Since I seem to blog on Fridays (how?), here are my pre-shabbat thoughts of the week.
Thought One:
It can't be coincidence that babies learn to crawl right around when they have separation anxiety. I'm guessing the two feed on each other. Here's how I think it plays out, and I apologize for the unsubtle phrasings and aggressive punctuation in the following scene, but heckfire - babies are like that.
Small person, watching his mama move away from him: Hey! That's mine! I need that. (incoherent growl) I'm gonna go get that!
Small person moves towards maternal heels, one hand outstretched to grab the maternal skirt as it swishes by. Misses. Small body regroups, mutters to itself in thankfully incomprehensible irritated baby babble, and tries again.
Scene concludes either with success or the deployment of that most fierce weapon in the infant arsenal: the wail of rage and despair.
**********************
Thought Two: My first son liked toys. Colored wood, plain wood, the odd bit of plastic. This one likes nontoys. Drawstrings on my pants, paper in the garbage can. cardboard in the recycling bin, ants from the (sigh) floor.
Both of them, however, like to play with the height adjuster on my chair, and especially liked chewing on wires. Whoops! There goes my mouse - ergh.
***************
Challenge of the Month: To teach my parents that you don't need to indicate that you qualify as a concerned loving parent by asking about my PhD. Or whatever the newest variant of the question may be. To teach myself to not bang my head against things (especially in public) when my parents ask this question. Also, to find a response other than an inarticulate, infuriated roar.
Chances of either happening: slim. But this particular routine's getting old, people. Worse, it's out of date. With so many other wonderful things happening in my life there's rich pickings for the 'what's going on' question. Ah, the heck with it. I'll just go find a nice wall for the next time they call.
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Shabbat shalom, all. May this weekend bring rest to your homes and not too much guilt as you celebrate the mamas in your life. I'm offering up here a special thought for the joyous, nearly-done gestating one, who will likely spend this weekend suspended between impending motherhood and an awareness that her parenting has already begun. And also for my friend and her daughter with leukemia, who are home with their family for Mother's Day. I can only begin to imagine the cascade of emotion that they are all going to be feeling this weekend. Mother's Day for me, when my eldest was more medically unstable, was a specific mixture of joy, sadness and hope. Now it's a simpler thing, as indicated by the cards my partner has on his bedside table (nice job being subtle, man!), possibly with the pedi I suggested as the Thoughtful Gift.
And that's all, folks! The newly crawling, anxious/determined baby is pulling on my shirt. As good a cue as any...
Upcoming: a post on maternal linguistics
Friday, May 12, 2006
Monday, May 08, 2006
two vignettes
ONE
How Not to Win an Argument:
by bleeding on the other guy. (Any Python fans out there?)
A couple of days ago, my partner and I were sniping at each other about the great basement project (okay, I lie - it's all marital bliss and roses over here. Um, right. Moving on), when I felt a telltale tickle in my nose. I ducked into the bathroom, only to see that I was having a nosebleed.
Background: as a carrier of the hemophilia gene, I clot a bit less than most people. Any hematologist will tell you that I'm in the range of normal, but let me ask ya: how many people do you know who get nosebleeds just from stress? My dissertation committee finds this immensely disturbing.
Tempted to go back out there and point at the bloody object, I sat on myself until the moment passed. It's just too easy to win an argument from pity, and besides, the kid might be watching.
Coda: the basement shelves got built and I'm happy. The nose, however, is still determinedly oozing. Sigh. Why?
_________________
TWO
What Evil Lurks in the Brain of the Four Year Old Boy
We're in Cafe Zing, a wonderful if tiny Cambridge cafe, when my eldest turned to me and says: 'Mummy, I have a bad question.'
'What kind of question is bad,' quip I.
'Well,' he says, 'what if I got up early - I got up first - and drove here and put a spoon in the fork jar and a fork in the spoon place? Could we do that?'
I looked at him carefully, noting well the gleam of mischief in his eye. I considered the surroundings and then got up and walked over to the counter. 'Don't look,' I murmured, and slid the spoon jar towards the counter's edge, and within reach of a small person's arm. Moments later, an excited small person got up and took a spoon from the spoon jar. He then snuck past our table to place the spoon in (gasp) the fork holder, simultaneously extracting a fork. Finally, he slunk back towards the counter, where he quietly inserted the fork into what had been the spoons' personal preserve. And giggled.
My compliments to the general manager of Cafe Zing, who has chosen her serfs wisely and well. The folks behind the counter held themselves together for a crucial half-minute or so, before we all dissolved into laughter. Ah, the evil genius of the child. But that laughter turned into almost painful roars when he, supremely pleased with his act and its effect, put it all back.
I think I'm in love.
How Not to Win an Argument:
by bleeding on the other guy. (Any Python fans out there?)
A couple of days ago, my partner and I were sniping at each other about the great basement project (okay, I lie - it's all marital bliss and roses over here. Um, right. Moving on), when I felt a telltale tickle in my nose. I ducked into the bathroom, only to see that I was having a nosebleed.
Background: as a carrier of the hemophilia gene, I clot a bit less than most people. Any hematologist will tell you that I'm in the range of normal, but let me ask ya: how many people do you know who get nosebleeds just from stress? My dissertation committee finds this immensely disturbing.
Tempted to go back out there and point at the bloody object, I sat on myself until the moment passed. It's just too easy to win an argument from pity, and besides, the kid might be watching.
Coda: the basement shelves got built and I'm happy. The nose, however, is still determinedly oozing. Sigh. Why?
