Spring Cleaning

I just spent an entire week organizing my house. Literally it is all I did for an entire week. And you would never know it. The whole process is really 1 step forward 2 steps back, so it really is possible we are in worse shape now than when we started. Because unless my kids are watching Frozen or eating cookies, they cannot help rediscovering all the items I put in donations bins (because they have gone unplayed-with for months or years), crying hysterically that their heartless mother would ever dream of throwing away the broken wing from their Super Wings plane, and then proceeding to scatter said items throughout the house, yard, and car. And, when I finally feel some progress has been made (if I can muster enough OCD-drive to not pass out after bedtime and instead finish whichever corner of the room is the closest to not giving Marie Kondo a heart attack), when I come downstairs in the morning the area once again looks like a toy store threw up. And so I think I have no choice but to institute some new house rules: toys and games are to be looked at, never touched and definitely never played with. Organized stacks of board games that I worked so hard to ensure have all their pieces are, from now on, purely decorative. And the same goes for our wardrobes – the dressers containing only clothes in the correct sizes are off limits. And if anyone messies the perfect ROYGBIV of the closets, they’ll have me to deal with…

Now that my closet is emptied of all items that no longer fit, what will possibly motivate me not to eat all the cookies all the time? It was recommended that I get rid of my “goal” pants – that a size 4 is so far off from any achievable reality I was only punishing myself by seeing them hanging there, mocking me. But without this reminder won’t my wardrobe be ever increasing in size…and, well…size?…

I would like to file an official complaint to Hasbro and other game-makers. Your products have too many pieces. They are ruining my life. Sincerely, Jessie (mother of 3)

Ice Cream

I cannot believe there are still so many places where marijuana is illegal but ice cream trucks are given free reign to stalk, torment and endanger so many lives. Children and adults alike. I don’t know about you, but weed has only ever given me happy experiences. Sure, the occasional paranoia and hangover, but they have nothing on the daily headache caused by our neighborhood ice cream truck. My children have a sixth sense for that foreboding jingle – truly its akin to the pitch of sound that only dogs can hear. No matter what fun they are having my kids always have one ear listening for that truck full of treats (and tears and tantrums). Our ice cream truck – like many the world over – makes sure to park outside of school right at 3:15 the moment the weather turns even remotely warm enough to warrant frozen treats. This means that this particular thorn in my shoe is unavoidable. And even after making a family rule that we only get ice cream truck treats on Fridays, we are plagued by other friends and families with different rules and “better moms,” as my 5-year-old told me yesterday. Now that it’s warming up, I face an ice-cream-related tantrum by at least one of my children every day. Which is why I propose we band together to form MAICT (Mothers Against Ice Cream Trucks), a group of exhausted moms who believe collective action is the only true avenue to change…

Like so many Jews before me, I seem to struggle with an undiagnosed – but no less very real and difficult – case of lactose intolerance. But it is a very specific whipped-cream-and-ice-cream GI disorder. Unfortunately, I happen to love both treats, even more so because of their dangerous aura. There have been very few times in my life where I’ve turned down this delicacy because of the preordained trauma I would suffer. I am utterly baffled by those strong-willed souls who deprive themselves of some food or another because of how it makes them feel. This is some deferred gratification that I have yet to experience.

New Babies!

Today I became an aunt. I still don’t know the little guy’s name, but I love him so much. And I must say, this was a much more pleasant birth experience than my own 3. Instead of pushing and sweating – and yes, tearing – I got to experience the joy and burst of new love from the comfort of my own home, and shower, and bed (my warrior SIL was in labor for about 24 hours). But I must say, my brother’s wife’s stoic beauty and grace through the ordeal of childbirth make me a little worried that this baby and I will not share his paternal family’s line of dramatic neuroses. But that’s okay, I love plenty of non-neurotics…like…umm…well anyway, I’m sure baby and I will get along just fine. And I have confidence that even if he’s not genetically pre-ordained for therapy, my brother will work his magic to make sure he fits in with the rest of us anxious, crazy souls…

Can I tell you something triggering? When your brother’s wife spends 24 hours in labor but the pictures of her immediately postpartum make it seem like she went for a 10 min light jog. If that. And when your whole family keeps commenting on this miraculous beauty and you know – since your nephew’s birth is of course all about you – that these are passive aggressive remarks about how impressively large and unattractive you were in her shoes…

