Cinderella Who?

The girl child and I went to see an opera tonight that was offered through her third grade cultural outreach program. Cendrillon, known to you and me as Cinderella. Stepsisters, shoes, fairy godmother, prince, happy ending. A two and a half hour opera in French.
Not to be confused with the two and half hour Rodgers and Hammerstein Cinderella musical. Or Prokofiev’s ballet.
Or the dozens of multi-cultural variations my kids have brought home from school libraries over the years…Korean, Chinese, Russian, French, English…all some version of the very sweet girl who cleans the house while letting every person in her life run all over her.

What is it with this chick? What deep, jungian human bell does she ring, that she should get so much attention? I hear Abe Lincoln was a pretty effective human. I’ve never seen his ballet. So what irreplaceable archetype does she represent?

My abiding thought while watching the opera was “She’s clearly agoraphobic. Fearful. Would rather be mistress of a small hearth than a big world.” Remember the song “In my own little corner I can be whatever I want to be?” Sometimes staying home and not having to impress anyone is a very comfortable thing. It’s worth a little abuse from the steps because hey, sooner or later they leave and it’s all yours. Every mouse, every bird.

She’s always so sweet and forgiving, though. Talk about turning the other cheek. Is she some kind of Mary, Mother of Jesus figure? She does wear a lot of blue…but that would make the prince her reward in heaven and the shoe a metaphor for …faith? Too weird. Let’s back up.

There is something about her that gets to me, though. Maybe it’s just because the story is told to us when we’re impressionable young girls and repeated so often that we want it to be a parable for our lives. But the point would be?

Perhaps something about the beauty of martyrdom. A guide to seeing the tedium of every day as a life choice that has meaning.

Think that’s nuts? How many times have you had to do the really awful job around the house? Not the dishes. Not the garbage. I’m talking about that middle of the night moment when my sick child has just vomited all over three layers of bedclothes and the carpet and my husband looks at me with that oh-so-male combination of “But I’m the dad –You know I’ll throw up if I have to do it – I’m too sleepy.” Instead of killing him (as he deserves) I summon my inner Cinderella and think, “Well, I don’t have a choice so I might as well be cheerful.” I manage some comforting words for the small as I get her to a warm shower and a little hummy tune for myself as I scrape you know what into a plastic bag and rinse out the sheets. And surprisingly, instead of feeling put-upon, I feel…strong. Certain. Like I know I’m doing the right thing for my child, for my family. Doing what needs to be done in the darkest hour when no one else will do it. Simply because it must be done. Is that love? Duty?

I know there’s no prince waiting. (He’s already fallen back to sleep.) No fairy godmother sees what I do and rewards me for it. It’s not a fairy tale. It’s just life. Motherhood. But curiously, doing my duty as a mom every day builds up a steady, constant kind of strength. It doesn’t come easily, and it doesn’t come fast. And it doesn’t come to silly dreamers like the stepsisters. Or users like the stepmother. Hm. Maybe Cinderella knows something they don’t.

Alternative Minimum Life

Maybe because it’s tax time, or maybe because I just spent two hours completing the kid’s camp forms – and mind you, I haven’t ordered any of the supplies yet, this was just filling out forms – but I’m starting to wish that every aspect of life came with an alternative minimum option.

Kind of like filling out the 1040EZ if you don’t want to bother figuring out deductions.

For instance, I’d like an Alternative Mom form for Schools. This form would have no opportunities to volunteer, would require no baking of brownies or provision of last-minute treats. With the AM form, no one would expect me to show up for the school benefit, much less serve on a committee. Maybe send in a check, but not before any kind of deadline, mind you. Just whenever I could get around to it.

Actually, this is kind of how I’m doing it anyway. Because the school thing is just endless. One month at my son’s school we had a coin drive, a book drive, and a class play requiring costumes and followed by a party to which we all brought dishes reflecting our heritage. That one almost killed me. But some of these mothers do all this and go on to organize the fundraisers, give the class cocktail party, and keep up with holiday schedules well enough to plan vacations in advance. Who are these people? They aren’t Alternative Moms.

I used to think they were the full-time moms. That left me, a mom with a company to run, feeling pretty well off the hook. Then I noticed other working moms fitting school volunteerism into their schedules. And I mean seriously working moms. One runs a multinational conglomerate and is consistently in the Fortune 400. She comes in every year and teaches the boys about Chinese New Year. Another is an Oprah darling with a booming internet retail catalog. Just gave a class cocktail party that killed. Me? I’m the queen of improv – y’know, open a bag of baby carrots and mention the ‘raw food’ movement in an offhand way.

