Author: Sheila Quirke

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Oh, Gwyneth, My Gwyneth

Another archive hit from Mary Tyler Mom.  And if you’ve read Donna’s Cancer Story, now you know why I feel a moral superiority to Ms. Paltrow.  Hope you enjoy!

Last week I wrote about the cruelty of mothering and working, the judgment that goes on, the thanklessness of it all.  This week?  Sorry, but I’ve got to judge.  I can’t stop myself.  Huff Post did a piece on Gwyneth Paltrow a few days ago, I can’t even remember what it was about, but there was a link to Goop, her weekly online “newsletter” about “lifestyle.”  Specifically, a link to her posting about “A Day in the Life” of busy working mothers.  I’m a busy working mother, I says to myself.  I write about working mothers, too, I says to myself.  So I clicked on the link.  I laughed.  I cried.  I wretched. 

At reader request, Gwyneth, or Gwynnie as I like to call her, thought she would solicit a slice of life, day in the life guest blog from two “extremely busy working mothers.”  To best relate to her readers, she chose Juliet, a partner in a California venture capital firm, and Stella, daughter of a Beatle and famed fashion designer.  You know, just two average working Joannas.  The intent was to have the three working moms, Gwynnie included, detail a day in their “manic” lives to see how they fit it all in, how they do it all, if you will, and to share working mom tips for the rest of us.  Ugh. 

How Wealthy White Women Who Work Make It Work:

  • get up b/w 5:30 to 6 am daily to exercise as it will “make you happy”
  • have a personal trainer come to your home on Monday mornings to ensure a healthy start to your work week
  • “curate” your social media and personal web
  • get an amazing assistant
  • commit to a weekly blow out to save time in mornings
  • enjoy 90 minutes of “family time” from 6 to 7:30 pm, as “many nights of the week as you can make it”
  • schedule your acupuncture at 9:30 at night
  • spend your time “impacting the highest upside situations”
  • have dinner with your kids at least 3x/week; read to kids 5x/week
  • find a “great alteration person” to help you “review your looks, sort out closet, and plan key looks for travel, weekend, evenings, holidays”
  • ingest copious amounts of flax seed oil and make your children do the same
  • devise lists and spreadsheets and lists of spreadsheets
  • organize “one or two key moments” during school year so your kids can see you “interacting as ‘Mummy'”
  • take meetings in cabs

I honestly thought I was reading a piece from The Onion.  Alas, I wasn’t.  These three gals go on and on about the difficulties of doing it all and something about it all being worth it.  At one point Gwynnie describes the conundrum of needing to leave the house by 8:20am and having one of her two adorably named kids still asleep at 8am.  In just 20 minutes time, that Gwynnie managed to gently awake her son, dress him, feed him eggs and toast she prepared herself, administer the aforementioned flax seed oil (lemon flavored, she’s not stupid!), finish decorating the Christmas toy drive shoe boxes for those less fortunate, explain the significance and reality of children having less around the world, then wait for her two adorably named kids to go to their playroom and pick personal toys and books to contribute to now completely decorated shoe boxes as they have been sufficiently enlightened about the plight of others and feel for Angelina Jolie’s soon to be adopted children. 

Fuck that.  I reject that is humanly possible.  Gwynnie has lost all credibility, awesome gLee appearance be damned. 

The three gals each very briefly mention their nannies.  Who come to them.  And apparently stay til the kids are in bed.  And probably live with the family.  Fuck that, too.  I can’t stand this need to perpetuate the myth that women can do it all.  We can’t.  Something always suffers.  Always.  It’s work or it’s family or most commonly a bit of both.  And my honest guess is that something suffers for these gals too, even though they are Oscar winners and rock and roll scions and venture capitalists.  What is a venture capitalist, anyway?

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The Apple of my Eye

I am really sad tonight.  There are tears spilling for someone I greatly respected, relied upon daily, and who brought me immeasurable joy.   Ironically, I never knew or met this person.   Steve Jobs, founder of Apple, visionary, and revolutionary died today.  Of cancer.  I hate that beast.

My grief, and yes, folks, it is grief, is disproportionate, of course.  Those who knew Mr. Jobs, worked with him, lived with him, and loved him will be feeling his death on a much more intimate level, but citizens of the developed world have been touched by him whether they know or understand it.  Like me.