I don’t think we talk about postpartum pooping enough. All the Colace in the world can’t take away that fear, am I right? After my 1st baby I was so scared, so torn up, and so stopped up that it took 8 days before the trauma of what I consider to be my second labor. Honestly, this bowel movement was so terrifying and painful that when I was pregnant with my subsequent babies I spent little time worrying about having the baby and instead dedicated this time to fretting about the 1st poops. Luckily, the 2nd and 3rd time around I took my Colace game very seriously…

While I do not envy all the brave mamas who have endured what is already a traumatic experience of childbirth, but during a pandemic, and while the idea of my poor SIL contracting with a mask restricting her O2 makes me have sympathy nausea, I must admit, I’m just the tiniest bit jealous that postpartum she can blame any anti-social desires on the rules of Covid. Because nothing was more awful for me than having to share my baby – and my soft postpartum body – with our entire world for the bris/naming of each child. And how lucky for them that anyone who DOES meet my nephew is automatically required to wear a mask. When I ran that idea past my husband, he wanted me to schedule extra sessions with my therapist. And my SIL can just expect everyone will use hand sanitizer before coming near her baby. I mean. How lucky is that?!

Ways my Mother Wronged Me

If I would have been taken seriously, I would have answered the question “Why do you want to be a historian?” on the application to graduate school: “because of the American Girl dolls.” Instead, I BSed my way through the application (and my PhD program, for that matter) with some nonsense or other about changing the future by knowing the past. But in all honesty, my love of history is a direct result of my time with Felicity, Kirsten, Samantha, Molly (and later Addie). You see, when I was about that age when you start noticing the injustice of your friends’ toy collections, I told my mother that what I wanted more than anything else was a ridiculously-priced doll named Samantha. Of all the AGD’s on the market at that time, Sam was by far the most glamorous. She was rich, fancy, and had the beautiful soft curls that I was certain I, too, would have when I was all grown-up. My mom agreed that I could have an AGD for my b-day, but before I chose Samantha for her looks and accessories, she said I had to read Book 1 for each of the characters. I had to get to know the personalities of the dolls before making this choice. Can you believe the nerve? Begrudgingly I slogged my way through the books, and to my horror, upon completion, had fallen in love with Felicity, a brave Patriot during the American Revolution. And I have never regretted this choice (painting her nails a bright red that could never be removed, yes). While I still wish my mom had been more like Amanda’s mom and gotten me ALL the $100+ dolls, I ended up getting my masters in early American History. So maybe my mom had been in to something. Go figure…

When I was a kid the 2 more important rules in our house were: NO SAND! And NO GLITTER! In fact, it wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned that there are people who sit directly in the sand at the beach, and believe-it-or-not, enjoy it! But my mom wasn’t a complete monster: she wasn’t going to deprive us entirely of a sandbox experience because of her own phobia. No. Instead, we had a bean box. A giant tub full of dried beans and lentils and beach toys…

When I was little and my brother and I embarked on that right of passage of childhood, running a lemonade stand, unlike other children who do so, we came out the other side in debt. You see, from some reason my mom thought it was important to teach her 4 and 7-year-olds some good business sense. So while she graciously helped us acquire the supplies we needed, she explained that after all was said and done, we would need to pay her back for the lemonade. For the use of her folding table. And, I imagine, for her sweat and tears. So, in the end, I was actually further away from buying the Barbie dream house which have been the whole impetus for the endeavor to begin with. But what I did gain was a certainty that business was not for me. And so, when I passed all the Wharton students schmoozing and day-drinking everyday in grad school, as I lugged my 50 lb backpack to the history building, dark circles under my eyes from the 600 pages I had stayed up all night to read, I would laugh at them. Because if my mom had taught me anything, it was that while life might be a slog, at the end of the day, which of us would owe UPenn hundreds of thousands of dollars?

