An op-ed article in the San Francisco Chronicle this weekend talked about the extremely high cost of San Francisco preschools: a price tag of somewhere between $12,000 and $20,000 a year is normal these days. The writer of the article is outraged and wants to start a group to campaign against this. The precise actions this group could take are unclear to me, but I fully agree with the author's sentiment. I wouldn't be thrilled to pay college tuition-level costs for my child to go somewhere for finger-painting, juice and cookies and nap time. I know that some of the better preschools offer much more than these simple activities, but whatever they offer, $20,000 or even $15,000 is too much.
The high cost of preschools, combined with this city's absurd lottery system for K-through-12 education, as well as the lack of adequate play and recreation areas for children, signals the deeper, overarching problem: this city does not really look out for kids, in spite of whatever song-and-dance the local politicians are giving us. And because of this, a high percentage of parents--even, the majority, I'm willing to bet--decide to move their families to the suburbs by the time their kids reach the age of four or five. It's definitely something this family is considering.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Prelude to a Crawl
Yesterday I wrote--a little anxiously, perhaps--about how I might have hampered my baby's development in terms of his motor skills, specifically, his ability to crawl. Today he seemed determined to prove that, damn it, he's going to crawl sooner than I think. He was doing everything but crawling--transferring from a sitting position to all fours; remaining on all fours for several seconds; getting up from his stomach to an all-fours position, and so forth. And I realize, as my husband's pointed out, that there's absolutely no reason to be anxious about whether or not my baby crawls tomorrow, or a month from now--or never crawls at all.
I realize, moreover, when I see my baby get on all fours, then stop and think about what to do next--what a complicated and beautiful thing it is to be alive.
I realize, moreover, when I see my baby get on all fours, then stop and think about what to do next--what a complicated and beautiful thing it is to be alive.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
A Crucial Moment
My baby seems to be at a crossroads in many ways; we're buying new products like mad, just to keep up with his tremendous rate of growth. He needs all these items, right now: new onesies, new pajamas, new shirts, new carseats, new stroller(s), new baby carrier. We're hiring a baby-proofing expert who will install gates, corner protectors, door latches and so forth.
The little guy isn't crawling yet, but he seems to be getting close; I suspect it'll happen in another couple of weeks. He's very nearly too big for the front-facing baby carrier, which is a damn shame because he loves it. He also loves his cheap carseat/travel system and has slept beautifully in it. Perhaps we've relied a bit too much on these items, and this has hampered his development where crawling and being mobile are concerned, but I'm not so sure...he's a very large (and long) baby, and it's usually harder for bigger babies to learn to crawl.
Whether or not he's crawling, he finally enjoys sitting up, even in his playpen (he hated sitting alone in the playpen just a few weeks ago, in fact he wouldn't stand for it). He can sit by himself and play with various store advertisements from the newspaper for a good fifteen minutes. Watching him sit there and study the pictures, then tear them up, is both amusing--he looks so serious as he does it--and deeply touching.
I suppose what I'm realizing is that he's no longer a young baby; it feels like one major stage of his life is coming to a definite close, and he's entering into a new realm: still a baby, still quite helpless in many respects, but much more his own person. (And as big as most toddlers!) It's exciting, and a little bit sad. I'm sure those same feelings will reemerge at every new stage of his life, from here to college.
The little guy isn't crawling yet, but he seems to be getting close; I suspect it'll happen in another couple of weeks. He's very nearly too big for the front-facing baby carrier, which is a damn shame because he loves it. He also loves his cheap carseat/travel system and has slept beautifully in it. Perhaps we've relied a bit too much on these items, and this has hampered his development where crawling and being mobile are concerned, but I'm not so sure...he's a very large (and long) baby, and it's usually harder for bigger babies to learn to crawl.
Whether or not he's crawling, he finally enjoys sitting up, even in his playpen (he hated sitting alone in the playpen just a few weeks ago, in fact he wouldn't stand for it). He can sit by himself and play with various store advertisements from the newspaper for a good fifteen minutes. Watching him sit there and study the pictures, then tear them up, is both amusing--he looks so serious as he does it--and deeply touching.
I suppose what I'm realizing is that he's no longer a young baby; it feels like one major stage of his life is coming to a definite close, and he's entering into a new realm: still a baby, still quite helpless in many respects, but much more his own person. (And as big as most toddlers!) It's exciting, and a little bit sad. I'm sure those same feelings will reemerge at every new stage of his life, from here to college.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Nearing 100
As I approach the hundredth posting for this blog--well, actually, I have very little to say on the subject of the blog itself. It is what it is. I've tried to write about being a mother without describing the details of every purchase I make, or the cute habits of my son, or the beauty of motherhood and so on and so forth. I suppose that I've been semi-successful.
I've also chosen, as a major theme in these postings--wandering, both in the mind and on foot. La flanerie. By making a point of getting "lost" in some lesser-known part of San Francisco, and getting "lost" in my thoughts here on the electronic page, I've hoped to give the practical, motherly parts of my brain a rest, and to reactivate the impractical writerly parts. I suppose that has only been marginally successful to date.
Be that as it may...I'll switch subjects and talk about Rilke.
And about childhood. In Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke says: if you're a writer and you feel you've run out of subjects to explore, go back in your thoughts to your own childhood, and describe what that was like. Everyone has an endless amount of material to explore when they go back far enough, he says.
I've never felt how true this was until now, after months of observing my own son. Just watching him play reminds me of what life feels like when everything is new.
He has a way of clasping his hands together, before reaching for some object or set of objects and embarking on a new project--clasping his hands together and pursing his lips a little, as if in eager anticipation of discovering something--that reminds me of just how new everything is to him, and how much fun.
One way that his imagination is catching fire: like all babies I suppose, he's endlessly combining two or more unrelated toys and making some new, unlikely toy out of them. A stainless steel bowl and a miniature piano; a cloth bird and a spoon. Just to see how two things go together, or don't go together--isn't that half the fun of being alive, even for adults? And yet we forget this, so comfortably ensconced do we become in our predictable daily routines.
Kids wander. In every sense of the word. They are the best surrealists.
I've also chosen, as a major theme in these postings--wandering, both in the mind and on foot. La flanerie. By making a point of getting "lost" in some lesser-known part of San Francisco, and getting "lost" in my thoughts here on the electronic page, I've hoped to give the practical, motherly parts of my brain a rest, and to reactivate the impractical writerly parts. I suppose that has only been marginally successful to date.
Be that as it may...I'll switch subjects and talk about Rilke.
And about childhood. In Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke says: if you're a writer and you feel you've run out of subjects to explore, go back in your thoughts to your own childhood, and describe what that was like. Everyone has an endless amount of material to explore when they go back far enough, he says.
I've never felt how true this was until now, after months of observing my own son. Just watching him play reminds me of what life feels like when everything is new.
He has a way of clasping his hands together, before reaching for some object or set of objects and embarking on a new project--clasping his hands together and pursing his lips a little, as if in eager anticipation of discovering something--that reminds me of just how new everything is to him, and how much fun.
One way that his imagination is catching fire: like all babies I suppose, he's endlessly combining two or more unrelated toys and making some new, unlikely toy out of them. A stainless steel bowl and a miniature piano; a cloth bird and a spoon. Just to see how two things go together, or don't go together--isn't that half the fun of being alive, even for adults? And yet we forget this, so comfortably ensconced do we become in our predictable daily routines.
Kids wander. In every sense of the word. They are the best surrealists.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Land's End
We went hiking today at Land's End, that marvelous, wind-blasted cliff area overlooking the Pacific and the Golden Gate Bridge; perhaps the best hike within a major U.S. city. The baby was in a frame backpack designed for carrying little ones; strapped in a little too tightly perhaps, but once we got moving, not unhappy with the whole situation, and towards the end of the short (1/2-hour) hike, lulled to sleep by the warmth of my husband's back and the rhythm of his steady gait. I used to live near this marvelous place, and would jog to it from my house, then jog a little ways down the trail, feeling liberated from all cares and responsibilities as soon as I looked out on the Pacific. Today that feeling was replaced by concern for the baby's well-being (his nose grew red from the cold, and the wind was blowing in his face, and my husband came close to the edge of the cliff once and so on and so forth)--I will never feel completely "liberated" any more, perhaps, but to put it bluntly--I'll never want to be.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Three Faces of the City
In Laurel Heights today, wandering past some especially elegant houses, I felt--as I often do--that there are really three San Franciscos; the San Francisco for the very wealthy (those making over $250,000 a year), the San Francisco for the comfortably middle class (a family of four making $100,000 to $200,000 a year), and the San Francisco for the poor. I don't think there's much gray area involved in the demographics of this city, in other words, not much room for a working-class population, not to mention artists and young entrepeneurs, to carve out a meager living. If they do exist here, they must be falling through the cracks right about now--or they're living four to a room. And the "comfortably middle class" is growing less comfortable--unless they're in one of those recession-proof job categories (whatever those are--health care, I guess).
This is one of the least attractive aspects of this city--these stark divisions between rich, moderately rich, and poor. I don't have much to say on the subject tonight, really; but it does make me feel uncomfortable when I think about the fact that I'm building a life here. Does "here" really exist in any satisfying way?
This is one of the least attractive aspects of this city--these stark divisions between rich, moderately rich, and poor. I don't have much to say on the subject tonight, really; but it does make me feel uncomfortable when I think about the fact that I'm building a life here. Does "here" really exist in any satisfying way?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Downtown SF
Had the rare opportunity to walk through downtown San Francisco today, with the baby...I remember so vividly, various temp jobs I endured as a young adult, in that same part of town. Various cafes I visited and dreamed in. Those great old buildings, like the one I was in today, the Shreve Building...though they can be hot and dusty in the summer, or even in the fall (the office I visited today was stifling), these stylish old structures feel like places where people come to live, to relax...my baby relaxed in the office we visited, in fact, and I ended up changing him on the floor of the women's restroom. Sometimes babies really come through in a pinch; he seemed happy as a clam resting on that cold marble floor. (With a changing pad under him of course; but a thin one.)
