Chasing Superwoman (10 page)

Christmas is the absolute test of my shopping skills, developed only after years of hard training and practice. My favorite time to Christmas shop is between 9:00 p.m. and midnight. The stores are empty, and Nick loves to tag along. First, we have to put the girls to bed and make sure they are really sleeping. Then we make our list and map out where we need to go first. We sneak out quietly and make a quick stop for coffee. Nick orders a hot chocolate, and I get the usual with a shot of caramel. I'm sick of low carbs, and I really need some sugar to go with the caffeine.

Shopping late with Nick gives us some much-needed time alone to bond. Most weekends, Doug and Nick are inseparable, and I take the girls. Nick and I both miss hanging out, and shopping provides a good excuse. Especially since everyone else is sleeping. Nick always wants to buy Doug something special, which leads us to the dreaded hardware store. I hate shopping for tools. Being around hardware makes me feel like I'm in a foreign country—or worse, completely ill. Last Christmas, Nick was dead set on buying Doug a snow blower. I was thinking about something more inexpensive and practical—like gloves, slippers, or some new underwear. Nick never looks at the price tag and his heart was set, so I broke down and bought the snow blower.

We could barely carry it into the house. We tiptoed inside at 11:00 p.m. and tried to sneak it into the office, quickly wrapping the outside of the box. Doug heard us carrying it in, saw the large, heavy box, and assumed it was a new mower—something he really wanted and needed since the old one died. I didn't have the heart to tell Doug he wasn't going to get his mower for Christmas. At least the snow blower was a complete surprise, and Nick was thrilled. Unfortunately it didn't snow all winter. Nick waited and waited. We'd get an inch or two, and it would melt by morning. By February, Doug finally gave up and returned the snow blower for a new mower. Nick helped pick out the new mower, and everyone was happy. The next week, we got two feet of snow.

For weeks after Christmas, our house is completely cluttered with stuff. The kids have boxes and boxes of presents, and it's literally shameful. Usually we have a few duplicates—an extra set of Legos, a game we already have in the closet, or two of the same craft project. Do we donate the extra items to children in need? Not exactly. Instead, Nick is usually asking to go shopping again, to exchange all of our extra gifts for more. I try to explain to him that it's wrong to covet, and that you can't take all your stuff with you when you die, just your soul. He still doesn't seem to get it.

More Shoes

I can talk all I want, but I'm not exactly the most compelling role model. Talk is cheap. I need to start simplifying. And soon. Just look at my shoe collection.

The other day I was headed to work, and I couldn't find a suitable pair of shoes. I'm sure it's a sin to own as many shoes as I do, so I've stopped counting. But this particular morning, I couldn't find a single pair to match my outfit. Where were all my shoes? About twenty pairs were missing.

The culprits? Anna and Abby, of course. They had taken my high heels to the playroom to open their own shoe store.

Most kids are having tea parties, playing house, or make-believe shopping at the grocery store. Not my girls. They've set up their own shoe department. For the price of my lunch, I could buy a pair of my own shoes and wear them to work. Not just any pair. If I wanted a pair that matched my outfit, it would cost more. Anna was in full sales mode, trying to show me how each pair was just my size. And Abby kept trying to convince me to wear the leopard-skin shoes with my pink suit, even though I already had a perfect pink pair of shoes to match my outfit. She was already wearing the pink shoes and wanted to keep them at home, to go with her princess dress. I finally prevailed with some good old-fashioned bribery. A time-out just didn't seem to fit the mood. “If you give Mommy the pink shoes, you can wear one of Anna's blue princess dresses and put on matching blue shoes.” Anna gave me a frown, but Abby quickly complied, and I could finally get dressed for work.

The shoe store was more than a wake-up call. Nick was already obsessed with having more stuff, Anna would soon follow right behind, and Abby was the only two-year-old I knew with a shoe addiction. If I didn't intervene quickly, my kids would drown in a sea of materialism, maybe forever. Devoted Mommy decided that we should immediately start shopping for needy children.

We set out for the toy store, and the kids each got to pick out their own presents for a child of the same sex and similar age. It's a start, but it's not as if we even put a dent in world poverty. Of course we want to do so much more for the needy, but it's easier said than done when I work all week, live in the most homogenous suburb around, and go out of my way to constantly put my kids in a “safe” environment. When they get a little older, we can go to the soup kitchen or adopt a needy family.

