Onwards and sideways!

Spelling

I don't know whether to blame it on Spanish immersion, or today's day and age - but here's Mia's latest spelling mishap.

"My brother and I were hungry so wii went to the kitchen..."

Mother Superior

Every now and then I complain—just a teeny bit—about being a parent. All the time spent driving kids to gymnastics and soccer. Constant coordination of their social lives—sometimes even at the expense of my own. Visits to the library. Making healthy, zero-waste lunches. Homework. But in my dark moments, I’ve consoled myself by thinking about the joyous moments when my son, smiling, shows off the movie “camera” that he made with recycled boxes with real “film” made of strips of paper. Or when my daughter puts on her Vegas-style show featuring three hula hoops.

Then I read Amy Chua’s article “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior” in the Wall Street Jounal and realized what a fool I’ve been. For years, I’ve been worried about whether my children are happy, have friends, are nice to each other, and care about the global community. All this time I’ve wasted, when I should have been focused on raising successful kids.

Why, oh why, did I worry about whether my daughter was making friends in kindergarten? Why did I schedule playdates when she was feeling left out? All that time wasted, when I could have been teaching her about fractions or drilling her on multiplication tables, in preparation for life as a math whiz.

When my son told me he wanted to take a break from practicing piano, why did I let him build aimlessly with his legos? Or play with Coke and Mentos in the backyard. Or, worst of all, flop down on the sofa and watch MythBusters? Oh, those precious moments when he could have been perfecting his scales and learning Tchaikovsky.

Amy Chua made me realize how neglectful I’ve been of the most important aspect of parenting: achievement. It was so freeing to read her article and become aware of how foolishly I’ve attended to my children’s feelings. My chidren can’t possibly enjoy learning or feel confident unless they are number 1 in the class. Playing the piano couldn’t possibly be fun unless they are on stage at Carnegie Hall.

And I definitely don’t need to stress about the fact that my son has dyslexia. Since being number 1 in his class is all that matters, I will simply yell at him until I am hoarse, put all of his toys in the dumpster, and refuse to let him go to the bathroom until he can read Harry Potter. Chua says I am wrong to worry about his psyche. If he has problems, I should simply tell him that he is “worthless” and “a disgrace.” That will certainly help him overcome his challenges

It was also wonderful that Chua confirmed what I’ve always suspected—that I know what’s best for my children. In the past I’ve had moments of self-doubt. After all, I work as a writer, not a pediatrician, psychologist, or teacher. Now there will be more listening to their own desires and preferences. No more sleepovers. No more games of Uno or Gobblet before bedtime. No more allowing my son to read Calvin and Hobbes and call it homework. And especially no more spontaneous dancing to “Dynamite.” No need to worry about whether they will be psychologically scarred—their achievement will build confidence. From now on, I will focus only on being a superior mother.

How Cook's Illustrated "Best 30 Minute Recipe" has changed my life

Sometimes--if my imagination is on overdrive and I squint really hard--when I look at my living room I don't see piles of toys or stains on the carpet. I see something worthy of Architectural Digest: my living room the way it was meant to be. Not the reality of what it is.

So many things about my life are different from what I'd thought they would be. First, I imagined a big, sprawling Craftsman-style house like the one in "Thirtysomething." I would publish a new critically-acclaimed novel each year. My writing would be effortlessly juggled with caring for my lovely, well-mannered, over-achieving children and putting a different gourmet meal on the table each night. (Which the kids would eat without complaining.) I'd barely break a sweat while running 6 miles each morning. My husband would happily take out the trash.

It's worked out a little differently. I love my house, but it is definitely more modest and has essentially no back yard. I have yet to finish a book - or even a chapter! My jeans are all a little too tight. And sometimes at the grocery store I pretend that I don't know my children, because they are that rambunctious. There are times that I feel like I'm not really successful in any aspect of my life.

Thank goodness for the "Best 30 Minute Recipe" book. To be completely honest, very few of the recipes actually take me only 30 minutes. Most are in the 45-60 range. But what it does enable me to do, is to put something different/interesting/delicious on the table just about every night. And it isn't just combing different canned or pre-prepared foods (sorry Rachel Ray). I'm toasting spices, sauteing aromatics, using fresh ingredients. Just doing it really quickly.

Thanks to Cook's Illustrated, when we are eating our skillet chicken pot pie, or Italian Bean soup, or tortellini salad with arugula and pine nuts, I can - for twenty minutes - taste the sweetness of success.

Don't judge a book by its pages

I'm writing a book. Okay, to be totally honest, it is really just a chapter. Although the idea first came to me about ten years ago, it was only last summer that I started in earnest. My boss, Barbara (who is, by the way, a published novelist), told me that if you just write a page every day you can be done in a year. Unfortunately I'm a year in, and I'm still working on the opening scene.

