Don't Wait For Your Prince To Come…...

There he was….standing across the room.  I hadn't noticed him at first, but there was a strange energy that kept directing my attention toward the northern part of the club.  I tried my best to ignore it, but I couldn't….and I found myself now locking eyes with a stranger who somehow seemed familiar to me…

Here was the thing though.  You are probably thinking that this could be "the one".  That I was finally going to disprove that old wives tale that you could never meet your soulmate amidst the sounds of pounding bass rhythms and drunken missteps.  And well, you would be right.  Because this man wasn't my soulmate, but he would definitely change my life. Forever.

I always felt…different.

I was the last of four children raised in a strict Catholic household in Queens.  My older sisters (twins) and my brother were the perfect molds of  Catholic school children.  They wore their uniforms in the proper way and their clothes were always immaculately pressed and without any foreign stains.  Their shoe laces were tied to perfection and very rarely presented any type of fraying at the ends.  They were diligent students who often studied together and praised one another when they got perfect grades.  Their varying shades of blonde heads could often be found together in our study where they would be trading anecdotes and theories about experiments that they were voluntarily conducting or ideas that they were effortlessly tossing about.  In between their study sessions, they would help my mother tidy up the house--dust; mop; wash; iron and fold.  They were ideal students and children.  They were perfection.

They were all these things.  And I, was not.

I was born a "mistake".  My mother never actually called me this, but it was very clear that I was not a planned child.  Their family had been complete 8 years before I decided to show up.  The twins were the first to come into the home and were a complete surprise to my mother who had only been "trying" to get pregnant for a month or so.   Perhaps their dual arrival was sell suited to being first because my mother embraced the idea of having children with great zeal initially.  She was super excited to prove how caring and nurturing she could be, especially growing up feeling as if she wasn't provided with the same type of love.  She threw herself completely into "mothering" (as she did with any role she was trying to play) and doted on her lovely twin dolls without giving much thought to anything else.  In fact, she immersed herself into the role so well that she became pregnant with my brother 3 months postpartum.  Again, a complete but welcomed surprise, she relished the fact that she was excelling in her new role as mother and heralded the fact that the good Lord had blessed her with an amazing brood of children.  

"The good Lord doesn't give us more than we can handle"  she would smugly reply at her friends' amazement of how she could deal with three children under two.  They would praise her patience and her happy children and well kept home.  She worked hard caring for her children, her home and especially, her husband.

Her husband, my father, had his own business.  His father was a painter by trade and my father followed in his footsteps.  He expanded upon his knowledge of painting with some trade internships in different fields and soon enough had his own contracting shop.  He began with some simple jobs fixing up neighbors homes and soon enough had exploded into larger and larger contracts until he began to secure city contracts and work in high-rise buildings.  He was rarely home, but he provided the family with something that my mother deemed more worthy than a man being at home with his family: money.  To show her gratitude, my mother doted on my husband in every way possible.  She kept their home clean, their plates full & their children happy.  She always looked neat and presentable and would never dare leave her home without a stitch of makeup.  She never complained and rarely denied my father anything that he wanted.  She was compliant, obedient and the best wife & mother.

For eight years their lives were picture perfect.  

Then, November 7th happened.

I came into the world on a cold November morning.  I had a head full of black hair that trailed down the nape of my neck and across my shoulders.  For my fair-haired mother, this was a shock and when they initially laid me down on her bosom, she took one look at me and said to the nurse,

"I think you made a mistake.  This one isn't mine."

The nurse smiled and reassured her that, indeed, I was her daughter and reluctantly, my mother allowed me to remain on her bosom as if I were a parasite feeding on her glorious body.  The pictures my father snapped that day couldn't disguise the disdain on my mother's face and so I always have a reminder of my first moments in this world drenched with a sense of disappointment.

My siblings, on the other hand, were mesmerized  with me.  I was a stark contrast to their fair skin and blonde hair with my olive skin and dark hair but that didn't stop them from  relishing their new roles as brother and sisters.  They helped my mother take care of me and would often fight over who would get to feed me my bottle or put me to bed.  They proudly pushed the carriage on nice days when we would all venture out and would watch over me like over protective siblings should on days when we went to the playground.  However, the age gap proved to be something that worked against us in the end, because no matter how much bonding we had together when we were  young, my three older siblings were always closer to one another and I always seemed to be the raven haired outcast.

