Moms On Strike

I recognize how hard moms work and how much goes into the weekly management and administration of raising multiple children, mostly because women can’t wait to tell me how busy they are and how hard they’re working— as if they’re the only ones.  Two friends of mine are unusual in that they don’t begin every conversation with a mandatory update on their childrens’ sports schedules and how much laundry and driving they’re doing.  In fact, you might not even know they had children unless you asked, which is why I appreciate them so.  They will happily answer any questions I might have about child rearing and if a particular child-centric topic comes up they will respond in kind and be more than willing to chat about it, but they have other stories to tell, too—other hobbies and proclivities.  They do not define their very existence solely through the contributions they are making to their childs’ rearing and for that I value them mightily.

I recently learned that these two friends of mine—independent of one another—had gone on mom strike.  These are women who recognize the importance of fostering independence in young children and how crucial it is for a child’s developmental growth to discover and learn to count on the bravery, gumption and creativity in one’s self to problem solve and soldier on.  They are independent women themselves and stay-at-home moms with no hired help.  I decided to interview these two girlfriends recently about their strikes and what precipitated them.

“I was fed up with my family more than usual,” said Liz, leaning into a plate of French fries.  “They just weren’t helping out—at all—and I had reached my limit.”  Liz has three kids ranging in ages from 5 – 11 and her husband is away for work a lot.  “Me, too,” said my other friend, Nancy, “end of my rope.  I’m a single mom and they were really pushing my buttons.  Something had to change.  I realized I was raising my children to be obnoxious and entitled.  I put a note on the fridge that said, ‘Notice: On Strike.  Signed, Mom’.”  Nancy has three teenagers between the ages of 14 and 17.  She said it was this or have herself committed.  We all chuckled.

I asked about their terms as I added more ketchup to what was left of the little mound on the rim of the fry plate.  Liz said, “I gathered the kids together at dinner one night and said that this would be their last supper cooked by Mom for a while.  I would no longer cook, clean, do laundry, help with homework, make their school lunches or remind them what they needed to take to school in the morning.  I was very calm.”  Nancy added, “Same here—very calm.  But I included that they would have to find their own rides to lessons and would have to speak to me using more appreciative language and a respectful tone.”  “Ooooh, I like that,” said Liz, and used a fry to punctuate the word, like.  I asked how long their strikes lasted.  “4 days,” said Liz.  “2 weeks,” said Nancy.  “And what was the upshot?” I asked.  Liz went first.

“Well, the house was disgusting.”  We all laughed and nodded.  “The house smelled, the kids smelled.  I pretty much kept to myself.”  I said, “Like an older European houseguest?”  “Exactly.  It was amazing how much time I had to get other things done.  On day 4 they banded together and started to clean.  They showered and started doing their chores.  They made their own dinners.” “And you just observed?” I asked, fascinated.  “Yup.  One night one of them had a sleeve of Ritz crackers for dinner.  None of them was starving.  There was plenty in the food pantry and the fridge.  They learned to defrost.  The microwave saw a lot of action.”  Nancy piped up, “My kids even went to the market.  They walked into town and carried their groceries back.  They’re older so they cooked their own dinners.  My middle daughter had to find her own rides back and forth to her lessons.  I think that made a big impression on her.”  “I bet,” said Liz, grinning.  We had almost finished the fries but ordered one more round of drinks.  

“And what was it like for you?” I asked.  Nancy said, “Well, the biggest thing for me was that I yelled a lot less.  And they yelled a lot less.  Even though the house was going to hell it was quieter and less stressful emotionally for me.”  “Smellier but lest stressful,” added Liz, smiling.  Nancy nodded as she wiped up the last of the ketchup with the second-to-last fry.  “And the kids started to speak to me in a more respectful tone when they realized that I wouldn’t acknowledge them unless they did.  I think they really got how much I do for them on a daily and weekly basis.  And how capable they are of stepping up and doing for themselves.” 

I asked them if they would recommend going on strike to their friends.  They both said, absolutely.  Nancy said, “It was an amazing week for me.  An incredible lesson in letting go.”  Liz said, “The no-yelling part was really good for me, too.  And I liked watching the kids work together as a team.”  I asked if it changed the family dynamic at all?  “For now,” they both said then laughed.  Nancy said, “Now the threat of a mom strike goes a long way.”  Liz said, “Yup,” and asked for the check.  The last fry remained untouched on the plate. 

