Cheetah Mom

Last May marked the approximate one-year anniversary of a knee problem--Patellofemoral Pain Syndrome (PFPS), my doctor labelled it, when I saw her in November of 2014.  I think it might have been caused by a combination of my very big five-year-old slamming his body down on my knee on a regular basis (sitting down forcefully on it, in other words), and my constant ascent/descent of the stairway in our house, at least twenty times a day.  

My doctor demonstrated one very feeble exercise I could try to treat this condition, swinging her leg slowly back and forth about 24 inches.  This did absolutely nothing for me.  I researched the condition online, and found some very useful exercises at the Kaiser web site, a series of four moves which, when I tried them, did seem to help ease the pain to some degree.

For several months after that, I would do the exercises for a few days, then drop them, then pick them up again for another few days, then forget about them for a week.  I wasn't taking them very seriously, and (surprise surprise) my knee wasn't improving.  The pain would subside, then for no apparent reason, flare up--moderate pain, not excruciating, but bad enough that I couldn't run without feeling pain with every step of my left leg; stairs were also difficult for me.

Finally, last May, something in me snapped.  Would I live like this for the rest of my life?  How could I hope to remain healthy if I couldn't exercise?  My body felt horrible and I was always tired.

I decided to exercise at least 25 minutes a day, every single day, without fail, for at least a year.  I decided one day--in tears, feeling nearly hopeless.  "Well if it's going to hurt with every other step I take, I just don't care; I'm still going jogging today."  And it did hurt, those first few runs.  Every other step.  But the encouraging part was--after I'd jogged about five times, the pain would subside during the run, about halfway into it.

I didn't jog every day.  That would have been crazy...the stress on my knee would have caused further injury; of that I have little doubt.  I ran about twice a week, and on the other days, I swam, biked or walked.  All at a slow-to-moderate pace.  I also did yoga, the knee exercises, and free weights; about five minutes' worth of each, every day.

About a month into it, I announced to my husband that I was going to do a triathlon sometime in the near future.  I've always loved all three components of the triathlon:  swimming, biking, jogging; I want to see how it feels to do all three in a race.  I have no illusions of greatness--I'm much too slow for that.  My swimming is pretty good, but not stellar; ditto for my biking; and my running times are god-awful.

But none of that matters; I want to do a triathlon, with a smile on my face at least half the time; I want to have fun with it.

I've selected what seems like a good sprint triathlon for beginners, the Marin County Triathlon, held November 7-8 in San Rafael.

Having made up my mind to do it, I've started training for it--training hard sometimes--and after three months, I'm happy to say that my knee is doing much, much better.  And (nice side benefit) I feel healthy in a way that I haven't felt since my son was born.

Patellofemoral Pain Syndrome is one of the most poorly-understood joint conditions I've ever heard about or read about.  They know what it is, more or less--the back of the kneecap rubbing against the thighbone, an absence of sufficient cartilage in that area--but there is no clear understanding in the medical community about how to treat it (as evidenced by my own doctor).

My own unscientific experiment has convinced me, however, that exercise, even vigorous at times, has a wonderful effect on this condition.  I've read somewhere that exercising the knee can actually build cartilage, and therefore aids in healing PFPS.  I certainly hope it's true; and judging from the much-reduced, nearly-nonexistent pain in my knee, even when climbing stairs or jogging 3 miles, I am growing more and more convinced that this has happened for me.

My regular exercise routine has had a beneficial effect on my child as well; he is suddenly interested in running a road race.  Starting two weeks ago, we've gone jog-walking at least three times a week.  I wish it were a little less walking, a little more jogging--but it's a start.

Instead of a tiger mom, I aspire to become a cheetah mom.  I want to move fast and well, and teach my son to move fast and well--in every domain that interests him.  Not because I want him to win; I just want him to see how fun life can be when you can move that way.

Infinite Waste?

I have trouble coping with many aspects of contemporary American society. Therefore I approached David Foster Wallace's mammoth book, Infinite Jest, with a lot of interest, as I'd heard that it examines, and satirizes, American culture's obsession with entertainment.  Also, I had read and admired his essay in Consider the Lobster regarding the soullessness of recent American literature, and thought that Infinite Jest would provide a literary answer--that every page would be so packed with heart and soul and important truths, Tolstoy and Steinbeck are standing up and applauding Wallace from their seats in heaven.

When I start reading a book, I slog through the first fifty pages no matter what.  I'm on page 43 of Infinite Jest, and it will take a lot of will power to get to page 50.  I do not like this novel.  I understand that many people and situations are being satirized in it, including the protagonists; but underneath there should be a layer of dead-seriousness (as in Gulliver's Travels), that makes your heart go, clunk, as you tell yourself, yes, he's ripping up everything around him, but only to get at the truth of things.

