Betty the Rebel

First, I thank anyone who is reading this. I have been neglecting my blog and have undoubtedly (and deservedly) lost the small following I used to have. So, if anyone actually reads this, thank you.

Today, while attempting to sort through the rubble in my living room I came across one of my many diaries, written a few months ago in a dire attempt to figure myself out.

Now I know why my housekeeping is so outrageously substandard. I spent the rest of my "sorting" time reading the diary with great interest. The house is still a wreck, but by golly, I'm armed with more self-analysis that you can shake a stick at.

In fact, the house in shambles was pretty much explained by the diary. You see, the house I grew up in, 39 Burbank, looked exactly right. The grass was cut, always; the bushes were shaped to perfection; the sidewalk was swept or snowblown depending upon the season; the gutters were clear; the roof always looked newly laid; even the siding was power washed regularly. There was always one new car parked neatly in the garage and another, equally showy and recently washed, in the driveway.

Even inside, everything was in its place. You'd never know that a child lived there- no toy was visible; no item was out of place. Even the tassels on the living room rug were carefully straightened with a clothespin so that they lined up perfectly.

But there were secrets swept under that rug. My father was cheating on my mother. At age 8 I knew about it, and my father had tried to strangle me when he suspected that I knew. He continued to beat me on a daily basis. My grandmother, a devout Irish Catholic, had divorced her husband who was sleeping with the woman next door. My older brother was well on his way into a lifelong battle with alcohol and drug addiction. My teenage sister was pregnant before high school graduation.

Appearances, even aural ones, were critical. One time, when I was a toddler, I laid on the floor crying, wanting to be taken to the park. I was severely reprimanded because "one of the neighbors had heard the crying." All inhabitants of 39 Burbank were prohibited from emitting sounds audible to the neighbors, and were advised to exercise extreme caution when venturing out of the house; the neighbors would likely be watching.

Little wonder that my house today is disheveled. And, mind you, I'll gladly tell my life story, in full detail, to anyone who'll listen.

Invention Convention

Today's challenge was unexpected, actually beginning last night with my child's tearful complaints of a toothache. I thought I was imagining that his cheek was swollen. I tried to distract him with a few rounds of Boggle Junior before putting him to bed, but he did not sleep. Each time I looked at him, his cheek looked bigger. We stayed up most of the night , trying remedy after remedy (mouthwash, salt water, ice, vitamin C, echinacia, CoQ10) to no avail.

Finally 8am arrived, when I knew I could reach our dentist ,who had filled a cavity in the child's tooth last week. By this time, said child resembled a human chipmunk with an entire winter's supply stashed in one cheek. The dentist's receptionist said to bring him in right away.

What timing! This morning was the official judging for the "Invention Convention" at the child's school. My child was one of the youngest participants and had spent a lot of time and energy on his invention, a "Pooch Perch" which enables our Chihuahua to see out of our windows.

The visit to the dentist took forever, followed by a trip to the drugstore for penicillin and Children's Motrin. When we finally arrived at school, the judging had been completed, and they had skipped my child's entry because he hadn't been there to answer questions.

I found the director of the convention, and seeing how upset my child was, she rounded up some judges and had them judge while I stood by and watched. The child responded well to all questions at first, aptly displaying his enthusiasm for his subject. After about fifteen minutes he started to fade a bit, and finally gave out when she asked if he planned to market his product. After a painful, sleepless night followed by the stress of the dentist's visit, he had reached his limit.

"Uhhh......I dunno........"

These were not the words of a budding scientist. And this particular judge happened to be the personification of the "B" word.... She regarded him sternly and repeated the query: "You DON'T KNOW if you want to market this?!" she uttered, incredulous.

".......noooooo....."

We were sunk, I knew it.

A better mother than I would have jumped right in at that point, explaining the events of the past twelve hours. The problem was, I too was sleep-deprived and not mentally acute. The explanation didn't even enter my mind until I was leaving the school with tears in my eyes.

I don't know whether my child passed on to the next round or not. His fading toward the end of his interview definitely didn't help. How sad it is, I thought, that we rely to such an extent upon outside approval. This is one of the first times I've realized that I need approval not only for myself, but for my child as well. And I therefore teach him to need it.

My wish is to become so secure that I am not hurt or threatened when an insult, real or imagined, is hurled; and that other people's judgments no longer determine my worth. Then I can teach that instead.

Betty and Charlie

An unfortunate mishap occurred this morning on my way to the child's school bus stop. It's a mile from our house, therefore requiring vehicular transportation. (Back in the olden days, young Betty used to walk, not to a bus stop, but to the actual SCHOOL. Childhood obesity was, coincidentally, nearly nonexistent back then.)

The accident happened before I was even out of my garage. Although my subcompact Honda Civic is one of the tiniest cars around, I seem to have trouble maneuvering it early in the morning, especially around obstacles like garage door frames.

The side mirror on the passenger side shattered into a million pieces, along with my already minimal supply of serenity. Too stunned to react, I silently drove to the bus stop and parked what was left of my car.

"Mama......Are you. .........CRYING?"

"NO! I'm sobbing uncontrollably! Can't you SEE that?!"

It took a few minutes for me to realize that it wasn't so much the wrecking of my car and subsequent hassle and expense of dealing with it, but it was more about the jarred memory of Betty and Charlie.

Exactly three years ago I had experienced the same problem maneuvering my car out of the garage, with the same broken mirror consequence. At that particular time I was already an emotional wreck, having just been "ditched" by my weekday babysitter, left high and dry, with no notice, without childcare. The rejection by that sitter, coupled with the very tangible childcare problem dumped in my lap had been unbearable. Then, on top of all that, I had wrecked my car's side mirror in a senseless act of incompetence.

Enter Betty and Charlie. They were the grandparents of my child's preschoolmate, Anthony. I knew they were unusual- they were the oldest people, by far, to ever set foot in that preschool. I came to find out that they had adopted Anthony as part of a complex, soap-opera-like family drama. (Anthony had been born to Betty and Charlie's irresponsible alcoholic son's girlfriend.)

