Celebrations in Baby Time

It's interesting to step into celebration mode with a baby in the house. This little person cares nothing for these bumps in the calendar, like Christmas and New Year's; he's still busy learning how to stand up, to eat with his fingers, to use a sippy cup, to sleep without needing too much help--and he can't put a hold on all those activities in order to raise a glass and reflect on all he's accomplished over the past nearly-ten months...his all-encompassing quotidian calendar clashes with our Roman-Christian-American one...and it will be interesting for me, after having stayed up to midnight with the family, to deal with his needs at 6 am as per usual...actually, I'm probably going to bed right after finishing this, so won't make it to midnight. His quotidian calendar wins...and, at the moment, I don't mind in the least that it does. Happy New Year, You-Know-Who.

Let's Make This Brief

It's been a big day for the baby and for myself; we've found a wonderful babysitter, finally, and this morning she was here watching the baby for the first time, in a sort of practice babysitting session. Then my son and I attended a meeting of the older mothers' group, which was, as usual, both entertaining and informative. Everything went remarkably well in spite of a hectic schedule. But now my eyes are closing as I type this; the baby went to sleep an hour earlier than usual, and I'll probably do the same.

Tomorrow I look forward to taking at least one random stroll somewhere. My son and I are both ready for a lazy day.

Amazing Race

Sometimes it does feel like I'm racing every day just to keep up with my son's basic needs, which led me to imagine this interview process.

***

Applicant: Well, I think I'm well-qualified for the position. I've spent more than twenty years being a responsible adult. I'm not including the first six years of adulthood, by the way, those were a wash.

Interviewer: Yes, fine, fine. I guess most people could say the same. Well; and what do you see yourself doing in five years' time?

Applicant: Well, assuming I've handled things okay, I see myself, um, continuing my role as a mother, but branching into other areas as well. I'll be proud to be a mother, but I also hope to become more of a useful member of society...oh, that sounded bad. It's not that I don't think being a mother is useful, but...I hope to work for this company in some other capacities as well.

Interviewer: I see. Well, let's take a moment and go over the responsibilities this position entails. Do you realize that the hours are from 5 am to 10 pm, plus on-call work from 10 pm to 5?

Applicant [with an incredulous stare]: What?

Interviewer: Oh, no one mentioned that to you in the preliminary interview? That's odd. Of course, those are just the hours during the initial training.

Applicant [with an audible sigh of relief]: Oh, I see. And how long is that?

Interviewer: Anywhere from three to seven months.

Applicant [with another incredulous stare]: Oh.

Interviewer: After that it's around fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. No paid vacation, no holidays.

Applicant: Isn't that against the law or something?

Interviewer: I suppose it is, but you know, that doesn't stop anyone from taking on the position, and the authorities have looked the other way for so long that no one even asks that question any more. Anyway, to continue: You'll be working with someone who is absolutely clueless, but again, that's just at the beginning.

Applicant: When you say, "working with," what does that mean, exactly?

Interviewer: Oh, you'll be in direct, close, physical contact with this person during the entire work week. Almost nonstop.

Applicant: Don't people--well, don't they go mad, spending so much time together?

Interviewer: Yes, they do. But at this company, we're looking for a higher-caliber sort of mom. You'll have to learn the techniques for sanity-retention. We'll cover those in Orientation. Usually we devote about twenty minutes of your daylong Orientation to that topic.

Applicant: I'm sorry, but, I'm not understanding why it's so intensive. I know that being a mom involves, at least initially, a lot of diaper changes, feeding, putting on clothes and taking them off, giving baths, and entertaining the little person to some extent, by reading books and listening to music. But aren't there times--at least, by the time the baby is a few months old--where he's just sitting there staring into space? Aren't there times when you can sit and read a book, or at least a newspaper article or something?

Interviewer: [Sighing] I see that you haven't read the introductory materials.

Applicant: Yes, oh yes, I have. I've read every page. But somehow I don't remember reading that there's not even time to, uh, smoke a cigarette or something--oh, not that I smoke! I'm just giving an example...

Interviewer: [raising eyebrows] And you never smoked?

Applicant: No, I swear, never. I know what you're thinking, that I slipped up there and I'm really a closet smoker who's going to pollute my baby's air...no, I promise you, that's not going to happen!

Interviewer: Okay, please, calm down. I didn't think that for a minute. So, you've read the introductory materials, which plainly state that "Motherhood will be the hardest job you've ever had, and it will be rewarding in ways that you never imagined."

Applicant: Yes, of course, I know it's hard, but they don't say that you can't take a five-minute break once in a while.

