I watched something stunning the other day, and I've been replaying it in my mind ever since. It's one of those quiet moments people don't tend to talk about, but that I think moms have been quietly marveling over for eons.
In the run-up to kindergarten, I was extremely concerned about Abby. When she went into her preschool two years ago, she was so painfully shy that it took months for her to become comfortable there. The class photo of her first year shows her standing to the side, unwilling to be part of the group shot, her leg poised to rocket her away from the scene as soon as the shutter clicks. By a year later, she was front and center, criss-cross applesauce, surrounded by true friends. The journey from photo one to photo two felt endless.
She had been resisting kindergarten with all her energy. She mourned the smallness of its playstructure; I worried that she wouldn't make it through the day with shoes on, a fear I later learned I shared with almost every parent from our co-op. The shoes! What about the shoes? Friends, I blush to admit that she was still nursing to sleep at the beginning of the summer, something I myself resisted mightily (and guiltily) but that she fiercely clung to, as she had clung to her diapers two years earlier. I went with the same irritated logic -- that nobody goes off to college doing _______ -- and was rewarded both times with eventual cooperation. This time, I fibbed, at first, that the milk was gone, and she looked up at me with big brown sad eyes and asked, "for real? can I check?" and found that I was "mistaken." A month or two later, I distracted her for a number of days in a row, and by the time she tried again, she declared, "It's gone, mama! You need to go drink some milk right now!" "No, honey, it doesn't work that way -- it's gone," and hugged her. No tears. No mourning. Just hugs.
Of course, now she has to figure out how to get to sleep on her own -- which is difficult, as it was for her mom. Is for her mom. Yeesh.
Anywho, all this is to say that a month ago, she didn't know a letter from a number -- in contrast to her sister, who picked up reading as easily as breathing -- and I was fretting my face off, worried that she would feel frustrated, embarrassed, envious. She mentioned often that "Penny can read but I can not," and played it off like it was NBD, but man, it bugged her.
She's been in school about a month, and this week she is Student of the Week, which means she has to fill out a poster that's basically a giant form with questions about her favorite food, her family, her interests. I noticed that she was already able to write letters as long as I told her which one was next. But when we got to the name of our dog, I said, "Remember you were looking at Penny's get-ready chart? Lulu's name is on it, and it's a pattern, remember?" She ran over to the wall where the chart was, and found Lulu's name easily, then ran back and forth looking at L ... U ... L ... U. Her hummingbird heart racing, her body crackling with energy and heat. She had it. She had this.
Flashback to last summer at our friend's pool. After weeks of lessons, Penny still couldn't put it all together, till she spent the afternoon watching Moses flit through the water. Just as everyone else went inside, in a flash she pushed away from me and swam across the pool under the water. Just like that. And then again, and again, and in a different way, and now trying this and that. It was the same, her body energized with her brain's discovery. Long after everyone else had gone inside for dinner, she and I stayed in the pool, shivering, until she had sated that need to feel her body doing that new thing, till it was muscle memory and she could leave it for the night, unable to wait till morning for the next chance to try it out.
So rarely have I felt that switch in my own mind, but how precious the memory. Watching it is such a privilege, and reminds me that my job isn't to pull them along, but to clear the way for them to do their things. So. Freaking. Cool.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Pregnancy Loss Awareness Day
I'm still totally disconnected from my miscarriage. That is, I know it hurts the way you know your gums hurt as you run your tongue over them when the novacaine is still working. I cried over it, but it was like watching someone else cry and thinking, "that must be a relief."
The problem was that my miscarriage was so unintentionally hilarious, as such events often are in my family. Since I was 41 years old, breastfeeding, and had needed various reproductive technologies to achieve the 11 month old toddler on my hands, I was completely blindsided by this pregnancy, and felt distracted as I went about my day-to-day, booking my first appointment with my O.B. via whispered phone conversations in my cubicle. It felt unreal. I told my sister, my husband, and two work friends -- that's it.
So when the bleeding started, I told myself you can spot when you're pregnant, but it didn't stop. I had a nightmarish day at a bowling alley, pretending everything was okay as I chased my daughter out of the lanes, but it wasn't stopping; we tried to figure out how and when I could go to the ER without alerting my stepkids to a possible disaster. We finally settled on a plausible enough story about a bladder infection.
At the hospital, well ... the usual happened. Nobody from my OB practice showed up, because they are pretty much assholes. I explained my story to several people, but the information was never relayed to anyone else. "I'm pregnant. I am still nursing a baby at home and she's going to be hungry at 11pm." These two pieces of information baffled everyone: Was I talking about my baby in the present tense because I was pregnant? A nurse gave me a pregnancy test and told me I was pregnant, and began talking to me about What Pregnancy Is. I said yes, I know that: I think I'm having a miscarriage. She said, you knew you were pregnant? Then why are you here? BECAUSE I AM BLEEDING. Oh.
It was hours between each medical person coming in, and in retrospect I didn't need to be in the ER -- I was having a miscarriage, not a heart attack. But I didn't know that at the time. I was bleeding and ... see? I'm still second-guessing that ER visit. My sister, heavily pregnant, came to sit with me against my better judgement, and I fretted that she would catch something from the tubercular-sounding woman on the other side of the curtain from me, who was getting lectured by a doctor because she kept coming into the ER instead of going into drug treatment. I texted with a friend back East who understood exactly what was happening. I sat and sat and sat.
Oh, and one other thing: When I arrived at the hospital, I went to have a pee, and something huge came out of me -- huge enough to make me yell "Oh, holy SHIT!" -- and landed in my maxi pad. I'll spare you a description. It was a large, weird clot and I thought this would be valuable information. I folded the maxi-pad gently and put it in my pocket. I tried to show that stupid maxi-pad mess to everyone who walked into the room -- the nurse who gave me the pregnancy test, the doctor who was called out of the room mid-sentence, the ultrasound technician who couldn't find the baby but didn't know what to tell me -- and everyone was like "yeah, I'll have a look at that."
Finally, at about 2am, the ER was calm enough for the totally baffled doctor to focus. He was busily telling me that this happens all the time, you can't find the heartbeat because the baby's too small but my blood test indicated pregnancy so I was probably fine and should see my OB in the morning ... "Just one more thing," I said, Columbo-style, and pulled out the awful bundle from my pocket.
"Oh," he said, crestfallen.
"Uh-oh," I said.
"That's ... that's your pregnancy."
"You're sure? I don't see a baby in there. I looked."
"I'm sure. The baby was probably not viable for a while and didn't grow beyond ... " His eyes flickered to mine for the first time. "You said you're 41? Was this -- did you undergo fertility treatments to get this pregnancy? Is this --"
I cut him off. "It's okay," I told him. "I have a baby at home. This was a surprise. I'm okay."
He visibly relaxed. I felt like I should hug him, but there was one problem.
"I'm gonna put my pants on now, okay?"
I mean, it was just ridiculous. All those hours and I could have turned right around the minute I got there. Not blaming the ER -- they had bigger fish to fry. It was the absurdity of it all: me standing there pantsless holding a bloody maxi-pad.
I thought I was fine. I cried exactly twice: once when my mom made a well-meaning ill-timed comment, and once when my daughter fell off the bed and I blamed myself for obsessing over the miscarriage when I had this actual baby to actually care for. Which is, you know: it's the thing we do to ourselves, deny ourselves mourning because we should be tougher.
But I went into a frozen state and logged off almost all social media for about 4 months, which is -- if you know me -- insane. So it's doubly odd that I was surprised to find out, 5 months later, that I was 11 weeks pregnant. Odd? It's ... absurd.
The problem was that my miscarriage was so unintentionally hilarious, as such events often are in my family. Since I was 41 years old, breastfeeding, and had needed various reproductive technologies to achieve the 11 month old toddler on my hands, I was completely blindsided by this pregnancy, and felt distracted as I went about my day-to-day, booking my first appointment with my O.B. via whispered phone conversations in my cubicle. It felt unreal. I told my sister, my husband, and two work friends -- that's it.
