I am well aware that not everyone in this world is a worrier like I am (ah, the biting envy to be like they!). But sometimes well- intentioned non- worriers like to dole out advice. And as a worrier, I can see the purpose, but the message gets lost. And so I would like to provide this list of things that are completely unhelpful for worriers to hear.
1. Relax.
Huh, you know what? You're right. I should just relax. I don't know why I didn't think of that sooner. I will go ahead and find that handy off- switch in my brain and turn it. Then I will calm down, and you will be my savior for imploring me to do so.
2. Don't worry about it.
This one isn't all that different from "relax" but it's perhaps a softer blow-- the diet version of "relax" because it's less of a command. But again, okay, I will inform my brain to stop worrying. That ought to do the trick. If only I were as smart as you and could have figured that out before, my life would be so different. Thank you for suggesting I should change my brain.
3. You can't do anything about it, so worrying won't help.
This one intrigues me. It's partly based on rationale, and rational thinking is commonly known as a good thing. It's like one of those proof things in Logic class: since I can't do "a," I shouldn't do "b." But the mind of a worrier is far from rational. We can know something intellectually and still have that knowledge be of no use. Of course I know that worrying won't really change a situation, but, again, I can't turn worry mode off. Plus, you sound so direly negative when you present the fact that I have no control. Throw me a bone here. Let me think I can do something.
4. If X (bad thing) is meant to happen, it's going to. So just don't even think about it.
Well, now there is some real sunshiny thinking if I ever heard any. I get where you're going with this-- let the world go on as it will; stop trying to intervene. The universe has a plan, yadda- yadda. But all you are doing is making me worry more that the universe has a bad plan for me. You're also telling me not to think about something, which shall, consequently, make me dwell.
5. It could be worse.
Yes, the world can always be worse. I know this. An avalanche of cruelty can always hit. But right now I am focused on worrying about this one thing. All other possibilities are irrelevant, and your mentioning them makes me worry about them. Please don't point out the obvious-- that in life, someone always has it worse. No brainer.
6. I totally get why you are so worried.
This one is my favorite because I can see more clearly than with any of the others the truly good intention here: commiseration. The non- worrier wants to let the worrier know that he or she understands and the worrier is not psychotic. But what we hear is, "Yes, there is a very good possibility that horrible thing is going to happen, so your worry makes good sense." It's definitely kind to let someone know he or she is not a lunatic, but when you confirm one's worry, you perpetuate it. I would rather hear someone say, "Dude, you are being a psycho. That bad thing is never going to happen." I can then repeat that to myself as a mantra.
I'm not just going to bitch about the things people say that are wrong. I am going to also offer up some suggestions for perhaps more successful comments when dealing with a chronic worrier.
1. What would help to ease the worry?
Sometimes I myself need to think about this question as I get so very wrapped up in a rumination. Asking me this question may make me slow down and pause and see how I can find a solution. Even if you don't want to, offering a listening ear could make a world of difference. After all, worriers love venting. We need to get it all out there, all 12 tons of garbled, nervous mess.
2. Stats-- if they are good ones
As I have blogged about before, I have a love- hate relationship with the Internet when it comes to worrying. I can find stats that scare me, but if I look hard enough, I can find ones that satiate me. If you can point out to a worrier the scientific unlikelihood of a possibility, it'll probably help. (If the stats go in the other direction-- and only prove how LIKELY the bad event is-- please, please refrain.) A true worrier will still be a little convinced he or she will be in the wee percentage of the victims, but hearing that you've got a better likely outcome DOES help.
3. LOL-- you are being crazy!
Or something light and airy to that effect. It goes in tandem with what I said in number 6 above. Please do make me feel crazy. I trust your opinion, so I may step back and go, "Huh-- maybe I am psycho." I won't be able to fully relent, but I will a bit.
4. Want to get a beer?
Call me a lush if you want, but a good cocktail can do wonders. Unfortunately, this one is not an option if you are pregnant or at work. Well, I guess some people drink at work, but the vast lot of us don't. Never underestimate the power of a table or bar, a bartender, and good conversation. If you want to hear me put something to rest fast, suggest beers, let me vent for like ten minutes, and then casually move the conversation away. Sometimes talking about it over and over is the key-- and you are going to need some alcohol to deal with the listening.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Groups
There is a picture going viral on social media right now. It's of a group of 20- something girls. Three in the front row, recently engaged, are showing off their new rings, and the girls standing around them are pointing to said bling admiringly and cheerfully... except one. One girl is holding a mock- gun to her temple.
It's hilarious, I think. And it got me thinking about groups.
For most of my early to mid- twenties I was part of the married group. I guess I never thought of my status as anything special, or even as a grouping. But it was a group: not necessarily a good one or a bad one. Just a group of people who were partnered up-- supposedly for life.
When I got separated and subsequently divorced, the pang of the grouping started to hit slowly. At first, I was relieved-- and at times elated-- to be in "group: single." It was the promise of a new opportunity to "find myself" (blech, I hate when people say that), and there was a curious joy I felt in having it thrust upon me that I would take care of myself completely. I had many single friends, but almost all my friends from college were married and most were having babies. I remember going to lunch in Mystic, CT one Sunday-- I think in 2008-- and one friend brought her newborn, while three of the others bore their pregnant bellies in the group photo we took. I stood on the end, happy to be there, but feeling the division more sharply than ever. I was the only one drinking a Mimosa at that brunch, and the symbolism was poignant.
It wasn't ever that I couldn't be happy for friends who had moved on to different stages of life way faster than I had. Yes, I was overjoyed for the births of their kids. But at the same time, I knew I wanted a family, and I also knew the prospect was not a guarantee for me. It was daunting, and so, as much as this makes me sound like a terrible person, there were times I didn't always love being around my friends who were in "group: family life." Maybe I am weak and selfish, but I was not only bored by the conversations around pack- n- plays-- I was terrified of these discussions, and even resented them. I felt pitiable-- which may have been all in my head-- but my social constructs to that point had made me feel that way. "They must think I am really pathetic," I would wonder.
Looking back, there are events I avoided altogether because of the pain they brought: a friend's wedding (not a best friend, but a friend) a month after finding out about my ex's new squeeze; a couple of birthday parties. I couldn't bear to be around the things that were now gone. My mom told me about how she had to avoid a baptism after she had a bad miscarriage, because it was too much to handle. She said in time she was fine with going to baptisms, but that's probably because she DID by then have babies of her own. And if I am being 100 percent honest here, I didn't feel fully confident around "group: family life" until I was there myself.
It doesn't mean I avoided people like a hermit, or that I refused to honor my congrats and well- wishes for people. I am not THAT evil. But I migrated toward people who were in my boat, and I wanted to spend most of my time with people who "got me" and what I was going through.
Over time, I have seen that the groupings are stupid, but you can't avoid feeling them. I think the girl in the viral picture has had enough of "group: engaged" and while she isn't hating the idea that these friends are hitched, she can't help but feel sharply the fact that she isn't.
Becoming part of "group: parent" means I do look when people post parenting questions on Facebook, when before I would have scrolled past ever- so- rapidly. Stories about suffering babies and kids hit me way more crushingly than before. And I can chat about sippy cups and playmats as much as the next guy. I am not sickened by these conversations over lunch anymore.
But I get it that some people are. Society has sort of created these groups, and then we can't stop reinforcing them in our own minds. When I'm around my single friends, they are always so good to ask about Mabel and J, but I try hard not to chat about family stuff the whole time. I think my friends in "group: single" have lives just as cool as mine, only in different ways. And most of them are actually way cooler. I feel the grouping in that I can't make it to most things they do on weekends, but, in some ways, I hate that I have moved groups. I try, therefore, to blur the lines. I don't want to be thought of only as wife and mother; for several years, I was someone totally different, and I came to like her. I don't want to let her go, and I am so, so grateful for the time I got to have being her.
A lot of people won't admit to the grouping they feel; and while I don't want to, I have to. Pigeon- holing has always annoyed me, but I wasn't born yesterday. I get the social and societal layerings and groupings that exist around us at all ages, but especially as young adults. And so to the girl in the pic, you rock that mock- gun at the temple. It's how you feel-- it's where you are. I've got you.
It's hilarious, I think. And it got me thinking about groups.
For most of my early to mid- twenties I was part of the married group. I guess I never thought of my status as anything special, or even as a grouping. But it was a group: not necessarily a good one or a bad one. Just a group of people who were partnered up-- supposedly for life.
When I got separated and subsequently divorced, the pang of the grouping started to hit slowly. At first, I was relieved-- and at times elated-- to be in "group: single." It was the promise of a new opportunity to "find myself" (blech, I hate when people say that), and there was a curious joy I felt in having it thrust upon me that I would take care of myself completely. I had many single friends, but almost all my friends from college were married and most were having babies. I remember going to lunch in Mystic, CT one Sunday-- I think in 2008-- and one friend brought her newborn, while three of the others bore their pregnant bellies in the group photo we took. I stood on the end, happy to be there, but feeling the division more sharply than ever. I was the only one drinking a Mimosa at that brunch, and the symbolism was poignant.
It wasn't ever that I couldn't be happy for friends who had moved on to different stages of life way faster than I had. Yes, I was overjoyed for the births of their kids. But at the same time, I knew I wanted a family, and I also knew the prospect was not a guarantee for me. It was daunting, and so, as much as this makes me sound like a terrible person, there were times I didn't always love being around my friends who were in "group: family life." Maybe I am weak and selfish, but I was not only bored by the conversations around pack- n- plays-- I was terrified of these discussions, and even resented them. I felt pitiable-- which may have been all in my head-- but my social constructs to that point had made me feel that way. "They must think I am really pathetic," I would wonder.
Looking back, there are events I avoided altogether because of the pain they brought: a friend's wedding (not a best friend, but a friend) a month after finding out about my ex's new squeeze; a couple of birthday parties. I couldn't bear to be around the things that were now gone. My mom told me about how she had to avoid a baptism after she had a bad miscarriage, because it was too much to handle. She said in time she was fine with going to baptisms, but that's probably because she DID by then have babies of her own. And if I am being 100 percent honest here, I didn't feel fully confident around "group: family life" until I was there myself.
It doesn't mean I avoided people like a hermit, or that I refused to honor my congrats and well- wishes for people. I am not THAT evil. But I migrated toward people who were in my boat, and I wanted to spend most of my time with people who "got me" and what I was going through.
Over time, I have seen that the groupings are stupid, but you can't avoid feeling them. I think the girl in the viral picture has had enough of "group: engaged" and while she isn't hating the idea that these friends are hitched, she can't help but feel sharply the fact that she isn't.
Becoming part of "group: parent" means I do look when people post parenting questions on Facebook, when before I would have scrolled past ever- so- rapidly. Stories about suffering babies and kids hit me way more crushingly than before. And I can chat about sippy cups and playmats as much as the next guy. I am not sickened by these conversations over lunch anymore.
But I get it that some people are. Society has sort of created these groups, and then we can't stop reinforcing them in our own minds. When I'm around my single friends, they are always so good to ask about Mabel and J, but I try hard not to chat about family stuff the whole time. I think my friends in "group: single" have lives just as cool as mine, only in different ways. And most of them are actually way cooler. I feel the grouping in that I can't make it to most things they do on weekends, but, in some ways, I hate that I have moved groups. I try, therefore, to blur the lines. I don't want to be thought of only as wife and mother; for several years, I was someone totally different, and I came to like her. I don't want to let her go, and I am so, so grateful for the time I got to have being her.
A lot of people won't admit to the grouping they feel; and while I don't want to, I have to. Pigeon- holing has always annoyed me, but I wasn't born yesterday. I get the social and societal layerings and groupings that exist around us at all ages, but especially as young adults. And so to the girl in the pic, you rock that mock- gun at the temple. It's how you feel-- it's where you are. I've got you.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
A Snapshot: Words
I realized it's been way too long since I have posted a snapshot of Mabel's doings. Guess I have been waxing philosophical and deep and emo as of late and have forgotten about the everyday joys and silliness of Mabel. Today I want to give a snapshot of Mabel's words.
When we went for Mabel's 18- month well- visit back in August, I had been concerned about Mabel's speech. I am inwardly rolling my eyes at the "uh- oh, my kid might not be perfect" knee-jerk reaction I had. She's a thinker, an observer, a keen listener. While she's sensitive, she also LOVES to laugh. And she was talking, but not as much as I was thinking she should be (ugh, that ugly word again). I mentioned my concerns to Dr. B. who gave me a few strategies to encourage speech, but told me, "I'm really not worried," and insinuated that I shouldn't be either. I felt guilty after that appointment for the time I spent on baby websites, reading comments and comparing Mabel to other babies and wondering if she was okay.
In early November, I wasn't sure if Mabel had made the progress Dr. B. said she should make by Halloween. Again, with Mabel in tow, I trotted on in to the pedi office for Dr. B to take a look and let us know what she thought. Mabel had started to babble a lot more by that point-- to the point of nearly constant vocalization-- and we were pretty sure we could detect attempts at various words, but we weren't certain. Dr. B. said, yes, she had made progress. And enlightened me to the easy observation that Mabel is a quieter, more hesitant kid. She's contemplative, not outgoingly chatty. It's who she is. While I had been making this whole thing about ability or disability, I hadn't stopped to think about personality. It was eye- opening, and I felt ashamed.
Since that appointment, Mabel has started saying lots of words. She tells us both, "Night night!" every evening as she heads up to bed, and last night, even after I tucked her in and closed her door, she lay there, calling out "Night night!" for another few minutes. I melted.
She tells us "no" a lot, sometimes in a forceful repetitive string--" No! No! No!" It's fun that she is developing opinions, but not so fun that her most common opinion appears to be the one in the negative. Mabel points out "dogs" often, and last week when we were at her uncles' in CT, where there are 5 dogs, she followed them around with kibble in her hand, demanding, 'Eat! Eat! Eat!' She tells us when she sees fishies by calling them "shees," and wants to go out each day to greet the mail truck, exclaiming, "Mail!" That's got to be her favorite time of day.
Mabel likes to build "tours" (or towers) with her blocks and rings. When she wants a play- companion, she takes out the stackers and looks up to me, asking, "Tour?" Of course I am happy to comply. When said "tour" falls, she yells out perhaps her more common word: "Uh- oh!" We hear "uh- oh" over everything, from a dropped Cheerio to a non- lit- up computer screen.
Mabel loves to brush her teeth, and simply asks by saying, "Teeth?" When she sees a baby, she declares, "day- dee," and the mix- up of the d for a b is just so precious. She always has "two" of something-- even if she really has one or four. "Two" is apparently a favorite number, or is just easy to say. She might try to tickle you and will plead, "Tick? Tick?" Little does she know, J or I will beat her to it and tickle her cute little thighs first.
Other words include bottle ("buh- buh"), cheese, and a variation on "downstairs." She calls out for her "daddy" or "da-da" a LOT, and lately has greeted me with "mama," which might be the best sound in the world. I struggled for months waiting for Mabel's use of the "m" sound, and sometimes heard an actual "mama," but rarely to me. The other morning, I came down the stairs, and there she was in her high chair, shrieking, right into my eyes, "MAMA!!" When she brought the mail in with J yesterday, she delivered me an LL Bean catalog, prancing along toward me screeching, "Mama!," as if she thought I really wanted that one catalog in my hands. I had had a busy and stressful day, and in that moment, all the ickiness went away.
Some 21- month- old kids speak in phrases, or say way more words than Mabel. And some say fewer, still only babbling or maybe mustering just a few words. Some kid are virtual verbal- masters, and some like to climb and play and contemplate, and will speak "when they feel like it," as Dr. B advised. I know Mabel has a lot more word- learning to go, but I sure am glad I've pulled back and just let her be. I know I won't be a pusher as a mom, because I see adverse effects of that daily in my school kids. But I was worried for her, so I did what any conscientious mother would do in bringing her to the doc. If only I had known that time would be the answer, and to stay off that frickin' Internet, I would have saved myself a lot of worry and toil this summer. We will see how the next months go.
When we went for Mabel's 18- month well- visit back in August, I had been concerned about Mabel's speech. I am inwardly rolling my eyes at the "uh- oh, my kid might not be perfect" knee-jerk reaction I had. She's a thinker, an observer, a keen listener. While she's sensitive, she also LOVES to laugh. And she was talking, but not as much as I was thinking she should be (ugh, that ugly word again). I mentioned my concerns to Dr. B. who gave me a few strategies to encourage speech, but told me, "I'm really not worried," and insinuated that I shouldn't be either. I felt guilty after that appointment for the time I spent on baby websites, reading comments and comparing Mabel to other babies and wondering if she was okay.
In early November, I wasn't sure if Mabel had made the progress Dr. B. said she should make by Halloween. Again, with Mabel in tow, I trotted on in to the pedi office for Dr. B to take a look and let us know what she thought. Mabel had started to babble a lot more by that point-- to the point of nearly constant vocalization-- and we were pretty sure we could detect attempts at various words, but we weren't certain. Dr. B. said, yes, she had made progress. And enlightened me to the easy observation that Mabel is a quieter, more hesitant kid. She's contemplative, not outgoingly chatty. It's who she is. While I had been making this whole thing about ability or disability, I hadn't stopped to think about personality. It was eye- opening, and I felt ashamed.
Since that appointment, Mabel has started saying lots of words. She tells us both, "Night night!" every evening as she heads up to bed, and last night, even after I tucked her in and closed her door, she lay there, calling out "Night night!" for another few minutes. I melted.