Instead of treating Anthony like an unwanted mistake, they sought nothing but the best for him, as demonstrated by their choice of preschool (the most highly-rated in the city). Betty and Charlie socialized with the young parents of Anthony's classmates, fitting in unbelievably.

On the day my sitter "ditched" us, I hauled my defeated self into that preschool, fighting tears, and passed out letters to each parent in my child's class, explaining my situation and begging for immediate help.

When my phone rang that evening, it was Betty and Charlie. They would take my child, covering all of my working hours, until the end of the school year. They had discussed this with the head teacher of the preschool class, who had wholeheartedly approved. My life changed dramatically with that phone call. Hopeless desperation morphed into salvation; rejection into acceptance.

During the subsequent months, Betty and Charlie took us in as family. The day after that phone call, Charlie took my child and Anthony to the butterfly exhibit at the local conservatory, just for fun, before our first scheduled babysitting, and took them to lunch. He wouldn't even let me give him money to cover the cost! It was as if my son finally had a grandparent. It symbolized our acceptance into the family.

A few weeks later, my parked car was slammed into by a van. I was lucky that it happened while Betty and Charlie were in my life. They set me up with a highly-regarded body shop, whose owner they knew, and helped me deal with the insurance hassle. They even loaned me one of their cars while mine was being fixed!

And yes, when I hit my garage door frame three years ago, Charlie went to a junkyard, found a replacement, and installed it. (The Honda repair shop would have charged $500 for its replacement!)

The only sad thing about our experience with Betty and Charlie was that they set a time limit. They gave us their all, but being mature, wise people, they knew they'd have to set a boundary. They have an extensive biological family here in town who, as you might imagine, are constantly needing Betty and Charlie's help.

But what I took away from that experience was a newfound belief in the benevolence of life. I may not be constantly surrounded by people waiting to help out, but most of the time I don't need any help. And when I truly DID need it, Betty and Charlie were there, in spades.

VS

The month of March stands out a bit for me. It is the month in which VS performed her most important functions: birth, marriage and death.

Not many people know anything about her story- even I don't know that much. Since it bothers me to think that any life could possibly slip by unnoticed, I feel compelled to tell what I know.

Rather than attempt to calculate the year of her birth, I will honor her lifelong dedication to its concealment. Suffice it to say that she was born in a bygone era, the only child of a fairly poor family. Her mother had immigrated from Ireland at age 19. Her father was a handsome, quiet, talented man who never did figure out how to make a living. Her Irish mother earned the family money by hoofing it to a camera factory before dawn each morning.

VS used to tell of a cabin, on a tranquil lake in upstate NY, that her father had built. He even custom-built the kitchen to accomodate his tiny Irish wife, whose factory job funded his craft. This cabin was a mecca for people wanting to escape the city, and VS spoke of her resentment of all the people taking advantage of her parents' generosity. VS felt cheated.

VS entertained herself as a child and teen by going to movies. Apparently she was quite addicted, and even desired a career in film or dancing. She must have looked the part, since she was voted "most beautiful girl" by her high school senior class.

She met her future husband, PeeWee, in marching band. Years later she confided that she should have married Dick Packer, who turned out to be not only successful, but loyal to the woman who did choose him.

VS was still a teen when she married PeeWee. He performed a brief stint in the Navy, where he narrowly escaped death when a cable on an aircraft carrier snapped. His buddies were not as fortunate, and he surely was affected by the tragedy.

Back home, the couple bought a little house from PeeWee's stepfather, and they never moved from that house. VS gave birth to a girl, then a boy a year later. VS's mother, who lived nearby, helped with the housework and children. (VS's father had left his wife to marry the woman next door.) PeeWee ended up with a decent job at IBM. Both VS and PeeWee were smart, but neither came from educated families, and college was never considered.

Twelve years later, VS suddenly became pregnant again. VS bragged that she only gained 12 pounds during that pregnancy, and people didn't even know she was pregnant. Was she unhappy about it? We'll never know.

That baby had to be incubated for a while, but did survive. VS's Irish mother took a liking to the baby and gave her her first bath. VS decided, when that child entered school, to get a job. It had been many years since she had worked outside of the home.

She landed a job in a hospital, as a ward clerk, on the 3pm to 11pm shift. The child, named Betty, was not happy about this, since it meant she'd rarely see her mother and she'd be stuck with PeeWee. Betty had discovered by listening in on a phone conversation that PeeWee was cheating on her beautiful mother. Betty kept the secret, but despised PeeWee.

VS loved working at the hospital even though, during her first few years, she had a sadistic boss. On her days off she'd indulge in her favorite delights: shopping, museum-hopping and attending NYC Ballet performances.

Long before its popularity, VS was a health food devotee. (Betty can vividly recall the foul-tasting tofu hot dogs she was forced to ingest during health food's infancy.) VS kept herself in shape with aerobics and lots of walking, and never strayed from her high school weight of 115 pounds.

Eventually, though, she had to acknowledge that her home life was in trouble due to PeeWee's extramarital activities. They separated briefly, but she did not thrive on her own. When PeeWee came running back, having realized that his girlfriend was a nutcase, VS took him in, along with his promise that he'd change his ways.

Well, you can guess the outcome. PeeWee never changed, and VS suffered greatly, torturing herself by spying on PeeWee's clandestine adventures, sometimes even confronting the "other woman".

Then one day VS was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She died eleven months later, in her month of March, days before she would have had to endure another celebration of the anniversary of her marriage, and shortly before she'd have had to reluctantly add one more year to her age.

Betty knows Best

Yesterday I witnessed a scene which brought back some not-so-distant memories. The scene involved a terrified 4-year-old boy who was being forced to face a large audience. The quivering boy did everything he could to hide within the folds of his father's suit jacket.

