Don’t Let it Go to Your Head

Posted on June 13, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

If my 8-year-old had to derive her sense of self strictly from the public recognition she received last week, she’d be insufferable. Good thing she’s got me to keep things in perspective. First, she was asked  to sign the Principal’s Book for exemplary behavior at school, which sounds like a nice enough honor. Even I was excited when she first told me the news. But then she showed me the bookmark outlining her good deed: “Carly was quiet in class,” it read. “That’s it?” I said. “Was that so unusual?” She shrugged. “Everyone was talking a lot and my row was quiet.” So she wasn’t even the only one.

I could see how it transpired: with school winding down, the teachers were trying to give a last-minute lift to as many kids as possible. The best they could come up with for my daughter was that she contained her ceaseless chatter for one day. Bravo! Last year she got to sign the book for helping a classmate do his math; at least then she was recognized for doing something instead of for not doing something (ie talking). I have trouble believing she’s genuinely proud of that, though she did promptly hang the notice on the refrigerator. I hope no one who comes over thinks I put it there.

She definitely saw the emptiness in the second show of disproportionate appreciation she received. Her 3rd grade in-town soccer team happened to play a team from another town on Saturday, the day of that league’s final awards ceremony. Because my daughter’s team was in the right place at the right time, and because everyone’s a winner, she and her teammates–who, by the way, lost 4-1–each came home with a plastic trophy bearing the other town’s name. The trophy looks like a smiling gold M&M holding a beer stein, and my daughter didn’t actually want it. But it seemed rude to turn it down when they handed it to her, along with a Gatorade juice box and a Rice Krispie treat, so she accepted it. Maybe they had extra trophies, or maybe they just didn’t want our team to feel left out. Either way, it’s resting briefly on the kitchen counter before it makes its way into the trash.

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Adderall to the Rescue

Posted on June 10, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

I awoke yesterday morning to an urgent email from a friend who I’ll call Charlotte, asking me to read an essay she’d written. She included a postscript on the bottom: “FYI: I stayed up all night. ALL NIGHT. Instead of taking [my medication], I accidentally took 3 of [my kid’s] 20 mg Adderalls! The prescription calls for one! Not technically an overdose, but I worked all night without so much as a yawn.”

I expected her piece to be lousy, but it wasn’t. It was focused and incisive. And she was  alert and cheerful on the phone, just back from a five-mile run. “I think I’ve found a new work aid,” she wrote a little while later. “I sat in front of that computer for six hours without moving.”

To a master procrastinator like me, it sounded mighty appealing. Wouldn’t we all be a little more focused and productive with the help of a stimulant? Maybe not every day, but just when the deadline was looming? It reminded me of a piece a former TA of mine, then a college senior, wrote last year about Columbia students using Adderall to study for finals. It made me wonder if the younger generations are so accomplished–especially compared to us slacker Boomers at their age–in part because their drugs of choice tend toward  Red Bull and Ritalin rather than those standard old depressants, booze and pot.

Charlotte’s Adderall buzz certainly made her a delightful correspondent. I sat by the computer, enthralled, waiting for her email updates. “It’s a miracle drug!” she wrote later. “No appetite, complete concentration, no distractions, either, during the night hours. I’m thinking of becoming nocturnal. If I don’t go psychotic first, of course.” She had called her doctor, who insisted that the sleep deprivation made it unsafe for her to drive. But when her son came home from school, he wanted her to take him fishing. She told him of her predicament. “Just take an Adderall booster!” he suggested, in the wise ways of a child at home with pharmaceuticals. Then her daughter texted from Six Flags, where she was celebrating the end of school with three friends. “Guess what? I passed out!” she wrote from the First Aid station. It was nearly 100 degrees. “Can you come pick us up?”

Charlotte, now in bed with the jitters and the sheets over her head, was in a bind. So she did what any loving mother jacked up on Adderall would do: called a driver to go get the kids.

In the end, everyone got home safely. But Charlotte never did come down. Last I heard, she was still awake and energized, contemplating the closets and the junk drawer. “It’s 7:45, and I’m back at my computer,” she wrote. “I feel GREAT!” Then: “Will I ever sleep again? The vodka ain’t cutting it.”There’s always the Adderall booster.

P.S. For anyone facing a deadline and tempted by Charlotte’s tale, this just in: “I had to make a trip to CVS at 8:00 to pick up some Tylenol PM, as I could tell I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep without assistance. Finally, sometime after 9, I did conk out. But about an hour later I woke up with a terrible case of restless legs. I started scratching myself to make it stop. I felt just like I do on long overnight cramped flights: uncomfortable and annoyed and exhausted. At some point, the Tylenol beat the Adderall, thankfully, and I slept. My brain today is pure mush.”

