“Your daughter is so smart!” So you’re saying she’s ugly.
“So great how you give him so much freedom.” So you’re saying I neglect him.
“He’s really lucky to have a parent who’s so attentive!” So you’re saying I smother him.
“Hello!” Racist.
“How are you?” Doesn’t recognize the struggle.
“Would you like a refill on that coffee?” *starts sobbing*
“Boarding pass, please.” Isn’t that so like you.
“The weather this afternoon at San Francisco International Airport is sixty-three degrees and foggy.” I CAN’T EVEN.
“I haven’t seen you in so long, you’ve obviously been busy!” You did not just.
“You look tired.” Oh my God.
“You look great!” Oh my God.
“Your son knows more about computers than I do!” So you’re saying my house is a hedonistic den of screen time.
“I wish my daughter liked being outside as much as your daughter does.” So you’re saying she’s doomed to die penniless and alone because she doesn’t know how to code.
“How can I help?” So you’re saying I look like I need help.
“Can I get you anything at the store?” So you’re saying I look like I’m out of everything.
“Would your kids like to come with us to go get ice cream?” So you’re saying I look like I’m anti-ice-cream-at-home.
“How was your summer?” I cried a lot?
“Oh, two, four, and six are such great ages!” Ma’am, don’t mock me.
“It gets easier!” HOW DARE YOU.
“Looks like you have your hands full!” I SAID HOW DARE YOU.
“Such a beautiful day, isn’t it?” I JUST.
“Merry Christmas!” SERIOUSLY, GO FUCK YOURSELF.
“This coffee cake is delicious!” So you’re saying I like missionary in particular.
“I love what you’ve done with your house!” Feminism just called, it said it’s dead. The funeral is at three.
“How long have you been breastfeeding?” Long enough to know this is a trick question.
“It’s fine to give your baby a bottle—don’t listen to those nursing Nazis.” *starts sobbing*
“Your husband is such a good dad!” Yeah, men tend to really shine at about the 35 percent parenting level.
“Being a mother is hard.” So you’re saying I make it look not easy.
“Being a mother is a gift.” Where’s my receipt?
“Being a mother is the best job there is.” And the profit sharing? Oooh hoo boy.
“Being a mother is thankless.” Am I talking to myself again? I am, I can tell.
“He’s an angel.” Don’t tell me, you’re a grandmother?
“He’s an angel sent straight from heaven!” I told you to stay out of this, Holly Hunter.
“Can I take your order?” *starts sobbing*
“Would you like a dressing room?” Yes, because I would like to threaten my children in private.
“How’s it going in there?” YOU KNOW HOW IT’S GOING IN HERE.
“Need any other sizes?” If you say, “Bigger,” I WILL STUFF THIS SWEATER DOWN MY PANTS.
“Thank you!” Wow.
“Please come again!” Can you even hear yourself?
“Would you like to take it for a test drive?” Off a cliff with you in it, yes.
“Or should we wait for your husband?” To knee you square in the 1950s? No, I can do that myself.
“So how did it handle?” The thing is just so well honed. Not only is its electrically assisted steering system unexpectedly sensitive, you can practically feel the thousands of man-hours spent developing its Michelin tires, its stiffer structure and, on Z51 models, its electronically controlled limited-slip differential. Even on narrower rubber, the C7 has grip figures on par with the outgoing Z06. Okay, fine, I got that from Car and Driver.
“Wow, he’s gotten so tall!” So you’re saying he’s too big for his age.
“Oh my gosh, look at those tiny feet.” So you’re saying she’s too small for her age.
“Look at that belly!” I hope you’re talking about my kid.
“Look at that naked bummy!” Seriously, please be talking about my ki— WHY ARE YOU NAKED RIGHT NOW? YOU’RE TWELVE.
“Look at you all together, what a beautiful family.” *starts sobbing*
“Did you see that movie that just came out?” I don’t know, was it called Fuck Me for Having Friends Who Have a Life?
“Did you read that new book?” Mmmmm, busy doing a little something over here called HELPING THE HUMAN RACE CONTINUE. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back up on my cross.
“Don’t you ever wonder what that sweet baby is thinking?” Oh, I know exactly what he’s thinking: I hate everyone.
Is There a Parenting Expert on This Plane?
Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’re now at a cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet and I’ve turned off the fasten-seat-belt sign. Feel free to get up, stretch your legs, and move about the cabin. Also, while I have your attention, it seems there’s a child in 9D who is completely incapable of spreading cream cheese onto his bagel by himself and there’s growing concern in that section of the aircraft that he doesn’t have enough “grit.”
Is there a parenting expert on this plane?
Great, the flight attendant is telling me 153 of you are. She also mentioned that his mother didn’t raise her hand. Interesting.
Look, today it’s cream cheese, tomorrow it’s not being able to slather lubricant on an ultrasound wand. It’s just never too early for the general public—specifically white men in positions of power—to step in and tell women they’re so very wrong and to detail all the ways they’re so very wrong. I also find it never hurts (me) to explain things to them in a way I might to a small child. Mom, would you like a pair of pilot wings? No, no, I insist.
