Tag Archives: Santa Barbara Daily Sound

Marcia Marcia Marcia

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250px-BradyBunchtitleOh Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.

You were the high point of my Saturday nights from September 26, 1969 (yep, that’s 39 years ago today, folks) till March 8, 1974, when the final “Hair-Brained Scheme” episode aired, and Greg bought hair tonic from Bobby that turned his hair red. Oops! LOL.

Dad was coaching football in those days, so mom would go root him on and leave us with a babysitter and TV dinners on TV trays. Macaroni and cheese with a brownie for dessert if we were lucky. Salisbury steak and mushy apple pie if we weren’t.

But no matter what the frozen fare was, The Brady Bunch was always on the menu.

I couldn’t wait for the next episode. Years later I chuckled for different reasons at the pilot “Honeymoon” episode, with Mr. Brady telling his bride to “take a Valium” to relax her on their wedding day. But back in those days there was no finer television than “Jan’s Aunt Jenny” who looked like Jan as a girl but grew up to look like Imogene Coca, or when Peter walked around saying “pork chops and applesauce” and pretended to be Humphrey Bogart in “The Personality Kid.” It still cracks me up.

As much as I treasured the Brady family vacations–like the three-part Grand Canyon (“Ghost Town U.S.A.,” “Grand Canyon or Bust,” and “The Brady Braves”) and Hawaiian adventures (“Hawaii Bound,” “Pass the Tabu,” and “The Tiki Caves”)–my favorite episodes were the ones that focused on Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.

Whether she was signing up for every club on campus, running against Greg for student body president, or getting Davy Jones to come to her prom, Marcia always did it with grace, style, groovy go-go boots and a perfect hair flip. My six-year-old self adored her.

And when my eight-year-old self finally met her in person at a Girl Scout Fashion show, she couldn’t have been sweeter (unlike Greg, who I met in my 20’s–he couldn’t stop talking about his Camaro).

I know that The Brady Bunch is one of the most reviled and ridiculed shows in the history of television, but to me it’s always been one of the most revered, and that’s mostly because of Marcia.

But now I’m worried because Marcia, Marcia, Marcia wrote a book. Here’s the Story: Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice by Maureen McCormick comes out October 14th and I can’t wait to read it. But at the same time I’m terrified that I’m going to learn that my childhood idol isn’t all I imagined her to be.

According to the press release: “Marcia Brady, eldest daughter on television’s The Brady Bunch, had it all. But what viewers didn’t know about the always sunny, perfect Marcia was that off-screen, her real-life counterpart, Maureen McCormick was living a very different–and not-so-wonderful–life. Maureen tells the shocking and inspirational true story of the beloved teen and the woman she became.”

It goes on to talk about her struggles with bouts of depression, cocaine addiction, bulimia, and estrangement from her family (not to mention all those Internet rumors about her and Jan being “more than sisters”). Here I thought she spent all her time off playing with Laurie Partridge.

What do you mean it wasn’t always a sunshine day?

Oh Marcia, Marcia, Marcia, say it isn’t so! You were my first girl crush. You made me want to sing with my mother, flirt with my brother and straighten my hair. Face it Marcia, you made me want to be a better girl. But now I hear you’re writing a tell-all that says you’re just like Britney, Miley and Lindsay and all of those other girls today who simply make me want to be a better mom.

Oh Marcia, Marcia, Marcia, say it isn’t so!

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 26, 2008.

The politics of friendship

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elephant-donkey-politicsThe election is still more than six weeks away and I’m starting to get a callus on my tongue from biting it.

It’s not that I don’t like to talk about politics. I love to talk about politics. Just ask my husband, or my family, or any of my friends who happen to share my opinions. We talk about politics all the time and we love it. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve solved all the problems of the world over dinner and a few bottles of wine. It’s not that we don’t argue. We certainly don’t agree on everything, but we do share some very core ideas about the way the world should be run.

I love to talk about politics.

I just don’t want to talk about politics with certain people that I know because I like those people, and I want to continue liking them and I know that I won’t like what they have to say about the upcoming election and then I’ll have to either bite my tongue until it bleeds or try to have a rational conversation with someone who is clearly out of their mind if they really think what I think they think about the upcoming election.

But I’m scared to ask them because, honestly, if they feel the way I think they do I don’t want to know.

