And By Their Halloween Costumes Ye Shall Know Them, Or, Saturday Morning at 8:23am

Halloween was a big deal in my family of origin. My mom went all out on the homemade costumes, her efforts peaking the year we 3 oldest kids were a mailbox, a pencil, and a letter to the Great Pumpkin. That's a lot of poster board and Magic Markers.

One could argue she spent so much time on this because of the 1950s ethos of motherhood. She didn't work outside the house. Or one could reject one's spoilsport tendencies and remember fun. So much fun.

Besides, I carried her spirit into my own parenting. Halloween was a big deal. My best friend and I, her 4 kids, my 2, would meet up at my house for dinner and then run through the sidewalked neighborhood, on into the night. I made little ghosts out of rice. Stood sections of hot dogs on end and told the kids they were "Hallow-weenies." At the end, we'd go back to my house and lay out candy on the floor for a marathon sorting party. My best friend and I would have medaled in Halloween, if parenting were a sport.

I made my kids' costumes too. My daughter was always a heroine. Peter Pan (better than dumb Wendy in her nightgown, right?), Wonder Woman, Diana - Goddess of the Hunt. Or Artemis, if you follow the Greek tradition. My son was always an intellectual construct of some sort. A bug, from the days when he memorized the California Insect Handbook. A potato. Yes, a potato can so be an intellectual construct. If you try to wear one. Or an origami display.

Then one day those little critters looked around and realized that the American culture had other plans in mind. My son made me buy a ninja costume. My daughter went as a witch with 2 other friends. It's as though society seizes pre-adolescents, shakes them by the ears, and says, "If we're talking scary, get thee to your gender stereotype. Get thee there right now!"

There they stayed, for some time.

Now my daughter has returned to super human characters, albeit those that showcase her appeal. Popular culture has come to her aid via the red-headed vampire on True Blood. One might wonder if the rise of the vampire as Good Guy isn't a defining trait of this early century. My son is again sporting quirky costumes that take a minute to figure out. Last year he was Pikaju, the Pokemon character, complete with red cheeks. Pikaju in blue jeans, that is.

I kind of wish my daughter could still be Peter Pan, I admit. Don't listen to this song or you are likely to cry. And my son's costume this year, which I'm going to refrain from describing, had me shaking my head and muttering, "Well, I guess that's comical. But, um, also a little offensive?" He promises me it was great fun.

Your kids dive into popular culture, out of your little twig nest, and emerge wet behind the ears. You stand on the far bank, holding a loving but impractical towel. Diving birds do not need towels you silly mama!

Happy Halloween everyone, and here's to a wonderful weekend. I hope all your little Peter Pans, Ninjas, and Black Cat Fairy Witches get so much candy they can't see over the heap. Or at least that they feel that way, for one night.

Goodbye Tomatoes, Hello Cranberries, Or, Saturday Morning at 9:42am

It's turned a little chilly here, and we've even had some rain. Early for Northern California, rain in October. Overnight I've lost my fondness for tomatoes. I feel like, "Well, now that's done. Time for the holidays." Not that summer is a chore, but when it's gone it's gone. 

 This year everyone comes to me for Thanksgiving. 16 including kids. Erk. I'm thrilled to pieces, if also a little nervous. I love to cram everyone into my small house, muster up extra tables, pull together a hodgepodge of tablecloths, china, glasses, silverware. Buy Brazil nuts, once a year. 

 But I did use to be a better cook than I am now. My short term memory stumbles. It's harder to look through a recipe and remember it exactly, so I now have a Lucite cookbook stander-upper which allows me to read, do 3 cooking steps, read again, do 3 more. I'm pretty sure it will be fine in the end. My daughter will be here. My sisters will rally round. My son and his uncle will bake pumpkin pie. My mother will put together her exceptional gravy. 

 I found myself wondering this morning, as I watched one blue jay peck away at the last green tomatoes, and another perch at the top of my garden stakes, are family holidays held in winter all over the world? And if so, why? Asia has the Lunar New Year around February, the Autumn Festival in, well, Autumn. I don't know the Muslim and Hindu holiday dates, nor any from Africa. But here in the US, and in the Northern European countries from which the founders first came, families gather when the weather gets cold. 