With great interest, I watched the reaction of those around me, expecting people to shake their heads and roll their eyes at such "papa's boy" behavior. Why? Because that's the reaction I've received, ever since my child was born, every time "mama's boy" wanted to hide within my folds.

Instead, people seemed mildly amused, somewhat sympathetic, and basically non-judgmental!!!! What the.......?

So what I've read is really true! Society truly does judge mothers (especially single mothers!) much more harshly than fathers.

A vivid nightmarish memory has pestered me since yesterday's demonstration of that phenomenon. My child was 3, and being the conscientious zealot that I tend to be, I had researched all available services for single parents and found a little-known program offered by the local school district. It involved free monthly home visits from early childhood educators. I was happy for any support in my parenting that I could possibly find.

During one visit, when the educator rang my doorbell, my 3-year-old began crying for me to pick him up. (Mama's boy behavior, indeed.) I had been practicing attachment parenting, believing that its effects would serve him well throughout his life. He was accustomed to being held, and I thought nothing of his desire for me to pick him up before opening the door to let the educator in.

Well, let me tell you, this educator was HORRIFIED that I would "allow a 3-year-old to control me" in such a manner! She entered my house and raked me over the coals for the entire hour, and demanded that I call her suggested child psychologist AT ONCE!

I did, and the psychologist had already been warned about me. She insisted that I hire a sitter for my son (even though he was already with sitters while I worked fulltime) and show up by myself. I followed her orders, and arrived for my appointment filled with trepidation. She proceeded to rip me to shreds, insisting that by allowing my son to "ruin" my life, I was ruining his! She flat out demanded that I "lock (yes, lock) my child in a room by himself" whenever he asked me to pick him up! I sat there and listened, stunned, for 50 minutes, then feebly stood up, (over)paid her, and said, "Your beliefs differ vastly from mine. I won't be coming back."

For the next 6 months, every time my doorbell rang I expected Children's Services, fearing that those professional witches had found a way to "blow the whistle" on me and my twisted parenting. How could I have been so fiercely attacked by other women, mothers themselves, whom I had called upon for support?

Somehow I suffered through that very difficult period, learning to get by with no support. A flash of clarity appeared as a fleeting gift one day, when I was given the message "This, too, shall pass". I chuckled at the thought of a 16-year-old boy crying for me to pick him up when the doorbell rings!

growing up

Once again I have been reminded of a strange phenomenon which could, quite possibly, apply only to myself. But I'm not sure.

It's about being "adult." My late mother was an adult, the whole time I knew her. My father was, too, as were all of the grown-up relatives. They looked like adults and behaved like adults and thought like adults. They were responsible and serious and old.

Now, in certain ways, I am adult. I have the right age, for example. If age is the sole criterion, then I qualify, in spades.

When my best friend from college "partied up a storm" with me a few years ago, we revelled in the fact that we seemed so much more youthful than most of our agemates. She informed me in no uncertain terms that it was because we didn't have kids. We both swore up and down that we'd NEVER have 'em.

She stuck to her oath; I am now a single parent of a 2nd grader. According to my friend's theory, I ought to be a mature adult now, probably extra mature because I'm a single parent, right?

Well, wrong. I did the math and figured out how old I was when my mother was the age I am now. I remember my perception of her then. She was an adult, bigtime. She knew how to think and behave. If she had any immature leanings, she kept them well repressed. She was serious, she was sensible, she was disciplined, she was regular. She was never out of control. She was adult.

Let's start with appearance. I look disheveled. She looked prim and proper, even on days off. Her hair was neatly cut in a matronly style which was professionally fussed with once a week at the beauty parlor.

A female adult is expected to maintain a certain level of household order. My mother did, but she cheated. She had her own mother cleaning that house on a daily basis. I have the opposite: I have a male child and a Chihuahua wreaking havoc on a daily basis. The house is a constant wreck.

My mother, the adult, prepared dinner, served at 5pm sharp every day. It was a sensible meal, damnit, even if it was often nausea-inspiring. It featured meat, two vegetables, and desert if you earned it. You can guess at Betty's cooking habits. I'll whip up the amaranth if the child starts clamoring for food. If he won't eat it, he's welcome to forage. I like to sit by the window, reading, eating dry cereal out of the box. My mother's probably rolling.

But yesterday I noticed my thoughts (something I rarely do). My mind resembled that of an adolescent who is just starting to figure out how to fit into society. I was thinking, "Boy, she doesn't like me. She probably thinks I'm a loser, not worthy of her attention. I wonder what they said about me after I left the room? I wonder why she doesn't like me? Did I do a bad thing by leaving early, without a reasonable explanation? Will they shun me now? Where do I really fit in? Anywhere?"

My mother got over all that when she was in high school, or middle school, even. By the time she was my age, she was self-assured, knowing her place, accepting it, and playing her role obediently.

When I examine my mind, it truthfully doesn't seem different from when I was a teen. I am just as unsure now of where I fit in socially. Speculating, I can only guess that it's a result of living a fairly isolated life, devoid of family, away from home turf, relying on whichever friends will tolerate me at the time.

The Past

My reaction to today's unexpected encounter is baffling. I'd love to figure out why reminders of my past always seem to inspire doldrums.

She did look familiar to me, but I couldn't imagine why. Then she came over and introduced herself as an acquaintance from a summer camp during high school. She had been shy; I had been shy. Two such people rarely befriend. I was able to recall her sweet disposition even though I hadn't known her well.

The sadness that overcame me was not about her. It was about missing my old life. Back then I had a mother. I had a best friend, Sandy. I had a family, far from perfect but family nonetheless. I lived where I had grown up, where I knew a bunch of people and even had relatives. My family was not strong, not close, but it was better than the nothing I have now.

I had big dreams. The sky was the limit. I knew I could become whatever, whomever, I wanted. Within the safety net, real or imagined, of my family, friends, school and community, I was free to dream, to choose and to thrive.