So when the bleeding started, I told myself you can spot when you're pregnant, but it didn't stop. I had a nightmarish day at a bowling alley, pretending everything was okay as I chased my daughter out of the lanes, but it wasn't stopping; we tried to figure out how and when I could go to the ER without alerting my stepkids to a possible disaster. We finally settled on a plausible enough story about a bladder infection.
At the hospital, well ... the usual happened. Nobody from my OB practice showed up, because they are pretty much assholes. I explained my story to several people, but the information was never relayed to anyone else. "I'm pregnant. I am still nursing a baby at home and she's going to be hungry at 11pm." These two pieces of information baffled everyone: Was I talking about my baby in the present tense because I was pregnant? A nurse gave me a pregnancy test and told me I was pregnant, and began talking to me about What Pregnancy Is. I said yes, I know that: I think I'm having a miscarriage. She said, you knew you were pregnant? Then why are you here? BECAUSE I AM BLEEDING. Oh.
It was hours between each medical person coming in, and in retrospect I didn't need to be in the ER -- I was having a miscarriage, not a heart attack. But I didn't know that at the time. I was bleeding and ... see? I'm still second-guessing that ER visit. My sister, heavily pregnant, came to sit with me against my better judgement, and I fretted that she would catch something from the tubercular-sounding woman on the other side of the curtain from me, who was getting lectured by a doctor because she kept coming into the ER instead of going into drug treatment. I texted with a friend back East who understood exactly what was happening. I sat and sat and sat.
Oh, and one other thing: When I arrived at the hospital, I went to have a pee, and something huge came out of me -- huge enough to make me yell "Oh, holy SHIT!" -- and landed in my maxi pad. I'll spare you a description. It was a large, weird clot and I thought this would be valuable information. I folded the maxi-pad gently and put it in my pocket. I tried to show that stupid maxi-pad mess to everyone who walked into the room -- the nurse who gave me the pregnancy test, the doctor who was called out of the room mid-sentence, the ultrasound technician who couldn't find the baby but didn't know what to tell me -- and everyone was like "yeah, I'll have a look at that."
Finally, at about 2am, the ER was calm enough for the totally baffled doctor to focus. He was busily telling me that this happens all the time, you can't find the heartbeat because the baby's too small but my blood test indicated pregnancy so I was probably fine and should see my OB in the morning ... "Just one more thing," I said, Columbo-style, and pulled out the awful bundle from my pocket.
"Oh," he said, crestfallen.
"Uh-oh," I said.
"That's ... that's your pregnancy."
"You're sure? I don't see a baby in there. I looked."
"I'm sure. The baby was probably not viable for a while and didn't grow beyond ... " His eyes flickered to mine for the first time. "You said you're 41? Was this -- did you undergo fertility treatments to get this pregnancy? Is this --"
I cut him off. "It's okay," I told him. "I have a baby at home. This was a surprise. I'm okay."
He visibly relaxed. I felt like I should hug him, but there was one problem.
"I'm gonna put my pants on now, okay?"
I mean, it was just ridiculous. All those hours and I could have turned right around the minute I got there. Not blaming the ER -- they had bigger fish to fry. It was the absurdity of it all: me standing there pantsless holding a bloody maxi-pad.
I thought I was fine. I cried exactly twice: once when my mom made a well-meaning ill-timed comment, and once when my daughter fell off the bed and I blamed myself for obsessing over the miscarriage when I had this actual baby to actually care for. Which is, you know: it's the thing we do to ourselves, deny ourselves mourning because we should be tougher.
But I went into a frozen state and logged off almost all social media for about 4 months, which is -- if you know me -- insane. So it's doubly odd that I was surprised to find out, 5 months later, that I was 11 weeks pregnant. Odd? It's ... absurd.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Penny to Randy, just now, out of the blue: You took Mommy to the hospital and she was crying because she didn't want me to come out.
Randy: what are you ... what?!
Me, overhearing from office: Did I tell you that story?
Penny: No, I really, really saw you when I was inside your tummy. You were crying.
Me: So why did you come out?
Penny: Because it was so, so hot in there.
Me: It was too hot? And then you had to stay in the hospital for such a long time after that!
Penny, forehead wrinkling in dismay: Why?
Me: Because you were so, so little and you had to finish growing! That's why I was crying, I was worried about you.
Doorbell rings, dog barks, conversation ends. WHAAAA!
Randy: what are you ... what?!
Me, overhearing from office: Did I tell you that story?
Penny: No, I really, really saw you when I was inside your tummy. You were crying.
Me: So why did you come out?
Penny: Because it was so, so hot in there.
Me: It was too hot? And then you had to stay in the hospital for such a long time after that!
Penny, forehead wrinkling in dismay: Why?
Me: Because you were so, so little and you had to finish growing! That's why I was crying, I was worried about you.
Doorbell rings, dog barks, conversation ends. WHAAAA!
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
"My Ear Is Broken!"
I sent this email out to the fam on March 4:
So we had some interesting news today! Everything is fine, nothing catastrophic. But it looks like Penelope is just about deaf in her right ear, and probably has been since birth.
When she had her 4 year checkup, she flunked her hearing test. We waited a month and had her do it again at Abby's next checkup to make sure it wasn't a weird fluke, same results. So we went to the UCSF Audiology Clinic, and they did a 75-minute test on her today. She was, of course, poised and wonderful and a very brave little champ -- the doctor, Dr. Lau, actually said that most kids her age don't have the attention span for the test, but she did.
They did three levels of testing: they looked in her ear and found no structural damage; they did a second test that somehow checked what was getting through without her having to do anything, and it confirmed that she wasn't hearing with her right ear; and she did a rather long, involved third test that required her to wear earbuds and answer commands into each ear, and also to do the same while wearing something that stimulated her inner ear by feeling rather than sound (?!?!) to see just how damaged the area was.
What the dr. told us was that the mechanics of her ear are fine -- her eardum is intact, there's no fluid. The damage seems to be nerve/cellular damage to the inner ear most likely due to prematurity, either because she was on the ventilator (only for a day or two!!) or just due to the extra stress of those weeks in the NICU. It is not reversible, it is not treatable, but nor is it degenerative. She has absolutely perfect hearing in her left ear (in fact, I noticed she has perfect pitch, not to brag but what can I say, it's true).
The level of deafness is not "profound," but it is "severe." This clinic does not like to deal in percentages,, though of course I tried to pin them down to one, but what the dr. told me was that normal speaking is 50-60 decibels, and she can only hear in the right ear at 90 decibels.
Well, but the good news is, she CAN hear in the right ear at 90 decibels, so a hearing aid will work for her, and will be covered under MediCal (most likely). In the past, they didn't bother with a hearing aid for kids who had this kind of hearing loss, but that around 3rd grade they noticed kids falling behind because the extra effort of hearing everything in the classroom finally started to affect their performance. So if she has a hearing aid starting now, before kindergarten, she will not have that deficit, will be able to hear normally as long as she wears it.
Next steps: she will see an ENT to verify that the damage isn't progressive and get more of an idea of exactly what is wrong, and will have a second audiology screening to verify the results we got today. At the second audiology screening we will also have a hearing-aid consultation and the options will be explained to us. This will happen in early May and Randy will be able to come to the appointment as well (Abe will be in school).
Eli pointed out that this is no different than finding out she has to wear glasses, and I think he is quite right about that. She's nowhere near deaf or impaired in any way, and if this is the worst outcome of her prematurity, I think we really got off cheap.
Anyway, wanted you all to know. Penny is VERY excited that she and Grandpa Harry "will match," and is really looking forward to sharing with him about the "ear bud" she will be wearing. Her FIRST question about it was "can I get one that is pink?" and then I explained it to her as being a very small speaker that will help her hear in the ear that is stuffy. She also told me that when she grows up she wants to be "a girl doctor who only does ears," like Dr. Lao. She is a very cool character, and I am very lucky to be her mom.