There are practical reasons for this, needless to say. If we all still lived together in an agricultural community, we'd want to get the harvest in, preserve produce, prepare for winter. We'd also get pretty sick of each other, during the months of short days, so a festivity or two is always warranted. I know why the Swedes have Santa Lucia, when the littlest girl wears a candle wreath on her head. Any excuse for light is welcome. There's another consequence, unintended I suppose, the simple result of being creatures who live and die. We transfer knowledge and traditions at family gatherings. Winter in the background. We notice our offspring, the children of our sisters, our parents, thinking, "Well, look at this." If we can't stir gravy and mash garlic potatoes at the same time, we get a kid to take on tasks. And, should we start to feel too sentimental, too aware of passing seasons, someone will break a fluted pie pan, show up annoyingly late, or pester their parents for yet another helping of ice cream, anchoring us firmly in the day.

In Defense Of Stuff

I like my stuff. In fact, I'd have to admit I love it. It's not a wild love, but it's certainly fondness. With some wistfulness thrown in for good measure. Right now there's a wave of minimalism sweeping the land. As a backlash against the "Buy More, Buy Now, Buy Again" excess of our recent millennium, I approve. The recession has reminded us of important principles. As a backlash against pops of color, and shoes the shapes of aardvarks, and Accessories Are Your Savior, I also approve. Monochrome is a lovely design choice. But I do not believe there's inherent virtue in the minimal. We're advised to get rid of all the clothes we don't wear. I need both my hands to count the pieces I have kept over the decades and I still wish I had more. We're advised to rid ourselves of old photos. I'm only now scanning in my slides from a trip to India, 28 years ago. We're told, pare down, scale back, find zen in empty. I prefer not. I have lived my life both in impulse and on purpose. Patterns developed anyway, despite my wandering. Sometimes I understood their shapes, sometimes I followed what I could not see. Now my stuff, such a silly word, acts like a lens. Magnifying details I might have forgotten, then obscuring the small so that patterns show large. I'm not advocating that we all become hoarders. Clear surfaces are good. I'm defending intentional stuff, not the kind that lives in drawers and breeds misery. Several years ago, in the divorce, I cleaned out my entire house. Every drawer. Every cupboard. Every closet. Only a few mysterious tubs in the garage remain unexplored. Who knows what's in there? Now my stuff is intentional. I kept what I loved. I kept what I needed. I put everything where I meant it to stay. The cleanup was hard work. My best friend helped with a lot. But some I did alone. My kids' craft supplies had always been stored in a cupboard over the washing machine. We had compounds for melting and tools for cutting and construction paper and glue guns and beads. To say nothing of glitter. As a mother of young ones I planned for creativity. We all do our best. When I finally got around to cleaning out the laundry room, I took the Rubbermaid containers down from the cabinet. They had stiff, annoying, aqua lids. I opened them. I fingered the packs of felt pens. I felt so sad. And then I thought to myself, there is something else mixed up in my sorrow over the end of my marriage. I am sad as much because kids stop using glue guns as for any other reason. And because I had such dreams and intent to be perfect. My children would have grown up, no matter what I did. I understood my loss more clearly through my stuff. That's worth a little clutter. I have more. In the photo above you see a family enamel pocket watch I never carry, an inappropriate Armani tunic I bought in times of distress to wear to my son's 8th grade graduation, and a postcard from my mother. With her inimitable boarding school handwriting. Oh, and random shells in a random glass piece from beaches somewhere. Because I am a High WASP, my souvenirs, from the French word for remember, look like antiques and haute couture and distant geographies. They aren't. They are just stuff. In defense, then, of stuff.

Pictures Of You, Or, Saturday Morning At 10:27am

My son is back in New Jersey. My daughter and he went to the U.S. Open on Thursday night. Nadal vs. Verdasco. Had a great time.

I texted to ask where they were sitting, thinking maybe I could spy them, up high in the stands. That's the perspective of a mother, right there. Yes there's a world-renowned sporting event, yeah the world's #1 player is thwonking a little ball with a racquet, sure celebrities abound.

Just show me my kids.

As you can imagine, since they sat all the way up by the big live action screens, cameras might have scanned them, once. Not even my daughter's red hair stood out.

This is how it's supposed to be. They are too far away, in a crowd, but I know exactly what they look like. I can see my daughter's ponytail, her fair skin, her big smile. She usually tilts her head up to laugh. My son's newly broad shoulders, bent over to place his elbows on those bony knees, his blue eyes. A growing capacity for witticisms. Smooches to you both, my original punkins.

