After the rains

I wanted to learn from this moment.

A fabulous beach vacation with my family: On the third day, we rested.

We woke up and it was gray. Then the skies opened up and the rain didn’t stop until long after the invisible sun had set.

I started the day with that vague discomfort I always feel when things are awry. What if it rains for the rest of the trip? What if my disappointment ruins the fun for everyone?

But I had never gone to the beach with little children before. Our small resort room was a castle for the 2-year-old — she’d skip from the couch to the window to watch all the large cruise ships drifting in and out of the cove, like giant ghosts in the mist. A warm bath was as fun as any swimming pool; better, in some ways, because her chubby little feet could touch the bottom.

The 4-year-old glammed it up, putting on the adult-sized plush slippers, and ordering room service just like Eloise at the Plaza.

The next day, and the next, and the next, the sun burned a bright hole through an impeccable blue sky, warming our winter bones and sprinkling freckles across our shoulders and noses.
But even now, weeks later, the 4-year-old talks about our rainy day as if it were part of the itinerary. Ask her about Mexico, and she’ll tell you it has beaches, and the ocean and room service.

I think about happiness a lot for someone who is, generally speaking, happy.

A collection of studies in 2002 concluded that materialism — the desire for more stuff — made people unhappy, whether they were rich or poor. People who looked on the bright side were happiest; but don’t feel bad if you don’t, because 50 percent of that ability is genetic. Grateful people were happy; unforgiving people were unhappy.

A 2004 study of more than 900 Texas women showed that money — as long as people weren’t in poverty — didn’t make a lick of difference, but that lack of sleep did. Sex and socializing made people happy; commuting and housework did not.

A 2009 study by Harvard may be the longest running happiness survey ever, starting in 1937. This one started with male Harvard sophomores. Stable marriages, not smoking and having good relationships made people happy. So did exercise. Alcoholism made people unhappy. (They found that this was not putting the cart before the horse — we assume unhappy people tend to drink more. The study actually found that abusing alcohol was a larger factor in making people unhappy to begin with.)

They all make sense, all these scientists working so hard to tell us whatever it is that we should already know. (Take my happiness survey, please. Ba-da-bum!)

I’ll keep looking for their answers. But I think I’ve seen the secret to happiness, and it looks a lot like warm baths and room service on a wonderful, unanticipated rainy day.  

— By Erika Stutzman
erika@womensmag.com

Broken Neck Baby was once a doll that could blink and cry. The blinking had stopped, leaving it with one open eye and one sealed half-closed. Its little rubber noggin had come to rest for days on the mailing label of my Vanity Fair: It left a permanent tattoo of my name and address on its temple. Its neck was broken, the exposed wires of what used to make it blink and cry made me constantly vigilant to keep the doll away from the baby.

Photo by Ray Tollison, www.pixelpooch.com

But the longing disappointment was real: Days later, a doll’s pacifier is ferreted out of a full toy chest. “Oh,” said a voice trembling with near tears, “this belonged to Broken Neck Baby.”

This is a story every parent knows already: Children will love toys to death, and if you held on to every scrap of the broken possessions, you’d be living in a landfill. Grown-ups have to teach children how to move on from material things. And on a daily basis, we need to teach coping and safety skills as well.

And children teach grownups, too, with their spirited defense of all creatures beautiful and ugly, of dogs both clean and smelly, of things whole and shattered. With their capacity to forgive flawed mothers who throw away beloved things, they remind us on a daily basis about the worthiness of unconditional love.

— By Erika Stutzman

The study, funded by the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development, found that parents lie to children, and lie a lot. Some of the lies are white lies — “You did such a good job cleaning your room” when it’s still a mess — and some were definitely not.

Example: “The police are going to get you if you don’t stop crying now.” Some experts said the fibs are no big deal if the overall effect is raising children in a protective environment — one that is safe for them, even if they don’t know the truth about what is outside their parents’ boundaries. Others were aghast at the study, said it could hinder cause-and-effect learning, and wondered what kind of values parents are passing along to their little kiddies.

Because children don’t lie, goes the convention. Rumor has it, children are honest and lying is learned behavior.

Poppycock.

