The point of my blog was to keep writing every day, and to write about motherhood indirectly--that is, to address the topic while also retaining the ability to distance myself from it. (This in order to retain my sanity as a new mother, to have at least one moment in the day which did not revolve around my son.) I also wanted to protect my son's privacy, by not divulging too much about his personal characteristics and habits in my daily posts.
I did succeed at writing almost every day--but ultimately, as indicated in the previous post (September 15th), I did write quite a bit about the more mundane aspects of motherhood. Some of the posts were marginally more inventive than that, so I don't think the whole project was a failure, but so much of it was that I don't see it at all as something fit for public consumption.
I do see it, however, as a way to let my son know what life was like, for me and for him, when he's much older and might be curious about such things. I kept a journal while I was pregnant (actually, long before I was pregnant with my son--while I was experiencing the miscarriages--I also wrote), and I think I'll keep another one from now on--this one, meant only for his eyes, not for anyone else's.
At the same time--I need to refocus myself on my so-called writing career. I've only written two short-short stories since the last post, over a month ago. I've been so busy with my very active boy, organizing his fall schedule and taking him to his multiple playgroups and swim classes and other activities, that it has left virtually no time for anything else. Now his schedule is set and we've adopted a certain comfortable (though physically exhausting) weekly rhythm, and his longer afternoon naps make it possible for me to write for at least an hour, maybe two, every day. By September of next year, I'll have perhaps another fifteen hours a week (assuming he's in some sort of preschool at that point) for my writing projects.
It's time to return, in other words, to more intimate writing, and to much more public writing as well. This blog is leading me nowhere.
But it was fun while it lasted.
Cheers to all those older mothers out there.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Beginnings
Tomorrow, one of our regular public playgroups (sponsored by the City of San Francisco) starts up again, after a summer-long hiatus; this marks, in a way, the end of summer for me and my son.
It's a good time for new beginnings. He is well-launched into toddlerhood, with all the huge desires, curiosities and disappointments that come with that age--so much like the teenage years, in the scope of the passions involved, at least, the intense highs and lows. He needs, badly, the stimulation that a range of playgroups, playgrounds and other activities can provide.
And I'm ready for changes myself. Without dwelling on it--as stated previously, this blog was taking up too much of my time, especially in relation to other writing projects. I've completed forty-two short-short stories (about three or four pages each) and I hope to write at least sixty or seventy more before the end of the year. There's a translation project I'm dying to tackle involving French poetry. A few other writing projects are simply languishing from lack of time, energy and, let's face it, will power.
But enough about all that. These will happen--it might take a few years instead of the six or seven months I'm hoping for--but they will happen.
I suppose part of the reason for writing this blog was to see if I could pull that crazy rabbit out of the hat--that is, lead a writer's life and a mother's life at the same time. I'm only been minimally successful at it up to now. We'll see what happens in the next year or so.
It's a good time for new beginnings. He is well-launched into toddlerhood, with all the huge desires, curiosities and disappointments that come with that age--so much like the teenage years, in the scope of the passions involved, at least, the intense highs and lows. He needs, badly, the stimulation that a range of playgroups, playgrounds and other activities can provide.
And I'm ready for changes myself. Without dwelling on it--as stated previously, this blog was taking up too much of my time, especially in relation to other writing projects. I've completed forty-two short-short stories (about three or four pages each) and I hope to write at least sixty or seventy more before the end of the year. There's a translation project I'm dying to tackle involving French poetry. A few other writing projects are simply languishing from lack of time, energy and, let's face it, will power.
But enough about all that. These will happen--it might take a few years instead of the six or seven months I'm hoping for--but they will happen.
I suppose part of the reason for writing this blog was to see if I could pull that crazy rabbit out of the hat--that is, lead a writer's life and a mother's life at the same time. I'm only been minimally successful at it up to now. We'll see what happens in the next year or so.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
First Anniversary of...?
Today marks one year that I've been at this.
I'm going to stop doing this every day. Yes, I did manage to write almost every day for a year (with the exception of four or five days when life became especially hectic/chaotic and I simply forgot); but lately I've been sitting at the computer each night thinking, "Damn I have no idea of what to say, oh well, better spit out something" rather than, "Rats there are three or four things I want to write about, I'll have to choose." Once a day is too much--not for other forms of writing, but for this one.
I'll make it once a week from now on. That way, during the week, something will build up inside me--I'll have a bewildered-aging-Mommy moment or some little facet of life here in San Francisco will strike me as worth repeating online, and I'll mentally store it away for a while; by the end of a week the event will have marinated long enough in my thoughts to become something worth writing (and reading) about. At least, that's the hope.
I've enjoyed doing this every day--the regularity of it, while stifling at times, also becomes a kind of meditation.
Where do I stand, as a mother and a person, compared to a year ago? A year ago, I was grimly entering my sixth month of sleep deprivation, as my son would not start sleeping through the night regularly until sometime in late September/early October of last year; I was still overjoyed at becoming a new mother--so very late in life; I was still in a state of disbelief about the magnificence of this new being. I was delighting in our long walks together (with stroller) through various unknown parts of San Francisco.
So--mostly delight, with a dash of desperation and depression.
Now--I'm still amazed by my son, in a different way; the fact of him is not as overwhelming, but his personality--already strong at six months, but so much stronger now--bowls me over. I'm also feeling a new form of exhaustion--not as all-consuming as the constant fatigue I felt last August, but I could call it a sort of ever-present weariness, which perhaps only mothers of very active toddlers can understand. Seventeen months (almost) after he was born, I'm looking ahead at the next thirteen months (the period of time during which he'll still remain at home around the clock--by September of next year he'll probably begin some form of half-day preschool) with some measure of trepidation, but also with the sense that I will always treasure this time, even with all its complications and headaches, because he has already changed so much and will change enormously once again by the time another year rolls by.
I look at myself in the mirror and realize that I've aged quite a bit in one year...many more gray hairs, and a more pinched, worried expression on my face...sometimes I catch myself in the rearview mirror of my car with an absolutely distraught look in my eyes and I suddenly realize it's something trivial, like "Oh no, I forgot his shoes" or "What was that other item I absolutely had to buy at the store, something he needed urgently?" All those thousand and one thoughts that occupy a mother's mind and age her so quickly...I need to let go of some of that--most of that--at least, I need to learn not to beat myself up because I forget my son's shoes once in a while.
As it so happens, this morning, during a quick trip to the grocery store, I forgot my son's shoes. And I did not, this time, stress about it (because I had his carrier and it was just a quick trip--soon, I won't be able to fit him in the carrier with any degree of comfort for either of us, he's gotten that huge). For the ten minutes we were there, he was perfectly content in my arms, reaching out for the tomatoes and bananas and baguettes as he usually does (getting him back into the carseat was another story, but we'll pass over that). At the checkout, one of the baggers, who had been standing outside, perhaps taking a break, suddenly poked her head inside the store and shouted to the checkout clerk, "Hey, John, I just saw fifty parents flying overhead!"
"What?" the clerk asked. She repeated it twice before either of us understood what she had been saying: "parrots," not "parents." We laughed, and he said to me, "I kept wondering, 'If it was an airplane, how would she know they were all parents inside?'"
I was actually picturing parents flying overhead like parrots. Maybe that's the image I'd like to retain foremost in my mind, for the coming year.
I'm going to stop doing this every day. Yes, I did manage to write almost every day for a year (with the exception of four or five days when life became especially hectic/chaotic and I simply forgot); but lately I've been sitting at the computer each night thinking, "Damn I have no idea of what to say, oh well, better spit out something" rather than, "Rats there are three or four things I want to write about, I'll have to choose." Once a day is too much--not for other forms of writing, but for this one.
I'll make it once a week from now on. That way, during the week, something will build up inside me--I'll have a bewildered-aging-Mommy moment or some little facet of life here in San Francisco will strike me as worth repeating online, and I'll mentally store it away for a while; by the end of a week the event will have marinated long enough in my thoughts to become something worth writing (and reading) about. At least, that's the hope.
I've enjoyed doing this every day--the regularity of it, while stifling at times, also becomes a kind of meditation.
Where do I stand, as a mother and a person, compared to a year ago? A year ago, I was grimly entering my sixth month of sleep deprivation, as my son would not start sleeping through the night regularly until sometime in late September/early October of last year; I was still overjoyed at becoming a new mother--so very late in life; I was still in a state of disbelief about the magnificence of this new being. I was delighting in our long walks together (with stroller) through various unknown parts of San Francisco.
So--mostly delight, with a dash of desperation and depression.
Now--I'm still amazed by my son, in a different way; the fact of him is not as overwhelming, but his personality--already strong at six months, but so much stronger now--bowls me over. I'm also feeling a new form of exhaustion--not as all-consuming as the constant fatigue I felt last August, but I could call it a sort of ever-present weariness, which perhaps only mothers of very active toddlers can understand. Seventeen months (almost) after he was born, I'm looking ahead at the next thirteen months (the period of time during which he'll still remain at home around the clock--by September of next year he'll probably begin some form of half-day preschool) with some measure of trepidation, but also with the sense that I will always treasure this time, even with all its complications and headaches, because he has already changed so much and will change enormously once again by the time another year rolls by.
I look at myself in the mirror and realize that I've aged quite a bit in one year...many more gray hairs, and a more pinched, worried expression on my face...sometimes I catch myself in the rearview mirror of my car with an absolutely distraught look in my eyes and I suddenly realize it's something trivial, like "Oh no, I forgot his shoes" or "What was that other item I absolutely had to buy at the store, something he needed urgently?" All those thousand and one thoughts that occupy a mother's mind and age her so quickly...I need to let go of some of that--most of that--at least, I need to learn not to beat myself up because I forget my son's shoes once in a while.
As it so happens, this morning, during a quick trip to the grocery store, I forgot my son's shoes. And I did not, this time, stress about it (because I had his carrier and it was just a quick trip--soon, I won't be able to fit him in the carrier with any degree of comfort for either of us, he's gotten that huge). For the ten minutes we were there, he was perfectly content in my arms, reaching out for the tomatoes and bananas and baguettes as he usually does (getting him back into the carseat was another story, but we'll pass over that). At the checkout, one of the baggers, who had been standing outside, perhaps taking a break, suddenly poked her head inside the store and shouted to the checkout clerk, "Hey, John, I just saw fifty parents flying overhead!"
"What?" the clerk asked. She repeated it twice before either of us understood what she had been saying: "parrots," not "parents." We laughed, and he said to me, "I kept wondering, 'If it was an airplane, how would she know they were all parents inside?'"
I was actually picturing parents flying overhead like parrots. Maybe that's the image I'd like to retain foremost in my mind, for the coming year.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Sun and Rubinstein
Felt the sun on my face briefly this afternoon as I drove my son to a swim class in San Bruno. (Anyone living in San Francisco for the past month or so will know why I bothered to write that sentence.)
Another highlight of a rather dreary day: watched Artur Rubinstein describe to Robert MacNeil how losing most of his eyesight at the age of 90 opened other worlds to him--"I had time to listen to music, go to concerts...before, I was reading too much."
I love Rubinstein--his music and the man himself, at least what comes across to me in his memoir of his early years.
A strong desire today for more music and writing, that is, for more time for those pursuits...that part of my life which is as important to me as the sun. Following Rubinstein's example, though, I could say that motherhood has forced me to cut out the trivial aspects of my life and get to the heart of the matter--in writing, in music, in living. (I could say that--but it wouldn't be true. When was the last time I touched a piano for more than a few minutes?)
Another highlight of a rather dreary day: watched Artur Rubinstein describe to Robert MacNeil how losing most of his eyesight at the age of 90 opened other worlds to him--"I had time to listen to music, go to concerts...before, I was reading too much."
I love Rubinstein--his music and the man himself, at least what comes across to me in his memoir of his early years.
A strong desire today for more music and writing, that is, for more time for those pursuits...that part of my life which is as important to me as the sun. Following Rubinstein's example, though, I could say that motherhood has forced me to cut out the trivial aspects of my life and get to the heart of the matter--in writing, in music, in living. (I could say that--but it wouldn't be true. When was the last time I touched a piano for more than a few minutes?)
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
More on Saramago
I have to hand it to Saramago--no one else writes like he does; no, he is not a cheap Kafka knock-off as I wrote before, he is his own man. I am not in love with his style, but it really is his style.
His humor--at times I love it, particularly the little side comments that have nothing to do with the development of the plot and turn the novel inside out--at least, they leave the reader dangling upside down instead of bouncing along happily with the author. For instance, the narrator remarks at one point about the envy felt in the Central Registry when the boss singles out the central character for special treatment: "What else could one expect, the human soul being what we know it to be, though we cannot claim to know anything." Taken out of context it's not nearly as funny, but suffice it to say that Saramago weaves these little meandering moments into the plot like a person making a table who suddenly decides it should have a shoe sticking out of the middle of it.
At other times, I find it all a bit cloying or heavyhanded. Certain long passages in which the main character imagines dialogues with various people in his life, or improbable outcomes to certain escapades on which he embarks--those passages could be pruned back a little without losing their comic appeal (I find myself skipping ahead at these points). But that's not a major criticism.
Overall, I give him much higher marks than I did in my previous post about him, although I'm still not convinced that he's Nobel Prize material...but I've only read half of one of his books, so I'm not much of a judge of that.
His humor--at times I love it, particularly the little side comments that have nothing to do with the development of the plot and turn the novel inside out--at least, they leave the reader dangling upside down instead of bouncing along happily with the author. For instance, the narrator remarks at one point about the envy felt in the Central Registry when the boss singles out the central character for special treatment: "What else could one expect, the human soul being what we know it to be, though we cannot claim to know anything." Taken out of context it's not nearly as funny, but suffice it to say that Saramago weaves these little meandering moments into the plot like a person making a table who suddenly decides it should have a shoe sticking out of the middle of it.
At other times, I find it all a bit cloying or heavyhanded. Certain long passages in which the main character imagines dialogues with various people in his life, or improbable outcomes to certain escapades on which he embarks--those passages could be pruned back a little without losing their comic appeal (I find myself skipping ahead at these points). But that's not a major criticism.
Overall, I give him much higher marks than I did in my previous post about him, although I'm still not convinced that he's Nobel Prize material...but I've only read half of one of his books, so I'm not much of a judge of that.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Babies and Movies
Nothing much to write about tonight. Actually, I just watched Denzel Washington's blistering performance in Training Day, and my thoughts are too disturbed to focus much on this blog. What was perhaps the most appalling in that film were the scenes involving children, especially the little three-year-old who played Denzel's (his character's) son.
It would be easy to say that I feel more upset now, as a mother, when I see scenes of violence at which children are present. I don't think it's true. I think I was always disturbed by those.
But I can't help wanting to go check on my son right now (he's sleeping) and just look at him.
It would be easy to say that I feel more upset now, as a mother, when I see scenes of violence at which children are present. I don't think it's true. I think I was always disturbed by those.
But I can't help wanting to go check on my son right now (he's sleeping) and just look at him.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
"I Couldn't" Part Two
I was sitting in a cafe this afternoon--my son was enjoying quality face time with his dad--when a woman and her toddler son, a bit smaller than my boy, a little cherub with a beatific smile and a bright-eyed air about him, came up and joined the older woman sitting next to me. The woman cooed over the boy, while his mother offered him "bread" (a croissant) and milk. I noticed that he was saying words like "breh" (bread") and "bus," and tried to guess his age. I couldn't; so as I got up to leave, unable to restrain my curiosity, I asked her, "How old?"
"21 months."
"He's adorable...and he's speaking a lot! When did he start talking?"
"Oh, a long time ago."
"And obviously, he's fully bilingual (the mother was from Japan and had been speaking to her son in Japanese, while carrying on a conversation with the other woman in English). My son doesn't say a word yet," I confided.
"Is he in daycare?"
"No, but he goes to a lot of playgroups."
"That's good. My son has been in full-time daycare for a long time now, and that stimulates him."
We talked on for another minute or so, then I excused myself, not wanting to intrude further on their conversation.
Afterwards, I realized to my surprise that I felt almost guilty, suddenly, for not putting my child in daycare. It was obviously working for this little boy, I told myself...
Then I realized: I was assuming my son was behind other kids because he doesn't really talk yet.
Never mind that he already points to the correct letter of the alphabet, 80 or 90 percent of the time, when I ask him "Where's G, show me G" or "Show me X"...and I didn't even think to mention that to this mother and her friend.
My son is "slow"--perhaps in many people's eyes--because he can't speak yet. And my feeling of being inadequate somehow as a "stimulator" will probably continue over the next month, or two, or three--however long it takes him to start popping out unmistakable words. (Well, it will probably continue until he's actually enrolled in a quality daycare or preschool. As much as I also feel, in my heart, that I'm doing the right thing for him.)
