Why Goldfish are the Worst Pets in the World

Posted on May 5, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

Poor Thunder. S/he lived but two days in a shiny glass bowl in our laundry room. My eight-year-old, already wise to the whims of  goldfish life, was adamant that he not reside in her room so she didn’t have to wake up and find him dead. Alas, she didn’t escape that fate: she’s still the one who found his little orange body floating upside down in the bowl.

She blinked back tears. The betrayal was too much. It had been only a few weeks since we lost Carly Jr., the goldfish she “won” at our synagogue’s Purim Carnival. Never mind that she didn’t actually get the ping-pong ball in the bowl; everyone’s a winner!

She received Thunder as the “favor” at a friend’s birthday party. The mother had warned me that the gift might not appeal to everyone. “Does it make a lot of noise?” I asked dubiously, imagining a toy trumpet or a mini boom box that played only Miley Cyrus. “Nope, it doesn’t make any noise,” she assured me. She was right about that. Thunder was definitely a quiet pet. During the party, the girls had filled and decorated the bowls, then had a hula lesson while the fish acclimated to their new homes. When we drove Thunder home, we covered the bowl with Saran Wrap–and thank goodness, because when I turned the corner onto our street, the bowl tipped over. Thunder seemed fine, but perhaps one of the translucent blue rocks on the bottom had irreparably damaged  her internal organs. Do fish even have internal organs?

The only thing worse than killing off a goldfish is keeping it alive. Then you must regularly confront a bowl full of raw sewage on your counter. But we have actually found a pet that’s even less rewarding than a goldfish: a guppy. Or more accurately, two guppies, which is the number we inherited from my daughter’s first-grade classroom. In a matter of months, we had 15 or 20, and the less we cleaned the bowl, the more they proliferated.  It became a little game between my husband and me to see who could tolerate the stench of the bowl longer before breaking down and cleaning it. Finally, I convinced my daughter that the guppy family would be happier if we “let them go” in the pond across the street. For all I know, there are now 10,000 of them flourishing there.

On the morning Thunder passed, I happened to run into the mother who had bestowed him upon us. I tried to mask the relief in my voice when I broke the news. She looked stricken, expressed her regrets and then wondered if the fish had been fed too much. Perhaps–though I have never heard of a fish dying from eating too many flakes. (In one of my favorite children’s book, P.D. Eastman’s “A Fish Out of Water,” a boy overfeeds his goldfish, against the advice of the pet-shop owner. Otto starts growing, and doesn’t stop until he overtakes the town swimming pool, requiring the  pet-shop owner to rush down and perform some sort of magic to make him small again.) She offered to replace Thunder, but I quickly demurred.

No matter; later that day the birthday girl showed up at our house with a new fish for my daughter, who shook her head and politely declined. “We’ll just kill it,” she said sadly. I felt a pang of anguish for her–but I’m still glad we’re finished with goldfish. Now if I could just figure out how to get rid of my son’s corn snake…


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Yard Work is No Picnic

Posted on May 2, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

BEFORE

When my husband announced Saturday morning that he was going to refinish the picnic table this weekend, I did not have high hopes. For one thing, I didn’t even know the picnic table needed refinishing, which meant that this was one of those projects that one of us considers essential and the other  frivolous–like buying the kids winter coats, or cleaning the basement right before a dinner party (two guesses who considers which activity non-essential).  For another thing, while my husband has many exceptional qualities, completing a household task is not one of them. Just check out the treehouse he and my son started two years ago, or the dislodged bathroom tiles that have rendered one shower unusable for the past three months, or even the stack of magazines dating back to 2008 that he intends to “go through.” He has great ideas and intentions, but is lacking a little on the follow-through. I like to call him, affectionately, Mr. 70 Percent.

“Treehouse”

So I might have rolled my eyes when he mentioned the picnic table project. I could have rattled off at least 150 chores I considered more important. But I also know the tasks that stand the best chance of completion are the ones he’s most invested in, so I let it go. While a refinished picnic table didn’t beat out fixing the bathroom tiles, it definitely trumped five hours of watching golf on TV. Indeed, I was pleased when the sander came out; luckily we have every tool ever invented, so it’s not a lack of proper equipment that stands in his way. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that sometimes he undertakes a new project simply so he can buy a new gadget.

Tiles Missing: Do Not Use

My hopes faded once the picnic table was stripped and sanded. That’s because he got temporarily distracted by conducting a “controlled burn”–a concept I previously associated only with exercise class–of the debris in the woods behind our house. It drew several other neighborhood pyromaniacs, such as our 13-year-old son and our next door neighbor, who happily joined in the fun of feeding sticks into a mammoth bonfire.  Interestingly, not a single woman showed up.

