Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Midlife Cabernet: Mothers and Daughters from a Different Story

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photo (3)In fits of exasperation during my volatile teenage years, my mother would exclaim, “I hope you have a daughter just like you!” Thankfully, I did. And during my daughter’s spirited times, somehow my mother’s words came out of my mouth. And yes, she also has an ebullient child. We have several years before my granddaughter is a teenager, but I predict the same conversation will occur.

Another accusation my beleaguered mother used to say was that I was only happy doing what I wanted to do. Even as a defiant little girl, I would retort, “What’s wrong with that?” Sorry, Mom.

I can’t write a warm and glowing tribute to my mother because we have never been close. There weren’t any shared secrets or long calls or exchanges of advice. Once a man hit me and split my lip, but I couldn’t tell my mother even though she was only 30 minutes away. I fled to the home of a friend’s mother for consolation. I wish it had been different.

My mother always has been timid and insecure, and our personalities clashed from the start. She was the Sunday School teacher, the Cub Scout Leader, and the dutiful wife and mother. But she didn’t know what to do with me, and I couldn’t be the daughter she wanted. When my parents drove me to college and found the reception area, I bolted from the car and never looked back. There weren’t any hugs or tears because all three of us were relieved that I was out of the house.

I respect my mother and know that she’s had a difficult life full of pain and sorrow. I admire her because she has a fierce determination that should be studied by medical science. And I love her as best I can. Widowed for 25 years, now she lives in a nursing home and is confined to a wheelchair. She is afflicted with dementia and I hope that when she smiles she is remembering the good and positive times she experienced during her 87 years.

The legacy of growing up in a loveless family is that there are no guidelines to follow to a better life. I knew that I wanted a close family and when I was blessed with two children, I became the Mother Bear of the Universe. I made mistakes, as we all do, but my allegiance to them remains true and unwavering. Now they have strong marriages and excellent relationships with their children, and I am in awe of their parenting skills.

The greatest parenting achievement for me is that I see and talk with my children regularly. They taught me how to do this, and I highly recommend it. I’ll continue to visit my mother and be attentive to her needs, but spending time with my adult children is like receiving a gift I always wanted. And as my mother used to say, I’m happiest when I get what I want.

With sincere admiration and love, I wish my mother, my daughter, and my daughter-in-law a splendid Mother’s Day. Remember that your children want you to be happy.

Midlife Cabernet: Mama, Don’t let your Babies Grow Up to be Call Girls

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The world’s oldest profession comes with nasty consequences, so why are mothers allowing their young daughters to look like hookers? Julia Roberts glamorized prostitution in the movie Pretty Woman, but reality proves that it’s not the best career choice. Call girls have a higher probability of becoming diseased, abused, and dead instead of being saved and supported by a handsome millionaire.

Many of us more mature women regularly fight the urge to rush over with a protective tarp when we see a group of fifth-grade girls strutting through the mall. By their clothes and make up, they appear to be taking a break from their pole dancing gig and sauntering to hang out on the street corner. All they lack are dollar bills hanging from their belts and portable credit card readers attached to their bling-encrusted cell phones. And this is before they’ve had their first period.

Honey Boo Boo is not a positive role model.

A recent national study revealed that 30 percent of young girls’ clothing is sexualized at 15 major retailers. Companies spend $12 billion a year to convince little girls that they should look like tarts and tramps. A French company recently introduced a line of bras for ages 4-12, and many stores offer padded bikinis for 10-year-olds. Over 70 percent of the clothes marketed by Abercrombie Kids features sexy characters, provocative writing, a minimal amount of material, and designs to emphasize a girl’s chest and butt. The mothers who buy these clothes soon will have a new name: Grandmother.

According to the American Academy of Pediatrics, almost 37 percent of 14-year-olds have had sex. Promiscuous sexual experimentation has increased, resulting in about three million cases of sexually transmitted diseases every year among teens, and there are approximately one million unwanted teenage pregnancies. Yet another study indicates that young girls have alarming afflictions with eating disorders and negative self-perceptions. I don’t need to read any more studies. It’s obvious that our young girls are clamoring for the type of approval that will never come from texting a naked photo that remains on the Internet forever.

I’m not a prude – I coauthored and published a book of romantic poetry titled Daily Erotica, but the poems are for adults. I think sexual passion is fabulous, and I can maneuver into a skimpy negligee if the lights are low and my husband promises jewelry. But when it comes to sexy six-year-olds, I agree with Dana Carvey’s Church Lady. It’s not pru-dent.

