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Archive for January, 2011
(Continued from GIRL OF MY DREAMS)
This morning while my son greedily gobbles down a mouthful of Coco Pebbles, I can’t help but stare disapprovingly at his unkempt hair, hideous cargo shorts, and chocolate stained mouth. Instead of lecturing him about the sorry state of his diet, I retreat into my wouldn’t-it-have-been-great-if-we-had-a-daughter dream.
After OUR Triumph at Lincoln Center Taylor/Lindsey/Donatella and I retire to our lavish suite at the Sherry Netherlands Hotel and spread the glowing newspaper reviews all over the lush carpeting. As is her custom, my daughter never reads her own reviews – she considers it gauche. I on the other hand, pour over every syllable. I am at once anguished by these moronic ‘journalists’ who have the nerve to condescendingly refer to my daughter’s performance as ‘sparking,’ ‘inspired,’ and ‘novel.’
Are they blind? Are these critics so accustomed to mediocrity that they can’t recognize true genius when they see it? I am about to lose my faith in the media altogether when my eye comes to rest on a New York Times black and white photograph of my daughter soaring through the air in a miraculous grand jete′. I’ve seen this shot dozens of times (New York City Ballet uses it on every dreary program, press kit, and playbill) but this time the photo is accompanied by a headline that screams RAPTUROUS DANCE MIRACLE – ABRAMS TRIUMPHS AGAIN! Elated, I race down the hall to share the happy news with my daughter. I find her casually seated at her vanity, brushing her long auburn hair and inspecting her patrician features.
“Kitten, have you seen? The Times is calling your performance transcendent – a miracle!” I exclaim.
My daughter continues to brush her hair. “Now daddy, you know I don’t read my reviews – it’s bad form.“
“Oh darling, I know – but I just couldn’t resist. Do you forgive?”
My daughter suddenly stops brushing her luxurious hair, turns and regards me with the most plaintive look. “Daddy, I would forgive you ANYTHING. Besides, the only real critic whose opinion matters is yours. I could have never gotten here without your unconditional love and support.”
(To Be Continued)
My young son Ethan is a very stylish eight year old. He is acutely and at times annoyingly aware of what style of sneaker, shirt or pant is ‘cool’ or ‘dorky.’ He has developed a slavish devotion to French-made ‘skinny jeans,’ vintage t-shirts, and hard-to-find European, suede sneakers that fall to pieces the moment rain hits them. This doesn’t come as as total shock to me, being who he is – not to mention the company he keeps. My gorgeous son Ethan (who is straight as an arrow) lives with a pair of shallow, style-obsessed, fashion-victim gay men who are as gay as geese. While other fathers agonize over their son’s batting average, George and I fret that our son’s most recent and supposedly hip haircut doesn’t do proper justice to his strong Nordic features.
When our surrogate Irma became pregnant with our son, I immediately concluded we were having a girl. With glee, I anticipated all the fun, girly stuff little Taylor/Lindsey/Donatella and I would do together. We would shop for frilly party dresses at Nordstrum, eat dainty little finger sandwiches at The Plaza Hotel in New York City and throw the most lavish, and enviable tea parties.
My exquisite daughter would soon be fluent in 8 languages, attend Julliard, and be the first Suma Cum Laude graduate of Princeton to dance the leading role of GISELLE at Lincoln Center. Seated 4th row, center, tears of exquisite joy course down my face when in the 2nd act my darling daughter plunges the dagger into her breast, relinquishing her life as GISELLE and assuming her tragic and immortal Sylph identity. The audience convulses in ecstasy and to the astonishment of the management, orchestra and assembled critics have the audacity to give Taylor/Lindsey/Donatella Abrams an-unheard-of standing ovation before the velvet curtain has even fallen on the her grand finale!
After her 10th encore, my daughter would humbly motion for me to join her on stage. As the crowd roars it’s approval, Taylor/Lindsey/Donatella magnanimously takes my hand, curtsies deeply, and hands me a single red rose from the magnificent bouquet sent to her by Mikael Baryshnikov. (He is still smarting over her impulsive decision to join New York City ballet, but faced with the tidal wave of publicity she is receiving, he has no choice but to kiss her emaciated ass) Though I am nearly blinded by Lincoln Center’s luminous spotlight, I lovingly bow towards my supplicating daughter, give her a knowing wink, and then while facing OUR adoring public, hands earnestly clasped together at my lips, give a simple, mouthed ‘Thank You.’ The crowd goes wild and while ferociously cheering and clapping, shower my Prima Ballerina daughter and I in a cascade of fragrant rose petals.
(To Be Continued)
I never really wanted to be a dad.
There, I wrote it. It looks strange on the page. Kind of like writing something pornographic – it’s honest, brutal and meant for my readers only. It’s not that I don’t like kids – I like kids. I certainly liked other people’s kids. In my pre-parenting days, I believed kids were like kittens or puppies – you played with them, fed them and when they shit on the floor you handed them back to their owners.
