Like the Other Mommies

“I’m so glad you’re my mom,” she told me as we were driving home. “I don’t know anyone else’s mom who would let them do something like this.”

There’s a statement that will strike fear in the heart of any parent.

In this particular case, I didn’t think that I’d done anything too off-the-wall, just purchased a cigarette holder (and fake cigarette) for Mary Katherine, all by way of completing her Halloween costume: Holly Golightly, as portrayed by Audrey Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

I’d taken Mary Katherine and Olivia to the Halloween Store for this particular purchase. Mary Katherine and I had shrieked and hidden our eyes at the entrance, causing much embarrassment to poor, beleaguered Olivia. (Okay, I’m sorry, but somehow “disemboweled ghouls with rotting flesh” do not spell F-U-N to me, and I express that feeling with some gusto.)

We found the holder first and then began a lengthy debate on what we’d put in it. I suggested buying a pack of actual cigarettes and the girls gave me that “you’re being inappropriate” look, the one where they’re 80 and I’m 15. “It’s a good idea,” I said, “because then I could start on my new smoking habit before New Year’s Resolution Time.” I vow every year to take up smoking at the New Year, just to balance out all the quitters. I ask for ashtrays for Christmas every year. Needles to say, the charm of this little tic wore off on my children many years ago.

“You’re not going to buy cigarettes, and you can’t smoke them at the dog park, either,” Olivia (age 12) told me firmly. I had a big idea the other day that I could smoke at the dog park with impunity, and that it would be the perfect place for my new habit to begin. Olivia was not impressed and had been discouraging this plan for some weeks now.

Luckily, the girls found fake cigarettes at the check-out counter, another purchase for Mommy, and the one which prompted Mary Katherine’s tweeny gratitude.

Was it true, I thought later? Would No Other Mommy have allowed cigarettes to be part of a costume?

I thought about the other mothers of the kids at Mary’s school.

I realized she was right.

I’ve never quite been a Regular Mommy type, anyway. I was always more comfortable with the other adoptive parents in Emma’s set, but once I lighted in the land of birth parents, I was really out of my element. Play Dates? I never understood them and I quickly stopped being invited to them. Honey, if I enjoyed your company I’d hire a sitter and go drink wine with you somewhere, not try to carry on a conversation over the noise of the “Dragon Tales” episode coming out of your rec room.

If I failed at Play Dates, I really fail at worrying. I am, of course, a World-Class Worrier, Middle Weight Division. But I never seem to worry about the right things. I remember talking with another mommy recently about the School Year Abroad program, which Emma has been considering. “It sounds like great program,” I said, and the first words out of this woman’s mouth were “Alcohol! Sex!” She repeated this panicked cry several times. And while I had many worries about this particular program – Would we be able to afford it? Would Emma spark an international incident that would lead to a global diplomatic crisis? I had figured that alcohol and sex were a)pretty much already available in these parts, last I heard; and b) not under my current control, only my continued advice.

So there I am. Bad at play dates, bad at worrying, but great at buying inappropriate accessories for campy Halloween costumes. I give me an F Plus.

One Word or Less

Watching Olivia’s face on Wednesday night was like seeking a Shakespearean drama unfold, right across the limited real estate of her 11-year-old forehead.  “ONE word to describe them?” she stalled, repeating the question and looking around at our family.  “Well … "

The backstory:  We were being visited by a representative from AFS to check our suitability to be a host family.  This is Emma’s latest passion, fueled by a friendship with an Armenian kid and a desire to 1) have a brother and 2) live with someone more interesting than her father, mother and sister. The lady with the clipboard had shown up, and Olivia, who was hanging around with Mary, joined the group.

There have been so many moments of our lives that Olivia has shared with our family, and that makes me very happy. She has been Mary Katherine’s best friend since they could run through the alley to each other’s houses. She is the first one on the list for my long-running “more the merrier” policy, and I am always happy when I can snag an extra ticket or pull some strings somewhere to get her included in something fun that we have planned.

I understand Olivia, deeply. With birthdays one week apart, we share the same astrological sign, appreciation of cleaned-out closets and love of crossing things off lists. We also share a lifeview that could be summed up as, “it’s always a good idea to worry just a little bit more.” I often know what Olivia is thinking, and it’s usually because I’m thinking the same thing:  “uh oh, I’m worried about this.”

She and Mary Katherine are so happy together, that their mutual comfort in each other’s society is always cheering to me. One of my favorite memories ever was a road trip we took a few years ago to pick Emma up after a camp. Olivia and Mary Katherine were still young enough to be excited by the thrilling prospect of staying in a hotel, and they immediately started jumping on the beds when they arrived.  Bounce, bounce, bounce … Olivia had no agenda, no expectations and no disappointments – just some up-and-down time with her best friend. I happened to snap a picture of that moment, and it’s a photograph I cherish. Being weightless is not something that people like Olivia and I experience very often, so those moments need to be savored when they come along.

With all my great affection for this girl, you’d assume that she feels the same way about me. Not so much, really. It’s not that she dislikes me; she just is a little …  disapproving. I often find myself double-checking plans or calling ahead to a reservation desk, doing whatever I need to do to make sure I don’t disappoint Olivia. She doesn’t ask for much, just that I will be able to tell her what is going to happen every minute, and that there will be no disasters or troubles anywhere. To my own children, I offer a hearty “get over it” when things don’t turn out the way they’d wish, but I find myself straining to make the grade with Olivia. And my grade, for 11 years, is pretty much a C+.

Yes, she thinks I’m barely functioning and not often worthy of the description “adult,” but she’s often right, and I am not one to argue with the truth. She figured out when she was four that I shouldn’t be allowed to drive a car, and I suspect her of sneaking in and double-checking to make sure I’ve turned off the stove when I leave the kitchen. I am just a little too goofy for my own good, and while Olivia never says that in so many words, she can communicate quite a bit with a tiny sigh and a lowered gaze. Oh Olivia, I’ll do better next time, I swear.

So there I was Wednesday night, sitting across from her on the couch when the AFS rep asked, “If you could use one word to describe this family, Olivia, what would it be? I saw it on her face, of course. I am guessing that the first word that popped into her head was “psychotic,” or something close to it. (And she’s very, very smart, so don’t think she doesn’t know what that means.) It’s my insider’s opinion that she also wrestled with “goofy,” “improbable” and perhaps, when considering me, “disappointing.”

She repeated the question, took a deep breath, and spoke her truth, if perhaps an edited version of it. “Upbeat!” she declared, and she even smiled.  Right at me.  Thanks, Olivia Louise.  I love you, too.