Overload

When I dropped my daughter off for camp today after a particularly rushed and chaotic morning and before hurtling on to my work day, I saw my friend Sheila. She, too, is a single mom, and when I parked beside her, I could hear the conclusion of a very familiar mother-child debate about sunscreen. She saw me and made a pulling-one's-hair-out gesture and an expression of wide, frantic eyes.

We walked the kids to their camp groups, discovering along the way that Sheila had forgotten a water bottle, I had forgotten a permission slip, and we both had forgotten to prepare our kids for the camp's Crazy Hair Day today. It was a deja vu experience for me, as life lately has felt like an endless parade of details slipping by me, missing items, forgotten tasks.

On the way back to our cars, we talked about the challenge of trying to juggle parenting, work, and household responsibilities. She shared that she was losing and forgetting things recently to such an extent that she worried about having a neurological condition.

I told her how I, too, had been losing and forgetting things left and right lately-- documents, household things, keys. It was happening more the busier and more stressed I became. Then I would get exasperated and start berating myself, which only made everything worse.

But Sheila was still preoccupied with worry about her own recent absent-mindedness. "Last night there was something on TV about Alzheimer's," she whispered.

I felt a wave of fondness and compassion for Sheila, who owns her own business, works very hard, and still took time to bring her high-energy child on a mother-daughter roller skating trip recently. "I don't think you have Alzheimer's, Sheila. I just think you have a ton on your plate, and it gets a little overwhelming sometimes."

She thanked me for the reassurance and said she wished she could talk longer because it felt so good to connect with another single mom, but she needed to get going because she urgently needed to stop at the bank before work.

Heading to begin my own work day, I thought about how important it is to have people in our lives who understand our daily struggles, whatever they are. I also thought about the way Sheila's situation and feelings had elicited my sympathetic understanding, whereas I'd been meeting my own with self-condemnation. What difference might it make for me if I could treat myself with the same compassion I automatically afforded Sheila? To treat forgetfulness and losing things as a symptom of overload rather than a character flaw?

While I was considering this, my phone rang. It was Sheila. At first I worried because it sounded like she was crying, but I realized quickly that the sound was actually her laughter.

"I thought you'd be amused to know," she said, "that I just drove right past the bank."

Thank you, Sheila. Good to know I'm not alone.

Consulting the Magic 8 Ball

I don't know why I said yes when, in the middle of our weekend grocery shopping, my daughter begged for a Magic 8 Ball. Maybe it kicked up a kind of vague nostalgia, long-forgotten images of me wearing pigtails hunching over my own childhood 8 Ball, waiting for the answers to my own most pressing questions to float up from the omniscient, encapsulated blue sea. Maybe I was just distracted with the issue of whether or not to buy English muffins. Either way, I got our groceries, she got her 8 Ball, and we were headed home.

I wasn't prepared for the reaction I'd have when, as she consulted her 8 Ball in the back seat, I heard a small voice question, "Does (insert name of boy of interest) like me?"

It wasn't that I didn't know about her long-standing interest in this particular boy. It wasn't that I didn't approve of her interest. It was that something about her plaintive-sounding question and the fact that it was the first question out of the gate reminded me of the beginning of an era in which someone's liking me or not liking me determined my sense of self-worth. Am I likeable? Am I good enough? Am I acceptable the way I am, or do I need to change into someone different before I can be loved?

I'm not sure whether I consulted an 8 Ball about such matters. I like to think that at an elementary school age, I asked it things like whether I was going to be a writer when I grew up, or whether I was going to like fourth grade. I like to think it wasn't until my adolescent years of reading Teen Magazine and Seventeen and Young Miss that I became so focused on whether or not this or that boy would "like" me.

Truthfully, I'd like to think the younger me paddled far from those perilous waters in the first place. But I didn't, and I want better for her. So when she asked the 8 Ball whether or not a particular boy liked her, I went quiet. Perhaps made a particular face. Did I ever tell you that my daughter is somehow able, from the back of the car, to see my expression right through  the back of my head?

