Tomorrow, one of our regular public playgroups (sponsored by the City of San Francisco) starts up again, after a summer-long hiatus; this marks, in a way, the end of summer for me and my son.
It's a good time for new beginnings. He is well-launched into toddlerhood, with all the huge desires, curiosities and disappointments that come with that age--so much like the teenage years, in the scope of the passions involved, at least, the intense highs and lows. He needs, badly, the stimulation that a range of playgroups, playgrounds and other activities can provide.
And I'm ready for changes myself. Without dwelling on it--as stated previously, this blog was taking up too much of my time, especially in relation to other writing projects. I've completed forty-two short-short stories (about three or four pages each) and I hope to write at least sixty or seventy more before the end of the year. There's a translation project I'm dying to tackle involving French poetry. A few other writing projects are simply languishing from lack of time, energy and, let's face it, will power.
But enough about all that. These will happen--it might take a few years instead of the six or seven months I'm hoping for--but they will happen.
I suppose part of the reason for writing this blog was to see if I could pull that crazy rabbit out of the hat--that is, lead a writer's life and a mother's life at the same time. I'm only been minimally successful at it up to now. We'll see what happens in the next year or so.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
First Anniversary of...?
Today marks one year that I've been at this.
I'm going to stop doing this every day. Yes, I did manage to write almost every day for a year (with the exception of four or five days when life became especially hectic/chaotic and I simply forgot); but lately I've been sitting at the computer each night thinking, "Damn I have no idea of what to say, oh well, better spit out something" rather than, "Rats there are three or four things I want to write about, I'll have to choose." Once a day is too much--not for other forms of writing, but for this one.
I'll make it once a week from now on. That way, during the week, something will build up inside me--I'll have a bewildered-aging-Mommy moment or some little facet of life here in San Francisco will strike me as worth repeating online, and I'll mentally store it away for a while; by the end of a week the event will have marinated long enough in my thoughts to become something worth writing (and reading) about. At least, that's the hope.
I've enjoyed doing this every day--the regularity of it, while stifling at times, also becomes a kind of meditation.
Where do I stand, as a mother and a person, compared to a year ago? A year ago, I was grimly entering my sixth month of sleep deprivation, as my son would not start sleeping through the night regularly until sometime in late September/early October of last year; I was still overjoyed at becoming a new mother--so very late in life; I was still in a state of disbelief about the magnificence of this new being. I was delighting in our long walks together (with stroller) through various unknown parts of San Francisco.
So--mostly delight, with a dash of desperation and depression.
Now--I'm still amazed by my son, in a different way; the fact of him is not as overwhelming, but his personality--already strong at six months, but so much stronger now--bowls me over. I'm also feeling a new form of exhaustion--not as all-consuming as the constant fatigue I felt last August, but I could call it a sort of ever-present weariness, which perhaps only mothers of very active toddlers can understand. Seventeen months (almost) after he was born, I'm looking ahead at the next thirteen months (the period of time during which he'll still remain at home around the clock--by September of next year he'll probably begin some form of half-day preschool) with some measure of trepidation, but also with the sense that I will always treasure this time, even with all its complications and headaches, because he has already changed so much and will change enormously once again by the time another year rolls by.
I look at myself in the mirror and realize that I've aged quite a bit in one year...many more gray hairs, and a more pinched, worried expression on my face...sometimes I catch myself in the rearview mirror of my car with an absolutely distraught look in my eyes and I suddenly realize it's something trivial, like "Oh no, I forgot his shoes" or "What was that other item I absolutely had to buy at the store, something he needed urgently?" All those thousand and one thoughts that occupy a mother's mind and age her so quickly...I need to let go of some of that--most of that--at least, I need to learn not to beat myself up because I forget my son's shoes once in a while.
