- “Who left this here?!”
- “Where’s my change?!”
- “It’s not bleeding, you’re fine!”
- “Why is this sticky?!”
- “Brush your teeth!”
- “I don’t run a restaurant!”
- “Can’t you make your own nuggets?!”
- “Figure it out yourself!”
- “Why is my phone dead?!”
I recently donated all my self-help books to Goodwill because the only thing they’re good for was constantly reminding me I have little serious interest in actually improving myself. I’m fine, thanks. But I’m keeping all my old notebooks because gawd those can’t get into the wrong hands.
I recently donated all my yoga tapes to Goodwill because the only thing they’re good for was constantly reminding me I never do yoga. But I’m keeping my yoga pants because they’re freakingly comfy.
I recently donated all the clothes I thought I’d someday wear again to Goodwill because the only thing they’re good for was constantly reminding me I’m never going to be the size I was before I had babies. But I’m keeping the flannels because they’re freakingly comfy.
I recently donated all my old crafting/rug hooking/scrapbooking projects I bought but never opened or finished to Goodwill because the only thing they’re good for was reminding me I’m incapable of doing anything Pinterest-y. But I’m keeping the adult coloring books because those actually work.
I recently donated all my unfinished pine furniture pieces to Goodwill because the only thing they’re good for was reminding me I can’t make a simple decision like what color to paint an unfinished piece of furniture. But I’m keeping the decorative drawer pull knobs because dammit at least I chose those.
I recently donated my treadmill and free weights to Goodwill because the only thing they’re good for was reminding me I never exercise. But I’m keeping all the hangers I had on the treadmill because now I have to find a new place to pile up my clothes.
I recently donated the fancy party trays someone gave me for my wedding to Goodwill because the only thing they’re good for was reminding me I never host any fancy parties. But I’m keeping the fancy booze glasses because those are cool.
I recently donated all my doubts and fears about the future to Goodwill because the only thing they’re good for was reminding me that life is hard and scary. But I’m keeping a healthy sense of caution because that’s helpful sometimes.
I recently donated the sinking feeling that life is flying by way to quickly to Goodwill because the only thing it’s good for was reminding me not to live in the moment. But I’m keeping my sense of gratitude because life is precious.
A great thing about little kids is they believe everything you say. They think a fat old man breaks into our homes once a year and leaves a pile of presents in the living room. They think a fairy flies all over the world collecting bloody, used teeth and in exchange leaves money under the pillow. (What could The Tooth Fairy possibly do with those teeth? It’s creepy.) They also think a giant bunny sneaks into the house every spring to leave a basket of chocolate on the kitchen table. Each of these scenarios takes place in the middle of the night — It’s a miracle children sleep soundly with the rash of break-ins going on.
I’m just as guilty as any parent who perpetuates the legends of Santa, The Tooth Fairy and The Easter Bunny, but I go even further. I doubled down against my kids’ gullibility and invented the myth of Mommy’s Magic Eye, an all-knowing and all-seeing superpower designed to keep my kids in line when I’m not around. For a good chunk of their childhood, my sons believed I’m part psychic and part wizard with the ability to know if they committed no-nos without me being present.
I’m pretty sure people behave better if we think our mother is watching. My idea was to instill a little dose of healthy paranoia, much like Elf on a Shelf tricks kids into believing the strangely dressed toy has a direct line to Santa and is filing numerous behavior reports prior to Christmas. The difference is Mommy’s Magic Eye works 24/7 and has a direct line to me, my kids’ ultimate boss.
You’d be surprised how effective this was, but eventually things took an unexpected turn. My second son believed in the power of Mommy’s Magic Eye so deeply that for him it evolved into a cross between a Magic Eight Ball and a personalized Google Search. He asked questions like, “Does your Magic Eye know if I’m getting a Happy Meal today?” or “Does your Magic Eye know if we’ll have outside recess?” Then, after losing his older brother, my little guy became anxious and relied on Mommy’s Magic Eye for reassurance. His questions became more existential and worrisome. He’d ask, “How long am I going to live?” or “Is anything bad going to happen today.”
For him, the power of Mommy’s Magic Eye went beyond what I originally intended and I realized it could have therapeutic potential to give him comfort. I used it to calm his fears, of which he had many. I assured him my Magic Eye knew there would be no car accidents, no diseases or tragedies, and everybody we love will be fine. He’d calm down and believe what Mommy’s Magic Eye saw.
There are little lies we tell ourselves to get through our day (this piece of dessert won’t matter, this shirt looks good on me). There are little lies we tell others to help them get through their day (that piece of dessert won’t matter, that shirt looks good on you). Then there are little lies we tell our kids designed to enhance their childhood or make them better people. I’m not sure exactly where Mommy’s Magic Eye fits into all of this, but I wonder — are lies always bad? Maybe not in the moment, but even the most well intentioned lie can boomerang years later.