So I’m deluged with emails and links to blogs and funny YouTube videos from friends who know I think the way they think and I forward them on to friends who I think think the way we think, but there are a lot of people in my address book who don’t. With them, I try to pretend that there isn’t an election going on because I want to continue being friends with them and I know if we talk about it, it will be hard for me.

See, I have to deal with them daily at work, on soccer teams, PTAs and nonprofit committees, and I want to deal with them in a pleasant, respectful manner and stay friendly. They are my friends, after all. But quite frankly, I’m scared that if we start to talk about certain things I’ll lose all respect for their intelligence.

Then my blood pressure will go up whenever I see them, or perhaps even think about them. Then I won’t be able to sleep at night because I’ll have endless conversations with them in my head where I brilliantly and logically explain my point of view in a way that they couldn’t possibly disagree with me–and yet they still do.

So I’ll try again and again and again until I feel like I’m banging my head against the wall and then the alarm goes off and it’s morning and it starts all over again.

So I don’t talk about politics with them.

And it’s really not the end of the world. We have plenty of other things to talk about. In fact, it’s amazing how much time you can spend with someone when your children are the same age or you’re working on a common cause before you realize how far apart you are politically.

But once that barrier has been broken it’s hard to go back, and politics becomes the elephant–or the donkey–in the room that you try to ignore but can’t quite get out of your mind.

Published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 19, 2008.

Live Long and Argue

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Don Ameche and Frances Langford as John and Blanche Bickerson (Wikipedia)

Don Ameche and Frances Langford as John and Blanche Bickerson (Wikipedia)

I believe that there’s always a silver lining. This one fell in my lap, in the form of a magazine article titled “Bickering Has Benefits.”

A study by the University of Michigan School of Public Health found a bright side to marital blowouts. Following nearly 200 couples for 17 years, researchers found that when people in a marriage suppressed their anger toward each other (rather than arguing), they had twice the risk of dying early, compared to couples that shared their emotions.

Got that honey? Fighting is good for us.

It gets better. According to the study, even if just one partner spoke up and resolved their conflict, they still got the benefit of bickering.

When I talk to my husband in a slightly loud and elevated tone, say, to gently bring his attention to something that needs doing around the house, I often feel like I’m talking to myself. But thanks to this study I’ve realized that it doesn’t really matter. Even letting him have it when he’s glued to the television or half asleep, it’s still good for MY health.

Got that honey? Fighting is good for both of us even when it’s just good for me.

There’s something sort of comforting about knowing that fighting is actually healthy for a relationship.

I grew up devouring romance novels and romantic movies. It took me a long time to figure out why there are relatively few romances written about marriage or long-term couplehood. The romantic-comedy formula is all about getting to fall in love–or getting to fall back to love–and after that the couple is on their own to live, well, presumably, happily ever after.

So what if they turn into the Bickerson’s before the honeymoon is paid for–no one wants to fork over ten bucks (plus another ten for popcorn and milk duds) to watch that movie.

The truth is–as much as we’d all like to believe that good unions float through life on a featherbed of love and roses, mutual respect, and kind words–the reality is that as much as you may love your partner, sometimes you just want to throttle him. And that’s okay. In fact, fighting is more than okay; it may even help you live longer.

Isn’t it great to know that spousal spats may actually serve a larger purpose than making you feel better by getting it off your chest? I knew that silence wasn’t really golden.

The best marriage advice I ever got was to talk it out. And if he’s not listening, keep talking and talking and talking until he hears what you’re saying and gives in.

Got that, honey? Did you hear me? Are you listening to me at all? You may as well turn off the TV and listen. Then again, your need to space out while pretending to listen attentively meshes perfectly with my need to talk everything out to the last detail. They really should make a romantic comedy about us.

We’re going to live forever.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 12, 2008.

The M Word

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Photo by Ambro/freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Ambro/freedigitalphotos.net

I had never met a four-letter word I didn’t like — under the right circumstances — until that one day, on the cusp of my 40th birthday, when the 12-year-old Vons checker dared to speak the most offensive word of them all.

“Need help out to your car, ma’am?”

Who me? Ma’am? When did that happen?

He didn’t even have a southern accent.

#@*&! When did that happen?

