Having been an advocate for truth for most of my life, I amazed myself this morning by lying to an online Scrabble opponent. And, truth be told, wickedly enjoying it.
He asked me how old I am, and I said, "82." But wait -- that wasn't the good lie. He said, "Really?" and I said, "No. But I feel 82 sometimes." That wasn't the lie, either. In fact, that isn't a lie at all.
Eventually I told him I am 32.
That was the good lie.
Ah, 32. What an interesting age.
When I was 21, working in N.J., I had a brief fling with a man who was 35. I thought he was ANCIENT. He was very funny, and fairly smart, but he had a bit of a belly and lacked that kind of taut, golden body to which I was accustomed in men. At least, the men I slept with.
Of course, now 35 looks pretty young, and 32 is positively infanthood. Everything else that I told my Scrabble partner was true -- that I felt 82 due to too many horseback-riding accidents; that I'm married; that I have a daughter.
So far, so good. Then my friend told me he's 34, married, finds marriage & impending fatherhood "tough." He described himself as a "wild person" who craves freedom. When I commented, "Like Gaugin? You want to run off to Tahiti?" he responded, "Can't do it, so why talk about it?"
I almost shot back that I'd felt the same way at 34; in fact, that I had tried hard through therapy to accept my life as it was, and that I'd finally run off, maybe not to Tahiti, but to plenty of other places and adventures. However, if I was only 32, as I'd lied, he might have questioned how I'd done that at 34. So I zipped my lip in the nick of time, and let him believe that I'm a contented housewife and mother at the ripe old age of 32.
In our ensuing conversation, though, I was conscious of really missing my real life. To think of being married with child at age 32, and to imagine myself following that path, well, to be frank, it gives me the willies. It definitely would not have been me. I would have sublimated my whole self, and probably right about now, I'd be getting a divorce and going in the Peace Corps. Just like Mom!
As it is, I'm SO happy I've led the life, or more precisely, followed the path I have. If I couldn't be mature, secure and fulfilled at 32, I would have been very discontent pretending to be mature, secure and fulfilled at 32. Not, you understand, that I'm mature, secure, etc. at my current age, but it's a better time to be married and a parent -- better for me, for my husband, for my kid.
To me, Tahiti doesn't seem remotely enticing, except that it is warm year-round. Had I been able to offer that guy the wisdom of my experience, I would have said: Do everyone a favor. Go to Tahiti. Be who you are. Jump. Things will work out.
Speaking of jumping, guess what? I was given a choice at the newspaper of going full-time or being laid off. What do you think I chose?
Monday, March 24, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Guidance
There's a guidance counselor at my daughter KaTTy's school and the classroom teachers drum up business for her by telling the kids that if there's anything they feel the need to talk about, they can sign up to talk to her.
Naturally, my daughter signed up. I say naturally, but it was a big surprise to me. I don't think of my daughter as "troubled." I think of her as "spoiled." (I was about to say that I, as much as anyone, know that one doesn't have to be "troubled" to see a counselor, but then I thought, "Hell, I was ALWAYS troubled.")
So KaTTy comes home and says, "I went to see Mrs. Dube today."
What did you talk about? I asked.
She told me one item that I thought was a pretty valid subject, regarding hers and my relationship. Then she said she talked about how "our house is messy" and "it's noisy and she can't find anyplace to read" and "my parents never take me shopping or anything."
Upon hearing this, my eyebrows shot into outer space and have not returned since. I know Rex and I view things from the perspective of aging but loving adults, and that KaTTy views things from the perspective of a 9-year-old, but I hadn't realized our points of view were on the first and last pages, respectively, at opposite ends of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. Our house is messy? Yeah, because there are 8 million toys stuffed into every conceivable nook and cranny, onto every available surface (including my snare drum and piano) and piled approximately three feet deep onto every floor. It's noisy? Yes, when the four dogs (two of whom KaTTy begged for) are barking at the three cats (one of whom KaTTy begged for) or the three horses (two of whom KaTTy begged for).
As for the shopping, or the "anything" that we never do for her, picture Rex and I scurrying about the house doing permanent backbends from trying to meet her demands. We've also worn out myriad hoops that we've been jumping through -- sometimes several at one leap -- since our daughter was born. In fact, her visit to the guidance counselor came hot on the heels of a rather large clothes-shopping excursion that involved driving two cars a total of 110 miles. I shan't go into details, but I assure you that that was the day my backbone calcified into permanent bendship.
Despite this horrendous track record, I am determined not to become a helicopter parent. I think when KaTTy goes to college, or to whatever life she chooses away from home, I'm going to apply for the witness protection program and get a new identity. I'm a witness. I witnessed my own fall from dignity.
