There’s a reason why people read Clausewitz in the abridged version. Anybody tempted to read the middle sections of his book “On War” should lie down until the feeling goes away.
I felt rather smug as I marched steadily through Book One, nodding sagely at Clause’s big concept, “Friction in War.” “Everything in war is very simple,” Clause said, “but the simplest thing is difficult.”
Nice work, Clause. You’re a regular Oscar Wilde. (1)
But I did like that basic idea, how difficulties accumulate in war until they make victory nearly impossible. Let’s say you’re driving to Kalamazoo on Interstate 94 and decide not to stop for lunch at the Albion A&W, although you love A&Ws. You’ll be in Kazoo in an hour, you’ve got a Snickers bar under the passenger seat, you’ll make it. Easy.
But then you hit some road construction, and then traffic slows down for an accident, and then you’re stuck behind two halves of a modular home that blocks both lanes. A funny light starts blinking on your dashboard, and you instinctively slow some more. Finally, after two hours and many difficulties, you arrive in Kalamazoo and scarf down two scary hot dogs at a 7-Eleven. Austria’s defeat at Austerlitz couldn’t be more tragic.
Or, to illustrate this idea more poetically (Clause is the genius after all, not me):
“Each war is an uncharted sea, full of reefs. The commander may suspect the reefs’ existence without ever having seen them; now he has to steer past them in the dark.”
Nice. Then I strode confidently into Book Two (“The Theory of War”), full of dishy stuff about tactics and strategies and sniggering comments about geniuses. (2)
Book Three (“Strategy in General”), while not a rollicking good time, had neat stuff about boldness, perseverance, surprise, cunning and the science-fiction-sounding “Unification of Forces in Time.”
In his chapter on the strategic reserve, Clause talked about a reserve’s two purposes: to prolong and renew the action and to counter unforeseen threats. What he didn’t like was maintaining a strategic reserve for the hell of it. He mentions the Prussian loss at Jena in 1806, where the Prussians had 20,000-man reserve just over the river, but couldn’t get it to the battle in time. Meanwhile, another 25,000 men were in east and south Prussia, just sitting around, acting as another reserve. Stuff like that makes Clause crazy.
All good stuff. But then I turned to Book Four (“The Engagement”) and began an unhappy relationship that sapped my confidence and broke my heart.
_________________________________________
(1) That’s no compliment really, since I dislike the playwright Oscar Wilde. His stuff sounds witty on the surface:
“Seriousness is the only refuge of the shallow.”
“Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong. “
“I can resist anything but temptation.”
But Oscar’s a big phony; anybody can write like that. Just take an idea and turn it upside down. Here’s two from me:
“My faults are my only virtues.”
“Nothing is cleaner than a dirty mind.”
Go on. Try it.
(2) Here’s a real footnote with a nice Clause quote. He was sneering at his fellow military theorists. If something couldn’t be addressed by their fancy rules, his fellows said the issue was the stuff of genius and defied all rules. Here’s Clause’s response:
“Pity the soldier who is supposed to crawl among these scraps of rules, not good enough for genius, which genius can ignore or laugh at.”
Go get ‘em, Clause.
##
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
On War: Napoleon was God in Funny Pants
[Keep in mind, this post has footnotes on the bottom. Every military treatise has footnotes.]
Oooh, what a big book. Hefty. Almost as big as the latest Harry Potter novel. It’s the unabridged text of Carl von Clausewitz’s “On War.”
Damn thing scares me half to death. It’s been edited, translated and indexed, and includes a commentary, a preface, introductory essays and a reading guide.
Published in 1832, its lessons have guided Karl Marx, Otto von Bismark and French political theorist Raymond Aron. (I didn’t know who Aron was either; I had to look him up. His most popular picture shows him with a pipe and a big nose.)
I skipped the editor’s note (who reads those anyway) and headed straight to the first introductory essay. I plowed through Clause’s Prussian military career, yawning mightily. But then I hit a section about his contemporary theorists – generally, why Clause was right and they were idiots.
The biggest idiot, apparently, was a Swiss-French staff officer named Antoine Jomini. According to Tony Jomini, Napoleon was God in funny pants, and he set the standard for all future conflicts. Clause thought that was ridiculous.
The interesting thing was Jomini’s obsession with Napoleon, and his remark, “Methods change, but principles remain the same.” (1) Jomini was followed by both sides during the American civil war. I liked that. I liked that these military writings could influence events far into the future, although Jomini’s principles didn’t help the Civil War much.
So I turned to the first chapter, which asked “What is War?” That reminded me of my old geology textbooks: “The scientist must first consider, what is erosion?” I liked the chapter. It was filled with nice, simple paragraphs headed by titles in all caps.
Clause liked to talk about the element of chance: “Guesswork and luck play a great part in war.” He thought strict formulas were nutty because you never knew what was going to happen when you marched your little army over the ridge. Commanders rolled the dice on everything, including the weather, although Clause didn’t care much about weather. (2)
He also emphasized that war isn’t just a bunch of battles, but an instrument of policy. You can kill a bunch of guys, capture their hill and blow up their supply dump, but unless all this actually advanced the policy, or purpose of the war, it was all for nothing. Too bad that great military minds forgot this simple fact during the Civil War and World War I.
So basically, although this book still freaks me out, Clause is a guy I can do business with. He doesn’t read like a typical military historian – he actually sounds like a lawyer. He’s the kind of guy that if you asked him, “Is it raining outside?” He wouldn’t answer. He’d run to his pen (or quill, or whatever) and write this:
ON RAIN By Clause
Before we answer the query “Is it raining,” we must ask ourselves, “What is rain?” One might assert that rain is liquid precipitation from the clouds, but things are rarely so simple. The careless observer might spy water on the windowpane and thus answer the query. But such an action is little more than rank folly; it fails to take into account that someone may be dumping bathwater from the second story, or the moisture may stem from the wild and reckless use of a watering can, or finally, although unlikely, that an elephant may be standing in the daffodils and spraying from its tusk. Therefore …
Well, you see what I’m up against here. Perhaps I should just give up and watch “The Apprentice.”
________________
FOOTNOTES
(1) The snooty historian called this remark “endlessly quoted.” I agree. Why just the other day, when I was pushing Benny through Meijer, I heard a cashier refer to the phrase.
CASHIER: You gotta make sure they swipe the card right on the new machines. You remember what military historian Antoine Jomini always said.
TRAINEE: Oh yes. It’s endlessly quoted.
(2) Except fog, Clause had this weird obsession with fog. To hear him tell it, there’s a 19th century army still wandering around some foggy lowlands, wondering where Boney is.
##
Oooh, what a big book. Hefty. Almost as big as the latest Harry Potter novel. It’s the unabridged text of Carl von Clausewitz’s “On War.”
Damn thing scares me half to death. It’s been edited, translated and indexed, and includes a commentary, a preface, introductory essays and a reading guide.
Published in 1832, its lessons have guided Karl Marx, Otto von Bismark and French political theorist Raymond Aron. (I didn’t know who Aron was either; I had to look him up. His most popular picture shows him with a pipe and a big nose.)
I skipped the editor’s note (who reads those anyway) and headed straight to the first introductory essay. I plowed through Clause’s Prussian military career, yawning mightily. But then I hit a section about his contemporary theorists – generally, why Clause was right and they were idiots.
The biggest idiot, apparently, was a Swiss-French staff officer named Antoine Jomini. According to Tony Jomini, Napoleon was God in funny pants, and he set the standard for all future conflicts. Clause thought that was ridiculous.
The interesting thing was Jomini’s obsession with Napoleon, and his remark, “Methods change, but principles remain the same.” (1) Jomini was followed by both sides during the American civil war. I liked that. I liked that these military writings could influence events far into the future, although Jomini’s principles didn’t help the Civil War much.
So I turned to the first chapter, which asked “What is War?” That reminded me of my old geology textbooks: “The scientist must first consider, what is erosion?” I liked the chapter. It was filled with nice, simple paragraphs headed by titles in all caps.
Clause liked to talk about the element of chance: “Guesswork and luck play a great part in war.” He thought strict formulas were nutty because you never knew what was going to happen when you marched your little army over the ridge. Commanders rolled the dice on everything, including the weather, although Clause didn’t care much about weather. (2)
He also emphasized that war isn’t just a bunch of battles, but an instrument of policy. You can kill a bunch of guys, capture their hill and blow up their supply dump, but unless all this actually advanced the policy, or purpose of the war, it was all for nothing. Too bad that great military minds forgot this simple fact during the Civil War and World War I.
So basically, although this book still freaks me out, Clause is a guy I can do business with. He doesn’t read like a typical military historian – he actually sounds like a lawyer. He’s the kind of guy that if you asked him, “Is it raining outside?” He wouldn’t answer. He’d run to his pen (or quill, or whatever) and write this:
ON RAIN By Clause
Before we answer the query “Is it raining,” we must ask ourselves, “What is rain?” One might assert that rain is liquid precipitation from the clouds, but things are rarely so simple. The careless observer might spy water on the windowpane and thus answer the query. But such an action is little more than rank folly; it fails to take into account that someone may be dumping bathwater from the second story, or the moisture may stem from the wild and reckless use of a watering can, or finally, although unlikely, that an elephant may be standing in the daffodils and spraying from its tusk. Therefore …
Well, you see what I’m up against here. Perhaps I should just give up and watch “The Apprentice.”
________________
FOOTNOTES
(1) The snooty historian called this remark “endlessly quoted.” I agree. Why just the other day, when I was pushing Benny through Meijer, I heard a cashier refer to the phrase.
CASHIER: You gotta make sure they swipe the card right on the new machines. You remember what military historian Antoine Jomini always said.
TRAINEE: Oh yes. It’s endlessly quoted.
(2) Except fog, Clause had this weird obsession with fog. To hear him tell it, there’s a 19th century army still wandering around some foggy lowlands, wondering where Boney is.
##
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Christine’s Military History Seminar
I’m reading Clausewitz these days and I’ll tell you whose fault it is: TV network execs.
I had high hopes for this year’s TV season. Disgusted by last year's tripe, I’ve been watching movie and TV discs from Netflix, emerging only for “West Wing” and the occasional “Supernanny”.
But it’s a real drag, all that DVD renting, just so I could relax after Benny went to bed. (This wasn’t an issue in Benny’s first year. I was too busy washing 300 bottles and folding 600 burp cloths every night to watch anything.)
This year’s season, I thought, had to be better.
It wasn’t.
The Fonz stages a comeback on CBS. Martha launches hers on NBC. William Shatner sports awful ties on ABC. “Law & Order” spawns more shows (“Law & Order: Petty Theft and Parking Meter Vandalism Unit” and “CSI: Vicksburg, Mich.”)
This unholy crew only edges me closer to 18th-century Prussian military officer Carl von Clausewitz (really).
I thought, maybe I could read at night instead. But two hours of reading a night – that’s two books a week. That’s 100 books necessary to get me through one TV season.
Obviously, I needed a reading list, preferably one packed with weighty tomes. What about military history? Nobody blathers in tiny, dense text like a military historian.
So I turned to some very nice folks at Ohio State University, which has a boffo military history department. They’ve posted online a terrifying list: 100 books on European and American military history. Caesar. Engels. Thucydides. McPherson. And at the top of the list, categorized under General Works: Carl von Clausewitz’s “On War.”
Hey, don’t blame me. Blame the TV execs.
##
I had high hopes for this year’s TV season. Disgusted by last year's tripe, I’ve been watching movie and TV discs from Netflix, emerging only for “West Wing” and the occasional “Supernanny”.
But it’s a real drag, all that DVD renting, just so I could relax after Benny went to bed. (This wasn’t an issue in Benny’s first year. I was too busy washing 300 bottles and folding 600 burp cloths every night to watch anything.)
This year’s season, I thought, had to be better.
It wasn’t.
The Fonz stages a comeback on CBS. Martha launches hers on NBC. William Shatner sports awful ties on ABC. “Law & Order” spawns more shows (“Law & Order: Petty Theft and Parking Meter Vandalism Unit” and “CSI: Vicksburg, Mich.”)
This unholy crew only edges me closer to 18th-century Prussian military officer Carl von Clausewitz (really).
I thought, maybe I could read at night instead. But two hours of reading a night – that’s two books a week. That’s 100 books necessary to get me through one TV season.
Obviously, I needed a reading list, preferably one packed with weighty tomes. What about military history? Nobody blathers in tiny, dense text like a military historian.
So I turned to some very nice folks at Ohio State University, which has a boffo military history department. They’ve posted online a terrifying list: 100 books on European and American military history. Caesar. Engels. Thucydides. McPherson. And at the top of the list, categorized under General Works: Carl von Clausewitz’s “On War.”
Hey, don’t blame me. Blame the TV execs.
##
Friday, September 16, 2005
A table by the highway, please
Whew! Well, I'm better now and can take good hard look at my life. Hmm, I think I'll go back to bed.
It's shocking when you realize that you're only one to-do list from total ruin. Make it three days and I might as well chuck it all and move to Miami. I could pitch a tent outside the home of Dr. Arthur Agatston, creator of the S.O.B. diet, until I lose 30 pounds or get eaten by a crocodile, whichever comes first. But I hate Florida and I can get Dave Barry's column online, so I guess I'll stay here.
At least I could drive today, to the hair salon, the car wash and finally, to Benny's daycare. I was a little late, and the minute the door chime rang at my entrance, I heard "Mama!" from the kitchen area.
I hustled back there and saw Benny, hat and shoes on, woefully staring out the window. Then he saw me and I swear, it was a moment worthy of a Celine Dion ballad. His lip stuck out and his eyes filled up. "He's been like this since the first parent came," said a teacher as I held my sniffling boy.
To make up for my tardiness, I took Benny to Applebee's, where the waiter cunningly gave us a table with a clear view of Ann Arbor-Saline Road. Benny's eyes goggled at all the rush-hour traffic.
He did eat some garlic toast and miniscule shred of chicken, but mostly he ignored me. At one point, I played "Snake II" on my cell phone while Benny looked out the window ("Car! Truck! Car! Truck! Wow!").
The guy at the next table ordered a Jack-and-Coke. The woman behind us droned on about her urine samples. Ron called to say he had that damn flu now and he'd been home for hours, and where the hell were we? Ah, those precious mother-son moments.
Meanwhile, dishes cover the kitchen, laundry covers the basement, and despair covers the land. But I'm not sad because I'm Well! Well! Well! Yay!
##
It's shocking when you realize that you're only one to-do list from total ruin. Make it three days and I might as well chuck it all and move to Miami. I could pitch a tent outside the home of Dr. Arthur Agatston, creator of the S.O.B. diet, until I lose 30 pounds or get eaten by a crocodile, whichever comes first. But I hate Florida and I can get Dave Barry's column online, so I guess I'll stay here.
At least I could drive today, to the hair salon, the car wash and finally, to Benny's daycare. I was a little late, and the minute the door chime rang at my entrance, I heard "Mama!" from the kitchen area.
I hustled back there and saw Benny, hat and shoes on, woefully staring out the window. Then he saw me and I swear, it was a moment worthy of a Celine Dion ballad. His lip stuck out and his eyes filled up. "He's been like this since the first parent came," said a teacher as I held my sniffling boy.
To make up for my tardiness, I took Benny to Applebee's, where the waiter cunningly gave us a table with a clear view of Ann Arbor-Saline Road. Benny's eyes goggled at all the rush-hour traffic.
He did eat some garlic toast and miniscule shred of chicken, but mostly he ignored me. At one point, I played "Snake II" on my cell phone while Benny looked out the window ("Car! Truck! Car! Truck! Wow!").
The guy at the next table ordered a Jack-and-Coke. The woman behind us droned on about her urine samples. Ron called to say he had that damn flu now and he'd been home for hours, and where the hell were we? Ah, those precious mother-son moments.
Meanwhile, dishes cover the kitchen, laundry covers the basement, and despair covers the land. But I'm not sad because I'm Well! Well! Well! Yay!
##
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Danger: Mad Elephant
Well, I have unfairly maligned the S.O.B. diet. I thought it was the weird veggie dishes and lack of caffeine that made me sick. Instead, it was a monster flu.
I tried to stick to the diet on Tuesday, munching ham-and-egg dishes and watching "North and South" while Benny was at daycare. At 4 p.m., I surrendered my honor for chicken soup and Coke.
But I wasn't out of the woods yet. I started Wednesday at 6 a.m. tossing my cookies all over the kitchen. Then I held an encore performance in the bathroom. Then I nearly passed out.
Ron skipped work that day and put a baby gate across our bedroom door so I could watch them have fun without me. Every so often Benny would run to the gate and talk to me as I lay in my bed of pain. ("Truck! Bye-bye Car! Frog! Quack!") Then we'd sing songs. Really pathetic. I felt like Dumbo's mother locked in the "Mad Elephant" cage. Sometimes I lurched around the house like Quasimodo, but then I'd get dizzy and had to return to bed.
So that's three days lost to my life, and although I can't blame it on the S.O.B. diet, I'm not all that anxious to start it up again.
##
I tried to stick to the diet on Tuesday, munching ham-and-egg dishes and watching "North and South" while Benny was at daycare. At 4 p.m., I surrendered my honor for chicken soup and Coke.
But I wasn't out of the woods yet. I started Wednesday at 6 a.m. tossing my cookies all over the kitchen. Then I held an encore performance in the bathroom. Then I nearly passed out.
Ron skipped work that day and put a baby gate across our bedroom door so I could watch them have fun without me. Every so often Benny would run to the gate and talk to me as I lay in my bed of pain. ("Truck! Bye-bye Car! Frog! Quack!") Then we'd sing songs. Really pathetic. I felt like Dumbo's mother locked in the "Mad Elephant" cage. Sometimes I lurched around the house like Quasimodo, but then I'd get dizzy and had to return to bed.
So that's three days lost to my life, and although I can't blame it on the S.O.B. diet, I'm not all that anxious to start it up again.
##
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
The S.O.B. Diet
Well, it's the first day of the South Beach diet, or as I fondly call it, the Son-of-a-Bitch diet. I walk around muttering "Gee, I'd like a coke -- son of a bitch!"
I try to follow the plan to the letter, but my blood sugar plunges at awkward times, making me spastic and generally tough to live with. A pounding headache from caffeine withdrawl isn't helping either.
The SOB diet is a lot like Dante's journey to Heaven (yes, we're back to that again). Phase one is Hell, where you purge your body. No fruit, no alcohol, no starches. You can't even eat carrots.
Phase Two is like purgatory, where you add back fruits and some other good stuff until you reach the weight you want. Then on to Phase Three Heaven, where you bask in your svelteness and eat in (gasp!) moderation.
So here I am, chopping mushrooms and grilling chicken all day. I basically eat chicken, veggies, eggs and mozzerella sticks.
They allow you to eat more than that, but I can't handle the recipes. There's just no way I'm getting up in the morning and whipping together a cheesy frittata.
I don't even know what a frittata is. Do I look like the kind of woman who'd chop bell peppers at 6:30 a.m.? Should half-starved people be forced to handle sharp knives six times a day?
I spent the whole damn day today dicing ham and slicing cucumbers and fileting chicken breasts. 10 a.m. found me cutting up celerly stalks and filing them with some vile light cheese.
Benny had chicken fried rice for dinner tonight. I had chicken kebobs -- just chicken and mushrooms, minus the marinade or potatoes or anything else that makes kebobs good.
Let's return to the frittata. First they want you to slice onions, bell peppers and zucchini, then dice plum tomatoes, then chop some fresh basil. Then you get out a skillet and busily melt stuff, brown stuff, and stir stuff.Then preheat the broiler and whip up a six-ingredient egg mixture in the blender.
Pour the egg mixture over the veggies and cook it. Then broil it. Then sprinkle cheese on it and broil it some more. Serve it for lunch, since you've spent the entire morning on this frittata and your toddler is lying on the kitchen floor, throwing tupperware at the cat and screaming for attention.
Yeah, that's reasonable. And all the recipes are like this. The Chicken en Papillote looks nerve-wracking and the Cherry Snapper Ceviche (which you begin by soaking the fish in lime juice for three hours) looks just insane.
So I'm eating a lot of scrambled eggs and plain chicken breasts. I also drink a lot of ice water, to keep my spirits up. The diet allows more than this, of course, but I hate tomato juice and vegetable cocktails and nobody's catching me with a baggie of fake sugar.
What I wouldn't give for a coke.
