You’re happy for your kid, but sad for yourself.
And none of your sad feelings are supposed to show. You don’t want to burden your child, especially when she’s doing exactly what she’s supposed to, which is growing up. So you keep the sadness inside. Your heart says, Ouch, but your face says, Yay! It’s the terrible wrench of parenting, which specializes in the bittersweet.
Oddly, I don’t think we allow ourselves to acknowledge this sadness, even among us parents. I know a mother who says she feels silly because she misses her kid, away at college. We’re all pretending we’re too-cool-for-school, about school.
Instead, let’s clarify things right now: It’s okay to miss your kid. A lot.
In fact, it’s essential to miss your kid a lot. If you miss your kid a lot, it’s proof that you love them. That you’re involved with them. That in the short time they spent in your care, you got to know them well. After all, you miss a lot of things that aren’t as important, right? For example, I miss carbs.
Missing your kid is proof that you’re a good parent, despite the fact that the current vogue is to put down good parents. I’ve seen us called the “helicopter parents,” always hovering over our children, and I’ve read articles putting down children who remain connected to their parents by cell phone and email, calling those kids the “tethered generation.”
Boy, does that burn me up.
It’s good to be a helicopter parent. It’s better to be a helicopter parent than to be Britney Spears. Likewise, it’s good for kids to stay connected to their parents. It’s better to be a tethered kid than Lindsay Lohan.
This is why I love Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. They have a passel of kids and they’ve been married fifteen minutes. Wait, they’re not married, but never mind. All I know is that in every photo I see of them, they’re with their kids, doing kid things. Not only do they spend time with their kids, they wear their kids. They’re holding at least two children at all times; one is always strapped on their front in a Snugli and the other is draped around a shoulder like a noisy handbag.
Brad and Angelina look like good parents to me. I don’t sweat that they’re not married. I don’t think you need a marriage to raise a kid. Families come in all shapes and sizes. I became a single parent when my daughter was an infant, and I remember when someone at school told her she was an “only child.” She came home and asked me, “Does that mean you’re an ‘only mom?’ ”
Answer: Yes.
I don’t think it takes a village to raise a child. On the contrary, I think it takes one person who loves the child and places that child’s needs and interests above his own, for a good, long time. Like decades. And if you’ve done that for a child, it stands to reason that you’re going to miss them when they go, even if you gave them the roots and wings required by Hallmark cards.
So what do you do about this sadness you feel?
Here’s how I think about it, and it helps:
Recognize that your child is just traveling through. You don’t own your child. You’re just her caretaker for a very long time, because you willed her into existence. Even so, her existence is separate from yours. It’s easy to forget this, especially if you’re a good parent, because you can get so close to your child that your interests are often perfectly aligned. You remember times when you had to fight for your child, whether it was to get her a doctor’s appointment in a busy flu season or to score her the last Furby, back when every kid wanted a Furby.
But don’t be fooled.
You and your child are different people, and your child is traveling through your life, just as you’re traveling through hers. All of us are traveling through this life, and though our paths overlap for a time, like routes on a highway map, eventually we all separate, one from the other.
And I’m not talking about college here.
Think about traveling through, and you’ll be able to let your kid go. It’s just like she took the business route and you took the local. You might end up in the same place again, and it doesn’t mean she won’t come back, God knows.
And you can always hold the cats hostage.
American Excess
I think the world divides into two groups: people who take advantage of membership rewards programs, and people like me.
A long time ago, I applied for an American Express card, but I was rejected. I had charged my way to becoming a writer, and my credit history ranged from Slow Pay to You Must Be Joking. The measure of creditworthiness is the FICO score, with 800 or so the best, like the old SAT scores. I couldn’t get into any college on my FICO score. My FICO score was my weight.
Eventually I paid back every penny of my debts, but my FICO score haunted me. I couldn’t get a credit card from Target and my books were bestsellers in Target. I don’t think this happened to James Patterson.
Then, one day, American Express relented—with a qualification. They told me they would give me a “starter” American Express card. The baby Amex had a thousand-dollar credit limit and training wheels. It even looked younger; it wasn’t cashgreen, it was transparent, as if it couldn’t be trusted with a color. It was a credit card, pre-puberty.
Still I took the card and became Financial Barbie. I never missed a payment and I sent in the whole balance every time, then I reapplied for the Big Girl American Express card. And was rejected again. But on the phone, they happened to mention that they could give me the American Express card for small business, if I were a small business. They asked, “Are you a small business?”
I answered, “Why, yes, the smallest.”
On the phone, I deemed myself Lisa Scottoline, Inc., which is a new way to incorporate yourself that I invented, and they gave me a small-business credit card, which came with a higher credit limit and its own color—a respectable, corporate, gray. Since then, however, I still keep getting rejected for the real-deal American Express card.
Whatever. I’ve struck out three times now and I have to pretend it doesn’t matter. And that’s not the point, anyway.