For the record, I don’t lie to my children. (Nor do I share the entire truth: The image of a serial killer stares at us from the morning newspaper. “Who’s that?” she asks. “Oh, it’s a stranger, named Scott,” I say. “I have an uncle named Scott!” she shouts, pirouetting away from me.)

Choosing not to lie to my children isn’t all about my values, though. It’s because it’s too easy to get caught. “You SAID ‘Dora the Explorer’ wasn’t on TV right now. BUT LOOK!!! LOOK!!!”

But in defense of parents who do lie, and the shameful role models they are, where did this reputation for honesty in children begin? Because they’re blunt? “Mommy, you still look like you have a baby in your tummy, and you already had the baby!” Honestly?

Fact is: Kids lie, and lie like rugs. I know a boy in Gunbarrel who claims his favorite dish is monkey soup. They don’t even sell monkey soup in Gunbarrel.

We bought ski passes for the winter, and my wide-eyed, honest daughter tells me tales about last ski season, when instead of learning to ski during ski school, they went up into the clouds. To hang out. Clouds are not cold, or wet, or fluffy. They are warm and gooey.

She tells her teacher all about her five brothers and her cat. Lies, lies. Her favorite sense is the sense of smell (this is actually true.) Her favorite smell: Dragons.

In truth, there will come a time when she’s going to forget about her imaginary brothers and the made-up cat. Years from now, she won’t remember the gooey warmth of clouds, or be able to recall the delicious scent of dragons. I’ll remind her.

Because, and this is the absolute truth, I’m going to miss all of them.

– By Erika Stutzman

I was thinking about the prep work for an activity that comes naturally when you’re late for the bus, while watching my young toddler run. Her feet are too small for her fat legs; her head is too big for her soft neck and tiny shoulders.

But she will run.

She will run if she sees a hill. She throws her little arms up for balance, hands flapping like canary wings, and she will run right down it. She will run in a straight line — like a rabbit to its warren — when you’re chasing after her for a much-needed bath. Sometimes, just for the joy of it, she will put down her toy or her book, and she will run in little bumblebee-like circles all over the living room.

She will run toward me every morning and at the end of every day. Because the best hugs are the ones you crash right into.

Little kids seem to know how to do all kinds of things we grownups forget. When you watch four-year-olds at the pool or at the park, it’s sort of remarkable how they can just make friends. Sometimes, they just stare at one another. Until they are friends. Sometimes, there’s an invitation — “Hey, watch me!” — followed by some watching, then friendship.

My peers have told me a thousand tales about trying, and failing, to meet people when they move to a new town; the struggles they face when they “start over” in a new school environment or new workplace. They join networking groups — official, grownup events designed so that you can meet like-minded people — and they look for new dates and potential partners online.

It’s great that we have all these tools. No one wants to go it alone. And I want to try new things, like running, for the rest of my life. Who knows? Maybe I’ll take up skateboarding when I’m 60, and I’m sure I’ll be researching it online. Maybe I’ll join a club.

But I want to be reminded by our children that sometimes the easiest way is the best way. When I see a hill, maybe I’ll just run down it. Maybe I’ll just walk up to someone who looks nice to me and say hello, but only because “watch me!” sounds obnoxious.

And there are a lot of things my kids will grow out of — my baby’s aversion to soap-and-water baths, I pray — but retaining the joy of just going for it is a worthy grownup goal.

— By Erika Stutzman
erika@womensmag.com

Photo by Flickr user Therapycatgarden

Man, I remember this. I remember this feeling, standing on the edge of the big-kid slide for the first time. Pushing, pushing against my mother and my relative youth so that I could do everything my big brother did: Whether that was playing four-square even after the sun set, or jetting across the country for college. Growing up, hitting all those milestones both big and infinitely small was so much fun.

Only now I’m at the point where I’m closer to 40 than I am to 30 and I want everything to slow down. I was telling my friend Christine some minor gripe about loading my small children into their car seats, and she gamely tells me this: Her teen daughter just hops into her own car, and drives her own self anywhere she wants to go.

It goes fast. WHOOSH.