At least we didn’t get bogged down in the conversation we’ve had many times before–namely, why are our kids such lazy slobs who never do a damned thing around the house? My husband, who as a boy performed all sorts of outdoor chores without pay or complaint, gets especially irritated with our son, who lasts about ten minutes on any given task–even one involving woods and fire–before wandering inside to turn on the TV. (Note to Xbox game designers: would it kill you to come up with “Call of Duty: Yard Work” or “Mortal Kombat With a Snow Shovel”?) Indeed, my husband has a fantasy that our whole family will one day file cheerfully outside in our work clothes and embrace whatever  weeding/raking/shoveling task he has on tap for the day. The kids may have picked up on this, but my philosophy is if one person is already doing that work, why do we all need to? There are plenty of other things that need to get done.

Like go see a movie, which is what I decided to do. My husband was a very good sport about it, tending the dying embers of the bonfire with leaves stuck in his hair. I felt a brief flash of guilt, but my girlfriends were waiting in the car. Besides, I reasoned, how many times have I gone grocery shopping or washed endless loads of laundry while he watched five hours of golf on TV?

Imagine my shock, then, when I came home from the movie (and dinner) to find the picnic table newly stained a lovely shade of brown! (Though I am not certain I would have noticed if I didn’t know he was planning on it.) Still, it just goes to show that sometimes even those you know and love the best can surprise you. Now, Honey, about those tiles…

AFTER
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Sluts on Parade

Posted on April 29, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

Photos from the Toronto Slut Walk

No one has ever made me feel like a conservative old crank–except for my 16-year-old daughter. While it’s true that I’ve inched rightwards after decades of aging, experience and paying taxes, I have never actually voted for a Republican–though I flirted with the idea of supporting Christie Todd Whitman as governor of New Jersey in the 1990s, at least until she hauled Dan Quayle out on the campaign trail. I lean far left on every social issue, especially those concerning women’s rights. In fact, I still think of myself, proudly, as a “liberal” and a “feminist,” even though both terms have fallen into disfavor. So it has come as something of a shock to  find myself displaced by my own progeny as Most Liberal Member of the Household.

This is how I know I’ve been dethroned: my daughter briefly considered participating in Boston’s “Slut Walk” next week, and I was not supportive.  For those who don’t know, the Slut Walk is a modern-day version of Take Back the Night, the women’s protest movement against sexual violence that arose in the 1970s. The Slut Walk, which has gained traction in such cities as Toronto, London, Denver, and Chicago, consists of scantily-dressed women marching and chanting anti-rape slogans. According to the artless, poorly written website, protesters are taking a stand against “rape culture” and “slut shaming”–the practice of putting down women based on the number of sexual partners they’ve had. The real point, my daughter explained, is to draw attention to the issues of sexual abuse and rape, and remind men that no matter what women are (or are not) wearing, they may not be touched without consent.

I am proud of my daughter’s new-found assertiveness, and delighted to know that she, too, considers herself a feminist. And I love that she is actively involved in a women’s group at school, where they discuss issues ranging from the portrayal of women in film to the battle for equal pay in the workplace. She has much more self-respect than I did at her age. But do I want her walking around the Boston Common in a short skirt and tight shirt to make the point that she’s in control of her body? Of course not.

I tried to explain why. I told her that she’d be lowering herself to the level of men who objectify women–in effect giving them what they want, which is to ogle (if they can’t touch) women’s bodies. She shrugged it off, arguing that women should be able to wear whatever they want and still feel safe. Men can ogle to their hearts’ content, but it has to stop there.

I can’t decide whether the advent of the slut walk means feminism is going in the right direction or not. I guess it doesn’t matter: that’s the way it’s headed. In any case, our conversation made me feel old and anachronistic. It reminded me of the feminist generation gap that divided us during the 2008 Democratic presidential primary. Though my entire family was enamored of Obama from the start, I felt torn and guilty. As a woman, I wanted to support Hillary. My daughter was appalled: “Voting for her because she’s a woman is just as bad as not voting for her because she’s a woman!” she said. In other words, reacting to her gender in any way was a slight against women. It’s the same principle with the slut walk:  being cowed into dressing modestly is affirming the “blame the victim” mentality they’re trying to stop. I understand that. In fact, I  believe that the media should stop withholding the names of rape victims to protect their reputations. If rape is a violent crime committed against a woman through no fault of her own, why shouldn’t her name be reported as it would if she were the victim of armed robbery or aggravated assault? It doesn’t make sense. But I’m still not willing to make my daughter the messenger by letting her strut around downtown Boston with a group of young women who call themselves “sluts”–even if they do use the term ironically.

