newmom44

Off the Beaten Path

2010-09-26T11:13:00.000-07:00

The point of my blog was to keep writing every day, and to write about motherhood indirectly--that is, to address the topic while also retaining the ability to distance myself from it. (This in order to retain my sanity as a new mother, to have at least one moment in the day which did not revolve around my son.) I also wanted to protect my son's privacy, by not divulging too much about his personal characteristics and habits in my daily posts.

I did succeed at writing almost every day--but ultimately, as indicated in the previous post (September 15th), I did write quite a bit about the more mundane aspects of motherhood. Some of the posts were marginally more inventive than that, so I don't think the whole project was a failure, but so much of it was that I don't see it at all as something fit for public consumption.

I do see it, however, as a way to let my son know what life was like, for me and for him, when he's much older and might be curious about such things. I kept a journal while I was pregnant (actually, long before I was pregnant with my son--while I was experiencing the miscarriages--I also wrote), and I think I'll keep another one from now on--this one, meant only for his eyes, not for anyone else's.

At the same time--I need to refocus myself on my so-called writing career. I've only written two short-short stories since the last post, over a month ago. I've been so busy with my very active boy, organizing his fall schedule and taking him to his multiple playgroups and swim classes and other activities, that it has left virtually no time for anything else. Now his schedule is set and we've adopted a certain comfortable (though physically exhausting) weekly rhythm, and his longer afternoon naps make it possible for me to write for at least an hour, maybe two, every day. By September of next year, I'll have perhaps another fifteen hours a week (assuming he's in some sort of preschool at that point) for my writing projects.

It's time to return, in other words, to more intimate writing, and to much more public writing as well. This blog is leading me nowhere.

But it was fun while it lasted.

Cheers to all those older mothers out there.

Beginnings

2010-08-15T20:39:00.000-07:00

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.

First Anniversary of...?

2010-08-05T21:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Sun and Rubinstein

2010-08-04T21:37:00.000-07:00

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?)

More on Saramago

2010-08-03T21:26:00.001-07:00

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.

Babies and Movies

2010-08-02T22:04:00.000-07:00

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.

"I Couldn't" Part Two

2010-08-01T19:58:00.000-07:00

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.

"I Couldn't..."

2010-07-31T20:48:00.000-07:00

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."

You Are Here, with Earthquakes

2010-07-30T20:19:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Sleep, Sun and Saramago

2010-07-28T20:33:00.000-07:00

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.

Burbles and Gurgles

2010-07-27T22:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Almost 17 Months

2010-07-26T20:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Going Away

2010-07-25T14:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Vacation Recovery Program

2010-07-24T20:40:00.000-07:00

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.

All Fields, Big and Small

2010-07-22T18:06:00.000-07:00

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.

The New Fiction?

2010-07-21T19:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Favorite Not-so-extraordinary Things to Do with my 16-month-old Boy

2010-07-20T18:34:00.000-07:00

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.

Mothers and Time

2010-07-19T17:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Soulless

2010-07-18T17:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Only Connect

2010-07-17T19:39:00.000-07:00

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.

Bad Mother, Part Two

2010-07-16T20:04:00.000-07:00

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?

Progress

2010-07-15T18:10:00.001-07:00

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.

Bad Mother

2010-07-14T17:57:00.000-07:00

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.

Lights, Trucks, Chairs and Doors

2010-07-13T20:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Water Baby

2010-07-12T20:24:00.000-07:00

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.

Sheer Repetition--Is Not Enough

2010-07-11T16:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Laughter and Learning, Part Two

2010-07-10T21:15:00.000-07:00

"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.

Laughter and Learning

2010-07-09T06:34:00.000-07:00

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.

Laughter and Forgetting

2010-07-09T06:30:00.000-07:00

...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.

Terror around Every Corner

2010-07-07T20:59:00.000-07:00

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).

Muni and Me

2010-07-06T20:53:00.000-07:00

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.

The Day After

2010-07-06T20:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Families and Loss

2010-07-04T21:32:00.001-07:00

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.

Tahoe Toddler Woes

2010-07-03T20:09:00.000-07:00

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).

The Toddler from Another Planet

2010-07-02T21:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Nap Transition

2010-07-01T20:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Sudden Daycare

2010-06-30T20:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-29T20:29:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-28T22:03:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-26T06:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-25T20:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-24T20:56:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-06-23T22:36:00.001-07:00

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)

2010-06-22T13:46:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-06-21T20:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-20T21:08:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-19T20:06:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-18T20:40:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-17T21:52:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-16T20:36:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-15T21:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-14T20:50:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-13T22:08:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-11T20:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-10T21:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-09T20:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-08T21:51:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-06-07T21:30:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-06T20:41:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-06-05T20:42:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-04T21:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-03T21:16:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-02T20:05:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-01T22:09:00.000-07:00

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.

What We Are

2010-05-31T16:42:00.000-07:00

I hosted one of my older mothers' groups here a few days ago. Was struck by the growing individuality of the three kids that came to the house. One of them enjoyed arranging plastic cups according to color--blue with blue, red with red, and so forth. Another was touching and studying people's shoes and socks. A little girl of 17 months sat at the brick fireplace and patted the spot next to her and said "Mama," urgently asking her mother to sit with her; she did this again when she sat on an old blanket. I won't reveal my son's favorite activities, although I will say that they involved electronic gadgets.