As it so happens, this morning, during a quick trip to the grocery store, I forgot my son's shoes. And I did not, this time, stress about it (because I had his carrier and it was just a quick trip--soon, I won't be able to fit him in the carrier with any degree of comfort for either of us, he's gotten that huge). For the ten minutes we were there, he was perfectly content in my arms, reaching out for the tomatoes and bananas and baguettes as he usually does (getting him back into the carseat was another story, but we'll pass over that). At the checkout, one of the baggers, who had been standing outside, perhaps taking a break, suddenly poked her head inside the store and shouted to the checkout clerk, "Hey, John, I just saw fifty parents flying overhead!"
"What?" the clerk asked. She repeated it twice before either of us understood what she had been saying: "parrots," not "parents." We laughed, and he said to me, "I kept wondering, 'If it was an airplane, how would she know they were all parents inside?'"
I was actually picturing parents flying overhead like parrots. Maybe that's the image I'd like to retain foremost in my mind, for the coming year.
I'm going to stop doing this every day. Yes, I did manage to write almost every day for a year (with the exception of four or five days when life became especially hectic/chaotic and I simply forgot); but lately I've been sitting at the computer each night thinking, "Damn I have no idea of what to say, oh well, better spit out something" rather than, "Rats there are three or four things I want to write about, I'll have to choose." Once a day is too much--not for other forms of writing, but for this one.
I'll make it once a week from now on. That way, during the week, something will build up inside me--I'll have a bewildered-aging-Mommy moment or some little facet of life here in San Francisco will strike me as worth repeating online, and I'll mentally store it away for a while; by the end of a week the event will have marinated long enough in my thoughts to become something worth writing (and reading) about. At least, that's the hope.
I've enjoyed doing this every day--the regularity of it, while stifling at times, also becomes a kind of meditation.
Where do I stand, as a mother and a person, compared to a year ago? A year ago, I was grimly entering my sixth month of sleep deprivation, as my son would not start sleeping through the night regularly until sometime in late September/early October of last year; I was still overjoyed at becoming a new mother--so very late in life; I was still in a state of disbelief about the magnificence of this new being. I was delighting in our long walks together (with stroller) through various unknown parts of San Francisco.
So--mostly delight, with a dash of desperation and depression.
Now--I'm still amazed by my son, in a different way; the fact of him is not as overwhelming, but his personality--already strong at six months, but so much stronger now--bowls me over. I'm also feeling a new form of exhaustion--not as all-consuming as the constant fatigue I felt last August, but I could call it a sort of ever-present weariness, which perhaps only mothers of very active toddlers can understand. Seventeen months (almost) after he was born, I'm looking ahead at the next thirteen months (the period of time during which he'll still remain at home around the clock--by September of next year he'll probably begin some form of half-day preschool) with some measure of trepidation, but also with the sense that I will always treasure this time, even with all its complications and headaches, because he has already changed so much and will change enormously once again by the time another year rolls by.
I look at myself in the mirror and realize that I've aged quite a bit in one year...many more gray hairs, and a more pinched, worried expression on my face...sometimes I catch myself in the rearview mirror of my car with an absolutely distraught look in my eyes and I suddenly realize it's something trivial, like "Oh no, I forgot his shoes" or "What was that other item I absolutely had to buy at the store, something he needed urgently?" All those thousand and one thoughts that occupy a mother's mind and age her so quickly...I need to let go of some of that--most of that--at least, I need to learn not to beat myself up because I forget my son's shoes once in a while.
As it so happens, this morning, during a quick trip to the grocery store, I forgot my son's shoes. And I did not, this time, stress about it (because I had his carrier and it was just a quick trip--soon, I won't be able to fit him in the carrier with any degree of comfort for either of us, he's gotten that huge). For the ten minutes we were there, he was perfectly content in my arms, reaching out for the tomatoes and bananas and baguettes as he usually does (getting him back into the carseat was another story, but we'll pass over that). At the checkout, one of the baggers, who had been standing outside, perhaps taking a break, suddenly poked her head inside the store and shouted to the checkout clerk, "Hey, John, I just saw fifty parents flying overhead!"
"What?" the clerk asked. She repeated it twice before either of us understood what she had been saying: "parrots," not "parents." We laughed, and he said to me, "I kept wondering, 'If it was an airplane, how would she know they were all parents inside?'"