She tells us "no" a lot, sometimes in a forceful repetitive string--" No! No! No!" It's fun that she is developing opinions, but not so fun that her most common opinion appears to be the one in the negative. Mabel points out "dogs" often, and last week when we were at her uncles' in CT, where there are 5 dogs, she followed them around with kibble in her hand, demanding, 'Eat! Eat! Eat!' She tells us when she sees fishies by calling them "shees," and wants to go out each day to greet the mail truck, exclaiming, "Mail!" That's got to be her favorite time of day.
Mabel likes to build "tours" (or towers) with her blocks and rings. When she wants a play- companion, she takes out the stackers and looks up to me, asking, "Tour?" Of course I am happy to comply. When said "tour" falls, she yells out perhaps her more common word: "Uh- oh!" We hear "uh- oh" over everything, from a dropped Cheerio to a non- lit- up computer screen.
Mabel loves to brush her teeth, and simply asks by saying, "Teeth?" When she sees a baby, she declares, "day- dee," and the mix- up of the d for a b is just so precious. She always has "two" of something-- even if she really has one or four. "Two" is apparently a favorite number, or is just easy to say. She might try to tickle you and will plead, "Tick? Tick?" Little does she know, J or I will beat her to it and tickle her cute little thighs first.
Other words include bottle ("buh- buh"), cheese, and a variation on "downstairs." She calls out for her "daddy" or "da-da" a LOT, and lately has greeted me with "mama," which might be the best sound in the world. I struggled for months waiting for Mabel's use of the "m" sound, and sometimes heard an actual "mama," but rarely to me. The other morning, I came down the stairs, and there she was in her high chair, shrieking, right into my eyes, "MAMA!!" When she brought the mail in with J yesterday, she delivered me an LL Bean catalog, prancing along toward me screeching, "Mama!," as if she thought I really wanted that one catalog in my hands. I had had a busy and stressful day, and in that moment, all the ickiness went away.
Some 21- month- old kids speak in phrases, or say way more words than Mabel. And some say fewer, still only babbling or maybe mustering just a few words. Some kid are virtual verbal- masters, and some like to climb and play and contemplate, and will speak "when they feel like it," as Dr. B advised. I know Mabel has a lot more word- learning to go, but I sure am glad I've pulled back and just let her be. I know I won't be a pusher as a mom, because I see adverse effects of that daily in my school kids. But I was worried for her, so I did what any conscientious mother would do in bringing her to the doc. If only I had known that time would be the answer, and to stay off that frickin' Internet, I would have saved myself a lot of worry and toil this summer. We will see how the next months go.
Friday, November 22, 2013
The Post I Didn't Know If I Should Write
When my alarm went off today at 5:15, I was abruptly awoken. Some days, especially lately, I am already awake, just lying there dreading the ironically sing- songy tune I have selected from my iPhone to break my slumber. But today I was jolted-- profoundly in the midst of not just sleep, but a vivid dream.
While I showered, I debated whether I'd write this blog entry. I knew I wanted to write about what I had dreamt of, and the host of other issues it ignited in my psyche, but since my dream was about my ex- husband it seemed to be something I should keep to myself, or confine to text messages with a friend. The neurotic, paranoid side of me thought, 'What if he somehow knows you have a blog, and sees this?' That idea is far- fetched, since we are in no touch at all, and our mutual friend circle has dwindled over time. It's highly unlikely he'd know much at all about me, let alone that I write a blog, which uses pseudonyms about my personal life. But then I thought, even if he did know, or did see it, it's okay. Because I am not ashamed I dreamt of him. I have before too. He was a significant-- perhaps the most significant-- part of my life for 8 years. We were married for 3 1/2 of them. It's okay that he should sit in my subconscious.
We will call him Mack. When Mack shows up in the dreams I have at night, it's never romantic, and for the sickos out there, no, it's never dirty either. :) His appearances have been under differing scenarios but almost all of them have one thing in common: he is trying to respark things between us (which may seem presumptuous, so I will point out now that, no, I don't think Mack has any interest in trying to respark things in real life, and I know he is happily married-- dreams are just weird), and I am panicked, wondering where J is, terrified about going back to a life with Mack. In a couple of the dreams, I am married to J, and in a few we have Mabel. But each time, I am worried my current life is over and I have to return to my old one. So while these dreams freak me out a little and make me do the whole "Why am I dreaming of him?" analysis, they also reaffirm for me how glad I am about how things turned out.
I won't sit here and slander Mack. He wasn't a bad guy, he wasn't abusive, he wasn't a derelict. We were a bad match. We had been together since I was 20, and, as far as I can see from many other examples around me, being together since quite young is often a recipe for a downfall. Mack and I actually were too similar to be together (took me some years and therapy to see that). We were both too Type A. I need Type B to bring me any iota of balance. And so I was bad for Mack too, I think. I suppose most would say I was the one who ended the marriage. He liked to refer to it as my "walking out" on him. I know I didn't. We went to marriage counseling, and separated and got back together twice. It wasn't until after a solid year and a half of strife and comings- and- goings that we ultimately called it quits.
In March of 2007, when I went back for the third time for what he called a "trial run," he said to give it two weeks and if things weren't any better he would not stop me from leaving. On a Friday night, he sat me down and said, "You aren't happy, are you?" We talked and both sobbed for hours. Around 5 in the morning, he went into the guest room, saying, "I just can't watch you leave. But go." I packed up the few clothes I had brought in my old, ratty blue Vera Bradley bag and closed the front door softly behind me. As I drove to my parents' house, I thought, 'This is truly it.' And while I sobbed more, I felt the most startling empowerment and optimism I have ever felt while I drifted down the highway. And when my parents greeted me, my dad said, "Thank God it's over now. Really over."
The months from there brought a lot of pain. Not even two months later, Mack would go on a blind date, and begin a quite serious relationship with someone new. They would be living together by that summer, before I even had taken some of my clothing and personal affects out of the townhouse. They would become engaged in early 2008 (right around when our divorce was final) and would marry in May of 2009. They would give birth to a child in 2010. Through most of his life- revamping, I was alone and wondering how he could, despite our issues, replace me with the swiftness with which someone rips off a bandaid.
I would experience some of the most lasting and meaningful moments during those years too, though, forging new friendships, traveling, living on my own in great apartments in the city, and proving I could take care of myself. I would learn the immense power of the support of family and close friends. I would date lots of jerks and feel defeated and scared. And I would reflect a lot. Most significantly, I would meet J.
Six years after that Saturday morning in March when I rode down route 95, the memories of the marriage, the turmoil, the painful divorce, and the aftermath of it all are kind of blurry. Yet, these dreams in which Mack appears are always quite clear.
In the one last night, we were at his mother's house (his mom's real house-- strikingly accurate), and she had just had an addition put on. I was, for some reason, going to dinner with him. In his mom's bathroom was a baby bath seat, and in my dream I thought, 'That's for when his three kids come over,' a reflection of his real life. And as we walked down the street toward a restaurant, I started to wonder where J was and if I was going to be somehow pressured into staying with Mack. I don't know if Mack was divorced or something in this dream-- that part was not relevant, I guess. Suddenly, my uncle (who grew up in the neighboring town, so it makes sense) appeared, and I feared he would tell my other family members I was back hanging with Mack. All I could think of was that I wanted out. I was pregnant in the dream too.
When the alarm went off, I pondered the usual, 'Why did I have that dream?' I tried to analyze it all morning but fell short.
What I thought of next was what I always seem to think of after such dreams: will I/ we tell Mabel that I was married before her daddy? I am not embarrassed or ashamed. But I often wonder, at what age could she understand it? Does she need to know? if I don't tell her, am I dishonest?
My cousin was also married before she met her now- husband, S. C and S decided that, yes, they would tell their kids that C had been previously married. It's almost inevitable that it will come up, she told me. Kids ask about how their parents met, how old they were, what their lives were like. She told them that she had a husband before S but that he wasn't the right husband for her. They barely batted an eye, and then moved on from it. I don't know how Mabel will or would react, but it's probable she might not think much of it. Or maybe she will have all sorts of questions-- who knows.
J and I have time to think about these things, of course. But what is remarkable is how much time has passed since the last chapter of my life, and how much things have changed. On that hazy morning in 2007 when I drove home to the sounds of that song, "The rest is still unwritten" and couldn't help but think it a useful albeit cheesy metaphor, I wondered where I would be years later. I specifically remember thinking about that. I felt I would marry again, and hopefully I would eventually have a child. The prospect often looked grim as time went on, but I never really noticed how much was changing around me until I looked back over a several- year span.
Mabel and J aren't the only people or forces that have produced change in my life. They are the most important ones, yes. But a lot of stuff has happened within me over the years. I went through despair, heartbreak, and a "depression diet" that put me into teeny jeans (that I could only dream of fitting one leg into now) at one point. But I remember that on the day I found out Mack had moved on, my best friend M was at my parents' house with me immediately. My friend C came over later, and the next day, M came with me to meet my friend E at Legal Sea Foods for drinks in the town where I work. People rushed to my side. I will never forget that, or its impact. I changed by recognizing that even in the I- can't- eat sadness, there were glimmers of hope-- and the stability that people were not going to let me drown. I have always been hesitant to rely on people too much or put them out, so to speak. But in those vulnerable moments, I had to let people carry me.
And in the years that followed, when I got my own place and started to put some physical and emotional pieces back together, I learned the value of alone time. I spent time in my city apartments coming home and throwing my bags down and eating cheese and crackers for dinner. And watching reruns of "Friends." And sleeping on the couch, just because. And hearing the noise of nobody else. And I was completely content.
I dated, and struggled with dating, and cried a lot, bemoaning the dating scene and the fact that everything felt hopeless a lot of the time. I drank too much during certain periods. I spent too much money. I let things about myself go when I shouldn't have. But I am glad I did "bad" things along the way too. I needed to test things out and see where I was most comfortable just being, well, me.
So if Mabel asks why were you so OLD when you and Daddy met, as a naive kid might think about a 31 year- old, I don't know exactly what I will tell her. I don't know what I will leave out and what I will keep in. But I want her to know that I struggled. That I felt alone while also feeling shrouded by the close protection of my friends and family. That you can be alone or lonely and still enjoy it. That you can know what you want and feel like you're shouting it from the rooftops and still not have it and feel frustrated and have crying sessions, and still end up okay. That you can have the strength to say something isn't working in your life, even though you are deathly afraid of shame and embarrassment and defeat you might feel.
I want her to know that I am human. And to err is human. And to try things is human. And to be able to look back and shudder at some stuff, and smile at the other stuff, is human... and also very, very satisfying.
I don't know for how long I will continue to have dreams where Mack shows up. Maybe I always will. But the beauty of change-- and time, too-- has been that I don't think of him much anymore in the waking hours. I wish him well and feel no ill will. But if you'd told me in 2008 that there would be a time when I wouldn't ruminate on "How could he dooooo this??" I wouldn't have believed you. Now he is a foggy memory-- an often happy one, for some of our years. But the mind has an amazing capacity to filter. And to let you struggle, and then fight the struggle, and then just be you. Years later, Mack is not a key player, but a memory, and a figure who walks in and out of night dreams. And that seems perfectly ok to me.
While I showered, I debated whether I'd write this blog entry. I knew I wanted to write about what I had dreamt of, and the host of other issues it ignited in my psyche, but since my dream was about my ex- husband it seemed to be something I should keep to myself, or confine to text messages with a friend. The neurotic, paranoid side of me thought, 'What if he somehow knows you have a blog, and sees this?' That idea is far- fetched, since we are in no touch at all, and our mutual friend circle has dwindled over time. It's highly unlikely he'd know much at all about me, let alone that I write a blog, which uses pseudonyms about my personal life. But then I thought, even if he did know, or did see it, it's okay. Because I am not ashamed I dreamt of him. I have before too. He was a significant-- perhaps the most significant-- part of my life for 8 years. We were married for 3 1/2 of them. It's okay that he should sit in my subconscious.
We will call him Mack. When Mack shows up in the dreams I have at night, it's never romantic, and for the sickos out there, no, it's never dirty either. :) His appearances have been under differing scenarios but almost all of them have one thing in common: he is trying to respark things between us (which may seem presumptuous, so I will point out now that, no, I don't think Mack has any interest in trying to respark things in real life, and I know he is happily married-- dreams are just weird), and I am panicked, wondering where J is, terrified about going back to a life with Mack. In a couple of the dreams, I am married to J, and in a few we have Mabel. But each time, I am worried my current life is over and I have to return to my old one. So while these dreams freak me out a little and make me do the whole "Why am I dreaming of him?" analysis, they also reaffirm for me how glad I am about how things turned out.
I won't sit here and slander Mack. He wasn't a bad guy, he wasn't abusive, he wasn't a derelict. We were a bad match. We had been together since I was 20, and, as far as I can see from many other examples around me, being together since quite young is often a recipe for a downfall. Mack and I actually were too similar to be together (took me some years and therapy to see that). We were both too Type A. I need Type B to bring me any iota of balance. And so I was bad for Mack too, I think. I suppose most would say I was the one who ended the marriage. He liked to refer to it as my "walking out" on him. I know I didn't. We went to marriage counseling, and separated and got back together twice. It wasn't until after a solid year and a half of strife and comings- and- goings that we ultimately called it quits.
In March of 2007, when I went back for the third time for what he called a "trial run," he said to give it two weeks and if things weren't any better he would not stop me from leaving. On a Friday night, he sat me down and said, "You aren't happy, are you?" We talked and both sobbed for hours. Around 5 in the morning, he went into the guest room, saying, "I just can't watch you leave. But go." I packed up the few clothes I had brought in my old, ratty blue Vera Bradley bag and closed the front door softly behind me. As I drove to my parents' house, I thought, 'This is truly it.' And while I sobbed more, I felt the most startling empowerment and optimism I have ever felt while I drifted down the highway. And when my parents greeted me, my dad said, "Thank God it's over now. Really over."
The months from there brought a lot of pain. Not even two months later, Mack would go on a blind date, and begin a quite serious relationship with someone new. They would be living together by that summer, before I even had taken some of my clothing and personal affects out of the townhouse. They would become engaged in early 2008 (right around when our divorce was final) and would marry in May of 2009. They would give birth to a child in 2010. Through most of his life- revamping, I was alone and wondering how he could, despite our issues, replace me with the swiftness with which someone rips off a bandaid.
I would experience some of the most lasting and meaningful moments during those years too, though, forging new friendships, traveling, living on my own in great apartments in the city, and proving I could take care of myself. I would learn the immense power of the support of family and close friends. I would date lots of jerks and feel defeated and scared. And I would reflect a lot. Most significantly, I would meet J.
Six years after that Saturday morning in March when I rode down route 95, the memories of the marriage, the turmoil, the painful divorce, and the aftermath of it all are kind of blurry. Yet, these dreams in which Mack appears are always quite clear.
In the one last night, we were at his mother's house (his mom's real house-- strikingly accurate), and she had just had an addition put on. I was, for some reason, going to dinner with him. In his mom's bathroom was a baby bath seat, and in my dream I thought, 'That's for when his three kids come over,' a reflection of his real life. And as we walked down the street toward a restaurant, I started to wonder where J was and if I was going to be somehow pressured into staying with Mack. I don't know if Mack was divorced or something in this dream-- that part was not relevant, I guess. Suddenly, my uncle (who grew up in the neighboring town, so it makes sense) appeared, and I feared he would tell my other family members I was back hanging with Mack. All I could think of was that I wanted out. I was pregnant in the dream too.
When the alarm went off, I pondered the usual, 'Why did I have that dream?' I tried to analyze it all morning but fell short.
What I thought of next was what I always seem to think of after such dreams: will I/ we tell Mabel that I was married before her daddy? I am not embarrassed or ashamed. But I often wonder, at what age could she understand it? Does she need to know? if I don't tell her, am I dishonest?
My cousin was also married before she met her now- husband, S. C and S decided that, yes, they would tell their kids that C had been previously married. It's almost inevitable that it will come up, she told me. Kids ask about how their parents met, how old they were, what their lives were like. She told them that she had a husband before S but that he wasn't the right husband for her. They barely batted an eye, and then moved on from it. I don't know how Mabel will or would react, but it's probable she might not think much of it. Or maybe she will have all sorts of questions-- who knows.
J and I have time to think about these things, of course. But what is remarkable is how much time has passed since the last chapter of my life, and how much things have changed. On that hazy morning in 2007 when I drove home to the sounds of that song, "The rest is still unwritten" and couldn't help but think it a useful albeit cheesy metaphor, I wondered where I would be years later. I specifically remember thinking about that. I felt I would marry again, and hopefully I would eventually have a child. The prospect often looked grim as time went on, but I never really noticed how much was changing around me until I looked back over a several- year span.
Mabel and J aren't the only people or forces that have produced change in my life. They are the most important ones, yes. But a lot of stuff has happened within me over the years. I went through despair, heartbreak, and a "depression diet" that put me into teeny jeans (that I could only dream of fitting one leg into now) at one point. But I remember that on the day I found out Mack had moved on, my best friend M was at my parents' house with me immediately. My friend C came over later, and the next day, M came with me to meet my friend E at Legal Sea Foods for drinks in the town where I work. People rushed to my side. I will never forget that, or its impact. I changed by recognizing that even in the I- can't- eat sadness, there were glimmers of hope-- and the stability that people were not going to let me drown. I have always been hesitant to rely on people too much or put them out, so to speak. But in those vulnerable moments, I had to let people carry me.
