All Rileyed Up

It’s not often for a novel to surprise me as pleasantly as The Ten Year Nap. I was interested in reading it because of the subject matter, stay-at-home mothers. A lifestyle choice so near and dear to my heart.

Being someone who is happy with my choice to be an at-home mom, I felt initial apprehension when I started reading the book, that “oh no” feeling that I had entered into a litany of stereotypes of unhappy at-home moms in thrill-less marriages to overworked husbands. But in the hands of Wolitzer, the story takes an immediate turn away from the stereotypes and delves into the lives hiding beneath them.

The story follows a handful of educated mothers living in the NYC and surrounding areas. Some of them are at-home mothers and one of them is a working mother. The story focuses on the trials and tribulations of their relationships with one another, as well as the many people who fill out their lives—their children (duh, of course), their husbands, their parents, and, ooh, their extramarital lovers (gasp!).

The various dynamics are each treated with such individualized attention, it’s impressive that Wolitzer was able to fit it all into this relatively short book. She also captures so many feelings that mothers experience – some I am familiar with, others I am not yet ready for, like when my son is too old to sit on my lap ;(

In the context of modern motherhood, Wolitzer examines feminism from our parents’ generation to the next and how it has changed the lives of these particular women. I stress ‘particular’ because these women come from an upbringing that has allowed them to reap many benefits of feminism—not all women fall into this social strata. As a side note, the book also touches on an admiration/critique of Margaret Thatcher, which brings up interesting thoughts at a time when we may possibly see a first-time woman candidate for president of the US.

For me (and this was my pleasant surprise part), there is a strong nod to the classic feminist novel, Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. I don’t know if it’s intended or if I only see it because I have such a love for The Awakening, but Wolitzer pretty much kicked off the comparisons with her opening line “All around the country, the women were waking up.” First, I considered Wolitzer’s Amy Lamb to be the parallel to Chopin’s Edna Pontellier, but then I thought, no Penny Ramsey is the Edna, and then I decided that every woman in this book is their own Edna Pontellier, coming to terms with the choices they have made in life and dealing with them as their capabilities allow. These women aren’t victims of circumstance. They’re responsible for their own actions and emotions. And I like that Wolitzer stresses that point, as opposed to some sort of “blame it on men” type book.

The Ten Year Nap may very well upset you. It may piss you off. It may make you roll your eyes. But when you are done with your gut reaction, ask yourself why it made you feel that way. This book removed me from my comfort zone a number of times because it forced me to recognize that some truths are ugly. You could toss off a few snide remarks that this book deals with stereotypes, but if you dig a little deeper, you’ll see that Wolitzer has fleshed out her characters with raw emotional needs, tender backstories and interesting personality quirks—in short, she has made them real people. And I always have room to read books about real people.

Things to know about this book:

Buy the book here.

NY Times interview with the author here.

Want to read and review books like this? Go here.

My grandmother passed away and I went to Florida for the funeral. I flew by myself with the kids on the way there because Husband discovered he didn’t have his driver’s license when we got to the airport. Awesome. I had never flown with both children on my own and to be honest, it was something I had never wanted to do because I worried it might be too stressful. It turned out to be a pleasant flight, the only difference being it took much longer to walk from one flight to the next. (And although Husband didn’t find his license, he got his passport and caught another flight in to attend the funeral.)

It was the weirdest funeral I have ever attended, I think because it is the one funeral I always feared attending. When I was younger, I used to worry that my grandmother would die before I was ready to say goodbye and I prayed that she not die until I was at least in eighth grade. (I have no idea what I was thinking with such a prayer intention, and can only assume that I didn’t fully grasp the nature of prayer and also believed eighth grade to be the pinnacle of emotional maturity). Our old priest came out of retirement to do the funeral and he even got a little teary-eyed during it. That night, I dreamt that my grandmother walked into the room I was sitting in. I rushed forward and hugged her and when I turned around, I saw my reflection in a window, but I could only see myself holding my arms around someone, and there was no one else in the reflection. I squeezed her again to make sure I could still feel her and her fingers wound around my waist and squeezed back and then I woke up. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night and I didn’t sleep at all the next night.

I spent the rest of the time in Florida reminiscing with my family while our kids played together/screamed together. After a mainly uneventful flight home (the jerky guy at the Delta counter in Atlanta made up for by the extremely friendly flight attendant), I returned to California just in time to celebrate Easter with Husband’s family. Although I was tired and jet-lagged and still sad, I went to my in-law’s house because I figured it was better than sitting around my own house, moping while the kids ate too many jelly bellies.

