Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [14]
PETER HAS GROWN ACCUSTOMED TO BEING MISTAKEN FOR THE boys’ grandfather when he’s out with them. He may be old enough, technically, but he does not sit on a hill smoking a pipe, watching me child-mind from afar. He is lithe and energetic, and a natural athlete. Peter has perfect posture and extremely elegant hands. He is so graceful that he can make bowling look like ballet. But for all his finesse, he is fiercely competitive. There is no such thing as a friendly game of croquet for Peter, and we have learned not to play board games with him because of this drive to be on top.
But unlike some younger fathers, who are still building their careers, Peter never hesitates to put us first. Yes, he does card tricks, he runs like a girl, he has an überannoying habit of overintellectualizing everything. But he never complains about the cost of my shoes; for that alone, he is a keeper. I love the fact that, as an older father, Peter has his work/family priorities firmly in place.
One day a few years ago I was in Union Square with Peik and Truman after school. They were with their skateboarding pack, executing jumps and spins and other death-and police-defying acts of wonder. Truman, being five, was drifting into the larger space of his big brother, and acting very much like an eight-year-old in every way, until Peik had had enough of sharing his friends and boxed Truman out. Not one to sulk, Truman looked around for new fun and noticed a troupe of break-dancers getting warmed up. He loves break-dancers, and we often go on adventures in the subways at night to watch them perform. Knowing what was about to happen, I got out my phone.
“Peter,” I said, “you have to get to Union Square with your video camera. Truman is about to dance.”
“I’m in a meeting with the lawyer.”
“Really, Peter. Believe me. You must get this on film.”
“I’ll be right there.”
By the time he arrived, Truman was being introduced to the crowd as part of the crew. The dancers lined up one by one to take their solos. Sure enough, they sent Truman out for his turn. Truman stepped forward in his preppie rugby shirt and carrot-orange hair and executed a series of spins and worms and even the Michael Jackson crotch grab. I laughed until I cried, watching that performance. Peter was thrilled to have preserved the moment. He looked up at me and mouthed, “Thank you.”
I pointed down at my new alligator Manolos and mouthed, “Oh no, thank you.”
“All my kids’ therapists say they are very well-adjusted.”
HELP WITH THE HEAVY LIFTING
SIX KIDS? AND YOU WORK? HOW DO YOU DO IT?
“Well, our oldest is away at college, so there are only five left at home” is how I usually deflect the astonishment from people I meet on the street. “And we have help.”
“Oh, you have help.”
This is where the problem lies. Perhaps people assume that if I have help, then I must be rich, and hating rich people has become the latest American pastime, so they must hate me. Or perhaps because my life was made very public for a short time, during which I was nicknamed “Bad Mommy,” they think that this gives them the right to judge my choices.
In any case, people love to beat me up over the fact that I have help. Being raised with nannies doesn’t seem to have adversely affected my kids at all. In fact, all their therapists say they are very well adjusted.
In an otherwise innocuous interview for Parents.com, during which I spoke about how I juggle work and family, I mentioned the girls who help me with my children. In the South, where I come from, “girl” is a term of endearment. I call all women “girl,” regardless of age, race, or sometimes gender. This tidbit was buried in a five-screen click-through about style and girdles and whatnot, but for some reason Jezebel.com, a women’s website that is part of the Gawker group, linked to the article with