You see, with my sudden arrival, our household seemed to turn on its head.  My mother had become all too familiar with the nuances of 8 and 9 year-olds and had seemingly graduated from the school of infantry and toddlerhood.  Her home didn't need to be baby proofed any longer and her schedule revolved around sleep filled nights and chore charts.  Without much warning, she had to revert back to a way of thinking that she had all but forgotten.  And so, there grew a small seed of resentment, deep within my mother.  She was not used to doing things that she did not want to do and even though I was her child, and a being that she "loved", she did not want to be a mother to a baby at this point in her life.

Especially a baby that for some reason,  made her tiny hairs stand on end.

There is something propelling me forward, although I am scared half to death and feel as if my feet are made of lead. I feel as if each step will lead me into an abyss of red. Regardless, I am moving forward, as if some invisible rope is attached to my waist and I am being yanked by an invisible partner on the other end.  Although, there is no one on the other end. There is only an endless sea of red in front of me and a gaggle of flashing lights blinding me.

And yet, I move forward.

There are voices--some far off in the distance, and some close enough to be confused with a mosquito buzzing in my ear.  Their words are indiscernible because the sound of my beating heart is the only thing that I can truly focus on.  It's rhythmic thumping creating a soundtrack for my life.  Its tribal drum-like song suddenly pulling me back to a memory of a faded, dirty, New York City dance floor.  I am a young girl of twenty trying to act older than I am.  I am wasted.  Having fun.  Putting on a show for anyone willing to look.  Willing to be entertained.  The foundation for my dreams.  The sweet recollection of my youth makes me pause; makes me smile and suddenly my fear has been replaced with the same elated feeling I would get as soon as I was pushed passed the velvet rope and embraced by a dark doorway illuminated by pulsating neon lights from beyond.  There are voices here too, in my memories, but they are familiar accents with local flair.  They make me feel warm and as if I have suddenly found myself in the midst of a large family dinner with a set of dysfunctional cousins.  The union of their voices creating a sort of lullaby that immediately calms my nerves.

I move forward, down the sea of red, my glittery heels serving as modern day vessels; my dress as the sail that helps me glide through the rough, red waters.  My smile is my captain as it effortlessly navigates through questions and cameras and my heart is the engine that moves my ship with ease.  

I keep moving forward.

There at the end of the red sea stands one of the most prolific actors of our time. He is within inches of me.  I can see the back of his ear.  The innocent folds of his earlobe that seem so soft to touch.  His eyes are crinkly at the corner and they give in easily to their wrinkled grooves as he smiles.  I am mesmerized and then I am immediately drawn to the collar of his shirt and see the rim of sweat that has drenched its tip.  I exhale rather loudly with relief, seeing him sweat, and turn with a swift turn to smile toward a new camera.  There are now famous faces everywhere, surrounding me, and I keep wondering what I am doing here.  But instead of wasting time, I smile, I move forward and I assimilate with the greatness around me.  I have finally found my home, my family.  Regardless of the large family that is waiting for me at home and the love that has smothered me my whole life, I suddenly feel….complete.

I turn toward the doors.  They are tall and golden and I half expect to meet Peter with a guest list and a golden feathered pen , checking off names as he goes.  My steps seem light & heavy all at once as I anxiously walk towards the door.  This is it…the moment I have been waiting for my whole life…

"mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

I look down and hear a crunch, but instead of expecting to find my heart broken into a million pieces, I find a bowl full of Cheetos on my lap and a ravenous three year old by my side, struggling to share the space of the small bowl with her mother's daydreaming hand.  I pull my hand out slowly, allowing her ample room to dig in, and blow off the cheesy dust that has collected on my fingertips.  I blow it away, just like my dream…..

Don't You Cry Tonight...

I consider myself a feminist, although some might not agree that I am one.

