I drive my daughter, Miranda, to camp in the morning along with her best friend. I’ve been doing it most of the summer. With a little pal in the back seat, my daughter doesn’t demand my attention. So, I turn the radio on and listen to my NPR programs. That is until the radio announcer started talking about dying children in Iraq, and I quickly shut it off.
And quickly tune in to what my daughter was saying to her friend.

“Diana and Jeff are in love. I saw the love at the party.” My daughter’s very serious tone drew my attention like a laser to the back seat. I slowed down and angled my head so I could hear more clearly.

“Yeah, sure,” Her friend said in an equally serious tone. “They’re boyfriend and girlfriend. I saw the love too.”

“But, he doesn’t love me.” My daughter sounded puzzled at that.

“No. But he likes you.” Her friend sounded reassuring.

“The grownups say they’ll get married.” My daughter said this as if she was planning what to wear to the event.

Her friend said, “Sure.”

My daughter then asked her friend “Are you still girlfriend to Dave?”

“No,” said her friend. “That’s gross. We broke up.”

Silence in the back seat until my daughter changed the subject. “I’ll be the princess and you’ll be the baby and I’ll find the palace.”

I sat forward and switched on the radio again, but kept the sound low. I wanted to laugh and cry. The conversation sounded like 16-year-olds, but these girls are only six.

Yet they can see the “love.” They already know what “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” mean. So, my new resolution is to keep the radio down, a friend in the back seat as often as possible, and listen carefully to get the critical information I need.

For when I ask how things are, already I’m getting the much-used word: “fine.” Followed by silence.

Note: Names have been changed to protect friends.

By Georgie Craig

Labels: boyfriend, camping, Georgie Craig, girlfriend, NPR

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My stomach was reeling from a mixture of too much Chardonnay and too much pumpkin pie, when I realized there’s no room in my living room for a Christmas tree.

I had to have a tree, my mother was coming for the holiday and she was bringing presents. A tree was the necessary showcase for her beautifully wrapped gifts. And what of my daughter? Miranda couldn’t be the only one in her public school with no tree.

I slowly spun around the room looking for what furniture we might tuck into the garage until the relatives leave. There’s a couch, a chair, a coffee table, a bookshelf, all necessary for social and familial functions.

Then my eyes landed on my daughter’s worktable. It had started innocently enough, with a plastic container full of paper and a bucket of Crayola crayons. Now the worktable has taken over about a third of the living room. Plain paper, stickers, beads, Pokemon cards, glue sticks, paint brushes, glitter pens, small and large markers have spilled off the table and made incursions under the table.

As I gazed at the mess in my living room, I pondered joining a religion that doesn’t celebrate Christmas. My first choice was Buddhism, but I’m lousy at meditation. My second was Hinduism, but it’s hard enough for me to remember my daughter’s and husband’s names much less a pantheon of Gods and Goddesses.

So I decided on buying the biggest storage bins I could find. I know I could just throw stuff out, but that would require negotiating with my daughter. I tried that once, asking if we could throw some stuff out. My daughter, who is 5, looked up at me with clear blue eyes, her hands on her hips, and said in an offended tone, “I love everything I make.”

That’s how I found myself in Target on the weekend after Thanksgiving looking at storage bins. I found three that stack and will fit in my garage. So, tonight, after my daughter has gone to bed, I will strategically cull the worktable leaving enough mess so she won’t notice what’s gone. I know someday I’ll have to toss stuff and risk her displeasure. But that’s not until I run out of room in the garage.

I hope she’s off to college by then.

By Georgie Craig

Labels: artistic daughter, birth mother, Buddhism, Chardonnay, Christmas trees, Crayola, Georgie Craig, Gifts, Hinduism, meditation, Pokemon, pumpkin pie, Target

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Some afternoons when I drive my car into the garage after taking my daughter to swimming, ballet or acting class, the last thing I want to do is cook.

Usually, boiling water seems like climbing Mount Everest. But since we’re not in the income bracket to afford a cook, or a Sherpa, or even delivery -- I fall back on takeout.