There’s a comfort to being a grown woman, though. A bittersweet comfort. In those heady days of summer slides and jetting off to college, the world was my oyster. Now, much later, there is that strange realization: You know, I never will be a Supreme Court Justice, after all. And I know for a fact that I won’t be the youngest astronaut to walk in space, and I won’t become the It Girl muse of some lead singer in a rock band, unless he’s rather old and into happily married suburban mothers.

It’s disconcerting in its own quiet and comfortable way. On the one hand and the other, it’s a pretty awesome feeling to wake up each morning and not have to prove anything, not have the overwhelming desire to please everyone or impress anyone. Guess that’s what makes being a grown woman so much like that little kid at the pool. It’s all those years in between that can be a bit dodgey.

— By Erika Stutzman
erika@womensmag.com

I don’t even want to join the millions of people who have already opined on this particular topic, so I won’t mention their names. It involves a married couple who happens to have eight children and is having a reality TV crew document their lives. I haven’t seen it.

The show was mildly popular, until the marriage started publicly falling apart and the couple was criticized for trading their children’s privacy for cash. Then: It hit the jackpot. Ten million people tuned into the trainwreck TV; many millions more than were watching before.
Some people watched the happy family; 10 million watch the unhappy one. They became officially fascinating.

People dish on her hair, on her temper, on his apathy, on their parenting. A clip of the mother making an exasperated face at her young daughter gets played on the news, and everyone has something to say about it. According to a recent University of Michigan study, this can be healthy. Dishing among women — the most likely viewer of this particular show — increases levels of progesterone, which boosts feelings of well-being, reduces anxiety and stress.

But I’m not buying it. I don’t think criticizing other parents is a bonding activity. I do think it’s human nature though.

The first time I ever dealt with a temper tantrum was when my first daughter was 2 years old. Unhappily for me, it started in the middle of a Target store, while a driving rainstorm started outside and I was about 9 months pregnant.

She didn’t pitch a fit, as much as she roared like a tornado siren, all through the store.
And I tried everything: Holding, cajoling, singing, talking, ignoring, bribing, and attempted amateur hypnosis. Nothing worked.

So we rushed out into the pouring rain. The difference between a tornado siren and a toddler is this: You can put a toddler safely in a car seat.

She flailed her arms; she kicked her legs. I put a soothing hand on her tummy and kissed her wet cheek: She grasped my arm with both tiny fists, arched her little back and slid down onto the car floor.

At this point, we were both soaking wet. This would be what reality TV producers would consider for my pilot: I picked her up, held her steady in her chair by pressing my chest against her torso and I strapped her in, my mouth silent in a thin, firm line.

This is what I heard over the tornado siren: “Use your words!”

I turned around. A calm, stern-looking woman stood in the parking lot, under the dry shelter of her umbrella. She smiled wanly and said: “Use your words! If you’re going to be a decent mother, you must be more patient and use your words.”

I had words all right. Two of  ’em. I didn’t use them, though, because I’m an amazing, awesome mature grownup who was raised right and wants to set a good example for my children, even when they are emergency broadcast systems.

I looked from the calm, dry woman back through the car window at my child, who had already, almost instantly, fallen asleep. She looked like a sopping wet baby angel.

I could have handled it much better (I’ve learned some things; still learning some others.) And the woman in the parking lot could have offered me the shelter of her prescient umbrella rather than her stinging words. I do know this: It felt awful. Every second of it.

I thank my lucky stars that such scrutiny of my family — the most officially fascinating people in the whole universe to no one at all, except for me — happens almost never. Out of fairness to that same universe, I remind myself daily to keep similar scrutiny of other mothers to myself.

— By Erika Stutzman
erika@womensmag.com

After nine long months of pregnancy, I was so pleased when my little bundle of joy arrived.

I should clarify: My firstborn daughter, home fresh from the hospital, was sleeping quietly in her bassinet. Which newborns tend to do, a lot, at first.

The bundle of joy I’m referring to arrived via UPS, the very day I returned home from the hospital, while that other bundle — the light of my life, the center of my universe, etc. — slept peacefully in her bassinet.

It was from Neiman Marcus. And it was a doozy.

Perfumes, lipsticks, eye pencil, mascara. Little samples of tuberose-scented body lotion, and serums to erase the years from my face. Names like Nars, La Mer and Bobbi Brown. Everything beautifully and individually wrapped in small pieces of pearlescent tissue paper.