Quick show of hands, how many of you believe 9D can’t spread his big-baby cream cheese due to the fact his mother doesn’t allow him to free-range enough, and by “enough” I mean an acceptable amount according to strangers on the playground, neighbors, and those of us heading to Chicago this afternoon—where the weather is a mild seventy-two degrees and it’s partly cloudy—none of whom know this family personally?
I’m being told 148. Yes, that’s what I was afraid of.
Is there a Tiger Mom in the house? Anyone raise their kid in France? Any kids on board who manage their parents’ finances—hold on, I’m being told that the boy in 9D is four years old and this is his first time flying. And now I’m getting a message from the control tower . . . yup, yup. Got it . . . okay, they said and I quote, “Oh boo-hoo, sounds like the excuses of someone who will never be able to hold down a job or find happiness in the arms of a life partner.” They also suggested I put my fists up at the outer corners of my eyes and curl them in and out to make the internationally recognized sign of the crybaby, like this. But, hey, by all means, 9D’s mom, keep spreading his cream cheese for him. Jesus.
I mean, who am I? Just some “guy” who holds all your lives in his extremely independent, staying-dry-at-night, spreadin’-cream-cheese-all-by-himself hands.
Look, no one has time for this, 9D. It’s time you put your big boy pants on and change the oil on your mom’s car when you get home.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW HOW? That’s it. I’ve had enough of this.
DOES ANYONE KNOW HOW TO FLY A PLANE?
The cocaptain. Of course, apologies . . . Please take over, Todd.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking from in front of you right now, in the middle of the aisle. The flight attendants will be starting beverage service soon and I suggest you order a double because we’ve got some serious meddling and undermining to do.
Look, how can we get 9D to step it up over here? Feel free to just shout out your craziest, most judgmental thoughts.
“Tell the boy’s mother everything
she’s doing wrong but also get something in there about cherishing every moment, it goes by so fast, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” Yes, good, good.
“Look on disapprovingly, no matter what’s happening.” Well, that certainly is a timeless one!
“Diagnose the child even though I work in a bank. Perhaps suggest 9D is autistic and ask the mother if she ever saw Claire Danes in that Temple Grandin movie because it was marvelous.” Creative, cultural, and on trend, I really like where you’re going with that one.
“Just sigh a lot and act exasperated, as though I myself was never a small child who had to learn self-control and life skills. And then pivot to add a dig in there like ‘I suppose you’re one of those working mothers who has someone else raising her kid for her? Because it obviously shows.’ Something like that.” Perhaps a bridge too far, but interesting. Okay, food for thought.
Another quick show of hands, will this child eventually be able to spread cream cheese on his own simply by maturing and learning skills at his own pace?
Two. What are you even thinking, 23A? And mom to 9D, please stay out of this.
Or will he only be able to get a grip if his mother quits her job and commits to being at home full-time, which is the natural habitat for those of you with vaginas “who’ve been through the wringer”?
152. Yes, thank you. THANK YOU.
Last, are we helping or hurting?
One vote for hurting, 152 for helping. Hold up, the one vote for hurting is from the boy’s mother. Ma’am, I said stay out of this.
Look, if there’s one thing I think we can all agree on, it’s that all of us—except one—are right. No one knows what’s better for a child than someone who has precious little information about that child or his circumstances. Bonus points if it’s been at least three decades since you’ve parented a young child yourself. Double bonus points if you’ve never had any children at all.
Who’s with me on this?
First class, I CAN’T HEAR YOU!
Very last row in front of the bathrooms, HOLLA! Oopsie daisy, apparently that made 9D cry. Well, that’s hardly surprising, is it?
Everyone in coach, LET ME HEAR YOU SCREAM!
Freedoms
Do You Have Faith in Me?
“Do you have faith in me?!” My daughter shout-asked from across the skate park. She stood there, helmet and pads on, never having been on a skateboard before, opting for a scooter at this birthday party, as she considered going down a small ramp.
“Do you have faith in me?” she repeated, this girl who is nothing if not supremely confident. In just a six-word question she summed up the last eleven years of my life, of trying to control my worry, my anxiety, real anxiety, to have faith. In me. In them. In the world.
For me, raising children has been one long strength-building exercise in self-control. Not the kind of self-control that really matters—I yell, throw tantrums, slam my fist down on the table when everything’s unraveling. But the kind of control it takes to keep my anxiety wrestled into a submissive position, to remind myself tragedy isn’t the only option, to attempt to hide from them I’m worried. I’m always worried.
Becoming a mother made my anxiety—a thing I never really thought I had—explode into a Technicolor display of irrational imagination. In just the sixty seconds it took me to hustle down to our roadside mailbox and back, I imagined in graphic detail how it had been just enough time for our two lazy dogs to rip my infant son apart, to pull him from his cushion-enclosed nap spot on the couch and devour him in a feeding frenzy. It was the thing that made every trip to a playground, bike path, or pool one long stress test for me, cringing and shouting, “Be careful!” But it never inoculated them from anything. Not her falling from the monkey bars in a position that can only be described as “invisible chair,” when I thought she had broken her tailbone. It didn’t inoculate him from choking on pool water, or either of them from falling—on their teeth, on the side of their heads, on their knees. It never protected them from anything; it never saved us a single trip to the ER.
