Thursday, January 7, 2010
Is It True
It seems unreal to me that in just a few short months, I will no longer have the exquisite pleasure of feeding my child his bottle just before he drifts off to sleep for the night. This most silent and intimate of all moments between a parent and child...it doesn't last forever? No; it hardly even lasts a moment.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Off the Beaten Path
Took the kid on a stroll through the Aids Memorial Grove in Golden Gate Park today. A beautifully designed place with a redwood grove, a small one but remarkably peaceful and secluded, set down in an oval-shaped basin, away from the traffic noises of the park above. This secluded spot also contains, just beyond the redwoods, a surprisingly large grassy area with benches all around; and on all sides of the dell, lush plantings of magnolia trees, ferns and flowers provide even more of a feeling of isolation and tranquility.
The only complaint I could make about the place is that it's not all that wheelchair accessible--making it, also, not very stroller accessible. It's easy to enter the grove from what's called the South Portal, leading down into the basin; but then, it's a struggle to make it up the unpaved path on the other side. My progress forward, even with the new, sturdy stroller I've purchased, was seriously impeded by stairs and roots and large rocks. At the end of the climb up the side of the basin, a series of roots and rocks discouraged me so much that I said aloud, to the baby and to no one, "I just don't know..." at that moment, a young man with a tiny baby nestled under his jacket came towards me and offered to help me lift the stroller. "Oh no, you've got your own load to carry," I said, but he was already lifting the front end of the stroller; I had no choice but to follow with the back end. I looked at his baby, trying to remember when my own child was that small..."How old?" I asked.
"Three months."
"Oh yes, I remember those days," I said, smiling in what I hoped was a sympathetic way. "Not the easiest time."
"But they're very portable," he replied, cheerfully patting the bundle in his jacket.
His enthusiasm for his new parenting role was obvious; it was a highlight of the day, just experiencing that for a moment--remembering what the first days can feel like. Some of that glow washed off on me. I also realized--he might have no inkling of what I was talking about. It was entirely possible that his son or daughter (I could only see a pair of small eyes peeking out from his jacket) slept through the night already, and remained remarkably even-keeled throughout the day.
Everyone's experience of parenthood is completely different, because our temperaments and parenting styles are all so different--which is obvious; but also--and this is just not apparent to people unless they've been through it--babies are all so radically different from one another. My baby no longer fit into my jacket like that after about four weeks of age. I would have loved to have experienced that for a bit longer, but he just wasn't one of those babies. In my mother's group, one baby girl still weighs less than twelve pounds at four and a half months of age. My baby weighed over eighteen pounds at two months. That's just the way it is. As parents, we're all wandering off the beaten path, in one way or another. At least we are if we're honest with ourselves.
The only complaint I could make about the place is that it's not all that wheelchair accessible--making it, also, not very stroller accessible. It's easy to enter the grove from what's called the South Portal, leading down into the basin; but then, it's a struggle to make it up the unpaved path on the other side. My progress forward, even with the new, sturdy stroller I've purchased, was seriously impeded by stairs and roots and large rocks. At the end of the climb up the side of the basin, a series of roots and rocks discouraged me so much that I said aloud, to the baby and to no one, "I just don't know..." at that moment, a young man with a tiny baby nestled under his jacket came towards me and offered to help me lift the stroller. "Oh no, you've got your own load to carry," I said, but he was already lifting the front end of the stroller; I had no choice but to follow with the back end. I looked at his baby, trying to remember when my own child was that small..."How old?" I asked.
"Three months."
"Oh yes, I remember those days," I said, smiling in what I hoped was a sympathetic way. "Not the easiest time."
"But they're very portable," he replied, cheerfully patting the bundle in his jacket.
His enthusiasm for his new parenting role was obvious; it was a highlight of the day, just experiencing that for a moment--remembering what the first days can feel like. Some of that glow washed off on me. I also realized--he might have no inkling of what I was talking about. It was entirely possible that his son or daughter (I could only see a pair of small eyes peeking out from his jacket) slept through the night already, and remained remarkably even-keeled throughout the day.
