I was waiting at the intersection for the signal to turn green.  Suddenly, I heard sequels of laughter from the car next to me.  I turned and saw a Volvo station wagon full of girls in soccer uniforms.  They were about eleven or twelve chattering among themselves.  The mom driving was oblivious to the noise coming from the back seat of her car.

At first I was relieved it wasn’t me behind that steering wheel.  I couldn’t imagine driving one more carpool to one more soccer game.  For years I drove my two girls and their teammates to games all over the San Francisco Bay Area.  I spent many a weekend at tournaments, but one of the perks of endless hours of sitting through those games was comparing notes with the other moms about the whereabouts of our daughters. 

As our girls entered their teen years and boys and drugs circled their lives, we grew closer as a community of moms.  We began to rely on those weekend morning soccer games to review events from the night before.

I’ll never forget the first time my oldest daughter snuck out of the house.  It was a Friday night and I had come into her room around two a.m. to turn off the light.  Much to my surprise the bedroom window was wide open and pillows were stuffed under the covers on the beds where she and a girlfriend were supposed to be sleeping.  Two recycle bins were stacked on top of each other beneath the window.  They were the stairs for the “escape.”  I should have been furious but I had to laugh at the absurdity of their scheme.  I felt like I was in a “B” movie.   Fortunately, I lived in a safe, small town where I knew most of the families with school-age kids.  On this occasion she and her friend had snuck out the night before a Saturday soccer game.  My solace was in knowing I’d get the details the next morning comparing notes with the other moms.

Sure enough, it turned out that several of our daughters had snuck out and met up at a local park.  Some of the girls had said they were spending the night at a friend’s house.  Some, like my daughter, just jumped out the window.  By the time we sorted out who said what to whom, we were laughing.   

We discovered this was the best way to parent our teenage girls:  throw out a big net and make sure all the girls were safely in it.  We devised an appropriate consequence for their actions.  We made a pact: each parent would ground her daughter for the same amount of time.  No girl could then complain she had the “worst mom in the world” because as a community of moms, we had agreed on the punishment for all of them.  We later discovered the girls weren’t upset by their fates.  They were safe and they knew it.  Much to our relief we had a system for finding them when they were “lost.”

The light turned green and the Volvo with the soccer girls sped ahead.  I wished the mom good luck.  I didn’t miss the car-pooling, but I did miss the camaraderie among the moms which developed, not because our daughters were “good girls” playing soccer, but because they were bad girls testing limits to be themselves. 

By Marilee Stark

Labels: carpool, Marilee Stark, San Francisco Bay Area, sneaking out, soccer game, soccer mom, teens

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I sort the clothes into piles of colored and white.  I'm going to have to wash this stuff first before I pack it up.  What was this girl thinking?  That's the point  -- she wasn't thinking.  I mean how many sweaters, pairs of pants and T-shirts can one girl have?  She's got more clothes than her sister and I put together.

             I'm trying to make some order in my twenty-four year old daughter's bedroom.  I kick my way through the multi-colored array of shoes scattered around her floor.  Really, how many pairs of heels does one need?  Of course, I have only a couple of pairs myself.  

"You could use some heels, Mom," she once chided me. "Kind of update your look!"

            I just had no idea she had this much junk in her room.  But as I make my way through the piles I begin to understand what a risk my daughter has taken to leave all her material possessions behind to go on a nine-month fellowship to India to work with women and children for an NGO.

I notice the packing list on her bed: "No jeans or tight  clothing. Flat shoes only.  Clothing must be loose and cover the body."  My daughter's entire wardrobe would be classified, "INAPPROPRIATE!"  Forget the heels, clutch bags and tank tops!

            But once again she has left home and another mess for her old mom to clean up.  What was she thinking?  Well, it certainly wasn't about her room.  The last weeks she was home she was running around after work getting shots, passport photos and all sorts of stuff for insects and hot weather.

             I put a load of clothes into the washer. How can I be mad at a few piles of dirty clothes when she's mustered the courage to leave everything familiar behind (purses and all) to travel to a culture so different from her own?  What's important anyway?  Maybe I'm jealous.  Maybe I want her clothes. Her opportunities. Her courage. Then I realize I have enough clothes, enough opportunities, and occasionally enough courage. 