My oldest son was four when we sat with him by the picture window at his grandparents farm on Christmas Eve to watch for Santa Claus. After a few minutes we saw a figure in a red suit with a large sack slung over his shoulder walk across the meadow and leave footprints in the snow. My son stared, his mouth open in disbelief, too overwhelmed to utter any words. He later told his friends at preschool about the Santa sighting. He was a firm believer for years — after all he saw him with his own eyes.
When he finally learned the truth — that “Santa” was actually his grandfather — the look on his face was devastating. Sure, he was upset to learn Santa wasn’t real, but he was more crushed that I lied to him. My heart sank as the little boy who believed everything I said now saw me in a different light.
You’d think I’d learn my lesson, but I’m a slow learner.
My daughter is starting to potty train. I told her I’d get her anything she wants once she learns to pee and poo in the potty. Without hesitation she said she wants to fly. Now I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to pilot an airplane — she’s talking about full-on Peter Pan levitating. I told her she can start lessons as soon as she gives up her pull-ups. I consider this lie a necessary step in our negotiations. For a little while I will let her believe that learning to fly is a possibility, and then I will gracefully exit our agreement when I tell her the local Park District catalogue doesn’t offer flying lessons.
I haven’t yet told my daughter about Mommy’s Magic Eye, but I doubt she’ll believe me anyway. She surprises me each day with her outsized sense of self-assuredness and sass, so I’m guessing she’d just tell my Magic Eye to buzz off, and then do her own thing like count her teeth and plan what she’ll do with the money from The Tooth Fairy.
When my second son got older I decided it was time to fade out Mommy’s Magic Eye. I told him it got “tired” and couldn’t see the future anymore. Eventually, he caught on and confronted me. I asked if he was mad that I tricked him into believing I had a superpower and he said he wasn’t sure, he’d have to ask his Magic Eight Ball.
“Do I drain the water before adding the cheese powder?” This question was posed to me by my husband very early in our dating relationship. I thought it was a joke but he was serious. He had no idea how to make mac-n-cheese from a box and instead of reading the directions he asked me for help. After rolling my eyes I’m sure I took over making dinner.
My husband can do a few things in the kitchen like pour cereal, make a sandwich or nuke a Lean Cuisine, but if it requires the cooktop or turning on the oven he’s helpless. Last summer I got so fed up with him saying things like, ‘Those scrambled eggs look good. Can you make me some?” I finally walked him through the one minute process and now he makes them every morning. I understand the phrase “Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he will eat for a lifetime.” Except in our house it’s “Get off my nerves and scramble your own damn eggs now that you know how.”
I love my husband and he works very hard for us. I give him tremendous credit for holding a full time job with a helluva long commute, finishing a second advanced degree while also completing a long-term side project. Still I can’t help but wonder if over the years I’ve morphed into a helicopter wife. He rarely makes a decision without consulting me — from the mundane to the important — I am his constant sounding board. He shows me his outfit before he leaves for work and never sends out a project before I read it. He checks with me before he buys things — until he goes off the rails and gets a three foot tall Yoda greeter holding the sign “Welcome, You Are” — and we are reminded why he must check with me before he buys things.
Helicoptering starts slowly in a relationship and builds over time. When we started living together he’d load the dishwasher in such a haphazard way that I’d redo it. I go to the grocery store because if my husband shops he comes home with half the Hostess aisle. I took over the driving because I couldn’t stand the herky-jerky nausea inducing way he’d press and release the gas pedal. It’s progressed to a point if my husband had to endorse a check the bank probably wouldn’t cash it because the signature won’t match.
Does this make me a Helicopter Wife? What is helicoptering anyway? And is it always bad? We are familiar with the term as applied to parenting. The helicopter mom is always hovering waiting to swoop in and fix even the smallest of problems, leaving a child unable to eventually navigate life’s hiccups by themselves. I’m no psychologist, but this sounds like co-dependency and the ultimate goal of parenting is to create a person who can function independently. So maybe helicopter parenting isn’t so good.
But what is marriage if not the ultimate co-dependent relationship? I depend on my husband for things and he depends on me for different things. Put another way, there are certain things I’m good at and certain things he’s good at and we generally stick within our respective wheelhouses. For example, I cook; he kills bugs. Hence, we are co-dependent. But it gets more confusing — if helicoptering is co-dependent then is co-dependency a form of helicoptering? Is your head spinning yet like mine? Is the dress blue or gold?
Anyhoo — back on subject — sometimes I feel my husband deliberately does a task badly so I will take over and let him off the hook. Anybody can load a dishwasher, yet he refuses to learn how to do it properly. Similarly, I’m incapable of learning how to turn on the lawn mower. (It’s a button, but still.) If I ever figure it out (wink, wink) and have to mow the lawn I guarantee I’d purposely leave so many undone patches it would look like a drunk five year-old did it.
