Last weekend, we had some friends over to our new place. My friend asked me a simple question, “What do you think about little boys having little strollers?” I told her I thought it was fine. “Me too,” she said. “As long as the stroller is blue.”

It was a simple, unremarkable exchange. But it reminded me of a question I have been pondering off and on for a while now, namely whether we parents should try to “encourage” our children toward “gender appropriate” objects and behaviors. Please note that I use scare quotes here very purposefully as I am not sure where encouraging ends and pressuring begins and I am not sure whether I believe that there are such things as gender appropriate objects and behaviors.

I remember the moment well. Toddler, two at the time, had just made the foray into potty-training. To celebrate this progress, we went shopping for big girl undies. At the store, we stood there, mother and daughter, in front of the display of baby briefs. Another mother and her daughter stood next to us, also perusing the merchandise. As fate would have it, both of our little girls zeroed in on the Diego underwear. Yes, in the boys’ section. This other mother was horrified. “You cannot have those!” She yanked some princess panties from the rack and whisked her girl away. Toddler’s interest in the Diego underwear didn’t wane. Very politely, very articulately, she told me those were the ones she wanted.

I didn’t give it much thought. I bought her two pairs.

To this day, my little girl wears these undies under her little purple outfits. She loves them.

So what? I am not sure, but I have always believed that we should let young kids be who they are. My little girls play with dolls and strollers and trucks and trains. Some nights, they sleep in blue pajamas covered in cowboy hats. Some nights, they sleep in pink pajamas covered in twirling ballerinas.

I let them choose.

Thanks to Lisa Belkin of the NYT’s Motherlode, I became aware of a recent controversy surrounding this ad wherein a little boy is depicted wearing his mother’s high heels and trying her lipstick. In the corner of said images are advertisements for a karate school. The message, presumably, problematically, is Let us toughen your boy up. Apparently this ad, arguably prime evidence of stereotyping and gender-shaming, was published online without the karate company’s consent. Click here if you are interested in the details.

I have a good friend with a little boy. He is a wonderful little boy – exceedingly intelligent and kind. He does like to try on his mother’s heels and necklaces and is an amazing dancer. I see this little guy and smile. I applaud my friend for raising such a charismatic character. Never in a million years do I think anyone should try to change this little creature into something he isn’t. Never in a million years do I think that this little boy at age four is emblematic of who this man will be at age forty. And if there is a connection? He will be an awesome forty-year-old.

Now, I am biased. I grew up an unapologetic no-frills tomboy. I lived for sports. When I was eight and attending soccer camp, I was called “Rambo’s wife” (I was tough and could compete with the boys). I wore a Larry Bird jersey to fifth grade more often than not. And my parents? They let me do my thing. They bought me autographed basketballs for my birthday. They came to my games. And when, in high school, I suddenly started wearing skirts and makeup, they rolled with it. They did what I think a good parent should do (within reason): They stayed out of my way.

But is it this simple? It never is, is it? We parents are doing the best we can. Each and every day. And in each of these days, we are faced with decisions. Some as simple as pink or blue. Some far more complicated, nuanced than that. And so. I don’t pretend to know what’s right and what’s wrong here. All I can do is draw on my own experiences as a child, and now as a parent, in this big, bad world.

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• Do you think we should steer kids toward “gender appropriate” activities and objects?
  
• Is there such thing as “gender appropriate” activities and objects?
• Are there certain toys you wouldn’t let your little girl or little boy play with?
• Do you believe that we parents should, in many respects, “stay out of our kids’ ways”?
• Would you have bought your little girl the Diego briefs?
• Do you agree that the karate school ad was offensive?
• As a child, did your parents steer you toward certain activities rather than others presumably because of your gender?
  

Forty-two years ago, my parents got married.

Fourteen years ago, Sister I and Brother-in-Law J1 got married.

