Like many of you out there, I’m coming off several days of “vacation” time. I say several, because I’m honestly not sure if it’s seven or seventy. Feels like forever.
It started way back before Christmas when the family (Mom) packed up for a pilgrimage to Florida to visit the grandparents. All five of us, plus Older Son’s girlfriend, headed out in the pre-Christmas dawn (on THE busiest air travel day of the year, according to our shuttle driver), to bask in the tropical sun and have some much-needed multigenerational together time.
In the weeks leading up to the trip I booked tickets for six, figured out airport transportation, reserved rental cars, packed up and mailed boxes of gifts and decoration for eight nights of Chanukah, counted luggage, herded cats, and ordered a partridge in a pear tree on Amazon.com. Well, not that last one.
After a few blissful days of eating and drinking too much, making a small dent in the pile of reading I’ve collected, and spending lots of time with the people I love most in the world — never mind that much of it was spent preparing meals and cleaning up afterwards — we all shifted gears and headed north, with the grandparents in tow, to join more family and honor the 90th birthday of our beloved Aunt Ruth.
This leg of our journey required another set of air reservations (curses on Continental Airlines, who apparently believes it’s perfectly alright to toss those seat assignments you spend hours choosing online and randomly spread your party of nine in middle seats all over the plane), hotel rooms, cold weather clothing, two more rental cars, and a whole new set of logistical gymnastics.
After a wonderful celebration that made it all worthwhile, we headed home to a new house we moved into just three weeks ago, where mountains of cardboard boxes awaited. And did I fail to mention that we’d innocently evited 75 of our closest friends to an open house gathering on New Year’s Eve, just three days away at this point? Yes, I am a certifiably insane overachiever. You can undoubtedly fill in the rest of that story.
I just noticed this post is a series of run-on sentences that read like a grocery list of overwhelming, unenviable tasks. That’s perfect.
Don’t get me wrong — I’m not complaining or looking for sympathy. I’m not bashing Husband or my wonderful children. Far from it. They’re independent near-adults who do a great job of taking care of themselves and enthusiastically offer help whenever they can. But that’s just it. They help. They don’t organize. They don’t manage. They don’t take responsibility and handle stuff. They help.
And you know what? I’m to blame. It’s my fault. Mea culpa. Because I jump on all of it — every last bit. I wake up in the middle of the night wondering if I took care of every detail. Did something slip by? Did I confirm all thirteen car rentals? Did I order enough food for hundreds? Are everyone’s emotional needs met? Have I made sure no one will ever be let down? Double sure?
It’s exhausting, and I’m willing to bet almost every mom reading this — no matter how helpful and hands-on your partner is — can relate to the feeling.
We take it on and we figure it out. We delegate what we can and oh-so-efficiently handle the rest. We make the sun rise in the morning and the moon come up at night. Seriously. And most of us have full-time jobs on the outside at the same time. We’re livin’ the dream.
Back in the dark ages of the 1970′s, Ms., the nascent feminist magazine, published an article called I Want a Wife, by Judy Brady. It outlined all the things we women provide, all the roles we fill, all the under-appreciated tasks we perform to allow the comfortable lives lived by our families. I read that article some years later when my own kids were small and thought, YES! A wife is exactly what I need.
What surprises me after all this time is that not much has changed. My family has grown up, I’ve shifted careers a couple of times, and we’ve all learned and evolved. But at the center of it I’m still organizing and managing like a crazy person. I’m care-taking as fast as I can. Deep down, I suppose I must like it this way. But what I’d really like, Gloria Steinem, is a wife.
How ’bout you?

So there you are, humming along, feeling pretty great about your relationship with your pre-teen. He’s happy and engaged with life, the family and you, and things for the most part seem pretty peachy. Then for no apparent reason, he seems headed for the Dark Side. “Anakin!” you call out. “Come back!” But the little boy is gone and a moody, withdrawn adolescent has taken his place.
w it by looking around anytime from mid-November through the start of the New Year, but there are some of us who don’t get all that jazzed about the holiday season. We’re the 1 percent.
Yesterday I was at Pier I, a home decor store, looking for some sparkly candles to light my table and get me in the mood for the holidays. I love seeing all the gorgeous decorations that get showcased at this time of year. It brings out the child in me and really does fill my heart with a sense of joy and wonder. I know it’s hokey to some but I love to check out the beauty and artistic creativity that is so evident in each year’s new ornaments and displays.
Our family is headed to Florida in a couple of weeks to spend the holidays with the grandparents. Florida is that state where all New Yorkers (in this case northern New Jersey-ites) are required by law to go when they retire. This is non-negotiable.
In no particular order, all of these have made my parenting world a better place.
Not that long ago single, young women worried a lot about getting pregnant. Abortion was illegal and out-of-wedlock pregnancy was characterized by shame and stigma. Then along came the birth control pill, and the Roe v. Wade Supreme Court decision that legalized abortion, and everything changed.
Mommy angst. It starts to take hold the moment you see the plus sign on the pee stick — even sooner for those expert worriers who jump to the worst case scenario as soon as the possibility of procreation crosses their radar screen.



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