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A Jewish Easter

Posted on April 24, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

When I married an atheist 17 years ago, I never imagined an Easter like this:

12:15 a.m. Husband retrieves CVS bags from car. For the first time in our marriage, they are filled with candy and plastic eggs, to appease our youngest daughter who has suddenly decided she wants to celebrate Easter–at least the chocolate part of it. I grumble while helping him stuff eggs with Tootsie Rolls and jelly beans–candy, I point out in a mean way,  she doesn’t even like. Feel vaguely guilty when I unearth the Rolos, my favorite. Eat handful.

7:30 a.m. The eight-year-old, usually a sack hound, wakes up only slightly later than she does on Christmas, until now the only non-Jewish holiday we’ve ever celebrated. Quickly finds eggs hidden around the family, starts eating chocolate.

9:00 a.m. Go running with two friends. Feel annoyed every time we pass someone who calls out cheerfully, “Happy Easter!”

11:00 a.m. Jacked up on sugar, my daughter decides she wants to have a lemonade stand–possibly my least favorite kid activity after bowling and Monopoly. I shlep folding table, cups, etc out to curb while she makes signs. Worry briefly that it will look like the Jew gouging the Christians on their holy day.

12:00 Kids look exhausted from too much chocolate. I go grocery shopping, shocked by the number of procrastinators rushing in to buy Easter lilies or a leg of lamb.

2:00 p.m. Daughter has sold $8.50 worth of lemonade. I promise myself I will stop and buy some whenever I see a kid selling it, even if it is Yom Kippur.

3:30 p.m. We head into Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts to see the New American Wing and the spectacular Dale Chihuly glass sculpture exhibit. Only one complaining child accompanies us; the other two have opted out entirely. Am gratified to overhear some museum visitors greet one another with the Hebrew “Chag Sameach”–Happy Holiday, Happy Passover.

7:30 p.m. Dinner: Ham and leftover matzah kugel.

9:00 p.m. Walk into husband’s office, find him licking chocolate off his fingers. An empty bunny box lies on his desk. “Whose bunny did you eat?” I ask, incredulous. He hesitates. “I …uh… I bought an extra one for me,” he says, busted. Funny, I didn’t notice it in the CVS bag last night. “It’s been so long since I had one!”

10:00 p.m. Eight-year-old walks in and says sweetly, “Thank you for hiding the Easter eggs, Daddy! Can we do it again next year?” I guess it’s the start of a new family tradition.

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Nightmare at the American Girl Doll Store

Posted on April 22, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

*Not an actual American Girl doll

I very nearly made it through parenthood without ever setting foot in an American Girl Doll store. My mother took my oldest daughter when she was 5 or 6, indulging her with a tea-party lunch and matching blue silk pajamas for her and her new doll Jessie,  or whatever its name was. My son has always been a boy’s boy, and would only touch an American Girl doll as a prelude to riddling it with Airsoft pellets. So I figured I was safe: my baby, now 8,  is a hardcore tomboy, who eschews all pink and scoffs at such girly staples as Barbie and Brownies. But then, without warning, her head spun around like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist, and the demon that took up residence in her body demanded an American Girl doll.

I try hard not to typecast my children, and am generally pleased when they break out of their established family “roles”–as I was when my rock-climbing warrior boy developed a knack for poetry, or when his serious, kind-hearted older sister revealed an acid-tongued and occasionally foul-mouthed sense of humor. But the free-spirited little jock suddenly embracing doll play? It was too much.

Nevertheless, I did an excellent job of hiding my shock and horror. “Oh… really?” I replied when she professed her desire for a doll. “Well, your birthday is in July. Maybe someone”–read Grandma–“will get you one then.” She pointed out that she had nearly $600 of accumulated birthday and holiday money sitting in her “Bank of Dad” account. So I did what any self-respecting parent faced with an unpalatable request would do: passed the buck to my husband. He was so convinced that she didn’t really want a doll that he told her to wait two weeks, and if she still felt the same way, we could talk about it again.

"Jessie," a victim of neglect, orange Sharpie, and a few rounds of Airsoft

She rode out the probation period with uncharacteristic patience, then cheerfully reintroduced the proposition, which is how I found myself in that alternate pink and red universe known as the American Girl doll store. Even my daughter looked shell-shocked by the scene, and I saw her waver. But she took a deep breath, barreled past the Bitty Baby section, and charged up the escalator to find the doll that most resembled her. I was experiencing that uncomfortable sense of dislocation I have felt before in such places as a Farm & Fleet store in central Illinois or the designer couture floors at Barneys New York, when I suddenly realize that people actually shop here.

