Everyone should get an Abby--but you can't have mine, she's busy enough as it is

I was in the middle of composing the most sorrowful, self-loathing post ever when my friend Abby called. Abby, whom you may remember from our mall adventures or that time she murdered a chipmunk, is one of my dearest friends and will be for life because I will never let her go. She has three kids, and sometimes I think she tells them to scream/cry/cavort extra loud before she calls me so I can feel better about only having one. They're among my favorite children in the world, but they're children, and when they interact they do so at high decibels and with things around them crashing to the ground. I find it hilarious that she can engage in a conversation when it sounds like the children are setting everything on fire a few feet away.

Her son is the oldest, and he's exactly one month older than Henry, so we often check in to see if some recent aberrant behavior means that one of our children is having a problem, or there's just some developmental age-related mischief at work in their increasingly lanky bodies. Henry and her son Ben are really similar, both of them smart and intense and maybe a little too sensitive for their own comfort. I think Ben is far more easygoing, but that might be because he's not mine and therefore does not push my buttons.

Which brings me back to how I was writing this depressing post, the gist of which was that I am the worst parent ever, have no idea what I'm doing, and should probably pack up and find my son a well-trained governess or related expert who can deal with him in a manner that doesn't involve 1) shouting and 2) more shouting. Because my buttons these days--oh, friends. My buttons. They are all pushed. They have been mashed down so far that they're all broken and I'm like a stuck apartment door buzzer that won't turn off and is just buzzing NO STOP IT I SAID STOP IT GAAAAH.

It's not that he's doing anything that horrible, but oh my god, everything is so…dramatic, lately. There is so much noise. It seems to be noise that is specifically designed to drive us to the limits of patience. It is usually high-pitched and/or repetitive until we are begging for mercy. There is yelling. The yelling is ignored. (And then there is more yelling. The illogic in this does not escape me.) Everything--getting dressed, getting teeth brushed, not petting the cat until she lashes out in cat-fury--everything is a fight. Everything. It's becoming so predictable that the minute we start up I just begin to yell because I can't take it. And then I end the day with a headache and a sore throat and I feel like a monster. Oh! And my child tells me that he thinks he's a bad person and I fully blame myself, and I wake up in the middle of the night wracked with anxiety because I've probably ruined my child's life.

But then Abby called. And Abby described life with her son, and life with HER son is eerily similar if not IDENTICAL to life with mine. All the same behaviors are on display. The noise- and trouble-making. The emotions running at a fever pitch. The expressions of low self-esteem. It's like the two of them have been comparing notes! And Abby is waaahaaay more even-keeled and parenting-skilled than I am. She's definitely not screwing up her kids. Therefore, I concluded, I may not be screwing up mine!  Oh, I'm so pretty sure!

We toyed with some strategies. Abby mused that perhaps we should just be extra-tolerant and humor them until they grow out of this phase. I thought this was sweet and adorable and I bet she'll be able to do it! As for me, I wondered if maybe they weren't looking for excuses to rage-weep because of some kind of internal turmoil, so maybe I was doing my son a favor by losing my shit. (Abby seemed skeptical but I think I nailed this!)

Although we reached no life-changing conclusions from our talk, there's already been an improvement around here. Because I'm no longer filled with despair. And I managed to get through the night without once leaping out of bed choking in panic. I can't tell you what a relief it is to discover that my parenting is really not the problem. The problem is nine-year-olds. Which unfortunately he's going to be for ten more months. Now that I'm getting some sleep, maybe I can figure out a way to ride this out.

Happy camper

All right! HOOOOO! Let's go! You are all my audience and I am running through the aisles high-fiving each of you! Oh my god you love this!

I returned from Camp Mighty on Monday morning, and first of all, I have in the past told everyone I know, "please remind me never to take a red-eye flight again," and then I book another one, and everyone I know says "but you said you should never take a--" and I bellow "YOU CAN'T ORDER ME AROUND MOM," and then I take it, and then I am a wreck for the remainder of the week. I don't know if it's because I am an especially delicate flower, or I'm just old. I'm sure it's both. I am an old and delicate flower. I'm like Jessica Tandy, not even if she were alive. I am the dusty corpse of Jessica Tandy. (Aw. Jessica Tandy.)

Not to mention, I had two--TWO!--readings this week, both of which were a tremendous amount of fun, but this is all too much excitement for an aging-with-age eccentric like myself.

I'm fatigued and depleted! Where is my vitality-tonic! I require liniments!

Camp Mighty was--and this was no surprise to me--amazing. Like I said before, Maggie and Laura, they are superstars. Superstars with beautiful hair and amazing hearts. I would follow them wherever they might suggest we go. Would you like me to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, Maggie? Say no more. Tether my ankle and let's do this.

There was so much fun that was had and so many friendships that were formed, but what I want to talk about is the life list. Oh, the LIFE LIST. Like some of my more skeptical camp-attending friends, I was deeply unsure about the benefits of a creating such a list. For one thing, everyone knows that when you create something called a "life list," you are reminding the Universe that you're mortal and the Universe then casts its cold infinite gaze upon you and goes "Oh, right, duh," WOMP. ("Womp" is the sound of the Universe placing events in motion that will cause you to get hit on the head with a brick while you're heading to the end of your block to purchase a Snapple.) This is common sense. Or science. It's common science.

But also, creating a life list means sharing your goofball dreams and grandiose aspirations with OTHER PEOPLE and OTHER PEOPLE will probably roll their eyes or explain why it can't be done, and in these ways they will crush your tender inside parts. This is neither common sense nor science, but in fact is my deepest held belief which might be why I should go back to therapy a lot?