I know I should be doing more to cultivate a spirit of gratitude and service, but right now, I have too many excuses. I simply don't have the time. It's too dangerous to take my kids to
that
side of town. I'm afraid that Abby would make a mess in the soup kitchen or, worse yet, steal the soup. My own family has enough needs right now. We can always just give money. I would just be a Band-Aid to problems that are bigger than I can tackle. It's not like I can make a real commitment. I don't want to be one of those people who says she is going to effect change and then do nothing. Isn't it better not to get involved at all? Maybe when I retire and the kids move out, then I can really focus on helping all those needy families. I'm feeling pretty needy myself these days.

Like most things in life, if I waited for the perfect timing, I would stand by and do nothing. Sure, like most working mothers, I'm pretty overwhelmed, but if I used this excuse every time I saw a need outside of my own family, I would become completely and totally self-absorbed. Even more troubling? My children would become completely self-absorbed. So I have a responsibility not to be satisfied with the status quo and teach them to invest their treasures in things that won't rot, decay, or be destroyed. While I regularly fall far short of this command and probably shop more than I should, I fully intend to keep pressing forward.

In today's culture, it's hard to teach my kids that our lives are about more than our material possessions. After all, having more stuff is cool, isn't it? So we read the story of the rich fool who had such a good crop that he tore down his barns, built bigger barns, and thought he was set for life. The only problem? God said to him, “You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?”
1
Pastor Eric explained that the big barns were not the problem—the problem was the rich fool's heart. In addition to the rich fool being completely selfish and not using his possessions for anyone other than himself, he was placing his security in things that were temporal—things he could never take with him. In simple terms, it was a bad investment.

So while “more stuff” can make us happy for a season, I try to explain to my kids that we really need to invest in things that will last, like other people. And the more I focus on the needs of others and teach my children to do the same, the less we shop and the more we realize just how much we really have.

NINE

Generations of Superwomen

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work.… Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

Ecclesiastes 4:9, 12

There is a generation of women that I really want my children to know. Many of these women are first-generation Americans. They are tested and strong. They have lost children and hold their heads high in public, even though they may sob in their beds at night. Many of them don't talk about their faith; they just model it. They live modestly, never had their “own” income, and work hard running their homes. They don't complain, because they know life isn't easy. They never expected it to be easy. Unlike my generation, they never thought they could have it all. They never got pedicures or went out for girls' night or expected anything other than hard work and the reward of children and grandchildren who would bless them for years to come. On the outside, these women sometimes appear hard and calloused. (Who could blame them?) But on the inside, they are warm, loving, and generous.

Most of us know a woman who fits this mold—a grandmother, an aunt, or even a neighbor. I was recently talking to one of my colleagues, George the Greek, about this lost generation of women who are sorely missed by their children and grandchildren. Every family has a matriarch. For George, his Yaya (grandmother) was the glue that held the family together. We both agreed that watching
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
was a bonding experience for those of us who grew up around ethnic families. George had fond memories of his Greek Orthodox Easter—roasting a whole lamb with the eyes still in it, in his front yard. His neighbors would drive by and stare, and he would feel sorry for them and think,
They must not have nice families.

Yaya would shake her head and say, “These people will never know what they are missing. Just make sure you marry a girl who is Greek.”

While I was in college, I began to think deeply about my own grandmothers, both who ruled their respective homes with hard work and faith, but little emotion. My paternal grandmother, whom we called “Granny,” struck fear in our hearts when she shook that bony German finger, but I was grateful for the special bond we shared right before she passed. I was crushed when she died right before my wedding—just as we were getting closer—and I realized that one day soon, this generation of women would be gone. How could I learn from them?

My maternal grandmother, “Grandma,” was still alive. Although we had never been close, I knew I had much to learn from her. So I decided to write a book about Grandma and her remarkable generational values, and I started to take notes in my journal.

Now, when you're getting ready to enter law school and you're newly married, you have better things to do than write a book. About that time Tom Brokaw wrote
The
Greatest Generation
and stole my idea. Okay, maybe his book wasn't just about women, but he had made the generational points (much better than I) and had left me with nothing to write about. So I put the journal away and stopped writing. Somehow, I knew I would pull it out again to finish the rest of the story.