For obvious reasons, I don’t remember the first of these weddings. But I do remember the second. I was seventeen and a mere week from heading off to Yale. I was so happy. So excited. So stuffed with anticipation. My sisters and I were bridesmaids. We wore big blue ball skirts and ivory tops. Five minutes before we were to process into the picturesque gardens, the skies opened up on all the lemonade-sipping guests. What ensued was an unpredicted and utterly perfect evening of celebration. My keenest recollection of that night was gathering with my four sisters and my parents at the center of the dance floor where we all threw our arms around each other and got down to “We Are Family.”

I remember when Sister I and BIL J1 so graciously presented my parents with an anniversary cake. I remember Mom cutting a slice and feeding it to Dad and how tuxedo-clad Dad, ever the goofball, bit her finger. The laughter that erupted was priceless.

I remember how beautiful my oldest sister looked that day. How her big dress bounced and twirled. How she looked at the handsome man who was her guy. That night? I am realizing today, on this happy and sad anniversary, that it meant more to me, young me, than I ever realized. It was a night on which generations commingled to celebrate and commemorate life and love, a night when Mother Nature intervened, soaking us all with sweet summer awareness of what really matters.

And here we are. Many years later. College happened. Life happened. Beloved creatures have arrived on the scene. A certain beloved creature has departed.

Today. I am full of love and reverence, my soul tinged with a bittersweet ache for what was and a profound affection and admiration for my predecessors in this good, if sometimes cruel, game of love.

Happy Anniversary, I and J! Love you guys.

Happy Anniversary, Mom. I know today won’t be easy, but I also hope it is laced with laughter and marked with memory. Do you remember when he bit your finger? Silly, silly man I love you. Today. Always.

Saturday. Late morning. We arrive at Turtle Pond. Two girls smile and skip. The grass is green and ready for us. Sunshine shimmies above, and around. We find a spot, a good spot, under a big tree. We spread out a blanket, plaid, and sit. We unwrap sandwiches Daddy made. Turkey and cheese. Little ones sip from juice boxes. At lunch with us? A tiny stuffed turtle named Tuck. A little stuffed bunny named Ruby. Lucky guests at our family picnic.

Big girl stands and does the pee dance. I have to go potty! A strong guy, her father, scoops her up. Little girl chants, Coming too! This mother sits on picnic plaid, amid turkey shreds and bread crumbs and watches her creatures go. Little legs wrapped around a broad and tapering torso, feet kicking, hands flailing, dangling turtle and bunny. Bye bye, Mommy! Sweet words trail them.

Soon, they are back. And big girl is wet with tears. Her turtle is gone. Went swimming in a feces-coated Central Park public toilet. Was rescued briefly only to make a swift plunge into the trash. This girl is inconsolable. She collapses onto this mother’s lap, shaking with sobs. And we stand and walk to the dock. To see the ducks and the turtles and the life.

We will get a new Tuck, this mother says, foolishly says. It will be exactly the same.

Behind her simple and desperate words of reassurance, this one mother wonders about something big. Loss. It will happen. It will happen with things more consequential than tiny turtles. It will happen with things and creatures and places that cannot be replaced. This mother knows this, and deeply, because she has lost things. Important things.

But for now. This is hard enough. A little girl quaking at the loss of a friend. An untimely goodbye. A small and cruel snapshot of what’s to come.

She is okay. I am okay.

(Are we ever really okay?)

It’s just a toy turtle. It’s not just a toy turtle.

(Is it ever just a toy turtle?)

I love you, Toddler. You are my brilliant babe, so strong and so sensitive, keen already to the lessons life has no choice but to teach us.

R.I.P. Tuck (#1)

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• Did you lose any cherished toys as a child? Have your children lost anything dear to them? How did you deal?
• Do you agree that life is a constant lesson in love and longing and loss?
• Do you think Husband did the right thing by tossing Tuck? (At first, I thought the poop-slicked little guy should have been brought home for a bath.)
• Do these tiny tragedies make you think about the bigger instances of loss in your life or is it just me?
  

(Ha.)