Interviewer: Well, that's because you can, of course you can. After you've washed the bottles and picked up everything your baby dropped and you've done the laundry and cleaned up where he spat up. Oh, and slept for at least an hour because you're so tired, and purchased new items for your baby on the Internet. And when your baby's awake, he'll be clamoring for your attention during four minutes of that five-minute break, but you can just ignore him. Or better yet, pretend you're paying attention to him. That teaches him the art of deception--a very important skill for young children to learn.

Applicant: [remains silent.]

Interviewer: Anyway, there's one more aspect of the job that you should know about. Assuming you're still interested.

Applicant: Yes, I am. I mean, I think so...please, tell me.

Interviewer: There's no possibility of retirement once you've started, and again, no paid vacations or holidays. So once you've begun, you're in it for the rest of your life. Always and forever.

Applicant: [hesitating] I don't know if this is a question I should ask, but...

Interviewer: Please, feel free to ask anything.

Applicant: Why on earth do people take this job?

Interviewer: For the fringe benefits. And after all, there's never a dull moment. Except those mind-numbingly dull moments when you've read Brown Bear, Brown Bear ten thousand times. Well, have I answered all your questions?

Applicant: [gazing glumly at the floor] I guess so.

Interviewer: I'm sorry, the next interviewee has shown up; thank you very much for your time [stands and shakes Applicant's hand], and good luck.

That Huge Thing

I wonder what my baby was thinking yesterday, seeing the ocean waves rolling in. I had him in the front-facing carrier, perhaps for the last time, since he's hitting the weight limit for that device--and too bad; he loves facing forward. His legs kicked and he chortled excitedly as we approached the waves at Ocean Beach.

Though it was cloudy over most of San Francisco, it was surprisingly clear at the ocean, and the sun cast a soft, late-afternoon light over the water; people were remarking on how beautiful it was, and many of them smiled at the little guy as they walked by.

It was by far the best moment in an otherwise dreary day. He took in everything--sandpipers, snowy plovers, rambling dogs, foamy waves--with a sort of rapture that made me instantly forget I had any problems whatsoever.

Thanks to the little one, I had a taste of what it would be like to see the ocean for the first time.

Music Fatigue Part II

I might take back what I said about children's songs, at least, the American ones that are so popular. "Wheels on the Bus" isn't bad, because it can be fun even for the adults to make the gestures with their kids (though the melody is gratingly repetitive). Same for "Itsy-Bitsy Spider." But "Old McDonald," "If You're Happy and You Know It," "I'm a Little Teapot" and so forth--they start to get on my nerves if I hear them more than once in a great while.

I can't say the same for some of the French songs I've heard, although the CD I have entitled "French Songs for Children" has many songs which were not created solely for kids. "Frere Jacques" wears out after a few hearings, but "Sur le Pont d'Avignon," in spite of its repetitiveness, holds up over time, at least for me. I find that many French songs have a liveliness, a bounce in their melody, that seems to be missing from the popular American children's tunes.

I know that the big thing in children's music these days is the Putamayo CD series, involving songs written for children from around the world. I've purchased two of these CDs, the one focusing on animals and the French songs CD. They're both not bad, but somehow, I don't find myself returning to these CDs over and over. Although it's obvious that the musicians labored over these songs to make them original and inventive, they're often lacking in one important feature--they're not all that catchy or memorable. However, it should be added that they're miles above the four American children's songs CDs that I've bought so far. Somehow the instrumentation choices alone (often with whiny synthesizers rather than real instruments) are enough to drive me crazy.

Combined with two disappointing musical play-classes he's been to, my son's introduction to music has been all too lackluster so far--except for the musical "instruments" and music-playing devices I've purchased for him: a couple different drums, a five-key "piano," various bells and maraca-type instruments, and a portable music player which plays eight different classical melodies at the touch of a button while lights are flashing--perhaps his all-time favorite toy. He also loves to "play" our piano (the full-sized version). And he loves tapping a metal bowl with a wooden spoon. In other words, he becomes a one-man band at home--and until I find a music class that lets him explore as much as he does on his own, it won't be worth it. And until I find CDs of American children's songs that are not nauseatingly saccharine, I'll probably skip buying them or just sing songs to him myself.

Baby Boxing Day

Boxing Day was a servants' day off in 19th century England; the hired help was sent home with a box of Christmas gifts and perhaps leftovers as well. I must admit that at times, being a mother does feel like becoming a servant to one very small person, with no possibility of a day's vacation. I know this is not the right attitude, but when one is bone-tired, and in a bit of a post-Christmas funk, it's hard to muster up the right attitude...

Just now--a flash of lightning, followed by loud thunder (it's raining heavily). My only feeling is not one of awe at the majesty of natural forces, but of dread, as I think about the night ahead, with, probably, a very awake and frightened baby. We'll see.

