I've had several friends tell me, in recent months, "I couldn't do what you're doing." Meaning--they couldn't stay home with a baby or toddler, 24 hours a day, for two and a half years.
I don't quite know how to take this remark. I don't take offense to it. I just don't know how to respond.
The truth is, I'm not sure what they're saying. It would be too much of a strain for them to stay home? They wouldn't be able to stand the frustration and boredom of being away from their workplace for that long?
I think that it's meant as a sort of compliment--"I know that what you're doing must be very difficult at times and I applaud you for it"; but then, they could have said that instead.
In the end, I suppose I just have to take the comment at face value: they really don't think they could do it. And if I were to respond honestly, I would tell them: "Of course you could. If you had to, you could."
It makes me think about the time in this country when women had almost no other choice but to stay home with their children. The time, not so long ago. Yes, I'm sure that many women suffered from clinical depression (without being diagnosed) and chafed mightily against the restraints that being a mother of young children imposes (my own mother chafed more than a bit). But they did it; they had practically no choice. And I'm sure that the majority of them did it with the grace and love that my mother exhibited.
It seems like we've reached another extreme (if my friends' comments are any measure): the stay-at-home mom is no longer the norm; and perhaps, it's seen as either an eccentric role to take on, or a bit heroic. (A bit too heroic?)
As I said, I don't know how to interpret my friends' remarks. What's striking, though, is that they all used almost the same phrasing. "I couldn't do what you're doing."
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
You Are Here, with Earthquakes
No one in San Francisco lives here without thinking about the possibility of "The Big One." Or even the "Not-So-Big-But-Definitely-Noticeable-One." We don't walk around in fear every day; but small tremors of fear (pun intended) do pass through us on occasion--this is more true, of course, for those who have lived through a decent-sized earthquake before.
As San Franciscans, we are intimately linked to the end-of-the-continent precariousness of our physical and psychological situation. I thought about this as I looked at two cottages today in the Presidio.
Built in 1906 for "Camp Richmond," a large encampment of 1906 Earthquake survivors in the Richmond District, these humble 10 by 15-foot cottages provided nothing more than a roof over people's heads (of course at today's real estate prices, they could generate a cool $200,000, I'm guessing--I'm joking, of course--or maybe not...) They're oddly situated in the Presidio--tucked away behind a nondescript building which now houses private organizations, they would be easy to overlook (and I've passed by them a few times without noticing them).
Looking inside the small plate-glass windows, one sees many artifacts of the period--an iron bed, a washboard and metal pail, and so forth. They're set up to look like someone from 1906 is still occupying them.
"Talk about 'You Are Here,'" I thought as I peered inside. There's something deeply poignant about looking through those windows and imagining both what the inhabitants of those buildings were going through. And what we would go through today--though I doubt anyone would build a similar structure for us nowadays.
Without a doubt, living in earthquake country reinforces the feeling of now-ness that I already experience as the mother of a young child. (Of course, it's not exactly the hedonistic "now" that appeals to many residents of this City--the parades, festivals and outdoor concerts--the general party atmosphere that seems to permeate the air here sometimes--which must be linked in some subterranean way to the vague feeling of fear that comes with living in earthquake country. But I digress.) And seeing those little post-earthquake cottages, I was reminded of how extremely "now" life would feel, after experiencing such an overwhelming catastrophe, and being stripped of everything--perhaps not one's loved ones, but everything else.
And without one's loved ones? No "now," even--just "Fade to Black." That's probably why San Francisco's feeling like a bit too much of a risk, these days.
As San Franciscans, we are intimately linked to the end-of-the-continent precariousness of our physical and psychological situation. I thought about this as I looked at two cottages today in the Presidio.
Built in 1906 for "Camp Richmond," a large encampment of 1906 Earthquake survivors in the Richmond District, these humble 10 by 15-foot cottages provided nothing more than a roof over people's heads (of course at today's real estate prices, they could generate a cool $200,000, I'm guessing--I'm joking, of course--or maybe not...) They're oddly situated in the Presidio--tucked away behind a nondescript building which now houses private organizations, they would be easy to overlook (and I've passed by them a few times without noticing them).