This week I told KaTTy that she's on her own, that Rex and I are not going to help her one little bit. We won't take her to the library, we won't feed her puppy, we won't muck her pony's stall, we won't prepare a special, separate supper for her when she gags at what we've prepared. "What?" she yells, stomping around. "Aren't you going to FEED me?"
You see why I'm reading up on elder-abuse prevention; quick, before she turns 13. I am not joking. Mrs. Dube, take notice.
Naturally, my daughter signed up. I say naturally, but it was a big surprise to me. I don't think of my daughter as "troubled." I think of her as "spoiled." (I was about to say that I, as much as anyone, know that one doesn't have to be "troubled" to see a counselor, but then I thought, "Hell, I was ALWAYS troubled.")
So KaTTy comes home and says, "I went to see Mrs. Dube today."
What did you talk about? I asked.
She told me one item that I thought was a pretty valid subject, regarding hers and my relationship. Then she said she talked about how "our house is messy" and "it's noisy and she can't find anyplace to read" and "my parents never take me shopping or anything."
Upon hearing this, my eyebrows shot into outer space and have not returned since. I know Rex and I view things from the perspective of aging but loving adults, and that KaTTy views things from the perspective of a 9-year-old, but I hadn't realized our points of view were on the first and last pages, respectively, at opposite ends of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. Our house is messy? Yeah, because there are 8 million toys stuffed into every conceivable nook and cranny, onto every available surface (including my snare drum and piano) and piled approximately three feet deep onto every floor. It's noisy? Yes, when the four dogs (two of whom KaTTy begged for) are barking at the three cats (one of whom KaTTy begged for) or the three horses (two of whom KaTTy begged for).
As for the shopping, or the "anything" that we never do for her, picture Rex and I scurrying about the house doing permanent backbends from trying to meet her demands. We've also worn out myriad hoops that we've been jumping through -- sometimes several at one leap -- since our daughter was born. In fact, her visit to the guidance counselor came hot on the heels of a rather large clothes-shopping excursion that involved driving two cars a total of 110 miles. I shan't go into details, but I assure you that that was the day my backbone calcified into permanent bendship.
Despite this horrendous track record, I am determined not to become a helicopter parent. I think when KaTTy goes to college, or to whatever life she chooses away from home, I'm going to apply for the witness protection program and get a new identity. I'm a witness. I witnessed my own fall from dignity.
This week I told KaTTy that she's on her own, that Rex and I are not going to help her one little bit. We won't take her to the library, we won't feed her puppy, we won't muck her pony's stall, we won't prepare a special, separate supper for her when she gags at what we've prepared. "What?" she yells, stomping around. "Aren't you going to FEED me?"
You see why I'm reading up on elder-abuse prevention; quick, before she turns 13. I am not joking. Mrs. Dube, take notice.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Little League
I'm not Kayti. My name is Debbi. Kayti's only/9 years old. (Sung to the tune of an old pop tune called "I'm not Lisa.")
It has come to my attention that the name at the end of each blog entry is my daughter's. That's because she has a blog, too, on the same account. But I can attest to the fact that it is I, Debbi, who is writing this stuff. Please direct comments to me.
Kayti -- who, incidentally, has once again changed the spelling of her name, this time to "KaTTy," because she likes to make two capital T's together -- attended a Little League pitching clinic yesterday. She was the only girl among 15 or so boys.
One might think that the reason for this is that girls are not interested in playing baseball, or maybe pitching hardball. After yesterday's experience, I have another theory.
As I signed her up, the man in charge said, "Baseball? Not softball?" I said, "Baseball, right Kayti?" And Kayti nodded.
"Cause not many girls are signing up for Little League," the guy said in a cautionary tone. "They're signing up for softball."
I let that pass without comment.
Then, in the gym, a conversation with another man who apparently was somehow involved with the organization went something like this:
Him: Is your daughter sure she wants baseball, not softball?
Me: Yes.
Him: Most of the girls go out for softball by this age.
Me: Neat.
Him: It's really competitive. You'd be surprised.
Me: Well, Kayti wants to be in Little League.
Him: Just be prepared, because by the time she gets into junior high, she probably won't make the team. (This was IN FRONT of my child!)
Me: Why do you say that?
Him: Oh, there's a big difference in strength at that age.
Me: Well, maybe by the time she gets to junior high, there'll be a girls baseball team.
Him: Maybe!