Grandma died while I was pregnant with Nick, and it was only after her death that I connected the dots. Why is it that death has a way of bringing greater clarity? It wasn't just that my grandmothers would be missed and learned from; they were still a part of me in many ways. My journey as a working mother had everything to do with the women who came before me, even though they didn't work outside the home. As for Grandma, I can hardly deny that her stubborn spirit and determination formed the core traits of Lady Lawyer, and I'm thankful that her independence and fierce loyalty to family are stamped on my character forever.

I realize my stories about Grandma on the pages to come are unique to my own family and experiences, so please think about your own matriarch—a grandmother, a mother, or an aunt—who has made you the working woman you are today. As the saying goes, blood is thicker than water.

D'Ercole Blood

When Anna is being particularly stubborn, Doug says she has “D'Ercole blood.” Rose Catropa D'Ercole, my grandma, had a mind of her own.

I was not her favorite and she never pretended otherwise. Of my sisters, I was the only one who never learned how to sew. It bothered Grandma, and she let me know it. I also hated to clean my room. I never made my bed, and everyone was always picking up after me. Grandma would tell me I was just like her baby sister, Helen. Helen was lazy, and made everyone else do her work. Grandma would call me “Miss Prissy” and say, “The baby in the family is always spoiled.” Did I mention that Helen was also the baby?

I liked being spoiled. I also had my mother telling me every day that I was just fine the way I was, so I never took Grandma's comments to heart. Her criticism helped me develop a thick skin—something Lady Lawyer would thank her for years later.

Maybe I couldn't sew, but I could do other things. And I wasn't really interested in sewing anyway. Even at a young age, I could do the math. By the time my sisters found a suitable pattern, bought the material, pinned and cut the material to the pattern, and started sewing, they had already spent more time and money on a dress that probably wouldn't fit. And that doesn't even count the time putting on buttons, zippers, and other finishing touches. Half the time, our old Singer machine would jam, and then they had to rip out the thread by hand and start the whole thing over. No thank you. I had better things to do with my time.

I was more interested in books. And with all that reading, I never had time to clean my room. This is where Grandma came in. She couldn't help herself, and every time she visited, she would unilaterally purge my room of my worn clothes, old toys, or other favorite items she said I was “too big for.” How could I stop her? Someone had to clean my room, and I wasn't going to lift a finger. It would happen during her annual summer visit, a visit that would last days or weeks depending on how well she and my father tolerated each other. He was always respectful of Grandma, but he wasn't her favorite either, and she let him know it. Besides, he was used to being in charge. He was the king of the castle, except when Grandma visited. She cooked food he didn't like, watched shows on TV he didn't want to watch, read his paper before he came home from work, and even took over his chair. It wasn't intentional, it was just her nature. She didn't know how to be anything but in charge.

My sisters and I got a kick out of seeing her dethrone the king, something my mother wouldn't dream of. By the end of her visit, she would buy him a case of beer, and they would part on good terms. Grandma couldn't drive, so she would ask my mother to take her to the grocery store. They would always get separate carts, and my mother would shudder every time we hit the beer aisle and say, “He doesn't need it, Mum.” Grandma would ignore her objections every time and say under her breath, “It won't hurt him, Stella.” It was her way of making peace with him, something he always appreciated.

After we secured the beer, Grandma would move on to the other items on her list, including olive oil, peppers, sausage, and meat for her sauce. She would tell me I could have anything I wanted, and I would always pick out a bag of puffed cheese curls—the kind that melt in your mouth and make your hands orange from all the food coloring. We'd have a few duplicates with my mother at the checkout, so Grandma would push ahead and make sure she got in line before my mother, pulling crisp bills out of her pocketbook (she never owned a credit card) and elbowing my mother who always tried to pay first. She and my mother would argue, and my mother would insist on paying for everything but the beer.

Ethnic women can be extremely loud at the grocery store, especially when they're fighting, and everyone would stare. Grandma was so loud that even my mother relented and let her pay for her own groceries. Sometimes sheer volume can win an argument, especially in public. I can't help thinking the stares prepared me for Devoted Mommy's shopping adventures.