I was actually picturing parents flying overhead like parrots. Maybe that's the image I'd like to retain foremost in my mind, for the coming year.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Sun and Rubinstein
Felt the sun on my face briefly this afternoon as I drove my son to a swim class in San Bruno. (Anyone living in San Francisco for the past month or so will know why I bothered to write that sentence.)
Another highlight of a rather dreary day: watched Artur Rubinstein describe to Robert MacNeil how losing most of his eyesight at the age of 90 opened other worlds to him--"I had time to listen to music, go to concerts...before, I was reading too much."
I love Rubinstein--his music and the man himself, at least what comes across to me in his memoir of his early years.
A strong desire today for more music and writing, that is, for more time for those pursuits...that part of my life which is as important to me as the sun. Following Rubinstein's example, though, I could say that motherhood has forced me to cut out the trivial aspects of my life and get to the heart of the matter--in writing, in music, in living. (I could say that--but it wouldn't be true. When was the last time I touched a piano for more than a few minutes?)
Another highlight of a rather dreary day: watched Artur Rubinstein describe to Robert MacNeil how losing most of his eyesight at the age of 90 opened other worlds to him--"I had time to listen to music, go to concerts...before, I was reading too much."
I love Rubinstein--his music and the man himself, at least what comes across to me in his memoir of his early years.
A strong desire today for more music and writing, that is, for more time for those pursuits...that part of my life which is as important to me as the sun. Following Rubinstein's example, though, I could say that motherhood has forced me to cut out the trivial aspects of my life and get to the heart of the matter--in writing, in music, in living. (I could say that--but it wouldn't be true. When was the last time I touched a piano for more than a few minutes?)
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
More on Saramago
I have to hand it to Saramago--no one else writes like he does; no, he is not a cheap Kafka knock-off as I wrote before, he is his own man. I am not in love with his style, but it really is his style.
His humor--at times I love it, particularly the little side comments that have nothing to do with the development of the plot and turn the novel inside out--at least, they leave the reader dangling upside down instead of bouncing along happily with the author. For instance, the narrator remarks at one point about the envy felt in the Central Registry when the boss singles out the central character for special treatment: "What else could one expect, the human soul being what we know it to be, though we cannot claim to know anything." Taken out of context it's not nearly as funny, but suffice it to say that Saramago weaves these little meandering moments into the plot like a person making a table who suddenly decides it should have a shoe sticking out of the middle of it.
At other times, I find it all a bit cloying or heavyhanded. Certain long passages in which the main character imagines dialogues with various people in his life, or improbable outcomes to certain escapades on which he embarks--those passages could be pruned back a little without losing their comic appeal (I find myself skipping ahead at these points). But that's not a major criticism.
Overall, I give him much higher marks than I did in my previous post about him, although I'm still not convinced that he's Nobel Prize material...but I've only read half of one of his books, so I'm not much of a judge of that.
His humor--at times I love it, particularly the little side comments that have nothing to do with the development of the plot and turn the novel inside out--at least, they leave the reader dangling upside down instead of bouncing along happily with the author. For instance, the narrator remarks at one point about the envy felt in the Central Registry when the boss singles out the central character for special treatment: "What else could one expect, the human soul being what we know it to be, though we cannot claim to know anything." Taken out of context it's not nearly as funny, but suffice it to say that Saramago weaves these little meandering moments into the plot like a person making a table who suddenly decides it should have a shoe sticking out of the middle of it.
At other times, I find it all a bit cloying or heavyhanded. Certain long passages in which the main character imagines dialogues with various people in his life, or improbable outcomes to certain escapades on which he embarks--those passages could be pruned back a little without losing their comic appeal (I find myself skipping ahead at these points). But that's not a major criticism.
Overall, I give him much higher marks than I did in my previous post about him, although I'm still not convinced that he's Nobel Prize material...but I've only read half of one of his books, so I'm not much of a judge of that.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Babies and Movies
Nothing much to write about tonight. Actually, I just watched Denzel Washington's blistering performance in Training Day, and my thoughts are too disturbed to focus much on this blog. What was perhaps the most appalling in that film were the scenes involving children, especially the little three-year-old who played Denzel's (his character's) son.
