Dead Brain Cells

I used to believe after I had my daughter that I had truly lost brain cells. My computing capacity, my ability to remember things at work and even my vocabulary seemed to be incredibly diminished. I went back to work when my daughter was six-months old so the problem was not that I had given up adult conversations and had no other tests to challenge my mind. I really was a bit of a moron.

I had heard of this effect from other friends that had babies before me. As a bit of a latecomer to the “mom” game, I had a lot of time to witness to these bouts of absent-mindedness in my previously brilliant and accomplished friends. I chalked that behavior up as normal for my friends who chose to stay at home with their kids. Of course their intelligence would diminish when all they had to speak to all day were drooling blobs that wouldn’t be stringing together a full sentence for many, many years. Decisions such as choosing the most environmentally friendly laundry detergent don’t really subject the mind to any sort of strain. Of course their capacity was going to be diminished but what about my working friends and myself?

For my working friends, I just noticed the frenzy. It was hard to tell if their minds were still sharp because we rarely had time to have an intelligent conversation about anything other than the list of tasks they had no time to complete in order to not be fired and to make sure their children had clothes on. God, it was exhausting just talking to them. In the old days, I was the go-to girl at my company. With my elephant-like memory, any historical fact, figure or personage that needed recalling rolled off my tongue without effort. After I returned from maternity leave, it seemed that going back to old emails, files and my address book to find the information that was needed filled up my time at work. I had slipped. My edge was gone. Though I must admit I didn’t mind not being that “go-to” girl anymore. “Figure it out yourself. I’m busy!”

Welcome to 2009. My family and I are in the middle of the recession (dare I say, “depression”) mess like everyone else. My husband’s company is restructuring and due to our recent move across the country, I had not found a job yet. But when things started to look shaky, I got back on the job search bandwagon and the result was a few interviews with this interesting company that went pretty well. There was some glimmer of hope that we could stay put and ride out the storm instead of going home with the same sad tale you hear in the news every night (and thank the heavens we kept our house so we would have somewhere to return if needed).

So in preparing for any eventuality, I said to my husband, “Honey, I have an appointment to look at a pre-school for Ava and then I am going to stop by Staples and get some bubble wrap for packing up my china.” I thought my husband’s head was going to explode. “How do you function like that?” he asked me. “What choice do I have? If I get the job, Ava needs to have a place to go during the day and if we leave, I need to start packing.” Duh! Then it hit me. I figured out where my IQ points went. They just got re-arranged. My ability to multi-task was so heightened it just seemed like my other skill sets had reduced. But you know what? I am still pretty smart and though it’s no longer manifested in the same way as it was previously, I know it’s in there. I don’t know any dudes with that kind of capacity.

"OMG, Whose Kids Are Those?!! Oh, F***. They're Mine."

Typically my weekends are all about the kids:  

Baseball. Basketball. Sibling conflict negotiation. Laundry. Matching socks. Playing with Star Wars action figures. Giving baths. Clipping toe nails. Reading the Penguin book for the 20th time. Watching the "Little Bear" Valentine's Day episode for the 56th time. 

But a few weeks ago, I got a call from someone at my tennis club. They asked if I wanted to "sub" for someone who couldn't make her doubles playgroup that day. The club has a childcare room so I thought, "Why not? I could use a little Mommy time on the weekend for once." It would be only for an hour and I figured my boys would have no problem being in the babysitting room for that long—since they were such WELL-BEHAVED kids and all. 

Right.

When I brought my boys, ages 7 and 4, to the club's babysitting room, there were a handful of preschoolers there behaving nicely and engrossed in some innocent kid/family movie. The woman in charge was by herself, but she seemed like someone who could keep things under control. I got my boys settled, reminded them to have manners and listen to the lady in charge. They nodded quietly, ventured off to explore the room, and I trotted off with racquet in hand to the indoor courts.

