happy mother’s day – *the gratitude-a-thon

gratitude-a-thon day 3010: call your mother

May 12, 2024May 12, 2024Uncategorized1 Comment

Things I did to become a mother:

Have a year of tests, only to find out that the dull pain in my abdomen, was endometriosis. Or as the gynaecologist who did an exploratory laparoscopy told me, “Your insides are a mess, you’ll never have a baby
Went to an in vitro clinic where the doctor made me think my “advanced age of 32.” was a dealbreaker and I ought to start looking for an Assisted Living facility stat.
Spread my legs for more men with medical degrees than a sophisticated gold digger.
Found a doctor whose vast infertility knowledge, surgical skills and kindness were as stellar as his bedside manner.
Monitored my ovulation like the IRS monitors our tax records.
Had sex with my husband even when A) We were having a fight. B) I wasn’t in the mood. C) I would rather have a full mouth of gum surgery.
Was asked to “scooch down” more times than my math skills allow me to enumerate, became intimately acquainted with the vaginal ultra sound machine, kept the pregnancy test people in biz, had a hystosalpinagram, a miscarriage, a D&C, depression, anxiety and more sleepless nights than an infant mom.
Cried more than all the new borns in all the nurseries throughout the Continental United States.
Went to a 12-week mind body course with other women experiencing infertility, including an ex-therapist (!) where we’d share resources, do daily meditation, and cognitive restructuring, and sometimes just cry.
Quit my job, hopped on a plane to Key West, drown myself in margaritas and had fun and constant unplanned sex with my husband.

Things I did while pregnant:

Had more nausea than an entire group on a whale watch during a day of rough seas.(Five months worth for my first pregnancy and 8 months worth for my second, and that’s only because I gave birth a month early.)
Craved watermelon, fettuccine Alfredo and McDonald’s supersize fries. And ate them with more gusto that group of drunken frat boys in Vegas.
Worried incessantly I’d miscarry until the babies were IN. MY. ARMS.
Wondered if I would actually be a good mom.
Marvelled at my Macy Thanksgiving Day Parade-sized boobs and gargantuan stomach, while saying goodbye to my girlish figure.

Things I did when my kids were little:

Stared IN AWE at the amazing humans I made with my husband. Fingers, toes and all the stuff!
Managed not to actually hurt, insult, or maim anyone, despite a serious lack of sleep for 5 years.
Breastfed while my nipples bled.
Tried to keep up with my super-charged, inquisitive, A.D.D son. Forced my daughter to wear her hair on top of her head like Pebbles Flintstone.
Kept every piece of paper either of my children drew anything on, like it was a Picasso, Monet, or John fucking Singer Sargent.
Became a fixture at the park, like the slide and the swings.
Made friends with other moms, some who I loved (and some who I didn’t).
Took 1,088,4442 pictures of everything my kids did, just to get one great shot. (Ah, life before the iPhone.)
Clutched my children’s hands with a death grip when we were anywhere near traffic.
Read lots and lots and lots and lots and LOTS of books about, and to my kids.
Played ref so my children wouldn’t kill each other, and worried incessantly I had the only brother and sister in the history of families who would never get along.(I WAS WRONG!)
Figured out how to make interesting dinners consisting of pasta, hotdogs and bagels.
Had, made, and monitored playdates, which we just called, “Wanna come over after school?” when I was little.
Threw family dance parties to the likes of Bruce and Talking Heads.
Went to the beach, (where I obsessively worried they’d drown).
Attended every game, recital, play, parent night, school picnic, auction and teacher meeting there was.
Stopped pursuing a big career, and settled for a smaller one.
Learned more about myself than any graduate degree, job, Einstein, Confucius, or Stephen Hawking could ever teach me.
Volunteered at school so much the staff thought I worked there. (I am still waiting for my pension.)
Felt a kind of love that is indescribable, unbeatable, and so fucking big, even the Container Store doesn’t carry anything large enough to hold it.

Things I will always do for my kids:

Be available to them. In the middle of the night, in the middle of a work thing, a vacation, a show, a surgery, sex, a migraine, an imaginary meeting with Barack & Michelle, Taylor Swift, Oprah, or James Taylor.
Give them advice when I should just shut my pie hole.
Think about them all day and night, every day and night.
Want them to learn from my mistakes, but know that in a ridiculous catch-22 where your kids refuse to do anything you tell them to do, they have to make their own.
Worry about them around the clock in every time zone.
Be as wildly proud of their every move, as I was when they achieved freedom from diapers.
Know that they have the moral character to care about other people, work hard and love deeply.
Wish for them all the fun, adventure, magic, love and fulfilment available.
Be there, even when I’m not.
Know that, no matter what I’ve accomplished, or will ever create, Jake and Ally will always be the absolute best thing I’ve ever done.

To every single mom out there:

Whether you’re a bio mom, or an adoptive mom, a dog mom, or a guineau pig mom, a dad, aunt, sister, or friend mom, you’re amazing. Now go, and do something you love today. MWAH.

Mother-a-tude-a-thon: day 2044: HERE’S TO YOU

May 13, 2018May 13, 2018UncategorizedLeave a Comment

Screen Shot 2018-05-13 at 11.54.39 AM — My mom. Miss her every single fucking day. Seriously.

Happy day of the mother to all of you mommies! To the biological mom’s, the adoptive mom’s, the mom’s of spirit, support and encouragement, the mother’s who have never given birth, but know how to mother, the dog moms, the cat moms, and ok, the guinea pig moms too, the moms who’ve gone onto a better place, where there is endless blue skies and no whining.

29541568_10157448590169129_4609971075999564715_n — To mother well is to be totally and utterly fearless.

