Barbie Would Never Have Survived in My Home

I loved Barbie -- I had a bright red case, lots of clothes, and, like so many of my peers, various other items and accessories that gave my Barbie a life I could only have wished for myself. When I was old enough to stop playing with Barbie, my mom gave her and all her accoutrements away to a neighbor's granddaughter who did not have Barbie's lifestyle -- or one even similar to my own.

At the time, it never occurred to me (or my mom, obviously) to save my treasured doll, et al. for my own daughter... and it was probably just as well, because that beautiful little female made in my own image has never materialized. And, when my son was given a Ken doll for Hanukkah by a very PC-minded friend, he proceeded to rip the head off before the holiday was even over. Barbie would never have survived in my home, and I wanted so much more for her....

You know me: I'm the mom who shopped for sweats and shirts that said things like, "Baseball is Life," and "Warcraft Rules," while the other moms shopped for pretty party dresses and shirts emblazoned with sequins and hearts and flowers.

I'm the mom who drove carpool to soccer and baseball and basketball and was always finding athletic cups in every room of the house -- did you know those suckers can bounce like balls? --while the other moms drove to ballet and gymnastics and went to little girl tea parties.

I'm the mom who picked out the matching tie and cummerbund set and bought the wrist corsage for prom while the other moms were helping their teenage fashionistas pick out just the right dress that would transform them into women for the night.

Yes, I am the mom of boys... the daughterless mom. Do you think I'm bitter? Nah, I'm over it. I love my boys -- wouldn't trade them them for a sack of gold (most days), but I have to admit that there are many days when it would be nice to have someone join me at the nail salon, or in the dressing room to tell me my butt looks big in those pants... uh, maybe not.

"We are a sisterhood, we mothers of boys. We eye each other at the supermarket checkout counters and pass each other at the ice cream store (as our boys walk by, ice cream dripping down their cones and onto their hands). We give each other knowing glances, and we can have convos about poop and arm farting with the best of 'em."

While girls are written about using words like sparkles and sugar and spice, boys are written about using words like noise and dirt (and puppy dog tails).

I really didn't have a preference when I was pregnant the first time. I was delighted to have my son. I felt satisfied and fulfilled with my child and had my husband not wanted more children, I think I would have been fine with only one. But as time wore on, and as I thought about my boy being lonely as an only child, the pangs of motherhood began to get stronger and the excitement about having another babe in the house was palpable.

Of course it was going to be girl... NOT!

Once I got my second "bundle of boy," it became clear to me that my mission in life was to shape these guys into loving, respectful men for the women of the world. I wanted them to acquire aspects of my husband's personality, but there were things I could teach them as well.

As is stated in the book, Raising Cain, our culture stereotypes boys and shortchanges them by not developing their emotional attachment. I wanted my boys to be strong, and yet be able to communicate emotionally and be in touch with their feminine side as well. (When I found them trying on bras at Macy's when they were 8 and 4, that wasn't exactly what I had in mind.)

I wanted them to be adventurous -- something I am not -- but not too reckless. ("The orthopedist is my friend" has been my mantra, and the huge files in his office substantiate that.)

I wanted them to be equipped to withstand the wrenches life would throw at them. (And when my my son got his head stuck in the turnstile at CVS, and the announcement over the loudspeaker squawked, "We need the mega wrench at the front entrance," the boys handled the looky-loos very well.)

I believe I've done my job. My husband and I had two amazing boys who have grown into super men. They may not be exact physical images of me, but I see myself in there -- all the time. They are kind and loving and funny and wry. They are intuitive and very often they even "get" me. I am proud to be their mom. And when I look at them-looking at me-I feel a sense of love that I don't believe could have been any greater had they been daughters.

And, though the time for daughters-in-law is not nearly at hand (thank the lord), when that time does come, I expect those lucky girls to get down on their hands and knees and bless the ground I walk on. (Hah, I won't hold my breath!) But they'll have to do that before we do lunch and then go to the nail salon for mani/pedis. I wouldn't want them to smudge their polish.

