The Opt-Out Generation Wants Back In

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/11/magazine/the-opt-out-generation-wants-back-in.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

I was one of the professional women they are talking about in this article -- one who opted out of the career track to stay at home.  At the end of my maternity leave in January 2000, I extended the leave one month, still in denial, still putting off the pain of decision.  I didn't want to say to my mother, or any other professional woman I respected, that I was going to take my education and 10-year career and chuck them.  I was afraid to admit I was choosing diapers and nursing, playdates and parks.  I was scared.  All of us who chose to opt out were fearful.  We'd never be able to pick up where we left off. 

It feels a little less authentic now that I read I wasn't the only one struggling with the decision, I wasn't the only one who became mommy extraordinaire, volunteer queen, and home-making champion.  I was like every other educated mother who could afford to stay home and decided to do it.  I had a great run, too.  Envious of my friends with careers, yes.  Wishing I was in a conference room haggling with clients, no.  Staying at home was rewarding for me.  It also came with a price.  The Professor and I fought.  We almost divorced several times.  We power struggled over everything from money to the kind of turkey I bought. I have learned it wasn't about the money, or the turkey. It was about my decision on how to spend my time.  Owning that choice is difficult at best, even for the black and white thinkers.

The kids are older now.  They set their own alarms, make their own lunches, do their own laundry.  Mommy is still needed to direct and supervise but not execute any more.  This is a natural time to make a change.  I have friends who went back to work because they want to keep up their lifestyle and pay for their kids' college tuitions but can't swing it on one income.  I also have friends who traded with their partner.  She is the bread winner and he is the cook and chauffeur now.  The last group is like me, they have some time while the kids are in school, have maxed out in the volunteering arena and don't care for the Work-Out Barbie look.  Running errands and walking the dog doesn't take seven hours a day.  

Women who are empowered with choice have the easiest time of going back to work after being at home for a long stretch (the article uses 10 years as the average).  Whether that empowerment comes from external -- degrees from top schools, great networks, etc. -- or from internal -- recognizing the price of trade offs and making them (no matter how exhausting and uncomfortable that is) -- depends on the individual.  

The sucker punch in the article was from the woman whose own mother had worked as a high school drama teacher and speech therapist and was home in the afternoons and during school vacations.  She learned from her father, after her mother had died, that her mother had always wished she could have spent more time with her children.

So there is no easy answer.  No matter whether you opt out or not, opt back in or not.   Even when it looks like a woman has it all, in the end we discover she gave up something.

Gone Fishing

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“Mom, will you take me and Ryan to Law Street?”

They wanted a ride down to Pacific Beach where they thought the bodysurfing would be better than at the beach right by our house.  This was legitimate because the wave breaks are all different.

I didn’t have the time to stay and watch them.  I overheard his friend asking if they could just be dropped off.

This is all new and uncomfortable.  Leaving my son home alone is one thing.  Leaving him at the beach with a friend unsupervised is another.  I called the Professor.

“He needs some freedom.  He’s a strong swimmer.  It’s just an hour,” the Professor reassured. 

It was time to take a risk, but I was terrified.  I had worked myself up to First Born Prince either drowning or sneaking off to make out with some beach babe while he held a joint in one hand and a beer in the other. 

“I don’t want him to grow up too fast,” I argued.

“He’s not going to grow up at all if you don’t let him go figure a few things out on his own,” replied the Professor who grew up in a New York nanosecond. 

Ugh. I relented. 

“Okay, Charlie, grab some towels, I can drop you off, but only for an hour while I…zoom to the grocery and maniacally throw food into the cart …grocery shop, then we have to hustle back home.”

They seemed a little too excited with the news.  They seemed like drug addicts who just found a twenty-dollar bill. 

As we pulled up to the beach access point, synchronizing our watches, I heard his friend whisper, “Did you bring it?”  My son shushed him with his eyes. 

My heart skipped a beat.  This is it.  Here we go.  It’s happening.  He was going to go off and do something he didn’t want me to know about.  I wanted to shriek, “Bring WHAT?”  I thought about parking the car down the road, and belly crawling back through the ice plant.  I couldn’t believe it.  How was I ever going to let go?  Damn it all to hell.

I came back right at the scheduled time and watched them walk up with huge grins on their faces, my son carrying a bag.  He waved it around.

“We caught a fish!” 

“What??!!”

