pink pajama mama

The other day, my 72-year-old father told me he wants to get his chest and back waxed. “What? Are you crazy? Do you know how much that will hurt? You look fabulous just the way you are!” I replied.”My hell, Marci, I should be living in a tree eating bamboo!”My Mom took the phone from him and said, “Marci, you should have seen what he looked like when I married him. He was a golden adonis with no hair ANYWHERE on his body!”Oh boy, I was hoping by the age of 72 I would have gotten off of this crazy carousel of vanity swirling around me. At 41, I’m already relieved that I can just be myself with no pretense for trying to look, act, or be sexy. I look around me and see women on the endless and relentless treadmill of botox, plastic surgery, workouts and diets, and I think there’s got to be more important things to spend time and energy on!And yet, I can’t help but be sucked in. I’ve been on one diet after another since my body was pretty much destroyed with my pregnancies. On one hand, I embrace my imperfections. My body shows the after-effects of bringing two beautiful beings into the world. I’m proud of my body, amazed by my body, and yet, I’d like to be toned and thin and be able to eat whatever I want with no exercise. I’d like my breasts to shrink back to a D, my body to shrink back to a size 4.But alas, it’s wishful thinking for now. I’m a mother of two young children–I have to be peppy and cheerful. There’s no room in my life for the grumpiness that comes along with dieting. I can’t prioritize exercise since I want to be with my children. No, the world will just have to live with my mushy mama body, my DD breasts, my muffin top and jiggles.We went out to dinner at a restaurant where the servers are all opera singers whose voices make me weep in the middle of my Penne Arrabiata. I walked into the ladies room there and found an intriguing painting–it looked like an old cameo of a beautiful victorian woman, but she was a skeleton and it said “Tis all vanity.” Indeed.Why do I struggle so with vanity? I am about to turn 41, and I am so thrilled to be able to release vanity. It’s a relief to be comfortable exactly as I am, to not feel like I want to be sexy, dress sexy, act sexy.And yet, I looked at my legs this morning while stretching in my living room and thought “Who’s legs are those? Surely not mine?! Mine are lean and tanned and toned!” This is where my reverse anorexia comes into play. I feel good. I stand behind my yoga teacher when I make it to class and I think I look like her. I’m always shocked when I catch a glance of myself in a mirrored building. What? Who is that chunky matronly woman? And there I go again! Feeling the ever-tugging pull of vanity. I wave at someone and I feel the undersides of my arms move! What the hell is happening to me!! I made my living off my body for years. It has served me well. But what is going on now? Do I have a few more years left in me for bikinis? Or is it time to hang up my strings and go for the tummy control tankini? Or do I just join the hordes of women who just don’t care, who let their muffin tops hang over their suits and say “To hell with it!” There has to be a happy medium. I suppose it all boils down to feeling good in your body–feeling strong and flexible and capable…For example the last time I went water skiing I popped up on one ski on my first try. I felt so strong and fabulous! And now, I’m more flexible then I’ve been in years, able to do headstands and sit in the splits for long periods of time. And it feels REALLY good!! So I guess I just keep going, feeling good even thought I could stand to flatten my belly and tighten up everything. But maybe that’s gravity and age. I no longer skinny dip–I chunky dunk. And maybe, just maybe, one day all the jiggles will melt of their own accord and presto! I’ll be the new improved me!In the meantime, my parents and I have been talking a lot about zombies lately. I did a paper on the theme of zombies in Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys at UCLA and my Mom recently read a book about zombies so we’ve had lot’s of fascinating conversations. My Dad wrote to me the other day after his high school reunion: “If you’re in doubt about zombies being real, you have only to look at my high school reunion group photo! Yikes!” Well, if the quest for vanity never ceases, at least I can keep my sense of humor.

A baby dragon was born in my living room this morning. “Mommy, come see!” Henry said, leading me by the hand in his red Spiderman underwear. He led me to the side of the couch and held out his hand like a showgirl on The Price is Right. “A baby dragon just hatched out of its egg!”

“Oh wow!” I said. “How cute!”

Henry nodded proudly and scooped up the invisible guy. “He’s so small I can hold him in one hand!” he said, walking carefully with his hand cupped in front of him. He shows it to George. “Look Daddy! A baby dragon hatched!” George says “Oh look how little! But I hope he doesn’t breathe fire on you!”

