why isn’t it easier?
I’ve been making a valiant effort to stop micromanaging Maya.
Just last Saturday, for example, I didn’t tell her to just stop eating, when she consumed all of the following in the span of 8 hours:
Maya’s 10th Birthday included her first trip to Benihana, a visit to Dylan’s Candy Bar, and some quality time with wax figures at Madame Tussauds.
Cereal – Two bowls at home.
Lamb Sausage – She can never turn down free Farmer’s Market samples.
Sushi – I purchased sushi for our flight to LA but Maya ate a 9 piece California Roll as a snack.
Fresh Mozzarella Antipasto / Salad with Garbanzo Beans – On our flight to LA.
Two Giant Lamb Chops and Mashed Potatoes – Also on our flight to LA.
Salted Caramel Ice Cream – Also on our flight to LA.
Half a Chocolate Chip Cookie – You guessed it…also on our flight to LA.
In LA Maya had another birthday celebration…but was too sick to enjoy. 😦 At least her hair looked great!
When our interminable flight to LA finally concluded, Maya’s throwing up began. And throw up she did!
She threw up on 4 separate occasions: all over me, the car, herself, a Shakey’s Pizza parking lot (sorry Shakey’s), all over the car again, on a random road near my in-laws house, and all over their master bedroom. Twice.
Maya just turned 10.
I thought it’s supposed to get easier?
single parent
For the past two weeks, Ali’s been traveling “for work.”
Now I know I overuse quotes – and please accept my apologies for that – but I really do believe his lengthy trip had more to do with NYC enduring one of the coldest winters on record than anything else.
It was just me and Maya for two whole weeks…
I can’t complain however, because while I nearly froze my toes off (despite wearing my Uggs and 2 pairs of socks), I didn’t have to share the master bathroom, obsess about lactose-free milk, or pick Ali’s coat up off the floor.
(Yes, he’s still doing that. And no I can’t believe it either.)
So we just kept reading (at Barnes & Noble)…
Life wasn’t all fun and games while Ali was away, though, thanks to a ceiling leak, banging pipes (they had to cut a hole in the master bedroom wall), more brown water, a broken washing machine, and perhaps the most challenging of all:
I was single-handedly responsible for keeping Maya entertained.
If you have kid(s) you’ll understand that this was by far the hardest thing I’ve had to do in the past 336 hours.
Yes I realize she was in school for a portion of those 336 hours, but I feel compelled, and more importantly, entitled to include those hours in my calculation anyway.
And eating (at the Lowell Hotel).
I won’t bore you with a detailed breakdown of the last two weeks but let’s just say that the sales at the 5th Ave Barnes & Noble have seen quite a spike in recent days, and I made a donation to the New York Public Library because I was just so grateful their children’s collection afforded me approximately 2 hours of question-free time.
In any case, Ali’s flying back in a few hours. Let the jacket throwing commence.
39
I kicked off my 39th year on this planet at a salon, getting my roots covered.
I wouldn’t call this a gift to myself, but instead a gift to everyone who has to look at my many gray hairs.
While at the salon, whose magazine selection featured nothing but the Kardashian family (I just can’t), I found myself with nothing to do but think. And so think I did. And here’s what I came up with.
I am much happier at 39 than I was at 29.
Here’s why:
- I am finally in NYC, where I belong.
- I’m working in a field I love (entertainment), doing work that I love (finance / accounting).
- The older I get, the less I care what other people think about me.
- Material things, which used to mean so much, now have little importance in my world.
- Maya is older and parenting is easier in so many ways.
- I’m in better shape than I was in high school.
In short, I am happy.
Yesterday my super tactful husband said, “Wow, 39 seems almost worse than 40 doesn’t it?”
But as usual, I disagree with him. Because I’ve had 39 years to realize that for me, confidence and happiness seem proportional with age. And so for now the number doesn’t matter so much.
For now.
While I'm not going to win Mother/Wife of the Year Award anytime soon, I haven't killed anyone yet or shot myself in the head. And that, my friends, is how I calculate success these days. 
FANCY THAT FANCY THIS 