What's so special about all that? Just the idea that even young toddlers develop a passion for certain things. Will those passions translate into lifelong obsessions or are they just a fleeting fancy that will disappear in a few months? How much is a toddler an individual already?

It's easy, as a proud parent, to become convinced that one sees the individual emerging in one's son or daughter at 12 or 13 months of age. I've seen various signs that indicate my son will be sociable, but not extremely outgoing; that he will love to discover how things work; that he will enjoy a good laugh. Beyond that--can I really say what paths he will follow in life? It would be wrong to assume he will become a computer scientist just because he loves computers. He's obviously attracted more to the flashing lights and the online alphabet games we've discovered than to the inner workings of the computer. And it should be remembered that he relishes emptying plates out of the dishwasher and stacking them on the floor as much as seeing A,B, and C appear on the computer screen.

I know that one of my roles as a mom is to introduce him to as many different experiences as possible in these first few years, and to foster in him the ability and the desire to become a well-rounded person. But it's still fascinating to observe the particular passions that different young children develop, and to wonder--why shoes and socks for this little boy, and cups for another?

I Can Do It

2010-05-30T21:58:00.001-07:00

I was hard on Eric Carle, in a post from several months ago. I said that the reason for his enormous popularity, in the realm of books for very young children, escapes me. I said that because I considered most of his books to be extremely dull, including that hugely popular one, Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?

Now I do see what the fuss is all about: his books appeal to a child's need for rhythm, bright colors, and unusual sounds and activities. Three of my son's favorite books are by Carle: What's For Lunch?, in which a cardboard monkey swings on an actual string throughout the book; The Very Hungry Caterpillar, which has plenty of small holes for little fingers to poke at; and From Head to Toe, which has pictures of animals engaging in various activities, like a gorilla beating his chest. The first time my son saw me acting out the part of the gorilla, a smile of delight overtook him, as if he couldn't get over this crazy thing his mom was doing; of course, I've acted out that part joyfully and vigorously ever since, just to spark the same reaction in him; and he's started to slap his hands against his own chest in imitation. My husband has commented on the dubious utility of teaching my son to act like a gorilla. This is true; but look how far it's gotten me in the last several months...at any rate, the words repeated over and over in the book, "I can do it, I can do it!" present perhaps the most positive message of any of the books my son has, and he seems to respond more joyfully to this book than to any other book in his collection.

So I extend my apology to Mr. Carle. He has performed a noble service to this generation, and one or two previous generations of children. I wish there were several dozen more authors like him, people skilled at writing books for babies and toddlers. Instead, I know of only a handful.

10,000 hours

2010-05-29T20:13:00.000-07:00

In Outliers Malcolm Gladwell talks about the 10,000 hour rule--the idea that to be good at anything that requires mental stamina or concentration, like playing classical piano or programming a computer, someone has to pass the 10,000-hour practice threshold. If you've pursued your craft for at least 10,000 hours, he writes, studies show that you will have a chance of being a major success. But if you haven't, chances aren't nearly as good, even if you have boatloads of talent.

I wonder how much this applies to motherhood or fatherhood. In one of my mothers' groups, a mother of several children told us, "It gets easier after your second child." This would seem to validate the 10,000-hour rule, at least for raising babies and toddlers. A mother of two children would have put in at least 10,000 hours after three years, assuming she cares for her kids about ten hours a day, seven days a week. (For most mothers of babies under one year of age, it's a lot more time than that.) So that by the time her two oldest kids have passed through babyhood and one of them has also passed through toddlerhood, that mother, according to Malcolm Gladwell's theory, would have become a master at her "craft."

What happens, however, when you only have one child? And what happens after toddlerhood, when the problems you're facing are so different that the experience you've gained in the first three years might not help you that much?

I suppose that part of being a good parent, when you don't have those 10,000 hours under your belt, is realizing and accepting early on how much you don't know, and finding several sources of information to refer to--especially, mothers and fathers who've been through it already. One of Gladwell's main theses in Outliers is that a community of influences shapes successful people--that they are always the products of communities, not just gifted individuals who tried hard. I would say that's equally true for good mothers.

Short-short Post

2010-05-28T20:43:00.001-07:00

I said that I would write shorter posts for the next few days, about three days ago. Instead I've been spending more than half an hour each night on these. Tonight I'm going to spend two minutes.

We're finally in for some good weather for the next several days. And my house is finally clean and somewhat well-organized (spent most of today cleaning it up for a mother's group gathering here this afternoon). This Memorial Day weekend will be about enjoying time with family. Minor, minor postings coming up.

Another Reason to Freak Out

2010-05-27T21:08:00.001-07:00

In the first chapter of Outliers by the ever-popular Malcolm Gladwell, he describes how children born in the first months of the calendar year tend to have a sizeable advantage when it comes to being chosen for sports teams, or being classified as "gifted" children in their first years at school. The reason is quite simple: as young children, they are significantly older than kids born in, say, October or November. And though the discrepancy in age narrows, obviously, as they get older, by being labelled as gifted or talented early on they are given special boosts that the other kids don't get, and are treated as special. This means that they come to think of themselves as special, and probably try harder because of it, and so on.