Abby is fine, completely un-deaf and having a great time at school. :)
Thursday, March 7, 2013
iPhone Haters Gonna Hate, Sanctimommies Gonna Sanct
So this kind of thing keeps coming across my transom:
https://www.facebook.com/marshall.miller.988/posts/565842876759721
http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/dont-text-around-your-kids/
And I have this to say:
Dear other parent who has no idea what I'm doing on my iPhone:
I was awakened at 5:00 this morning by my beautiful toddler, who snuggled up next to me and wanted to nurse. Though I am happy to do this, I did wish for a few more minutes of sleep. The cozy cuddling of infant nursing has given way to the very physical, wrestling-like version of the same activity, and over the next hour and a half, I was able to lightly snooze for about twenty minutes at a time between her kicking me, accidentally biting me, and reaching up to hug me and kiss my nose. I didn't know I could feel so simultaneously overjoyed and miserable.
When my older child woke up, I got us all dressed, which involved wiping a poopy butt while a little foot was playfully stuck into my ear, nose, and eyes in time to a really hilarious song that was being made up on the spot. At the same time, a four-year-old was balancing on a twirling egg-chair while tugging on my shirt for balance. The two-year-old then shrieked "NO!" at every clothing option until she finally acquiesced to wearing the dress she wore yesterday. The four-year-old has been regressing as the two-year-old has become more verbal and assertive -- understandable, and age-appropriate, but tough to deal with. So rather than snapping at her for her babyish behavior, I then dressed her as she wished, playfully pretending she was my little baby so that she could feel like she was getting the attention she craved.
Yesterday, we had a doctor's appointment where I learned this older child has significant hearing loss in one of her ears due to the fact that she was born prematurely; my task today, while my kids are in my care, is to follow up with her pediatrician, make an appointment with an ENT who is difficult to reach, and research whether and how her hearing aids can be covered by any kind of insurance. I am also going back to school, but didn't get into the program I had applied for, so I am trying to figure out if I can still get a job in my new chosen field without this particular masters program. Also, the car is in the shop.
But I don't want the kids to be stuck in front of the TV all day while I take care of this growing list of tasks, so I took us all out to the park so they could run around and get some exercise. I packed nutritious snacks, bottles of water, extra diapers, both Princess kick-balls, and the backpack so that the toddler can nap if she needs to while we're out.
Now, I am finally sitting down for the first time today. I just realized that though I brushed the girls' hair, I forgot to brush mine, and it's still in the beauty-salon clip that I stuck it in when I woke up. And, with horror, I'm also realizing that I didn't brush my teeth. I am dying for a second cup of coffee, but I'm not supposed to have too much because I have high blood pressure from two bouts of preeclampsia. So okay, I'm settling into a park bench, my ears attuned to the girls in case they start shouting at each other.
So now I am doing a little research on my phone. I am emailing links to their dad, who will follow up on some of this research between tasks in his own day. I am calling their doctor and waiting for call-backs. I am trying to plan the weekend, when my step-kids will be here. I am coordinating the preschool fundraiser on Sunday, because our budget requires that we use a cooperative preschool.
When I'm done with that, I might also be doing a crossword puzzle. I might also read the library book on my Overdrive app. If I had a magazine open in front of me, you wouldn't think twice about it.
I assure you: I pay LOADS of attention to my children. At 3am, as their father sleeps through noises louder than a hurricane, I am propelled out of bed to soothe away a nightmare. At 6am, I'm floating fitfully through half-sleep as two children pretend I am an igloo (I have no idea how this would work, but it gives me the weirdest dreams). At 9am, I'm showering with the door open and my head out from under the water so I can hear them. And so on through the day.
So if I'm taking a half hour to check things on my phone, dial back your judgment and pay attention to your own kids. Quit projecting on me. Sorry you feel like such a lousy parent yourself, but that's not my problem. Believe me, if I watched every second of your day, I could find plenty to write nasty posts about. So stuff it in your diaper genie and go do something to make the world better instead of writing toxic crap for others to post on Facebook.
And if you're a guy writing this crap, let me punch you in the taint, give you a nipple-twist, and slap you awake five times a night and THEN see if you still have the same big mouth.
P.S. And if I were paying attention to my child at the playground, you'd write some equally crappy blog post calling me a helicopter mom, so I really can't win. Which is why I have stopped trying to please strangers like you.
Love ya! Not really!
https://www.facebook.com/marshall.miller.988/posts/565842876759721
http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/dont-text-around-your-kids/
And I have this to say:
Dear other parent who has no idea what I'm doing on my iPhone:
I was awakened at 5:00 this morning by my beautiful toddler, who snuggled up next to me and wanted to nurse. Though I am happy to do this, I did wish for a few more minutes of sleep. The cozy cuddling of infant nursing has given way to the very physical, wrestling-like version of the same activity, and over the next hour and a half, I was able to lightly snooze for about twenty minutes at a time between her kicking me, accidentally biting me, and reaching up to hug me and kiss my nose. I didn't know I could feel so simultaneously overjoyed and miserable.
When my older child woke up, I got us all dressed, which involved wiping a poopy butt while a little foot was playfully stuck into my ear, nose, and eyes in time to a really hilarious song that was being made up on the spot. At the same time, a four-year-old was balancing on a twirling egg-chair while tugging on my shirt for balance. The two-year-old then shrieked "NO!" at every clothing option until she finally acquiesced to wearing the dress she wore yesterday. The four-year-old has been regressing as the two-year-old has become more verbal and assertive -- understandable, and age-appropriate, but tough to deal with. So rather than snapping at her for her babyish behavior, I then dressed her as she wished, playfully pretending she was my little baby so that she could feel like she was getting the attention she craved.
Yesterday, we had a doctor's appointment where I learned this older child has significant hearing loss in one of her ears due to the fact that she was born prematurely; my task today, while my kids are in my care, is to follow up with her pediatrician, make an appointment with an ENT who is difficult to reach, and research whether and how her hearing aids can be covered by any kind of insurance. I am also going back to school, but didn't get into the program I had applied for, so I am trying to figure out if I can still get a job in my new chosen field without this particular masters program. Also, the car is in the shop.
But I don't want the kids to be stuck in front of the TV all day while I take care of this growing list of tasks, so I took us all out to the park so they could run around and get some exercise. I packed nutritious snacks, bottles of water, extra diapers, both Princess kick-balls, and the backpack so that the toddler can nap if she needs to while we're out.
Now, I am finally sitting down for the first time today. I just realized that though I brushed the girls' hair, I forgot to brush mine, and it's still in the beauty-salon clip that I stuck it in when I woke up. And, with horror, I'm also realizing that I didn't brush my teeth. I am dying for a second cup of coffee, but I'm not supposed to have too much because I have high blood pressure from two bouts of preeclampsia. So okay, I'm settling into a park bench, my ears attuned to the girls in case they start shouting at each other.
So now I am doing a little research on my phone. I am emailing links to their dad, who will follow up on some of this research between tasks in his own day. I am calling their doctor and waiting for call-backs. I am trying to plan the weekend, when my step-kids will be here. I am coordinating the preschool fundraiser on Sunday, because our budget requires that we use a cooperative preschool.
When I'm done with that, I might also be doing a crossword puzzle. I might also read the library book on my Overdrive app. If I had a magazine open in front of me, you wouldn't think twice about it.
I assure you: I pay LOADS of attention to my children. At 3am, as their father sleeps through noises louder than a hurricane, I am propelled out of bed to soothe away a nightmare. At 6am, I'm floating fitfully through half-sleep as two children pretend I am an igloo (I have no idea how this would work, but it gives me the weirdest dreams). At 9am, I'm showering with the door open and my head out from under the water so I can hear them. And so on through the day.
So if I'm taking a half hour to check things on my phone, dial back your judgment and pay attention to your own kids. Quit projecting on me. Sorry you feel like such a lousy parent yourself, but that's not my problem. Believe me, if I watched every second of your day, I could find plenty to write nasty posts about. So stuff it in your diaper genie and go do something to make the world better instead of writing toxic crap for others to post on Facebook.
