5 Quirky Things We Won’t Miss About Parenthood

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Photo courtesy of NBC

No matter how much we love our families, there can be such a thing as Too Much Family Togetherness. The holidays are just barely past, so you probably know what I’m talking about. It’s those quirky little expressions, mannerisms or habits—sometimes they were even endearing at first—that begin to drive us crazy.

For the most part, I’ll be sorry to bid farewell to the Braverman clan when NBC’s Parenthood signs off this week after six seasons, but there a few things about them I’m not going to miss.

1. The way Zeek never called the kids by their names, always addressing them as “grandson” or “granddaughter.” It was cute at first, but then I began to worry that maybe Grandpa had dementia and truly couldn’t remember their names. Zeek, meet your grandchildren. Their names are Amber, Drew, Sydney, Victor, Jabbar, Aida, Norah, Max and Haddie. Speaking of which… where the heck is Haddie, the forgotten Braverman? Banished to college, barely mentioned and rarely seen, Haddie brought home a girlfriend and then we never saw her again. Here’s hoping this “granddaughter” shows up for the finale.

2. Amber has no friends. With all the ups and downs this kid has had—sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll, a missing father and a boyfriend with PTSD—it would be nice if she had someone to talk to besides her mother and sulky kid brother. Surely not every single girl her age has vanished from Berkeley. Although Haddie did, so maybe there’s something evil afoot, lurking, waiting to snatch up Amber, the last 21-year-old girl in town. If that’s so, Amber better start shutting—and dead bolting—the always-open door to her cool (and very large) hipster loft apartment. By the way, I’m going to miss Amber and would love to see how she grows into her role as a mother. Spinoff potential?

3. Adam’s codependence. I get it. He’s the oldest and clearly feels responsible for his wife and kids… siblings… his parents… the kids at Chambers Academy… and the future of the Luncheonette—which he wouldn’t be involved in in the first place if he hadn’t been trying to “people please” and rescue his little brother Crosby. Don’t get me wrong. I love Crosby and the Luncheonette has certainly provided both musical, comical and dramatic entertainment. Ashes of Rome, anyone? And that time the receptionist kissed Adam because he has a hard time drawing boundaries? And then he didn’t want to fire her? Adam, please go to CoDA.org and find a meeting.

4. The lack of chemistry between Lorelai, I mean Sarah, and Hank. I really like both of these characters and I’ve especially enjoyed seeing Hank come to terms with his late diagnosis of Asperger’s (doesn’t it give us hope for Max?), and Sarah has matured in her career and relationships. But there’s just no spark between these two, not even a flashbulb. They are like brother and sister. If the idea of this union was to prove that Sarah Braverman is a grownup after all, couldn’t they have found a happy medium between the young, cute Mr. Cyr and ol’ curmudgeonly Hank? Oh, wait, they did—with that hunky neighbor played by Josh Stamberg. Was it just too fairy tale to have Sarah wind up with a philanthropic Prince Charming who was a doctor, to boot? Rest assured, I won’t protest if Sarah and Hank go through with the wedding, but I have a hard time seeing them grow old(er) together.

5. Kristina’s perfection. Please believe me when I say, I adore Kristina Braverman. In fact, with the miracles she’s pulled off, maybe we should have her canonized. She has been cured of cancer. She ran an improbable mayoral campaign, which she may well have won if she hadn’t been so virtuous that she was unwilling to spill the dirt she had on her opponent. Then she started a charter school for special needs kids practically overnight. Besides, I am obsessed with her perfect eyebrow arch, flawless complexion and the fact that she can look so damn beautiful in baggy pants and Converse with her hair piled atop her head.

My real beef with Kristina is her coddling of Max. I get that we need to give him a bit of a pass because of the Asperger’s. I know human interaction is tough for him and that he has issues with impulse control. I also get that, as a mother, Kristina wishes she could just snuggle with him and wrap her arms around him for a big mama bear hug a couple of times a day. I can only imagine how painful it is for her to worry about what the future holds. And yet… it often seems there are no consequences for Max’s outbursts and stubbornness, as Saint Kristina pleads and tries to reason with him while calling him “Buddy” when he ought to have a good long timeout and no dessert.

