Mama's time has come. From the hills of Hollywood to the halls of the White House, there are mamas in the limelight. Instead of simply acknowledging the fact that any accolades Mom receives are long overdue, why not join the growing boom of females who insist on everything from paid maternity leave to rock festivals that feature female entertainment?
I refuse to believe the current movement is a response to the 1950s stereotype that kept June Cleaver in the kitchen with her lipstick on. And I keep hoping the momentum is bigger than an angry backlash of feminists who refuse to make room for softer, gentler versions of themselves.
Most of all, I pray that while the idea of "family values" is of great concern to many of us, those values are not determined by a right-wing government.
We want different things. The point is, for the first time in many years, we are mobilizing to want something. The common thread between us is that we are reaching out to redefine what it is to be a modern mother.
An informal poll of my like-minded sisters and girlfriends tells me 80 percent of them are back in the dating game, chomping at the bit to vote in the November election, and briskly moving their money from dangerous places, like mutual funds, and into safe places, like gold. Or crisply turning it into Euros.
Liv Tyler and I, however, are on another path. At least that's what I feel after reading today's celebrity headlines. The pouty, pretty actress was reflecting on her split with Spacehog guitarist Royston Langdon, equating it to "the loss of everything."
Tyler says, "I feel neurotic, like Woody Allen. Sometimes I just feel like a crab without a shell."
Okay. Do I dare admit that I can relate?
Women often feel lost without their men, even when the relationship sucks. It can be lonely trying to make the house, bank account, kids, and social life all work.
With the whole financial and political world reeling, I feel paralyzed. Even though most of the times I manage very well, there are moments, even weeks, when I feel myself totter.
There are three guitars strewn around the living room. My band rehearsal ran late and I'm trying to adjust to life at warp speed, because in five minutes the kids will blast through the door.
I play in Housewives on Prozac with four other women. We're all at different stages of relationships, but I'm the only one who's single with four kids.
Never mind that multi-tasking in my house means every pot in the kitchen is blackened on the bottom.
There's a dangerous pattern developing. Meals keep getting started and end up on fire. Dogs are left outside while the sun goes down. And I'm especially jammed when it comes to any kind of a personal life.
Summer was all about bliss. So this is a good time to ask, Where the heck is the sanity?
I admit it helps to burn off steam by turning things into loud songs. Housewives on Prozac has played PTA fundraisers and large-scale stadium gigs. We did the theme song for the Liberty Girls basketball team at Madison Square Garden.
How do I know if I'm on the right track? Sometimes there's a sneaking suspicion that I may be going off the deep end. As I pack my bags for one last solo getaway, all I can think about is my old life, even though I know how important it is to keep moving forward.
I am totally committed to coming out of all this on the other side.
Probably the best thing I did this month was to commit to another six sessions of therapy. My therapist has been an on-and-off integral part of my life for more than 30 years.
Now, in the post-marriage phase of life, I'm looking for signs, talking to angels, seeing a therapist, journaling, going to Buddhist retreats, and saving time on Sundays for church.
Oh, and I make time for lighting candles, drinking champagne, reading, and celibacy.
All bases covered?
Yikes! Especially since, when I first moved out on my own, I didn't even know where electricity came from. I don't mean which electrical company. I mean where the circuit breakers were, or even what they did.
That's how long I'd been married, pregnant, nursing, and ill.
During this, the final week of my solo month, there have been lots of opportunities to give up and run to a bar, or go to Fire Island for one last fling before the kids come home.
Instead, I've dabbled in cooking, reading, and sampling wine. I've become an expert in the latter. My friends have given up in frustration trying to set me up with dinner-party hotties.
I've resigned myself to the single life, for at least the foreseeable future.
Labor Day weekend will be my last shot at a three-day getaway. So I've been Googling activities that don't involve getting spruced up for the opposite sex. That means no going to a spa, or a resort, no facial peels or shopping sprees. Obviously alcohol and orgies are out.
Instead I decided to try a resource in the New York metro area that supports mental and psycho-spiritual well-being. There were plenty of opportunities not more than an hour from my home that offered to stretch and encourage my inner goddess.
In my ongoing quest to spend a month happily living solo, I decided to spring for some fresh, fanciful fare.
I've just finished reading French Women Don't Get Fat. It seems the French drink a lot of champagne and that, somehow, ingesting quality ingredients keeps their women from over eating.
I scored beautiful local goat cheese at the Hastings Farmers Market and picked up a lovely pink Brut for under $40.
I don't usually drink alcohol while I'm alone, but I'm in survival mode and the kids don't get back until after Labor Day.
Popping the cork and pouring the Brut into a pink marabou martini glass, purchased at the TJ Maxx bargain rack, life seems sort of okay for the moment.
This was not a reward for spending a month in isolation. I don't need a reward, because I know that a workshop or trip to the Omega Institute is coming up.
However, I'm convinced that every night I spend alone is going to help me be a stronger person.
Admittedly, as I'm having these thoughts, there is a strong craving for a Valium or something else that will make me feel numb.
Busy people, who surround themselves with four kids, a husband, a wide social circle, a dog, two cats, and countless gerbils, do it because they don't like to be alone. I am one of those people.
My girlfriends, therefore, called me crazy when I told them I was going to go without a date for the next month.
I had no idea it was going to be so hard. Unplugging the phone and suspending the match.com account has not been without ramifications. The first night was horrible.
It reminded me of the first weeks of being separated.
The first thing I did Friday night after work was turn the lights down and turn the radio up. With the scent of candles wafting through the house, I ran a bath and decided to concentrate on "me" time.
Normally the kids would be watching TV in the living room, asking for second helpings of dinner. On nights when the kids are with their Dad, I'd be out for drinks with friends.
Weekends post-divorce, I'd usually be juggling a man, or two.
But not this month. This is solo month and I'm determined to find out what makes me tick.
