Mom in the Mirror

Why I'm a shrew

I hate having to repeat myself.

I especially hate having to repeat myself three or more times.

And I hate realizing that even after I've repeated myself there's a good chance the TV is still on, the clothes are still off, my request is still hanging in the air, waiting for a response.

There are many good reasons my son doesn't listen to me the first time:

• He doesn't hear me.
• He doesn't want to hear me.
• He doesn't want to do what I've asked.
• He knows I'll keep repeating my request in a louder and more insistent voice and then he can make me feel bad about "always yelling."
• He's an 8-year-old boy.

Have I forgotten anything?

Not home yet

On Sunday, we excorcised in our new house. Well, not really, but I did ring bells throughout the house and light incense and do all kinds of voo-doo I don't normally do. As Gary put it, it isn't that we want the spirits to leave, just that we want them to find peace.

Unfortunately, we know way too much about the house's previous owners and even though we're knocking out ceilings, pulling out carpet, and painting practically every surface, some bad vibes remain.

So, in addition to communing with the spirits yesterday, I also hung out in the sun room and read a book while Gary worked on the house.

Slowly, it is becoming ours. And quickly, we will be moving in.

What did you do to make your house a home?

Just showing up

Gary and I went to Colter's school yesterday for an assembly to acknowledge him and all the other 3rd-5th grade students who distinguished themselves for various reasons. Colter made the honor roll (all As and Bs) for the first grading period this year and we were -- and remain -- very proud of him.

I wasn't surprised he made the honor roll since we've been monitoring his progress pretty closely. What SHOCKED me at this assembly was the number of kids who had perfect attendance. Perfect. As in, they haven't missed a day of school all year. How do they do that? How do their parents do it?

It was also interesting to see that many of the kids who made the principal's list (all As) had perfect attendance.

I guess Woody Allen was right: "Eighty percent of success is showing up."

Do your kids have perfect attendance? If so, what's the secret?

Life is like a sandwich

Some days it feels like my life is a sandwich piled too high for me to lift, let alone digest.

I sort through my list of "to do"s as if they are groceries and think, "What can I take out of the cart?" How can I take some meat or cheese or lettuce or tomato or mustard or mayo off all that I sandwich into my days? What adds flavor and spice and what is simply oozing out and making a mess?

It comes to this: How do I spend my time? How would I rather spend it?

Like many women in their late 30s, I am a working mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend. I have trouble saying "no." And I have even more trouble after I say "yes."

I am over-committed and under-satisfied.

I miss the days when I had nothing to do.

I forget that I'm the one who made choices that led me from nothing to all.

I'm a natural multi-tasker. In high school, I could do my homework, talk on the phone, and watch TV all at the same time. These days, I talk on the phone, answer e-mail, and surf the Internet simultaneously. But I often feel I'm not doing anything fully or well. My attention is diverted from what's happening to what's next.

Still, I don't want to give up anything that matters to me: evenings with my son and husband, books I love to read, writing, working with other mothers as they capture and share their experiences.

I don't want to do less. I want to have more time.

I want to add to my list: exercise, play piano, learn to garden. We're about to move into a new home. I want to make it ours, spend days browsing boutiques for knick-knacks that fill just the right sunny spot in the kitchen. I want to call my aunt who has been sick and my sister-in-law when she's struggling. I want to spend more time at temple, learning and celebrating Shabbat: rest.

And yet at the end of most days, when I look back on all I've accomplished, I feel great and full. Sometimes bloated.

At the end of my 30s, I want to look back on the years and know that it's the quality of emotional calories that fuel me, not just the quantity that fills me.

I want to see a life sliced thinner, with a subtler texture and taste -- a bite-sized life where I'm never chewing on more than I can swallow.

And I want to look forward, to menopause especially, when I'll need less sleep.

This LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.

Potty mouth

From the time Colter was a young baby, we referred to his bodily functions as "peeing" and "booping." I have no idea how we happened on "boop" instead of "poop" or some other euphemism. But that's what we said, that's what Colter learned, and that's still our language.

It's funny to me how different families develop their own codes for things. It reminds me a bit of the "Rugrats" and how those cartoon characters create words that are recognizable but unique.

