Archive for the ‘Love’ Category

Never mind the French — we Jews have our parenting secrets too. If I ever write another book, this is it.  Bringing Up the Kindele: A Jewish Mother Shares the Secrets Behind Raising Children Who Don’t Listen, Won’t Shut Up and Might Never, Ever Leave Your Side.

When Helaine Olen gave birth, she knew nothing about bringing up children. At first she tried to go along with the parenting flow around her, going from Music Together sessions to RIE classes, all in the hopes of raising the perfect child. But when her son foiled her yet again by falling asleep in his car seat and missing class, Helaine decided to call her mother on her cell to pass the time. Listening to her mom’s ten-minute soliloquy-like response to the polite question “How are you?,” Olen suddenly had a parenting epiphany at the exact moment her mother said, “I didn’t want to worry you but I had a biopsy yesterday. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. They don’t think it’s malignant. I didn’t call you. I didn’t want to worry you. What’s wrong with the baby that he fell asleep in the car? Is he sick? Does he have a fever? Did you feed him?”

She did know how to parent a child, one who could be self-obsessed and self-sacrificing at the same time, as well as in love with the sound of his own voice and uniquely oblivious to any social cue.

Olen turned to the wisdom of her mother, grandmother and generations of women from an ancient tribe before her in an effort to raise the perfect child. And now that her children have graduated from second grade, she’s willing to share the secrets of her mothering success with you. Topics addressed include: Read on »

I can tell you exactly where I was on July 16, 1981: stuck in a ghastly traffic jam on the Long Island Expressway. I was heading out to my boyfriend’s house, when all came to an absolute standstill. Reports came in over the radio of multi-lane closures, due to what sounded like a horrific accident involving a small car and large truck. Those of you who are fans of a certain type of 1970s music know where this story ends. Harry Chapin was the driver of that small car, and he died thirty years ago today.

I spent much of my life hiding my love for the easy listening folk rock of the 1970s.  As a genre, it gets little respect. Disco has gone from cultural joke to being considered the iconic music of a gay sub-culture that was unknowingly dancing on the edge of an apocalypse. Bruce Springsteen and the like will always get respect. Punk and new wave, with their angry anarchy, became the music of leftwing intellectuals everywhere as the Free to Be … You and Me era ended in Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher.

Folk rock, on the other hand, is marked by an earnestness and sincerity that plays as hokey in our more ironic age. It’s often about failure, which might also be why it gets little respect since we are, after all, a society that’s uncomfortable with anything but tales of triumphant progress. Much of folk rock describes how things did not work out. And no one got all that better than Chapin, a man who, despite the love of family, friends and fans, understood loneliness and despair. Read on »

First, let me say I am terribly sorry to read about Sandra Tsing-Loh’s divorce which, according to her essay in the most recent issue of The Atlantic, apparently occurred after she could not meet a deadline imposed by her therapist for re-committing to her (still) husband after she enjoyed a brief affair. But I think in her desire to draw a greater social lesson from her experience (namely, that a long-term monogamous commitment to one partner is both unnatural and unnecessary), Tsing-Loh misses many important facts about how and why marriage works.

Marriage developed as a social and economic institution, designed to protect the family. This might explain why Americans remain more committed to the institution than Western Europeans, a fact Tsing-Loh spends a lot of time pondering. It’s not that we are more religious or more romantic or more credulous, as she finally concludes. It’s that our social support structures are, to put it kindly, a bit lacking. Marriage is, for better or worse, a social safety net in this country. A Western European single mom can count on such basics as government provided child care and health insurance. We can’t. The economic consequences are profound. To take one example, single mothers in the U.S. file for bankruptcy at significantly higher rates than their married counterparts.

Yes, long-term monogamous marriage comes with some serious downsides, like curtailment of freedom and a squelched individuality. Few would deny that it can, at times, feel quite boring and oppressive. (I wrote about this in my rather well known essay, The New Nanny Diaries are Online). Yet marriage survives, likely because it has much in common with Winston Churchill’s observation on democracy: It might well be one of the worst forms of male/female/family relations ever, except for all the other ones we’ve tried out.