Baby Christmas

My baby's Christmas consisted of 2 music CDs and a new walking push toy, something that's a bit old for him, but with flashing lights that will entertain him until he's ready for prime time. In other words, he didn't receive a lot of gifts; but he's only 9 months old, and who needs a lavish Christmas at that age? And again, at my age (45), who needs Christmas at all, beyond get-togethers with family and friends, a few modest gifts to others, and some well-considered donations?

I'll enjoy buying him gifts next year, and one day (when he's ready), introducing him to Santa and Christmas trees. But I also hope to teach him how to give. He already smiles like a Christmas tree when he puts a ball in my hand and I say "Thank you!" in a bright voice, so maybe there won't be that much teaching involved.

The Fine Art of Conversation

I've just read that if Facebook were a country, it would have the third highest population, behind only China and India. I've not yet succumbed to the allure of social network web sites; I do see their utility--the ease with which one can look up old friends, or just keep in touch with people at a distance. But I've resisted for several reasons; one of them being, I don't seem to have enough time to vacuum the house, much less maintain a Facebook site. Another reason is the difficulty of erasing one's presence on the Web as soon as one has become a member of some of these sites. Even discontinuing a membership, it seems, is no guarantee that one's personal information will not remain accessible.

Another reason I'm not a member of any social networking site is that I don't like revealing intimate details about my life to anonymous masses of people--and it seems like this is, at least in part, the purpose of these sites. (Of course, most people would argue that it's not for the anonymous masses, that they're on Facebook or Twitter for that special group of friends and associates who are already a part of their lives in some way. But then, why not just establish a personal web site?)

Most people who've asked me to become a Facebook member are in their thirties, a bit younger than I am, and are seeking advancement in their careers, and/or romance. Facebook is a great way to say, "Here I am!"--and I actually do see the usefulness of this kind of self-presentation, in certain situations. What bothers me--and this is probably the principal reason I'm not a Facebook member--is the feeling that we're all shouting "Here I am!" so frequently and so loudly that it has succeeded in drowning out the more nuanced conversations people could be having--whether in person, on the telephone, or on the Internet. No, beyond that--it has reduced people's tolerance for these sorts of conversations. How many of us even understand the art of conversation any more?  (And I count myself in that lumpen mass of people who've never really mastered it.)

A Knowing Look

It's true that as a new mother, I'm charmed by almost everything my son does. The way that he purses his lips and looks so determined when he's figuring out a new toy. The way his mouth forms a little "o" of excitement when he's balancing on his wobbly legs. The way that he drops his mouth open as wide as a shark's whenever he's hungry and sees a spoon heading in his general direction. A thousand other things. But I can see that none of these characteristics are all that extraordinary; most babies have a vast repertoire of gestures and expressions which, while particular to them to some degree, fall also within the general category of things that any new mother would find miraculously cute, but that others do not consider awe-inspiring behavior.

One thing he's done recently, however, which I do find remarkable: he adopts a knowing look, such that he seems to understand complicated emotional situations or subtle changes in mood as well as any adult. When I'm doing something particularly silly, he'll smile thoughtfully, with a bit of reserve in his expression, as if to say, "I can tell that you're trying to amuse me, and it's not quite working but I appreciate the effort." Or when I'm feeling very sad, he'll study my expression intently, as if to ascertain the depth of my distress.

I know that I'm sounding very much like a doting mom at this point; I might be grossly overestimating my son's ability to read people and situations (or his seeming ability). And I've often heard that most babies are quite sensitive to others' emotions, from a very early age. But it surprises me nonetheless that this child seems able to differentiate between feigned happiness and the real thing, for example; and that, in general, his thoughts seem to be so outward-directed. It's the kind of knowing look, and behavior, that I'd never have expected of someone his age.

Noe Valley Christmas Cheer

Was briefly in Noe Valley today, visiting an old friend and employer, then stopping in one store near her office, a gift and knick-knack shop which sold almost nothing but schmaltz and glitz (like half the stores in Noe Valley). But sometimes schmaltz and glitz are just what one needs. No neighborhood does mellow-yet-high-powered quite like Noe Valley. The store played a Christmas-in-New Orleans CD; the woman explaining her collection of Christmas cards to me was followed by an adorable black dog, perhaps a black lab mixed with some smaller breed, who sniffed politely and tail-waggingly at my son; the woman herself was dressed in an expensive pair of jeans and a sweater, the jeans hugging her well-sculpted figure perfectly, the sweater accessorized with a thick black scarf wrapped loosely around her neck; her simple yet tasteful clothes and her perfect hair and makeup gave her that ageless, polished look that only certain women can achieve, and that I've long since despaired of ever achieving.