It would be easy to say that I feel more upset now, as a mother, when I see scenes of violence at which children are present. I don't think it's true. I think I was always disturbed by those.
But I can't help wanting to go check on my son right now (he's sleeping) and just look at him.
It would be easy to say that I feel more upset now, as a mother, when I see scenes of violence at which children are present. I don't think it's true. I think I was always disturbed by those.
But I can't help wanting to go check on my son right now (he's sleeping) and just look at him.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
"I Couldn't" Part Two
I was sitting in a cafe this afternoon--my son was enjoying quality face time with his dad--when a woman and her toddler son, a bit smaller than my boy, a little cherub with a beatific smile and a bright-eyed air about him, came up and joined the older woman sitting next to me. The woman cooed over the boy, while his mother offered him "bread" (a croissant) and milk. I noticed that he was saying words like "breh" (bread") and "bus," and tried to guess his age. I couldn't; so as I got up to leave, unable to restrain my curiosity, I asked her, "How old?"
"21 months."
"He's adorable...and he's speaking a lot! When did he start talking?"
"Oh, a long time ago."
"And obviously, he's fully bilingual (the mother was from Japan and had been speaking to her son in Japanese, while carrying on a conversation with the other woman in English). My son doesn't say a word yet," I confided.
"Is he in daycare?"
"No, but he goes to a lot of playgroups."
"That's good. My son has been in full-time daycare for a long time now, and that stimulates him."
We talked on for another minute or so, then I excused myself, not wanting to intrude further on their conversation.
Afterwards, I realized to my surprise that I felt almost guilty, suddenly, for not putting my child in daycare. It was obviously working for this little boy, I told myself...
Then I realized: I was assuming my son was behind other kids because he doesn't really talk yet.
Never mind that he already points to the correct letter of the alphabet, 80 or 90 percent of the time, when I ask him "Where's G, show me G" or "Show me X"...and I didn't even think to mention that to this mother and her friend.
My son is "slow"--perhaps in many people's eyes--because he can't speak yet. And my feeling of being inadequate somehow as a "stimulator" will probably continue over the next month, or two, or three--however long it takes him to start popping out unmistakable words. (Well, it will probably continue until he's actually enrolled in a quality daycare or preschool. As much as I also feel, in my heart, that I'm doing the right thing for him.)
And I'm sure there will be other ways, over the next year or so, that I'm oh-so-subtly made to feel inadequate as a stay-at-home home.
"21 months."
"He's adorable...and he's speaking a lot! When did he start talking?"
"Oh, a long time ago."
"And obviously, he's fully bilingual (the mother was from Japan and had been speaking to her son in Japanese, while carrying on a conversation with the other woman in English). My son doesn't say a word yet," I confided.
"Is he in daycare?"
"No, but he goes to a lot of playgroups."
"That's good. My son has been in full-time daycare for a long time now, and that stimulates him."
We talked on for another minute or so, then I excused myself, not wanting to intrude further on their conversation.
Afterwards, I realized to my surprise that I felt almost guilty, suddenly, for not putting my child in daycare. It was obviously working for this little boy, I told myself...
Then I realized: I was assuming my son was behind other kids because he doesn't really talk yet.
Never mind that he already points to the correct letter of the alphabet, 80 or 90 percent of the time, when I ask him "Where's G, show me G" or "Show me X"...and I didn't even think to mention that to this mother and her friend.
My son is "slow"--perhaps in many people's eyes--because he can't speak yet. And my feeling of being inadequate somehow as a "stimulator" will probably continue over the next month, or two, or three--however long it takes him to start popping out unmistakable words. (Well, it will probably continue until he's actually enrolled in a quality daycare or preschool. As much as I also feel, in my heart, that I'm doing the right thing for him.)
And I'm sure there will be other ways, over the next year or so, that I'm oh-so-subtly made to feel inadequate as a stay-at-home home.
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