Mom in the Mirror

Life is more or less (some days more, some days less)

Books are my comfort food, so when I got some bad news the other day, my first thought was, "What can I read that will make me feel better?"

I didn't have anything at home that I thought would help (no steamy, trashy distractions or fun, therapeutic reflections), so I headed to a local bookstore and discovered "The Modern Jewish Girl's Guide to Guilt."

As soon as I started the first essay, I knew I was in the right place. It began:

Here is the scene. Something good just happened. I am happy about it. Maybe it was a good writing day, or I am in a good relationship, or I have helped someone, or I feel a sense of self in a true, deep way. I am walking to the market, to buy myself a peach and fizzy water. It's a beautiful day. Or, it's not, but my mood is so high that it doesn't matter. I myself am a beautiful blue day.

Little do I know that the piano shipment in the freight airplane high above me has had a mishap. The baby grand piano, which was right at the bottom of the aircraft, has come loose. Someone didn't lock that airplane door, at the bottom. He was drunk. He was in a bad mood. The piano wasn't tied properly. It has been hanging there, by three legs -- by two legs -- by one leg -- and now it has tumbled out of the airplane. I am still walking to the store. Whistle, whistle. I do a little skip.

Miles above me, whirring through the air, is this giant black piano, gaining speed as it goes. Free-falling. I am thinking about the good thing that has happened today, thinking about it. How nice I feel. How glad I am today. You'd think I would look up at the whirring sound, and maybe the cars honk at me to look up, but I am oblivious, content, and proud. I step right into the path, and the piano flattens me like a pancake.

Better keep my eyes up. Better be vigilant, particularly on those good days. Any good day not marked by worry and vigilance will be met with tragedy.

This is how I live -- always looking for the falling piano. So when it falls, I am prepared. And when there is no sign of one falling (in other words, when I'm content), I worry and wait.

In the book's introduction, the editor says, "Between the ideal of who you should be, and the reality of who you are, lies guilt." I live in that territory.

Life is more or less between ideal and reality. Some days more, some days less.

Living with a dieter

For the first time in our lives together, my husband is on a diet.

I grew up thin in a family of chronic overeaters, so I've lived with dieters before, but I've never been married to one.

And as much as I support his efforts to lose weight and eat more healthy foods, I have to confess I really don't want to conduct mandible math at every single meal, nor do I want to know all the caloric counts of every morsel he might have considered consuming at some point.

Help me: How can I be supportive without becoming a certified nutritionist?

After birth, it's all downhill

I was thinking today about my best day as a mother and I'm pretty sure it was April 20, 1996. That's the day Colter was born. My love for him then was immediate, intense and pure, in a way it never has been since.

Do I love him more now? Yes, because he's more of a person, so there's more to love. Do I love him intensely? Absolutely, there's no lack of intensity in our house. But purely? Not a chance.

The day he was born (and really there were only hours involved because he emerged around dinnertime), I felt I had succeeded as a parent. And, I was able to give him everything he wanted and needed. There was no frustration or confusion. In the nine years since, I don't think any moment has been as clear or uncomplicated.

I suspect if I asked most any mother to describe the happiest day of her life, she'd pick the day her child was born.

How about you? What was your happiest day? What was your best day as a parent?

Money mom

I wrote recently about where our family money goes. A friend and colleague is keeping even closer track on her blog, Money Mom. Here's a recent entry about the new Harry Potter book.

$17 Half Blood Prince (x3) = $51

I ordered the first two from Amazon. Then we had the perfect reading family moment: Molly, 11, and I were on the front porch reading during an afternoon thunderstorm. Clarke came out and looked wistfully at us and said, "Wish I had a Harry Potter book."

Off to the grocery store I drove, thunderstorm and all. Then the three of us cozied up all evening in the thunder and lightning, diving into Voldemort's childhood.

It was worth the price.

Read more of Kelly's blog here and leave comments!

If you're interested in this topic, you might also want to check out "Callie's Tally."

It begins:

I spent $614.96 on my daughter yesterday. She is now officially an American. She has stuff and she is in debt.

Her name is Callie. She's not born yet. She'll show up in March. I'm not saying she has to pay me back right away but eventually...

It's a fun book.

The grass is (almost) never greener

The last place we look for happiness is in our own backyards, where the grass is generally greener than we know.

I was reminded of this last week when I went to a neighborhood pool by myself and met the mother of two toddlers. When she heard I had a husband and son at home, she wanted to know how I scored some solitude. I told her it was easy, my 9-year-old preferred playing GameCube to swimming with me. So, while she was coveting my time alone I was coveting her time with family.

Before I realized that she didn't even trust her husband to watch their kids at the pool, I told her my husband was usually the one home with our child anyway, cooking, supervising homework, driving to and from guitar lessons. I could see my husband's reflection in her eyes, and he looked good.

Well, of course he did. I didn't mention the snoring, the piles of dishes and laundry in our house, the daily frustrations of life as a family. Why would I? A girl can dream, can't she?

And we do. We imagine that other people's husbands have more hair and less stomach. Other people's children are so well-behaved. Other people's friends seem tirelessly selfless and funny.

But the next time you're coveting your neighbor's life, just remember that from the other side of the fence, your life looks pretty good, too.

Yes, there are some dead spots -- some spots, as my husband says, where the grass just won't grow. And there are those with green thumbs, who can grow anything, anytime, anywhere. But for most of us, our grass is as green as any.

I've known people who were rich, thin and miserable. I've known others who were poor, fat and happy. Happiness knows no weight or income. Happiness knows no before or after -- after the bills are paid, after the children are at school, after... After all, happiness waits for nothing and no one.

So while it's true that the Declaration of Independence gives us the right to pursue happiness, it doesn't guarantee we'll catch it. In fact, it appears that it might be in our long-term best interest for happiness to remain just out of reach.