My mood was much calmer and saner than yesterday's, but not yet completely settled; it irritated me that the clerk (not the handsome woman, who was almost certainly the owner) took at least five minutes to help the two customers who stood before me in line. Then I felt ashamed. Yes, the baby had been remarkably fussy yesterday, and had kept me awake for part of the night; yes, I was bone-tired; yes, I needed to get out of the store before the baby started wailing; yes, I don't care all that much for the usual Christmas-cheer-as-we-shop, slightly frenetic atmosphere that pervades commercial centers in most big cities right before Christmas. But what the hell was wrong with me, that I couldn't slow down for a minute and enjoy, to some degree at least, the New Orleans jazz, the glittery Christmas decorations, the friendly, smiling clerk, the smiling dog, his dazzling owner, the customer ahead of me in line who just smiled when my son let out a small cry of distress?

I started to get into a Noe Valley state of mind. In other words, I started to feel mellow, like a warm, politically correct brandy on a cold winter day.

Losing One's Bearings Part 2

Later. The wind is raging this evening, fifty or sixty miles an hour; reminds me of being on a ship on the high seas (we have a lot of large trees near our house). Will the baby remain asleep all night? I doubt it; but perhaps the pertinent question is, when one's pedals and one's bearings have already been lost, what does it matter if the wind rages? In a way, it's a comfort. Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks.

Losing One's Bearings

There are days when...and this is one of those days.

I imagine most full-time, 24/7 caregivers know what it feels like to "lose the pedals" a bit while caring for someone..."Lose the pedals" is the apt French expression, "lose one's bearings" is the American equivalent. Both of them describe more or less the same thing, but the nuance is slightly different. "Lose the pedals" implies that one still knows how to chart the right course, but is not able to move forward very effectively; "lose one's bearings" implies that one has completely fallen off-course.

Today, frankly, I feel like I've lost my bearings and the pedals at the same time.

And now the baby's up from his nap.

The Strong, Silent Type

I know that I'm supposed to jump for joy when my baby utters his first word--"Dada" or "Mama" or "Awesome!" or whatever it happens to be...and I'm sure that I will; but part of me will miss his mute expressiveness--his ability to say such a variety of things with such a small repertoire of gestures and vocalizations. The way that he holds something to me (a recent behavior) and smiles gently when I take it in my hands--the pleasure he's starting to take in sharing things with me. The knowing giggle he emits when I do something silly, like put his pajama pants on my head. The peremptory, forceful protest he delivers, a loud "HuuUUUH! when I'm not doing things quickly enough to suit him. Yes, even the occasional piercing shriek he utters when excited. It's not that I'll miss the shriek; I'll miss the feeling he conveys that he's bursting with excitement to express--something.

I'll miss this time; but I know that even when he speaks, part of this phase of his life will endure--both in his memory and in my own. We'll look at each other and say things without even saying them.

Desire

Why does it surprise me, every time I see the strength of my son's desire? Not so much the desire to eat or sleep, which has always been with him; I mean, the desire he now possesses to touch things, to open and close flaps in books, to bring a piece of cheese to his mouth and taste it; to turn a cell phone over and over in his hands, studying it intently; the desire he possesses to take in the world, as fully as possible.

This hunger for perception hasn't developed yet into a hunger to know things; but I did see a light go off in his head (please excuse the pun) earlier today, when he flicked the switch to the light in his bedroom and the room suddenly became darker. His eyes flashed something like delight, and sudden comprehension. He turned to the light, then to the switch; he raised the switch and watched the light go on.

Perhaps because everyone goes through so many years of schooling where the main focus is on knowing things, the hunger for knowledge isn't so surprising. But the hunger for perception that he's exhibiting--how many of us can remember this time of being nine months old, when we are so keenly hungry for every sensation? It's a surprise and a privilege to witness it in my son.

Music Fatigue

The kid attended his first music "class" today. Held in a medium-sized hall in the back of a church, the "class" was really a playtime session for children age 5 and under, involving music, various simple instruments like bells and drums, and the adult caregivers dancing around and waving their hands in the air, and yelling "whooo" at the end of most of the songs.

I don't mean to sound disparaging; it wasn't a waste of time by any means. But the sounds in that hall reverberated like crazy; and with all the parents jangling their bells and singing in that overly-hearty way that parents adopt when they're trying too hard to have a good time, I was developing a headache after ten minutes. I don't think the little guy was faring much better, as he was turning to me and making protesting noises halfway through the session.