And I'm sure there will be other ways, over the next year or so, that I'm oh-so-subtly made to feel inadequate as a stay-at-home home.
"21 months."
"He's adorable...and he's speaking a lot! When did he start talking?"
"Oh, a long time ago."
"And obviously, he's fully bilingual (the mother was from Japan and had been speaking to her son in Japanese, while carrying on a conversation with the other woman in English). My son doesn't say a word yet," I confided.
"Is he in daycare?"
"No, but he goes to a lot of playgroups."
"That's good. My son has been in full-time daycare for a long time now, and that stimulates him."
We talked on for another minute or so, then I excused myself, not wanting to intrude further on their conversation.
Afterwards, I realized to my surprise that I felt almost guilty, suddenly, for not putting my child in daycare. It was obviously working for this little boy, I told myself...
Then I realized: I was assuming my son was behind other kids because he doesn't really talk yet.
Never mind that he already points to the correct letter of the alphabet, 80 or 90 percent of the time, when I ask him "Where's G, show me G" or "Show me X"...and I didn't even think to mention that to this mother and her friend.
My son is "slow"--perhaps in many people's eyes--because he can't speak yet. And my feeling of being inadequate somehow as a "stimulator" will probably continue over the next month, or two, or three--however long it takes him to start popping out unmistakable words. (Well, it will probably continue until he's actually enrolled in a quality daycare or preschool. As much as I also feel, in my heart, that I'm doing the right thing for him.)
And I'm sure there will be other ways, over the next year or so, that I'm oh-so-subtly made to feel inadequate as a stay-at-home home.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
"I Couldn't..."
I've had several friends tell me, in recent months, "I couldn't do what you're doing." Meaning--they couldn't stay home with a baby or toddler, 24 hours a day, for two and a half years.
I don't quite know how to take this remark. I don't take offense to it. I just don't know how to respond.
The truth is, I'm not sure what they're saying. It would be too much of a strain for them to stay home? They wouldn't be able to stand the frustration and boredom of being away from their workplace for that long?
I think that it's meant as a sort of compliment--"I know that what you're doing must be very difficult at times and I applaud you for it"; but then, they could have said that instead.
In the end, I suppose I just have to take the comment at face value: they really don't think they could do it. And if I were to respond honestly, I would tell them: "Of course you could. If you had to, you could."
It makes me think about the time in this country when women had almost no other choice but to stay home with their children. The time, not so long ago. Yes, I'm sure that many women suffered from clinical depression (without being diagnosed) and chafed mightily against the restraints that being a mother of young children imposes (my own mother chafed more than a bit). But they did it; they had practically no choice. And I'm sure that the majority of them did it with the grace and love that my mother exhibited.
It seems like we've reached another extreme (if my friends' comments are any measure): the stay-at-home mom is no longer the norm; and perhaps, it's seen as either an eccentric role to take on, or a bit heroic. (A bit too heroic?)
As I said, I don't know how to interpret my friends' remarks. What's striking, though, is that they all used almost the same phrasing. "I couldn't do what you're doing."
I don't quite know how to take this remark. I don't take offense to it. I just don't know how to respond.
The truth is, I'm not sure what they're saying. It would be too much of a strain for them to stay home? They wouldn't be able to stand the frustration and boredom of being away from their workplace for that long?
I think that it's meant as a sort of compliment--"I know that what you're doing must be very difficult at times and I applaud you for it"; but then, they could have said that instead.
In the end, I suppose I just have to take the comment at face value: they really don't think they could do it. And if I were to respond honestly, I would tell them: "Of course you could. If you had to, you could."
It makes me think about the time in this country when women had almost no other choice but to stay home with their children. The time, not so long ago. Yes, I'm sure that many women suffered from clinical depression (without being diagnosed) and chafed mightily against the restraints that being a mother of young children imposes (my own mother chafed more than a bit). But they did it; they had practically no choice. And I'm sure that the majority of them did it with the grace and love that my mother exhibited.
It seems like we've reached another extreme (if my friends' comments are any measure): the stay-at-home mom is no longer the norm; and perhaps, it's seen as either an eccentric role to take on, or a bit heroic. (A bit too heroic?)
As I said, I don't know how to interpret my friends' remarks. What's striking, though, is that they all used almost the same phrasing. "I couldn't do what you're doing."
Friday, July 30, 2010
You Are Here, with Earthquakes
No one in San Francisco lives here without thinking about the possibility of "The Big One." Or even the "Not-So-Big-But-Definitely-Noticeable-One." We don't walk around in fear every day; but small tremors of fear (pun intended) do pass through us on occasion--this is more true, of course, for those who have lived through a decent-sized earthquake before.
As San Franciscans, we are intimately linked to the end-of-the-continent precariousness of our physical and psychological situation. I thought about this as I looked at two cottages today in the Presidio.
Built in 1906 for "Camp Richmond," a large encampment of 1906 Earthquake survivors in the Richmond District, these humble 10 by 15-foot cottages provided nothing more than a roof over people's heads (of course at today's real estate prices, they could generate a cool $200,000, I'm guessing--I'm joking, of course--or maybe not...) They're oddly situated in the Presidio--tucked away behind a nondescript building which now houses private organizations, they would be easy to overlook (and I've passed by them a few times without noticing them).
Looking inside the small plate-glass windows, one sees many artifacts of the period--an iron bed, a washboard and metal pail, and so forth. They're set up to look like someone from 1906 is still occupying them.
"Talk about 'You Are Here,'" I thought as I peered inside. There's something deeply poignant about looking through those windows and imagining both what the inhabitants of those buildings were going through. And what we would go through today--though I doubt anyone would build a similar structure for us nowadays.
Without a doubt, living in earthquake country reinforces the feeling of now-ness that I already experience as the mother of a young child. (Of course, it's not exactly the hedonistic "now" that appeals to many residents of this City--the parades, festivals and outdoor concerts--the general party atmosphere that seems to permeate the air here sometimes--which must be linked in some subterranean way to the vague feeling of fear that comes with living in earthquake country. But I digress.) And seeing those little post-earthquake cottages, I was reminded of how extremely "now" life would feel, after experiencing such an overwhelming catastrophe, and being stripped of everything--perhaps not one's loved ones, but everything else.
And without one's loved ones? No "now," even--just "Fade to Black." That's probably why San Francisco's feeling like a bit too much of a risk, these days.
As San Franciscans, we are intimately linked to the end-of-the-continent precariousness of our physical and psychological situation. I thought about this as I looked at two cottages today in the Presidio.
Built in 1906 for "Camp Richmond," a large encampment of 1906 Earthquake survivors in the Richmond District, these humble 10 by 15-foot cottages provided nothing more than a roof over people's heads (of course at today's real estate prices, they could generate a cool $200,000, I'm guessing--I'm joking, of course--or maybe not...) They're oddly situated in the Presidio--tucked away behind a nondescript building which now houses private organizations, they would be easy to overlook (and I've passed by them a few times without noticing them).
Looking inside the small plate-glass windows, one sees many artifacts of the period--an iron bed, a washboard and metal pail, and so forth. They're set up to look like someone from 1906 is still occupying them.
"Talk about 'You Are Here,'" I thought as I peered inside. There's something deeply poignant about looking through those windows and imagining both what the inhabitants of those buildings were going through. And what we would go through today--though I doubt anyone would build a similar structure for us nowadays.
Without a doubt, living in earthquake country reinforces the feeling of now-ness that I already experience as the mother of a young child. (Of course, it's not exactly the hedonistic "now" that appeals to many residents of this City--the parades, festivals and outdoor concerts--the general party atmosphere that seems to permeate the air here sometimes--which must be linked in some subterranean way to the vague feeling of fear that comes with living in earthquake country. But I digress.) And seeing those little post-earthquake cottages, I was reminded of how extremely "now" life would feel, after experiencing such an overwhelming catastrophe, and being stripped of everything--perhaps not one's loved ones, but everything else.
And without one's loved ones? No "now," even--just "Fade to Black." That's probably why San Francisco's feeling like a bit too much of a risk, these days.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
You Are Here
When I started this blog, the idea was to write about various random strolls through San Francisco and other non-baby-related topics, while also commenting occasionally on the fact of being an older new mother.
In recent months, however, this has become more like the typical "mommy blog" in which I discuss the trials, tribulations and occasional triumphs of new motherhood. And I'm bored with it. I'm bored even thinking about it, much less writing it.
Rather than give up just yet, however, I think I should pull it back to the original themes. The trouble is, I almost never stroll anywhere any more. With a young toddler who can hardly walk two yards without trying to open a door, touch a car or chase after a dog, and who hates sitting in a stroller or a carseat unless he's completely exhausted (and even then...) I don't foresee a whole lot of strolling in the near future.
Today, however--for the first time in months--we did find ourselves in unfamiliar territory, for a nanosecond. We went from the Cow Hollow Playground to Lombard Street, then to Chestnut Street, and walked down it for a couple of blocks, stopping in a cafe where I bought my son a bagel and some apple juice; then we turned around again and headed back to the car. He wasn't thrilled to be in the stroller during that fifteen-minute journey, but when I did wheelies with it, and made it race around in a zig-zag pattern, he stopped fussing and started giggling.
This means, of course, that I was too exhausted to absorb much of what I saw in my immediate surroundings. I did get the feeling, however, that Chestnut Street is a more inviting little commercial strip than Union Street--the shops feel more down-to-earth. They're less about personal and interior decoration, more about buying food and relaxing. But as I said, I was only there for a nanosecond--not enough to comment on anything, really.
With a toddler in my life, I realize that my inner sense of space has dwindled down to a series of points--has dwindled down to one point, perhaps: I now live according to a strange map which only shows an X and bold letters spelling out "YOU ARE HERE." Because that's a toddler's sense of the world, and it becomes the mother's sense as well...and even trips across the country don't seem to change that fact.
In recent months, however, this has become more like the typical "mommy blog" in which I discuss the trials, tribulations and occasional triumphs of new motherhood. And I'm bored with it. I'm bored even thinking about it, much less writing it.
Rather than give up just yet, however, I think I should pull it back to the original themes. The trouble is, I almost never stroll anywhere any more. With a young toddler who can hardly walk two yards without trying to open a door, touch a car or chase after a dog, and who hates sitting in a stroller or a carseat unless he's completely exhausted (and even then...) I don't foresee a whole lot of strolling in the near future.
Today, however--for the first time in months--we did find ourselves in unfamiliar territory, for a nanosecond. We went from the Cow Hollow Playground to Lombard Street, then to Chestnut Street, and walked down it for a couple of blocks, stopping in a cafe where I bought my son a bagel and some apple juice; then we turned around again and headed back to the car. He wasn't thrilled to be in the stroller during that fifteen-minute journey, but when I did wheelies with it, and made it race around in a zig-zag pattern, he stopped fussing and started giggling.
This means, of course, that I was too exhausted to absorb much of what I saw in my immediate surroundings. I did get the feeling, however, that Chestnut Street is a more inviting little commercial strip than Union Street--the shops feel more down-to-earth. They're less about personal and interior decoration, more about buying food and relaxing. But as I said, I was only there for a nanosecond--not enough to comment on anything, really.
With a toddler in my life, I realize that my inner sense of space has dwindled down to a series of points--has dwindled down to one point, perhaps: I now live according to a strange map which only shows an X and bold letters spelling out "YOU ARE HERE." Because that's a toddler's sense of the world, and it becomes the mother's sense as well...and even trips across the country don't seem to change that fact.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Sleep, Sun and Saramago
This will not be a highly focused post...
The kid slept until 10:15 this morning. Unprecedented. True, he went to bed at 9:30 pm last night, which is also unusual; but he's never slept past 9 am before, much less 10 am. I kept checking on him during the last hour and a half of this 12 and a half hour slumberfest to make sure he was okay (yes, he was fine, of course). He woke up in a wonderful, ebullient mood. I doubt this means, however, that I should put him to bed late every night. Tonight he got to bed at the more reasonable time of 8:15, and I'm predicting he'll sleep his normal 11 hours or so.
For a few hours this afternoon, the sun popped out and did its best to warm that section of Earth known as San Francisco. I say this because we've hardly seen the sun or felt its warmth since returning from Maine; I've been told that it has been gloomy and cold for the last three weeks. Enough to make anyone want to go to bed for twelve and a half hours.
Or at least, crawl into bed and read, which I'll be doing in the next ten minutes. I'm reading a book by Jose Saramago, All the Names, in which a low-level functionary in a fictitious Central Registry suddenly becomes obsessed with finding out everything he can about one particular person, someone he's never met but whose card randomly ends up in his hands. It's about loneliness, the desire to connect, and the desire to remain anonymous--the push-pull of all human relations.
I love the central idea, but find Saramago's style slightly oppressive; it's not the lack of commas and other punctuation (for which he is famous), it's that in this story which has very little forward momentum (after the humor of the situation has died off a bit) the author makes little attempt to make the character or the plot more interesting. Also, the tongue-firmly-planted-in-cheek tone of the novel doesn't work for me, somehow. It's almost like I'm listening to Kafka tell a traditional joke. Which might work if I were sitting across from him at a restaurant, but it wouldn't fit too well in one of his novels. Similarly with Saramago--the situation of his central character is "joke" enough, he doesn't need to poke us in the ribs at the same time.
But anyway...my eyes are closing; off to bed.
The kid slept until 10:15 this morning. Unprecedented. True, he went to bed at 9:30 pm last night, which is also unusual; but he's never slept past 9 am before, much less 10 am. I kept checking on him during the last hour and a half of this 12 and a half hour slumberfest to make sure he was okay (yes, he was fine, of course). He woke up in a wonderful, ebullient mood. I doubt this means, however, that I should put him to bed late every night. Tonight he got to bed at the more reasonable time of 8:15, and I'm predicting he'll sleep his normal 11 hours or so.
For a few hours this afternoon, the sun popped out and did its best to warm that section of Earth known as San Francisco. I say this because we've hardly seen the sun or felt its warmth since returning from Maine; I've been told that it has been gloomy and cold for the last three weeks. Enough to make anyone want to go to bed for twelve and a half hours.
Or at least, crawl into bed and read, which I'll be doing in the next ten minutes. I'm reading a book by Jose Saramago, All the Names, in which a low-level functionary in a fictitious Central Registry suddenly becomes obsessed with finding out everything he can about one particular person, someone he's never met but whose card randomly ends up in his hands. It's about loneliness, the desire to connect, and the desire to remain anonymous--the push-pull of all human relations.
I love the central idea, but find Saramago's style slightly oppressive; it's not the lack of commas and other punctuation (for which he is famous), it's that in this story which has very little forward momentum (after the humor of the situation has died off a bit) the author makes little attempt to make the character or the plot more interesting. Also, the tongue-firmly-planted-in-cheek tone of the novel doesn't work for me, somehow. It's almost like I'm listening to Kafka tell a traditional joke. Which might work if I were sitting across from him at a restaurant, but it wouldn't fit too well in one of his novels. Similarly with Saramago--the situation of his central character is "joke" enough, he doesn't need to poke us in the ribs at the same time.
But anyway...my eyes are closing; off to bed.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Burbles and Gurgles
My son isn't talking yet. Not to worry, I realize--he's not yet 17 months, he's being raised in a bilingual household. But he's so damn expressive already, with the variety of sounds he's producing, that my husband and I are both eagerly awaiting the moment when he actually produces a real word.
By the same token--as I've already mentioned--I cherish this time of wordlessness...he expresses so much with just a look, a burble, a laugh, a gleeful shout.
By the same token--as I've already mentioned--I cherish this time of wordlessness...he expresses so much with just a look, a burble, a laugh, a gleeful shout.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Almost 17 Months
My son appears to be entering a "high toddler" phase in certain respects. This brings both wonderful, positive developmental advances, too many to describe at present, and some difficult behaviors. Mainly--he often refuses to be changed, and he often resists entering his car seat with all his might.
I know that both behaviors have to do with his intense desire to keep on the go. I try to roll with it. But sometimes I have to get it done, whatever thing it is that he's resisting. And yes, he's ferociously unhappy when I overrule him...I'll try to reserve a few toys for each of these activities, pulling them out only at the moment when he hits the changing pad, or is firmly installed in the carseat. Because this battle to keep him still at those moments is getting awfully old, even though it's only gone on for about two weeks now.