In his book, "Happiness: The Science Behind Your Smile," British psychologist Daniel Nettle writes, "Evolution hasn't set us up for the attainment of happiness, merely its pursuit."

In a review of his book, Elizabeth Svoboda explains:

...in happiness, as in just about every other area, the Lake Wobegon effect -- that epitome of irrationality -- is much in evidence. When middle-aged study subjects were asked to assess their satisfaction with life on a scale of 1 to 10, more than 90 percent chose 5 or above, with the average response hovering around 8. These results, Nettle believes, reflect both people's need to feel that they're above the norm and their evolution-driven sense that things can always improve just a little. "Whatever the circumstances, there should be a small, nagging gap between our present contentment and a conceivably possible super-contentment," he writes. "Into this vital chink swarm peddlers of nostalgia, spiritual systems, drugs, and all kinds of consumer goods."

Evolution says we're always looking forward to what's next, but happiness isn't in the future. It's here and now.

Happiness lives at the house next door, and the one next to that. And seen from the proper angle, in the best light, it's right in your own backyard.

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

And I call myself a feminist

Thanks to Elizabeth at Half-Changed World, I discovered this essay by Ayelet Waldman called "A woman needs a repairman."

There are words to describe women like me (including lazy), and many of them are embarrassing. But I feel about my husband the way Waldman does about hers, "I am a damsel in clogged drain distress, and he is my knight with shining plunger."

I love having a partner who can fix the hot water heater as easily as he changes lightbulbs and kills bugs. But this isn't sexism. Gary isn't just bigger, stronger and handier with a screwdriver than I am, he is more of a homebody. He grocery shops, cooks, cleans, does the laundry and pays the bills. He takes Colter to school and brings him home. He manages our son's basketball practices, piano lessons, guitar lessons, religious school, homework. He paints (canvases, not walls -- although he does those too), writes, and creates dragonfly sculptures out of a paper clip and some nail polish. He does it all. He's a domestic God and I worship him for it.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I don't help more, but usually I'm too tired by the end of the day to do anything but say, "Thank you." Sometimes I worry about what would happen if Gary broke an arm or leg (they'd have to hospitalize me and Colter just so we would survive). But mostly I find his ability to care for us -- and the pleasure it brings him -- incredibly sexy.

If that makes me less of a feminist, then I'm willing to live with that. As long as my husband is living with me.

Inside the serial box

My first serial love was soap opera; my sister and I watched all the ABC soaps in the '70s, especially "General Hospital." I was soon a subscriber to "Soap Opera Digest" and later "Soap Opera Weekly" because the behind-the-scenes drama was as intriguing to me as anything that happened on-screen. And I'm not alone. As a society, we are People-loving, Us-addicted, Entertainment Weekly-ites. Popular culture is our collective story.

Whether it's daytime drama or nighttime television, tabloids or weblogs, Archie comics or Harry Potter (it's a serial narrative), we are obsessed with this question, "What happens next?"

Is Zach really Mike's son (76,661 votes have been cast)?, Should Carrie and Big live happily ever after (29,123 votes have been cast)?, and is Susan Lucci really like Meredith Contini in "Soapsuds" (no poll... yet)?

We live in installments, and we are entertained in installments.

So, every once in a while, I plan to go inside the serial box to see what trash and treasure I can find there. I hope you'll join me.

Now you tell me

I was driving Colter to school this morning in my pajamas, about five minutes away with 15 minutes before the first bell rang, when I was pulled over for speeding. Now, I know it's the first week of school. And I know (now) that I was going 33 in a 15 mph school zone. And I'm totally in favor of children living through the experience of crossing the street.

However...

This was one of many speed traps set up, and at this particular speed trap stood a reporter and photographer from a local television station, recording fools like me for broadcast.

Not looking happy.

After receiving my citation for $114.50 ("violation of traffic control device" will also get me four points on my insurance unless I take the driving course), I dropped off Colter -- right on time -- and was sloooooowly moving forward in the line of cars leaving when the safety patrol adults and kids waved me on as if to hurry me up. As soon as I accelerated a little, I heard one of them yell, "Slow down!"

MAKE UP YOUR MIND, PEOPLE.

Until this morning I was pretty sure speeding was considered part of my right to the pursuit of happiness.

Sleeping with Captain Underpants

Colter never had a pacifier as a baby or sucked his thumb. He didn't really have a special blanket or a can't-live-without-it stuffed animal. Gary and I were pretty much his bedtime buddies. But tonight, he fell asleep with a small Captain Underpants on his chest. At 9 years old he's finally learning how to comfort himself. I guess you can teach an old(er) boy new tricks.

School night nostalgia

Colter begins fourth grade today. Yesterday, we met his teacher at the open house, dropped off his notebooks and other supplies at his desk, ran into a few friends buying T-shirts, and then he became subconsciously nostalgic for his "younger years."

At least, that's how I'm choosing to intrepret his sudden onset re-interest in trains.

First, he wanted to watch "Thomas and the Magic Railroad." As soon as I heard that tinny music and saw those bizzare trains that aspire to be "really useful," I remembered Colter's obsessive interest in them. For about two years, we played trains, watched train videos, and read books about trains, especially Thomas, James, Gordon, Henry, Lady, and on and on and on. I was so grateful when he finally discovered dinosaurs.

But last night, after watching just a few scenes of the movie, I must have grown a little nostalgic too, because I reminded him that there was a time when he loved trains as much as he now loves his GameCube.

So, he got out his old Brio track and windmill and station house, and whoo-whoo! We were on the floor of his room, five years old all over again.

I've decided this two steps forward, one step back regression must be a sign of maturity. Mustn't it be?