When Gladwell examined the rosters of many trophy-winning sports teams (where the cutoff date for age was at the beginning of the calendar year), he found, over and over again, that the majority of players were born in the months January-April. And apparently, studies show that the proportion of students labelled "gifted" who were born in the first part of the year is skewed in a similar fashion.

I cannot help but think: my god, yet another thing to stress about? What do the parents do whose children were born in November and December? (I was spared this one particular source of stress; my son was born in March.)

There are those who say, "talent will out." But the fact is that if someone is talented in a certain arena where the competition is fierce, this little advantage could make a huge difference down the line in whether someone's daughter receives a soccer scholarship to a prestigious university, for instance, or whether someone's son receives the math award in high school that gets him noticed by college recruiters.

There should be a staggered enrollment, with separate classes for students born in January-June and those born in July-December, at least until age ten. It's wrong to compare a five-year-old's performance to those of other five-year-olds who were born eight or nine or ten months earlier. Maybe this particular "revolution" could occur without much bloodshed, because I don't see why many people would be in disagreement with it.

Pre-Preschool Prepping?

2010-05-26T20:48:00.000-07:00

I stumbled upon an article this morning by a woman describing how difficult it was to get her son admitted to one of the San Francisco preschools of her choice. She said the admissions process was longer and more rigorous and the refusal rate higher than it was when she and her husband applied to college and law school. And in the end, none of her preferred preschools accepted her child, except one that enrolled him in their summer program but not the rest of the year. Luckily, during that summer the boy managed to convince the preschool that he was worthy of admittance to the regular program; so it wasn't her hard work scoping out different schools, interviewing people and filling out long admission forms that got her son enrolled to one of the top schools, the mother said; it was her son's own charm.

Reading the article sent me into a mini-panic. I haven't done anything to research preschools up to now. I realize that if the good preschools in San Francisco really are that selective, then I have to start the search now...but I'm also thinking, wait a minute. We're talking about preschool here...so I'll start looking but I refuse to get dragged into that mode of thinking which freaks out at the thought that my son won't know his multiplication tables and won't already be reading Lord of the Rings by the time he starts kindergarten.

Hard to Write

2010-05-25T07:18:00.000-07:00

Obviously, from what I've written recently, the last couple of days have been difficult. But for reasons of privacy, I don't intend to divulge the details here.

Suffice it to say that it's a bit tough to keep going with these daily postings. To make up for that, I'll keep it short, for the next few days at least.

Being a Mother

2010-05-24T21:43:00.000-07:00

Was reminded today, twice, that the mere fact of being a mother does not guarantee greater sensitivity towards other mothers. Mothers have agendas like everyone else. Mothers do not automatically develop a greater capacity for compassion or intuitive thinking; some of them wear "motherhood" like a veil or a crown of thorns, and cannot be reached, in a sense, until they take those off. And for other mothers it's even simpler than that: they were insensitive people before they had a child and nothing magically changed when they gave birth. I do not believe that "motherhood changes you," as I've heard so often. Indeed, what often happens when one is overtired is that one becomes even more oneself (in a negative sense), and mothers spend most of the first several years of motherhood being overtired.

On the other hand...

I was also reminded today, more than twice, that some mothers are wonderfully sensitive towards other mothers; they look in your eyes and without speaking, their look says, "I understand. Are you okay? If you really need me, I'm there for you." And I'm talking about some mothers that I barely know.

Life is funny that way.

Questioning Art

2010-05-23T21:19:00.000-07:00

It's been a tough day and admittedly, I'm virtually brainless at this point. But I'll spew out a few words about the "Birth of Impressionism" exhibit, now open at the de Young Museum.

The boy and I went there last Thursday. I bought a family membership the day before for ninety-five dollars, knowing that I would be seeing his one exhibit at least three times; I have no doubt the yearlong membership will be worth it.

And it was a wonderful experience zipping through the exhibit with my son in a baby carrier (something that will be a thing of the past before too long--he weighs almost thirty pounds). We only spent twenty-five minutes looking at the art, and he was just as fascinated by the lights overhead and the circular couches in the middle of the rooms, covered in plush red velour like something one would expect to find in a 19th century artist's salon--but he did point at a Renoir, perhaps the most famous painting in the exhibition (and of course, I forget what it's called), and gurgle something.

I like the de Young--the interior that is, I'm not as enamoured of the dour brown exterior as some San Franciscans seem to be. The exhibit is not huge--but that gives one even more of a sense of dancing through rooms filled with light and life, exploding with color. These paintings are astounding--even if one is bored by the love affair Americans are having with French Impressionism, this has to be granted, after seeing this exhibition. I walked away from the exhibition believing the world is a better place than it really is (something T.E. Lawrence said about listening to Beethoven, I think).

It's true that the Impressionists were considered rebels in their own time--and whether or not they've become as mainstream as, for instance, the next "American Idol" winner--and I think they probably have--seeing an exhibit like this forces one to think about the progression of the visual arts, and all arts, really. Up until the mid-twentieth century, the movement was mostly towards greater abstraction and indeterminacy (a wave which began with the Impressionists). By sometime in the seventies, the field had been broken wide open. All art was accepted and all art was questioned.