I must revise what I wrote about San Francisco and enervation...yes, what I witnessed today was just the normal bustle of any financial center, not a sign of great cultural vitality...but the streets were bustling. I miss that workaday atmosphere. And I wish some of that energy could be transported over to my neighborhood.
I must revise what I wrote about San Francisco and enervation...yes, what I witnessed today was just the normal bustle of any financial center, not a sign of great cultural vitality...but the streets were bustling. I miss that workaday atmosphere. And I wish some of that energy could be transported over to my neighborhood.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Enervation
I used to go to cafes in different cities just to pick up the vibe of a particular place. I think I became fairly adept at keying into the local culture by observing and listening to the clients in any one local cafe. Now, of course, I have almost no time for this; but I do still make it into a San Francisco cafe now and then. The word that comes to mind when I think about the atmosphere in local cafes is, enervation. The people sitting around in cafes in this town seem strangely absent, strangely disconnected.
It might be that I'm comparing today's cafe scene with what it used to be like, twenty years ago--before the Internet and cell phones and Netflix started taking over our lives. At that time, cafes were still meeting places; nowadays, people meet there only for informal business meetings or first dates. It's more common for people to be sitting alone, working at their computer or sending emails or text messages. With all that solitude, it's no wonder people in cafes seem more disconnected to the immediate world around them; and I'm sure that's happening in cafes everywhere, not just in San Francisco.
But I'm talking about something more subtle--a palpable fatigue hanging in the air. Random conversations between people sitting at neighboring tables rarely start up these days, whereas I used to hear those all the time. People don't seem to have any energy left for striking up random conversations.
If the scene in local cafes can be taken as a bellwether for what will happen to an entire city, I'm not sure San Francisco, culturally speaking, is heading in the right direction.
It might be that I'm comparing today's cafe scene with what it used to be like, twenty years ago--before the Internet and cell phones and Netflix started taking over our lives. At that time, cafes were still meeting places; nowadays, people meet there only for informal business meetings or first dates. It's more common for people to be sitting alone, working at their computer or sending emails or text messages. With all that solitude, it's no wonder people in cafes seem more disconnected to the immediate world around them; and I'm sure that's happening in cafes everywhere, not just in San Francisco.
But I'm talking about something more subtle--a palpable fatigue hanging in the air. Random conversations between people sitting at neighboring tables rarely start up these days, whereas I used to hear those all the time. People don't seem to have any energy left for striking up random conversations.
If the scene in local cafes can be taken as a bellwether for what will happen to an entire city, I'm not sure San Francisco, culturally speaking, is heading in the right direction.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Relaxation and Trauma
Parenthood involves trauma; it's not a pretty thought, but trauma, hardship and generally unpleasant experiences just come with the territory. (As well as joy, excitement, love.) The problem, of course, is when one becomes so steeped in one's fears of some potential disaster that one refuses to let the child take the first steps towards independence, and also inculcates the child to imagine that the world is full of bogeymen at every turn.
I was deeply fearful that some disaster might occur during our trip to France. A seven-month-old baby seems like such a fragile thing--not yet crawling, not yet able to sit up, basically relying on us to care for him at every moment. During a distracted moment, in a house we're not familiar with, what might he reach out and pick up while we're holding him in the baby carrier--something sharp or hot, something we didn't notice? Or, rushing through the airport, trading off the baby between us, what if one of us doesn't communicate well enough with the other to tell them that their grip on the baby is less than firm? These scenarios and many others played out in my head multiple times before our trip.
As it turns out--not one single disaster occurred; the trip was blissfully uneventful in that respect. One of the reasons was undoubtedly, my heightened vigilance and that of my husband. Another was just plain dumb luck.
This sort of vigilance takes its toll on a person; though I also realize that as a parent, one is never entirely free of it. This Sunday afternoon, my husband volunteered to watch the baby for a few hours. I used the first hour to clean up the kitchen, dining and living areas, picking up after the baby--both because these rooms had been trashed by a busy, curious little 8-month-old, and because I was afraid one of us, holding or not holding the baby, might slip on something. The second hour was spent attempting to relax on the couch with the Sunday paper and not being terribly successful.
I know that I've written about spates of manic activity in recent weeks, during similar three-hour breaks...the simple truth might be that I need to learn to relax, even while remaining vigilant. This, for the child's well-being as well as my own.
I was deeply fearful that some disaster might occur during our trip to France. A seven-month-old baby seems like such a fragile thing--not yet crawling, not yet able to sit up, basically relying on us to care for him at every moment. During a distracted moment, in a house we're not familiar with, what might he reach out and pick up while we're holding him in the baby carrier--something sharp or hot, something we didn't notice? Or, rushing through the airport, trading off the baby between us, what if one of us doesn't communicate well enough with the other to tell them that their grip on the baby is less than firm? These scenarios and many others played out in my head multiple times before our trip.
As it turns out--not one single disaster occurred; the trip was blissfully uneventful in that respect. One of the reasons was undoubtedly, my heightened vigilance and that of my husband. Another was just plain dumb luck.
This sort of vigilance takes its toll on a person; though I also realize that as a parent, one is never entirely free of it. This Sunday afternoon, my husband volunteered to watch the baby for a few hours. I used the first hour to clean up the kitchen, dining and living areas, picking up after the baby--both because these rooms had been trashed by a busy, curious little 8-month-old, and because I was afraid one of us, holding or not holding the baby, might slip on something. The second hour was spent attempting to relax on the couch with the Sunday paper and not being terribly successful.
I know that I've written about spates of manic activity in recent weeks, during similar three-hour breaks...the simple truth might be that I need to learn to relax, even while remaining vigilant. This, for the child's well-being as well as my own.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Bad Novels
Reading a not-very-good novel at the moment, which, however, attempts something interesting and important. I won't describe exactly what it's about, but it has something to do with motherhood. The way that it's bad is interesting: the writer has a certain facility with language, but can't seem to avoid the occasional line of purple prose. As I'm reading, I start to sink into her characters and their situations--then, one of her sentences stands up and shouts, "Pay attention to me!" instead of blending with the other sentences around it. This might be interesting if the novel were about itself, in proper postmodernist fashion--or about language--but it's not.
What is interesting and important about it? It describes a mother-daughter relationship in which the daughter pursues the mother's dream career, a career the mother wanted, but did not have the talent or determination to pursue; the complexities of their connection to each other are well-described and lead to unpredictable yet plausible outcomes. The characters themselves feel strangely flat and predictable, they just aren't all that carefully fleshed-out, but their conflicted feelings towards each other are well-portrayed.
Sometimes bad novels aren't so bad.
What is interesting and important about it? It describes a mother-daughter relationship in which the daughter pursues the mother's dream career, a career the mother wanted, but did not have the talent or determination to pursue; the complexities of their connection to each other are well-described and lead to unpredictable yet plausible outcomes. The characters themselves feel strangely flat and predictable, they just aren't all that carefully fleshed-out, but their conflicted feelings towards each other are well-portrayed.
Sometimes bad novels aren't so bad.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Mothers and Energy
Yesterday, walking with the baby near Japantown, and again this evening, because one of my aunts called from Japan, I've been thinking about my mother. A dynamic, fun-loving person who never seemed to lack energy. When I think about her, I see her in motion--cooking furiously in the kitchen; mending something at the sewing machine; laughing in her adorable, raucous way that made everyone around her smile, even if they didn't know what she was laughing about; energetically climbing the stairs at her house, pounding her feet into each step. I never knew, and probably never will know, someone who got as much pleasure out of eating, drinking, sleeping, and hearing a funny story, as my mother did.
When I think about this five-foot-tall human dynamo, who died last year and is watching over my son and me from some lovely place with a very soft bed to lie in and plenty of good food to eat, I wonder how I'll ever measure up as a mother. I'll never have half the energy she did. Sometimes her energy tilted over into something a little more negative. She could be very demanding and overbearing at times. But most of the time, she was a furiously devoted parent. And could be as funny as hell.
She did also tell me, many times, that being a parent involved more work than I could imagine. "Some day you'll know," she often said, her voice taking on a slightly ominous tone. Yes, Mom, I do know, now. It's an incredible amount of work. But every time he smiles, laughs, grabs my hair, talks in his excited, baby-talk way, or stamps his little feet on the floor while I'm holding his arms--he reminds me of you; of you and your amazing, tenacious, enthusiastic grip on life. And I feel a little burst of energy, as well as sadness, just thinking about the two of you, and what it would have been like to see you two together.
When I think about this five-foot-tall human dynamo, who died last year and is watching over my son and me from some lovely place with a very soft bed to lie in and plenty of good food to eat, I wonder how I'll ever measure up as a mother. I'll never have half the energy she did. Sometimes her energy tilted over into something a little more negative. She could be very demanding and overbearing at times. But most of the time, she was a furiously devoted parent. And could be as funny as hell.
She did also tell me, many times, that being a parent involved more work than I could imagine. "Some day you'll know," she often said, her voice taking on a slightly ominous tone. Yes, Mom, I do know, now. It's an incredible amount of work. But every time he smiles, laughs, grabs my hair, talks in his excited, baby-talk way, or stamps his little feet on the floor while I'm holding his arms--he reminds me of you; of you and your amazing, tenacious, enthusiastic grip on life. And I feel a little burst of energy, as well as sadness, just thinking about the two of you, and what it would have been like to see you two together.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Advice vs. Help
One thing I can say for sure, after more than eight months of experience with this--new moms tend to receive heaps and heaps of unsolicited advice, but very little actual help. For all the times that I've been told either to let the baby cry or to not let the baby cry, I wish that at least one hour of childcare had been donated--that would have meant at least forty hours of blissful time to myself. Stretched over the thirty-six weeks my baby has been alive, that would have meant at least one long bubble bath each week.
The advice does seem to center around this issue of letting or not letting the baby cry. I don't want to delve into that thorny issue too deeply right now, although I could discuss it at length in some other post. The point here is--why do people assume that their own experience with a baby, or babies, will be just like someone else's? And why do they assume that a mother is eager to hear their advice, when she hasn't even asked for it?
