As expected, the London edition of Chill Mom Summer™️ is positively dripping with faux pas. First of all, I’m being “freaking annoying today,” says the 11 year old. Nowhere in our agreement, he argues, does it say that he should pick up the throw pillows he tossed to the ground for no reason this morning. I point to the actual paper on which are written the rules we drafted when we arrived at our rental home. The one that says they’ll pitch in to keep our space tidy, keep themselves clean, and not provoke each other. This unlocks their evening TV time. It’s a system that works pretty well at home, but is hitting some snags here. When did we write that, he grumbles. Maybe a home-based system cannot be transferred elsewhere. Maybe I’m a fool for trying. Maybe I am so mean. Or maybe being consistent in the face of simmering mutiny is part of being a good parent. I don’t know, it is actually my first rodeo.*
Also I have not planned for enough idle and/or alone time. We’re here with my parents and in-laws for a family wedding, and are doing so many fun things, and summer in London is obviously the kind situation where sitting still feels like a waste. My smart, wonderful readers will see this and think “Uh-oh, watch out! We know what’s coming!” and you’re correct, but I didn’t think this part through. However! Old me would have suffered through a whirlwind of activities and dragged my miserable cranky butt to all of them. New-ish me still has miserable crank tendencies, but I know the signs she’s coming, and try to intervene before she bursts out, because then everybody wins. So, for example, I had to cancel everything on Tuesday and lie in bed for two extra hours to feel nice again.
One thing that’s helping my energy level—despite sharing a bed with a six-year old who loves to sleep-kick me in the butt and throw her arms around my neck — is that truly nobody in my family cares at all if I cook. They’ll happily eat a pizza every night with bunch of cut up fruit and veggies as long as it means more time with my full attention. I believe that they all get way too much of my attention as it is, but we’ll bookmark that for later. Also, I believe strongly that pizza is a full and balanced meal. It’s grains and vegetables and protein. It is a great mystery of Western food rules that it’s standard to eat a sandwich every day, but not a pizza.
The domestic stuff has been (mostly) lovely but in direct conflict with this immense pressure, most of which I’m ignoring, to see everything that’s on in London. All the plays, all the galleries. The voracious art-lover in me panics a little. But time and energy are finite, and I have to remind myself to think smaller and slower. The other day I went for a walk to meet a friend for lunch, and I stopped at the Victoria and Albert Museum. Usually it overwhelms me, but I looked over the map and thought about the one area I might want to visit. I made my way to the ceramics wing, and parked myself in the Asian/South Asian Corner. I felt—as I knew I would—a familiar simmering rage about the beauty of these objects—Persian, Indian, some of them dating back 2000 years. “The cradles of civilization,” said one plaque. Cradles that were looted and destroyed and are now “developing,” if they’re even given a chance to. It wasn’t very Chill Mom of me, but colonialism has a special lane, I think.
I sat in the cafe to write a bit, and I got caught up on the news about the mayoral race in New York, which it softened my Mean Mom heart. There is a grown-up part of me that worries about his experience and whether it’s possible, in such a complex city at a complex time, to execute this beautiful vision the campaign has set forth. But then I think about the wonderful assistant we had many years ago who was a Bernie supporter. When it came time to vote, I told her that I love what he stands for, but there were more practical choices. This many years later, I wonder who taught me not to dream of more. I do have the heart of a socialist, I had told her. But at what point did I start thinking that the things in my heart, the things we actually want and need, were too much to ask? I’ve always said, in my own life, that all I need is a clear vision, the executing is the easy part. Why have I not demanded this from politicians? Because whatever choices I was told were more solid and practical sure as heck are not serving the people. Anyway, I’m over it. Power to the people.
I could go on about this, but you haven’t read
’s latest piece, “More Than Our Fear,” please make yourself a cup of tea and devote some time to it today. I too, grew up in a fearful community who was told loudly and repeatedly that all of our problems occurred because our Muslim brethren wanted to wipe us out. It tore my homeland apart. And it’s taken decades to watch members of my own community start to crawl out of that hole of a mindset, and understand how political messaging preys on our panic. Bess does a beautiful job, I think, of holding hands with her community members while inviting them to investigate their feelings, and wade with her into a vision of the world where we connect via our shared humanity. It’s hard and important work and she’s a deft hand. I appreciate that she understands that no one’s ever changed a mind by screaming from across the room. And I can imagine the blowback she’s going to get for it, but it’s the right thing to do.xo
*Also, I talk way way way way way too much. The kids are still bickering, and I don’t know why I think I can find exactly the combination of words to turn them into high-functioning adults. More often than not, I need to walk away and let things sort themselves out. This, for me, is the hardest lesson. Tips welcome!
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