And in the years that followed, when I got my own place and started to put some physical and emotional pieces back together, I learned the value of alone time. I spent time in my city apartments coming home and throwing my bags down and eating cheese and crackers for dinner. And watching reruns of "Friends." And sleeping on the couch, just because. And hearing the noise of nobody else. And I was completely content.
I dated, and struggled with dating, and cried a lot, bemoaning the dating scene and the fact that everything felt hopeless a lot of the time. I drank too much during certain periods. I spent too much money. I let things about myself go when I shouldn't have. But I am glad I did "bad" things along the way too. I needed to test things out and see where I was most comfortable just being, well, me.
So if Mabel asks why were you so OLD when you and Daddy met, as a naive kid might think about a 31 year- old, I don't know exactly what I will tell her. I don't know what I will leave out and what I will keep in. But I want her to know that I struggled. That I felt alone while also feeling shrouded by the close protection of my friends and family. That you can be alone or lonely and still enjoy it. That you can know what you want and feel like you're shouting it from the rooftops and still not have it and feel frustrated and have crying sessions, and still end up okay. That you can have the strength to say something isn't working in your life, even though you are deathly afraid of shame and embarrassment and defeat you might feel.
I want her to know that I am human. And to err is human. And to try things is human. And to be able to look back and shudder at some stuff, and smile at the other stuff, is human... and also very, very satisfying.
I don't know for how long I will continue to have dreams where Mack shows up. Maybe I always will. But the beauty of change-- and time, too-- has been that I don't think of him much anymore in the waking hours. I wish him well and feel no ill will. But if you'd told me in 2008 that there would be a time when I wouldn't ruminate on "How could he dooooo this??" I wouldn't have believed you. Now he is a foggy memory-- an often happy one, for some of our years. But the mind has an amazing capacity to filter. And to let you struggle, and then fight the struggle, and then just be you. Years later, Mack is not a key player, but a memory, and a figure who walks in and out of night dreams. And that seems perfectly ok to me.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
People Will Be Able To....
Expectation is something with which I have always struggled. I don't mean I don't like meeting expectations; it's more that I hate the idea of "expecting" -- wanting something to happen or not happen, and then being either let down or excited by the results. It's way too frightening. I lived in complete panic for good portions of my pregnancy waiting for results and likelihoods and odds-- and even jubilation after good results never makes me say, 'Well that worrying wasn't that bad.'
At work, we talk all the time about the future. We write our objectives for each class period on the board, according to the acronym SWBAT: "Students will be able to." By the end of the period, students will be able to write an effective paraphrase or analyze a piece of literary criticism or emulate an author's style or whatever. And we've asked admin, what if the kids CAN'T do what we set out? What if they don't meet the expectation? The answer is that it's okay, but the next day we've got to find a way to remediate so that students will be able to do the thing, whatever it is.
It makes expectation sound so simple: if at first you don't succeed, try another route. Then it'll get done.
But the classroom-- and its trials and tribulations isn't-- real life. Expectations can let us down mightily in our "real lives," and there's usually not much you can do. I've been hearing lots of bad news about folks lately, and in most cases, it's all surprise: nothing that could have been projected with a clever acronym and then remedied later. Life tosses out so many curve balls that the expectation of how a ball will speed into the air is often irrelevant.
I think about cooking when I ponder expectation. I'm not one of those people who uses my oven for sweater storage, but I am also not a gourmand: I am somewhere hazy in the middle. I like cooking (most times), but if a planned dish is a little bit cutting- edge for me, I am a recipe follower through- and- through. I rely on someone on allrecipes.com to tell me how to accomplish a task and basically assure me I won't eff it up. And from there, I still CAN screw it up. But with some guidance, I am more likely to get the meal I want. Sometimes I taste the finished product and it's awesome; other times, I am thinking, "This isn't how I pictured it. Harumph."
And in the kitchen of the world, I fall short when I don't have the crutch of a recipe: a handy stat or set of odds or given assurance that something will go well or poorly. And really, even the set of odds indicates zero. And so as a result, I start to rely on silly things like superstition, fear, and the "power" of jinxing. I marvel at people who can write things on Facebook like, "What a day to be alive! I love my job and my hubby!" That statement seems so ballsy to me. It would be the all- time life- irony for something horrible to happen to that person and someone else would say, "Wow-- so ironic-- she was JUST saying how well things are going." I never, therefore, let myself recognize how good things are. The fear of the ironic outcome is far too petrifying.
It's superstitious thinking in its worst form. But I can't seem to get away from using it. Just when I feel I might be too comfortable or pleased with something, I know I am sure to be knocked on my ass. Thus, a protective mechanism is never to fully embrace things.
You're probably thinking, "That's a shizzy way to live, you nutbag." And I can recognize that I deserve the title. But I have woven myself quite a web of weird anxious comfort by thinking this way. By relying on the knowledge that things will probably start to suck soon. I read a book called Change Your Brain, Change Your Life once, and the author called upon his readership to think only positive thoughts at all times. When I shut the book, I vowed to change my thought- patterns. But I've never been successful.
So lately, with all this unthinkable, unexpected, unprepared for news, a teacher being killed in a school bathroom among it, I have to keep wondering about expectation and how often we can really rely on it. The expectation is, surely, not that THAT will ever happen. But it can. And it does. And in a much less grand- scheme- important news story, nobody expected the Red Sox to go from worst to first. And nobody expected a group of well- respected girls in our school to do something horrific. And nobody expected the weather to be so warm and nice today. Down and up, sideways, the news goes everywhere. And expectation never really matters.
We try to control things, and sometimes we can. But most often we can't. It always seems that at the most unplanned for moments, the most shocking things occur-- be they wonderful or gruesome. It's a good thing there's no acronym for life: nothing saying, People Will Be Able To.... Because we never know what we can do until we get to a moment, a second, a milli- second. I have to remember that while I can cook with a recipe, I can't know if my oven will break, but I also can't know if my basil will taste way better than Jenny Smith's from the website.
At work, we talk all the time about the future. We write our objectives for each class period on the board, according to the acronym SWBAT: "Students will be able to." By the end of the period, students will be able to write an effective paraphrase or analyze a piece of literary criticism or emulate an author's style or whatever. And we've asked admin, what if the kids CAN'T do what we set out? What if they don't meet the expectation? The answer is that it's okay, but the next day we've got to find a way to remediate so that students will be able to do the thing, whatever it is.
It makes expectation sound so simple: if at first you don't succeed, try another route. Then it'll get done.
But the classroom-- and its trials and tribulations isn't-- real life. Expectations can let us down mightily in our "real lives," and there's usually not much you can do. I've been hearing lots of bad news about folks lately, and in most cases, it's all surprise: nothing that could have been projected with a clever acronym and then remedied later. Life tosses out so many curve balls that the expectation of how a ball will speed into the air is often irrelevant.
I think about cooking when I ponder expectation. I'm not one of those people who uses my oven for sweater storage, but I am also not a gourmand: I am somewhere hazy in the middle. I like cooking (most times), but if a planned dish is a little bit cutting- edge for me, I am a recipe follower through- and- through. I rely on someone on allrecipes.com to tell me how to accomplish a task and basically assure me I won't eff it up. And from there, I still CAN screw it up. But with some guidance, I am more likely to get the meal I want. Sometimes I taste the finished product and it's awesome; other times, I am thinking, "This isn't how I pictured it. Harumph."
And in the kitchen of the world, I fall short when I don't have the crutch of a recipe: a handy stat or set of odds or given assurance that something will go well or poorly. And really, even the set of odds indicates zero. And so as a result, I start to rely on silly things like superstition, fear, and the "power" of jinxing. I marvel at people who can write things on Facebook like, "What a day to be alive! I love my job and my hubby!" That statement seems so ballsy to me. It would be the all- time life- irony for something horrible to happen to that person and someone else would say, "Wow-- so ironic-- she was JUST saying how well things are going." I never, therefore, let myself recognize how good things are. The fear of the ironic outcome is far too petrifying.
It's superstitious thinking in its worst form. But I can't seem to get away from using it. Just when I feel I might be too comfortable or pleased with something, I know I am sure to be knocked on my ass. Thus, a protective mechanism is never to fully embrace things.
You're probably thinking, "That's a shizzy way to live, you nutbag." And I can recognize that I deserve the title. But I have woven myself quite a web of weird anxious comfort by thinking this way. By relying on the knowledge that things will probably start to suck soon. I read a book called Change Your Brain, Change Your Life once, and the author called upon his readership to think only positive thoughts at all times. When I shut the book, I vowed to change my thought- patterns. But I've never been successful.
So lately, with all this unthinkable, unexpected, unprepared for news, a teacher being killed in a school bathroom among it, I have to keep wondering about expectation and how often we can really rely on it. The expectation is, surely, not that THAT will ever happen. But it can. And it does. And in a much less grand- scheme- important news story, nobody expected the Red Sox to go from worst to first. And nobody expected a group of well- respected girls in our school to do something horrific. And nobody expected the weather to be so warm and nice today. Down and up, sideways, the news goes everywhere. And expectation never really matters.
We try to control things, and sometimes we can. But most often we can't. It always seems that at the most unplanned for moments, the most shocking things occur-- be they wonderful or gruesome. It's a good thing there's no acronym for life: nothing saying, People Will Be Able To.... Because we never know what we can do until we get to a moment, a second, a milli- second. I have to remember that while I can cook with a recipe, I can't know if my oven will break, but I also can't know if my basil will taste way better than Jenny Smith's from the website.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Hints of the Past
Today is one of those blah days when I should be working on 100 things, but I need to write. I don't think I can even touch a few of the topics that have been swirling in my brain, so I am going to write about something totally different: nostalgia.
Since we had Mabel, I have been trying to make our house as "natural" as I can: organic soaps and shower products, natural detergents and cleaning supplies, and as much organic food as is feasible given the price and availability. I don't microwave plastic or use canned food anymore, and we try to minimize our consumption of frozen food laden with preservatives. I am by no means a total organic convert, and I eat plenty of junk food. Every now and then I break my own rules, and I don't let the effort to be more green invade our comfort level (certain things just taste gross if all- natural, and certain products are just not useful). But I do what I can in an effort to be a little more healthy now that we have the little one.
While I feel good about these choices we make (I say "we" because, surprisingly, for the most part, J is now on board, despite some grousing and questioning in the beginning. He subsequently read an article about pesticides and changed his tune. I still can't get him on natural bath products, but he's good with all else), I sometimes just long for stuff fraught with phthalates and other supposedly- hazardous chemicals. Or I miss a time when nobody worried about them.
My favorite nostalgic smell is that of Dial soap-- the orange bar, specifically. This soap is my childhood at the Cape-- at my grandmother's previous house, where she lived by herself for many years and we would visit all the time. A few summers, I would go for weeks at a time, and my cousin R would fly in from Colorado to join. We'd spend our days working on our tans at the beach and then choreographing dance routines to Salt n Pepa tunes in the basement. The prior house owners had a big pool table in the basement, and my grandmother never had it removed. Sometimes R and I would sleep on it, and sometimes we would actually play pool. Every day, a post- beach shower was made complete by a bar of Dial orange. I didn't think much of it back in 1992, but now when I smell it (my ObGyn's office uses it), I am overcome by a nostalgia so overwhelming that I'm not sure whether to smile or cry. Such innocence, such naivete is associated with those years-- and the breaking of said innocence too-- I smoked my first cigarette and drank my first booze (a wine cooler) with my cousin during one of those summers.
Another one is the scent of Junior Mints. I am immediately in my other grandmother's car-- a silver Ford Taurus, with her offering me some of the candies. She would sit at the end of our driveway and wait for me to get off the elementary school bus, and then take me on a voyage doing errands at the bank in Westwood or at the Roche Brothers. We'd end up at her house where my mom would pick me up. Nana had a plaid seat cover for the driver's spot, as she couldn't see high enough I guess as she aged, and when I smell Junior Mints, I think of that seat cover and the fun trips in which she would always secure for me a few good bank lollipops.
And my own scents (I mean ones I have purchased, not that I have given off :)) bring me places too. Bath and Body Works "Moonlight Path" plants me in the summer apartment I shared with my good friend C in Providence during the summer before our senior year of college. We both loved the scent, so we bought the lotion and the perfume and would share. I don't think I've worn it since then (maybe just here and there). But upon detecting it on someone else, I see myself in our dilapidated, cheap apartment or at a shift at the restaurant where we both worked. I had the the whole world ahead of me back then and had no idea.
We have a "no fragrance" rule in school this year due to common student allergies. Between that and my own non- use of chemical stuff, I rarely get whiffs of smells that deliver me to great places. Places and times when I was either content or too naive to know I wasn't. I wonder what sorts of stuff will make Mabel feel nostalgic. Though I didn't record them all here, I've got lots of other smells in my nostalgia arsenal: brownies are my mom on Sunday nights; Tide laundry is the across- the- street- neighbors; coffee is my 5th- grade teacher Mrs. Gorman. It's funny how our bodies take in these scents, memorize them, and relate them. Pretty cool given we don't know we are doing it.
I hope I can create some ways that Mabel can, as she gets older, transport herself back in time via nostalgia. This traveling through time is of such comfort, despite the fact that it reminds me the times are gone.
Since we had Mabel, I have been trying to make our house as "natural" as I can: organic soaps and shower products, natural detergents and cleaning supplies, and as much organic food as is feasible given the price and availability. I don't microwave plastic or use canned food anymore, and we try to minimize our consumption of frozen food laden with preservatives. I am by no means a total organic convert, and I eat plenty of junk food. Every now and then I break my own rules, and I don't let the effort to be more green invade our comfort level (certain things just taste gross if all- natural, and certain products are just not useful). But I do what I can in an effort to be a little more healthy now that we have the little one.
While I feel good about these choices we make (I say "we" because, surprisingly, for the most part, J is now on board, despite some grousing and questioning in the beginning. He subsequently read an article about pesticides and changed his tune. I still can't get him on natural bath products, but he's good with all else), I sometimes just long for stuff fraught with phthalates and other supposedly- hazardous chemicals. Or I miss a time when nobody worried about them.
My favorite nostalgic smell is that of Dial soap-- the orange bar, specifically. This soap is my childhood at the Cape-- at my grandmother's previous house, where she lived by herself for many years and we would visit all the time. A few summers, I would go for weeks at a time, and my cousin R would fly in from Colorado to join. We'd spend our days working on our tans at the beach and then choreographing dance routines to Salt n Pepa tunes in the basement. The prior house owners had a big pool table in the basement, and my grandmother never had it removed. Sometimes R and I would sleep on it, and sometimes we would actually play pool. Every day, a post- beach shower was made complete by a bar of Dial orange. I didn't think much of it back in 1992, but now when I smell it (my ObGyn's office uses it), I am overcome by a nostalgia so overwhelming that I'm not sure whether to smile or cry. Such innocence, such naivete is associated with those years-- and the breaking of said innocence too-- I smoked my first cigarette and drank my first booze (a wine cooler) with my cousin during one of those summers.
Another one is the scent of Junior Mints. I am immediately in my other grandmother's car-- a silver Ford Taurus, with her offering me some of the candies. She would sit at the end of our driveway and wait for me to get off the elementary school bus, and then take me on a voyage doing errands at the bank in Westwood or at the Roche Brothers. We'd end up at her house where my mom would pick me up. Nana had a plaid seat cover for the driver's spot, as she couldn't see high enough I guess as she aged, and when I smell Junior Mints, I think of that seat cover and the fun trips in which she would always secure for me a few good bank lollipops.
And my own scents (I mean ones I have purchased, not that I have given off :)) bring me places too. Bath and Body Works "Moonlight Path" plants me in the summer apartment I shared with my good friend C in Providence during the summer before our senior year of college. We both loved the scent, so we bought the lotion and the perfume and would share. I don't think I've worn it since then (maybe just here and there). But upon detecting it on someone else, I see myself in our dilapidated, cheap apartment or at a shift at the restaurant where we both worked. I had the the whole world ahead of me back then and had no idea.
We have a "no fragrance" rule in school this year due to common student allergies. Between that and my own non- use of chemical stuff, I rarely get whiffs of smells that deliver me to great places. Places and times when I was either content or too naive to know I wasn't. I wonder what sorts of stuff will make Mabel feel nostalgic. Though I didn't record them all here, I've got lots of other smells in my nostalgia arsenal: brownies are my mom on Sunday nights; Tide laundry is the across- the- street- neighbors; coffee is my 5th- grade teacher Mrs. Gorman. It's funny how our bodies take in these scents, memorize them, and relate them. Pretty cool given we don't know we are doing it.
I hope I can create some ways that Mabel can, as she gets older, transport herself back in time via nostalgia. This traveling through time is of such comfort, despite the fact that it reminds me the times are gone.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Trio
Yes, I'm adding entries twice in one day. My last entry was dour, I do acknowledge. But it's where my head is. And yet, after I published it, I realized I never blogged about Saturday, despite taking notes in my iPhone at the time.
Saturday evening, J went fishing, so I took Mabel out for a girls' dinner at the gourmet hot- spot of Panera. :) They've got a good kids' menu and happen to offer a mac n' cheese dish (for adults!) that I was craving like a bee wants honey.
Before we left the house, I had been stressing and was upset about a million and one things. I got Mabel up from her nap and brought her downstairs, only to have the sweetest thing I can imagine happen. I should backtrack and report that Mabel loves giving kisses-- she is not very discerning in whom she chooses for recipients either. But we usually have to ask: "Can you give Nana a kiss goodbye?" That sort of thing.
