That Sinking Feeling (or the effect of grandparents)

You should always own up to your lies. That's what my grandfather taught me.

Grandparents have special import in our family. My children are named after all four of mine, and when the girls were little my parents gave them each lockets with tiny pictures of the couple whose name (at least in Hebrew) they carry on.

My daughters have also heard stories about my special connection to my mother's dad, who thought that I was the smartest, funniest, boldest little girl he'd ever known. I thought he was the wisest man in the world, despite the fact that he never went to high school. He adored me. And I adored him. He had a tremendous influence on who I am. And my daughters get the benefit of his self-deprecating humor. The Kaufman girls know how to laugh at themselves.

Dixon has his smile or, more accurately, what we used to call his shit-ass grin. My grandfather was wild when he was a kid, and mischievous even when I knew him, but he always told the truth. He couldn't help it. His grin would always give him away. As does Dixon's.

My girls only have one set of grandparents. And the mutual adoration is a bit much to take sometimes. When my folks visit, I tend to stay home and do all the things I've been wanting to get to, while the four of them happily go off and do something. OK, while the four of them happily go off and shop. Because shopping and style are surely the legacies that my children are going to take away from their grandparents.

And that's OK. Dixon has a unique personal style, and has been saying since she was three that she wants to be a fashion designer. She has an acute eye, and I rarely go on a date without asking Dixon how I look.

I do not have a sense of style. I'm a dyke. And I'm stubborn – another legacy of my grandfather. When I was a teenager, my mother took me shopping every Saturday and I figured that if she was going to torture me in this way, I was going to be as miserable as possible just to torture her back.

I learned a lot from those weekly outings, but it was a mix of things. I learned that my mother wanted me to be something I wasn't, and that neither of us really understood at the time who I really was. I also learned to be very sensitive to the criticism my mother gave me about how I looked. That was how she got me to go every weekend. And I've found that when you grow up, the impact of those criticisms doesn't go away.

But I also took away a vague idea about what style is, and a notion that I should try to look good – whatever that meant.

So, when my mother looked at me on my daughters' birthday this December and told me I needed new bras, I immediately knew she was right and that I was doing the world a disservice by walking out my door with saggy breasts in 2-year-old bras. Of course, I was also pissed off. I had just spent the day greeting all of the parents of the 14 people my kids had invited to the bowling party, and my mother picks just before we go out to dinner to tell me that my breasts are touching my knees?

Where are the days when she wouldn't let me out of the house with holes in my jeans!

I immediately got new bras and asked the girls to please let me know when they thought I needed to replace them. Honesty is important in our house, even when it's not always complimentary. Taking yourself too seriously is deadly. It's laughter and truth that make happy people.

This truth thing came up last week with Dixon, who justified getting school hot lunches by telling me that they serve vegetables in every box. I asked her if she actually ate those vegetables. She told me she preferred not to answer that question. In the ensuing discussion I explained to her what the Fifth Amendment was, and that every American had the right to not have to tell if they were guilty of something. She pleaded the Fifth. Of course, I then told her that was just a legal technicality – anytime anyone pleads the Fifth, everybody knows he or she is guilty, they just can't use it in court. She looked at me, and then she said, “Let's talk about homework.”

Just like my grandfather would have done.

This morning it was my turn. My daughters bought cupcakes at the store on Saturday. There were six of them, and they carefully apportioned out who would get which cupcakes – three, of course, for each. But last night I noticed that they had only eaten one apiece. There were four left. And the cupcakes were already 2 ½ days old. They would be getting stale soon. So, in the spirit of the mischievous grin, I ate one, concocting a story I would tell them in the morning about little elves who came in and cleaned up the kitchen and must have helped themselves to the cupcake.

My daughters are 9 and, despite the fact that their favorite TV show is about mermaids, they didn't buy the elf story. Delaney, in particular, was outraged that I had eaten one, mostly because it was in her row. I suggested that the only solution was to sacrifice one of Dixon's to the little elves tonight.

“Mom,” said Delaney, “Tell the truth.”

