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."
Saturday, July 31, 2010
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.
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