It seems like just days ago, at that very same Vons, when I had just had my wisdom teeth out and that cute Box Boy in my Geometry class helped me out with my single bag of groceries. I was sure he was going to ask me to the Homecoming Dance, swollen face and all.

Then he asked if I had an older sister at San Marcos. He didn’t even recognize me!

How did I go from that kind of minor adolescent humiliation to the adult-sized humiliation of ma’am?

It must have happened around the same time our neighbors stopped noticing when we had parties. Somewhere around the same time our friends stopped hooking up then breaking up and started getting married and divorced.

Growing old gracefully is highly over-rated.

At my 20th high school reunion, all of the friends I had stayed in touch with looked wonderful that night, but everyone else — who were still 18 in my mind — looked old, fat and gray.

#@*&! When did that happen?

Is this what it’s like to finally be a grown up? You blow out the candles on your 16th birthday cake and the next thing you know you’re blowing out an “over the hill” candle at your 40th birthday, because to actually put 40 candles on would take a much bigger cake!

I’ve still got the lollipop on my desk that says “40 Sucks.”

Now that I’m approaching 45 and that lollipop’s getting rather dusty, I can say with some authority that it doesn’t really suck. At least not most of the time.

For the most part my friends aren’t aging any more gracefully than I am. Although none have bought Ferrari’s or dated 19-year-old supermodels, I’m sure that’s only because they can’t afford them. We talk a lot more about our corns and bunions and a lot less about our sex lives.

At a recent 40th birthday party, a friend announced he had taken up surfing, even though he can barely swim. Another spent the week at a dude ranch, finally getting back on that horse after a few disastrous childhood attempts.

What I want to know is when did surfing and riding horses become daring, and golf become the sport of choice for people my age? When did I stop relating to the teens on Gossip Girl and start relating to their parents? Is this what it feels like to sit at the grown up table?

I’ve heard people say that “old” is about 15 years older than you are, which sounds about right. Until I realize this makes me “old” to that Box Boy and even to many of my colleagues.

I guess I should have clued in last year, when I told one of my young colleagues about the amazing Pearl Jam concert I had seen the night before.

His comment: “That’s so cool. I hope I’m still going to concerts when I’m your age.”

What am I, 55?

I’ve been going to concerts since before you were born, you little whippersnapper!

I wonder what he’d say if he knew I was online trying to buy Stone Temple Pilots tickets?

“Wow, they’re still around,” said a teenage intern. “My dad used to love them back when he was in college.”

Is this possible?

Oh #@*&!

At least he didn’t call me ma’am.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 5, 2008.

Pledging Beta

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Recovering Alpha Mom shirt from cafepress.com

Recovering Alpha Mom shirt from cafepress.com

The book practically leapt off the library shelf and into my hands. How could I resist a title like, The Sweet Potato Queens’ Guide to Raising Children for Fun and Profit? Jill Conner Browne‘s sassy bon mots just cracked me up.

–(On men) “They’ve basically got two gears–horny and hungry.”

–(On women) “There is all kinds of stuff that you just shouldn’t ask any woman. Directly. If you want to know something personal about her, ask her nail technician or somebody who went to high school with her. You can find out just about anything you want to know about her this way–especially if she’s a bad tipper or was prone to stealing ninth grade boyfriends.”

–(On children) “Somewhere around 11 to 13, the eyeballs of children become extremely loose in their sockets, so that just about any disturbance in the air around them–say a word issuing forth from, say, your mouth–will cause immediate and severe rolling.” (My son must be precocious, because he started doing this at age 8)

–(On aging) “Who cares how old you are anyway? I’ve got waaay more interesting stuff to lie about in my life, thank you very much.”

I related to a lot of the book, but there was one section in particular that really hit a nerve. I had been struggling all summer with the question of how much I want to volunteer at my son’s school this year, and her observations about Alpha Moms really hit home for me. Last year I raised my hand to volunteer a few too many times and by the end of June I was burnt out, bitchy and resentful–leaving my husband only hungry.

Not wanting to go through that again–or needlessly torture my family–I thought long and hard and decided to give up some of the boards and committees and projects I had been involved with. My problem was, I still felt guilty.

Then I read the chapter titled, “Life is Hard Enough–Pledge Beta.” Conner Browne talks about how researchers have now come up with official categories for moms, including the “dearly demented and overtly overachievers,” otherwise known as Alpha Moms.

