Dirty Little Secrets

A year ago, I sent the following essay to editors Stu Saffer and Andrea Adelson with the idea of writing a bi-weekly column called “Mothering Heights.” In a stroke of genius, they decided to publish my musings on life as a mother, wife and if I’m lucky, sex object. Since I have written about subjects such as my post-partum pooch, rats in our garage, and ruining my husband’s surprise party, I thought it would be appropriate to share one more secret with you:

It started innocently last year as we were preparing to move from Los Angeles to Laguna Beach. After my two-year old disassembled my husband’s coin collection and my three-year old shredded my senior prom photo, I decided in a meltdown moment that there had to be a better way to move our lives. Dumpster was the first solution that came to mind, but my hubby, a solid saver, vetoed that option. My answer came to me loud and clear one day while shopping at that divine place -- Target.

While buying a barrel full of diapers, I turned the corner and there they were. All shapes and sizes of plastic storage containers just waiting for me to take them home. I tested the locking lids, measured the inside spaces and prepared temporary stacks of boxes. I felt exhilarated. My life would begin anew. I would now have time to brush my teeth. Make a phone call. And should I even dare to hope--read a book.

In my former life as an independent film producer, reading books and making phone calls were the bane of my existence. Now they are a guilty pleasure that I covet like a fresh box of Teuscher truffles. Cocktails with Harrison and coffee with Demi have been replaced with SpongeBob Mac ‘n Cheese, Princess Sing Alongs and piles and piles of stuff.

So with my plastic boxes before me, I began organizing with the fervor of a junkie. Before long, I was no longer satisfied. I combed the internet for more boxes and this is where the problem began.

Plastic storage containers started showing up daily on our front door step. My husband began questioning me. I acted as if I barely understood what he was talking about, adding a few buzz words like “organize” and “moving necessities.” But the cat was out of the bag. And the boxes were really starting to stack up.

I called Renata to get some “husbands-don’t-understand-us” kind of sympathy. She fully supported Operation Organize via plastic until I revealed my latest plan. I wanted to find larger plastic boxes to contain the vast number of smaller boxes. There was a long silence. “I think we have a problem,” she exclaimed.

I sat down with my kids’ bag of old Halloween candy and had a good think. This wasn’t about the stuff in my life; this was about a need for order. I thought, ‘How can we as moms maintain some sense of control over our life that is no longer our own?’

Renata confessed that when Tommy, her vacuum-loving toddler, has completely destroyed her house, she breaks all Weight Watcher restrictions and inhales a few chocolates from her secret stash. For a brief moment, her house actually appears clean. And every afternoon, Lisa leaves her kids in the car as she runs into Coffee Bean for a vanilla latté with an extra shot. This made me realize that our salvation may lie not in altering the environment around us but in actually altering our brain chemistry.

My girlfriend Ava, a psychologist who always seems in control, confirmed that altered brain chemistry can turn Joan Crawford into June Cleaver. She admitted that she actually develops psychosomatic symptoms so she can then medicate them. Now that’s a professional at work!

So am I to conclude that we should all take up addictive behavior like chocolate binges, shopping therapy and even pill-popping in order to be more happy moms? No, but I do think that we need to cut ourselves a break and accept our dirty little secrets for what they are—coping mechanisms.

While taking care of our kids’ needs, it is hard sometimes to take care of ourselves, so we indulge a little here and there. So, I bought a hundred or so plastic boxes, I have to say we are extremely organized. I only allow myself two plastic boxes a month, an excellent example of controlled controlling behavior.

And besides one day, we won’t need help coping. Because one day, we will be sailing around the world in our fully staffed private yacht that our eldest child bought us to show her gratitude for all that we have done. At that point, I hope that my dirty little secrets will be much more fun than the plastics aisle at Target.

-August 17, 2005

Thank you LB Independent and web readers for your support. If you have a topic or question you would like to see explored in this column, please email me at cfugate@verizon.net.