These assumptions are wrong in other situations as well, of course. For instance; too often, adults assume that all children will be just like they were as kids, and that their advice will apply perfectly to a child they know, when sometimes it applies horribly and the child doesn't want to hear it.
It might be a good general rule of thumb, in fact: don't offer advice if you can offer help instead.
The advice does seem to center around this issue of letting or not letting the baby cry. I don't want to delve into that thorny issue too deeply right now, although I could discuss it at length in some other post. The point here is--why do people assume that their own experience with a baby, or babies, will be just like someone else's? And why do they assume that a mother is eager to hear their advice, when she hasn't even asked for it?
These assumptions are wrong in other situations as well, of course. For instance; too often, adults assume that all children will be just like they were as kids, and that their advice will apply perfectly to a child they know, when sometimes it applies horribly and the child doesn't want to hear it.
It might be a good general rule of thumb, in fact: don't offer advice if you can offer help instead.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
West Portal mayhem
Found myself criss-crossing the West Portal neighborhood this afternoon, with the baby sleeping in the French-designed stroller (his first outing in it--I think I said I wouldn't mention strollers again but okay, one more time: it's a wonderful stroller and he slept beautifully in it). The neighborhood was going a little beserk because of the closure of the Muni line between Castro and West Portal, due to a train derailment early this morning. Police officers and Muni officials were everywhere, the extra buses shuttling Muni passengers back and forth were causing traffic snarls left and right, and the hordes of people exiting the buses doubled the level of noise on the main thoroughfare, West Portal Avenue. Not the most relaxing walk. Even on a good day, without Muni problems, this particular neighborhood strikes me as more than a bit noisy; but today the noise was bad enough to feel oppressive.
Be that as it may: West Portal does manage to convey a certain amount of charm in spite of the noise; it feels like a small town, somehow, with all of its knick-knacky shops and unambitious restaurants, with its cozy-looking houses, with its slightly dilapidated movie theater. Is it a "lost" part of the city? Not really. People there look too purposeful, too focused in on their environment, for this neighborhood to be designated as "lost" in the sense that I'm using that word in this blog.
Nevertheless: during today's stroll, I passed a large parked sports utility vehicle with a family inside it, or at least, a mother and her two sons; she had her head back against the headrest and appeared to be sleeping, while her two young boys, perhaps somewhere between four and seven years of age, sat in booster seats in the back, just staring out the window. I felt bad for all of them--exhausted mother, bored little kids in back. But I do admit, I mostly felt for the mother at that moment. I think I've even done what she was doing, in that same neighborhood.
Perhaps the universal symbol of parenthood is a certain glazed-over, fatigued, just-barely-holding-it-together look that I've only seen on the faces of mothers and fathers trying to keep up with their energetic little ones.
Be that as it may: West Portal does manage to convey a certain amount of charm in spite of the noise; it feels like a small town, somehow, with all of its knick-knacky shops and unambitious restaurants, with its cozy-looking houses, with its slightly dilapidated movie theater. Is it a "lost" part of the city? Not really. People there look too purposeful, too focused in on their environment, for this neighborhood to be designated as "lost" in the sense that I'm using that word in this blog.
Nevertheless: during today's stroll, I passed a large parked sports utility vehicle with a family inside it, or at least, a mother and her two sons; she had her head back against the headrest and appeared to be sleeping, while her two young boys, perhaps somewhere between four and seven years of age, sat in booster seats in the back, just staring out the window. I felt bad for all of them--exhausted mother, bored little kids in back. But I do admit, I mostly felt for the mother at that moment. I think I've even done what she was doing, in that same neighborhood.
Perhaps the universal symbol of parenthood is a certain glazed-over, fatigued, just-barely-holding-it-together look that I've only seen on the faces of mothers and fathers trying to keep up with their energetic little ones.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Green Cities Part 2
Just a brief continuation of yesterday's entry. One point I was trying to make is that a city should not give itself over entirely to cars and the kind of lifestyle they encourage: individuals and families as isolated, self-absorbed units, people rushing here and there to make money or to spend it. A city should open itself to the twenty-year-old wanderer, the defenseless and curious young child, the old men playing chess on a park bench. In other words, city planners have to create spaces for sloth, for idleness. For dreaming. For wandering.
Paris, France cannot be held up as a model green city by any means; and yet...Bertrand Delanoë, the current mayor, seems to understand the importance of incorporating idleness into the city plan. He created Paris Plage, a summertime beach installed right on the banks of the Seine with temporary sand; he designated bus-only lanes on the more popular thoroughfares; and now Paris has Velo Libre, or "Vel Lib" for short--a fleet of perhaps several hundred bicycles available free of charge at various street corners throughout the city. Paris has always been an ideal city for people who like to wander and daydream in slow-motion, given its plethora of parks, gardens, benches and stairways, plazas, passages and lazy-afternoon cafes. But now it's an even better city for the bicyclist, the bus-taker and the Sunday sunbather.
Whenever a city's ecological proficiency is evaluated, people often forget to ask, "Are we having fun yet?" Delanoe seems to understand this. I'm not sure San Francisco's own city planners always remember how to incorporate fun into their projects.
Paris, France cannot be held up as a model green city by any means; and yet...Bertrand Delanoë, the current mayor, seems to understand the importance of incorporating idleness into the city plan. He created Paris Plage, a summertime beach installed right on the banks of the Seine with temporary sand; he designated bus-only lanes on the more popular thoroughfares; and now Paris has Velo Libre, or "Vel Lib" for short--a fleet of perhaps several hundred bicycles available free of charge at various street corners throughout the city. Paris has always been an ideal city for people who like to wander and daydream in slow-motion, given its plethora of parks, gardens, benches and stairways, plazas, passages and lazy-afternoon cafes. But now it's an even better city for the bicyclist, the bus-taker and the Sunday sunbather.
Whenever a city's ecological proficiency is evaluated, people often forget to ask, "Are we having fun yet?" Delanoe seems to understand this. I'm not sure San Francisco's own city planners always remember how to incorporate fun into their projects.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Green Cities
More on the "Pavement to Parks" program, and other greening projects. Gavin Newsom touts himself as a green mayor, and certainly, San Francisco's sustainability program is one of the best in the country. Their "zero waste by 2020" goal is laudable, and they've taken a lot of concrete steps towards that goal--apparently we reuse, compost or recycle about 72% percent of our waste at this point. But part of "greening" a city has to do with making it more user-friendly for those on foot, on bikes, and taking public transportation, and in this regard, San Francisco still leaves a lot to be desired.
Why not have certain streets permanently designated for bicycles and pedestrians only, and more bike lanes on some of the wider streets? Closing JFK Drive on Sundays is all well and good, but that's just for recreational activities; there should be a better way for bicyclists to cross the city during commute hours. Moreover, our public transportation system is just so unpleasant to use--it seems like even the newer buses are noisy and uncomfortable, and the Muni cars are loud and ugly and, sometimes, desperately slow. Especially in comparison to the Metro in Paris, the subway in New York, the Tube in London, Washington DC's fantastic municipal railway system, and other systems in places like Boston and Portland, taking the bus or Muni in San Francisco is a depressing experience.
On a more aesthetic level--San Francisco just doesn't have enough good public places. Golden Gate Park isn't bad in spots, like Stow Lake or the Strybing Arboretum; but too much of the rest of the Park is dominated by the noise of passing cars. Downtown San Francisco has a surprising number of rooftop gardens and miniature plazas where people can take a break from work or eat lunch in the sun if they want, but in the residential neighborhoods, one is often hard-pressed to find a good public place to relax.
Why is this important? A place for the young to meet, mingle, and flirt with each other, without being propositioned by drug dealers or gang members; a place for an old woman walking home with her heavy bags of groceries to sit for a few minutes, take in the sun, and watch the city go by; a place for a mother out for a stroll with a growing, curious, 8-month-old baby to stop and bounce him on her leg and introduce him to a passing dog or another mother and her baby--such a place, however humble and small, serves a vital function in any neighborhood. We just don't have enough of them, and many of the ones we do have are just too poorly designed.
In The Death and Life of Great American Cities, Jane Jacobs writes about the problems created when a city neighborhood is not designed for mixed use--some commercial and some residential, for instance, or goverment offices mixed in with shops and movie theaters, so the neighborhood does not shut down completely or become threatening at night. She used San Francisco's Civic Center as an example of a neighborhood that lacks this kind of diversification. And it's true. Nobody feels like strolling there, even during the daytime. It's not the fault of the homeless, although one does have to run the gauntlet of aggressive panhandlers at times. It's the whole layout of the place, where one is walking across empty pavement or past grey government buildings for what seems like a mile before one arrives anywhere. The only time this environment changes and becomes somewhat bearable is when there's a farmer's market in the plaza--then the place comes to life, but only for a short time. Mixed use, or the lack of it in many parts of this beautiful city--one key problem with this place, I think, that many of the environmentally-minded types that live here do not think about often enough. Or if they do think about it, their solutions (see yesterday's post on Pavement to Parks) leave much to be desired.
Why not have certain streets permanently designated for bicycles and pedestrians only, and more bike lanes on some of the wider streets? Closing JFK Drive on Sundays is all well and good, but that's just for recreational activities; there should be a better way for bicyclists to cross the city during commute hours. Moreover, our public transportation system is just so unpleasant to use--it seems like even the newer buses are noisy and uncomfortable, and the Muni cars are loud and ugly and, sometimes, desperately slow. Especially in comparison to the Metro in Paris, the subway in New York, the Tube in London, Washington DC's fantastic municipal railway system, and other systems in places like Boston and Portland, taking the bus or Muni in San Francisco is a depressing experience.
On a more aesthetic level--San Francisco just doesn't have enough good public places. Golden Gate Park isn't bad in spots, like Stow Lake or the Strybing Arboretum; but too much of the rest of the Park is dominated by the noise of passing cars. Downtown San Francisco has a surprising number of rooftop gardens and miniature plazas where people can take a break from work or eat lunch in the sun if they want, but in the residential neighborhoods, one is often hard-pressed to find a good public place to relax.