_________________
TWO
What Evil Lurks in the Brain of the Four Year Old Boy
We're in Cafe Zing, a wonderful if tiny Cambridge cafe, when my eldest turned to me and says: 'Mummy, I have a bad question.'
'What kind of question is bad,' quip I.
'Well,' he says, 'what if I got up early - I got up first - and drove here and put a spoon in the fork jar and a fork in the spoon place? Could we do that?'
I looked at him carefully, noting well the gleam of mischief in his eye. I considered the surroundings and then got up and walked over to the counter. 'Don't look,' I murmured, and slid the spoon jar towards the counter's edge, and within reach of a small person's arm. Moments later, an excited small person got up and took a spoon from the spoon jar. He then snuck past our table to place the spoon in (gasp) the fork holder, simultaneously extracting a fork. Finally, he slunk back towards the counter, where he quietly inserted the fork into what had been the spoons' personal preserve. And giggled.
My compliments to the general manager of Cafe Zing, who has chosen her serfs wisely and well. The folks behind the counter held themselves together for a crucial half-minute or so, before we all dissolved into laughter. Ah, the evil genius of the child. But that laughter turned into almost painful roars when he, supremely pleased with his act and its effect, put it all back.
I think I'm in love.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
why I am unpaid
Who could afford me? The estimated earned value of a stay at home mother (SAHM) is roughly $130,000 US. And that's not including my roles as landscape designer/gardener, nurse, patient advocate and human milch-cow. I am woman, see me nourish.
So what would that add to my pricetag? 50, 60 thousand? I'm taking estimates here, folks...
It's a bit of food for thought, and I offer that phrase deliberately and as someone who knows all too well the way that food can be the coin in which love is measured. And yes, this is all too appropriately timed for Mother's Day, day of the women who feed you (in some gender-hidebound homes like mine, weep, weep o Judith Shapiro! yes, I understand), that artificial moment in which the greeting card people force us to pause and appreciate the various mothers in our life. It's emotionally forced and ruthlessly exploited as a way to use maternal/filial guilt to separate cash from wallet, but hey, would we manage to really celebrate motherhood without it? Irrespective of my value, my (actual) take-home pay says nope, not-so-very-much.
This link is courtesy of magid, whose jobs include chief navigational expert, link-spotter and scourge of the day lily that infests my community garden plot.
What's the SAHM worth?
P.S. and for those of you who are wondering, today my front (sunny) garden is ablaze with color: red, yellow, purple. It looks like Alexander McQueen gone mad and I love it. The hostas are unfurling between the spiky tulips, while around the edges my climbing roses are sending out green and red-edged leaves. Joy is mine...and the back garden, in all of its shady promise, still awaits my tender-ish mercies. It's looking a bit iffy back there, with the old rhododendrons dying while my bleeding hearts, ferns and hostas and especially my beloved violets are slowly spreading their quiet selves. There's much, much yet to do. My grandfather knew this well: gardening is much like raising children. It takes years of care and in the end it never quite looks like what you expect. But amidst the dirt and drudge and sweat there's pleasure to be found.
If I can shake my kids long enough to go find that dirt and drudge, that is.
*************************
You can't afford me, but there's a battle on around here as to who can try to buy me and for what purpose. Shall I be an advertisement for the maternity ward where I delivered and the big business of over-medicalized birth in the US, or shall I deliver up my child's body to a big corporation who will feed it - but more importantly, nourish their bottom line? Hmm. The choices abound. How about I buy my own frigging diaper bag?
So what would that add to my pricetag? 50, 60 thousand? I'm taking estimates here, folks...
It's a bit of food for thought, and I offer that phrase deliberately and as someone who knows all too well the way that food can be the coin in which love is measured. And yes, this is all too appropriately timed for Mother's Day, day of the women who feed you (in some gender-hidebound homes like mine, weep, weep o Judith Shapiro! yes, I understand), that artificial moment in which the greeting card people force us to pause and appreciate the various mothers in our life. It's emotionally forced and ruthlessly exploited as a way to use maternal/filial guilt to separate cash from wallet, but hey, would we manage to really celebrate motherhood without it? Irrespective of my value, my (actual) take-home pay says nope, not-so-very-much.
This link is courtesy of magid, whose jobs include chief navigational expert, link-spotter and scourge of the day lily that infests my community garden plot.
What's the SAHM worth?
P.S. and for those of you who are wondering, today my front (sunny) garden is ablaze with color: red, yellow, purple. It looks like Alexander McQueen gone mad and I love it. The hostas are unfurling between the spiky tulips, while around the edges my climbing roses are sending out green and red-edged leaves. Joy is mine...and the back garden, in all of its shady promise, still awaits my tender-ish mercies. It's looking a bit iffy back there, with the old rhododendrons dying while my bleeding hearts, ferns and hostas and especially my beloved violets are slowly spreading their quiet selves. There's much, much yet to do. My grandfather knew this well: gardening is much like raising children. It takes years of care and in the end it never quite looks like what you expect. But amidst the dirt and drudge and sweat there's pleasure to be found.
If I can shake my kids long enough to go find that dirt and drudge, that is.
*************************
You can't afford me, but there's a battle on around here as to who can try to buy me and for what purpose. Shall I be an advertisement for the maternity ward where I delivered and the big business of over-medicalized birth in the US, or shall I deliver up my child's body to a big corporation who will feed it - but more importantly, nourish their bottom line? Hmm. The choices abound. How about I buy my own frigging diaper bag?
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