What’s a mother to do?

Don’t lament, take action! Don’t buy clothes that turn your daughter into a sex object. Know the passwords to every social media site she visits so she won’t be lured by pedophiles or taunted by bullies. Know her friends. Establish guidelines and expectations. Lead by your own example. Don’t allow movies, magazines, and music that glorify rape, promote promiscuous sex, and degenerate women. If your daughter complains, invite her to get a job and pay for her room, board, computer, and Internet access. If she still throws a fit for trampy fashion, assign her to write a report about “Successful Whores I Admire.”

Your child will grow up fast enough, so focus on fun family time while you still can skip beside her. Encourage sports, musical instruments, dance, and art. Take walks together and plan vacations. Play outside. Discuss sex without blushing. Plan and make a family meal together. And, try to pick your battles and compromise: the short skirt is okay with leggings. (Duct tape them on, if necessary.)

Finally, analyze your own self-talk. Your children notice if you’re always critical of your body. They also observe healthy, loving relationships that they want to emulate. Teach them that bodies are beautiful at any age, and sex is natural and wonderful at a mature level that doesn’t require Hello Kitty lip gloss. Finally, believe that your 10-year-old doesn’t need a matching lace panty and bra set. Apply the money to her college fund so she can create her own business that encourages and celebrates smart women.

Today’s blog is fueled by a wonderful 2010 Decoy red wine from Napa Valley. This yummy blend of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon is from the Duckhorn Wine Company, producers of fabulous high-end wines. I found Decoy at Crush Wine Bar in Eagle for about $40. I also found Duckhorn Merlot for around $75. Get both bottles or a pair of shoes. Decisions, decisions.

Midlife Cabernet: Finding Joy in the World

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(This Christmas story was published by Harlequin Books in a collection of short stories titled “A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree.” The story describes a pivotal time in my life when my two-year-old daughter, my newborn son, and the good people of Wendell showed me the true meaning of Christmas.)

December 1980 somberly arrived in a gray cloud of disappointment as I became the involuntary star in my own soap opera, a hapless heroine who faced the camera at the end of each day and asked, “Why?” as the scene faded to black. Short of being tied to a railroad track within the sound of an oncoming train, I found myself in a dire situation, wondering how my life turned into such a calamity of sorry events. I was unemployed and had a two-year-old daughter, a six-week-old son, an unemployed husband who left the state looking for work, and a broken furnace with no money to fix it. To compound the issues, I lived in the same small Idaho town as my wealthy parents, and they refused to help. This scenario was more like The Grapes of Wrath than The Sound of Music.

After getting the children to bed, I would sit alone in my rocking chair and wonder what went wrong. I thought I had followed the correct path by having a college degree before marriage and then working four years before having children. My plan was to stay home with two children for five years and then return to a satisfying, lucrative career. But no, suddenly I was poor and didn’t have money to feed the kids or buy them presents. I didn’t even have enough money for a cheap bottle of wine. At least I was breast-feeding the baby, so that cut down on grocery bills. And, my daughter thought macaroni and cheese was what everyone had every night for dinner. Sometimes I would add a wiggly gelatin concoction, and she would squeal with delight. Toddlers don’t know or care if mommy earned Phi Beta Kappa scholastic honors in college. They just want to squish Jell-o through their teeth.

The course of events that lead to that December unfolded like a fateful temptation. I was 26 years old in 1978 and energetically working as an assistant director for the University of Utah in Salt Lake City. My husband had a professional job in an advertising agency, and we owned a modest but new home. After our daughter was born, we decided to move to my hometown of Wendell, Idaho, population 1,200, to help my father with his businesses. He owned about 30,000 acres of land, 1,000 head of cattle, and more than 50 18-wheel diesel trucks. He had earned his vast fortune on his own, and his philosophy of life was to work hard and die, a goal he achieved at the young age of 60.

In hindsight, by moving back home I probably was trying to establish the warm relationship with my father that I had always wanted. I should have known better. My father was not into relationships, and even though he was incredibly successful in business, life at home was painfully cold. His home, inspired by the designs of Frank Lloyd Wright, was his castle. The semi-circle structure was designed of rock and cement and perched on a hill overlooking rolling acres of crops. He controlled the furnishings and artwork. Just inside the front door hung a huge metal shield adorned with sharp swords. An Indian buckskin shield and arrows were on another wall. In the corner, a fierce wooden warrior held a long spear, ever ready to strike. A metal breast plate hung over the fireplace, and four wooden, naked Aborigine busts perched on the stereo cabinet. The floors were polished cement, and the bathrooms had purple toilets. I grew up thinking this décor was normal.