It was in the nineties in the inland empire today. We swam most of the day. I drove home with a tan and tuckered out kids. This is the time of year when the California wildflowers come out to play. All along the highway are yellow, purple, and orange patches of color scattered about on grassy slopes. The flowers are only out for a few weeks of the year and their abundance depends on how much rain we got. This year, the turnout was lovely. I was a little disappointed to get off the highway, but then realized I had hit the freeway in time to watch the sun set over the ocean, a brilliant red inching its way into the water.

When we got home, someone who had found Husband’s license in a parking lot had driven it to our house and left it with our neighbor.

Nothing like a beautiful Easter day to remind me that things aren’t always as lost as I think they are.

Happy Easter.

I’ve recently came across some posts in the Men’s Health blog by David Zinczenko. I highly recommend this blog, not to “unlock the mysteries of the opposite sex” as the tagline claims, but to give yourself a good laugh.

So far, my favorite suggestion was the Valentine’s Day suggestion to buy your man a steak and be sure to take a few bites out of it yourself. Mmmm hmmm, because nothing says ‘I love you’ like me eating a dead animal. (All I can think of now is Jeremy Piven saying, “Let’s put a dead animal on you!”)

I also had NO IDEA that one of the top four fights men fear is The “Blackberry” Fight: “Does that thing always have to be on? You work way too much!” You know, Husband works A LOT. A LOT A LOT. We rarely fight about it. And when we do, does he fear it? No. In another compelling article, “Your Man’s Secret Fears,” Zinczenko lists six things that men most fear, and out of everything in the world to fear (carnies, wild animal attacks, the serial killer in Saw), this guy came up with fear of going bald and having one too many cheeseburgers, because all men secretly fear heart attacks (that particular post was totally upstaged by this comment: “This is silly. Every man’s #1 fear is castration.”)

But the top ten ways to compliment your man? Now that post is A GEM. Things to say that will make your man happy include “Meow,” “The kids adore you,” and “Wow.” You know what I have to say to that?

W-O-W.

I conducted a brief scientific test (and by scientific, I mean, I haven’t used the word hypothesis since my science fair days). I walked into the office where Husband was working and leaned over while he was putting CDs in a binder and whispered “meow” in his ear.

“What?” he said.

“Meow.”

“Meow?” He laughs. “Uh, what are you doing?”

“According to David Zinczenko, that’s one of the top ten compliments you want to hear.”

“Is that the steak guy?”

“Yes.”

“And he said ‘meow’ is one of the top ten?”

“Yes.”

“That guy watches too much TV.”

Hours later, the kids are in bed. He walks into the kitchen and I remind him we have the next DVD of Lost to watch and that I pulled out a bottle of wine.

“Okay. I’m just going to finish up in the office.” He leaves the kitchen.

“I want you!” I shout.

“What?”

“I WANT YOU!”

Silence for a minute. “Is that another one of the steak guy’s lines?”

I just can’t help myself.

Dear makers of the Oreo cookie,

I am sitting outside eating one of your cookies. It is chocolate-y and crunchy and the creamy filling is delectably full of bad calories. It is one of my favorite comfort foods, your Oreo cookie, and if my grandmother saw me eating it right now, she might say “Good. You’ll get fat again.”

She grew up on an island near Cebu, Philippines, does not even reach five feet on a height chart, and has probably never weighed in excess of 80 pounds her entire life. Her idea of hospitality is offering food to you the moment you enter her home, and then asking you approximately every twenty minutes if you’re still hungry. She makes the best fried rice ever.

In my grandmother’s mind, being fat is a sign of opulence and wealth. When I weighed 65 pounds more than my current weight, I was beautiful in her eyes. She poked my stomach and proudly said, “You are so VERY fat!” The first time I saw her after I lost my weight, it took her a minute to register who I was and then she asked my mother in Tagalog if I was deathly ill or if my husband was starving me in California. I made sure to eat a bowl of fried rice right in front of her. Had an Oreo cookie been available, I’d have eaten that too, but my dad likes to maximize his grocery dollars and doesn’t buy brand name foods, so I ate a Chocolate Sandwich Cookie with Vanilla Filling (they are in no way a satisfactory replacement of your Oreo cookie).

I tell you all this, dear makers of the Oreo cookie, because of certain phone conversations that took place this morning between me and my parents and brother in Florida. My grandmother was brought into the ER this morning for the second time in a week, for the umpteenth time in a year. The doctors sent her home. There’s nothing left to do, they said. Her body is shutting down, they said. It could be tomorrow, it could be a month.

