The Thrill of Accomplishment

It's wonderful to see a baby try something, succeed, then look at you with that sparkle, that pure joy in their eyes. My son is now attempting to walk all the time--several times a day--and he's climbing our stairs with almost no problem (his only problem is his mother's terror every time he does it--she's of course following right behind him with her hand practically around his waist, but it still gives her apoplexy every time to watch him do this). His look is one of joy, but also, a touch of wonder--"Did I just do that?" Perhaps every top-notch athlete, musician, performer of any kind has felt this kind of joy; perhaps anyone at all who strives to perform at a high level in any field has experienced it. But I doubt that many of us feel it as keenly as a baby taking more than a few steps for the first time in his life.

Mommy Play

I've attended four different public playgroups in the city; with only one exception, they've been wonderful resources for both me and the kid. For my son, they offer a much-needed place to discover new toys, new objects, new little people just like himself. For me, they offer some friendly chats with mothers who know what it's like "on the front lines."

One of those playgroups leaves something to be desired--only one out of the four, and even that one isn't so bad. It's just that the atmosphere there is tense and chaotic (rather than convivial and chaotic, which is pretty much the norm at the other places). I don't know why this is so; but for whatever reason, it feels like the mothers there have built walls around themselves and their children (or the nannies, around themselves and their charges). The mothers and nannies there talk more loudly and in a more aggressive, defensive way than at the other playgroups.

Ironically, this is the most expensive playgroup, out of the ones we're attending, and it's in the wealthiest neighborhood. I don't want to draw any simple conclusions from this fact. It's just that I never much enjoy hanging out there; I've yet to have one conversation with a mother there that I've found satisfying. And yet--I'll probably return; they have enough variety, in the form of toys, that my son always manages to find something interesting to do; and they also have enough changeover in the moms who come to visit, from one day to the next, that I still have a chance of meeting at least one mother with whom I can talk.

Ignore Him, He's Just Walking

Sometimes I forget to let my son just do his thing. Yesterday I wrote about paying attention to all the small changes he's going through; today I dared to take about thirty minutes to go through the miscellaneous papers in my in-basket and just let my son just do--whatever. He was cooperative enough, choosing to ransack the two laundry baskets at the entrance to our bedroom. He threw much of their contents on the floor, then tilted over the lighter, bendable mesh basket and tried to crawl into it; then he got up--and then, for about two minutes, I stopped paying attention to him.

When I looked at him again, he was backing up and moving forward again--without holding onto anything. In other words, he took three or four steps. This was perhaps only the third time (in about as many days) that I've seen him take more than two steps without holding onto something. What struck me was that as useless as this activity of "resorting" the laundry might seem to me, he exhibited both concentration and delight in what he was doing; and at the moment he took those steps, it was obvious that he wasn't even thinking about walking. This has happened each time he's taken more than a couple steps. He just launches himself into walking, without stopping to think. Very instructive; it could probably be used as a general technique for beginning work on any difficult task.

Small Changes

Just finished watching "The Hurt Locker." I can't say I was overwhelmed. It was a good movie about the type of adrenaline junkie that always finds his way to war zones or any other perilous setting within his radar, to get his fix; but it was like watching a movie about any addiction--it gets monotonous after a while, unless the character finds a way to change, or at least to attempt a change. I don't think it was a great anti-war film either. The contact with the Iraqi culture, and even with the individual American soldiers, was too superficial for that.

"Departures," a film my husband and I watched a few days ago, will stay with me much longer--a beautiful meditation on death and the meaning of life. Watching this film, one can't help but reflect on the importance of simple objects and everyday moments. This is also true when I watch my son go through his day. Yes, sometimes raising a baby can be mind-numbingly repetitive and dull; but if I remember to focus on the minute changes taking place--his new propensity for "dancing in place," for instance, by bouncing up and down from a seated position while there's music playing; or his amazing ability to stuff huge quantities of spaghetti in his mouth at any given time, with a look of great seriousness on his face; or his new penchant for "talking" by stringing several syllables together in nonsense phrases--it doesn't seem dull at all. It seems like another world.

Sutro Heights

Went to Sutro Heights and various nearby attractions today with my husband and baby. The idea of extreme local-ness does not fit there; the whole area definitely feels like "elsewhere," not like "here." Situated on the northwestern edge of the city, and perched high above Ocean Beach and the Cliff House, Sutro Heights imparts an enchanted feeling and, at the same time, a desolate one. Adolph Sutro certainly made a statement out there, with his huge bathhouse, his mansion, his railway--but now it's all ruins, all beautifully reclaimed by the rocks and the wind, the seabirds and the ocean waves. The best part of that whole area for me, however, is not Sutro Heights (as starkly beautiful as that locale is, it just doesn't have much in the way of places to walk) but the trail called Land's End, where, on a weekday morning when it's relatively free of tourists, one can really get away from city life, and just commune with the elements.