Today the pendulum could swing in either direction--realism or abstraction--and it often does, in a single artist's work.

More on all this tomorrow, perhaps.

Contemporary Fiction--Anyone?

2010-05-22T22:17:00.000-07:00

I just finished re-reading Alice Randall's Pushkin and the Queen of Spades, and I'm struggling through her latest novel, Rebel Yell. In an earlier post I celebrated Randall as one of the most important American writers alive today (having only read one of her books) and I still believe she's an important writer because of the unusual and significant subjects she tackles and the interesting manner in which she handles them (her lively wit and lyrical style engage me enough to keep going with her, through novels that are repetitive and unfocused in places, and have not much of a sense of structure). But I think this says something negative about the quality of fiction writing today, rather than something dramatically positive about Randall.

We don't have anyone on the level of a Steinbeck or Hemingway or Baldwin among our contemporary writers, in my view...and I don't place Randall in that category, either.

I say that, knowing that my reading of contemporary fiction has not been exhaustive. So I say that hoping to be proven wrong in the near future.

Blogging, Limited

2010-05-22T21:40:00.000-07:00

I've just decided that this blog will end on its one-year anniversary, which is, I think, August 5th of this year.

It feels right to limit it in this way. Unless one has a particular political axe to grind (and I do not), endless blogging is an exercise in self-advertising and not much more.

I set myself the challenge of writing something in this blog every day, partly to see if, as a beleaguered new mother, I could be disciplined enough to adhere to a daily writing schedule--however flimsy and limited. I've succeeded at that.

I also wanted, as I indicated yesterday, to keep a blog that celebrated not so much the traditional joys and sorrows of motherhood, but the particular joys and sorrows of being an older mother, as well as the more abstract joys and sorrows experienced by this person who writes, and who happens to be a mother. I've only partially succeeded at that. Hoping for better in the next few months.

Finally, I wanted to keep a daily record of events for my son to have when he turns, say, fifteen or sixteen. He'll see a portion of his life that would have remained much more obscure to him if I hadn't bothered to go through this exercise. In that sense, I've succeeded, but I wonder how it will feel to him to know that I've broadcasted his life in this way. I've tried to keep silent about the more intimate details of our life together, but I don't know that I've always succeeded.

From here on out, the focus will be much more on the random walks--whatever ones we manage to take--and less on the like-wow, how-neat-is-this aspects of motherhood; I'm still hoping to write an atypical mommy blog...though I'm not totally disappointed that the like-wow factor often crept into my writing (after all, being wowed by one's progeny is one of the best things life has to offer).

San Francisco, Foot by Foot

2010-05-21T21:47:00.000-07:00

I've attempted to keep the focus, in this blog, on two things: (1) being an older mother, and (2) taking random walks in San Francisco and writing about its more hidden, surprising aspects.

I've done alright with #1 (although recently the focus has been more on motherhood in general, not on being older); as far as #2 goes, in recent weeks I've failed miserably at taking random walks with my son. The reason is, he's walking.

What I mean is--we walk, ever-so-slowly, down a sidewalk, for twenty feet or so--then he's attracted to a pigeon and wants to follow it across a busy street, so I have to pick him up and carry him to whatever park or indoor attraction I've planned to visit. (This happened today.) Yes, we take random walks, but so far, have only managed to walk half a block at a time...and he hates sitting in a stroller these days. I suspect things will improve in this regard--the more he's walking, the more we'll go on longer walks and the more (perhaps) he'll want to sit in a stroller at the end of the day. For right now, though, I have to accept that my ground's-eye view of San Francisco is in half-block increments...maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Windy, Cloudy, Rainy

2010-05-20T15:39:00.001-07:00

One of those three words describes just about every day this spring in San Francisco. What am I saying--this spring, stretching back into last fall.

We're really due for some beautiful weather here.

That's all for today--saving myself for the short-short story-writing, which is building steam--eighteen stories completed now.

Planet Baby, Part 2

2010-05-19T20:43:00.000-07:00

On the theme of "reclaiming" my life--at a playgroup one of the mothers said her late-afternoon ritual is to put her feet up on the couch and read a book between 5:30 and 6:00 while her son plays at her side; at that time her boy was around fourteen months old. My son is now fourteen months, and I have not been able to incorporate this pleasant ritual into our daily routine. Not from lack of trying; at around 5:30, I'd like nothing better than to kick my feet up and take a break from running after my little man on the go. Today I put in a DVD and told myself I was watching one of my half-hour art lectures (I bought a series of lectures on the history of European art, in case someone missed the earlier post) no matter what. The little one didn't protest; he simply pushed buttons over and over again on the DVD player, fascinated by the fact that he could push buttons and make different things happen. In theory, I could find a way to watch that video even when my toddler's in the room (buy a different shelving unit for the TV and the DVD player, for instance); in practice, I'll probably give up the idea of watching TV between 5:30 and 6:00 and try a book instead. Tomorrow I'm aiming for 2 or 3 pages, at best.

Planet Baby

2010-05-18T22:52:00.001-07:00

I'm below-par right now, in terms of energy level, and it's late, so will keep this brief.