I had a great time. The hour flew by. Boy, did it feel good to take an hour out for myself from a usually jam-packed kid-centric weekend! Once the match was over, I walked off the court with my spirits lifted and ready to return to Mommy duties. But...as I headed toward the court, suddenly I sensed a change in the air. My parental instincts were buzzing. I heard a ruckus. I noticed that the face of the woman working at the front desk looked perturbed; actually, more like disgusted. 

"Oh, too bad" I thought to myself. "Someone's kids must be really acting up." 

Once I was in the vicinity of the playroom, I looked up through the glass window and saw the sullen faces of my children peering out at me. Were they sad to have been abandoned? Were they bored? No. As it turns out, this time the bad kids in the room were MY kids. 

My heart rate shot up instantly. The blood rushed to my face. I pushed through the door of the childcare room and immediately saw that the babysitter had tears in her eyes. My children had made her CRY! And once I asked her to give me the recap, I could see why. Evidently, after I had left to play tennis, my boys went into "Jekyl and Hyde" mode. At school, the boys act the way they have been taught to act. They listen to their teachers. They play nicely with their fellow students. They have manners and know what constitutes bad behavior. I know this, because their teachers tell me this all the time. 

But once in awhile, something happens when Kade and August get together and I'm not in the room. They tap into their "dark sides" and feed off each other's negative energy. Like pack animals, they seek out the "weak" life forms in the room and descend upon them. 

In this case, they sought out a little girl and started spitting near her and calling her names. They did their patented "hamster dance," which involves pulling down their pants and shaking their butts. They made fun of the babysitter and started heckling anybody who gave them a curious look.

I was shocked. I was mortified. I grabbed those little demons by the shirt collars and dragged them out of there. When I looked back at the babysitter, she shot me a look that said, "And whatever you do, don't EVER think about bring those hellions back here again!"

On the car ride home, my boys sat in the back seat motionless and bracing for a major verbal ass-whuppin.' Before I could get a single word out, I terrified them by the simple act of shaking my head and not blinking. Ten minutes ago I was in happy-go-lucky tennis mode. But now I was in full throttle Sheriff mode. And my boys knew they weren't going to get out of this one unscathed.

When I did managed to speak, all I could utter was: "What were you thinking?" "You know I would never stand for that kind of behavior at home." "What WERE you thinking? "That's not the way I've been raising you." "Just WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!"

Of course, my boys were too parilyzed with fear to answer. All they knew was what they did was bad.  And I could see in their eyes, they weren't really sure why they had gone so far to the The Dark Side.

As the daughter of a strict Catholic Mom, good manners and respect for others was ingrained—actually sledge-hammered—into me. And every day since my sons were born, I was intent on ensuring that my kids would not be the brats that made other people glad they didn't have kids. Before having children, I had been to too many restaurants where parents just let their kids scream, run amok, and annoy other diners. I vowed that I would never be that kind of parent. So why, after all my dedicated teaching, would my kids stray so far off the path of Goodness?

Because of course, they are human beings. And they are kids. As much as we try to equip them with manners and instill good behavior, sometimes kids just can't help but be bad—especially when they're not under the watchful eye of their parents. And as much as as this incident upset me, I can now see the good that came from it. 

I see that my youngest son is still in the phase where all attention—even bad attention—is good attention. I now know that he'll do anything and suffer any consequences to make his older brother laugh. I also see that his older brother needs to develop a "stronger spine" and not lose his sense of values when he's being pressured by others to do things he shouldn't.  The bad behavior spawned a series of constructive conversations with both of my sons. Although I had been teaching them good manners, they didn't really "get" that this was a personal mission for me. By offending the babysitter in the childcare room, they had offended and disrespected me. 

I also reinforced my disappointment with some punishment that really drove the point home: No video games, no legos, no dessert/treats—for THREE WHOLE DAYS.  During those three days, there was a blissful calm in our household. The boys didn't squabble. They did as they were told. They were clearly just happy to not see the wild-eyed look in their Mother's eyes.