Takeout is to me what a housecleaner is to other, neater, more obsessive women: a luxury that keeps me from going insane.

It has become a want that is now a need. It truly is a service that prevents me from appearing on Snapped, the lovely TV show that “focuses on average women, who snap and kill or arrange for their husbands to be killed.”

But getting takeout isn’t as easy a decision as it seems.

First, there’s the expense. Truly, it would make more sense to just boil water and throw some noodles in it. But, hey, often boiling water is just too much work. And a hit man or woman can be so expensive.

But in family life there is no easy answer.

For you see I have to decide what takeout to get, call and order, and then go get it. Sometimes this involves descending into negotiations between my daughter, my husband and me that would make an ambassador squirm.

For there isn’t one, all wonderful, all-knowing takeout place. Oh, no, in our family there are different types of takeout. There is takeout my daughter will eat, also known as fast food. This includes burritos.

Then there is adult takeout. That is takeout from my favorite Indian restaurant. It is takeout my daughter will eat, if I starve her a bit. It is takeout my husband and I love.

Best of all, it is takeout that will last two days if I order extra. The only downside is the cost.

But as I remind my husband between bites of garlic naan, it’s cheaper than a divorce, or the alternative. And, as my daughter squirms, I remind her that if she just eats one more bite of chicken, I’ll get her the Pokemon cards she desires.

See, I know how to keep my family happy.

By Georgie Craig

Labels: acting, ballet, burritos, garlic naan, Georgie Craig, housecleaner, Indian restaurant, Mount Everest, Pokemon, Snapped, swimming, takeout food

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Play dates make me nervous. I’m thinking about asking my doctor for anti-anxiety meds before I go on the next one.

It wasn’t always this way.

My daughter has been having play dates for awhile but before kindergarten they were limited to a close group of preschool friends. These were friends whose houses could be counted on to be messy and not very stylish. Now that I’ve made it to kindergarten, my daughter’s play dates have expanded to people I know very little and who have a sense of style.

It’s a bit nerve wracking.

Growing up, I only had one good friend who lived at the end of my street. That was it. The kids at my school lived in a different neighborhood and my parents both worked. So, there was no after-school playing with kids in my class.

When the bell rang, I would pick up my lunch and walk home, alone. Then, when I got home, I would call my friend down the street and hope that she was home.

Those were my play dates.

Now my daughter has play dates every week. So far it’s been fun, but often times I notice that I compare myself with the mom I’m sitting across from. I wonder, gosh how much younger is she than me? How does she keep her house so clean? Wow, her daughter has much better toys. Wow, her daughter has better manners than mine. Boy, am I a loser or what? Can I ever have this woman over to my house? Shit, I’ll just have to move or maybe I can rent a single friend’s house for the day? What a minute, do I have any single friends left, much less one who is neat and has a sense of style?

All of these thoughts go through my head as I’m nodding my part of the conversation. Usually, I bring some snack for my daughter. She and I have allergies. But, sometimes, my chocolate chip cookies are looked upon suspiciously. I think it’s the sugar. I know I should bring fruit, but I like the cookies, too!

So, my resolution this month is to just go to the play dates with as little judgment as possible. Oh, and maybe I’ll put on a bit of makeup before I go. That may give my self- esteem a needed boost as I ponder how clean their kitchen floor is.

By Georgie Craig

Labels: anti-anxiety meds, cookies, favors play dates, fruit, frumpy moms, Georgie Craig, kindergarten, messy house, preschool, self-esteem, stylish moms, sugar, Xanax

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I watched my husband, Keith, brush the hair away from my five-year-old daughter’s forehead last night as he read her Pirate ABCs. His voice growled as he did his best Johnny Depp impression. Miranda nestled next to his chest, looked up at him, smiled and snuggled closer.

I walked out of the room, tears welling in my eyes. My dad never read me a bedtime story. Not once. That wasn’t our bedtime ritual. Even though I was only six, I remember it clearly.

You see, Lyle Dennison didn’t read to his kids. He he was too busy being an Oakland cop. And when the job had been too much for him, he was busy hoisting a few Manhattans at the neighborhood tavern.

