Mom in the Mirror

Learning to love my blind spot

I have a 65-pound blind spot.

It's my son, Colter.

When he sits in my lap and cuddles, I see innocence. Others see immaturity. When he becomes angry and volatile, I hear myself making excuses for him: He's so much better than he used to be. He didn't get much sleep last night. He hasn't taken his medication yet.

What I mean is, that's not the real Colter, the Colter I see. The Colter who is invisible to you.

When I look at my son I see the baby who sucked on my pinkie until I thought he would swallow it whole. I see the toddler whose laughter shook the skies. I see the boy whose skin and heart are as soft as butterfly kisses. When I look at my son, I see love. And that's all I see.

I am blind to the rest.

When presented with evidence of his forgetfulness, I say: Gifted children are often distracted. When presented with evidence of his selfishness, I say: I'd like to meet a 9-year-old boy who is generous. When presented with evidence of his temper, I say: He has difficulty controlling his impulses.

Rationalizations or optimism: who decides?

Is a blind spot just the difference between my perspective and yours?

My husband spends more time with Colter than anyone  else. But when he confronts me with a reality I do not want to see, I insist that he doesn't know our son the way I do. I tell him that he doesn't see the sweetness, the sensitivity, the smarts. You have to look deeper, I insist. But at what point  does determination turn into delusion?

For his 9th birthday we gave Colter a basketball hoop. Within minutes of seeing it in the driveway for the first time, it was nothin' but net. After a sequence of swishes, I heard myself tell him, "Maybe you could go to UNC on a basketball scholarship and then play in the NBA."

Now that was delusional.

And yet, most of us tell ourselves lies. So how do we know which lies are dangerous and to whom?

There is certainly a social cost we all pay. Given how often we deceive ourselves, it's no wonder we don't trust each other. Skepticism is the vitamin we take to balance our daily cultural diet of lies and half-truths.

This struck me recently at the doctor's office when a nurse asked me if I smoked. I said, No. I haven't smoked in over 10 years. On my chart, she wrote "Denies." She couldn't be sure whether or not I smoked -- she couldn't trust me -- she could only report that I denied smoking.

It hurts to be mistrusted. But does it hurt more when someone believes your lies? If my son's self-image is based on how I see him, what does it mean that he may be looking into a funhouse mirror?

In a memoir she wrote about quitting smoking, author Susan Shapiro quoted her addiction therapist, who told her, "Lead the least secretive life you can." This is a common theme: the truth shall set you free.

The flipside is this: The truth hurts.

And too much truth can do more harm than good. After 9/11, we explained to our children what happened as best we could; we reassured them that their schools were safe, airplanes were safe, life would go on -- even though we weren't entirely sure ourselves.

When someone we love dies (animal or human) or is struggling, we tell our children as much as we think they can understand and absorb. We protect them from facts that might confuse or frighten them. And sometimes we protect ourselves.

Because some truths can only be accepted in their own time. Before we are ready for them, some truths imprison hope.

So when society holds up a mirror to my blind spots, I may choose to look the other way. Because sometimes I would rather see things as they could be than see them as they are.

Do you have any blind spots? Describe them.

Note: This column was written before Gary and Colter were rear-ended last week; both of them are doing fine. There were no blind spots involved in that accident. A version of this LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.

Live and let dye

I spent some time last week with a very good friend. We hadn't seen each other in several years, and while we were together I was struck by our superficial differences.

I don't dye my hair, pluck, tweeze, wax or wear makeup. I let my age and experience show. This philosophy is a combination of self-acceptance and laziness.

My friend dyes, plucks, tweezes, waxes and wears very natural makeup. Her philosophy is a combination of self-care and fastidiousness.

I wonder: how can two women who seem so different be so close?

I know: we are more than our differences and more than what we share in common. We love and respect each other for our perfectionism and our imperfections. We are friends and have been since we met at work nine years ago when I was pregnant with my son and she was soon pregnant with her first daughter. We survived childbirth, breastfeeding, mini-milestones and more together. We celebrated holidays and mourned deaths. We know each other well beyond appearances.

But what about all the other women who are less familiar to me, who I know by name or face or not at all? All the women I pass in my car, in the hall, down the aisle, who are not me?

One of the not-so-secret facts of life as a woman is that we judge each other.

Constantly.

About everything.