Why is this important? A place for the young to meet, mingle, and flirt with each other, without being propositioned by drug dealers or gang members; a place for an old woman walking home with her heavy bags of groceries to sit for a few minutes, take in the sun, and watch the city go by; a place for a mother out for a stroll with a growing, curious, 8-month-old baby to stop and bounce him on her leg and introduce him to a passing dog or another mother and her baby--such a place, however humble and small, serves a vital function in any neighborhood. We just don't have enough of them, and many of the ones we do have are just too poorly designed.
In The Death and Life of Great American Cities, Jane Jacobs writes about the problems created when a city neighborhood is not designed for mixed use--some commercial and some residential, for instance, or goverment offices mixed in with shops and movie theaters, so the neighborhood does not shut down completely or become threatening at night. She used San Francisco's Civic Center as an example of a neighborhood that lacks this kind of diversification. And it's true. Nobody feels like strolling there, even during the daytime. It's not the fault of the homeless, although one does have to run the gauntlet of aggressive panhandlers at times. It's the whole layout of the place, where one is walking across empty pavement or past grey government buildings for what seems like a mile before one arrives anywhere. The only time this environment changes and becomes somewhat bearable is when there's a farmer's market in the plaza--then the place comes to life, but only for a short time. Mixed use, or the lack of it in many parts of this beautiful city--one key problem with this place, I think, that many of the environmentally-minded types that live here do not think about often enough. Or if they do think about it, their solutions (see yesterday's post on Pavement to Parks) leave much to be desired.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Stroller as National Symbol
I'm getting carried away with this stroller theme; but one more time, and I'm done.
Miracle of miracles--my husband found the stroller I loved in France, i.e. he found out that it is sold here in the U.S. It's sold by a different company, but it appears to be very nearly the same stroller--seat that reclines as a unit, magnificently comfortable for a baby, well-built, handles well. Everything I loved about the stroller in France. It's expensive, but worth it I think, if I use it every day and the baby enjoys sitting in it for at least a year. They just started selling it in the United States in June of this year.
As I was searching for the best place to buy this French-designed poussette, I stumbled upon video reviews of several different strollers. It was interesting, the emphasis the American reviewers placed on things like portability and cupholders. "And this stroller finally comes with the cupholders we Americans love," one reviewer mentioned while talking about another European-made stroller. In the baby supply store I visited last week, the young woman steered me towards a stroller with a big tray and cupholders--"I just have to have cupholders," she said. Not stopping to consider if I ever said I needed them. Why are cupholders so important for so many mothers in this country? And the review of my preferred stroller didn't even mention the critical feature that makes it so radically different from nearly all the other strollers sold in the U.S.--the fact that the seat reclines as a unit.
The strollers made in the U.S. are not designed with a baby's comfort in mind; they're designed to keep the mother hydrated.
Miracle of miracles--my husband found the stroller I loved in France, i.e. he found out that it is sold here in the U.S. It's sold by a different company, but it appears to be very nearly the same stroller--seat that reclines as a unit, magnificently comfortable for a baby, well-built, handles well. Everything I loved about the stroller in France. It's expensive, but worth it I think, if I use it every day and the baby enjoys sitting in it for at least a year. They just started selling it in the United States in June of this year.
As I was searching for the best place to buy this French-designed poussette, I stumbled upon video reviews of several different strollers. It was interesting, the emphasis the American reviewers placed on things like portability and cupholders. "And this stroller finally comes with the cupholders we Americans love," one reviewer mentioned while talking about another European-made stroller. In the baby supply store I visited last week, the young woman steered me towards a stroller with a big tray and cupholders--"I just have to have cupholders," she said. Not stopping to consider if I ever said I needed them. Why are cupholders so important for so many mothers in this country? And the review of my preferred stroller didn't even mention the critical feature that makes it so radically different from nearly all the other strollers sold in the U.S.--the fact that the seat reclines as a unit.
The strollers made in the U.S. are not designed with a baby's comfort in mind; they're designed to keep the mother hydrated.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Stroller Hell Part Two; Pavements to Parks
Just spent a half-hour downloading and looking at photos from our trip to France. A few of them show our baby in the French stroller belonging to a relative of mine--he's just beaming with pleasure. It fits him perfectly, is well-padded, reclines beautifully (when the back reclines, the bottom tilts up; in other words, the whole seat moves as a unit when it reclines--not like the American strollers where the back reclines by itself). I'll never find anything quite like it in the U.S. and that thought is killing me. I have yet to decide which front-facing stroller to buy for him, but I have to make a decision soon. He's just getting so big, and needs to see the world so badly.
Back, however, to the theme of lost places. I happened to be in the Mission District today, with an errand to run. The baby had fallen asleep in the car, so after parking, I decided to go for a stroll with him on the outskirts of the Mission, where it meets Bernal Heights and Noe Valley. A lost area only in the sense of its not being the Mission any more, but not clearly being anything else, either. That vague area on the other side of Cesar Chavez, before 30th Street, and between San Jose and Dolores.
I happened upon an interesting little spot--not much to look at, actually, but it's a work still in progress--a small experimental park, where San Jose intersects with Guerrero. Big cut-up logs and police barricades are blocking off access to San Jose from Guerrero, and behind the barricades, someone has installed large planter boxes filled with, well, rather ordinary-looking plants, as well as a few white plastic chairs and one uncomfortable-looking wooden bench. As I said, not much to look at; but the idea behind it is called "Pavement to Parks," a project to take little sections of the urban landscape that aren't being used for much of anything, and make mini-parks out of them.
They just created this particular space in September, and are giving it a six-month trial run. Apparently they have this "Pavement to Parks" program up and running in New York, and are just starting to implement it in San Francisco. I think it's a great idea, although the execution of the idea, at this particular location, leaves much to be desired.
What's intriguing, in the context of this blog and my search for "lost" places--they took this forgotten little part of the Outer Outer Mission, and did something with it, and lo and behold--it looks even more forgotten than ever. Every city needs its forgotten places--but a carefully planned one--that's a new twist.
Back, however, to the theme of lost places. I happened to be in the Mission District today, with an errand to run. The baby had fallen asleep in the car, so after parking, I decided to go for a stroll with him on the outskirts of the Mission, where it meets Bernal Heights and Noe Valley. A lost area only in the sense of its not being the Mission any more, but not clearly being anything else, either. That vague area on the other side of Cesar Chavez, before 30th Street, and between San Jose and Dolores.
I happened upon an interesting little spot--not much to look at, actually, but it's a work still in progress--a small experimental park, where San Jose intersects with Guerrero. Big cut-up logs and police barricades are blocking off access to San Jose from Guerrero, and behind the barricades, someone has installed large planter boxes filled with, well, rather ordinary-looking plants, as well as a few white plastic chairs and one uncomfortable-looking wooden bench. As I said, not much to look at; but the idea behind it is called "Pavement to Parks," a project to take little sections of the urban landscape that aren't being used for much of anything, and make mini-parks out of them.
They just created this particular space in September, and are giving it a six-month trial run. Apparently they have this "Pavement to Parks" program up and running in New York, and are just starting to implement it in San Francisco. I think it's a great idea, although the execution of the idea, at this particular location, leaves much to be desired.
What's intriguing, in the context of this blog and my search for "lost" places--they took this forgotten little part of the Outer Outer Mission, and did something with it, and lo and behold--it looks even more forgotten than ever. Every city needs its forgotten places--but a carefully planned one--that's a new twist.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Beautiful November
So much to do this month, involving items to purchase and activities to pursue for the little one (won't give details because it's not that interesting, except for the most diehard baby fanatic). It's driving me a little frantic.
So I need to stop and appreciate--this month; the clear, brilliant blue sky today; the sudden chill in the afternoon air that always makes me feel more motivated and ambitious, somehow; the way that my son cuddled with his grey velour top (formerly his mother's, but claimed early on by him, and now his favorite soothing item) just now, while settling down into his second nap of the day; the way that he looks in profile, lying on his side in his crib.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Chaos
Watched a sad incident today between a father and son at a local playground, one that probably occurs several hundred times a day at playgrounds across the country. The boy, maybe three years old, was being carried away in his father's arms, and didn't want to leave the playground or was upset about something else his father was doing. He exploded in rage and frustration, kicking his legs violently. Then he suddenly slapped at his father's chest as hard as he could. The father, embarrassed or perhaps just too tired to react, rolled his eyes and continued walking.
Childhood is so full of small disasters...What we can hope is that we are fully present, as parents, during those moments. Easier said than done, I know.
I'm not sure if it was the mother talking, or a friend, but a woman said, watching the boy throw his tantrum: "One moment he's happy and calm, the next moment he's a devil child." Chilling language, thrown out casually at a children's playground.
Veteran's Day. My husband's watching a program about valiant soldiers. War is, to me, largely an exercise in stupidity and chaos, no matter how courageous the soldiers are.
Childhood is not (by any means) a war, but the desperation a child feels when things are out of control in his little world must be similar to the desperation a soldier feels when things are out of control on the battlefield. Will we be able to step in, as parents, and impose something like order, grace, clarity? Just as a soldier, taking the right action to protect his fellow soldiers, imposes some kind of order, no matter how crazy the circumstances?
Don't know. But tomorrow will be absolute chaos if I don't get to bed.
Childhood is so full of small disasters...What we can hope is that we are fully present, as parents, during those moments. Easier said than done, I know.
I'm not sure if it was the mother talking, or a friend, but a woman said, watching the boy throw his tantrum: "One moment he's happy and calm, the next moment he's a devil child." Chilling language, thrown out casually at a children's playground.
Veteran's Day. My husband's watching a program about valiant soldiers. War is, to me, largely an exercise in stupidity and chaos, no matter how courageous the soldiers are.
Childhood is not (by any means) a war, but the desperation a child feels when things are out of control in his little world must be similar to the desperation a soldier feels when things are out of control on the battlefield. Will we be able to step in, as parents, and impose something like order, grace, clarity? Just as a soldier, taking the right action to protect his fellow soldiers, imposes some kind of order, no matter how crazy the circumstances?