Corona Heights

San Francisco has more than one hundred different neighborhoods, as well as old subdivisions of neighborhoods that only a handful of people still acknowledge. I don't know if this many neighborhoods in a city of around 750,000 inhabitants constitutes more of a focus on place and local-ness than that exhibited by other cities; but it interests me. The various microcosms of the city interest me, for a variety of reasons.

Today the baby and I explored the Randall Museum and Corona Heights Park for about an hour. I wasn't really touring the entire district known as Corona Heights; but somehow, the neighborhood still made its presence felt. It's tucked away behind the Haight and Buena Vista Park; behind, also, the Duboce Triangle area and the Castro. It feels like it's tucked "behind" everything, in fact--when maybe it's also at the center of things.

One does feel at the center of something, climbing the steep stairs to the top of the hill at Corona Heights Park. The views are spectacular. My son was a little disturbed by the sweeping panorama; he kept making little distressed noises as we climbed up. I tried to talk soothingly to him as I huffed and puffed to the top--"We're almost there; a few more steps and we're there." Once we arrived at the top, he was fine. Something about climbing up rapidly, with the wind gusting all around us and the sense of infinity (or void) rushing in as we looked out across the Bay, must have thrown him off balance, momentarily.

The Randall Museum itself is a place with great promise, but I always feel a little disappointed walking through its exhibits. There's just not much "there" there, as ambitious as they seem at times with all the activities they offer. The whole set-up of the animal exhibits could use a bit of re-thinking, in my opinion. They have some wonderful animals; but the aquariums at the entrance to the room, with their handfuls of sea anemones and jellyfish, are unlovely to say the least, and not all that interesting; and the huge, noisy ravens in the middle of the room should be moved somewhere else, or left out of the exhibit altogether.

But I won't continue to rant about that. My little guy enjoyed the turtles, and the rabbits, and enough other creatures to make the trip completely worthwhile; and the tot room, which also lacks "oomph" in terms of the toys it contains, has an interesting design; my son enjoyed playing both in the loft area, and down under the loft, in a little plastic "house" with a door he could easily open and shut. It's obvious that his own sense of place (very, very localized) is rapidly developing.

Mommies Unite

Moms have very little trouble networking with other moms. An online mother's group in San Francisco boasts almost four thousand members. By attending various playgroups and mothers' groups, I've met at least a hundred other new moms (and a few new dads) in the last twelve months.

Moms understand the perils of remaining isolated when you have an infant on your hands. The learning curve for new moms is very steep, and relentless; and there's no way to get all the information you need from books. For one thing--sometimes the main piece of advice in one book will be diametrically opposed to the advice in the next book you read on the subject. Regarding sleep training, feeding babies solids, when to give your child juice, and so many other things, the experts clearly do not agree. Sometimes it's much easier to talk to five different moms about what they're doing, then make up your own mind. For another: sometimes the general, cultural wisdom on a particular baby-raising issue changes while you're raising your baby. For instance, it seems that many doctors and dentists are now saying that mothers should not give their babies and toddlers any juice whatsoever. (I just heard that one yesterday.)

So mothers develop a talent for meeting other mothers (and caregivers) and discussing the ins and outs of baby care with them. This does not mean, however, that mothers are not still, in the end, isolated creatures. The really hard stuff still happens when one is alone in the house or car with one's baby. The screaming, tantrums, sleepless nights, falls, accidents, sicknesses, weird excretions and other major and minor catastrophes still occur behind closed doors, for the most part. No one should be deluded into thinking that motherhood is not, still, a lonely business.

However--even in those brief encounters at mothers' groups and playgroups--even if it's just a quick word with a mother about one's sleepless night, or about the baby's latest quirky or unpleasant habit, or about how hard it is to get anything of a personal nature done these days--one feels the weight of that loneliness lift, for at least a few hours.

But it comes crashing down again when I remember that the vast majority of these relationships with the other mothers are transitory--born of a deep necessity, and completely worthwhile, but born of a particular moment in my life, and not based on any common interests other than babies and child-rearing. This is when I also remember how important it is to carve out a life based on something, a few things, OTHER THAN raising a child. (To re-carve, because I dimly remember having had such a life before the kid came along.)

Paths of Destruction, Part Two

When I said, in the post the day before yesterday, that my current problem with my son is that he leaves little paths of destruction everywhere he goes, I should have added that as problems go, it's not much of anything; maybe I shouldn't even call it a problem. He wants so badly to do things; this is just one thing that he can do that leaves a big impact. It's fun to take things apart, in any way that one can.

