Do you think that Michelle Obama and her mother ever have run-ins in the White House kitchen? Do you think they ever battle about whether the girls get to stay up and watch a movie or not? No matter how helpful it is to have two sets of mothering hands involved in the transition from Chicago to D.C., Mrs. Robinson and Mrs. Obama are still mother and daughter. Don't you think that must back up on them every so often?

I wonder.

Around the time of the election I had just finished a stint of living with my mother and my two children in the apartment I was raised in. I had been living in Ohio in my own house with my own life when my marriage abruptly came to an end. I had nowhere to go with my two sons, very little money, and not much to do in Ohio except be someone’s ex-wife. My parents instantly and very generously invited my family to move back home to New York, where I could begin again.

This unexpected turn of events put my mother and me on a road we never thought we would travel. (Do you ever think Mrs. Robinson thought that her daughter would ask her to move to the White House to help get her grandchildren ready for school?) For us, at first, probably the most complex and worrisome aspect of our new living situation was not the divorced-daughter bit, but that we would have to share a kitchen. We were forced to share a small, New York kitchen for two years. There were generational challenges, style conflicts, aesthetic clashes (I like flowers by the stove, she DOES NOT), and wildly out-of-control micromanagement issues. It does seem small now that I write it down, but we would rather try to solve the health care crisis than have to collaborate on a stew.

If someone woke me up in the middle of the night and said, “Quick! What’s the best thing about your mother?” I would sit straight up and yell, “Food!” It’s not just that she is a marvelous cook, or that she loves food in an uncomplicated, easy way, but it has been a large and important part of how she mothered. My mother worked full-time running a foundation, but she found all the time in the world to have supper ready every night, feed us shirred eggs on the weekends, and produce a leg of lamb for my fourth-grade Bedouin feast at school. She even survived having two teenage stepsons—mostly by feeding them mountains of good food at every turn. Lots of my own mothering takes place in the kitchen, and that comes directly from her.

My mother’s kitchen was made for her, not me, and we were in each other’s way. For my mother, the mornings were quiet, solitary affairs of NPR and Muslix. My boys and I destroyed all that. The sun still streamed through the windows, but suddenly there was bacon frying (I had a theory that if the boys smelled bacon in the mornings they would believe they weren’t from a broken home), toasters popping, and milk being spilled. Quiet was replaced by a symphony of manners taught, juice demanded, and songs sung. I was a stressed out single mother and my kids were little. My mother had to rethink when she ate.

We soon decided we didn’t have to eat every dinner together, and if we did, we didn’t have to cook the same thing. I have heard that Mrs. Robinson has developed quite an independent life at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and I had to do the same thing. Even though my mother always made enough for me, I often would create something of my own. Something to keep me connected to the woman I had grown into and not the child I felt reduced to.

I bet watching your adult child up close, going through a transition over which you have very little control of is frightening and quite moving at the same time. So different than when the child was 7 or 12. Mrs. Robinson must be in awe of what is happening to her daughter. She must feel protective and proud, but she also must know that she has very little to do with it. She can help with Sasha and Malia, and be there for the late-night chat, but it isn’t she who is the very first black First Lady of the United States.

Yes, mothers help, and it’s right to include them when life throws you (and your children) a curve ball. But at the end of the day, those small children were mine. I was the one who was changed. We were not mother and daughter as much as we were two grown women living together. It surprised us not to fall into the assumed roles, the ones we had known, but we didn’t.

Apparently Mrs. Robinson is having a wonderful time in the White House, and from where I sit, Mrs. Obama seems to be thriving. But under that roof, they must have their moments, even if it isn’t over the stove. They must have run-ins about something small and technical, Malia’s clothes, Sasha’s chores, or too many cookies. And maybe, just like with me and my mother, those run-ins replace the anxiety. The anxiety that comes from the overwhelming, monumental, responsibility of changing history.

Photograph of Isabel Gillies courtesy of the author.