It was a weird few moments. I had just arrived home from the hospital, and was nervous about being a new mother — actually afraid that the newborn would wake up. I was a little shell-shocked by the (now-forgotten) pain of the labor and delivery, and pretty surprised at the pizza-dough-like consistency of my postpartum belly.

But there I was on the floor of my living room, lovingly unwrapping each little beauty product gem. I’m a product junkie.

And I have been for a long time. Those “cult classic” and “must have” and “editor’s picks” lists in all the fashion magazines? I’m not proud to say it, but most of the time, I already own everything on them. My makeup bag in my bathroom only contains a handful of items — a lipstick, Benetint, a tinted moisturizer, mascara — but it’s a revolving selection from a ludicrous load of product lined up in the linen closet down the hall.

I have what I need if I don’t have time to wash my hair (Bumble and Bumble Hair Powder, brown); and what to do if one of my children keeps me up all night (line the inside of my eyelids with the Benefit Eye Bright.) When I’m pale, I use Stila. Too freckly? Bobbi Brown. Running late? BareMinerals.

This isn’t to say I’m high-maintenance. It takes me just as long to apply my Laura Mercier tinted moisturizer and Nars Dolce Vita lipstick as it does for my beautiful, fresh-faced friends to apply sunscreen and Chapstick.

But I’m not proud of it. It seems to go against to my feminist leanings to be so into the beauty myth. It seems counter to my love for the planet to be so conspicuously consumptive.

It seems shallow.

And it is. It is also silly and pretty and fun, and I’m learning to embrace these as part of the whole me. Silly, shallow, fun feminist seeks balance, harmony and a blue eyeliner that won’t smear. I work hard, I eat right, I hug my daughters, I pay my bills, I call my mother, I go to church, I wear VivaGlam V.

There is a lingering concern, though, about what this product junkie may be passing onto the next generation.

That little newborn from the bassinet? She’s 3 now. The bassinet has been passed along to her baby sister. I worry that I risk teaching these girls that surface beauty is too important; that women need to look a certain way; that just walking around the way Mother Nature made us is wrong, and all that shellac from Sephora is right.

But 3 is a magical age. It’s all about being hilariously honest and making choices. She’s allowed to dress herself, now, which results in pastel plaid skirts topped with bright, floral-printed tunics, richly hued socks and shiny Mary Jane party shoes. As I rush off to work one recent morning, she tilts her head a little, apprising the situation.

“Mommy? You need more color.”

You know, I think she’s right.

Contact Stutzman at 303-473-1354 or erika@womensmag.com.

It’s not often that a resplendent and well-meaning bride can really get your back up, but this one did.

Years ago, just a few weeks after my own wedding, I was received by a bride at her wedding.

“I was so sorry to hear that your wedding was RUINED,” she enthused with a wide smile.

Hmph. Mazel tov. Where’s the bar?

The back story: The morning of Sept. 11, 2001, I sat on the floor of my apartment, tying silk ivory ribbons onto translucent wedding programs. My wedding was to be in four days.

I stopped around the time the second plane flew right into the second tower. For the most part, after that, I did what everyone else did: Watched in horror as the towers came crashing down. Cried. Hugged my dog. Called loved ones, and tried to connect with New York-based friends.

What I didn’t do is keep up with the ribbon-tying, since I knew on that crisp, clear morning that a whole bunch of people wouldn’t be coming to the wedding. My husband and I met in Chicago, moved around a lot and had just moved to Colorado from upstate New York the previous year. My husband grew up abroad and his family is in Canada. My extended family is in Pennsylvania. A full half of the RSVP’s required airplanes — which were grounded, canceled and otherwise screwed up — to get them to the open bar and dance floor my father so generously financed.

So I spent the rest of the week on the phone with some of my very best friends and plenty of family members telling them that we would sincerely miss them at the party and it was no big deal and stop feeling sorry for me, seriously, it’s fine.

I was, and remain, eternally grateful that all of my close friends in New York City were OK. And I was happy to have — up until the wedding day itself — a very relaxed attitude about the wedding. I viewed it as a party. I thought it would be fun. But a wedding is just a party and a marriage is for life, and that’s sort of a mantra that I lived by.