Don't know. But tomorrow will be absolute chaos if I don't get to bed.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Bel Canto, Bella Fortuna
I had high hopes for this novel, Bel Canto, which sold more than a million copies, and which combines two very disparate subjects, classical music and international politics, in an interesting way. I certainly wasn't entirely disappointed; but by the end of the novel I was still wondering why she'd written it. It has its entertaining and lyrical moments, but the plot meandered and left me unconvinced (especially the surprise ending), and the main characters never felt all that believable either. However--hats off to Ann Patchett for picking such an off-the-wall subject and, well, at least trying to pull off something original.
A peaceful day, in spite of a trip to the doctor (for the 8-month checkup) during which the little one received a shot in each thigh (second flu shot, and Hep-B). He was a trooper, to say the least, only cried for a few seconds.
I've been griping a lot about fatigue recently, and yes it's true, I've been horribly tired (still am); but I've got to remember, some part of me has got to remember, how damn fortunate I am to feel this tired. And anyway--it's getting better; slept for almost seven hours last night.
A peaceful day, in spite of a trip to the doctor (for the 8-month checkup) during which the little one received a shot in each thigh (second flu shot, and Hep-B). He was a trooper, to say the least, only cried for a few seconds.
I've been griping a lot about fatigue recently, and yes it's true, I've been horribly tired (still am); but I've got to remember, some part of me has got to remember, how damn fortunate I am to feel this tired. And anyway--it's getting better; slept for almost seven hours last night.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Fatigue, Once and for All
Fatigue means, every part of your body feels heavier than usual. Your eyelids, your arms, your feet, your toenails.
Fatigue means, you feel like crying when you can't find your sunglasses.
Fatigue means, second-guessing every step you make and every goal you've set yourself.
Fatigue means, everyone who comes up and talks to you feels far away, or is vaguely irritating.
Fatigue means, reality spins on an axis.
Fatigue means, saying no to every non-essential activity that does not involve you being able to sit down or lie down somewhere without talking too much.
Fatigue means, not remembering what it feels like to sleep eight hours straight.
Fatigue means, forgetting what you were saying if you jump to a different subject for even a few seconds.
Fatigue means, your IQ dropping about thirty points.
Fatigue means, suddenly jumping into manic activity for about forty minutes.
Fatigue means, eating comfort foods and not being comforted by them.
Fatigue means, your limbs ache.
Fatigue means, you should be in bed right now.
Fatigue means, you feel like crying when you can't find your sunglasses.
Fatigue means, second-guessing every step you make and every goal you've set yourself.
Fatigue means, everyone who comes up and talks to you feels far away, or is vaguely irritating.
Fatigue means, reality spins on an axis.
Fatigue means, saying no to every non-essential activity that does not involve you being able to sit down or lie down somewhere without talking too much.
Fatigue means, not remembering what it feels like to sleep eight hours straight.
Fatigue means, forgetting what you were saying if you jump to a different subject for even a few seconds.
Fatigue means, your IQ dropping about thirty points.
Fatigue means, suddenly jumping into manic activity for about forty minutes.
Fatigue means, eating comfort foods and not being comforted by them.
Fatigue means, your limbs ache.
Fatigue means, you should be in bed right now.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Manic Fatigue
I've reached a new stage in this fatigue saga (I feel a bit like Knut Hamsen's character in Hunger at this point). Every bit as tired today as yesterday, I chose to spend two free hours this morning (the baby was napping) looking at various strollers online. And for two more free hours this afternoon (the husband was watching the baby, to give me a break) I started cleaning the kitchen and dining room, then organizing the baby's room and certain parts of the living room. Why I've become so manic, I couldn't say; weird things happen when one is really tired. But it does feel good to know that at least part of the house has attained a functional, manageable level of filth and disorder once again.
I did end up buying a stroller today; far from being completely satisfied with the purchase, I'm just hoping that the little guy will not protest too much when I take him for a walk in it. It was an agonizing decision in the store, as I sized up three very different strollers and had to decide which defect was the least offensive (for they all had defects, none of them was perfect)...was fairly exhausted when we got home, but took the baby for an hourlong walk anyway, then, as I said, went into a manic cleaning and organizing mode.
Maybe I'm unable to relax because I feel like a house with a shaky frame: a certain amount of constant pressure and tension might be all that's holding me together at this point.
I did end up buying a stroller today; far from being completely satisfied with the purchase, I'm just hoping that the little guy will not protest too much when I take him for a walk in it. It was an agonizing decision in the store, as I sized up three very different strollers and had to decide which defect was the least offensive (for they all had defects, none of them was perfect)...was fairly exhausted when we got home, but took the baby for an hourlong walk anyway, then, as I said, went into a manic cleaning and organizing mode.
Maybe I'm unable to relax because I feel like a house with a shaky frame: a certain amount of constant pressure and tension might be all that's holding me together at this point.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Stroller Hell
I'm perhaps more tired today than any other day in recent memory. I'm also tired of writing "I'm tired," so I'm going to make this extremely brief. I spent part of the afternoon trying out strollers in a famous baby store, wishing one of them looked at least half as good as the strollers I'd seen in France. The baby loved it--at least, the first part of it--sitting in a big stroller with arm rests, he chortled and yelled excitedly as I pushed him forward. I'm dying to buy him a forward-facing stroller, as he is so in love with the world right now--our car-seat-travel-system stroller just doesn't cut it any more; he can't see anything but my face and whatever's visible above it. And the large jogging stroller we bought recently is too big for his purposes right now; his head just rolls around or forward when he sits in it, and his whole body slouches down in a way that is painful to observe. But it's hell, shopping for strollers. There are just so many different kinds out there, and so few of them are any good. But I have to get it done...will try again at a different store tomorrow.
Perhaps the only interesting phrase I've written today is, "my baby is in love with the world"--it's astonishing, the connections he's forming with everything, just everything he sees, hears, tastes, feels and smells, during this part of his life. The sound of the lotion tube, with the air wheezing in and out when I squeeze it, was an intense pleasure for him this morning. Yesterday it was watching and hearing the spray come out of a spray bottle as I cleaned the mirrors. His laugh, when he's really tickled by something, bubbles out with so much energy, and his eyes light up with so much joy, that I really stop whatever I'm doing and remember how lucky I am to know him, every time he laughs like that. I see that I've migrated far from the subject of strollers and hell--to the subject of laughter and heaven. Good enough place to stop for the day.
Perhaps the only interesting phrase I've written today is, "my baby is in love with the world"--it's astonishing, the connections he's forming with everything, just everything he sees, hears, tastes, feels and smells, during this part of his life. The sound of the lotion tube, with the air wheezing in and out when I squeeze it, was an intense pleasure for him this morning. Yesterday it was watching and hearing the spray come out of a spray bottle as I cleaned the mirrors. His laugh, when he's really tickled by something, bubbles out with so much energy, and his eyes light up with so much joy, that I really stop whatever I'm doing and remember how lucky I am to know him, every time he laughs like that. I see that I've migrated far from the subject of strollers and hell--to the subject of laughter and heaven. Good enough place to stop for the day.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Atmosphere
Extremely fatigued though not as dispirited as last night. Was up most of the night, either caring for the little one or reading Bel Canto. Yes, the book has grown on me. It was ridiculous of me not to sleep more last night, but I must admit that I've gotten swept up in the novel to some extent. Patchett took on a difficult topic and handled it, for the most part, skillfully.
One weakness in the story: none of the adult characters ever argue or fight with each other, even though they are either hostages or hostage-takers. In fact her characters feel, for the most part, rather two-dimensional and predictable. But she does know how to create an atmosphere. (A very unusual atmosphere at that: the scene is that of a large group of very diverse people being held hostage at an embassy in some unidentified Latin American country.) I suppose I'm reading it mostly for the atmosphere. It's a "poetic" text in that way--very thin plot, weak characters, strong setting.
In an earlier post I wondered out loud if the era of novels had come to a close. I felt as if we were satisfying our need for stories through other media--films, television, the Internet and so forth. But perhaps the real problem (did I touch on this in that earlier post?) is, the canvas on which a novelist needs to create, if their novel will speak to any sort of contemporary audience, has to be almost impossibly wide--has to cover a vast range of experiences and outlooks, to seem real to us in this media-saturated society.
Perhaps. Or perhaps the correct impulse is to move in the other direction: to paint on an impossibly small canvas.
Whatever the answer is, right now I need to go crash into my bed...once again, so tired that the world is spinning before my eyes.
One weakness in the story: none of the adult characters ever argue or fight with each other, even though they are either hostages or hostage-takers. In fact her characters feel, for the most part, rather two-dimensional and predictable. But she does know how to create an atmosphere. (A very unusual atmosphere at that: the scene is that of a large group of very diverse people being held hostage at an embassy in some unidentified Latin American country.) I suppose I'm reading it mostly for the atmosphere. It's a "poetic" text in that way--very thin plot, weak characters, strong setting.
In an earlier post I wondered out loud if the era of novels had come to a close. I felt as if we were satisfying our need for stories through other media--films, television, the Internet and so forth. But perhaps the real problem (did I touch on this in that earlier post?) is, the canvas on which a novelist needs to create, if their novel will speak to any sort of contemporary audience, has to be almost impossibly wide--has to cover a vast range of experiences and outlooks, to seem real to us in this media-saturated society.
Perhaps. Or perhaps the correct impulse is to move in the other direction: to paint on an impossibly small canvas.
Whatever the answer is, right now I need to go crash into my bed...once again, so tired that the world is spinning before my eyes.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Fatigue, Again
Very tired these days because the baby is still readjusting to our time zone, after one week back from the trip overseas, and is waking up in the middle of the night then staying awake for a good hour and a half to two hours. Last night he woke up twice; the second time, at 4 am and he never went back to sleep, poor little tyke.
Fatigue is the biggest killer of literary inspiration that I know about, and I'm experiencing that tonight. Thinking, however, about the whole subject of getting "lost," which was the point of this blog--and not, describing the intricacies of caring for a baby and all the personal traits of this particular little boy. So I'm writing a blog to, in a sense, get as far away as I can from the "mother" role that I'm playing most of the day. Is it working?