Mothering is a special talent, which has not a thing to do with your womb. Those who do it well know how to love with compassion–unconditionally and truthfully. They are fearless and good at making the hard decisions and disseminating massive hugs when needed. They know how to stand silently in support, and cheer loudly when celebration is in order. Despite exhaustion, they are tirelessly right there. And like we all know, showing up is at least half of it.

People often say things like, “I miss my mom every day.” And it sounds ridiculous and a little bit contrived and completely impossible. But I am one of those people. And it surprises me, but I have actually thought of my mom, Luigina Constantina Gabriela Rotello Friedman every day since she has been gone–more than 25 years ago. She was loving and funny and spunky. She had grit and grace and an eternal optimism. She was beach and garlic and grateful. Her Italian roots run through me and her fight to move forward in the face of gloom are always reminding me to do the same. She was, in short, everything and I will never quite get over that my kids never got a chance to meet her.

Screen Shot 2018-05-09 at 8.54.26 AM — My first picture as a mom–blurry, but so grateful to have it.

But I see her sometimes in my daughter’s laugh, in my son’s nimble ability to talk to virtually anybody. I see her in the mirror a lot lately, as my aging face reminds me of hers.

A proud mom moment–my son graduating from USC two days ago. A pretty awesome mother’s day gift.

For me, becoming a mom has been like getting a PhD in humanity and humility. I am at once bowled over to have gotten the role, and shocked at its immensity and complexity. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating, no matter what I do or have ever done, it is nothing compared to being a mother to my two my kids.

To all mothers, wherever you are, whoever you are, however you found yourself in the role, pat yourself on the back today and know that you are loved. And know, that in our crazier and crazier world, your light is needed more than ever.

gratitude-a-thon day 870: the mother of all mothers

May 8, 2016May 8, 2016UncategorizedLeave a Comment

Screen Shot 2016-05-08 at 7.54.44 AM

My mom has been gone for a long, long time. More than two decades. She died at 73 from lung cancer, which you almost never get unless you smoke. But smoking was “glamorous” when she was a growing up. Turned out to be the most unglamorous death you can imagine.

It’s been 23 years, and still if I had a wish, it might be to just spend one more day with her. She was warm, and could make friends with the most unlikeable people. She was a natural born reporter, and could get anybody to spill their secrets in the span of five minutes. She was a killer cook. She was most at home at the beach. She was absurdly optimistic. She was HYSTERICALLY funny.

I miss her everyday. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Seriously, 23 years later, and I think of her at least once a day.

But she was a great match for me–a champion of everything I did. She is 90% of the reason I could be a halfway decent mom myself. I realize how fucking fortunate I was to get that one, that mom, and to have had her as long as I did. Whatever brought us together will never pull us apart. She was something, Luigina Constantina Gabriella Rotello Friedman.

gratitude-a-thon day 389: dear mom

May 11, 2014May 13, 2017Uncategorized3 Comments

This is a reblog. I wrote it a few Mother’s Day’s ago. But it’s still true. And I still miss her madly, and still think about her every damn day. Love you, mommy salami. xo

Scan 13 — She was so cute, my mom. She might be where I got my love of dogs, too.

Dear Mom,

It’s been a long time since we’ve celebrated mother’s day together. It’s been exactly 22 mother’s days, in fact. It’s amazing that you’re still dead. And I gotta tell you, it’s really a bummer. No, really, that dying thing sucked. Don’t do that again.

I actually think of you every day. Isn’t that kind of amazing? There I am with my “to do” list,” sitting at the computer doing work, cooking, or driving, and boom, your face will pop into my mind, your long fingernails painted misty mauve, your uniquely “you” smile that only got better with age, your passion for bargain shopping. I think of your optimism, your wit, your aptitude for throwing together a meal that could have been served in a restaurant, your laugh. I think about how you embraced getting older with the same kind of joy a middle-of the-night bottle gives to a screaming baby.

You were really good at loving me. In fact, you gave me so much love that I’m now able to give it to other people. You put up with my teenage arrogance/confusion/Sybil-like behavior with a kind of grace that’s hard to come by. You took me to all those ballet lessons, up those three flights of stairs, and shared all those post-pirouetting Big Macs with me. You created a summer tradition by finding that little house on the Cape and bringing me there for a month every summer, offering me some of the best and happiest memories I have. But mostly, MOSTLY, mom, you assured me that whatever was wrong could be solved and that if I tried to do something, I could. With a difficult dad (and here was your major flaw–you should have left him), you tried to give me what I needed to go out there in the world and be ok. I know it wasn’t easy for you. I knew then, but I know better now, as an adult and a mom, just how difficult this must have been. And I know you mustered all your strength because you wanted me to be more than you. It’s funny, because all these years, I have longed to be as much as you.

I hate that you never got to meet my children as much as I hate racism, climate change and liver. Sometimes I think about what I’d give to have a chance to introduce you to them–I cook up all sorts of wacky scenarios in which I’d trade a shortened life span, my house, an inability to lose weight just to be able to give you and my kids a day with each other. But they know you, through me and through themselves, because you show up in all sorts of way, all the time. Ally has your sense of humor. Jake has your compassionate ear. And all three of us love to eat and laugh. But I will never quite get over the ridiculous and cruel fact that you didn’t get to experience these magical grandchildren of yours. It seems impossible that the timing just didn’t synch up, and you missed each other.

Well, anyway, happy mother’s day. I know you’re around, in my flower arrangements and my sauce, my keen ability to get a designer label at half price, and my crazy love for my kids. I miss you. Like, a lot. I wish you could stop by today and give me a hug. Anyway, just know that I’m thinking about you today. Just like I do every day.

xoxo