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June is the Cruelest Month

Posted on June 6, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

December has always been my least favorite month, but June is now running a close second. The things that I despise about December–the stressing over gifts, the relentless parties, the overeating and drinking, the looming stretch of school vacation–have come to define June, too. True, the weather is generally nicer and the days longer, but that just leaves more time to fill out camp forms.  How is it that we can invent a robot that can call 9-1-1 if an epileptic has a seizure but not a universal health form acceptable to every camp, summer program, and sports league?

It’s a wonder anyone ever gets any work done in June. For one thing, spring sports go into playoffs. My kids are among the few left in suburbia who have not forsaken baseball for lacrosse, so I spend 3 to 4 evenings a week spectating at the ball field, which I enjoy in part because it absolves me from having to make dinner. But it leaves barely any time for all the end-of-year concerts, performances, class trips, picnics, field days, barbecues, and ceremonies. And none of my kids is even graduating from anything. I appreciate the need to mark time’s passage, but does every activity really require a culminating pizza party? It’s swimsuit season, for God’s sake! At least in December, you can count on bulky sweaters to hide the results of all the overeating.

Then there is the gift-giving dilemma. In my 3rd grader’s elementary school, the room parent collects money at the start of the year and divides it up to appropriately fete the  teacher on three occasions: at the holidays, on “teacher appreciation” day and at the end of the year. So technically I am covered. But how will my daughter–or her teacher–feel when all the other kids bring in wrapped candles and picture frames on the last day, in addition to the class gift? Isn’t the whole point of collecting for a class gift to level the gift-giving playing field? It’s time to call a truce. Meanwhile, I am bracing myself for the guilt and self-loathing I will inevitably experience when I see another, more thoughtful and better-organized mother than I bestow a Starbucks gift card upon an essential behind-the-scenes figure I have neglected to consider, like the crossing guard or the reading specialist. Perhaps the real reason I dislike June so much is because it, like December, provides endless reminders of my own inadequacies.

But even the kids know June is a joke. As soon as Memorial Day weekend rolled past, my 13-year-old son said joyfully, “Now we’ll start doing nothing in school!” So it seems: his social studies assignment last week was to create a movie poster illustrating ancient Roman warfare or something. He cut out pictures of Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson, drew beards on them, labeled them Scipio and Hannibal, and called it, “The Battle Crashers.” Then he cut out blurbs like “Hilariously funny”/The New York Times and pasted them all over the page. Now, I am all for creative homework assignments, but this one–or at least his execution of it–demonstrated absolutely no understanding  of Hannibal, Scipio or ancient Rome, while conveying an alarming grasp of raunchy R-rated buddy movies. My friend Linda told me that her son, who attends another middle school in another state, recently had to devise a “Civil War menu,” on which he featured such delicacies as “Uncle Tomato Soup,” prepared by Harriet Beecher Stowe and described as “a best seller for people who just want everyone and everything in the world to be free.” At least he demonstrated a grasp of the material!

My only solace is that soon enough it will all be over; I will ship the kids off and the house will be quiet. That is, assuming I get the stack of camp forms filled out in time.

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Can We Be Friends?

Posted on May 31, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

When my oldest daughter started preschool 14 years ago, I was antsy, pregnant and desperate to connect with other women. But friendship among mothers, as I quickly learned, is built on much more than shared experiences; it requires a similar approach to child-rearing. For me, that means blending humor, levity, mellowness, and honesty; a refusal to take oneself–or one’s children–too seriously; an acknowledgment that parenting can be tedious as well as rewarding; and a commitment to preserving one’s pre-kid self, no matter how distant or tired she may be.

Luckily, these qualities–or lack thereof–come to light quickly in ordinary social interactions. I remember how excited I was to meet the mother of one of my daughter’s first playdates, a boy I’ll call Jonah. When she came to pick him up, she was warm and sparkly-eyed, and my hopes soared. But then she said, “Come on, Jonah, we’ve got to get home and see if we trapped any worms in our  worm-catcher!” My heart sank. It had been raining for days, and my daughter had spent a lot of time watching “Little Bear” on TV. Could I be friends–I mean really be friends–with someone who consulted a book of rainy-day activities and then actually implemented one, let alone one that involved earthworms? I was dubious.