I felt ripples of seriousness in his description of a man desperate to receive some pot from his supplier so that he can get lost in a three-day solitary dopefest in his apartment.  This was the only section of those first 43 pages that rang true with me, on any level...but then it ended and we were back in endless scenes with boring, eviscerated people.  Now perhaps boring, eviscerated people can serve as the fulcrum on which a novel rests (see certain novels of Sinclair Lewis), but it's pretty hard to pull that off and maintain the reader's interest.

I will perhaps read more than 50 pages because this novel is so beloved by so many people, and my hopes were so high.  Wallace was brilliant and insightful in his essay about the soullessness of contemporary American literature, but this novel seems to prove his point much more than disprove it.

A Lead Belly Day

I forgot to post yesterday--but then, it was a Lead Belly Day.  At least until about 9 p.m. when the crisis was resolved.

The expression "Lead Belly Day" comes from a former work colleague.  Maybe she heard it in her childhood in Texas, where the blues musician Lead Belly lived most of his life.  I worked for an arts festival in San Francisco in the early 90s.  The festival ran into the red, to such a degree that it had to shut down in the midst of its one-month run.  On the day when we really knew the worst of it, when they told us we would be out of a job by the end of the week, my colleague, a funny black woman in her thirties, sighed, sat down hard and said, "This is a Lead Belly kind of Day."

When the blues are sinking deep into your bones, and your heart hangs down around your ankles...that's a Lead Belly Day.  But as I said, the situation drastically reversed itself yesterday at around 9 o'clock in the evening...and I was so overjoyed about this change of circumstances that thoughts of this post never crossed my mind.  (I won't say exactly what happened--too personal.)

Yes, I'm going to make a daily entry here, as I did six years ago...that's the plan; to do it again for about a year, which is how long I lasted the first time.  If I miss a day here and there, I won't cry about it.  

A Blog No One Reads

I have to admit that I enjoy writing a blog no one reads.  It runs counter to the main tendency of our times:  you're no one unless you have followers.  We're all like miniature L. Ron Hubbards.

Writing a blog no one reads is like standing in one corner of a very crowded room, whispering to yourself.

Five Years

I just spent several minutes re-reading some of the old posts from 2009 and 2010.  They're not as bad as I remembered.  Most of them are readable...of course I'm kicking myself for not having continued this.  But as indicated in the previous post, daily life took over.  And why dwell on the past?

Just the same:  I hate the fact that I've already lost so many moments from his life as a toddler, preschooler, kindergartener...will make a point of trying to remember some of them in a separate journal (again, the point here is not to catalog my son's triumphs and accomplishments, nor his cute statements which are only really precious to a parent, it's to explore what it means to combine motherhood with artistic pursuits, particularly as an older mother who is frequently overwhelmed with fatigue).

I will have to find a way to accept what's happened...for everyone's sake but especially for my own.

Time and the Six-year-old

I am the stay-at-home mother of one six-year-old son.  It might seem like I ought to have a lot of free time.  After all, he's in first grade now...and doesn't he spend a lot of after-school time playing on his own or with neighborhood friends?

Well, the after-school play is mostly by himself, with me in close proximity, and involves a lot of Mommy participation even now.  And yes, he's in school about twenty-eight hours a week; but during a good part of that "free time," I volunteer at school, run errands, clean, organize, send emails and exercise. That leaves--about sixteen hours...which is much more time than I had last year.

When my son was born, I told myself that by the time he had reached the age of two and a half, he would be in preschool five days a week...and so at least I'd have every weekday morning to write or do whatever I wanted.  This did not occur--at least not most weeks.  I will not use this post to tell the entire story of his preschool experience; let's just say, it did not go smoothly until he reached the age of four and a half.  I had maybe ten hours a week to myself, on average.

I've come to realize:  the amount of free time almost any dedicated mother has, if their child is in preschool or kindergarten, is almost always very limited; at best, fifteen hours a week..a bit more only if the child is extraordinarily independent at a young age or if nannies or grandparents are involved, or the child is in an all-day daycare.

We are not wealthy enough to hire nannies, nor was it what I wanted for him; also, we have no grandparents available (his mother and stepfather live far away; my parents are dead).  I have one relative living close by who watches my son about five times a year.

Even now, when he's in first grade, I do not have more than sixteen hours a week that I can spend doing anything that does not involve cooking, cleaning and running errands, or helping my child with homework, helping him get some exercise, or taking him to school or to an after-school activity.

I belabor the point because I was completely stupid about the amount of time and energy it would take to raise a kid from age two and a half to my son's current age of six and a half.