Going away to college was a rude awakening. Real life, away from support people, hit hard. I cried over the phone, asking my mother to come and get me. Wisely, she didn't. I stuck it out.

Then I got a job in the city I live in now. It was even farther from home, but it's difficult to get a job in my field. Scared, I hung around with anyone who'd have me, almost. It was bearable because my mother still visited often enough. She came here when I got sick, or when my laundry was piled up beyond belief, or when things got tough, really tough, like when my boyfriend committed suicide.

She was diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas and lived only eleven more months. To try to survive without her, I latched onto a new boyfriend, which proved to be a bad choice indeed. It's good that we eventually broke up.

I had friends, so I thought. But when my child entered the scene, those friends, all single and childless, fell by the wayside. This is a common phenomenon- single people don't unusually gravitate toward the "family-oriented."

At this point, I have no place to fit in. The parents I have met at my child's preschool, then elementary school, are all married, and they steer clear of single mothers.

Even so, most of the time I'm perfectly capable of playing whichever role is called for in our two-person drama: I'm usually the mother, sometimes the father, often the grandparent or the sibling. Once in a blue moon, my child actually attempts to take on an adult roll, when he can see that I'm totally spent. I guess there's no real reason for me to feel sorry for myself, since we're apparently functional. But, I see now why the memory jolt brings tears. People thrive better when surrounded by and supported by others. Hillary's right. It takes a village.

Betty's Annual Pre-Valentine's Day Time Travel

It was this date on a Saturday the year I was 11. It was pre-Valentine's Day, a time of great hope. I had always liked boys; I had been engaged to be married at age 5. But this was the year I began to REALLY like boys.

This was a huge secret, of course. It would be many years before I could summon the courage to admit to having any interest in boys. Is this common? Or is it related to being brought up by repressed Irish Catholic women who furtively whispered dire warnings in my ear?

Winters were harsh in the state of New York. The early February thaw that year was highly unusual. My pre-adolescent imagination told me that the break in the weather was a sign: Valentine's Day would be perfect. This is what would surely happen: Pat Lane, the love of my life, would profess his undying love for me. Then we'd have to quit school and get married.

My best friend Barbara and I shuffled through the slush- it looked a lot more cool than tiptoeing about, searching for dry spots. I can still see the melting snow, complete with its dirty black spots from having been around so long. Spring was in the air, undeniably. The sun broke through the clouds, signaling the end of a lengthy all-winter cloud cover. We unbuttoned our ever-so-hip jackets purchased last fall from the Army and Navy store.

Barbara had recently informed me that in bed, boys stick their you-know-what into the girl. I didn't believe it, not for one minute. Kissing, though, was plenty appealing, and holding hands, and hugging....

Our eyes squinted, unaccustomed to sunshine. Our ears perked to the birds' mating calls. We were eating heart-shaped Sweet Tarts candy, just purchased downtown. Then, in the distance, I heard a sound that stopped my heart. Could it be.....?

Gasp....... It was Pat Lane, playing a game of football with a group of boys in a parking lot up the street! Pat Lane had no idea that I lived for him. Barbara was equally clueless. This budding sexuality taking over my life was known only to myself.

I turned into a bundle of nerves. I wanted him to see us, but I was scared beyond reason. Was my hair a mess? Did I look OK? Did I look cool? Were my lips totally concealing the braces on my teeth? I didn't want anything to interfere with what was going to happen on Valentine's Day.....

Trembling, I forged onward with Barbara. We boldly marched, feigning disinterest, right past the boys, who, of course, totally ignored us. At age 11, back in the days when parents did not overschedule their kids, there was nothing more important than this. So we did it again, slowly making our way around the block and past the football game again, afraid to arouse their suspicion yet unwilling to pass up the opportunity to be near them. I suspected that she liked one of the boys in that group, but she, too, knew the rules. You don't actually ADMIT to liking a boy. Not at age 11, with spring in the air and Valentine's Day around the corner, when the sky's the limit.

life lesson

As I jogged up the driveway I was greeted by his eager, expectant face in the window. He had been concerned as to my well being, and his eyes showed visible relief at the sight of me. His ears flattened as our eyes locked. Eight months old, he has just developed the ability to catapult himself off the floor onto the table so that he can view the outdoors. This requires Herculean effort and is reserved for critical situations like my absence.

Flattered by his worry, I decided reward him. I opened the front door and allowed him to bolt. Not bothering with the stairs, he launched himself off the top step and sailed to the ground, spreading legs as wings, landing with the grace of a four-legged gymnast. Without skipping a beat he raced into the park and initiated a full-fledged investigation of the grounds.

Joyous and free, ecstacy in motion, he pranced and danced among the rose bushes and trees, stopping to sniff at whatever he fancied. Then he'd take off, full speed ahead, basking in the power of his perfectly functioning skeletal-muscular system, running like blazes because he could. He was proud to be himself; in fact, he was elated to be alive, clearly thrilled by the wondrous world in which he romped. The squirrels escaped into their trees just in time, but it was all about the chase after all.

Marvelling at this virtuosic display of joie de vivre, I thanked my teacher with a hunk of Braunschweiger.

shopping with betty

Shopping has never been my forte. Online shopping, my usual method, is repugnant enough, but the brick and mortar variety actually nauseates me after the first 15-20 minutes. Yet somehow I managed to give birth to a male shopper.

Every time I hear him croon, in his best sing-song," Oh, mama, I feel like doing something special with you today..." I know I'm in trouble. Big trouble. "Something special", to this alien of mine, means shopping.

He did inherit the stubbornness gene from me. We lock horns for a while, he pouts, he wins, we shop.

If you want to be a shopper, you pretty much have to follow the herd. We followed the herd to shoppers' paradise. We walked. He drooled at iPods and asked for Cinabonns. We walked. I watched.