When my son was much younger--2 or 3 months--I could plant him in a little bouncy chair he owned, for a good 15 or 20 minutes, and play the piano for him. Now, I have nowhere to put him while I'm playing; he's long since outgrown the bouncy chair, and the one playpen he has is not easily transportable to the room where the piano is located. But I'm thinking, for my own sake and his, why don't I find some sort of solution and play for him again? (I could put him on the floor, but for various reasons that's not a great option in that particular room...but I'll have to find a solution.)

Children's music isn't fatiguing; but I do find that the way that it's dished out to children, especially babies, can be rather annoying. More on that in the near future.

That Big Grey Thing

Watching a baby's eyes light up with wonder, delight and curiosity is one of the best parts of being a parent (and yes, I said yesterday that I would write less about my son's exploits, and less about motherhood, so that I could return to a focus on more obscure thoughts...thoughts that normally occupy the background of my life; but there it is, I can't help it: sometimes my son takes up the background as well as the foreground). Today, watching him discover a huge grey exercise ball--slapping one palm against it while balancing precariously on his little feet and opening his mouth wide in excitement--filled me with a profound sense of the possible. We all need that Big Grey Thing in our lives.

Blogging Blues

Recently it's been difficult--almost impossible--to get to this blog before 9:30 or 10 pm at night, when I'm usually exhausted and longing to curl up in bed with any sort of reading material for 15 minutes before drifting off to sleep. And I've certainly failed, recently, at taking my son to unexplored, quiet corners of the city for a leisurely stroll; this week, for instance, I seem to have about ten different errands and major chores to accomplish; on top of that, I've been taking the boy to more playgroups; thus we seem to have very little time for wandering.

As I wrote about previously, I don't see this blog as a place to fret about or celebrate new-motherhood, while discussing all the different problems and possible solutions involved with raising a baby. At least, I don't see that as its primary raison d'etre. And yet, baby problems often become the focus when I sit down, exhausted, at 9:30 or 10 at night. Because that's usually what's in the foreground of my thoughts.

I started this blog to explore the background, the less predictable side of my psyche. The city strolls have to do with that as well: I'm interested in the less predictable aspects of San Francisco, the non-touristy, non-yuppified, less orderly pockets of life that one can still find here and there. Hopefully, future blogs will reflect a return to this focus.

Make 'em Laugh

I've come to feel that good parenting is often about timing and rhythm. In that way it's like being a good comic; you know when you have an audience's attention and interest. In the same way, I know when my baby is bored or frustrated with whatever I'm doing; he lets out an exasperated sigh or, if really fed up, just starts yelling. (I try to anticipate those moments and time activities so that he doesn't reach the point where he's lodging a full-throated protest, though it's not always possible.) And conversely, when I'm able to make him laugh, he laughs with his whole being, his eyes shining, the chuckles erupting out of him in a delightful, infectious manner. Watching me throw towels over the curtain rod in the bathroom, then pull them off again, struck him as hilariously funny today. That loosened up what was becoming a tense situation in which he was holding something he shouldn't (the cell phone, I think) and I was trying to get it away from him. He's a great audience at this point; although what he's going to laugh at is rather unpredictable. But sometimes my job as a parent is just, make 'em laugh.

Togetherness Anxiety

When my baby wails because I leave the room for five seconds, then beams with delight when I reappear, my first thought is, "How little you know me."

For a few seconds, I also feel like a goddess of some sort, I must admit.

It's a confusing welter of emotions: disbelief, delight, a vague sense of power, and a more acute sense of horror.

The horror comes with the realization of who I really am: not some goddess, but a horribly flawed individual that doesn't deserve such adoration.

I know that what he's experiencing has a clinical name: separation anxiety. And that it's a phase almost all babies go through, which will soon pass. And certainly, by the time he's sixteen he'll pretend he doesn't know me when I surprise him in the hallway at his school.

Nevertheless, I can't help but feel nervous about the intensity of his need for me at this phase of his life.

Call it "togetherness anxiety."

Poetry and Babies

Poetry and babies would seem to be antithetical to one another. Poetry requires wide open spaces in the mind; babies require constant attention, a narrow focus...or do they?

Is it possible to raise a baby poetically? Just a thought.

I've read that somewhere between the ages of 8 and 12 months, most babies start to understand the meaning of words like "No" and "Don't touch." In a way, the hard part of parenting begins now--when I have to start teaching this new human being that his world is far more limited than he thinks.

But the hard part isn't really saying "No." (The world is limited--but let's face it, limits make life more interesting.) It's saying "No" in a way that implies, "That's right, you can't do that--but isn't it great that you want to?" Even when he's tried to bite through the cords on the Playstation for the hundredth time, I should be able to say "No" in an encouraging, loving way. We'll see.

