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I took the kids with me to the grocery store today, not by choice but by necessity. 
If I had attempted to serve them what was left in the cupboard—namely artichoke hearts and black olives—they might have tried to bury me in the backyard. Winter break is interminable.
Before we went, I tried to prepare myself and them. I carefully wrote out a shopping list (by aisle, no less), made sure their little stomachs were full (we went directly after lunch), and spoke with each of them about the difference between “helpful” and “unhelpful” behavior (Putting items Mommy hands you into the cart = Helpful. Attempting to lie down on the bottom rack of the cart = Unhelpful.).
Not that any of this ultimately mattered.
Kid Dialogue:
“I’m hungry!”
“EEEK!”
“But he scared me!”
“I want this!”
“But I WANT THIS!”
“OW! Mom! Liam just ran over my leg!”
“Can we have gummies?”
“But everybody else has these in their lunch!”
“How come YOU always get to pick out what WE eat?”
“Ewww!”
“NO!”
“Stop it!”
“He’s doing it again!”
“I wanna see the lobsters.”
“But I’m still looking at the lobsters!”
**Sob**
“Ooops!”
“Mom! Look what he did!”
**Sob**
“THEN can I have a muffin?”
“How come HE always gets what he wants?”
“I hafta go to the bathroom.”
“We need gum!”
“More gum!”
“Oh, no! I dropped my quarter!”
“Mommy, you gotta go back!”
Mom Dialogue:
“But you just ate!”
“Please, put that back.”
“Stop sniffing the rotisserie chicken. Remember last time?”
“No.”
“Where did Henry go?”
“Say ‘excuse me’.”
“I’m sorry. Excuse us.”
“Try harder not to run into people.”
“Get back in the cart.”
“Don’t hang on the side of the cart.”
“Be careful of the eggs!”
“No.”
“Get back in the cart.”
“Just put it back.”
“No.”
“No!”
“NO!”
“Get out of the cart.”
“Please, guys, we’re almost done. Keep it together.”
I am sure I had more than a glint of crazy in my eyes by the time we reached the cashier.
And that was before I noticed there was no bagger.
Would I like wine with my whine? Why thank you, I would.
P.S. This is one of the funniest commercials out there, thanks to my friend, K, for sharing it:
Our smallest child loves to go sledding. 
A mere dusting of snow sends him running for the closest, unoccupied sled. He bombs—head-first—down our driveway, the snowbanks created by our plow guys, the steep incline near our house which I worry is rife with sapling stumps. But his all-time favorite place to go sledding is the hill behind his pre-school.
Growing up in the frozen tundra of the northeast corner of Vermont, I am no stranger to sledding. My childhood home was perched at the top of a hill just off a narrow dirt path the town considered a road. Since our road was a low priority for the town plow, my sister and I were sometimes able to pretend it was a bobsled or luge run, depending on its’ condition. It took about a minute for us, perched upon thin sheets of molded plastic, to zip down to our next-door neighbor’s house, a quarter of a mile away.
On the rare occasion that our road was sanded, we’d opt to traverse the hill directly—via the well-groomed VAST snowmobile trail. The fact that no one ran over us is a testament to the driving skills of the many snowmobilers who were startled to discover the small hazards of our well-bundled persons in the middle of their trail. For our part, we trained ourselves to listen for the distant whine of engines. “Incoming!” we’d scream. “Ditch! Ditch!”
Henry’s hill is tame compared to these frighteningly unsafe memories of mine, but he is just as thrilled as I was by the bitingly cold air, the way the treeline blurs, by that rush of adrenaline that comes when the sled reaches maximum speed.
We had promised to take the kids sledding at Henry’s pre-school over the weekend. It was my understanding that this was one of the “perks” of our private school. However, when we pulled into the parking lot, we found what looked to be a used car dealership. Automobiles were parked bumper to bumper. A quick scan of the hill revealed masses of children and adults. My husband and I looked at each other. He threw the van into reverse and we backed up almost into the main road.
“Wait! Wait! Where’re you goin’?” Henry was frantic. “Stop!”
Then the crying started.
We pulled forward into the lot and wedged our vehicle between the dumpster and a well-loved Volvo.
Henry stopped crying. Nora started whimpering.
I’ve mentioned that our middle child does not like surprises. She also has an aversion to crowds. “I’m staying right here,” she announced.
Brendan raised his eyebrows in my direction, saying, “C’mon Henry. Nora and Mommy will meet us up there.”