Looking inside the small plate-glass windows, one sees many artifacts of the period--an iron bed, a washboard and metal pail, and so forth. They're set up to look like someone from 1906 is still occupying them.
"Talk about 'You Are Here,'" I thought as I peered inside. There's something deeply poignant about looking through those windows and imagining both what the inhabitants of those buildings were going through. And what we would go through today--though I doubt anyone would build a similar structure for us nowadays.
Without a doubt, living in earthquake country reinforces the feeling of now-ness that I already experience as the mother of a young child. (Of course, it's not exactly the hedonistic "now" that appeals to many residents of this City--the parades, festivals and outdoor concerts--the general party atmosphere that seems to permeate the air here sometimes--which must be linked in some subterranean way to the vague feeling of fear that comes with living in earthquake country. But I digress.) And seeing those little post-earthquake cottages, I was reminded of how extremely "now" life would feel, after experiencing such an overwhelming catastrophe, and being stripped of everything--perhaps not one's loved ones, but everything else.
And without one's loved ones? No "now," even--just "Fade to Black." That's probably why San Francisco's feeling like a bit too much of a risk, these days.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
You Are Here
When I started this blog, the idea was to write about various random strolls through San Francisco and other non-baby-related topics, while also commenting occasionally on the fact of being an older new mother.
In recent months, however, this has become more like the typical "mommy blog" in which I discuss the trials, tribulations and occasional triumphs of new motherhood. And I'm bored with it. I'm bored even thinking about it, much less writing it.
Rather than give up just yet, however, I think I should pull it back to the original themes. The trouble is, I almost never stroll anywhere any more. With a young toddler who can hardly walk two yards without trying to open a door, touch a car or chase after a dog, and who hates sitting in a stroller or a carseat unless he's completely exhausted (and even then...) I don't foresee a whole lot of strolling in the near future.
Today, however--for the first time in months--we did find ourselves in unfamiliar territory, for a nanosecond. We went from the Cow Hollow Playground to Lombard Street, then to Chestnut Street, and walked down it for a couple of blocks, stopping in a cafe where I bought my son a bagel and some apple juice; then we turned around again and headed back to the car. He wasn't thrilled to be in the stroller during that fifteen-minute journey, but when I did wheelies with it, and made it race around in a zig-zag pattern, he stopped fussing and started giggling.
This means, of course, that I was too exhausted to absorb much of what I saw in my immediate surroundings. I did get the feeling, however, that Chestnut Street is a more inviting little commercial strip than Union Street--the shops feel more down-to-earth. They're less about personal and interior decoration, more about buying food and relaxing. But as I said, I was only there for a nanosecond--not enough to comment on anything, really.
With a toddler in my life, I realize that my inner sense of space has dwindled down to a series of points--has dwindled down to one point, perhaps: I now live according to a strange map which only shows an X and bold letters spelling out "YOU ARE HERE." Because that's a toddler's sense of the world, and it becomes the mother's sense as well...and even trips across the country don't seem to change that fact.
In recent months, however, this has become more like the typical "mommy blog" in which I discuss the trials, tribulations and occasional triumphs of new motherhood. And I'm bored with it. I'm bored even thinking about it, much less writing it.
Rather than give up just yet, however, I think I should pull it back to the original themes. The trouble is, I almost never stroll anywhere any more. With a young toddler who can hardly walk two yards without trying to open a door, touch a car or chase after a dog, and who hates sitting in a stroller or a carseat unless he's completely exhausted (and even then...) I don't foresee a whole lot of strolling in the near future.
Today, however--for the first time in months--we did find ourselves in unfamiliar territory, for a nanosecond. We went from the Cow Hollow Playground to Lombard Street, then to Chestnut Street, and walked down it for a couple of blocks, stopping in a cafe where I bought my son a bagel and some apple juice; then we turned around again and headed back to the car. He wasn't thrilled to be in the stroller during that fifteen-minute journey, but when I did wheelies with it, and made it race around in a zig-zag pattern, he stopped fussing and started giggling.