In the classical sense of the word, a feminist is someone who supports equal rights for women.  Sometimes I feel that as a feminist, we also shouldn't exhibit certain lady like qualities.  We should be tough.  We should be strong. 

Which I do, for the most part.

My lifestyle is a vow of feminist support in itself: I'm a mother.  I'm a working mother.  I'm an educated working mother.  But, I cook.  I clean.  I change diapers.  I am not above the work load of a pre-feminist era housewife nor am I excluded from the demands of a working woman.  In fact, I have to balance both of these, which shouldn't be so bad, except I am also subjected to the daunting tasks of maintaining my composure, making sure I have a smile on my face at all times and above all, not come across as a bitch.

I shouldn't cry (because what will your daughter think) when I feel sad nor should I yell when I feel angry (you don't want to teach her that screaming is the answer).  I shouldn't feel worried when someone is sick; I shouldn't get hysterical if I am feeling paranoid. I shouldn't get mad.  I shouldn't frown. 

I shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't.

I can't begin to count the many times I have been told (in a condescending manner) that I am acting like a woman.  And in all of those instances, it was a time when I was showing my feelings in one way or another.

I also can't begin to tell you how many times I've heard men be criticized because they are acting "like a girl".  Again, in all of those instances it was because they were putting their feelings on display.

But this isn't about the men, it's about us. You.  Me. WOMEN.

A short few weeks ago I had the displeasure of watching our family pet go through some very serious medical changes.  Sudden abrupt changes often leave me uneasy, but not knowing what is wrong just leaves me in a whirlpool of despair.  I found myself crying.  A LOT.  And often, in front of my daughter. Every time this happened, almost every single person around me chastised me.

"Stop crying in front of the kid.  You will make her upset."

At first, I would agree and try to magically alter my face from a crying one to a smiling one.  

It wasn't pretty.  Not only that, it wasn't happening either.  My daughter is smarter than we give her credit for.  Most kids are.  And so, as she watched my swollen red eyes and she listened to my quivering voice saying "I am okay", I knew that she saw right through my lies. 

That's when I remembered a few months back, my daughter was watching the heart-wrenching scene of when Dumbo's mom is locked up in jail and she is cradling Dumbo through her jail cell.  I looked over lovingly at my daughter, choking back tears of my own and expecting her to understand that it was just a movie.  What I saw instead, rattled me to the core.  She was acknowledging SOME type of feeling, although to a two and a half year old, it was a new and unexpected feeling.  She turned to me, as if there were blame in her eyes and she just did not know what to do with herself (or her feelings).  So as I ran over to give her a hug and tell her not to cry, she bit me.  The first and only time in her toddler life that she had reacted that way. I didn't scold her.  I just let her act out.  And then, I let her cry.  A good, deep from within her stomach cry.

As I flashed back to her eyes, now watching my own crying fit, I made a decision.  I decided I didn't want to lie anymore.  I didn't want my daughter to think I didn't value her as an intelligent, perceptible being first and foremost.   didn't want her second guessing her analysis of the situation leading her to believe that she is not a good judge of character.  Secondly, I didn't want her to think that what I was doing was bad.  Thirdly, and most important of all, I wanted to explain to her that it was okay to feel emotions and understand why she felt those emotions.  

I wanted her to know.  Crying is not bad.  It's GOOD.  Very good.  

Ask the millions of girls who spend a good chunk of their time crying into their mirror during their angst filled teenage years.  Go ahead.  I guarantee at least two women in your life have done this at one point or another.  And it's okay. Because it's cathartic.  And we can see that even in this moment when we are feeling SO BAD, we can still look so beautiful.  Because there is nothing more beautiful then putting your emotions on display, whatever they may be.

So, I took my daughter in my arms and told her how our beloved dog Chloe had suddenly lost her eyesight.  I explained that I was sad because she could no longer see and that there might be something making her very sick.  I told her that this was the reason why I was crying.  My daughter looked into my eyes, as if she understood everything I said. And then, she hugged me.  When we pulled away from the hug, she said, "mama, I don't want you to cry.  I want you to be all the time happy." 

I will be happy.  But right now, a good cry is okay too.