Communication Frenzy

To continue the topic from yesterday: the same chapter in Nurture Shock that says parents should respond immediately and frequently to their babies' first efforts to verbalize also says, don't overdo it. Don't respond so much that it drives the baby frantic. Give them some down time.

I see this in my son: there are times during the day when he's happiest just lying around vegetating, munching on a piece of soft toast, for instance, or halfheartedly tearing apart a section of the newspaper. And I can't say that he's making dramatic efforts to verbalize at this point. He has a few cute sounds in his repertoire--perhaps the best one is a throaty "YEAH" that comes out when he's both pleased and excited. He's not repeating syllables yet, as they say many babies are doing by his age.

On the other hand--he communicates up a storm in other ways. And he's definitely listening. I'm already using some of the techniques for communication discussed in the book, such as dancing an object in front of him and repeating the word for it several times and with different intonations. And he seems intrigued by my efforts, offering me a curious, smiling look as if to say, "Who is this delightful idiot that I have for a parent?"

Communication

One interesting chapter in Nurture Shock talks about the advancement of speaking skills in babies; it says that communicating with one's baby is of primary importance. But not just talking to them. One needs to listen to their sounds and immediately respond, with a word and a caress or a touch; physical contact is especially important. Studies are showing that if mothers (and fathers) respond quickly and consistently to their babies' attempts at communication in this way, it can have a profound effect on how fast the babies learn to speak.

It seems pretty obvious that if someone smiles and hugs and caresses you, you're going to talk to that person more. Yet none of my parenting books pointed out the importance of this; they all just said, "Talk to your baby all day." I'm sure that's important too, but it makes sense that even for young babies, communication needs to be a two-way street. (And surely, Mom babbling on and on, all day long, could make even a baby tune out.)

Hypocrisy

I'm sitting here staring at the children's book Polar Bear, Polar Bear, What Do You Hear? and thinking about my own hypocrisy.

Earlier this week I read that scientists are now predicting that the polar ice cap will disappear completely during the summer by the end of the next decade. This will not necessarily contribute to a rise in sea levels (unlike the rapid melting of Greenland and Antarctica), but it serves as an especially dramatic indication of the growing danger of global warming. And it doesn't bode well for polar bears and other arctic creatures.

Yet I drove my 9-month-old son around for over an hour today, merely to allow him to continue to nap in the car. My only, poor excuse for this was that (1) he'd had a somewhat rough time sleeping last night, and (2) it was frigidly cold outside, so I didn't want to take him out of the car for a spin in the stroller.

How do I justify this behavior? I don't.

I'm also thinking right now about what I saw yesterday at the corner of Hayes and Divisadero. A cheap fast-food chicken place, not Kentucky Fried Chicken but similar: at 4:15 in the afternoon, at least twenty-five people were waiting in line to place an order. On the window, a simple ad: "99 Cent Tuesdays: drumstick and thigh." It happened to be Tuesday. People were lined up out the door and partway down the street. If anything indicates the dismal economic times we're in, that does.

And yet, a few minutes later, I was at Andronico's buying expensive takeout food because I was too tired to cook.

The Right Stuff

Wasn't sure whether to take the baby to a playgroup today because it's one of the coldest days of the year, and it seemed so far away (though it's only around twenty minutes by car), and we were running about fifteen minutes late. It's not the playgroup I've been attending recently, but one held in a much smaller room; I imagined the room would be crowded by the time we got there and we might not even make it in. But I did make it there, finally, and to my delight, only three other mothers were there (six people total, including babies).

The woman running the playgroup was excellent; knowledgeable, friendly and professional. She asked me right away where my baby was at in terms of his development, then knew exactly what sorts of activities he should engage in to encourage and stimulate him. She had the same good advice for the other moms, whose babies' ages ranged from three months to six months. And she wasn't just a fountain of advice; she really watched all of the little people, to pick up ideas on what they needed, based on what they were already doing.

Listening to her, I was reminded of how powerful a combination knowledge and passion can be. Someone in the right profession for their temperament, bringing good ideas as well as passionate devotion to their work--they get so good at what they do, that they don't have to brag about it; it's obvious.

Photo Frenzy?

I've recently heard mothers talk about how many thousands of photos they're taking of their children, adding that they spend time each week sorting through the new ones, choosing the best ones and downloading them to their computerized photo albums--perhaps cropping and resizing them as well, and regularly emailing them to loved ones. I've done some of that, but my efforts have been feeble in this regard. Yes, I've also bought a cheap wallet-sized video camera, and have used it, but with nothing like the fervor and dedication that other mothers have expressed. It's not that I'm disinterested--far from it; but it's just taking low priority right now. And I'm starting to feel bad about that.