My initial instinct was to fly home immediately. But my family tells me she is unresponsive, that her eyes are closed all the time, and that even if they were open, she would not recognize me. And so, I am waiting. Waiting just like the rest of my family is, only they are with her, and I am over 2000 miles away.

Of course, I am sad. I have even cried. I want to feel comfort. And when I am sad, and cry, and need to feel comfort, I eat junk food. Which is where you come in. I am eating yet another Oreo cookie, hoping that this confection will overcome the salty tears, the throb in my forehead, and the pain in my heart that comes with the knowledge that the next time I see my grandmother, she will be—

I think I’ll just eat another cookie for now.

Thanks for making them so sweet.

Sincerely,

Riley

At the beach, it is calm and sunny. The water is too cold for the kids to wade in (this is California after all, where no matter what they say, the water is COLD. I grew up in Florida – that water is warm. This is not), so we sit on the sand and play.

There is a group of teenagers near us. Maybe nine of them. An uneven number of boys and girls. There are two couples, based on their hand holding, their giggling into one other’s shoulders over little inside jokes. The rest of them have that awkward not-too-close-but-close-enough-to- show-an-interest-in-being-closer proximity between one another.

“Can we build sand castles?” The Boy says. I nod. He sits across from his sister and digs into the sand. She joins in. I pull my journal out and note: 5-word sentence; asked to build sand castles; initiated activity with no help from me, sister joined in. Their idea of a sand castle is an anthill-style pile of beach sand. The Boy grabs a stick nearby and sticks it into the top of the sand pile. “I made a birthday cake!” he says. “Let’s sing Happy Birthday.” What follows is a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” that ends when he blows out the ‘candle.’ We sing it again at his behest for Little No Limit to have a turn to blow out the candle. And then one more time so that Mommy can blow out the candle. I jot notes on this as well. Imaginative. Concern that his sister and mommy share in the fun. And yet, the neurology clinic determined he had the emotional capacity of a one year old, that he doesn’t do cooperative play, and that he shows little age-appropriate imaginative play.

And I wonder, do these people simply not see him the way I do or am I missing something?

The teenagers shriek with laughter. They have started playing I Never. I used to play it in college. You tell people something you have never done and the people who have done it take a drink. The game starts off innocent enough, “I never rode a horse” or “I never cheated on a test,” but as the drinking continues, so the tastefulness deteriorates. “I never participated in a threesome” or “I never had (insert undesirable position) sex.” And by the end of the game, the most immoral, unethical, or pathologically lying one in the bunch is slobbering drunk (indeed, a FABULOUS party game). These teenagers at the beach play a different version of the game, though. Instead of taking a drink, they are taking one step closer to the cold water. I cannot hear their “I Never” claims, only their laughter when a few of them take steps. Before you know it, one of the guys is in the water.

I look at my children, who are arranging stones around the castle, and consider how vastly different my claims in the world of I Never have become.

I never thought it would be so hard to know whether or not to trust my instinct when my instinct says my children are fine and the doctors who meet with them for a couple hours (with numerous accolades on their walls and unattractive coffee stains on their shirts) toss out a diagnosis that says my instincts are all wrong.

I never thought so many strangers would have such strongly formulated opinions about my kids and their development.

I never thought I’d question myself so many times in a single minute.

I never thought I’d hate the term “special diet.”

I never. I never. I never.

I chuck my pen across the sand. The Boy and Little No Limit both look. Little No Limit says “Pen!”

The Boy gets up, runs to the pen and brings it back. “Mommy. I found your pen.” He says it with such pleasant surprise, I wonder if he remembers I just threw it, but then he says, “Why you do that?”

“I don’t know buddy. I just felt like it.”

He nods very knowingly, then holds his finger up. “Only this time. Don’t do it again.”

Is he aware of what he is telling me, or is he mimicking what I have said in the past?

We build another castle and I look over at the teenagers. Most of them are now either wet or on the brink of getting wet, except for one sweet innocent standing at the starting point. In a white bikini, no less. Have I wandered onto the set of a teen movie? I wonder if she is horrified by what the others have done that have led them into the water, if she thinks they have made many mistakes or if she wonders why she hasn’t done more, lived more.

I have no dissatisfaction over how I’ve lived my life. I’ve done a lot of things, moved on a lot of whims, and enjoyed life. Sure, I’ve made mistakes. I’ve learned from them and moved on. And it’s been great. But now, for every mistake I make, my kids are directly impacted.