The moms haven’t had to go on strike since.

Halloween Thanks

“Halloween decorations are not supposed to be cute, Mom.  They’re supposed to be scary.”  My son was right.  I’d gotten away with the bare minimum of cute for years—taping up his kindergarten paintings of pumpkins along side jolly glow-in-the-dark skeletons.  But now that he was ten, cute would no longer cut it.  “You’re right,” I said.  “I get it.  And we will make an effort to be scarier next year.”  “Next year?!” he said, already resigned, and padded away.  He knew that scary decorations would have to wait, along with pumpkin carving, apparently.  I bought a perfectly serviceable pumpkin but forgot to carve out the time to put down the newspaper and get out the sharp knives.  My costume was an afterthought, too, (a gorilla suit) also serviceable, but without the giddiness of a well thought out pun or creative tour de force like the family who went as the four seasons—spectacular!  Even my son reused an oldie-but-a-goodie costume from a few Halloweens ago.  I knew not to feel guilty about the last minute phoning in of a beloved childhood holiday—no sense in that.  Instead I invoked the Cub scout motto, “Do your best”, which I deploy liberally to myself on various occasions, then carried on with my workload. 

The village parade was lovely and relaxed, thanks in great part to the DJ, Jeremy Moss, who kept the volume at a reasonable bop-to-the-beat but can-still-talk-to-your-friends level as opposed to the ear-splitting, frenzy-inducing, up-to-eleven volume and stress level of years past.  The costumes were fantastic—loved the doll in the box, the fried egg and dominos, the ice cream truck and 50 shades of grey.  I especially love it when parents dress up, too, and that there were two adults dressed as whoopee cushions.  The business owners all seemed game and happy to see the hoards.

When the sun went down Thursday and we headed out into the dark night for trick-or-treating—the pinnacle of the day’s litany of holiday themed events—I felt a deep gratitude for those who had picked up my slack.  On nearly every street in town, at the end of practically every walkway, was a magical front stoop.  Folks had put out ghouls and witches, reapers and goblins.  They had strung spider webs across porches and hung ghosts in bushes and trees.  And yes, they had carved exquisitely beautiful pumpkins then lit candles inside them, giving off that irrefutable glow of eerie wonder. 

I was so very grateful for my fellow townspersons who, in creating a magical experience for their own families, had inadvertently given us ours.   I wanted to leave little thank-you notes under every front door mat saying, “Thank you for hauling the bins down from the attic, for setting out the newspaper and stringing up the spider.  Thank you for the orange twinkling lights and the bubbling cauldrons, and for putting speakers in the front windows, like my dad used to do when he played the “Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House”—a Disneyland record put out in 1964 meant to scary the pants off of trick-or-treaters, which never did.

The rain turned to drizzle before leaving us alone, and the temperature was unseasonably balmy.  Parents everywhere wandered from house to house with a bounce in their steps and a breezy air of gratitude for the docile weather and semblance of normalcy that had been absent on recent Halloween’s.  Children ran from porch to porch with blithe abandon, anxious to feel the weight of their loot pulling further down on their arms.  Some parents even offered wine in teeny plastic cups, and cheese and crackers to the grown-ups—brief and appreciated respites from the rush.

 After houses began to run out of candy—one woman finally did after handing out 760 pieces—we ended up with other families at the home of friends.  Six or seven kids spread out their candy on living room footstools and floor rugs and they traded with each other as if it were the NY Stock Exchange.  To them it was, in a way, their candy as precious as any dumb commodity.  Outside us parents sipped wine or beer, enjoyed chairs, and traded stories about the costumes that gave us the biggest chuckles found on the internet and spotted at the parade.

Exhausted, my son and I made our way back up the hill and dragged ourselves past our faceless pumpkin, our cute decorations and into pajamas to get ready for bed.  We brushed out teeth more thoroughly than usual, then spoke our thanks out loud.  We said thank you for the weather and for our awesome little town.  Thank you for trick-or-treating and for fabulously scary house decorations.  Thank you for the hundreds of dollars some folks must have spent on candy and the generosity extended from their hearts to our kids’ grubby little hands.  Then we said thanks for Halloween and our friends, and the folks that make it magic.  Next year we’ll step up, too.