Women Who Walk

My best friend and I speak every morning.  We call each other from our cars on the way to work.  It’s the best time really.  No home life or work intrusions to distract us.  Sometimes it’s a two-minute check in.  Sometimes it’s a long chat that ends only when one or the other of us is at our office door.  We talk about what we’re wearing, we talk about the day ahead, we sometimes talk a bit about work and exchange vital information or just gossip about what’s going on around town and I usually ask what her infant daughter is wearing and doing that day.  But most often, we’ll start our chat with the fantasy conversation of what we would say to each other if we were not women who work.  We imagine a life in which we call each other in the morning to discuss our daily plan – will we meet for a hike or at exercise class?  Will we go to coffee after at Le Pain or at Joan’s?  And will we have meetings for the various charities we have time to dedicate our energy and passion to that day or perhaps just visit LACMA to see the latest installation?  Now that she has a baby, our plans include picking the child up after school and including her in the latter portion of our leisurely ladies-who-lunch day.

This all started because one morning as I was dialing her number (speed dial “B” on my berry), I noticed all the women walking in my neighborhood.  I was running a bit late that morning.  It was about 9am.  And there were droves of women in twos and threes walking through my neighborhood, chatting and looking very fit.  I should mention that I live in a neighborhood in the hills adjacent to an excellent hiking path.  So it wasn’t unusual to see people walking.  I just hadn’t noticed before how many women walk in leisurely groups at a time when the rest of us are headed to or already at work.  So when B answered the phone I immediately assaulted her with, “who are these women?”  “Who are you talking about” she asked with a laugh in her voice.  “Who are these women who walk at nine in the morning when the rest of us have to get to the office?  Why do they get to walk?  How did they figure out their lives like that?  I want to walk at nine am!”  We talked about the women, talked about what the rest of their days might look like, talked about what it would be like if we didn’t work.

And thus was born the ritual of the conversation in which we fantasize about a life in which we get to take a late morning walk, or go to the gym, and go to lunch, and dedicate ourselves to causes we care about, and get our nails done on a weekday.  It’s a silly ritual, really.  And in truth we both like being working women most of the time.  The fantasy is a “someday” fantasy and not a “today” fantasy.  But its fun and it’s a good distraction from the anxiety that can build on the drive to work.  And I still want to know who those women are that get to walk at nine in the morning and what they do with the rest of their day.

Hebrew School

Child Two started Hebrew School this year. It was his choice to learn Hebrew and begin to study for his bar mitzvah. His sister did not attend Hebrew School and was not bat mitvah. Sig Other was in his Hindu period during her formative years and thus Child One grew up more inclined to lunch at the Krishna temple than to snack time in the sukkah. And Child Two is often drawn to pursuits that are in direct opposition to Child One’s interests – a wise effort to distinguish himself from the glow surrounding his sister. She played piano. He likes drums and is showing an interest in guitar. She loves horses. He likes bike riding and soccer. There is crossover, of course (dogs and cooking and reading and things). But Hebrew is his and his alone. Intellectual and spiritual learning notwithstanding, Hebrew allows him a secret dialogue with his father. In Hebrew they can swear and make fun behind our backs and share things that only father and son should share with one another. Hebrew is his daddy-bond.

But Hebrew School is inconvenient. The Temple of our beloved Rabbi is far away and class often conflicts with soccer, work and sleeping in. But Child Two asks little and endures much. So if Hebrew School he wants, Hebrew School he shall have. Day One arrived and I felt it important to take him myself. Sig Other was out of town and Ex-Wife unfamiliar with our shul. So I took the afternoon off work and schlepped the sweet boy across town for his first day. He seemed calm and relaxed and my anxiety grew and grew as we neared. My own insecurity of not being quite Jewish enough, not being quite smart enough, simply not knowing enough, was taking over and I made light conversation about anything else to cover. We arrived, early of course, and made our way inside where immediately my own fears melted away as familiar faces and warm greetings reminded me, once again, how silly I can be. I deposited Child Two in his classroom with his lovely teacher, John, and made my way downstairs. My plan was to find a nice cozy place to sit and read and make phone calls while Child Two was in class. I’d make myself a nice little mobile office and alleviate the guilt of having left the office early.