Perhaps one of the problems of being an adult is that an opportunity to destroy something is not built into our everyday lives...though it's true that some people use their livers or their relationships as test vehicles for a destructive lifestyle. Nothing all that creative, though, about those forms of destruction. Let's face it, most adults become dreadfully predictable. My son's destructive activities are so inventive that he always keeps me guessing.

The Best Things in Life Really Are Free

From a pint-sized, one-year-old point of view, the best things in life are things that make one feel big and important, and/or things that move in surprising ways.

Just thinking about the things that make my son laugh, smile delightedly, or shout excitedly--today, for instance, he smiled or laughed or shouted when:

--Anpan-Man helped him change his diaper (see earlier post about Anpan-Man if you don't know who he is).

--we played with the kitchen fan/light unit (which slides in and out and has buttons that light up).

--we played with the new track lighting button that can be pushed in AND rotated.

--we opened and closed the peephole in the front door.

--we were in the Shakespeare Garden at Golden Gate Park and saw four (count 'em, FOUR) policemen mounted on horses, walking by on the trail between the Garden and the Academy of Sciences.

--we saw, right after the horses, a squirrel scamper across the Garden lawn and up a tree.

--Mommy sang "Row, row, row your boat" while moving the booster chair tray back and forth with Little Guy holding the other end, after each meal.

--he stood and rotated a spinning seat at the playground (something he's never done before).

--he went on the swings and Mommy said "Hi baby" every time he got close to her.

--he pushed the stroller while walking barefoot all over the Shakespeare Garden.

Not a bad day, and not an expensive one, either.

Paths of Destruction

The problems of being an older new mother are not that much different from those of any new mother, if one is in relatively good health. (As mentioned before, there are problems of perception by society--"Are you his grandmother?"--or problems when we get older (or so I imagine) and realize, we might not be there to see our child reach forty.

Right now, the main problem I'm having with my child is that he leaves little paths of destruction everywhere he goes. He can't see anything that's holding something else--bookshelf with books, basket with toys, shelf with various objects--without trying to empty it. A table with plates full of food on it--what a sense of opportunity he must feel when he sees that. Then, there are the stereos, computers, cell phones, PDAs, cameras and all other electronic objects to be manipulated, hit with the palm of his hand, typed on, turned over, and dropped to the floor.

Yes, I feel tired, as I bend over for the thousandth time to pick something up...but I'm not sure I feel older because of it...funnily enough, right at this moment my husband is searching for the TV remote so we can watch a movie (the first one in weeks)--my son probably threw it behind a table or couch. And he (husband) is muttering with a wry smile as he searches, "My son is making my life more challenging in so many ways...it's either making me younger or much, much older."

Crissy Field Mayhem--and Heroism

At Crissy Field today with husband and baby. Sundays at Crissy Field are intense, and in my view, best avoided. Just too many people; too many babies in strollers, too many harried parents, too many cyclists, too many people making and avoiding eye contact as they pass by on the promenade...and it's actually not the greatest place to take a baby; too much sun and wind on a typical day. But we enjoyed it anyway. Just won't rush back there with the kid, unless it's a weekday morning and the weather conditions are nearly ideal.

At Fort Point, we came across the sign on the fence to the right of the building, near the water's edge, something that everyone must see and wonder about if they visit the spot: a metal plaque with embossed handprints and the words, "Hopper's Hands." Curious, I sought information on the Internet, and here's the link to a deeply moving article about the Golden Gate Bridge ironworkers who have saved dozens of lives already--not as part of their job, but as volunteers:

http://www.hoppershands.blogspot.com/

Nothing I need to add to that, except to say, with people like that in the world, the human race does have a chance.

The Unknown

As I've mentioned in an early post, one spends a large portion of one's time as a parent just worrying about The Unknown--those terrible things that could, heaven forbid, happen in some near or distant future. And one devotes a lot of energy to avoiding any disasters, major or minor, that could, perhaps, befall one's child.

But nothing will keep a child from experiencing some form of injury at some point in their babyhood and toddlerhood.

The trick, as a parent, is to live in just enough fear to keep oneself alert, but not so much fear that one becomes paralyzed and cannot function semi-normally. Like soldiers in a war, we must let our fear train us to perform at a higher level.

I'm not sure that I've been totally successful at this; sometimes, before falling asleep, I'm literally wincing and grimacing to myself as I imagine some mishap, for instance, my son falling off the couch because I wasn't holding him tightly enough. He's the typical boy entering late babyhood: his desire for exploration often outpaces his bodily capacity. He'd do ten backflips off the couch in a row, landing squarely on his head, if we let him out of our grasp for even ten seconds.

The Unknown constantly filters into my conscious and subconscious mind. But not the healthy Unknown, not the Unknown that leads to new discoveries. Not the Unknown of the flaneur, but the claustrophobia-inducing Unknown of the soldier at the front lines.