Tags: kids, Marion Robinson, Michella Obama, mother-daughter relationships, parenting, The White House

I never went to sleepaway camp. Nor did my husband. And though each spring and summer our daughters talk vaguely about going, "for a couple of weeks next year," we don’t believe them. So the experience of waving our offspring goodbye as they drive north, south or east will probably remain more foreign to us than a trip to Europe. With the girls at home, my parenting becomes more concentrated in the months of July and August than at any other time of the year. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have that time completely to myself, and in an attempt to live vicariously, I turned to Margie Fox, Co-President of the PR firm, Maloney & Fox, whose ten-year-old daughter, Isabelle annually takes the full seven-week leave. This is what Margie had to report:

“Last Saturday she got on the bus Gus and headed north.

 

Forty-nine days of old-time camp fun for my daughter. Forty-nine days without her and with only three phone calls and one long visiting day in between day one and the bus trip home. On Saturday as I wiped my eyes behind my cheap, oversized street sunglasses, I thought how will I ever get through forty-nine days without the little love of my life. I moped all day, watched a marathon of Real Housewives and drank wine until super maudlin had officially set in. And then it was Sunday. As I lolled in bed reading the paper, plugged into all-Michael Jackson TV I felt the cloud of missing and sadness give way to excitement and possibility. This year I decided to forgo the mild angst I felt last year for being happy about my summer of guilty pleasures, romance rekindling and adult swim. A special thanks to one very talented psychotherapist for imparting this gift for the ‘09 season . But really, wouldn’t I be a world-class idiot not to be embracing this time—especially knowing that my kid is ensconced in safe, fun-central having the time of her life?

Not wanting to appear idiotic, I’ve cannon-balled into the deep end. So far I’ve already seen R-rated movies (Lord love The Hangover and Bradley Cooper) without spending a fortune on babysitters and cab fare home. I’ve spent serious time at the makeup counter sorting out serious mascara options and partied hard with hundreds of beautiful and joyous gay men and women in a pride celebration to be proud of. I’ve had thoughts of taking walks, or going to the gym since I can now leave my house and not leave someone unattended. It might even happen because it can. I’ve cavalierly deleted Hannah, Drake and Carly from the DVR lineup and left space for everything Bravo is brave enough to offer up. I’ve eaten in bed (because if a crumb falls onto the duvet and a kid is not there to bear witness, did the crumb really fall at all?). In short, I’ve let walking the talk temporarily fall to the wayside and sidled in for some Seann Williams Scott-style role modeling.

Last summer, my first summer with seven weeks to spare, I found out how much I really enjoy my husband as partner and travelling companion as opposed to my co-parenting conspirator (thank God). I was also reminded of the splendors of sex with open doors and without fear of possible intrusion at any moment. This year I am going to a hotel with a No-Kids Under the Age of 16 policy and am expecting them to enforce it with rigor. There is a lot also to be said for date night five nights a week (let’s not push it). I will spend my 40-some odd days left reconnecting with girlfriends and swilling stiff summer cocktails. Often. Let’s face it, quality time together is not really the time after drop off, before work, before pick-up or after school or standing on a sideline or in a sweaty pool.

During the year, I totally forget how much I like to read. My Kindle is fully loaded for our upcoming trip to Greece and I actually expect to get through it all. And I don’t feel at all bad about leaving the wonderful Wimpy Kid series untouched until September.

There is nothing I like better than being Isabelle’s mom. But that sure doesn’t mean that I can’t love the hell out of being a wife, friend, reader, doer, dancer and boss. I do a pretty good job of juggling all that while the kid is home. But just wait to you see how I rock the next 46 days.

Did I mention I am thinking about going to the gym?”

Margie Fox won’t be around to read her words when they appear on Your Comeback. She’s already left for Greece… Θα ήθελα ένα ouzo, Margie!

Photograph of Margie and Isabelle courtesy of Margie Fox.

Tags: Greece, gym, kids, New York, sleepaway camp, the real housewives, vacation