She's doing everything I would dream for her. She's following her passion.

            So, what's my problem? 

I just wish we could have cleaned this mess together. Then again, I'm finding some solace in folding her clothes and boxing up her things. It seems the more I fold, the less irritated I become. Finally, I just sit down exhausted next to a box and cry.

I'm going to miss her so much.

 By Marilee Stark

Labels: Adult Children, clean up room, high-heels, India, Marilee Stark, passion

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I spent the first day of my writer's residency settling into Jacqueline Mitchard's home on Cape Cod.  It was a beautiful fall day and I could see the leaves beginning to turn shades of red and orange from my bedroom window overlooking the garden. 

I had ten days to write without distractions or responsibilities.  My two adult daughters, ages twenty-three and twenty-four, were taking care of the house and cats.  I no longer had to worry about underage drinking brawls if I was away from home.  It seemed about as good as it gets.

For the first twenty-four hours everything I did was a "pinch me" moment: from writing at my desk in my cozy bedroom to walking down the streets of Brewster with my housemate, Sarah, an eighty-year old retired journalist from Wisconsin.  This was her first experience, also with time alone to write. Before becoming a grandmother, she had been a working single mom like myself.

The second day I was there I got a call from my daughter, Annie,

"Mom, there's a problem with the sewer line."

I'm stunned. For a moment I don't even know what to say. Finally, I manage to ask, "What do you mean?"

"Mom!  I can't deal with this now."

I can't either, I think.

"I'm taking the GRE exam tomorrow…"  She continues talking so fast I can't understand her. I feel myself returning to mom mode.

"Annie, slow down a minute.  Now tell me what happened, s-l-o-w-l-y."

"Our neighbor called to say that our sewer line is leaking into their yard and they've called a plumber."

"OK, can you get the name of their plumber?  Then call our handyman."

"Wait, our neighbor's calling on the other line."  Annie clicks out and I'm left trying to console myself that I can't do anything about this from three thousand miles away.

Five minutes later Annie calls back.  "I'm taking the day off work and re-scheduling my exam.  I'll deal with this."  Click. She hangs up again before I can say anything.

I'm standing in the kitchen with Sarah. It's 10 a.m. EST.  It's 7 a.m. back home in California.  I'm not going to write today with visions of my house flooding.

"Sarah, want to go visit that town, Chatham?"

"Sure." As a journalist I figure she knows how to adapt to life's emergencies. Sarah and I spent the afternoon strolling through the town’s quaint streets while I took calls on my cell with my daughter's latest update.  By 6 p.m. EST, Sarah and I were sitting in a bar sipping wine when I got the final verdict on the sewer.

"Mom, the sewer line connecting our house to the street is broken and needs to be replaced.  I negotiated a pretty good price with one of the plumbers."

"How'd you know to negotiate with them?  I wouldn't have thought to do that."

"Well, I figured since each plumber was giving me a different estimate, I could negotiate." 

For the first time that day I could breathe more easily. I was reminded that Annie was perfectly capable of handling a crisis, especially one like this; as a scientist she could actually understand the sewer problems and as a world traveler she knew how to negotiate for services.

I guess I had to leave home to see home more clearly. 

My daughter had grown up, almost.

While she managed the sewer problem, I still had to pay for it.

Sarah and I drove back to our home in Brewster. Tomorrow I'll write.

By Marilee Stark

Labels: Adult Children, Marilee Stark, Writing Retreats

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Recently, I went to see the film version of Sex and The City with a friend who, like myself, is a mom in her sixties.  She said the movie is about sex.  I said it's about freedom.

A few years ago I sounded just like my friend, until I watched the HBO series with my daughters. 

"Mom, you're not going to like it," my twenty-year old tells me.

"Why not?"

"There's a lot of sex," my twenty-one year old chimes in.

"So what?" These girls weren't even alive in the sixties when my generation was promoting "free love and sex."

One Sunday night my girls call me to watch Sex and The City with them.

As I head for the living room I see a naked couple on the TV having erotic sex in a pool.