Awash in Playgroups

I'm in over my head where playgroups are concerned. Both playgroups that are open to the public and sponsored by various organizations or businesses, and private mommy/baby gatherings organized by individuals. I'm involved in five different playgroups at the moment, and there's another on the horizon.

As a result, I don't get out much any more with my baby for a random stroller ride. And because I'm leading two of the playgroups--I spend far too much time at the computer each evening, coordinating various events. Not writing, just coordinating. It's getting a bit ridiculous.

Shakespeare vs. Tea

Had two very different experiences in two very different Golden Gate Park gardens today. Visited the Shakespeare Garden first, with that lovely bower of cherry trees as a centerpiece, a lawn (which needs tending, the grass is not dense enough for little people to walk and roll around in comfortably), and a few people sitting or lying about, reading or admiring the blossoms. Visited the place with three other mothers and their babies; that quiet environment seemed to have a calming effect on our children, who rambled and played in the grass with no complaints for over twenty minutes as we older folks gabbed away.

In the Tea Garden, we had to be more focused, maneuvering our strollers over tiny stone bridges without accidentally pitching stroller and baby into the shallow ponds below, or just keeping our strollers and ourselves out of the way of other visitors on the narrow pathways. And something felt chaotic about the place, even though most people were very calm and polite. I think the placement of plants and trees and rocks and ponds and bridges felt, somehow, not as graceful and reposeful as I would have expected. It seems more like a jumble than an orderly arrangement. It's just a quick first impression--or I should say second, as the first time I went there was, I think, in fourth grade (and I might have returned once since then, I don't quite remember).

The best moment in the Tea Garden was when two older ladies, perhaps in their late sixties, climbed up the extraordinarily steep, U-shaped wooden bridge and slowly made their way down the other side, smiling gleefully. "The last time we did this was when we were much, MUCH younger!" they shouted, telling anyone who happened to be in the vicinity. Hopefully, that's the way I'll approach my "golden" years--or even, all the years with my son, when I'll try to introduce him to the adventure anyone's life can be.

Just Mommy

My babysitter, who cared for my son six hours a week (12-3, twice a week) has received a paid internship and will be leaving us soon. We've had her for two and a half months; she was extremely competent and trustworthy, so I'll miss her. On the other hand--I'm getting more sleep these days and my energy level has gone up as a result. So I'm thinking of hiring someone just for the occasional night or afternoon. It means that I won't be swimming as much for the next two years, but my husband will pitch in for an hour and a half here and there if I'm really dying to go swimming. It means that my baby will be going shopping with me more often--but he'll survive that. Most of all, it means little or no "mental health" breaks for me during the week; but I'll have to make his nap times my absolutely selfish quiet times, even if bottles and dishes don't get washed, and things don't get picked up off the floor.

The other reason not to rehire someone to care for him twice a week is that it's just hard to tear myself away from my son, even for two brief periods a week. I know that sounds implausible, but there it is.

Moms and Fun

How to have fun as a new mom:

--Learn to laugh at bodily functions.

--Do not imitate your son or daughter when they do something completely ridiculous or gross, even if you think it's funny. If you do, they'll keep doing it to get another reaction out of you, and before long you won't be laughing at all.

--Learn to go out for a latte or cappuccino, or whatever 15-minute mental health break you need, and do it as often as you feel you need to do it (every day if necessary), instead of ALWAYS dutifully shopping for that much-needed [whatever] for your kid.

--Go slowly enough through the day that you notice all the brief-yet-irreplaceable moments with your son or daughter; in other words, when they hold out a spoon for you to take a bite of their food (and they haven't even mastered the use of a spoon themselves) notice what an incredibly charming gesture it is, and revel in it.

--Find a group of new mothers with whom you can talk about problems, and then laugh with them at the difficulty of it all, instead of crying about it.

--When you do find yourself crying about how hard it all is, imagine yourself in your favorite vacation spot--or even, a special, secret retreat within your own town--then find a way, by hook or by crook, to return there with your child.

--Find a way to obtain a part-time job or volunteer position that fulfills any part of you that badly needs fulfillment. ("Part-time" could mean, just six hours a week.)

--Take up a musical instrument, any one, and practice regularly, even if your kid is climbing all over you as you do so.

--When you feel trapped, and exhausted, make yourself get out of the house with your baby; or call someone you haven't talked with in months just to say hello; or dare to call one of your friends for moral support. If the moral support isn't forthcoming, head straight for the chocolate mint ice cream.

--Buy a few educational DVDs so you almost feel like an adult again, for at least half an hour a day.

--Find a ridiculous hobby and pursue it, so you almost feel like a carefree young person again, for at least half an hour a day.