You cook, I don't. You drive a mini-van, I drive a sedan. You shop, I read.

And beneath these differences are deeper ones.

You stay at home, I work. You live in the suburbs, I'm a city girl. I have one child, you have several or none at all. You're single, married, divorced, gay.

We are years beyond the swimsuit competition, and no one can win the lifestyle competition.

In a world of glass houses and glass ceilings, women shouldn't throw stones. We just might hit ourselves.

We have to learn to co-exist, to understand that we each have choices to make, different from everyone else's choices, however similar they may seem.

It has to be OK for me to be vintage and you to be Valentino, for me to have a wild child while yours is Miss Manners, for both of us to balance our privacy with living in public.

Otherwise, we are being judged by a jury of our peers and found guilty. More guilty than we already feel about our necessarily imperfect choices in this imperfect world.

Like our forefathers, we must grant each other the right to the pursuit of happiness, wherever that leads us.

Because if we cannot feel free to be ourselves, who can we be?

In a world full of sound and fury signifying nothing, we must choose lives that fill us with peace, signifying everything. That peace comes from acceptance -- a gift we can give ourselves and each other.

And when we have that, who cares whether our hair is stray, flyaway or gray?

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

Writing elsewhere today

The end of 40 by 40 is posted at DotMoms, and I've written "Much ado about the FCATs" at Tampa Bay DotMoms.

Reopening the "ex" files

I like to think of my exes in the past tense -- mistakes made, bodies buried, lessons learned. But recently an ex-boyfriend e-mailed me after decades of silence, bringing back memories and the ultimate unanswered question: Why wasn't I the one?

As soon as I received his note, I told my husband about it, and he immediately imagined this old boyfriend was happily married. I resisted. "No way," I said. "I'd bet the house on it. This guy will never marry anyone. He couldn't commit."

Guess what? One wedding and two daughters later, he's as committed as they come. He just couldn't commit to me.

And why should he have? I was in college, unformed and needy with a capital N. Insatiable in my appetite to learn who I was by looking at myself through someone else's eyes. Never satisfied with what I saw there.

It all makes sense now, of course. But at the time, all I could think was: What am I doing wrong?

I spilled a lot of tears and ink over that question.

I agonized and analyzed every look, every gesture, every word for a sign: When did I lose him? At what exact moment did passion turn into indifference?

"Sex and the City"'s Carrie Bradshaw captured it best, after her boyfriend broke up with her on a Post-It note. "Men can get out of a relationship without a goodbye," she wrote, "but apparently women have to either get married or learn something. Why are we in such a rush to move from confused to Confucius?"

If knowledge is power, then I had to know what went wrong so I'd have more power to make it right the next time around. I had to walk away with more than a broken heart.

I wanted to turn myself into Ms. Right so that when my ship came in, we'd sail straight to Honeymoon Island -- or, at least I'd sense it veering off course.

And in my next relationship, I did turn myself around. I was hypervigilant about my independence, ruthless about maintaining my identity. In fact, I didn't need my boyfriend at all. Which is probably why I broke up with him after a few months.

We stayed friends, so I know he didn't spend much time asking himself what he did wrong. He was smart enough to know it wasn't about him. And the truth is, it never is.

Relationships don't end because of one person or one wrong move. They end because they were never intended to last. Just as the clothes I wore in high school no longer fit, and the summer job I had would no longer sustain me, the boys and men I once knew were in my life to be outgrown.

They were with me as I tried and erred, as I failed and succeeded. They showed me who I was and who I wanted to become. They helped me learn to love and hate and to laugh and cry and to understand the difference between fate and fantasy.

So, thank you. Thank you Bruno and Jimmy and Mitch and Dan and Steve. Thank you for preparing me, so that I'd know when the real thing came along -- the easy guy, the one who always makes me laugh and almost never makes me cry. The one who loves me with his whole heart and holds nothing back. The one who is safe and exciting. The one. The one who didn't make me wonder whether I was the one for him.

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

The mom I'll never be

I was in Starbucks recently and there she was. She had shiny, straight, shoulder-length hair pulled into a ponytail with no strays flying away. Her ironed shirt was tucked into her jeans. The conversation I overheard her having was smart and funny. At 8:30 a.m.

Here's the kicker: Her toddler son was well-behaved, impeccably dressed and clean.

I don't know her name, her life, her story. I just know she's the mom I'll never be.