Everyone's experience of parenthood is completely different, because our temperaments and parenting styles are all so different--which is obvious; but also--and this is just not apparent to people unless they've been through it--babies are all so radically different from one another. My baby no longer fit into my jacket like that after about four weeks of age. I would have loved to have experienced that for a bit longer, but he just wasn't one of those babies. In my mother's group, one baby girl still weighs less than twelve pounds at four and a half months of age. My baby weighed over eighteen pounds at two months. That's just the way it is. As parents, we're all wandering off the beaten path, in one way or another. At least we are if we're honest with ourselves.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Happiness, Part Two
The problem with the adage "Happiness comes through doing," for a mother, is that one is almost always doing--doing something for the kid. And yes, in the big-picture sense, it brings great happiness. But in the small-picture, daily-life sense, it brings a kind of slow-burning insanity, as well as boredom and weariness. The only remedy for that is to preserve the other parts of oneself as well as one can.
It seems easy to predict that if I don't manage to crawl out of the "Mommy" role every once in a while, my son will pay, in the long run. If I have no focus but motherhood, how could I help but become suffocatingly protective and attentive? And/or, just plain dull? Or perhaps a reverse reaction will set in; perhaps I'll become resentful and negligent.
Stepping out of the "Mommy" role was, of course, one of the main purposes of this blog...I haven't done too well with that recently.
It seems easy to predict that if I don't manage to crawl out of the "Mommy" role every once in a while, my son will pay, in the long run. If I have no focus but motherhood, how could I help but become suffocatingly protective and attentive? And/or, just plain dull? Or perhaps a reverse reaction will set in; perhaps I'll become resentful and negligent.
Stepping out of the "Mommy" role was, of course, one of the main purposes of this blog...I haven't done too well with that recently.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Happiness
The old adage, "Happiness comes through doing," seems particularly relevant for babies. The highlight of this day was when my son crawled halfway across the playground on his all-fours (up until recently he's been crawling mostly commando-style, on his belly). The proud, delighted smile on his face said it all. And yet--I just finished reading two grim apocalyptic novels, George Orwell's Animal Farm, and Cormac McCarthy's The Road. Happiness did not come through doing for the poor animals on Orwell's farm; as the character named Boxer illustrates particularly well, misery can come through doing, if the conditions in which one lives are oppressive.
On the other hand--something like happiness or maybe more accurately, a kind of moral peace comes to the father and son in McCarthy's book, simply through their efforts to survive with dignity, and to help each other. "The good guys are the ones who keep trying," the father tells his son, as they face starvation and bands of cannibalistic marauders in a post-apocalyptic landscape. McCarthy does a pretty good job of highlighting the importance of choosing in life. None of us face the morally depraved, hellish environment he describes; but we are constantly choosing--to try, or not to try. And sometimes the results of not trying can feel apocalyptic (I'm thinking here of a third novel I recently finished, Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs, which had a great message, but the characters and the unfolding of the plot were, for me, long-winded and uninteresting).
Getting back to my son. It's wonderful to see the first raw movements of a young baby, and the determination this particular baby exhibits in the face of so many obstacles, both physiological and topological. And yes, the choices he has to make are a lot less dramatic than those made by the animals on Orwell's farm, or the father and son on McCarthy's road; but they are no less impressive for all that. It certainly makes me happy just thinking about it.
On the other hand--something like happiness or maybe more accurately, a kind of moral peace comes to the father and son in McCarthy's book, simply through their efforts to survive with dignity, and to help each other. "The good guys are the ones who keep trying," the father tells his son, as they face starvation and bands of cannibalistic marauders in a post-apocalyptic landscape. McCarthy does a pretty good job of highlighting the importance of choosing in life. None of us face the morally depraved, hellish environment he describes; but we are constantly choosing--to try, or not to try. And sometimes the results of not trying can feel apocalyptic (I'm thinking here of a third novel I recently finished, Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs, which had a great message, but the characters and the unfolding of the plot were, for me, long-winded and uninteresting).
Getting back to my son. It's wonderful to see the first raw movements of a young baby, and the determination this particular baby exhibits in the face of so many obstacles, both physiological and topological. And yes, the choices he has to make are a lot less dramatic than those made by the animals on Orwell's farm, or the father and son on McCarthy's road; but they are no less impressive for all that. It certainly makes me happy just thinking about it.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
AnPan Man
"Anpan" means "red bean paste cake" in Japanese, and perhaps the most famous children's action hero in Japan is "Anpan Man," which means "Red Bean Paste Cake Man." In other words, their action hero is based on something almost all Japanese children eat. I'm trying to think of a parallel in American culture. Our action figures are full of action, not red bean paste. I'm writing about this because my son has fallen in love with his Anpan Man doll, a little stuffed cloth figure with a bright smile, bright red cheeks and a small brown cape, and a little smiley face on the front of his shirt. It was sent to him by one of his relatives in Japan, and he coos every time he sees it, then reaches for it and bites its nose--his current version of a kiss, I think. He also coos when he sees the little wind-up Anpan Man toy we also have. It's about two inches high, and spins around the dining room table while he's eating.