I recently reset the backdrop on my computer screen, from the planet Earth as viewed from outer space, to a picture of my son when he was around 8 months old. Something all-too-symbolic about that, of course. "You're officially a mother when you use your son's picture as your screen backdrop," my husband quipped when he saw the photo; but it also symbolizes the fact that my son is now, if not my whole world, then at least, a very significant planet in my solar system...and he's certainly filling up my view-screen, on most days.

I know that this is, to some degree, imbalanced. I also know that if I work out a balance where my son has to recognize that my entire life does not revolve around him, it will be healthier for both of us, in the long run. We've taken baby steps (pardon the pun) in that direction--and he's definitely showing signs of growing independence, for instance, he goes off and reads a book on his own for a few minutes, or wanders away to pick up something in a distant room and bring it to me (this morning it was the lamp off of my desk in the bedroom). I also know, however, that toddlers generally assume that the lives of the people around them do, in fact, revolve around them; and they never stray far from Caregiver #1 (usually Mommy).

On that inconclusive note--must get to bed.

Colds, Unlimited

2010-05-17T20:59:00.000-07:00

My toddler has had a cold for the last month and a half. That is, he's had successive waves of colds--at least three, by my estimation--and a cough that hasn't gone away since early April. This morning, when we was coughing and sneezing to beat the band, after having shown some improvement this weekend, I was ready to climb the walls from worry, fatigue and a sense of helplessness.

It's amazing what a little information will do for morale. During this afternoon's visit, the pediatrician told me that on average, children between the ages of one and three years will have one cold a month; after that, they will have around one cold every three months, and by the time they enter kindergarten it's usually down to around one cold every six months. By then their immune system has built up enough antibodies to fight all but the nastiest viruses. She said it was common for babies or toddlers to have coughs lasting weeks or even months. She said his lungs sounded perfectly clear and his ears looked good. She also eased my mind in relation to when I could take him to playgroups and public events--best to wait 48 hours after the start of the cold, and that was more for his overall stamina, not so much for reasons of contagion. (If he had a fever, that would be another story, she said--definitely keep him home then.)

I went home heaving a huge sigh of relief. They should pass on this information, about the frequency of colds in toddlers, to all new and expectant mothers; it's one of those essential yet little-known tidbits of knowledge that could ease a lot of mothers' minds in a big hurry. No, my son is not developing bronchitis or asthma or pneumonia; no, he will not cough forever, or start coughing up blood. No, I'm not a horrible mother because my son has been coughing for so long. And most importantly, he will be healthy again, soon.

She also told me that he's teething--the tops of two molars are poking through, and the molars are notoriously painful when they come in. Which means that we could be in for rough nights for the next two months. But forewarned is forearmed, and I know I can cope.

It's when your car's heading downhill fast and you don't know if it has brakes any more that you can start to lose your mind.

Grouchy but Happy

2010-05-16T21:13:00.000-07:00

Today was the Bay to Breakers race. Both my husband and I felt an intense desire to leave the City for the day. I love odd, quirky events, street theater, guerrilla performance art and all that jazz as much as the next Joe Schmo, if it's done with imagination. A big "if." I saw more guys in tutus and girls in tight shorts and t-shirts with "funny" statements on them than I care to remember, as I traversed the City (for unfortunately, I had an event to attend on the other side of town at 1 pm).

San Francisco is losing its pizzazz. Although for the last twenty years or so, the Bay to Breakers hasn't had any pizzazz, so it's not really this one race's fault. The Bay to Breakers is just one symptom of a general illness. The city does not know how to do "quirky" any more. That is, people still attempt to act nonconformist, but end up looking remarkably alike in their supposed nonconformism. I don't know what the cure is--except, a few really good guerrilla performance art companies, like the one I was very briefly involved with in the eighties, Contraband. Done the right way, guerrilla theater can poke holes in the stodgy conformity of any culture, even San Francisco conforming-nonconformist culture.

Since I wasn't prepared to start a guerrilla theater troupe this afternoon, I did make it out of the City with my husband by around 3:30--down to Mountain View's Shoreline Park, where the conformity doesn't pretend to be nonconformist...my fourteen-month-old son was blown about by the wind, but seemed to enjoy himself; and once again, my husband and I contemplated a move south at some point in the distant future.

The only problem is: I still love San Francisco. Despite appearances.

The Mothers, United...

2010-05-15T20:12:00.000-07:00

My two older mothers' groups are still going strong; one of them now has more than seventy members. That's an unwieldy size for any sort of playgroup with children involved, obviously, so we've divided into five sub-groups; the one I'm in, mothers over forty with toddlers between 13 and 16 months of age, has had two gatherings so far, in two different San Francisco parks. We appear to be a dynamic bunch of people, with interesting professions (those who are employed) and a lot to say to each other. The value of this sort of group, to any mom with a toddler or a baby, cannot be overestimated.

What I'm thinking now (although I hesitate to say it out loud because it would mean a lot of work, and a kind of work that I'm not exactly in love with), is that these mothers' groups should organize and demand that attention be paid to the atrocious quality of most San Francisco schools. The largest mothers' group in San Francisco is Golden Gate Mother's Group--though it's by no means the only one--and it alone has almost 4,000 members. That really is a political force to be reckoned with. If just thirty percent of them lifted a finger to fight for better quality schools in San Francisco, change (on a small scale, at least) would surely happen.