But we did have a bedtime ritual. He would come home, collapse in his big comfy armchair, and yell “George, take off my shoes.”

I would be in my room, in my pajamas, reading. Slowly, I would walk down the hall and enter the living room. “Hi Dad,” I would say quietly, trying to get a read on his mood.
If he was a happy drunk, then I could sit by his chair and watch McHale’s Navy. But if it had been a hard day, it was safer to be quiet, pull the shoes off and leave. Otherwise, there could be hitting, pushing, yelling.

Usually, it had been a hard day. “George, hurry up, I’m tired,” he would growl. I would bend down and untie the shoelaces as quickly as I could. I would pull them off. His feet usually stank. I stood up and walked quietly away as his head lolled back on the armchair, unconsciousness waiting around the corner.

I don’t remember where my mom was when this would happen. My older sister, Kathy, tried to stop it once and Dad just growled at her to leave me alone. And I don’t remember how long this ritual lasted -- I just remember how scared I was.

And last night, standing in my daughter’s room seeing the love and trust on her face as she snuggled next to her dad, I realized how far I had come from that dark ritual.

By Georgie Craig

Labels: fathers, Georgie Craig, husband, Johnny Depp, yelling

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I woke up last Thursday planning on taking my five-year-old daughter to school and then running a host of errands. As many spiritual teachers have said, “The universe laughs when you make plans."

My plan was shattered as my stomach lurched and I ran to the bathroom beginning a day-long devotion to the porcelain god.

The stomach flu had hit me with a vengeance. No warning, just a seven-thirty a.m. reminder that I am not in control of my own life. I staggered back to bed and croaked at Keith, my husband, “You have to take Miranda to school.”

He looked at me, thought for a second and smiled. “Of course, sweetie, you’re sick. But what does Miranda eat for lunch?”

I tried to answer but a stronger force, my stomach, made me run back to the bathroom. A few moments later, his head poked past the door and he asked the same question. At that point, I just gasped, “Anything she wants. Just give her whatever she wants.”

Pictures of chocolate cake, brownies, fruit rollups, and licorice sticks danced through my head as I imagined Miranda’s requests. But that was all wiped clean a moment later, and I was back in the moment with me.

After passing out for a few hours, I woke to the sound of my phone. My husband was on the line. “Can you pick up Miranda from school?” My sheet was soaked with sweat, my head spinning as I tried to sit up.

“I’ll see if I can get my girlfriend to do it. Otherwise, I’ll call you back.” I collapsed on my bed and barely managed to dial her number.

Luckily for me, I have friends who have children in the same grade. This one wonderful woman picked up Miranda and cared for her as I lay twitching in my bed. By evening, the worst was over and Keith had gathered up Miranda and brought her home.

As I lay in bed slowly recovering, I thought, “How do people without community do it? How do single mothers do it? I am so blessed. I am so blessed.”

By Georgie Craig

Labels: Flu, friendship, Georgie Craig

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Some afternoons when I drive my car into the garage after taking my daughter to swimming, ballet or acting class, the last thing I want to do is cook.

Usually, boiling water seems like climbing Mount Everest. But since we’re not in the income bracket to afford a cook, or a Sherpa, or even delivery -- I fall back on takeout.

Takeout is to me what a housecleaner is to other, neater, more obsessive women: a luxury that keeps me from going insane. It has become a want that is now a need. It truly is a service that prevents me from appearing on "Snapped," the lovely TV show that “focuses on average women, who snap and kill or arrange for their husbands to be killed.”

But getting takeout isn’t as easy a decision as it seems. First, there’s the expense. Truly, it would make more sense to just boil water and throw some noodles in it. But, hey, often boiling water is just too much work. And a hit man or woman can be so expensive. But in family life there is no easy answer.

For you see, I have to decide what takeout to get, call and order, and then go get it. Sometimes this involves descending into negotiations between my daughter, my husband and me that would make an ambassador squirm.