I'd have to say, for the most part, yes...though I tend to drift back to the quotidian banalities more than I should. At least, however, I've managed to indicate what this quality of being "lost" means to me, both as a mother and as a writer. It's not an escape from reality, so much as a distancing from it to see it (hopefully) that much more clearly.
But fatigue makes any kind of reality itself seem to drift--that's what's so scary about being extremely tired. And so, on that note--I'm off to bed.
Fatigue is the biggest killer of literary inspiration that I know about, and I'm experiencing that tonight. Thinking, however, about the whole subject of getting "lost," which was the point of this blog--and not, describing the intricacies of caring for a baby and all the personal traits of this particular little boy. So I'm writing a blog to, in a sense, get as far away as I can from the "mother" role that I'm playing most of the day. Is it working?
I'd have to say, for the most part, yes...though I tend to drift back to the quotidian banalities more than I should. At least, however, I've managed to indicate what this quality of being "lost" means to me, both as a mother and as a writer. It's not an escape from reality, so much as a distancing from it to see it (hopefully) that much more clearly.
But fatigue makes any kind of reality itself seem to drift--that's what's so scary about being extremely tired. And so, on that note--I'm off to bed.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Bel Canto
Currently reading this novel by Ann Patchett. I love the clarity and precision of her writing; I'm not sure why she felt compelled to write this novel, however. What was the burning question she was trying to answer? I know I'm not the first one to say this, but I'll say it anyway: all novelists are trying to answer one penultimate question in their novels--one issue that has always plagued them, something having to do with human relations or animal-vegetable relations or relations of some sort. One question, or at the most, a set of related questions.
Novelists are obsessed about--something. I don't know what Ann Patchett is obsessed about, except, perhaps, observing how people from very different walks of life react to each other. Her novel works as a diversion from quotidian life, a way to relax a little before going to bed. But it also feels like someone moving players around on a chess board. After a while, watching chess pieces move about can seem very dull. I want to know more about what the pawns and bishops and kings are thinking and why they're thinking it. And when a novel burns with the novelist's unanswered question, the reader can feel that urgency in each line of the book--it runs through every sentence like an electric current. I don't feel such a thing occurring with this novel. Each time I put the book down I wonder whether I'll pick it up again.
Needless to say, I have very little time these days to read novels. Yet I've also felt, recently, a desperate need to plunge into different worlds. Even if it only lasts about fifteen minutes, this escape into a novel means that I can stop functioning on the very practical, hyper-aware level that motherhood forces on me. So--yes, okay, Ann Patchett isn't Tolstoy, Steinbeck, Kafka or Austen; but she's good enough to take me out of myself, for brief snatches of time. And Bel Canto tries to combine two disparate subjects, music and politics, in an interesting way. I'll probably keep reading.
Novelists are obsessed about--something. I don't know what Ann Patchett is obsessed about, except, perhaps, observing how people from very different walks of life react to each other. Her novel works as a diversion from quotidian life, a way to relax a little before going to bed. But it also feels like someone moving players around on a chess board. After a while, watching chess pieces move about can seem very dull. I want to know more about what the pawns and bishops and kings are thinking and why they're thinking it. And when a novel burns with the novelist's unanswered question, the reader can feel that urgency in each line of the book--it runs through every sentence like an electric current. I don't feel such a thing occurring with this novel. Each time I put the book down I wonder whether I'll pick it up again.
Needless to say, I have very little time these days to read novels. Yet I've also felt, recently, a desperate need to plunge into different worlds. Even if it only lasts about fifteen minutes, this escape into a novel means that I can stop functioning on the very practical, hyper-aware level that motherhood forces on me. So--yes, okay, Ann Patchett isn't Tolstoy, Steinbeck, Kafka or Austen; but she's good enough to take me out of myself, for brief snatches of time. And Bel Canto tries to combine two disparate subjects, music and politics, in an interesting way. I'll probably keep reading.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Panhandle Daze
Found myself wandering with baby in tow, north of the Panhandle, then through the Panhandle--soaking up the sun on what might well be the last warm day of the year--not heading in any particular direction. Somewhere in the NoPA area, maybe near Broderick and Grove, an elderly woman in a wheelchair, her arm in a sling, her feet in slippers, was slowly inching up the street. She would put her foot down and push forward on it about half a foot, then wait several seconds and try it again. It was painful to watch--a sort of epic journey in ultra-slow motion. I nodded at her and she barely acknowledged my greeting, which gave me the feeling that I ought to do something. "Do you need help?" I asked. She nodded and smiled weakly; then she turned and smiled and cooed at the baby. "Okay, I'll push him forward first, then you," I said, explaining too much in my nervousness. "Yes, the baby first, always the baby" she said with what seemed to be a Russian accent.
The challenge was getting across an intersection. "I'll take the baby across first," I said, and did so, leaving my child on the other side of the street as I raced back for the woman in the wheelchair. Which felt wrong, immediately. Too trusting, too dangerous. I had had to make a split-second decision about how vulnerable I would allow my child to be, and I knew, instantly, that I had made the wrong decision. Not that it was an especially wide or busy street; and nothing happened to him. But no matter. I had crossed a line. At the next intersection, I asked a passer-by, a woman, to take the elderly woman across; she did so without any hesitation.
So much rests on these sudden decisions...I don't want to overdramatize, but it can be wearying sometimes, just thinking about all the quick decisions one has to make throughout the day to prevent a catastrophe from befalling one's child.
But not to dwell on that...for one thing, after dropping off this woman at the entrance of her care facility (it appeared to be a care facility for elderly people with health and mobility issues), I overheard moans passing through one of the high windows of the place--obviously, an elderly person in deep pain. The moans were steady, rapid--like someone completely consumed by his or her pain. I know that I'm just a few decades away (if that much) from the possibility of such an existence. It doesn't make the job of caring for a baby any easier, necessarily; but it does make it seem a whole lot more positive.
The challenge was getting across an intersection. "I'll take the baby across first," I said, and did so, leaving my child on the other side of the street as I raced back for the woman in the wheelchair. Which felt wrong, immediately. Too trusting, too dangerous. I had had to make a split-second decision about how vulnerable I would allow my child to be, and I knew, instantly, that I had made the wrong decision. Not that it was an especially wide or busy street; and nothing happened to him. But no matter. I had crossed a line. At the next intersection, I asked a passer-by, a woman, to take the elderly woman across; she did so without any hesitation.
So much rests on these sudden decisions...I don't want to overdramatize, but it can be wearying sometimes, just thinking about all the quick decisions one has to make throughout the day to prevent a catastrophe from befalling one's child.
But not to dwell on that...for one thing, after dropping off this woman at the entrance of her care facility (it appeared to be a care facility for elderly people with health and mobility issues), I overheard moans passing through one of the high windows of the place--obviously, an elderly person in deep pain. The moans were steady, rapid--like someone completely consumed by his or her pain. I know that I'm just a few decades away (if that much) from the possibility of such an existence. It doesn't make the job of caring for a baby any easier, necessarily; but it does make it seem a whole lot more positive.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Subtle and Not-so-subtle Changes
The little guy is going through many subtle and not-so-subtle transformations these days. The most noticeable--it started during the last part of our stay in France--he's sitting up, not just for a few seconds at a time but for three or four minutes. It's still wobbly--he's got a very long torso and a thin neck--but getting better each day.
More subtle--he seems to observe what we say, especially the way that we say things, and our facial expressions, much more than he used to. If I'm rubbing my eyes repeatedly in a gesture of fatigue, for instance, his own eyes express genuine concern. Repeatedly during the day, I catch him staring into my face, studying it as if trying to guess what I'm thinking. It does give me the feeling of being on point--which has its positive and negative aspects, I suppose.
Another change--beginning today or maybe yesterday, he curls and uncurls his fingers, staring at them, as if saying to himself, "Fingers--what a concept." I'm sure this is a common development among babies, as I noticed many little ones in strollers in France who were entertaining themselves by staring at their fingers and opening and closing their fists (why I hadn't noticed this same behavior before in the United States, I'm not sure). However, I find it a particularly interesting and touching development--one day, he's just moving his hands about--the next, he's articulating his fingers and thinking about them. Does any other body part, aside from the brain, mean as much to us humans? And when a baby starts thinking about and using his fingers--what a monumental change in his ability to function in the world. It's as moving to me to see him do that as it would be to see him stand and walk on his own, I think.
More subtle--he seems to observe what we say, especially the way that we say things, and our facial expressions, much more than he used to. If I'm rubbing my eyes repeatedly in a gesture of fatigue, for instance, his own eyes express genuine concern. Repeatedly during the day, I catch him staring into my face, studying it as if trying to guess what I'm thinking. It does give me the feeling of being on point--which has its positive and negative aspects, I suppose.
Another change--beginning today or maybe yesterday, he curls and uncurls his fingers, staring at them, as if saying to himself, "Fingers--what a concept." I'm sure this is a common development among babies, as I noticed many little ones in strollers in France who were entertaining themselves by staring at their fingers and opening and closing their fists (why I hadn't noticed this same behavior before in the United States, I'm not sure). However, I find it a particularly interesting and touching development--one day, he's just moving his hands about--the next, he's articulating his fingers and thinking about them. Does any other body part, aside from the brain, mean as much to us humans? And when a baby starts thinking about and using his fingers--what a monumental change in his ability to function in the world. It's as moving to me to see him do that as it would be to see him stand and walk on his own, I think.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Portable Baby
No blog for almost three weeks because we were out of the country--Paris and environs--and I had little access to the Internet during that time. My short, excited blog on the 13th was done at the airport, just before we boarded the plane. The baby did more than behave himself in the airport--he charmed just about everyone in our waiting area, kicking his feet and chortling happily and smiling at everyone who smiled back, as if the whole scene there was a show put on specifically for his benefit. And then on the plane--in the most difficult of circumstances, where he slept on an incline, lying with his back against my husband's lap and stomach, or in my arms with his little feet almost lying in the lap of our neighbor, his head awkwardly balanced against my husband's arm--and with all the noises of the airplane and passing stewardesses and stewards and banging food carts--he was just amazingly calm and well-behaved. He was somewhat less placid during the return flight, but still not bad--just a few short outbursts of discontent.