“And don't take the Fifth,” Dixon chimed in. “We know you're guilty.”

Just as I was figuring out how to answer this, I noticed Delaney looking at me funny.

“Um... that shirt doesn't look good on you.”

“Really?” I said. “Should I change?”

“Tell us the truth and I'll answer you.”

Seriously? She seriously decided to prey upon my blindside for style to get me to fess up to the cupcakes? I was caught between my desire to surreptitiously eat my children's treats and my desire not to walk out of the house with my mother's disapproval ringing in my ears. She had me, and what was worse was the realization that she was completely believable. Dixon might be a designer, but Delaney has the makings of a remarkable actor. Frankly, that scared me more than being caught with the cupcake.

“Yes. I ate it. Happy?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” I paused.

“So how's my shirt?”

I'm thinking now that perhaps my daughters should spend a little less time with their grandparents.

No we're not. We're Jewish.

It was the first week of November, 2008. Barack Obama had just been elected president a couple of days before. And California’s gay marriage law had been annulled.

It was one of those rare times in my house when the TV wasn’t tuned to Disney or PBS Kids. We were watching the news, and a story about California came on. The girls were just about to turn six. I wasn’t sure how much they would understand, but I told them to be quiet and watch the TV.

When it was done I explained to them that gay people are not allowed to marry in most states in this country. I explained to them that California had decided to let gay people get married. And I explained to them that in this election, California had become the first state in our history to take away rights it had given to its citizens.

Then I said, “This is important because we’re a gay family.”

“No we’re not,” said Delaney, with utter certainty. “We’re Jewish.”

I had no answer.

For my daughters, at this point in their lives, being Jewish was a matter of identity. They had no notion of this force people call “God.” But they did celebrate Shabbat every Friday at their Jewish Community Center preschool. And they knew they were different, that most of the people in their kindergarten classes were not Jewish.

For them, also, being gay was a matter of identity. They have two moms. They do not have a dad. And there was only one other child out of 80+ kindergarteners who could say the same.

So, for them, being Jewish and being a gay family were sort of the same thing. We ARE. And we are.

And they’ve never hidden or been ashamed of either of those facts.

Fast forward to December 2011. They are now in third grade, halfway through their elementary school years. (And, yes, I’m very maudlin about that.) Somehow Dixon got into a conversation with two girls in her class about church.

“I don’t go to church,” she said. “I’m Jewish.”

The little girls’ reactions were apparently to look at her in shock and horror.

As Dixon related it to me later, they said to her, “You hate God.”

And, as she told me later, she just looked at them and thought, “You people are crazy.”

My first response was, “Welcome to the world of small-minded people.”

My second response was, “They were shocked that you were Jewish, but not that you have two moms?”

“They’re kinda new,” she said. “I don’t think they know that.” Then she flashed my grandfather’s mischievous grin. “But I might tell them tomorrow.”

This conversation threw me back to sixth grade in Las Vegas, when, at recess after show and tell, I was cornered on the playground by a little blonde Mormon girl named Shana and two of her equally blonde friends. For as long as I could remember, my mother had thrust a menorah in my hands every December for show and tell. I believe sixth grade may have been the last time.

“You killed Jesus,” Shana said to me, her face twisted up in triumph.

“I didn’t kill Jesus,” I said. “I didn’t even KNOW Jesus.”

I don’t remember the specifics of the rest of the conversation, but I do remember thinking exactly what Dixon thought oh so many years later: These people are crazy.

Some time ago I looked back on this and realized that growing up it didn’t matter what I was taught about Judaism. It didn’t matter whether we kept kosher or not. It didn’t matter how much I understood who Jesus was and why we didn’t believe he was the son of God.

What mattered was this: I knew I was different. And I was taught to be proud of that.

And that is partly why it’s easy for me to be gay. I don’t value and yearn to be part of the mainstream. I’m not chasing some idea of what I’m supposed to be. And I really don’t care what people think of me. There will always be little girls and big girls telling me I killed Jesus. And there will always be people telling me that my sexuality is an abomination.

These people are crazy. I’ve known that since I was 12.