On Saturday, however, as Mabel sat on my lap, she peered into my eyes for a solid three seconds. And then, on her own whim, she planted a ginormous wet one on my face-- partially right on my mouth, and partially on my cheek. And then when I gave her one back, she gave me another. Mabel cuddles up to us all the time, and will give hugs freely, but the unrequested kiss made my moment, my day, my week, my month-- possibly my year. It was, in my mind, as if she thought, "Here I am sitting with Mama. I should show her some affection." Pure delight. Times like a hundred.
The second event in the trio of things that made me melt in that two- hour time span was her making raspberry sounds in the backseat the whole way to Panera. Sure, she's made that sound before, but she usually hunts for a reaction from one of us. This was, instead, unadulterated, pure fun in her car seat-- just cracking herself up over and over. She didn't need an audience. I can't express the second- hand joy I feel when I see Mabel experiencing joy.
And the most goofy but awesome part of this trio happened at Panera. It's a tall order bringing a toddler to a place where she just wants to run freely when I don't have J or anyone else with me to fetter her to us. She kicked and squirmed the whole time I held her-- in a long line to boot. Mabel annoyed me with her wanting to run to the kitchen in back, and initial refusal to sit still. But once the food came out and she could chomp on that coveted grilled cheese, all was good again. Mabel looked up at the bright lights above her head while she chewed, and I gave her neck a slight tickle. After hearing her roar laughing, I did it again. And then she starting nearly ASKING to be tickled. She would look at me, very strategically and dramatically look up, and wait for me to attack. Each time we would see how long she could stand it before breaking. I've never had so much fun at Panera, or probably out for any meal, for that matter.
When I put Mabel to bed that night, I didn't feel the exhausted relief I sometimes feel at her bedtime. I wanted her to stay up. I knew she couldn't of course, but I felt like a kid whose pal had to go home.
The little trio made me smile for a while. I scurried to enter the events into my iPhone and shortly fell asleep watching Bridesmaids, into the slumber of a content mom.
Saturday evening, J went fishing, so I took Mabel out for a girls' dinner at the gourmet hot- spot of Panera. :) They've got a good kids' menu and happen to offer a mac n' cheese dish (for adults!) that I was craving like a bee wants honey.
Before we left the house, I had been stressing and was upset about a million and one things. I got Mabel up from her nap and brought her downstairs, only to have the sweetest thing I can imagine happen. I should backtrack and report that Mabel loves giving kisses-- she is not very discerning in whom she chooses for recipients either. But we usually have to ask: "Can you give Nana a kiss goodbye?" That sort of thing.
On Saturday, however, as Mabel sat on my lap, she peered into my eyes for a solid three seconds. And then, on her own whim, she planted a ginormous wet one on my face-- partially right on my mouth, and partially on my cheek. And then when I gave her one back, she gave me another. Mabel cuddles up to us all the time, and will give hugs freely, but the unrequested kiss made my moment, my day, my week, my month-- possibly my year. It was, in my mind, as if she thought, "Here I am sitting with Mama. I should show her some affection." Pure delight. Times like a hundred.
The second event in the trio of things that made me melt in that two- hour time span was her making raspberry sounds in the backseat the whole way to Panera. Sure, she's made that sound before, but she usually hunts for a reaction from one of us. This was, instead, unadulterated, pure fun in her car seat-- just cracking herself up over and over. She didn't need an audience. I can't express the second- hand joy I feel when I see Mabel experiencing joy.
And the most goofy but awesome part of this trio happened at Panera. It's a tall order bringing a toddler to a place where she just wants to run freely when I don't have J or anyone else with me to fetter her to us. She kicked and squirmed the whole time I held her-- in a long line to boot. Mabel annoyed me with her wanting to run to the kitchen in back, and initial refusal to sit still. But once the food came out and she could chomp on that coveted grilled cheese, all was good again. Mabel looked up at the bright lights above her head while she chewed, and I gave her neck a slight tickle. After hearing her roar laughing, I did it again. And then she starting nearly ASKING to be tickled. She would look at me, very strategically and dramatically look up, and wait for me to attack. Each time we would see how long she could stand it before breaking. I've never had so much fun at Panera, or probably out for any meal, for that matter.
When I put Mabel to bed that night, I didn't feel the exhausted relief I sometimes feel at her bedtime. I wanted her to stay up. I knew she couldn't of course, but I felt like a kid whose pal had to go home.
The little trio made me smile for a while. I scurried to enter the events into my iPhone and shortly fell asleep watching Bridesmaids, into the slumber of a content mom.
Can't Compartmentalize
Lately I have been thinking about gravity. Not the scientific concept but the word-- how very grave so many things are in the world around me. I know that I've written a few blogs that have talked about the going getting tough, or about worry, and have ended those entries with some sort of sentiment about being more mindful or meditative or acknowledging a Human Sunrise. Today I don't have sunshiny answers, if I'm being totally honest with myself, which I said I would always be in this blogging venture. Instead I have questions-- with which I will end this entry. If anyone knows any of the answers, please advise.
The other day, a very dear friend of mine told me an absolutely horrific piece of news: her cousins- in- law (with whom my friend is very close) lost their 11- week old son. I don't know the details yet, but this very gloomily curious part of my brain always exhorts me to look up obituaries online any time I hear of a passing. I have no idea what seeing the obituary sates in me or even accomplishes, but I always feel a pull to see the story. And so today I googled the baby's name, and, bam, the obit instantly came up. When I clicked on it, the sweet child's smiling face was at the top of the screen. He looks like a typical infant-- endearing, gorgeous, loving and lovable, and just plain cheery. What an ironic juxtaposition-- this picture coupled with the dark news below it.
I can't get his beautiful image out of my head, nor can I release the idea of what his parents must be going through. I simply don't understand a world that allows such a thing to happen. I don't mean to insult anyone's religious sensibilities or faith, but how can these two parents in any way accept this death? How can they ever say, "God needed him"? Around the time of Newtown, I wrote about how things that we call "unthinkable" actually ARE thinkable-- we just don't want to imagine them. The pain is too sharp. But I tend to do this thing where I take other people's-- even strangers'-- worries or dealings upon myself and I obsess over how the people must be coping.
News like this is jarring and horrific, but the news on the TV every night has nearly become ineffectual. It's so sad, so dismal every single night, that it's hard to react anymore. But somewhere, the family of the guy who was driving the car that collided with a dumptruck yesterday is grieving. And somewhere else, the loved ones of the tortured and murdered girl are bawling their eyes out too.
When I come to work, I like to think I can leave behind my sullen obsessions, but they're there, too. The nonverbal autistic boy down the hall who shrieks all day long, the colleague whose 36- year- old brother died last week of a rare Sarcoma, the front office receptionist with ovarian cancer. When you reach a certain age, and the invincibility complex disappears, you notice and breathe in every tragedy within a mile of you. And then you start to wonder how and when it will befall you. Maybe I shouldn't write in second- person point- of- view there, because maybe not everyone does all this. Maybe I have some sick neurosis.
And while I'm being honest, on some days, my feelings get so desperate that I wonder why so many people keep going, keep having kids, keep at it-- when there is so damn much to lose. Now that I am a mom, there are types of loss that I know that, if I were to experience, I would not want to live any longer. I haven't really felt that way before and it's friggin' scary. Not only do I no longer have a bubble to live inside, but I don't even see bubbles in my adult radius.
I was reminded me of this whole facing- the- cruelties- of- life concept the other day when I was previewing an interview with Arthur Miller to show one of my classes, as they are reading Death of a Salesman. Miller expounds on the notion of life being sadness-- he says that "life IS catastrophe" ultimately. He wrote his works largely to expose his views of how average people cope when the worst happenings of humanity emerge in the lives of everyday folks. Miller's silver lining is that in between all the tragedy and the rubble from it, humans accomplish great things. Hmmm-- is this enough, dear Arthur? Argh, it still just sounds so forlorn.
So, I am not going to tie everything up in a neat bow today because I don't see the need. I don't have a way to do it anyway. When the gifts and wonderful things in life can so quickly and easily bring you your worst nightmare realized, how do we REALLY go through life cherishing people and keeping an optimistic perspective? Are there adults who see or hear awful news and compartmentalize it and then still say life is wonderful? I'd love to live in a more positive state of mind.. I just can't get there.
When for every great happening I witness in a month I can name four horrendous ones, how do you keep your eye on the great? It's true that youth is wasted on the young, because many of the kids I teach seem unfazed-- or, no, that's unfair-- they seem unscathed by other people's terrible events. I know it's the age they're at, but even all through my 20s I think I could do that compartmentalizing thing pretty well. Is this the curse of middle age? Living in fear?
I can't end an entry on that sentence-- I just can't. So I WILL say that I know that there is a lot of good in the world-- I do see it with my very eyes. The problem is that it's the good we so profoundly fear losing.
The other day, a very dear friend of mine told me an absolutely horrific piece of news: her cousins- in- law (with whom my friend is very close) lost their 11- week old son. I don't know the details yet, but this very gloomily curious part of my brain always exhorts me to look up obituaries online any time I hear of a passing. I have no idea what seeing the obituary sates in me or even accomplishes, but I always feel a pull to see the story. And so today I googled the baby's name, and, bam, the obit instantly came up. When I clicked on it, the sweet child's smiling face was at the top of the screen. He looks like a typical infant-- endearing, gorgeous, loving and lovable, and just plain cheery. What an ironic juxtaposition-- this picture coupled with the dark news below it.
I can't get his beautiful image out of my head, nor can I release the idea of what his parents must be going through. I simply don't understand a world that allows such a thing to happen. I don't mean to insult anyone's religious sensibilities or faith, but how can these two parents in any way accept this death? How can they ever say, "God needed him"? Around the time of Newtown, I wrote about how things that we call "unthinkable" actually ARE thinkable-- we just don't want to imagine them. The pain is too sharp. But I tend to do this thing where I take other people's-- even strangers'-- worries or dealings upon myself and I obsess over how the people must be coping.
News like this is jarring and horrific, but the news on the TV every night has nearly become ineffectual. It's so sad, so dismal every single night, that it's hard to react anymore. But somewhere, the family of the guy who was driving the car that collided with a dumptruck yesterday is grieving. And somewhere else, the loved ones of the tortured and murdered girl are bawling their eyes out too.
When I come to work, I like to think I can leave behind my sullen obsessions, but they're there, too. The nonverbal autistic boy down the hall who shrieks all day long, the colleague whose 36- year- old brother died last week of a rare Sarcoma, the front office receptionist with ovarian cancer. When you reach a certain age, and the invincibility complex disappears, you notice and breathe in every tragedy within a mile of you. And then you start to wonder how and when it will befall you. Maybe I shouldn't write in second- person point- of- view there, because maybe not everyone does all this. Maybe I have some sick neurosis.
And while I'm being honest, on some days, my feelings get so desperate that I wonder why so many people keep going, keep having kids, keep at it-- when there is so damn much to lose. Now that I am a mom, there are types of loss that I know that, if I were to experience, I would not want to live any longer. I haven't really felt that way before and it's friggin' scary. Not only do I no longer have a bubble to live inside, but I don't even see bubbles in my adult radius.
I was reminded me of this whole facing- the- cruelties- of- life concept the other day when I was previewing an interview with Arthur Miller to show one of my classes, as they are reading Death of a Salesman. Miller expounds on the notion of life being sadness-- he says that "life IS catastrophe" ultimately. He wrote his works largely to expose his views of how average people cope when the worst happenings of humanity emerge in the lives of everyday folks. Miller's silver lining is that in between all the tragedy and the rubble from it, humans accomplish great things. Hmmm-- is this enough, dear Arthur? Argh, it still just sounds so forlorn.
So, I am not going to tie everything up in a neat bow today because I don't see the need. I don't have a way to do it anyway. When the gifts and wonderful things in life can so quickly and easily bring you your worst nightmare realized, how do we REALLY go through life cherishing people and keeping an optimistic perspective? Are there adults who see or hear awful news and compartmentalize it and then still say life is wonderful? I'd love to live in a more positive state of mind.. I just can't get there.
When for every great happening I witness in a month I can name four horrendous ones, how do you keep your eye on the great? It's true that youth is wasted on the young, because many of the kids I teach seem unfazed-- or, no, that's unfair-- they seem unscathed by other people's terrible events. I know it's the age they're at, but even all through my 20s I think I could do that compartmentalizing thing pretty well. Is this the curse of middle age? Living in fear?
I can't end an entry on that sentence-- I just can't. So I WILL say that I know that there is a lot of good in the world-- I do see it with my very eyes. The problem is that it's the good we so profoundly fear losing.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Lessons: Part Two
7. You're probably doing something wrong. I say that tongue- in-
cheek, as it's something I think a lot of mothers feel: we must be
screwing our children up somehow. Yet, with no
facetiousness at all, we should actually admit and validate-- yes, we
probably ARE doing something wrong. But the "something" is probably
minor. And unless you went to the Barnum and Bailey Circus School,
you're likely not an able juggler. I juggle as much as I can, yet I
have had to make peace with the simple concept that there is always
going to be some arena of parenting in which I could be doing more.
There have been a few nights Mabel hasn't gotten a bath, or that we
haven't cleaned the wax out of her ears. Or a few weeks in which she
has eaten microwave organic pancakes three nights in a row. I haven't
been forceful or consistent enough in getting her to try and like new
veggies-- some nights, after working all day, that battle is just too
much. I'm sure she's gone to day care in clothes that are too warm or
too cool, and I know for a fact I have let her stand up in store carts--
even sometimes without Purelling the carts first. Imagine the horror!
Mabel still has a bottle before bed at night at 18- months- old. It is
essentially her binky, as she was never a pacifier kid (despite our
trying), and the bottle soothes her. While I know she should be off it,
I just can't break away from the total peace at night when she sits
with her "buh- buh" for thirty minutes watching one of her shows,
totally content and not making a peep. This summer I vowed to take her
to Story Hour at the library and never did. We've given her French
fries too many times when we shouldn't have. I could keep going, but I
have adopted a precept around relativity-- in the large scheme of
life, how much is this XYZ thing going to affect her, if it keeps her/
us sane? You can only do what you can do in the reality of everyday life.
8. You might be let down sometimes. While I can say without hesitation that 90 percent of what Mabel does mesmerizes me, there have been times she hasn't been so spellbinding. When she was 2- months- old and lying in a bouncy seat for three hours, I was bored-- and a little let down with motherhood. I felt wretched for even thinking it. But as much as I loved Mabel, she wasn't all that interesting all the time. I would crave the outside world, or wish she would just leap up from the bouncy chair and sing me a ditty. Even now, in the midst of typical toddler derring- do--- when she will scale her high chair or break out in new "choreography"-- there are days or nights that just aren't exciting. Toddlers get whiny. They push our buttons and make us wonder, "Is that all there is??" It's just quite lucky for us (and them, I suppose) that the next moment or day, they'll do something that knocks our socks off. Don't feel like a total failure of a mother if you aren't enthralled with each moment of caring for your kid.
9. You will obsess over sleep. Before we had Mabel, there was much comfort in knowing that a sleepless night meant I could nap the next day. With no such fortune anymore, I now obsess over making sure I get to bed early so that the break- of- dawn wake- up doesn't plague me the following day. I don't always sleep well at all, but I am lamely tucked in bed by 9:30 every night.. and that usually includes weekends. If you go out with friends at night, you will second- guess that third glass of wine because toddlers don't respect the hangover. Mabel doesn't give a shiz if my head pounds-- she still demands I get off that couch promptly and take her outside to the porch. You will find yourself sitting at a restaurant going, "If J and I go home now, and get in bed by 11, we will get 8 hours. But that's if we leave RIGHT now, and then fall RIGHT to sleep in bed." It's a stupid game. Your body is going to sleep when it feels like it, but you'll still think you have some control. Oh, and you will have at least two gruesome hangovers that will make you rue the day you ever partook in a beverage.
10. Some people won't "get" parenthood, but it doesn't mean they don't care. Not all your relatives are going to baby- proof their homes, but they still love you and your kid. Your brother might still plan a late dinner or social event and not get why you don't want to be out all- hours, but it's not that he is uncaring, ignorant, or mean. He just doesn't get the full scope. Did YOU get the full scope before becoming a mom? I know I didn't. Why WOULD non- parents really accommodate you, when you think about it? Most people will not keep whole milk in their homes or have an arsenal of Sesame Street episodes on demand, but they will still invite you to stay at their houses and will still love on your kid like crazy. You have to try not to think of the outside world as insensitive, and have to do your best to roll with the punches. J and I have a mix of family and friends who are parents and non- parents. Everyone is in his or her own current situation, and it's unique. You have to just live in your own little world and not expect people to know its ins and outs.
11. You, without a doubt, must promise you will still have a life. I can't really say more than this: if you give up your own pursuits, or don't spend time with friends, you will find yourself the needy and desperate mother of an 18- year- old who is going off to college, still making your child ride buckled up in the backseat, and emailing his or her prospective college roommates to see what they're like, and, subsequently, contacting his or her college professors to ask why he/ she got a B on the Econ paper. Yup-- you'll be bat- siz crazy if you pour your whole being into momhood and forget other joys.
12. You'll feel the most indescribable but profound and radiant connection to your kid. It's instinctual and basic, but it's ever- present. While I have no regard for Martyr Moms, as I have blogged about before, I will agree that momhood is a gift that can't be paralleled... not because it is more special than some other gifts, but because it is so different. When I haven't seen Mabel in a weekend, I have a visceral longing for her. I can't help but squeeze and kiss and tickle her like mad. One of my students said today that when 9/11 happened, his mom came to pick him up at preschool (yes, that is how young my now- junior and -senior students were then), not because she feared for his safety at the preschool, but because, in her words, she "just had to hold [him]." Yup, I get it. And when this boy told the story, I got goosebumps. It's uncontrollable, and it seems implausible, but it is truly sensational.