"What, Mom?"

"Nothing, sweetie. I was just wondering if you had questions for the 8 Ball besides, you know, that one?"

She pondered this for a minute, then came up with a new set of questions. Is Birch (our cat) happy? Will the weather be good for camp this week? Will any of my friends be playing outside today?

Then: "But what's wrong with asking about (so-and-so) liking me? The other girls ask the 8 Ball if boys like them!"

(Ah, of course. The Other Girls.)

I did my best to explain that there was nothing wrong with wanting a boy to like you or asking the 8 Ball about it, but that I would  feel concerned if it was the only question or the most important one, since liking yourself is ultimately what matters most.

She seemed to consider this.

"Mom?" she asked as I pulled into our driveway and parked the car. "Do you like yourself?"

I looked out the car window for what felt like I long time.

"Here." She handed me the Magic 8 Ball.

I shook it and waited a little anxiously until an answer floated up: "All signs point to yes."

"See? I told you we needed an 8 Ball," she said with authority, and we held hands on our way in and thought about the things we'd ask next.

To Dad, on Father's Day and Always

This morning I tried multiple times (as in, more than 12) to write a Facebook post which, along with honoring my dad this Father's Day, was to include candid photos of some of his recent fathering and grandfathering moments. I was thwarted by some kind of technical difficulty, and then it occurred to me: With whom could I possibly consult about a computer use glitch on Father's Day when my go to person for glitches of all kinds is my father himself?

If you'd been at my home yesterday, you'd have found him tinkering with a problematic smoke detector for me. And anyone who knows my sense of direction would not be surprised to know that I have called my father from the roadside, completely lost, on more than one occasion when maps have ceased to make any sense to me anymore. Some people talk about a parent who helped them find their way-- in my case, that's been literal.

But it would be a disservice to my dad to say he has only been my Fixer and Problem-solver, my Advice-giver Extraordinaire. He has been so many other things to me over the years-- a role model in what it means to be both a family member and a professional, a teacher of everything music to manners, from chess to word processing to resume-writing. He has also been the person who, during a fateful grocery shopping trip when I was a kid, came up with easily over a hundred food puns, with me answering each with a pun of my own. Were we completely obnoxious to everyone around us? No doubt. But I'll remember it, fondly and happily, forever.

I could go on and on, of course. The time I had trouble with balance as a kindergartener, and my dad built a balance beam for me. The time he covered the basement floor with a smooth surface I could dance on during my teens.

And what's really cool is, if you have a terrific father and then you have children, great fathers become even more fabulous granfathers! They use silly voices and teach you guitar and make elaborate whip cream designs on your desserts.

Which brings me back to the story of yesterday. I'd like to say that Dad's coming to my smoke detector rescue was an aside during a large-scale Father's Day extravaganza he was attending. Instead, he drove an hour to my home, then another 40 minutes to another destination, to contribute to the celebration of my daughter's 8th birthday. My daughter's second cousins (twins who share her birthdate!) were part of the celebration, too. At a very kid-centered lakeside celebration my cousin Carolyn referred to as "like Christmas with life jackets", Father's Day weekend was barely on the radar.

As it started to get dark, my father and mother packed to leave, and I sprinted over with two rapidly-signed Father's Day cards from my daughter and me. Then my dad, who had made this day, like so many other days, about his kids and his grand-kids, drove away.

How do you say Happy Father's Day to someone who has been and done so much for so long? When life is hectic, but time is short for saying even some small part of how much someone matters to you and has made such a difference, for you and the children you love?

Dad, I hope you know, today and always, what's in my heart. And that the words... on Father's Day cards, attempted Facebook posts, and even this blog post-- are not the half of it.

Celebrating YOU today, Dad, and appreciating you always.