But the most extraordinary thing happened: 9/11 made it a big deal. To me. The no-big-deal girl. Friends from all over — New York, Chicago, from the tip of Florida and from British Columbia — hopped in their cars and drove an extraordinary distance, all the way to our little party. Friends who lost a close family member at the World Trade Center still came to the wedding, even though they had to head off to the funeral in New York the very next morning. And I’m still horrified by the terrorism on that day, and the wars that it led to and how it has shaped our word. But when it comes to just that one Saturday wedding, I was truly touched. Moved. And until then, I’d never considered myself that movable.

It was one of the best days of my life. Which makes the pity confusing.

When I was a child, an elementary school art teacher said I didn’t look like my blond mother or my towhead brother. I told him it was because I was adopted. He blurted out (and I’ll remember this until I’m dead): “I’m so sorry.” And I was only 7 years old, but this was my thought: What the hell?

That bride had it just as wrong. But it’s understandable, the sentiment. She assumed my wedding was ruined; but I knew better. The silver lining on the cloud of my unexpectedly small wedding was that it became more meaningful to me in the process. Years later, this happened again, with the birth of my second child.

I went into labor, like pregnant people do. So my husband packs up the camera, my cute nursing robes and lipgloss. The iPod loaded with fun, happy songs. As I stood up to get in the car, I politely asked my husband (OK, I was screaming myself hoarse, but this is my story) to call 911, and minutes later wound up having the baby right there at home instead, delivered by the firefighters who work up the block.

Sharing that story can be a little weird, because sometimes people say they are sorry that the birth experience was ruined. But it was another one of the best days of my life. Being the sort who previously preferred the highly medicalized birthing process, it actually took on a powerful, natural meaningfulness to me.

They say that every cloud has a silver lining. But more often than that, I think, the silver linings obfuscate the clouds themselves.

Contact erika@womensmag.com

Once upon an economic boom, I played the role of “good wife” and attended a black tie business celebration with my husband, who was at the time in marketing and public relations.

In a room filled with good, respectable and very well-dressed folks who politely if aggressively want to sell things, somehow it got out that I was a member of the “mainstream media.”

I tried to tone it down a notch; I was only there to support my husband’s career. This was an East Coast party, and I worked as a scribe at a local paper in the very middle of the country. No, actually, I don’t think my readers would be interested in the scentless glue your firm is whipping up in Yonkers and gee, thanks for wanting to bend my ear on the sound-enabled digital photo keychains being sold in all five boroughs but I really don’t write about products like that, and oh, look at the time…

It was exhausting, and I could have handled it better; I was young and naive.

And I know from friends that these things can be a minefield for all kinds of people: Spouses in similar fields can be treated as competition, spouses who work in the medical field can be asked for free advice, spouses in finance can be asked for free money, and heaven forbid anyone’s wife or husband chooses to stay home with the kids: Sometimes they’re treated as if they’re not there at all.

Being able to separate one’s life from one’s career is a valuable life skill. One that describes the difference between the elegant and talkative stay-at-home mother enjoying herself at this swank East Coast party and that younger member of the mainstream media, who spent an inordinate amount of time silently hiding, beaded skirt and all, in the sitting room of the ladies’ bathroom.

But I’m starting to notice that it’s not just the work-related networking events that are mired in the minefield. Some weddings, school plays, weekend picnics are all starting to look a little like … work.

The value of keeping the work-life balance is measurable. The University of Toronto did a study of more than 2,600 American workers, and found some interesting conclusions about working outside of the normal workplace and working hours. They found that a lot of people with job autonomy are actually more likely to bring work home with them than people who don’t get to manage their own schedules and careers. That makes sense: BlackBerry or iPhone, anyone?

But they also found the potential for trouble. Researchers established work-to-family conflict as a core stressor in workers’ personal and family lives.

In this sour economy, there’s a lot of advice on how to market oneself and stay afloat. Here’s a message that came across my desk this week: “Tips and tricks for better networking at weddings.” A conversation expert offered all kinds of ways for wedding attendees to gain business contacts and spread the word about your company, your services or yourself in order to get a better job.