As for the time change adjustment--yes, we all suffered from jet lag during the first part of the trip, and the first night (when I stayed up with the baby from 10:30 pm to 5:00 in the morning) was not fun. But what mostly happened was, the baby went to sleep around 11, woke up once during the night, and we played with him, rocked him, and/or nursed him back to sleep--say, from 1 to 2 in the morning; then he'd sleep until around 10 or 11 am, and I'd sleep during that time as well. I ended up getting as much or more sleep during this vacation than I do at home.
We abandoned, for most of the trip, the sleep rules we'd established for him before leaving--just too hard to follow them in a rented apartment in Paris--for instance, we couldn't let him cry it out if he woke up during the night, as we sometimes do here at home. And for the last two nights, since our return, he's also been "spoiled." Since he's still very clearly adjusting to the time change, and is sometimes wide awake at 3 am in the morning, there's not much point in retraining him to sleep through the night, yet. But that will start happening in a couple days, I think.
I did keep a diary of sorts--but my writing was remarkably uninteresting during this trip--just too busy to concentrate on writing, I suppose. So I'm only going to extract small pieces of what I wrote, as follows:
Oct. 15--2nd day of our trip to France. Staying with my husband's parents in a suburb of Paris. First time, yesterday, that I didn't post, since starting this blog...oh well, I'm not out to set any records here. Now I'm lying in bed, "posting" with a pen...as luck would have it, we left San Francisco on the day that the biggest storm of the year, of the last ten years, perhaps, blasted Northern California with torrential rain and 60-mile-an-hour winds. Our plane was only about an hour and fifteen minutes delayed, however; and the baby was great in the airport terminal, during the long takeoff, and during the flight itself. Although we were seated at the bulkhead and a baby bed was provided (one that was attached to the wall in front of us), the baby did not enjoy lying in it; for one thing, it was a couple inches too short for him. So he stayed in our laps the whole time. In spite of getting only about six hours of sleep, he remained cheerful and calm for nearly the entire flight, with just one or two very short outbursts. Right now I'm waiting for the baby to wake up (it's around 11 am--he didn't go to sleep until 5 am or so). Staring out at the lush green backyard, with apple trees and roaming cats and chickens...a lovely quiet place. A good start to our trip, much better than I'd anticipated.
Oct 16--Took a walk in the large forest bordering my husband's parents' property yesterday; we saw a couple chevreuil--small French deer--and two wild boars--small, dark, and vaguely human-looking. Beautiful leafy linden, oak and chestnut trees--for a forest, and compared to most of the forests I've seen, it's a gentle-looking and well-lighted place, made slightly more dramatic perhaps by the presence of these snuffling wild pigs. A couple beefy-looking joggers passed us--Regarde, les poids lourds my wisecracking stepfather-in-law commented as they passed. Poids lourds [heavy load], my husband explained, is the phrase on the back of semi trucks on the French highway; what my stepfather-in-law said could have been taken as an insult. But the joggers merely huffed out a greeting, realizing no doubt that this small elderly man was just joking with them, and continued on their way.
Oct 17--A strong desire to write. Not just this--many other things. A strong desire to embark on new projects. Traveling does that to me, sometimes.
Oct 18--We've moved, from the parents' house to the 3rd arrondisement in Paris. Too touristy here for my husband's taste, but I don't agree; I think that's just what you find around the Place des Vosges and other specific locales. The drive into the Marais was comical--much of the area is blocked off to cars on Sundays, something none of us realized; but my husband's stepfather convinced a policeman to move one of the blockades to let us through; our progression, through a river of well-scarved, well-tailored elite Parisians out for a Sunday stroll (our baby screaming his displeasure in the back seat) was a unique experience. The baby just didn't like being cooped up in a very slow-moving car. The Paris look--I mean the look on people's faces, not so much their clothes--there's a tightness in people's expressions, as well as a thoughtfulness, and, in some people, a look of superciliousness...anyway, that was my first take on the whole scene, looking out at the Marais district's Sunday flaneurs.
Oct 19--find myself planted for 20 minutes in a cafe, about 10 minutes by foot from where we're staying (an apartment we found on Craigslist). When I stepped up to the entrance of the cafe, the smiling waiter playfully took me by the arm and escorted me inside. This has never happened to me before. A lot of small things are happening during this trip that move it out of the realm of normal experience--that always happens when one travels of course (and it's half the reason we travel, isn't it?)--but what's different this time is, just going to a cafe, any cafe, is so much more of a novelty to me (as a new mother) that someone taking my arm and escorting me in feels even more remarkable than it normally would.
Oct 20--It feels a bit unreal to be back in Paris--site of so much longing, angst, and delight during three previous trips, a couple lifetimes ago--it's wonderful, but also a bit sad. I can't say the magic of Paris has faded, but perhaps I've faded, a bit--can no longer plunge into this scene as I used to--but I do feel the old pull, the desire to linger here. Paris is an old city, steeped in history and tradition--and that very fact draws Americans to it, just as it repels, somewhat, many of its French inhabitants--at least, if my husband is any example.
Oct 21--Finding it hard to write here; just too busy, and with our habit of sleeping until 10 or 11 in the morning, the days are so short that I barely have time to sit down and relax for 30 minutes. We've not been to any museums or any of the normal tourist-y places. And today is a grey, wet day--all I did was run errands of the most banal sort, to the laundry, the grocery, the boulangerie. (Though those short trips can be fun in Paris, nothing particularly remarkable happened today.) Did manage to contact a couple friends who live in Paris--will see them over the next few days.
Oct 22--Forgot to write yesterday about visiting, the previous day, the old private bibliotheque where I did much of my research for one portion of my doctoral thesis. As I was attempting to take a picture of the plaque marking the entrance to the library, a man stepped out, dressed in wine-red velour pants and a slightly shabby-looking, dark brown smoking jacket; a satin-y dark blue scarf was loosely draped around his neck, and with his distant gaze and his long flowing brown hair, he looked every bit like someone plunged in thoughts about his research on some obscure French poet, as well as someone about to smoke a cigarette. I felt instantly how strange it was to be standing there, in my new guise as a beleaguered mother, and not in my old one as a beleaguered, uncouth American graduate student; I also felt, instantly, lighter than air. Somehow, the two disguises, mother and grad student, had just cancelled each other out. I can't explain it, but it was as if, with the appearance of this poetic-looking stranger, my whole existence shrank to a point in space. It felt wonderful.
Oct 23--Paid a visit today to my old French instructor, who lives just a few minutes from where we're staying. He lives, like most French people, in a very modest apartment, three rooms (not including the tiny kitchen and bathroom), where he raised two children. The building he lives in is impressive with its huge old stone walls, the sense of solidity and quiet in one of the most bustling neighborhoods in Paris. He's the same--a small, gentle, unassuming man--extremely polite (though we're about the same age, we use the formal vous with each other). I must admit to being somewhat frazzled by, of all things, my baby's digestive problems--the formula in France is too dense for him--indeed much of the trip seems to have centered around the baby's pooping and sleeping habits; yet it does have its comical side, as when the baby pooped, straining mightily, while my husband and I were chatting with the French instructor. The lovely man was totally unphased and insisted that we use his dining table to change the little one (which we did--providing a plastic cover for protection, of course). We invited him to stay with us any time he's in San Francisco.
Oct 24--my husband's not a big one for dining out, even in San Francisco; so the only really good things I've eaten since arriving here are the items we've purchased from the local boulangerie and grocery stores--red wine, brie, baguettes, chausson aux pommes--but one can live richly on these simple foods. And I'm not likely to gain any weight while over here.
Oct 25--writing nothing but banalities these days. It's not writing, it's scribbling. More tired at this moment than at any other during the trip--slept only about three and a half hours last night. More because of my own insomnia than anything else. A sense of restlessness. Thought a lot about my (non-existent) career. Will I keep it on hold for another couple of years, or try to plunge back into something by the time the baby is one year old? The latter probably makes more sense, although I'll probably be working mostly from home for the next couple of years. I just don't like the idea of sending my baby to daycare until he's at least two and a half years old.
Oct 26--Sometimes, if one is extremely lucky, a conversation with a treasured friend comes at exactly the right time in one's life--this happened to me today. Though I see this woman infrequently--in fact, we've only had a few extended conversations with each other--they've been remarkably important encounters for me, each one marking a turning point, a moment of decision. To some extent I think they've meant the same thing for her. Talking with her in the same cafe I visited during my first full day back in Paris (and once again, the waiter was remarkably friendly--perhaps a bit too friendly but no harm done), I felt so good (it's partly because she's an amazing and perceptive listener) that it seemed the scene out our window was even more unique than it already was--the people took on a more positive glow, and life seemed to click, somehow; whereas I'd been, too often of late, ground down by my daily routine of baby care, even here in Paris, and couldn't see the magic or the positive side of anything. She restored all that, for me.
Oct 29--just didn't get to the blog, these past couple of days; hectic to the extreme. On the 27th we spent much of the day with my husband's stepfather's sister and her husband, and their three middle-aged sons. Yesterday, we moved back to the husband's parents' house and then were busy the rest of the day with them. Today I've made one last solo dash back to Paris on the RER, my husband graciously agreeing to watch the baby for about five hours. I'm sitting at the Place de la Bastille, in the Cafe des Phares, watching the noisy, bustling crowd and marveling at the ease with which all the chaos melts away when one is sitting at a cozy table in a warm, inviting cafe in Paris. The middle-aged women sitting alone at nearby tables seem to feel the same--the calm way they're reading their menus or eating their meals tells me that. Oasis. Yes, I love lounging in Paris cafes--my husband hates it--but these women around me understand. Something so liberating for a woman, any woman, this act of getting lost in a crowd.
Oct 30--the baby was not as angelic on the return flight--but was still remarkably good. Except for his constipation and jet lag (both not really his fault), he's been a trooper, this little guy--if it's possible, my affection for him has only grown during this trip. I know babies are more portable than a lot of parents tend to think--but this baby has been vastly more portable than I could have imagined. Having said that--we're going to give him a break for the rest of his babyhood, and not make him go through this again until he's much older.