And if you're a guy writing this crap, let me punch you in the taint, give you a nipple-twist, and slap you awake five times a night and THEN see if you still have the same big mouth.
P.S. And if I were paying attention to my child at the playground, you'd write some equally crappy blog post calling me a helicopter mom, so I really can't win. Which is why I have stopped trying to please strangers like you.
Love ya! Not really!
Monday, February 25, 2013
We went to the Chinese New Year parade in San Francisco this past weekend, and I wanted to make some notes for next year -- maybe they'll be helpful to other moms as well, since the sites who are supposed to have helpful tips were pretty lame.
- If you get there an hour or hour and a half early you can snag a spot at the curb. You should totally bring folding chairs, fleece blankets, and thermoses. There are porta potties. If you come with more than one adult, you can take turns taking the kids for walks up to Chinatown or down to Market for fun, food, trinkets.
- Download the map of the parade route from the official site and keep in mind where the Bart stations are. It's nearly impossible to cross the parade route once it has started. So if you stay on the Market side of the route, you'll have an easier escape. Your kids will probably not make it through the entire parade.
- That being said, as long as you map out your exit, the steps outside the bank on California and Kearny are basically the same as sitting on the bleachers, but free! They are a terrific spot to view the parade (unless you really want to be up close, in which case: curbside). We just went the wrong way when exiting so we got caught in madness, should have walked up to the Embarcadero rather than down to Powell.
- Don't be cranky. It's a freakin parade.
- If you get there an hour or hour and a half early you can snag a spot at the curb. You should totally bring folding chairs, fleece blankets, and thermoses. There are porta potties. If you come with more than one adult, you can take turns taking the kids for walks up to Chinatown or down to Market for fun, food, trinkets.
- Download the map of the parade route from the official site and keep in mind where the Bart stations are. It's nearly impossible to cross the parade route once it has started. So if you stay on the Market side of the route, you'll have an easier escape. Your kids will probably not make it through the entire parade.
- That being said, as long as you map out your exit, the steps outside the bank on California and Kearny are basically the same as sitting on the bleachers, but free! They are a terrific spot to view the parade (unless you really want to be up close, in which case: curbside). We just went the wrong way when exiting so we got caught in madness, should have walked up to the Embarcadero rather than down to Powell.
- Don't be cranky. It's a freakin parade.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Patti Smith Remembers Laughter
I recently
finished the Patti Smith memoir, "Just Kids," and have been musing over
it for the past few days. So I was doing a stitchbomb at the top of
Bernal Hill and Penelopabby were wailing that this was boring, they are
scared of the dogs, they want to go home, and I said, "You have to
suffer for your art!"
THen i realized THEY didn't have to suffer for MY art (#aliceneel), and also, the only time I saw Patti Smith live was at a free show at Summerstage in the middle of a sweltering summer in the early '90s. Someone in the crowd yelled "What do you like to listen to these days, Patti?" and she said "The laughter of my children" and I went ugghghghghghgh what a sap. except now I totally think that and I'm also a sap.
And at the same show she stopped a song to say "I hear that baby crying and I'm a little worried, it seems like too hot a night for a baby to be out," and again I was like UGHGHGHGHGHGH MOMMY PEOPLE SHUT UP and now I'm like jeesh that was so sweet, and what a good mom she must be.
Anyway I did make the girls wait till my stitchbomb was gone, but I was nicer about it and gave them guilt-induced treats and whatnot.
THen i realized THEY didn't have to suffer for MY art (#aliceneel), and also, the only time I saw Patti Smith live was at a free show at Summerstage in the middle of a sweltering summer in the early '90s. Someone in the crowd yelled "What do you like to listen to these days, Patti?" and she said "The laughter of my children" and I went ugghghghghghgh what a sap. except now I totally think that and I'm also a sap.
And at the same show she stopped a song to say "I hear that baby crying and I'm a little worried, it seems like too hot a night for a baby to be out," and again I was like UGHGHGHGHGHGH MOMMY PEOPLE SHUT UP and now I'm like jeesh that was so sweet, and what a good mom she must be.
Anyway I did make the girls wait till my stitchbomb was gone, but I was nicer about it and gave them guilt-induced treats and whatnot.
And as I type this I'm hearing the girls laughing together, bubbling with laughter and shrieking at each other to make more laughter, and thinking, yeah. She was right. She was right.
Oh wait, now Abby's crying and possibly Penny's getting a time out. Well. It was fun while it lasted.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Abby has a favorite color, and it is purple.
She can spot purple a mile away. "A-purple, momma!" She knows the purple pillow on the couch is hers. "Ah-my purple pillow, Penny. Penny peenk. My purple." If I dare to try to put clothes on her, you better believe they're going to be purple, OR have a character on them, OR be ballet clothes, but only the RIGHT ballet clothes.
(A ballet dress is called a "la-la-la-la," all four syllables, because of the Angelina Ballerina theme song. If I wear a dress, she tells me "Momma la-la-la-la!")
We were walking down to the softball field on Sunday. She was wearing her new purple dress (but not the leggings that go with it -- "NO purple, momma. NO purple pants." It was breezy: she stopped walking, pushed her skirt down, and yelled, "Purple windy! No purple windy, momma!"
I still nurse and rock her to sweet, snuggly sleep. The other night I bent over her crib as I gently placed her onto the mattress; she stretched out, flipped over, and murmured "Purple, Momma."
I didn't know I could love a color so much.
She can spot purple a mile away. "A-purple, momma!" She knows the purple pillow on the couch is hers. "Ah-my purple pillow, Penny. Penny peenk. My purple." If I dare to try to put clothes on her, you better believe they're going to be purple, OR have a character on them, OR be ballet clothes, but only the RIGHT ballet clothes.
(A ballet dress is called a "la-la-la-la," all four syllables, because of the Angelina Ballerina theme song. If I wear a dress, she tells me "Momma la-la-la-la!")
We were walking down to the softball field on Sunday. She was wearing her new purple dress (but not the leggings that go with it -- "NO purple, momma. NO purple pants." It was breezy: she stopped walking, pushed her skirt down, and yelled, "Purple windy! No purple windy, momma!"
I still nurse and rock her to sweet, snuggly sleep. The other night I bent over her crib as I gently placed her onto the mattress; she stretched out, flipped over, and murmured "Purple, Momma."
I didn't know I could love a color so much.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Three And A Half
I have been struggling lately with P. She's still my delightful daughter, but has taken on a host of unwelcome new behaviors: she's suddenly terrified of everything (even mild shows like Chloe's Closet freak her out), she's extremely oppositional and distracted (I can be speaking straight to her and not get a reaction), and she's suddenly discovered the joys of teasing her little sister.
I've been reading "Your Three Year Old: Friend Or Enemy," by Louise Bates Ames, Ph.D., and find I am not so special. This is great news. As I read the rundown of what happens, typically, at 3.5, I wanted to weep with recognition. Most reassuring of all was Ames' advice to wait it out and even to avoid my child as much as possible -- she actually prescribes babysitters if a mom is feeling like she can't get through a day without screaming.
The part that sent me running to tell you guys about this, though, was this passage -- no idea what page it is, because I'm reading it on the Overdrive app. Here it is:
At three, the author says, the kid had just developed a crapload of milestones; at 3.5, she is in the middle of a crapload more, and is overwhelmed. That's all that's happening. It explains the thumb-sucking, the return to tantrums, every bit of frustrating behavior, and makes me feel so grateful she's moving forward with such force. She's handling all this with aplomb, and if I can keep my cool and just let her get through it, she'll be fine as always.
This book is a quick read and is one of a series -- this is the first I've read, but what a help. Like!
I've been reading "Your Three Year Old: Friend Or Enemy," by Louise Bates Ames, Ph.D., and find I am not so special. This is great news. As I read the rundown of what happens, typically, at 3.5, I wanted to weep with recognition. Most reassuring of all was Ames' advice to wait it out and even to avoid my child as much as possible -- she actually prescribes babysitters if a mom is feeling like she can't get through a day without screaming.