I’m sure you know the type. These women volunteer for everything so energetically that you could swear they’ve sucked all the energy out of the universe for themselves. Just looking at them makes me tired.

These are the women who laugh at the black and orange crepe paper you were so proud of yourself for remembering to bring for Halloween party, then furiously whirl around the room until it’s transformed into Disney’s Haunted House, complete with magic elevators and hitchhiking ghosts. Then they refuse to take compliments because they “just whipped everything up” the night before after their Pilates and Mandarin Chinese classes.

Those are Alpha Moms I realized. I always thought they were called Skinny Witches. Who knew?

A light bulb went on. I had been struggling to be an Alpha Mom, but I just don’t fit in. Why didn’t I see it before? I was trying to pledge the wrong sorority.

I can’t keep myself perfectly groomed and wear heels all the time. Who am I kidding? I consider myself well dressed if I go a day without spilling something on my shirt. Clearly I’m meant to be a Beta Mom.

Beta Moms, according to Conner Browne, “show up late, running down the halls, flip-flops flapping on the floor, breathing hard, sweating, wearing oversized T-shirts and frantic,” because they forgot about the stupid party until five minutes AFTER they were supposed to be there.

These are my people. I belong with the Betas, who the Alpha Moms only trust to bring paper towels and garbage bags to the party, but still bring extras in case we forget.

Boy do I feel better now.

I think I’ll take Conner Browne’s advice–“I can tell you this with absolute certainty: Nobody goes to the nursing home wishing they’d served on a few more committees or kept a cleaner house”–and just say no to a whole lot of things this school year.

And in keeping with my new Beta Mom m.o., “The Sweet Potato Queens’ Guide to Raising Children for Fun and Profit” is overdue to the library. But I just may have to keep it a teensy bit longer.

Send an email to email if you want to pledge Beta. There are no meetings, no dues, and no expectations. But we just may have a party someday.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 29, 2008.

When you know you’re a grownup

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UntitledLast weekend we were heading down to the beach and as I rummaged through the five bottles of sunscreen and three different hats in my trunk I had a stunning revelation–I might actually be a grownup!

My days of frying on the sand in a mixture of baby oil and iodine are certainly over. I don’t even call Hendry’s Beach “the Pit” anymore because hardly anyone knows what I’m talking about. Now I’m that lady in the hat and huge sunglasses that makes sure to bring water and snacks for the kids. Wow, I might actually be a grownup.

Here are some other signs:

My friends have stopped hooking up, then splitting up. Now they’re getting married and divorced. And sometimes they’re dating people half their age–and it’s legal.

The last time I went to Disneyland, my favorite rides were the ones that didn’t hurt my back.

I could have gone to high school with Barack Obama. He would have been a senior, but still, we could have gone to school together.

No matter how impossibly cute the shoes are, I won’t wear them for more than an hour if they hurt my feet.

I’ve actually started mailing in those rebate offers.

My friend Sandy has a daughter that graduated from college, and Sandy is younger than I am.

A $4 bottle of wine no longer tastes “just fine” to me.

At the gym the other day I saw an aerobics class that looked about my speed, then realized it was for seniors.

Not only have I stopped buying cereal for the toy prizes, I’ve started stocking up on Raisin Bran and Cheerios when it’s on sale.

Sometimes my idea of a fun Friday night out involves pizza, Scrabble, and not leaving the house.

I consider the speed limit more than “just a guideline.”

I call my doctor by his first name, I’ve seen him drunk, and I still trust him.

Sometimes I hear my mom’s voice coming out of my mouth (“Because I said so.”) and it only freaks me out a little, but every once in a while, I’ll look in the mirror and see my mom’s face and it freaks me out a lot.

There’s a lot more food in my refrigerator than beer.

Thinking about having sex in a car makes me fantasize about back injuries.

When Koss asked me the other day, I couldn’t remember how to make a cursive capital “T” since it’s not a part of my signature.

When my friends suddenly become very moody, I wonder if they’re pre-menopausal, rather than pregnant.

I left a concert early at the County Bowl this year because I was too stressed out about someone getting hurt in the mosh pit to enjoy the music.

When the phone rings, I always hope it’s not for me.

I finally know for sure that my secrets are safe with my friends because they can’t remember them either.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 15, 2008.