I think of myself as a technophobe.  I am lame that way.  Technology intimidates me and confuses me.  I am lazy, and understanding a lot of technology feels like a burden in my already busy life.  All of that changed in May 2010 when Mary Tyler Dad, completely out of left field, gifted me an iPad for Mother’s Day.  It was my first Mother’s Day without Donna and it sucked.  But Mary Tyler Dad knew that, anticipated that, and wanted to help.  So he bought me an iPad.  I was the coolest kid on the block, as it had been out less than a month, but I had no freaking idea what I was supposed to do with the thing.  I didn’t understand it as a gift.  Yes, it was sleek, sexy, edgy, but was I gonna be expected to use the thing?  Yes, folks, I am a cranky, ungrateful wife at times.

Within a few days I made my peace with it.  Mary Tyler Dad did the heavy lifting and I explored.  Huh.  It was kind of neat.  Wow.  Look what it does.  Man, did you see that?  I fell in love.  I was smitten. 

At first, my interest in the iPad was a controlled flirtation.  Oh, yeah, I was interested, but I was interested in a lot of things.  There were days I barely used it.  Usually, I would pull it out in the evenings and shop for this thing called apps.  Mysterious things, those apps. 

Within weeks, the flirtation got a bit more serious.  Mary Tyler Dad would pick it up and I would wince a little inside.  We started dating nightly, the iPad and I.  It was a great date, I gotta say.  Always knew just what I needed and wanted.  I discovered things like Netflix live streaming, hulu+, and HBOGo.  My innocent flirtation had turned into abandonment.  I jokingly started referring to my husband as an iPad widow.   I would retreat to bed in the evenings with my tablet love and I would wake up with it, too.  When life got rough, as life is wont to do with me, it kept me company, nursing me through two miscarriages.  I watched full seasons of Nip/Tuck and Mildred Pierce and Boardwalk Empire and The Bachelor.   The iPad has been with me through much of my grief and it has been a welcome support.

At some point in time, Mary Tyler Son discovered it, too.  I now joke that he has custody of the thing and I have visitation rights.  But this is significant, and another indication of Mr. Job’s brilliance.  When my boy started using it, he was under two.  And yet he was using it.  At first, I helped, but within days, the kid had it down.  This is technology that is so perfect, so intuitive that a two year old can use it.  My poor 78 year old Dad just looks at him with equal amazement and envy. 

This year our charity has gifted several iPads to the Child Life therapists at Children’s Memorial and are now in the process of gifting one to a Special Ed. classroom in Joplin, Missouri.  iPads help people, you see.  The connect people.  They have changed lives.  It changed mine, I know for certain.  Ask my widower. 

My iPhone, bought this summer, permanently retiring my dumb phone, has changed me, too.  I am now officially wired.  This is good and bad, I understand, but it is.  I had never sent a text before June 2011.  Can you even believe that?  Not one.  My iPhone allows me to connect with my readers, you dear folks, through instant posts and photos as I walk through my day.  I like that, as I like you.  It helps me feel less alone and lonely, as grief can cause an overdose of solitude.  My iPhone allows me to capture Mary Tyler Son on a whim, through photo and video.  These are memories that will stay with me, as I call them up immediately with a push of a button and a swipe of a thumb.  I am now no longer the lame mother without a picture of my kid.  I have hundreds now. 

Thank you, Steve Jobs.  Cancer is a beast and I grieve for you, for yours, for us.  You have changed the world, sir.  You have made my world a better place, a friendlier place, a more connected place.  Well done, sir.  Well done.   

 

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Hell to the No

This post originally appeared on my tumblr site.  For the next week (while I sit on my bum and eat Doritos) I will run some of my favorite Mary Tyler Mom posts of yore written before moving to my shiny new digs at ChicagoNow in April 2011.  I hope you enjoy them.  I think they’re awesome, but only three people read them.  Also, this post is best experienced when listened to with a soundtrack.

Mary Tyler Son often comes home from his babysitter with some sort of arts and crafts project he’s done that week.  Stickers on colored paper go straight to the recycling bin after I coo over it sufficiently in his presence.  Holiday items go into holiday storage to be brought out the following year.  The really amazing stuff goes straight to the “gallery” in our kitchen room (a sun room Donna named the “kitchen room” as we eat most of our meals in it) or on the front door.  And some of it is amazing.  Like this traffic light.  It’s recognizable.  It’s clear Mary Tyler Son made it and not the babysitter.  And it lends itself to a pretty cool mothering methaphor. 

Stop Light

We teach our kids that green = go, yellow = slow, and red = stop a/k/a Hell to the No.  I love Mary Tyler Son’s traffic light.  It was classified as a ‘straight to the front door.’  It makes me happy.  And there is not a chance in frozen hell that I would have ever thought to break out the glue and black paint required to make it.  Hell to the no.  I pick Mary Tyler Son up at the end of my three work days and I embrace that there are benefits for him that I work.  He is an adaptable kid, by nature, comfortable in lots of different social situations.  He likes being with the other kids and his babysitter.  Parenting him has been a joy to date and honestly, pretty easy. 