##
I try to follow the plan to the letter, but my blood sugar plunges at awkward times, making me spastic and generally tough to live with. A pounding headache from caffeine withdrawl isn't helping either.
The SOB diet is a lot like Dante's journey to Heaven (yes, we're back to that again). Phase one is Hell, where you purge your body. No fruit, no alcohol, no starches. You can't even eat carrots.
Phase Two is like purgatory, where you add back fruits and some other good stuff until you reach the weight you want. Then on to Phase Three Heaven, where you bask in your svelteness and eat in (gasp!) moderation.
So here I am, chopping mushrooms and grilling chicken all day. I basically eat chicken, veggies, eggs and mozzerella sticks.
They allow you to eat more than that, but I can't handle the recipes. There's just no way I'm getting up in the morning and whipping together a cheesy frittata.
I don't even know what a frittata is. Do I look like the kind of woman who'd chop bell peppers at 6:30 a.m.? Should half-starved people be forced to handle sharp knives six times a day?
I spent the whole damn day today dicing ham and slicing cucumbers and fileting chicken breasts. 10 a.m. found me cutting up celerly stalks and filing them with some vile light cheese.
Benny had chicken fried rice for dinner tonight. I had chicken kebobs -- just chicken and mushrooms, minus the marinade or potatoes or anything else that makes kebobs good.
Let's return to the frittata. First they want you to slice onions, bell peppers and zucchini, then dice plum tomatoes, then chop some fresh basil. Then you get out a skillet and busily melt stuff, brown stuff, and stir stuff.Then preheat the broiler and whip up a six-ingredient egg mixture in the blender.
Pour the egg mixture over the veggies and cook it. Then broil it. Then sprinkle cheese on it and broil it some more. Serve it for lunch, since you've spent the entire morning on this frittata and your toddler is lying on the kitchen floor, throwing tupperware at the cat and screaming for attention.
Yeah, that's reasonable. And all the recipes are like this. The Chicken en Papillote looks nerve-wracking and the Cherry Snapper Ceviche (which you begin by soaking the fish in lime juice for three hours) looks just insane.
So I'm eating a lot of scrambled eggs and plain chicken breasts. I also drink a lot of ice water, to keep my spirits up. The diet allows more than this, of course, but I hate tomato juice and vegetable cocktails and nobody's catching me with a baggie of fake sugar.
What I wouldn't give for a coke.
##
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Benny Goes to School
It must be tough to be a toddler. Everyone’s huge, you don’t speak the language, and just when you got a good set of truck-crashing going, someone wants to change your pants.
So I can imagine Benny’s surprise on the first day of childcare. Usually he hops out of bed and runs to the baby gate across his bedroom door. I stumble over, change him, then cart him into the living room for 20 minutes of truck racing while I chug a Snapple and set out Cheerios.
Then I fall into a chair opposite Benny while he eats. “Do you know what time it is?” I moan, “Do you have any idea what time it is? It’s 6:30 a.m., that’s what time it is. Do you know how early that is? Do you have any idea how …” And so it goes.
But this charming domestic ritual was shattered Thursday morning, when Benny was bundled into the car at 7 a.m. with a lunch box. “School!” I chirp as we drive out of town, “School!” We pull up to a brightly painted building and I unload labeled blanket, pillow, stuffed puppy, extra outfit, emergency generator, etc. Then I kiss Benny, wave goodbye and drive off.
Well. You really have to admire toddlers. I don’t know what I’d do if Ron woke me up and put me into a suit, then drove me to a building full of strangers and told me to write 20 inches on Detroit’s housing controversy. And then left. I’d probably wail.
Which is exactly what Benny did, but I’m told he recovered quickly. Until naptime, that is. He refused to lie down; instead he put on his hat and shoes and stood at the door, calling my name. He was ready to go.
The second day he did much better. He ate and napped, and when Ron and I picked him up at 5 p.m. he treated us like pushy guests at a cocktail party. (“Ah yes. Didn’t we meet at some hospital somewhere? Of course I remember you, and how’s Ed?”)
That day we also received a pamphlet called “Innovations: The Infant Curriculum” with tips about helping your toddler’s adjustment to school. I don’t want to seem unsympathetic, but some of these kids sound a little nuts. “In general,” the authors conclude, “most children are well on their way in about six weeks.”
Six weeks? If Benny has an adjustment problem now, what will he be doing in October? Wearing a fake mustache and trying to go home with other people?
##
So I can imagine Benny’s surprise on the first day of childcare. Usually he hops out of bed and runs to the baby gate across his bedroom door. I stumble over, change him, then cart him into the living room for 20 minutes of truck racing while I chug a Snapple and set out Cheerios.
Then I fall into a chair opposite Benny while he eats. “Do you know what time it is?” I moan, “Do you have any idea what time it is? It’s 6:30 a.m., that’s what time it is. Do you know how early that is? Do you have any idea how …” And so it goes.
But this charming domestic ritual was shattered Thursday morning, when Benny was bundled into the car at 7 a.m. with a lunch box. “School!” I chirp as we drive out of town, “School!” We pull up to a brightly painted building and I unload labeled blanket, pillow, stuffed puppy, extra outfit, emergency generator, etc. Then I kiss Benny, wave goodbye and drive off.
Well. You really have to admire toddlers. I don’t know what I’d do if Ron woke me up and put me into a suit, then drove me to a building full of strangers and told me to write 20 inches on Detroit’s housing controversy. And then left. I’d probably wail.
Which is exactly what Benny did, but I’m told he recovered quickly. Until naptime, that is. He refused to lie down; instead he put on his hat and shoes and stood at the door, calling my name. He was ready to go.
The second day he did much better. He ate and napped, and when Ron and I picked him up at 5 p.m. he treated us like pushy guests at a cocktail party. (“Ah yes. Didn’t we meet at some hospital somewhere? Of course I remember you, and how’s Ed?”)
That day we also received a pamphlet called “Innovations: The Infant Curriculum” with tips about helping your toddler’s adjustment to school. I don’t want to seem unsympathetic, but some of these kids sound a little nuts. “In general,” the authors conclude, “most children are well on their way in about six weeks.”
Six weeks? If Benny has an adjustment problem now, what will he be doing in October? Wearing a fake mustache and trying to go home with other people?
##
Sunday, September 04, 2005
A FranklinCovey Fairy Tale
[This entry appeared as a column in the Business Review newspapers.]
Ah, autumn. Time for that annual source of hilarity: The Fall FranklinCovey catalogue. This thin volume holds a fairy tale more magical than any sleeping beauty or enchanted frog.
Everyone dreams of a wonderful, rewarding, well-organized life. And if you lack the imagination to design your own, FranklinCovey will do it for you. Just flip through its pages and choose your perfect life.
After all, says the cover, “Right now belongs to you. Be proactive.”
Inside you read such gems as:
“Today is always present”
and
“You live right now.”
The catalogue begins with “Simplicity Girl” on page six. Simplicity heads to the gym at 5:30 a.m., where she tweaks her cardio routine and wonders “Do I need new shoes?” She researches Gore-Tex fabric and picks up birthday treats for the office. Hey, you cheapskates paying only $34.95 – this is your life.
For five more dollars you can be a “Seven Habits Guy” on page 8. He has 6:30 a.m. yoga class, an 8:30 zoning commission meeting and a 10 a.m. partner meeting. He doesn’t run out for grocery store cupcakes; he sets up birthday lunches at Bistro 31 – reservations for nine. After an afternoon of mentoring flunkies, he dines at Don Miguel’s at 7 p.m.
But perhaps you’re a woman with a family. Well, then, you need a kicky, spiral-bound planner that patronizes you on every page. Meet “Collages,” with its daily sketches of purses, shoes and wooden benches. The Collages Lady jogs in the park, schedules a manicure and reviews notes for cooking class. In her spare time, she plans her husband’s birthday dinner, Kira’s baby shower and the Collins’ anniversary party.
Other planners may quote Emerson: “The man of genius inspires us with boundless confidence in our own powers.” The Collages planner says, “A little of what you fancy does you good.” By the way, it comes with a free purse.
But hey, we’re wasting time here. Time to shake hands with “The Leader.” This mighty man swims at 7 a.m., builds parking structures until lunch and then runs his firm’s capital improvement board. Leader doesn't waste his time with birthdays or anniversaries. He’s gotta buy swim goggles.
His planner tells us that if you want to build a ship, don’t gather the men to actually build it. Instead, “Teach them the desire for the sea.”
So go, go and seek your planner self. And when you find it, write … write the detritus of your daily life, the stupid branding meeting, the shopping list (nose drops, corn pads, Swanson’s Frozen Chicken Delite) and the aerobics class you haven’t attended in months.
And remember, if you want to heat a frozen dinner, don’t ask your spouse to turn the oven on. Read him a fairy tale about the Prince and the Enchanted Chicken Wing.
##
Ah, autumn. Time for that annual source of hilarity: The Fall FranklinCovey catalogue. This thin volume holds a fairy tale more magical than any sleeping beauty or enchanted frog.
Everyone dreams of a wonderful, rewarding, well-organized life. And if you lack the imagination to design your own, FranklinCovey will do it for you. Just flip through its pages and choose your perfect life.
After all, says the cover, “Right now belongs to you. Be proactive.”
Inside you read such gems as:
“Today is always present”
and
“You live right now.”
The catalogue begins with “Simplicity Girl” on page six. Simplicity heads to the gym at 5:30 a.m., where she tweaks her cardio routine and wonders “Do I need new shoes?” She researches Gore-Tex fabric and picks up birthday treats for the office. Hey, you cheapskates paying only $34.95 – this is your life.
For five more dollars you can be a “Seven Habits Guy” on page 8. He has 6:30 a.m. yoga class, an 8:30 zoning commission meeting and a 10 a.m. partner meeting. He doesn’t run out for grocery store cupcakes; he sets up birthday lunches at Bistro 31 – reservations for nine. After an afternoon of mentoring flunkies, he dines at Don Miguel’s at 7 p.m.
But perhaps you’re a woman with a family. Well, then, you need a kicky, spiral-bound planner that patronizes you on every page. Meet “Collages,” with its daily sketches of purses, shoes and wooden benches. The Collages Lady jogs in the park, schedules a manicure and reviews notes for cooking class. In her spare time, she plans her husband’s birthday dinner, Kira’s baby shower and the Collins’ anniversary party.
Other planners may quote Emerson: “The man of genius inspires us with boundless confidence in our own powers.” The Collages planner says, “A little of what you fancy does you good.” By the way, it comes with a free purse.
But hey, we’re wasting time here. Time to shake hands with “The Leader.” This mighty man swims at 7 a.m., builds parking structures until lunch and then runs his firm’s capital improvement board. Leader doesn't waste his time with birthdays or anniversaries. He’s gotta buy swim goggles.
His planner tells us that if you want to build a ship, don’t gather the men to actually build it. Instead, “Teach them the desire for the sea.”
So go, go and seek your planner self. And when you find it, write … write the detritus of your daily life, the stupid branding meeting, the shopping list (nose drops, corn pads, Swanson’s Frozen Chicken Delite) and the aerobics class you haven’t attended in months.
And remember, if you want to heat a frozen dinner, don’t ask your spouse to turn the oven on. Read him a fairy tale about the Prince and the Enchanted Chicken Wing.
##
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Grandma
My earliest memory of Grandma was in her kitchen, of course. I was three years old, dogging her steps from stove to cupboard to cookie jar. It was during one of our frequent visits to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Sodus, blazing a path from Detroit through rain and snow for holidays and vacations.
Lunch was finished, the dishes washed and the leftovers stashed, but Grandma was still wiping counters and wrapping pies. I chased her around the small kitchen until she finally wiped her hands and sat in a wooden chair beside the phone. The second that happened, I climbed onto her lap and we’d sit quietly through the 20-minute twilight between the cleanup of one meal and the launch of the next. Grandma’s lap was an oasis of comfort, love and peace, capable of quieting even this most talkative of three-year-olds.
And through the years, as smaller children vied for Grandma’s lap, I still returned to her, nattering on about my classes, my travels, my wedding, my career. Heaven knows what she made of it all.
When I speak of my Grandpa, I love to list his many accomplishments, from fishing to winemaking. I often speak of what he did, but for Grandma, accomplished as she was in her own right, it is different. I speak of what she was, to me and to everyone: strong, loving, ever-patient.
Since the birth of my son last year, Grandma has become a role model for me as I grapple with the challenges of home and family. My sister calls Grandma a perfect example in this regard, and I agree. I could never meet Grandma’s standards, so I halve them, and halve them again, and still feel I’ve accomplished great things. And if someday some small child follows me around a kitchen, waiting for me to sit down, and climbs onto my lap in search of love and peace and hope, I will have met those standards.
##
Lunch was finished, the dishes washed and the leftovers stashed, but Grandma was still wiping counters and wrapping pies. I chased her around the small kitchen until she finally wiped her hands and sat in a wooden chair beside the phone. The second that happened, I climbed onto her lap and we’d sit quietly through the 20-minute twilight between the cleanup of one meal and the launch of the next. Grandma’s lap was an oasis of comfort, love and peace, capable of quieting even this most talkative of three-year-olds.
And through the years, as smaller children vied for Grandma’s lap, I still returned to her, nattering on about my classes, my travels, my wedding, my career. Heaven knows what she made of it all.
When I speak of my Grandpa, I love to list his many accomplishments, from fishing to winemaking. I often speak of what he did, but for Grandma, accomplished as she was in her own right, it is different. I speak of what she was, to me and to everyone: strong, loving, ever-patient.
Since the birth of my son last year, Grandma has become a role model for me as I grapple with the challenges of home and family. My sister calls Grandma a perfect example in this regard, and I agree. I could never meet Grandma’s standards, so I halve them, and halve them again, and still feel I’ve accomplished great things. And if someday some small child follows me around a kitchen, waiting for me to sit down, and climbs onto my lap in search of love and peace and hope, I will have met those standards.
##
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Playgroup II: 'N' is for Nutty
The drama continues at Benny’s playgroup as we face the loss of a cherished member. The other mothers are fighting complex feelings: Elation at Padme’s husband Darth’s great career move to Minnesota, but also a deep sadness at losing little Luke from our group.
At least that’s what I gather from recent emails. I can’t say I’m equally devastated, mostly because I can’t quite remember who Padme and Luke are. Is Padme the frazzled mother who arrives early to every playdate, awestruck by the host mother’s accomplishments? (“My God, you have a toy box! I wish I’d thought of that! We just shove our kid’s stuff under the sofa!”)
Perhaps Luke is the little boy who bites toys. Let’s be grateful he doesn’t bite other children, but it’s still weird to see a small toddler gnawing on a doll’s leg like it’s corn on the cob.
Well, no matter, because every member is precious, even Anny, who loves to send emails but never shows up anywhere. So one mother proposed the following:
___________________________________________________
Date: Wed, 18 May 2005 10:24:30
From: Leia@everthoughtful.com
To: Soon-to-be-Bereaved Playgroup
Subject: Padme and Luke
We could each do a page in a small photo album like a mini scrapbook. I have scrapbooking supplies so I can bring them to an upcoming playdate...or maybe we can even organize an evening to meet and put together the album. I was also thinking about the book, "M is for Mitten". It's about Michigan and we could all write a message from the kids to Lukey.
Leia
___________________________________________________
This idea was pounced on with great enthusiasm exactly 11 minutes later.
___________________________________________________
Date: Wed, 18 May 2005 10:35:30
From: Mona@alsothoughtful.com
To: Grief-Stricken Playgroup
Subject: Re: Padme and Luke
Oh yes, but I am worried about how quickly that is coming up, so am wondering if maybe people want to start getting their pictures together and mail them to Leia to put in a album if we can't find a time to all meet?
We could also each write a little note that is the size of a picture on a nice piece of paper and that way it could either go into a mini-scrapbook if we can pull it off or be put right into the photo sleeve of an album.
Mona
___________________________________________________
And you know, of course, what the notes will be like. They’ll resemble the group birthday cards you get at the office, the big ones with all the little messages scribbled inside. Most workers don’t even need to sign their names anymore, because they always write the same thing to every recipient: “Way to go!” or “One more year ’til death!”
I bet I could write up a fake card for Padme and Luke and nobody would know the difference:
“Good Luck!”
“We’ll all miss you!”
“Sorry about the grape juice Sammy poured on your cat!”
But anyway …
___________________________________________________
Date: Thu, 2 Jun 2005 22:02:36
From: Leia@.lotsotime.com
To: Grief-Stricken Playgroup
Subject: Scrapbook night for Padme
Ok...I have the scrapbook for Padme. The size of the pages is 8.5 x 8.5. So, if you'd like to put your own page(s) together just make sure it's not too big. Also, if you can't make it to my house next Tuesday you can give your pictures to someone at Playgroup or send them to me at 823 Duck Waddle Way.
___________________________________________________
Now it’s all over, thank goodness. The scrapbook was created and duly presented, prompting a lovely thank you email from Padme.
I feel a little guilty for ignoring the whole thing, but I doubt Padme cared. If my name ever came out, she probably thought, “Christine … hmmm … is she the woman with the hooded sweatshirts and the napkin fetish or the gal with the pink sunglasses and the nervous twitch? … and is Benny the one who's prone to creepy rashes or allergic to oxygen? …”
##
At least that’s what I gather from recent emails. I can’t say I’m equally devastated, mostly because I can’t quite remember who Padme and Luke are. Is Padme the frazzled mother who arrives early to every playdate, awestruck by the host mother’s accomplishments? (“My God, you have a toy box! I wish I’d thought of that! We just shove our kid’s stuff under the sofa!”)
Perhaps Luke is the little boy who bites toys. Let’s be grateful he doesn’t bite other children, but it’s still weird to see a small toddler gnawing on a doll’s leg like it’s corn on the cob.
Well, no matter, because every member is precious, even Anny, who loves to send emails but never shows up anywhere. So one mother proposed the following:
___________________________________________________
Date: Wed, 18 May 2005 10:24:30
From: Leia@everthoughtful.com
To: Soon-to-be-Bereaved Playgroup
Subject: Padme and Luke
We could each do a page in a small photo album like a mini scrapbook. I have scrapbooking supplies so I can bring them to an upcoming playdate...or maybe we can even organize an evening to meet and put together the album. I was also thinking about the book, "M is for Mitten". It's about Michigan and we could all write a message from the kids to Lukey.
Leia
___________________________________________________
This idea was pounced on with great enthusiasm exactly 11 minutes later.
___________________________________________________
Date: Wed, 18 May 2005 10:35:30
From: Mona@alsothoughtful.com
To: Grief-Stricken Playgroup
Subject: Re: Padme and Luke
Oh yes, but I am worried about how quickly that is coming up, so am wondering if maybe people want to start getting their pictures together and mail them to Leia to put in a album if we can't find a time to all meet?
We could also each write a little note that is the size of a picture on a nice piece of paper and that way it could either go into a mini-scrapbook if we can pull it off or be put right into the photo sleeve of an album.
Mona
___________________________________________________
And you know, of course, what the notes will be like. They’ll resemble the group birthday cards you get at the office, the big ones with all the little messages scribbled inside. Most workers don’t even need to sign their names anymore, because they always write the same thing to every recipient: “Way to go!” or “One more year ’til death!”
I bet I could write up a fake card for Padme and Luke and nobody would know the difference:
“Good Luck!”
“We’ll all miss you!”
“Sorry about the grape juice Sammy poured on your cat!”
But anyway …
___________________________________________________
Date: Thu, 2 Jun 2005 22:02:36
From: Leia@.lotsotime.com
To: Grief-Stricken Playgroup
Subject: Scrapbook night for Padme
Ok...I have the scrapbook for Padme. The size of the pages is 8.5 x 8.5. So, if you'd like to put your own page(s) together just make sure it's not too big. Also, if you can't make it to my house next Tuesday you can give your pictures to someone at Playgroup or send them to me at 823 Duck Waddle Way.
___________________________________________________
Now it’s all over, thank goodness. The scrapbook was created and duly presented, prompting a lovely thank you email from Padme.
I feel a little guilty for ignoring the whole thing, but I doubt Padme cared. If my name ever came out, she probably thought, “Christine … hmmm … is she the woman with the hooded sweatshirts and the napkin fetish or the gal with the pink sunglasses and the nervous twitch? … and is Benny the one who's prone to creepy rashes or allergic to oxygen? …”
##
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Crazy Uncle Assembles Toddler Bed
ASSEMBLY INSTRUCTIONS
Thank you for purchasing Little Kid Inc.’s Z240 Race Car toddler bed. This product is designed for easy assembly using common household tools.
