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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.