Ultimately, I’m confused about what a Helicopter Wife actually means. It sounds controlling and micromanaging, but I don’t think I do these things. I actually give my husband a lot of space and sometimes don’t even know where he is. Maybe a Helicopter Wife is protective? I’ll fess up to that. If so, then my husband is a Helicopter Husband because he walks on the side of traffic whenever we cross a street, ready to swoop in and take the hit from a runaway car.
I think what it comes down to is we are two helicopters hovering over this life we made together, each filled with various emergency services and ready to swoop in, take over and save one another when we are too tired, unwilling or unable to take care of something ourselves.
And that’s pretty much sums up our co-dependent marriage.
Does anyone remember the store Venture? Basically it was a cheap version of Target before there were Targets. They had everything. Just venture beyond the giant diagonal black and white stripes covering the front of the building and enter a shopping paradise filled with affordable household items and “I’m Thumbody” iron-on sweatshirts. Venture was the destination for back to school, holiday, and all-occasion shopping. But for me, Venture remains in my memory for two reasons. First, it’s where I shoplifted candy and nail polish with friends from my early teen years. Second, it’s where I’d treat my nieces to shopping sprees of shoes and hair clips when I was a young adult. Only one of these makes me proud. Hmmmm, which one?
I feel like I’ve been doing mom things forever and that’s because before I was a mom I was an aunt. But not just any aunt. I went well beyond always having gum in my purse. I was a fan-freaking-tastic aunt that loved hanging out with the tiny people my siblings created. I loved them so much I even changed their diapers. And when they got older, going on our shopping sprees to Venture made my nieces feel special while we created fun memories together.
And now my nieces and nephews have gone and grown up. People whose diapers I’ve changed now are changing diapers of their own (you know what I mean). These people who seem like babies have actual babies the same age as my daughter. This makes me a great aunt (on top of already being a fan-freaking-tastic one). When I was growing up I had some great aunts who seemed ancient. One was a hat model married to a train robber — that’s how ancient they were — they came from an era when people wore hats and robbed trains. I suppose my grand nieces will one day tell stories about how their great aunt came from an era when people had a “telephone” stuck on their kitchen wall and had to get off their duff to turn a knob on the 2-D television to watch a show at a precise time from among three available channels. “Can you imagine,” they will telepathically ask each other via their brain iChips. “That sounds like torture!”
My daughter and my grandniece are best friends now. They go wild together, copy each other’s goofiness and sometimes fight over who loves the color pink more. They like to wear the same dresses and twirl around like little princesses. It’s adorable. They also both like to go on shopping sprees at Target, which my daughter calls, “an adventure” because you never know what we might find. Her favorite sections are shoes and hair clips, which nicely carries on the family tradition.
I definitely like one of my boobs more than the other one. I think I always have. The left one, whom I’ll call Lady Lefty, gave me more trouble over the years. She’s about a cup size larger than Lady Righty so she’s heavier and gets in the way more often. She itches and has these long random hairs that need to be plucked every once in a while.
She has more stretch marks and a red dot that marks her North Pole, like a compass. And every time I get my period Lady Lefty complains for days. I always thought she was a troublemaker but it turns out I’m wrong.
Lady Righty, the comfortably-sized non-complaining boob was just diagnosed with two sites of DCIS. The whole thing came as a surprise. I had a clinical exam in November and my Doc said everything felt fine. I had a routine yearly mammogram right after the New Year. They called me back for more views and magnifications, citing calcifications. Don’t worry, they said, most of these turn out to be nothing. They called me back for a stereotactic biopsy. Don’t worry, they said, most of these turn out to be nothing. Today they called with the diagnosis. Don’t worry, they said, it’s non-invasive stage 0 grade 2 breast cancer with an excellent prognosis — just a coupla months of utter shit first.
I’ve been through utter shit before but as a caretaker, not a patient. My son’s cancer was hopeless from diagnosis. Mine’s not. He was a child. I’m not. He suffered greatly. I won’t. His fate broke my heart and my spirit. Mine won’t.
I’m really good at keeping things in perspective. My life experience has taught me how to do this at an expert level. My thoughts are with a friend who is a decade younger than me with four young children, who is a vegan and a pilates instructor, fighting stage 2 invasive breast cancer and faces six months of chemo, then surgery, then another six months of chemo. I know so many women who went through breast cancer — different stages, different treatments, different ages, both recently and years ago — and ALL are still here. I understand mine was caught incredibly early. I’m so amazed by the technology that could find something sinister when it’s only millimeters. I keep reminding myself I’m actually lucky. (Well, lucky would be not getting cancer in the first place but like I said I’m trying to keep things in perspective.)
So…I’m sorry Lady Righty, you were my favorite but we will likely part ways. Me and Lady Lefty will miss you but persevere. (Or, Lady Lefty may join you in that great hospital dustbin in the sky — TBD). My husband will also miss you, but he loves me more than the sum of my parts.
(In case you were wondering — no family history.)