1. Before assembling Little Kid’s patented metal supports, the enclosed 2-pound iron bars must be manufactured into a steel mesh and frame. (Smelting pot not included.) See enclosed pamphlet for instructions, safety guidelines and anti-pollution regulations.
2. Using your household blow torch (not included), weld the steel mesh onto the frame. Always use a federally approved blast helmet (not included) during this step. Be sure to clear the bed’s cardboard box out of the work area before welding. Do not use near curtains.
3. The four plastic parts comprising the Race Car toddler bed’s outer frame should snap together easily along the molded grooves. In the rare instance that the parts do not snap together easily, located a 2-ton elephant. (Not included, but they often gather at watering holes near dusk.) Train the elephant to sit on a plastic part as you attach the adjoining part. (Make sure the welded steel mesh has cooled before bringing in the elephant.)
4. Next, secure the plastic parts using the D34659 and EF693 screws. The D34659 can be easily distinguished from the EF693 screw by the crosshatching beneath the screw head. Use your household electron microscope (not included) for easy identification.
5. Drill the holes for the screws using a 1/7.5-inch drill bit. Your local hardware store will say there’s no such bit, but they lie. Use a 1/8-inch drill bit at your own risk.
Congratulations! You have now completed basic assembly of your Z240 Race Car toddler bed. Now it only remains to customize your child’s bed with kicky decals.
Carefully peel each sticker from the backing, making sure the sticker back does not touch your fingers, stray tools or overly humid air. A zero-gravity generator (not included) has proved helpful during this step.
Some mechanically inept customers have suggested using the wheel-rim decals to fasten the plastic frame, since once adhered, the stickers cannot be removed by anything short of a C4 plastic explosive (not included). We feel that such comments cheapen the loving, memorable experience of assembling your child’s precious bed. Please report any such comments by calling 1-800-65-LOSER.
Congratulations again! Your child will surely adore his or her new bed for the recommended six months of use. After this, Little Kids recommends its Bright Wheels Dump Truck older toddler bed for a new low price of $339.99.
##
Thank you for purchasing Little Kid Inc.’s Z240 Race Car toddler bed. This product is designed for easy assembly using common household tools.
1. Before assembling Little Kid’s patented metal supports, the enclosed 2-pound iron bars must be manufactured into a steel mesh and frame. (Smelting pot not included.) See enclosed pamphlet for instructions, safety guidelines and anti-pollution regulations.
2. Using your household blow torch (not included), weld the steel mesh onto the frame. Always use a federally approved blast helmet (not included) during this step. Be sure to clear the bed’s cardboard box out of the work area before welding. Do not use near curtains.
3. The four plastic parts comprising the Race Car toddler bed’s outer frame should snap together easily along the molded grooves. In the rare instance that the parts do not snap together easily, located a 2-ton elephant. (Not included, but they often gather at watering holes near dusk.) Train the elephant to sit on a plastic part as you attach the adjoining part. (Make sure the welded steel mesh has cooled before bringing in the elephant.)
4. Next, secure the plastic parts using the D34659 and EF693 screws. The D34659 can be easily distinguished from the EF693 screw by the crosshatching beneath the screw head. Use your household electron microscope (not included) for easy identification.
5. Drill the holes for the screws using a 1/7.5-inch drill bit. Your local hardware store will say there’s no such bit, but they lie. Use a 1/8-inch drill bit at your own risk.
Congratulations! You have now completed basic assembly of your Z240 Race Car toddler bed. Now it only remains to customize your child’s bed with kicky decals.
Carefully peel each sticker from the backing, making sure the sticker back does not touch your fingers, stray tools or overly humid air. A zero-gravity generator (not included) has proved helpful during this step.
Some mechanically inept customers have suggested using the wheel-rim decals to fasten the plastic frame, since once adhered, the stickers cannot be removed by anything short of a C4 plastic explosive (not included). We feel that such comments cheapen the loving, memorable experience of assembling your child’s precious bed. Please report any such comments by calling 1-800-65-LOSER.
Congratulations again! Your child will surely adore his or her new bed for the recommended six months of use. After this, Little Kids recommends its Bright Wheels Dump Truck older toddler bed for a new low price of $339.99.
##
Thursday, June 02, 2005
I Gotta Quit Reading the Classics
Well, Ron, Benny and I are living in Limbo right now. It’s not Dante’s Limbo in Hell, where ancient heroes and poets spend Eternity, but it’s almost as bad.
Actually, Dante’s Limbo seems preferable right now; I could chug wine with Homer and Hercules, listening to the conversation: “Hey, Virgil, how’s it hanging?” and “Odysseus, you old fox, how come you always get the best table?” and “Tell us about the hemlock again, Socrates, you know you love it.”
Obviously, I’ve been reading Dante too much. I’ve emerged from “Inferno” and plodded through “Purgatory” and now I have to face “Paradise.” I don’t know if I have the strength. I read this dumb translation of “Purgatory” where everything has to rhyme. It’s like reading the Bible as a series of limericks: “The Void was empty and bleak/Until God made the world in a week …”
I never knew much about Purgatory, although I was raised Catholic. I would describe it as a Hell With Hope, where the mediocre faithful suffer for hundreds of years before ascending to Heaven. Virgil, out on loan from Hell, leads Dante up the mountain, pointing out all those poor bastards and obsessively tracking the sun’s placement in the sky. At the end, Virgil vanishes, Dante bursts into tears, then is verbally pimp-slapped by the glorious St. Beatrice for all his sins. She represents Divine Love by the way. Shudder.
But back to our Limbo. We’re considering moving out of state, and a move of that magnitude affects everything. I can’t make routine pediatrician appointments or respond to wedding invitations. I can’t buy a CD without asking myself, “Is this one Nickelback song worth the extra three ounces on a U-Haul?”
Off topic: The biggest, fattest raccoon I’ve ever seen just walked onto our deck. It’s enormous. Our cat Callisto is crouched on her kitty condo, prepared to pounce if our glass door magically disappears. Frankly, I think Callisto should be very grateful for that door.
PORTRAIT UPDATE: Avid readers of this diary will remember the April 19 entry about Benny's second portrait sitting. (If you haven't read it, you should. There's lots of good stuff about soap bubbles and a coal mine.)
I'm happy to report that Benny's pictures turned out very cute. He's looking over his shoulder with a happy grin and no one would know he'd just spent 20 minutes screaming bloody murder. The studio tried to sell me some sheets of a second picture, with a red-faced Benny cackling in a strongly psychotic way.
##
Actually, Dante’s Limbo seems preferable right now; I could chug wine with Homer and Hercules, listening to the conversation: “Hey, Virgil, how’s it hanging?” and “Odysseus, you old fox, how come you always get the best table?” and “Tell us about the hemlock again, Socrates, you know you love it.”
Obviously, I’ve been reading Dante too much. I’ve emerged from “Inferno” and plodded through “Purgatory” and now I have to face “Paradise.” I don’t know if I have the strength. I read this dumb translation of “Purgatory” where everything has to rhyme. It’s like reading the Bible as a series of limericks: “The Void was empty and bleak/Until God made the world in a week …”
I never knew much about Purgatory, although I was raised Catholic. I would describe it as a Hell With Hope, where the mediocre faithful suffer for hundreds of years before ascending to Heaven. Virgil, out on loan from Hell, leads Dante up the mountain, pointing out all those poor bastards and obsessively tracking the sun’s placement in the sky. At the end, Virgil vanishes, Dante bursts into tears, then is verbally pimp-slapped by the glorious St. Beatrice for all his sins. She represents Divine Love by the way. Shudder.
But back to our Limbo. We’re considering moving out of state, and a move of that magnitude affects everything. I can’t make routine pediatrician appointments or respond to wedding invitations. I can’t buy a CD without asking myself, “Is this one Nickelback song worth the extra three ounces on a U-Haul?”
Off topic: The biggest, fattest raccoon I’ve ever seen just walked onto our deck. It’s enormous. Our cat Callisto is crouched on her kitty condo, prepared to pounce if our glass door magically disappears. Frankly, I think Callisto should be very grateful for that door.
PORTRAIT UPDATE: Avid readers of this diary will remember the April 19 entry about Benny's second portrait sitting. (If you haven't read it, you should. There's lots of good stuff about soap bubbles and a coal mine.)
I'm happy to report that Benny's pictures turned out very cute. He's looking over his shoulder with a happy grin and no one would know he'd just spent 20 minutes screaming bloody murder. The studio tried to sell me some sheets of a second picture, with a red-faced Benny cackling in a strongly psychotic way.
##
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
10 Reasons Why I Hate Lists
OK, there really isn’t a list. Are you kidding?
Whenever I virtuously sit down to compile a tidy list of groceries, chores, summer clothes, Christmas presents, video game strategies or my five favorite spaghetti sauces, I can just feel the light and happiness leach out of my soul.
I once thought it was the content of the lists; nobody gets excited about a list that includes "pick lint off cat." Nah, I hate 'em all. I never read The Onion's funny lists, I yawn through David Letterman's Top 10 ... I can barely read my own resume, one of Life's Ultimate Lists.
But I was determined. I started searching online for The Perfect List and stumbled onto a frightening site called motivatedmoms.com. This amazing household planner listed everything from “sort shampoo bottles” to “clean toaster.”
The latter item included “and empty crumb tray.” I didn’t know there were people who cleaned their toasters’ crumb trays. I didn’t know toasters had crumb trays. I thought toasters just absorbed everything until they spontaneously exploded in a shower of bread crumbs.
And “sort shampoo bottles?” I have enough trouble keeping them upright. The last time I visited my sister, I kicked the shampoo bottle over and spilled the entire contents down the drain.
OK, Forget the Internet. Maybe I could spice up my lists, stop scribbling "diapers, window cleaner, whiskey bottle" on the back of ripped envelopes. After all, there's a cottage industry of cheery, decorated list pads. Pick your poison: teddy bears, kittens, hot-air balloons, baskets of fruit, ancient maps, leering snowmen -- yikes, that was a list!
No good. Broccoli is still broccoli, no matter how much cheese you pour on it, and a list is still a numbered Pit of Despair, even if it’s ringed with dancing bunnies.
##
Whenever I virtuously sit down to compile a tidy list of groceries, chores, summer clothes, Christmas presents, video game strategies or my five favorite spaghetti sauces, I can just feel the light and happiness leach out of my soul.
I once thought it was the content of the lists; nobody gets excited about a list that includes "pick lint off cat." Nah, I hate 'em all. I never read The Onion's funny lists, I yawn through David Letterman's Top 10 ... I can barely read my own resume, one of Life's Ultimate Lists.
But I was determined. I started searching online for The Perfect List and stumbled onto a frightening site called motivatedmoms.com. This amazing household planner listed everything from “sort shampoo bottles” to “clean toaster.”
The latter item included “and empty crumb tray.” I didn’t know there were people who cleaned their toasters’ crumb trays. I didn’t know toasters had crumb trays. I thought toasters just absorbed everything until they spontaneously exploded in a shower of bread crumbs.
And “sort shampoo bottles?” I have enough trouble keeping them upright. The last time I visited my sister, I kicked the shampoo bottle over and spilled the entire contents down the drain.
OK, Forget the Internet. Maybe I could spice up my lists, stop scribbling "diapers, window cleaner, whiskey bottle" on the back of ripped envelopes. After all, there's a cottage industry of cheery, decorated list pads. Pick your poison: teddy bears, kittens, hot-air balloons, baskets of fruit, ancient maps, leering snowmen -- yikes, that was a list!
No good. Broccoli is still broccoli, no matter how much cheese you pour on it, and a list is still a numbered Pit of Despair, even if it’s ringed with dancing bunnies.
##
Monday, May 09, 2005
Constant Vigilance!
[This entry appeared in Ron's newspaper and two others in Kalamazoo and Lansing this month.)
Hey, don’t bother me, can’t you see I’m busy? I’m busy building an invisible fort around my child, brick by brick.
Some parents treat their kids like fancy new cars with factory warranties and plastic covers on the seats. The babies arrive all pink and perfect, but they’re really doomed, you see, doomed to be scraped and scratched and corroded by that nasty world out there. This must be stopped at all costs. Constant vigilance is necessary – constant vigilance!
So the parents break out the disinfected pacifiers and the six-packs of antibacterial wipes and they drive their little cars on smooth, straight roads, bringing them back to cozy garages and wiping away any speck of dust or grime with a cloth diaper. They avoid the bumpy streets, the dark ravines, the rickety bridges, the dusty dirt paths. And they certainly don’t want anyone else driving the car; not unless they’re part of a select group. Why, someone might adjust the rearview mirror or take a turn too fast or drop Cheetos on the floor. You spend weeks vacuuming up the little orange crumbs under the seats and vow never to loan the car to Cheeto-lovers. It’s not worth the hassle.
And then the children get bigger, and the parents realize that sanitizing the toybox and screwing the dresser to the wall with a half-pound, 125mm heavy bolt just isn’t enough. Minds must be sanitized and bolted out of harm’s way, because if you don’t, then little specks of grit might get through and affect the machinery, and then that’s it, the warranty is invalidated, the child is corrupted and the next thing you know, you’re driving a rusty heap with a dented door and windshield wipers that won’t turn off.
Constant vigilance! So you shut the doors and close the windows and install parental controls on the DVD player and firewalls on the computer and buy specially sanitized versions of popular movies so your kid won’t see Private Ryan’s combat or Leonardo’s butt.
You strap your kids into your tidy home-on-wheels and drive them from supervised schools to supervised sports and supervised playgroups and supervised outings. And you can’t share driving with other moms because they’re on different schedules and anyway, Freddie’s mom drives too fast and Flossie’s family van doesn’t have a DVD.
To me, this seems a soulless (and exhausting) way to live, like eating chips on a brand-new sofa, breaking each one over the bowl and picking every tiny crumb off your pants.
When I was 10 or so, somebody gave me an abridged, illustrated copy of “Little Women.” Except I didn’t know it was abridged. I thought it was the whole story. I read it again a few times in the next five years, assuming that this little book about four cloyingly virtuous sisters was all there was.
Then when I was in high school, I saw the complete text in the library. It was a big book. There were whole chapters I never knew. Painful conversations had been cut in half, and difficult scenes deleted altogether. Meg’s fights with her husband and Amy’s victory over nasty gossips had been axed. I started looking up all my childhood books, wondering which ones had been tampered with. I didn’t find any others, but I tell you, I’m still bitter about that book. I felt deceived; like there was a hole in my life I didn’t know was there.
And I wonder, will this generation growing up have many such holes? Will they spend their adulthood saying to themselves, “ “Wow, I didn’t know ‘Psycho’ had a shower scene” and “Nobody told me that cheaters really DO win a lot” as they compare the real world with the prettily pruned reality they grew up in? Like animals exquisitely adapted to a rarified environment like an ocean floor or Arctic tundra, I wonder if such people have difficulty functioning anywhere else.
I predict that 15 years from now, we'll have this crowd of socially inept, painfully unprepared young adults who expect someone to yell "Good job!" every time they rinse a glass or seal an envelope. Who will have trouble with some of the most basic lessons of adulthood: that life isn’t fair and people often suffer without relief and you can’t be special all the time.
I know children need more protection in some ways. You can’t toss your eight-year-old out of the house and tell her to come back when the streetlights come on. Marketers so ruthlessly target children that moms are pulling SpongeBob-covered boxes out of screaming babies’ hands at supermarkets. Sometimes it feels like everything you see, hear and touch in this world is trying to sell you something.
All the more reason to explore those bumpy roads, those steep ravines, away from the smooth roads with the shiny billboards. A car often drives better with a little dust in the tires and wildflowers on the windshield.
##
Hey, don’t bother me, can’t you see I’m busy? I’m busy building an invisible fort around my child, brick by brick.
Some parents treat their kids like fancy new cars with factory warranties and plastic covers on the seats. The babies arrive all pink and perfect, but they’re really doomed, you see, doomed to be scraped and scratched and corroded by that nasty world out there. This must be stopped at all costs. Constant vigilance is necessary – constant vigilance!
So the parents break out the disinfected pacifiers and the six-packs of antibacterial wipes and they drive their little cars on smooth, straight roads, bringing them back to cozy garages and wiping away any speck of dust or grime with a cloth diaper. They avoid the bumpy streets, the dark ravines, the rickety bridges, the dusty dirt paths. And they certainly don’t want anyone else driving the car; not unless they’re part of a select group. Why, someone might adjust the rearview mirror or take a turn too fast or drop Cheetos on the floor. You spend weeks vacuuming up the little orange crumbs under the seats and vow never to loan the car to Cheeto-lovers. It’s not worth the hassle.
And then the children get bigger, and the parents realize that sanitizing the toybox and screwing the dresser to the wall with a half-pound, 125mm heavy bolt just isn’t enough. Minds must be sanitized and bolted out of harm’s way, because if you don’t, then little specks of grit might get through and affect the machinery, and then that’s it, the warranty is invalidated, the child is corrupted and the next thing you know, you’re driving a rusty heap with a dented door and windshield wipers that won’t turn off.
Constant vigilance! So you shut the doors and close the windows and install parental controls on the DVD player and firewalls on the computer and buy specially sanitized versions of popular movies so your kid won’t see Private Ryan’s combat or Leonardo’s butt.
You strap your kids into your tidy home-on-wheels and drive them from supervised schools to supervised sports and supervised playgroups and supervised outings. And you can’t share driving with other moms because they’re on different schedules and anyway, Freddie’s mom drives too fast and Flossie’s family van doesn’t have a DVD.
To me, this seems a soulless (and exhausting) way to live, like eating chips on a brand-new sofa, breaking each one over the bowl and picking every tiny crumb off your pants.
When I was 10 or so, somebody gave me an abridged, illustrated copy of “Little Women.” Except I didn’t know it was abridged. I thought it was the whole story. I read it again a few times in the next five years, assuming that this little book about four cloyingly virtuous sisters was all there was.
Then when I was in high school, I saw the complete text in the library. It was a big book. There were whole chapters I never knew. Painful conversations had been cut in half, and difficult scenes deleted altogether. Meg’s fights with her husband and Amy’s victory over nasty gossips had been axed. I started looking up all my childhood books, wondering which ones had been tampered with. I didn’t find any others, but I tell you, I’m still bitter about that book. I felt deceived; like there was a hole in my life I didn’t know was there.
And I wonder, will this generation growing up have many such holes? Will they spend their adulthood saying to themselves, “ “Wow, I didn’t know ‘Psycho’ had a shower scene” and “Nobody told me that cheaters really DO win a lot” as they compare the real world with the prettily pruned reality they grew up in? Like animals exquisitely adapted to a rarified environment like an ocean floor or Arctic tundra, I wonder if such people have difficulty functioning anywhere else.
I predict that 15 years from now, we'll have this crowd of socially inept, painfully unprepared young adults who expect someone to yell "Good job!" every time they rinse a glass or seal an envelope. Who will have trouble with some of the most basic lessons of adulthood: that life isn’t fair and people often suffer without relief and you can’t be special all the time.
I know children need more protection in some ways. You can’t toss your eight-year-old out of the house and tell her to come back when the streetlights come on. Marketers so ruthlessly target children that moms are pulling SpongeBob-covered boxes out of screaming babies’ hands at supermarkets. Sometimes it feels like everything you see, hear and touch in this world is trying to sell you something.
All the more reason to explore those bumpy roads, those steep ravines, away from the smooth roads with the shiny billboards. A car often drives better with a little dust in the tires and wildflowers on the windshield.
##
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Christine Vows Revenge
Well, I’m working on a revenge play these days. And the thing about writing a revenge play is that it puts you in a very touchy mood.
Generally I write comedies and walk around chuckling to myself, dissolving into giggles at the supermarket deli counter. Now I’m glaring at cell phone users and plotting exquisitely calibrated punishments for doofus drivers. Then I go home and eye my 15-month-old son, murmuring darkly, “I wouldn’t throw that block if I were you.”
To put myself in the proper frame of mind, I’m reading Dante’s “Inferno.” When I first read the Divine Comedy in college … well, actually I never read the whole thing, the whole Hell-Purgatory-Heaven trilogy. I’d read Milton’s Paradise Lost during a summer seminar, which kind of turned me off of hanging out in Heaven with genius poets.