How does she do it? My hair is drip-dried, curly and messy. I'm not sure I've ever tucked in my shirt. And if my son doesn't have food all over his face when we go out in public, I feel my job is done.

I am one of those moms.

My child has old-fashioned tantrums in public -- yelling, crying, kicking -- even at 8 years old. It's not at all unusual for me to stoop to his level.

I'm a great mother in hindsight, but often lack the poise to respond well the first time around ("You did WHAT?!") especially in front of an audience.

Even in private, I'm profoundly flawed. I've forgotten to pack Colter's lunch, forgotten to sign his field trip permission slip, forgotten to -- well, the list is too long.

I mean well, I really do. But the road to therapy is paved with good intentions.

I have no idea what -- if anything -- I'm teaching my son by example or on purpose. Sometimes I wonder if I'm sparing him consequences and spoiling him.

When I see some other mothers, I feel particularly inadequate.

How do they balance the budget and the menu? Exercise their rights and their bodies? Motivate themselves and their families?

I can barely keep enough toilet paper in the house.

I can't keep up.

I'm almost 40 and more worried about my hip than about being hip, so my understanding of culture extends only as far as Nickelodeon. I still don't understand Tivo or iPods, and if my son asks for either one, he'll have to educate me first.

But I will buy him a cell phone when he turns 10 so that I can parent from afar and because we talk a lot.

This, I believe, is the main thing I do right. We can have long conversations about almost anything, and we often do. I hope we always will.

We also hug a lot and read together. Sometimes we color or play board games. Often we watch TV. (I imagine Starbucks Mom very successfully limits her child to one half-hour of PBS per day.)

I am not as clever or creative as many moms I know. I am not as competent in the kitchen or the laundry room. I work long hours and often ask my son to wait "just a minute" then get caught up in e-mail for hours.

I am a member of the Supreme Court of Moms and I judge myself wanting. Wanting to be more like the Starbucks mom, more like stay-at-home moms, more like the moms who manage to satisfy themselves and their families simultaneously.

In my world, I take satisfaction where I can find it. Like here -- I asked my son what makes someone a good parent and he said:

• Caring (Saying "I love you" and throwing a good birthday party)
• Helping your child learn (math and how to control his anger)
• Not giving your child everything he wants, but helping him earn rewards

Done, done and done. Phew.

My son is the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of moms. On his scales, on balance, I'm a good parent. And in the end, his opinion is the only one that matters to me.

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

Ready for some new wedding vows?

My husband and I will be married 10 years this fall, and I think we're ready for some new vows.

We've pretty much mastered for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others. Instead of repeating those vows and recommitting to what we've already accomplished, I want us to make some new promises for this stage of our relationship.

Here are a few:

• I will trim my nose hair as often as necessary.
• I will not pick my nose or scratch my butt in public.
• I won't bite my nails if you don't pick your toes.
• I won't mention your belly if you don't mention my gray hair.
• I will share the blanket.

It's true -- after more than a decade together, some of our physical habits have become annoying. It's hard for me to remember, but there was a time when I thought my husband's snoring was cute. It actually lulled me to sleep, rather than keeping me awake.

It isn't just physical habits that can grate on each other's nerves now. Our verbal habits can also be frustrating. For example, my husband is a very funny man. Except when he's not.

So, some additional vows:

• I will only tell jokes I know are funny.
• If you stop talking to me while I'm reading, I'll stop talking to you while you're watching "Iron Chef."
• I promise to interrupt you while you're speaking only in case of an actual emergency (which includes wanting to know where you've put the chocolate).
• I won't sing a song unless I know all the words.
• I'll try to limit conversations that involve yelling from room to room, except when I'm in the bathroom and need more toilet paper, or when I'm in the bedroom and wonder what's for dinner, or when I'm in the TV room and you're playing computer games.

As we enter our second decade of marriage, we'll both be in our 40s, instead of our 30s. Some of our charming idiosyncrasies now look more like character flaws. We've both changed, but not necessarily in the ways either of us might have imagined or hoped.

At the same time, there are agreements we've tacitly made, without explicitly acknowledging them. They include:

• I will say "I was wrong, you were right."
• I will remind you regularly why you married me and why I married you.
• I will keep it together when you're falling apart and only fall apart when you're able to hold things together.