Where else does the Minimal approach work? Ah yes, the Alternative Minimum Marriage. That’s what my husband and I have at the moment. We both run our own companies, and both get as much done at home as we can – he actually had to jack up the house this weekend when a beam fell in the basement. Did you know they have jacks for houses? Did we know they have spray for termites? Hm. My part of Minimum Marriage is to manage the bill-paying and child management (See Camp Forms, paragraph 1) and keep my bouts of PMS to a dull roar. His part of Minimum Marriage? Anything that requires brut strength or prolonged sleep deprivation. Romance? Too tired. Divorce? Way too tired. If we agree on the Netflix movie, that’s a plus in the bonding and sharing department.

The trouble with modern life is that the basic management requirements keep ratcheting up. We’re not trying to live any glamorous, ambitious, press-making life. We’re trying to live up to our basic obligations without disappointing too many people or compelling the children to apply for Emancipation of a Minor. But there’s too much to do. Insurance forms, camp forms, tax forms, school forms, wills, bills, and a weekend away take all our concentration and resources. And that’s if all goes well. The occasional glitch sends us into a management tailspin. I’d like to find a better way, a smarter way to run my life. And I would, too, if I had the time to think about it.

The Family Rules

Every family has its own rules. I’m sure there are families with refined rules about required behavior aboard the yacht and how to treat the servants. Our first rule is:

Rule #1 : No Death

We find this simple phrase covers an astonishing assortment of situations. It applies to almost any gathering where children are likely to fight, (that would be every gathering, in these cases it is most aptly translated as, “I will tolerate a modicum of rough-housing but you will be in trouble if I have to get out the booboo bunny.” On those rare occasions when the children go out to play (gasp!) without rapt supervision, it means, “Don’t be an idiot and you’ll be fine.” And always, in every case, it serves to keep one's perspective on things.

Over the last weekend we began to formulate another maxim, but we haven’t decided yet if it’s a full-grown rule, or just an observation. In any case, it states:

At least one member of the family must be unhappy at any given time.

Here we were, in Hershey, Pennsylvania, “The Sweetest Place on Earth,” the epicenter of caloric ecstasy, a place so deeply ingrained in the culture of the company for which it is named that the street lights look like Kisses ( ½ wrapped, ½ unwrapped) and many transactions are concluded with a gift of a candy bar, like the exchange of wampum.

We had visited the zoo (small, yet perfectly edited), gorged at Chocolate World (rides for the kids, you, and your credit cards), and availed ourselves of many of the considerable amenities of Hershey Lodge (indoor pool! game room! Room service! Video games on demand!) and were seated at the nicest of the house restaurants in front of four lovely filets mignon. When what to my wondering eye should appear…but a sulk on my son’s face.

Here, in the middle of kid heaven, he decided to dwell on a decision we had made regarding his video obsession. It seems he’d gotten it into his head that I had promised him a Gameboy at the age of eight. Of course, being fond of his conversation, even when it does dwell on obscure fictional battle tactics, we have said no. Repeatedly. Still, he was unshaken in his belief that we once had promised and were now reneging. The ultimate parental sin.

So here I was, poised over a $40 steak, staring into a puckery, pouty face that also had, incidently, a $40 steak in front of it. I tell you, it was more than my famously tolerant heart could take. I beckoned to him to follow me out of the restaurant and demanded to know the source of his abject misery.

“Sis says you promised me a Gameboy when I was eight, and I am eight and I don’t have one.” (sulk, sulk, sulk).
“No, Son, I promised you would never get a Gameboy before you were eight.”
Long pause. Frown. Serious review of the terminology. (Hello? Harvard Law? How young do you take ‘em? I swear to you, Bill Clinton’s “That depends on what your definition of ‘is’ is” speech would make perfect sense to our son.)

Finally. A clearing of the brow.
“Oh. That’s different.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Hmph.”
“Now, we’re having a very nice meal in there, and I’m not going to look at that frown through the whole dinner. If you can’t buck up and be cheerful, you and I will take our steaks to the room to eat and skip dessert.”
Ah. Dessert. The magic threat.

So at least for the next half hour, we were all four happy.
Until the girl-child got sleepy and cranky and restored the balance.
Sigh.


(Oh, Rule # 2? When someone offers you money, take it.)