The remote truth about men

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Image courtesy of Photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

Image courtesy of Photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

My son snatched the remote control out of my hands with the same vehemence I might have for rescuing the very last Dark Chocolate Bordeaux in a box of See’s Candy, and I said to myself–for the zillionth time this week–“Oh my God. I really don’t understand men.”

What could possibly be so enticing about controlling that remote control? I thought we had already picked a show. Why did he need to be holding the remote?

I couldn’t figure it out. Was it the power control aspect of being able to pause the show or control the volume at will? Or was it the “ooh, look at all the pretty buttons” technology gadget aspect that makes it so appealing? I had no idea.

My son was too busy furiously flipping through channels–while watching Boy Meets Grill in the picture in picture screen–to be of any help.

If sitcoms–and now reality TV–are any indication of reality, then it’s pretty obvious that men like to be in control. Things like asking for directions, going to the doctor, or getting professional help to fix a leak in the kitchen sink are seen as signs of weakness, as well as comedic gold mines.

That’s probably why my Dad is so enamored with his GPS navigation system. It gives him help without his having to ask for it. So what if it directs him to the house next door, and he follows those directions instead of turning into his own driveway? It’s all about the illusion of power, and the cool remote control gadgety thingee, of course.

Plus, with GPS, no one–except a computerized voice, which apparently doesn’t count– is telling you what to do. At least that seems to be Dad’s logic.

My husband seems to be a pretty typical member of his species in that he HATES when I tell him what to do. It doesn’t matter what it is. A burning Ferrari could be falling from the sky about to hit him on the head, and he’d be annoyed if I told him to watch out.

He might even be planning to do exactly what I tell him to do, (“You should duck, a burning sports car is about to hit you!”) and he would still hate me telling him what to do, maybe even more because he was already planning to duck and I should have realized that.

It’s the oddest thing. As soon as the words, “You should …” or “Would you …” or “Could you …” start to come out of my mouth, he becomes a rebellious teenager and I become his nagging mother. This is not one of those fun role-playing games at all. Plus, he refuses to do whatever I’m asking him to do on principle. It doesn’t matter if it was something he wanted to do or not, the point is that I’m asking him and therefore taking control away from him and violating his free will, and I may well just cut off his manhood right then and there. I guess.

My son HATES when I tell him what to do too. I really don’t understand this. It’s my job to tell him what to do and how to do it. But he doesn’t see it that way, and my husband is no help in this regard at all.

The two of them are usually as full of MANswers as they are of gas, but not today. When I ask them about their need to hold on to the remote control, they both shrug their shoulders and grab for it immediately.

“Not so fast, boy,” says my husband with a “get the hell out of Dodge” tone to his voice. My son relents control of the remote immediately. I’m still baffled.

Later that night, after much persuading, I finally get my answer.

It turns out that while I was busy delivering Koss, Zak called out “Dibs for Life” on the remote control in the hospital room. Aww, how sweet, he still remembers his first words to his newborn son.

Unfortunately, now I sort of understand.

Share your control issues with email . For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 25, 2008.

The happy-ish place on earth

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DisneylandIs it possible that the happiest place on earth is now just a happy-ish place?

From my first visit to Disneyland as a 4-year-old, to the hundreds of journeys I’ve made there since, I’ve always thought Disneyland was an E-ticket ride.

The thing about going to Disneyland– sweaty bodies that aren’t your own, outrageous prices, long lines and theme park feet aside–is that it’s a chance to spread a little magic pixie dust and journey back to your childhood.

But this time, even though our recent trip was a blast, it was also a sad reminder that while I’m still a kid from the moment I spot Mickey from the freeway, my own kid is growing up way too fast. He didn’t even want to buy mouse ears because he’d “have to take them off on Thunder Mountain.”

Excuse me? Mouse ears are mandatory.

Back in the 70s, when I was rocking white Go-Go boots, pigtails and a Partridge Family lunchbox, my Grandpa Alex did the dry cleaning for Disneyland. This meant we got free tickets to Disneyland. We must have gone a dozen times every summer, but I still got mouse ears every time–and that was when your choices were with or without a bow. Now the ears (37 styles) snap on to 1,569 different hat options, and don’t even get me started on the patches. Yet Koss was not particularly interested.

Hmm … maybe it’s a boy thing? At least he still skipped with me.