As we grow older, we hope to mature faster than we age. We learn to love, honor and cherish ourselves. And we try to have and hold onto money better.

As our marriages age, it becomes harder than ever to forsake all other distractions (kids, work, the Internet) and pay attention to our partners, who we expect to see beside us on the other side of the bed, the other side of the table, the other side of our lives. They are our mirrors, but they are not us.

So, in this next phase of our lives, I will look beyond the flaws and the imperfections and the inadequacies we all feel and celebrate the life my husband and I have created and the love we enjoy.

'Til death do us part.

What new vows would you make?

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

If I wrote the dictionary

I love the English language. I love the dictionary. I love words. But there are some words I could do without.

If it were up to me, the dictionary would not include the word "should." There are too many shoulds in the world, too many choices we make because we feel obligated: "I should call my Uncle Q and apologize for yelling at him, even though I'm really, really angry that he borrowed my car then left it by the side of the road with the keys inside."

I asked my husband and son what words they would eliminate from our lives. My son Colter, who is 8, said he would get rid of the word "no."

He has no idea what a great idea that is.

What if people could only say "yes," "maybe," or "how"?

Wouldn't business meetings be different? Wouldn't conversations about curfew require more creativity? Wouldn't life just be better?

I would be so happy to live the rest of my life without ever hearing the word "no." It would eliminate, "No, we just sold the last one." And, "I wish we could, but my boss says no."

Maybe if there were fewer "no"s, there'd be more "I don't know"s.

If it were up to my husband, Gary, the dictionary would not include the word "due." Nevermore would the words "balance due" appear on a bill. He wouldn't have to worry about "due dates" or even "membership dues." For him, the freedom from deadlines and debt would be liberating beyond words.

After I finish eliminating words, I think I'd add some to the dictionary.

I'd like to add a word for that time of morning when the sky starts turning purple and you know dawn is on the horizon, but it's not quite there yet.

I'd like to add a word for the way I feel when I look at my sleeping son, curled up into a peaceful ball of boy, except for his leg thrown over my snoring husband so nocturnal escape is impossible.

And I'd like to insert a word for the dread I face on a rainy Saturday morning when I've just finished the last page of a fantastic novel and have nothing new to read.

Once I've added all the words I'd like, maybe I'd rearrange words in the dictionary.

Who needs alphabetical order? Making "A" the first word in the dictionary seems so generic and predictable. And why put the "Agricultural Adjustment Administration" hundreds of pages before the word "porcine" appears? Shouldn't they be closer together?

Why not reorganize so that the most important words come first? Love, kindness, consideration, respect. Speech, silence. Pen, pencil, book, school.

Then, the least important words could come last. The final word in the dictionary would no longer be zymurgy. In my dictionary, it would be hate.

Samuel Johnson said, "Dictionaries are like watches, the worst is better than none and the best cannot be expected to go quite true."

Perhaps then people might actually READ the dictionary and, along the way, learn to spell.

What words would you add to or remove from the dictionary?

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

Short wedding, long marriage

I love my husband.

Is that old-fashioned?

And yet I'm such a modern wife and mother.

I work long hours and spend the time that's left with my family, even though they come first in my heart.

This story started November 12, 1995. That's the day I got married. But since I was already pregnant with our son, I guess you could say it started a few months earlier.

Actually, my husband and I lived together for several years before deciding to wed, and in fact, we would have waited, except that it was important to my future mother-in-law that we be married when our child was born.

So, I had the gown fitted, the cake ordered, the bells ready to ring in this new era of our lives.

But getting to the altar -- actually, in our case, the chuppah -- was complicated. Isn't it always?

We couldn't find a rabbi who would perform the ceremony (I am Jewish, my husband is not). We couldn't find a location we liked that had an airport nearby so my parents could fly in easily from Chicago. We couldn't be sure I'd be able to take time off from a new job working at a TV station (our wedding date was during a ratings period, when no one is allowed vacation).

Eventually, details were resolved, the anxiety passed, and we found ourselves standing side by side one sunny, startling Saturday morning. We were surrounded by siblings and friends, holding the canopy above us. Seated behind us were our families and more friends.

I don't remember much about our wedding ceremony -- it only lasted 15 minutes, a half-hour maybe -- but I do remember the moment it ended. Gary and I walked down the aisle to the song "May you never" and began our lives as husband and wife. We were married.