For there isn’t one, all wonderful, all-knowing takeout place. Oh, no, in our family there are different types of takeout. There is takeout my daughter will eat, also known as fast food. This includes burritos.

Then there is adult takeout. That is takeout from my favorite Indian restaurant. It is takeout my daughter will eat, if I starve her a bit. It is takeout my husband and I love. Best of all, it is takeout that will last two days if I order extra. The only downside is the cost.

But as I remind my husband between bites of garlic naan, it’s cheaper than a divorce, or the alternative. And, as my daughter squirms, I remind her that if she just eats one more bite of chicken, I’ll get her the Pokemon cards she desires. See, I know how to keep my family happy.

By Georgie Craig

Labels: Georgie Craig

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Summer is half over and the many moments I had planned for my daughter and I to have quality time together have not happened. Guilt is bearing down me as inexorably as autumn and the beginning of school.

When her kindergarten “Moving On” ceremony had ended, I had visions of us taking walks, having deep talks and reading lots of books, just the two of us. But so far those moments have been fleeting. What with camps and trips, our days have been full of movement and separation.

Not that it’s all bad. Miranda loves camp and I get to get stuff done. Projects that languished during the school year are being tackled. Old storage containers are being opened and shredding continues apace. Space is appearing in the garage. Writing, reading, and outlines for an improvisation class I want to teach are all coming to fruition.

But, but, but, Miranda is getting older and as they say, you’re only young once.

So, I’ve decided the space in the garage is as good as it’s going to be. The outlines are fine and more days spent at home may be better than day tripping around Marin. As summer is fading, I want more snuggles, more talks, more walks and more books all with Miranda at my side. I want her to remember summer as a time to play and be with Mom.

That is as long as she’s willing to be there with me. For though I find myself missing her more and more, she’s missing me less and less. The great big world and her many friends call to her, call to her to play and play in the fading summer sun.

And that call needs to be answered as much as my call to take a bit more time at my side, before she moves even further away.

By Georgie Craig

Labels: Georgie Craig

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I hear her voice ringing clearly, stridently, as I bread chicken for dinner.

“Mommeeee, I need you. Now.”

There’s resignation in my voice, capitulation even, as I shout back, “What’s wrong? I’m making dinner, sweetie.” For I know full well what’s coming, but as I roll the chicken in bread crumbs, I silently pray that this time I’m wrong.

“Mommeee, please, I need you to wipe my butt.” There it is, the b word, winging its way down the hall to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I love me daughter. I just don’t want to wipe her butt anymore. She’s 6 and I feel it’s damn well time she wiped her own ass. I’ve done my time. I’ve earned it. But she doesn’t feel that way.

“It’s too hard, Mommee. It’s too hard and then I get poop on my hands.” She’s sitting on the toilet waiting for me. She turns her hands palm sides up to show me how the poop spreads everywhere. Then she smiles at me, leaps off the toilet into a perfect downward dog. It’s just the right position for me to provide maximum service.

I sigh and say to my young yogi, “You need to try. How will you ever learn unless you try?” No reply. I give up and submit, thinking we should get stock in diaper companies for she’s sure to be wearing them to college.

As I wash my hands, my daughter sidles up next to me and starts to wash her hands. She looks up at me and says, “You know Momma, I don’t go poo poo at school. I’m too scared.” I look down at her and say, “That’s okay. You save it up until you get home and I’ll help you.” She smiles and I go back into the kitchen.

But in the kitchen as I wash my hands one more time, I wonder, am I doing the right thing? Maybe I should be more forceful. Maybe I should let her sit there until she wipes. Maybe she will be the only one in her college class to wear a diaper.

I know she’s not the only one who gets her butt wiped. I’ve heard reports from other moms that their kids, too, want personalized service. So maybe there’ll be others wearing those diapers to calculus class. Maybe they’ll start a club?

Or maybe it’s just another way for my daughter to cling to babyhood for just a bit longer. Just a little more until the years start pulling us apart. And that’s why I do it, as much as I hate to admit it. I’m starting to miss the baby as the young lady she’s becoming starts to flower.

By Georgie Craig

Labels: Georgie Craig

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