|Tales from the Mommy Track is a weekly column about the daily life of a part-time working mom. Risa Green is a critically acclaimed author who lives in Los Angeles. Her previous adult novels, Notes from the Underbelly and Tales from the Crib were made into a television series. Her latest novel, The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball, is a Young Adult book that will be released in September, 2010.|
I love my kids’ teachers. I really do. They work so hard and they care so much and they’ve been nothing but amazing this entire school year. So I’m not blaming them for the onslaught of time-intensive end of the year activities that always take place in June. I’m really not.
Sometimes it’s so hard not to get caught up in the craziness that is parenting. We all want our kids to get ahead, to have an edge, to be the best they can be.
From the day our children are born, we worry about whether they’ll get into a top college. We sign them up for soccer when they’re three, for art classes and drama classes and swim lessons.
Now that Memorial Day has passed, summer is so close I can taste it. Honestly, I think I’m more excited about no more homework and no more school than my kids are. And though I cherish those lazy days sitting by the pool or hanging at the beach, they can’t all be like that. I mean, I still have to work and get stuff done, which means that I need something for my kids to do when I’m not available to chauffeur them around and entertain them. And since I’m not going to let them sit home all day and play on the Wii, camp is an absolute must.
When my kids were born, I had this great fantasy that I would raise them in a gender-neutral household, in which girls could play with Legos and boys could play with dolls, and that we would be the ultimate, nurture over nature family.
The news from Cleveland last week was sickening on so many levels. My heart breaks for those three women, not only for what they endured these last ten years, but for what they lost, as well. Your late teens through your late twenties are some of the best years of your life. To be robbed of those years for doing nothing more than getting in the wrong car is so devastatingly sad.
My daughter is turning eleven next week. Let me just say that again, because I’m not really sure that I wrote that right. My daughter is turning ELEVEN next week. Yup. It’s right. Let’s put aside the fact that I can’t believe I’m old enough to have an eleven year-old, and let’s focus on what this means. Namely, that my daughter is turning ELEVEN.
There are some boys who come out of the womb wearing a sports jersey and holding a beer mug. These boys love sports - watching them, playing them, talking about them, thinking about them.
My parents lived in the same house for my whole childhood. By the time they got divorced, I was in my twenties, in law school, and my brother was in college. Neither of my parents needed a house at that point, so they sold it and moved into separate apartments.
No matter how many times I write about it, I always find myself coming back to the subject of my kids and their pickiness when it comes to food. I guess it’s not such a shocker that the topic is always on my mind; I do have to feed them every single day, and coming up with ideas for what to make never gets any easier.