The hair salon was by far the most crowded section of the store, more mobbed than the “bistro” or the overflowing rack of doll-sized spectacles that would put Lenscrafter to shame. Girls crowded around a chart featuring nearly 100 different hairstyles they could choose for their dolls, including a double-decker ponytail or a fishtail braid for $20–more than I pay to get my daughter’s hair trimmed at Supercuts, I might point out. (For $14, the doll can have her ears pierced as well.) Smiling stylists stood behind a counter bearing five little pink barber chairs, all deeply engrossed in brushing, combing, twisting, braiding, and smoothing the hair of their plastic customers.

I started to feel a little dizzy–why was everyone acting like this was normal? where was my species?–and temporarily lost track of my daughter. Luckily, she was wearing her typical weekday outfit: pajama bottoms, a hoodie, Old Navy “Uggs” and a ski hat, so she was easy to spot amid all the plaid skirts and headbands. After a lot of hunting and dithering, she ended up shelling out $200 of her own money for a red-headed doll–which she named Kate–plus a softball uniform and a scuba-diving set. And as we walked back past the hair salon, she looked up at all the side-swept ponytails and made a face. “Weird,” she said. I couldn’t have loved her more.

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Spray Painting the Grave

Posted on April 19, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

We were driving past a cemetery when my eight-year-old asked, “Why are some stones big and fancy and others tiny?” I told her that some people were important, or rich, or maybe their families really missed them and wanted everyone to know it. “And by the way,” I said, seizing the moment, “when I die I don’t want any kind of headstone at all. I just want a big rock, so people can come and sit and think about me.” It’s true. I’ve felt that way ever since I visited Stockholm and saw the grave of Olof Palme, the Swedish prime minister who was assassinated. It’s marked by a giant, natural-looking boulder, with just his signature on it. I’m very comfortable with the idea of returning to the earth, and love the thought of being commemorated by something so … unvarnished. “You can just paint ‘Mom’ on it,” I told her.

She thought about this. “Yeah, maybe Jordan and I can spray paint it,” she said. I chuckled, but I understood where she was going: she was envisioning some key bonding time with her older brother, who’s unfailingly mean to her unless he needs a fourth for an Airsoft gun war, or someone to hold the rope while he rappels down a tree. She knew how much he’d delight in a fresh, new can of spray paint, even if his mother was newly dead. “Can we paint it green?” she asked. I was slightly alarmed by her enthusiasm; clearly she was imagining a fun craft project with smocks. “No! That defeats the purpose of having a plain old rock.” She relented. “OK, maybe just black letters that say, ‘RIP Mom.'” Long pause. “But you’ll be dead so you won’t know!” True, I told her; you can do whatever you want. I didn’t mention the MP3 file I created on our computer that helpfully lists the songs I want played at my funeral–including “525,600 Minutes” from the musical Rent, which I am now reconsidering because it’s become such a cliche that I recently heard a bunch of 13-year-olds singing it at a bar mitzvah.

I’m not dying any more than any healthy, middle-aged person is, and I don’t mean to be morbid or alarm my daughter. She quickly pointed out, after I nixed the green spray paint plan, that she wouldn’t need to worry about it “for a long, long time.” Still, I don’t see any harm in giving her early warning of the inevitable. I believe in confronting difficult subjects head on, in digestible nuggets and whenever they arise organically. But mostly I’m just trying to increase the likelihood that I’ll actually get my way.

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Why My Kids Will Never Play Carnegie Hall

Posted on April 12, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

Ever since Amy Chua’s explosive book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother  came out, I have been thinking a lot about what kind of parent I am, and whether it’s my fault that none of my kids excels at anything in particular. To see what I’ve concluded, check out this essay, just published on The Responsibility Project website: The Unvarnished Mom Takes on the Tiger Mom

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No Writing on the Wall

Posted on April 8, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

I learned a valuable lesson this week: do not, under any circumstances, post a message on your teenager’s Facebook wall, especially if you think you are being a little bit funny. There’s only one exception: once a year, you may, along with her 900 other friends, leave a “Happy Birthday” message, if it’s not too sappy.

I was wasting time clicking around Facebook when I happened to notice a thread between my 16-year-old daughter and my 13-year-old son. “Awww, how sweet!” I thought. “They’re talking to each other.” Hmmph. What appeared to  be cute and friendly quickly devolved into obscenity-laced sexual innuendo–were these my children?–and began attracting comments from an assortment of their friends. Maybe it was all in good fun, but there were a lot of inappropriate things being said in a public space–so I thought I’d send along a light-hearted reminder that other eyes were watching. “You know, I can hear you!” I typed, thinking I had struck the perfect tone between clever and admonishing.