It's one of those tempting ideas that could suddenly take over one's life, so I'll move forward very cautiously on this one.

Coming Attractions

2010-05-14T20:38:00.000-07:00

Met a charming three-year-old girl at a local playground today. (I won't specify as to which one; suffice it to say that it was a nice one.) I was playing hide-and-seek with my son, baby-style; I disappeared from view inside a small plastic structure and said "Where's Mommy?"; he lifted a flap and saw me and giggled. That's a great form of hide-and-seek for the average tired mom, of course; no motion involved for me, oodles of fun for the boy. The three-year-old, a slight girl with a wide-open expression and big, impish grin, started opening a different flap and looking in; I leaned over and said "Hi" to her, in a funny voice, and that was enough to make her beam with pleasure and keep doing it again and again. The next time my roving kid and I were in the structure, she actually popped inside with me and stood in the corner; I poked her gently in the stomach and said "I see you" or something similar, and she responded with a chortle of delight.

"What's your name?" I asked. She said something that was incomprehensible to me; maybe she'd been trained by her parents not to respond with her real name, or maybe that was just her three-year-old pronunciation. A few minutes later I asked how old she was, and I think she said, "Three."

The thing that knocked my socks off wasn't so much her winning smile and easy, friendly manner, although those things were wonderful; it was that moment when my son and I walked past her and she was pretending to take a phone call from someone. She wasn't holding a toy phone or anything of the sort; she was just leaning against a play structure, talking in a very businesslike way into an imaginary telephone.

It reminded me of how much I love that age in children. Their imaginations take flight at any moment; they are in love with the world in a way that only three and four-year-olds can love it.

However, the downside is the degree of loneliness and fear they can experience at any moment...precisely because their hearts and imaginations are so huge, especially when compared to their ability to process information, they are vulnerable. This little girl suddenly told me in a whisper, and not in response to any question I'd asked, "I want to go home." I looked over at the silent person sitting on a bench, presumably her caregiver, who never said a word to her or even smiled the entire hour or so that we were there. "My mommy's waiting for me at home," the little girl continued, her voice sad, or at least, wistful. I can't know exactly what she meant--was she expressing a wishful thought, i.e. she wanted her mom to come home from work early; or was it true and for some inexplicable reason she was forced to remain with this unsympathetic person for the time being?

I'll never know. But that little girl reminded me, not just how much I love that age; she reminded me how incredibly precious our little girls and boys are--not just my son, or my friends' sons and daughters, but all these miraculous beings that we pass on all the playgrounds.

Mediocre Schools

2010-05-13T21:48:00.000-07:00

I wrote earlier in this blog about the ridiculously high cost of preschools in San Francisco. Today I reviewed the achievement statistics for San Francisco schools, at least, the public schools; they were ridiculously low, with only a few exceptions.

San Francisco is, by and large, a city of rich people, at least when compared with the rest of the country. Why are the public schools performing at such a sub-par level? The only answers I can think of: most of the rich are sending their kids to private schools or are finagling their way into the best public schools. I also believe that a large percentage of the rich that live here do not have school-age children; at least anecdotally, a large percentage of those that do end up leaving San Francisco and heading south or north, to Marin or Palo Alto or Los Gatos, when their children reach the age of four or five. So the quality of San Francisco schools remains mediocre and no one raises much of a fuss about it.

I don't profess to be more noble than the rest of the population. We might choose to move south. It's hard to say at this point. But even if we do--the basic problem is there, stretching out like an ash cloud over my son's future. For it will be a future in which the United States is, more and more and more, a country of have-everythings and have-nothings. And the violent society this will help foster will impact every single one of us. I can't hide from that ugly fact by moving my son out of San Francisco, or moving my son into a private school within the city's borders.

Passion, Unlimited

2010-05-12T20:59:00.000-07:00

We've been, the husband and I, talking to our 13-year-old (my stepdaughter, his daughter) about the importance of developing a passion for some particular endeavor, then pursuing it with great energy. It's important for her to hear this...but also, perhaps, a bit intimidating for her. She's more of a generalist at this point...and I don't mean that in a sarcastic way at all.

What I think I want to tell her, the next time we have one of these "little talks" about life, is: Don't worry right now if you still like to do a lot of things...but it's important to do all of them with passion. To explore with passion. My son, like most toddlers, has a knack for this. I've learned something by watching him play. His latest passion is to point to the letter "z" on one of his blocks in the living room, then march over to the alphabet I've posted on the dining room wall and touch the letter "z," while emitting a shout of delight. He's in love with the alphabet...and with the connections that he's suddenly making.

What else did I try to do as a graduate student, but attempt to make connections--and to pursue those connections with a passion? I'm not sure I succeeded--in other words, I'm not sure that the connections I pursued were all that worthwhile; but that's beside the point. When I finished my thesis, all I could think about was "Now I finally have time to write--anything I want." And though my parents' illnesses then the birth of my child postponed the fulfillment of that passion, I'm sure now that it will be fulfilled, one way or another.

The best gift we can give our children, perhaps, is an understanding of the importance of passion--not blind passion, of course, but something much more exciting and rewarding.