Nearer My Mom, To Thee

The Crafty Crow

I can’t remember the last time I spent Mother’s Day with my mother...in person. She’s been gone almost ten years and before that she lived in Florida while I lived in California. The times we spent together during the Mother’s Days of that period were reduced to the length of a phone call, and there was always an undercurrent of guilt fueling that obligatory call. I felt sad that she was not with her children and grandchildren, and guilty about not making that happen.  Each year I wrestled with the determination of whether it was better to get the call over with earlier in the day or at the last possible moment.  

During those calls, Mom would say she loved whatever gift we sent, and then I would put my boys on the phone so they could wish their grandmother a happy day. She would never say, but I could tell from the tone of her voice whether it really was a happy day or not. Whether she and my dad went out for lunch or dinner (my dad, Mr. Romantic, was one of those guys who would celebrate the day before to avoid the crowds), or whether they did nothing and just stayed home alone. Invariably those phone calls did not do much to contribute to the happiness of my day (thus the hemming and hawing connected to making them). They hearkened me back to the many Mother’s Days of my youth. On those days, my dad would often come home from his morning errands with a big bunch of flowers.  I would always add my own colorful bouquets--the ones with the crepe paper blossoms and pipe cleaner stems, and handmade cards covered with hearts that had been glued on assiduously. A big fuss was made over anything I created, and as ours was a very symbiotic relationship, I was ecstatic to be able to make my mom happy. As I grew older, the homemade gifts were replaced by gifts I actually purchased. One in particular was a white cotton nightgown, delicate and thin as rice paper. A white satin ribbon zigzagged around the neckline, and also the hemline.  My mom wore that nightgown often, until the many runs through the washer made it unwearable, just to show me how special it was.

Yet as celebratory as those times seemed, there was always an undercurrent of melancholia hiding there beneath them--like a piece of fine gauze. Any joy that was experienced in our home was often followed by a loud, wistful sigh, or a remark that began, “If only.” “If only my family were here.” “If only the war had not taken your grandparents away.” I’m not sure whether it was my mother’s survivor’s guilt or merely her inherent unhappiness that caused her to destroy the mood, but she often did.  It was as if she felt obligated to always bring up the past so it wouldn’t be forgotten, and never allowed herself to revel too greatly in her joy and good fortune. It was always incumbent upon us to bring her that joy, but we could not compete with the memories of the Holocaust, and she was wont to let us know, in her own subtle ways.  It was as if the joy, as well as the air, was being sucked out of the room. I felt there was nothing I could say after such remarks to make things better, so very often my younger self would walk away, feeling dejected. Mom could never understand why that was, and quite often she would become angry. She probably didn’t even realize how her demeanor affected us, and it was obvious she didn’t try to.

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The Mother’s Days I spend with my own family are some of my most cherished times. We usually try some obscure place for brunch, and often my guys indulge me and allow themselves to be taken to a chick flick if there’s one playing that day. I love sitting in the theater with them knowing we’re all in one place, together. (Even though some of us are sleeping.) Last Mother’s Day we were all together on a plane to Italy. Once we had taken off and were flying at a pretty high altitude, I felt in my own childish way, as though we were closer to heaven, and thus closer to my mom. I imagined her looking in on the plane, seeing my boys, now young men, sitting there with me and I thought of how bursting with pride she would be. She often said that the only things that gave her pleasure were her children and grandchildren. And yet her pleasure seemed so fleeting at times.Thinking of her while on that plane did not dampen my spirits, as it usually did. In some strange way I felt her presence and as a light blanket on a cool summer night it descended upon me, and I felt happy. This year, I will once again be on a plane on Mother’s Day, this time heading to Turkey. I will think of my mom on that day, hoping to sense her again. I will imagine her smiling, and send her my love.