I know that both behaviors have to do with his intense desire to keep on the go. I try to roll with it. But sometimes I have to get it done, whatever thing it is that he's resisting. And yes, he's ferociously unhappy when I overrule him...I'll try to reserve a few toys for each of these activities, pulling them out only at the moment when he hits the changing pad, or is firmly installed in the carseat. Because this battle to keep him still at those moments is getting awfully old, even though it's only gone on for about two weeks now.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Going Away
We picked Maine for our vacation--because the weather is far better than San Francisco in the summer; because we had the possibility of staying at a cottage on the shores of a large pond; because I have friends in Maine and another friend in Boston, whom I hadn't seen for about six years; because we just wanted to get away.
Maine definitely feels like "away" for a San Francisco resident. The long, narrow country roads, the countless lakes and ponds, the sultry summer days, the sudden thunderstorms, the call of the loons, the modest white Cape houses. I can imagine that it feels even more "away" in the winter; we don't plan on visiting in the winter, however.
Perhaps my most vivid memory of Maine will be, strangely enough, the cemeteries. They seem to spring up on every back road--while driving, you suddenly spot a few tombstones sprinkled in among the greenery; sometimes a handful, sometimes a hundred or so. Usually no more than a hundred. The interred seem to have died in the 19th century, for the most part--a testimony to the harsh winters, perhaps? Or just to the "away"-ness of the place? To people living in such isolated conditions that they created new cemeteries wherever they happened to live?
Whatever the explanation, it provides one with a daily reminder of how short our tenure is on this planet, even in the best of circumstances. We're all going away eventually, to state the obvious. Perhaps heaven is a place like Maine...and that wouldn't be so bad.
Maine definitely feels like "away" for a San Francisco resident. The long, narrow country roads, the countless lakes and ponds, the sultry summer days, the sudden thunderstorms, the call of the loons, the modest white Cape houses. I can imagine that it feels even more "away" in the winter; we don't plan on visiting in the winter, however.
Perhaps my most vivid memory of Maine will be, strangely enough, the cemeteries. They seem to spring up on every back road--while driving, you suddenly spot a few tombstones sprinkled in among the greenery; sometimes a handful, sometimes a hundred or so. Usually no more than a hundred. The interred seem to have died in the 19th century, for the most part--a testimony to the harsh winters, perhaps? Or just to the "away"-ness of the place? To people living in such isolated conditions that they created new cemeteries wherever they happened to live?
Whatever the explanation, it provides one with a daily reminder of how short our tenure is on this planet, even in the best of circumstances. We're all going away eventually, to state the obvious. Perhaps heaven is a place like Maine...and that wouldn't be so bad.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Vacation Recovery Program
We've just begun recovering from a two-week vacation.
I know. That sounds ridiculous. But with a 16-month-old, traveling any significant distance can be more than challenging; it can be downright absurd. That was my thought on the airplane as we headed across the country. (The airplane had no changing table; the baby did not sleep easily at all and was squirming at least half of the time he was in our laps; he was screaming for a good fifteen minutes before he finally slept; etc.)
On the other hand--we did have, for the most part, a good time once we got off the plane. It's just that...I can't describe it right now; too tired.
Okay I'll try. With a 16-month-old who wants to touch, see, taste, hear, point to, understand, everything--and in crowded airports, unfamiliar houses, along hazardous stone walkways--and so forth...
At any rate. It was difficult. We've vowed not to travel in an airplane with our son for at least two more years. And we'll probably limit ourselves to three-hour-maximum road trips before then.
However. We had a good time. More on that when I have a few more brain cells working.
I know. That sounds ridiculous. But with a 16-month-old, traveling any significant distance can be more than challenging; it can be downright absurd. That was my thought on the airplane as we headed across the country. (The airplane had no changing table; the baby did not sleep easily at all and was squirming at least half of the time he was in our laps; he was screaming for a good fifteen minutes before he finally slept; etc.)
On the other hand--we did have, for the most part, a good time once we got off the plane. It's just that...I can't describe it right now; too tired.
Okay I'll try. With a 16-month-old who wants to touch, see, taste, hear, point to, understand, everything--and in crowded airports, unfamiliar houses, along hazardous stone walkways--and so forth...
At any rate. It was difficult. We've vowed not to travel in an airplane with our son for at least two more years. And we'll probably limit ourselves to three-hour-maximum road trips before then.
However. We had a good time. More on that when I have a few more brain cells working.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
All Fields, Big and Small
I'm open to all styles of writing; they all have their time and place. What I was really protesting yesterday was not so much the snarky style of writers like Lorrie Moore or David Foster Wallace; I was protesting something like the lack of humor within that sarcasm. Humor that would break up the monotony of the sarcasm, so to speak. Similarly with Jhumpa Lahiri, I would appreciate a poetic description of something that would break up the earnestness of her focus on the characters and their problems.
They're all very decent writers; I just can't get excited about them. But then, I haven't been truly excited about any contemporary fiction writer.
We need writers who explore a variety of mental and emotional terrains in their writing, and aren't afraid to experiment with style, subject matter and form...overall, I find contemporary fiction writing anything but adventurous. At this crazy, stultified moment in our culture we should throw ourselves open to all fields, big and small--and somehow, as William Carlos Williams put it, "break through to the one word necessary." That's just not happening in much of the fiction-writing I'm reading.
They're all very decent writers; I just can't get excited about them. But then, I haven't been truly excited about any contemporary fiction writer.
We need writers who explore a variety of mental and emotional terrains in their writing, and aren't afraid to experiment with style, subject matter and form...overall, I find contemporary fiction writing anything but adventurous. At this crazy, stultified moment in our culture we should throw ourselves open to all fields, big and small--and somehow, as William Carlos Williams put it, "break through to the one word necessary." That's just not happening in much of the fiction-writing I'm reading.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The New Fiction?
I don't know if this label has been attached to any particular trend in writing these days; but I'll bet that someone has used it for the novels and stories produced by writers like Dave Eggers, David Foster Wallace or Lorrie Moore. I admire their work at times, but I also find myself irritated by the relentless tongue-in-cheek quality of some of their work.
The other end of the pendulum, in terms of today's fiction writing, might be someone like Jhumpa Lahiri, who creates earnest, thoughtful stories about the immigrant experience and culture clashes of all kinds. A recent Time article described a changing of the guard in fiction writing, with Lahiri representing the newer trend; I would say, rather, that both trends are "hot" in today's fiction market. With Lahiri, however, I grow weary of that aforementioned earnestness. In her writing, she's digging deep into the conflicted souls of many immigrants and their children. But her work borders on being humorless.
In a sense, then, Colum McCann and Alberto Luis Urrea represent a refreshing third wave--writers discussing the immigrant experience (or at least a multicultural experience) that is so much at the center of what we are and what we've become as a nation, but writers who can also take a step back from that focus and just talk about people--in a funny, compassionate way.
I haven't read any novels recently that excited me as much as their latest works. I hope they will lead the way towards what I think would be an interesting new trend: writing that opts for humor rather than sarcasm and poetry rather than earnestness. I'll try to write more about this tomorrow.
The other end of the pendulum, in terms of today's fiction writing, might be someone like Jhumpa Lahiri, who creates earnest, thoughtful stories about the immigrant experience and culture clashes of all kinds. A recent Time article described a changing of the guard in fiction writing, with Lahiri representing the newer trend; I would say, rather, that both trends are "hot" in today's fiction market. With Lahiri, however, I grow weary of that aforementioned earnestness. In her writing, she's digging deep into the conflicted souls of many immigrants and their children. But her work borders on being humorless.
In a sense, then, Colum McCann and Alberto Luis Urrea represent a refreshing third wave--writers discussing the immigrant experience (or at least a multicultural experience) that is so much at the center of what we are and what we've become as a nation, but writers who can also take a step back from that focus and just talk about people--in a funny, compassionate way.
I haven't read any novels recently that excited me as much as their latest works. I hope they will lead the way towards what I think would be an interesting new trend: writing that opts for humor rather than sarcasm and poetry rather than earnestness. I'll try to write more about this tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Favorite Not-so-extraordinary Things to Do with my 16-month-old Boy
I don't know why I feel compelled to make this list--okay, in all honesty, it's late and I have no other ideas. So without further ado:
1. Sprinkle cinammon on his applesauce and hear him laugh.
2. Make an exaggerated "MMMM" sound when he eats and hear him laugh.
3. Make an exaggerated "UUUUUH" sound when I half-lift him from one step to another on any dangerous staircase. And hear him laugh.
4. Point to the letters of the alphabet and shout them out to him like a football coach. (Eliciting, if not a laugh, an interested grin as he drinks his milk.)
5. Go for a walk with him and hear him say Dah (for "dog") as he points dramatically at a dog--or a bird, or a car.
6. Ask "Where's A?" while looking at the title of a book and see him point to the correct letter.
7. Brush his teeth, which involves my son clamping down on the head of his toothbrush with all his might while I attempt to jiggle it back and forth a bit.
8. Hold him with both hands then say "WHOOPS" and bend forward suddenly as if I'm going to drop him, and hear his laughter (but not the peals of laughter my husband produces from him with similar but more physical maneuvers).
9. Observe the seriousness with which he examines his own belly button.
10. Observe the seriousness with which he dances (bouncing up and down) to certain songs on the stereo.
I could go on and on. I say they're not extraordinary but of course, to me, they're unbelievably exciting and entertaining.
1. Sprinkle cinammon on his applesauce and hear him laugh.
2. Make an exaggerated "MMMM" sound when he eats and hear him laugh.
3. Make an exaggerated "UUUUUH" sound when I half-lift him from one step to another on any dangerous staircase. And hear him laugh.
4. Point to the letters of the alphabet and shout them out to him like a football coach. (Eliciting, if not a laugh, an interested grin as he drinks his milk.)
5. Go for a walk with him and hear him say Dah (for "dog") as he points dramatically at a dog--or a bird, or a car.
6. Ask "Where's A?" while looking at the title of a book and see him point to the correct letter.
7. Brush his teeth, which involves my son clamping down on the head of his toothbrush with all his might while I attempt to jiggle it back and forth a bit.
8. Hold him with both hands then say "WHOOPS" and bend forward suddenly as if I'm going to drop him, and hear his laughter (but not the peals of laughter my husband produces from him with similar but more physical maneuvers).
9. Observe the seriousness with which he examines his own belly button.
10. Observe the seriousness with which he dances (bouncing up and down) to certain songs on the stereo.
I could go on and on. I say they're not extraordinary but of course, to me, they're unbelievably exciting and entertaining.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Mothers and Time
To be a mother means, you're there for your child. That's the foundation of what motherhood--or parenthood, or caregiving--means.
Of course, none of us has an infinite amount of time and energy to give to our children. Aside from that: children shouldn't be with their parents exclusively, 24 hours a day. From the age of one year, or even younger, they also need stimulation, guidance, love, from people outside the immediate family group. "It takes a village to raise a child," and all that.
Two things I want to say about that--two very obvious comments on the surface, but they also touch on some very sensitive issues in our current cultural climate.
I don't think that village should swarm in and fill a child's life at a very young age. In other words--in some basic way, I'm not comfortable with the idea of a young child, under the age of about two and a half, spending vast amounts of time in a daycare setting of any sort. That's not to say that it's wrong, or that it can't work out. But I think it's very difficult, for both mother and child (but especially for the child), to be separated for several hours a day when the child is still very young.
Of course, our culture has not created an environment where it's easy for the mother to stay at home. Either financially or in terms of a woman's career, it's often all but impossible.
However, in my head and in my heart, I keep coming back to the basic issue of time. Very young children require vast amounts of time. This is something I only fully realized after becoming a parent of a toddler myself.
The other important component of the equation is, how fully present is that mother when she is there with that child?
When it comes to mothers and time, quantity plus quality equals, if not happiness, at least, a very good shot at it. I wish there was some way that that could become a given feature of our culture (mothers spending vast amounts of quality time with their young children), rather than the outlying exception.
Of course, none of us has an infinite amount of time and energy to give to our children. Aside from that: children shouldn't be with their parents exclusively, 24 hours a day. From the age of one year, or even younger, they also need stimulation, guidance, love, from people outside the immediate family group. "It takes a village to raise a child," and all that.
Two things I want to say about that--two very obvious comments on the surface, but they also touch on some very sensitive issues in our current cultural climate.
I don't think that village should swarm in and fill a child's life at a very young age. In other words--in some basic way, I'm not comfortable with the idea of a young child, under the age of about two and a half, spending vast amounts of time in a daycare setting of any sort. That's not to say that it's wrong, or that it can't work out. But I think it's very difficult, for both mother and child (but especially for the child), to be separated for several hours a day when the child is still very young.
Of course, our culture has not created an environment where it's easy for the mother to stay at home. Either financially or in terms of a woman's career, it's often all but impossible.
However, in my head and in my heart, I keep coming back to the basic issue of time. Very young children require vast amounts of time. This is something I only fully realized after becoming a parent of a toddler myself.
The other important component of the equation is, how fully present is that mother when she is there with that child?
When it comes to mothers and time, quantity plus quality equals, if not happiness, at least, a very good shot at it. I wish there was some way that that could become a given feature of our culture (mothers spending vast amounts of quality time with their young children), rather than the outlying exception.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Soulless
Today, with his mother and father at his side, my baby dipped his whole body in a lake, for just thirty seconds total (maybe five different times)--but he loved it. He was scared, almost protesting in fear--but we could tell he was terribly excited about the whole thing as well. You could hear it in his half-nervous, half-gleeful exclamations: "Huh HUH, Huh!" is my weak approximation of the sound he was making. I felt his little heart pounding in his chest as I handed him off to his father.
We were damn proud of him. And I'm questioning the whole approach of the swim school to which I've been taking him, a total of maybe four times now. The atmosphere there can't help but be chaotic, what with at least twenty kids splashing around in the pool at any given time and at least three or four classes going on simultaneously in the same small space. The instructors at the school have told me repeatedly that it's normal for some toddlers to scream and cry during their first lessons--and that by the third or fourth lesson they almost always calm down. My boy has started to calm down--but he also shows almost no signs that he's enjoying the whole process.
I think that a toddler making a face and complaining vociferously about something usually has a point. And I'm probably going to discontinue the swim classes. They seem soulless and dull to me; swimming should be anything but that.
We were damn proud of him. And I'm questioning the whole approach of the swim school to which I've been taking him, a total of maybe four times now. The atmosphere there can't help but be chaotic, what with at least twenty kids splashing around in the pool at any given time and at least three or four classes going on simultaneously in the same small space. The instructors at the school have told me repeatedly that it's normal for some toddlers to scream and cry during their first lessons--and that by the third or fourth lesson they almost always calm down. My boy has started to calm down--but he also shows almost no signs that he's enjoying the whole process.
I think that a toddler making a face and complaining vociferously about something usually has a point. And I'm probably going to discontinue the swim classes. They seem soulless and dull to me; swimming should be anything but that.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Only Connect
I just spoke with someone who was helped by the very thing I questioned yesterday and all but derided--online confessions of personal problems. I don't need to describe exactly how she was helped; suffice it to say that I was at least partially wrong to suggest, yesterday, that there's no merit in such forms of communication.
We all need to connect. If it has to happen through the Internet in certain instances, I'm all for it. What I suppose I don't like is the degree to which we're failing to connect in other ways--through face-to-face contact, for instance. I also don't like the degree to which many people assume that revealing intimate details about themselves and their families in a public forum is a perfectly normal way to function.
Anyway, that seems to me to be the trend: more public striptease, less private intimacy. And E.M. Forster's line, "Only connect," has never rung truer to me than in our Internet-mad society.
We all need to connect. If it has to happen through the Internet in certain instances, I'm all for it. What I suppose I don't like is the degree to which we're failing to connect in other ways--through face-to-face contact, for instance. I also don't like the degree to which many people assume that revealing intimate details about themselves and their families in a public forum is a perfectly normal way to function.
Anyway, that seems to me to be the trend: more public striptease, less private intimacy. And E.M. Forster's line, "Only connect," has never rung truer to me than in our Internet-mad society.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Bad Mother, Part Two
Ayalet Waldman's book entitled Bad Mother intrigues me, not because she talks about loving her husband more than her children, but because she writes about such a topic at all.
And it makes me wonder about the whole issue of motherhood, family, and privacy. I can't imagine writing about how much or how little I loved my family members--for any reason.
We have a peek-a-boo culture these days, fostered by Internet toys like Facebook and Twitter. And by blogs. And by "tell-all" essays and memoirs.
Is it because we are so isolated, in our little family units that almost never make contact with other people in any significant way, that we seek to lay bare the nauseatingly intimate (and rather dull) details of our family lives, exposing them to complete strangers?