I may not have mentioned but our temple is poor. It is young and vibrant and inviting and inspiring. And it is poor. There is no permanent facility so we are housed at the JCC, which may have been chic and sparkly in the 60s, but is now just old and dumpy. So finding a comfortable place to settle was a challenge. I picked a shabby but no longer chic sofa in the corner and hunkered down with blackberry and scripts. Twenty minutes later, a woman came and plopped herself down opposite me, shattering my solitude. “Do you have a child in Limudim?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied. Sometimes I just say yes because it’s simpler than explaining that Child Two is my stepson. And sometimes I say yes to avoid the inevitability of what comes next. But the woman was friendly and also had a child in school and we kept chatting and of course the moment came when I explained that Child Two is my stepson and not my bio-son. And she did what most people do when that moment comes – she did exactly what I was trying to avoid. She gave me a “Good for you!” And she meant it quite genuinely.

The woman went on to tell me that she is divorced, that her ex has a new girlfriend and that she is trying to help her kids understand that liking the new girlfriend doesn’t mean they are choosing one woman over another. She’s been trying to tell them there’s room for everyone. She was talking about helping her kids adjust, talking about putting her own anger aside for their sake, talking about coping. And she said something rather profound. She said, “I could never hate my ex as much as I love my children.” She told me this, I think, because she was representing the ex-wife point of view on allowing another woman to care for her children. And I appreciated that.

I should say here that I quite like this woman and expect we’ll be friends. So the fact that I'm pointing out that she did the thing that makes me so uncomfortable is not meant as criticism. It's just the perfect example. And it wasn’t that she was talking about her divorce and her ex and his new girlfriend – I like all of that. Talking about divorced families and how to cope is one of my favorite subjects. The thing that makes me uncomfortable is the conversation that assumes that the ordinary things a parent would do fall into the category of extraordinary once you’re a stepparent. I know it genuinely and sweetly struck this woman as terribly nice that I was taking the time to drive my stepson to Hebrew School. But really, it wasn’t nice at all. It is just what you do. It’s completely normal and a little bit of a pain in the ass. And I also realized it would be almost impossible to say this to the woman without sounding either falsely modest or sort of school-marmish. So I just listened and nodded and smiled and said, “thanks.”

This conversation is not unusual to me. In fact I have it rather often. Often people act surprised and commend me for my exceptional step-parenting skills. But I do not want to be commended for doing the thing you’re supposed to do. I don’t want accolades for doing the same thing a bio-mom would do. And I find it odd that we live in a world in which stepparents doing things that bio-parents do all the time is commendable. It isn’t right. I don’t want to be singled out. I don’t want a pat on the head and I don’t want to be told what an exemplary stepparent I am. These are my children. Of course I drive them around. That’s what people do. The idea that someone would do more or less for a child depending on whether or not there is a biological connection is shocking and gross and foreign to me. Is that what other steps do? If so, then shame on you, bad stepparents, wherever you are. You’ve given the rest of us a bad name.

MOVEMENT ORDER

Last night, Sig Other announced that he no longer wished to receive emails about schedule or plans. Those emails, he explained, create too much clutter in his inbox and those things were better discussed in an end-of-day meeting. Good point, I thought. But I also knew that mere discussion was not enough. So I set about creating a system whereby Sig Other’s assistant, my assistant, our beloved Jake (part time house assistant and manny) and Ex-Wife all received information in one email that could then be disseminated into our various calendars. I created a Movement Order. A Movement Order originated as a military term. It’s also commonly used in production and is generally a memo with instructions for moving large groups from one place to another. My first Movement Order was not, however, about moving a large group. It was meant to move one small boy.