At the opposite extreme, I once met a woman at O’Hare Airport who I still miss, even though we only knew each other for 90 minutes. We were both waiting for flights to different places, and our kids–I had two by then–were racing around the terminal,  sharing shrieks, Goldfish crackers and Matchbox cars. Her son was being especially loud and rambunctious, and I half-jokingly offered her some children’s Benadryl for the flight. “Never mind that,” she said. “Do you have a Thorazine pen?”  In that instant, I knew that if we lived in the same place, we would be friends forever.

As my children and I have gotten older, I’ve developed a set of guidelines to help me determine who’s got true-friend potential and who doesn’t. (Of course, in the end it’s all about my steering clear of people who I fear will judge the way I parent.) These are my red flags, though–dear friends, rest assured–none on its own is a deal-breaker:

1. Earnestness. We all love our kids and think they’re wonderful, at least some of the time. No need to express it. Edginess is much more fun.

2. Lily Pulitzer. This may not be fair, but those pink, orange and lime green prints scream “country club” to me, and in my [admittedly limited] experience, country clubs are slickly varnished bastions of artificiality and oneupsmanship.

3. Boasting. Do NOT tell me your kid is “bored” in math class. You might as well stamp his IQ on his forehead. No one cares.

4. Over-protection. I know the world is a dangerous place, full of drunk drivers, pedophiles and deer ticks. But beyond taking ordinary precautions–like wearing seat belts and bike helmets–I am not willing to let fear guide my life or the lives of my children.

5. Unavailability. If you or your kids are so busy with sports that we can never get together, what’s the point? Friendship takes time.

6. Technophobia. Responding to an email three days later is not acceptable. (See #5.)  Do they even make phones that aren’t smart anymore? Get with it.

7. Coddling. Your family will be just fine if you go out for drinks or to the movies. (Again, see #5.) It’s good for them to make their own damn dinner once in awhile.

8. Health Nazism. If you want to feed your kids seaweed wraps and soy milk, that’s fine–but I’m not going to hide the Cheez-Its when they come to my house. By the same token, don’t be insulted if my kids don’t eat your sodium-free vegan tempeh wafers. They’re just used to Cheez-Its.

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Who’s the Child Here?

Posted on May 26, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

My 8-year-old was watching the “American Idol” finale in my bedroom when I walked in to put away some clothes. “Can you please leave?” she asked. Apparently she planned to dance around, and my presence was inhibiting. I refused: “It’s my room!” But she wouldn’t let up. She kept begging and needling and haranguing (“I just need a little time for ME!” she said, in a pitch-perfect imitation of … well, someone we know.) Finally I got so tired of listening to her that I stomped out–I might have muttered “Jesus!” first–and slammed the door. I heard something on the bureau fall.

So it wasn’t my finest parenting hour. Nor was it the first time I acted more childishly than one of my children. Either I should have willingly left her alone in my room or stuck my ground and stayed, but–as often happens–I bowed to the relentless nagging and then got mad.  Still, I have to admit I felt slightly better. Sometimes it’s therapeutic to let them know that you’re irritated, even if you don’t necessarily express it in the most mature way.  Once, when my oldest daughter was four, I got so tired of her dawdling in the morning that I actually left for preschool without her. I had a carpool to pick up and she was making me late, so I just drove off. In the end, the plan backfired when she became hysterical and my husband made me return home to get her, rendering us much later than if I’d just waited for her to select her stupid leggings. But I had sent a clear message, and the next morning she was dressed and ready on time.

As a high-school teacher, too, I have found that an occasional well-timed explosion can be very effective in modulating behavior, at least temporarily. Usually I’m the kind of easygoing teacher who says things like, “Come on, kiddos, settle down,” or “Can you guys please sit?” But every so often, when the chatter becomes relentless or the inattentiveness extreme, I snap. “Sit down and shut your mouths!” I have yelled once or twice, finding a sort of perverse satisfaction in their shocked, wounded faces. “If you don’t want to be here,  get out!” Or: “Grow up! You’re acting like immature jerks.”

I should know. Witness this text exchange I had with my 13-year-old son after school one day last week, copied verbatim from my cell phone:

Me: Don’t forget your sax; if your game is rained out, you can go to jazz band.
Him: K pick me up
Me: You mean, can you please pick me up?
Him: No
Long pause while I fume and ponder how I created such a monster and what I can do about it now.
Him (after 15 minutes): R u almost here?
Me: No
Him: Why not?
Me: I didn’t like your obnoxious answer. You can’t treat me like crap and then expect me to drop everything for you.
Him: Sorry can u please pick me up
Me: Be right there
 

Was anything learned or gained from this exchange? Not clear. But I definitely felt better. I had been heard, at least for a little while. And he remained unfailingly polite for the rest of the day.