When my son was six, he was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder as a free gift with purchase with his Asperger’s diagnosis. As parents (as humans) we’re very quick to say so, okay, that’s you. That’s your thing. We should definitely, definitely work on that. It took me a while to realize, wait, hold up, I think that actually might be my thing too.
I slowly began to trace the web backward. My shyness as a kid and, to a lesser degree, as an adult. My fear of speaking up, of saying the wrong thing, of saying anything in certain situations. My fear of hurting myself—I have clear memories of inching my way down our hill in winter to get to the school bus stop, careful to avoid the patches of ice hiding under the snow, waiting to betray me. It’s why I don’t ski, snowboard, mountain bike, and barely know how to swim. I’ve never plunged into a pool, jumped from a boat into a lake. The risks I take are creative and mostly theoretical. They are never physical. And when I thought I had a handle on it, had named it, or at least understood it was there, like a disloyal shadow, it turned on me.
Last September I prepared to get up in front of eighty people—the most open, supportive, enthusiastic eighty people possible—and make a brief ten-minute announcement. That’s it. That’s all. But the longer the first speakers took, the more I felt my nerves suddenly ramp up. My legs felt a little weak, my heart about to explode. I told myself that this was just normal nervousness for me. I always felt nervous before speaking or presenting, but once I got up there and got rolling, I’d be fine. Well, more or less fine. I’d be mostly fine. Plus, I had no idea what actually existed beyond normal nervousness.
But in what felt like a flash, my run-of-the-mill nervousness crossed a hard line it had never, not once, crossed before. I imagined what walking up to the front of the room would feel like, and I was pretty sure it would feel like walking through oatmeal while wearing cement shoes. I felt my legs about to buckle. I didn’t faint, and although I had never fainted before, I was sure this must be what it felt like. My chest tightened. I wasn’t sure my legs actually even worked anymore. I couldn’t imagine opening my mouth and anything coming out of it except moths and cotton. And in that instant it all came crashing down—I lurched over to my partner in this project, a partner not prepared to speak at all, threw her my notes and said, “I have to go,” and walked out the side door just as my introduction was happening.
It felt as fucked-up, awful, and upsetting as you might imagine. I felt freaked-out. I felt wildly unprofessional. I felt like an utter loser. I really didn’t know what had happened. I still don’t know what happened. A panic attack, I guess. My first.
Maybe I wasn’t eating enough, not enough protein; I wasn’t sleeping a lot on that trip; we all drank together the night before; maybe I was dehydrated. I reasoned I had become either too comfortable or too lazy about rehearsing, something I had relied on previously to feel prepared and confident. I had underestimated I would need to do that in this situation too. I hadn’t taken it seriously nor prepared as I might otherwise, since this was supposed to be easy, quick, and casual. That’s what everyone told me. I told myself that was the full story as well as the end of it. Just an anomaly.
But two months later I was in a meeting, a routine mundane meeting, and as we went around to introduce ourselves, the longer it took to get to me the more nervous I felt, and as soon as I thought, I hope what happened in September isn’t happening again, I triggered it. I made it through, the thought of the humiliation greater than the anxiety, but barely. My face was hot; I felt like I was speaking from under water. Sweat prickled all over my body, and the taste of metal flashed in my mouth. No one could have known I’d been seconds from fleeing, from passing out, from wanting out. Here, keep your money.
I don’t know what’s happening, this anxiety that reshapes in me every ten or twenty years. I don’t know why this fear of the physical is now exploding into a fear of the interpersonal, the mundane, into the part of the world I felt
like I had a handle on. I can trigger it the way you can conjure pain by pressing on a bruise or feel the electric zing of a loose tooth by pushing it with your tongue. I test it. Which seems unwise, but frankly, I’m pissed about it. I didn’t do anything you didn’t want me to do and now you want to take even more away from me? I didn’t take risks, I kept myself safe, I’ve worked completely under the radar and this is the thanks I get? Fuck you, anxiety.
We always think we’re alone in our misery, don’t we? We think we’re so special as to have problems and ailments that only we have experienced. We all think we’re the next subjects of the Diagnosis column in the New York Times.
But every time I reveal something of myself, take the risk in asking a friend, “Has this ever happened to you?” the answer is almost always a shy, quiet yes. Miscarriage? Yes. Financial freak-outs? Yes. Panic attacks? Yup. We’re so afraid of failure. And anxiety feels like one long fucking failure.
I’ve learned over time to avoid some of the situations where I’ll hold my kids back, where I’ll be nothing but a chorus of becarefulbecarefulbecareful. Those are the things my husband fields, where he lets them be kids and take risks and get hurt and get back up again. They know I’m the Parent Who Worries. I don’t think they understand the true extent of it, but maybe I’m just being naive. Because by the time my daughter was four and I shouted, “Please be careful, watch what you’re doing!” as she scrambled up and over a rock embankment near the lake she quietly replied down to the sand, “Mom, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
Amateur Hour Page 19