The part that sent me running to tell you guys about this, though, was this passage -- no idea what page it is, because I'm reading it on the Overdrive app. Here it is:
Emotional insecurity, which so many seem to feel at this age, may be based to a large extent on the temporary inadequacy of the motor system.Ohhhhh.
At three, the author says, the kid had just developed a crapload of milestones; at 3.5, she is in the middle of a crapload more, and is overwhelmed. That's all that's happening. It explains the thumb-sucking, the return to tantrums, every bit of frustrating behavior, and makes me feel so grateful she's moving forward with such force. She's handling all this with aplomb, and if I can keep my cool and just let her get through it, she'll be fine as always.
This book is a quick read and is one of a series -- this is the first I've read, but what a help. Like!
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
The Kids Are Alright, So Are The Parents.
"Deteriorating work ethic and massive sense of entitlement," my friend posted on Facebook yesterday, linking to the Deborah Kolben article in the New Yorker about how we're all fucking up our kids by spoiling them. The example set forth in this lazy, shitty piece of journalism not up to the usual standards of either Kolben or The New Yorker, was a straw-dog comparison of spoiled little shits in Los Angeles v. a 6-year-old girl from the rainforest who was awfully helpful and very good at housework.
The conclusion, assumed as foregone before the first paragraph was done, was that our kids are completely screwed, and the fault lies with us, the loving but inept parents who've botched the job of raising them. And thus, goes the entirely unproven argument, we have raised a generation of "adulescents" who don't want to get up early in the morning or buckle down to jobs.
Oh for fuckity fuck's sake.
This is only the most recent in a long, long line of "these kids today!" and "parents are to blame!" memes that interlock and whorl together back through time to Ancient Greece and beyond. "I'll tell ya, these kids today don't know how to kill a mammoth! All my kid cares about is looking at cave paintings and planning her Sweet Six!"
Meanwhile, we go through the high mass of citing all the usual suspects. A Nation of Wimps, which I like to subtitle A Bookful of Hysterical Anecdotes With No Basis In Reality. The Free-Range Kids Blog, which is all well and good within reason, but which is cited way too often by people who don't seem to actually read it (the author is much more nuanced than the polarized conversation allows). Miserably, I pointed out that my friend's son is perfectly capable of doing all the things "kids today" supposedly can't, and that she was judging people she had know personal knowledge of -- just this mythical set of shitty parents out there. "Worry about your kids rather than judging other parents based on bad science," I lectured her, and she (being a gracious friend who understood my passion was more about feeling than being as assy as I sounded) agreed that "these kids today" wasn't a productive approach. What she worried about, she said, was a societal shift away from accountability, and THAT is something I can get behind. But I'm not going to blame parents or say only young adults are responsible. This isn't a parenting issue, and it's not the result of too much kindness or love. It's bigger than that, and harder to solve.
I knew a kid whose mom worked the night shift as a nurse, and whose dad worked the day shift as a doorman. He was about the same age as the little girl from the rainforest cited in the New Yorker article. He was alone most of the day, and would come wandering down the back alley between our houses looking for something to do, something to eat, someone to wipe his nose. "Mom's asleep," he'd explain. These were working-class parents, they were doing their best and I am not shitting on them. I'm just pointing out that this little guy wasn't learning self-reliance, he wasn't becoming some amazing work-ethic-imbued superdude, he wasn't sweeping the campsite and asking how he could pitch in. He was lost and -- having dated my share of former lost boys -- I predict he'll spend his adulthood looking for the attention, care, and love he missed. In fact, the biggest "adulescent" I ever met was the product of a mom who largely emotionally ignored him in favor of non-helicopter parenting.
Meanwhile, I'm not going to apologize for noting that the atmosphere of benign neglect that stood for parenting in the '70s left most of my friends with pretty hideous stories to tell -- of being bullied, molested, or beaten up on the way home from school, stories that are sad, open-ended anecdotes rather than character-creating origin myths. Yes. I want to be present, available, and involved. Suck on it, Hara Murano.
And by the way, in the New Yorker article, Kolbert whines that she triiiiied to make her kids do chores, but they were baaaad at it and she had to clean up aaaaafter them. Boo fucking hoo. You really thought they'd get it the first time? You really think parenting is about setting rules and watching your kids run at them like hurdles in the 100 meter hurdle race? You put the hat on. Your toddler takes it off. You put the hat on. You repeat until you want to scream. Finally either your toddler gets it, or you get a hat with a strap, or his ears fall off. Similarly, you show your kid how to do a chore. He gets it wrong. You show him again. You have him clean up after the chore done wrong. You help him do this, you do not do it for him. You do this until you want to scream. Finally, either he gets it, or you change tack. If it were easy, Elizabeth, there wouldn't be parenting books.
There is no Nation of Wimps. There is a Nation of People Who Don't Check Their Sources, but that's not a function of bad parenting.
(And p.s., this Matsigenka tribe with the 6 year old who's good at housework ... "The average tribal woman marries around age 16, and women have an average of eight to ten pregnancies." So while you're wishing your daughter would be more like a rainforest child, stop to consider whether you also want her to be a Quiverfuller.)
The conclusion, assumed as foregone before the first paragraph was done, was that our kids are completely screwed, and the fault lies with us, the loving but inept parents who've botched the job of raising them. And thus, goes the entirely unproven argument, we have raised a generation of "adulescents" who don't want to get up early in the morning or buckle down to jobs.
Oh for fuckity fuck's sake.
This is only the most recent in a long, long line of "these kids today!" and "parents are to blame!" memes that interlock and whorl together back through time to Ancient Greece and beyond. "I'll tell ya, these kids today don't know how to kill a mammoth! All my kid cares about is looking at cave paintings and planning her Sweet Six!"
Meanwhile, we go through the high mass of citing all the usual suspects. A Nation of Wimps, which I like to subtitle A Bookful of Hysterical Anecdotes With No Basis In Reality. The Free-Range Kids Blog, which is all well and good within reason, but which is cited way too often by people who don't seem to actually read it (the author is much more nuanced than the polarized conversation allows). Miserably, I pointed out that my friend's son is perfectly capable of doing all the things "kids today" supposedly can't, and that she was judging people she had know personal knowledge of -- just this mythical set of shitty parents out there. "Worry about your kids rather than judging other parents based on bad science," I lectured her, and she (being a gracious friend who understood my passion was more about feeling than being as assy as I sounded) agreed that "these kids today" wasn't a productive approach. What she worried about, she said, was a societal shift away from accountability, and THAT is something I can get behind. But I'm not going to blame parents or say only young adults are responsible. This isn't a parenting issue, and it's not the result of too much kindness or love. It's bigger than that, and harder to solve.
I knew a kid whose mom worked the night shift as a nurse, and whose dad worked the day shift as a doorman. He was about the same age as the little girl from the rainforest cited in the New Yorker article. He was alone most of the day, and would come wandering down the back alley between our houses looking for something to do, something to eat, someone to wipe his nose. "Mom's asleep," he'd explain. These were working-class parents, they were doing their best and I am not shitting on them. I'm just pointing out that this little guy wasn't learning self-reliance, he wasn't becoming some amazing work-ethic-imbued superdude, he wasn't sweeping the campsite and asking how he could pitch in. He was lost and -- having dated my share of former lost boys -- I predict he'll spend his adulthood looking for the attention, care, and love he missed. In fact, the biggest "adulescent" I ever met was the product of a mom who largely emotionally ignored him in favor of non-helicopter parenting.
Meanwhile, I'm not going to apologize for noting that the atmosphere of benign neglect that stood for parenting in the '70s left most of my friends with pretty hideous stories to tell -- of being bullied, molested, or beaten up on the way home from school, stories that are sad, open-ended anecdotes rather than character-creating origin myths. Yes. I want to be present, available, and involved. Suck on it, Hara Murano.