--Learn to give yourself pep talks. Pretend you're your own coach.

--Make time for your significant other. If you don't have a significant other, make time for bubble baths and flirting.

--Even if you do have a significant other: MAKE TIME FOR BUBBLE BATHS.

--Get enough sleep.

--Look at pictures of that amazing person who has entered your life so suddenly and with so much good will and courage.

Decency, Part Three

We live in an era in which the majority of working-age people focus on three or four projects and a handful of friends, to the exclusion of almost everything else. (Unless making friends is one of their "projects," in which case they might have hundreds, but these are rarely friendships of any great substance.) In other words, we live in an era in which most people are increasingly isolated because of their own behavior and because of everyone's general busy-ness. In my view, the combined stresses of the malfunctioning economy, world and local overpopulation, and global overmediatization, as well as poorly designed urban areas (with too much suburban sprawl, not enough liveable neighborhoods), are partly to blame for this. But maybe one could also say that it's just a general cultural trend.

I'm not saying this is a horrible situation. But I often think it's unfortunate. It doesn't make for a happy life, necessarily, to focus so narrowly. And I wonder if the common decency that people often feel is lacking in our culture has to do with this tunnel-vision way of living. Do people still invite others over for coffee at the drop of a hat, whether those others qualify as close friends or not? I know a few people like this; but they tend to be much older, say in their seventies or eighties. It's probably also true for a small minority of the younger generation (teens and twenties), but then there's always a higher percentage of free-spirited people in that age group.

And yes, both those age groups have more time on their hands. But it's not about time, so much as a quality of attention, and a certain fundamental acceptance. Most people these days lack some sort of basic willingness to accept the person in front of them as mildly interesting and valuable, if not downright amusing and lovable. I know this will sound Pollyanna-ish to many. And I'm not sure I've even said what I want to say. But it will have to do for now.

Little Guy

Once again at the doctor's office, my physician almost smirked when I said I was staying home to care for my one-year-old son, rather than returning to work. (Or I should say, rather than finding a job.) As I mentioned in a previous post, the first time he asked about this and I said I planned to be a stay-at-home mom for at least another year, he smiled and said, "Oh, fine. And just remember: when you change your mind about that, it's okay." This time he just smiled; but the expression in his eyes made it obvious that he was thinking, "You'll change your mind soon enough."

This rankled a bit; on the other hand, he seems to understand just how tough it is to care for an active toddler full-time. I just wish his understanding were a little less sarcastic.

Be that as it may...something else happened that made me feel, well, even more unqualified to be a mother than I already do.

It was just one brief moment during a walk at the beach with my son and husband. We were heading quickly back to the car; I was fretting the whole way about how cold my little guy must have been, because a cold seaside wind was blasting into his face. My noble husband (noble because he's suffering from a wrist injury) picked up the baby from his stroller and carried him the last several blocks, just to make sure he stayed relatively warm. And then the moment, right before we reached the car.

I was about thirty feet behind them, pushing the stroller across a busy intersection; my husband was moving quickly to get our son back into the warm car. I watched this little person bouncing against my husband's shoulder, staring back at me so innocently, so watchfully; and I thought: "I'm just not qualified. He's so fragile, so helpless. I don't have even thirty percent of what it takes to be a good mother." I fell more in love and despair than ever.

And he continued to watch.

Moms Make It Better

Perhaps that is the primary job of moms...and I did not succeed at that today. Brutally tired at the moment so that's the end of this post.

Survival

Today was a rough day--the little guy has a mild fever and is teething like crazy, and he also has an ear infection, and he lodged a very vocal protest about all these conditions all morning and most of the afternoon. But I don't want to dwell on all that.

It's not that I'm trying to avoid the rough parts of being a parent. I just have this feeling that to experience a rough day, then spend my writing time describing just how rough it was, in all its gory details, is to become mired in the motherhood role to such an extent that I will become a miserable wretch, half-insane, a dreadful bore, or all three of those at once.

The original intent of this blog was to write about (1) the specifics of being an older (mid-forties) new mother; and (2) those moments of the day when I actually manage to wander some short distance from the intensive, baby-centered reality that makes up the average day of a stay-at-home mother. I've not really succeeded at either goal...I keep getting sucked back into the vortex of motherhood, to put it melodramatically.

But then again. Why should I dwell on my sense of failure where this blog is concerned, either?

At the party yesterday--another mother and I talked about the possibility of having another child. I said it was entirely out of the picture for me; she expressed a desire for a sister or brother for her son. My situation is a bit more complicated; I do have a stepdaughter, the half-sister of my son. But the main reason that we're not going to have another child is, I can't imagine expending more energy on another human being than I'm already expending. When I said this to the other mother, she said, "I actually could imagine doing that...I just can't imagine being even older when the second child turned eighteen. I'm already going to be sixty-five or thereabouts when _____ turns eighteen."

