Motherhood is not a glamorous job and all too often lacks the recognition and respect it deserves.

Luckily, my mother rarely concerned herself with what others thought of her, but she did get tired. And she did wish she had some time to herself, maybe even time for a self-indulgent manicure.

When it got really bad, she would exclaim, “I’ve had it up to here” pointing almost to the top of her forehead. We never thought she would point to the very top of her head, although I believe it did happen once when she spontaneously left for a weekend in Aspen by herself.

My father had to come home from work early, and we were all a little concerned about her. Apparently she went for bike rides and enjoyed the outdoors, probably ordered room service or dined at an expensive restaurant without children fighting or dishes to do.

‘She’s finally gone crazy,’ we thought. But now as a mother I think -- good for her! It was about the sanest thing she could have done.

I have taken my mother’s advice and have made arrangements so that one day a week, I have a day off. Usually I fill it with chores that I did not have time to do during the week. I can hear my mother on the phone, asking me what I’m doing on my day off and when I give her the list of errands, her silence speaks disapproval.

“Maybe you could get your nails done, or do something for yourself,” she says. ‘If I have time,’ I think.

Whenever I make a trip to visit my parents, my mother always gives me her nail appointment and offers to baby-sit my daughter, Samantha. I tell her I like to get my nails done by her manicurist because she gives the best pedicures, but we both know it isn’t about my nails.

By Rebecca Elegant

Labels: bikes rides, chores, glamorous, manicure, Rebecca Elegant, recognition, respect

Stumble This Post

Last Thursday I went to hear Madeline Levine talk about her new book called The Price of Privilege. She writes about an epidemic of depression, anxiety and substance abuse in children in middle to upper class areas, such as Marin.

Since my daughter is only two, I do not have experience raising an adolescent in Marin, but I do have a great deal of experience teaching adolescents.

Looking back on my high school teaching career, a major cause of this burgeoning epidemic is clear: the emphasis on performance rests at the heart of the problem.

With this emphasis on performance, let’s skip right to graduation and forget the process it took everyone, students and teachers alike, to get there.

First of all, the school where I taught in Marin publishes for all to see the colleges and universities the graduating students will attend. While it may be interesting to see all of the different places the students will go, I think this publication sends the wrong message: where you go to college is more important than anything you did to get there, and is the most important aspect of who you are.

Nothing else is published about the students, not a special quote cherished by the student, not the community service the student performed, not any aspect of the student’s personality.

That Timmy is going to Stanford is all we get about him. Teachers are also victims of a performance-based culture at graduation. Students pick a few teachers to walk with them. The rest don’t even have a seat at graduation, let alone a part in the ceremony.

I remember my first graduation experience in Marin, leaning against a tree near the back, barely able to hear what was being said. Even as a confident adult who knew deep down that I was a good teacher and that I should be proud that I put my heart and soul into my job, I felt this overwhelming sense of failure because I was not chosen to walk with them.

This is in stark contrast to a school where I taught in Colorado where even though four-thousand students attended, every single faculty member walked proudly in robes with the students, and we were even reserved front row seating, so that we could see and hear the students we worked so hard to get to this point.

Now if I was feeling this crushed, I can only imagine how insecure adolescents who are struggling to find themselves must feel in a performance heavy culture.

This is not to say that we should protect our kids from all disappointments. They need failures to grow and learn from, but they also need to know that their worth and identity are not dependant on grade point average, college acceptances, and varsity sports teams.

Now I sit here, not as a teacher but as a mother who knows how easy it is to get caught in the tangles of a cultural phenomenon that has the potential to squander creativity, individuality and self worth.

How can I impart to my daughter that achievement is good if coupled with intrinsic motivation? How can I show her that working to our full potential gives us a sense of pride, but that our foibles and eccentricities are what make us human, and therefore able to love and be loved? I do not yet know the answers to my questions and that frightens me a bit. For now, hugs and kisses seem to solve most problems in my two- year old’s life.

By Rebecca Elegant

Labels: adolescents, anxiety, depression, graduation, Madeline Levine, Marin, performance, Rebecca Elegant, The Price of Privilege, upper class

Stumble This Post

The holiday season will soon be over.