Of course, in the weeks since this incident, there have been bouts of bad behavior here and there. But overall, a big lesson was learned. The boys now try to think and act more like Luke and less like Darth Vader—whether Mom's around or not. And Mom has learned not to take it all so personally. No matter how hard I try, sometimes "the bad kids" will be my kids. From now until they leave the house for college, the battle to instill kindness, decency and compassion must be fought, day in and day out. Hopefully one day it will stick and become part of who they are. (And as for the childcare room at the tennis club? I still haven't mustered up the courage to bring my boys back.)

Goals - Do we need them?

I had made it to Iowa when I suddenly thought to myself, “What am I supposed to do now?” Previous to this earth shattering realization, I had goals. Get into the best college in the country – check. Study abroad – check. Get that job in finance – check. Business school – check. Change careers – check. Though not written down anywhere, there was a list, at least in my head, of things I expected to accomplish in my life and now that I had done all of them, I faced an unprecedented situation. I realized I had not put anything else on that list. Here I am on my way back to California after a decade spent in Beantown with a mound of student loans but no discernable plan.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I had no reason to complain about my situation. I had no tale of woe, nothing to feel sorry about. I had a good job in an interesting company. I was moving to beautiful Southern California; back to the area of most of my long time friends and my family live. I should feel at ease, calm, contented, proud, patting myself on the back for a job well done. But instead there was a sense of panic rising in me. I needed a goal!
Okay, what could it be? Well, obviously marriage and motherhood, right? Although I was a serial dater, never long without a boyfriend, marriage was one of those things I just never really planned on. Sure it would be great to have Mr. Wonderful sweep me off my feet but up until that point, I never really imagined myself uttering those “…til death do us part” vows to anyone I had ever gone out with. Nice guys (well most of them anyway). Any of them could have made a nice partner to go thru life with and most of them have made some other nice girl very happy. But, I had about a 3-year attention span until my eyes started to wander and that great guy started to wonder what the hell was going on with me. So I really just didn’t see that as a realistic goal for me to put on the list and start working toward. It just wasn’t that important to me. Motherhood? My mom died when I was a kid and I just didn’t see procreation happening for me at least until I got past the age my mom was when she died (she was 34, at this point in my story, I am only 28).
So do you really need to have a goal? Can’t you just be? Okay, I did end up getting married – a whirlwind internet dating success story which will be left for another time and I did have a baby (I made it past 34 and had my girl a month before my 38th birthday). But I have to tell you, I am still kind of floundering on that goal question. I am heading into another major transition in my life, moving back across the country to my husband’s hometown, New York City. He got a new job and the move is allowing me to transition out of my current career, which is a blessing. It will be a blast I am sure, raising my kid in the city, restaurants, shows, museums, not sitting in So Cal traffic every day. But I don’t really have a goal. Should I?

No Longer Green With Envy Over the Red Book

When "it" arrived five years after college, I read through it with youthful curiosity. When it showed up 10 years after college, I dreaded reading it, but read it anyway. When it came yet again 15 years after college, I didn't even break the seal—I left it in its plastic packaging and tossed it in a closet with some old, faded Jam shorts from the '80s.

"It" is the red-covered Harvard Class Report that is sent out to alumni every five years. It is a compilation of missives submitted by my former classmates, which describe their latest career and personal accomplishments. It is thick. It is intimidating. It can make you feel like an utter failure after reading just two pages.

  When the latest edition of the Red Book arrived this past spring, something strange happened. I opened it up as soon as I got it, pored through the pages, smiled, even laughed. When I closed it, I was even happier. Because I realized, for the first time in the 20 years since graduation, I no longer lived in fear of The Red Book.

To understand why, let's back up a little. When I was growing up, my Mom always held up the careers of others to inspire my own. She was Old School. She admired lawyers, doctors, and professors. If you chose one of those professions, you were sure to be well-respected in society, live in a big house, and have lots of dough so you'd never have to worry. I understand why she felt this way. She was one of three children raised in the wake of the Great Depression and her family always worried about being able to pay their bills.