So she's probably a bit older than I am; but just a tiny bit. I'll be sixty-three when my son turns eighteen. It's hard for me to imagine being sixty-three; I can't even imagine turning fifty, and that will happen in four and a half years. And yes, it's hard to think about how old I'll be when my son hits the first milestones on the path to adulthood.

But it's even a bit harder to imagine my son realizing, sometime when he's around seven or eight years old, perhaps, just how old his parents are, compared to how old other kids' parents are.

But the hardest part of this is imagining myself growing feeble and dim-witted as my son enters the prime of his life--or being struck down by one disease or another before my son turns forty, which could well happen, in spite of the miracles of modern medicine.

I suppose that I mustn't dwell on all of these gloomy prospects, either.

Post-Party Stupor

Tonight is the night least likely to produce profound thoughts. I've imbibed a fair amount of whiskey, as part of my effort to recover from hosting, this afternoon, a birthday party for four boys turning one year old. These boys are all in my group of older mothers and their babies; it's just luck that four out of seven of the babies are turning one year old at around the same time.

We had a raucous good time; it's fascinating to see how each of these little ones are developing--each, reaching milestones, but not the same ones. One of them, the youngest by a few weeks, is already walking; two of them point at objects that interest them, or things that they want; one of them signs up a storm, to his mother's delight; a couple are using spoons or forks; one or two are saying "hello" and other words. Later this evening, after all the guests had departed, my son stood on the couch and held his balance for about seven seconds, then did it again on the floor.

12 to 18 months is a kind of golden age, I've been told; then the temper tantrums and repeated no's and other problems begin. I'm sure challenges will appear, some that I could not have predicted no matter what. I'm sure I'll face many grim or desperate moments over the next twelve months. What I can say, however, is that when he reaches two years of age, if I'm even half as happy as I am now, it will have been a wonderful year.

The Human Race

I'm reading a book of short stories by mixed-race individuals, called Mixed. I suppose it's as valid a subject for a short story collection as anything else, for instance, one could assemble a book of stories about living in Vermont, or stories about food. Why, then, do I find it a little off-putting to see any short story collection focused on any particular racial issue? I guess because, in an ideal world, stories should be about people, their common humanity, their common foibles; there should not be this separation, where stories about race are assembled and presented as a solid unit. But we do not, obviously, live in a perfect society. We do need to think about where the new awareness of our mixed-ness, due to the election of a biracial man as president, has led us.

Not very far yet, I'd say...in fact, I don't think most people are all that aware of how mixed we're becoming, and what this might or might not mean to the future of our country, and beyond that, our existence as human beings on this planet. Given the increase in interracial marriages in this country, can we expect an amazing future moment where the word "race" itself will have no meaning, because we will have become, all of us, mixed, and nothing else?

Hm. It's nice to fantasize; but we're a long, rough road away from that moment, in my view.

When I made a short documentary film about Obama and the increase in interraciality in this country, the people who had the most to say and were the most knowledgeable about race relations in the United States were, not surprisingly, black or Latino, or mixed, with some measure of an African American or Latino heritage. I thought about this as I watched the schoolchildren at Mission Dolores yesterday; they all fell into those categories (black, Latino, or mixed with black and/or Latino in their background).

The simple truth of race relations in this country is that those who are the most negatively impacted by race are also just about the only ones who think about the issue on any regular basis. "But wait a minute," others say..."Those people blame racial injustice for their economic misfortunes--but maybe their culture simply needs a better work ethic." That argument has been used to write off the whole problem of race, at least in some conversations I've had with white people. Or they might say, "Why do we even need to talk about it--most people I know are color-blind."

My reply to this could be summed up in three words: visit our schools. Visit the schools in this country, and then see how color-blind our society really is. See which schools have adequate supplies, facilities, qualified instructors; then see which schools are situated in the poorest neighborhoods, and which of those neighborhoods are comprised of mostly black, Latino, or multiracial families. See how the air is taken out of the tires (or Air Jordans) of most of these kids before they reach high school-- how downright Dickensian their existence is for much of the day. I've only had a brief taste of it, at one inner-city school in San Francisco; but it was an eye-opening experience. Jonathan Kozol sounded the alarm several years ago (even, decades ago); but how seriously are we taking this problem?

I've written on this once before. I don't pretend to have done much about the problem myself; but it needles at me. I don't want to see my son living in a "color-blind" society, I want to see him living in one in which those living in predominantly black or Latino or American Indian communities truly have the same opportunities as the rest of us.