And by the way, in the New Yorker article, Kolbert whines that she triiiiied to make her kids do chores, but they were baaaad at it and she had to clean up aaaaafter them. Boo fucking hoo. You really thought they'd get it the first time? You really think parenting is about setting rules and watching your kids run at them like hurdles in the 100 meter hurdle race? You put the hat on. Your toddler takes it off. You put the hat on. You repeat until you want to scream. Finally either your toddler gets it, or you get a hat with a strap, or his ears fall off. Similarly, you show your kid how to do a chore. He gets it wrong. You show him again. You have him clean up after the chore done wrong. You help him do this, you do not do it for him. You do this until you want to scream. Finally, either he gets it, or you change tack. If it were easy, Elizabeth, there wouldn't be parenting books.
There is no Nation of Wimps. There is a Nation of People Who Don't Check Their Sources, but that's not a function of bad parenting.
(And p.s., this Matsigenka tribe with the 6 year old who's good at housework ... "The average tribal woman marries around age 16, and women have an average of eight to ten pregnancies." So while you're wishing your daughter would be more like a rainforest child, stop to consider whether you also want her to be a Quiverfuller.)
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Makin' loooove ... out of nothing at all (except fig newtons and peanut butter)
But then, right when it looked like they were about to start yet another petty battle over a small plastic light-up object, they spontaneously hugged. They do this a lot, they're very loving little puppies, but this was such a real and present hug, and it went on and on. Abby just reached her arms around Penny, and Penny relaxed into the hug, returned it, and they tilted their heads in toward each other. Then they just stood quietly for a long moment, the kind of physical quietness you don't even see in toddlers when they're asleep (thrash, thrash, snore, kick).
There was something so timeless about it. I was reminded of when my grandma's sister came to visit her and I saw their legs, crossed ladylike at the ankles and tucked to the side underneath their chairs, perfectly mirroring each other.
And yes, I took that moment to be so, so grateful to the universe and whatnot. And even more sappy, I thought, "I made that. I grew people inside me and now they're hugging and each of them is getting a rush of oxytocin, and the ripples of that are going out into the world, and they're feeling warm and safe without my even touching them, except I am, because each of them is skin of my skin and blood of my blood, and I made that warmth, and that ripple, and I created love."
I did warn you it was sappy. There are bad days and then there are days when I think, eh, I can't be so terrible. This happened.
I'm not posting this on Facebook so "STFU parents" isn't allowed to make fun of me.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Is French Parenting Better? No, It's Just Frencher.
Posit: Bad manners are good for you.
Much has been made lately of Pamela Druckerman's recent book, Bringing Up Bebe, a collection of completely subjective and unsubstantiated anecdotes about how placid and polite French children are as compared to the wild hellions of the USA. People have been going nuts over this book. Less nuts than they did for the Tiger Mom's book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, but that's to be expected; the Chinese version of this story enumerates a series of humiliating battles that sound downright abusive to our gentle ears. The French version just scolds us for being crappy. Sorry. Crappé.
The Tiger Mom book I just wrinkled my nose at and moved on. I read The Joy Luck Club. Hell, at my last job I could peek over the top of my cubicle and see my pal Cindy, proud product of Tiger Parenting, who also went to an Ivy League school (a better one than mine, even). There we were, at the same crappé workplace, both avoiding college reunions because we were supposed to be better and brighter by now. I'm okay with not being so tiger-y. Besides, though I've seen the angry responses to Amy Chua's book all over the interwebs, I also live in San Francisco, where every neighborhood has its own Chinatown, and nobody -- nobody -- fawns over my kids like the Chinese grandparents I meet on every walk. So stuff it, Tiger Mom who wasn't even advocating for this approach in the first place.
But the French stuff worried me. I love good manners. One of the first things I noticed about my husband -- after his glorious mess of hair, tree-like height, hilariousness, and that other thing I shouldn't mention on a mommyblog -- was his gentle, unobtrusive Midwestern manners, still in place after twenty years' exile. He didn't even notice that he automatically walked on the correct side of the sidewalk. I swooned. Meanwhile, tell a nine-year-old today that he should "be a gentlemen and let ladies go first," and he'll treat you to a polemic on feminism and the gilded cage of chivalry. Just because they're right doesn't mean they're not annoying. I readjust to explain manners in a non-sexist way; I haven't succeeded yet.
Bottom line, my kids are annoying in restaurants, though I'm pretty good at getting them under control. However, the online world being what it is, I know what many childless people think of even the best-behaved children, and have witnessed the sneering and judgment that goes on constantly even when a kid's meltdown is entirely age-appropriate and developmentally necessary. I know, frig those a-holes, but whatever, I can feel their glares burning into me when my kids do normal kid stuff. Should they be standing still, hands clasped, in two straight lines like Madeline?
Fortunately, I have French friends! At a rare evening out, I leaned across the table and quizzed my favorite one whose daughter spends summers in France and the rest of the year in Marin. It's true, she told me: her daughter eats leeks in France, mac and cheese here in the States. She behaves like a lady in France, like a hellion here in the States.
Why? "Because she can," my friend stated. "It's true, the demands on children in France are greater. Wherever you go, everyone has the same standard, and you stick to it because it's supported at every contact point." She really talks like that. She's a fancy business lady. "Here, it's different, so they are more free to act like themselves."
Oh, wait, what was that? Was she really saying that having worse manners is a good thing?
"Look what you grow up to be," she said. "Would you rather be restricted by society's rules, or bravely striking out to be an individual?"
Well, when you put it that way.
I'm not trying to say one way is better or worse. That's what Druckerman did, and it sold books but is a cynical and idiotic way to look at parenting. I'm saying, when things are different, there might be valid and positive reasons for their differences, and considering those differences in depth is more productive than just crapping on one or the other.
I have another friend who stopped bringing her daughter to rec center classes because she didn't like her being taught to docilely line up and follow a teacher's orders blindly. She hated that rote passivity. Of course, she'll encourage her daughter to behave in school up to a point, but she also recognizes that as adults, as long as we're wearing pants and not punching anyone, our society values and requires brave individual thinking. Not to get rich. But to be a good person.
It all reminds me of when I first moved to the west coast and thought "this whole place was settled by cowboys!" and longed for the stuffiness of my home, which was settled by a bunch of Puritans bent on being holier than everbody else. I had to laugh at myself. I suppose it's the same thing for Europeans: America was settled by a bunch of lunatics, and here we are, 400 years later, still acting out.
So okay. American kids might not have perfect manners, but mine will have the best ones I can muster in the circumstances. And in the meantime they'll benefit from those other imperfections, the ones that make people move here in the first place. I'm okay with that, too.
And as for eating leeks, my friend said that her mom has an astounding garden, and that eating food that came from the ground is part of her daughter's daily experience. Freshness and earthiness are a pretty stellar combination. And it's true -- when we get our CSA deliveries, the girls will demand broccoli right out of the bag, because they can tell from the almost-spicy, almost sweet crunch that they were picked that morning. (Well, all they can tell is that it tastes good; I fill in that information myself. It'd be better if they could see it for themselves, but in a parallel balancing act of cost and benefit analysis, I elect to stay here in the teeming urban center that is Bernal Heights.)
Much has been made lately of Pamela Druckerman's recent book, Bringing Up Bebe, a collection of completely subjective and unsubstantiated anecdotes about how placid and polite French children are as compared to the wild hellions of the USA. People have been going nuts over this book. Less nuts than they did for the Tiger Mom's book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, but that's to be expected; the Chinese version of this story enumerates a series of humiliating battles that sound downright abusive to our gentle ears. The French version just scolds us for being crappy. Sorry. Crappé.
The Tiger Mom book I just wrinkled my nose at and moved on. I read The Joy Luck Club. Hell, at my last job I could peek over the top of my cubicle and see my pal Cindy, proud product of Tiger Parenting, who also went to an Ivy League school (a better one than mine, even). There we were, at the same crappé workplace, both avoiding college reunions because we were supposed to be better and brighter by now. I'm okay with not being so tiger-y. Besides, though I've seen the angry responses to Amy Chua's book all over the interwebs, I also live in San Francisco, where every neighborhood has its own Chinatown, and nobody -- nobody -- fawns over my kids like the Chinese grandparents I meet on every walk. So stuff it, Tiger Mom who wasn't even advocating for this approach in the first place.