Then I will finally put away my “Christmakkah” decorations: the unobtrusive fake tree, which resembles more of an ornament holder, the driedel and Hanukkah menorah, the Nutcracker, and the evergreen garland that just had to do for that Christmas smell I love so much.

We ate or gave away all of the Hanukkah cookies my daughter and I made while listening to my favorite Christmas CDs. But now, I put away the conundrum that occurs every year in December and feel secure again in my decision to have a Jewish household.

The only time of year I question my conversion and raising my daughter Jewish is around Christmas, but I think that time of year presents some unrest for many Jewish individuals, even those who grew up in Jewish households simply because Christmas is so embedded in our culture. I have heard the Christmas tree debate and discussion many times and know many Jewish families that put a tree up in December simply because it’s festive, ignoring the true meaning of Christmas.

There are many reasons I wish to be Jewish, but Hanukkah isn’t one of them. It doesn’t compete with Christmas and is really a minor holiday in the Jewish religion. The gift giving for eight nights is done mostly because of Christmas, and, as my husband’s father said, “Hanukkah is really for the children.”

The smell of frying latkes doesn’t have the same nostalgic impact on me as fresh evergreen. Even what is celebrated during Hanukkah, namely a battle won, on the surface does not strike an emotional cord like the birth of a baby in a manger. Fighting, even if for a good cause, is a result of human failure, whereas the birth of a baby, Christ child or not, is truly miraculous and beautiful.

I try opening my mind and looking a little deeper. Perhaps it is good that this time of year encourages me to reflect and question my decision to be Jewish. As a matter of fact, one of the reasons I became Jewish was because I was attracted to the freedom to think for myself and the lack of hierarchy found in Reform Judaism.

It is more of a religion of deed and not of creed. It tests my power of individual interpretation, a value greatly cherished in Jewish thinking. And so Hanukkah not only celebrates a military victory against an indomitable force, but also the importance of taking action instead of relying solely on faith or giving up before starting.

The Jews could have decided that King Antiochus was too powerful, but instead Judah Macabee took action and he and his army saved the Jewish lifestyle. Commendable and inspirational. In this light, maybe even miraculous and beautiful, too.

Every December I’ll unpack my few holiday decorations, wish I had a real tree, and sing my favorite Christmas songs. I’ll also light my menorah, eat my jelly doughnuts, and give my daughter Hanukkah gifts. I know I’ll feel the confusion again and wish for that simplicity I felt as a child, sure Santa on his sleigh will bring me a gift.

And, worse, I might even wish my daughter could experience the simplicity of Christmas as I did as a child. Instead, she’ll know both Christmas and Hanukkah and realize at a very young age, that there are many ways to celebrate life and multiple interpretations, too. As messy as it is, reflective questioning and open-mindedness are essential aspects of the “Christmakkah” season for me, and I hope for my family, as well.

By Rebecca Elegant

Labels: Christmas, Hanukkah, Mixed Religions, Rebecca Elegant

Stumble This Post

Picture this: a screaming, kicking two-year old wearing only diapers in thirty-five degree weather. Her frazzled, seven-month pregnant mother is holding her with one arm and with her other arm struggling to push the stroller filled with a diaper bag, shopping bags, and discarded clothes, and coats.

This was me last week as I left the once peaceful Goodnight Moon children’s store in the Town Center in Corte Madera. The fit happened over trying on clothes and I was unable to get her back in her original attire, so I had to take her out in only a diaper.

Upon exiting, I remember seeing an older man cringe irritatingly and put his hands to his ears as the cacophony of screaming child competed with the classical music. Shortly after, on that interminable walk to the car, a woman with whom I take an exercise class spotted me. She said, “You look great.”

I remember thinking: did she really just say that, under these circumstances? I contemplated handing her my stroller, or better yet my flailing child. At this point, just getting to my car was my main focus. With aching arms, I tried to put Samantha in the stroller, but just as I started to walk, she arched her back, dragging her little toes on the ground. I picked her up again, feeling incredibly guilty about her scraped toe. This was starting to get painful, and at the time I thought that I must be the only mother in the world who had ever experienced such a scene.