"Oh, my God!"

"We told you."

I became immersed in the stories of these four women in their thirties living in New York City:  Carrie, a writer and sex columnist; Samantha, a PR executive; Charlotte, an art dealer; and Miranda, a corporate lawyer.  Initially, I thought these women represented the antithesis of what my generation of feminists fought for.  They seemed only concerned with designer clothes and the men they dated.  We were hippies and political activists. We ran barefoot in the parks.  We didn't stroll on Fifth Avenue in six-inch heels.

Designers were out, freedom was in.

I told my girls that if it weren’t for the 1960's Women's Movement there wouldn't be a TV series like Sex and The City.

"Later for the history lesson, Mom.  Times have changed."

"Precisely my point!" I said.

I wanted to tell them that these women can chose to have lovers because my generation promoted "sexual liberation" and the birth control pill.           

We challenged stereotypes limiting women's roles in jobs and education and the idea that females must marry and have children to be "real" women.

We valued women's friendships. Girlfriends for life, rather than girlfriends until married.

Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda can stroll down the streets of Manhattan, arm in arm, laughing confidently because they are living the lives they chose: Miranda, decided to raise a child with her ex because she had a career and the means to be a single parent.  Charlotte chose to give up her career and become a wife and mother. Samantha decided to have a young lover stand beside her as she faced breast cancer. And Carrie chose to write about all their escapades because women are free to have them now.

What I discovered after watching this series was that these women's lives actually did represent what my generation of activists believed in: women are free to choose their own destinies. While some may not like the choices they make, the point is that they can make them. 

Some things haven't changed.

Forty years after the 1960's Women's Movement we are still debating whether women's rights is about sex or freedom.  My daughters' generation better keep marching for choice, even in six-inch heels.

By Marilee Stark

 

Labels: Marilee Stark, Sex and the City, Women's Movement

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"Happy Mother's Day! Want a cup of tea?"

I awake to see my oldest daughter, Kate, standing in my bedroom doorway.

"Annie and I are making breakfast for you. Do you want to sit outside?"

"Kate, give me a minute! I'm not quite awake." I can't help but smile at her eagerness to get me up.

"Take your time. I'll be back with your tea."

I used to dread Mother's Day. I remember year after year waking up and knowing it wasn't a day off. Usually I had to help my girls, Kate and Annie, get ready for a soccer game or a gymnastic meet. When they were younger, I had to make breakfast, gather their equipment and prepare their snacks.

Normally, I didn't mind this routine, except on Mother's Day when I was driving the girls somewhere, and listening to radio ads like, "Take Your Mom to Brunch!" That'll be the day, I thought.

Plus, I was a single mom, so there was no dad around to coach the girls to do something special for Mother's Day. No cards, flowers or breakfast in bed.

Each year, I'd try a new approach. When the girls were around either or nine, I'd say, "Hey guys, how about making a card or picking some flowers from the garden for Mother's Day?"

Sometimes they'd respond. Sometimes they wouldn't.

When they were older and driving I'd say, "Hey guys, how about going somewhere for Mother's Day?"

"We've got it handled," one of them would say and the hours would pass and no plan emerged. Finally, I'd salvage the day and take us all out to dinner so at least I wouldn't have to cook.

Ultimately, I got proactive and figured, if I wanted to do something special on Mother's Day, I'd plan it myself and they'd have to come.

"This weekend is Mother's Day," I declared one year when Kate and Annie were still in high school. "And we're going hiking."

"Where are we going?" Kate asked. Before I could answer she turned to her sister, "Hey, Annie!" Do you have your walking stick?" They both started laughing. (My friends gave me hiking poles for my birthday one year and the girls never let me live it down.)

"How about Tennessee Valley?" I tried to ignore their teasing, but I had to admit they were funny. "Come on, I know you guys like this hike, and we can take a picnic." Kate and Annie kept on laughing, but I knew we had a date.

Kate pops her head into my bedroom. "Ready, now?"

I turn over and see my beautiful twenty-three year old daughter standing in front of me again only this time with a cup of tea and a bouquet of pink tulips and lilac.