I could go on about Crosby always being in the doghouse with Jasmine, Sydney’s tendency toward brattiness, Drew’s poor choice of girlfriends, or the fact that Camille dragged Zeek and his weak heart on a rugged hike last week…

Instead, I’ll give the Bravermans the same forbearance I hope my own family gives me. This one last time, I’ll overlook their shortcomings and their propensity to be up in each other’s business all the time, because despite their annoying little quirks, the Bravermans have become like family, showing up for a regular visit on Thursday nights. I’m going to miss them, but I’m happy they’ve had the good grace to not overstay their welcome. 

I Found My Voice and Lost My Cheese

NYT best-selling author Laura Munson (This is Not the Story You Think it Is...) opens up her blog to alums of her Haven Writing Retreat in Whitefish, Montana. She asked us to submit pieces about what it took to get ourselves to the retreat, what our blocks were, and how the retreat has informed future decision making when it comes to creating possibilities for ourselves in the field of our dreams. The theme is: I Gave Myself the Gift of a Haven Retreat. So Now What? You can find other entries and learn more about Haven here.

Walking Lightly Ranch, home of Haven Writing Retreat

I left my shoes on the porch and stepped into the lodge feeling like a fraud.

When I arrived at Haven I’d lost confidence in my words and in myself. The past five years had been a morass of caregiving for an aging mother and teenage daughter, both incapacitated by maladies that my words, written or spoken, just couldn’t fix.

Although there’d been scant time and even less energy to write, when I got to Haven, I’d somehow managed to scratch out about 75 rough pages of angst, the meager beginnings of a memoir. A mother, a daughter, a grandmother—two slices of bread (them) and a slab of bologna (me)—assembled into a complicated mess of a sandwich.

Deep down, I didn’t really believe I could do it. Not in the way you have to believe in yourself and trust in your story in order to actually write a book. I was frozen, stuck, unsure of how to dig myself out.

But the ranch is warm. Even when your boots crunch down on the icy dew as you walk from the guesthouse to the lodge. Even with the lake shrouded in a gray mist that obscures the squawking geese. Even as your breath puffs out like exhaled smoke while you stand in awe of the night sky.

I began to thaw in the sanctuary that is Haven. Scribbling in a notebook spotlighted by the streams of afternoon sun that poured through the windows… sharing words and laughter and tears before the crackling fire… soaking up Laura’s kind, loving, emboldening words. There was warmth enough to incubate both a fledgling book and a lost woman as fragile as a chick just hatched.

And there was soup… specifically that simmering, creamy, fragrant carrot coconut concoction—the first of many love offerings to emanate from Emma’s kitchen.

I admit to a twinge of trepidation at the notion of going of vegan, if only for a few days. I could deal with no meat. But no dairy meant no cheese—one of my great comforts in life. Good riddance Gouda. Cheerio Cheddar.  Bye-bye Brie. I was astonished that I didn’t miss it, not even when we had raw tacos.

Two months later my new doctor (a naturopath) took me off dairy, wheat and a few other things to address some longstanding health issues. I began cooking and eating a different way and wrote to Emma for baking advice.

I reminded myself that at Haven I’d wanted for nothing. Not even cheese. And certainly not for companionship and inspiration. I realized that as much as I relish the isolation of the writing life, I do occasionally need the blanket of community to bundle me up and keep me from freezing to death. So I found my way to a monthly writers’ workshop. I’m not much of a joiner, so this was a stretch. But then, so was a life without cheese.

Using my workshop group for accountability, I committed to daily writing, once amassing a streak of 261 straight days. I took a break when the kids came home and felt like I’d fallen off the wagon. I shared chapters in monthly workshops, which kept me moving me forward since there was an expectation to show up with new material each time. I finished a first draft. A second. A third. A major revision.

For more than two years now, I’ve been a wheat-free, dairy-free writer. If I’m fortunate enough to find my way back to Haven, I won’t feel like a fraud when I cross the threshold in my stocking feet and I won’t be pining for Brie.