I don't quite understand where it's all leading, but the degree to which people participate in this sort of thing seems bizarre to me. It seems to have taken over our talk shows, our nonfiction bestseller lists, our Internet chatting.
What are we really accomplishing with all that confession?
And it makes me wonder about the whole issue of motherhood, family, and privacy. I can't imagine writing about how much or how little I loved my family members--for any reason.
We have a peek-a-boo culture these days, fostered by Internet toys like Facebook and Twitter. And by blogs. And by "tell-all" essays and memoirs.
Is it because we are so isolated, in our little family units that almost never make contact with other people in any significant way, that we seek to lay bare the nauseatingly intimate (and rather dull) details of our family lives, exposing them to complete strangers?
I don't quite understand where it's all leading, but the degree to which people participate in this sort of thing seems bizarre to me. It seems to have taken over our talk shows, our nonfiction bestseller lists, our Internet chatting.
What are we really accomplishing with all that confession?
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Progress
A better day than yesterday.
I counted the number of times I said "No" to my son. It came to about 10, all told. I was hyper-aware of each time the word escaped my mouth, so I'm sure that I can reduce that number to just a handful, or maybe even zero.
More importantly--I was much calmer with him today. Partly because of a good night's sleep--the first time I've slept 8 hours straight in a very long time--partly because I exercised during the day, not just once but twice. But partly just because I wanted to be that way. Wanted it badly enough.
A small but important day.
I counted the number of times I said "No" to my son. It came to about 10, all told. I was hyper-aware of each time the word escaped my mouth, so I'm sure that I can reduce that number to just a handful, or maybe even zero.
More importantly--I was much calmer with him today. Partly because of a good night's sleep--the first time I've slept 8 hours straight in a very long time--partly because I exercised during the day, not just once but twice. But partly just because I wanted to be that way. Wanted it badly enough.
A small but important day.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Bad Mother
I woke up this morning vowing to say "No" to my son only once or twice, to refrain from raising my voice at him all day, and to deal with him gently at all times.
I failed miserably. And am eating junk food and feeling bad as a result.
It's not that I was shouting at him; but I was just saying "No" and sounding more agitated about things than I should have. I also felt tired all day--but that's no excuse.
I've got to do better than this.
I failed miserably. And am eating junk food and feeling bad as a result.
It's not that I was shouting at him; but I was just saying "No" and sounding more agitated about things than I should have. I also felt tired all day--but that's no excuse.
I've got to do better than this.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Lights, Trucks, Chairs and Doors
I have a new respect for various objects, due to my son's fascination with them. I don't know if he'll continue to point and gurgle when he sees lights and trucks when he's, say, fifteen; but I suppose some of that allure will linger. As for chairs and doors--he just loves manipulating them.
My doctor told me that the gross motor skills of boys advance more rapidly than those of girls--watching my son opening and closing doors for several minutes at a time, with such concentration he looks like someone completing a homework project, it's hardly a surprise. I know that it's dangerous to let him do this (and we don't let him without close supervision--with the more dangerous doors, we don't let him at all)--on the other hand, he seems to have developed such a technique with doors that he might be past the stage where he would smash his fingers.
But I know that as long as the word there is "might," we'll have to watch him--closely.
My doctor told me that the gross motor skills of boys advance more rapidly than those of girls--watching my son opening and closing doors for several minutes at a time, with such concentration he looks like someone completing a homework project, it's hardly a surprise. I know that it's dangerous to let him do this (and we don't let him without close supervision--with the more dangerous doors, we don't let him at all)--on the other hand, he seems to have developed such a technique with doors that he might be past the stage where he would smash his fingers.
But I know that as long as the word there is "might," we'll have to watch him--closely.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Water Baby
Today my son had the chance to go to a quiet beach with gentle waves--and he loved it. Absolutely had a ball (with my husband gripping his arms or hands most of the time, of course). Once he fell into the water, face first--was upset for about ten seconds, then got over it and jumped back into the waves.
Very proud of him. Also very tired, so heading to bed without further ado.
Very proud of him. Also very tired, so heading to bed without further ado.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Sheer Repetition--Is Not Enough
I still know next to nothing about being a mother. By dint of doing things a thousand or more times, however, one does develop a certain proficiency, as well as a sixth sense about when a child needs to sleep, when he's hungry, when he's totally bored, and so forth.
At the same time, though, there's a danger of falling asleep on the job--not literally falling asleep, but falling into an easy pattern with its own ingrained mistakes and pitfalls. Lately the idea of "10,000 hours" has gained a lot of attention, from Malcolm Gladwell's book (Outliers) and others like it. I suppose 10,000 hours can serve as a convenient benchmark for the amount of time needed to become highly proficient at something--unless it's something like motherhood, where the requirements change for the different periods of a child's life.
I would say that unless one combines the idea of 10,000 hours with the idea of "beginner's mind" that D.T. Suzuki and other Zen practitioners talk about, it could be 10,000 hours or 20,000 hours and it wouldn't matter, one could still fail miserably at whatever it is one is setting out to accomplish. To put it in a more positive light, however: 10,000 hours plus beginner's mind plus more than a little natural talent and someone could move mountains.
At the same time, though, there's a danger of falling asleep on the job--not literally falling asleep, but falling into an easy pattern with its own ingrained mistakes and pitfalls. Lately the idea of "10,000 hours" has gained a lot of attention, from Malcolm Gladwell's book (Outliers) and others like it. I suppose 10,000 hours can serve as a convenient benchmark for the amount of time needed to become highly proficient at something--unless it's something like motherhood, where the requirements change for the different periods of a child's life.
I would say that unless one combines the idea of 10,000 hours with the idea of "beginner's mind" that D.T. Suzuki and other Zen practitioners talk about, it could be 10,000 hours or 20,000 hours and it wouldn't matter, one could still fail miserably at whatever it is one is setting out to accomplish. To put it in a more positive light, however: 10,000 hours plus beginner's mind plus more than a little natural talent and someone could move mountains.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Laughter and Learning, Part Two
"Hearing him laugh is such a joy--it makes me want to laugh too," said an older woman, watching my son chortle with pleasure while he climbed some carpeted steps at a restaurant.
Learning is so much about joy, I'm realizing (see yesterday's post)--and it's so hard sometimes, as a fatigued adult, to feel that joy...so much of the time we're just getting through the day, and end up so physically, mentally or emotionally exhausted on such a regular basis that we can't even fathom the idea of absorbing new information during what little free time is left.
The only way I know how to cope with that is to reverse everything, in my head at least...to not see the day as something to "get through," first of all; second, to set up learning projects not as "tasks" but as acts of play.
I can't say that I've succeeded completely in this realm. Sometimes I'm so exhausted after taking care of the little guy that I can think of nothing more rewarding than taking a bath, eating too much chocolate, reading something utterly forgettable and going to bed. But every time I hear my son laugh while he's trying something new, I'm reminded of how much we need to exercise that gray matter on a very regular basis--and what a kick it is to do so.
Learning is so much about joy, I'm realizing (see yesterday's post)--and it's so hard sometimes, as a fatigued adult, to feel that joy...so much of the time we're just getting through the day, and end up so physically, mentally or emotionally exhausted on such a regular basis that we can't even fathom the idea of absorbing new information during what little free time is left.
The only way I know how to cope with that is to reverse everything, in my head at least...to not see the day as something to "get through," first of all; second, to set up learning projects not as "tasks" but as acts of play.
I can't say that I've succeeded completely in this realm. Sometimes I'm so exhausted after taking care of the little guy that I can think of nothing more rewarding than taking a bath, eating too much chocolate, reading something utterly forgettable and going to bed. But every time I hear my son laugh while he's trying something new, I'm reminded of how much we need to exercise that gray matter on a very regular basis--and what a kick it is to do so.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Laughter and Learning
I've been teaching my son the alphabet--not so much because I want him to say his ABCs at this tender age, but because he's shown a natural curiosity about it, pointing at letters and looking at me to see what they're called, playing with various toys that feature the alphabet almost obsessively.
It's a sheer joy on my part as well, to see how he responds to my instruction. "D--stands for dog!" I say and enthusiastically grab a huge stuffed dog that we have sitting in a chair near the dining room. "O--stands for ocean!" I also say, and he points outside (vaguely understanding that the ocean is out there, way off in the distance). And when I ask "Show me 'X'!" and he finds "X" on the ABC chart that I've taped to the wall, his grin of pride is so spectacular that I feel like every late night I've ever spent with him is worth it.
Beyond that pride--his simple joy and sense of humor and amazement about learning new things (yesterday he was in stitches watching me unscrew the lid off the cinnamon jar) reminds me of what an incredible high it is just to learn.
It's a sheer joy on my part as well, to see how he responds to my instruction. "D--stands for dog!" I say and enthusiastically grab a huge stuffed dog that we have sitting in a chair near the dining room. "O--stands for ocean!" I also say, and he points outside (vaguely understanding that the ocean is out there, way off in the distance). And when I ask "Show me 'X'!" and he finds "X" on the ABC chart that I've taped to the wall, his grin of pride is so spectacular that I feel like every late night I've ever spent with him is worth it.
Beyond that pride--his simple joy and sense of humor and amazement about learning new things (yesterday he was in stitches watching me unscrew the lid off the cinnamon jar) reminds me of what an incredible high it is just to learn.
Laughter and Forgetting
...is the title of a Milan Kundera novel that I'd like to read...but it's also how I should approach the fact that I forgot to post yesterday, yet again (second time in one week, after many months of not forgetting).
I'm considering dropping the blog altogether. I think it would be better, though, to continue it until August 5th (the 1st-year anniversary) then figure out where to go from there.
I'm considering dropping the blog altogether. I think it would be better, though, to continue it until August 5th (the 1st-year anniversary) then figure out where to go from there.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Terror around Every Corner
Yesterday I visited one of the public playgroups that continues through the summer months. The director happened to be there at the entrance, and greeted us warmly as we came through the door, even though it's been at least three months since we were there last.
My son made a beeline for the elevator in the lobby--he's addicted to pushing buttons, and somehow, elevator buttons are a particular thrill. I think he has made the connection that if he presses that kind of button, something big will happen--he'll make a whole room move and suddenly appear, in other words.
"Sorry kid, we're not going to play with that," I said.
"That's right. Did you read about that kid in New York?" the director said.
"Oh--the boy who fell out of a building?" I said, my voice dropping down low.
"No, the one who got his finger caught as the elevator doors were closing," she cheerily replied. "They had to sew it back on." Her voice also dropped as she said the latter.
My heart did a somersault. But that's what it's like raising a toddler, I'm realizing: terror lurks around every corner (for the parent and more dimly, for the child as well).
My son made a beeline for the elevator in the lobby--he's addicted to pushing buttons, and somehow, elevator buttons are a particular thrill. I think he has made the connection that if he presses that kind of button, something big will happen--he'll make a whole room move and suddenly appear, in other words.
"Sorry kid, we're not going to play with that," I said.
"That's right. Did you read about that kid in New York?" the director said.
"Oh--the boy who fell out of a building?" I said, my voice dropping down low.
"No, the one who got his finger caught as the elevator doors were closing," she cheerily replied. "They had to sew it back on." Her voice also dropped as she said the latter.
My heart did a somersault. But that's what it's like raising a toddler, I'm realizing: terror lurks around every corner (for the parent and more dimly, for the child as well).
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Muni and Me
We rode Muni for the first time today--his first time, I should say. And perhaps the first time for me since he was born, though I'm not sure about that.
We got on at 9th and Judah. Before getting on the train, we heard a man singing and shouting all the way up the street--"Oh great, a crazy person for my son's first Muni ride," I thought--and sure enough, the tall, lanky man with headphones on boarded the same car we did. I took the seat nearest the driver, the one that has to be vacated when senior citizens and disabled people want to sit there; the man sat in the first two-person seat facing the front. "Yeah, how you doin' man," he kept saying; I had the sinking feeling he was talking to my son. The next thing I knew, he'd placed a dollar bill in my little boy's hand.
I felt something like amused irritation, with a touch of fear as well--"He doesn't need money," I said, making a feeble attempt to give it back to the man. He raised his hands or something similar; I realized he was just trying to be friendly in his way, and was trying to connect with perhaps the only person on the streetcar who wouldn't mind his intrusion. A couple sat down next to us with their two young children, and two more dollar bills made their way into the hands of each of these kids. Then the man whipped out his military i.d. card and talked to one of the children, the older boy, about being in the Marines.
"Just another day on the Muni" I thought, remembering well how common such incidents are for daily riders. "Good experience for the kid." But I felt a bit depressed about it just the same.
On the trip back, the bars that connect the Muni to an electric cable just suddenly bounced off--as frequently happens--and the driver had to call for help; we walked the last two blocks.
All in all, an authentic Muni experience.
We got on at 9th and Judah. Before getting on the train, we heard a man singing and shouting all the way up the street--"Oh great, a crazy person for my son's first Muni ride," I thought--and sure enough, the tall, lanky man with headphones on boarded the same car we did. I took the seat nearest the driver, the one that has to be vacated when senior citizens and disabled people want to sit there; the man sat in the first two-person seat facing the front. "Yeah, how you doin' man," he kept saying; I had the sinking feeling he was talking to my son. The next thing I knew, he'd placed a dollar bill in my little boy's hand.
I felt something like amused irritation, with a touch of fear as well--"He doesn't need money," I said, making a feeble attempt to give it back to the man. He raised his hands or something similar; I realized he was just trying to be friendly in his way, and was trying to connect with perhaps the only person on the streetcar who wouldn't mind his intrusion. A couple sat down next to us with their two young children, and two more dollar bills made their way into the hands of each of these kids. Then the man whipped out his military i.d. card and talked to one of the children, the older boy, about being in the Marines.
"Just another day on the Muni" I thought, remembering well how common such incidents are for daily riders. "Good experience for the kid." But I felt a bit depressed about it just the same.
On the trip back, the bars that connect the Muni to an electric cable just suddenly bounced off--as frequently happens--and the driver had to call for help; we walked the last two blocks.
All in all, an authentic Muni experience.
The Day After
I forgot to post to this blog yesterday.
I think that I haven't missed a day for eleven months. (I'm not 100% sure about that, but I think the only other day that I missed was during a trip to France when it was all but physically impossible to access the Internet.)
I know that this effort to blog every day without fail for an entire year was a kind of "stunt," of absolutely no importance to anyone but myself. But for me, it was hugely important.
This blog was functioning--is functioning--as a reminder that I could, possibly, have some sort of life outside of the one I currently live as a wife and mother and stepmother. (Even though the title of the blog is "newmom44," I still believe that the topic of motherhood is not necessarily the most important subject I'm attempting to deal with here.)
If I start to believe that "this is it"--i.e. wifedom and motherhood--I'll start to disintegrate. In little bite-sized pieces.
So in that sense, yes, the blog is important to me.
And I'll post twice today to make up for yesterday.
I think that I haven't missed a day for eleven months. (I'm not 100% sure about that, but I think the only other day that I missed was during a trip to France when it was all but physically impossible to access the Internet.)
I know that this effort to blog every day without fail for an entire year was a kind of "stunt," of absolutely no importance to anyone but myself. But for me, it was hugely important.
This blog was functioning--is functioning--as a reminder that I could, possibly, have some sort of life outside of the one I currently live as a wife and mother and stepmother. (Even though the title of the blog is "newmom44," I still believe that the topic of motherhood is not necessarily the most important subject I'm attempting to deal with here.)
If I start to believe that "this is it"--i.e. wifedom and motherhood--I'll start to disintegrate. In little bite-sized pieces.
So in that sense, yes, the blog is important to me.
And I'll post twice today to make up for yesterday.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Families and Loss
I'm reading The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, a novel I'd been curious about for a long time. Reviewing it purely as a work of literature, I think it has a gripping plot, well-rounded characters and, unfortunately, a shopworn premise--that the dead can "spy" on the living.
I have fantasized about such a thing, on occasion, and it appeals to anyone who's ever wondered about "heaven" and the influence of the dead on the living. But it also reads a bit like one of those "Touched by an Angel" shows (was that the name of an actual show? I don't remember. But it seems like there's been a spate of them recently--shows where people from "the other side" watch and worry and even meddle in living people's lives in mysterious ways). We hunger to feel connected with the dead, and this story taps into that hunger--but I don't find it a particularly uplifting or inspired premise upon which to base an entire novel. Also--the violence that takes place in the book is so horrific that I don't believe this family would have been able to contain their rage and grief as successfully as they seem to have done. Yes, the family falls apart at certain points, but it's doesn't seem as messy and painful as I think it needed to be.
Having said all that--yes, it's a richly imagined book and I understand why it's so popular.
