Mothers & Mensches

I’m still getting used to the fact that in the suburbs, my doorbell rings unexpectedly. Sometimes, it’s the UPS man, Walter, who’s delivering yet another household item that I bought online. Why schlep? Yesterday, Walter brought me my woven rope mahogany wastebasket for our powder room. The day before yesterday, he delivered the most perfect salt cellar I ordered from Alton Brown’s website. Our mailman, Kevin, makes up reasons to ring the bell and chat-especially on Saturdays when Gabriella is home. Hmmm. We also get the occasional visit from our neighbors-delivering baked goods or loaning us movies or just saying “hello”. I always feel like I’m in some sort of sit com when that happens. Who just stops by? Suburbanites. That’s who.

Today, the doorbell rang and it was not Walter nor Kevin nor a neighbor but a young woman canvassing for HRC, Human Rights Campaign. HRC is a civil rights organization that lobbies for gay rights. Many of us throw a little cash their way in order to support the cause and get a sticker with a smart, understated logo for the car- for those of us who are out, loud and proud but don’t want to invite unwanted attention.

Stacey introduces herself and starts to explain what the HRC is. I cut her off. “Yes, I know HRC. I’ve let my membership lapse. Would you mind coming in so I can watch my kid?” I lead her to the kitchen where Asher is eating cookie batter off a spoon. “Hullo,” he says, “Want to come to Asher’s room?” He likes to entertain company. I wonder what she’s thinking. “How does this stay-at-home mother making Nestle Toll House cookies know about the HRC? Have I entered the Twilight Zone where June Cleaver supports gay rights?” Then again, I have to remind myself that we’re now living in Gayville, U.S.A. There’s a gay family around every corner. There are probably hundreds of homosexuals in South Orange baking cookies with their kids at this very moment!

I ran for my check book before Stacey had a chance to run through her schpeel. What was my hurry? Of course, it’s important to give to charity and support worthy causes. I hadn’t been very charitable lately. It had been a long time since I became a monthly contributor to Adopt A Granny in the hopes that karma would save me from a fate of diapers and senility. My first Granny came from the Philippines. She sent me a photo of herself in an oversized Adopt A Granny T-shirt that covered most of her dress. She died a month after I received her letter of thanks. Grannies are like goldfish. I got a replacement Granny immediately. She sent me her photo, too, but I refused to look at it. I filed it away so as not to get too attached. As far as I know, she’s doing well.

I used to consider myself somewhat of an activist. I went to college in New York City where the student body preferred protests to football games. I couldn’t even tell you where our football stadium was. There was always a march or rally to attend if you had passion to right the wrongs and an appropriate catalog of march chants. “What do we want? [insert want here] When do we want it? Now!” “Get your rosaries off my ovaries” etc. Those were the days when angry was hot – for collegiate lesbians anyway.

I ran for my check book because I wanted young Stacey to know that Betty Crocker here was once an angry, hot chick who marched and chanted and was passionate about causes. (ok, call it creative license on the hot part, but I was definitely angry) She could only see an exhausted mother who still wears maternity clothes 5 months after giving birth and who is in desperate need of a hair cut and some lipstick. And she probably saw the mini van parked in my driveway. (Yes, I’m still obsessing about the mini van) But she would surely see the passion in my pen stroke if I write that check with conviction. And if I write that check fast enough, she might even see that angry, hot chick beneath my cookie battered nursing shirt.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m very happy to be a mother and I would not want to go back to that delightfully bitter age when I thought everyone was offensive, unjust or ignorant. I was hardly the life of the party. It’s just that I know how I would have seen me if I had been in Stacey’s shoes 15 years ago. How can you be baking cookies when our country is in crisis? If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem and all that. But at the risk of sounding like I’m justifying my life, I now realize that parenting is part of the solution. Gabriella and I are guiding two boys on their path to manhood. I think the world could use a few more mensches. I hope we’re able enough to make a mark.

“What, no sticker?” I ask Stacey as she takes my check and gets ready to go. She rifles through her backpack and hands me what she claims is her last one. I don’t know why I asked. I have no intention of putting it on my car.