It was a tantrum to compete with all others, one that could go down in the Guinness Book of World Records under two-year old fits.

As I sat in the car crying with Samantha and feeling the kicks of the baby against my ribs, my first inclination was to blame myself for being a terrible mother. Maybe I hadn’t been strict enough. Maybe I’ve bought her too many things or have tried too hard to please her. Perhaps I wasn’t sensitive enough to her mood or to the fact that she gets overwhelmed by too many choices. The next train of thought was to wonder why my daughter exploded in such an uncontrollable manner and how I could have prevented it. I wondered if I should look into a parenting class since clearly I was failing miserably.

I’ve told this story to other mothers, all of whom identified with similar experiences of their own. One mother even had a scar on her face from where her daughter scratched her when she was throwing a tantrum. When I find the time to share with other mothers, I am always surprised by how much we have in common and how really similar our children are. It doesn’t help that I spend a great deal of time alone with my daughter, totally absorbed in my own world, and therefore have few means of comparison. Slowly I began to realize that Samantha’s fit was rather commonplace, even if humiliating and exhausting.

I have recovered somewhat from the horrible episode at Good Night Moon, but even so it will be a while before I take my daughter clothes shopping again. And as for those parenting classes, I have one marked on my calendar to attend entitled “Controlling Toddler Tantrums.” I better sign up soon, as this promises to be a popular class.

By Rebecca Elegant

Labels: parenting classes, Rebecca Elegant, scream, tantrums

Stumble This Post

One of the most common sentences I hear these days is, “I have to go potty, Mommy.”

We go when she has to go. We go when she doesn’t. We go no matter where we are or what we are doing. Sometimes I hear those words, and I cringe, “Again? Are you sure?”

I also hear, about five times a day, “Mommy, pretend that I’m Cinderella.” This requires that we change clothes into five different outfits because, just in case you have forgotten, Cinderella starts in her night gown, changes into her work rags, wears the pink dress the mice make, dons her blue dress for the ball, and then sports her wedding dress at the end.

Usually I’m facilitating costume changes while balancing a nine-month old on my hip and holding the phone with my shoulder. There have been days when I think that if I have to play the part of the handsome prince one more time, I might die of boredom.

And how many more times do we have to read "Who Pooped in the Park?" I am so incredibly tired of that book that I intentionally hid it so that we simply could not read it before bed again. Lucky me, I have become an expert at deciphering wildlife droppings.

No doubt, the repetition can be tedious and the interests of a three-year old, uninspiring. However, there are those surprising moments when my daughter says or does something that I want to engrain in my memory forever because it strikes me as one of the most beautiful things I’ve heard or witnessed in a long time. Often it happens when I least expect it, during one of our most mundane activities.

Today, it took place while she was sitting on the potty. After impatiently asking her if she was done, she responded, “It’s taking a while...” At first I thought she meant that it was taking a while to finish her business on the toilet.

Then she continued, “It’s taking a while for summer and to plant flowers in spring and for Valentine’s Day with heart cookies and pink sugar, and for my birthday and for getting taller. It’s taking too long. When am I going to get taller?

At that moment, I wanted to freeze her in time so that she would always be my three-year old Samantha with so many simple pleasures to anticipate. It reminded me that there will come a day when she doesn’t want to play Cinderella or read that poop book or have conversations with me while on the potty because some day she will be taller -- so tall that I will lamentably wonder where the time has gone.

By Rebecca Elegant

Labels: Rebecca Elegant

Stumble This Post

Motherhood is not a glamorous job and all too often lacks the recognition and respect it deserves.

Luckily, my mother rarely concerned herself with what others thought of her, but she did get tired. And she did wish she had some time to herself, maybe even time for a self-indulgent manicure.

When it got really bad, she would exclaim, “I’ve had it up to here” pointing almost to the top of her forehead. We never thought she would point to the very top of her head, although I believe it did happen once when she spontaneously left for a weekend in Aspen by herself.

My father had to come home from work early, and we were all a little concerned about her. Apparently she went for bike rides and enjoyed the outdoors, probably ordered room service or dined at an expensive restaurant without children fighting or dishes to do.