So I never did read all of the Divine Comedy, but I did read the Inferno. In the book, a pilgrim is lost in a wood and Virgil the Roman poet leads him down to Hell, because only through Hell can the pilgrim reach Heaven. I don’t know why; they don’t mention a Dark Wood-Heaven express bus, so don’t ask. So the pilgrim travels through the nine circles of Hell, where all sinners receive their just punishments.
When I read this at age 21, the Inferno seemed like a simple adventure story – sort of a Wizard of Oz with more screaming. Now, reading it 15 years later, it takes on more ominous tones. I find myself wondering, in Dante’s universe, which circle I’d end up in. There’s no question I’d be there; Dante set the bar too high for an old sinner like me to enter Heaven. He puts people who eat too much down there, for crying out loud. (They lie buried in stinking mud.) From all the articles I’ve read on obesity in America, that would cover half the country and all the Midwest states.
All right, back to my play. It will have roughly the same theme as Dante’s, namely “The Bad Guys Get Theirs,” but it a little more complicated. I tried to explain the themes to Ron after he put Benny to bed, and gave us both a headache. This is the first time I’ve started a play with the theme. Usually I just make up weird characters and let it rip.
But this technique completely failed with my last play, “Wake Up Winslow,” which collapsed during the third scene and now refuses to budge. That play is a murder mystery/comedy about three siblings who run a talk show on cable access TV. One brother disappears and the remaining two are forced to continue the show. Then the show’s guests start dying off after appearing on it. Soon the only people who will appear on the show are a psychotic heavy metal guy and a fear management specialist.
Well, how can anybody lose with that, you ask? Death, sibling rivalry, fear management experts wearing masks, what else could one want? I tried to entice the play with plot outlines, character worksheets … nothing worked. So now I’ve abandoned it in disgust and I hope it’s happy.
But this new play, oh it’s going great guns. I’ve got a great theme that I half-understand. All I need are characters, setting and a plot. Now if you will excuse me, I must banish my son to a prison made of alphabet blocks.
##
Generally I write comedies and walk around chuckling to myself, dissolving into giggles at the supermarket deli counter. Now I’m glaring at cell phone users and plotting exquisitely calibrated punishments for doofus drivers. Then I go home and eye my 15-month-old son, murmuring darkly, “I wouldn’t throw that block if I were you.”
To put myself in the proper frame of mind, I’m reading Dante’s “Inferno.” When I first read the Divine Comedy in college … well, actually I never read the whole thing, the whole Hell-Purgatory-Heaven trilogy. I’d read Milton’s Paradise Lost during a summer seminar, which kind of turned me off of hanging out in Heaven with genius poets.
So I never did read all of the Divine Comedy, but I did read the Inferno. In the book, a pilgrim is lost in a wood and Virgil the Roman poet leads him down to Hell, because only through Hell can the pilgrim reach Heaven. I don’t know why; they don’t mention a Dark Wood-Heaven express bus, so don’t ask. So the pilgrim travels through the nine circles of Hell, where all sinners receive their just punishments.
When I read this at age 21, the Inferno seemed like a simple adventure story – sort of a Wizard of Oz with more screaming. Now, reading it 15 years later, it takes on more ominous tones. I find myself wondering, in Dante’s universe, which circle I’d end up in. There’s no question I’d be there; Dante set the bar too high for an old sinner like me to enter Heaven. He puts people who eat too much down there, for crying out loud. (They lie buried in stinking mud.) From all the articles I’ve read on obesity in America, that would cover half the country and all the Midwest states.
All right, back to my play. It will have roughly the same theme as Dante’s, namely “The Bad Guys Get Theirs,” but it a little more complicated. I tried to explain the themes to Ron after he put Benny to bed, and gave us both a headache. This is the first time I’ve started a play with the theme. Usually I just make up weird characters and let it rip.
But this technique completely failed with my last play, “Wake Up Winslow,” which collapsed during the third scene and now refuses to budge. That play is a murder mystery/comedy about three siblings who run a talk show on cable access TV. One brother disappears and the remaining two are forced to continue the show. Then the show’s guests start dying off after appearing on it. Soon the only people who will appear on the show are a psychotic heavy metal guy and a fear management specialist.
Well, how can anybody lose with that, you ask? Death, sibling rivalry, fear management experts wearing masks, what else could one want? I tried to entice the play with plot outlines, character worksheets … nothing worked. So now I’ve abandoned it in disgust and I hope it’s happy.
But this new play, oh it’s going great guns. I’ve got a great theme that I half-understand. All I need are characters, setting and a plot. Now if you will excuse me, I must banish my son to a prison made of alphabet blocks.
##
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Not So Picture-Perfect
Today was Benny’s second professional portrait sitting, his 1-year photo only three months late. I’d scheduled this appointment four times, canceling the first three because of illness, and Benny’s busted lip from a fall at the park.
But today I had the perfect kid in the perfect outfit and his wonderful toothy smile. I curled Benny’s wet hair around my fingers for that Hot Disco Cherub look. I packed his sippy cup, favorite toy and extra outfit. We were ready.
Benny smiled and giggled in the car, in the store, at the portrait reception area. He loved the world and the world loved him. Then I pulled him out of the stroller and placed him on the white-draped table before the camera.
THUNK.
Benny fell to his knees, limp, moaning. Then he just sat, hunched, defeated, like an abandoned puppet. He pushed his lower lip out and the tears started.
Baffled, I picked him up. He smiled. I put him down again. He slumped. I tried to stand him up. He cried. The photographer touched his hand and he just went bananas.
“Um, do you have any toys?” I asked, cradling a hiccupping Ben in my arms.
The photographer’s brow furrowed. Toys? In a family portrait studio? How odd.
“I think so,” she said doubtfully. Her assistant dug out a jar of soap bubbles, which elicited a few polite smiles from Benny.
“He LOVES them!” The photographer cried.
“Yuck, I’m getting bubble stuff on my shirt,” the assistant said.
“Yeah, those aren’t the good bubbles,” said the photographer. “Can you get him to look this way?”
“Ick, that bubble popped in my face! I’m covered in bubble goop!”
By now, Benny was sagging again, looking pitiful.
“Oh, what a sweet face!” cried the photographer.
“I can’t do those bubbles anymore,” the assistant announced. She pulled out a big fluffy thing on a stick, like those tools used to dust cobwebs off ceilings.
“Tickle tickle tickle!” she cackled, poking the end at Benny’s feet, then his face. Benny lunged for the door.
“Maybe he could sit on that bench,” I said. pointing.
The assistant sniffed. “That’s a stool.”
“But he could theoretically sit on it,” I said.
They allowed that might be possible.
Benny did like the stool, and even smiled a little when the assistant dropped the fluffy stick. Then he cried.
Defeated, we went back to the reception area to see the half-dozen shots produced in a 30-minute session. The gray blob on the monitor was either a baby or a bottle-nosed dolphin.
“Is there any way we could see this better?” I asked the photographer.
Her brow furrowed again. “What do you mean?”
“Is there a way to see the picture more clearly?”
“No, this is a really bad monitor,” she said, as if it was something to be proud of.
I sighed. “I’ll take a few 5x7s of that one.” I hoped the actual pictures looked better; on the display, Benny looked like he’d just crawled out of coal mine.
She rang up our order, while Benny screamed from his stroller and the studio manager told me about her Sunday: “… A beautiful day and SIX people cancelled sessions and I was SO BORED …”
“$68.70,” said the photographer.
“WHAT?” I cried.
She repeated the shocking number.
‘I can’t pay that!” I said before I could stop myself. Benny threw his sippy cup and screamed.
I apologized and ordered their cheapest package -- $32 for three sheets. Benny was now bent in half from the waist, trying to dive headfirst onto the floor. I paid quickly and we raced out of the mall for a restorative snack in the McDonald’s parking lot.
Wolfing a cheeseburger, I twisted around in my Jeep’s front seat to look at a now-beaming Benny, clad only in a diaper and shorts, munching a French fry.
“We’ll make Daddy pick up the pictures,” I said.
EPILOGUE
Talked to my mother tonight and we think we can account for Benny’s behavior. Perhaps the white-draped walls and table and shiny equipment reminded Benny of the doctor’s office, where he recently received some painful shots. The bubble-hating assistant was wearing white, too. Mom said my story reminded her of when Andy was the same age, getting new shoes after his surgery. The shoe saleslady wore a white uniform, and poor Andy just fell apart.
##
But today I had the perfect kid in the perfect outfit and his wonderful toothy smile. I curled Benny’s wet hair around my fingers for that Hot Disco Cherub look. I packed his sippy cup, favorite toy and extra outfit. We were ready.
Benny smiled and giggled in the car, in the store, at the portrait reception area. He loved the world and the world loved him. Then I pulled him out of the stroller and placed him on the white-draped table before the camera.
THUNK.
Benny fell to his knees, limp, moaning. Then he just sat, hunched, defeated, like an abandoned puppet. He pushed his lower lip out and the tears started.
Baffled, I picked him up. He smiled. I put him down again. He slumped. I tried to stand him up. He cried. The photographer touched his hand and he just went bananas.
“Um, do you have any toys?” I asked, cradling a hiccupping Ben in my arms.
The photographer’s brow furrowed. Toys? In a family portrait studio? How odd.
“I think so,” she said doubtfully. Her assistant dug out a jar of soap bubbles, which elicited a few polite smiles from Benny.
“He LOVES them!” The photographer cried.
“Yuck, I’m getting bubble stuff on my shirt,” the assistant said.
“Yeah, those aren’t the good bubbles,” said the photographer. “Can you get him to look this way?”
“Ick, that bubble popped in my face! I’m covered in bubble goop!”
By now, Benny was sagging again, looking pitiful.
“Oh, what a sweet face!” cried the photographer.
“I can’t do those bubbles anymore,” the assistant announced. She pulled out a big fluffy thing on a stick, like those tools used to dust cobwebs off ceilings.
“Tickle tickle tickle!” she cackled, poking the end at Benny’s feet, then his face. Benny lunged for the door.
“Maybe he could sit on that bench,” I said. pointing.
The assistant sniffed. “That’s a stool.”
“But he could theoretically sit on it,” I said.
They allowed that might be possible.
Benny did like the stool, and even smiled a little when the assistant dropped the fluffy stick. Then he cried.
Defeated, we went back to the reception area to see the half-dozen shots produced in a 30-minute session. The gray blob on the monitor was either a baby or a bottle-nosed dolphin.
“Is there any way we could see this better?” I asked the photographer.
Her brow furrowed again. “What do you mean?”
“Is there a way to see the picture more clearly?”
“No, this is a really bad monitor,” she said, as if it was something to be proud of.
I sighed. “I’ll take a few 5x7s of that one.” I hoped the actual pictures looked better; on the display, Benny looked like he’d just crawled out of coal mine.
She rang up our order, while Benny screamed from his stroller and the studio manager told me about her Sunday: “… A beautiful day and SIX people cancelled sessions and I was SO BORED …”
“$68.70,” said the photographer.
“WHAT?” I cried.
She repeated the shocking number.
‘I can’t pay that!” I said before I could stop myself. Benny threw his sippy cup and screamed.
I apologized and ordered their cheapest package -- $32 for three sheets. Benny was now bent in half from the waist, trying to dive headfirst onto the floor. I paid quickly and we raced out of the mall for a restorative snack in the McDonald’s parking lot.
Wolfing a cheeseburger, I twisted around in my Jeep’s front seat to look at a now-beaming Benny, clad only in a diaper and shorts, munching a French fry.
“We’ll make Daddy pick up the pictures,” I said.
EPILOGUE
Talked to my mother tonight and we think we can account for Benny’s behavior. Perhaps the white-draped walls and table and shiny equipment reminded Benny of the doctor’s office, where he recently received some painful shots. The bubble-hating assistant was wearing white, too. Mom said my story reminded her of when Andy was the same age, getting new shoes after his surgery. The shoe saleslady wore a white uniform, and poor Andy just fell apart.
##
Monday, April 18, 2005
Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum
Trapped at the ophthalmologist’s today, taking every bizarre eye test known to man.
It’s only due to Charles Schulz that I know what an ophthalmologist does. I always think of Linus and his new glasses, saying “My ophthalmologist says this and my ophthalmologists thinks that,” and Sally in her eye patch, educating the other kids about “lazy eye.”
I did get to wear an eye patch, although I forgot to say “yo ho ho and a bottle of rum” because the test itself was so freaking weird. You stare into a big white bowl and click a button whenever a light flashes. Simple enough, but you must also stare at an orange dot without flinching and you can only blink while clicking the button.
So I stared and blinked and clicked at anything that looked remotely like a light flash for what seemed like two years. Then the sadist technician numbed my eyes and stuck long paper strips in them to measure tear production. Then she left. So I sat there alone, head tilted back, tears pouring out, wondering if eyes were all that important anyway.
The good news was that my eyes are fine, just a little dry. All I have to do is put my entire life on hold and sit around putting drops in my eyes all day. Fine, I thought, just get me out of here.
##
It’s only due to Charles Schulz that I know what an ophthalmologist does. I always think of Linus and his new glasses, saying “My ophthalmologist says this and my ophthalmologists thinks that,” and Sally in her eye patch, educating the other kids about “lazy eye.”
I did get to wear an eye patch, although I forgot to say “yo ho ho and a bottle of rum” because the test itself was so freaking weird. You stare into a big white bowl and click a button whenever a light flashes. Simple enough, but you must also stare at an orange dot without flinching and you can only blink while clicking the button.
So I stared and blinked and clicked at anything that looked remotely like a light flash for what seemed like two years. Then the sadist technician numbed my eyes and stuck long paper strips in them to measure tear production. Then she left. So I sat there alone, head tilted back, tears pouring out, wondering if eyes were all that important anyway.
The good news was that my eyes are fine, just a little dry. All I have to do is put my entire life on hold and sit around putting drops in my eyes all day. Fine, I thought, just get me out of here.
##
Danger, Danger Everywhere
I've just about had it with women's magazines. Women’s magazine editors believe their readerships want to do four things:
1. Buy stuff.
2. Lose weight.
3. Learn the little-known dangers of peanut butter or post-it notes.
4. Absorb kicky household and parenting tips to amaze family and friends.
Parenting magazines are the worst, especially about No. 3. Good Mothers always disinfect their babies’ pacifiers in special space-age modules (See No. 1) and conduct a 10-point inspection of a playground before use. (“Inspect concrete bases of swing structure, allowing for 20 pounds of pressure per cubic …”)
Actually, that stuff doesn’t bother me much. I just like to gripe. What really upsets me are The Horrific Disorders Lurking in Your Child features. Sometimes its just pinhead mothers writing to ask, “My 1-year-old has a round tummy. Could it be cystic fibrosis?” The rest sound like this:
MOTHER’S INSTINCT SAVES CHILD
Wykker Barnes seemed a perfectly healthy child until age
(INSERT YOUR CHILD’S AGE HERE)
But then Wykker’s mother noticed that her child
(INSERT A COMMON HABIT OF YOUR CHILD’S)
The pediatrician said it was
(INSERT MUNDANE REASON FOR THE HABIT)
But Wykker’s mother had a feeling. “I knew my child,” she said. So she took Wykker to a round of specialists who finally diagnosed the child with
(INSERT HORRIFYING DISORDER HERE)
Now Wykker must wear swimming goggles and a full body cast whenever the barometer reads 29 or above. “We pray every day that Wykker will be able to lead a normal life,” Mrs. Barnes says.
##
1. Buy stuff.
2. Lose weight.
3. Learn the little-known dangers of peanut butter or post-it notes.
4. Absorb kicky household and parenting tips to amaze family and friends.
Parenting magazines are the worst, especially about No. 3. Good Mothers always disinfect their babies’ pacifiers in special space-age modules (See No. 1) and conduct a 10-point inspection of a playground before use. (“Inspect concrete bases of swing structure, allowing for 20 pounds of pressure per cubic …”)
Actually, that stuff doesn’t bother me much. I just like to gripe. What really upsets me are The Horrific Disorders Lurking in Your Child features. Sometimes its just pinhead mothers writing to ask, “My 1-year-old has a round tummy. Could it be cystic fibrosis?” The rest sound like this:
MOTHER’S INSTINCT SAVES CHILD
Wykker Barnes seemed a perfectly healthy child until age
(INSERT YOUR CHILD’S AGE HERE)
But then Wykker’s mother noticed that her child
(INSERT A COMMON HABIT OF YOUR CHILD’S)
The pediatrician said it was
(INSERT MUNDANE REASON FOR THE HABIT)
But Wykker’s mother had a feeling. “I knew my child,” she said. So she took Wykker to a round of specialists who finally diagnosed the child with
(INSERT HORRIFYING DISORDER HERE)
Now Wykker must wear swimming goggles and a full body cast whenever the barometer reads 29 or above. “We pray every day that Wykker will be able to lead a normal life,” Mrs. Barnes says.
##
A Boy and his Baby
I bought Benny a doll last Friday – a little bald baby in a duck costume. His cousin Sophie, 2, has a cartload of baby dolls, and Benny just adores them. I thought Benny would benefit from nurturing a dolly when he wasn’t pushing toy trucks around in a manly manner, so off we went to Toys ‘R’ Us.
Scary place, that store. We go at least once a month. Last time I bought a small picnic table to place in the dining room, dreaming of a happy boy sitting at his table, stacking wooden blocks, munching little snacks, lining up small plastic farm animals.
Instead, if we aren’t constantly vigilant, he climbs on top of the table and dumps books off a nearby cabinet. Ron spent an hour last week yelling, “Sit!" Sit on your butt!” It was a battle of wills, a Clash of the Titans, but it worked well enough that when my sister Cindy said “Sit!” while we were visiting her house, Benny promptly dropped onto his bottom with a thump.
So Benny and I are rolling through the toy store, with Benny sucking on a stuffed Clifford he’d pulled off aisle four. (“DOG!”) I scan the lavish display of dolls – most were swathed in pink, looking like the bald villain from “The Princess Bride” (“INCONCEIVABLE!”).
I finally find a baby in a duck outfit, called a PlayPet. The baby had some colleagues dressed as puppies and kittens or mountain goats or something, but Benny didn’t care. He lunged for the doll, cart straps straining, yelling “Oooh! Oooh!” Then he grabbed it, box and all, his eyes rapturously asking, “Where have you been all my life?” Clifford fell to the floor as I tussled with Benny, trying to see the doll’s price tag. Then I gave up. Like it mattered now.
So now Benny has a doll, complete with a rattle and bottle. I only had to show Benny how to feed his baby once; then he spent the entire ride home pushing the bottle into the doll’s eyes, nose and mouth, humming a tuneless lullaby. At home, he loves to grab and hug it, then drool on its face. Sometimes he gives it kisses; other times he sits on its head. But he loves it. I’ll ask, “Where’s the baby? Where’s your baby?” and he’ll run get it, then climb into my lap – sort of a Mommy holding Baby holding Baby tableau.
Maybe this sounds like I’m making too much of this, but he seems more affectionate since he got the doll. He cuddles more and now tries to kiss Ron and me. He’s learned how to hug; he’ll climb into my lap and fling his arms around my neck in a chokehold. “I love you, Benny,” I wheeze, gasping for air.
##
Scary place, that store. We go at least once a month. Last time I bought a small picnic table to place in the dining room, dreaming of a happy boy sitting at his table, stacking wooden blocks, munching little snacks, lining up small plastic farm animals.
Instead, if we aren’t constantly vigilant, he climbs on top of the table and dumps books off a nearby cabinet. Ron spent an hour last week yelling, “Sit!" Sit on your butt!” It was a battle of wills, a Clash of the Titans, but it worked well enough that when my sister Cindy said “Sit!” while we were visiting her house, Benny promptly dropped onto his bottom with a thump.
So Benny and I are rolling through the toy store, with Benny sucking on a stuffed Clifford he’d pulled off aisle four. (“DOG!”) I scan the lavish display of dolls – most were swathed in pink, looking like the bald villain from “The Princess Bride” (“INCONCEIVABLE!”).
I finally find a baby in a duck outfit, called a PlayPet. The baby had some colleagues dressed as puppies and kittens or mountain goats or something, but Benny didn’t care. He lunged for the doll, cart straps straining, yelling “Oooh! Oooh!” Then he grabbed it, box and all, his eyes rapturously asking, “Where have you been all my life?” Clifford fell to the floor as I tussled with Benny, trying to see the doll’s price tag. Then I gave up. Like it mattered now.