They will be glad to hear that I am fine. In all honesty, I don't need them to be here. Nor on TV. This is how it's supposed to be. The day is lovely, the birds are noisy, and I think I might go shopping.

Have a wonderful weekend, everyone. To anyone who may have lost someone on 9/11/2001, we will all be thinking of you

Home Again Home Again, Or, Saturday Morning at 11:03am

My son is home from Argentina and Costa Rica. Where he had a phenomenal trip. Turns out that the privilege of higher education includes lots of opportunity to carouse. What happens in Princeton, New Jersey extends to Buenos Aires. I figured you'd want to know.

This week my daughter turned 23. Which turned out to mean some celebration, some glitches, and a world class meltdown. Same as it ever was.

My strongest feeling in the past few days has been of recognition. "Oh yes. I know this one." My son, sitting on the sofa, head bent over a device of some sort. My daughter, crying and laughing at the same time. I know this one. I know these two.

When you have kids, if you pay attention, you become an expert. An expert in your kids. You might then make terrible errors in judgment, even so, but you have an undeniable body of knowledge.

I like that. I like to be an expert. I like to have enough data that I can trust my instincts. All my years in the corporate world, despite my relative successes, I was essentially faking it. A Comparative Literature major who specializes in Epic Poetry, with sub-specialties of The Renaissance, French, and Italian Language, will not have sound footing in high technology. Someone prone to gazing off will not prevail over the ambitious, or the treacherous.

I have to stop here. Motherhood is certainly not the only road to self-understanding. If I hadn't had kids, if I had chosen a career completely suited to me, I could still have experienced this 'becoming expert,' - for which I am sure there is a single word, in some language. Probably Japanese. Not, however, pre-1700's French or Italian.

One other thing. It wasn't self-sacrificial, gathering information on my children over time. Watching them carefully. Now, when I recognize their patterns, I can feel my own cognition and memory working and my sense of self is reinforced. Kind of prickles. There would be pinging sounds, if we came with built-in alerts.

Who you are is what you learn. But then we have to try to do right by our knowledge.

Smalls, Swimming, Swinging, Or, Saturday Morning at 7:23am

My youngest sister is in town. With her husband and 3 kids aged almost-10, 8, and 3-and-a-half. Which means I spent yesterday, for the most part, in contact with babyflesh. Oh yay.

I had forgotten how it feels when smalls cuddle up to you, engrossed in something you show them. When you're just the safe seat, the what to lean against. How they breathe all soft.

Then we played in the pool. I'd also forgotten what a workout little kids can be. (Not forgotten in the mists of time - one never forgets the work of childrearing. Just hadn't needed to remember lately.) I swung my little nephew around the pool and bubbled underwater with him. Oh yay.

Given sun, babyflesh, and various swingings and bouncings, I was tired and went to bed early. It's good we have babies when we're young, so as to keep up with their beings. Once we get older, it's good when there are still some around to borrow.

Have a wonderful weekend.

Should Your Kids Really Send Thank You Notes?

Crane notecards. For when I run out of the dragonflies I'm using now.

I have a confession to make. Despite my efforts - sleepless nights, Legos embedded in the soles of my feet, the times I reminded myself to say yes instead of no - in one significant way I failed as a mother. (Probably more than one, but this is all I'm ready to confess.)

I never made my kids write thank you notes.

Why? Because I hated doing it myself. Because my mother was a good mother, and she made me write what seems like hundreds.

There was a formula. First you had to say, "Thank you so much." Then you had to actually refer to something specific that you liked about the present. Then you had to say "Thank you," AGAIN. I just hated it. Sort of like filling out customs forms as you sit on an airplane about to land. Sheer tedium.

So, while my kids always said thank you to anyone in the room, and always called those far away, no notes were written. I only regret what I do not do. I regret this.

Thank goodness my sisters taught their kids well, holding up the High WASP side. Thank goodness some other mothers have also done their jobs. Here's how I know.

This notes is from a young woman just turned 30. She invited me to her birthday party and I bought a present. A lovely photo on the card, blank interior, hand-written. My mother would approve. Said young woman thanked me, told me why she liked my present, and thanked me again. I say, good job, young woman's mom. Hats off.