“Dad! Baby dragons only breathe fire when they SNEEZE! They don’t breathe it!” Duh Dad!

This is Henry’s favorite game—Baby. He has a menagerie of babies—baby unicorns, baby T-Rex’s, baby horses, and baby dragons. They are always so small they fit in one hand, and he loves for other people to hold them. He takes very good care of them, walking carefully, cupping his hand around them for long periods in the car, an air of importance around him. He’s very busy, taking care of all his babies.

“You’re such a good daddy,” I say. “What lucky babies!” He nods at me solemnly. They are indeed lucky, as we all are in this household, to be surrounded by magical creatures. For weeks nearly all of them were named Micheal and occasionally one was named Jane. Now that we are reading Harry Potter before bed they all bear the name of Hedwig.

“Do you want me to draw a picture of your dragon?” Annabelle asks. Henry says yes and she’s off to her art area, sketching and coloring in a dragon. “He’s black!” Henry yells from the other room. She switches from green colored pencils to black to accommodate Henry. One of Annabelle greatest loves, right behind swimming, dancing, and theater is  drawing. Her output is shocking. She’ll often make five pictures in one day. And they’re amazing! She draws princesses and witches and woods and oceans and sand. She is proud of the fact that she was born in Salem, home to many witches. She and Henry argue over who is more magical—she of the Salem witch blood or Henry who says he has Voodoo blood in his head because he was born in New Orleans, and wizard blood in his body. The other day he donned his knight helmet and breastplate of “armor” and Annabelle put on a golden cape and a crown and they went out on the lawn and had a fight. They choreographed it so Annabelle would win. She pretended to hit him and kick him and Henry would dramatically fall to the ground and roll. It was brilliantly entertaining. When they’re not having wizard fights, they’re dancing.

Tonight Annabelle put on a slinky shirt that was given to me that I had thrown into the dress-up basket. It fit Annabelle perfectly as a little salsa dress with a flouncy skirt and leotard look. She pulled her hair back in a bun, asked me to turn on a waltz, and proceeded to waltz, tango and cha-cha with Henry around the living room, grabbing his hand and turning in and out. He rolled his eyes but was a great sport, holding her hands and letting her shine. They danced until it was to go out to dinner. We asked Henry if he wanted the risotto fritters and he said, “Yes, I want the critters.” He and Annabelle played on the sand while the sun set while we waited for our food. Everytime a seagull landed on the beach carrying a crab in its beak, Henry chased off the seagull and stood guard over the crab until a grown-up came along and threw the crab back in the water. He said he was the crab “rescuer.”

When we got home tonight, it was time to put the baby dragons to bed. Henry finds the perfect places for them to sleep—tissue boxes, pillow case pockets, Daddy’s Gucci loafers. He covers them with soft tissues and kisses them goodnight.

And then George and I read Harry Potter and snuggle with him and Annabelle as they fall asleep. It’s a beautiful life, dragons and all…

Ah this endless battle–to create, to accomplish, to achieve, to write, dance, sing…and the impossibility of doing any of this when all your energy goes into being a mom, a wife, keeper of home and hearth.  I make this my art, but I feel so much pressure to actually do something more tangibly valuable. Mothers are so undervalued in our culture, underappreciated, underpaid, it takes an iron will to hold steady.I read something today that inspired me: how does the individualist find dignity and purity in a plastic culture and a polluted world? And I think about this and I think, simplicity, nature, in the smell of the earth after it rains,  in watching my three-year-old run through the sprinklers in his pajamas after bedtime as the fog rolls in, in joining Annabelle and Henry’s pots-and-pans marching band, where Henry says there are no clothes allowed, only diapers and rainboots, in the beauty of feeling George quietly take my hand as I sit on the porch surrounded by trees, hearing only the occasional bird as they bed down for the night, in a good bottle of wine, rosy cheeks and lively conversation, in the feel of tiny soft pudgy hands grabbing my cheeks every night and saying “you’re the best mommy in the whole world,” in a trip to the library on a rainy day and the distinct satisfaction of a kind librarian stamping the back of each book, in running my hands along the rough edges of my lavendar granite sink, in feeling the power and stability of walking on the rocks in Menemsha and wishing they could talk and tell me their stories, we do love a good story around here, in the sound of the sea bell clanging its mournful song…

Letter to Times Picayune

As my daughter just entered Kindergarten in New Orleans, I recently took a tour of several schools in the area. I was appalled! Most of the schools I toured were upscale private schools, the best education New Orleans has to offer, and yet unhealthy environments for young children. The kindergartens were full of plastic clutter, sugary foods, and media. The teachers showed me the “worksheets” the children would be doing for homework during the year. Worksheets? Computers? Homework? For 5 year olds? Freeplay time in each classroom was minimal at best, and even the playgrounds were devoid of developmentally appropriate natural play apparatus—no trees to climb, no logs to balance on, no flowers to smell, no gardens to cultivate, no water to splash in.