This means, of course, that I was too exhausted to absorb much of what I saw in my immediate surroundings. I did get the feeling, however, that Chestnut Street is a more inviting little commercial strip than Union Street--the shops feel more down-to-earth. They're less about personal and interior decoration, more about buying food and relaxing. But as I said, I was only there for a nanosecond--not enough to comment on anything, really.
With a toddler in my life, I realize that my inner sense of space has dwindled down to a series of points--has dwindled down to one point, perhaps: I now live according to a strange map which only shows an X and bold letters spelling out "YOU ARE HERE." Because that's a toddler's sense of the world, and it becomes the mother's sense as well...and even trips across the country don't seem to change that fact.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Sleep, Sun and Saramago
This will not be a highly focused post...
The kid slept until 10:15 this morning. Unprecedented. True, he went to bed at 9:30 pm last night, which is also unusual; but he's never slept past 9 am before, much less 10 am. I kept checking on him during the last hour and a half of this 12 and a half hour slumberfest to make sure he was okay (yes, he was fine, of course). He woke up in a wonderful, ebullient mood. I doubt this means, however, that I should put him to bed late every night. Tonight he got to bed at the more reasonable time of 8:15, and I'm predicting he'll sleep his normal 11 hours or so.
For a few hours this afternoon, the sun popped out and did its best to warm that section of Earth known as San Francisco. I say this because we've hardly seen the sun or felt its warmth since returning from Maine; I've been told that it has been gloomy and cold for the last three weeks. Enough to make anyone want to go to bed for twelve and a half hours.
Or at least, crawl into bed and read, which I'll be doing in the next ten minutes. I'm reading a book by Jose Saramago, All the Names, in which a low-level functionary in a fictitious Central Registry suddenly becomes obsessed with finding out everything he can about one particular person, someone he's never met but whose card randomly ends up in his hands. It's about loneliness, the desire to connect, and the desire to remain anonymous--the push-pull of all human relations.
I love the central idea, but find Saramago's style slightly oppressive; it's not the lack of commas and other punctuation (for which he is famous), it's that in this story which has very little forward momentum (after the humor of the situation has died off a bit) the author makes little attempt to make the character or the plot more interesting. Also, the tongue-firmly-planted-in-cheek tone of the novel doesn't work for me, somehow. It's almost like I'm listening to Kafka tell a traditional joke. Which might work if I were sitting across from him at a restaurant, but it wouldn't fit too well in one of his novels. Similarly with Saramago--the situation of his central character is "joke" enough, he doesn't need to poke us in the ribs at the same time.
But anyway...my eyes are closing; off to bed.
The kid slept until 10:15 this morning. Unprecedented. True, he went to bed at 9:30 pm last night, which is also unusual; but he's never slept past 9 am before, much less 10 am. I kept checking on him during the last hour and a half of this 12 and a half hour slumberfest to make sure he was okay (yes, he was fine, of course). He woke up in a wonderful, ebullient mood. I doubt this means, however, that I should put him to bed late every night. Tonight he got to bed at the more reasonable time of 8:15, and I'm predicting he'll sleep his normal 11 hours or so.
For a few hours this afternoon, the sun popped out and did its best to warm that section of Earth known as San Francisco. I say this because we've hardly seen the sun or felt its warmth since returning from Maine; I've been told that it has been gloomy and cold for the last three weeks. Enough to make anyone want to go to bed for twelve and a half hours.
Or at least, crawl into bed and read, which I'll be doing in the next ten minutes. I'm reading a book by Jose Saramago, All the Names, in which a low-level functionary in a fictitious Central Registry suddenly becomes obsessed with finding out everything he can about one particular person, someone he's never met but whose card randomly ends up in his hands. It's about loneliness, the desire to connect, and the desire to remain anonymous--the push-pull of all human relations.
I love the central idea, but find Saramago's style slightly oppressive; it's not the lack of commas and other punctuation (for which he is famous), it's that in this story which has very little forward momentum (after the humor of the situation has died off a bit) the author makes little attempt to make the character or the plot more interesting. Also, the tongue-firmly-planted-in-cheek tone of the novel doesn't work for me, somehow. It's almost like I'm listening to Kafka tell a traditional joke. Which might work if I were sitting across from him at a restaurant, but it wouldn't fit too well in one of his novels. Similarly with Saramago--the situation of his central character is "joke" enough, he doesn't need to poke us in the ribs at the same time.