But what’s this I typed about the mothering methaphor?  Ah, yes, the mothering methaphor.  Art projects with my kids have pretty much been not high on my list of priorities.  It shames me to type that, but Mary Tyler Mom is committed to honesty, so there it is.  I cringe, more than a little, with the thought of finger painting.  And a two year old finger painting?  Hell to the no.  Not on my watch.  Mary Tyler Dad excels at this.  And one of my favorite moms excels at this – – I would visit her with my daughter and our two girls would make beautiful and amazing art together and the whole time I would be hyperventilating into my elbow while this favorite mom friend was cool as a cuke with paint on the floor, fridge, easel, hair, clothing, you get the idea.  I am simply missing the art at any cost gene.  I wish I had it, but I don’t.  Hell to the n – o, I don’t have it.  And I’m okay with that. 

It speaks to the pressure we put on ourselves as mothers — not just working mothers, ALL mothers — that we want to be everything to our kids, for our kids.  It ain’t possible, ladies.  If we try it, we’ll be miserable, and everyone knows that when mom is miserable, the family thing just doesn’t work like it should.  So my advice to us all is to know our goes (green), know our slows (yellow), and know our hell to the nos (red).  Here’s mine:

Red:

  • art projects that involve sticky glue, liquid color, sloshing water, spillage potential, etc.
  • clipping finger or toe nails; I’ve not done this once, not ever, for my kids
  • playing in the snow or rain
  • we’re not there yet, but selling things for fundraisers, like popcorn or gift wrap or crap no one wants, but feels pressured to buy; trust me when I say I will be throwing down $100 per fundraiser to not hit up a single facebook friend or colleague or brother-in-law’s sister to buy something they don’t need or want.

Yellow:

  • cooking and baking; Mary Tyler Dad has shown me the light on this one.  Whereas I was once fretful over flour and sad about sauce, I strap on an apron, hoist my kid into the learning tower and get busy.  I love it now, though clean as we go
  • taking Mary Tyler Son to the dentist.  Personally, I haven’t been to one since I broke a tooth eating a peanut MandM in 2004.  I haven’t chewed on the left side of my mouth since 2004 either.  You may think I jest or embellish, but you would be wrong.  Dentists freak the freak out of me.  And yet, somehow, I bring my boy to the dentist, lean back in the chair with him on top of me, and let those sadists have their way with his mouth. 

Green:

  • letting two year old Mary Tyler Son walk on city streets without being chained to me; I trust him in the urban environment.  I trust that when he gets close to the curb he stops.  I see you, disapproving parent in front of the Old Town School, working hard to stop yourself from leaping forward as Jay nears that curb.  I got it.  He knows and I know that he is trusted,  We’re cool, move along.
  • dance parties at The Candy Bar, or as most folks call it, the kitchen.  I like music and I like to dance.  I teach my kids to do the same.  Dancing in a club is fun, loud music is fun, Stevie Wonder singing about Superstitions is fun.  We dance a lot at our house.
  • discipline.  Super Nanny taught me everything I know.  No joke.  I love and respect this woman.  I grieve that her last show aired tonight.  I mean, how on earth am I going to handle the next stage of parenting without her showing me what to do on a weekly basis?  What were we talking about?  Oh yeah, discipline.  Kids need it even if they don’t want it.  My kids know the terms “non-negotiable,” “unacceptable behavior,” and “time out” from the age of two.  And with Donna reaching four and Mary Tyler Son at two, I can count the tantrums they’ve had on one hand.  Actually one finger.  (NOTE:  This was written 6+ months ago.  I can definitely no longer count tantrums on one finger, one hand, or all extremities combined.  Wow.  Toddlers without cancer can be real pills.)
  • the extra toy, cookie, desired thing of the moment.  I try not to abuse this, but with the knowledge Mary Tyler Dad and I share, that kids die, and there is not a damn thing you can do about it, dessert every night and an extra hot wheel is not going to hurt.  I indulge knowing that with the indulgence comes the responsibility to teach and appreciate and savor. 

So there’s my goes, my slows and my hell to the nos.  And somehow, I hope, I’ve deepened the significance of toddler art.  Hats off to all the parents out there who mix it up with their little ones with the glue and the glitter and the dripping color on the new berber.  For me it will always be a hell to the no.  And that’s okay.