Then these. From Buckeroomama's kids. She won our NaraCamicie shirt giveaway. Since she lives in Hong Kong I shipped the shirt myself. Since I knew she had adorable little kids I added a couple of sticker sheets. Voila, almost by return post, came these notes. They now occupy a place of honor next to photos of two other cute kids I know, and a little painting done by one of said cute kids.

Josh, her five year old son, made me this purple card. He might be five and half by now. Auntie is a term of inclusion. I am quite honored.

And this from Zoe. Her three year old.

Josh, and Zoe, thank you so much for your notes. They are beautiful and I like them. Tell your mama I like her pictures too.

One more thing? My daughter writes thank you notes. Now. She even uses gold-rimmed Crane stationery. Daughters can compensate for maternal weakness. I suspect my son will join her soon in thank-you-noting, having stepped down from his former reign as "The God of Mute." He'll probably use email. That's OK. I'm glad when my kids figure something out that I wasn't able to teach them, even when they come up with a slightly different answer than I might have expected. To everyone who ever gave my children a present, this is my thank you note. I hope "Better late then never" applies.

Sports Spectaculars And Motherhood, Or, Saturday Morning at 7:10am

It's World Cup time. South Africa tied Mexico yesterday - no small feat. Meanwhile, the NBA Championship just finished Game 4 of 7. Los Angeles Lakers vs. the Boston Celtics. Two storied teams from large cities on opposite sides of the country.

And all this just reminds me of my son. Equivalently, I cannot hear the word ballet, or even see a tall, flexible young woman teach yoga, without thinking of my daughter.

I'm not sad. Although I miss my children, it's not a constant feeling. But once kids get all up in your rib cage, or you bring them home from weeks spent with a birth mother, waiting, you're kind of done for.

Not everybody needs to have kids. Not everyone ought to have kids. But if you do, and one of them is a soccer player, and you possess, therefore, 11 photos of little boys lined up in uniforms of various colors, uncountable gold male figures in various soccer poses, and a memory of a little guy, lying in bed, working out the World Cup bracket in his head, well, you just aren't going to cheer unfettered ever again.

And you might have to walk down the hall and see if said World Cup bracket is still in existence, and you might find the old, torn newspaper clipping hanging on a wall behind a photo collage, and you might then have a moment. The kids become a layer of significance under almost everything.

Which is fine, really. Go South Africa. Go Bafana Bafana. Go USA. Go Lakers.

The Green Hills Of Wiltshire, Or, Saturday Morning at 7:24am

I am in terribly good spirits.

It's supposed to be sunny this weekend. In Northern California, by this time, we've usually entered a season of uninterrupted blue skies. But it's been raining when we would have expected sun.

I plan to go to the nursery and buy herbs to plant. I am sure I am too late but I don't care at all. I like the process of walking the just-watered paths of nurseries before the sun is overhead, laying newspaper in the back of my dowdy RAV4 to carry home my plants, and pulling on new gloves. Maybe flowered ones. Sturdy Gals like to garden above all else.

And my son landed in Buenos Aires yesterday. First reports are cheerful.

I imagine you might say to yourself, "Enough with the abrupt announcements of overseas travel!" Sorry. I think I mentioned he wanted to spend the summer in Argentina, in comments, in the post where you all gave me such good advice about his possible path to making a living. Maybe I misremembered. That happens these days. In any case, he's studying Spanish and Argentinian literature this summer. And living the life of a young man in Buenos Aires. Go Piglet. Yes, I call him Piglet sometimes. Not his favorite nickname, but mother privilege applies.

I love it when my kids have a space in front of them threaded with opportunity. Maybe not a moment to choose or even know the way forward, but I imagine green hills that almost certainly have paths, somewhere, to the other side. Or chalk horses.

New to me is this. Someone else paid for his summer. A Princeton alumnus created a fund, in my son's department, for kids to learn languages. Feels like a step in which he funds his own creative adventures. Go Piglet.

As I said, I'm in good spirits. Jet lag is gone. Sun is shining. The birds are very loud. I hope you all have wonderful weekends. For those in the US, have a good long weekend, kicking off another summer.

LPC Is At "A Practical Wedding" Today

To anyone making their way here from A Practical Wedding, hello. If you'd like to know what we're on about, I hope the list of best of Privilege on the sidebar is useful. Welcome.