My favorite tip was a warning about the following phrases, because you don’t really know the person you’re trying to network with: “If you ask me, they’re making a big mistake;” and “No doubt about it, he married her for the money.”

Look, people will talk about their jobs in social settings for the same reason they talk about their families, their home renovation projects, their travels: Work, for many, is a passion and at the very least, a major part of their lives. And it stands to reason that at big social settings, a business card or two will pass hands; people may gain a few new contacts.

But, for our family harmony and our own sanity, we should work on drawing some lines, right? And if you’re the type of guest who would utter the above phrases at a wedding, trying to find a new job may be the least of your worries.

– Erika Stutzman

erika@womensmag.com

This is an absolutely true story: I was having one of those weeks where all of my professional, family and social obligations kept crashing into each other like a bunch of bumper cars, but only if bumper cars were driven by sleepy toddlers or drunken monkeys.

I headed out to my car to drive to my daughters’ daycare, then to my work. I was holding my infant strapped in her carseat, and my 3-year-old’s little hand. I also had: A breast pump, my purse, my packed lunch, bottles of milk and pureed food for the infant and a toy for the toddler’s show-and-tell. And a thermal cup of coffee.

Sound like an impressive balancing act? It’s actually the opposite: As I loaded everything into my car, I realized I was still wearing my pajamas. I had forgotten to get dressed.

It’s the sort of story only other women seem to relate to, so — er, after I put on a dress and got myself to work — I shared it with a friend.

“You need some ‘me time.’ Go to a spa, or get a sitter for the kids and go to a movie. You need to relax more.”

I muttered something incomprehensible and changed the subject.

I have a hidden secret: I find the term “me time” loathsome.

I don’t dislike it. I loathe it.

A history lesson: From my point of view, it entered the popular vernacular in 2004, after an airing of “Wife Swap” which had garnered a lot of attention at the time. In it, spoiled rich mom Jodi foisted the kids on an array of nannies and housekeepers while she engaged in what she repeatedly referred to as “me time.” Which was a life filled exclusively with shopping, working out and getting pedicures.

She was unlikable, which was what got the then-new reality show a bunch of ink. The Washington Post’s Tom Shales called her a “sinfully wealthy dunce” with “vain and vacuous friends.”

Got it. So “me time,” at least in its pop-culture moment, was being excessive or selfish.

The phrase was obviously in use before 2004 — a witty linguist, Jodi was not. But it caught fire afterward, basically because overscheduled women started thinking: What about me? I’d like some “me time,” too!

Sociologists wrote about me time. Doctors pondered its effects — more accurately, the effect of its absence. Women everywhere — the married, the single, the moms, the childless — embraced it as their own. Me time, me time, me time. Christianity Today, Huffington Post, WorkitMom, Parenting magazine and CNN are all awash in ME TIME. And, it should be noted, its use is pretty universally gender specific.

But what does it mean? Popularized by a woman who was — or at least edited to appear — empty-headed and spoiled, it meant selfish indulgence.

Now embraced by the masses, it must mean something else, because most people are dedicated to their jobs, their families, their obligations.

So does it mean … going to the gym? Going to a spa? Why are those worthy, perfectly fine things painted as Other by today’s women?

And what does it say about us that we so strictly segregate our lives? When I’m at work, writing and editing and attending meetings — am I not me? When I’m changing my baby’s diaper, or losing patience with my toddler, or holding the pair of them on my lap at the end of a day — isn’t that me, too?

Because it seems like it is. Here’s a little something about me: I work. Sometimes too much. I work out. Not often enough. I love taking care of my children, I love being around groups of friends, I love being alone, I like pedicures, I love sleeping in and I love waking up early to do something fun. Sometimes I’m crabby. Sometimes I feel too busy. That whacko at the start of this story who almost drove to work in her PJs? Still me. It’s all “me time,” when you come right down to it.

And honestly, right as I’m cobbling these thoughts together for you, I get a text message from one of my mom friends. “I want to have a day for me,” she writes.

I am not unsympathetic. I am cheerfully determined: You do!

It is today.

Send an e-mail to erika@womensmag.com