Those 15 wonderful minutes began the best nine years of my life, so far.

I love my husband. More than ever. I love being married to him. I often find myself looking at my wedding band, the words engraved on my ring and on my days: "I carry your heart with me."

Everywhere I go, you go, my dear.

Don't misunderstand me. Gary and I have had problems -- overwhelming, challenging, debilitating problems at times: financial, emotional, geographical. We filed and survived bankruptcy; we are raising a very challenging child together; and we left an area we loved so that I could accept a job that would be better for all of us, even though it meant my husband would be farther from his parents and his own work.

But our union has strengthened, just as it has strengthened us. It has boosted our immune system -- the more we are exposed to, the more we can fight off.

It would be tempting fate to say there is nothing we could not survive together. And it is probably untrue. I have seen marriages destroyed by the death of a child, by selfishness, by disinterest.

But there is nothing I want to go through without my husband. And nothing I want him to go through without me.

Just this week, we moved into a new home. For the last two months, Gary has spent all of his time knocking through ceilings, exposing beams, eliminating and rebuilding walls, ripping out carpet, putting in hardwood floor, painting. He has been making us a home.

He spilled blood and sweat (the tears were mine), and now, we live among boxes filled with toys, memories, hope. And a few wedding pictures.

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

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.

A mother knows

The first time I had mother's intuition was before my son was born -- about 9 months before, in fact -- when I just knew I was pregnant.

My husband doubted me, with good reason. But reason wasn't a factor for me. I didn't need a home pregnancy test or doctor to tell me I was carrying a little baby. My body told me, my soul told me, my mother's intuition told me.

To humor my husband, I did take a pregnancy test. And I did, of course, immediately follow up with a visit to the doctor for vitamins and other necessary treatment.

But meeting my mother's intuition for the first time was like meeting myself as a parent and knowing, just knowing, it would be OK.

I've always been a big believer in "listening to my gut," I just never realized my gut had a special place in it reserved for parenting.

My mother's intuition told me my baby was a boy, even though we didn't have the gender determined by ultrasound or any other means. The only medical indication was that our baby's heartbeat was slow the last two weeks before birth, which is typical for a boy.

I also knew, before my son was born, that he would be very physically active. He hardly rested at all while he grew inside me, so I was not at all surprised that he was four years old before he slept through the night for the first time. I knew he'd be a restless child.

From the moment he started nursing, he has been intense. "Spirited," the books call it. And I knew from an early age that this would be a defining characteristic of his, not just a phase. As a newborn, an infant, a toddler, and ever since, Colter has been, well, Colter. And I've known him in a way no one else can.

Before I experienced it, I didn't believe it was possible to have such a developed sense of someone else. And I certainly had no reason to believe I would have such a sixth sense, since my mother didn't seem to have any parenting instincts at all.

So when I worried out loud about the kind of parent I'd be, how able I'd be to read and interpret my child's signals, I was discouraged by all the mothers who said to me, "Don't worry, you'll just know."

"But how will I know?" I'd ask. "How?"

I'm not a big believer in things I cannot explain. I am a skeptic.

Just tell me, I'd say, how exactly will I be able to tell one cry from another? One diaper from another? How will I be able to tell my child is sick just by looking in his eyes?

I don't know, they'd say, you just will.

And for the most part, they were right.

Now that my son is 8 years old, I can walk through the door after a day at work, take one look at him and know he's sick; I can tell when my son is lying to me, or when he's just up to something in another room, out of sight.

I can't explain it, but I've come to accept this way of knowing.

Some mothers say they don't have this instinct. Perhaps they don't. Or perhaps they're just not listening for it. I don't know.

And I'm certainly not saying that God or nature or evolution made us good parents by biology or inclination, even if she/he/it enabled us to understand our offspring intuitively.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I struggle as a mother. I'm far from perfect. I make flawed choices, compromise when others wouldn't, and have no idea how to handle more situations than I'd like.

I have not been lured by this "mother's intuition" into a false sense of security. In fact, it's had the opposite effect on me. It has made me more vigilant.

Because with this knowledge comes responsibility, a responsibility to pay attention to and nurture this intuition, while informing it, arguing with it, and deciding when to trust it.

I don't think mother's intuition has made me a better parent, but it has made me a somewhat more confident one.

Don't ask me how I know. I just know.

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