Picking

CONFESSION: I could spend all day everyday looking at my magnified face, finding something or other to pick. My husband has many interesting hobbies – basketball, biking, hiking – and he spends much of his down time bettering himself by reading nonfiction and keeping up with current events. I, on the other hand, prefer to spend the few hours I have sans kids literally and figuratively magnifying my flaws and obsessing over my imperfections. I have sadly been blessed with good skin, which means I usually have to work hard to find things to pick and pop. Luckily, hair grows dark and thick almost everywhere on my body, so there is no shortage of things to pluck. There’s something so peaceful, so thoroughly satisfying about emptying that perfect blackhead. It is, indeed, a rare treat when my husband agrees to let me pick HIS blackheads. Now that’s true love. But when he doesn’t, and when my perfect skin isn’t cooperating with my picking needs, I have in the past resorted to pimple-popping videos on YouTube which are simultaneously the fuel for my nightmares and the realization of my fantasies…I’m just going to say it: Facials sort of suck. Basically there’s nothing a facialist (is that the right term?) can do that I couldn’t do myself. Really it’s just a glorified face wash. With lots of steam and heat and other stifling bells and whistles. The spa music is nice though. And when they tell you to strip down to what you’re comfortable in – what exactly does that mean? They provide you with a robe, but should you keep your underwear on? Probably. It’d be a red flag if a facialist wanted to massage anything in that general area. And please explain why anyone enjoys having their face wrapped in hot, wet towels? Are you telling me others DON’T worry that if the aesthetician so desired she could easily kill you? Suffocation. The perfect crime. Hard to find inner peace in this Sweeney-Todd-like scenario. And obviously that’s what those heated mitts are for: less struggle on your part when she goes in for the kill, armed with those scary tubes of hot steam…I’ve been Frida for Halloween 3-4 times. It’s the easiest costume for me to pull off. All I have to do it not “take care” of my facial hair for a week or so and, BOOM, Frida! I first realized this talent of mine while watching Salma Hayek embody this trailblazer one lonely night in high school. I’m not sure what possessed me, but I finished the movie, sat down in front of the mirror and drew in a unibrow (right where I had removed one just hours earlier). I threw on a fuchsia scarf and promptly woke my mother up to take a picture, which I’m still proud to display over my desk.

Rachel’s Favorite Art

For Rachel Yavinsky, the winner of my giveaway contest. May you enjoy a life of sexy kisses

Cassatt, 1978: Has any painting captured ennui as perfectly as Cassatt’s “Little Girl in a Blue Armchair”? This painting might as well be titled “Quarantine 2020” or “Virtual School.” While my children prefer Minecraft pajamas to frilly white dresses and fancy leather shoes for their daily scoffing, I assure you the facial expression defies time and history.

Hayez, “The Kiss,” 1859: I dare you to think of a sexier painting in all of art history. This is what a kiss should be. Dark, passionate, and just the slightest bit creepy, with mysterious shadows lurking in the background. It’s basically a painting of my morning farewells with my husband. But instead of feathers in his hair, he wears oatmeal, instead of being draped in satin, I’m covered in spit up, and that lurker in the background – those are my children, diverting my attention from what would otherwise, I’m convinced, be “il bacio” to rival this one. Though note to self: must get hubby a pair of those pointy medieval elf shoes.

Matisse, “Mother and Child,” 1950: I like to imagine that when I embrace my children they too are thinking to themselves, like the boy above must be, “where has mommy gone? She is just so darn skinny.”

The Flawed Female

It seems pretty cutting edge to be able to put something into your uterus to prevent pregnancy. But in fact, the invention of the IUD dates way, WAY back. Like 2,000 years back when nomads needed a way to keep their female camels from getting pregnant during long journeys across the desert. Apparently camels just couldn’t keep their hands – hooves – off each other. Enter the 1st IUDs. These nomads would stick small rocks up inside a camel’s uterus and these randy creatures could have all the hot, thirsty desert sex they wanted. Yum…

The 1st time I got an IUD was not one of my most pleasant experiences. I’m not camel, after all. My OBGYN insisted that the birth of my son would have stretched my cervix enough to make the placement of the device absolutely painless. So I schlepped my 3-month-old along to the appointment figuring he could sleep next to me in his carseat. Fast forward to me nearly passing out from pain I had only ever experienced 90 days prior. A screaming newborn whom I was unable to comfort as I was spread eagle on the table, feet in stirrups, and being urged by many frazzled nurses to sip my apple juice. Little did I know my son was actually all the birth control I would need…

One of my favorite academic articles of all time is by feminist anthropologist named Emily Martin. In “The Egg and the Sperm” she points out the sexist ways in which we conceive of reproduction. There’s no reason, she tells us, that the egg needs to be thought of as passively penetrated by the strong and fearless sperm. In fact, she explains, the egg is actually aggressive and uses the power of its stickiness to pull the sperm its way and eventually capture these smaller, weaker cells…

Our flawed outlook on reproduction is not surprising based on our history of reproductive science. Before the 18th c, experts believed that there was really just one sex. That women’s sex organs simply underdeveloped and inverted male genitalia. In essence, women were simply less perfect men. Typical.