Dolorosa

Took the kid to the Mision San Francisco de Asis, better known as Mission Dolores. It was the first attempt in weeks, maybe months, to take him on something of a random stroll...not that random, in the sense that it's part of my effort to understand San Francisco history; random only in the sense that it's off the beaten track of grocery-shopping, playgroups, playgrounds and all the myriad baby-related activities that take up nearly all my time these days.

I knew we only had about forty minutes to get there, see what there was to see, and get home, as he was nearing his nap time--and as it turned out, we didn't make it back before he fell asleep in the car. But he'd only been sleeping a few minutes, so I thought it would be pretty easy to transfer him to his crib. Nothing doing. He protested mightily after I gave him a bottle and put him in the crib, and the protests continued for the next twenty minutes. The afternoon sort of went downhill after that, at least for me; my energy level was nil (it still is). And incredibly frustrated, after reflecting on the fact that this simple, feeble effort to step out of the Mommy role for less than an hour caused such a major upheaval in the rest of the day.

But I shouldn't overdramatize; it happened today, but with a little better planning, i.e. if I'd left earlier, I probably could've made the same trip without any nasty repercussions.

And anyway, it intensified and made slightly surreal our whole tour of the Mission, which we had to accomplish at lightning speed. It was small, much smaller than expected. The brochure says it's only 114 feet long and 22 feet wide. And the adjoining cemetery is tiny as well, although according to the guides leading a group of schoolchildren through the grounds, it used to be much bigger. In fact, they said, 11,000 people are still interred under what used to be the Mission grounds; most of them are now resting underneath the houses and schools that surround the Mission.

As my baby and I cruised through the cemetery in our stroller, the guide for the schoolchildren pointed to a large wooden tomb marker with a two side-by-side inscriptions on it, and proudly said to the two tourists strolling along just in front of me, "These are my great-great-great-great grandparents. They're Indians." Then he went back to the explanation of the cemetery that he was giving the schoolchildren.

Most of the tombstones in the cemetery are for people of Irish descent; he said that the majority of the people buried in the cemetery were actually Indian (like his ancestors), but their wooden grave markers were removed, and the stone markers for the Irish and other Europeans were installed in their place. I didn't quite hear if the Irishmen and other Europeans were buried alongside the Indians, or how that worked out. But it was an interesting bit of historical information. I think the wooden grave marker that he pointed out to the tourists was the only one marking an Indian grave. I wanted, of course, to talk to him and ask him how and when this one grave marker was installed; but he was too involved in his talk to the schoolchildren to be interrupted.

The schoolchildren were, in a sense, the highlight of the whole trip. They were all either Latino, Indian, mixed race, or black. Just seeing them as they stood there at the front of the chapel, then in the cemetery, brought San Francisco's history alive...and thrust it into the future at the same time. More to say about that--about San Francisco's interraciality and my hope that my son will make an attempt to understand what race still means in this country (no, it is not at all a color-blind society)...but as stated earlier, my energy level is at zero, so enough for now.

Sandra Bullock and Being "Me"

I've been reading more about Sandra Bullock. She has a real presence, that "star quality" that few people in Hollywood actually possess. She has a marvelous, unpredictable sense of humor. She speaks fluent German, with none of those halting, tentative, or overexcited inflections that usually overtake people speaking in a language they do not know well. And, in her own way, she's a remarkably talented actress. I haven't seen anything she's done except her small role in "Crash," and one fairly dull comedy whose name escapes me, but I'm now curious to see more of her.

One quote that she uttered regarding motherhood is relevant to this blog: "If I'm blessed with that role, I just hope to be the best me I can be."

It's important to remember not to dive so deeply into one's child and his or her needs that one forgets to be a "me" as well, of course. And these days I am feeling, sometimes, a bit lost, in terms of the "me" that existed before this little person arrived...the lack of a career is a factor in that, certainly.

For now, the best "me" I can be is a woman spending almost 100% of her time taking care of her son. But I have to try to carve out a little more time, even now, for that "other me," the one who reads, writes, makes music and moves a little more in the world at large.

How to Raise a Perfect Child

The wind is blasting tonight, at least forty miles an hour, based on the howls outside. Our son has woken up three times in the last hour, crying, incredibly distressed. Is it because of the wind? Is it because we had a babysitter from three to seven this afternoon/evening, and it threw him for a loop? Is it because his nose was stuffed? Or is he teething?

I don't know. It could be all those things. At any rate, it was agonizing to listen to that, even for a few minutes. And instead of letting him cry, as we sometimes do if he wakes up briefly in the night and cries less, we went to him--first me, then my husband, with a nasal aspirator. Having his nose cleared seemed to calm him.