I've thought about hiring a professional photographer. But a recent peek at some of the local baby photographers' portfolios left me hugely discouraged. Most of them charge a fortune for cutesy photos that look so posed, all the personality is sapped right out of the images. Just get a baby to smile a little, or even, just look in the general direction of the camera, and heaps of personality will be expressed; that's one of the marvelous things about babies.

These mountains of photographs and videos everyone seems to be taking these days--are we becoming more sensitive to the visual image because of it? The evidence on YouTube is not all that positive in this regard. And what about our aural sensitivity? I've always wondered what our increasing obsession with the visual has done to our ability to listen, to really listen to the people and things in our immediate environment.

Having said this--I still need to take more photos of my son. But I should also purchase a quality tape recorder and sit down with him in front of it, encouraging him to express himself in his inimitable, non-verbal way.

The Arboretum, Sasha

Sometimes one has to wonder what passes through a baby's brain, when a certain look plants itself on their faces and remains there for more than an hour. My husband and I took the little guy for a stroll in Strybing Arboretum today--on one of the coldest days of the year, but it was the afternoon and we had him well-bundled (and "cold" in San Francisco is nothing compared to "cold" in places like Minnesota or Massachusetts). We put the much-hated winter hat on his head--he tolerated it, but just barely. Then he seemed to become sleepy, with that glazed, fixed look of a baby about to fall asleep--but he never did, not for the next hour and a half. Instead he gazed out at the world with the hat pulled down to his eyebrows and his bomber jacket zipped up to his chin--he seemed content to let his mind drift, to not move for long periods of time, to let his arm trail down out of the carseat/stroller--at one point he leaned forward and let his face rest against the blanket in front of him, not in frustration but in a strange reverie; he also tolerated it when we leaned him back again; he was peaceful about everything and remarkably distant from us; he looked, somehow, like a well-fed, half-drunk Russian nobleman, being carted across a frozen field by servants while his mind reviews the debauch of the night before.

The Cinema

I'm not a rabid film viewer, but I do enjoy the experience of going to a movie theater and plunging into an alternate universe for one and a half or two hours. It has been at least a year since I've had the chance to do so.

Why is a movie theater still attractive to me, when sitting on one's own couch munching or drinking whatever one pleases and popping in a rented DVD is so much more convenient these days? Because the big screen offers so much more of a complete immersion than anything one can set up at home. It's partly the whole ceremony of paying for the ticket, finding the right seat, looking around at the decor and the other patrons, watching the lights dim as the sound comes up and voices hush, then watching the world change before one's eyes--it's that ritualistic aspect of being at "the cinema" that still holds an appeal for me; then there's the magic of the first moments, when the film starts to cast its spell (hopefully), with either a faint tremble or a rush of music, or words, or noises, or--something.

But the primary reason I remain interested in the whole movie theater experience is the sound aspect, something that can never be recaptured in a home setting (and I've heard some of the best home theater systems--it's just not the same)--it's that gorgeous sound that keeps me interested in spending time in movie theaters, more than anything else. Lawrence of Arabia, Casablanca, Star Wars, Gladiator--how greatly these films are diminished on a small screen, and how sad for the younger people today who've never seen them in a theater.

Sometimes, these days, it does feel like I'm too old and too motherly--too wrapped up in baby-related concerns--to sink into a film and let it penetrate my psyche the way that I used to when I was twenty. But I'd certainly enjoy giving it the old college try.

Reflection and Redirection

As the baby nears 9 months, I'm reevaluating a lot of areas--the organization of his day, his toys and books, whether I'm providing him with enough stimulation and time with other babies his age--and making adjustments. He's halfway through his babyhood, if it's true that toddlerhood begins at 18 months; I see how quickly the time passes, how damn precious every day is, how much there is to do. Today, for instance, I have to buy him some pajamas and/or comfortable clothes for him to sleep and play in, he's sorely lacking in that regard.

I'll continue taking him at least once a week to a playgroup I've found (it's actually a course in child development offered through the local city college, but it's open to all mothers and babies 8 to 15 months of age), but once a week is not enough for him. Another playgroup offered at a local baby store doesn't provide much space for the children to roam around. I'm sure there are other possibilities out there. This kid is becoming so aware of the world, so curious, so hungry for new information--it's obvious. My big challenge over the next 9 months, I suppose, is keeping up with his hungry growing body and his equally hungry mind.

Nothing Extraordinary...