I have fantasized about such a thing, on occasion, and it appeals to anyone who's ever wondered about "heaven" and the influence of the dead on the living. But it also reads a bit like one of those "Touched by an Angel" shows (was that the name of an actual show? I don't remember. But it seems like there's been a spate of them recently--shows where people from "the other side" watch and worry and even meddle in living people's lives in mysterious ways). We hunger to feel connected with the dead, and this story taps into that hunger--but I don't find it a particularly uplifting or inspired premise upon which to base an entire novel. Also--the violence that takes place in the book is so horrific that I don't believe this family would have been able to contain their rage and grief as successfully as they seem to have done. Yes, the family falls apart at certain points, but it's doesn't seem as messy and painful as I think it needed to be.
Having said all that--yes, it's a richly imagined book and I understand why it's so popular.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Tahoe Toddler Woes
We recently vacationed in the Lake Tahoe area, if "vacation" is a real concept with a toddler in tow. It would be, perhaps, if someone provided meals and at least three hours of childcare a day. This was not our experience; and the baby slept incredibly poorly, which left me zombified for much of our trip. It's several days later now and I still haven't fully recovered. Not much of a post today, but all I can grapple with right now is a deep desire to lie down for an hour, read, then sleep for a blissful eight or nine hours (when was the last time such a wonderful thing happened? Can't remember).
Friday, July 2, 2010
The Toddler from Another Planet
Just saw the John Sayles classic "The Brother from Another Planet." I'd seen parts of it before, but never the whole thing. A touching, original film about alienation and belonging, racial identity, what it means to be human.
It also made me think in a new way about my toddler's daily experience. Being wordless yet wanting so badly to communicate, to be loved, to be appreciated. And wanting to be in control of his environment--why else is he trying so hard to open and close doors, pick up heavy pots and trays, play with the car's window controls and door locks, figure out cell phones and remotes?
The demons in the film--played with Monty Pythonesque touches of absurdity by John Sayles and David Straithearn--attempt to re-enslave the Brother; they are dressed all in black, and the whole film involves a classic retelling of the hero's journey--he must descend into the underworld (Harlem in the bad old 70s) to save himself. My son's demons come in the form of his own physical limitations and various situations he just cannot understand or control.
How does a toddler complete his own mythic quest? Step by laborious step...I hope we (my husband and I) can provide some measure of comfort and counsel along the way...and just enough prodding to let him reach whatever planet he's aiming for.
It also made me think in a new way about my toddler's daily experience. Being wordless yet wanting so badly to communicate, to be loved, to be appreciated. And wanting to be in control of his environment--why else is he trying so hard to open and close doors, pick up heavy pots and trays, play with the car's window controls and door locks, figure out cell phones and remotes?
The demons in the film--played with Monty Pythonesque touches of absurdity by John Sayles and David Straithearn--attempt to re-enslave the Brother; they are dressed all in black, and the whole film involves a classic retelling of the hero's journey--he must descend into the underworld (Harlem in the bad old 70s) to save himself. My son's demons come in the form of his own physical limitations and various situations he just cannot understand or control.
How does a toddler complete his own mythic quest? Step by laborious step...I hope we (my husband and I) can provide some measure of comfort and counsel along the way...and just enough prodding to let him reach whatever planet he's aiming for.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Nap Transition
My son's nap schedule is in flux--as often happens at this age, his two regular naps a day are slowly becoming one. He can still nap twice a day, but if he's slept especially well the night before, he tends to take just one nap, at around 11:30 or 12:00 noon.
It's becoming increasingly difficult to figure out what to do with him at around 10:00 am--keep him busy with activities, hoping that he doesn't suddenly fall over something and hurt himself in his fatigue, or put him to bed, whether or not he's shown any signs of sleepiness? Thus 10 to 11 am has become a sort of "danger hour"--as 7 to 8 pm still is--where I have to watch him especially carefully.
This information is of little interest to anyone, perhaps, except new or expectant parents. But to those I would say: be prepared to have your child's naps--their quality, their duration, their frequency--dictate the rhythms of your day, at least until your child has settled into that one-nap routine.
It's becoming increasingly difficult to figure out what to do with him at around 10:00 am--keep him busy with activities, hoping that he doesn't suddenly fall over something and hurt himself in his fatigue, or put him to bed, whether or not he's shown any signs of sleepiness? Thus 10 to 11 am has become a sort of "danger hour"--as 7 to 8 pm still is--where I have to watch him especially carefully.
This information is of little interest to anyone, perhaps, except new or expectant parents. But to those I would say: be prepared to have your child's naps--their quality, their duration, their frequency--dictate the rhythms of your day, at least until your child has settled into that one-nap routine.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sudden Daycare
I checked out a new gym and pool today; the facilities include a small daycare center. After introducing my son to the daycare staff and the play equipment, they invited me to leave him with them for the duration of their introductory tour, which lasted another thirty minutes.
To my surprise, I felt comfortable doing so. But then I kept thinking during the tour: What am I doing? He's never been away from his mom or dad in public for more than a few minutes. Yes, I have a babysitter dropping by once a week for a few hours, during which time I usually leave the house to run errands or take a Mommy break in a cafe; but that invasion of otherness occurs on his home turf, with someone he's gotten to know quite well.
When I came back to the daycare room, he gazed at me with a sad, slightly bewildered expression. What a heartbreaking thing it is to see even that level of angst on his face; and yet, he hadn't cried, the daycare person told me. I'm not so much proud of him, as astonished. Rarely have I felt as strongly as today that my little guy is becoming his own person.
To my surprise, I felt comfortable doing so. But then I kept thinking during the tour: What am I doing? He's never been away from his mom or dad in public for more than a few minutes. Yes, I have a babysitter dropping by once a week for a few hours, during which time I usually leave the house to run errands or take a Mommy break in a cafe; but that invasion of otherness occurs on his home turf, with someone he's gotten to know quite well.
When I came back to the daycare room, he gazed at me with a sad, slightly bewildered expression. What a heartbreaking thing it is to see even that level of angst on his face; and yet, he hadn't cried, the daycare person told me. I'm not so much proud of him, as astonished. Rarely have I felt as strongly as today that my little guy is becoming his own person.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Spinning and Spinning Part Two
Now that I've finished Let the Great World Spin and am almost done with Into the Beautiful North, I feel that the praise I bestowed on both novels yesterday was too faint. These novels are wonderful. Brief moments of descriptive weakness aside, they have powerful stories to tell--and as mentioned yesterday, there is a love for people and a love for stories embedded so strongly in both novels, and they look at our current world--in all its confusion and multi-cultured splendor--so astutely and so passionately, that my faith in novels as a genre has been somewhat renewed.
I'm going to stop there tonight, because of a strong desire to dive into Into the Beautiful North again before going to bed.
I'm going to stop there tonight, because of a strong desire to dive into Into the Beautiful North again before going to bed.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Spinning and Spinning
I'm reading two interesting novels, with similarly grand visions in terms of their subject matter and their style of storytelling: Colum McCann's Let the Great World Spin and Luis Alberto Urrea's Into the Beautiful North. These novels are imbued with such passion and inventiveness, one can't help but feel that these authors were on fire to tell these stories the whole time they wrote them.
In fact, that relates closely to one of my leading criteria when I'm assessing whether a novel is any good: is this story dying to be told? A panoramic exploration of New York City in August 1974, when the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center were linked by a genius-madman's high-wire walk for one brief moment, is the divine subject matter of Let the Great World Spin. Colum McCann's reach in this novel is breathtaking; where he falls short for me is in the development of his characters, but he works so hard at developing so many different characters that I can't fault him too much for this. In the end, though, the New York that he describes grows a bit tiring. I don't know why this is, yet, but I'll think about that as I finish the novel.
If the focal point of McCann's novel is one high-wire act, Urrea draws inspiration from one well-known movie, to write the story of a crazy-beautiful group of Mexicans and their semi-tragic, semi-triumphant effort to cross the border in hopes of bringing back seven men to save their dying Mexican village. The whole escapade was launched after a viewing of The Magnificent Seven, and Urrea does a great job of making this improbable adventure seem real. What I find lacking in the novel, as in McCann's story, has to do with character development: the central figure, Nayeli, is an interesting person but too predictable: she has a wicked karate kick, a beautiful figure and smile, and a strong desire to "rescue" her village and, coincidentally, bring eligible bachelors back to it (since they've all left to work in the United States); other than these general characteristics, we don't really know much about her (though I'm only two-thirds of the way through and maybe something more is revealed by the end of it).
What's fascinating about both these novels--a quality that's rare these days--is the acute relevance of what they're talking about. We all felt the pain of 9/11, but beyond that--we all sensed that the fall of the Twin Towers touched the lives of New Yorkers in mysterious ways that the average American citizen could only begin to understand--this novel explores that mystery more profoundly than any other I've read. Similarly: we all understand that the immigrants working all around us in the United States are in many ways the absolute bedrock of what this country is and will become in the near future, yet their lives remain largely invisible to us (not to mention, the towns they came from).
I love the fact that both these authors aimed very high in their novels. I wish more writers would take similar leaps into the very familiar yet hidden worlds of our collective immediate past.
In fact, that relates closely to one of my leading criteria when I'm assessing whether a novel is any good: is this story dying to be told? A panoramic exploration of New York City in August 1974, when the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center were linked by a genius-madman's high-wire walk for one brief moment, is the divine subject matter of Let the Great World Spin. Colum McCann's reach in this novel is breathtaking; where he falls short for me is in the development of his characters, but he works so hard at developing so many different characters that I can't fault him too much for this. In the end, though, the New York that he describes grows a bit tiring. I don't know why this is, yet, but I'll think about that as I finish the novel.
If the focal point of McCann's novel is one high-wire act, Urrea draws inspiration from one well-known movie, to write the story of a crazy-beautiful group of Mexicans and their semi-tragic, semi-triumphant effort to cross the border in hopes of bringing back seven men to save their dying Mexican village. The whole escapade was launched after a viewing of The Magnificent Seven, and Urrea does a great job of making this improbable adventure seem real. What I find lacking in the novel, as in McCann's story, has to do with character development: the central figure, Nayeli, is an interesting person but too predictable: she has a wicked karate kick, a beautiful figure and smile, and a strong desire to "rescue" her village and, coincidentally, bring eligible bachelors back to it (since they've all left to work in the United States); other than these general characteristics, we don't really know much about her (though I'm only two-thirds of the way through and maybe something more is revealed by the end of it).
What's fascinating about both these novels--a quality that's rare these days--is the acute relevance of what they're talking about. We all felt the pain of 9/11, but beyond that--we all sensed that the fall of the Twin Towers touched the lives of New Yorkers in mysterious ways that the average American citizen could only begin to understand--this novel explores that mystery more profoundly than any other I've read. Similarly: we all understand that the immigrants working all around us in the United States are in many ways the absolute bedrock of what this country is and will become in the near future, yet their lives remain largely invisible to us (not to mention, the towns they came from).
I love the fact that both these authors aimed very high in their novels. I wish more writers would take similar leaps into the very familiar yet hidden worlds of our collective immediate past.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Languages and Legacies
I've studied two languages besides English. My hunger to speak a foreign language began sometime in my childhood; unfortunately, I didn't begin serious study (high school language classes really don't count as "serious study") until I was finished with undergraduate work.
At that point, though, I studied seriously for years. About twenty years, total. Some of those years involved living in the foreign country as well as studying from books and tapes. Much of my graduate school work revolved around language study.
Yet I feel that my grasp of those two foreign languages leaves much to be desired.
It's not that I can't carry on a conversation in both languages. In one language I would say that I reached fluency during the last part of my stay in that country (by which I mean that I could converse in that language with a complete stranger without pausing to search for a word more than once or twice); in the other, I never achieved fluency, though I reached a high level.
But the fact is that I lost fluency in the first language, and my level in the second language has dropped precipitously. It's a special kind of pain to have achieved a certain proficiency in a language, only to lose it.
And I'm sure that it's more painful for me than for some, because my mother came from a foreign country, one of the languages I was studying was her native language, and I always felt that I should be one hundred percent fluent in that particular language (Japanese) but now I doubt that will ever happen.
I feel "responsible" for knowing that language in a way that I'm not sure I can explain. Perhaps this is how to say it: as soon as I started studying Japanese, making a mistake in the language made me ashamed in a way that went beyond mere disappointment in myself. it was the feeling that I should have known already how to say the thing that I couldn't say. As if, to be myself completely, I had to know the language completely. Therefore, making a mistake in the language was more than a personal failure, it was a falling-away from myself. I know that sounds odd, but that's how I've often felt.
My attachment to French is different: I also considered it necessary to know French as completely as possible, but with that language my feelings are slightly--just slightly--more casual.
I'm almost sure that with my responsibilities as a mother, I'll never be able to learn Japanese as completely as I'd like; and my French won't reach the level I achieved the last time I was living in France.
I know that my guilt-tripping in relation to the study of languages is partly the result of being the daughter of someone born in a foreign country; but that alone doesn't explain it fully enough. Due to my parents' failed marriage and other problems in my mother's life, I would say that she had a particularly conflicted relationship with the English language. That has impacted my life in many ways--more ways than I can explore in this post.
On the other side of things--I also feel that I owe it to my son to introduce the Japanese language to him. And to speak French as fluently as possible.
Life is always a looking-back and a looking-forward (as much as we might attempt to live in the "now," we almost never get there). In my approach to languages, I might be feeling that forward and backward pull a bit too strongly.
At that point, though, I studied seriously for years. About twenty years, total. Some of those years involved living in the foreign country as well as studying from books and tapes. Much of my graduate school work revolved around language study.
Yet I feel that my grasp of those two foreign languages leaves much to be desired.
It's not that I can't carry on a conversation in both languages. In one language I would say that I reached fluency during the last part of my stay in that country (by which I mean that I could converse in that language with a complete stranger without pausing to search for a word more than once or twice); in the other, I never achieved fluency, though I reached a high level.
But the fact is that I lost fluency in the first language, and my level in the second language has dropped precipitously. It's a special kind of pain to have achieved a certain proficiency in a language, only to lose it.
And I'm sure that it's more painful for me than for some, because my mother came from a foreign country, one of the languages I was studying was her native language, and I always felt that I should be one hundred percent fluent in that particular language (Japanese) but now I doubt that will ever happen.
I feel "responsible" for knowing that language in a way that I'm not sure I can explain. Perhaps this is how to say it: as soon as I started studying Japanese, making a mistake in the language made me ashamed in a way that went beyond mere disappointment in myself. it was the feeling that I should have known already how to say the thing that I couldn't say. As if, to be myself completely, I had to know the language completely. Therefore, making a mistake in the language was more than a personal failure, it was a falling-away from myself. I know that sounds odd, but that's how I've often felt.
My attachment to French is different: I also considered it necessary to know French as completely as possible, but with that language my feelings are slightly--just slightly--more casual.
I'm almost sure that with my responsibilities as a mother, I'll never be able to learn Japanese as completely as I'd like; and my French won't reach the level I achieved the last time I was living in France.
I know that my guilt-tripping in relation to the study of languages is partly the result of being the daughter of someone born in a foreign country; but that alone doesn't explain it fully enough. Due to my parents' failed marriage and other problems in my mother's life, I would say that she had a particularly conflicted relationship with the English language. That has impacted my life in many ways--more ways than I can explore in this post.
On the other side of things--I also feel that I owe it to my son to introduce the Japanese language to him. And to speak French as fluently as possible.
Life is always a looking-back and a looking-forward (as much as we might attempt to live in the "now," we almost never get there). In my approach to languages, I might be feeling that forward and backward pull a bit too strongly.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Toddler Mysteries
Toddlers develop propensities for certain gestures and movements; my son is currently fond of bending over and putting his hands and head on the floor for several seconds, like someone beginning a somersault. He also enjoys standing and sticking his belly out and pouting. I've already mentioned his habit of spinning in place with one arm extended and his index finger pointing out like a disco dancer.
I know that there's no special rhyme or reason to any of it--yet it must tell me something about my kid, that he likes certain movements and not others. All of it has to do with feeling and getting to know his own body and what it's capable of doing. But what makes him try these particular movements and gestures? It's one of those toddler mysteries that not even a psychologist or a neuroscientist could answer, to my satisfaction at least. The answer lies only in my own toddler's brain--and as he's not talking yet, it will remain there.