According to the Unicef Innocenti Report on child well-being in the richest countries, the U.S. ranks as one of the lowest on education. I found this report shocking as I thought we would rank highest. It turns out Sweden and the Netherlands are actually the highest, and it turns out their education system is vastly different from our own. It is typical there to teach children letters and reading beginning at the age of 7. In the U.S. we expect children to know their letters BEFORE entering kindergarten (that’s 4 years old!) and to be able to read somewhat by the end. And our literacy rates are sadly lacking behind many other countries!

Why is this? Child development experts in America and around the world have come together to form different organizations to address this issue, such as the Alliance for Children in the U.S. The Alliance for Children has found that young children thrive the strongest and learn the most when they have a lot more free playtime, time to explore a natural environment, and a lot less pressure to “perform” in school.

I remember my kindergarten days. We were in class from 9-11 and that included a long recess. It was our first exposure to school, and kindergarten served as that magical transitional place from home to school. Kindergarten was fun. There were no electronics in the classroom, no tv, nothing that would encourage us to be sedentary. According to child development experts, young children learn best through their body movement and senses, neither of which a screen can provide. We baked, played dress-up, pulled each other in the wagon, and painted rocks. It was a magical time that instilled a vibrant curiosity and a lifelong love of learning. According to educational experts, testing kindergartners and giving them homework can be detrimental to their health—mentally, emotionally, physiologically, and of course have a negative impact on their future in school. Kindergartners typically go to school in NOLA from 8-3:30pm! Between school and meals, extra curricular activities and early bedtimes, when do they get the chance to just play? To explore in nature like we did as children? Shouldn’t we be taking cues from the countries with the strongest educational system and highest literacy rates, and let children have this once-in-a-lifetime chance to just relax and be children?

I completed my Master of Education at Harvard in 2002, and there I learned about the model school run by Leo Tolstoy in the 1800’s, Yasnaya Polyana. His emphasis on a nature-based curriculum and holistic style of education led me to the Waldorf educational methodology, and I was lucky enough to find one here—the Waldorf School of New Orleans. It is the closest to what I was hoping to find when I embarked on my search for the perfect kindergarten. The classrooms are breathtakingly beautiful using soothing colors and beautiful all-natural toys like silks, wool, and wood. There is no plastic, clutter, or garish colors. The simple open-ended toys are displayed in an inviting way, not just thrown into a plastic bin. The playground is all grass with a wooden house with a tree stump for a table, a jungle gym, and different garden beds for the different classrooms to tend to. The classrooms always smell like something delicious—they bake a lot and serve warm healthy snacks to the children. Instead of saltines or vanilla wafers for snacks, Waldorf children get warm oatmeal with cinnamon, raisins and honey, rice, or vegetable soup with freshly baked bread—baked by the children! The lunch tables are wooden with tiny hand-carved wooden chairs. There are tablecloths and centerpieces, and a stunning nature table full of flowers and acorns, rocks and fairies, reflecting the season. The Waldorf philosophy begins teaching letters in first grade, so kindergarten is a magical time of fairy tales and gardening, baking and finger knitting, beautiful wooden block building and enchanting silk puppet shows. The individual interests of the children are allowed to bloom and unfold on their own time, creating an environment of confidence and creativity, innovation and innocence.

And I knew I had found the right place for our family–a place where I knew my child was allowed to be a child, to live in her naturally dreamy early childhood state and to not be pushed into stressful academic situations before being developmentally prepared for it.

My hope is that more kindergartens in New Orleans will pay attention to the worldwide best practice research and slow down their curricula to a developmentally appropriate pace. My hope is that every 5 year old will be able to experience the wonder and magic of early childhood, stress-free, for optimal development and the best quality of life.