“The waves weren’t that great so we walked down to the pier and you can rent fishing poles for $7 an hour.”

He has a new debit card that accesses his own money but he usually asks before he buys anything.  I approve all purchases and acquisitions, even a burrito.  He didn’t ask this time, he was testing my control, he didn’t want me to say no, he wanted to do something without asking mommy first.  I wondered how much longer he’d need me.

“Mom, will you please, please cook it for us when we get home?”

What Went Right

Today is the last day of Christmas break.  Normally I’d feel totally wiped out, like I just finished a perverse marathon where the goal was to consume all the shopping trips, cocktail parties, meals out, school holiday performances, See’s Candy, and Chardonnay possible between November 22 and January 1^st without going broke, throwing up or yelling at any dim-witted retail clerks.  This year is different.  I feel good.  I could probably still use a week at Betty Ford, but I am mostly in a healthy place -- rested, inspired, and connected with my family and friends. 

Were my relatives all medicated?  Did someone slip the Professor a lobotomy?  Had the boys finally taken me seriously about cutting off technology devices?  Was it possible that my best friend intuitively knew that what I really needed for Christmas was a nice, long visit with her?  Why did everything go so well?

It started with Thanksgiving.  Charlie’s Bar Mitzvah was scheduled for the Saturday before, and I was planning to be the ultimate nut job and turn a simple Bar Mitzvah celebration into a week-long festival of eating, drinking and arguing, with the grand finale being a homemade turkey feast for anyone not smart enough to leave town promptly after the Bar Mitzvah ended.  Fortunately I didn’t get my way.  My mother-in-law invited everyone to Cabo San Lucas for some R&R.  Thank God she is brilliant and I didn’t spend the week in my kitchen, muttering to myself, wandering around with a glass of wine permanently glued to my palm.  And I didn’t miss the smell of turkey cooking, not one teeny, tiny, little bit. 

I wondered if we could repeat the success of a calm holiday over Christmas break.  Traditionally we meet our friends in Palm Desert, which is restorative, but this year they had just flown out for the Bar Mitzvah and we are heading back to see them in February.  The Professor suggested we go to the Galapagos. Even though I love to travel, the magic, I knew, wasn’t in taking a trip.

I had so much work piled up that I feared vacation would turn into me at the computer and the boys in front of the TV.  I wanted to spend quality time with them but also wanted to get a lot of shit crossed off my list.  I didn’t want to spend my precious free time buying a bunch of crap for them and then yelling at them because I spent my day running stupid errands instead of doing something of quality.  I wanted to be productive and be with them, and that was it.

We decided to stay home for Christmas, have a few friends and family over, get caught up on all our projects and take a short trip to San Francisco.  To ensure we didn’t let the two weeks slip by without honoring what was important to us, we each picked something we wanted to do individually and also something we wanted to do as a family.  I wrote them on a white board and left it up in the kitchen.  This was our list:

--bodysurf day and movie night with Aunt Hayley

--sleepover with Jack (that was Sam’s, not mine)

--walk around the neighborhood with Huck at night to see the Xmas lights

--family board game

--family movie night

--take sheets and blankets to animal shelter

--volunteer at Hunger Project

--long hike

We did all of it.  As a HUGE bonus, the Professor took the boys hiking for three days to Joshua Tree and I literally spent the entire time researching and writing.  No errands, no socializing, just peace of mind.  It was one of the best gifts I ever received.  Time. Time to think.  Guilt free.

My last blog post was July 20.  My resolution for 2012 was:  Time for writing, quality mothering and better health.  Two out of three ain’t bad.  Maybe I can sit myself down at my keyboard more often in 2013...

 

Saints

First Born Prince went with his father to volunteer at a homeless shelter last weekend.  The project is organized by our temple and the service hours are required as part of his Hebrew school education.

The Professor kept forwarding the e-mails from the ‘Hunger Project” coordinator directly to First Born Prince with notes like, “This is your responsibility.  You need to figure out what you need to do, what to wear, what to bring, etc.”

I stayed out of it.  I loosely knew their shift started around 8:00 a.m. on Sunday morning and did my part by suggesting an early bedtime Saturday night.  I figured the ritual of becoming a man should encompass the whole shebang.

When the Professor got up that day, he was pleasantly surprised to find FBP had set his alarm, was already dressed and ready to go.