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Farewell, Facebook

Posted on May 23, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

My 16-year-old may be the first adolescent in history to deactivate her Facebook page. “What?” I asked, incredulous. I felt a little panicked that she was moving on just when I was catching on. Apparently she’s committed to returning to a simpler time, when email and text were the main vehicles of procrastination–I mean, communication. “I spend all of my time on Facebook,” she explained. “It’s habit to automatically type in the URL.” Even I have it bookmarked; how come she didn’t? “I replaced it with The New York Times on my Favorites bar,” she said. My head started spinning a little. I felt like we were staging another remake of “Freaky Friday”–I was living her life, and she was living mine. I would have been proud of her initiative if I weren’t so busy feeling insecure and envious. Why couldn’t I display such sensible judgment? Maybe I’d actually get something done.

I have seen her take other dramatic measures to control her Facebook addiction. Once while studying for exams, she set the parental controls on her own laptop so she couldn’t access Facebook. That proved faulty, however, when she figured out the password she’d chosen and kept circumventing the system. Then she downloaded an app called “Self-Control” that you can set to deny yourself access to certain sites for specific stretches of time, and it will not let you connect under any circumstances until the clock runs out. That worked; she studied with uninterrupted focus, and performed well on her finals.

I was, ironically, on Facebook when she came in to tell me she’d quit. She walked over and typed her name into the “Search” bar. Nothing came up. “It’s like you don’t even exist!” I said. “Aren’t your friends wondering what happened to you?”

“They probably haven’t even noticed,” she said. “Anyone that needs to talk to me can text or email me. I deactivated my account last night and hardly anyone has mentioned it.”

“You’ve been without Facebook for 24 hours already? How’s it been?”

“It’s been liberating, Mom,” she said sarcastically, and headed upstairs to do homework. My husband and I are taking bets about how long she’ll hold out. If it keeps up, I may just have to dig our old typewriter and rotary-dial phone out of the attic.

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A Mountain of Risk

Posted on May 19, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

(Photo by RMI Expeditions guide Dave Hahn)

I am not a particularly cautious parent. My kids ride their bikes to school, take the train into Boston with friends, fly alone to visit relatives. My son plays football and rapels down trees, both girls went to sleep- away camp at age 7, and I left each consecutive child home alone at an earlier age. (If we had a fourth, he’d be home changing his own diaper while I shlepped the other kids to music and sports.) I hesitate to admit this, for fear of tempting fate, but my first instinct is always to assume that everything will be fine. If a child doesn’t arrive home at the appointed hour or the phone rings in the middle of the night, I never go straight to panic; I am much more inclined to believe there’s a perfectly good and innocuous explanation.

Of course, my willingness to accept risk depends on the child. (Anyone who insists they treat each of their children “exactly the same” must have only one child.) With my cautious first-born, now 16, I remember standing on top of the driveway screaming, “TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE BRAKE!!” as she learned to ride a bike. (With her baby sister, the yelling tends more toward: “Slow down! Not so high! Get off the roof!”) I have also counseled my oldest to consider simply holding a beer at a party where there’s underage drinking, just to avoid calling attention to her straight-laced ways–advice I would never in a million years give her boundary-pushing younger brother.

In my experience, kids are actually pretty good at judging risk for themselves. One day this past winter, my son sat with his legs dangling out the open window of his second floor bedroom. He was eying the four-foot layer of snow covering the stone patio below and debating whether or not he should jump. I could see the appeal, and I was fairly confident he’d be fine, but I could also imagine the emergency-room doctor asking me: “Where were you when he jumped?” And I’d have to say, “Watching from below.” So I said, equivocally, “You might be fine but I wouldn’t risk it. The snow’s pretty hard.”  He dithered for awhile, sitting in the window frame and weighing his options. Then he said abruptly, “I’m not going to get hurt.” I believed him, and ran to grab the camera. He was right.

It’s easy to be laid-back when the dangers are more-or-less manageable–a broken leg, a drunken stupor. But what if your kid is hell-bent on doing something potentially life-threatening? This is not an idle question: while my New Jersey friends and I were whooping it up in Austin last weekend, one of their daughters (along with her dad) was climbing Mt. Everest in a bid to become the youngest American woman to reach the summit. (In between shopping excursions and leisurely lunches, our friend Lisa spoke via satellite phone to her husband and 16-year-old daughter at Everest base camp, 17,500 feet.)