Was accidentally swept up into a support group for mothers with 3 to 6-month-old babies today; the details of how this happened aren't that interesting, so I won't give them. It was painful in a sense to revisit that difficult time; it seems to me that very nearly all mothers go through a form of unconscious hazing from the baby during those second three months, either with sleep issues or teething or feeding problems and so on. And by the second trimester of the baby's life, the fatigue factor is so high for most moms that...I don't even want to think about it.

Be that as it may--it was interesting to compare this support group with the only other mom's support group I've ever attended. I went to one of these ten months ago, in which the babies' ages ranged from seven weeks to three months; I was still pregnant, and was just there to see what kind of problems were emerging for the new mothers. It turns out that the complaints and problems expressed by the moms in today's group were almost identical to the ones expressed by the mothers ten months ago. "My baby wakes me up five times a night"; "He just cries and cries"; "I have breastfeeding issues" and so forth.

Attending these two groups reminded me of two things: the extraordinary difficulty of parenting a young child, and the utter ordinariness of it. I'm sure that women five thousand years ago were communicating to each other about the same sorts of issues discussed by these two groups. I'm sure women have been exchanging advice on teething, colic and sleep in every generation since men and women came into existence. Yet, this sort of discussion doesn't lose its vitality.

It has been my experience that whenever crucial information is being exchanged in a group setting (and I do believe that with some mothers, the information they receive in these groups, or even just the verbal support, saves them from depression or nervous breakdowns), you can feel it; the mothers are listening keenly, and asking a great number of questions about every subject that comes up. A lot of information is exchanged in a short time, and sometimes, you can see the relief flooding into a mother when she receives a piece of information that solves a major problem for her.

Come to think of it--I learned today about a teething remedy, Camelia, that I'd never heard of before--they claimed it works wonders, so I'll definitely try it the next time my son is having teething problems.

What's in a Lie

Reading Nurture Shock, that hot new book about parenting, at the moment, along with two other books about child-rearing; the other books appear to be eminently forgettable. Nurture Shock lacks a bit in terms of organization and coherence--it seems like a series of articles slapped together, and even the individual articles have a helter-skelter feel to them. But some of the points made along the way are original and interesting.

The chapter on kids and lying (basically stating that kids lie a lot more, and a lot earlier in life, than parents think) has me contemplating, in a broader sense, the moral upbringing of this child of mine. Will I be able to deliver the difficult messages, even when it's hard for him to listen? Will I be able to see his mistakes clearly and then, teach him how to deal with them directly? Will I make excuses for any shoddy behavior on his part? Will I, myself, be able to behave on a regular basis as I would want my son to behave?

And what about morality in a broader sense--our responsibility to the rest of humankind? When I was a teenager, and all through my college years, I obsessed about the possibility of a nuclear holocaust--like a lot of other young people in the 1980s--and worked hard for anti-nuclear groups. I told myself that I would support this cause for the rest of my life, or until the threat of nuclear devastation was behind us. What am I doing in that regard, these days? For the threat certainly still exists, whether we like to think about it or not.

This October in Paris, I happened to encounter a woman from Pakistan who had been living in Paris for many years, but whose relatives remained, for the most part, in her native country; "Pakistan is going to hell," she bluntly remarked. What if a country with nuclear weapons is taken over by some ruthless, amoral, despotic leader--as could very well happen with Pakistan in the very near future? Not that I could do anything directly about that, but what should I be doing about that--for the sake of my son, and everyone in his generation?

I don't have any answers to that--although, perhaps the first step is to understand a little better than I do right now, how terrible the situation is in that region of the world. Encountering this woman at a Paris cafe (one of my favorite cafes as it turned out) jolted me a little bit out of my complacency in this regard.

Certainly, complacency is one of the worst enemies of morality--and one of the most insidious.

Old Lullabies

The other day at a playgroup, I met a Japanese woman, maybe in her early thirties; I mentioned that my mother, who died last year, was Japanese. "Do you speak Japanese to your child?" she asked. "Well, my Japanese isn't really that good," I said, "But I do sing this lullaby to him once in a while." And I sang the opening bars of a Japanese lullaby that my mother sang to me when I was young.

"That's an old song," she said in surprise. Apparently, Japanese mothers aren't singing that song to their children any more.

"Yes," I said; "my mother was 38 when she had me, and I'm 45 now."

She looked at me with eyes open wide. "You don't look that old."

And at that moment I felt, not so much old and decrepit, but a sense of closeness to my mother--and to my grandmother on my mother's side, raising my mother and seven other children in Japan, over a span of time stretching from the mid-1920s to the early 1960s. Time telescoped for me, as I looked at this young Japanese woman; I felt that I could see my grandmother in 1920s Japan, so different from today's Japan, singing that same lullaby to her own baby girl, my mother.