To all of us regulars, I'm at Meg's place today. Meg is an admirable young woman, smart, brave, sassy. People like her are why us older women are almost glad to have endured our earlier career indignities. Meg runs a great blog/site on weddings, of the sort wanted by independent brides. And she did me the honor of asking me to write something about mothers-in-law. Which, of course, I have approached from the perspective of a mother, since that's all I know about that. And have also posted my favorite picture ever of them as littles.

Should any of you be wondering, "But wait, did Lisa EAT anything in Paris? Or SEE anything other than a lady in purple boucle washing her car?"- yes, I did, and posts are underway. So much more fun than those carousels of vacation slides we put together in the olden days.

Thank you Meg, for the invitation, and thank you everyone, as always, for reading.

What Moms Like Best, Or, Saturday Morning at 9:07am

My daughter came home for Mother's Day. Flew all the way from New Jersey to California. Happy mom. Thank you daughter. Son is working hard in college. Happy mom. Thank you son.

I wish all of you a happy day of mothers, in whatever way that means something to you. I'm having breakfast at my kitchen counter, waiting for the familiar sound of my daughter's bedroom door opening, and the familiar sound of her bare feet on our wood floor.

The Happy Path, Or, Saturday Morning at 8:58am

I want to thank you all for your help. Last Saturday, when I posted my question, on what to do about choosing a college major and how to sustain oneself in the early years, I was not sure if it was a good idea. But over 75 people answered in the comment section, and a few more sent me emails.

Thank you.

Your stories and opinions have helped me build a framework in which to have a better attitude, and therefore a better discussion with my son. Thank you.

If I think back to everything you wrote, here's my analysis.

1. Some young people have a clear early path. Maybe they want to make money and don't mind choosing a major and entry level job that takes them towards that goal. Maybe they have an interest they love and pursue right out of the gate, wherever that takes them. Maybe they just love work, engagement, projects, and it almost doesn't matter what they do.
   
2. Others will take a more wandering path. I see 4 primary happy, if less directed, ways.
   
3. You wander around trying stuff, earning what you can, until you find what you love/are really good at.
   
4. Or wander around trying stuff, earning what you can, until you decide that you want to make a good salary. This will often involve going to graduate school.
   
5. You can major in something practical, get out of college, earn a good if mundane living, and in your 40s or 50s change careers to something more fulfilling.
   
6. Or major in something practical, and achieve fulfillment in your hobbies, and recreation. Your job remains just that, a job.
   

The unhappy paths are several. If you wander around young, there's a chance that you may not get back onto the mainstream path, even if you want to. But that outcome is usually caused by drugs, alcohol, a difficult temperament, or cognitive issues. Which would mean that no matter which path you take your course will be somewhat difficult.

If you settle down young, there's a chance that you will find yourself needing to throw off the traces later in life. The risk is that you may be stuck at that point, with a mortgage, and kids to put through school.

I think in the end these decisions are all about temperament and risk. Our own personal risk calculus. All happy paths are just that, happy. Like unhappy families, unhappy paths are different.

Which unhappy path is worse? Depends on the person. Never settling into a career that generates a good living, security, and social esteem? Or settling into one that does, always restless against its constraints? Different people feel differently. Some people can go to work every day and come home happily to hobbies. Others would feel brutalized by that life. Some people can wander, others would feel far too much anxiety with the lack of structure and security. It's a good exercise, understanding your calculus, either for yourself or for your kids.

The key piece I was missing, (the constant in the equation if I push the metaphor) before you all were so generous with your stories, is that work to sustain us during any wandering-around-trying part is available. It's possible to build a peripatetic life of minimal but not dangerous subsistence, with hourly wages, roommates, and friends.

As a parent of young adults I prefer to act as consultant. To assume that while I have knowledge and experience my kids are not me and I am not them. So rather than one single answer, I needed a framework. Again, thank you very much.

Have a wonderful weekend.

Parental Worries About Children Making A Living, Or, Saturday Morning at 10:59am

I believe I may have reached a place in my parenting where I do not know what to do.

Which is not to say that I'm in a state of anxiety, or a tizzy, or a panic. Only that my children are growing up, and reaching places in their lives where their experience will diverge from mine. Without direct knowledge, I have to research, I have to ask questions, I have to gather information.

I'm thinking maybe you all can help. I know many of you are in your early, or not so early-twenties. Thank you in advance.

My son is a sophomore in college. At Princeton, as I have said, as was my daughter. I am very proud of both of them. But I digress. My son is choosing a major, and a course of study for his next two years. He will graduate, if all proceeds without interruption, in 2012. At which point, it would be good if he was earning some kind of living. Since my family fortune has dwindled and all that.