I should perhaps explain:  I am married.  My husband is a good father.  But he also works intensively, five days a week; is physically and mentally drained many evenings and just needs to escape in a good book; and he has a stepdaughter who is in college now--meaning, he has slogged through the trenches of parenting for eighteen years already.  We had a discussion about this before our son was born.  My husband needed a break when it comes to the heavy lifting, where our child is concerned--the feeding, baths, dishwashing, lunch-making, rides to activities, etc. etc.  He spends quality time with our son on the weekends and is always there when we need him.

But the simple fact is--this mothering/housekeeping business has taken up twelve to fourteen hours of my time, day in, day out, for the last six and a half years.

I'm not complaining...but I wish someone had spelled it out for me when I was getting started with the whole thing--I wish they had really made me understand the degree to which, as a mom of a young child, my time would not be my own.

I'm happy though, for the sixteen hours a week that I do have to myself, finally, now.

August 31, 2015

I'm returning to this blog, five years later...hard to believe so much time has passed.  On the other hand, not so hard, considering my son's passage from babyhood to toddlerhood to young boyhood and all that has occurred in our lives.  

I left the blog out of a sense of frustration, thinking that I had better ways to spend my time as a writer; but looking back on it, I realize that it wasn't as much of a waste of time as I thought.  Not every entry was worthwhile, or even mildly interesting; but the daily-ness of it meant that certain important moments were captured, moments I'd since forgotten about; and I find that they still resonate through my life in interesting ways.  

It's like re-discovering stashed-away treasures in the attic of one's house; we pull something out of a box and suddenly, the rush of excitement we experienced at the moment of discovering that thing or that person washes over us, overlaid with the knowledge that "I am not that particular person any more"; and we are once again changed by the original event.  Life is a kind of spiral, I've always believed; and coming back to this journal could be a way of spiraling up to something that needs to be rediscovered.

My son has occupied at least ninety percent of my thoughts and my time these last six-plus years. Life has been so full of him, since his birth, that I come to this moment more than a bit dazed and overwhelmed. Here once again, this blog, which is supposedly "me"--a woman, 50 now, with a young son, still struggling to find time to write...but what is this "me"?  Does she have any significance, any reality, beyond the "Mommy" that her son knows?  

I've been a stay-at-home mom, writing and doing a small amount of video work (none of it for money).  We moved twice, redecorated and renovated twice, and after all that, almost moved out of California; so I could say that at least two of the last six years were swallowed up by perusals of real estate listings, plus visiting open homes, then working out the details of buying, moving and renovating.  I didn't particularly want this to happen--have almost zero interest in interior decorating, for instance--but it happened, and now, thank goodness, it looks like we're not moving for at least the next few years.  

In many ways, then, I have been immersed in banalities.  But there has been nothing banal about watching my son grow and develop.  He is a constant source of joy (even when he drives me nuts).

Once again, to protect my son's privacy, I will not discuss his every accomplishment here--the academic or sports triumphs/failures, the social breakthroughs and defeats...why?  Why do I need to share those with anyone?  I've always thought that blogs and social media in general are too often used for grandstanding, too infrequently for soul-searching.  (What are we all on this earth for?  I don't think it's for self-aggrandizement.)  

I will continue to use this blog for the same purposes as before, I think.  (1)  To reflect on being an older mother.  (2) To bring to life the present moment (and to offer these moments to my son when he is an adult).  (4) To reflect on the challenges of writing when motherhood seems to demand close to one hundred percent of my time, and simultaneously, to carve out an identity beyond "Mommy."  

For the first time in six years, I have about sixteen good hours a week in which to devote to writing.  I volunteered at my son's school several hours a week last year, while he was in kindergarten, and though I'm still volunteering, I've scaled back quite a bit.  My son is in first grade now, more firmly settled in the routine, and I can step more into the background (though I'm still center stage in his life when he comes home from school); I can finally develop something like a "career."  

When I stopped posting here, I had twenty or thirty short-short stories written; now I have one hundred.  A feeble effort in six years' time.  But why dwell on that?  The difference between zero and one hundred is vast.  Not all of the stories are worthy of being published.  I will attempt, over the next several weeks, to weed out the worst of them, the bottom ten percent, and write fifteen more...

Some writers think of their output as, in some way, their "children," and I do understand those feelings.  But I don't fully share them.  The difference in depth of feeling is too great, at least from my perspective...but at the same time, the parallel is this:  nothing matters to me more than being a writer, and, nothing matters to me more than being a mother.  My stories and poems are everything to me, and my son is also, everything.  It is in that paradox that every writer and full-time parent carves out an existence.