The place was bustling with apparently happy, moneyed people who were out to improve their lives, or at least their possession tally, on this day. I was impressed that the traffic actually STOPPED at intersections to allow the many pedestrians to cross leisurely. It was highly unusual to see so many people out walking. So that's what sidewalks are for.....interesting.

What's wrong with this picture? Well, all of those PEDESTRIANS had driven vehicles, some of monstrous SUV proportions, to this shopping mecca. This thriving pedestrian "neighborhood" is devoid of housing. Not one living soul is able to walk to this desination. It exists in a suburb, far from downtown. This shopping center and one in another suburb have seemingly conspired to ruin this city's downtown, which until recently was itself a shopping destination.

I must have been a city planner in a past life. I am inordinately troubled by this phenomenon. I know there's a better way. My Serbian friend tells me his family led a very happy, car-free life. Carefree and car-free. Vehicles pollute, vehicles kill, vehicles maim, vehicles reduce our level of fitness, and vehicles have caused the elimination of those glorious streetcar systems which graced our cities many years ago.

We drove away from today's shopping experience along with hundreds of other vehicles. Why did we all seem to be leaving at the same time? The number of cars was staggering. I shuddered as I realized the odds of at least one of these many drivers making a mistake, especially as our world goes more and more high tech. The driver next to me could have been watching one of those video iPods my child had been drooling over. My tiny subcompact didn't stand a chance against one of those looming, imposing behemouths.

I panicked, gripped the steering wheel for dear life, and pressed the gas pedal, dispersing my exhaust into our precious air. It just seems so wrong.

a whirling question

It has been brought to my attention that I don't know a thing about time management, also known as "setting priorities". One quick glance around my house is all you'd need to become convinced.

It's been said that nobody ever laid on his/her deathbed and bemoaned the fact that he/she hadn't spent more time at the office. But here's what I need to know: did anyone, just before meeting one's Maker, ever regret poor housekeeping?

This is a true concern of mine. I don't know how important housekeeping is, if at all. I have heard convincing arguments both ways.

More than one upstanding citizen has assured me that "the housekeeping can wait. It'll still be there when your child grows up, and you can take care of it then."

Is it true that I'm allowed to let it go for eleven more years? Can these people be serious? Should I not fear condemnation by the Board of Health, or arrest for child endangerment? (My child, incidentally, has become highy adept at leaping from one clearing of floor space to another, skillfully avoiding toppling my stacks of papers, books, magazines and dirtying my piles of laundry. I should think that this unusual ability could serve him well. At the very least, he has attained a lean, muscular appearance unlike that of many of his classmates.)

Then there are those who express horror at my housekeeping. One ex-boyfriend on a recent visit from Montana suggested that I drop everything else, take a leave of absence (unpaid of course) from work, and get my everloving shit together.

What's a woman to do? If I did take a leave of absence, I can see it now: I'd be sitting around surfing,reading and thinking, sipping Starbucks, having a great old time. As my dear friend TA puts it, I'm somebody who "needs a lot of down time". Even given all the time in the world, I'd still be far behind in my housekeeping, because it just is not a high priority in my life.

Today, for example, I could conceivably have cleaned all day. But this morning, while the child was occupied, I tried to catch up on reading my favorite blogs, including The Daily Blog with Kelly Bell. Kelley described, in one of her recent posts, an incredible childhood experience in the woods in which she saved an owl from a group of attacking birds, and the owl found a way to very clearly thank her. Inspired, I decided I had to take my child for a hike in the woods. The frigid, blustery air just added to the adventure. We didn't save any owls, but I bet my child is going to remember today's invigorating hike for years. It was time well-spent, in betty's book.

Many spiritual masters espouse cleaning house, in both the literal and figurative sense. I'm better at the figurative. Yes, I'd love to have an immaculate, uncluttered house, but I seem to lack the wherewithal to bring it about. I lack the necessary motivation to prioritize it and the skills required to pull it off in a timely fashion.

If physical housekeeping is deserving of a higher priority than I am currently assigning it, I truly want to know.

cooking with betty

Yes, we're nine days into the new year, but I'm just getting started on my annual attempt to get my act together. I usually start some sort of dramatic new regimen each January 1. Last year it was a raw food diet (very time intensive, especially considering you don't actually cook) coupled with synchronized aerobic kung fu, chanting group meditation and parent/child hatha yoga classes, and I was supposed to speed clean my house during any remaining time each day. Somehow I forgot to schedule in time to go to work, and the resulting chaos put the kibosh on last year's perfect lifestyle plan.

That particular regimen lasted a total of 15 hours, and the rest of 2005 was basically a free-for-all during which I simply attempted to feed, clothe and school the (resistant) child while keeping myself (barely) functional and employable.

This year I'll be REASONABLE, a non-specialty of whirlingbetty. I got off to a good start at that by basically ignoring January 1st altogether. I treated it just like any other day. I didn't empty my refrigerator or cupboards, I didn't call 1-800-GOTJUNK, I didn't turn myself over to any TV evangelists, I didn't join any new athletic facilities, I didn't sign myself up for the Peace Corps or any extreme makeovers, I didn't enroll in any training program for a new career. I just sort of hung out, ignoring the oh-so-significant date.

I felt guilty. Finally, by yesterday, January 8, I couldn't stand it any longer. I HAD to at least appear to attempt to overhaul my situation. The year is already one week gone, so obviously any diet or exercise resolution is out of the question. (It wouldn't be fair for the rest of you to have an entire week's head start!)

So I hauled out my spiritual books. I own an impressive library of them because, by golly, if I can't have my act together, then at least I want you all to know that I've tried. I stayed up most of the night skimming through several different paths to enlightenment.

One concept caught my eye. As whirlingbetty, I often feel bombarded by too much information, too much technology, too many options, too many possibilities. I am immobilized by the whirlwind of choices, baffled by decisions.