The point is that unbeknownst to me, my small-business American Express card has, all these years, been racking up Membership Rewards.
Wow! Membership Rewards! I had no idea what that was, but it sounds great. It sounds like an exclusive club that I’m a member of, automatically. And rewards are always good. I get a reward and I didn’t even find anything? Hell, I didn’t even know anything was lost!
I learned about the Membership Rewards the other day, when I actually read my endless pile of junk mail. I saw a slick catalog full of mixers, Bose radios, rolling luggage, golf clubs, and “timepieces,” which is what we members call watches. Instead of prices, the catalog had points. I flipped to the front and saw that I had a “point balance,” which was 52,140.
Yay!
So everything in the catalog was free, or at least the stuff under 52,140 points. I was so excited that I called up my friend, but she had already spent her points on his-and-her mountain bikes, a portable DVD player, and a toaster from England. She’d even gone to Europe on her frequent flier miles, but I will never figure out how to cash in those babies and I have approximately three billion, which is twelve zillion times my SAT score and fifteen zillion times my FICO.
But I digress. I made a cup of coffee and sat down with the Membership Rewards catalog.
Two hours later, I had dog-eared ten pages, circled fifteen items, and downed another cup of coffee. My stomach had twisted into a knot, my heart was pounding, and I was in a tizzy of indecision. I couldn’t pick between the Sony digital camera, the new iPod, or the Dyson “animal vacuum,” which I loved for the name.
And if I didn’t want those items, the catalog offered trips, meals, and gift cards. Worse, I was even “pre-approved” for double my point balance, which admitted me to the truly pimp point class. If I wanted the awesome 37-inch plasma TV, Amex would send it to me and charge the difference—on my credit card.
Hmmm.
Bottom line, all this free stuff paralyzed me. If I
had been spending dollars, I could have made the decision, but the fact that it was points had me flummoxed. I didn’t want to blow my chance to get something free by getting the wrong free thing. I set the catalog aside for another day.
A point saved is a point earned.
One Room, Two Room, Red Room,
Blue Room
I just got back from the White House. I stole nothing of value. More accurately, the thing I stole didn’t cost anything.
Let me explain.
The National Book Festival is an annual book fair sponsored by the Library of Congress and started by First Lady Laura Bush, to promote literacy. It’s held on the National Mall, where a series of tents had stages for seventy authors, representing all types of books. Approximately 150,000 people attended the Festival, a record crowd.
Reading knows no political party.
The morning of the Festival, Mrs. Bush invited the authors and their guests to the White House for a classy breakfast buffet, and we were permitted to eat anywhere we liked in the Red, Blue, and Green Rooms. My plus one was daughter Francesca, who made sure that I didn’t spill coffee on the red, blue, or green rugs. I’d hate to be remembered as The One Who Assassinated the Lincoln Rug, and that wouldn’t be a dry cleaning bill I’d like to pay. We’re not talking a stained sweater here. We’re talking a second mortgage.
So we ate our blueberry pancakes very carefully, perched on the edge of two lovely red wing chairs, and we even put an official White House napkin under our coffee cups so we didn’t make a ring on the inlaid mahogany tables. But even in the White House, my home-improvement wheels got turning. People imagine what they would do if they ever got to be President, and I’m no different. For me, renovation of the White House would be the national priority.
I wouldn’t hire a decorator. I’d do it myself. I’d be the Decorator-in-Chief.
We know that real estate ads are my porn, so it should come as no surprise that I have lots of great ideas about home décor, too. I’m addicted to HGTV. I memorize House & Garden. There’s no more extreme make over than the White House. The place has major curb appeal, and that world-leader vibe would make it the best client ever.
I smell Architectural Digest.
I’d start my make over in the Red, Blue, and Green Rooms, because they’re surprisingly small and laid out in a straight line. If I were President, I’d knock down the walls and make one big family room, with space enough for a nice, built-in entertainment center. And a 70-inch plasma TV and a wet bar. Plus a computer station with 21-inch monitors. What an improvement that would be! Even the First Family needs a family room.
Obviously, I’d have to repaint the new room, too. I’d love to paint it my favorite color, which is pink, even though it’s politically incorrect. It’s the first thing someone would ask if a woman like me became President: “What, is she gonna paint the White House pink?”
I’d answer, “Yes. It’s good to be Queen.”
I’d make a few changes in the furniture department, too. The wing chairs are lovely, as are the antique tables, but you have to go with the times. You can’t watch the playoffs from a wing chair. You can’t rest your Diet Coke on mahogany. If I were President, I’d get me a nice, big sectional sofa. Gray ultrasuede would be chic, and I’d order it custom, with cupholders built into the armrests. That’s my dream. In my Presidency, cupholders for all!
Cupholders know no political party.