Here's my issue. I inherited enough money at the age of 21 that I could major in Comparative Literature, graduate, take what were essentially internships, with Cameron Mackintosh Productions in London and Circle Repertory Theater in New York, and travel through India for 3 months. Then, and only then, I decided to go for an MBA and enter the world of salaried, health-insuranced, tax-paying employees. Which was perhaps not the best decision, but that's another story.

As a result, I don't know what kids do who graduate college without a clear path to revenue. What if, for example, someone majors in the creative disciplines, graduates, take a job teaching English overseas, then returns to the US? What are the opportunities, what are the requirements, what are the characteristics of early life out of college when still discovering a career path? What do kids do these days if they don't have a clear route to an entry-level salaried job?

I am not saying I mind if waiting tables is the fallback. Only that I do not know if waiting tables is even an option these days. And where does one live? With whom?

I worry less about the eventual career part. It's the wandering around preliminary stuff that I can't envision with much clarity.

Well. That's it. I thank you in advance. If you tell me all is well I imagine my son will thank you too. That is, if he can understand that I ask this question out of a desire to do a better job at mothering, and hence he can forgive me for having brought it all up to begin with.

Have a wonderful weekend.

Grown Children, Or, Saturday Morning at 10:53am

Girl child is back at her job. Boy child is in the air. Fingers crossed. Until next time.

Homecomings, Or, Saturday Morning at 6:34am

On Saturday mornings I take the liberty to write about whatever comes into my noggin. My mother always said noggin to mean head. I don't know why.

This morning, I am thinking that both my children are coming home today. One is in the air now, the other will be soon. I hate airplanes.

My fingers are crossed, the house is clean enough, there is food in the refrigerator. To have both kids together will be such a joy. All that juicy baby flesh, grown up. I still have to clench my teeth, when I think of my children, to guard against biting them. My sisters have the same habit, so I'm guessing it runs in the family.

Have fun with yours today. Family, that is, however defined.

*For a cute baby fix, Cara, or Cate.

What I Learned Most Of All, Or, Saturday Morning at 10:19am

When I got back from the stress and confusion of my stepfather's near-death, I dropped my bag on the counter, my keys in their dish, and called both my kids. I told them that most of all I had learned that I want an authentic relationship with them. That I need to be able to hear what they feel and tell them the same in return. That I will work towards this myself. That nothing they could tell me would cause my destruction.

As a young mother, with young kids, authentic means responding to their needs as best you can. As an older mother, with grown kids, authentic is more complex. Authentic changes.

The day will come when I will be near death, and if we aren't living in a habitual structure of truth by then, it will be difficult to construct on the spot.

My kids weren't sure they knew what I meant, or if I meant what I said. Now we're practicing. The early stages of anything new involves trying too hard, failing to understand failure, failing to understand success, and self-questioning. I'm well aware of my shortcomings and wish I could make my way through life in grace like witches in their glittered gowns. I'm thinking Glinda, you know, arriving in her bubble after the house falls on the Wicked Witch of the West? But I meant what I said. I still mean it. I intend to mean it tomorrow, too.

Have a wonderful weekend.

Lip Balm, Or, Saturday Morning at 9:11am

I sent my daughter a package this week. She had hit a rough patch, and asked me to send a care package the way I did when she was in college. I love it when my kids need me. Probably because they are, on the whole, independent. Grown.

Besides, this gave me a good excuse to go and buy beauty products. I sent her Aveda lip balm in Peony, along with some serious hand lotion, and two tubes of stuff for de-frizzing curls. She lives in New Jersey. Apparently they have real winter in New Jersey, and your lips, hair and hands come under attack.

Aveda products smell delicious. The lip balm has just the right degree of color. No mirror required to avoid clown mouth. I love things that add no worry to our existence.

The package was scheduled to arrive Thursday. And, come Thursday, I waited. The days when I was content to mother without thank yous have passed. I almost called her under the pretense of making sure everything had arrived.

Restraint. I thought, "I have to step back. Give her a little time to thank me. Or not." I waited.

Friday she called. "Thank you Mom. It was perfect." Effusive. Happy. If I had called her I would have wrecked everything. Skin of my teeth.