But the French stuff worried me. I love good manners. One of the first things I noticed about my husband -- after his glorious mess of hair, tree-like height, hilariousness, and that other thing I shouldn't mention on a mommyblog -- was his gentle, unobtrusive Midwestern manners, still in place after twenty years' exile. He didn't even notice that he automatically walked on the correct side of the sidewalk. I swooned. Meanwhile, tell a nine-year-old today that he should "be a gentlemen and let ladies go first," and he'll treat you to a polemic on feminism and the gilded cage of chivalry. Just because they're right doesn't mean they're not annoying. I readjust to explain manners in a non-sexist way; I haven't succeeded yet.
Bottom line, my kids are annoying in restaurants, though I'm pretty good at getting them under control. However, the online world being what it is, I know what many childless people think of even the best-behaved children, and have witnessed the sneering and judgment that goes on constantly even when a kid's meltdown is entirely age-appropriate and developmentally necessary. I know, frig those a-holes, but whatever, I can feel their glares burning into me when my kids do normal kid stuff. Should they be standing still, hands clasped, in two straight lines like Madeline?
Fortunately, I have French friends! At a rare evening out, I leaned across the table and quizzed my favorite one whose daughter spends summers in France and the rest of the year in Marin. It's true, she told me: her daughter eats leeks in France, mac and cheese here in the States. She behaves like a lady in France, like a hellion here in the States.
Why? "Because she can," my friend stated. "It's true, the demands on children in France are greater. Wherever you go, everyone has the same standard, and you stick to it because it's supported at every contact point." She really talks like that. She's a fancy business lady. "Here, it's different, so they are more free to act like themselves."
Oh, wait, what was that? Was she really saying that having worse manners is a good thing?
"Look what you grow up to be," she said. "Would you rather be restricted by society's rules, or bravely striking out to be an individual?"
Well, when you put it that way.
I'm not trying to say one way is better or worse. That's what Druckerman did, and it sold books but is a cynical and idiotic way to look at parenting. I'm saying, when things are different, there might be valid and positive reasons for their differences, and considering those differences in depth is more productive than just crapping on one or the other.
I have another friend who stopped bringing her daughter to rec center classes because she didn't like her being taught to docilely line up and follow a teacher's orders blindly. She hated that rote passivity. Of course, she'll encourage her daughter to behave in school up to a point, but she also recognizes that as adults, as long as we're wearing pants and not punching anyone, our society values and requires brave individual thinking. Not to get rich. But to be a good person.
It all reminds me of when I first moved to the west coast and thought "this whole place was settled by cowboys!" and longed for the stuffiness of my home, which was settled by a bunch of Puritans bent on being holier than everbody else. I had to laugh at myself. I suppose it's the same thing for Europeans: America was settled by a bunch of lunatics, and here we are, 400 years later, still acting out.
So okay. American kids might not have perfect manners, but mine will have the best ones I can muster in the circumstances. And in the meantime they'll benefit from those other imperfections, the ones that make people move here in the first place. I'm okay with that, too.
And as for eating leeks, my friend said that her mom has an astounding garden, and that eating food that came from the ground is part of her daughter's daily experience. Freshness and earthiness are a pretty stellar combination. And it's true -- when we get our CSA deliveries, the girls will demand broccoli right out of the bag, because they can tell from the almost-spicy, almost sweet crunch that they were picked that morning. (Well, all they can tell is that it tastes good; I fill in that information myself. It'd be better if they could see it for themselves, but in a parallel balancing act of cost and benefit analysis, I elect to stay here in the teeming urban center that is Bernal Heights.)
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Where The Wild Sendak Is
Instead, the one she requests most is the one where the main character remains safely home throughout his journey, In The Night Kitchen. The more I read it, the more I'm inclined to agree. Of course I will always adore Wild Things. I have faith that when Penny's older, she'll imagine her room sprouting into sylvan splendor, door jambs growing bark and leaves weighing down boughs suddenly spreading across the ceiling until there is no room, only forest, dark and foreign and safely far away. And whether or not she can handle the story, she still loves to sing our Rumpus Song, a chanted rhyme I came up with because there are no words in the wild rumpus section, and we wanted something to do besides yell "Yay! Rumpus! Woo-hoo! The rumpus! Yippee!" for six pages. You're welcome to borrow it. It goes like this:
Rumpus, Rumpus, staring at the moon
Rumpus, Rumpus, don't end too soon (turn page)
Rumpus, Rumpus, swinging in the trees
Rumpus, Rumpus, doing as we please (turn page)
Rumpus, Rumpus, stamping on the ground
Rumpus, Rumpus, Wild Things all around.
RrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRUMPUSSS!!!!
I got a video of Penny singing it for you, but missed the first line and didn't have time to re-record before ballet class.
But In The Night Kitchen is even richer, in many ways. I love the way I can pore over each page, reading the names of the products and wondering which are real and which are friends of Sendak's. Imagining the flavor of tas-t-kaks. Finding, with Penelope, the items we recognize from our own kitchen: the whisk, the beaters, the wooden spoon. The beautiful details of a Brooklyn brownstone pictured as Mickey falls through his dream: a chandelier, lace curtains, dark-wood moulding. And oh, the absolute delight when Penny sees a picture of Oliver Hardy out of context and shrieks "Mama! MAMA! The baker from In the Night Kitchen!"
And we didn't have to make up a chant for this book. Rather than letting the images do the talking, Sendak let the words themselves expand to fill entire pages. The first time Penny and I read this at the library, I recited the familiar words: "Milk in the batter, milk in the batter, stir it, scrape it, make it, bake it," and paused, wondering if I was actually hearing the echo of the words back through my own childhood. But no, the sound was coming from the mom a few tables over, who couldn't help joining in the chant even though she was ostensibly reading Thomas the Tank Engine to her son. It's that familiar. It's that addictive. "I'm not the milk and the milk's not me! I'm MICKEY!"
Of course the horrible irony is that Penny is at the age to reject Wild Things out of fear of the feelings she is learning to control, and I am at the age to reject Night Kitchen out of fear of the news Sendak was repressing when he came up with the images. I always felt there was something unsettling and hidden about the yellow star on the box of salt, about the oven, about the Oliver Hardy moustache, and the Sendak exhibit at my beloved Contemporary Jewish Museum confirmed it: the childhood Sendak overheard news of World War II, understanding almost none of it, and Mickey is that childhood self making sense of the images and scraps of information he couldn't comprehend.
None of us can comprehend it. That's why the book holds such power. That's why I can't stop looking through it even as I want to fling it across the room.
I generally wrinkle my nose at public keening over a celebrity death (last week's mourning of MCA of the Beastie Boys notwithstanding). In general, I hold that if someone lived a good long life, and was clearly tired and ready to go as I believe Sendak was, it's churlish of me to demand that they stay here just out of some distant affection and desire to have them on the same earthly plane. But oh, this stings. I harbored the fantasy that Penny and Abby and I would sing the Rumpus song to Sendak one day. That I would get to tell him yes, I agree, the Spike Jonze/Dave Eggers movie of Wild Things is not for children, and it's perfect, and I watch it over and over, without a kid in sight. That I would thank him for the window into my own childhood soul, and the reminder to peer through his books into my kids' souls, so that I don't forget that their fear is real, and that it's okay.
But of course, that old curmudgeon never wanted to hear that from us parents. We pissed him off, he was impatient with us, and who can blame him. He wanted to be left alone and to see his partner Eugene again. And now he's done it, sailed away over a year and a day, and he won't be coming back.
And that's why, thanks to Maurice, we have cake every morning. Shema.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Here's a first: Calling 911!
