It Takes a Village (and a few margaritas)

A few nights ago, I met a group of mothers for a much needed round of drinks while we waited for our kids to finish rehearsal. Our 'drama mom community' has had an unusually high rate of life stresses lately, experiencing everything from brain tumors to husbands with cancer to parents passing away, so in between dealing with sleep-deprived teenagers and organizing meals for the families in crisis, we decided we needed a bit of R&R. Since jetting off to Aruba wasn't an option, we picked the next best thing - the bar at the local mexican restaurant.

It was a much-needed reminder for me, at least, of how beautifully women connect. Not all the moms knew each other, but after a few minutes of introductory small talk, we got right into the important stuff - opening up about how stressful it's been, comforting the moms who'd lost parents, talking about medical histories, and sharing our fears and concerns about our friends going through surgery and chemo. But in between the heavy moments, we also commiserated about perimenopause, made fun of our husbands and ex-husbands, and told embarrassing anecdotes about our kids. (I thought I'd struck comedy gold with the story of how I spent the weekend helping my younger son needlepoint the Guatemalan flag - don't ask - but one friend topped us all by relating a particularly bad argument about leaving shoes out with her 11-year-old, where the mom eventually threw the shoes . . "Not intentionally at her, and besides only one shoe actually hit her!")

We laughed, cried, and all split one more margarita (between middle-aged bladders, sleep-deprivation and lowered alcohol tolerance, a drink and a quarter each was all we could handle!) And I was reminded of that scene in Steel Magnolias at Shelby's funeral, where the women bond through tears and then laughter. Men may have a number of advantages over us, ranging from higher earnings to no lines in public restrooms, but they don't provide each other the same kind of village. So here's to all the mom communities we form, to all the women who help each other out, and to the healing power of a margarita!

A mother's tears

Kids make mothers cry in a huge variety of situations - which I tried to remember last night as I left the dinner table in tears (a combination of sleep deprivation, hormonal wackiness, and a rude comment by my Jekyll-and-Hyde-esque 12-year-old). I've cried at sappy Hallmark commercials with cute kids saying goodbye to Gramma, at homemade mothers' day gifts, at aggravating arguments, and at unexpected sweet comments. I've cried from exhaustion, joy, and pain (3 bouts of mastitis with each kid, an excruciating milk duct infection whose treatment is - even more nursing. Ouch! And I've cried for my kids, feeling their pain when they get snubbed, or hurt, or treated unfairly by the lousy director who doesn't see their incredible potential just because they had a lousy audition . . . . (just kidding on that one).

I've been a confirmed weeper since childhood, and I firmly believe that by releasing all those stress hormones, my tears are buying me longevity and improved health - and even if that's not true, what the hell, who doesn't love the release of a good cry? It is a bit embarrassing when I can't stop, or when they start in public for odd reasons (weeping at a performance of Guys and Dolls because my kid executed a great double pirouette, even though 'Luck Be A Lady Tonight' doesn't usually elicit tears from the audience!).

My kids have gotten used to my crying, although it took a bit. A few years ago, when I was newly remarried, I came into our bedroom to find Scott (a.k.a Husband 2.0) in our bed with Ben, both reading and cuddled together so sweetly, I burst into tears. Ben was very concerned that he'd done something wrong, but I explained, "No, THIS time Mommy's crying because I'm so happy!" The message must have gotten through, because a few nights later, as I headed into our room, I could hear Ben directing Scott, "No, put your arm here, my head here, and let's make Mom cry again!"

Hormone Hell At My House

I've always been a fairly emotional person, the type who enjoys both a deep belly laugh and a good cry at a movie. But as I approach middle age (kicking & screaming), I've noticed that my ups & downs have been more extreme. Being put on hold by customer service can get my blood boiling, landing a gig makes me want to whoop & holler, a rude remark by one of my kids plunges me into despair that I'm a horrid mother. And at 12 and 15, the boys are in their own hormonal maelstroms, so our house is a tempest of emotional outbursts. (I asked my mother how she handled us during her own perimenopause, and she oh-so-helpfully pointed out that when she was my age, I'd been out of college for several years, my brother was writing his doctoral dissertation, and my sister was on her first divorce. Thanks, mom.)

I guess the one advantage of this period of upheaval is that I'm truly looking forward to full menopause. (I want to be like Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give; when Jack Nicholson's lothario character is ripping off her clothes and pauses to ask what she uses for birth control, she answers, "Menopause", and they get back to business.) And I'm trying to find the humor in it - I decided to add a bit to my comedy show, where I rapidly go through all the various mood swings of a typical day. (When I told my husband about the idea, he said, "Can I write it?")


CONTEST RESULTS - We have our first winner (for submitting an embarrassing story) from "Losing It" who had a whopper of a mom moment in her car . . .
" My daughter was screaming her head off, like only 2 year olds can, so while stopped, I decided to find her sippy cup for her. Unfortunately, it had rolled down by the sliding door and I couldn't reach it. I very quickly ran around to the sliding door...and tried to open it. Much to my dismay, I found that door LOCKED, as was every other door to the vehicle, because I had inadvertently hit the lock button with my elbow while standing there searching for the sippy cup. I ran to a nearby house and asked a lady to call 911. She did, they sent out a sheriff's deputy who called a locksmith. I just shook my head at the deputy and said, "Don't even ask." He didn't."

Losing It wins a free CD - enter your embarrassing mom moments for the next week's giveaway!