a teenager.

My objection to the style is that there doesn't seem to be any other option, even for those of us who are over 21 -– times two.

I used to think it was painful to shop for a swimsuit, until I reached my 40s and tried to find a pair of jeans that not only fit, but also looked appropriate. When I walk into a store, I am faced with the choice of dressing like my daughter or like her grandmother. There is nothing in between!

I remember the day in the '70s when I realized that "hip huggers" were no longer hip. A friend had come to school with pants that came all the way up to her waist. They looked fresh and very cool. I went shopping that week to get a pair just like it and could not believe how liberating it felt not to have to worry about everything showing when I bent over or sat down.

I know that fashion is a cyclical thing and that it's just a matter of time before Paris Hilton or Gwen Stefani is photographed in jeans that hit just below the waist, and the low-rise craze will be yet another "what was I thinking?" fashion nightmare. Anyone care to send them a pair?

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.