I've had the conversation with Penny about not sticking giant things in her mouth and cramming it full of bread, or ribbons, or her sister's feet, about a million times. I did not specifically tell her not to cram Legos in there, but I guess I should have.
I was making dinner on Thursday night when I heard Penny wail. Not something that gets my attention, actually, because it happens every 30 seconds, like an oversensitive fire alarm when you're frying chicken -- but this time it sounded more frantic than usual, so I stepped out into the living room to find she had wedged a rather large rectangular lego into her mouth sideways, so that her mouth was jammed open. She wasn't in danger of choking, but nothing I did could loosen the lego, and her jaw was locked in this horribly uncomfortable position, her cheeks stretched and tears streaming down her face. I held her in my lap and tried to calm her down enough to work it loose but she was just screaming and began to gag on her own spit and tears. Argh.
I felt a bit alarmist, but called 911 because, you know, better safe than sorry. The operator was really, really nice. "That's her screaming?" she said. "Well, so that's actually good, we know she's breathing." She listened as I tried to calm Penny and said I was doing great, that I was calm and that was the best thing, which is the kind of praise I lap up greedily. I heard the sirens arrive downstairs and told Penny "they're coming to help you, honey!" and -- you know what happened next. The damn thing popped out of her mouth and into my hand!
The paramedics, 5 of them, came up the stairs, and I said "Yay, here come the fireman guys!" so she wouldn't be scared. They took one look at her and could see I wasn't calling just to be alarmist; she was still quite panicked, and her huge eyes just goggled at them. Her face was still red, her eyes sorta bruised from the crying and screaming. My landlady flew in in a panic, and reminded me that she's a nurse, I should call her too. Then her oldest son came in and she scolded him for not asking permission to enter. "Here's the rule," I told her. "If paramedics are coming into the apartment, you're invited."
Anyway, they looked her over and pronounced her fine; she didn't even seem to have lacerations inside her mouth. We're planning to make a lego-shaped cake for them -- they are just up the street and had left dinner bubbling on the stove. I want to include a copy of the article i did for Scholastic Math about firehouse cooking, if I can find it.
The best part was that the whole time, Abby was never scared. She's such a little joy-bubble. The more Penny panicked, the more Abby tried to cheer her up, frantically making "Dee dee dee!!" noises and goofy faces. And when I got off the phone with 911, Abby repeatedly picked the phone up, dialed random numbers, and handed it back to me. She had to help. She had to fix it. She's such a dear.
I am so, so glad this was not more serious. Obviously, it's now a funny story, and I am so grateful for that. And for the quick care from the SFFD. My heart goes out to any parent who has had to make that scary call and hope for the best while putting on a brave face for an ailing kid. Sheesh! More grey hairs!
I was making dinner on Thursday night when I heard Penny wail. Not something that gets my attention, actually, because it happens every 30 seconds, like an oversensitive fire alarm when you're frying chicken -- but this time it sounded more frantic than usual, so I stepped out into the living room to find she had wedged a rather large rectangular lego into her mouth sideways, so that her mouth was jammed open. She wasn't in danger of choking, but nothing I did could loosen the lego, and her jaw was locked in this horribly uncomfortable position, her cheeks stretched and tears streaming down her face. I held her in my lap and tried to calm her down enough to work it loose but she was just screaming and began to gag on her own spit and tears. Argh.
I felt a bit alarmist, but called 911 because, you know, better safe than sorry. The operator was really, really nice. "That's her screaming?" she said. "Well, so that's actually good, we know she's breathing." She listened as I tried to calm Penny and said I was doing great, that I was calm and that was the best thing, which is the kind of praise I lap up greedily. I heard the sirens arrive downstairs and told Penny "they're coming to help you, honey!" and -- you know what happened next. The damn thing popped out of her mouth and into my hand!
The paramedics, 5 of them, came up the stairs, and I said "Yay, here come the fireman guys!" so she wouldn't be scared. They took one look at her and could see I wasn't calling just to be alarmist; she was still quite panicked, and her huge eyes just goggled at them. Her face was still red, her eyes sorta bruised from the crying and screaming. My landlady flew in in a panic, and reminded me that she's a nurse, I should call her too. Then her oldest son came in and she scolded him for not asking permission to enter. "Here's the rule," I told her. "If paramedics are coming into the apartment, you're invited."
Anyway, they looked her over and pronounced her fine; she didn't even seem to have lacerations inside her mouth. We're planning to make a lego-shaped cake for them -- they are just up the street and had left dinner bubbling on the stove. I want to include a copy of the article i did for Scholastic Math about firehouse cooking, if I can find it.
The best part was that the whole time, Abby was never scared. She's such a little joy-bubble. The more Penny panicked, the more Abby tried to cheer her up, frantically making "Dee dee dee!!" noises and goofy faces. And when I got off the phone with 911, Abby repeatedly picked the phone up, dialed random numbers, and handed it back to me. She had to help. She had to fix it. She's such a dear.
I am so, so glad this was not more serious. Obviously, it's now a funny story, and I am so grateful for that. And for the quick care from the SFFD. My heart goes out to any parent who has had to make that scary call and hope for the best while putting on a brave face for an ailing kid. Sheesh! More grey hairs!
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
Scolding
Penelope hollers at me from her end of the apartment.
"Ugh, I told you not to wake Abby!" I grouse as I go into my bedroom. "Hang out here. I'm going to try to get her back to school."
Abby weepily nurses. All is quiet. Soon her breathing is long and calm between sucks.
The door opens. Penny's little round head looms into view. She is holding her ceramic piggybank. Her lips move.
"What?" I whisper.
"I want to share my piggybank with Abby."
"You can do that later. Right now that's too loud. Go on, I'll be out in a minute."
The door closes. Abby's breathing slows again. I try to unlatch but she grabs back on. I resolve to wait two more minutes.
The door opens. It's Penny. Her lips are moving.
"Huh?" I ask.
"My piggybank is sleeping," she tells me.
"Okay. That's great! Abby's almost sleeping too," I tell her. "Go on."
The door closes. I try to unlatch again. Abby howls and latches back on. This time it'll work, I think. She's just skating the edges of sleep. If I could just get a few quiet minutes.
The door opens again. It's Penny. Her lips are moving.
"What?!" I whisper.
"Momma. I told you NOT to wake up my piggybank."
"All right. I'm sorry."
Penny sidles up to the bed and slips under the covers. She's very, very quiet. I smile at her. She rustles under the covers. From nowhere, as if by magic, she produces ... the ceramic piggybank. SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE.
"Waah!"
"Oh for G0d's sake."
"ABBY'S AWAKE!"
And scene.
"Ugh, I told you not to wake Abby!" I grouse as I go into my bedroom. "Hang out here. I'm going to try to get her back to school."
Abby weepily nurses. All is quiet. Soon her breathing is long and calm between sucks.
The door opens. Penny's little round head looms into view. She is holding her ceramic piggybank. Her lips move.
"What?" I whisper.
"I want to share my piggybank with Abby."
"You can do that later. Right now that's too loud. Go on, I'll be out in a minute."
The door closes. Abby's breathing slows again. I try to unlatch but she grabs back on. I resolve to wait two more minutes.
The door opens. It's Penny. Her lips are moving.
"Huh?" I ask.
"My piggybank is sleeping," she tells me.
"Okay. That's great! Abby's almost sleeping too," I tell her. "Go on."
The door closes. I try to unlatch again. Abby howls and latches back on. This time it'll work, I think. She's just skating the edges of sleep. If I could just get a few quiet minutes.
The door opens again. It's Penny. Her lips are moving.
"What?!" I whisper.
"Momma. I told you NOT to wake up my piggybank."
"All right. I'm sorry."
Penny sidles up to the bed and slips under the covers. She's very, very quiet. I smile at her. She rustles under the covers. From nowhere, as if by magic, she produces ... the ceramic piggybank. SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE.
"Waah!"
"Oh for G0d's sake."
"ABBY'S AWAKE!"
And scene.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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