I should point out that Child Two is not actually small. He’s rather large for his age, taking after his father who stands around 6’4”. None of us will be surprised if Child Two overtakes his papa before high school graduation rolls around. But he is only ten and so in spite of the fact that he can easily physically overpower me and his mother, he’s just a little boy. And a sweet, sweet little boy at that. So the fact that it takes a movement order and four adults to manage the to-ing and fro-ing of one ten year old boy over a four day period is a little mind blowing.

It begins like this. Ex-Wife has the children one weekend a month so that she can enjoy them sleeping in, partaking in weekend activities and hanging out rather than the hustle and bustle of weekday life. So one week a month we have them during the week. This is always a little in flux, particularly now that Child One drives and wants a more flexible schedule. But that is basically the arrangement during the school year and we try to stick to it (work travel schedules notwithstanding). Child Two, like me, loves a schedule.

But this week is slightly different in that Ex-Wife has a volunteer commitment on Saturday. And as a big supporter of volunteerism as well as a supporter of Ex-Wife’s extracurricular life, I told her I would be happy to help out with transportation of Child Two that day. Even as I made the offer, I realized I had already scheduled all of my personal maintenance for that Saturday – cut, color and facial were already booked and if rescheduled would have to wait another month. But not to worry, as self-appointed General of the UPCO and UPCT (United Parents of Child One and Child Two), I would figure it out.

An email was immediately sent out to Sig Other’s assistant, my assistant, Jake and Ex-Wife. It went like this:

MOVEMENT ORDER FOR CHILD TWO

Wednesday

Ex-wife - pick boy up from school, take him to doctor and drop him at our house.

Sig Other - leave work early to come home to boy.

Thursday

Me - cancel pilates, drop boy off at school (stopping first to drop half-breed dog at vet). Race to Santa Monica from school for morning mtg.

Sig Other – following lunch mtg in BH pick up boy at school

Me – leave work early to come home to boy so Sig Other can attend Back To School night at Child One’s school

Friday

Me – drop boy at school

Ex-Wife – pick up boy and take to soccer

Saturday

Me – pick boy up from Ex-Wife’s house and drop at Hebrew school (boy should already be dressed in soccer gear) – race to hair appt.

Jake – pick up child early from Hebrew school, feed and take to soccer

Sig Other – return from Saturday morning bike ride and go to child’s soccer game. Return home until Ex-Wife retrieves child.

This gave me enormous satisfaction. I wondered aloud what we did before Child One could drive, what people with only two parents do and (God forbid) how a single parent household managed. It takes a village. Or in this case, a Movement Order.

Lucky Girls

The other night, Miss Whistle talked a bit about her father-in-law and what he means in her life. She told me about how she moved from the UK to the States as a young girl of 22 and how, from the moment she met him, Big John treated her like a daughter – never a daughter-in-law, never an interloper in the family, never like a stranger that needed getting used to. She went on to say he’s been supportive and kind and open to her for twenty plus years. How lucky is she?

I found myself getting uncharacteristically teary as she talked and I realized I was jealous. Not pea-green-with-envy-jealous. More the kind of jealous you have of a friend you love – you may wish you had the thing they have but are still happy they have it. I was jealous of a relationship I never had: jealous of the opportunity to take care of a dying father, jealous of the time spent saying goodbye and experiencing the process of death in a person with a life well spent. My father died suddenly. At the age of forty-eight. And I was fourteen. Almost fifteen. Younger than Child One is now. So yes, I’m jealous of the opportunity to watch a parent grow old. Jealous of the opportunity to say goodbye.

These are things I rarely talk about. I shy away from them in my own life and often in the lives of those around me. I’d rather not engage in conversation with the family shattered by the death of a child over twenty years ago. I don’t ask Miss Whistle often enough about the health of her dear father-in-law. And I don’t wallow in the personal pain of others. When asked, I answer questions about being a young teen with a dead father with bravado and glibness.