Take Two Sexist, Demeaning Remarks and Call Me in the Morning

Today I read an opinion piece from this week's New York Times which reminded me that objectifying women is still alive, well, and sometimes even spun as "therapy". The piece: a blog post by psychiatrist and Columbia University professor David J. Hellerstein, published June 12, 2015, titled The Dowdy Patient. (Yep, the title serves as the Coming Attractions.) What unfolds is a cautionary tale about what can happen when a helping professional objectifies, demeans, and trivializes, through the treatment of one person, an entire group; in this case, women. The sad part is the degree to which Hellerstein is oblivious that this is the story he's actually telling.

The post begins with Hellerstein fielding a question from a colleague about "that dowdy person who comes in at lunchtime". Hellerstein knows immediately to whom the colleague is referring, since the patient in question, he writes, is notable for her "homely dresses and unstylish hairdo". (Nice to know, if you're a female patient or prospective patient, that if you go to Hellerstein's practice, your appearance will not only be critically appraised, but might be the subject of light-hearted, patient-insulting banter among colleagues).

It gets worse. Hellerstein goes on to present the case, with details reportedly disguised to protect confidentiality, of his ten-year treatment of the "dowdy patient", who came seeking help for panic attacks. She apparently has many strengths, as Hellerstein mentions the patient having "Ivy league degrees" and "a Wall Street career", as well as having worked through a childhood reportedly marked by loss and family stress. To Hellerstein, however, these strengths and accomplishments were mere backdrop to a serious problem: despite her deep longing for a husband and family, the patient, year after year, remained single. The reason, in Hellerstein's professional assessment? His patient "refused to be attractive".

He went on to describe his various efforts to "help" her with the problem, including two fairly direct verbal interventions, one in which he raises the possibility of a "makeover", the other in which, after he directly raised the issue of her appearance a second time, she reportedly "began to find him creepy" (Go figure.)

In reflecting on their decade of sessions, Hellerstein framed their work together as a treatment failure, since he never found the right words to convince her of the therapeutic value she might find in giving up her  "Good Housekeeping hair", "frumpy skirt", and "too-sensible shoes". His post, which tries to make sense of the treatment failure, suggests various factors might have been to blame, including a medical training which, while preparing psychiatrists to deal with "seductive patients" (whose attire, rather than being "frumpy", was geared toward "luring you away from therapeutic neutrality"), did little to prepare him for the challenges of working with the chronically "dowdy".

I was offended by the post as both a therapist and a woman. As a therapist, I wonder how many current and prospective therapy clients, upon reading the article, were was alarmed as I was by the idea that a psychiatrist was not only judging a patient so cruelly and superficially, but was sharing judgments of this nature with the readership of the New York Times. It seemed like a piece that could certainly deter someone from seeking needed treatment, and that by itself is harmful and sad.

I was also dismayed by Hellerstein's lack of understanding of sexism as a social problem, its obvious presence in the therapeutic interactions he described, and the harmful impact his words almost certainly had on his client as well as any number of female readers. That he could not see in his own writing the depiction of women in the two most common and trivializing stereotypes: the seductress and the insufficiently appealing woman, both of whom are defined by only their appearance and their interactions and relationships with men.

To me, it simply read like another chapter in a long, sad story of a patriarchal, misogynistic society: A woman seeks helps from a professional who happens to be a man, and the focus immediately becomes what he thinks of her appearance; then, later, her failure to conform to his ideas of how she could make herself more appealing to prospective partners. It is her fault for being single, he's sure, and what is a well-meaning doctor to do when a patient simply will not change her hair or clothes when a male in authority suggests that she should?

I do wonder if, despite her identifying information being "disguised", the patient might have recognized herself in his published account of their discussions about appearance. Certainly it seems to me that she could, and that, for that matter, so could a number of other female patients of his. (We can only guess at how common Hellerstein's appearance-focused interventions might be!)  And in this case, looking at the decision to write and publish this piece, what about the long-standing doctor mandate about "doing no harm"?