"Breakfast is being served in the garden," Kate announces as she sets down the tea and the vase of flowers. She leaves before I can even get up.

I slowly get up remembering the times I wondered if I could make it as a mom and if the girls would grow up OK. Somehow, we all made it through. They now have jobs and make their own money. And, yes, they can even plan a Mother's Day outing, complete with flowers, tea and breakfast outdoors.

It doesn't get much better than this.

By Marilee Stark

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Being a mom of adult children is so hard sometimes.

But being a mom to my daughter's boyfriend and his dog was not what I signed up for. Yet, in spite of this, I told my youngest daughter, who is twenty-two, she could have her boyfriend stay for awhile until he found a place and, of course, his adorable chocolate lab puppy could stay, too -- for awhile.

Over the months I grew fonder of her boyfriend who helped me fix things around the house. And his dog, Chuck, who chased my three cats for play, left dog hair in every corner of the house, and begged me in the mornings for walks, won my heart despite my complaints.

"Someone else needs to walk Chuck," I'd say three or four times a week, but every morning I'd look into those big brown eyes and dissolve, "Okay, Chuck, let's go. I'll take you," and I'd grab the leash, a few plastic doggie bags and off we'd go.

It didn't take long before I realized I needed those walks as much as Chuck. He took me places in my neighborhood I'd never been before and I met people I didn't know existed. On weekends sometimes I'd take Chuck on a run in the hills behind my house. We both needed the exercise. He would race back and forth coaxing me to play and run until I finally gave up in exhaustion and said, "Okay, Buddy, it's time to go home."

One day I woke up sick. This time not even those big brown eyes could move me. I looked him straight in the face, "No walks today, Chuck. I'm going to bed." I was barely back under the sheets when he landed, all forty pounds, at my side. I slept most of the day awakening only to Chuck's snores and a few wet kisses on my cheeks.

On one occasion I was reading on the couch with Chuck lying across my feet and my daughter's boyfriend walked in cradling my favorite cat, Oscar, in his arms. We looked at each other. Chuck and Oscar looked at each other, and at that moment I knew we had become a family. I stopped asking my daughter when her boyfriend and his dog were moving out, and settled into a comfortable home with one dog, three cats, my daughter, her boyfriend, and myself.

Until one day, a year and a half later, when my daughter announced that she and her boyfriend were breaking up. He and the dog would be moving out.

I looked at her aghast.

Nobody asked me if they could move out I cried to myself. It's not fair that twenty-something "children" only have to ask to move into my house, but they don't have to ask me to move out.

But who said being a mom is fair?

My house is quiet again. When I open the front door now no dog rushes to greet me, while my cats fly in different directions to get out of his way. I'm bereft, but I don't regret for a minute the time spent with my daughter, her boyfriend and his dog.

By Marilee Stark

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Dear Mom,

I wish you were here. Your youngest granddaughter is about to walk across the stage for her college diploma. You'd be so proud! She's graduating Cum Laude in biochemistry, no less! I just want to jump up and down here in the amphitheater and yell at the top of my voice, "You did it, girl, you made it. We made it!"

I know, Mom, you worried that I wouldn't have enough money to send one of your granddaughters to college, much less two. You worried about me, not them. You knew they'd be okay. I kept telling you not to worry. I know better now. . . you can't tell a mom not to worry!

Oh, I wish you were here to take in this proud moment with me. I'm sitting next to your oldest granddaughter who graduated college last year. She's already working in a real job, making real money.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. . . how could I deprive you of attending my college graduation (we rebelled against most institutions in the sixties, especially our colleges and, of course, our college graduations). Now I understand why you were so upset; you just wanted to show up and be a proud parent like I am today. I didn't understand a mother's pride then. I was too busy being a rebellious daughter.

Mom, I wish I could make it up to you by sharing this moment with you at your granddaughter's graduation.

Oh, look! There she goes across the stage. The short one in those high heels under that black gown.

"Honey, that girl is smart and pretty. She'll go far someday!" Did I hear you tell me this before, maybe at her middle school graduation? That was the last graduation we attended together.

Hey, Mom, she's still smart and pretty and look how far she's come!

By Marilee Stark

Labels: Marilee Stark

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