As for the time change adjustment--yes, we all suffered from jet lag during the first part of the trip, and the first night (when I stayed up with the baby from 10:30 pm to 5:00 in the morning) was not fun. But what mostly happened was, the baby went to sleep around 11, woke up once during the night, and we played with him, rocked him, and/or nursed him back to sleep--say, from 1 to 2 in the morning; then he'd sleep until around 10 or 11 am, and I'd sleep during that time as well. I ended up getting as much or more sleep during this vacation than I do at home.
We abandoned, for most of the trip, the sleep rules we'd established for him before leaving--just too hard to follow them in a rented apartment in Paris--for instance, we couldn't let him cry it out if he woke up during the night, as we sometimes do here at home. And for the last two nights, since our return, he's also been "spoiled." Since he's still very clearly adjusting to the time change, and is sometimes wide awake at 3 am in the morning, there's not much point in retraining him to sleep through the night, yet. But that will start happening in a couple days, I think.
I did keep a diary of sorts--but my writing was remarkably uninteresting during this trip--just too busy to concentrate on writing, I suppose. So I'm only going to extract small pieces of what I wrote, as follows:
Oct. 15--2nd day of our trip to France. Staying with my husband's parents in a suburb of Paris. First time, yesterday, that I didn't post, since starting this blog...oh well, I'm not out to set any records here. Now I'm lying in bed, "posting" with a pen...as luck would have it, we left San Francisco on the day that the biggest storm of the year, of the last ten years, perhaps, blasted Northern California with torrential rain and 60-mile-an-hour winds. Our plane was only about an hour and fifteen minutes delayed, however; and the baby was great in the airport terminal, during the long takeoff, and during the flight itself. Although we were seated at the bulkhead and a baby bed was provided (one that was attached to the wall in front of us), the baby did not enjoy lying in it; for one thing, it was a couple inches too short for him. So he stayed in our laps the whole time. In spite of getting only about six hours of sleep, he remained cheerful and calm for nearly the entire flight, with just one or two very short outbursts. Right now I'm waiting for the baby to wake up (it's around 11 am--he didn't go to sleep until 5 am or so). Staring out at the lush green backyard, with apple trees and roaming cats and chickens...a lovely quiet place. A good start to our trip, much better than I'd anticipated.
Oct 16--Took a walk in the large forest bordering my husband's parents' property yesterday; we saw a couple chevreuil--small French deer--and two wild boars--small, dark, and vaguely human-looking. Beautiful leafy linden, oak and chestnut trees--for a forest, and compared to most of the forests I've seen, it's a gentle-looking and well-lighted place, made slightly more dramatic perhaps by the presence of these snuffling wild pigs. A couple beefy-looking joggers passed us--Regarde, les poids lourds my wisecracking stepfather-in-law commented as they passed. Poids lourds [heavy load], my husband explained, is the phrase on the back of semi trucks on the French highway; what my stepfather-in-law said could have been taken as an insult. But the joggers merely huffed out a greeting, realizing no doubt that this small elderly man was just joking with them, and continued on their way.
Oct 17--A strong desire to write. Not just this--many other things. A strong desire to embark on new projects. Traveling does that to me, sometimes.
Oct 18--We've moved, from the parents' house to the 3rd arrondisement in Paris. Too touristy here for my husband's taste, but I don't agree; I think that's just what you find around the Place des Vosges and other specific locales. The drive into the Marais was comical--much of the area is blocked off to cars on Sundays, something none of us realized; but my husband's stepfather convinced a policeman to move one of the blockades to let us through; our progression, through a river of well-scarved, well-tailored elite Parisians out for a Sunday stroll (our baby screaming his displeasure in the back seat) was a unique experience. The baby just didn't like being cooped up in a very slow-moving car. The Paris look--I mean the look on people's faces, not so much their clothes--there's a tightness in people's expressions, as well as a thoughtfulness, and, in some people, a look of superciliousness...anyway, that was my first take on the whole scene, looking out at the Marais district's Sunday flaneurs.
Oct 19--find myself planted for 20 minutes in a cafe, about 10 minutes by foot from where we're staying (an apartment we found on Craigslist). When I stepped up to the entrance of the cafe, the smiling waiter playfully took me by the arm and escorted me inside. This has never happened to me before. A lot of small things are happening during this trip that move it out of the realm of normal experience--that always happens when one travels of course (and it's half the reason we travel, isn't it?)--but what's different this time is, just going to a cafe, any cafe, is so much more of a novelty to me (as a new mother) that someone taking my arm and escorting me in feels even more remarkable than it normally would.
Oct 20--It feels a bit unreal to be back in Paris--site of so much longing, angst, and delight during three previous trips, a couple lifetimes ago--it's wonderful, but also a bit sad. I can't say the magic of Paris has faded, but perhaps I've faded, a bit--can no longer plunge into this scene as I used to--but I do feel the old pull, the desire to linger here. Paris is an old city, steeped in history and tradition--and that very fact draws Americans to it, just as it repels, somewhat, many of its French inhabitants--at least, if my husband is any example.
Oct 21--Finding it hard to write here; just too busy, and with our habit of sleeping until 10 or 11 in the morning, the days are so short that I barely have time to sit down and relax for 30 minutes. We've not been to any museums or any of the normal tourist-y places. And today is a grey, wet day--all I did was run errands of the most banal sort, to the laundry, the grocery, the boulangerie. (Though those short trips can be fun in Paris, nothing particularly remarkable happened today.) Did manage to contact a couple friends who live in Paris--will see them over the next few days.
Oct 22--Forgot to write yesterday about visiting, the previous day, the old private bibliotheque where I did much of my research for one portion of my doctoral thesis. As I was attempting to take a picture of the plaque marking the entrance to the library, a man stepped out, dressed in wine-red velour pants and a slightly shabby-looking, dark brown smoking jacket; a satin-y dark blue scarf was loosely draped around his neck, and with his distant gaze and his long flowing brown hair, he looked every bit like someone plunged in thoughts about his research on some obscure French poet, as well as someone about to smoke a cigarette. I felt instantly how strange it was to be standing there, in my new guise as a beleaguered mother, and not in my old one as a beleaguered, uncouth American graduate student; I also felt, instantly, lighter than air. Somehow, the two disguises, mother and grad student, had just cancelled each other out. I can't explain it, but it was as if, with the appearance of this poetic-looking stranger, my whole existence shrank to a point in space. It felt wonderful.
Oct 23--Paid a visit today to my old French instructor, who lives just a few minutes from where we're staying. He lives, like most French people, in a very modest apartment, three rooms (not including the tiny kitchen and bathroom), where he raised two children. The building he lives in is impressive with its huge old stone walls, the sense of solidity and quiet in one of the most bustling neighborhoods in Paris. He's the same--a small, gentle, unassuming man--extremely polite (though we're about the same age, we use the formal vous with each other). I must admit to being somewhat frazzled by, of all things, my baby's digestive problems--the formula in France is too dense for him--indeed much of the trip seems to have centered around the baby's pooping and sleeping habits; yet it does have its comical side, as when the baby pooped, straining mightily, while my husband and I were chatting with the French instructor. The lovely man was totally unphased and insisted that we use his dining table to change the little one (which we did--providing a plastic cover for protection, of course). We invited him to stay with us any time he's in San Francisco.
Oct 24--my husband's not a big one for dining out, even in San Francisco; so the only really good things I've eaten since arriving here are the items we've purchased from the local boulangerie and grocery stores--red wine, brie, baguettes, chausson aux pommes--but one can live richly on these simple foods. And I'm not likely to gain any weight while over here.
Oct 25--writing nothing but banalities these days. It's not writing, it's scribbling. More tired at this moment than at any other during the trip--slept only about three and a half hours last night. More because of my own insomnia than anything else. A sense of restlessness. Thought a lot about my (non-existent) career. Will I keep it on hold for another couple of years, or try to plunge back into something by the time the baby is one year old? The latter probably makes more sense, although I'll probably be working mostly from home for the next couple of years. I just don't like the idea of sending my baby to daycare until he's at least two and a half years old.
Oct 26--Sometimes, if one is extremely lucky, a conversation with a treasured friend comes at exactly the right time in one's life--this happened to me today. Though I see this woman infrequently--in fact, we've only had a few extended conversations with each other--they've been remarkably important encounters for me, each one marking a turning point, a moment of decision. To some extent I think they've meant the same thing for her. Talking with her in the same cafe I visited during my first full day back in Paris (and once again, the waiter was remarkably friendly--perhaps a bit too friendly but no harm done), I felt so good (it's partly because she's an amazing and perceptive listener) that it seemed the scene out our window was even more unique than it already was--the people took on a more positive glow, and life seemed to click, somehow; whereas I'd been, too often of late, ground down by my daily routine of baby care, even here in Paris, and couldn't see the magic or the positive side of anything. She restored all that, for me.
Oct 29--just didn't get to the blog, these past couple of days; hectic to the extreme. On the 27th we spent much of the day with my husband's stepfather's sister and her husband, and their three middle-aged sons. Yesterday, we moved back to the husband's parents' house and then were busy the rest of the day with them. Today I've made one last solo dash back to Paris on the RER, my husband graciously agreeing to watch the baby for about five hours. I'm sitting at the Place de la Bastille, in the Cafe des Phares, watching the noisy, bustling crowd and marveling at the ease with which all the chaos melts away when one is sitting at a cozy table in a warm, inviting cafe in Paris. The middle-aged women sitting alone at nearby tables seem to feel the same--the calm way they're reading their menus or eating their meals tells me that. Oasis. Yes, I love lounging in Paris cafes--my husband hates it--but these women around me understand. Something so liberating for a woman, any woman, this act of getting lost in a crowd.
Oct 30--the baby was not as angelic on the return flight--but was still remarkably good. Except for his constipation and jet lag (both not really his fault), he's been a trooper, this little guy--if it's possible, my affection for him has only grown during this trip. I know babies are more portable than a lot of parents tend to think--but this baby has been vastly more portable than I could have imagined. Having said that--we're going to give him a break for the rest of his babyhood, and not make him go through this again until he's much older.
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