Authors Esther and Jerry Hicks in Ask and it is Given address the issue of overwhelment. They suggest that the reader imagine being a chef in a well-stocked kitchen. You have a recipe, you know what ingredients you need, and you put ONLY THOSE into your pie. The other ingredients stocking your shelves need neither be banished from your kitchen nor thrown into your pie. It is not necessary to be overwhelmed by the number of ingredients present in the kitchen. Use what you need and leave the rest.

To me, this was earth-shattering. I laughed, of course, while admitting to myself that it really is this simple. This morning I decided what I wanted to cook today, and selected my ingredients: jogging, blogging, reading, working, eating amaranth and veggies. I encountered a couple of unplanned ingredients: an elderly neighbor called for help (I said yes- it enhanced my pie)) and a very negative friend called and wanted to scheme (I said no- it would wreck my pie).

Maybe I'm on to something, eh? The whirlingbetty pie is still in the oven, but the aroma is mighty convincing.

rejection

Oh, we've all experienced it, usually from a lover, potential or actual, and sometimes from a desired employer. But since I have become a mother, I have experienced a whole new type of REJECTION.

Is it about the single parent stigma? Or am I simply a lousy mother who deserves to be shunned lest I adversely influence other people's children?

This issue has come to the forefront as I now attempt to plan my child's birthday party, scheduled for Sunday. Why do people blatantly refuse to RSVP? This is the type of party which requires a precise head count. It's at the hockey arena where the local hockey team holds games. I have to pay a set amount for each party-goer, and the number of party-goers (10 in my case) had to be determined in advance. So, in theory, if someone can't come, I could/should find a replacement.

What's really bothering me?, you might ask. Well, it's one particular mother who has been blowing me/us off bigtime. Her son, H, and mine became BEST friends in preschool. The two are a lot alike, and their friendship was enviable.

After preschool I did everything I could to maintain the friendship. I paid H's family top dollar to babysit during some of my work hours. H had younger brothers, and my kid isn't used to siblings. I tried to explain to H's mother that I had no way of teaching my kid to get along with little siblings because we don't have any. I politely gave her permission to do/say whatever she had to. Instead, she showed us the gate.

She's a stay-at-home mother who is homeschooling her kids. After she told us no more babysitting, I still drove to their house whenever I had time to pick up H for playdates.

Before long she put the kibosh on that. She kept putting us off, until finally on the date she had said H could come over, she emailed me saying her homeschooling schedule was just too filled- H couldn't come over to our house after all. That was last summer. I left her alone after that.

But my child doesn't know about all this. He only knows that H is a dear friend whom he hasn't seen in a long time. He wants H invited to his party.

I email H's mother, sheepishly, because i have been banished from their Family. i ask for permission to mail her Son an invitation, saying i will respectfully follow Her wishes if She wants to sever ties.

That was a week ago. She never responded, a dramatic passive-aggressive stab to the jugular.

Yes, i am making the mistake of giving Her power. Part of my problem is that in the past, when i thought She was my friend, i confided in her how hurt i was when other Families had rejected us. (Yes, it's happened before. It's a pattern.)

Why do People do this? What is it about me and my son which They deem inferior, unworthy? Is it the lack of a Man?

It's easy to say that the solution is for me to develop thicker skin and healthy self-esteem which prevails even during adversity. But that doesn't address the problem of a tragically lost friendship. Again. The rejection is not simply of the whirlingbetty and son diad- it is of beautiful, innocent childhood alliances.

whirling down

The time of reckoning is nearly here. I'm not sure if everyone does this, but at the end of each year I feel obligated to take inventory (ie. self-flagellate). Otherwise, how would I come up with my New Year's resolutions? What pressure!!!! No wonder I actually felt relief after declining my New Year's Eve party invitation just now- the likes of me doesn't deserve any down time!!!

I think back to years past when everything LOOKED OK, even impressive. I had a decent job, I owned a nice house in a happening neighborhood, I owned a reliable car, dressed fairly well and looked reasonably presentable. The only thing which could have been construed as slightly unusual was that I never seemed to have a stable relationship with a MAN. There'd be the occasional boyfriend; that's it. I used to say that I chose to be single. Was it really a conscious choice?

These days, the appearance is not so good. The house in the hip hood was sold and replaced with one more family-oriented, even though we are not a family; we are a diad, my child and I. The house personifies chaos- even the landscaping is quite wild. That same car now looks old, really old. I look disheveled.

The difference is that now the world can witness my struggle. I wear it. I drive it. I show it. What you see is what you get. And if you don't see it, the child will undoubtedly tell you about it, much to my embassassment.

No more secrets.

Happy new year.

my kind of Christmas

No plans had been made. Whirling freely requires a strict lack of scheduling. Think about it, how many people do you know who had NO PLANS for this granddaddy of all holidays?

The Child sleeps in until 8:30 am, having stayed up until 3 am with me while I attempted to fix a computer problem. He runs into the living room to find his Corkscrew Canyon, yo-yo, 3 books, lollipops and Boggle game. He seems satisfied and refrains from his annual questioning regarding the existence of Santa Clause.

The day is mild for December and somewhat rainy. The Child wants to go outside to shoot off rockets (last year's Christmas gift) and explore the park outside of our house. The rain morphs into a foggy mist. We walk for a long time, ending up at a lake with some melting ice to temp our fates with. We prevail.

Back at home I feast on key lime cookies and exquisite chocolates, a gift from friend Joe, and spicy cashews, a gift from friend Steve. The Child, who doesn't eat, builds Corkscrew Canyon free-form (directions be damned). I think about whether or not there is anything I HAVE to do this day in order to be at peace, and I decide that that would be calling my Father in NY. We are not close, never have been, but something compells me.

I call, we make small talk, he puts his wife on the phone, she rambles about her childhood, she rambles about her remarkable adult children, I listen without judgment as I have learned to do, I talk to him again, he says he is having surgery on his eyelid January 18, I say have a nice Christmas, we hang up.

I am off the hook.