Men, Mosquitoes, and Meatballs

The only time Grandma rested was in the evenings on the back porch. As much as she loved the summer air, she would constantly complain about the mosquitoes that always plagued our Ohio summers. “Your Aunt Rose doesn't get these mosquitoes in California,” she would say. I would put on shows for Grandma with dancing and singing, and she would clap and tell me stories about my grandfather “Papa” and growing up in West Aliquippa, Pennsylvania. She loved to tell stories about all the famous people that grew up in West Aliquippa, like the composer Henry Mancini. My uncle Anthony would make fun of Henry and call him a sissy for practicing the piano and being a mama's boy instead of playing baseball with the neighborhood. Uncle Anthony played ball with the Yankees farm team and Mickey Mantle until the bottle got the best of him. Grandma would get a sad look in her eye, and I knew not to ask questions.

Grandma's strength always drew in neighborhood women, and she would update our family on the local gossip as our next-door neighbor, the only divorced woman around, would visit every evening. We would learn who was cheating, who was dating, and who was divorcing. This was a far cry from my mother, who never entertained gossip or attempted to meddle in anyone's business. A cheating man was a no-good man. There were no shades of gray when it came to fidelity and commitment. Men who cheated would burn in hell. And she didn't feel sorry for them.

When Blonde Sister began to date the man who would become her husband, Grandma first asked about his nationality: “What is he?” Blonde Sister jokingly told Grandma that he was half “hillbilly.” This was a serious mistake. Grandma had lived near a group of hillbillies in West Aliquippa, and she proclaimed that they were the dirtiest people on the face of the earth. The other strike against him? He was a football player. Never mind that his football scholarship gave him a full ride to college, where he worked hard inside and outside the classroom, earning straight As. All football players were dumb, not to mention self-centered. We laugh about it today, but poor Blonde Sister shed her share of tears for dating and then marrying a “hillbilly football player.” Did I mention that he isn't even a hillbilly?

Sometimes you just can't change a woman's mind. No matter how hard you try, it's useless. Strong, obstreperous women tend to repel some people. Not me. Instead, I am drawn to them. Doug always tells me I have managed to pick the most overbearing friends, starting with Sassy Shelly, the only woman in the world Doug refuses to argue with. Why? It's completely useless. No one has ever won an argument with her. There are two ways to see the world: her way or no way. And Jock Jill is the last person you want to meet in the courtroom. She'll eat you alive, and most people, except me, are afraid to ruffle her feathers. But I find her rougher edges endearing. I am right at home with hardheaded women.

The D'Ercole women share this trait, and my father likes to proclaim that we are the most stubborn women on the face of the earth. I used to think he was overreaching. Then I had Anna and Abby. Just try talking Anna out of wearing leopard tank top on a cold winter morning.

Stubborn as she was, Grandma, like most of her generation, wasn't afraid of a day's work. While we spent our evenings on the back porch, the days were full of labor. Scrubbing, mopping, sweeping, dusting, washing, ironing, and drying. Grandma was very passionate about her work. She would wash windows and walls, and even though she was only five feet tall and aging, she would stand on a ladder just to dust the light fixtures or reach for the corner cobwebs with her broom. A dirty house was something to be ashamed of, and a clean house was a woman's crown.

The best part of the day was spent in the sanctuary of the kitchen, the hottest room in the house in the summer heat. Hot enough to keep the men out, but not hot enough to keep three generations of women from gathering, even without air conditioning. It doesn't matter if you have an empty dining room, comfortable furniture, or a cozy great room with plenty of seating. Women will gather in the kitchen—no matter the size or the available seating. The reason? We know where the action is. Kitchen conversation is sacred. It was in the kitchen that Grandma told us the story of how she married Papa not knowing his true age. He lied to her before the wedding, and it wasn't until after they were married that she learned he was sixteen years her senior. Fortunately, her fierce independence enabled her to care for herself on a small pension after his death. She never bought anything for herself and always showered her grandchildren with cash. For an eighth-grade education, she knew more about politics than both of my parents combined. She devoured the newspaper every day and never missed a current event.

But even more than politics, Grandma's favorite subject of kitchen conversation was my mother. Like a proud mother, she loved to brag about her own daughter in front of her, as if she wasn't in the room. As harsh as Grandma was with the rest of the world, I never heard her give anything but praise for my mother. “Saint Stella,” Grandma would call her. She loved to tell us stories about how my mother would gladly iron the family shirts, would never complain about housework, and most importantly, how she had her choice of boyfriends. In fact, she was the envy of every young woman in Aliquippa, officially nominated as the “Woof Girl” of Aliquippa High. My mother had smart boyfriends, rich boyfriends, and—most importantly—Italian boyfriends.