I have to tell you, I found myself stewing over this conversation the whole hour of the clinic. I discussed it with another mother as we waited in the cafeteria. She said she thought this might be the first year there's a softball organization and that maybe girls were being steered to it, to get it off the ground.
Well, you know, maybe that's true, and maybe it's all done with girls' best interests at heart, but I really think it's no one else's business if my daughter chooses to play hardball. And maybe I'm just paranoid, but I also suspect there may be an undercurrent of "baseball is for boys" in the thinking here.
Hello! We're in the 21st century. We could see a woman president elected this year. Women are winning Nobel prizes in chemistry. Men are having sex changes. Beagles are winning the Westminster dog show! Anything can happen. Gee, by the year 2012, a girl could make the junior high baseball team!
Anyway, I really don't think the probability of making the junior high team has much to do with my 9-year-old daughter wanting to play in Little League. We are not basing today's decisions on how buff Kayti is in seventh grade, any more than we are not preventing third-grade boys from studying math because they probably won't be as smart as girls in junior high.
When I told my husband about the exchange at the pitching clinic, he laughed and said he'd gotten the same spiel from another Little League organizer. "I knew exactly how you'd react," he said. "I said to myself, 'Uh, oh. Debbi's going to get her panties in a twist over THIS one!' "
He's wrong, of course, as he almost always is. My panties, for the record, are not in a twist. A bunch, maybe. But not a twist.
Because if they were in a twist, I wouldn't be able to catch for Kayti as she practices her pitching. And we're going to be doing a lot of practicing. We were both pleased with what she learned in the clinic yesterday, even if she doesn't make the team in 2012.
It has come to my attention that the name at the end of each blog entry is my daughter's. That's because she has a blog, too, on the same account. But I can attest to the fact that it is I, Debbi, who is writing this stuff. Please direct comments to me.
Kayti -- who, incidentally, has once again changed the spelling of her name, this time to "KaTTy," because she likes to make two capital T's together -- attended a Little League pitching clinic yesterday. She was the only girl among 15 or so boys.
One might think that the reason for this is that girls are not interested in playing baseball, or maybe pitching hardball. After yesterday's experience, I have another theory.
As I signed her up, the man in charge said, "Baseball? Not softball?" I said, "Baseball, right Kayti?" And Kayti nodded.
"Cause not many girls are signing up for Little League," the guy said in a cautionary tone. "They're signing up for softball."
I let that pass without comment.
Then, in the gym, a conversation with another man who apparently was somehow involved with the organization went something like this:
Him: Is your daughter sure she wants baseball, not softball?
Me: Yes.
Him: Most of the girls go out for softball by this age.
Me: Neat.
Him: It's really competitive. You'd be surprised.
Me: Well, Kayti wants to be in Little League.
Him: Just be prepared, because by the time she gets into junior high, she probably won't make the team. (This was IN FRONT of my child!)
Me: Why do you say that?
Him: Oh, there's a big difference in strength at that age.
Me: Well, maybe by the time she gets to junior high, there'll be a girls baseball team.
Him: Maybe!
I have to tell you, I found myself stewing over this conversation the whole hour of the clinic. I discussed it with another mother as we waited in the cafeteria. She said she thought this might be the first year there's a softball organization and that maybe girls were being steered to it, to get it off the ground.
Well, you know, maybe that's true, and maybe it's all done with girls' best interests at heart, but I really think it's no one else's business if my daughter chooses to play hardball. And maybe I'm just paranoid, but I also suspect there may be an undercurrent of "baseball is for boys" in the thinking here.
Hello! We're in the 21st century. We could see a woman president elected this year. Women are winning Nobel prizes in chemistry. Men are having sex changes. Beagles are winning the Westminster dog show! Anything can happen. Gee, by the year 2012, a girl could make the junior high baseball team!
Anyway, I really don't think the probability of making the junior high team has much to do with my 9-year-old daughter wanting to play in Little League. We are not basing today's decisions on how buff Kayti is in seventh grade, any more than we are not preventing third-grade boys from studying math because they probably won't be as smart as girls in junior high.
When I told my husband about the exchange at the pitching clinic, he laughed and said he'd gotten the same spiel from another Little League organizer. "I knew exactly how you'd react," he said. "I said to myself, 'Uh, oh. Debbi's going to get her panties in a twist over THIS one!' "
He's wrong, of course, as he almost always is. My panties, for the record, are not in a twist. A bunch, maybe. But not a twist.
Because if they were in a twist, I wouldn't be able to catch for Kayti as she practices her pitching. And we're going to be doing a lot of practicing. We were both pleased with what she learned in the clinic yesterday, even if she doesn't make the team in 2012.
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