I know that there's no special rhyme or reason to any of it--yet it must tell me something about my kid, that he likes certain movements and not others. All of it has to do with feeling and getting to know his own body and what it's capable of doing. But what makes him try these particular movements and gestures? It's one of those toddler mysteries that not even a psychologist or a neuroscientist could answer, to my satisfaction at least. The answer lies only in my own toddler's brain--and as he's not talking yet, it will remain there.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Oh God, a Screaming Toddler
Standing in line at the grocery checkout today, for some odd reason I decided to let my son out of his stroller. I thought he needed to be on his feet for a moment. Bad move. A few minutes later I had to put him in the stroller again in order to pay and take care of the groceries. He let out a short shriek as soon as I seated him in the stroller--not the blood-curdling scream he will emit if he's really upset, but a scream nonetheless. I crouched down and touched his cheek and said in a low voice, "Oh, that's not a voice we want to use inside, is it?"
"Oh, god," I heard someone groan behind me. I didn't look at the person--I was perhaps too irritated at that moment.
I'm not sure if the man was talking about my son's scream, or my response--or even if it had anything to do with me. But I suspect that it was related to the screaming as well as my gentle response to it. My son could pass for two, two and a half; the man probably thought, "Why is this woman coddling her son when he just let out an ear-piercing shriek?"
Maybe a few years ago, my own eyes would have rolled; I'm not sure. It's probably hard for people without kids to understand why you don't severely reprimand a fifteen-month-old who seems to be behaving badly in public.
On the other hand--it could be time for me to act more swiftly and decisively if the kid starts screaming on a regular basis in a public place. He hasn't done that so far, thank goodness. For one thing--I rarely take him shopping these days, except for extremely quick trips in and out, ten minutes tops.
"Rather than saying no all the time, change the circumstances so the 'no' situation just doesn't arise," my doctor advised me. My own experience with my son has shown me that with children between the ages of one and and one and a half, this advice completely makes sense.
"Oh, god," I heard someone groan behind me. I didn't look at the person--I was perhaps too irritated at that moment.
I'm not sure if the man was talking about my son's scream, or my response--or even if it had anything to do with me. But I suspect that it was related to the screaming as well as my gentle response to it. My son could pass for two, two and a half; the man probably thought, "Why is this woman coddling her son when he just let out an ear-piercing shriek?"
Maybe a few years ago, my own eyes would have rolled; I'm not sure. It's probably hard for people without kids to understand why you don't severely reprimand a fifteen-month-old who seems to be behaving badly in public.
On the other hand--it could be time for me to act more swiftly and decisively if the kid starts screaming on a regular basis in a public place. He hasn't done that so far, thank goodness. For one thing--I rarely take him shopping these days, except for extremely quick trips in and out, ten minutes tops.
"Rather than saying no all the time, change the circumstances so the 'no' situation just doesn't arise," my doctor advised me. My own experience with my son has shown me that with children between the ages of one and and one and a half, this advice completely makes sense.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Attack of the Hygienist
"Oh, sure," the receptionist told me, when I called my dentist's office and said I was bringing my 15-month-old son to my appointment and I didn't have a babysitter to go with me. "We're used to it. We often watch kids here at the front desk."
"But remember--he's a real toddler," I said incredulously.
"No problem. Not to worry," she insisted.
At my dentist's office there are almost always two women at the front desk, not just one. And I've known them for several years now; they're both great. I felt no qualms about leaving my son with them; I just felt bad for them that they would have to deal with the little guy roaming around, playing with their computers (or trying to), opening all their drawers. But she sounded so reassuring that I thanked her, said okay, I'll come with my son, see you next week.
As it turned out--the receptionist who told me "no problem" was out today, the day of our appointment. She had to have surgery on her shoulder, I was told. So there was only one woman at the front desk. Which meant that my son was stuck with his mom in the examining room.
The hygienist was more than nice--setting up a blanket on the floor and bringing in a box of small blocks for my son to play with. I'd come armed with about eight different toys and books to keep him occupied; and there was the all-important sippy cup, plus a little stash of munchies in an ingenious plastic container with a cloth cover that allows him to access the food without spilling it all over the floor.
But I still hadn't expected that my son would have to hang out in the room the entire time the hygienist was sticking various devices into my mouth and making weird noises with them.
To my pleasant surprise, he was somewhat nonplussed to see it, but not frantic. The hygienist said that he seemed "concerned," and yes, every time I looked up, he was standing there with his eyes open wide, a look of distress on his face. But he wasn't bawling or screaming; he did yell a bit, as if to say "What the hell is happening, Mom?" but then he went back to his munchies and his toys. He came over close to me again; I lifted my head and smiled and said, "It's okay Baby, really it is," and he went back to the food.
We made it through the visit without any major trauma on either side...my son keeps surprising me with what he's capable of these days. Of course, a steady supply of munchies always helps.
"But remember--he's a real toddler," I said incredulously.
"No problem. Not to worry," she insisted.
At my dentist's office there are almost always two women at the front desk, not just one. And I've known them for several years now; they're both great. I felt no qualms about leaving my son with them; I just felt bad for them that they would have to deal with the little guy roaming around, playing with their computers (or trying to), opening all their drawers. But she sounded so reassuring that I thanked her, said okay, I'll come with my son, see you next week.
As it turned out--the receptionist who told me "no problem" was out today, the day of our appointment. She had to have surgery on her shoulder, I was told. So there was only one woman at the front desk. Which meant that my son was stuck with his mom in the examining room.
The hygienist was more than nice--setting up a blanket on the floor and bringing in a box of small blocks for my son to play with. I'd come armed with about eight different toys and books to keep him occupied; and there was the all-important sippy cup, plus a little stash of munchies in an ingenious plastic container with a cloth cover that allows him to access the food without spilling it all over the floor.
But I still hadn't expected that my son would have to hang out in the room the entire time the hygienist was sticking various devices into my mouth and making weird noises with them.
To my pleasant surprise, he was somewhat nonplussed to see it, but not frantic. The hygienist said that he seemed "concerned," and yes, every time I looked up, he was standing there with his eyes open wide, a look of distress on his face. But he wasn't bawling or screaming; he did yell a bit, as if to say "What the hell is happening, Mom?" but then he went back to his munchies and his toys. He came over close to me again; I lifted my head and smiled and said, "It's okay Baby, really it is," and he went back to the food.
We made it through the visit without any major trauma on either side...my son keeps surprising me with what he's capable of these days. Of course, a steady supply of munchies always helps.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Late Night Fake Post
Just returned from carousing with the moms at a local watering hole...so not in the best state of mind to write anything at the moment. (Only had one drink, but after an intensely active day one drink can pack a punch.)
Yes, I made it out to the bar with the other moms...and I think almost all of us were in a state of shock that we were actually sitting in a bar at night with other adults having a drink and chatting.
And that it was fun.
What was fun was the actual conversation part of it; but we were shouting at each other to be heard over the din. The place was packed (I don't know how we managed to snag a large table in the corner, but we did). There was nothing nostalgic for me about being in a crowded, cacophonous bar in the middle of San Francisco. But the fact was that all of us knew how hard it had been for each one of us to get there and remain awake and sociable for the next two hours...our smiles of support for each other, and efforts to have meaningful conversations over the noise, weren't faked.
Somehow it all worked. I came away from it strangely recharged, I must admit. Even though I'm now desperate to hit the sack.
Yes, I made it out to the bar with the other moms...and I think almost all of us were in a state of shock that we were actually sitting in a bar at night with other adults having a drink and chatting.
And that it was fun.
What was fun was the actual conversation part of it; but we were shouting at each other to be heard over the din. The place was packed (I don't know how we managed to snag a large table in the corner, but we did). There was nothing nostalgic for me about being in a crowded, cacophonous bar in the middle of San Francisco. But the fact was that all of us knew how hard it had been for each one of us to get there and remain awake and sociable for the next two hours...our smiles of support for each other, and efforts to have meaningful conversations over the noise, weren't faked.
Somehow it all worked. I came away from it strangely recharged, I must admit. Even though I'm now desperate to hit the sack.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Depressed Moms (or Nannies)
Sometimes, at one of these "tot playrooms" sprinkled here and there throughout San Francisco, I see a mom, or a nanny, sitting in the corner staring into space, obviously depressed. She's not making any effort to play with her child or charge. I can't even tell which little one she's caring for, because she's not looking in any particular direction.
What does one do in these situations? These women seem too cut off for even a casual conversation. But I know that I should try to brighten their day somehow. They probably haven't talked to anyone all day except their one or two-year-old. I've felt the weight of this kind of loneliness during these past sixteen months, and it's never easy. Sometimes, even a one-minute conversation with another adult helps me remember that life does go on outside the playroom, and there's a comfort in knowing that.
On the other hand...seriously depressed women shouldn't have the responsibility of caring for a young child...I feel more sorry for the child in those situations than for the adult, I must admit.
What does one do in these situations? These women seem too cut off for even a casual conversation. But I know that I should try to brighten their day somehow. They probably haven't talked to anyone all day except their one or two-year-old. I've felt the weight of this kind of loneliness during these past sixteen months, and it's never easy. Sometimes, even a one-minute conversation with another adult helps me remember that life does go on outside the playroom, and there's a comfort in knowing that.
On the other hand...seriously depressed women shouldn't have the responsibility of caring for a young child...I feel more sorry for the child in those situations than for the adult, I must admit.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Weekday Evening Out?
In a couple days I'm going out for the evening, at 7 pm, with some of the women from my mothers' groups. We've planned for a "mom's night out" at a local bar.
That sort of thing hasn't happened for so long that I almost can't believe it will happen. At the same time--part of me is thinking, "Why do I need that?"
I'm not unhappy with how things are--with staying home every evening of the week. That's one of those major adjustments one makes when a kid enters one's life; I haven't been chomping at the bit to go carousing in the evenings.
At the same time, though...it would be so good, so unbelievably good, to sit for a couple hours talking with a good woman friend. (Most of my close friends are in other parts of the country.) I need that more than I need a stiff drink, more than I need a long hot bath, more than I need to engross myself in a good novel for hours on end.
This upcoming evening won't provide me with that, unfortunately. I just don't know these women well enough. But I suppose it's a pretty good second best.
That sort of thing hasn't happened for so long that I almost can't believe it will happen. At the same time--part of me is thinking, "Why do I need that?"
I'm not unhappy with how things are--with staying home every evening of the week. That's one of those major adjustments one makes when a kid enters one's life; I haven't been chomping at the bit to go carousing in the evenings.
At the same time, though...it would be so good, so unbelievably good, to sit for a couple hours talking with a good woman friend. (Most of my close friends are in other parts of the country.) I need that more than I need a stiff drink, more than I need a long hot bath, more than I need to engross myself in a good novel for hours on end.
This upcoming evening won't provide me with that, unfortunately. I just don't know these women well enough. But I suppose it's a pretty good second best.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Reality, Part Two
It's always bad form and almost always bad luck to talk about one's own writing while it's still in progress. "Show, don't tell" is one of the most popular pieces of advice in fiction-writing workshops, and more writers should apply that to their own lives. (For instance, writers shouldn't keep blogs.) But I'll forge ahead here anyway.
I'm trying to write stories in which an older person (usually fifty or older) faces a crisis of some kind. I'm trying to condense plot (not eliminate it, condense it) into one moment of time, while also trying to convey an entire life in the space of a couple pages.
What bothers me about some of the stories is that they veer more towards journalism than I would like--almost like reading someone's obituary rather than reading a story.
When I succeed, the characters advance beyond the two dimensions of the obituary to reveal something desperately true about themselves.
I don't know which side of "reality" I'm on (see yesterday's post) but I'd like to try to combine the slice-of-life story with something a bit more surreal--in the space of one or two pages.
I'm trying to write stories in which an older person (usually fifty or older) faces a crisis of some kind. I'm trying to condense plot (not eliminate it, condense it) into one moment of time, while also trying to convey an entire life in the space of a couple pages.
What bothers me about some of the stories is that they veer more towards journalism than I would like--almost like reading someone's obituary rather than reading a story.
When I succeed, the characters advance beyond the two dimensions of the obituary to reveal something desperately true about themselves.
I don't know which side of "reality" I'm on (see yesterday's post) but I'd like to try to combine the slice-of-life story with something a bit more surreal--in the space of one or two pages.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Reality
I've been writing short-short stories for a couple months now. I think my intention was to write vaguely in the style of Nathalie Saurraute; but after re-reading her Tropisms, I realize that my stories are nothing like hers. They actually have a plot. Saurraute aims for stories without plot, characterization or even any recognizable setting. What her stories attempt to capture is something like the nascent movements of conscious thought.
I realize that I'm often attracted to writers who veer away from traditional storytelling. Breton's Nadja, Calvino's Difficult Loves or Mr. Palomar, Russell Edson's extreme fairy tales. But I also love the sweeping slice-of-life novels--like East of Eden or War and Peace.
I guess I like my novels and stories either drenched in reality, or flying high above it. I'm not sure my own stories fall into either category.
I realize that I'm often attracted to writers who veer away from traditional storytelling. Breton's Nadja, Calvino's Difficult Loves or Mr. Palomar, Russell Edson's extreme fairy tales. But I also love the sweeping slice-of-life novels--like East of Eden or War and Peace.
I guess I like my novels and stories either drenched in reality, or flying high above it. I'm not sure my own stories fall into either category.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Wind-blasted
San Francisco has had more windy days recently than I remember from previous Junes that I've spent in the City (although I could be mis-remembering). It seems like every time I take my son out somewhere, especially after 2 pm in the afternoon, we're blasted by wind as soon as we leave the car. He seems to like it in a way: he scrunches up his face and either looks exhilarated or just surprised, I can't quite tell. He doesn't voice any complaint, at least. We've had so much inclement weather over the past several months that I think it's toughened him, in a way. Or maybe he just doesn't know any better.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Toddlers Toddle
Perhaps the most difficult thing to come to terms with, as the mother of a toddler, is just HOW vulnerable they are at this age. My boy is tall, as I've mentioned before; and he likes to move fast. Combine that with the fact that he's only been walking for a couple months, and it spells trouble.
But it's not just about physical vulnerability. His mood fluctuates; his heart is so hungry for praise, for love, for recognition, and for independence, all at the same time it seems, that he literally spins in five directions at once, hungry for it all; or he reaches out to grab five different things in the space of a minute. And when he can't get what he desperately wants, he lets me know. Loudly.
And how does it affect him the day after he's been dunked in a pool? Am I imagining it, or was he a little more prone to mood swings today than usual?
It may be true. At the same time--I realize that I can't just hover over him constantly, protecting him from everything.
But I sure wish I could protect him from everything that really hurts.
But it's not just about physical vulnerability. His mood fluctuates; his heart is so hungry for praise, for love, for recognition, and for independence, all at the same time it seems, that he literally spins in five directions at once, hungry for it all; or he reaches out to grab five different things in the space of a minute. And when he can't get what he desperately wants, he lets me know. Loudly.
And how does it affect him the day after he's been dunked in a pool? Am I imagining it, or was he a little more prone to mood swings today than usual?
It may be true. At the same time--I realize that I can't just hover over him constantly, protecting him from everything.
But I sure wish I could protect him from everything that really hurts.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Swimming Blues Part 3
The second swimming class today. We got through it. He was terrified for the first fifteen minutes; then he did okay for about five minutes. Then the class was over (we arrived late).
All I can say is, it's horrible watching your child suffer for any reason. The fact that he was totally fine once we left the building provides only mild consolation.
All I can say is, it's horrible watching your child suffer for any reason. The fact that he was totally fine once we left the building provides only mild consolation.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Mature Moms Multiply
My biggest older moms playgroup has doubled in size since March. It now has more than 80 members.
What does this mean? It means, obviously, that moms over forty are having babies like hotcakes in San Francisco. And it's probably not an isolated phenomenon.
What's also interesting, however, is that a lot of these older moms sign up online for the playgroup but never do anything more than that.
The biggest reason for that is probably mommy fatigue.
Moms recognize the need to reach out to other moms...they also recognize the need to conserve energy. The two often work at cross purposes.
What does this mean? It means, obviously, that moms over forty are having babies like hotcakes in San Francisco. And it's probably not an isolated phenomenon.
What's also interesting, however, is that a lot of these older moms sign up online for the playgroup but never do anything more than that.
The biggest reason for that is probably mommy fatigue.
Moms recognize the need to reach out to other moms...they also recognize the need to conserve energy. The two often work at cross purposes.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The Perfect Robot: Mom's Little Helper
Here's what any mom would buy in a heartbeat: a friendly little robot, about fifteen inches high, whose sole job is to wander around the house picking up toys or books a baby or toddler has dropped on the floor.