‘She’s finally gone crazy,’ we thought. But now as a mother I think -- good for her! It was about the sanest thing she could have done. I have taken my mother’s advice and have made arrangements so that one day a week, I have a day off. Usually I fill it with chores that I did not have time to do during the week.

I can hear my mother on the phone, asking me what I’m doing on my day off and when I give her the list of errands, her silence speaks disapproval.

“Maybe you could get your nails done, or do something for yourself,” she says. ‘If I have time,’ I think. Whenever I make a trip to visit my parents, my mother always gives me her nail appointment and offers to baby-sit my daughter, Samantha. I tell her I like to get my nails done by her manicurist because she gives the best pedicures, but we both know it isn’t about my nails.

By Rebecca Elegant

Labels: Rebecca Elegant

Stumble This Post

Sometimes, I feel like The Great Gastby who threw lavish parties and everyone came, but at his funeral very few people attended. Recently ,I threw an “End of the Summer Party,” which was a big success. I had been to enough three-year old birthday parties where every conversation was interrupted by a crying child, a spilled drink, a demand for cake. I decided it would be nice to get together with friends without the children and see people with whom I had been meaning to make plans all summer.

Everyone is so busy in the summer time with vacations and activities, and I’m no exception, especially since I have a new baby at home. This summer madness made me feel empty without connections. When I’d pick up the phone to call a friend, I worried that I might be bothering her and would often concoct reasons why not to call: it was dinner time, bath time, nap time. You name it, people where always too busy.

With Caller ID and the ability to see who is calling at all times, there is even less incentive to answer the phone if it’s not really important. I find that when I’m busy, which is much of the time, unless it’s a call I’m expecting, I often ignore it with the thought that I’ll call back later, when I have the time.

But what I miss then are those conversations that stop the madness and slow down the rolling momentum of day-to-day life. These unfortunately ignored opportunities don’t demand or inform anything, but provide those much needed exchanges that sound like “how are you?” and “just thought I’d call to say I’m thinking of you.”

Ironically, e-mail contributes to these feelings of isolation. While it’s easy to get in touch with just about anyone at any time, e-mail messages are rarely deep or heartfelt. They are quick, often cryptic exchanges. It’s much easier to send an e-mail than to actually visit someone in person or write a letter, both of which take time and effort.

In short, I felt a need to reach out, to create a community. Like Gatsby, I threw a party. People were thrilled to come and seemed to have a great time. I received a number of, get this, actual hand-written letters thanking me. It seems that I wasn’t the only one who needed a good gathering. I had created a community, forced it into being.

The week before my party, I caught a terrible flu bug. Of course my husband was out of town on business leaving me with our newborn and three-year old daughter. I felt so sick I could barely get out of bed. Luckily, I wasn’t on my death bed like Gatsby, but it certainly felt like it. In just a few days, forty people were coming to my house for a party, but I couldn’t think of one person to call to help me when I was so sick.

I desperately wished my mother lived closer and that my large family in general wasn’t so spread out, all living in different states. And herein lays another common source of isolation: families rarely stay together anymore. Whatever happened to families living in close proximity to each other, sharing common values, memories, and rituals? Instead, we are all so independent and autonomous, creating our own separate lives, often marrying into different cultures and religions. Every time I got up to nurse my baby with my 102 degree fever, I was reminded of my separateness.

Fortunately, I was able to find a sitter to watch my children the next day so that I could get some much needed rest. When she agreed to come, I almost cried with relief. And as I wrote her the check at the end of the day, it felt odd: I had to pay for my caring community. In some ways, I feel more gratitude toward my nanny than just about anyone, but I know it simply shouldn’t be that way. In this instance, I’m not alone. Many mothers, if they are able, pay for the help they need, creating a kind of artificial community.

The evening of my party, I told my friend Eliza about this flu incident and how lucky I felt to get a sitter. She responded, “You know you could have called me. That’s what friends do.” But I didn’t think of it at the time. Cleary, my isolation is somewhat self inflicted, as well. I was always so critical of Gatsby’s shallow friends, but perhaps Gatsby did not expect enough of people or humble himself enough to show his vulnerability. Parties are fun and I’ll keep throwing them, but I need to be creative and honest in my quest to create an authentic community.