It's always a question, with adult kids. What relationship prevails? Who are we to them? How authentic? I'm clear, I'm no longer the hand into which they get to put their empty candy wrappers. But I haven't won the golden ticket to be a big baby, either. My real self may feel needy but my real self also wants the best for them.

It made me think.

In my corporate life, I had to create a fairly tough persona. Man up, only, um, I'm a woman. In my parenting life, calm, rational mamahood, only, um, I'm fairly high-strung. Even in social media we manage personas. Are these all false? Is the psychological model right? I had an underlying desire to call my daughter right away and ask, "Did you get the package?" just so I could hear her say, "Thank you, Mom." Is that our real self?

I used to think so. Now, not so much. Maybe when we're young. The physical swings, impulses, needs, are stronger. The raw materials, well, rawer. The learned self of late childhood still only rough, and hard to see clearly. You're right down in it.

But at 53, it seems possible that what I love is as much my authentic self as what I need. That restraint can be as true as confession. That pauses are almost movement.

*And no, no compensation has exchanged hands. Provoked a thought. But that's free.

In Which We Discover That Laundry Is The Meaning Of Life, Or, Saturday Morning at 10:30am.

Seems like that moment in the year when the Ferris wheel scrapes bottom. That small instant when we wonder, "Are we going up again?' Skies particularly gray. Air particularly still. Or windy. Either way. This is the time all that holiday festivity is supposed to prepare us for.

Except we're just creatures, and the passage of time and seasons is strong. Given that I'm innately, almost stupidly cheerful, this doesn't make me too sad. Reflective, yes. A little yearny. Bear with me, if I can ask your forbearance. When the cyclical process of being human pauses in the down notch, go there. Reflect. Or read other people who are doing the same thing. Because, in the way of animal species, much of what is meaningful we share.

Some young women are getting married. Mouse at Souris Mariage. Hannah, at i doux. Congratulations, girlikins. I have always loved weddings. Late summer afternoon, sweet white flowers hither and thither, strains of music over the stucco walls of a courtyard, clink of silverware on plates, high heels in gravel. The grandmother, standing by her chair, caught looking away, large South American topaz earrings visible.

Some people are having babies. Our Little Haus. A Suburban Housewife in Training. I Pick Pretty. Except right now she's I Pick Feeling Fat And Like This May Never End. That Wife. Make Mine A Mojito is staying off the baby train. If she got on, I guess she'd be Make Mine A Vanilla Whey Protein Smoothie No Wait I Hate Vanilla It Makes Me Barf. La Belette Rouge is, after some time, thinking about adopting. Congratulations.

Maxminimus's friend had a baby. So he who loves Weejuns (in the way of Like Water for Chocolate), wrote about his own fatherhood. Evidently fathers love their daughters. So far beyond reason that reason is teeing up at the 15th hole while fathers are blitzing the quarterback then getting up one more time covered in mud.

Some people are rearing children. Cate Subrosa. Who is moving her baby away from pacifiers. Entertaining Mom, who wouldn't really leave her kids at school over night, but jokes about it on Twitter. That's a good strategy for the bottom, look around and mock the barren, nasty, gravel-filled desert with no gas station in sight. Mock it good.

Penelope Trunk. Perhaps one of the most brilliant and peculiar bloggers out there. I've been reading her since before there were blogs. She made waffles for her boys and then cursed at them when she couldn't get everyone out the door in time for school. Felt bad. I don't know a mother who hasn't been there. We all told her that. But mutuality doesn't always make it OK. She doesn't want to swear at her kids, even though it's better than hitting them. When we hit bottom, even while swimming upwards barely holding our breath, we look down and vow to do better next time. Take a short, clear-eyed look at the sea floor.

And, then, now, some people are dying. Entertaining Mom's sister-in-law is dying of ovarian cancer. I am so sorry. Some have died. Miss Whistle's father-in-law died last week.

It's very difficult to say much of anything about death. It's both incomprehensible and irrefutable. All I can do is look out the window at wet yellow leaves on the gray slate patio and shake my head. Or leave Miss Whistle a comment and say, "I'm sorry for your loss. I'm thinking of you." Solitary musing doesn't get us very close to meaning. The social contract does.

I had a reader email me the other day. Her elderly neighbor had lost his wife after 45 years of marriage. She wanted to write him a note. Her usual monogrammed stationery was on order, not yet arrived. All she had was cards with one initial, gold, and lined envelopes, gold. She wondered if that paper would make her note of condolence too much About Me. I agreed. Send a plain folded note. Cream. White. Ivory. "I am so sorry for your loss." Bring food.