And I fear I am on the brink of making huge mistakes.

I’ve been a mother for five years and I feel something I’ve haven’t felt in years. I don’t know how to trust myself anymore. I don’t know who to believe.
The teenagers are squealing with laughter because one of the guys picked up the good girl, and dropped her in the water. Okay, I guess I am on the set of a teen movie. The girl gets out, laughing, and pushes the guy. She says something and everyone laughs. They make their way back to their spot and grab towels and dry off. They walk back to the parking lot.

The Boy is still piling stones around his anthill sand fortress that now has three feathers stuck in the top. Little No Limit has taken the stick/original birthday candle to draw circles in the sand. After completing each circle, she looks at me and says, “Circle!” (Irkel!)

A flock of birds glide by. The kids both stop what they are doing to stand up and watch them. Then Little No Limit starts running after them, shouting “Birds! Birds!”

“Hey!” cries The Boy. “Don’t do that! Mommy, she’s running away!”

I get up and run after Little No Limit, who has managed to cover quite a distance for such little legs. I bring her back and a new sand castle is in the works. Another anthill style castle. Another feather sticking out the top. Another circle of rocks surrounding it. Repetitive behavior trait? Typical kid behavior? I pull out my notebook and add it to my observations.

I can hear the teenagers drive away. They beep their car horns at one another. Laughter escapes from their open windows. See you at so-and-so’s! I wonder what they will do tonight, who will end the night laughing and who will end the night crying, because they’ve added another moment to their life that will put them one step closer to the water in the next round of I Never.

I flip back to the other page where I had written down my I Never claims, and add one more.

I never thought I’d be that vulnerable again.

Little No Limit asked for applesauce for a snack and I poured it out. Normally, I buy cinnamon applesauce, but this time I bought plain applesauce, so I added my own dash of cinnamon and mixed it up. She took a bite of it and made a funny face, then said, “Too hot.” This is her phrase for ‘I don’t like this taste.” I figured I added too much cinnamon, so I added another blob of applesauce and stirred it in, thinking, huh, that cinnamon sure is bright and the grains sure are large and noticeable. I set the bowl down again and she took another bite, and started coughing. “Hot,” she said again.

Hmm.

I walked to the cabinet and pulled out the spice container I had just used. Then I took the bowl, dumped it out and made her a fresh batch of cinnamon applesauce. Because nobody should have to eat cayenne pepper in their applesauce.

(this post submitted to the Carnival of Family Life)

1. Got a breakfast burrito. They messed up my order. Again. Their cook REALLY has an attention span problem. Something tells me he and Bill Clinton do not have the same “inhaling” issue.

2. Attended my IEP for The Boy. I wanted more speech and a special group therapy they do twice a week for the autism kids. I got neither. Apparently, the school has to perform their own assessment of autism/PDD despite what the pediatric behavioral specialist and pediatric neurologist had to say (no advice on this please, unless you enjoy being unfairly lashed out at). The speech teacher was out with the flu, so that aspect of the IEP was postponed to a meeting next week. And you better believe I’m getting that extra speech. Oh yes. I am.

3. Read up on 132 different literary agents. Yes, 132. I read their profiles, clicked on their websites and/or blogs if they had them, and in the cases where I had heard of none of their authors, I googled their books and read reviews of them. I’ve found 30 that I think I have a shot at. I have 88 more to read up on. Big shout out to the Publisher’s Marketplace for making life easy for me. No idea how I would have done that without the internet. Oh, and of all the agent blogs I read today, this was my favorite: Nathan Bransford — Literary Agent.

4. Interspersed between 1, 2, and 3, I also made bubbles, walked the dogs, drove to my friend’s house to put her dog out and feed the cat because she’s at a wedding in Cabo that I wasn’t invited to (I’m not bitter or anything), took the kids to and from pre-school, worked on several pages of handwriting and other pre-K type exercises with The Boy in the afternoon, read and reread and then reread again 8 Little Monkeys and Mommy? by Maurice Sendak (the creepiest little pop up book in the world), and experienced traumatic ear-ringing tantrums because I made Little No Limit take her shirt off and put it back on because she had put it on backwards, bathed the kids, and retreated back to the computer to continue agent research while Husband put them to bed.

My eyes are bleary. My patience is gone.

I’m torn between reading the rest of New Orleans Noir or drinking a beer and watching The Simpsons Movie.

Any thoughts?