Masters

GIVEAWAY!!! Head over to my Instagram account @imworriedmytherapisthatesme for your chance to win your very own entry (like the one above) with your 2 favorite pieces of art!

I am lucky to be able to visit my favorite painting of all time any time I want (at least that was the case pre-kids and pre-pandemic). This perfect portrait is housed at the National Gallery. I could stare and stare at this woman and never get bored. I feel a profound connection to her, and not simply because she is identical to my college roommate. What is she thinking about? Does she wish her lady’s maid had steamed out the creases in her veil? Is she missing her eyebrows? (FUN FACT: plucking out one’s eyebrows and hairline in 15th c Europe was à la mode for a certain class of women.) Her lips are so pouty, but she’s not sad. She just doesn’t give a f*** — this is simply her resting b**** face. And there is something so calming about that to me…

There’s nothing like a Wayne Thiebaud painting to make you feel simultaneously famished and profoundly insecure about your own artistic ineptitude. Has there ever been a painting style that so matches its subject? The thick, controlled paint just like butter cream frosting; it’s a visual onomatopoeia! And those shadows! GASP!…

What can one say about the greatest of the greats? Why can an ill old man cut paper in ways that make the heart sing beyond any paint put to canvas by healthy young artists? And how is this bulbous, blue, twisted woman so much sexier than I will ever be?

Extracurriculars

When my son was little, all my best mom friends only had daughters his age. And the great thing about preschool-aged children is you get to tell them who their friends are, based on the parents that YOU prefer to spend time with. And so it followed that while other 4-year-old boys were being schlepped to soccer, my son was being introduced to the wonderful world of ballet. Look – I have him the choice, but he’s a smart fellow and standing out in the hot sun on a baseball diamond waiting for his teammates to run around the bases was just not as enticing as skipping around to Disney songs, playing dress up with his besties. So he was the lone boy in a sea of glitter and hearts and rainbows. Sometimes he wore a superman cape since his friends got to dress up for class. And when he returned home he would happily resume whatever train track he’d been building or truck book he’d been reading. Sometimes with sparkly nail polish, because, why not? When he no longer wanted to do ballet, he told me, and we moved on to a new activity. It was THAT simple. Today he’s obsessed with Minecraft and Legos, and his self-selected friends are all boys. But he is still happy to hang out with his oldest girl-friends, who are like sisters, and who I heard him defend to a little boy the other day. “There are lots of fun girls,” he said, “just like there are lots of fun boys.”…

I only took piano for a hot second when I was a kid. I remember enjoying the lessons – I did them at my teacher’s house. She was ancient, had lots of cats, and her home smelled like flowers. But one day I showed up for my lesson but no one answered the door. I knocked and knocked until finally a neighbor came out and said, “didn’t you hear the old lady died?” And then I saw Turnip, one of the cats, wandering around the porch. I went home and never resumed piano again.

Recycling

We need to talk about straws. Look, climate change is a real, existential crisis. But do you know what is NOT going to save the polar bears and stop the rate of global warming? The horrible soggy straws I now have to pretend to enjoy my coffee with. I like to sip on my coffee throughout the day to keep the caffeine ecstasy at that perfect level – awake, but not shaky – for as long as possible. But if you don’t finish your drink in one inhale and you’re using a paper straw, you might as well just throw the drink out now. Remember when you were 2 and you learned the hard way that paper airplanes don’t belong in the bath with you? Well, apparently this is not a lesson universally experienced by those in positions of straw design/policy. Starbucks’ decision to create cold-drink sippy cups comes closer to a sustainable drink-option. But really. We can safely land a rover on Mars but can’t come up with a straw that is both environmentally friendly AND that does not disintegrate upon touching your lips? REALLY?!…

You know what could actually save some endangered animals? If we Americans caught up with other parts of the world and made bidets the universal standard of cleanliness. Seriously – once you experience that refreshing squirt, you’ll realize that wiping just doesn’t cut it. And think how many trees we would save – especially if other children use the absurd amount of T.P. my kids seems to…

PARENT HACK: My very wise and unfrazzled friend taught me to use all those paintings/drawings that your kids make that you really just want to throw away as wrapping paper. It looks cool and you can let grandparents believe the art was made specifically for their birthday…

I cannot make eye contact with our neighbors or the men who come each week to gather our recycling. I am too ashamed by the sheer number of boxes we (and by we I mean my husband) have to drag to the curb for pick up each week. And this is WITH my sacrifice to have my Amazon packages come in fewer boxes, 1 whole day later.