I’m constantly being reminded how boring my childhood was, especially in comparison to my daughter’s. It’s no wonder I spent endless hours in front of the tube watching Patty Duke re-runs.
The other day Savannah bounced in from a play date all excited because at her friend’s the elevator opens directly into the apartment and the family has a maid, or as she put it, “a cleaning lady 24 hours a day.” She was amazed to find such things exist. I’m amazed that people can afford such luxuries.
The woman is a wealthy, New Age type, who spends a lot of time off at retreats, leaving the children in the care of her unemployed, soon-to-be-ex husband and the 24-hour cleaning woman. According to Savannah, she has a “magic room” and does some sort of weird meditative exercise with a sword. “She goes like this, mom,” Savannah said, as she closed her eyes and pretended to wave an invisible sword down the center of body.
I grew up in an old frame house in the Midwest among repressed Irish Catholics. Moms shopped at K-Mart and volunteered at church. The only New Age thing about our house was the stuff my brothers and I were smoking in our upstairs bedrooms.