Prep Time

In the midst of one of my insomniac moments last night, I found my restless mind wandering to Sarah Jessica Parker. I don’t know why. That’s what so magical about insomnia: the things that keep you up in the middle of the night. Three hours of a little tossing and turning, some sudoku on the toilet, a swig of water, some staring at the ceiling and some random thoughts. The first big event I remember attending when I was young was Annie at the Wang Center in Boston. Sarah Jessica Parker did play the role of Annie in the musical, but after some brief research today I now know that she was on Broadway at the time and she would have been too old in 1982 to play the Annie that I saw. I went to see Annie with my grandmother and I don’t remember anything about the actual show. All I recall is the prep: my mom buying me a frilly pastel dress at Filene’s, singing “Tomorrow” in the car, and being nervous about not having my parents with me at the impending performance. Prep Time is a big factor in my childhood memories. It’s one of my adult “issues.”

Prep Time takes on various forms. Christmas was the worst with its mayhem and adrenalin rushes combined with bottomless piles of crinkled wrapping paper and strands of glitter that stuck to everything. After morning gift opening, it was Prep Time. This meant clean-up, dress-up, and fix-up. While in the shower I would hear my mom calling, “Erin, I need you to help me with the potato salad.” Standing with water pouring down on my head, I would wonder why we had to make potato salad. The extended Gottwald family ended up ordering Chinese food on Christmas and I didn’t understand my mom’s compulsion with bringing unwanted potato salad to my grandmother’s house in Roslindale. Once I was downstairs standing next to her at the kitchen counter I would argue my point and she would tell me to “just do it” as she finished up cutting vegetables and ran into the shower. I remember the packets of dry Lipton onion soup mix and the containers of sour cream that made obscene sucking noises as the cream was released from the plastic. I would get goose bumps as I heard the onion mix crackle under the folds of sour cream. Prep Time during childhood also included some appearances by my mom in her bra and underwear, ironing blouses and pants on the ironing board (at lightning speed) in the middle of the kitchen. Passing dress inspection with my mom, to this day, is like passing the bar. At 30 years old, I still get the “is that what you’re wearing?” question posed to me as we are about to depart for family weddings.

Yesterday I was walking down Sixth Avenue in Park Slope and I watched as a group of children waited at the bus stop. Some of them were without parents and some of them had siblings and mom in tow. I watched them as the doors of the bus opened and they climbed aboard. Once they were safely aboard the bus, several moms turned to go on with their day, walking down the street at break neck speed. However, a select few remained on the sidewalk waving to their children on the bus with one hand and covering their mouth with the other. I had a flashback. My first day of kindergarten, I came home and fell down the stairs of the bus, right in front of my house. The fall was bloody. My red tights tore at the knees and my knees were scraped up. I don’t remember being a wimp as a kid, but watching my mom’s face react as her precious, dressed-up little girl tumbled into dirt and grime and ruined her outfit was enough to make me break down. All the prep time that morning, all the build-up to my first day of school, the pressure!

Watching those kids at the bus stop also reminded me of how saying bye was always such a big deal in my family. It’s directly related to Prep Time. Going back to school and going to camp were momentous occasions. My mom shopped for all the right things according to the official lists that families were given: the right supplies and attire. All the research, collecting, shopping, and spending built up my expectations for each event. By the first day or school and camp, I was a nervous wreck: Did we get the correct ballet shoes? Did I have the right Trapper Keeper? Were my shoes ok? My self-confidence level would plummet and I would doubt my ability survive without my mom’s assistance. Leaving her side left me with a sense of abandonment and nervousness. Leaving for Bates was similar. Actually, I left the details up to my mom since she enjoyed taking charge of them anyhow. Because I never took the time to look at the printed materials, we ended up going to Bates one day too early. I was left at a deserted campus and slept in a lonely dorm room my first night at college. I was about 20 years old when I finally came to grips with separation anxiety.

And coming to grips with that anxiety had a lot to do with abandoning Prep Time. I’m a relatively organized and responsible person and this manifests itself in a tendency to plan things, but not like my mom. I under dress for almost everything. I figure that informality feels more natural to me and when I feel natural I am more pleasant person and being pleasant makes me feel nice. I also don’t prepare much for things. The dance classes that I teach are almost always more enjoyable (for the kids and myself) if I do not have a plan: it allows freedom and flexibility and surprises. I under-pack for trips, always packing less than Chris. Sometimes I regret this once I am at my destination, but it is important for my self-esteem to be low maintenance. I have also trained myself to have low expectations so that disappointment is not as crippling as it was when I was a kid.

With all of this said, I am doing a lot of Prep Time these days. I have decided to take a cross-country road trip with my two sisters. Prep Time is necessary. Prep Time to align realistic expectations: there will be arguments, there will be drama. I have decided that I will bring a video camera so that when my flight instinct kicks in (see “50% and Then Some” blog entry) and there is no place to flee to, I will turn on the video camera and have a reality show. Last night I had a dream that we got trapped in Cleveland on our way to California. At a crack house on the railroad tracks in Cleveland. I think I may be anxious about the trip.