Cry Baby

If you were at Partner’s Bistro a couple of weeks ago and saw a woman crying into her entrée, that was me. I was sitting with a man who looked completely bewildered and confused. That was my husband.

I am feeling slightly embarrassed by my behavior. Not because I’ve never cried in a restaurant before—it’s just that I’ve always cried at restaurants in extremely large cities, like Los Angeles or New York where you can be anonymous. Laguna is too small for this kind of public behavior. I keep trying to replay the crowd in head. Was there anyone I knew? Did any mom friends notice my puffy red eyes and smeared mascara? I called Lisa to confess.

“Don’t even worry about it, I cried in Cabana’s just last week,” she said.

“What happened?” I find other people’s dramas so much more interesting than my own.

“I just lost it. Couldn’t cope. Tom was out of town all week. The kids were sick and I was up all night with Louise. We didn’t even make our salsa class. For the second time in a row.”

Lisa always makes me feel better. Not only did she cry in public; she also missed a scheduled activity. My husband and I were supposed to go to a movie but we weren’t in the mood after my dramatics. You see my monthly cycle was off and I became convinced, after five minutes of Internet research that afternoon, that I was starting menopause. I needed to know right then and there, just after ordering our entrée, whether we were going to have a third child.

My husband replied, “If we have a third child, you will need to make your part-part time job more of a full-part time job in order to cover the costs.”

And with that dose of reality, I burst into tears all over my broiled salmon with couscous. “But what about breastfeeding? How am I supposed to breast feed the baby?” I exclaimed.

Thank goodness, my husband had worn a flannel shirt and jeans. The hostess had seated us upstairs in the back corner, so my waterfall was not in open view. And it could have been my deranged state of mind, but I swear the more upset I got, the peppier our server became.

Even after telling me that I could breastfeed, my husband realized I was not going to pull it together. He got the check promptly from Miss Peppy and we headed outside. After I calmed down in that haven of comfort, the Soul to Sole shoe store, he took me to Mirabeau for delicious pecan pie, cinnamon ice cream and coffee. I don’t know if it was the sugar or shoe shopping, but suddenly I felt so much better. We spoke calmly, and of course, resolved nothing.

I got home and started to think about what my friends at the Emily Post Institute would say. They had just sent me Peter Post’s new book, Essential Manners for Couples: From Snoring and Sex to Finances and Fighting Fair – What Works, What Doesn’t and Why. Of course, Peter does not think couples should argue or bicker in public. I searched the index for how to handle an outburst over the mere insinuation that I would not be able to breastfeed a baby that had not even been conceived yet.

I gave Peter a call and asked what’s a girl to do with a public display of hormones? He replied, “Your anguish is not yours alone: everyone around you is affected. Other diners may be worried for your safety, not knowing your husband as you do.” Great. I ruined dinner for everyone around me.

He added, “The best thing to do is regain your composure. If you are unable to pull it together: leave.” I was happy to learn that at least I practiced proper etiquette after I was completely improper. My etiquette score was 1-1.

Such is life as a middle-aged mom who tries to do too much, be too much, and eat too little. I have decided that food is to blame. I no longer order broiled salmon. Which is a relief because it’s so hard to find good salmon these days. From now on, it’s pecan pie and sweet coffees for me. Who knows? I might need the calories soon for breast milk.

Wishful Thinking

“Be careful what you wish for,” my father always said. As a kid, I never quite understood the subtleties of that sage advice. I got that wishes don’t always come out as planned; but, I figured that if my wishes did come true I would surely find a way to enjoy them. As the years progressed, I have learned a thing or two.

For example, my post-college wish to be skinny. When I was I was living in Thailand, I ate some bad seafood and got a lovely case of food poisoning. Faster than you can say “Weights Watchers leaves you wanting,” I dropped twenty pounds in ten days. I admit I was miserable; but I still had the good sense to go out and buy a black bikini. I’m no fool. I knew that it was only a matter of days before I plumped right back up to my normal size.

Lesson #1: When you make a wish, specify exactly how you would like for the wish to come true. (Food poisoning not being at the top of the list.)

During my junior high years, I only wished for one thing: to have braces on my teeth like Marcia Brady. Every Friday night, I would sit in front of the television watching the Brady Bunch, pushing my teeth forward as hard as possible.

“Don’t I need braces?” I would ask my mom, my dad and anyone who would listen. Finally my mom took me to the family dentist for a consultation. “No need for headgear here,” our family dentist said. That menacing statement didn’t scare me. I resorted to bumming rubber bands off of my friend Donna and wrapping them around my teeth. I would look in the mirror and proudly admire my invisible braces.

Thirty years later, I sit here moaning in agony from the tiny rubber bands attached to my very visible braces. About two years ago, my teeth started to move so dramatically that I was biting the inside of my cheek every time I ate. After being diagnosed with a massive overbite and other things I can’t even remember, I decided to plant metal on my teeth.

That decision did not resonate well. “You’re not going to be one of those forty year olds with braces, are you? “ asked Annie.

Renata explained, “Braces are the new Botox and boob lift.” I scoffed at their innuendo. If only braces were that easy. One recovers from those procedures in a matter of days. I have been through 19 months of oral pain and bleeding. Now I just wish for them to come off.

Lesson #2: When you make a wish, give it a deadline. (Believe me in thirty years, your old wish will become your new Achilles tendon.)

And then there’s my wish to be married and have a family. Boy, did I get that picture wrong. Not that I don’t love and adore my family. As Debbie Boone sings, they light up my life. But, who knew there would be so much butt wiping, sleep deprivation and continual chaos? I guess if you grew up in a large family, you are used to it. When I was a kid, our house was as quiet as a mouse as we sat around and read, listened to the Beatles and watched Masterpiece Theater.

I had no idea that I would lose my senses so easily. As soon as the pregnancy test’s pink double lines appeared before me and my fiancé’s eyes (there’s that timing issue), I lost my sense of fashion, sense of self and, at times, my sense of humor. And don’t let me forget my loss of memory. I am convinced a piece of my gray matter came out with the placenta. Both times.

There’s no doubt that I became a different person when I graduated to the title of mother and wife. Sometimes, I’m not sure I’m a better person, which can be a disturbing thought at 2 a.m. when I can’t get back to the sleep after the “Mommy, I have a leg cramp” wake-up call. I know I’ve learned how to love in a way I never imagined. My heart constantly fills with either joy or panic depending on whether we are cuddling on a lazy Sunday afternoon or racing to the emergency room with a broken arm in the middle of the night.

Lesson #3: When you make a wish, be open to all that may accompany its fulfillment.

My newest wish is very simple. It involves sleep, chocolate and a few Brady Bunch re-runs. And if I wish carefully, an extremely tight black bikini might make a brief appearance.