Colter was laughing at me last night because of a word I made up after I got a ticket for parking in a spot with an expired meter. When it happened months ago, I told him it wasn't illegal, it was post-legal (because it was a legal spot when I put my coins in the meter, but no longer legal after my time expired).

What special language does your family use?

Is perfectionism genetic?

There's no question that Colter inherited whatever perfectionist tendency caused him to feel disappointed when he learned yesterday that he made the honor roll but not the principal's list. The question is whether this inheritance was given to him by nature or nurture. In other words, is it in my genes or in myself?

There is evidence that suggests there is a link between perfectionism and giftedness. Perfectionism is one of the many ways in which "giftedness" is less "gift" than it might seem.

Over the years we've come to understand that Colter's giftedness means mostly that he processes the world differently, and this style of thinking is almost definitely biological even though it manifests itself in seemingly psychological symptoms.

But I have to be honest -- I'm not a very good model of mediocrity. Although I expect totally reasonable things of my son, I expect unreasonable things of myself. So, no matter how often I told Colter I was proud of him, he probably sensed (each time) the hypocrisy: I would not have been satisfied if it had been me who landed on the honor roll and not the principal's list.

In a commencement speech she delivered at Mt. Holyoke College, Anna Quindlen -- one of my favorite writers -- offered what may be the most compelling reason I've heard to give up on the holy grail of perfection.

...another reason that you must give up on being perfect and take hold of being yourself is because sometime, in the distant future, you may want to be parents, too. If you can bring to your children the self that you truly are, as opposed to some amalgam of manners and mannerisms, expectations and fears that you have acquired as a carapace along the way, you will give them, too, a great gift. You will teach them by example not to be terrorized by the narrow and parsimonious expectations of the world, a world that often likes to color within the lines when a spray of paint, a scrawl of crayon, is what is truly wanted.

I want Colter to draw the world as he sees it. I want him to be able to look at his drawing of the world and appreciate it. I want him to enjoy his successes and learn from his failures. So, I must do the same.

Any advice for this recovering perfectionist?

Take a number

There are some addresses and phone numbers I cannot get out of my head. Like, "Write Zoom, Z-double-O-M, Box 350, Boston, Mass, 0-2-1-3-4" ... or "588-2300, EMPIRE."

I can still remember the address of the house where I grew up: 416 Beverly Drive. But I can't remember my childhood phone number. Or the phone number after that (110 Carriage Way), or the phone number after that. My stepmother recently moved from the home we lived in for 20 years, and I can't get that phone number out of my mind or remember her new home number.

I was thinking about this because I just learned that when we move in a few weeks, we'll have a new phone number. Which means Colter will need to learn a new home number and address.

It seems like such a small thing, but when I told him, he was really upset. More upset than he's been about anything else related to this move, so far. And in a way I can't explain, I understand.

What is it about some numbers?

Moms in the news

I heard a story on NPR recently about a town in Italy that offers €10,000 (£6,863) to any woman who produces a baby. They call it a "baby bonus." It turns out Italian women typically have only one child, in part because only 6 percent of husbands help with chores. Who does what in your house (here's how it works in mine)?

My husband's clothes

There are times when all I want to wear is one of Gary's old T-shirts or flannel pajama bottoms.

It's hard to describe the way I feel in his clothes. It's a strange combination of the comfort of the familiar and the thrill of the unfamiliar.

And I have to confess it isn't just my husband's clothes I've worn. Before we were ever together, I used to love wearing my partner's sweatshirts. In fact, I remember one breakup that broke my heart because I loved and lost some sweaters, way more than I loved the person to whom they belonged.

That sounds really shallow, doesn't it?

Which makes me wonder: Some day, some girl (or boy) will be wearing my son Colter's clothes. How will I know whether (s)he really cares about him or whether (s)he simply wants to get into his ... T-shirts?

Whose clothes comfort you?

The mom-archy

I believe in democracy, I really do. Just not in my own backyard. Or front yard. Or kitchen.

I voted in yesterday's elections and I hope you did, too. But in my house, the only thing we vote on is where to go for dinner when Gary doesn't want to cook.

While I support the idea that every person has the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, I have to confess that as a parent I feel it's my civic duty to abridge those rights.

Colter is 8 years old and cannot have a voice in many of the decisions that affect his life.

Our household ruling system falls far short of a democracy; I'd put it somewhere between anarchy and monarchy. I call it a mom-archy.