And, when I looked out the bubbly glass windows of the White House, I noticed there was no attached garage. That would be a must. Also an in-ground pool, maybe next to the Rose Garden, with some tasteful fake rocks and a little waterfall, so I could listen to artificial burbling while I contemplated foreign policy or skimmed the Frontgate catalog.
In fact, I found myself wondering if the White House had a finished basement, which of course would be job one. It would make a perfect gym, and I’d fill it up with Nautilus weights and elliptical machines that I could ignore.
That’s how I’d make the White House a home.
By the way, before I left the White House that day, I did get to meet the First Lady. She shook my hand and was very nice. I thanked her for the Festival, but I didn’t tell her my suggestions for the house.
Or what I stole, which was the official paper napkin, embossed with the gold symbol of the President, encircled by the brown ring of my coffee cup.
You can hardly blame me for taking a memento.
Even without a Jacuzzi, it’s still the White House.
Cristoforo
I was the Grand Marshal of the Columbus Day parade, and I liked it so much it scared me.
I walked down the street with people clapping on both sides. If I waved, they waved back. If I smiled, they smiled back. So what if they had no idea who I was? I still ate it up.
The best part was that I got to wear a sash that went sideways across my body, Miss-America style. This was a thrill for a girl who was always The Smart One. For once, I felt like The Pretty One. And let me tell you a secret: every Smart One wants to be The Pretty One.
But back to the point.
It turned out that I love a parade, especially when I’m in it. I didn’t think I had a big ego, but being a Grand Anything will swell your head. By the time I got home, I could barely fit it through the front door.
I was having Delusions of Grand Marshal.
By bedtime, long after the parade had ended, my ego was only getting bigger. I tried to stuff it back into my body, but I’m only five foot two and it had inflated to the size of a bouncy house. I was full of myself, literally. I almost kept my sash on, because it looked so great with my pajamas.
Then I tried to stop thinking about me, me, me for just one moment. I reflected on the other important points of the Columbus Day parade:
That it celebrated the cultural pride and accomplishments of Italian-Americans. Those thoughts helped a little. At least I recalled that there were other people in the world, other than me. But the most important person that day wasn’t any of those people, or me.
The Guest of Honor was Christopher Columbus, and my thoughts turned to him.
We learned in school that he sailed the ocean blue and discovered America, but we have learned since that he didn’t find exactly what he was looking for. And of course, as they say, mistakes were made. As a result, there are people, in other cities, who picket the Columbus Day parade.
If they had picketed mine, this Grand Marshal would have given them a swift kick. In heels.
Because Columbus wasn’t alone in his mistakes. The colonization of many countries, including this one, produced some of the worst injustices in human history. We all used to think that might made right, and it’s a lesson we haven’t learned completely, even today.
And what is undeniable about Columbus is that he set out into uncharted territory, against all odds, risking his life to follow a dream, believing profoundly in himself, and God. Columbus’s diary of his journeys, and he kept excellent notes, reveals that his crews were profoundly religious men, praying often. They were praying that Columbus was right.
They didn’t want to fall off the edge of the world.
I thought about Columbus then, and about our own uncharted territory, both the good and bad. A new baby; a new diagnosis. Love is uncharted territory. So is life. We truly do not know what will happen to us tomorrow. All of it is un-mapped to us, yet we sail on.
We will make mistakes.
We will be capable of great cruelty and great kindness.
We will meet those who love us and those who don’t. They might even picket our parade. Some call them haters. I call them book critics.
We might not find exactly what we were looking for.
And the odds are that we will find things that others have already found. Just this morning I discovered again how wonderful it feels to have the sun on my face. It’s not a new discovery, or one as big as a continent, but it’s still a thrill. And I get credit for making it. So do you.
All
of our little discoveries will be new to us, and the happiness they bring can’t be underestimated, nor should they be. They shouldn’t go uncredited, either, nor should our efforts. On the contrary, both should be celebrated, our voyages and our discoveries.
We are all of us explorers in this life.
Christopher Columbus reminds us to sail on, to have faith, and to trust that we won’t fall off.
Andiamo.
Let’s go.
Hold On a Min—
Let us now praise interrupting.
I know it’s an unpopular position, but I’m not one to shy away from controversy. I’ve already admitted to emergency-room bralessness and spitting out Dead Whoppers.
I have a habit of interrupting, and now I’m going to make a case for it.
Interrupting has gotten a bad rap for too long. Those of us who interrupt aren’t being disrespectful. We’re just excited by whatever it was you just said. We’re so excited, in fact, that we can’t wait for you to finish saying it before we respond.
You can’t blame us if you’re a great conversationalist.
The subject of interrupting comes up because recently I had dinner with best friend Franca. You have to trust me when I tell you that Franca is an angel. She’s not only a great mother, she’s a brilliant lawyer who represents children with special educational needs, and she’s dedicated to her job, her clients, and their families.
But she interrupts, and so do I.
We interrupt each other all the time. You know that cliché about the friends who are so close that they finish each other’s sentences?