Having read Hellerstein's post, I feel the strange wish to connect with this former patient of Hellerstein's, if only to say something to her about her obvious strengths (as if that could possibly undo the cumulative effect of ten years of treatment with someone whose opinions and interventions must have deflated and demoralized her, if those he described in writing are any indication of the therapy norm). I'd love to know if she's happy, and would want her to know that she should really take Hellerstein's offensive comments with a grain of salt.

It isn't as if, in ten years of being her doctor, he ever truly saw her in the first place.

Moms, it's OK to trust yourselves a little. Honest.

This morning I was driving when I came upon this equine mom and baby, a sight I found so riveting that I pulled my car off the road to get closer and take a picture. I have no idea how old the baby is, but everything about it, from its wobbly-leggedness to its frequent attempts to nurse, made me think "young".

The mom alternated between focusing on the business of grazing and pausing to nuzzle or guide her little one. In her demeanor, I saw the combination of maternal devotion and absolute confidence. She was lovingly attached and in charge, and that was that.

In our society, the ideas of motherhood as 1) inherently appealing to all women, and 2) maternal instinct being hard-wired and universal have come under fire, and for good reason. The institution of motherhood in the U.S. has historically been embedded in the larger context of the oppression of women: it was simultaneously expected and devalued, and in that sense became part of the big picture of keeping women down.

What followed, in my opinion, was a backlash in which the proverbial baby was thrown out with the bathwater, and a new set of ideas became a new way for some women to feel bad about themselves. Now, women who chose motherhood could be seen as electing to limit themselves (as if the problem is mothering rather than the societal devaluing of it).

But there's another problem with this which, to me, is even more destructive. In an effort to make the case that women should be and feel free to opt out of mothering (an idea which I 100% believe and support), a great deal of rhetoric arose to say that maternal instinct is a myth.

For the record, here's what I believe about the maternal instinct:

1) It is not universal, and it's OK not to have it, and/or to decide parenting
is not for you.

2) Where maternal instinct exists, it is not static. Meaning, you can have it in varying degrees at various points, so that having mixed feelings about an unintended pregnancy doesn't mean you won't bond readily with your baby, and feeling like a natural as a mother to your infant or toddler does not mean you won't feel out of your depths in parenting a teenager.

3) If you are a mother, you probably have some degree of maternal instinct,  BUT, you will not be able to access it well if you subscribe to the rhetoric that motherhood is a) a leap into the dark for which you are probably not equipped, b) a self-limiting pursuit which is bound to make you resent your kids, and c) a vast, complicated job for which the only preparation is "expertise", meaning, you'd better stay current on all the latest theories and research because you can't possibly know what to do without books, expert consultants, podcasts, and seminars.

To be clear: I agree that aspects of parenting can be complex. I believe, too, that knowledge is important, and so is getting an outside opinion at times, in this as with other areas of life.

But here's the thing. Instinct and intuition are also powerful allies in the parenting process. They require, though, that we believe in something more internal than external, that we see ourselves as having something inherently applicable and useful, something which does not require depending on anyone or anything outside of who and what we already are. In a society that teaches women to doubt themselves, that is not easy. It can feel, much of the time, like a high-stakes exam we cannot possibly prepare ourselves for.

This morning, I watched the mom and baby horses for several minutes, awed by both the power and the simplicity of their interactions and relationship. The baby was a bundle of wobbly, frenetic, affectionate energy, while the mom exuded a quiet confidence that seemed to say: "I've got this."

So, for all the moms I know who are agonizing over difficult parenting decisions, endlessly rehashing old decisions you're sure have irrevocably damaged your child, or just plain feeling lost in the quagmire of trying to raise kids as analytical human being within a society that often downplays, devalues, and discounts mothering, I say to you today:

"You've got this."  It's OK to trust yourself and even relax a little. It really is.