Sara rappelling down the Lhotse face (photo by guide Dave Hahn).

Sara and her dad, Bill, are experienced mountain climbers with plans to summit the highest peak on every continent. They started out from Nepal at the end of March, accompanied by two extremely practiced guides and several sherpas. They made excellent progress and were feeling strong and healthy at base camp, where they ate Lucky Charms and played horseshoes. But once they got up above 23,000 feet, Bill started struggling with insomnia and shortness of breath; on May 4 he made the decision to halt his climb. Sara, who worked on several Everest-related independent projects to compensate for the school she was missing, continued on with the guides. The conditions were brutal, and though exhausted, she climbed with strength and confidence. Still, she missed her dad, who was waiting back at base camp. Earlier this week, Sara decided she’d hit her limit and abandoned her summit bid. For her extremely eloquent explanation of that decision (and a riveting, insightful account of their adventure), check out the RMI Expeditions blog.

I know Lisa is thrilled and relieved that they’re heading home. And while Sara is no doubt destined for a hero’s welcome, I think Lisa is the real hero for trusting her daughter enough to let her take such a monumental risk. I’m not sure I could have done it. But next time we have a blizzard, I’m going to encourage my son to try jumping from the roof.

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While You Were Out

Posted on May 16, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

The bats come out at dusk

I’m happy to report that on our girls’ weekend, we did our best to “Keep Austin Weird,” as the city’s ironic motto instructs. Laid-back, liberal Austin isn’t weird at all, except compared to the rest of the state. In fact, it’s such a delightful city that it’s easy to forget it’s in Texas. It offers plenty of opportunities for five middle-aged women cut loose from their families for a long weekend. Among my favorite Austin highlights and hotspots:

♣ Running along the miles of scenic trails around Lady Bird Lake–actually a dammed section of the Colorado River–despite getting caught in a fierce thunderstorm complete with flash floods and marble-sized hail.

♣ Gathering on the Congress Street “Bat Bridge” to watch a million thumb-sized Mexican free-tail bats pour out from underneath on their nightly hunt for insects. More cool than creepy.

♣ Posing for a picture under Ann Richards’ portrait in the beautiful pink granite state capitol—which stands a foot taller than Washington’s, our cab driver told us, lest anyone doubt that Texas does everything bigger.

♣ Listening to a snappy local band called Ghosts Along the Brazos at The Continental Club on vibrant South Congress street. We weren’t the oldest patrons there, though we might have left the earliest.

La Condesa tacos

♣ Dining on spectacular noveau Mexican cuisine at La Condesa–tostadas with crab, mango and grapefruit; decadent ears of roasted Mexican street corn, coated with cotija cheese and ancho chili powder and served on a skewer–which not even a sudden fainting spell by our friend Archie could diminish.

♣ Reading letters, journals, and rough drafts of such writers as Norman Mailer, Don Delillo, Woodward & Bernstein, and David Foster Wallace in a special exhibition at the Harry Ransom Center (which also houses an original copy of the Gutenberg Bible)–one of two outstanding museums, along with the Blanton Museum of Art, on the University of Texas campus.

♣ Watching the uproarious new Kristen Wiig vehicle “Bridesmaids” at the Alamo Drafthouse at the Ritz, a great old downtown cinema that serves cocktails.

♣ Marveling, repeatedly, at the enviable quality of life Austonians enjoy, from the rampant outdoor dining opportunities to the low-key dog parks—bastions of friendly mutts off-leash—to the vast spring-fed public pool in Zilker park.

It was 82 and sunny when I left. This is what I came home to:

♣ Cold, dreary, New England spring weather, forecast for the entire week.

♣ Rotting leftovers in the fridge and a pile of cleats under the kitchen table.

♣ Two extremely happy and relieved dogs.

♣ A very proud 16-year-old, who had been called up from her high school’s JV softball team to play in two Varsity games–a debut I, naturally, missed.

♣ An eight-year-old sporting a new necklace and bracelet that she had persuaded the babysitter to shell out $21 of my money for.

♣ Three unfamiliar, nondescript chairs that my husband had rescued from a curbside trash pile–they were there for a reason!–which are now cluttering up various rooms.

♣ A shiny new John Deere riding mower, complete with “mulching blade”–the latest acquisition in my husband’s bid, as he put it, “to take back control” of our house and yard.