I read somewhere, though, that in order to have extraordinary experiences, you have to be okay with discomfort. This has been true for me with just about everything else. I get on planes and stand in front of audiences and those things make me shaky and weak, but they're so worth it. (Of course then I need to spend a week lying down on my couch with my dog curled up next to me and multiple cups of tea, but I digress.)

I was surprised at how much discomfort I felt writing my list, honestly. But that discomfort was valuable information. I also saw how hard I am on myself, how so many items were "finally stop sucking at X" or "get over this ridiculous fear, you ninny."  I had to sit and concentrate on being nicer to me before my brain would give me access to some of the more fun items on the list, or the ones that the critical parts of me would dismiss or criticize. What was that I was saying about other people? Oh, right, that's not other people. That's me. Therapy: no longer needed!

So writing it was valuable, but sharing it with strangers or near-strangers or even good friends who know me? Well. That took a level of trust and faith I'm still working on. At one point over the weekend, we split off into teams, where each member got up to discuss the five items they would commit to accomplishing in the next year. I'd like to say I chose the ones that were most important to me, but pretty much I chose the ones that would be the least embarrassing. And then other people stood up and were vulnerable and honest and I was so inspired, and I realized I need to let myself be more like them. I need to let people in a little more. I need to have more faith. Faith in people. In the universe. Also in myself.

I'm adding all of these to my life list. 

Reunited

It feels like I was at college 5 minutes ago, and also a lifetime ago. Which I guess is what twenty years is. Someone's lifetime. Someone could be reading this who was born the year I graduated from college. Crazy!

Listen, twenty-year-old: in the years since you were born, my friends Tasha and Pat did not age even one little bit. I think they have a couple of portraits tucked away in their respective attics. I'm not going to look into it too deeply.

I wandered some of the hallowed academic halls with Tasha, as we tried to remember where our Italian class was. It was not where we thought. Then I broke my hip! I walked it off.

Here's my friend Amy showing us her old photo album that contained all manner of light-rinse denim and permed hair. The perms were all mine, sadly.

My friend Irene (you'd remember her as my shower-obsessed friend) informed me on Saturday afternoon that we were going to sing. In a semi-circle. Because that's what we did in college (as the Wellesley Widows, dear lord) and that's what we were going to do now. Also, people would be watching. I attempted to protest, but you just can't argue with Irene. Maybe it's because of how good she smells.

We rehearsed for all of five minutes, like so:

And then:

People came (I bet Irene ordered them to! It's like she's MAGIC!):

Nothing will cause me to break out in hives more than the phrase "impromptu a cappella," but this was fun and not even a little bit humiliating.

I miss singing with people I love.

Below is Pamela Daniels, who was our class dean. She retired a while back, and when she did, I wrote her a letter to thank her for saving my life. Which she did. I had a challenging sophomore year, and she met me, every day, just to talk, for weeks. Maybe months. She wrote me back such an amazing letter that I almost wanted to send her a thank-you note to her thank-you note. She is an extraordinary human being, and I am so fortunate to know her.

I had no idea she would be at the reunion. Then she strode in, all stately and regal, and I walked up to her kind of tentatively and she looked at my name tag and said, "You wrote me that letter!" That was ELEVEN YEARS AGO, you guys. She gave me a huge hug and oh, I cried.

Scott took this picture (and all the others, by the way), and while he was futzing with the camera she whispered to me, "He's in the arts, I hope? Tell me he's in the arts," and I said yes, Dean Daniels (I can't call her Pamela), he's in the arts. Doesn't the beard give it away? No?

Here we are, walking through what was, when we were at school, a parking lot. Now it's wetlands? I was very confused.

You couldn't pay me to go back to 1991, but then again, maybe you could pay me to go back to 1991, maybe just for a little while. If I could bypass the fashion mistakes and just hang out with my friends.

Not sorry at all

Yeah, whatever, so I haven't been here all week. Pfft, like I even care.

Okay,  I DO care. Shut up. I can't even pretend with you guys. Getting back to work, and school, and HOMEWORK (growl smash rage), and other obligations that have forced me to get dressed and/or become more or less clean, has taxed my already-challenged brainsicle. But I've almost got this thing figured out! I'm dressed now and EVERYTHING. And it's four o'clock oh shit I was supposed to pick up Henry an hour ago.

Ha ha! He's at a playdate. I mean, I think. No one from the school or the department of child-maintenance or wherever has called me yet, so I assume everything's copasetic.

But look, there are three posts over at Redbook from me this week! I recommend that you read them. Thank you. I love you. Your hair smells like sunshine.

1. In which I write an angry letter to homework. And Homework writes back.

"I know that I can be a challenge! Did you know that the Lenape Indians faced hardships, too? Find 23 things in your home that remind you of the many challenges the Lenape Indians faced, then create physical representations of your feelings using the corn husks you gathered during your dinner which I hope included corn! Show your work!"

2. When your mom's a hoarder. For most of her life, Jessie Sholl hid a secret from almost everyone she knew: her mom is a compulsive hoarder. Her memoir, Dirty Secret, is about growing up with a mentally ill parent, and what it's like as an adult child of someone so troubled and erratic. It's a great book, and I'm not only saying that because Jessie is one of my favorite people in the universe.

3. Plastic surgery: would you consider it? In this post I sing the praises of Tina Rowley--hilarious blogger and noted Twitter personality--who, after the birth of her second child, beheld changes in her body of which she Did Not Approve. So she had a surgeon fix 'em. Because fuck it. As Tina would (and did, quite frequently!) say. Fuck it! I like the way she thinks.