So now Benny has a doll, complete with a rattle and bottle. I only had to show Benny how to feed his baby once; then he spent the entire ride home pushing the bottle into the doll’s eyes, nose and mouth, humming a tuneless lullaby. At home, he loves to grab and hug it, then drool on its face. Sometimes he gives it kisses; other times he sits on its head. But he loves it. I’ll ask, “Where’s the baby? Where’s your baby?” and he’ll run get it, then climb into my lap – sort of a Mommy holding Baby holding Baby tableau.
Maybe this sounds like I’m making too much of this, but he seems more affectionate since he got the doll. He cuddles more and now tries to kiss Ron and me. He’s learned how to hug; he’ll climb into my lap and fling his arms around my neck in a chokehold. “I love you, Benny,” I wheeze, gasping for air.
##
Monday, March 07, 2005
Monster Flu Bug
Ron, Benny and I have been wretchedly ill for a week and a half. It started two Thursday nights ago, with Benny throwing up four times in two hours. He had the stomach flu, and a more horrific bug I've never seen. It's closing schools here in southeast Michigan. Vomiting, diarrhea, fever, sweats, everything.
I started throwing up Sunday night, and then Ron started on Wednesday night. I am not exaggerating when I say I've never been this sick. Then I caught a cold on top of it. Ron was out of work for three days, that's how bad it was.
Last Thursday and Friday were the worst because Ron and I were still very ill, but Benny was better. So we lay on the couch while poor Benny whimpered and pushed toys at us. We could barely feed and change the poor child. Nobody could help us, because we wouldn't wish this thing on our worst enemy.
Finally we felt better on Sunday. Ron spent the day making up work on his laptop and I cleaned the house, while poor Benny bounced between us like a ping-pong ball.
Today is our first normal day. Benny's babysitter Anna is here right now and I'm trying to put together my resume and clippings. I've got an offer for freelance travel work for Booth Newspapers, so they need to see my stuff.
##
I started throwing up Sunday night, and then Ron started on Wednesday night. I am not exaggerating when I say I've never been this sick. Then I caught a cold on top of it. Ron was out of work for three days, that's how bad it was.
Last Thursday and Friday were the worst because Ron and I were still very ill, but Benny was better. So we lay on the couch while poor Benny whimpered and pushed toys at us. We could barely feed and change the poor child. Nobody could help us, because we wouldn't wish this thing on our worst enemy.
Finally we felt better on Sunday. Ron spent the day making up work on his laptop and I cleaned the house, while poor Benny bounced between us like a ping-pong ball.
Today is our first normal day. Benny's babysitter Anna is here right now and I'm trying to put together my resume and clippings. I've got an offer for freelance travel work for Booth Newspapers, so they need to see my stuff.
##
Friday, February 11, 2005
Europa Society Movie
You may recall that I wrote a 15-minute screenplay, "The Europa Society," a few weeks after Benny was born. Ron would watch Benny for two hours after work while I napped, then I'd write until midnight. This happened a few times a week for a month.
We filmed the thing in June, using actors from the Performance Network theater in Ann Arbor. It was screened at the Michigan Theater on Feb. 8 along with other short films.
See www.apprenticefilms.com
THE EUROPA SOCIETY
In a small town in northern Michigan, there is a small group of people who meet every month to talk about populating a small moon orbiting Jupiter, Europa.
Lead by a really, really important former Apollo mission technician, The Europa Society is not one of those crackpot, crazy clubs of people just deluding themselves into believing they can do something that is impossible. Although that does describe their crosstown rivals, The Callisto Club.
With the beautiful orange glow from Jupiter and its vast ocean beneath the thick layer of ice, Europa is one of the few places in our solar system with all the resources to sustain life. And with a target mission date of 2050, there is a lot of time to prepare. I mean, you can't just up and go 400 million miles without preparation. Now that would be crazy.
Running Time: 14 minutes 40 seconds.
The audience responded well to the movie. Some of the biggest laughs came from things that weren't script related, like Sean in a boy scout uniform setting up his ledger, strongbox and colored pencils to a military drum tap. Alicia twirling two flashlights at the logo inspired another big laugh. There was a statue of ET and a space helmet on a table and people laughed at that too. This was definitely the Movie of Funny Props.
People thought the logo was hilarious. They laughed every time it came on the screen. Rad's line: "Nobody will get that. It looks like a poster for good nutrition" was very successful. The name of Edward's latest chapter "Snowflakes of Desire" was a hit.
"The Europa Society" also won third place in the Short Subject category at the Central Michigan Film Festival. So the movie gets another screening in Mount Pleasant in April.
Yay! I'm thinking of taking a screenwriting class if I'm going to continue this. I faked this script, but I'd like to write a full-length Europa Society movie and I'd prefer to know what I'm doing.
##
We filmed the thing in June, using actors from the Performance Network theater in Ann Arbor. It was screened at the Michigan Theater on Feb. 8 along with other short films.
See www.apprenticefilms.com
THE EUROPA SOCIETY
In a small town in northern Michigan, there is a small group of people who meet every month to talk about populating a small moon orbiting Jupiter, Europa.
Lead by a really, really important former Apollo mission technician, The Europa Society is not one of those crackpot, crazy clubs of people just deluding themselves into believing they can do something that is impossible. Although that does describe their crosstown rivals, The Callisto Club.
With the beautiful orange glow from Jupiter and its vast ocean beneath the thick layer of ice, Europa is one of the few places in our solar system with all the resources to sustain life. And with a target mission date of 2050, there is a lot of time to prepare. I mean, you can't just up and go 400 million miles without preparation. Now that would be crazy.
Running Time: 14 minutes 40 seconds.
The audience responded well to the movie. Some of the biggest laughs came from things that weren't script related, like Sean in a boy scout uniform setting up his ledger, strongbox and colored pencils to a military drum tap. Alicia twirling two flashlights at the logo inspired another big laugh. There was a statue of ET and a space helmet on a table and people laughed at that too. This was definitely the Movie of Funny Props.
People thought the logo was hilarious. They laughed every time it came on the screen. Rad's line: "Nobody will get that. It looks like a poster for good nutrition" was very successful. The name of Edward's latest chapter "Snowflakes of Desire" was a hit.
"The Europa Society" also won third place in the Short Subject category at the Central Michigan Film Festival. So the movie gets another screening in Mount Pleasant in April.
Yay! I'm thinking of taking a screenwriting class if I'm going to continue this. I faked this script, but I'd like to write a full-length Europa Society movie and I'd prefer to know what I'm doing.
##
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Playgroup Drama: Galadriel Gets Huffy
I love Benny’s playgroup, but sometimes the mothers get a little obsessive. A rebel faction proposed meeting on Tuesdays instead of Wednesdays. Now emails fly thick and fast, filled with scheduling parries and thrusts.
Here is a gallant attempt by “Brunhilda” to restore order. This is an actual email. (Names are changed to protect the innocent. The innocent is me. I’ve got enough problems.)
brunhilda@freakymother.com wrote:
Date: Mon, 10 Jan 2005 11:34:30 -0500
From: brunhilda@freakymother.com
To: Christine K. and half of Ann Arbor
Subject: play date schedule revisions?
Hello!
I want to update the play date schedule with all the changes I am hearing!
Please help me clarify what we want to do in March by voting for/ranking ALTERNATE, ADD, or SWITCH (read below)!
M. would like to host tomorrow 1/12. I didn't catch the time, but her address is already on the schedule for 2/2. I also have Christine K. down for a 2/16 playdate.
(That was true, God help me. I cleaned the house for three days -- CK.)
If this is correct Christine, please send me your address and a time for that date. Thanks!
Then starting in March, it sounds like Tuesdays may work as well as Wednesdays. Do we want to ALTERNATE Tuesday one week, Wednesday the next week? Do we want to ADD a Tuesday in-home play date on weeks when we will meet at the mall on Wednesday? Do we want to SWITCH from a Wednesday schedule to a Tuesday schedule?
Let me know what you prefer by emailing me directly with your vote for ALTERNATE, ADD, or SWITCH!
Or, better yet, you could send me those three options listed in order of decreasing preference!
I'll let you know how this turns out!
Hope to see you all tomorrow! Have a great week!
Brunhilda and Thor Jr.
__________________________________________________
We were all trying to wrap our brains around that one, when “Galadriel” decided to stir the pot. This again, is an actual email.
Date: Tuesday, 03 Feb. 2005 09:00
From: galadriel@busymother.com
To: Crazy playgroup
Subject: RE: play date schedule revisions?
I hadn't seen the baby massage picture before. How adorable!
Elrond, myself and Little Legolas are going to try to make it for a little while on Saturday. We are traveling to Kalamazoo that day (I've planned a surprise party for Elrond that night!). I'm beginning to think I've overscheduled us, but I really want to make the birthday party!
Also, I wanted to re-visit the day change for playgroup. It sounds like almost everyone could do Wednesdays or Tuesdays. Arwen and I discussed the fact that we both can't do Tuesdays and we're really bummed to miss out.
Could we try alternating Wednesdays and Tuesdays? What do you all think? That way Eowyn can still come on Tuesdays and Arwen and I can still come on Wednesdays.
To complicate things further I'd like to request which Wednesdays of the month we use if we decide to do it that way ... so I can still make my neighborhood playgroup on alternate dates.
Whew...that's a lot to ask, but Little Legolas has such a blast I don't want to lose out!
Also, we need another mom's night out soon. Any suggestions?
Gally
[MY SECRET SUGGESTION WAS TO JUST PICK ONE DAMN PLAYGROUP. ANYWAY, THE CONTROVERSY JUST WOULDN'T DIE AND BRUNHILDA, THE ORIGINAL PLANNER, STARTED GETTING HUFFY. SEE BELOW.]
From: brunhilda@freakymother.com
Everyone,
I will be glad to schedule whatever the group wants. Just so you all know... it was a purely democratic decision to move the play dates to Tuesdays. When I asked for your opinions/votes a month ago only 8 people responded ...
[EVERYONE ELSE WAS PROBABLY TOTALLY CONFUSED]
... and switching to Tuesdays was the most popular response. The second most popular response was to add Tuesday play dates so there would be a Tuesday and a Wednesday meeting every week. There were no votes for alternating Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
[DO YOU THINK SHE COULD PUT ALL THIS IN A PIE CHART?]
I got a few comments that people would find it difficult to schedule other stuff around alternating play days.
Should we reconsider the options and re-vote?
Brunhilda
_____________
SO ... I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE GROUP IS DOING NOW.
They’ve got some complicated schedule going where we meet on the first Tuesday of every month, unless the date is an odd number, and on the second and fourth Wednesdays, unless the moon enters Gemini, and the third week depends on the height of the Huron River. (It’s been low lately; there’s been concern.)
Anyway, I just depend on the weekly emails now and do my best to keep up.
##
Here is a gallant attempt by “Brunhilda” to restore order. This is an actual email. (Names are changed to protect the innocent. The innocent is me. I’ve got enough problems.)
brunhilda@freakymother.com wrote:
Date: Mon, 10 Jan 2005 11:34:30 -0500
From: brunhilda@freakymother.com
To: Christine K. and half of Ann Arbor
Subject: play date schedule revisions?
Hello!
I want to update the play date schedule with all the changes I am hearing!
Please help me clarify what we want to do in March by voting for/ranking ALTERNATE, ADD, or SWITCH (read below)!
M. would like to host tomorrow 1/12. I didn't catch the time, but her address is already on the schedule for 2/2. I also have Christine K. down for a 2/16 playdate.
(That was true, God help me. I cleaned the house for three days -- CK.)
If this is correct Christine, please send me your address and a time for that date. Thanks!
Then starting in March, it sounds like Tuesdays may work as well as Wednesdays. Do we want to ALTERNATE Tuesday one week, Wednesday the next week? Do we want to ADD a Tuesday in-home play date on weeks when we will meet at the mall on Wednesday? Do we want to SWITCH from a Wednesday schedule to a Tuesday schedule?
Let me know what you prefer by emailing me directly with your vote for ALTERNATE, ADD, or SWITCH!
Or, better yet, you could send me those three options listed in order of decreasing preference!
I'll let you know how this turns out!
Hope to see you all tomorrow! Have a great week!
Brunhilda and Thor Jr.
__________________________________________________
We were all trying to wrap our brains around that one, when “Galadriel” decided to stir the pot. This again, is an actual email.
Date: Tuesday, 03 Feb. 2005 09:00
From: galadriel@busymother.com
To: Crazy playgroup
Subject: RE: play date schedule revisions?
I hadn't seen the baby massage picture before. How adorable!
Elrond, myself and Little Legolas are going to try to make it for a little while on Saturday. We are traveling to Kalamazoo that day (I've planned a surprise party for Elrond that night!). I'm beginning to think I've overscheduled us, but I really want to make the birthday party!
Also, I wanted to re-visit the day change for playgroup. It sounds like almost everyone could do Wednesdays or Tuesdays. Arwen and I discussed the fact that we both can't do Tuesdays and we're really bummed to miss out.
Could we try alternating Wednesdays and Tuesdays? What do you all think? That way Eowyn can still come on Tuesdays and Arwen and I can still come on Wednesdays.
To complicate things further I'd like to request which Wednesdays of the month we use if we decide to do it that way ... so I can still make my neighborhood playgroup on alternate dates.
Whew...that's a lot to ask, but Little Legolas has such a blast I don't want to lose out!
Also, we need another mom's night out soon. Any suggestions?
Gally
[MY SECRET SUGGESTION WAS TO JUST PICK ONE DAMN PLAYGROUP. ANYWAY, THE CONTROVERSY JUST WOULDN'T DIE AND BRUNHILDA, THE ORIGINAL PLANNER, STARTED GETTING HUFFY. SEE BELOW.]
From: brunhilda@freakymother.com
Everyone,
I will be glad to schedule whatever the group wants. Just so you all know... it was a purely democratic decision to move the play dates to Tuesdays. When I asked for your opinions/votes a month ago only 8 people responded ...
[EVERYONE ELSE WAS PROBABLY TOTALLY CONFUSED]
... and switching to Tuesdays was the most popular response. The second most popular response was to add Tuesday play dates so there would be a Tuesday and a Wednesday meeting every week. There were no votes for alternating Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
[DO YOU THINK SHE COULD PUT ALL THIS IN A PIE CHART?]
I got a few comments that people would find it difficult to schedule other stuff around alternating play days.
Should we reconsider the options and re-vote?
Brunhilda
_____________
SO ... I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE GROUP IS DOING NOW.
They’ve got some complicated schedule going where we meet on the first Tuesday of every month, unless the date is an odd number, and on the second and fourth Wednesdays, unless the moon enters Gemini, and the third week depends on the height of the Huron River. (It’s been low lately; there’s been concern.)
Anyway, I just depend on the weekly emails now and do my best to keep up.
##
Monday, January 31, 2005
Benny's First Birthday
Whoa, what an adventure! I spent nearly 10 days in Indianapolis with Mom, who, thank heavens, is much better. She is a very tough person. Benny ended up in Holland with Cindy since Ron couldn’t watch him and go to work.
I finally got back home with the Benster and started planning his first birthday party for the following Sunday. I was considering a 30-invitation birthday open house for Benny with a circus theme, but sanity prevailed. Now I was giving mostly family event. Just Ron's brother's family and his dad, my family, our next-door neighbors and Benny's daytime babysitter.
I hauled Benny all over Ann Arbor, buying groceries, presents and pirate decorations. (I just couldn’t resist that treasure map tablecloth.) It didn't match the invites ($3 a pack at Meijer), which had rocket ships. I'm a rebel.
Ethical dilemma: If I buy a Lego TIE fighter, put it together and hang it in Benny's room, does it count as a Benny gift? Or just a cheap attempt to win Mommy kudos while indulging my love of Legos?
Then I got the flu. Out of commission for three days. I perked up around midnight on Saturday – enough to bake cupcakes and try to wrap a 19-inch Spiderman ball.
Everything went beautifully, although Benny’s poor Aunt Maureen spent a half hour assembling the cardboard treasure chest. Benny loved all the company, Ron liked helping him open presents, and when I wasn’t being weirdly obsessive about munchies and drinks, I had a great time too.
##
I finally got back home with the Benster and started planning his first birthday party for the following Sunday. I was considering a 30-invitation birthday open house for Benny with a circus theme, but sanity prevailed. Now I was giving mostly family event. Just Ron's brother's family and his dad, my family, our next-door neighbors and Benny's daytime babysitter.
I hauled Benny all over Ann Arbor, buying groceries, presents and pirate decorations. (I just couldn’t resist that treasure map tablecloth.) It didn't match the invites ($3 a pack at Meijer), which had rocket ships. I'm a rebel.
Ethical dilemma: If I buy a Lego TIE fighter, put it together and hang it in Benny's room, does it count as a Benny gift? Or just a cheap attempt to win Mommy kudos while indulging my love of Legos?
Then I got the flu. Out of commission for three days. I perked up around midnight on Saturday – enough to bake cupcakes and try to wrap a 19-inch Spiderman ball.
Everything went beautifully, although Benny’s poor Aunt Maureen spent a half hour assembling the cardboard treasure chest. Benny loved all the company, Ron liked helping him open presents, and when I wasn’t being weirdly obsessive about munchies and drinks, I had a great time too.
##
Friday, January 14, 2005
Christine Drives to Indianapolis
My drive to Indianapolis made one thing clear: I don’t get out enough. I was driving through a dreary January day along dreary Highway 69 to spend the weekend nursing my sick mother, and I felt as bright and frisky as a puppy.
My new Jeep Liberty took on the rainy slush like a champ as I headed west, settling into a sedate driving style punctuated by occasional manic swerves. I kept accidentally bumping the turn signal post or pushing weird buttons on the steering wheel. I learned to change my music CDs by feel – sort of. Now my audio book CD is in the Backstreet Boys CD case and the Boys now live in the Mozart CD case. Mozart, meanwhile, is trapped in the case of some weird singer Ron likes.
I rediscovered my love for travel on that drive. For nearly a year, my world was a 1,500-square-foot house and the cow path between the kitchen and baby’s room. So I hummed along to the Backstreet Boys (the mental energy equivalent of refilling the paper towel holder) as I tailgated a gigantic mobile home on a trailer, finally emerging triumphantly in a spray of rainwater. I stared at the home as I passed: pale blue, ratty, rusty, bouncing dangerously on its trailer. Where was it going? Why would anybody want to move it?
After an hour of such excitement, I pulled into a rest area wrapped in orange construction fencing and circled it twice, looking for the entrance. Then I spent a disturbingly happy 20 minutes with the large wall map and adjacent vending machines, lost in delicious indecision between cheese-pretzel combos or a Snickers bar.
I pulled back onto the highway, once more narrowly missing the Giant Blue Mobile Home of Death, which had caught up with me again, and gratefully escaped I94 to I69 South to the border. Indiana is considered a Midwestern state, but has a definite southern accent. I saw billboards for Texas ribs and listened to crooning country songs at the Fort Wayne Burger King. The state’s sudden obsession with James Dean puzzled me until I zoomed past Fairmount, the ever-boyish actor’s hometown.
Motorists zoomed past me as I poked along the right lane, giving me disappointed looks, like they expected better from a Jeep driver. A tiny Mazda pickup truck nearly flattened me as it zipped by on jacked-up tires, which nearly brought its height up to my wheel rims.
A flirtatious Shell sign lured my thirsty Jeep off the highway, but then I took a wrong turn into some rundown little Indiana town, past the faded remains of painted drugstore signs on its largest downtown building. The whole place looked soggy and closed up, except for a craft store housed in a former Chicken Shack restaurant.
I have, and I’m sure I share this with others, a great dislike of turning left onto a road. I will drive for miles down a crummy road, passing street after street on the right side, until I can find a likely place on the left to turn around. So was the case with Daleville (for that was its name). I drove two miles out of town in the wet mud before I could turn around at RainTree Estates, a rare housing complex with a name that actually describes its surroundings.
The Shell sign still eluded me, rainbow-like, so I stopped at a Subway, where the lady assembled a veggie salad, complimenting me on my choices (“Oh, yes, honey, you definitely need carrots!” and “Feta cheese is so good on salads!”) When she wasn’t raising customers’ culinary self-esteem, she was on the phone with a truck driver. “You think you’re tired? You get to sit all day; try standing 16 hours on a concrete floor.”)
