(co-authored by Stephanie Sauer Pasternak, Brown Class of 1987)
(please enjoy my attempt at photoshopping my head onto Kim Kardashian’s body, thereby giving myself a “five-head,” above)
Hannah speaking. I have always been incompetent, yet the word wasn’t always used to describe me because I wasn’t expected to know how to do things that would make one eligible for competency. I couldn’t make a haircut appointment on my own, nor was I able to find the cheapest flight from point A to point B on a given day. This is called “being aged ten years old.”
It is a full decade later. I more or less dress the exact same way I did before 2006 (mom jeans do wonders for my ass) but I’m expected to know how to actually accomplish a lot more on my own. I’ve substituted uneven self-given hair trims for the refusal to see anyone but Daniel, the man with black, French manicured tips who knows exactly how to cut my dead ends – but not too too much – and give me perfectly long-ish side bangs. (Side bangs are making a comeback, too.)
It’s not that I don’t actually know how to do certain things, like find someone who will remove my wisdom teeth and call him for a consultation, but, rather, I am often too lazy to do these things myself. This is how I have redefined the notion of incompetence. I think it’s a defense mechanism. While, in reality, I finally feel more stable than I have in years (thanks to my benzo prescription, my healthy habit of running for 30 minutes a day, a snazzy internship, and the ways in which I’ve learned to maneuver my relationships without feeling too much like a Girls character) I’m still freaking out about becoming a real adult. Through my negation of simple necessities, like putting dishes in the dishwasher and calling my dear hair-trimming-friend Daniel, I am holding onto every last wavering piece of childhood that juts out from the climbing wall that is life.
A few months ago, I was thanking my mom, who is also, unabashedly, my best friend, for a favor. “You’re my momager,” I told her in gratitude.
And she loved it. She loved it so much that she has fully assumed the position of “momager” since.
Stephanie speaking. So at some point over the past couple of years, my role as “Mom” changed. It seemed that all of a sudden I was not needed to comb out her hair, drive her to a playdate, make her favorite meal, put a Band-Aid and Neosporin on her scraped knee or buy her clothes. Instead, I became a confidant, a voyeur waiting in the wings until I was called upon, a voice of reason, an assistant, and a watchful eye. Without even realizing it, I became a “Momager.”
The transition from Mom to Momager is very bittersweet. I remember filling out the “tell me about your child” form a few weeks before kindergarten started. The five lines on the printed form I was given weren’t nearly enough. I replaced it with a 10-page handwritten letter to her soon to be kindergarten teacher. Tears dropped onto the pages as I wrote every single word. My girl was growing up. Had I known at the time that this transition was only the beginning of even bigger transitions to come, I might not have been so sad at the time.
Now, I am going through another one of those transitions. This one is just as emotional for me and probably just as non-emotional for her. She doesn’t realize the anguish that accompanies parenting as one watches their child grow up. To satisfy my need to be needed as a parent, the Momager in me was born!
Now, I help manage finances, make connections for internships and jobs, make appointments for gigs at the doctor’s and the hair salon, am a sounding board when it comes to all things social (both boys and friends!), work on calendar scheduling, strut close beside her as any good body guard would, and, of course, make travel plans. It really seems like I now have more business-like and professional duties.
What makes being a Momager so special? There is no better feeling in the world than to help your child. It makes no difference if that means to tie their shoes or to make their annual gyno appointment. The beauty of being a Momager… there is nothing better than feeling the sense of accomplishment as you help guide, mentor, ground and Momage the young woman beside you who once was little and loved spin-spin dresses, tights, and diaper covers laden with lace. She now knows so much and is so capable on her own.
The beauty in it all – one is never too old to have a Momager. The feeling should be mutual in the relationship. Each should be equally important to the other. The Momager is the proud caretaker and shaper of the soul. The daughter is the lucky recipient of the assistance, care and love that makes it all happen. My Mom/Momager (Brown class of ’57) passed away exactly five years ago and I feel the absence of her presence every minute of every day. My hope is that I am half the Momager that my Mom was. I know at the very least, my mom taught me how to be a great Momager – and what better gift could she have left me than one that benefits both myself and my beautiful daughter.
(I swear, I didn’t pay her to say any of that. Mostly because I have a low-paying job and an unpaid internship and therefore can’t afford to.)
There is one sad part to all of this: my mom thinks that we created “the momager.” My mom – who is a cool mom, but doesn’t keep up with the Kardashians – doesn’t know that Kris Jenner has assumed the title of momager for the last decade and, before that, created it.
Recently, I told a friend about my momager conundrum – how my mom loves being my momager so much, and how it’s helped me escape the incompetency of young adulthood, but how she’s completely unaware of the fact that our relationship is capitalizing on a concept created by the Kardashians.
“Well, which Kardashian would that make you?” my friend asked.
Better question: which of the Kardashians would be me?
Either way, I guess all I’m trying to say is that I’m thankful. I’m thankful for my momager, I’m thankful for Daniel, who cuts my hair, I’m thankful for the fact that my mom and I have such a close relationship that I can rely on her to make a gyno appointment for me any day of the week. And one day, when I’m a girl boss, my retired momager will resurrect her duties by helping me change my daughter’s diaper while the Editor-in-chief of Vogue holds for me on line one.
Image via Hannah Pasternak.