There has always been a strand of self-righteousness in Tsing-Loh’s essays. In her view, what is true for her is true for all of us. The world, c’est moi. Take her otherwise excellent writing on the benefits of public education. She’s right in many ways and yet in her self-congratulation for resisting the lure of a $25,000 a year school she couldn’t afford she goes over the top. Anyone who has ever sent a child to a public school knows that even the best are far from trouble-free. The vast majority cannot compete educationally with the private sector. I always feel guilty when I first read Tsing-Loh’s evangelic education bromides since, after all, the vast majority of mothers of children at my sons school commit the Tsing-Loh sin of speaking English as a first language. But then I remember – my children do go to a public school! Yes, it commits the sin of being in the suburbs but it is economically diverse! We fight over budgets! And our mothers — many of them volunteer too. (Not me, by the way, but I’m willing to acknowledge that Tsing-Loh has me beat as a person on this issue.)

That streak of self-righteousness and self regard is present in this essay too. Take Tsing-Loh’s depictions of her friends’ marriages all of whom, it turns out, are as miserable as hers. They simply lack her moxie, her willingness to call it quits. This, frankly, defies belief. More likely, her unhappy friends confided in her and the others – well, they probably exercised tact and common sense. After all, if a friend came to you and said their marriage was over, would you respond by saying, “My husband is the greatest ever?” I don’t think so.

All this isn’t to attack Tsing-Loh for her decision. It’s possible –in fact quite likely – her marriage was a dysfunctional mess that needed to end. No one flippantly ends a two decades long marriage. I am just not convinced its demise holds any lessons for the rest of us except, perhaps, to avoid family therapists who impose arbitrary cut-off dates on you and yours.

I signed on to the LA Times this weekend, and saw the weather was hot in my old hometown. High eighties, low nineties every day out, with Santa Anas expected. It made me nostalgic, because the year of Jake’s birth was quite similar. A long cool summer, with June gloom lasting well into August, followed by intense heat. I still remember the heat the day I went into the hospital to give birth, and the way the bright and seemingly unfiltered sun fell on the inside walls of my home’s living room and downstairs hallway, highlighting large swaths of space and leaving shadows in other spots all at the same time.

So when I found this story today, comparing Los Angeles weather in October of 2008 to that in October 1999, I felt … well, nostalgic. I’ve been thinking all weekend about the way the light fell in my house that day. It certainly distracted me from the numbing knowledge that I am now officially the mother of a tween.

Happy birthday Jake!

I’m not sure you can call this week’s Lives essay by Rachel Cline in the back of The New York Times magazine brilliant. Critiques of Los Angeles always seem hackneyed and trite to those who never lived there. Cline, however, captures the gothic feel of Los Angeles, how time slips away and one month becomes ten years overnight, leaving you with nothing but a few fragmented memories:

I lived in Los Angeles for almost 10 years, but it all runs together. I can never remember what happened when. In memory, I’m always driving down a sunny stretch of road, listening to National Public Radio, trying not to spill my latte. Sometimes I have a splitting headache, which must mean I am on the east side or in the valley, and sometimes the ocean is glittering nearby. Occasionally I can remember the jacarandas being in bloom, which means, what? May? But that still doesn’t tell me the year. It’s just an odd lot of incidents, a memory salad.

I was in Los Angeles last month.  One afternoon, I decided to drive to a favorite shop in Pico-Robertson. I parked my car on a side street, in front of a 1930s Spanish four-plex with an “Apartment For Rent” sign in front. I sat in the car staring at it, fighting the urge to jot down the posted telephone number or ring the bell. On the radio I heard “This is KPCC: Pasadena, Los Angeles, Orange County,” and the light came down crystal white, highlighting the just-over-the-peak purple jacaranda blossoms.

I couldn’t imagine what I was thinking and, after a minute, I forced myself to go on my way. But I suspect Cline would have known right away what was motivating me, because I realized what it was while reading her piece. I saw myself ringing the bell and walking into the house. It’s the fall of 1995, and my husband and I are preparing to move to LA from New York, and we are looking at homes and apartments for rent in West Hollywood and the adjacent areas. I thought I would walk into that four-plex just off of Robertson and find me, and I would get a chance to start all over again.

Los Angeles is a city where you see ghosts walking in daylight.  Sometimes, the ghosts are you.

Hot off the presses from Publishers Lunch:

UCLA Medical Center OB/GYN Dr. Michael Lu’s HOW TO MAKE A SMART AND HEALTHY BABY: What You Need to Know Before You Get Pregnant, revealing the latest science on how preconception is a critical period for a child’s lifelong health and development while offering easy-to-follow advice including how to eat the right foods, undergo an immune tune-up and detoxify one’s environment, to Caroline Sutton at Collins, in a pre-empt, by Dan Ambrosio at Vigliano Associates (World).
I’ve written before about my belief that the parent-child spending complex originates in a totally understandable attempt to control our children’s future lives, so that they never know a moment of unhappiness, ill health or other misfortune.  I’m filing this book in that category. 