8. You might be let down sometimes. While I can say without hesitation that 90 percent of what Mabel does mesmerizes me, there have been times she hasn't been so spellbinding. When she was 2- months- old and lying in a bouncy seat for three hours, I was bored-- and a little let down with motherhood. I felt wretched for even thinking it. But as much as I loved Mabel, she wasn't all that interesting all the time. I would crave the outside world, or wish she would just leap up from the bouncy chair and sing me a ditty. Even now, in the midst of typical toddler derring- do--- when she will scale her high chair or break out in new "choreography"-- there are days or nights that just aren't exciting. Toddlers get whiny. They push our buttons and make us wonder, "Is that all there is??" It's just quite lucky for us (and them, I suppose) that the next moment or day, they'll do something that knocks our socks off. Don't feel like a total failure of a mother if you aren't enthralled with each moment of caring for your kid.
9. You will obsess over sleep. Before we had Mabel, there was much comfort in knowing that a sleepless night meant I could nap the next day. With no such fortune anymore, I now obsess over making sure I get to bed early so that the break- of- dawn wake- up doesn't plague me the following day. I don't always sleep well at all, but I am lamely tucked in bed by 9:30 every night.. and that usually includes weekends. If you go out with friends at night, you will second- guess that third glass of wine because toddlers don't respect the hangover. Mabel doesn't give a shiz if my head pounds-- she still demands I get off that couch promptly and take her outside to the porch. You will find yourself sitting at a restaurant going, "If J and I go home now, and get in bed by 11, we will get 8 hours. But that's if we leave RIGHT now, and then fall RIGHT to sleep in bed." It's a stupid game. Your body is going to sleep when it feels like it, but you'll still think you have some control. Oh, and you will have at least two gruesome hangovers that will make you rue the day you ever partook in a beverage.
10. Some people won't "get" parenthood, but it doesn't mean they don't care. Not all your relatives are going to baby- proof their homes, but they still love you and your kid. Your brother might still plan a late dinner or social event and not get why you don't want to be out all- hours, but it's not that he is uncaring, ignorant, or mean. He just doesn't get the full scope. Did YOU get the full scope before becoming a mom? I know I didn't. Why WOULD non- parents really accommodate you, when you think about it? Most people will not keep whole milk in their homes or have an arsenal of Sesame Street episodes on demand, but they will still invite you to stay at their houses and will still love on your kid like crazy. You have to try not to think of the outside world as insensitive, and have to do your best to roll with the punches. J and I have a mix of family and friends who are parents and non- parents. Everyone is in his or her own current situation, and it's unique. You have to just live in your own little world and not expect people to know its ins and outs.
11. You, without a doubt, must promise you will still have a life. I can't really say more than this: if you give up your own pursuits, or don't spend time with friends, you will find yourself the needy and desperate mother of an 18- year- old who is going off to college, still making your child ride buckled up in the backseat, and emailing his or her prospective college roommates to see what they're like, and, subsequently, contacting his or her college professors to ask why he/ she got a B on the Econ paper. Yup-- you'll be bat- siz crazy if you pour your whole being into momhood and forget other joys.
12. You'll feel the most indescribable but profound and radiant connection to your kid. It's instinctual and basic, but it's ever- present. While I have no regard for Martyr Moms, as I have blogged about before, I will agree that momhood is a gift that can't be paralleled... not because it is more special than some other gifts, but because it is so different. When I haven't seen Mabel in a weekend, I have a visceral longing for her. I can't help but squeeze and kiss and tickle her like mad. One of my students said today that when 9/11 happened, his mom came to pick him up at preschool (yes, that is how young my now- junior and -senior students were then), not because she feared for his safety at the preschool, but because, in her words, she "just had to hold [him]." Yup, I get it. And when this boy told the story, I got goosebumps. It's uncontrollable, and it seems implausible, but it is truly sensational.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Lessons
Over the past 18.5 months, since parenthood greeted me, I have been learning. Much of the time, I don't even realize I am a student. But I am going to share some lessons today-- lessons I have learned about inevitabilities in parenting.
1. Your house will never be clean again. If you clean the muck, you will have clutter-- and vice- versa. You can hire a cleaning crew or get on your hands and knees and scrub like a madwoman every day, but some form of dirt or plastic blocks or dirty laundry haphazardly dumped from a basket will always thwart you. You must adopt the "best I can" mantra and genuinely live it. I have been repeatedly convinced I could be a good foe for messes, but, alas, I give up the struggle. I am still going to clean my house, but it is never going to look like it did pre- kid. You need to just surrender. You will feel better.
2. You will watch the kids' TV shows you always hated before having kids. My friend came over once when I was single and talked of the likes of Bob the Builder and Word Girl. I did not give a shiz who these toons were. None of it excited me and I didn't even want to hear about why her kids liked the shows. You will not only start watching kid tv, but you will start opining on the shows. I can tell you that I like Sesame Street, Sid the Science Kid, Super Why, Martha Speaks, and Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, and that I loathe Thomas the Tank Engine. I tolerate Caillou and The Cat in the Hat. I could give specific reasons for each and sing the theme songs too. Many days at work go by when my head is-- all day long-- infiltrated by the melody of "Look up high, in the sky, it's a bird, it can fly... Let's all hurry to the flying fairy school!"
3. You will become, in at least one way, the mom you said you wouldn't be. Pre- kids, I rolled my eyes when friends would say their kids were sleeping in their beds with them, or that they were too nervous to leave their kids with a sitter. It was so easy at the time to scorn and criticize. "They are just screwing these kids up!" You later learn a little bit more about what it's like when your kid won't fall back to sleep in the crib and you yourself are looking for a modicum of rest. You also find out what it's like not to trust most people with your kid. It's instinctual. Just accept it. Yup, you are that woman now.
4. Everyone has an opinion. From whether you should nurse, to whether you should sleep train, to what kind of frickin' baby food you should serve, a lot of folks around you will want to give you the "best" advice. When the advice is unsolicited, it's most annoying, so learn to avoid the baby topic with the people who like to offer without request. But be careful, too, about whom you ask for help. A well- meaning bit of feedback could be a full report on the dangers of crib bumpers or a l00- part list of foods that constipate kids. We must consider that as humans, we like to feel useful. Naturally, we want to offer the best helping hand we can. People are well- meaning but they can still be as condescending or frustrating as all get- out. Ask for help only from people you can tolerate.
5. Speaking of help, don't go online to parent boards. A little Web MD never hurt anyone, eh? Well, I would debate that, as was evidenced by my search there for "dizziness" in which I had unreservedly decided I had a brain tumor. But parent boards can be more grotesque. People troll and write dumb things. They also want to be know- it- alls. And you will see on those boards the saddest, most extreme forms of dire happenings. Parent boards will make you feel inept OR gloomy about the state of the world OR paranoid about your choices OR just pissed off at how dumb people are. Don't go on boards often. Call the pedi office or ask a well- meaning, non- lecturey friend.
6. It's okay to just want a break. I read this article about mindfulness when parenting-- in fact, I know for sure I referenced it in a blog entry. And yes, I do need to be more mindful. I need to slow down and smell the proverbial roses sometimes. For sure. But this piece insinuated you were horrible for checking your watch to count down to when the kid will go to sleep. I mean, are we supposed to be superhuman? Are we supposed to never long for alone time? Are we supposed to be patient and giving 24/7? I am not. I have tried my best, and on most days I do well. But I have decided it's ok if your kid's whines are driving you to drink and you're going to put him to bed 20 minutes early tonight because can you ever just watch Jeopardy in peace?!
More to come... And I know I don't have to say it, but my caveat is this: Obviously, despite the difficulties I am presenting lightheartedly here, parenting is the sweetest and most awe- inducing thing you can dream of. Even when you have poop on your thumb or mushy seeds from an apple flung on pretty rug.
1. Your house will never be clean again. If you clean the muck, you will have clutter-- and vice- versa. You can hire a cleaning crew or get on your hands and knees and scrub like a madwoman every day, but some form of dirt or plastic blocks or dirty laundry haphazardly dumped from a basket will always thwart you. You must adopt the "best I can" mantra and genuinely live it. I have been repeatedly convinced I could be a good foe for messes, but, alas, I give up the struggle. I am still going to clean my house, but it is never going to look like it did pre- kid. You need to just surrender. You will feel better.
2. You will watch the kids' TV shows you always hated before having kids. My friend came over once when I was single and talked of the likes of Bob the Builder and Word Girl. I did not give a shiz who these toons were. None of it excited me and I didn't even want to hear about why her kids liked the shows. You will not only start watching kid tv, but you will start opining on the shows. I can tell you that I like Sesame Street, Sid the Science Kid, Super Why, Martha Speaks, and Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, and that I loathe Thomas the Tank Engine. I tolerate Caillou and The Cat in the Hat. I could give specific reasons for each and sing the theme songs too. Many days at work go by when my head is-- all day long-- infiltrated by the melody of "Look up high, in the sky, it's a bird, it can fly... Let's all hurry to the flying fairy school!"
3. You will become, in at least one way, the mom you said you wouldn't be. Pre- kids, I rolled my eyes when friends would say their kids were sleeping in their beds with them, or that they were too nervous to leave their kids with a sitter. It was so easy at the time to scorn and criticize. "They are just screwing these kids up!" You later learn a little bit more about what it's like when your kid won't fall back to sleep in the crib and you yourself are looking for a modicum of rest. You also find out what it's like not to trust most people with your kid. It's instinctual. Just accept it. Yup, you are that woman now.
4. Everyone has an opinion. From whether you should nurse, to whether you should sleep train, to what kind of frickin' baby food you should serve, a lot of folks around you will want to give you the "best" advice. When the advice is unsolicited, it's most annoying, so learn to avoid the baby topic with the people who like to offer without request. But be careful, too, about whom you ask for help. A well- meaning bit of feedback could be a full report on the dangers of crib bumpers or a l00- part list of foods that constipate kids. We must consider that as humans, we like to feel useful. Naturally, we want to offer the best helping hand we can. People are well- meaning but they can still be as condescending or frustrating as all get- out. Ask for help only from people you can tolerate.
5. Speaking of help, don't go online to parent boards. A little Web MD never hurt anyone, eh? Well, I would debate that, as was evidenced by my search there for "dizziness" in which I had unreservedly decided I had a brain tumor. But parent boards can be more grotesque. People troll and write dumb things. They also want to be know- it- alls. And you will see on those boards the saddest, most extreme forms of dire happenings. Parent boards will make you feel inept OR gloomy about the state of the world OR paranoid about your choices OR just pissed off at how dumb people are. Don't go on boards often. Call the pedi office or ask a well- meaning, non- lecturey friend.
6. It's okay to just want a break. I read this article about mindfulness when parenting-- in fact, I know for sure I referenced it in a blog entry. And yes, I do need to be more mindful. I need to slow down and smell the proverbial roses sometimes. For sure. But this piece insinuated you were horrible for checking your watch to count down to when the kid will go to sleep. I mean, are we supposed to be superhuman? Are we supposed to never long for alone time? Are we supposed to be patient and giving 24/7? I am not. I have tried my best, and on most days I do well. But I have decided it's ok if your kid's whines are driving you to drink and you're going to put him to bed 20 minutes early tonight because can you ever just watch Jeopardy in peace?!
More to come... And I know I don't have to say it, but my caveat is this: Obviously, despite the difficulties I am presenting lightheartedly here, parenting is the sweetest and most awe- inducing thing you can dream of. Even when you have poop on your thumb or mushy seeds from an apple flung on pretty rug.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Note- taking
I had decided a bit back that I wanted to write a blog entry about things that make Mabel laugh or smile. It seems like just the sort of thing I would love to look back on. In the moment, even if I send a laugh or grin to what feels like the safest space in my memory, I know by now I am still doomed to forget it. Thus, I began jotting quick notes into my iphone notepad right in the very moment. Ah, the power of technology at the fingertips!
So I thought I was totally on top of this blog entry with my super- techie note- taking. What I didn't anticipate was that I wouldn't remember what some of the notes meant later. I mean, it's been only weeks since some of these occurred, and I don't remember their images at all. I am either developing dementia fast, or I am learning that this is the stuff of parenthood-- fleeting moments of joy that you will never get back or truly feel again. It's not as downer as it sounds, because these happy moments do continue to accumulate. But wow. Wow.
Writing this entry beckons to my high school diary-- now THERE is some really powerful writing (insert sarcasm face). But what I mean is that I wrote a lot of that journal in code, lest my sneaky little brother or a nosy parent wanted to take a peek. When I unearthed the diary a good decade later, I realized I couldn't decode most of what I had written. I'd come up with words and phrases for times, places, and people-- probably ultra- sure in the moment that I would always remember what they stood for-- only to come up short when looking back as an adult. It's sad, really, not to be able to uncover and relive some of the joys-- and even pains-- of that tumultuous but exciting time.
And so I must remind myself that every moment is just that-- a moment. And while a blog or some phone notes will transport me to a place and a time and may even make me feel joyful, I will never again fully and deeply experience what it was like to see Mabel do that ONE thing for the first time. The passage of time is one of those crazy phenomena that science can't even remotely justify to me.
Here goes anyway, as I hope I can feel an iota of the pure happiness each of these moments originally brought:
Things that make Mabel laugh or smile:
- Sitting atop J or me, equestrian style-- we call it the "giddy- up." She used to roar at this, but I guess she is becoming jaded as now she just grins-- it's still awfully sweet.
- Here's an example of one I don't really remember-- I put in my phone, "Putting the dolls from doll house into their beds." Sadly, I don't recall now whether it made her laugh or smile.
- Wearing my bracelets-- and I should add that in addition to finding excitement in this exercise, Mabel also takes great pains as to not allow the bracelets to fall off, holding her arm upright for good stretches of time.
- Being able to brush her teeth without assistance (I brush them first, then let her have fun thinking she is actually brushing...)
- Again-- one I don't remember now-- Putting the Dr. Seuss hat on me, Bun- Bun, or herself
- Making a tower correctly-- and follows the smile with some self- applause
- My voicing, "I pity the fool!" a la Mr. T. I have no idea why, but this cracks her right up.
- My pretending to gulp from her cup or bottle.
- The playing of the Abby's Flying Fairy School theme-- again, lots of applause.
- Performing any form of hide n' seek, but especially when she closes the bathroom door and makes us knock to "look for her."
- Play kitchens-- enough said.
- Siri!! Again, enough said.
- Feeding my parents' dog, whom we babysit from time to time, his biscuits and water.
- Feeding anyone or anything, really. She gets a real kick out of that.
- Riding her rocking horse without help.
- And this one is my favorite so I will use some detail-- Mabel has fascinated me with how well she has observed use of the vacuum cleaner. After I unplug it and reload the cord into the unit, she will pull the cord out again; walk to the outlet to try to plug it in (though she is thwarted by outlet covers); go back to the vacuum itself and "clean" the rug for a while, with impressive form; pick up pesky things that won't seem to pick up and try to actually place them in the vacuum unit. This process keeps her smiley and busy for chunks of time-- wonder if she will enjoy actually vacuuming when the time comes.
So I thought I was totally on top of this blog entry with my super- techie note- taking. What I didn't anticipate was that I wouldn't remember what some of the notes meant later. I mean, it's been only weeks since some of these occurred, and I don't remember their images at all. I am either developing dementia fast, or I am learning that this is the stuff of parenthood-- fleeting moments of joy that you will never get back or truly feel again. It's not as downer as it sounds, because these happy moments do continue to accumulate. But wow. Wow.
Writing this entry beckons to my high school diary-- now THERE is some really powerful writing (insert sarcasm face). But what I mean is that I wrote a lot of that journal in code, lest my sneaky little brother or a nosy parent wanted to take a peek. When I unearthed the diary a good decade later, I realized I couldn't decode most of what I had written. I'd come up with words and phrases for times, places, and people-- probably ultra- sure in the moment that I would always remember what they stood for-- only to come up short when looking back as an adult. It's sad, really, not to be able to uncover and relive some of the joys-- and even pains-- of that tumultuous but exciting time.
And so I must remind myself that every moment is just that-- a moment. And while a blog or some phone notes will transport me to a place and a time and may even make me feel joyful, I will never again fully and deeply experience what it was like to see Mabel do that ONE thing for the first time. The passage of time is one of those crazy phenomena that science can't even remotely justify to me.
Here goes anyway, as I hope I can feel an iota of the pure happiness each of these moments originally brought:
Things that make Mabel laugh or smile:
- Sitting atop J or me, equestrian style-- we call it the "giddy- up." She used to roar at this, but I guess she is becoming jaded as now she just grins-- it's still awfully sweet.
- Here's an example of one I don't really remember-- I put in my phone, "Putting the dolls from doll house into their beds." Sadly, I don't recall now whether it made her laugh or smile.
- Wearing my bracelets-- and I should add that in addition to finding excitement in this exercise, Mabel also takes great pains as to not allow the bracelets to fall off, holding her arm upright for good stretches of time.
- Being able to brush her teeth without assistance (I brush them first, then let her have fun thinking she is actually brushing...)
- Again-- one I don't remember now-- Putting the Dr. Seuss hat on me, Bun- Bun, or herself
- Making a tower correctly-- and follows the smile with some self- applause
- My voicing, "I pity the fool!" a la Mr. T. I have no idea why, but this cracks her right up.
- My pretending to gulp from her cup or bottle.