I remember the first time I entered my friend’s home and gasped out loud at the sight of matching furniture, floral wallpaper, delicate vases full of fresh flowers, and walls plastered with family photographs, pastoral scenes, and framed Normal Rockwell prints. On the rare occasions that I was allowed to sleep over at a friend’s house, I couldn’t believe that the family woke up calmly and gathered together to have a pleasant breakfast. At my childhood home, my father would put on John Philip Sousa march records at 6:00 a.m., turn up the volume, and go up and down the hallway knocking on our bedroom doors calling, “Hustle! Hustle! Get up! Time is money!” Then my brothers and I would hurry out of bed, pull on work clothes, and get outside to do our assigned farm chores. As I moved sprinkler pipe or hoed beets or pulled weeds in the potato fields, I often reflected on my friends who were gathered at their breakfast tables, smiling over plates of pancakes and bacon. I knew at a young age that my home life was not normal.

After moving back to the village of Wendell, life went from an adventure to tolerable and then tumbled into a scene out of On the Waterfront. As I watched my career hopes fade away under the stressful burden of survival, I often thought of my single, childless friends who were blazing trails and breaking glass ceilings as women earned better professional jobs. Adopting my favorite Marlon Brando accent, I would raise my fists and declare, “I coulda been a contender! I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.”

There were momentary lapses in sanity when I wondered if I should have been more like my mother. I grew up watching her dutifully scurry around as she desperately tried to serve and obey. My father demanded a hot dinner on the table every night, even though the time could vary as much as three hours. My mother would add milk to the gravy, cover the meat with tin foil (which she later washed and reused), and admonish her children to be patient. “Your father works so hard,” she would say. “We will wait for him.” I opted not to emulate most of her habits. She fit the role of her time, and I still admire her goodness.

My husband worked for my father, and we lived out in the country in one of my father’s houses. One afternoon in August of 1980, they got into a verbal fight and my dad fired my husband. I was pregnant with our second child. We were ordered to move, and so we found a tiny house in town and then my husband left to look for work because jobs weren’t all that plentiful in Wendell. Our son was born in October, weighing in at a healthy 11 pounds. The next month, we scraped together enough money to buy a turkey breast for Thanksgiving. By December, our meager savings were gone, and we had no income.

I was determined to celebrate Christmas. We found a scraggly tree and decorated it with handmade ornaments. My daughter and I made cookies and sang songs. I copied photographs of the kids in their pajamas and made calendars as gifts. This was before personal computers, so I drew the calendar pages, stapled them to cardboard covered with fabric, and glued red rickrack around the edges. It was all I have to give to my family and friends.

Just as my personal soap opera was about to be renewed for another season, my life started to change. One afternoon, about a week before Christmas, I received a call from one of my father’s employees. He was “in the neighborhood” and heard that my furnace was broken. He fixed it for free and wished me a Merry Christmas. I handed him a calendar and he pretended to be overjoyed. The next day the mother of a childhood friend arrived at my door with two of her chickens, plucked and packaged. She said they had extras to give away. Again, I humbly handed her a calendar. More little miracles occurred. A friend brought a box of baby clothes that her boy had outgrown and teased me about my infant son wearing his sister’s hand-me-down, pink pajamas. Then another friend of my mother’s arrived with wrapped toys to put under the tree. The doorbell continued to ring, and I received casseroles, offers to babysit, more presents, and a bouquet of fresh flowers. I ran out of calendars to give in return.

To this day, I weep every time I think of these simple but loving gestures. Christmas of 1980 was a pivotal time in my life, and I am grateful that I received the true gifts of the season. My precious daughter, so eager to be happy, was amazed at the wonderful sights around our tree. My infant son, a blessing of hope, smiled at me every morning and gave me the determination to switch off the melodrama in my mind. The day before Christmas my husband was offered a professional job at an advertising agency in Boise, and we leaped from despair to profound joy. On Christmas Eve, I rocked both babies in my lap and sang them to sleep in heavenly peace. They never noticed my tears falling upon their sweet cheeks.