But anyway...my eyes are closing; off to bed.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Burbles and Gurgles
My son isn't talking yet. Not to worry, I realize--he's not yet 17 months, he's being raised in a bilingual household. But he's so damn expressive already, with the variety of sounds he's producing, that my husband and I are both eagerly awaiting the moment when he actually produces a real word.
By the same token--as I've already mentioned--I cherish this time of wordlessness...he expresses so much with just a look, a burble, a laugh, a gleeful shout.
By the same token--as I've already mentioned--I cherish this time of wordlessness...he expresses so much with just a look, a burble, a laugh, a gleeful shout.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Almost 17 Months
My son appears to be entering a "high toddler" phase in certain respects. This brings both wonderful, positive developmental advances, too many to describe at present, and some difficult behaviors. Mainly--he often refuses to be changed, and he often resists entering his car seat with all his might.
I know that both behaviors have to do with his intense desire to keep on the go. I try to roll with it. But sometimes I have to get it done, whatever thing it is that he's resisting. And yes, he's ferociously unhappy when I overrule him...I'll try to reserve a few toys for each of these activities, pulling them out only at the moment when he hits the changing pad, or is firmly installed in the carseat. Because this battle to keep him still at those moments is getting awfully old, even though it's only gone on for about two weeks now.
I know that both behaviors have to do with his intense desire to keep on the go. I try to roll with it. But sometimes I have to get it done, whatever thing it is that he's resisting. And yes, he's ferociously unhappy when I overrule him...I'll try to reserve a few toys for each of these activities, pulling them out only at the moment when he hits the changing pad, or is firmly installed in the carseat. Because this battle to keep him still at those moments is getting awfully old, even though it's only gone on for about two weeks now.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Going Away
We picked Maine for our vacation--because the weather is far better than San Francisco in the summer; because we had the possibility of staying at a cottage on the shores of a large pond; because I have friends in Maine and another friend in Boston, whom I hadn't seen for about six years; because we just wanted to get away.
Maine definitely feels like "away" for a San Francisco resident. The long, narrow country roads, the countless lakes and ponds, the sultry summer days, the sudden thunderstorms, the call of the loons, the modest white Cape houses. I can imagine that it feels even more "away" in the winter; we don't plan on visiting in the winter, however.
Perhaps my most vivid memory of Maine will be, strangely enough, the cemeteries. They seem to spring up on every back road--while driving, you suddenly spot a few tombstones sprinkled in among the greenery; sometimes a handful, sometimes a hundred or so. Usually no more than a hundred. The interred seem to have died in the 19th century, for the most part--a testimony to the harsh winters, perhaps? Or just to the "away"-ness of the place? To people living in such isolated conditions that they created new cemeteries wherever they happened to live?
Whatever the explanation, it provides one with a daily reminder of how short our tenure is on this planet, even in the best of circumstances. We're all going away eventually, to state the obvious. Perhaps heaven is a place like Maine...and that wouldn't be so bad.
Maine definitely feels like "away" for a San Francisco resident. The long, narrow country roads, the countless lakes and ponds, the sultry summer days, the sudden thunderstorms, the call of the loons, the modest white Cape houses. I can imagine that it feels even more "away" in the winter; we don't plan on visiting in the winter, however.
Perhaps my most vivid memory of Maine will be, strangely enough, the cemeteries. They seem to spring up on every back road--while driving, you suddenly spot a few tombstones sprinkled in among the greenery; sometimes a handful, sometimes a hundred or so. Usually no more than a hundred. The interred seem to have died in the 19th century, for the most part--a testimony to the harsh winters, perhaps? Or just to the "away"-ness of the place? To people living in such isolated conditions that they created new cemeteries wherever they happened to live?
Whatever the explanation, it provides one with a daily reminder of how short our tenure is on this planet, even in the best of circumstances. We're all going away eventually, to state the obvious. Perhaps heaven is a place like Maine...and that wouldn't be so bad.
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