Yeah, right. “MOM, YOU ARE SO AWKWARD!” my daughter yelled back, before deleting the entire thread.  I felt slightly wounded; I may be many things, but awkward? I outgrew that 30 years ago! Then again, I did feel uncomfortably out of my element, like I had breached some secret Facebook code that only those under 21 understand. And if that’s not the definition of awkward, I don’t know what is.

Luckily, my daughter is not a grudge holder. After she stomped up to her room and slammed the door, I made her a milkshake as a peace offering. Then I tried to explain that while maybe she and her 16-year-old friends could handle the sexual humor, I didn’t think her brother and his friends were old enough. In any case, we’re both relieved that the whole exchange has disappeared–if for different reasons. And I was glad to see this morning that she hasn’t defriended me (or is it unfriended? Awkward.)  At least not yet.

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If a Tree Falls in the Forest…

Posted on April 6, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

As a teenager, I dreamed of having the house where all the kids wanted to hang out. But there was too much supervision and not enough junk food (see “It’s Grandma! Hide the Froot Loops”). It seems I finally have that house–thanks no doubt to the lack of supervision and abundance of junk food–only now that I’m the parent, I no longer want it.

When kids are little, you control who they play with and when. You’re the one doing the inviting, so you’re responsible for what goes on when their friends come over. If your kid smashes the friend over the head with a pogo stick or rams a Lincoln Log up his nose–or if the other kid draws on your walls or pees on the carpet–you need to deal with it. But as children get older, they pick their own friends and organize their own playdates. My 13-year-old son routinely comes home from school with various classmates in tow, and while I am glad he has pals and that they like coming over, I sometimes resent that kids I did not invite are dumping their backpacks in my front hall and helping themselves to my Oreos.

Actually, it’s not the cluttered hallway or the ravaged cookie jar that I mind; it’s the disruption, and the feeling that I’m somehow in charge by  default. As someone who works at home and is generally around in the afternoons, I often wonder: am I automatically responsible for the group of friends my son shows up with after school? And what if they head out into the woods? Am I responsible for them then, just because their backpacks are piled in my hall?

This is not a theoretical question. Last week my son came home with three friends, and they clearly had a mission. After they dumped their stuff, they quickly changed out of their designer sneakers into an assortment of our waterproof jackets and Wellingtons (including mine, without asking). Then they loaded up a backpack with rope, an ax, a collection of knives, and a bag of Pepperidge Farm goldfish. “Where are you going?” I called as they headed out the back door. “Just to the woods, Mom,” came the reply.

Now, I understand the lure of the forest as much as anyone. As a child, I spent plenty of time in the woods, catching critters, collecting treasures, and building forts and a treehouse that my father always said was more nails than wood. But did they really need knives and an ax? Might they be planning a ritual sacrifice, or a re-enactment of “Lord of the Flies”? I was vaguely concerned, but mostly I was happy that the house was quiet again.

They came back, exhilarated, two hours later, wet and muddy from the New England spring. I had already fielded a call from one parent wondering if I had seen her son, and why wasn’t he answering the cell phone she couldn’t get him to put down when he was home? I soon found out why: he’d been busy filming a video of the boys chopping down a tree, maybe 8 inches in diameter. While I was relieved that they were living out a Paul Bunyan fantasy instead of practicing Wiccanism or torturing squirrels–something I am confident my animal-loving son would never do, but what about his friends?–it did leave a number of unanswered questions. First of all, why? To which there really is no answer, except that it involved woods and weaponry. Was the tree dead or alive? Dead, they said, but I think it’s tough to tell when there’s still snow on the ground. And whose property were they on? They claimed it was public land–which might make what they did illegal. That’s why I want to know: if their backpacks are clogging my hallway, am I the one going to jail?

Posted in Boys will be boys, Parenting, Working motherhood | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

More Popsicles, Please

Posted on April 3, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

Postscript: Today’s New York Times reports not only that scientists found no correlation between dyes and hyperactivity in most children, but that food without coloring isn’t any fun. And for my 8-year-old, fun is pretty much the key ingredient of life. I am headed to the grocery store today, and I just happened to notice two items, written on my shopping list in her large, blocky print: “Gushers,” which are disgusting brightly colored gummy things with liquid centers, and “More popcicles” (sic). I guess she finished the old box already. That may explain why she can’t spell, but I’m going to buy them anyway.

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