Dixon is just about to turn 9. Last week, we were walking down the street, enjoying a holiday festival of shopping in Andersonville – a neighborhood of Chicago with a rather large lesbian population. Out of the blue, Dixon said, “Next Halloween, I’m going to be a menorah, because I’m proud to be Jewish, no matter what anybody says.”

Then she started singing Hava Nagila. Loudly. And she asked me to sing the words she didn’t know. The three of us were walking down a street full of holiday shoppers belting out an old Yiddish folk tune. I don’t know if either of the girls noticed some of the looks we got. If so, it didn’t make them stop.

They’re proud to be Jewish. They’re proud of their moms. They’re proud to be different. And they’re not going to let these crazy people tell them what to do.

And the conclusion I came to is that it really didn’t matter whether Delaney understood, three years ago, the distinction between being Jewish and being gay. What she understood is that we are who we are.

And we are.

My Day - 11-01-11

I am a single mother with a full-time, oddly demanding job.
My job only pays me $30,000 per year.
It is a 1-hour commute each way.

In 1990 I started a newspaper for the theatre industry.
— It was very successful.
— It ran for 20 years, though the last 10 have been hard and it has now all but closed.
— I am writing this on the internet.
— The last two sentences are related.

Today, I faced:

Getting my kids out the door for school.

Working from home in the morning because I had to...

Pick up one of my daughters and take her to the dentist because she had a cavity.

Watching as the dentist manhandled her, then charge me $520.
— Knowing that I couldn’t really get a better dentist because I don’t have dental insurance and only make $30,000 a year.
— Feeling ashamed.

While at the dentist holding my daughter down, missing a call from someone who wants to talk to me about taking over the business that is now all but closed.

Watching my daughter scream and cry from the pain and fear, because nobody explained to her what was going to happen, and they apparently didn’t numb her enough.

Feeling completely inadequate as a parent.

Knowing that “inadequate” is an inadequate word.

Coming home and being reminded that I have to take a university online ethics seminar, by tomorrow, for a part-time job that I have had since May, but have never actually worked.
— You work when they call you in.
— I’ve never been called in.
— But I have spent a fair amount of time doing administrative stuff for the university’s system.

Trying to sign up for the online ethics seminar, only to find that my ID and password don’t work.

Calling the university, getting the password and ID reset after a half an hour on the phone, then trying to log on again and finding it still didn’t work.

Getting an e-mail from the web developer for the business that is all but gone saying that he’s now able to do what he was supposed to do a year and a half ago, and knowing that the piece that’s hanging on will simply stop if I don’t do it.
— It will take an enormous amount of time and energy to get this done – by next week.
— If I don't get it done, my chances of passing the business on become almost nil.

Sitting with my daughter on the couch, making her soup and yogurt and applesauce and eating the same thing, even though I was starving, because I didn’t want to make her feel bad.

Working while sitting next to her and watching bad TV before going to pick up her sister from school.

Calling the state of Illinois’ Vital Check system to get copies of birth certificates for my daughters.
— I need the birth certificates because I need to sign them up for All Kids state insurance.
— This makes me feel more ashamed.

Being told by the Vital Check person that I needed to have the father’s name, and, after explaining to her that there was no father, but that there is another mother’s name on the birth certificate, having her ask me if I adopted my children and then having her tell me that the other mother has to ask for the birth certificates because “there can only be one mother.”

Holding my temper and just getting it done, while my daughter was pointing at the phone and making “cuckoo” signs.

Being asked by my daughter if she can use my computer.
— My computer was purchased in 2008 and is therefore old in computer years.
— My even older computer that the girls have can’t support the newer online game sites.
— I can’t afford a new computer.

Suddenly losing it, standing at the refrigerator, as my daughter looked on after she asked if she could use the computer.

Getting comforted by my 9-year-old. My 9-year-old whose mouth hurts.

Feeling completely inadequate as a parent.

Knowing again that “inadequate” is a horribly inadequate word.

Wanting nothing more than to just sit down in the middle of my incredibly messy house and not move anymore.

Writing this instead.