The unseasonably balmy breeze had grown colder, and I hurried through the dusk to my patient Jeep. As the sky darkened and the rain picked up, I amused myself by eyeing the gas gauge (now ominously tipped below a quarter-tank) and calculating how many miles remained to Mom’s apartment. Let’s see, 46 miles to Anderson, then perhaps 20 more to Indianapolis, with three exits 50 miles apart on the 495 bypass, divide by four, carry the two …
Math wasn’t my strong suit, but I was obviously cutting it close. The Christine of five years ago would have barreled ahead anyway, peering anxiously at the gauge, thrilled with the drama of it all. This Christine had enough drama in her life. I pulled off 10 miles later in pursuit of another Shell beacon, wasting 15 minutes circling a Mighty Mart until I realized that sometimes a sign is only a sign, and the actual Shell station was across the street and a quarter-mile down.
Refreshed and renewed by 15 gallons of unleaded and a can of Coke, the Jeep and I pounded through the blowing snow, headlights blazing. Author Bill Bryson chatted on the CD player about London cabbies and leafy walking paths and fetching Roman ruins. I figured out how to operate the rear windshield defroster with some frantic button-pushing and only one near-death swerve into a rail. The snow fell harder, obscuring the road. I merged onto the 465 bypass, leaping into a dark spot in the string of rush-hour headlights, only to brake hastily before hitting an unlit sports car.
I skidded onto the Meridian Street exit and came to a hasty stop, watching the flakes swirling in front of the traffic light turn pink. Panting, I clutched the steering wheel.
“Westin was surprisingly lovely in the morning sunshine,” Bill Bryson said.
I consulted my scribbled directions under the dome light and promptly turned the wrong way, onto a dark road lined with trees. Swearing, I found a place to turn around -- on the left, of course. The Jeep skidded again as I read off street signs – Emily, Emily, where was Emily? Where are all the damn street lights? Was I even on a road anymore?
“Out in the sparkling bay an island basked in the clear clean air,” Bill said, “and beyond it rose the green hills of Wales.”
I wound around Indianapolis’ snowy streets while Bill ambled through the Cottswalds. We both reached our destinations at the same time. I pulled into a parking space across from Mom’s front door, shining my headlights into her neighbors’ living room window.
“I emerged hot, sticky but triumphant,” said Bill, who had been running down steep hills, flailing his arms like a dancer from “West Side Story.”
I knew just how he felt.
##
My new Jeep Liberty took on the rainy slush like a champ as I headed west, settling into a sedate driving style punctuated by occasional manic swerves. I kept accidentally bumping the turn signal post or pushing weird buttons on the steering wheel. I learned to change my music CDs by feel – sort of. Now my audio book CD is in the Backstreet Boys CD case and the Boys now live in the Mozart CD case. Mozart, meanwhile, is trapped in the case of some weird singer Ron likes.
I rediscovered my love for travel on that drive. For nearly a year, my world was a 1,500-square-foot house and the cow path between the kitchen and baby’s room. So I hummed along to the Backstreet Boys (the mental energy equivalent of refilling the paper towel holder) as I tailgated a gigantic mobile home on a trailer, finally emerging triumphantly in a spray of rainwater. I stared at the home as I passed: pale blue, ratty, rusty, bouncing dangerously on its trailer. Where was it going? Why would anybody want to move it?
After an hour of such excitement, I pulled into a rest area wrapped in orange construction fencing and circled it twice, looking for the entrance. Then I spent a disturbingly happy 20 minutes with the large wall map and adjacent vending machines, lost in delicious indecision between cheese-pretzel combos or a Snickers bar.
I pulled back onto the highway, once more narrowly missing the Giant Blue Mobile Home of Death, which had caught up with me again, and gratefully escaped I94 to I69 South to the border. Indiana is considered a Midwestern state, but has a definite southern accent. I saw billboards for Texas ribs and listened to crooning country songs at the Fort Wayne Burger King. The state’s sudden obsession with James Dean puzzled me until I zoomed past Fairmount, the ever-boyish actor’s hometown.
Motorists zoomed past me as I poked along the right lane, giving me disappointed looks, like they expected better from a Jeep driver. A tiny Mazda pickup truck nearly flattened me as it zipped by on jacked-up tires, which nearly brought its height up to my wheel rims.
A flirtatious Shell sign lured my thirsty Jeep off the highway, but then I took a wrong turn into some rundown little Indiana town, past the faded remains of painted drugstore signs on its largest downtown building. The whole place looked soggy and closed up, except for a craft store housed in a former Chicken Shack restaurant.
I have, and I’m sure I share this with others, a great dislike of turning left onto a road. I will drive for miles down a crummy road, passing street after street on the right side, until I can find a likely place on the left to turn around. So was the case with Daleville (for that was its name). I drove two miles out of town in the wet mud before I could turn around at RainTree Estates, a rare housing complex with a name that actually describes its surroundings.
The Shell sign still eluded me, rainbow-like, so I stopped at a Subway, where the lady assembled a veggie salad, complimenting me on my choices (“Oh, yes, honey, you definitely need carrots!” and “Feta cheese is so good on salads!”) When she wasn’t raising customers’ culinary self-esteem, she was on the phone with a truck driver. “You think you’re tired? You get to sit all day; try standing 16 hours on a concrete floor.”)
The unseasonably balmy breeze had grown colder, and I hurried through the dusk to my patient Jeep. As the sky darkened and the rain picked up, I amused myself by eyeing the gas gauge (now ominously tipped below a quarter-tank) and calculating how many miles remained to Mom’s apartment. Let’s see, 46 miles to Anderson, then perhaps 20 more to Indianapolis, with three exits 50 miles apart on the 495 bypass, divide by four, carry the two …
Math wasn’t my strong suit, but I was obviously cutting it close. The Christine of five years ago would have barreled ahead anyway, peering anxiously at the gauge, thrilled with the drama of it all. This Christine had enough drama in her life. I pulled off 10 miles later in pursuit of another Shell beacon, wasting 15 minutes circling a Mighty Mart until I realized that sometimes a sign is only a sign, and the actual Shell station was across the street and a quarter-mile down.
Refreshed and renewed by 15 gallons of unleaded and a can of Coke, the Jeep and I pounded through the blowing snow, headlights blazing. Author Bill Bryson chatted on the CD player about London cabbies and leafy walking paths and fetching Roman ruins. I figured out how to operate the rear windshield defroster with some frantic button-pushing and only one near-death swerve into a rail. The snow fell harder, obscuring the road. I merged onto the 465 bypass, leaping into a dark spot in the string of rush-hour headlights, only to brake hastily before hitting an unlit sports car.
I skidded onto the Meridian Street exit and came to a hasty stop, watching the flakes swirling in front of the traffic light turn pink. Panting, I clutched the steering wheel.
“Westin was surprisingly lovely in the morning sunshine,” Bill Bryson said.
I consulted my scribbled directions under the dome light and promptly turned the wrong way, onto a dark road lined with trees. Swearing, I found a place to turn around -- on the left, of course. The Jeep skidded again as I read off street signs – Emily, Emily, where was Emily? Where are all the damn street lights? Was I even on a road anymore?
“Out in the sparkling bay an island basked in the clear clean air,” Bill said, “and beyond it rose the green hills of Wales.”
I wound around Indianapolis’ snowy streets while Bill ambled through the Cottswalds. We both reached our destinations at the same time. I pulled into a parking space across from Mom’s front door, shining my headlights into her neighbors’ living room window.
“I emerged hot, sticky but triumphant,” said Bill, who had been running down steep hills, flailing his arms like a dancer from “West Side Story.”
I knew just how he felt.
##
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Benny Can Walk, But Princess Leia Can't
It happened so fast that it's sort of spooky, He hardly crawls anymore just paces up and down the living room looking detrmined.
He kinda walks like Morticia from "The Adams Family," arms held out to the sides, chin up, butt wiggling.
Meanwhile, I'm working my way through my new Star Wars DVDs. I'm halfway through "The Empire Strikes Back." What the heck is going on with Princess Leia and her sudden loss of coordination? In the action scenes, she can't take two steps without Han pushing, shoving or tugging at her. In "Star Wars," she managed to run around the Death Star just fine without some guy's support. Now she struggles to stay upright.
Not that her character amounted to much anyway in "Empire." In "Star Wars," she was the one pursued, tortured and sentenced to death. Now Luke's the one pursued, and Han gets tortured and put in mortal danger. All the poor girl can do is hang out with C3PO and snap at Lando.
Boy, I can't wait for "Return of the Jedi," where she dons a string bikini and befriends teddy bears. How Freudian is that?
##
He kinda walks like Morticia from "The Adams Family," arms held out to the sides, chin up, butt wiggling.
Meanwhile, I'm working my way through my new Star Wars DVDs. I'm halfway through "The Empire Strikes Back." What the heck is going on with Princess Leia and her sudden loss of coordination? In the action scenes, she can't take two steps without Han pushing, shoving or tugging at her. In "Star Wars," she managed to run around the Death Star just fine without some guy's support. Now she struggles to stay upright.
Not that her character amounted to much anyway in "Empire." In "Star Wars," she was the one pursued, tortured and sentenced to death. Now Luke's the one pursued, and Han gets tortured and put in mortal danger. All the poor girl can do is hang out with C3PO and snap at Lando.
Boy, I can't wait for "Return of the Jedi," where she dons a string bikini and befriends teddy bears. How Freudian is that?
##
Monday, December 27, 2004
Christmas in the Emergency Room
Poor Benny spent Christmas morning in the emergency room.
He'd been running a fever since Thursday morning and was restless that night. I called the nurse, who said it was probably a virus and call them at the end of Christmas day if he was still feverish. He'd never had an ear infection, just one cold so far.
Well, he was was up crying ALL NIGHT on Christmas Eve. Ron and I got zero sleep, and neither did my mother, who was lying in the living room.
At 6 a.m. Christmas morning, we talked to another nurse, who said that ear infections can be very subtle and he could have one.
Now here's a funny thing: She started talking very cautiously, saying "Now, I don't know what your plans are today, but you might want to take him to the emergency room. But it is probably safe to wait until tomorrow, again, I don't know what your plans are."
I said, "Thats OK, we're not traveling today, and frankly, even if we were, I'd still take him into the ER, this baby is suffering."
She said,"Yeah, just talking to you, I thought you would. But some people are very determined about their Christmas plans. I had to be careful."
I couldn't believe it. Some people would drag their sick baby around on Christmas? I'm sure there's a story behind this nurse's behavior. I'd guess she's dealt with hysterical parents screaming "No! We have to drive to Baton Rouge today! My stepmother's cousin's daughter-in-law made a special Christmas ornament!"
(Whoops, I got a little off-topic there.) Anyway, back to my kid. Ron and I took him to the ER, loudly announcing that our baby has had a fever for days and hasn't slept. Benny promptly produces a 98-degree temp on the rectal thermometer and falls asleep in the hospital bed in his little gown, waiting for the doctor. It was hard to see him lying there. I wanted to scoop him up and run out of the hospital.
But Benny did have an ear infection. A bad one. He perked up on the medicine and took a three-hour nap. That night, he played with his activity table from Santa and chased his cousins. So Christmas came after all.
##
He'd been running a fever since Thursday morning and was restless that night. I called the nurse, who said it was probably a virus and call them at the end of Christmas day if he was still feverish. He'd never had an ear infection, just one cold so far.
Well, he was was up crying ALL NIGHT on Christmas Eve. Ron and I got zero sleep, and neither did my mother, who was lying in the living room.
At 6 a.m. Christmas morning, we talked to another nurse, who said that ear infections can be very subtle and he could have one.
Now here's a funny thing: She started talking very cautiously, saying "Now, I don't know what your plans are today, but you might want to take him to the emergency room. But it is probably safe to wait until tomorrow, again, I don't know what your plans are."
I said, "Thats OK, we're not traveling today, and frankly, even if we were, I'd still take him into the ER, this baby is suffering."
She said,"Yeah, just talking to you, I thought you would. But some people are very determined about their Christmas plans. I had to be careful."
I couldn't believe it. Some people would drag their sick baby around on Christmas? I'm sure there's a story behind this nurse's behavior. I'd guess she's dealt with hysterical parents screaming "No! We have to drive to Baton Rouge today! My stepmother's cousin's daughter-in-law made a special Christmas ornament!"
(Whoops, I got a little off-topic there.) Anyway, back to my kid. Ron and I took him to the ER, loudly announcing that our baby has had a fever for days and hasn't slept. Benny promptly produces a 98-degree temp on the rectal thermometer and falls asleep in the hospital bed in his little gown, waiting for the doctor. It was hard to see him lying there. I wanted to scoop him up and run out of the hospital.
But Benny did have an ear infection. A bad one. He perked up on the medicine and took a three-hour nap. That night, he played with his activity table from Santa and chased his cousins. So Christmas came after all.
##
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Benny's Nightmare
Benny and I visited Aunt Orla's, staying for lunch and dinner. Benny loved the dog. I brought Scott and Jen a housewarming gift and I gave Aunt Orla a vanilla-sugar bubble bath, lotion and sponge. After that, she'll either be relaxed or really hungry.
Benny's been running a low-grade fever off and on since dinnertime yesterday. We've been giving him medicine and I talked to the doctor's office. He's eating well and is very active, just a runny nose.
His babysitter said he had an irritable edge to him today. She added that if she said that to someone there who didn't know him well, that person would think she was nuts, because he was still playing and smiling. But we could tell.
Around 10 p.m., he woke up crying, covered in sweat. I changed his jammies and his sheets and Ron wiped him down and rocked him to sleep. There was no fever, none at all. It was a weird cry; he actually sounded scared. We think it was a night terror.
When we went in, he wasn't standing like he usually does; he was lying on his back, turning back and forth, eyes closed, crying. When I picked him up and put him on the changing table, I don't think he knew where he was. He was fine the next morning.
##
Benny's been running a low-grade fever off and on since dinnertime yesterday. We've been giving him medicine and I talked to the doctor's office. He's eating well and is very active, just a runny nose.
His babysitter said he had an irritable edge to him today. She added that if she said that to someone there who didn't know him well, that person would think she was nuts, because he was still playing and smiling. But we could tell.
Around 10 p.m., he woke up crying, covered in sweat. I changed his jammies and his sheets and Ron wiped him down and rocked him to sleep. There was no fever, none at all. It was a weird cry; he actually sounded scared. We think it was a night terror.
When we went in, he wasn't standing like he usually does; he was lying on his back, turning back and forth, eyes closed, crying. When I picked him up and put him on the changing table, I don't think he knew where he was. He was fine the next morning.
##
Thursday, August 19, 2004
We Sneak out of Michigan
6:40 p.m., Friday: Our glorious departure is now a panicked getaway. The three of us are wedged so tightly into our VW Beetle that Baby Ben looks like a piece of luggage with a head.
I’d imagined a grand occasion, sort of “Apollo 11” meets “Herbie Goes to Maryland.” Instead, we sneak out of Ann Arbor like theives in the night, weakened by hunger, with an overtired baby wailing from his dufflebag fort in the backseat.
We emerge from Ann Arbor’s Construction Area and Hundred-Mile Parking Lot and peel down US 23, where workers have decorated the shoulders with more pointless orange barrels a show of solidarity. On the left, we pass Ebenezer Baptist Church and Grain Silo. Benny scrabbles around under his blanket and drifts off to sleep.
We drag our weary behinds into a Friendly’s in Maumee, just before the Ohio Turnpike. Benny bounces in his highchair, shredding napkins and staring pop-eyed at fellow diners. Ron and I glumly eat our diet turkey plates (smothered in gravy) and peer at the map. The Ohio Turnpike curves under Lake Erie toward Cleveland, but we plan to break off at Highway 77 and find a hotel near Akron.
We aren’t on the Turnpike long before we turn into the giant concrete pillbox that is the Commodore Perry Service Plaza. The gift shop offers such vital travel commodities as plush butterflies on sticks. Also prominently displayed is a bright yellow self-help book asking “Have You Felt Like Giving Up Lately?” I guess after driving across Ohio, a lot of people feel like giving up.
It was dark before we lurched onto a very bumpy Highway 77, the lights of Akron ahead, but our hopes of a quick hotel room were doomed. The sold-out Holiday Inn displayed a huge placard saying “Welcome NEC International Golfers.”
We fled south, desperate to escape the Golf Tournament Zone. At 11 p.m., in Nowhere, Ohio, I found myself in another Holiday Inn lobby. Five drunk, middle-aged bleach blondes surrounded the desk, keening for connecting rooms. “We made this reservation a YEAR ago!” the ringleader screamed.
The desk clerk nervously smoothed his comb-over. “We can’t guarantee specific rooms, only a certain type --”
“Connecting!” another one yelled. “You know, with the doors between the --”
“We don’t have connecting rooms, here are your keys --”
“We stay here every year for tournament!” the ringleader cried. And apparently every year they reserve the nonexistent connecting rooms. “Where are the ... we’re miles apart! We’re on SEPARATE FLOORS!”
“That’s not right ...”
“... Way the fuck out there ...”
“Connecting! We want connecting rooms!”
Attracted by the chaos, some drunk man wanders over and stirs the pot. “Give ‘em connecting rooms! You oughta have connecting rooms -- with a big bed -- for an orgy!”
I should’ve left right then. Instead I slunk over to a second hotel clerk and asked if there were rooms available. He said only smoking. Deeply relieved, I raced back to the car. “Get us the hell out of here,” I hissed to Ron.
We woke the next morning in a dumpy little hotel in Strasburg, outside the NEC zone. The landscape had changed, surrounding us with little mountain ridges and deeper forests. But our entrance onto 77 was delayed by a New Jersey man who left his van to talk to woman with Ohio license plates. It was an intense coversation; obviously vital enough to back up traffic for a quarter-mile.
Woman: How do I get to Zanesville?
Man: Sorry, I’m from New Jersey..
Woman: Should I take 77 or 22?
Man: I ain’t from here, lady. See the pukey yellow license plate? Now if you want to get to New Brunswick or Pompton Lakes, there I can help you. Pompton’s real nice --
Woman: What if I took 77 east to -- (sudden scream) Eeeek! A crazed silver Beetle with a bike rack and a baby seat is about to run us over for sheer stupidity! Look out!
##
I’d imagined a grand occasion, sort of “Apollo 11” meets “Herbie Goes to Maryland.” Instead, we sneak out of Ann Arbor like theives in the night, weakened by hunger, with an overtired baby wailing from his dufflebag fort in the backseat.
We emerge from Ann Arbor’s Construction Area and Hundred-Mile Parking Lot and peel down US 23, where workers have decorated the shoulders with more pointless orange barrels a show of solidarity. On the left, we pass Ebenezer Baptist Church and Grain Silo. Benny scrabbles around under his blanket and drifts off to sleep.
We drag our weary behinds into a Friendly’s in Maumee, just before the Ohio Turnpike. Benny bounces in his highchair, shredding napkins and staring pop-eyed at fellow diners. Ron and I glumly eat our diet turkey plates (smothered in gravy) and peer at the map. The Ohio Turnpike curves under Lake Erie toward Cleveland, but we plan to break off at Highway 77 and find a hotel near Akron.
We aren’t on the Turnpike long before we turn into the giant concrete pillbox that is the Commodore Perry Service Plaza. The gift shop offers such vital travel commodities as plush butterflies on sticks. Also prominently displayed is a bright yellow self-help book asking “Have You Felt Like Giving Up Lately?” I guess after driving across Ohio, a lot of people feel like giving up.
It was dark before we lurched onto a very bumpy Highway 77, the lights of Akron ahead, but our hopes of a quick hotel room were doomed. The sold-out Holiday Inn displayed a huge placard saying “Welcome NEC International Golfers.”
We fled south, desperate to escape the Golf Tournament Zone. At 11 p.m., in Nowhere, Ohio, I found myself in another Holiday Inn lobby. Five drunk, middle-aged bleach blondes surrounded the desk, keening for connecting rooms. “We made this reservation a YEAR ago!” the ringleader screamed.
The desk clerk nervously smoothed his comb-over. “We can’t guarantee specific rooms, only a certain type --”
“Connecting!” another one yelled. “You know, with the doors between the --”
“We don’t have connecting rooms, here are your keys --”
“We stay here every year for tournament!” the ringleader cried. And apparently every year they reserve the nonexistent connecting rooms. “Where are the ... we’re miles apart! We’re on SEPARATE FLOORS!”