My out-to-lunch parenting skills finally explained, courtesy of Dutch researchers. Their study also explains, no doubt, why I found this article from The Weekly Standard so compelling. The title says it all. It’s called, “The Kindergarchy: Every Child a Dauphin.” Go read it.  The author posits that there is something very, very wrong with how we raise our children today. The money quote:

My mother never read to me, and my father took me to no ballgames, though we did go to Golden Gloves fights a few times. When I began my modest athletic career, my parents never came to any of my games, and I should have been embarrassed had they done so. My parents never met any of my girlfriends in high school. No photographic or video record exists of my uneven progress through early life.  

As someone who spent $700 last year at a school auction last year to have a teacher take pictures of my younger son over the course of the school year, I think the author’s parents were on to something. 

Never mind Stuff White People Like. Check out the hilariously un-pc Blognigger. Let it be noted for the record that the rage of us native NYC kids who can no longer afford to live within the boundaries five boroughs (ok, I mean the gentrified parts of the five boroughs) knows no bounds. His side-splitting take-down of the reception newbie Brooklynites are giving to the opening of an Ikea in Red Hook cannot be described but must be read. Then there is the saga of the homeless man on the A train …

I should note there is some debate on Gawker as to whether he’s for real or not. I just got off the phone with another native NYC pal now living in Westchester exile and we agree: He’s for real and if he’s not, we don’t care.  You go, Blognigger! 

Years ago, the incomparable Ron Rosenbaum wrote a terrific essay called “My Theater Problem — and Ours,” in which he postulated the concept of “the wrong performance.” Instead of paraphrasing, I will quote directly:

I always seem to be seeing plays that seem utterly unlike what everyone else seems to have seen. I’m forever going to things that have been raved over by critics, chattered about by the chattering classes, awarded prizes and grants, and finding myself thinking — in those moments when I can keep myself awake from the industrial-strength tedium they induce — that this is the most cliched, empty, contrived piece of ranting I have ever seen.  Afterward, I’d find myself wondering, Is it possible I went to the wrong theater; this second-rate, self-satsified, soporific contrivance can’t be the same stuff that people are taking seriously, can it?

My husband and I are such fans of this essay that its nomenclature has been adopted into the house lingo. If one of us reads a book, sees a movie, or experiences another such cultural event in a way different from the mainstream of opinion, we don’t say we disagree with the conventional take, we say, for example, we saw “the wrong movie.”

The latest wrong movie viewed by this unfortunate blogger: Kung Fu Panda. Manohla Dargis at The New York Timessaw a “diverting and visually arresting” film, “a grab bag of gentle jokes, sage lectures, helpful lessons and kicky fights.” Other reviewers were equally as wowed. The film I saw? An incomprehensible melange of fat jokes, violence, father-son issues, violence, Cain and Abel allusions, violence, buddy film and, yes, violence.  I must have been in the wrong auditorium. Bleh.

This charming anecdote from an LA Times article about estate sales reminded me about the time I went to an end-of-life tag sale and found them selling all the non-prescription pharmaceuticals, including a half used tube of toothpaste.  There were pictures of what appeared to be grandchildren in frames for sale too, and all I could think was “someone really hated this woman.”

Estate sales are, as a rule, fairly depressing. At best, you are getting the leftover refuse of someones life. At worst, you see signs of absolute tragedy and heartbreak. I recall once attending one where the organizers were selling toys from the 1930s. A neighbor told me the couple who had once owned the house only had one child, who died before the age of ten. I still shake when I think about that.

I’m not the only one sensitive to the sadness that underlies much of the rummage trade. The Onion once parodied such sales excellently with one of my favorite headlines of all time – Garage Sale Reeks of Divorce – and expertly explicated exactly why this was so.  Nonetheless, I can’t quite bring myself to give up the thrill of the chase. After all, there are amazing items to be had.  The family with the lost child, for example, also had a terrific book collection and I picked up an exceedingly rare copy of the memoirs of Countess Marie Larisch for $2. The countess, by the way, is best known to history as the woman as the woman whose reminiscences inspired the opening stanza of The Waste Land. She also introduced the ill-fated Crown Prince Rudolf of Mayerling fame to Marie Vetsera, a meeting that might well have changed world history.  

All this brings me to my triumph of this weekend. In the attic of a Scarsdale church, I found several out-of-print Mary Balogh romances. I purchased the group for 50 cents. I’m now selling them on EBay, where one is listed for more than $20.