Of course, this would not teach the toddler to pick up after himself. But toddlers learn that lesson imperfectly anyway during the first eighteen months or so (perhaps there are extraordinarily neat toddlers, but then they must be like little robots themselves). And then again, maybe the kid would learn by watching the robot. I'm sure my son would get a huge kick out of watching a robot tool around the house picking things up.
The robot would also have to know how to sense a toddler's approach and be able to protect itself somehow...I haven't worked out the kinks yet, but I'm sure this product would sell.
Of course, this would not teach the toddler to pick up after himself. But toddlers learn that lesson imperfectly anyway during the first eighteen months or so (perhaps there are extraordinarily neat toddlers, but then they must be like little robots themselves). And then again, maybe the kid would learn by watching the robot. I'm sure my son would get a huge kick out of watching a robot tool around the house picking things up.
The robot would also have to know how to sense a toddler's approach and be able to protect itself somehow...I haven't worked out the kinks yet, but I'm sure this product would sell.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Whining, Ltd.
An online baby care guide talks about how the whining and protesting ramps up at fifteen months of age. I'm experiencing this. But it helps, a little bit, to think about it somewhat differently: toddlers at this age are soooo hungry for experience, it must be acutely frustrating to them to be stymied in any way, even for a few moments.
I've found that if I approach the whining or mini-tantrums with these simple steps, it makes things a lot easier:
(1) If the little one is whining or screaming because of tiredness or hunger, DO something about it immediately (put them to bed, or feed them). Don't force them to put up with their fatigue or hunger once they're at the screaming stage. In fact, learn to sense that they're getting tired or hungry before there are outward signs. Also, keep them to a schedule as much as possible. (My little one almost always has breakfast at around 7:30, lunch at around noon and dinner at around 6:15. And he's in bed right around 8 pm.)
(2) If they're not hungry or tired, but they just want to do something badly, like climb stairs or play with doors, or they DON'T want to do something, like get in the car seat: Sometimes it's good to slow down and let them explore at their own pace before moving on to the next activity. But if that's just not possible, or they're doing something dangerous, it helps a lot if you distract them and/or offer something attractive as an alternative, or if no alternative is possible (e.g., they have to get in the car seat), give them something to look forward to, like a bottle of water once they're in their seat, or a favorite toy or even, "we're going to go take a bath at home!" or "we're going to go eat dinner!"
(3) If they're not convinced by your alternative activity, don't pause to explain things to them or reason with them, just put them in the car seat or pull them away from the door--do it gently of course. I'll frequently offer a few words or one word of explanation, like, "Danger, danger," or "Time to go!" But don't spew out several sentences of explanation to a toddler; and don't give in to their tantrum. The exception of course is if they're in some kind of bodily discomfort.
(4) Use humor or music while carrying out # 3, and after. And though I sometimes forget to do this, it also helps to make direct eye contact, and put my hands on his torso to help calm him.
I swear that those four steps have helped me sail through a lot of brewing tantrums on the part of my very active little guy.
I've found that if I approach the whining or mini-tantrums with these simple steps, it makes things a lot easier:
(1) If the little one is whining or screaming because of tiredness or hunger, DO something about it immediately (put them to bed, or feed them). Don't force them to put up with their fatigue or hunger once they're at the screaming stage. In fact, learn to sense that they're getting tired or hungry before there are outward signs. Also, keep them to a schedule as much as possible. (My little one almost always has breakfast at around 7:30, lunch at around noon and dinner at around 6:15. And he's in bed right around 8 pm.)
(2) If they're not hungry or tired, but they just want to do something badly, like climb stairs or play with doors, or they DON'T want to do something, like get in the car seat: Sometimes it's good to slow down and let them explore at their own pace before moving on to the next activity. But if that's just not possible, or they're doing something dangerous, it helps a lot if you distract them and/or offer something attractive as an alternative, or if no alternative is possible (e.g., they have to get in the car seat), give them something to look forward to, like a bottle of water once they're in their seat, or a favorite toy or even, "we're going to go take a bath at home!" or "we're going to go eat dinner!"
(3) If they're not convinced by your alternative activity, don't pause to explain things to them or reason with them, just put them in the car seat or pull them away from the door--do it gently of course. I'll frequently offer a few words or one word of explanation, like, "Danger, danger," or "Time to go!" But don't spew out several sentences of explanation to a toddler; and don't give in to their tantrum. The exception of course is if they're in some kind of bodily discomfort.
(4) Use humor or music while carrying out # 3, and after. And though I sometimes forget to do this, it also helps to make direct eye contact, and put my hands on his torso to help calm him.
I swear that those four steps have helped me sail through a lot of brewing tantrums on the part of my very active little guy.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
One Small Step for Baby
I just put my son in his crib without a footed sleep sack for the first time in almost a year. It's too hot for his fleece sleep sack, and the summer-weight sleep sack we bought, made of some sort of basketball-jersey material, is just too ridiculous for words--I'd never put him in something like that to sleep.
He switched to sleep sacks early in his babyhood because after the first two months of his life, he hated being swaddled--hated it with a passion--and had trouble with blankets, i.e. he moves around a lot in bed. He slept beautifully in the sleep sacks, especially when we switched to the footed ones. But now he's so big that I'm sure he will appreciate the freedom of cotton pajamas or onesies, and a nice blanket.
As soon as I put him to bed, he cuddled up with his little snuggly monkey-blanket, under the larger blanket; he'll be alright, I think. Although only the next several nights will tell us if he's able to keep warm all night.
He switched to sleep sacks early in his babyhood because after the first two months of his life, he hated being swaddled--hated it with a passion--and had trouble with blankets, i.e. he moves around a lot in bed. He slept beautifully in the sleep sacks, especially when we switched to the footed ones. But now he's so big that I'm sure he will appreciate the freedom of cotton pajamas or onesies, and a nice blanket.
As soon as I put him to bed, he cuddled up with his little snuggly monkey-blanket, under the larger blanket; he'll be alright, I think. Although only the next several nights will tell us if he's able to keep warm all night.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Clap Clap
My son still does not speak. But he communicates, and above all, he listens.
Something happened between 14 and 15 months of age, I would say...he was becoming very expressive already at 6 or 7 months, and it ramped up dramatically at around 11 months, but it's nothing like it is now.
He is so eager to learn things--it's so obvious--that I can't seem to introduce new activities into his life fast enough. I do feel a certain pressure to become a walking entertainment center; but I have to keep things in perspective. My kid had a whale of a time vacuuming with me today. He also loves turning in a circle with his finger pointed in the air, like a drunken disco dancer. Falling suddenly against one or the other parent for a hug is another favorite. He often makes up his own new games; and then, he listens so astutely that we're now watching every word we say, and the way that we say it. I know that if he only had the house, the playground and the grocery store as his fields of exploration, with very few toys added, he would still thrive.
Something happened between 14 and 15 months of age, I would say...he was becoming very expressive already at 6 or 7 months, and it ramped up dramatically at around 11 months, but it's nothing like it is now.
He is so eager to learn things--it's so obvious--that I can't seem to introduce new activities into his life fast enough. I do feel a certain pressure to become a walking entertainment center; but I have to keep things in perspective. My kid had a whale of a time vacuuming with me today. He also loves turning in a circle with his finger pointed in the air, like a drunken disco dancer. Falling suddenly against one or the other parent for a hug is another favorite. He often makes up his own new games; and then, he listens so astutely that we're now watching every word we say, and the way that we say it. I know that if he only had the house, the playground and the grocery store as his fields of exploration, with very few toys added, he would still thrive.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Things That Tick Me Off
This new mom finds it irritating that:
--the Environmental Working Group analyzed about 300 different sunscreen products recently and found that only 8 percent of those meet its health safety standards. Also, the FDA has yet to issue official health guidelines for sunscreens.
--two of the m0st relied-upon products for any parent--Tylenol and Motrin--were both recalled.
--it's virtually impossible to buy long-sleeved shirts for a young toddler at some of the most well-known baby and toddler clothing stores, as soon as spring rolls around (I won't name names, but any mom knows which stores these are). As a mom living in San Francisco, where summers can be infamously cold, I find this a bit ridiculous.
--It's been a challenge to say the least to find high-quality blankets and bedding for my young toddler without resorting to the purchase of an entire bedding ensemble.
--Most bedding ensembles for toddlers have ridiculous, commercialized themes--Batman or Toy Story or what have you. I just want a summer-weight, one-color, organic cotton fleece blanket, or a summer-weight comforter, and top-quality 100% cotton sheets that will fit in a crib. Damn it.
--I've also had trouble finding high-quality socks for my little guy. Okay, socks aren't the most important item of clothing; but if you have a little one who loves to pull his socks off, you think a lot about comfort.
--Oh, a big one: why are so many pajamas for toddlers, those cozy-looking footed pajamas, made of a horrible 100% polyester, or cotton/polyester blends? My son has sensitive skin and can't really tolerate anything but 100% cotton. I've spent a small fortune buying him organic cotton sleepwear.
--Why are European strollers so much better than American-made ones?
--Why are so many toys still made of soooo much plastic? Well, not just toys: baby bathtubs, booster chairs, etc.
--Why don't people mention to you when you're pregnant that you'll be tending to a sick toddler, on average, around one and a half weeks out of every month? Why are toddler-care issues so seldom discussed (while baby-related care issues are discussed ad infinitum)?
I'll stop there...those are just the issues that have had me fired up recently (i.e., I'm just getting started).
--the Environmental Working Group analyzed about 300 different sunscreen products recently and found that only 8 percent of those meet its health safety standards. Also, the FDA has yet to issue official health guidelines for sunscreens.
--two of the m0st relied-upon products for any parent--Tylenol and Motrin--were both recalled.
--it's virtually impossible to buy long-sleeved shirts for a young toddler at some of the most well-known baby and toddler clothing stores, as soon as spring rolls around (I won't name names, but any mom knows which stores these are). As a mom living in San Francisco, where summers can be infamously cold, I find this a bit ridiculous.
--It's been a challenge to say the least to find high-quality blankets and bedding for my young toddler without resorting to the purchase of an entire bedding ensemble.
--Most bedding ensembles for toddlers have ridiculous, commercialized themes--Batman or Toy Story or what have you. I just want a summer-weight, one-color, organic cotton fleece blanket, or a summer-weight comforter, and top-quality 100% cotton sheets that will fit in a crib. Damn it.
--I've also had trouble finding high-quality socks for my little guy. Okay, socks aren't the most important item of clothing; but if you have a little one who loves to pull his socks off, you think a lot about comfort.
--Oh, a big one: why are so many pajamas for toddlers, those cozy-looking footed pajamas, made of a horrible 100% polyester, or cotton/polyester blends? My son has sensitive skin and can't really tolerate anything but 100% cotton. I've spent a small fortune buying him organic cotton sleepwear.
--Why are European strollers so much better than American-made ones?
--Why are so many toys still made of soooo much plastic? Well, not just toys: baby bathtubs, booster chairs, etc.
--Why don't people mention to you when you're pregnant that you'll be tending to a sick toddler, on average, around one and a half weeks out of every month? Why are toddler-care issues so seldom discussed (while baby-related care issues are discussed ad infinitum)?
I'll stop there...those are just the issues that have had me fired up recently (i.e., I'm just getting started).
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Ozu
As I write this, my husband is watching a film by the Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu (Floating Weeds). I've seen two of his films, Tokyo Story and Late Spring, considered two of his best; Ozu is not among my favorite directors, but I have to admire his dedication to a certain filmic style and a few ageless themes in storytelling: cultural shifts and generation gaps, the fraught relationships of parents and children, the subtle tensions that can exist between friends.
One reason he isn't one of my favorites is what I consider a certain stiffness in the cinematography--head shots too perfectly framed, or a couple standing perfectly in a particular doorway, time and time again, for instance. This is one of the hallmarks of his style, I realize, but I'm not sure it's aged that well. I find myself repeatedly thinking about camera angles rather than the story at hand.
Also, it seems to me that Ozu steeps his films and his characters, too much sometimes, in natsukashii--a Japanese sentiment that goes beyond nostalgia. A quick search on the Internet brings up this definition: "A bittersweet nostalgia for a past as it is recalled, not necessarily as it actually was." Natsukashii is one of those Japanese words that is much more than a word, it's an important cultural signifier, indicating something about Japanese life that is very difficult for a foreigner to understand. I'm sure that I don't fully understand it, so I'm not really qualified to talk about it. But it seems to me that in his films, Ozu expresses a near-constant natsukashii for a sort of Japan that I'm not sure ever really existed.
Not that that's so terrible. But I can't get over the feeling, watching his films, that his characters are mere symbols of one kind or another--this person represents a lost Japan, this person is part of the new Japan, this person is caught in between, and so forth.
Or maybe I'm overintellectualizing the whole thing...at any rate, the reason I wanted to write about him for this blog is the father-daughter relationship in Late Spring. I wonder sometimes how I'd handle it if my son failed to make his way as an independent adult, either because he rebelled against all parental restraints and made wrong choices as a teenager, or because he simply became lazy about leaving the nest. (I know the whole issue of "leaving the nest" is based on the very American idea that children should leave home when they reach adulthood, or at least soon after that--an idea which is much less prevalent in Japan and many other countries. But having said that--it's not always such a bad idea, for everyone concerned.) There's no way to predict the future. But I know that it has to do with striking the right balance, consistently striking it, between coddling him and allowing him plenty of room to explore...
It's a tough one. I probably won't get it right until he's thirty-five or so.
One reason he isn't one of my favorites is what I consider a certain stiffness in the cinematography--head shots too perfectly framed, or a couple standing perfectly in a particular doorway, time and time again, for instance. This is one of the hallmarks of his style, I realize, but I'm not sure it's aged that well. I find myself repeatedly thinking about camera angles rather than the story at hand.
Also, it seems to me that Ozu steeps his films and his characters, too much sometimes, in natsukashii--a Japanese sentiment that goes beyond nostalgia. A quick search on the Internet brings up this definition: "A bittersweet nostalgia for a past as it is recalled, not necessarily as it actually was." Natsukashii is one of those Japanese words that is much more than a word, it's an important cultural signifier, indicating something about Japanese life that is very difficult for a foreigner to understand. I'm sure that I don't fully understand it, so I'm not really qualified to talk about it. But it seems to me that in his films, Ozu expresses a near-constant natsukashii for a sort of Japan that I'm not sure ever really existed.
Not that that's so terrible. But I can't get over the feeling, watching his films, that his characters are mere symbols of one kind or another--this person represents a lost Japan, this person is part of the new Japan, this person is caught in between, and so forth.
Or maybe I'm overintellectualizing the whole thing...at any rate, the reason I wanted to write about him for this blog is the father-daughter relationship in Late Spring. I wonder sometimes how I'd handle it if my son failed to make his way as an independent adult, either because he rebelled against all parental restraints and made wrong choices as a teenager, or because he simply became lazy about leaving the nest. (I know the whole issue of "leaving the nest" is based on the very American idea that children should leave home when they reach adulthood, or at least soon after that--an idea which is much less prevalent in Japan and many other countries. But having said that--it's not always such a bad idea, for everyone concerned.) There's no way to predict the future. But I know that it has to do with striking the right balance, consistently striking it, between coddling him and allowing him plenty of room to explore...
It's a tough one. I probably won't get it right until he's thirty-five or so.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Socks
My son hates them. He'll wear them if he's cold, but otherwise, he starts pulling them off as soon as I put them on.
I thought he would hate shoes, but it turns out that he associates shoes with going outside, and he loves to go outside (most of the time); consequently, he's just fine with shoes.
Because he's sleeping in a footed sleepsack and not a blanket (he's such a good tosser-turner that I've not yet dared to make the transition to a blanket), socks are something of an imperative at night...but even in the night, he seems to pull them off, or perhaps he manages to rub them off somehow. I've gotten to the point where I sneak into his room long after he's gone to sleep, just to put his socks on.
And I have to admit that this has turned into one of my favorite rituals of the day: tip-toeing into his room, gazing at his sleeping form for a moment--slightly foreign to me, somehow, when he's so deeply asleep--then slipping socks on his feet. I always marvel at the fact that he doesn't wake up. Maybe, however, he has a nightmare every night about a sock fiend who's constantly chasing him around. At any rate--I'll always treasure those little socks that he hates so much...and I'll always remember these little rituals involved with caring for him--rituals that make him, well, himself; and a whole world unto himself.
I thought he would hate shoes, but it turns out that he associates shoes with going outside, and he loves to go outside (most of the time); consequently, he's just fine with shoes.
Because he's sleeping in a footed sleepsack and not a blanket (he's such a good tosser-turner that I've not yet dared to make the transition to a blanket), socks are something of an imperative at night...but even in the night, he seems to pull them off, or perhaps he manages to rub them off somehow. I've gotten to the point where I sneak into his room long after he's gone to sleep, just to put his socks on.