New stuff comes and goes in the real world with alarming frequency, but everything in Fantasyland was just where I left it when I was 7. Watching Alice’s teacups spin brought back some of the happiest memories of my childhood–but if some kind of extreme thrill isn’t involved, then Koss wasn’t willing to wait in more than a five-minute line. My husband Zak got queasy just looking at those saucers spin.

I realize that not everyone digs Disneyland the way I do, but Zak was more excited by the free soda refills at one of the restaurants than the new Nemo ride. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best ride ever, but still, it’s a NEW RIDE at DISNEYLAND! To which he responded, it’s FREE REFILLS at DISNEYLAND! Point taken.

I think Zak’s happiest moment of our three-day adventure was when he saw that “It’s a Small World,” was closed for re-theming. I was crushed, but soon realized that even without the ride I could still hear the echoes of my dad singing, “It’s a Small World After All.”

Just so they wouldn’t feel left out, I sang it a few times for Zak and Koss. They were amused for the first ten minutes or so, then, I don’t know what happened. Some people don’t recognize fun, even when it’s screaming in their ear.

Like I said, it was a happy-ish place this time.

Still, I got them off the roller coasters and into the Tiki Room for a little while. The line for the pineapple froth was too long, and Koss thought it sounded icky, but inside I could almost see Grandpa Alex’s belly jiggling as he danced along with the birds in the “Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Room,”

Koss rolled his eyes when I shared the precious Disney memory of when he was a baby and I gracefully managed to spill an entire strawberry slushie on his tushie and then used the very last diaper in all of Disneyland to clean him off.

While I think that one of the greatest things about being a parent is getting to re-experience magic through the eyes of a child, I guess I also have to remember that as a child it’s not that much fun to hear your parents’ stories over and over again.

But seriously, this is a story that involves Disneyland, bodily fluids, and mom being embarrassed. You would think he’d be a little more amused. Where’s the pixie dust when you need it?

I was starting to worry that Koss might not have inherited my Disney gene, when we stumbled onto the parade. His skinny legs bounced along to “Under the Sea” and he grinned as he explained to the crowd that the starfish were doing some of the aerial moves he learned at Circus Camp. Then he waved to Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, forgetting for a moment that he’s almost 9 and too old to get too excited. This place has still got it.

When we finally got home, with throbbing feet and empty wallets, I was too tired to wash the theme park film of saturated fat, sunscreen, sweat and spilled sugar off my body. Koss is still smiling when we carry him to bed and still clutching a couple of magic rings we bought him instead of the mouse ears. Who needs pixie dust? Disneyland’s still got it.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 18, 2008.

Bringing up Babies

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Claire Bloomfield photo

Claire Bloomfield photo

I was interviewing this fascinating, accomplished, professional woman and it was going great. Our conversation had a nice rhythm, she had some anecdotes and zingers I knew would jump right off the page. Oh joy, oh boy, this profile was practically writing itself. Then, when the interview was just about over, I dropped the bomb. A conversational dud that fell with a big fat thud: Do you have any kids?

It sounds like a pretty innocent question, right? It’s not like I asked her about her favorite sexual position. But she didn’t have kids and that simple truth made me feel like I had crossed a line and was intruding into her personal life.

How is it that we can live in a society that teaches the four R’s–Reading, ‘Riting, ‘Rithmetic and Reproduction–and yet asking someone whether they have children can be considered rude? I wanted to explain to her that even though I’m now on the mom side of the fence, I’m not so far out of her neighborhood.

It wasn’t that long ago that I was childfree and working late nights at the office, cursing my colleagues who got to leave at 5 to pick up Timmy and Susie from daycare, while I had to work late to pick up their slack. I remember what it was like. As much as I love my son, I do sometimes long for the days when every dining out experience didn’t come with complimentary crayons.

There’s been so much written about “the mommy wars” between the stay-at-home moms and moms who work, but nobody really talks about the “my life choices are better than yours” tension between the women who have children and those who don’t. Like it or not: I could feel it in the air as I awkwardly ended the interview.

Now I’m not one of those women who believe it’s everyone’s fate to procreate. I can certainly understand why everyone doesn’t want a baby on board. Not everybody pines for progeny. I know plenty of cheerfully childless people, I thought. Look at Oprah, and Mother Teresa. What about Condoleezza Rice? What’s the big deal? I wanted to explain all that to this woman and couldn’t find the words. It just felt too personal, like I was asking her how much money she made or whether she believed in God.