- The playing of the Abby's Flying Fairy School theme-- again, lots of applause.
- Performing any form of hide n' seek, but especially when she closes the bathroom door and makes us knock to "look for her."
- Play kitchens-- enough said.
- Siri!! Again, enough said.
- Feeding my parents' dog, whom we babysit from time to time, his biscuits and water.
- Feeding anyone or anything, really. She gets a real kick out of that.
- Riding her rocking horse without help.
- And this one is my favorite so I will use some detail-- Mabel has fascinated me with how well she has observed use of the vacuum cleaner. After I unplug it and reload the cord into the unit, she will pull the cord out again; walk to the outlet to try to plug it in (though she is thwarted by outlet covers); go back to the vacuum itself and "clean" the rug for a while, with impressive form; pick up pesky things that won't seem to pick up and try to actually place them in the vacuum unit. This process keeps her smiley and busy for chunks of time-- wonder if she will enjoy actually vacuuming when the time comes.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Ten Shoulds
Do you ever trick yourself into thinking you actually ARE going to do a bunch of undesirable chores someday? It's classic procrastination. You know, over next Christmas break, when you have time off from work you'll definitely be jonesing to organize clipped recipes. This delaying is a pastime of mine. I will choose an upcoming juncture when I have time off from work and convince myself I'm magically going to want to do something like explore the attic. Then I can peacefully lay that nagging in my head to rest. Here are a few things I can't get myself to do, despite knowing I am supposed to because someone somewhere said it's something you're supposed to do in your house:
1. Put my kid's footprints on a piece of paper and in a frame: We actually have the kit for this and I feel really bad we haven't done it. It would probably take 6 seconds but for some reason seems like a burden. I hope Mabel never has a bring- in- your- baby- footprints- day at school.
2. Organize bags into grocery/ plastic/ shopping/ lunch/ other: They're all just tossed into a cabinet haphazardly and when I need one that accommodates a lunch I indubitably come upon 9 grocery bags first and have to fish.
3. Vacuum blinds and curtains: I am actually a vacuum- a- holic now that we've got this little awesome Dyson number, but I never can bring myself to hold it vertically and do the curtains. How much dirt do curtains really amass?
4. Put friends' and family members' Christmas cards into yearly binders: love the idea but they will inevitably end up in a shoebox.
5. Throw away cosmetics I don't use: Not sure I can justify it, but definitely have perfume and lotions I haven't worn in three years sitting on my dresser. I'm good about throwing away shiz we don't use from the bathroom... Not sure why my bedroom is different.
6. Go through all our DVDs and make sure they are in properly matching cases: Does anyone watch DVDs anymore? While I think most of ours are in the right cases, there's no way all are, but it seems like a futile task since ten years from now DVDs will be collecting dust and thought of in the same way I think of 8- track machines.
7. Clean the windows: This one is probably more pressing than many of the others, and J and I acknowledge the need, but, alas, have not tackled the job. I've cleaned the sills and in a few rooms we recently painted the wood work. But the panes could use a scrubbing. Eh, seeing clearly is overrated.
8. Learn to throw away a razor after it dulls: I always use razors way longer than I should and get mad when they stop giving me a smooth and facile shave. I need to get one of those ginormous packs from BJs so I can discard and replace frequently.
9. Watch the 28 episodes of Chelsea Lately I have on DVR: They take up much precious space, but I have 28 I "need" to watch "someday" and thus shan't delete. Not sure why it's so crucial to see an interview with the likes of Rachel Bilson and Jason Biggs.
10. Roll change; We aren't reliable about it anymore, but for a solid clip of time J and I would throw change into a big pretzel container. It's still there and I think it shall die there. It's tucked away in a closet, and I know I am just never, ever going to get the rolling thingies let alone sit down with them at the kitchen table.
1. Put my kid's footprints on a piece of paper and in a frame: We actually have the kit for this and I feel really bad we haven't done it. It would probably take 6 seconds but for some reason seems like a burden. I hope Mabel never has a bring- in- your- baby- footprints- day at school.
2. Organize bags into grocery/ plastic/ shopping/ lunch/ other: They're all just tossed into a cabinet haphazardly and when I need one that accommodates a lunch I indubitably come upon 9 grocery bags first and have to fish.
3. Vacuum blinds and curtains: I am actually a vacuum- a- holic now that we've got this little awesome Dyson number, but I never can bring myself to hold it vertically and do the curtains. How much dirt do curtains really amass?
4. Put friends' and family members' Christmas cards into yearly binders: love the idea but they will inevitably end up in a shoebox.
5. Throw away cosmetics I don't use: Not sure I can justify it, but definitely have perfume and lotions I haven't worn in three years sitting on my dresser. I'm good about throwing away shiz we don't use from the bathroom... Not sure why my bedroom is different.
6. Go through all our DVDs and make sure they are in properly matching cases: Does anyone watch DVDs anymore? While I think most of ours are in the right cases, there's no way all are, but it seems like a futile task since ten years from now DVDs will be collecting dust and thought of in the same way I think of 8- track machines.
7. Clean the windows: This one is probably more pressing than many of the others, and J and I acknowledge the need, but, alas, have not tackled the job. I've cleaned the sills and in a few rooms we recently painted the wood work. But the panes could use a scrubbing. Eh, seeing clearly is overrated.
8. Learn to throw away a razor after it dulls: I always use razors way longer than I should and get mad when they stop giving me a smooth and facile shave. I need to get one of those ginormous packs from BJs so I can discard and replace frequently.
9. Watch the 28 episodes of Chelsea Lately I have on DVR: They take up much precious space, but I have 28 I "need" to watch "someday" and thus shan't delete. Not sure why it's so crucial to see an interview with the likes of Rachel Bilson and Jason Biggs.
10. Roll change; We aren't reliable about it anymore, but for a solid clip of time J and I would throw change into a big pretzel container. It's still there and I think it shall die there. It's tucked away in a closet, and I know I am just never, ever going to get the rolling thingies let alone sit down with them at the kitchen table.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Behind Closed Doors
When I was younger and we'd hear of some terrible happening in someone's home-- like a divorce or a kid who fell into a drug problem or a bad argument-- and we'd say, "Wow, I would never have expected that!" my mom would always tell us, "You never know what's going on behind closed doors." I used to actually picture the people in a room, arguing or whispering or whatever, with these huge double- doors bolted shut. While the literal interpretation is silly, it was a good life lesson.
In the age of social media, there's this constant fine line between revealing too much about yourself and being a totally private, secretive hermit. I remember reading this spoof about Facebook that classified FB users into types, and one type was the stalker-- the user who would creep up and read statuses and browse photos daily but never contribute a thing. Then of course there was the oversharer-- who, for no good reason, would inform others of a minute- by- minute play book of the day. Of course then you have your fishers-- the ones fishing for attention by writing purposely vague, elusive, seemingly deep and dark statuses like, "I just can't do it anymore..." There were other types too, and the article was funny because as I read it, I thought of people I knew for each category.
All of this sharing on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or Snapchat (I have never even been on the latter two in my life) begs the question: What do you want to show to the world? Where are you closing your doors, if at all? And does it matter? If others think ill or well of you, should you be affected? (Ok, so that's several questions...)
I think back on an episode of Sex and the City (yes, again) in which Carrie obsesses for days about a girl named Nina whom Carrie is convinced is spending her days thinking about how much she hates Carrie. She runs these thoughts by her girlfriends and Stanford, and despite their counsel to get over it, she can't... or won't. Carrie literally trolls around looking for this Nina woman at the end of the episode to explain the circumstances of her break- up and her personal life, launching into a minute- long diatribe when she does locate her. Nina just sort of looks at her quizzically, as if to say, "Why are you talking to me about this crap, psycho lady?" and gives her a quick nod and an "okay." The epiphany comes at that moment for Carrie-- that it doesn't matter what others think, and they aren't thinking about you as often as you believe they are, and all that good stuff. You know, we are our own worst critics.
But that thirty- minute episode, as much as I love the show, definitely wraps that concept up with a pretty bow way too quickly and easily. In real life, we're faced often with questions about our public persona, even if we don't realize. At the end of any day, as humans, we have a natural inclination to want to be likable. And that yearning can make some tasks really challenging.
I use Facebook and generally I enjoy it. As many studies have shown, social media-- particularly FB-- has a way of making people feel bad about themselves because they see these snippets of others' lives and feel envious. "Wow, Jane's kid is just always smiling and laughing. Why isn't mine?" "Geez, Andy and Charlene went to Mexico AGAIN?? All they do is travel. My boring life here sucks." Of course Jane's kid has 6 tantrums a day but Jane doesn't want to put that into her public persona, and Andy and Charlene aren't going to invite you to join in on the twelve arguments they got into about where to stay in Mexico, or the conversation they had with the marriage counselor about how going away might really help things. Most people want to keep that stuff behind closed doors.
And then there are a few FB users who come clean to less- than- desirable shiz all the time. They'll post pics of their toddlers screaming or seagull poop on their beach towel. They'll admit to lots of crappy stuff-- the traffic they sat in this morning, how much they hate their boss, how they can't find a good babysitter... and then, hmmm, it starts bordering on the oversharing or even fishing. Gosh, this FB crap is a slippery slope, eh?
So if all this sharing- or- not is so complicated, why don't we say EFF IT and post away? Some do. some definitely do. I've hidden them from Newsfeed, but they don't know, so they don't care. I did it behind my closed doors.
I've been finding myself lately trying not to overdo it with FB posting, and especially with pictures of my kid doing "amazing" things. I worry it's boring to other people, at a certain point, and people feel like they HAVE to like it or comment on it. With all the "required" liking, FB feels like a chore sometimes! I truly do LIKE seeing cute pictures of my friends' kids doing new activities, or my cousin surfing or my coworker running a tough race. But I have to admit, it would almost be more fun to hear about the massive crap he felt like he had to take the whole time he was running. That status I would definitely LIKE.
Back at square one, but I do have a point. From all the real, behind- the- scenes stories I have heard about seemingly- blissful couples and more- than- amazing jobs, I know that most of what is on Facebook or any other outlet is window dressing. Or it's double- door dressing while other things are going on. But why do we join? And contribute? And keep liking things? And having fun on social media? Because maybe what goes on behind some people's closed doors is just too yucky. Maybe the respite from the dour and the dreary is the perfect pick- me- up, even if it's not reality.
I wish I had the balls to post more of the crappy stuff that happens-- when Mabel pees her pants because I didn't change her diaper for 6 hours or the drain gets stopped up because we let pasta get down it. But the minute- by- minute "this is my life" is scary because I worry it is egotistical. I will admit readily I find comfort in fouls and follies and they are often way more funny than the manufactured sunshiney stuff we get inundated with on Facebook, but I'm convinced nobody cares that much about my day. And they'd start tiring of me. And behind their closed doors, they'd say, "Ugh, she is so self- involved!" and then I'd find out and want to hunt them down at the park in New York City with Stanford.
In the age of social media, there's this constant fine line between revealing too much about yourself and being a totally private, secretive hermit. I remember reading this spoof about Facebook that classified FB users into types, and one type was the stalker-- the user who would creep up and read statuses and browse photos daily but never contribute a thing. Then of course there was the oversharer-- who, for no good reason, would inform others of a minute- by- minute play book of the day. Of course then you have your fishers-- the ones fishing for attention by writing purposely vague, elusive, seemingly deep and dark statuses like, "I just can't do it anymore..." There were other types too, and the article was funny because as I read it, I thought of people I knew for each category.
All of this sharing on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or Snapchat (I have never even been on the latter two in my life) begs the question: What do you want to show to the world? Where are you closing your doors, if at all? And does it matter? If others think ill or well of you, should you be affected? (Ok, so that's several questions...)
I think back on an episode of Sex and the City (yes, again) in which Carrie obsesses for days about a girl named Nina whom Carrie is convinced is spending her days thinking about how much she hates Carrie. She runs these thoughts by her girlfriends and Stanford, and despite their counsel to get over it, she can't... or won't. Carrie literally trolls around looking for this Nina woman at the end of the episode to explain the circumstances of her break- up and her personal life, launching into a minute- long diatribe when she does locate her. Nina just sort of looks at her quizzically, as if to say, "Why are you talking to me about this crap, psycho lady?" and gives her a quick nod and an "okay." The epiphany comes at that moment for Carrie-- that it doesn't matter what others think, and they aren't thinking about you as often as you believe they are, and all that good stuff. You know, we are our own worst critics.
But that thirty- minute episode, as much as I love the show, definitely wraps that concept up with a pretty bow way too quickly and easily. In real life, we're faced often with questions about our public persona, even if we don't realize. At the end of any day, as humans, we have a natural inclination to want to be likable. And that yearning can make some tasks really challenging.
I use Facebook and generally I enjoy it. As many studies have shown, social media-- particularly FB-- has a way of making people feel bad about themselves because they see these snippets of others' lives and feel envious. "Wow, Jane's kid is just always smiling and laughing. Why isn't mine?" "Geez, Andy and Charlene went to Mexico AGAIN?? All they do is travel. My boring life here sucks." Of course Jane's kid has 6 tantrums a day but Jane doesn't want to put that into her public persona, and Andy and Charlene aren't going to invite you to join in on the twelve arguments they got into about where to stay in Mexico, or the conversation they had with the marriage counselor about how going away might really help things. Most people want to keep that stuff behind closed doors.
And then there are a few FB users who come clean to less- than- desirable shiz all the time. They'll post pics of their toddlers screaming or seagull poop on their beach towel. They'll admit to lots of crappy stuff-- the traffic they sat in this morning, how much they hate their boss, how they can't find a good babysitter... and then, hmmm, it starts bordering on the oversharing or even fishing. Gosh, this FB crap is a slippery slope, eh?
So if all this sharing- or- not is so complicated, why don't we say EFF IT and post away? Some do. some definitely do. I've hidden them from Newsfeed, but they don't know, so they don't care. I did it behind my closed doors.
I've been finding myself lately trying not to overdo it with FB posting, and especially with pictures of my kid doing "amazing" things. I worry it's boring to other people, at a certain point, and people feel like they HAVE to like it or comment on it. With all the "required" liking, FB feels like a chore sometimes! I truly do LIKE seeing cute pictures of my friends' kids doing new activities, or my cousin surfing or my coworker running a tough race. But I have to admit, it would almost be more fun to hear about the massive crap he felt like he had to take the whole time he was running. That status I would definitely LIKE.
Back at square one, but I do have a point. From all the real, behind- the- scenes stories I have heard about seemingly- blissful couples and more- than- amazing jobs, I know that most of what is on Facebook or any other outlet is window dressing. Or it's double- door dressing while other things are going on. But why do we join? And contribute? And keep liking things? And having fun on social media? Because maybe what goes on behind some people's closed doors is just too yucky. Maybe the respite from the dour and the dreary is the perfect pick- me- up, even if it's not reality.
I wish I had the balls to post more of the crappy stuff that happens-- when Mabel pees her pants because I didn't change her diaper for 6 hours or the drain gets stopped up because we let pasta get down it. But the minute- by- minute "this is my life" is scary because I worry it is egotistical. I will admit readily I find comfort in fouls and follies and they are often way more funny than the manufactured sunshiney stuff we get inundated with on Facebook, but I'm convinced nobody cares that much about my day. And they'd start tiring of me. And behind their closed doors, they'd say, "Ugh, she is so self- involved!" and then I'd find out and want to hunt them down at the park in New York City with Stanford.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Imagination Station
Mabel has started with much imaginative play and it fascinates the crap out of me. I know that a lot of people would roll their eyes at this, but I just love watching her emulate reality by carrying out a completely fantastical task. One of her favorite things to do is "feed" her animals some milk or juice. She goes from Bun- Bun (her massive rabbit) to her "dodgey" (dog) and offers a nice beverage to each, awkwardly holding the spout up to the stuffed animal's mouth-- or sometimes nose. She laughs really hard when I make a gulping noise in response. I don't know if she thinks she is actually feeding these things, but it is so cute to watch.
Another imaginative act is pretending to pour milk from her sippy into a dry bowl of cheerios. Mabel likes dry cheerios and would make an absolute wreck of a bowl with actual milk. But after seeing me pour milk from a carton into my Cheerios, she now "does" the same. Then she takes a nice big bite using the spoon, and goes, "Mmmmmm." After that, she adds more and more milk as she goes.
A third one is no surprise given Mabel's affinity for "shies" -- AKA shoes. She tries doggedly to put her own shoes on, but now also to put them on any number of dolls and stuffed animals. You know, because her stuffed elephant needs to walk around the house in sneakers or Toms.
Holding the remote up to the TV and pretending to change the channel, or holding a cell phone up to her ear are imaginative things Mabel has been doing for a while. I don't know why, but I took so much more notice when she started imagining to care for her buddies or make her own food. I always wonder what's going on in that little squash of hers, and it's marvelous to get a real glimpse.
Another imaginative act is pretending to pour milk from her sippy into a dry bowl of cheerios. Mabel likes dry cheerios and would make an absolute wreck of a bowl with actual milk. But after seeing me pour milk from a carton into my Cheerios, she now "does" the same. Then she takes a nice big bite using the spoon, and goes, "Mmmmmm." After that, she adds more and more milk as she goes.
A third one is no surprise given Mabel's affinity for "shies" -- AKA shoes. She tries doggedly to put her own shoes on, but now also to put them on any number of dolls and stuffed animals. You know, because her stuffed elephant needs to walk around the house in sneakers or Toms.