“That’s not right ...”
“... Way the fuck out there ...”
“Connecting! We want connecting rooms!”
Attracted by the chaos, some drunk man wanders over and stirs the pot. “Give ‘em connecting rooms! You oughta have connecting rooms -- with a big bed -- for an orgy!”
I should’ve left right then. Instead I slunk over to a second hotel clerk and asked if there were rooms available. He said only smoking. Deeply relieved, I raced back to the car. “Get us the hell out of here,” I hissed to Ron.
We woke the next morning in a dumpy little hotel in Strasburg, outside the NEC zone. The landscape had changed, surrounding us with little mountain ridges and deeper forests. But our entrance onto 77 was delayed by a New Jersey man who left his van to talk to woman with Ohio license plates. It was an intense coversation; obviously vital enough to back up traffic for a quarter-mile.
Woman: How do I get to Zanesville?
Man: Sorry, I’m from New Jersey..
Woman: Should I take 77 or 22?
Man: I ain’t from here, lady. See the pukey yellow license plate? Now if you want to get to New Brunswick or Pompton Lakes, there I can help you. Pompton’s real nice --
Woman: What if I took 77 east to -- (sudden scream) Eeeek! A crazed silver Beetle with a bike rack and a baby seat is about to run us over for sheer stupidity! Look out!
##
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
My Job
7 a.m.: Time to wake up and get ready for my job.
I roll out of bed and into the shower. Ron feeds 6-month-old Ben while I wrestle with the curling iron. I’d laid out my clothes the night before and set out cereal bowls and boxes. By 8:30, Ron, Benny and I are washed, dressed, fed and out the door.
After dropping Ron off at the office, I head for my job -- grocery shopping today. Then I’ll do laundry (Benny’s wearing a torn shirt and a pink bib) and wash the car..
Yup, I’m a stay-at-home mom, living a life filled with sloppy hugs and suspicious odors (“Ewwww ... is that the cat? The kid? Or me?”). No schedules, no deadlines, no meetings. Personal chores like eating, showering and trashy-novel-reading could be accomplished at a mother’s convenience.
A mother’s what? There is no mother’s convenience. My baby’s paranormal Spidey sense can detect a book opening three rooms away. Tooth barely meets chocolate donut before an outraged wail resounds from the bedroom.
Oh sure, there’s plenty of flexibility. Which is why I used to find myself cowering in a darkened living room on a sunny afternoon, wearing day-old sweats and picking dust off Benny’s feet. A bottle ... baby’s bath ... a quick laundry load ... and it’s 4 p.m. and I haven’t gone to the store or even opened the drapes. Guess it’s takeout pizza for dinner again.
I was baffled. After all, I was once a newspaper editor juggling multiple deadlines. Now I couldn’t crawl two feet from my front door for the daily paper. What was wrong with me? Why could I handle a job, but not motherhood?
Ouch! Yes, I heard you. I know I’m doing The Most Important Job in the World. This is undeniable. Then I realized: Of course motherhood is a job, but I wasn’t treating it like one.
I understood how to function in the work world. I knew that unless I consistently washed clothes, bought hair products and ate breakfast, I’d show up to work looking like a blonde Woody Allen on speed. So I picked up my dry cleaning, sliced bagels, polished shoes, cleaned out purses. I kept the house marginally clean so I could find my car keys and leave on time.
But how was I showing up for motherhood each morning? Was I prepared to raise America’s Future? Well, the answer wasn’t pretty. A quick check of five pre-requisites to a professional performance yielded the following:
Grooming: Missmatched hairclips hold up my scraggly locks until I can shower during Ben’s morning nap. If he takes one. If it lasts more than 10 minutes. If I’m not derailed by a thousand another necessary chores. At 3 p.m. I give up and slap on a baseball cap. Must hunt and forage for food. I brush my teeth while packing Ben’s diaper bag. I file my nails at red lights on the way to the grocery store.
Clothing: Start the day in ragged sweats and spitup-stinky shirt.. Plan to change after shower (see above.). Upgrade to wrinkled khakis and faded t-shirt for my supermarket audience.
Meals: Breakfast is a cold dinner roll and leftover Gerber’s squash. Lunch is a bag of Oreos (gobbled while driving home from the grocery store) and a bottle of iced tea.
Organizational skills: Can’t find the paper towels. Can’t find the TV remote. Can’t find the cat. Buy giant bale of name-brand Ultra-Trim Leak Guard Moisture System, size 3. Go home and trip over unopened megapack of identical diapers in baby’s room.
Professional development: Log onto baby web sites while Ben chews my mouse pad. Read parenting magazines at bedtime. (“Recent studies indicate that the educational value of fig-filled cookies is greatly .... “ Zzzzzzz.)
True, Ben looks healthy, happy and sort of clean, so I’m succeeding at my job, right? Well, sure, but at what unnecessary cost? I’ve worked at jobs with inadequate resources and impossible deadlines. You can’t keep it up. You gotta quit the job or change your work habits, or one day your coworkers will find you huddled beneath your desk, gnawing on computer cords for a cheap thrill.
Many stay-at-home mothers claim, justfiably, that their work is undervalued. But sometimes that’s because we ourselves undervalue it. We never ask: What do I need to do my best work? The answer is simple. We need the same things our partners need so they can haul that lumber or type those HR memos without going crackers. We need adequate food and rest as well as appropriate clothing, grooming, professional development and -- of course -- a little stress relief.
So here I am at my job, writing this while Ben naps. The house is marginally clean, my cat is sunning on the windowsill and my shirt matches my pants. It’s after 5 p.m., but I’m not punching a time clock. Tonight Ron and I will dine on my patented Hamburger Excitement, made from the ground beef I bought today.
And Ron will feed the baby while I pursue some professional development: a pedicure. My kicky new sandals oughta be a real hit at baby music class. Although last week Benny cried during the opening song, then gnawed on a banjo for thirty minutes. So, maybe we’ll go, maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll go to the park instead. It all depends on a mother’s convenience.
##
I roll out of bed and into the shower. Ron feeds 6-month-old Ben while I wrestle with the curling iron. I’d laid out my clothes the night before and set out cereal bowls and boxes. By 8:30, Ron, Benny and I are washed, dressed, fed and out the door.
After dropping Ron off at the office, I head for my job -- grocery shopping today. Then I’ll do laundry (Benny’s wearing a torn shirt and a pink bib) and wash the car..
Yup, I’m a stay-at-home mom, living a life filled with sloppy hugs and suspicious odors (“Ewwww ... is that the cat? The kid? Or me?”). No schedules, no deadlines, no meetings. Personal chores like eating, showering and trashy-novel-reading could be accomplished at a mother’s convenience.
A mother’s what? There is no mother’s convenience. My baby’s paranormal Spidey sense can detect a book opening three rooms away. Tooth barely meets chocolate donut before an outraged wail resounds from the bedroom.
Oh sure, there’s plenty of flexibility. Which is why I used to find myself cowering in a darkened living room on a sunny afternoon, wearing day-old sweats and picking dust off Benny’s feet. A bottle ... baby’s bath ... a quick laundry load ... and it’s 4 p.m. and I haven’t gone to the store or even opened the drapes. Guess it’s takeout pizza for dinner again.
I was baffled. After all, I was once a newspaper editor juggling multiple deadlines. Now I couldn’t crawl two feet from my front door for the daily paper. What was wrong with me? Why could I handle a job, but not motherhood?
Ouch! Yes, I heard you. I know I’m doing The Most Important Job in the World. This is undeniable. Then I realized: Of course motherhood is a job, but I wasn’t treating it like one.
I understood how to function in the work world. I knew that unless I consistently washed clothes, bought hair products and ate breakfast, I’d show up to work looking like a blonde Woody Allen on speed. So I picked up my dry cleaning, sliced bagels, polished shoes, cleaned out purses. I kept the house marginally clean so I could find my car keys and leave on time.
But how was I showing up for motherhood each morning? Was I prepared to raise America’s Future? Well, the answer wasn’t pretty. A quick check of five pre-requisites to a professional performance yielded the following:
Grooming: Missmatched hairclips hold up my scraggly locks until I can shower during Ben’s morning nap. If he takes one. If it lasts more than 10 minutes. If I’m not derailed by a thousand another necessary chores. At 3 p.m. I give up and slap on a baseball cap. Must hunt and forage for food. I brush my teeth while packing Ben’s diaper bag. I file my nails at red lights on the way to the grocery store.
Clothing: Start the day in ragged sweats and spitup-stinky shirt.. Plan to change after shower (see above.). Upgrade to wrinkled khakis and faded t-shirt for my supermarket audience.
Meals: Breakfast is a cold dinner roll and leftover Gerber’s squash. Lunch is a bag of Oreos (gobbled while driving home from the grocery store) and a bottle of iced tea.
Organizational skills: Can’t find the paper towels. Can’t find the TV remote. Can’t find the cat. Buy giant bale of name-brand Ultra-Trim Leak Guard Moisture System, size 3. Go home and trip over unopened megapack of identical diapers in baby’s room.
Professional development: Log onto baby web sites while Ben chews my mouse pad. Read parenting magazines at bedtime. (“Recent studies indicate that the educational value of fig-filled cookies is greatly .... “ Zzzzzzz.)
True, Ben looks healthy, happy and sort of clean, so I’m succeeding at my job, right? Well, sure, but at what unnecessary cost? I’ve worked at jobs with inadequate resources and impossible deadlines. You can’t keep it up. You gotta quit the job or change your work habits, or one day your coworkers will find you huddled beneath your desk, gnawing on computer cords for a cheap thrill.
Many stay-at-home mothers claim, justfiably, that their work is undervalued. But sometimes that’s because we ourselves undervalue it. We never ask: What do I need to do my best work? The answer is simple. We need the same things our partners need so they can haul that lumber or type those HR memos without going crackers. We need adequate food and rest as well as appropriate clothing, grooming, professional development and -- of course -- a little stress relief.
So here I am at my job, writing this while Ben naps. The house is marginally clean, my cat is sunning on the windowsill and my shirt matches my pants. It’s after 5 p.m., but I’m not punching a time clock. Tonight Ron and I will dine on my patented Hamburger Excitement, made from the ground beef I bought today.
And Ron will feed the baby while I pursue some professional development: a pedicure. My kicky new sandals oughta be a real hit at baby music class. Although last week Benny cried during the opening song, then gnawed on a banjo for thirty minutes. So, maybe we’ll go, maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll go to the park instead. It all depends on a mother’s convenience.
##
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Wheels Spinning, Stuck in Reverse
Well, Ron hurt his back. He is back to work, but he can barely walk and sit. I have to tie his shoes. He spent three hours at work, then three hours stretched out at home. Now he's at work until 7.
I've been trying to take care of him and Ben and the house. Ben decided to quit sleeping through the night. He's on a growth spurt and I can't feed him fast enough. Andy helped me install our air conditioner last Wednesday. Greg came over Friday to watch over Ron while I drove to Stevensville. My friend Judy watched Ben and Ron while I went to a movie rehearsal Saturday.
The excessive rain produced wet spots in our basement and a musty smell through half the house. So I spent last week mopping up dampness and changing dehumidifier pans. It's fine now -- no smell or anything -- but now it's raining again. The grout around our bathtub is leaking so Ron's coaching me on how to fix that.
##
I've been trying to take care of him and Ben and the house. Ben decided to quit sleeping through the night. He's on a growth spurt and I can't feed him fast enough. Andy helped me install our air conditioner last Wednesday. Greg came over Friday to watch over Ron while I drove to Stevensville. My friend Judy watched Ben and Ron while I went to a movie rehearsal Saturday.
The excessive rain produced wet spots in our basement and a musty smell through half the house. So I spent last week mopping up dampness and changing dehumidifier pans. It's fine now -- no smell or anything -- but now it's raining again. The grout around our bathtub is leaking so Ron's coaching me on how to fix that.
##
Monday, June 07, 2004
Tornado Alley
We’re trucking right along here in Michigan. (State Motto: "We Have Tornado Warnings Three Days in a Row!")
Ron, Benny and I spent much of last Thursday night in the basement bathroom, sitting on a comforter. Winds topped 95 mph.
The next morning I went to the eye doctor and had my pupils dilated, which sentenced me to a day of blurry vision. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except we had another frightening storm that afternoon, which sent Ben and me underground again. I couldn't see a thing. Branches were crashing against the house. The cat went ballistic.
Since then, we've had a steady diet of thunderstorms marching through here; parts of the Detroit area are totally flooded.
##
Ron, Benny and I spent much of last Thursday night in the basement bathroom, sitting on a comforter. Winds topped 95 mph.
The next morning I went to the eye doctor and had my pupils dilated, which sentenced me to a day of blurry vision. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except we had another frightening storm that afternoon, which sent Ben and me underground again. I couldn't see a thing. Branches were crashing against the house. The cat went ballistic.
Since then, we've had a steady diet of thunderstorms marching through here; parts of the Detroit area are totally flooded.
##
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Benny's First Portrait Sitting
Well, I have survived what must be one of motherhood’s most harrowing experiences: the first portrait sitting.
I wasn’t looking forward to it. I know many mothers were sticking garters on their girls’ heads and baseball caps on their boys at 2 weeks and carting them out to the nearest Sears Portrait Studio.
Then they trot out these faintly strange pictures of newborns in odd poses (“Gee, that picture of Katylynn sitting on a princess throne would be really cute if she could sit, or hold her head up, or even keep her eyes open.”) One common pose is to lay the giant head on some sort of podium, with the poor little tadpole body dangling off to the side like an afterthought.
But now Ben is 4 months and it’s time to get with the program. I’d been warned by B. against JC Penney, so we went to Sears. The whole experience was nerve-wracking. I’m led into the “studio” (which looks like somebody’s dusty basement with photographic equipment lurking darkly in one corner). My guide is Tammy, she with the perky, faintly psycho voice that women who work with kids sometimes develop.
She coos over Benjamin, who is, admittedly, a handsome chap. But she keeps calling me “Mom,” which is a small thing, but grating. I tell her my name is Christine, but she still doesn’t stop. I don’t thinks she’s even aware she does it anymore. It’s an unconcious thing, a verbal tic. I think it’s disrespectful.
Babbling at a pitch that only dogs could appreciate, she promptly buried Ben in a pile of props. Throw in some crazy backgrounds and you could barely see the baby. After 30 minutes of her maniacal behavior (which included freaky hand puppets, various stilted poses and three costume changes), Ben finally started crying. I was ready to bawl after 5 minutes.
##
I wasn’t looking forward to it. I know many mothers were sticking garters on their girls’ heads and baseball caps on their boys at 2 weeks and carting them out to the nearest Sears Portrait Studio.
Then they trot out these faintly strange pictures of newborns in odd poses (“Gee, that picture of Katylynn sitting on a princess throne would be really cute if she could sit, or hold her head up, or even keep her eyes open.”) One common pose is to lay the giant head on some sort of podium, with the poor little tadpole body dangling off to the side like an afterthought.
But now Ben is 4 months and it’s time to get with the program. I’d been warned by B. against JC Penney, so we went to Sears. The whole experience was nerve-wracking. I’m led into the “studio” (which looks like somebody’s dusty basement with photographic equipment lurking darkly in one corner). My guide is Tammy, she with the perky, faintly psycho voice that women who work with kids sometimes develop.
She coos over Benjamin, who is, admittedly, a handsome chap. But she keeps calling me “Mom,” which is a small thing, but grating. I tell her my name is Christine, but she still doesn’t stop. I don’t thinks she’s even aware she does it anymore. It’s an unconcious thing, a verbal tic. I think it’s disrespectful.
Babbling at a pitch that only dogs could appreciate, she promptly buried Ben in a pile of props. Throw in some crazy backgrounds and you could barely see the baby. After 30 minutes of her maniacal behavior (which included freaky hand puppets, various stilted poses and three costume changes), Ben finally started crying. I was ready to bawl after 5 minutes.
##
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
The Witching Hour
The minutes just before midnight carry a real angst for me. First of all, Ben was born just a few minutes before midnight on Jan. 30. In the weeks after his birth, my medical crises always happened around midnight. So midnight has truly been the witching hour. And around midnight tonight, Ben finally seems to have gone down for the night. It’s frustrating to be dealing with sleep problems at nearly 4 months.
But the witching hour today wasn’t midnight. It was earlier this evening:
It’s 5 p.m. I’m on my hands and knees, mopping the kitchen floor while the baby screams hysterically from his bassinet. I can barely see what I’m wiping since I’m close to hysterical tears myself. Since Ben had spit up a good portion of his lunch, he was starving by 4:30, but I’d hoped he could hold out another 10 minutes. I needed to put on my makeup. Yes, I’m an evil, selfish mother-type who lets her helpless babe cry while she smears on Silver Mist eyeshadow. I have no excuse. All I can say is that I’d been trying to put on my makeup since 10 this morning, that I couldn’t leave the house without it, that makeup is essential to feeling OK about myself. I’ll leave the house with a child’s neon green scrunchie holding up my bangs, but you won’t catch me without makeup.
So I made the “Mommie Dearest” choice and put on my makeup, albiet with frequent interruptions to reassure Ben that I hadn’t disappeared forever. And I pulled it off; he wasn’t too bad and now I was dressed and painted and ready to go. Feeling slightly cocky, I put Ben’s bib on him, then sauntered to the refrigerator to pull out a bottle.
I shook the bottle, causing the inadequately fastened nipple to fly off, and nearly 8 ounces of formula to slosh all over my face, my clothes and the floor. Ben screamed as if he’d seen the whole thing. I raced to his bassinet, shedding clothes as I went, to plug in his pacifier. But I couldn’t feed him now; I had to clean up the formula. It would attract an army of ants, not to mention the cat. so I ripped off paper towels and sopped up puddle after puddle as Ben screamed and goosebumps covered my arms and the cat watched interestingly from under a nearby chair.
I pulled out the swiffer mop and ripped open a new box of floor wipes. As I viciously pumped the mop back and forth to the tune of Ben’s screams, a litany of self-defeating thoughts pounded in my head. I should’ve closed the bottle tighter, I shouldn’t have waited so long to feed him; why did I put my makeup on; why is this floor so disgusting. I’m just not cut out for motherhood, my spacey, aimless self-absorption is completely unsuited to such responsibility.
I heated up a second bottle, found some clothes and settled down with Ben in an amazingly short period of time. Ben calmed down enough to take the bottle well and took a nice nap afterwards and I had the chance to get a grip. Then he woke up and we were able to visit the dry cleaner, the photo shop and the grocery store in an hour’s time.
That’s when I realized that Ben wasn’t a newborn and I wasn’t an invalid and things were OK. I remembered when taking the baby to Big Boy’s was terrifying. When I lost his only pacifier in the mall when he was a month old and I had to feed him in the back seat and somehow get to Wal-Mart and find a new pacifier. I remembered the first sponge bath I gave him, when I repeatedly scraped his head against the plastic basin. How I kept nipping his fingers when I clip his nails. Motherhood is the great equalizer for women.
So I’ll have more witching hours, but it won’t be like that first month. That is over. Whew!
##
But the witching hour today wasn’t midnight. It was earlier this evening:
It’s 5 p.m. I’m on my hands and knees, mopping the kitchen floor while the baby screams hysterically from his bassinet. I can barely see what I’m wiping since I’m close to hysterical tears myself. Since Ben had spit up a good portion of his lunch, he was starving by 4:30, but I’d hoped he could hold out another 10 minutes. I needed to put on my makeup. Yes, I’m an evil, selfish mother-type who lets her helpless babe cry while she smears on Silver Mist eyeshadow. I have no excuse. All I can say is that I’d been trying to put on my makeup since 10 this morning, that I couldn’t leave the house without it, that makeup is essential to feeling OK about myself. I’ll leave the house with a child’s neon green scrunchie holding up my bangs, but you won’t catch me without makeup.
So I made the “Mommie Dearest” choice and put on my makeup, albiet with frequent interruptions to reassure Ben that I hadn’t disappeared forever. And I pulled it off; he wasn’t too bad and now I was dressed and painted and ready to go. Feeling slightly cocky, I put Ben’s bib on him, then sauntered to the refrigerator to pull out a bottle.