Excitement, Limited

2010-05-11T21:09:00.000-07:00

Almost every time my little one is particularly excited in the evening, he has also crashed, literally--falling in some minor way or having some other mishap. Usually it's not serious at all; a couple times, he's cut his lip or gums (though not so badly as to require a trip to the emergency room, thank goodness). Tonight was the second one of those two times. He cut his lip falling in the kitchen, not badly at all--the bleeding stopped in a few minutes; but it's never enjoyable to see the front of a toddler's mouth covered in blood.

At these times, it becomes painfully obvious that any parents worth their salt need to learn how to rein in a child's wilder mood swings...it's easier said than done of course, especially where a toddler is concerned. And to some extent, toddlers have to fall, in order to learn how to control themselves. But the parent has to make sure, at a minimum, that those life lessons are only moderately harsh.

If I knew the perfect formula for allowing just enough freedom and providing just enough in the way of protection and restraints, I guess I would be marketing that right now. I don't. I just walk away from a day like today thinking: I have to, have to, find a better balance for my own kid.

Upper Noe Blues

2010-05-10T21:37:00.000-07:00

Today the little guy and I went to the poshest play area I've yet encountered in San Francisco--the Upper Noe Recreation Center. The playground has thick padding on every play surface except the sandbox (not like the tanbark and cement from my childhood) and it also features an indoor tot playspace, open 3 to 4 Mondays and 3 to 5 Tuesdays through Fridays. We missed getting into the indoor area today because it was Monday after 4, but peeking through the window, it looked enticing.

The boy wasn't feeling up to par, however--even on the swings, he was staring into space for much of the time; and he started crying almost immediately when he fell on his side on the spongy surface of the outdoor play area, even though it really wasn't much of a fall. His big thrill was opening and closing the large metal gate--but every time I pulled him away from that activity, he kicked his feet and almost screamed in protest. He'd missed his afternoon nap, for a couple different reasons; but I don't think that explains it entirely. When we got home, his mood rapidly improved, and he was fine again after dinner.

I think there are certain days when we assume the tots need to run around outside, and our assumption is just wrong. It was cold and windy in San Francisco today; my son probably felt like staying at home, moving chairs around and rearranging books on every accessible bookshelf.

Mother's Day, Revisited

2010-05-09T21:02:00.001-07:00

I think I did celebrate Mother's Day last year, but I have no memory of it. Too sleep-deprived, no doubt...I probably celebrated it with a bubble bath and a prayer that things would be easier by Mother's Day the following year.

And they are; there's no question that they are. At this point, it's not quite so much about survival as it is about balancing each day with enough activities to keep my son occupied and entertained, and enough down-time for Mommy to keep her from losing her marbles. And though I'm getting closer to a good balance, I can't say that I've got things completely worked out yet.

But I don't want to sound like one of these contemporary "getting things done" efficiency gurus. My son is my real Mother's Day present, let's face it.

One More for Sandra

2010-05-08T21:06:00.000-07:00

I haven't rented Sandra Bullock movies as I intended to after the Oscars...I haven't seen Speed, or any other film she's done besides Crash. But as I said before, I admired her Oscar speech this year, I admire the fact that she speaks fluent German, and I admire her gutsiness. And now I definitely admire, not so much the fact that she adopted a black baby from New Orleans--any celebrity could have done that; I admire the way that she's handled it so far.

Somehow she kept the whole thing under wraps until just recently. I think she did it by spending a lot of time focused on her baby and not on anything else (including the sordid details of her husband's adulterous lifestyle). As we're both 45 and new moms, I feel a certain kinship with her; I know that she could hire an entourage of nannies and helpers, but it doesn't seem like she's chosen to do so. In her Oscars speech she spoke movingly about her own mother; she has a tough road ahead of her just coping with being a single mom and handling all the stresses that are bound to come up in relation to her adoption; but she seems to be made of a resilient fiber that will weather the storms; and based on those photographs of her baby in People magazine, I'll bet he is, too.

And though any celebrity could have done what she did, the fact is that no major white celebrity has ever adopted a black baby from this country. That says something about us as a culture, I think.

Perhaps the day that we become a truly multicultural society is the day when all our children are loved equally.

Whiskey and Milanos

2010-05-07T21:15:00.000-07:00

Terrible to admit it, but there are those days when I am simply counting the hours until my son goes to bed, and this was one of them. It's not that he was especially bad today; it's just that I woke up tired and never got my wind back. And with fatigue came some gloomy thoughts about how my life is disappearing into a long dark tunnel lined with diapers, mucus and pureed prunes, and echoing with the music of "Wheels on the Bus."

Right now I'm eating Pepperidge Farm Milano double chocolate cookies and drinking Glenfiddich, and somehow, things are looking brighter. (I've broken two of my rules for the blog with this post--never whine about my personal life and never advertise any brand names whatsoever. So be it.)

Modernism, Again

2010-05-06T22:28:00.000-07:00

Completed the tenth short-short story today. The brevity, the intensity of saying something in one or two pages means that the basic situation has to be explained in about one paragraph. I think I'm managing to do that, although I don't really know yet. The stories have to sit for a few months, then I'll read them over.