Holding the remote up to the TV and pretending to change the channel, or holding a cell phone up to her ear are imaginative things Mabel has been doing for a while. I don't know why, but I took so much more notice when she started imagining to care for her buddies or make her own food. I always wonder what's going on in that little squash of hers, and it's marvelous to get a real glimpse.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Encyclopedia
I hope the concept of the "Encyclopedia of Me" doesn't seem arrogant to readers. It's the exercise my friend is using for class this week to get members minds' jogging and to engender topics for blogging/ other reflective writing. Figured since I was going to write one, I'd put mine here. The idea (which actually came from my good friend C, who uses it in her Creative Writing class at school) is to write a mini- encyclopedia of yourself... You can skip or include whichever letters you wish and can write as much as you want for each entry.
A: Anxiety
No surprise, eh? But the funny thing about it is the range of topics-- from what will happen to my family members in the future to how I'll react if I can't find the mate for one of Mabel's shoes. The woman who originally spearheaded this Encyclopedia of Me thing wrote of her anxiety about vending machines-- how when she is making her choice she has to say "C-4" aloud and be extra careful in pushing the buttons so she doesn't end up with Bugles when she wanted Reese's (or something like that). I laughed aloud because I am the same way. Anxiety is constant-- from the picayune to the grand. I am not going to provide commentary about it or judge it or apologize for it today. I am just going to list it.
B: Beats
I don't have many talents and if you've come to read this blog at all regularly I hope I have made it clear I am not a conceited person. BUT I do have one ability about which I must boast: I have what some have called an uncanny skill in identifying songs right away-- by their first few notes or beats. I would love to be on Name That Tune. Songs can range in genre and period, with my Achilles Heel being country music since I am not a fan. I have played coworkers and my husband in this game and I can't be "beat." :)
C: Catcher
I am lucky to get to teach American Lit because the curriculum houses two of my favorite books, and one of them is The Catcher in the Rye. I never get sick of it, even after 12 years of teaching it. Holden is so lovable and deranged and normal and pitiable and off- putting and sweet and judgmental and vulnerable all at the same time. He is a kid. He is all of us. Beautiful passages abound in that novel-- my favorite being the one about when it rains on Allie's (Holden's kid brother's) grave:
When the weather's nice, my parents go out quite frequently and stick a bunch of flowers on old Allie's grave. I went with them a couple of times, but I cut it out. In the first place, I don't enjoy seeing him in that crazy cemetery. Surrounded by dead guys and tombstones and all. It wasn't too bad when the sun was out, but twice - twice - we were there when it started to rain. It was awful. It rained on his lousy tombstone, and it rained on the grass on his stomach. It rained all over the place. All the visitors that were visiting the cemetery started running like hell over to their cars. That's what nearly drove me crazy. All the visitors could get in their cars and turn on their radios and all and then go someplace nice for dinner - everybody except Allie. I couldn't stand it. I know it's only his body and all that's in the cemetery, and his soul's in Heaven and all that crap, but I couldn't stand it anyway. I just wished he wasn't there (ch. 20).
D: Dogs
I am a dog- lover through and through. I have many friends who own and love cats, and I understand the person- to- pet bond so I can't judge, but I am afraid of cats and don't find them warm or welcoming. I don't understand them and their eyes and sprightliness scare the bejeezus out of me. I mention cats for the contrast. Dogs are consistently sweet, and with the exception of a few aggressive breeds and other dogs that have been mistreated, you never have to fear dogs pouncing on you and scratching your eyes out, as you do with cats. My parents' dog Cam is perhaps the most loyal, kind- hearted animal I have ever been around in my life. When I was going through a difficult time and living with them, his daily greetings and snuggles kept me sane. They truly did. He's now 7.5 and is still the same loving, cuddly big boy. J and I would like to get a dog, but we will settle on cleaning up only human poop and pee for now. A toddler is actually quite like a dog, but more on that some other time. By the way, Holden, in the above entry, is a dog, metaphorically speaking, and so is Gatsby, whom I will get to later. But pet/ person analogies are a topic for another day. Let's just say calling them dogs is a good thing in this context.
F: Friends
Friends, the common noun, are a huge part of my life and I could write a separate blog about each one, thanking them for their awesomeness because I am lucky to have some amazing friends. The word "amazing" gets overused ("Those shoes look amazing!" -- Really, those high- heels have captivated you in a way that, say, a UFO might?) But my friends DO amaze me with how loyal, caring, and unwaveringly supportive they are. This entry, however, is about the proper noun-- the TV show "Friends," which I will argue on paper or orally is the best sit- com of my lifetime so far. I was overjoyed when a student two years ago shared my affinity, as he would have been a toddler when the show started, but he knew and loved the series with the same force I did. More than once I let the class get off track for a few minutes while Dan and I discussed episodes and repeated their best lines. In some of my most anxious hours and on dour days, I feel relief when I find a Friends rerun on TBS because I know I can relax a bit. It's still funny, even though I've probably seen each episode at least 4 or 5 times. I will recommend some favorites here: Rachel's Trifle Dessert/ The Game Show to Win the Apartment/ Phoebe Hates Pottery Barn/ The One Where No One's Ready/ Ross's Tan/ Ross's Teeth/ Monica's Boots/ The 30th Birthdays/ Joey Goes on The Pyramid Show/ and... my all- time favorite--- Phoebe's VERY Happy Boyfriend (Alec Baldwin). I love some newer comedies, such as The Big Bang Theory and Modern Family, but I have not stayed as devoted to those as I was with Friends. The writing, the casting, the New York backdrop-- it all worked divinely.
G: Glasses
I remember a mean girl in junior high squinting at me in class and spitting these words: "Are you EVER not squinting?" She added a "haha" and something to soften the blow like, "It's just too funny! You are always doing that!" But her couching the biting observation with a bit of humor didn't work. It stung. I can still picture the room where we were sitting when she said it, about 22 years ago. I have always been a squinter, but I suppose back then I hoped nobody noticed much. Not sure if I failed the school eye exam or my parents had an inkling I had poor vision, but they had me at the eye doc and in a pair of Wonder Woman brand maroon glasses (I picked them out) by the age of 7. I had a complex about being a four- eyes at that age because none of the other kids in Mrs. Carr's class had glasses. So, I would put them on for whatever chalkboard lesson we were doing, and immediately whip them off when they were no longer necessary. I think rather unwittingly, that routine carried on through high school. As a result, I probably squinted a lot (and do now too). God forbid back in high school I wear those suckers in the corridors. It was bad enough I had to do so to drive and read anything more than about 5 feet away; I wasn't about to subject myself to social cruelty. (It's one of those things that was mostly in my head because by the time high school rolls around, people seem to be over the concept of glasses. In some circles, they are even cool.) But I would wear them sparingly, and I know I missed saying hello to friendly passersby as a consequence. A guy friend asked me once, "Are you just really in the zone in the hallways? 'Cause you look miserable and never say hi." I had to admit to vanity and that I didn't say hello because I physically did not see him.
When you're someone who takes glasses off and puts them on erratically and often, you are bound to lose them. I am totally over any sort of glasses stigma of course as an adult, but I now don't want them on my face if I am reading close- up because I am only near- sighted and it's easier to read close things without them. I also hate the sensation of them sitting on my nose when I am eating. I know it's weird, but I can't stand it. As you can imagine, I have lost more than one pair (and my prescription is expeeeeensive, with an astigmatism and all sorts of other crap going on in my eyes). My coworker gave me one of those librarian chains to wear-- which I loved and did not care a hoot about the old- lady label I'd gain-- but I ended up losing that thing too. I'm fairly organized, but I have lost way too many pairs of glasses and sunglasses (and also a few keys but that's a different topic) than I should have at this juncture. My mom jokes that at least twice a week, someone must be subjected-- whether it's J, my parents, a friend, a coworker-- to the tune of, "Has anyone seen my glasses?" I don't know the cure for my problem. I'm not wearing them now and would like to add I have no idea where they lie.
To Be Continued...
A: Anxiety
No surprise, eh? But the funny thing about it is the range of topics-- from what will happen to my family members in the future to how I'll react if I can't find the mate for one of Mabel's shoes. The woman who originally spearheaded this Encyclopedia of Me thing wrote of her anxiety about vending machines-- how when she is making her choice she has to say "C-4" aloud and be extra careful in pushing the buttons so she doesn't end up with Bugles when she wanted Reese's (or something like that). I laughed aloud because I am the same way. Anxiety is constant-- from the picayune to the grand. I am not going to provide commentary about it or judge it or apologize for it today. I am just going to list it.
B: Beats
I don't have many talents and if you've come to read this blog at all regularly I hope I have made it clear I am not a conceited person. BUT I do have one ability about which I must boast: I have what some have called an uncanny skill in identifying songs right away-- by their first few notes or beats. I would love to be on Name That Tune. Songs can range in genre and period, with my Achilles Heel being country music since I am not a fan. I have played coworkers and my husband in this game and I can't be "beat." :)
C: Catcher
I am lucky to get to teach American Lit because the curriculum houses two of my favorite books, and one of them is The Catcher in the Rye. I never get sick of it, even after 12 years of teaching it. Holden is so lovable and deranged and normal and pitiable and off- putting and sweet and judgmental and vulnerable all at the same time. He is a kid. He is all of us. Beautiful passages abound in that novel-- my favorite being the one about when it rains on Allie's (Holden's kid brother's) grave:
When the weather's nice, my parents go out quite frequently and stick a bunch of flowers on old Allie's grave. I went with them a couple of times, but I cut it out. In the first place, I don't enjoy seeing him in that crazy cemetery. Surrounded by dead guys and tombstones and all. It wasn't too bad when the sun was out, but twice - twice - we were there when it started to rain. It was awful. It rained on his lousy tombstone, and it rained on the grass on his stomach. It rained all over the place. All the visitors that were visiting the cemetery started running like hell over to their cars. That's what nearly drove me crazy. All the visitors could get in their cars and turn on their radios and all and then go someplace nice for dinner - everybody except Allie. I couldn't stand it. I know it's only his body and all that's in the cemetery, and his soul's in Heaven and all that crap, but I couldn't stand it anyway. I just wished he wasn't there (ch. 20).
D: Dogs
I am a dog- lover through and through. I have many friends who own and love cats, and I understand the person- to- pet bond so I can't judge, but I am afraid of cats and don't find them warm or welcoming. I don't understand them and their eyes and sprightliness scare the bejeezus out of me. I mention cats for the contrast. Dogs are consistently sweet, and with the exception of a few aggressive breeds and other dogs that have been mistreated, you never have to fear dogs pouncing on you and scratching your eyes out, as you do with cats. My parents' dog Cam is perhaps the most loyal, kind- hearted animal I have ever been around in my life. When I was going through a difficult time and living with them, his daily greetings and snuggles kept me sane. They truly did. He's now 7.5 and is still the same loving, cuddly big boy. J and I would like to get a dog, but we will settle on cleaning up only human poop and pee for now. A toddler is actually quite like a dog, but more on that some other time. By the way, Holden, in the above entry, is a dog, metaphorically speaking, and so is Gatsby, whom I will get to later. But pet/ person analogies are a topic for another day. Let's just say calling them dogs is a good thing in this context.
F: Friends
Friends, the common noun, are a huge part of my life and I could write a separate blog about each one, thanking them for their awesomeness because I am lucky to have some amazing friends. The word "amazing" gets overused ("Those shoes look amazing!" -- Really, those high- heels have captivated you in a way that, say, a UFO might?) But my friends DO amaze me with how loyal, caring, and unwaveringly supportive they are. This entry, however, is about the proper noun-- the TV show "Friends," which I will argue on paper or orally is the best sit- com of my lifetime so far. I was overjoyed when a student two years ago shared my affinity, as he would have been a toddler when the show started, but he knew and loved the series with the same force I did. More than once I let the class get off track for a few minutes while Dan and I discussed episodes and repeated their best lines. In some of my most anxious hours and on dour days, I feel relief when I find a Friends rerun on TBS because I know I can relax a bit. It's still funny, even though I've probably seen each episode at least 4 or 5 times. I will recommend some favorites here: Rachel's Trifle Dessert/ The Game Show to Win the Apartment/ Phoebe Hates Pottery Barn/ The One Where No One's Ready/ Ross's Tan/ Ross's Teeth/ Monica's Boots/ The 30th Birthdays/ Joey Goes on The Pyramid Show/ and... my all- time favorite--- Phoebe's VERY Happy Boyfriend (Alec Baldwin). I love some newer comedies, such as The Big Bang Theory and Modern Family, but I have not stayed as devoted to those as I was with Friends. The writing, the casting, the New York backdrop-- it all worked divinely.
G: Glasses
I remember a mean girl in junior high squinting at me in class and spitting these words: "Are you EVER not squinting?" She added a "haha" and something to soften the blow like, "It's just too funny! You are always doing that!" But her couching the biting observation with a bit of humor didn't work. It stung. I can still picture the room where we were sitting when she said it, about 22 years ago. I have always been a squinter, but I suppose back then I hoped nobody noticed much. Not sure if I failed the school eye exam or my parents had an inkling I had poor vision, but they had me at the eye doc and in a pair of Wonder Woman brand maroon glasses (I picked them out) by the age of 7. I had a complex about being a four- eyes at that age because none of the other kids in Mrs. Carr's class had glasses. So, I would put them on for whatever chalkboard lesson we were doing, and immediately whip them off when they were no longer necessary. I think rather unwittingly, that routine carried on through high school. As a result, I probably squinted a lot (and do now too). God forbid back in high school I wear those suckers in the corridors. It was bad enough I had to do so to drive and read anything more than about 5 feet away; I wasn't about to subject myself to social cruelty. (It's one of those things that was mostly in my head because by the time high school rolls around, people seem to be over the concept of glasses. In some circles, they are even cool.) But I would wear them sparingly, and I know I missed saying hello to friendly passersby as a consequence. A guy friend asked me once, "Are you just really in the zone in the hallways? 'Cause you look miserable and never say hi." I had to admit to vanity and that I didn't say hello because I physically did not see him.
When you're someone who takes glasses off and puts them on erratically and often, you are bound to lose them. I am totally over any sort of glasses stigma of course as an adult, but I now don't want them on my face if I am reading close- up because I am only near- sighted and it's easier to read close things without them. I also hate the sensation of them sitting on my nose when I am eating. I know it's weird, but I can't stand it. As you can imagine, I have lost more than one pair (and my prescription is expeeeeensive, with an astigmatism and all sorts of other crap going on in my eyes). My coworker gave me one of those librarian chains to wear-- which I loved and did not care a hoot about the old- lady label I'd gain-- but I ended up losing that thing too. I'm fairly organized, but I have lost way too many pairs of glasses and sunglasses (and also a few keys but that's a different topic) than I should have at this juncture. My mom jokes that at least twice a week, someone must be subjected-- whether it's J, my parents, a friend, a coworker-- to the tune of, "Has anyone seen my glasses?" I don't know the cure for my problem. I'm not wearing them now and would like to add I have no idea where they lie.
To Be Continued...
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Un- mechanically Speaking
One thing that is fascinating about having a toddler is watching her build and navigate things, as I have mentioned before. We love seeing Mabel's brain making decisions about how things should look and how to construct things just so. Also, we've been trying to figure out whether she is a leftie or rightie. While Mabel used to do everything with her right hand, lately she has been spooning her food with her left. J is a leftie, and I should have paid better attention in bio class when we did those Punnit or Punnet or Punit or whatever it is squares to figure out the dominance or recessiveness of a gene. I am pretty sure right- handedness is dominant, but I forget how to figure out the likelihood that Mabel is a rightie. It doesn't matter anyway-- it's fun to guess.
As we watch Mabel engineer various projects with her toys, I wonder if she will eventually inherit my mechanical skill-- which is really no skill at all. I get nervous about even the smallest put- this- together- task. It's pathetic, really.
Some say you just need patience to put things together, but I don't think that's all. I'm patient when I research, and when I read, or have to find some product online. Even when I am following driving directions or trying to find my way without them, I am patient. In fact, I am pretty good at negotiating my way around places I don't know. I have found various short- cuts in almost every neighborhood where I have lived because I enjoy doing so. The open road seems so different from the rug at home where I have 27 pieces of a bookcase staring at me glumly. Yup, being mechanical is a totally different story. I lack patience there, but I also lack ability. I truly think it's a DISability.
We have two car seats-- one for each car-- and I cannot for the life of me figure out how to set either one up or remove it. I take one look at that LATCH system in the car, and one look at the belts and tethers and the what- have - yous and I just give up. I don't even try. But I should learn. I am afraid of car seats and I am a mother. It's no good.
And that's just the issue-- the looking at the item initially. Upon first glance, J seems to already find assembling things intriguing and fun while I just get angry. He doesn't mind manuals (while I can't even follow the pictures, let alone the verbal descriptions of "attach piece one to insert 2 while holding cylinder 3 into disc 4.") But even better, he likes to put things together without the manuals-- and he checks after to make sure it's right. And it is. It seems so obvious when he expresses, "Well, this piece has to go there" but I would never make that same observation on my own.
As Mabel gets older, there are more and more things have require assembly. And even non- baby things need it too-- I bought a floor lamp today that has these shelves. It came in about 48 pieces; I opened the box, cringed, and put it to the side. Naturally, J will figure it out tonight in a jiffy.
And let me point out that I don't for a second believe this issue has anything at all to do with gender. My mom is a whiz with assembly-- and she loves it, to boot. She put together more than a few Ikea gems for me when I was living on my own-- no easy task if you've seen an Ikea manual. She has her own tools and a drill and gets right up there to install brackets and curtain rods and what not-- I have to invite her over and bribe her with lunch when I need that stuff done and I don't want to bug J yet again.