I shook the bottle, causing the inadequately fastened nipple to fly off, and nearly 8 ounces of formula to slosh all over my face, my clothes and the floor. Ben screamed as if he’d seen the whole thing. I raced to his bassinet, shedding clothes as I went, to plug in his pacifier. But I couldn’t feed him now; I had to clean up the formula. It would attract an army of ants, not to mention the cat. so I ripped off paper towels and sopped up puddle after puddle as Ben screamed and goosebumps covered my arms and the cat watched interestingly from under a nearby chair.
I pulled out the swiffer mop and ripped open a new box of floor wipes. As I viciously pumped the mop back and forth to the tune of Ben’s screams, a litany of self-defeating thoughts pounded in my head. I should’ve closed the bottle tighter, I shouldn’t have waited so long to feed him; why did I put my makeup on; why is this floor so disgusting. I’m just not cut out for motherhood, my spacey, aimless self-absorption is completely unsuited to such responsibility.
I heated up a second bottle, found some clothes and settled down with Ben in an amazingly short period of time. Ben calmed down enough to take the bottle well and took a nice nap afterwards and I had the chance to get a grip. Then he woke up and we were able to visit the dry cleaner, the photo shop and the grocery store in an hour’s time.
That’s when I realized that Ben wasn’t a newborn and I wasn’t an invalid and things were OK. I remembered when taking the baby to Big Boy’s was terrifying. When I lost his only pacifier in the mall when he was a month old and I had to feed him in the back seat and somehow get to Wal-Mart and find a new pacifier. I remembered the first sponge bath I gave him, when I repeatedly scraped his head against the plastic basin. How I kept nipping his fingers when I clip his nails. Motherhood is the great equalizer for women.
So I’ll have more witching hours, but it won’t be like that first month. That is over. Whew!
##
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Grandpa
My Grandpa died last Thursday and the funeral was today. I was taking the baby to see him on Wednesday (he and my Grandma lived three hours away) when he took a turn for the worse. So my one-day trip turned into six days. Ben and I lived out of plastic shopping bags and his diaper bag for three days until Ron arrived with a suitcase.
So I'm back home again and grateful to be here. Ron and I were both becoming a little unglued. I had him bring half my wardrobe when he came over because I didn't know what fit me anymore and I STILL ended up at the mall twice, hunting down shoes for me and a tie for Ron.
Ben wore nothing but sleepers for two days until Ron arrived. Thank God Ben is such a good baby. I was dragging him to various relatives' homes, putting him to sleep in his carseat, on his activity mat, in my baby cousin's bassinet. He handled it very well. Then Grandpa died Thursday night at 10:30 p.m. and I dragged poor Ben out of bed, bundled him up and hauled him to where the family was gathered. We didn't get home until 2 a.m.
I'm trying to deal with this OK; after all Grandpa was
87. He was a remarkable person, born in 1917 to Polish immigrants, served in World War II, went to work as a bank teller after the war and worked his way up to become a vice president. At age 62, he retired early because his doctor said his emphysema would kill him within 10 years. Well, we got 15 extra years. It was the emphysema in the end, though; Hospice put him on a morphine-induced coma because he was struggling to breathe.
Anyway, he was a great person. He bought me my first car and helped our family after my dad died. He built his own house, grew grapes and made wine, did carpentry and read history books. He was brilliant.
Sometimes I miss San Francisco so much and second-guess our decision to return. But I guess this is why we did, huh? I was able to be there for my mother and my Grandma and Grandpa saw Ben twice before he died.
This is vintage Grandpa: When Ron and I arrived last Easter with Ben, my Grandpa gave us a card with $20 in it. Ben was in top form, laughing and smiling and giggling and blowing bubbles and just staring at Grandpa. Grandpa was so charmed that he pulled out his wallet (he was having a good day, healthwise) and said "Ben, you've just earned another $20" and made Ron take it. I've put the card and money aside and will buy something special with it.
##
So I'm back home again and grateful to be here. Ron and I were both becoming a little unglued. I had him bring half my wardrobe when he came over because I didn't know what fit me anymore and I STILL ended up at the mall twice, hunting down shoes for me and a tie for Ron.
Ben wore nothing but sleepers for two days until Ron arrived. Thank God Ben is such a good baby. I was dragging him to various relatives' homes, putting him to sleep in his carseat, on his activity mat, in my baby cousin's bassinet. He handled it very well. Then Grandpa died Thursday night at 10:30 p.m. and I dragged poor Ben out of bed, bundled him up and hauled him to where the family was gathered. We didn't get home until 2 a.m.
I'm trying to deal with this OK; after all Grandpa was
87. He was a remarkable person, born in 1917 to Polish immigrants, served in World War II, went to work as a bank teller after the war and worked his way up to become a vice president. At age 62, he retired early because his doctor said his emphysema would kill him within 10 years. Well, we got 15 extra years. It was the emphysema in the end, though; Hospice put him on a morphine-induced coma because he was struggling to breathe.
Anyway, he was a great person. He bought me my first car and helped our family after my dad died. He built his own house, grew grapes and made wine, did carpentry and read history books. He was brilliant.
Sometimes I miss San Francisco so much and second-guess our decision to return. But I guess this is why we did, huh? I was able to be there for my mother and my Grandma and Grandpa saw Ben twice before he died.
This is vintage Grandpa: When Ron and I arrived last Easter with Ben, my Grandpa gave us a card with $20 in it. Ben was in top form, laughing and smiling and giggling and blowing bubbles and just staring at Grandpa. Grandpa was so charmed that he pulled out his wallet (he was having a good day, healthwise) and said "Ben, you've just earned another $20" and made Ron take it. I've put the card and money aside and will buy something special with it.
##
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Ah, There's the Epiphany
Something amazing happened last week. It began as an ordinary Tuesday. I decided to take Ben to our usual weekly movie. I put him in a cute outfit and went easy on the Vaseline (for his dry skin) so his head wouldn’t shine like a cue ball.
The cat was moping around the house, emerging only to yowl pitifully or shred newspapers in an orgy of frustration. She was starved for attention. Hell, I was starved for attention. Ron was exhausted and I was having trouble connecting to others on more than a superficial level. I tried to sound upbeat, but it was all I could do not to bawl into the phone.
On some level, I was just going through the motions, functioning by rote, doing what I was supposed to do. I changed him, made bottles, rocked him, fussed over his little red face. I smiled and talked to him because that was good for babies. But sometimes I concentrated on just making it through until I could hand him off to Ron.
And so it went until last Tuesday. Going places with Ben has been very stressful for me. I was always doing something boneheaded, like losing his pacifier or propping him up weirdly in a cart or trudging through miles of mall with his carrier jolting against my leg. The simplest tasks like picking up film, getting groceries, filling a pescription seemed overwhelming. I was always overdressing him for winter weather, and the poor little thing would sweat copiously under all those layers.
But I decided to go to the movie after all. This meant I had to get myself presentable -- no easy feat as Ben cried and whimpered. Then he quieted long enough for me to eat a toasted bagel. A small thing, but important. It kept my blood sugar from dropping, strengthened a link with my past life and settled my nerves. As I dusted the bagel crumbs off my hands, that’s when my Tuesday really began. I couldn’t be a complete screwup if I was able to locate, toast and eat a bagel.
The stroller worked beautifully. I wheeled Ben into the mall and joined the line of strollers outside the movie theater. I was even able to have a little popcorn and Coke. I managed to feed Ben with a minimum of drama, although I did squirt formula all over the seats and drop his pacifier on the filthy floor.
Giddy with success, I decided we would shop after the movie. Ben just stared at me like the angel he was while I tried on 10 pairs of pants and a half-dozen tops. As a reward, I bought him booties and a funny hat.
Elated, I called Ron, thinking of stopping by the office. But his harried hello reminded me that it was deadline day, so I made up another excuse and got off the phone. I then called Caroline, who’s laid up from knee surgery. I got directions, bundled Ben and stroller back into the car and headed to her house.
Ben was his lovable, charming self and cheered her up. But soon it approached 3 o’clock. Ben was hungry again and I was fading fast. He cried most of the way home and I was hungry too. I set up his bottle while he howled and a sandwich for myself. I managed to feed him while wolfing down the sandwich and afterwards we just sat on the couch, worn out.
I didn’t have the energy to rock him to sleep, so I just wrapped him in a blanket and took him into my darkened bedroom. I tucked him in and ay beside him, holding his pacifier until we fell asleep. We slept for three hours. Ron found us there when he got home at seven.
A typical day, almost mundane. But a miracle happened that day. That was the day I stopped seeing Ben as a fussy little being who made everything difficult. He was my little buddy. We’d spent the day together in a real sense for the first time. We went to the movies and shopped and visited and took a nap. It wasn’t just me doing these things while dragging a heavy appendage along. I’d spent the day with my son and without him, the day would not have been so good.
Books, articles and websites make much of bonding. A lot of it is hooey. But it is important to forge a bond with your baby, to go beyond caregiver and infant. It’s important that the woman sees this being as her child and the baby to see this big person as his mother. That you belong to each other.
For some people, this emotion happens at birth. Hell, some people feel this connection when the line on the pregnancy test is barely pink, naming the baby and reading to it and later playing videotapes of the ultrasound. But for me, there was a gap between how I was supposed to feel and what I actually felt.
Well, now Ben is crying. He’s not trying to interrupt my writing, he’s just hungry. He’s a good boy and and I look forward to spending the day with him. For many mothers, such feelings are a matter of course. For me, it’s a miracle.
##
The cat was moping around the house, emerging only to yowl pitifully or shred newspapers in an orgy of frustration. She was starved for attention. Hell, I was starved for attention. Ron was exhausted and I was having trouble connecting to others on more than a superficial level. I tried to sound upbeat, but it was all I could do not to bawl into the phone.
On some level, I was just going through the motions, functioning by rote, doing what I was supposed to do. I changed him, made bottles, rocked him, fussed over his little red face. I smiled and talked to him because that was good for babies. But sometimes I concentrated on just making it through until I could hand him off to Ron.
And so it went until last Tuesday. Going places with Ben has been very stressful for me. I was always doing something boneheaded, like losing his pacifier or propping him up weirdly in a cart or trudging through miles of mall with his carrier jolting against my leg. The simplest tasks like picking up film, getting groceries, filling a pescription seemed overwhelming. I was always overdressing him for winter weather, and the poor little thing would sweat copiously under all those layers.
But I decided to go to the movie after all. This meant I had to get myself presentable -- no easy feat as Ben cried and whimpered. Then he quieted long enough for me to eat a toasted bagel. A small thing, but important. It kept my blood sugar from dropping, strengthened a link with my past life and settled my nerves. As I dusted the bagel crumbs off my hands, that’s when my Tuesday really began. I couldn’t be a complete screwup if I was able to locate, toast and eat a bagel.
The stroller worked beautifully. I wheeled Ben into the mall and joined the line of strollers outside the movie theater. I was even able to have a little popcorn and Coke. I managed to feed Ben with a minimum of drama, although I did squirt formula all over the seats and drop his pacifier on the filthy floor.
Giddy with success, I decided we would shop after the movie. Ben just stared at me like the angel he was while I tried on 10 pairs of pants and a half-dozen tops. As a reward, I bought him booties and a funny hat.
Elated, I called Ron, thinking of stopping by the office. But his harried hello reminded me that it was deadline day, so I made up another excuse and got off the phone. I then called Caroline, who’s laid up from knee surgery. I got directions, bundled Ben and stroller back into the car and headed to her house.
Ben was his lovable, charming self and cheered her up. But soon it approached 3 o’clock. Ben was hungry again and I was fading fast. He cried most of the way home and I was hungry too. I set up his bottle while he howled and a sandwich for myself. I managed to feed him while wolfing down the sandwich and afterwards we just sat on the couch, worn out.
I didn’t have the energy to rock him to sleep, so I just wrapped him in a blanket and took him into my darkened bedroom. I tucked him in and ay beside him, holding his pacifier until we fell asleep. We slept for three hours. Ron found us there when he got home at seven.
A typical day, almost mundane. But a miracle happened that day. That was the day I stopped seeing Ben as a fussy little being who made everything difficult. He was my little buddy. We’d spent the day together in a real sense for the first time. We went to the movies and shopped and visited and took a nap. It wasn’t just me doing these things while dragging a heavy appendage along. I’d spent the day with my son and without him, the day would not have been so good.
Books, articles and websites make much of bonding. A lot of it is hooey. But it is important to forge a bond with your baby, to go beyond caregiver and infant. It’s important that the woman sees this being as her child and the baby to see this big person as his mother. That you belong to each other.
For some people, this emotion happens at birth. Hell, some people feel this connection when the line on the pregnancy test is barely pink, naming the baby and reading to it and later playing videotapes of the ultrasound. But for me, there was a gap between how I was supposed to feel and what I actually felt.
Well, now Ben is crying. He’s not trying to interrupt my writing, he’s just hungry. He’s a good boy and and I look forward to spending the day with him. For many mothers, such feelings are a matter of course. For me, it’s a miracle.
##
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Shooting Up
Ben had his two-month shots on Friday. He took it like a man. I thought I'd be a mess, but I handled it fine. The nurse (who'd obviously seen nutcase moms before) said I could step out if it was too much for me. I just looked at her like she was nuts. She expected me to LEAVE my baby while he received painful shots? I just kept looking at his face and talking to him. It's for his own good, after all. Then as soon as I picked him up and held him, he quieted down. Such a good boy.
Today we went to see a movie. (A theater here has a special matinee for mothers with little babies every Tuesday.) Then we went shopping. Then we went to visit the wife of the publisher of the Ann Arbor News. She just had knee surgery and her recovery is slow. She loved seeing and holding Ben, though, who was a real charmer.
But after that we were both hungry and tired, so we went home and ate. I gave Ben his bottle while munching a sandwich and watching "Baby Story" on TLC. It’s this nutty half-hour show that follows some poor woman through the birth process. 15 minutes to meet the happy couple and 15 minutes of anguished birthing.
The parents are ALWAYS a happy, heterosexual, well-off, usually white married couple who always dreamt of children. They often have an adorable toddler already and Daddy is intensely involved. Mommy talks in that annoying sing-song voice that you usually only hear from 30-year kindergarten teachers. Although I've noticed that more women my age with children talk that way ALL THE TIME.
Anyway, the second 15 minutes take you through the birth itself, which is generally a trip. Most of them don't want drugs (??!!) so they hoo and hah through the contractions. One woman had her toddler witness the whole thing. Another woman had her neighbor's 8-year-old grandson in the room, where he stayed for the whole 12-hour labor. Poor kid was exhausted.
So anyway, after that, Ben and I crawled into the bedroom and took a long nap on the bed -- myself, the baby and the kitty. We were wiped out. Ron found us still there when he came home at 7 p.m.
##
Today we went to see a movie. (A theater here has a special matinee for mothers with little babies every Tuesday.) Then we went shopping. Then we went to visit the wife of the publisher of the Ann Arbor News. She just had knee surgery and her recovery is slow. She loved seeing and holding Ben, though, who was a real charmer.
But after that we were both hungry and tired, so we went home and ate. I gave Ben his bottle while munching a sandwich and watching "Baby Story" on TLC. It’s this nutty half-hour show that follows some poor woman through the birth process. 15 minutes to meet the happy couple and 15 minutes of anguished birthing.
The parents are ALWAYS a happy, heterosexual, well-off, usually white married couple who always dreamt of children. They often have an adorable toddler already and Daddy is intensely involved. Mommy talks in that annoying sing-song voice that you usually only hear from 30-year kindergarten teachers. Although I've noticed that more women my age with children talk that way ALL THE TIME.
Anyway, the second 15 minutes take you through the birth itself, which is generally a trip. Most of them don't want drugs (??!!) so they hoo and hah through the contractions. One woman had her toddler witness the whole thing. Another woman had her neighbor's 8-year-old grandson in the room, where he stayed for the whole 12-hour labor. Poor kid was exhausted.
So anyway, after that, Ben and I crawled into the bedroom and took a long nap on the bed -- myself, the baby and the kitty. We were wiped out. Ron found us still there when he came home at 7 p.m.
##
Monday, April 05, 2004
I Wish I Was a Duck
Ron keeps stealing my songs! He’ll hear me sing them to Ben, and then the next day he’s singing them! What am I going to have to do, get them copywrited? This is no trivial issue -- it takes a truly poetic soul to compose lyrics like this:
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
I would be so lucky if I was a little ducky.
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
Ron says I can adopt his songs if I like, but since his lyrics run along the lines of ...
I’m a member of the Clean Butt Club,
Clean Butt Club,
Clean Butt Club.
I’m a member of the Clean Butt Club.
My name is Benjamin.
... His offer is less than enticing.
I tell you, if Ron keeps doing this, he’ll soon be a member of the Bruised Head Club.
##
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
I would be so lucky if I was a little ducky.
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
Ron says I can adopt his songs if I like, but since his lyrics run along the lines of ...
I’m a member of the Clean Butt Club,
Clean Butt Club,
Clean Butt Club.
I’m a member of the Clean Butt Club.
My name is Benjamin.
... His offer is less than enticing.
I tell you, if Ron keeps doing this, he’ll soon be a member of the Bruised Head Club.
##
Friday, April 02, 2004
It's Probably Not Fatal
It’s hard to still be hurting. I mean, the baby’s over two months old. It’s very discouraging. I’m constantly running a debate in my mind -- should I contact the doctor? Is it getting better? I hesitate to call my doctor. She’s a little nuts, the type where you turn up with a little cough and she says, “Well, it’s probably not walking pneumonia … but we should check.”
Plus I’ve got this screenplay to finish. A local aspiring filmmaker wants to produce a 15-minute movie of “The Europa Society.” (See www.apprenticefilms.com and buy a tote bag.) Writing fiction is the last thing I feel like doing. For years I would have killed for an opportunity like this, and it comes at a time in my life when I’m least able to do it.
Well, at least I can take care of Ben.
##
Plus I’ve got this screenplay to finish. A local aspiring filmmaker wants to produce a 15-minute movie of “The Europa Society.” (See www.apprenticefilms.com and buy a tote bag.) Writing fiction is the last thing I feel like doing. For years I would have killed for an opportunity like this, and it comes at a time in my life when I’m least able to do it.
Well, at least I can take care of Ben.
##
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Bizarre Napping Rituals
I'm finally joining the real world again. Baby Ben is getting bigger, I'm finally feeling better, and spring is FINALLY here. He's sleeping on his activity mat right now (one of those big square pads with dangly toys hanging above).
I keep hearing about these moms and their elaborate napping rituals:
1. Swaddle kid
2. Turn on special lullaby CD
3. Sway for 20 minutes
4. Rock for 20 minutes
5. Put kid in crib
6. Turn on special light-and-music gizmo
7. Lower lights to prescribed level
8. Tiptoe out while holding breath
9. Break into liquor cabinet (Oops, that’s me)
Repeat five times daily.
Some mothers watch their babies like hawks for special signs of tiredness. "If the baby is fussy, it's too late," they say. Is the baby rubbing his eyes? Bobbing his head? Breathing slower? I bet there's a gal in Albany N.Y. taking her baby's blood pressure every hour to identify the optimal nap time.
My kid has "Nap Attacks,” dropping wherever he happens to be when the attack hits. Sometimes he's in his swing, sometimes he's in my arms, sometimes he's in the carseat or on his mat. I usually just leave him wherever he is and cover him up. I don't know, maybe I'm courting disaster and sentencing Ben to a life with insomnia, restless legs, sleep apnea, night sweats and bedwetting.
##
I keep hearing about these moms and their elaborate napping rituals:
1. Swaddle kid
2. Turn on special lullaby CD
3. Sway for 20 minutes
4. Rock for 20 minutes
5. Put kid in crib
6. Turn on special light-and-music gizmo
7. Lower lights to prescribed level
8. Tiptoe out while holding breath
9. Break into liquor cabinet (Oops, that’s me)
Repeat five times daily.
Some mothers watch their babies like hawks for special signs of tiredness. "If the baby is fussy, it's too late," they say. Is the baby rubbing his eyes? Bobbing his head? Breathing slower? I bet there's a gal in Albany N.Y. taking her baby's blood pressure every hour to identify the optimal nap time.
My kid has "Nap Attacks,” dropping wherever he happens to be when the attack hits. Sometimes he's in his swing, sometimes he's in my arms, sometimes he's in the carseat or on his mat. I usually just leave him wherever he is and cover him up. I don't know, maybe I'm courting disaster and sentencing Ben to a life with insomnia, restless legs, sleep apnea, night sweats and bedwetting.
##
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