I don't know why he's so fond of these toys, but they are extremely kawaii for sure, in other words, "cute." Basing a toy on a sweet cake is also kawaii, in that Japanese sense of the word which means so much more than simply "cute." And I think I see for the first time how extreme cuteness can be, sometimes, a virtue.
I don't know why he's so fond of these toys, but they are extremely kawaii for sure, in other words, "cute." Basing a toy on a sweet cake is also kawaii, in that Japanese sense of the word which means so much more than simply "cute." And I think I see for the first time how extreme cuteness can be, sometimes, a virtue.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Poetry and Time
What kind of meaningful writing can happen when one is pressed for time, when one has all of two minutes to write something? Maybe not much; maybe a lot. It all depends.
William Carlos Williams used to write poems, or scraps of poems, or scraps of anything, on his prescription pads at eleven o'clock at night, when he'd finally finished with his demanding job as a pediatrician. Or he'd type away furiously for fifteen minutes. He wrote entire books using this method.
Most of us want to write, but make excuses for why we cannot, including: "I have no time." Williams, by example, refutes all of these claims. But it took a tremendous amount of will power and desire on his part. And he also moved into "poetic mode" at the drop of a hat. Stopping by the side of the road on his way to a house call, he would scribble furiously for a few seconds, then resume driving.
His time became Now. That's not a bad way to think about time, if one wants to write.
William Carlos Williams used to write poems, or scraps of poems, or scraps of anything, on his prescription pads at eleven o'clock at night, when he'd finally finished with his demanding job as a pediatrician. Or he'd type away furiously for fifteen minutes. He wrote entire books using this method.
Most of us want to write, but make excuses for why we cannot, including: "I have no time." Williams, by example, refutes all of these claims. But it took a tremendous amount of will power and desire on his part. And he also moved into "poetic mode" at the drop of a hat. Stopping by the side of the road on his way to a house call, he would scribble furiously for a few seconds, then resume driving.
His time became Now. That's not a bad way to think about time, if one wants to write.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Relaxation and Trauma, Part Two
Reading the post "Relaxation and Trauma" again, I realize that I still need to practice what I preached there--but in one way, I've made definite progress towards that goal: I've hired someone to come to the house two weekday afternoons a week, three hours each time, to care for the little guy. This, to give me a chance to rest or go swimming or, hopefully, both.
It was difficult to make the decision to hire someone--I immediately felt deficient as a mother. But that begged the question: would it be more proficient if I let myself fall apart physically and perhaps emotionally as well? We don't have any friends or relatives in this area who can babysit on a regular or even semi-regular basis. He's only had two four-hour sessions of being watched by someone other than his mother or father, since he was born. This, combined with the daily, garden-variety stress of caring for a baby who's perfectly normal and healthy and, like all normal and healthy babies, rambunctious, left me so drained that I'd stopped looking forward to anything except lying flat on my bed, taking a bath, or sleeping. My quality of life, to put it mildly, had deteriorated.
It was also very difficult to find the right person--I won't discuss the details of what happened--suffice it to say that the caregiver we've hired seems wonderful, and I have my fingers crossed because it's way too early to say if she's good or not. She was still in training as of last week. But all the early signs are positive; so I'm finally starting to swing away from the "trauma" side of the pendulum. Maybe by sometime next week, I'll start learning to relax again.
It was difficult to make the decision to hire someone--I immediately felt deficient as a mother. But that begged the question: would it be more proficient if I let myself fall apart physically and perhaps emotionally as well? We don't have any friends or relatives in this area who can babysit on a regular or even semi-regular basis. He's only had two four-hour sessions of being watched by someone other than his mother or father, since he was born. This, combined with the daily, garden-variety stress of caring for a baby who's perfectly normal and healthy and, like all normal and healthy babies, rambunctious, left me so drained that I'd stopped looking forward to anything except lying flat on my bed, taking a bath, or sleeping. My quality of life, to put it mildly, had deteriorated.
It was also very difficult to find the right person--I won't discuss the details of what happened--suffice it to say that the caregiver we've hired seems wonderful, and I have my fingers crossed because it's way too early to say if she's good or not. She was still in training as of last week. But all the early signs are positive; so I'm finally starting to swing away from the "trauma" side of the pendulum. Maybe by sometime next week, I'll start learning to relax again.
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