I should get those leaves off the patio. My Christmas tree is recycled, the ornaments down. I should organize them into the right boxes. The sheets from my son's bed are clean, in a heap on the daybed. He's back at school. I should fold laundry. One can sit on the sofa, rueful at the passage of time. But not for long. If there were an answer, surely, someone would know it. I am fully aware of concurrent futility and joy. This is most likely why yoga focuses so entirely on breathing.

Monograms, Even When You're Not Sure What They Mean. And Unexpected Presents.

My mother gave my daughter the necklace above. Not for Christmas, mind you. Here's Christmas.

Theory "Sasha" Cupid Tribal Black Dress. Who thinks up these names? (I'm telling you. Wear this stuff when you are young and pay no mind to any flaws you think you've got. They are defeated by your sheer youth and, well, youth.)

Which looked so fabulous on, the morning of December 26th my mother emerged from her wing of the house holding something sparkly, and said, "Here darling. I never wear this. Would you like it?" Jaws dropped, just a little. "This would be so much more unusual than a long necklace."

Good moment for Mom's credo, "A simple thank you will suffice."


It's apparently from the family. My mother says those medallions spell out Martha. Hmm. Perhaps in code. We could make neither hide nor tail of the monogram. But we really didn't care.

My daughter works. In New Jersey. No socialite she. We're very, very thankful for health insurance. But this is my family and these are the artifacts.

Generosity in all its forms is at the top of my list of the Universal Good. Mom, thank you. Simply, thank you very much. Now if I can just get my daughter to take a lot of pictures of the wearing said necklace...

Is Mother Love An Anachronism? Or, Saturday Morning at 9:43am.

Son is home. Sleeping on sheets I washed a few days ago.

Despite the the joy that brings me, I am and have been for some time plagued by a thought. It's not inconsequential.

Is mother love out of date? Is the overwhelming love I feel for my children an anachronism? And worse, would we all be better off were I, and mothers like me, to wake up one day in a state of indifference? "Oh, yes, my children. Nice enough I suppose. A responsibility I shall not shirk. Now, where was I in my life?"

I understand that in a world of scarce resources and scary beasts we need mother love to keep our babies alive. The species wants to persist. I understand that even in a world of many resources, we need to love them fiercely if they are to survive the first year. They wake us up at night, nurse like little fiends, and throw everything we thought we knew in our faces. Good thing they're cute.

But what of the later years?

I'm almost certain that I now love my children more than they love me. This happened sometime in their late teens. Maybe sooner. Maybe I just didn't notice for a while.

The only mothers I know whose children love them fiercely are the crazy mothers. Those mothers who kept themselves just out of reach, like glass ornaments hung from a tree. Sparkling.

I love my children too much to play hard to get. I see their faces and I feel my heart beat faster. Like a teenage girl sighting that one boy across the cafeteria. I even try not to call them. You know, all cool and stuff. I fail. I don't want to leave the house in a flurry of fur and alcohol, call them from a nightclub laughing, change my plans and not come home for the holidays.

Let's pretend my feelings don't matter. Let's pretend my children's lives are enough for me. That I don't need their love beyond the dutiful. Let's just think about the kids.

Did I do right, loving them so much? Would they have been better off if I had been less devoted? Less head-over-heels? Now, I don't worry they are spoiled and therefore dependent. In fact, despite the hours I spend thinking about their course selection or making travel arrangements or worrying about love lives, they do not depend on me much. Sure, I get the calls for comfort, when something goes wrong. They consult me on areas where I have some expertise. But they have achieved a fair degree of independence. Every American mother's dream.

I only wonder, sometimes, and it makes me a little sad, if the very fact that I loved them so much means that they won't know what they had. Will they prefer to yearn in all manner of situations? Of course, paradoxically, if they have to suffer to appreciate me and people like me, I still can't wish them pain.

In mothering, we never know. We hope we can follow our hearts. And if our hearts are artifacts of another time and cave lions? We never know. At the end of the day, my rule is when I don't know the answer, I do what I want to do. In this case, most likely, that will mean breakfast burritos. Ham, cheese, potatoes, salsa.

Image: November 1990. They start fat. Get skinny. Cut their own bangs. Have small feet.