I missed the end of the Oscars, including Sandra Bullock's acceptance speech for Best Actress. I caught it later on YouTube: after the jokes and the usual expressions of gratitude to the filmmakers, she thanked her mother for making her work hard every day. A simple sentiment; yet she spoke with a voice choked with emotion, and it nearly made me cry to see it.

I don't know how to raise a perfect child, but I know that it's important to encourage children to find themselves, and at a certain point, to push them to do more than they think they can. I know that--and yet, it terrifies me sometimes that I'll push my child too much, or too little...

Be that as it may: if he can tap into his own remarkable spirit, it's probably up to me to just get out of the way.

Life, and So Forth

Watching a 12-month-old baby giggle and roll around on the floor, just because he can, is to remember for one fleeting moment how terribly exciting and wonderful life is.

Discipline? (Part Two)

On the other hand...yesterday I wrote about how relieved I was to learn in a class that disciplining a one-year-old is pretty much an impossibility. However, today, I came back down to Earth, so to speak. Yes, one HAS to discipline a one-year-old, occasionally; because one-year-olds will do things, or try to do things, that put them or someone else in danger.

But what still holds true for me is that the term "discipline" has a very different meaning for someone at this stage of life than for older children. I do believe that the word "No" should be used sparingly, or should be avoided altogether. "Let's try this" or "We need to do this instead"--phrases and actions to distract and distance the little one from the dangerous place or activity are more effective at this point than any number of shouted "No"s. However, when the toddler is on the verge of doing something that puts himself or someone else in jeopardy--I'm not against a firm reprimand and then turning away from him for thirty seconds or a minute.

I say that...but I haven't been able to implement this technique yet. That is, I've tried it, but haven't been consistent. And yes, my son has a couple bad habits that need some form of consistent, mild disciplining to correct. I need to walk the walk with him.

Discipline?

At a one-evening workshop for mothers of children turning one year old, we were taught that discipline is somewhat impossible for toddlers, at least young toddlers (between 1 and 2 years). You can redirect their energy to other more productive and safe activities, or you can just eliminate the option of that dangerous/destructive activity (locking the door to the bathroom, hiding the computer and cell phone, not letting them get too close to younger babies, and so forth). Also, studies have shown that if you tell them "Don't run into the street," they just hear the words "Run into the street," so even the command not to do something isn't very effective.

All of this jibes with what I've experienced so far; my attempts to discipline my son with verbal commands have fallen on deaf ears, or they actually encourage him to pursue the forbidden activity. I see mothers in playgroups reprimanding their one-year-olds with long speeches and with stern words, and I have my doubts as to how much of that the little tykes are absorbing. Apparently, Dr. Harvey Karp (of the "Happiest Baby" books) says that toddlers are little Neanderthals, in the sense that it's best to keep your conversations with them very simple and straightforward (I haven't actually read his book on toddlers, but his ideas are cited in many articles). But even using Neanderthal language doesn't seem to stop my son from heading straight for the bathroom if he wants to go there, or engaging in any number of other mischievous activities.

So for me, this advice about the uselessness of discipline at this age is something of a relief. I was berating myself for not disciplining my child enough, but also, for not understanding how to do it. Now I realize that I don't have to worry so much about that...though I do have to worry about how I'll manage to keep a few steps ahead of my intrepid, fast-paced, curious little boy over the next year or so.

Frantic Mom

I admit that I'm obsessively thinking about my son's first birthday. The gifts, the cake, the parties; even, whether or not he has something spiffy to wear. My obsession is interesting to no one but myself. However, because it is an obsession, it has taken over my brain and I have nothing else to write about this evening. So I might as well stop there. A pathetic little post, but so be it.

Thousands of Networking Women

At a web site for mothers in San Francisco, someone announced they were forming a mothers' group for women over forty. Over one hundred people signed up within a couple weeks, or so I've heard. However, I also heard that just a handful of people showed up for the first few meetings.

What does this mean--that older women are particularly stressed out when they become new mothers, and thus have a difficult time attending meetings? I doubt it. I think it indicates the looseness of the connections made when online groups are formed. Something about the Internet makes it very seductive to sign up for all sorts of things; but it's also easy to become overcommitted, and/or to just lose interest, before one has even attended a single meeting.

I wouldn't be surprised if the next decade is remembered as the Facebook era, considering the popularity of online social networking these days. However--if we are networking like mad, are we really socializing, face-to-face, with equal energy? I doubt it.

One Smile

To see a huge smile take over your child when you come into view--and babies smile with their whole bodies sometimes--to step into the room after being away for a couple hours, and see the eyes light up, the grin break out on his face, and his little feet stamp with excitement--makes all the late nights (or no-sleep nights), all the fussiness, all the moments of unmitigated terror, all the diaper changes, all the strange excretions and eructations, all the CDs and books repeated four hundred times or more--hugely worth it.