Clearly Barbara doesn't need to endlessly rethink each scene over and over again the way I do. (Should it be fall or spring? Do they meet at a party or a museum? Does she have a child from her previous marriage?) It would be nice if I could finish my book, but I've given up hope of really doing it - at least any time this decade. Even so, I don't want to give it up.

Sure, it's one part vanity. People I know from college are running companies, managing magazines, publishing books, editing films, and managing TV news shows, while I struggle to finish the laundry, pick up carpool, and get my kids to school on time. Even though my book is very much a work in progress, I can project the sense of "being in the game" if I'm at least working on a book.

But it's much more than what I project to the outside world. My book also keeps me from feeling badly about my current failures. While I do many things - work, parent, yoga, volunteer at our school - I'm not particularly good at any of them. My job performance may be mediocre, my kids may run wild at a restaurant, or my sink may be piled high with dishes, but I feel a little better when I can say to myself, "well at least I'm writing a book."

Sometimes my life feels overwhelming. I have two kids that are in two separate elementary schools. My son is really struggling with dyslexia. My husband travels a lot. Last year our dishwasher, car, furnace, and refrigerator all broke. I work half time. I rarely have time to see my friends (the ones I have left). My jeans are too tight.

My two saving graces are my yoga classes (which give me the peace of mind to deal with my kids) and my book. When I get stressed out by my current reality, I can escape by worrying about my protagonist's relationship with her mother, or where she and her impossibly handsome boyfriend will first have sex. It's easier - and a whole lot more fun - than worrying about my own problems.

"Real" writers always say that you need to fully commit. That you need to forget about running out of ketchup, or keeping up with all of your friends, or getting anywhere on time. I'm not in a position right now where I can fully commit to anything more than trying to get my kids to school on time. So it might be a decade before my book is finished. It might not ever be finished at all. But for me, it will be one of the best books I've ever read.

Gotta go work on today's paragraph.

Where did the time go?

Wow, have I really not written since last July? I blame it all on Facebook. Which I kind of hate. More to come soon!

Old Dog, New Tricks

I’m not much of an athlete. I have friends – other parents – who play on soccer teams, or run in marathons, or go rock climbing. Some who’ve taken up tennis, or golf, or snowboarding. I’ve never been the kind of person who could pick up a new sport and be good at it, so with two kids and a part time job, I stick to the activities I know, ones that are so routine that they can be enjoyed with minimal prep time and no learning curve. I follow the same fall line down the same ski runs over and over; I’ve done the same yoga routine for eight years. Not much of a challenge, but not much an achievement either. Perhaps this explains the bizarrely enormous sense of accomplishment that I had last month when I learned to surf.

We were vacationing at Hanalei Bay and put our kid (ages 5 and 6) into a surfing lesson. They’ve had years of swimming instruction, and are accomplished on skis and scooters. We weren’t surprised that they were instantly good at it. It was amazing to see how quickly they were able to stand, with knees bent and arms held wide, and ride waves right onto the sand. Their father and I clapped each other on the back, congratulated ourselves on how wonderful our children are, and what good parents we must be, and ran around like lunatics as we tried to capture the perfect shot with the video camera.

I’m used to getting most of my validation through my children. No one ever says, “hey, you’re a great car-pooler” or “you do a hellava job making sure your family never runs out of toothpaste.” Unfortunately, these days I get my sense of accomplishment through my children’s achievements. Mia counted by tens to a thousand! Miles read a book!

In Kauai the kids floated over the waves again and again to shore, laughing manically, thirst and hunger forgotten, experiencing a joy more intense than with almost anything else they’ve ever done. They surfed in side by side on parallel boards, they rode in tandem on a long board, even on the shoulders of the instructor.

As I stood in the warm Hawaiian water, watching them, I had a crazy, insane, wild idea. It occurred to me that I could try it too. Yes, I, too, could have fun. When they finally needed a break for Gatorade and pretzels, I took a turn.

I got on the board, wobbled like mad, and slid off into sea. I got on again, wobbled again, and the water hit my face like a slap. My children laughed, and I’m sure many of the locals fishing on the pier. After many more slides, and mouthfuls of salt water, I finally got onto my knees. From there it was only a few more tries before I was able to stand – stand! – on the longboard. And then I was floating in the water with the instructor, who shouted “now” and gave me a push each time a good wave came in. And I stood on the water, balanced like a warrior two, and floated into shore.

I was jubilant.

That night, over dinner, the kids and I eagerly talked about getting our own surfboards, already planning the next time we could come to Hanalei Bay.

I was so proud. The feeling was all out of proportion to the two hundred yards that I actually surfed. But who cares?

As a parent I have very little time for myself. I try to squeeze in a yoga class each week – two if I’m lucky! – and have the occasional night out alone with my husband. Even when my children are asleep, it seems that most of my activities are centered around them – cleaning up the dinner dishes, packing lunches, folding laundry. Maybe it is finally time to make time for myself. Maybe it is time to take up some new sports. Maybe it is time to finally start my novel. The kids can make their own lunches. This old dog is going to learn some new tricks.