FBP had the job of serving juice at meal time.  If you’ve ever spent time around homeless people, you know that sugar, in any form, is a hot commodity.   He was very busy filling and refilling their cups for them while they were eating.

“So one guy holds up his two paper cups and tells me, ‘I want more apple and grape juice.’  I took them and filled one up with apple and one with grape and brought them over to his table.  The man looked into the cups, made a face and yelled, ‘I wanted half apple and half grape in each one!’  Then the other homeless guy sitting next to him, looked over and yelled at him, ‘Awww, don’t be such a dick!’”

He was laughing as he told the punchline.  He smiled at me and said, “It was fun, Mom.”

I am thankful that my son sees the light and joy in his experiences.  There is no perfect formula for passing on the values you want for your children.  I don’t think First Born Prince would have spent time in a homeless shelter, serving people as a 12-year-old, if it wasn’t one of the requirements for his Bar Mitzvah.  Helping those in need is part of a Jewish man's commitment to God.  After FBP turns 13 this fall, it will be his choice whether or not he continues to fulfill the commandment.

As a kid, I memorized a framed prayer we had hanging on the wall in the downstairs guest bathroom, where apparently I spent a lot of time.  I don't think my mother's intention was to give me a blueprint for thoughtful living in that way, but it pretty much sums up my deal:

The Prayer of Saint Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

Sucking Blood

I am a vampire, roaming the earth seeking my life source.  It’s not blood I’m after, that’s far too simple of an answer for a creature like me.  It’s not love, either, that’s too Hallmark and Hollywood, if you know what I mean.  I am not soulless though.  The Professor and my boys are a source of nourishment in every sense.  Even with all my good fortune, I still need more.  I moved our family back to California thinking it was sunshine I was after.  I feel sorry for the vampires who search in either the most predictable places (sigh) or the oddest.  I’ve discovered it’s not in the California sunshine, nor is it in wine bottles, gyms or shopping malls.  Intellectually, I get the message:  The energy I am seeking comes from within.  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Vampires don’t suck their own blood.

Then something wonderful happened.  The good people of La Jolla recruited me to help our schools.  I have volunteered in leadership positions for over ten years and was on hiatus from the public education crisis while we were in Ithaca for two years.  Since we’ve been back, I’ve been avoiding the noise by writing checks and apologizing profusely to my friends.  I was a burn out.  I rolled my eyes.  I snickered.  I almost went nuts when the parent, sitting poolside on a weekday last summer, explained to me how she couldn’t afford to give the whole $1,000 per child that the school was trying to raise, and then in the next breath told me about their vacation to Hawaii and how she was planning to take her son to Disneyland as a pre back-to-school treat.  I thought I was going to strangle a middle-aged woman right there in someone’s backyard.  How could I effectively lead a group of volunteers from a jail cell?

This year, I couldn’t refuse.  I’ve been to a few meetings already and started feeling the energy in my veins.  This community amazes me and inspires me.  I found myself laughing again and enjoying the company of the other volunteers.  These are not rich ladies who lunch.  Okay, a few are.  But most of them have careers, or work inside the home, or both.  They show up and they get shit done.  I love it.  I realized I have been too focused on the negative.  I have to let go of the people who don’t give.  I have found it in my heart to not blame the less fortunate.  Either they are clueless and wander around not knowing half of what’s going on, or worse, they know but feel like they are not in a position to give, either time or money.  I can’t imagine feeling that locked up.  Nowhere to run or hide except maybe at Disneyland and even that only lasts for a day, two if you’re charging it.

I can’t remember if vampires can see themselves in mirrors or not.  Doesn’t matter.  If my good luck continues, I’ll be like all the energized, happy souls around me.

Spring Cleaning

My favorite spring cleaning activity is purging.  Old clothes, books, toys, stupid purchases (did I really pay for an avocado peeler?) and outgrown sporting equipment are given away.  The house feels cleaner and fresher, ready for guests and naps on the back porch.  It’s taken me years of living with a New Yorker who was raised in an apartment to learn how to let go of stuff.  I used to have every single thing with meaning saved—notes passed to me in the hallway dating as far back as junior high, letters received while I was in college, dried corsages, bouquets, favorite pairs of jeans, an old boyfriend’s Stanford Football jacket (I’m actually saving it for the day he shows up on Facebook so I can get his current address and mail it back to him for his wife or kids to enjoy).  Yes, I can be nice.