Once upon a time, there was a young woman. She was a happy, if thoughtful, creature. A jolly, if jaded, city soul. One Thursday night, she went on a date with her husband, a handsome man whom she simply adored. They picked a small bistro. Settled into a small table for two. They perused the paper menu and nibbled on fresh bread. They smiled at each other over the flickering candle between them.

They talked and laughed about life and love and learning. About the subtle shifting of seasons. When the time came, this young woman dug into her crab salad with peppers, a dish colorful and spry. He tasted his lamb and declared it delicious. And then this young woman started talking about something she rarely discussed; her writing. She talked about her new protagonist, a smart young woman with issues. This woman’s husband did something at which he was singularly skilled: he listened. And they discussed this character. Her childhood scars. Her curious academic fetishes. Her sexual blocks.

And this young woman, this writer, was thrilled when her man spoke up. Asking questions. Offering ideas of his own. This man helped her create; making this character come to life in that tiny bistro. But then. He said something. Something little, but pointed. Something intelligent, but critical too. And this young woman put down her fork.

In mere moments, this woman’s mood soured. Her words departed. She looked down at the napkin in her lap, so white, so blank, so stiff, no longer hungry. Her husband apologized. They vowed to talk about something else, but silence ensued. That flame flickered between them. And, in a soft voice, she apologized too. For sliding down, and away. For being so sensitive. For everything.

They paid the check. Walked into the night. Inched block by block toward home. I wish I could do something to snap out of this, she said. Her man nodded. A short time later, she felt better. Silly again. She grabbed her man’s hand and skipped beside him. His hand, though, was limp. She looked at his face, his eyes. And she saw what she had done. She had made him plunge too. Into that place. That bad place of blah.

She apologized again, her words sincere. He told her over and over that it was okay. That he was fine. They walked along, hands swinging, not touching. At home, they surrendered to the couch. In time, the fog lifted from them both. Their fingers laced, they watched a television program. Their smiles came back.

***

Okay, that woman was me. Shocker, I know!

But this happened, this little something. Just last night. And this morning, I said to husband: Is it okay if I blog about bad moods? He said: Sure. We talked about last night, about how miserable I was in those moments, about how that misery was short-lived, but utterly yucky and contagious. Husband said something interesting. He said that he is immune to other people’s moods; that mine are the only ones that really affect him. I chose to view this as sweet instead of sinister. I chose to see this as a sign that we are unbelievably tight and that if I am sad, he is too because he cares so much and feels so close.

I don’t know. But I am sitting here in my yoga pants and bedhead wondering about bad moods and whether they can be cured before they spread and infect others. Whether there is something I could have done in that quaint restaurant to treat my momentary malaise. Just now, I did what any savvy modern soul would do. I Googled “bad mood.” The first search result was an article from Real Simple magazine called Banish a Bad Mood in 15 Minutes. Yay! I clicked.

And then I laughed. Because the article tells us that we can pull ourselves out of a funk with three simple steps: (1) Decode your mood! (2) Calm down!; and (3) Create a Strategy! I had zero tolerance for this article. I felt, and immediately, an aversion to the prescriptive strategy it offered for everyday blues. I guess I think that bad moods happen and that we just need to wait them out. (Or eat a cupcake. Yum.)

I don’t know. Maybe I should really go back and read that article. Maybe it contains true pearls that will come in handy on my next date night when my mood threatens to dive. Perhaps I need to be more open-minded. Or maybe I shouldn’t talk about my writing. Maybe the material is just too raw, too delicate, too fragile. Again, I don’t know.

I do know though that I am now fixated on the question of moods, on whether they are truly transmittable, and even more so between partners. Are good moods equally contagious? Let’s hope so because this morning I’m feeling quite perky. I’m going to go throw my arms around my man, maybe tickle him a bit, shower him with my silliness.

We’ll see what happens…

Dear Husband, Thank you for tolerating me and loving me, marvelous mood swings and all.