So, will Mabel be like her dad and Nana, or like her sad- sack Mom who is mechanically disinclined? So far she seems into the whole mechanical process, but give her one day down the road where a Barbie leg falls off and she has to fit it back into the pelvis. I hope she does better than I.
As we watch Mabel engineer various projects with her toys, I wonder if she will eventually inherit my mechanical skill-- which is really no skill at all. I get nervous about even the smallest put- this- together- task. It's pathetic, really.
Some say you just need patience to put things together, but I don't think that's all. I'm patient when I research, and when I read, or have to find some product online. Even when I am following driving directions or trying to find my way without them, I am patient. In fact, I am pretty good at negotiating my way around places I don't know. I have found various short- cuts in almost every neighborhood where I have lived because I enjoy doing so. The open road seems so different from the rug at home where I have 27 pieces of a bookcase staring at me glumly. Yup, being mechanical is a totally different story. I lack patience there, but I also lack ability. I truly think it's a DISability.
We have two car seats-- one for each car-- and I cannot for the life of me figure out how to set either one up or remove it. I take one look at that LATCH system in the car, and one look at the belts and tethers and the what- have - yous and I just give up. I don't even try. But I should learn. I am afraid of car seats and I am a mother. It's no good.
And that's just the issue-- the looking at the item initially. Upon first glance, J seems to already find assembling things intriguing and fun while I just get angry. He doesn't mind manuals (while I can't even follow the pictures, let alone the verbal descriptions of "attach piece one to insert 2 while holding cylinder 3 into disc 4.") But even better, he likes to put things together without the manuals-- and he checks after to make sure it's right. And it is. It seems so obvious when he expresses, "Well, this piece has to go there" but I would never make that same observation on my own.
As Mabel gets older, there are more and more things have require assembly. And even non- baby things need it too-- I bought a floor lamp today that has these shelves. It came in about 48 pieces; I opened the box, cringed, and put it to the side. Naturally, J will figure it out tonight in a jiffy.
And let me point out that I don't for a second believe this issue has anything at all to do with gender. My mom is a whiz with assembly-- and she loves it, to boot. She put together more than a few Ikea gems for me when I was living on my own-- no easy task if you've seen an Ikea manual. She has her own tools and a drill and gets right up there to install brackets and curtain rods and what not-- I have to invite her over and bribe her with lunch when I need that stuff done and I don't want to bug J yet again.
So, will Mabel be like her dad and Nana, or like her sad- sack Mom who is mechanically disinclined? So far she seems into the whole mechanical process, but give her one day down the road where a Barbie leg falls off and she has to fit it back into the pelvis. I hope she does better than I.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
SAHM
I have to come right out and admit I have been struggling a little with the whole stay- at- home mom thing this summer. Not struggling with being here-- I am enjoying the time away from work that I get to spend with Mabel, seeing her dance to any song that comes on the TV (her newest move is a squat up- and- down, but she also loves the sway, the twirl- in- circles [making her quite dizzy and looking like a drunk], and the happy feet jog) and watching her explore and figure out new things. Yesterday I watched her make a tower out of stacking cubes for a solid fifteen minutes. She easily made a tower, but the perfectionist in her made her go back and rearrange the cubes over and over until they were in the correct order of size. I really do love having this time.
But maybe I love it because I know it isn't permanent-- I savor it more as a result. I find the navigation of being a SAHM, as they call it, somewhat difficult because the parameters aren't clear. People who are permanent SAHMs will laugh at this post, but for a newbie, it's hard.
I'm not sure how much time I am supposed to spend cleaning or playing with Mabel or making dinner or resting/ hanging. I feel guilty when I rest/ hang, but then sometimes I feel like I am SUPPOSED to do that a little when she naps so that I can rejuvenate. I feel like I am SUPPOSED to cook dinner and have it ready for J (he has never demanded such a thing, but I impose it on myself), but then I feel guilty when I get annoyed at Mabel for hanging on me when I am cooking. Am I supposed to be JUST tending to her, or to house stuff too? Am I supposed to pretend she is my day job, like teaching normally is, and still do the cleaning and other house chores in the evenings or at times I would normally do them? It's all very weird in terms of the shoulds.
I hate shoulds because they are always relative and according to some person's standards. I know I have a Type- A personality, but that doesn't mean I want to clean and organize and be stressed and anxious every second of the day. That's Monica on Friends, and she was a caricature more or less. Nobody is THAT Type- A. It's funny because I am very Type- A about some things around this house (J laughs at me because anything of Mabel's that is a set [ blocks/ her board book collection/ stacking cubes] I must put away perfectly before I go to bed. I must have some crazy latent fear that one piece will go missing and the world will turn to anarchy!) But today I vacuumed my car and realized I am most definitely not Type- A with that. I am horrified to say I don't know when the last time was I did that. But the vacuuming around here gets done daily. Mabel throws so much food that I pull that Dyson sucker out daily. Some things just take greater priority over others.
And so as a SAHM, I am having trouble prioritizing. It's a First- World problem, and I am absolutely not asking for sympathy. I'm merely making an observation. I don't know how to be a SAHM. And part of me feels really, really bad about that. Because it makes me feel I am lacking some gene. I am inept to be a SAHM.
I've made it work for a month, and I'm not effing anything up majorly or anything. I just feel like I could always be doing more in some department-- either for Mabel or the house or school (yes, teachers do work in the summer when we are "off"-- AKA on unpaid leave). I know I tend to be hard on myself-- I've been told that in many situations and facets of my life. But this one has got me. I knew I didn't really WANT to be a SAHM.... but I didn't think I would feel so eluded by it.
If you're home everyday with your kids for the foreseeable future, I'm sure you get involved in all sorts of activities. Playgroups and playgrounds becomes part of the weekly schedule, and I know I could handle that. I didn't sign Mabel up for anything this year because she's not even 18- months- old, and I, selfishly, wanted to maximize time with her. I looked at a mom- and- tot swim class at the pool up the road, but the class for her age group was on Saturdays, which J and I decided to keep clear for jaunts to the beach etc. I am going to bring her to Story Hour on some rainy Tuesday morning, but other than that we are just hanging out. She is my companion for all errands and my date for all outings. It's been wonderful, but I hope I am doing what I should be.... according to that big book of shoulds that must exist somewhere.
But maybe I love it because I know it isn't permanent-- I savor it more as a result. I find the navigation of being a SAHM, as they call it, somewhat difficult because the parameters aren't clear. People who are permanent SAHMs will laugh at this post, but for a newbie, it's hard.
I'm not sure how much time I am supposed to spend cleaning or playing with Mabel or making dinner or resting/ hanging. I feel guilty when I rest/ hang, but then sometimes I feel like I am SUPPOSED to do that a little when she naps so that I can rejuvenate. I feel like I am SUPPOSED to cook dinner and have it ready for J (he has never demanded such a thing, but I impose it on myself), but then I feel guilty when I get annoyed at Mabel for hanging on me when I am cooking. Am I supposed to be JUST tending to her, or to house stuff too? Am I supposed to pretend she is my day job, like teaching normally is, and still do the cleaning and other house chores in the evenings or at times I would normally do them? It's all very weird in terms of the shoulds.
I hate shoulds because they are always relative and according to some person's standards. I know I have a Type- A personality, but that doesn't mean I want to clean and organize and be stressed and anxious every second of the day. That's Monica on Friends, and she was a caricature more or less. Nobody is THAT Type- A. It's funny because I am very Type- A about some things around this house (J laughs at me because anything of Mabel's that is a set [ blocks/ her board book collection/ stacking cubes] I must put away perfectly before I go to bed. I must have some crazy latent fear that one piece will go missing and the world will turn to anarchy!) But today I vacuumed my car and realized I am most definitely not Type- A with that. I am horrified to say I don't know when the last time was I did that. But the vacuuming around here gets done daily. Mabel throws so much food that I pull that Dyson sucker out daily. Some things just take greater priority over others.
And so as a SAHM, I am having trouble prioritizing. It's a First- World problem, and I am absolutely not asking for sympathy. I'm merely making an observation. I don't know how to be a SAHM. And part of me feels really, really bad about that. Because it makes me feel I am lacking some gene. I am inept to be a SAHM.
I've made it work for a month, and I'm not effing anything up majorly or anything. I just feel like I could always be doing more in some department-- either for Mabel or the house or school (yes, teachers do work in the summer when we are "off"-- AKA on unpaid leave). I know I tend to be hard on myself-- I've been told that in many situations and facets of my life. But this one has got me. I knew I didn't really WANT to be a SAHM.... but I didn't think I would feel so eluded by it.
If you're home everyday with your kids for the foreseeable future, I'm sure you get involved in all sorts of activities. Playgroups and playgrounds becomes part of the weekly schedule, and I know I could handle that. I didn't sign Mabel up for anything this year because she's not even 18- months- old, and I, selfishly, wanted to maximize time with her. I looked at a mom- and- tot swim class at the pool up the road, but the class for her age group was on Saturdays, which J and I decided to keep clear for jaunts to the beach etc. I am going to bring her to Story Hour on some rainy Tuesday morning, but other than that we are just hanging out. She is my companion for all errands and my date for all outings. It's been wonderful, but I hope I am doing what I should be.... according to that big book of shoulds that must exist somewhere.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
The Bod and the Bags and the Boobs, Plus Other Concerns
The other night I went to dinner with some friends and we were lamenting the fact that a few of us have started to wear and embrace the tankini. It got me thinking not just about my post- baby delivery body, but about my weird age in terms of body stuff.
I feel that at 34 I am sort of at the precipice of wearing lame attire. Remember that ad for "mom jeans" that SNL did as a spoof? I still cringe at the idea of those high- waisted nightmares. But I wonder if I look ridiculous in low- rise now, and if I don't, will I soon?
I am so torn on this because I know plenty of people my age who still rock bikinis and look awesome. And then there's, say, Jennifer Aniston who is like 44 or something and can wear nipple- covers and a thong and look incredible. But I know I don't have the body that these peeps have. I'm not overweight, and I have a skinny bone structure. But I don't work out much anymore. Alas, my body is going to shiz. I've been noticing a gradual change for the past few years, but as of very recently, the ick factor seems to have heightened. I'm not about to blame all this on delivering Mabel, because it was almost 17 months ago, and Sarah Jessica Parker had her pre- baby body back 3 weeks after she gave birth. But I do bet that having a kid makes the come- back harder. Boobs, hips, and even thighs have taken a big plunge into yuck- ville from having been pregnant, and they don't seem to want to bounce back completely. I do have to say the bod has bounced back better than I thought it would, but of course I notice the differences. If I am being honest, though, it's my 25- year- old body I wish I could get back--- not my 32- year- old pre- Mabel form.
And what's funny is that I never realized I had a decent body when I was 25. Trust me, I am not claiming for a moment that I ever looked like Aniston or even close to it, but I didn't have extra skin. My boobs were way perkier, and my legs were far more toned. It's true that youth is wasted on the young because all I ever did then was inwardly complain about how I looked in a swimsuit. My, to have a DeLorean and go back.
It's not just the body either. Lately, it's the mug. I have to take a big step down from my soap box because I used to scoff at people who got Botox and stuff like that to look younger. "That is so, so vain," I would think. But now I know a few people who have gotten injections and really, they look fabulous. Now I'm not saying I am going to run out and spend 300 bucks a pop on Botox for my wrinkled forehead, but I am moving further and further away from thinking it's a terrible idea. I think people need to do what makes them feel good. For me, getting any kind of plastic surgery-- going under a knife for vanity's sake-- would not make me feel good. So THAT'S not for me. But who am I to judge others, if that's what they want to do? It sucks that as humans our self- confidence is a little tied to our looks.
So if I am not going to get any kinds of treatments, I am stuck trying to minimize crow's feet and other unsightly wrinkles using products I can buy. And most are just full of chemicals, and then THAT makes me nervous. No winning! Where do we draw the line between vain and happy, between dangerous and confidence- boosting?
All this questioning reminds me of when I was pregnant with Mabel. I wasn't sure whether it was safe to get my hair dyed, but I was already sprouting many grey hairs. I consulted several friends who had already had kids and who I knew colored their hair. I ended up deciding to go for it, but used foils only during the first trimester and then spaced appointments out a little more than usual. When I told this plan to a coworker, who does not yet have ANY greys and is older than me, she said, "Or what if you just went natural? Like just do grey and then that's YOUR thing? You've got the greys!" I looked at her probably really bitchily, because I was thinking, "Are you effing serious?? I am 32- frickin'- years- old." I paused and instead just said I wasn't ready for that yet, but truth be told, I will likely not be there for a long, long time. I work with another lady who looks gorgeous with a head of silver hair, but in all honesty, when I met her I thought she was about 15 years older than she was.
I'm not sure why I care. What is the inborn thing that is telling me I can't be grey? I suppose it's society and all that marketing, yadda- yadda. But I hate myself a little when I find myself having vain thoughts. It feels so arrogant and self- absorbed.
I went a few weeks ago to Nordstrom to get some concealer that would work well for the crow's feet (high school and college girls-- it's NOT worth it to have a tan face. Wear your SPF-- pleeease!). The guy at the counter asked what I needed, and when I told him, he said, "Oh, yeah, and for the bags, too?" Ok, so I guess I have bags under the eyes as well. Thanks, dick! But he was right. I have to admit it. And the make- up I got works to a point, but at the end of the day I have the lines and some sun- spots and a host of other fun blemishes. I'm trying to make peace with them for now. Maybe if I give them pet names I will come to adore them.
I feel that at 34 I am sort of at the precipice of wearing lame attire. Remember that ad for "mom jeans" that SNL did as a spoof? I still cringe at the idea of those high- waisted nightmares. But I wonder if I look ridiculous in low- rise now, and if I don't, will I soon?
I am so torn on this because I know plenty of people my age who still rock bikinis and look awesome. And then there's, say, Jennifer Aniston who is like 44 or something and can wear nipple- covers and a thong and look incredible. But I know I don't have the body that these peeps have. I'm not overweight, and I have a skinny bone structure. But I don't work out much anymore. Alas, my body is going to shiz. I've been noticing a gradual change for the past few years, but as of very recently, the ick factor seems to have heightened. I'm not about to blame all this on delivering Mabel, because it was almost 17 months ago, and Sarah Jessica Parker had her pre- baby body back 3 weeks after she gave birth. But I do bet that having a kid makes the come- back harder. Boobs, hips, and even thighs have taken a big plunge into yuck- ville from having been pregnant, and they don't seem to want to bounce back completely. I do have to say the bod has bounced back better than I thought it would, but of course I notice the differences. If I am being honest, though, it's my 25- year- old body I wish I could get back--- not my 32- year- old pre- Mabel form.
And what's funny is that I never realized I had a decent body when I was 25. Trust me, I am not claiming for a moment that I ever looked like Aniston or even close to it, but I didn't have extra skin. My boobs were way perkier, and my legs were far more toned. It's true that youth is wasted on the young because all I ever did then was inwardly complain about how I looked in a swimsuit. My, to have a DeLorean and go back.
It's not just the body either. Lately, it's the mug. I have to take a big step down from my soap box because I used to scoff at people who got Botox and stuff like that to look younger. "That is so, so vain," I would think. But now I know a few people who have gotten injections and really, they look fabulous. Now I'm not saying I am going to run out and spend 300 bucks a pop on Botox for my wrinkled forehead, but I am moving further and further away from thinking it's a terrible idea. I think people need to do what makes them feel good. For me, getting any kind of plastic surgery-- going under a knife for vanity's sake-- would not make me feel good. So THAT'S not for me. But who am I to judge others, if that's what they want to do? It sucks that as humans our self- confidence is a little tied to our looks.
So if I am not going to get any kinds of treatments, I am stuck trying to minimize crow's feet and other unsightly wrinkles using products I can buy. And most are just full of chemicals, and then THAT makes me nervous. No winning! Where do we draw the line between vain and happy, between dangerous and confidence- boosting?
All this questioning reminds me of when I was pregnant with Mabel. I wasn't sure whether it was safe to get my hair dyed, but I was already sprouting many grey hairs. I consulted several friends who had already had kids and who I knew colored their hair. I ended up deciding to go for it, but used foils only during the first trimester and then spaced appointments out a little more than usual. When I told this plan to a coworker, who does not yet have ANY greys and is older than me, she said, "Or what if you just went natural? Like just do grey and then that's YOUR thing? You've got the greys!" I looked at her probably really bitchily, because I was thinking, "Are you effing serious?? I am 32- frickin'- years- old." I paused and instead just said I wasn't ready for that yet, but truth be told, I will likely not be there for a long, long time. I work with another lady who looks gorgeous with a head of silver hair, but in all honesty, when I met her I thought she was about 15 years older than she was.
I'm not sure why I care. What is the inborn thing that is telling me I can't be grey? I suppose it's society and all that marketing, yadda- yadda. But I hate myself a little when I find myself having vain thoughts. It feels so arrogant and self- absorbed.
I went a few weeks ago to Nordstrom to get some concealer that would work well for the crow's feet (high school and college girls-- it's NOT worth it to have a tan face. Wear your SPF-- pleeease!). The guy at the counter asked what I needed, and when I told him, he said, "Oh, yeah, and for the bags, too?" Ok, so I guess I have bags under the eyes as well. Thanks, dick! But he was right. I have to admit it. And the make- up I got works to a point, but at the end of the day I have the lines and some sun- spots and a host of other fun blemishes. I'm trying to make peace with them for now. Maybe if I give them pet names I will come to adore them.
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