I remember that friends Doug and Cathy have sent gifts. I haul them out of their hiding place and alert the Child. He is ecstatic at the prospect of continued gift opening. He rips open his box to find a racing computer game, hoots with glee, and starts playing it.

I open mine. It is Divine Chuckles Life from a Higher Perspective by Lin Martin, forward by Kevin Ryerson. Suffice it to say that this is the PERFECT gift for me in that it is a book, and I have had personal contact with both Lin Martin and Kevin Ryerson. I am ecstatic.

The Child wants to go outside for another walk. This is remarkable. I never knew my Child could be so wholesome.

The Child finally decides, following our second long walk, that he is hungry. I offer to take him to a Chinese buffet, a trick I learned years ago from friend Doug. The Chinese have no reason to shut down on Christmas. I had not planned for the Holiday, as you may recall, so I had no food in the house beyond key lime cookies, chocolates and cashews.

We try a new Chinese buffet restaurant near out house. It looks impressive, but the food sucks. Even whirlingbetty can't eat it. This quality of food, however, often mysteriously appeals to kids. The Child fills his plate several times until I put the kibash on it. Embarrassed to waste food, I end up stuffing my pockets with chicken pillows for the Chihuahua. As we exit the restaurant, fellow diners stare at the noticeable grease stains bulging out of the sides of my hot pink down jacket.

Friend David had invited us to stop by. We do. Friends Robert and Joe are there. They cook. I sit. Robert and the Child play Boggle. We eat a meal which includes two desserts: kugel and apple pie. Robert entertains the Child, mercifully, while David , Joe and I go out for a walk. We watch a DVD: The Triplets of Bellville. We leave.

Back home, the Child goes to bed without complaint. I stay up to watch a taped episode of my favorite soap opera.

This was the IDEAL whirlingbetty Christmas.

growing up high tech

There was no way around it- today was the day I had set aside to Christmas shop for my Child. I had to produce, so I set out early for Toys R Us.

The Child wants things which are way beyond what's appropriate for his age. He wants a laptop, an iPod, a digital camera and camcorder, violent computer games.

He's right in line with Society. Society wants the Child to hurry up and grow up. Why? Money. The high tech non-toys he's requesting this Christmas have no place in childhood, but they sure cost a lot of MONEY.

Betty stuck to her GUNS, though. I proudly marched out of that toy store with Corkscrew Canyon, on sale for $49.99. It's a colorful building set which, if used properly, creates something that looks like an elaborate Six Flags type attraction. Just so I can create a real splash on Christmas, I threw in a yo-yo, a Boggle game, and a set of lollipops with Care Bears hugging them.

What makes me think that my 8-year-old Tough Guy will go for this? Well, I really shouldn't tell you this, but last Friday the Child took his stuffed dog, Terry, to school. Terry is no ordinary stuffed dog. He is dressed in denim jeans with a tail hole, a T-shirt with a dragon on the front, and a black leather biker's jacket.

When I picked up the Child at latchkey that day, he wasn't his usual sullen self who hates school. Brazenly hugging Terry in front of Peers, he announced that he had managed to pull off an entire day of school with Terry on his lap the whole time. Later he disclosed that Teacher had tried to put the kibosh on Terry early in the day, but somehow my Child (and Terry) had prevailed.

Besides, Corkscrew Canyon is recommended for ages 9 and up. He's 8, therefore too young. He'll love it.

Dredged from the Depths

Yesterday was D Day. After pondering the possibilities for months, it was time to Dredge.

My computer, you see, had been banished to the basement since I moved into this house nearly 5 years ago. Why? Sometimes it's difficult to guess how my mind operates, but I see several clues. When I moved in, there was a serious lack of phone jacks on the premises. There were 3: one in my bedroom, one in the kitchen and one in the basement.

The bedroom was out of the question for computer placement. Feng Shui principles prohibit electronic devices (especially computers!) in the sleeping area. The kitchen was out because I needed that jack for my phone/answering machine. My only option was the basement.

The house also lacks a reasonable number of grounded electrical outlets. Again, the basement featured one of the 2 available.

Besides, Betty's over-active imagination is hellbent on figuring out how to avoid advertising for thieves. I firmly believed that my PowerSpec PC (Micro Center's bargain basement special) would, if viewed through the window, become a target for any burglar who happened to be peeking in.

The problem is, I hate basements. Those who know me must wonder how I came to I choose this house, because one of its main selling points was its "FULLY FINISHED BASEMENT!!!!"

I hate basements. They harbor mice, spiders, mold, dampness and darkness. Secrets we're better off not knowing are hidden in them.

Two years ago, in anticipation of D day, I had the phone company install a new phone jack in the living room. ( I later came to find out that I could've hired a handyman to do it for a fraction of the price, but then again, the phone company guy was cute.) Back then, the plan was to create the possibility of moving the computer upstairs to the living room.

I had to think about it for 2 more years. Finally yesterday I called TA and asked him to help me move the behemouth computer desk up the stairs. I had already disconnected the computer components and hauled them upstairs.

While waiting for TA to arrive, I inspected the area I had prepared for the computer. With great alarm I noticed that there was no grounded outlet in the living room. I really don't know whether I had ever been aware of this issue in the past, but if so, the information had escaped me.

At this point I gave in. I allowed myself to be overwhelmed. I placed a frantic call to TA, who likes me a lot better when I squelch it. He said I could use an adapter. I argued vehemently against that idea until he convinced me to hang up so that he could eat his lunch.

I called every computer store in the city to ask their opinion on using adapters. The consensus was negative- it would probably set off the surge protector. I ran about the house searching wildly for another option. There it was, in the kitchen where my water cooler used to be plugged in before I realized what a colossal waste of money it was. It was my forgotten first floor grounded outlet which had been concealed by the now absent water cooler.

I'd move the phone/answering machine to the new living room jack and place the computer in the kitchen where, if I ever looked up and out the windows, I'd be able to enjoy the best views in the house.