I’ve heard my husband say to our toddler, “You know, some day you could live in the house right next door. That way we could come visit you any time.” She always agrees that this would be a good idea. He jokes this way. We both laugh. But I know that he, whose family lives on the opposite coast in Miami, is also trying to maintain an authentic community. I think of the expression on my parents’ faces the day my soon-to-be- husband and I loaded up a U-Haul with all my belongings to drive across the country to our new home in San Francisco. At the time, I just wished they could be happy for me.

Now I understand.

By Rebecca Elegant

Labels: Rebecca Elegant

Stumble This Post

Bravery

I’ve never thought of myself as brave. Dogs, even little ones terrify me. Riding horses is a torment I hope to never repeat again. I only cross streets where there is a cross walk and always wait for the walk signal; you never know when some crazy car will whiz out of nowhere.

With my vivid imagination I can conjure up the worst possible scenarios: the stranger who touched the hands of my two-week old baby in the grocery store may have a rare flu, incurable and potentially deadly. But something has made me question my cowardly character flaw: motherhood.

One of the bravest things I ever did was decide to be a mother. With kids every day, every outing feels like another act of bravery. For example, recently I left the relative safety of my home and took my new-born baby of only one month and my three-year old to the Disney Store.

We were on a mission to find a Cinderella Princess dress to wear at her 3rd birthday party. Now the only Disney Store I knew of was all the way down in Union Square in San Francisco. Although it would be a hassle to drive over the bridge and brave the downtown traffic, it would be worth it. We would walk into the magical Disney Store, Samantha would be mesmerized by the toys and beautiful Princess gowns, and I would get a vicarious thrill watching her pick out just what she had been dying to have for the last few months.

About half way there, the baby starts crying and it is clear to me that she needs to be fed. I decide that I’ll nurse her in the parking lot once we get there instead of pull over, which is what I should have done. Alice is screaming now, hitting that high pitch only newborns can muster, while I’m dodging cars and pedestrians in a frantic panic to park in the Union Square lot.

Normally, I am a very cautious, unaggressive driver. I’m the one who will follow a slow dump truck for miles. But beware! Mothers are dangerous drivers when they have crying children in the back. Luckily, I find a dark, corner parking spot. With my antsy toddler in back and my new born at my breast, I start thinking about how vulnerable I am to any criminal.

Aren’t you supposed to exit a car as soon as you park in order to avoid such predators? Samantha is now cheering “We’re here. We’re here! Hurry Mama!” We pack up what we need, get everyone situated, and head for the store. At this point, I’ve started to doubt my great idea for a morning outing. Why didn’t I just go to Toys R Us down the street?

Finally, we walk past the threshold and into the spectacular land of Disney. Samantha’s head is turning from side to side searching for that coveted dress. “We’ll find it,” I assure her, frantically looking for that dress myself. Knowing that I must be missing something, I ask a young salesperson where the Princess dresses are. With a bubbly voice and big smile she says, “Oh, we don’t have any right now.” Incredulously I respond,” You don’t have any right now? You mean we came all the way down here from Marin with two kids just to get a Cinderella dress and you don’t have any right now?”


“Only at Halloween,” she pipes back. It was unbelievable that I had made this ridiculous trip for nothing, blindly believing that Disney, where all dreams come true, wouldn’t let me down. What’s more, I was bolstering myself for Samantha’s tantrum, as I was ready to throw one myself. I was already planning how I was going to carry a crying three- year old out of the store while pushing my newborn in the stroller when Samantha responds, “It’s okay Mama. We’ll find one at another store.” I guess sometimes dreams do come true. My daughter was acting more level headed and mature than I.

Was it a wasted morning? Perhaps. But I keep venturing out with my new baby and my toddler, often not knowing what the outcome will be or how everyone will behave. Motherhood truly is an act of bravery. Let the adventure continue.

By Rebecca Elegant

Labels: Rebecca Elegant

Stumble This Post