When she became a Mom, she scrimped, saved and did everything possible to position me for success in life. And her definition of success was becoming a lawyer, doctor or professor. The problem was, as much I tried to ignore it, my creative side was stronger and louder than my lawyerly side. And much to my parent's dismay, I went into the creative side of the advertising field.  Mind you: I did so knowing full well that a Harvard education absolutely, positively prepares you IN NO WAY for this particular career path.

In the years that followed, I paid my dues. My Harvard degree may have helped get me job interviews, but it certainly didn't give me any fast track to the top. One rung at a time, I worked my way up from secretary to junior copywriter to senior copywriter to creative director. There were small, gratifying successes along the way, but no major event that, for my parents, would offset my failure to become their coveted doctor or lawyer. I was fairly happy in my life and what I was doing, but I couldn't jettison this feeling that I wasn't living up to my Harvard grad potential. And when that big fat Red Class Report arrived every five years, it only served to underscore my feelings of career underachievement.

When I paged through the thick booklet, it was so easy to feel intimidated. Heck, there was the gal who played hockey with my former college roommate who was now a major TV network producer. There was that seemingly dopey lacrosse player (whom I sort of dated) who became a well-respected physician. There was that guy who used to hold the 3-day keg parties who now headed up a division at one of New York's most prominent investment banking firms.

And there was me. Married. Advertising Professional. Ho. Hum. Holly.

Of course, I was happy for my former classmates and their successes. But I'll be honest: reading about them made me feel extremely defeated.  Why couldn't I have made something of my Harvard degree to the level they did? Was I not motivated enough? Was I not smart enough? What I not something enough?

These were the gnawing questions that plagued me every time that #%& Class Report showed up on my doorstep. And these are the questions I finally stopped asking when in 2001, I finally became a Mom.

Once in the throes of Motherhood, there was no time for self-assessment. There was only time for doing. I was lucky to have a few minutes to suck down a triple espresso and wipe the gobs of spit-up out of my hair. My benchmark for success wasn't lowered, but it did change. Getting my son to not pee on my shirt when I changed his diaper? Major victory. Convincing my son not to throw his bottle on the floor of the car and burst into tears about it? Huge breakthrough. Several bleary-eyed months passed by and then one day it hit me: All that stuff I used to worry about? It didn't matter anymore. I was now the caretaker of two little lives. And there was no more wondering what I should be doing in life anymore. This was it.  No other "job" I had before had tested me so fiercely or rewarded me so richly. After a lifetime of searching, I felt like I found the role I was always meant to play. 

So, when Red Book time rolled around again (this time for my 20th class reunion), I did something different. When I got a form from Harvard asking me to submit a missive for the upcoming Class Book, I didn't scoff at it and say aloud, "What do I have to promote?" I actually sat down and wrote a missive about myself and my new role as a Mom. Sure, in some people's eyes it wasn't nearly impressive as the guy who became a Professor at a prominent law school; or the woman who is now the Editor of a major metropolitan newspaper; or the many other former classmates who have conquered, discovered, invented, prevailed, or pioneered. But in my mind, it conveyed a success story nonetheless.

And when that Red Book did arrive, I picked it up and read it enthusiastically. But perhaps the best part was reading missives that sounded a lot more genuine than they had in the past. Instead of bragging about their career achievements, more of my former classmates shared their personal, and refreshingly honest, stories of triumph and failure. There were battles with cancer. There were jobs and marriages that fell through. There were heart-breaking stories of people who went through unimaginable things. And then there was the missive of a guy, a father, who counted among his blessings: "Proud papa of bar mitzvah; incurable idealist; inventor of the Hug of a Thousand Kisses; thinking about resuming meditation."

As it turns out, as we Harvard alums grow older, we're becoming more real, more honest, more aware of what success can and should mean. And because we are, the Red Book has become a more interesting read than ever before. Who would have thought?