Back in the day, there were two things I read cover-to-cover every weekend: Us magazine and Entertainment Weekly. Many a Sunday morning post-college would find me with coffee mug in hand reading every single article, every movie review, every beauty tip. When I moved to California not knowing a soul, most Saturday afternoons were spent sitting by the pool reading my magazines. And even (gasp) novels.
Then life got busy. Over twelve years, I picked up some high-profile jobs, my own company, many close friends, a devoted husband and three time-consuming kids.
Oops. I meant adorable kids.
And the reading? Well, Entertainment Weekly, I am sorry to say that you were the first to go. You were just too dense, too full of opinions. I think Entertainment Weekly hit the skids about the time I realized I was pregnant with my oldest, Danny. While I was still making time to exfoliate daily and even do a facial mask twice a week, my free time had begun to be filled with baby shopping, baby preparation classes, baby magazines and endless sessions lying on the couch, eating ice cream and crying watching “A Baby Story” on TLC.
And then there were the novels. For a few years, I made an attempt. Occasionally at night I would read before I went to bed. And when flying back and forth to Boston to visit family, I would sneak a few chapters in while Danny slept beside me. But then came Annie and reading my books was replaced with extended story times meant to please their very different tastes. My lap space on the plane became consumed with a rosied-cheek baby girl that would rather play with my hair than sleep. And of course there were still those sessions watching “A Baby Story” to fit in.
Where I once kept a log of the novels that I would read in a given year, I now keep track of baby milestones and big kids’ steps to independence. Twelve years ago, my April might have been a list of Alice Hoffman novels or a re-reading of my favorite Rebecca. Today it is a list of Jay’s first solo stands and tentative steps, Annie’s first spin into a big-girl ballet class, and Danny’s first attempt to tie his own shoes.
The funny things is that I actually go to the bookstore more than ever but today it is to buy early reader chapter books and princess stories. Where I once would count Irving and Lamb among my favorites, I now choose Geronimo Stilton (a mouse writer, mind you) and Disney.
And then there was Jay. With baby number three has come the unthinkable. The fall of the giant. Not only has my subscription to Us lapsed, but I didn’t even realize it until a few weeks after it happened. Once unthinkable, today barely worth a second thought.
To give some context, breaking up with Us is a bit like getting divorced from myself. Us magazine has been my stalwart, my tried and true friend. Long after EW and novels were put to the wayside, Us came with me to the hairdresser, to the OB’s office, on BART, on planes. When I had to be monitored because of an abundance of fluid when pregnant with my giant baby Jay, the steady beat of his heartbeat and fluid kicks of his tiny legs accompanied every last page. Us even played a key role in Annie’s potty training as she found nothing as fun as looking at the” princesses” and their dresses with Mommy as we spent hours in the “royal potty”.
As I looked at those pictures with Annie and tried to answer her questions of who each person was, I realized that something shocking had happened. I had no clue. And, stranger yet, I could care less. Maybe it is just a sign of my impending old age, but frankly I still haven’t figured out who the Kardashians are and I have zero interest in hearing about how some chick with huge fake boobs enjoys breast feeding. I am not clear on who the "Real Housewives” are. I haven’t seen High School Musical (although I do enjoy watching Zac Efron dance). And then there is an enormous list of young actresses that I can’t even tell you enough about for you to know who I mean. And, yes, I have read enough Geronimo Stilton books that when I read the word “enormous” now what I say in my head is “enormouse”.
So, why blame Jay for the fall of Us? Well, one very practical problem is that Jay tries to eat anything near him and had taken a real liking to tearing apart and then trying to devour the magazine before I even got past the cover page. Then there is the fact that Jay is my worst sleeper. Or the fact that with one more baby to love and honor for his own unique self, there is just a little less of me left for me.
But I should blame my iPhone as well since my now far-between visits to the hair dresser and rare work trips usually feature work emails and press releases. Technology has a tighter grip than a shy three-year-old.
It’s really like I said. Life got so busy, so crazy that any non-essential reading has gone to the wayside. This is not to say that pop culture is totally passing me by. I haven’t missed a single American Idol in years, except for when that pesky Jay insisting on being born at 9:58 p.m. May 13 last year, right when the two finalists were being announced. (And no, if you’re wondering, I did not keep the TV on for the 20 minutes or so it took for him to arrive. I’m not that bad.)
But I do worry a bit about losing so much of what I once loved that some day when my kids are bigger there will be nothing left of who I used to be. While I wish they could stay little forever (and I honestly mean that), I do think I need to take a bit better care of myself. Let my hair get blonder like it used to be back in the day, even though it will mean more trips to the hair dressers. Watch a bit more Jersey Shores. Say Good Night Moon, hello two-year-old John Irving novel. And this really isn’t just for me. Some day Annie is going to need to know who those Kardashian kids are.
They say to be a great parent, or a great spouse for that matter, you need to maintain who you are. You can’t just live for your kids. You need to show them who you are, so they can understand how important it is to develop their own sense of self. Especially for my Annie, I want her to know that a mother can be the world to her kids and still contribute to the world on her own.
This is not to say that I have been without hope all this time. I am proud to report that I am three pages away from finishing the novel I began this time last year.
Now, what to read next.
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