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• Do you ever unexpectedly slide into bad moods?
• Have you ever given someone else your bad mood? Have you ever fallen into a bad mood because of someone else?
• Do you think bad moods are particularly contagious between romantic partners?
• Are bad moods and good moods equally contagious or are germs of malaise more powerful?
• Do you ever discuss your writing with others? Are you sensitive about your material?
• Do you think we can follow steps to banish bad moods or are you skeptical like I am?
• Do you think moods are contagious through the screen? If you read a post from someone who is up or down, do you then feel better or worse, respectively?
• What do you do to combat bad moods? (Come on! Share your tricks. This post could end up being very helpful for us all!)
  

Uh oh. Am I flirting with you? Indeed I am.

Once upon a time, in the land before marriage and kids, I was a solid flirt. Not over-the-top, but I had my moments. I even indulged in the old school head-tilt from time to time. And you know what? Flirting was fun. In college and law school, I looked forward to nights out because I so enjoyed the playful banter that would invariably ensue between moi and a medley of cute guys. Please note that I was not looking forward to hooking up (yes, I just said hooking up. I’m allowed). I was eager for the light and lovely chit-chat.

So. Why am I talking about this now – the lost art of flirtation? After all, I now reside – and happily – in the land of marriage and kids. My days are not spent anticipating cheeky exchanges with beautiful strangers. My nights are not spent in dimly-lit bars scoping out brooding poets and hot lacrosse players. No. My days are spent in the company of two little girls and this screen. My nights are spent (yes, largely on the couch. Sue me.) with my forever man. So, why this topic today?

First, I am realizing something. What I write about affects me. That might not strike you as revolutionary, but this truth is just beginning to dawn on me. If I spend my days talking only about parenting fails, blank pages, existential grays, and the bleeding of past dreams, I might just spiral into a bit of a self-induced depression. Not good. So. Today, I woke up and said, Flirtation! Let’s do it!

Second, and more importantly, I have a belief:

Life without flirtation is blah.

I believe this. Yes, we get older, some of us even grow up, but that doesn’t mean we have to stop with the giggles and head-tilts and goofy chatter, does it? No, it doesn’t. Adulthood (yuck) is riddled with responsibilities, yes, and much of the time we are expected to be (or act like) serious creatures, but that doesn’t mean we have to lose our silly selves.

A critical clarification is in order here. I am using the term flirtation quite broadly. Flirtation does not presuppose anything sexual. I am not advocating that all of you reading this now log off and go out and flirt with a handsome bartender. No. What I am saying is that flirtation, in the wide sense of the word (think: playful banter, koo-koo chemistry) is vital to happiness. Too much seriousness? Good luck with that.

Last night I went on a date with Husband. We walked around the neighborhood hand-in-hand. I could not decide what I wanted to eat, so we stopped in front of about six restaurants before deciding on one. Husband mocked my lovely indecision. Over sushi, we talked and laughed. We flirted. It was fun. It felt good.

It was a great night. And I slept well. And woke up smiling and thinking that we do have some control here. Life takes turns we cannot predict or prevent, but there are things we can do to sweeten our days. To put the silly and sexy and fun back in that fabulous existential pot.

One thing? We can flirt. That is, if we remember how…

{Oh, and the picture above? In the likely event that you are confused, that is not Husband and me. We are far less hideous.}

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• Do you agree that life without flirtation is blah?
• When is the last time you flirted, really flirted?
• Do you think flirtation is an important life skill? Or is it inappropriate after a certain point in life?
  
• Do you agree that flirtation does not have to be done with an agenda, that it can be totally innocuous?
• Are you affected by the content of what you write? Have you ever forced yourself to lighten things up on the page so as to lighten your mood?
• Were you a blue-ribbon flirt once upon a time?

Sometimes, flirtation gets us in trouble. Exhibit A: Quinn. Want to read her story? Then click! (Warning: parts of said story are a wee bit naughty in nature. Do I tell you this to entice you to purchase? Absolutely.)