Walt Whitman: “This is what you shall do: love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone who asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unkown.”I love this quote.  It frees me from the shackles of anger. I get so mad at people who want to restrict the rights of others. I get so mad when people think everyone should be just like themselves. I get so mad when people value money over family, when they want to protect their own little insular world and all others be damned.It’s so confusing to me.In my world, family comes first, before money, before career, before religion. Family is my religion.In my world, the laughter of children is treasured over a clean home.My favorite kitchen is covered in flour and tiny chocolate fingerprints.I feel so lovely sitting on the white sands of Lambert’s Cover, watching my little mermaid frolic in the gentle waves, watching my little buster stand in water up to his chubby ankles with his boogie board strapped to his wrist, while he watches, fascinated, his board go in and out with the tide.I love the soft pink of the sky as the sun sets and the ocean turns an extraordinary lavendar, glowing at magic hour.I love sitting on the bench at Annabelle’s drama camp, amidst the thick grove of trees, watching the dancers, listening to the opera singers, watching them walk among the trees in their rich gorgeous costumes, their voices pouring through the air and washing over me and Henry as he balances on the rock wall.And now my mermaid comes to me to ask for a bedtime snack…

A friend brought us cuttings of amazing purple irises today to plant, along with some compost. While George was planting them, Annabelle found a slug in the  compost. ”What should I name it, Mom? Sam or Elizabeth?”"Hmmm, well, does it seem like a Sam or Elizabeth to you?”"Sam,” she said, and she made a little house for it out of a seashell and a stick.She was very excited about her new pet, so when George took the pot of dirt to add to the plantings,  she got very upset. “No Daddy!” she screamed. “That’s Sam!” George tried to explain that he needed the post of composted dirt for the flowers but Annabelle was having none of it. Sam is still living in his pot in the dirt next to our porch. Even with his spectacular seashell house, we haven’t seen him again. Elusive slug…

Well, it happened–I’m really 40 years old!! Who would have thought I’d ever reach this milestone?! I feel fabulous! I’m exactly where I want to be, living my impossible dream–absolute bliss with henry and Annabelle and George, living in exotic New Orleans and the beautiful Martha’s Vineyard, a family I adore, incredible friends…I had the perfect birthday–friends, family, skiing, laughing, sitting in the hot tub with dear girlfriends, a huge dinner and hilarious talent show with my family, laughing with George, a beautiful cake, the cutest funniest kids running around–not to mention an impromptu trip to Tiffany’s in San Francisco and coming home with the most gorgeous ring I’ve ever seen!! Very sparkly, very retro, very glamorous but not ostentatious.I’ve jumped back into my love of roller skating. I put on my ear phones and dress pink and sparkly and head to the park nearly every day for a 4 mile roller whirl–beyond fabulous! Makes me crave pink bubble gum and root beer lip gloss.Am I 40 or 14? Sometimes it’s hard to tell… especially with my pink knee socks.

As my 40th birthday looms (a mere month away) I’m amazed by people’s reactions when I tell them I’m turning 40, the most common being, “YOU’RE turning 40?! Wow! You look great!”I’m so perplexed by this! I guess I could understand if I was turning 80, but I don’t think of 40 as old. Yes, by the age of 40 there’s no getting around the fact that you’re officially a grown-up, but I’ve been toying with this idea for a few years now, so I won’t be too shocked by the fact that yes, I’m actually an adult. I don’t know, I guess I know a lot of fabulous 40-year-olds. They’re having babies, they’re getting their doctorates, they’re changing careers, they’re creating careers… It’s a good age, an age where you feel relaxed,  powerful, capable of handling anything all by yourself. I’m scared to turn 40–it’s the official age where I have to clean up after myself. There’s just no one else to do it for me, except when I visit my parents and they do it for me. I’m a little scared of marching one step closer to mortality. But I’m excited too. It’s a new decade. A new dance.And I’m exactly where I want to be. I’ve lived so many of my dreams: Learn to belly dance, check. Perform for thousands of people, check. Learn to play the cello, tiny check. Find my true love, check. Have a family, check. Share my life with the most extraordinary people on the planet, check.And I still have a lot more goals: play the cello in an orchestra, get my doctorate, learn to ballroom dance, learn to surf, write books… I have a long ways to go!I’m just getting started.                                                              

Well, she asked the next biggie: “Mom, who is the sandman?” “What do you mean?” “Is he a guy?” “Hmmmm, well, he’s kind of like a flying gnome with a long beard and a bag of sand over his shoulder.” I don’t know, what do you tell a four year old about the sandman who comes and sprinkles sand dust dreams over her eyes at night? 