Most of my experiences with other people’s children involves a round of martinis first. Properly hammered, I fail to comprehend what these mealy-mouth parents are complaining about – I mean their kids seemed perfectly nice to me. Little Luca, Jack or Felix never gets on my nerves after two stiff ones. Hell, I could play SHOOTS AND LADDERS for weeks if I’m drunk. As a matter of fact – I am a far better player drunk than not drunk. I get super competitive and never let any of the little kids win. Letting little kids win is Bullshit – if you’re going to play SHOOTS AND LADDERS with me PLAY-TO-WIN or don’t play at all!
I can’t tell you how many times my son Ethan would go to pieces after I kicked his ass at SHOOTS AND LADDERS or CANDYLAND. No one could ever accuse me of being a ‘graceful winner.’ I take my victory lap around his room and enact my YOU SUCK victory dance. He usually doesn’t see the humor in it – he charges out of the room, tears streaming down his face uttering some nonsense about me cheating. Now, I can assure you that I NEVER cheat. Sure, I may keep a PRINCESS FROSTINE card under the table now and again – I may have even moved COOKIE MONSTER ahead a color or two in CANDYLAND – but this in the interest of moving the game along.
So, like I said, I never wanted kids. How did I arrive here? How did I wind up with this alien child whose moods, desires and interests shift on a minute-by-minute basis? One second he’s loving, devoted and polite – the next he’s spiteful, mean, and manipulative.
My husband George likes to churn out ‘useful’ parenting chestnuts such as ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You – you have to model the behavior you want Ethan to emulate. He lacks the ability to decipher your sarcasm and bitterness. You need to speak from your heart and use ‘I’ statements such as I FEEL SAD, I FEEL FRUSTRATED, I FEEL ANGRY. Therein lies your salvation.”
Yes – George actually talks like that. Enchanting isn’t it? I can’t tall you how many times I’ve wanted to shove a Popsicle in his mouth during one of our many parenting arguments. Is George right – of course he is! Who gives a flying fuck? You try telling a hungry eight year old already engaged in an ‘You’re-absolutely-not-getting-a-Frappacino’ meltdown that you’re feeling ‘frustrated’ by his behavior. I’m sorry, but that shit just doesn’t work.
When we’re bored, my son Ethan and I play a little game in carpool called ‘Let’s talk about our feelings.’ It usually involves me imitating George and using lots of ‘I’ statements, “What are your feelings about my feelings not feeling the same as your feelings?” Ethan usually puts his hands to his ears, cackles and then makes his own ‘I’ statements such as ‘I’m feeling like I need to run away from home,’ or ‘I’m wishing you would stop pretending you have feelings.’ I laugh to myself and realize that in the game of parenting, I am a mere pawn and my son is in fact the grand master.
(Continued from The Son Also Rises Pt. 2)
April 5, 2009
Dear Mommie Dearest, (aka Darth Vader),
George and I are ever so appreciative of the delightful truck load of ‘trinkets’ you provided to young Master Ethan on this of all days, Cinco De Mayo. I’m certain his comrades at school will be spitting mad when they see that Ethan has the ENTIRE line of Star Wars Lego Toys. Gracious, I feel as though I could take on that pesky rebellion myself what with the Death Star, Battle Cruiser, and General Grievous Lego sets, not to mention the Landspeeder bedroom set, Luke Skywalker costume, light sabers, and Han Solo ‘Carbonite’ sculpture! (It was the devil to mount on the wall having been cast in solid bronze and all – but so worth it!)
As I write, my husband George ‘Obi-Wan Kenobi’ Abrams is painfully hunched over the ‘battle plans’ for the Death Star, his reading glasses perched precariously on his nose as he sorts through the half-million individual, made-in-China, plastic pieces that make up the body of the Empire’s ultimate weapon. What fun! As you know, I lack the patience, talent and inclination to assist in assembling such things. I’m sure it has NOTHING to do with the endless Martinis, bottles of wine, cigarettes, ‘dolls’ and nameless hormones ingested while you were pregnant with me. (It was the fun-loving 60′s after all, and common sense went right out the window with Eisenhower)
Anybirthdefect, Ethan is basking in the glow of his AMEX ’Black Card’ purchased bribes and like the Star Wars evil Emperor has decided to place me under house arrest again. He’s threatening to have me executed for some ridiculously minor infraction this time. Apparently my ‘offense’ against the Ethan Empire is ‘unauthorized fraternization’ with an alien life form with an intent to abandon my assigned post. (Yes, I had been flirting outrageously with Ethan’s cute, young gymnastics coach and had become dazzled by his snow white grin and washboard abs. Further, I did fail to notice on the car ride home that my child wasn’t in the car. But let’s be honest, it could happen to anyone! ) I tried to bargain with the Emperor to spare my life, but he’s in one of his tiresome, spare-the-rod-spoil-the-child moods again. It doesn’t look good.
In closing, Obi-Wan and I did want to express our most gracious thanks for your shamelessattempt to buy our child’s love. You will be gratified to know that your feeble attempts to assuage your parental guilt through the purchase of poorly-made crap pleased the Emperor immensely. Further, he has signed my death warrant with the same pen I use to write this ‘thank you.’ (He scribbled on a piece of construction paper – “Daddi Dyes Tomarow”) As tomorrow is gymnastics, I can only hope that the Emperor finds it in his heart to postpone the execution until after I’ve had a chance to watch a shirtless, Coach Bobby work the pummel horse.
Sincerely,
Princess Leia Organa
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