But I cry at shitty movies, elementary school graduations and moving speeches. I blubbered for weeks when my precious Golden Retriever died after twelve years with me. And I found myself weepy in my conversation with Miss Whistle the other night.

I used to fantasize that I would meet a man with a wonderful father and that my future father-in-law would stand in for the father I lost too young. And yet I chose a first husband with a deadbeat abusive drunk for a father and a second husband with a sweet but politically incorrect and sort of checked-out father. Sig Other’s father was colossal in his time – a brilliant man with a charming manner and razor sharp wit. But by the time I came into Sig Other’s life, Shamu was old and aphasic and a little grumpy (though less grumpy than I’d have been had I all his physical maladies). He died a mere shadow of the lion of a man he’d been in his prime, and though I believe he could have been the kind of father-in-law I’d have invented for myself, age and the toll of too many strokes put that possibility well out of reach by the time I met him.

To a certain extent, we are all defined by what's missing in our lives - by what we've lost. I can say that I got over the loss of my father - that I moved on. And in some ways that is true. But in my more honest moments, I will admit to the deep, dark chasm left in his absence. And will admit to disappointment. Disappointment that I never found a surrogate dad, never found a mentor who took me under his wing, a professor who showed me the way or boss who kept a special eye out. And I never stopped hoping that a magical all-knowing father figure would walk into my life with all the answers to life’s great questions.

Marrying an older man was an option, I guess. A sort of wildly clichéd option, but an option nonetheless. I went out on a date with an older man once. He was wildly successful, very rich and provided phenomenal dinner conversation. But by the end of the night, when he tried to kiss me, I was completely embarrassed for him and almost started to giggle. He was so awkward and momentarily adolescent. And it just seemed so silly to me that this man who was thirty years my senior would turn into a little boy making a pass. I couldn’t find a remote speck of attraction. I guess I wasn’t one for a literal father figure.

For years it was there – that deep, black, insatiable hole left by my father’s death and no amount of attention could fill it. Two bad marriages and a myriad of ridiculous choices can attest to that. And then I found Sig Other, and the children, and real love. Sig Other is not a father figure. He could not be more different from the man I called “daddy”. I chose Sig Other because part of me knew no one could ever replace my father. No living man can fill the shoes left by a ghost. Those shoes will always remain as they are in my memory – rugged, sturdy, maybe a little muddy but solid in construction. And Sig Other’s shoes are lighter, more agile, certainly more fashionable and filled by the man who walks beside me in a life we built together. And he doesn’t mind that I weep at mediocre movies, or when I think of the children growing up. How lucky am I?

College Night

The other night was College Night at Child One’s Super Crunchy School. Sig Other was working and could not attend. So I went without him. I’d already had a few conversations with the school college counselor and as such had become the self-appointed representative of the United Parents of Child One (UPCO) in the Junior Year Family Panic About College. By way of background, there have already been a few conversations this school year about things like test prep and curriculum overload, and we, the UPCO, have taken on all challenges as a unit. I can’t say it a wholly harmonious unit but it’s a unit nonetheless. Sig Other definitely represents one end of the academic extreme ("you should apply to Harvard") and Ex-Wife the other ("do you really want to apply to schools that require SATs?"). And I try to bounce somewhere in between but find myself often biting my tongue with both of them.

I left work early, changed out of my high-heeled fancy shoes into flats that were comfier and more Crunchy School-friendly (though still Chanel), and set out across town. Traffic was heavy, giving me too much time to ponder the journey and just enough time to begin to feel very awkward and out of place. What was I doing? Was it appropriate that I attend College Night? Do other kids’ stepparents attend College Night? Is it awkward for Child One to have her mother AND her stepmother present? Would Child One feel pressured to make me feel wanted even though she really thinks I’m an interloper? Is it too much for her to have to explain to her teachers or her two-parented friends why she has three parents and why they’re all so damned involved? Was this responsible Step-Parenting or overstepping boundaries? Also, what if I couldn’t find the school or didn’t know where to park or they wouldn’t let me in because I didn’t have the secret parental pass code and couldn’t pass a DNA matching test they inevitably must give at the door? Would the other parents stare at me in confusion? Would they wonder what the hell I was doing there?