I just sat down on a lopsided ottoman with my laptop to do some writing. “Be careful sweetie! You’ll fall over!” exclaims my husband.  “Oh please,” I reply, “I was in the circus!”

Yes, it’s true, while most people dream of running away with the circus, I bear the proud honor of actually having ran away with one. Well, ok, so I didn’t run away exactly, but I performed with one. I didn’t really have a circus talent—I can’t do acrobatics, tame lions, or swing on a trapeze. I took a trapeze class once, but it nearly pulled my arms out of the socket and I couldn’t stop giggling as the teacher pushed me, trying to get me to swing. And don’t even ask about my fire-eating class. Well, ok, since you asked, I took a fire-eating class from an opera singing fire eater who’s house looked like a psychokiller’s incubator—delapidated furniture, junk cars in the yard, 3 foot tall grass… I couldn’t quite bring myself to actually eat the fire. Ok, to tell the truth, I couldn’t even bring myself to light the little torch. I had visions of my eyebrows—or worse—going up in flames. I’d rather not walk around with massive scarring due to my own ineptitude.

And so, when the circus asked me to perform, they hired me as the “girl who doesn’t really do anything but dance a bit.” I had a dance partner who was a contortionist and I liked to call myself a “contortionist illusionist” as she did all the contortions while I twirled my hair next to her, looking by turns, bored or seductive. Amazingly, people always praised my flexibility, mistaking me for her. I just smiled and said thank you, not pointing out I hadn’t done anything. Sometimes I’d lie down and balance her on my feet while she did some amazing trick. (My favorite tricks being ones where I could lie on the floor–I’m not inherently lazy, just the less work the better). Ok, I’m selling myself short, I am a pretty good belly dancer, and I’ve been on many belly dance auditions that were filled with giants, exotic animals, tattooed people, and midgets, aka little people, who wore Viking helmets and could spin plates on the horns on their hats. I never felt like I totally fit in with this crowd, but I wasn’t a total misfit either. 

Performing in the circus taught me many things, most importantly, you can do pretty much anything if you put your mind to it. It’s all about believing in yourself and not being afraid to follow your dreams. It’s really true- if you believe it, you can make it happen. If you build it, they will come. When you wish upon a star…you get the picture. For example, ask me how I met the fire-eating baritone? While doing the opera of course. Yes it’s true, I love opera, but I could never afford a ticket. What better way to see the opera than from backstage! I auditioned for my favorite opera, Pagliacci, starring Placido Domingo. I’d like to say I was singing opposite him, but no, I was a supernumerary (a fancy word for those people you see on the stage that don’t talk or sing). I rode a moped across the stage and pretended to be a village person. Mr. Fire-eater wasn’t singing either—he was swallowing swords, a talent I considered learning for about ten seconds before common sense got the better of me. I got paid to hear my favorite aria sung by my favorite tenor night after night. Definitely living my dream.

If I’m not a poster child for living your dreams, I don’t know who is. When I was 18, I wanted to be a movie star, so I arrived in Hollywood wearing my little polka dotted dress and white gloves (I’d read a lot of bios on Bette Davis and Marilyn Monroe). While I obviously didn’t quite succeed, I lived my dream, and then some. A quick compilation of my favorite dream pinnacles: I was kissed by a Beatle (on the cheek!) and even better, worked with a Beatle when I danced with Paul McCartney; I danced with the Go-Go’s on tour (if you don’t think it’s surreal standing in a little rehearsal room listening to “We Got the Beat,” live, ten feet away from you, think again; I wanted to make the world better for children so I taught dance to children with AIDS for nine life-changing years; I wanted to learn the cello and Italian, and live in Florence and Paris– and I did. I wanted to marry my soul mate, and I did; I wanted to teach school in the woods like Tolstoy, and I did; I wanted to attend Harvard—and I did; I wanted to live in New Orleans someday—and I am; I wanted to have my own children and stay at home and raise them—and I am. And who knows what other treasures are in store for me as I continue to live my dreams? As I read on an inspirational rock somewhere, “What would you attempt if you knew you could not fail?” Perhaps a little jaunt with the circus?