It took me ten minutes to convince Nora to release the death-grip she had on her car seat. My last attempt to ameliorate her anxiety was to assure her that we would avoid the crowd if we walked to the hill via the side of the school without a trail. The side of the school that has signs posted, “Danger! Falling ice.” I have to pick my battles with her and the standing seam roof was mostly ice-and-snow-free.
By the time we reached the line of would-be sledders, she was fine. “Hi, Emma!” she called to a girl she knows and off they went. Emma’s dad walked over and introduced himself. “Are you here for the birthday party, too?”
Say what?
“This is a birthday party? Oh, God, I didn’t realize. We came up the back way…” I scanned the hill for the rest of my family, thankful that 1) Liam was at a friend’s house and 2) The family we had invited to join us for an afternoon of sledding hadn’t been able to make it.
We needed to go. I signaled to Brendan who had just launched Henry over a jump. “It’s a birthday party,” I muttered to him. “I think it’s the class above Henry’s. We’ve got to round-up our kids.”
“Oh, I think it’s alright,” my amiable husband said. “Not all these people can be here for the party and the kids are having fun. Let them take a few runs and then we’ll go.” I reluctantly agreed.
A few runs turned into a few more runs, which turned into ‘just ten more minutes.’ By the end, Henry had made a new friend and was sharing his snow-tube. His wide grin told me he was having a blast. I started to relax. It’ll be alright, I told myself. As long as I don’t have to go down there and mingle with the party parents.
It was then that I saw her: Nora was in the queue for hot chocolate and cake.
Grabbing one of our sleds, I sped down the hill to prevent her from making our social faux pas worse. We left shortly thereafter. As we were leaving, a number of friendly parents and kids waved goodbye.
This is probably how the White House crashers got their start.
My husband went to see Avatar with a friend while I stayed home to watch The Proposal by myself. Hands down, he got the better deal, and not just because he escaped from the house for the evening.
While I wasn’t expecting The Proposal to be a tour de force, I was hoping it would be moderately entertaining. By the time the credits rolled, my jaw hurt. Not from laughing, but rather, because there were too many moments that made me grind my teeth.
At first, I dismissed my reaction to a bad mood. But here it is, more than 48 hours later, and the sexist undertones are still bugging me.
I find it so aggravating that Hollywood continues to portray successful women as ice-cold bitches. Somebody seems to think that
women do not (or cannot?) rise to the executive level if they demonstrate their feelings. God forbid they have a family. I don’t want to say that these on-screen women are “masculinized” because that would imply that successful men are similarly unfeeling, but who am I kidding? Isn’t that what our society trains us to believe?
It’s not personal; it’s business.
And then there are the tired stereotypes of woman-who-secretly-wants-a-man-to-take-charge and man-who-will-make-everything-alright. It’s the 21st century, people. Don’t we all know that in reality this formula is unstable? I about gagged at the end of the movie when Ryan Reynolds’ hero chases down Sandra Bullock’s witchy victim to rescue her from certain death (deportation, really, but a year outside of the U.S. clearly meant death to her career and by extension, to her life). Worse was when the stars seal their happily ever after with the predictable supposed-to-be hot-but-was-not close-mouthed kiss, and one of the lackeys in the peanut gallery yells, “Yeah, show her who’s boss, Andrew.”
Disgusting.
I understand that this is a light-hearted rom-com made for the masses, a showcase for Sandra Bullock’s skills at falling down, acting goofy and being naked. And although this largely forgettable film works on those levels, it’s the subtexts—purposeful or not—that resonate.
I watch Mad Men. Or at least, I’ve watched the first two seasons and am waiting for the third to come out on DVD. I watch because the show is so well done – the acting, the writing, the set design. Because it’s a period piece, I can be both horrified and fascinated by the blatant sexism and discrimination. That’s what it was like back then, I tell myself. It’s different now.
Isn’t it?
You might say, “Look who’s posing these questions. The woman who gave up a career in government to stay home with her kids. Now, there’s a big step forward for feminism.”
I get that.
But the way I look at it, I am a feminist. I made a considered choice. And like lots of big choices, it was not made without some regret. That said, I know that I am lucky to be home with my kids. I’d like to think it’s what feminists want and have wanted: equal options for women. If there are people in our society who do not consider raising children to be as challenging or as important as climbing the corporate ladder, then feminists like me have more work to do.
Real life is complicated. Pass the popcorn.
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