Like I said, traffic was bad. And I’d be lying if I didn’t consider turning around and going home. Child One didn’t need me there. Or did she? I wasn’t sure. And so I sat in traffic and fought my anxiety and realized part of my anxiety was about Child One and part was purely selfish. I hate going places where I could be uncomfortable. For years I’ve entertained at home on the weekends with the excuse that we have the kids on the weekends and don’t want to leave them, so in order to maintain an social life we entertain at home. And I love cooking. It relaxes me. And fills a creative void. All those things are true. And also true is the fact that I’m a control freak, that I feel more comfortable in my own home because its an environment I control – the guest list, the food, the wine, and even the conversation to a certain extent. School never felt like a second home. School always felt bewildering and overwhelming. So sitting in traffic on the way to College Night, I started to experience that familiar feeling, started dreading the notion of being thrust back in time – back to a place with awkward hellos and uncomfortable straight-backed plastic chairs and flat indoor/outdoor carpet that smells vaguely of industrial cleaner.

Eventually, I arrived at Crunchy School, pretty much on time and somewhat calmer. The security guard on duty didn’t ask me for my step-credentials and very sweetly directed me “the gathering space”. What’s wrong with a goddamned high school gym or auditorium? Or even a theater? No – Super Crunchy School has to refer to the drama room as a Gathering Space. There, I was greeted by Robert, the counselor I’d spoken to on the phone several times, and Julien, who will be Child One’s advisor. Ex-Wife had saved me a seat next to her in front. And Child One waved wildly from her seat at the back of the bleachers where she sat with the rest of her class. I said hello to the few parents I knew and then dove into the handouts and reading materials.

The presentation was fairly short and terribly informative. We all laughed nervously as we were called out (kindly, of course, but called out nonetheless) for being the over-anxious, over-achieving parents of our over-anxious, over-achieving kids. No one asked me what I was doing there. No one wondered who the hell I was. I didn’t stand out like a sore step-thumb. The only uncomfortable part of the evening was, in fact, the hideous plastic chairs. Child One seemed glad I came, gave me a big hug, an “I love you” and made a joke about her lesbian mothers as we all stood around chatting. And as I walked back to my car, I realized, once again, that life is all about showing up.

Morning Papers

My pilates instructor is sick today. Scratchy dry throat – probably the thing I had two weeks ago. Child Two is sick too, poor boy, snotty and sleepy and wrung out. And though I swore to my trainer I’d get up and work out on my own, I find myself more compelled to stay in bed reading the papers, checking Twitter and writing. Stretching my atrophying brain muscle feels more important these days than fighting off the inevitability of my sagging flesh. And so I eek out a few extra reclining moments to read this morning’s Maureen Dowd missive about how women’s lives are getting unhappier as men seem to be on the upswing. No great revelation there. Yes folks, choice has made women more miserable. DUH!!!

Depressed by the NYT, I postpone my morning journey through Page Six to think quickly about the day ahead, which will be capped by College Night at Child One’s Super Duper Crunchy School. Sig Other is working and won’t make it. So Child One will be escorted by my Ex-Wife and me. I’m sure this will make her very happy – a night out with the Lesbian Mothers is much more harmonious than a night out with both biological parents. Child One will be freed of navigating and negotiating the waters that run crazy through the space between divorced people – alternately still and suddenly turbulent. More to come as it seems Child One’s approaching College Years will be the subject of much discussion both tonite, tomorrow and beyond…

Gratitude

Thanks to Sig Other, Miss Whistle and the power of Twitter, I am now on the roster for Child Two's class. Be careful what you wish for...