But as I flipped through my address file later, I realized that the vast majority of people I hang out with have kids. It’s not that I don’t know a lot of childless people, but we don’t really run in the same circles. Apparently, they like their conversations uninterrupted by shouts of, “Stop stabbing your sister with a fork!”

The moment I walked down the aisle and got married it seemed like people started asking me about “the pitter-patter of tiny little feet.” It was amusing at first, but became progressively more painful and annoying as we struggled to have a baby, and the ticking of my biological clock joined in the pitter-patter chorus.

When I was struggling with infertility it seemed like the whole world was pregnant or potty training. I began to cringe inside every time someone asked about kids. Was this what it was like all the time for people without kids?

How do you keep your cool in a world filled with drool? My friend Cara, who gets asked all the time about kids, laughed, “I usually just tell them I’m raising kittens instead.”

Daisy, a college friend who tied her tubes in her 20s, said when people ask her “why don’t you have any children,” she simply retorts: “why don’t you have any class?”

Angie, who’s approaching 40 and is cheerfully childless, says she’s been asked, “Aren’t you getting to the age where you should be having babies?” Her favorite response: “Nah. But aren’t you getting to the age where you should have better manners?”

But my favorite response came from Camie, who said, “I’ll consider having a baby when maternity clothes and minivans are sexy.”

Hmm … I wonder what Angelina Jolie drives?

Is it rude to bring up babies? Share your thoughts–and horror stories–with email.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 11, 2008.

Father Knows Best

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Image by nongpimmy

Image by nongpimmy

Though he spent a lot of my childhood hard at work on the football fields of Santa Barbara City College–calling plays, not mowing the lawn–and a lot of my adulthood on the golf course, playing poker, or retired on the couch–in deep snoring thought–my father still manages to provide his children and grandchildren with a lot of hard-earned, sensible advice.

While most fathers offer cliched wisdom about how they walked miles to school in the snow, or earned just pennies an hour for backbreaking labor, my Dad is nothing if not an original.

One of his favorite expressions is, “pain is your friend.” Thanks to my Dad this sage advice (good for skinned knees and bloody noses, bad for PMS) gets lobbed around our household almost daily. Ask any of my son’s soccer, basketball, chess or baseball teammates and coaches, and they will tell you that this is Koss’s favorite phrase. As the fortunate–or unfortunate–recipient of two generations worth of pent up Dinaberg testosterone, Koss now gets the advantage of Coach Bob’s advice on a regular basis.

Growing up with a football coach father, my mom, sister and I would often reflect on what a good thing it was that we didn’t have any boys in our family. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my sister and I both married guys who prefer golf, swimming and channel surfing to any sport where they might actually get hit.

Luckily for Grandpa Bob, Koss, his only male grandchild, loves to wrestle, tackle and play rough. Thanks to Gramps, Koss has embraced the idea of “pain is your friend” wholeheartedly. This is a good thing because as an only child, he needs all the friends he can get.

“Developmental tasks” are another favorite Dad-ism. With pain as our friend, if we couldn’t manage to play through it, we could always learn from it. Anything we didn’t want to do–like paint the sundeck or tar the roof–was a “developmental task” in Dad’s mind. Same thing with anything we wanted to do but couldn’t–like going to a parent-free party because “everyone else was going”–they all became “developmental tasks” for my sister Pam and I to learn from.

When I went through my own labor and delivery, I repeated both of these adages to myself, Dad, and I’m sorry to report that pain was most certainly NOT my friend, and my “developmental task” was to learn that I should have demanded an epidural at least two weeks before delivery.

I don’t think I ever realized it at the time, but those themes of learning from things that are painful or out of your control have played a big part in my life.

Time has a sneaky way of rewriting history.

Legend has it that the first thing my Dad said to my mom when he saw me at birth was: “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll buy her pretty clothes and develop her personality.”

Granted, this was 1963, I had a forceps-dented forehead, and the only labor fathers participated in those days was pacing the hospital halls and handing out cigars, so seeing this very un-Gerber-baby-like creature might have been a bit of a shock.

Why he repeats the story every birthday is another matter–yet here I am, sharing my pain with my friends. Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

Share your father’s wisdom with email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 13, 2008.