TA showed up with 3 minutes to spare before he had to leave. When he saw the desk stripped of its components he gasped. "This thing is HEAVY!!!" It's very large and made of a very dense wood and metal. It probably weighs the same as my car.

Not having had a whole lot of experience with moving furniture, I started to fear the task at hand, but it was too late to back out. We couldn't figure out who should be in front. Clearly he was stronger, but we didn't know which position was more demanding. Running out of time, he decided to take the top.

At first it seemed OK. We moved up a few stairs without mishap; then everything changed without notice. The desk stopped moving. TA told me to back up. Back up?! I was barely hanging on. The monstrous desk was trying with all its might to push me back down the stairs and crush me!

At this point my shoe fell off, which did not help matters in the slightest. TA was showing signs of strain and alarm. As the desk started to win the struggle, I had a momentary spell during which it felt as if the life had drained out of me.

When I regained consciousness, the desk was stabilized at the top of the stairs. TA reported that he had strained his back, and I tried to conceal my shaking as he bolted out the door.

The computer happily hums along here in the kitchen where I can watch the snow fall if I look up. My screen is now illuminated by natural light rather than manmade bulbs. The Child and the Chihuahua can no longer tear the house up while Mama holes up in the dungeon. D Day was a smashing success.

Now I'd better call to check on TA's condition.

Extreme Whirling

Moderation is unknown to me. As I went through my modest stock portfolio today I saw all too vividly that I'm both an idiot and a genius. My stock picks were either superstars defying the S&P, or complete abysmal failures. If I sold each of my stocks, the balance would be exactly zero, half of them being duds, half goldmines. (This is the first time I've ever been able to perceive myself as in any way "balanced"!)

My frugality is legendary- I'm the one who always knows when the Salvation Army is holding its next 50% off sale. What most people don't know is that I'm also capable of blowing $99.99 plus tax on a whim, on a robotic dinosaur at Target.

Even my Chihuahua has fallen prey to my extremities. He has no idea what "NO" or "SIT" or "STAY" mean, but he knows "BRAUWNSCHWEIGER".

My house exemplifies my proclivity. It's either immaculate, after hours and hours of deeeeep cleaning, or it's a shambles. As demonstrated by the fact that I rarely allow people inside, you can guess which state it's in most often.

I spend a fortune every time I shop at Wild Oats or Whole Foods Market, on only the very highest quality organic delicacies. Then, as a previous post describes, I'm very likely to devour a box of Oreos, often after consuming (or trashing) the organics.

Sometimes it's hard to be Whirling Betty.

The Effect of Robert E.

I met him while indulging in one of my favorite pastimes- attending Sunday open houses. He was a young realtor, and his houses were the type I was most likely to seek out: restored Victorians near downtown. Usually, I dislike realtors (and all salespeople). They seem too busy selling to be authentic.

Yet I was at ease with Robert E. Ever aware of people's judgements and games, I felt free to be myself in his presence, even the time I was his only visitor. We spoke and speculated, marvelling at bygone building standards.

He sent me his newsletter which listed houses he'd sold, offered advice on home buying, and exposed who he was. He was an award-winning body builder and a model. He was crazy about his young niece and documented every milestone of her development. He also happened to be a lawyer, and offered free legal advice concerning real estate.

He took life more seriously than most. Each newsletter featured inspirational messages and tips for setting goals and reaching one's full potential. Robert E. was a motivational figure in the lives he touched. He set an amazing example for those of us wanting to live our best possible lives.

I just found out that Robert E. took his own life. His handsome, smiling face visits me persistently. I'll never know what happened, but whatever it was, it wasn't worthy of this.

Robert, thank you for gracing my life.

Restaurant Parenting

A Chicago cafe owner's sign for parents made the front page in many newspapers today. It read: "Children of all ages have to behave and use their indoor voices." This sign has sparked a heated debate.

I bet if the cafe owner could do over he'd write the message to "people of all ages." Is there not a tacet expectation for adult behavior? Why should there not be a standard for child behavior as well? Most of us probably would tolerate a certain elevation of noise and activity from a child in a restaurant, but truly, some parents don't seem to know where to draw the line. When other patrons are being distracted by the child(ren), then the parent has failed.

Yes, children are people too, and our society sometimes treats them like nothing more than nuisance. And even the best parents on earth sometimes face irrational outbursts from disgruntled offspring. That's why I limit my restaurant parenting to Chuck E. Cheese and Wendy's. In the former, no temper tantrum would register even the slightest blip on the radar screen, and in the latter, the point is to ingest as much fat, sugar and salt as possible as quickly as possible, so it works for the child as well as his potential audience.

I have a sad memory of one of my only attempts to take my child to an eating establishment other than the above. It had been a long, challenging day at work and I knew I wouldn't have the patience to cook, so after picking up my then 3 year old from the sitter, I had the brilliant idea to go to a little Indian restaurant which I'd been dying to try. My son was not in the greatest state of mind either, having spent the day with his least favorite sitter. I should have ordered carry out, but was too exhausted to drive all the way home on an empty stomach.

After ordering, we sat down at one of the few tables, and that's when the endless crescendo commenced. I did everything I could to squelch it. I was desperate. I sang songs, I made up stories, I made funny faces, I ran out to the car to get books, I bounced him on my lap, I bribed. The crescendo continued, oblivious to my efforts. By the time the food arrived, I was in tears. I couldn't stop the tantrum- I had no choice but to leave. I couldn't even wait for a doggie bag, so loud was the screaming. I threw my money on the table, picked up the monster and rushed out, leaving that luscious Indian cuisine behind.

As a single parent, I am especially careful. Single mothers are judged harshly. The last thing I want to do is provide fuel for the fire, so I grab my child's hand and tread lightly through this society of ours, notwithstanding the above Indian incident. We stick to Wendy's and Chuck E. Cheese and leave fine dining for the rest of you.