♣ Wet, freshly-cut grass all over the kitchen floor.

♣ An ecstatic, suddenly helpful 13-year-old son, who spent hours thinking up new reasons to ride the mower, such as to haul mulch across the yard or retrieve the mail. If he could fit it up the stairs, I do believe he’d even use it to clean his room.

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When the Enabler Goes Away on Girls’ Weekend

Posted on May 10, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

On one Massachusetts girls' weekend, we embraced our inner teenagers and made friendship bracelets.

I don’t expect anyone to weep for me, but I am preparing to go away on a girls’ weekend, and it is hell. First, I have to leave the house in relatively good order: laundry done, refrigerator stocked, sports uniforms clean and in easy-to-find locations. (Otherwise I am likely to receive an urgent phone call in the middle of our lunchtime cocktails: “Mom! Where’d you put my shin guards?”) In addition, since I work at home–and girls’ “weekends” traditionally last three or four days–I have to make all sorts of contorted after-school carpooling and child-care arrangements. This requires hiring a series of babysitters and/or baldly asking other people to take my children–something I have grown quite comfortable with. (Hey, I’d do it for them.) Then I have to create “the list,” a comprehensive schedule for all three kids–and the dogs–for the days I am gone. This is left conspicuously on the kitchen table, where it is followed cursorily by my husband and religiously by the babysitters.  All this planning leaves me no time to shave my legs or buy something fun to wear. It’s almost not worth going away, I tell you. Almost.

My 16-year-old daughter overheard me telling my parents that I was going away with my New Jersey friends for our “annual” girls’ weekend. “And by ‘annual,’ she means monthly!” she piped up in the background. I can understand why it seems that way. One of the benefits of having relocated as an adult is that I have developed several different groups of friends–all of whom enjoy a good girls’ weekend. The New Jersey gang saw me through my children’s first years with pizza-and-wine playdates and discussions about politics as well as toilet training. The bond forged pushing swings and cutting up chicken fingers remains fierce, even though three of us have moved away from New Jersey; this year will mark our tenth consecutive annual getaway. I have also gained a newer group of Massachusetts friends, who are helping me survive the day-to-day vagaries of adolescence with humor, compassion, empathy and an occasional weekend away.

I have had the immense good fortune to have spent girls’ weekends in such delightful places as New York City, Napa, Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, Portland, Maine, and Malibu. No matter the group or the destination, every girls’ weekend I’ve ever been on consists of four basic components, set against a backdrop of non-stop gabbing: eating and drinking; running and/or hiking; entertainment (movies, plays, concerts, board games, jigsaw puzzles, etc); and shopping. In the early days, we traveled with breast pumps and made endless phone calls home; now we bring our reading glasses, and are more likely to check in with the kids via Facebook or text.

Re-entry is tough. Usually our arrival home is accompanied by a flurry of emails bemoaning the state of the house, the low percentage of completed homework, the pile of take-out containers in the recycling bin. In my house, the kids generally fall apart as soon as I walk in the door. Welcome home! Then they revel in reporting their father’s child-care faux pas. Mostly this involves grossly exaggerating his ineptitude: “Dad was 7 minutes late picking me up!” “He left the dirty pasta fork in my lunchbox all week!” “All he packed me for snack was an apple!”

While I secretly cherish this backhanded show of appreciation for all I do, I am beginning to think I’m the one being mocked here. Recently I gathered my family after dinner one evening and warned them that I was leaving early the next morning for New York, so Dad would be in charge of breakfasts/lunches/locating missing homework/packing backpacks/etc. I sat back and waited for the complaining to begin. “I’ll just buy hot lunch,” one of them said agreeably–a sentence previously uttered only when Papa Gino’s was being served. “I’ll pack  my own snack,” said another. “I’ll get a ride home from practice,” said the third.

“Hey,” I protested. “How come you never do any of that when I’m home? Why are you being so helpful for Dad?” They back-pedaled a little. “Dad doesn’t know how to do anything,” they said. “You just do it better.” They’re no dummies: they know if things run too smoothly in my absence, the enabler might just never come back.

2009 New Jersey Girls' Weekend, South Beach, FL

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If You’ve Never Said This, You’re Lying

Posted on May 8, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

This is the children’s book I would write if I could write children’s books. Indeed, it’s eerie how the author, Adam Mansbach, seems to have been hiding under the crib in my son’s room 12 years ago…

Check it out on Amazon.


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