And I have to admit that this has turned into one of my favorite rituals of the day: tip-toeing into his room, gazing at his sleeping form for a moment--slightly foreign to me, somehow, when he's so deeply asleep--then slipping socks on his feet. I always marvel at the fact that he doesn't wake up. Maybe, however, he has a nightmare every night about a sock fiend who's constantly chasing him around. At any rate--I'll always treasure those little socks that he hates so much...and I'll always remember these little rituals involved with caring for him--rituals that make him, well, himself; and a whole world unto himself.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Time to Vote?
My little one has only slept sporadically during the last two and a half hours (he went to bed at around 7:30). I went to him earlier and just held him, but a few minutes ago, he was crying so intensely that I went back to him right away and gave him Tylenol (or actually, the Walgreens ibuprofen substitute), and water, and held him; he drifted back to sleep, although his cough continues; he also came down with the fourth cold in two and a half months, this morning.
Welcome to the world of the 15-month-old, I guess. But on the bright side--he's developing his personality and character in so many wonderful ways that if this is the worst of the down side, it's not that far down.
As for the title of this post--I finally filled in my mail-in ballot today, for tomorrow's elections. An event which has no significance for anyone except me. But it made me feel like life, even life-with-toddler, is manageable, somehow...after taking care of baby, cleaning, exercising, writing this blog and pursuing a few other writing and translation projects, organizing playgroup gatherings, and desperately trying to keep my papers and financial life in order--I have thirty minutes a day left for everything else. So I really don't have time to vote...but I made time today. For which, yes, this mama is insufferably proud of herself.
Welcome to the world of the 15-month-old, I guess. But on the bright side--he's developing his personality and character in so many wonderful ways that if this is the worst of the down side, it's not that far down.
As for the title of this post--I finally filled in my mail-in ballot today, for tomorrow's elections. An event which has no significance for anyone except me. But it made me feel like life, even life-with-toddler, is manageable, somehow...after taking care of baby, cleaning, exercising, writing this blog and pursuing a few other writing and translation projects, organizing playgroup gatherings, and desperately trying to keep my papers and financial life in order--I have thirty minutes a day left for everything else. So I really don't have time to vote...but I made time today. For which, yes, this mama is insufferably proud of herself.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Saturday on a Sunday
I made it through another novel--a landmark event in the life of a mom continually chasing after a toddler, a mom who is already half asleep by the time her little one hits the sack at 8 pm...I'm reading maybe two novels a month, at best.
It certainly wasn't the worst novel I've ever read. But in terms of my desire to sink deeply into an interesting story, a story that would pull me completely out of the daily routine of diaper changes, baby books and toys, and constant instructions and corrections to a little boy who wants to get the most out of every single minute of every day, I was bitterly disappointed.
The novel was Saturday by Ian McEwan. An interesting premise: a talented neurosurgeon wakes up early one morning and sees a plane in flames shooting across the horizon, and has flashbacks to 9/11. It also happens to be the day of the largest worldwide anti-war rally in history; he starts ruminating about world events and the degree to which they penetrate all of our personal lives these days; then he goes back to bed and carries on with his rather ordinary, apolitical life, playing squash, visiting his mother in a care home, buying food for the evening meal which he will prepare, and so forth. Only, an unexpected confrontation with a hoodlum on the way to his squash game shakes up his quiet Saturday in various ways.
The entire novel takes place on one long, eventful day. McEwan has been called the "master of the defining moment": he often looks at ordinary (or at least, unexceptional) people whose lives are suddenly and irrevocably altered by one cataclysmic event. Only in this case, the neurosurgeon's life doesn't seem to have been altered at all. And the characters were so plastic and two-dimensional that I lost interest in the story about sixty pages into the novel.
Why did I need to know every detail about various surgical procedures the main character had performed in recent days? I admire greatly the precision and clarity of McEwan's descriptions, but he often crosses beyond the realm of precision into the realm of self-indulgence. Or perhaps he wanted to depict a pompous, self-indulgent protagonist. Well, he succeeded, and I only grew more and more tired of this novel as this self-indulgent protagonist made his way through more and more uninteresting adventures with his set of carefully circumscribed, conventional biases intact.
In other words, nothing happens in this novel. Nothing, that is, in the realm of shifting consciousnesses or clashing ideologies--which is at least 70 percent of the reason, I thought, to read any novel, any story. At one point McEwan implies that we are all living in a "community of anxiety," and that "when anything can happen, everything matters" (though it's the protagonist thinking these thoughts, not McEwan, it seems to reflect an overarching theme of the book)--I realize that I was supposed to feel a sense of growing anxiety as the novel progresses through several anxious moments in the neurosurgeon's day; but one is constantly reminded of how successful he is, as well as everyone in his family--there are, really, no cracks in their armor whatsoever; and I was just struck at how neatly McEwan wraps everything up in the end--in a way that is not entirely implausible, but that left me just wishing that I hadn't spent so much time with his uninteresting, unevolving characters.
I tried to read Atonement once but found it impossible to get past the first, oh, sixty pages or so (yes, 60 pages seems to be my limit for uninteresting story-telling). I will try again; but I begin to suspect that McEwan does not know how to get past his own sparkling verbiage to create living, breathing characters and a plot which has more than shock value. Which seems to be the problem with a lot of contemporary novelists. And now that I've used up most of my precious free moments at the end of this Sunday writing about McEwan, I'm going to steep myself in other reading material for the next thirty minutes or so, then call it a day.
It certainly wasn't the worst novel I've ever read. But in terms of my desire to sink deeply into an interesting story, a story that would pull me completely out of the daily routine of diaper changes, baby books and toys, and constant instructions and corrections to a little boy who wants to get the most out of every single minute of every day, I was bitterly disappointed.
The novel was Saturday by Ian McEwan. An interesting premise: a talented neurosurgeon wakes up early one morning and sees a plane in flames shooting across the horizon, and has flashbacks to 9/11. It also happens to be the day of the largest worldwide anti-war rally in history; he starts ruminating about world events and the degree to which they penetrate all of our personal lives these days; then he goes back to bed and carries on with his rather ordinary, apolitical life, playing squash, visiting his mother in a care home, buying food for the evening meal which he will prepare, and so forth. Only, an unexpected confrontation with a hoodlum on the way to his squash game shakes up his quiet Saturday in various ways.
The entire novel takes place on one long, eventful day. McEwan has been called the "master of the defining moment": he often looks at ordinary (or at least, unexceptional) people whose lives are suddenly and irrevocably altered by one cataclysmic event. Only in this case, the neurosurgeon's life doesn't seem to have been altered at all. And the characters were so plastic and two-dimensional that I lost interest in the story about sixty pages into the novel.
Why did I need to know every detail about various surgical procedures the main character had performed in recent days? I admire greatly the precision and clarity of McEwan's descriptions, but he often crosses beyond the realm of precision into the realm of self-indulgence. Or perhaps he wanted to depict a pompous, self-indulgent protagonist. Well, he succeeded, and I only grew more and more tired of this novel as this self-indulgent protagonist made his way through more and more uninteresting adventures with his set of carefully circumscribed, conventional biases intact.
In other words, nothing happens in this novel. Nothing, that is, in the realm of shifting consciousnesses or clashing ideologies--which is at least 70 percent of the reason, I thought, to read any novel, any story. At one point McEwan implies that we are all living in a "community of anxiety," and that "when anything can happen, everything matters" (though it's the protagonist thinking these thoughts, not McEwan, it seems to reflect an overarching theme of the book)--I realize that I was supposed to feel a sense of growing anxiety as the novel progresses through several anxious moments in the neurosurgeon's day; but one is constantly reminded of how successful he is, as well as everyone in his family--there are, really, no cracks in their armor whatsoever; and I was just struck at how neatly McEwan wraps everything up in the end--in a way that is not entirely implausible, but that left me just wishing that I hadn't spent so much time with his uninteresting, unevolving characters.
I tried to read Atonement once but found it impossible to get past the first, oh, sixty pages or so (yes, 60 pages seems to be my limit for uninteresting story-telling). I will try again; but I begin to suspect that McEwan does not know how to get past his own sparkling verbiage to create living, breathing characters and a plot which has more than shock value. Which seems to be the problem with a lot of contemporary novelists. And now that I've used up most of my precious free moments at the end of this Sunday writing about McEwan, I'm going to steep myself in other reading material for the next thirty minutes or so, then call it a day.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
When I'm Really Tired...
and it's 5:30 in the morning and he wakes up, having slept just nine hours instead of his usual eleven, and I myself woke up at 3:30, then fell back asleep at 4:30, and as I get out of bed, I feel dizzy and woozy with exhaustion--as happened this morning--I admit that I can become a much less agreeable mother to my son. I find myself ordering him around more instead of explaining things to him and waiting for him to digest what I've said; and sometimes I'm picking him up and moving him around with a brusqueness that I'm ashamed of afterwards.
It usually only lasts for a few minutes. As happened this morning. Rather quickly this time, I stopped myself, looked at what I was doing, and changed course, becoming much more cheerful and agreeable than I felt. And he seemed to respond--he was in a good mood all day, in spite of the less than perfect night he had; it also helped, of course, that he took two good naps in the morning and afternoon.
I also made a point of saying, "I'm really tired, Baby" which helped simply because it was honest and it made me feel better. The funny thing is--he really seemed to listen and understand what I was saying on some level. Some day we're going to be able to know what babies are absorbing and what they're not absorbing; I'll bet we'll be surprised at their capacity to understand, on multiple levels.
It usually only lasts for a few minutes. As happened this morning. Rather quickly this time, I stopped myself, looked at what I was doing, and changed course, becoming much more cheerful and agreeable than I felt. And he seemed to respond--he was in a good mood all day, in spite of the less than perfect night he had; it also helped, of course, that he took two good naps in the morning and afternoon.
I also made a point of saying, "I'm really tired, Baby" which helped simply because it was honest and it made me feel better. The funny thing is--he really seemed to listen and understand what I was saying on some level. Some day we're going to be able to know what babies are absorbing and what they're not absorbing; I'll bet we'll be surprised at their capacity to understand, on multiple levels.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Older Moms Rock
I've met some wonderful older moms in the last fifteen months, through these two mothers' groups I've helped organize. I have yet to learn the details of most of these women's lives; I don't even know what many of them did or are doing for a living. But I see a rock-solid reliability and steadiness in some of them; an ability to laugh at oneself in others; and a sheer delight in motherhood in nearly all of them--all of which reminds me, whenever we get together, that this really is an amazing time in my life.
These moms nurture me, not just because mothers know what other mothers are going through (though that's a very important reason we get together), but because older moms, most of them, really understand what a privilege it is to be a mother. We're not taking very much for granted.
Also--seeing some of them pursue their careers on top of being new mothers (we have a surgeon, an architect, at least two lawyers, and an art festival coordinator in our group, for example) makes me remember that motherhood does not have to be all-consuming. (Though I've almost let it become that in recent months.)
These moms nurture me, not just because mothers know what other mothers are going through (though that's a very important reason we get together), but because older moms, most of them, really understand what a privilege it is to be a mother. We're not taking very much for granted.
Also--seeing some of them pursue their careers on top of being new mothers (we have a surgeon, an architect, at least two lawyers, and an art festival coordinator in our group, for example) makes me remember that motherhood does not have to be all-consuming. (Though I've almost let it become that in recent months.)
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Swimming Blues Part 2
Today was an unremarkable day; part of me is still focused on that very difficult twenty minutes in the pool with my son yesterday. It's horrible to hear your own child sobbing with fear, and to know that you're the cause of that trauma. I wanted to leave after five minutes; the instructor told me that this kind of fear was a common reaction and I should stick it out through the whole class. I held my son close as we wandered around in our corner of the pool; I kept murmuring something, anything, mostly to give him the sound of my voice. I didn't know what to say. What do you say to someone who's out of his mind with fear? We left after twenty minutes (ten minutes before the end), and it was one of the longest twenty minutes of my life.
That's all I'll write today, as other duties call this evening. Just don't know, at this point, if I can (or should) put my son through that again.
That's all I'll write today, as other duties call this evening. Just don't know, at this point, if I can (or should) put my son through that again.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Swimming Blues
The kid went to his first swim "class" today. They're not being taught to swim at this age, of course, it's mostly just moving around in Mom's or Dad's arms.
Not to go into too many details except to say that the boy did not enjoy his first experience in a pool. I suspect, however, that it had more to do with the sobbing kid in the changing room before we got into the water, and the fact that my son napped very poorly today, than with the pool experience itself. He was primed to be miserable, and in fact he was.
I left after twenty minutes, although the class is half an hour. Not sure what my approach will be if he's this miserable each time we go. I think I could endure it two more times, but not much more than that. And if there's no improvement, I'll just stop and try again in a few months.
Not to go into too many details except to say that the boy did not enjoy his first experience in a pool. I suspect, however, that it had more to do with the sobbing kid in the changing room before we got into the water, and the fact that my son napped very poorly today, than with the pool experience itself. He was primed to be miserable, and in fact he was.
I left after twenty minutes, although the class is half an hour. Not sure what my approach will be if he's this miserable each time we go. I think I could endure it two more times, but not much more than that. And if there's no improvement, I'll just stop and try again in a few months.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Who Is This
A strange sensation for a few moments as I was feeding my child lunch this afternoon. He's grown quite a bit in the last few weeks, and is large for his age--height and weight are both well above average. Beyond that--people tell me that his facial expression reminds them of an older child. And I had that feeling as I gave him his lunch: that this was an older child; that, in fact, I was sitting in front of a young child, not a baby, not even a toddler. He looked too well-defined, too sure of himself, too wise and experienced, to be a toddler. For a few brief moments, I felt like I was sitting in front of a complete stranger. It was an odd sensation, but not an unpleasant one. I'm sure every mother has moments like this, when this little person we think we know so intimately becomes someone very foreign--and therefore, somehow, even more delightful.
Monday, May 31, 2010
What We Are
I hosted one of my older mothers' groups here a few days ago. Was struck by the growing individuality of the three kids that came to the house. One of them enjoyed arranging plastic cups according to color--blue with blue, red with red, and so forth. Another was touching and studying people's shoes and socks. A little girl of 17 months sat at the brick fireplace and patted the spot next to her and said "Mama," urgently asking her mother to sit with her; she did this again when she sat on an old blanket. I won't reveal my son's favorite activities, although I will say that they involved electronic gadgets.
What's so special about all that? Just the idea that even young toddlers develop a passion for certain things. Will those passions translate into lifelong obsessions or are they just a fleeting fancy that will disappear in a few months? How much is a toddler an individual already?
It's easy, as a proud parent, to become convinced that one sees the individual emerging in one's son or daughter at 12 or 13 months of age. I've seen various signs that indicate my son will be sociable, but not extremely outgoing; that he will love to discover how things work; that he will enjoy a good laugh. Beyond that--can I really say what paths he will follow in life? It would be wrong to assume he will become a computer scientist just because he loves computers. He's obviously attracted more to the flashing lights and the online alphabet games we've discovered than to the inner workings of the computer. And it should be remembered that he relishes emptying plates out of the dishwasher and stacking them on the floor as much as seeing A,B, and C appear on the computer screen.
I know that one of my roles as a mom is to introduce him to as many different experiences as possible in these first few years, and to foster in him the ability and the desire to become a well-rounded person. But it's still fascinating to observe the particular passions that different young children develop, and to wonder--why shoes and socks for this little boy, and cups for another?
What's so special about all that? Just the idea that even young toddlers develop a passion for certain things. Will those passions translate into lifelong obsessions or are they just a fleeting fancy that will disappear in a few months? How much is a toddler an individual already?
It's easy, as a proud parent, to become convinced that one sees the individual emerging in one's son or daughter at 12 or 13 months of age. I've seen various signs that indicate my son will be sociable, but not extremely outgoing; that he will love to discover how things work; that he will enjoy a good laugh. Beyond that--can I really say what paths he will follow in life? It would be wrong to assume he will become a computer scientist just because he loves computers. He's obviously attracted more to the flashing lights and the online alphabet games we've discovered than to the inner workings of the computer. And it should be remembered that he relishes emptying plates out of the dishwasher and stacking them on the floor as much as seeing A,B, and C appear on the computer screen.
I know that one of my roles as a mom is to introduce him to as many different experiences as possible in these first few years, and to foster in him the ability and the desire to become a well-rounded person. But it's still fascinating to observe the particular passions that different young children develop, and to wonder--why shoes and socks for this little boy, and cups for another?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)