I'm also attempting to suggest an entire world without actually describing it. That's Hemingway's old trick--or he tried for that in some of his stories, with mixed results. I think it works well in The Sun Also Rises, less well in some of his writing. It also works excellently in In Our Time and A Moveable Feast.

Hemingway is a problematic figure for many contemporary writers, because he seems to have been such a nasty person at times. I can't speak with any authority about that. All I can say is that he and Joyce (and/or Proust) serve as bookends for a particular era in fiction writing, where Joyce is the macro view and Hemingway is the micro. What I mean is that Hemingway is all about interiors and internal suffering, and Joyce is all about interactions between people. Joyce's universe is well-populated, whereas Hemingway's characters always live in the desert (in a psychological sense).

I love this era (modernism) for encompassing and comprehending two such disparate writers (not to mention Woolf, Stein, Beckett and so forth); the richness of that era for fiction is startling when one considers the paucity of excellence in our own period...but it's late and I need to continue this rant some other time.

Freedom and Family

2010-05-05T20:54:00.000-07:00

Following up on yesterday's post--I do see my son chafing against some of my rules and restrictions: not playing with the utensil holder in the dishwasher, for instance, or not touching the electronic control buttons for the oven--whenever he does those things, I tell him "No," unequivocally, pick him up, and put him down on the rug in the corner. What surprises me is his reaction--he knows so clearly that he did something wrong that he waves his hands in the air and cries out in a special way. This is very recent behavior. While he's chafing against those restrictions, I think he's also, in a strange way, expecting me to do something about his transgressions--expecting me to hold him back, even. And whenever I can, I catch him before he's actually touched the utensils or the button on the oven, look at him and shake my finger--and he usually walks away. When that happens I try to lavish him with praise.

I guess I'm surprised that even at his age, discipline is such an important element of our relationship, and that he often reacts so favorably to it. But I have learned that it's also very important not to keep saying "No" all the time--to find more creative and positive ways to handle problem behaviors, whenever possible. I'm more convinced than ever that at any age, a child will soak up as much love as you can give them, even when it comes in the form of some firm (but mostly positive) discipline.

Toddlerhood and Adolescence

2010-05-04T22:17:00.000-07:00

One of my books on raising toddlers talks about the similarity between that age and adolescence: at both ages, the child is desperate for independence and chafes vigorously against the constraints imposed by parents while at the same time, he or she needs constant reassurance that they are there to offer guidance and love when needed. Which makes the relationship between child and parent especially ambivalent at these times.

We have both a toddler and an adolescent in the house...ambivalence squared. But we're soldiering on.

Moms, Electrons

2010-05-03T20:35:00.000-07:00

I've been so immersed in mommies, playgroups and playgroup organizing lately that when I was at a playground this afternoon with my son, and found myself sitting near a couple other mothers while my son played in the sand, I had no desire whatsoever to strike up a conversation with them. It was more like an encounter between electrons, I must admit: I don't think these fatigued-looking mommies wanted to talk to me, either. We all probably would have said yes to taking a bubble bath, however. Though not necessarily in the same tub.

Sunday Evening 9:30 pm

2010-05-02T21:36:00.000-07:00

I've organized two separate mother/baby playgroups now--one a behemoth with 68 members and counting, the other a manageable 7 mothers and their babies/toddlers. As mentioned recently, the first group threatens to eat up far too much of my personal time, although I've recently divided it up into five smaller groups and have arranged for other moms to lead four of those groups.

What's also happening is--my mind has become far too focused on all things mommy-related. The very thing that I started this blog to help prevent seems to be happening, in spades.

This afternoon, thanks to my husband, I did manage to sit in front of a computer for forty-five minutes and write (a short-short story)...it felt wonderful.

I need to get back to that--every day, during nap times if possible. And right now, I need to be with my husband.

The Scary Part

2010-05-01T20:50:00.001-07:00

So many things about being a mother of an almost-14-month-old are wonderful. And yet...sometimes I catch myself counting the months. "14 months...16 more months to go." 16 more months until I'll have a whole morning to myself, 5 days a week (that's when I plan to enroll him in a daycare for three or four hours a day).

The scary part is, sometimes I wonder if I'll have the stamina to survive and properly take care of him until then. It sounds pathetic, in that I have a wonderful husband, as well as an extremely competent babysitter who takes care of him for three hours once a week. And my son's getting better, a little better, at entertaining himself for short stretches of time. But there's no getting around it--keeping up with an active, hefty one-year-old is hard physical labor.

And I'm probably more tired than I've been in a while. I haven't been good about napping or resting when he takes his naps, recently...nor have I been getting to bed early enough. Just a little bit less sleep, and I fear that I'll make a mistake that I'll always regret; I know that it takes just a few seconds of misjudgment on a parent's part for an accident to happen.

And yet--I also know that it's wrong to think this way. It's wrong to keep thinking about the scary parts.

Rebel Yell

2010-04-30T22:03:00.000-07:00

I've started reading Alice Randall's Rebel Yell, and while I should reserve judgment until I'm finished, so far it just doesn't have the emotional drive, the sense of humor, the rollicking language, the rich characters of Pushkin and the Queen of Spades. It feels a bit thrown together...so I'm wondering if I overestimated her in a previous post. However, I won't say more until I've finished it...and I'll stop there for tonight as it's been a busy, tiring week.