I learned to let go slowly over the years, but I still have trouble with my sons’ artwork and school work, all of it from pre-school through six grade, categorized and saved.  It’s taking over my garage and office and we’re only half-way there.  Since First Born Prince, we have moved four times, twice across country.  You would think I would be better at tossing by now.  I assign emotional currency to each and every pencil and crayon stroke they’ve ever made.  A friend of mine suggested I take digital photos of everything and then recycle it.  It’s not the same.  I already feel like I lost the little boy who created what I am looking at when I dig the projects out.  How will I feel if I lose his creations? 

Then there are the keepsakes that you simply cannot toss.  I have a pile of those sacred items in our master bedroom—the blankets and pillows from when my boys were little that I can’t even bear to put in the garage.

Today I eyed the bag and knew it was time to commit--make a permanent place for the assortment of baby blankets and pillows somewhere inside my home or store it.  I picked up Charming Baby’s “emergency” nee-nee (the real nee-nee, his blanket he slept with every night of his life for seven years, was accidentally left on a Disney cruise ship).  Caressing the soft, cream fabric, I smiled remembering when I bought the back-up “just in case,” he informed me I was wasting my money because it would never replace the real one. 

Sam, the Sharpie markings read on the satin trim of the blanket.  We labeled it his first week of Kindergarten to use at school for naptime.  His real nee-nee was far too needed and cherished at home to be stored in a cubby at school.  Without emergency nee-nee in front of me, I am not sure I would have remembered how we discussed which blanket would be sacrificed, labeled and sent to do duty at an institution.  Nor would I have so clearly pictured how brave he was the day I hung up with the Disney World Lost-and-Found Specialist, confirming nee-nee was gone, and he looked me square in the eye and said, “It’s okay, Mom, I’m a big boy now.”

I think it was I who cried that night realizing I’d never see nee-nee again.

Blessing or Curse

“We were blessed with cute faces,” my father explained to his chubby fourth-grade daughter.  He was trying to comfort me as I sat across the table from him at the Howard Johnson’s All-You-Can-Eat Fried Clams night, a ritual I endured every Tuesday after my brother’s basketball practice at the JCC.  I was on a diet, so I wasn’t bellying up to the clam bar with my brother and our neighbor’s three children.  At nine-years old, I was already sitting with the moms, sipping a Tab and ordering the diet plate--a plain hamburger patty and scoop of cottage cheese with a side of canned peaches.

My father rationalized that if you had a cute face, you could get away with being a little pudgy and still be attractive.  That may have been the case for a middle-aged married man living in the suburbs in the early 80’s, but it wasn’t my reality.  I felt pressure to be skinny, not sturdy.  I was actually cursed with a gene pool of giants.

My most painful memory during those years is of the day they weighed us at school and the nurse announced each student’s weight over her shoulder to the clerk recording the numbers.  As I waited in line, my heart raced with anxiety.  I knew I weighed more than all the other kids.  No one else in my class weighed over 100 lbs.  When it was my turn, I made eye contact with the nurse and silently pleaded with her to not share my weight out loud. 

“Lisa Barnhouse, 103.”

I don’t remember if the other kids were shocked, or if I was teased, or if Jeff Shaller, the tall blonde boy who made up songs about my Barn butt, was even there that day.  I just recall the fear.

First Born Prince got really round and soft right before he started shooting up overnight.  One day he looked like maybe he should skip a meal and the next he was lanky and needed bigger shoes.  When I talked to his pediatrician about it, he told me that males lose 25% of their body fat when they go through puberty, while girls gain 40% (yes, boobs and hips are made out of fat, people).

I am glad I didn’t give him the cute-face pep talk.  Nor put him on a diet.  I reassured him he was exactly the right size for someone born 11 pounds and predicted to grow up to somewhere between 6’8” and 7 feet tall. 

Charming Baby is also the biggest kid in his class, just like his “big boned” mother and “baby fat” brother, except he doesn’t worry or feel self-conscious.  He marches to his own beat, one giant step at a time.  I only realize it’s a challenge at all when he has a growth spurt and gets clumsy all of the sudden.  Just this week he fell twice on the playground, tripping over his own feet that have grown two sizes since September.

For comforting my baby, I simply kiss his scraped-up chin and tell him I am sorry he got hurt.  Looking at that cute face he was blessed with, I don’t think there’s much else to say.