Speak less than thou knowest

Nugget and I are in the midst of a crazy month of travel to see various family. We got back from San Francisco yesterday and are heading to Chicago on Thursday. Apparently it's a good thing we are traveling so much; I discovered yesterday that my Nugget, now a small-town boy, is in need of a little broadening. We were on a crowded parking shuttle, going from the Seattle airport to the lot where we left our car. It was one of those mini-buses, with seats facing each other around the perimeter. Nugget sat on my lap in a corner seat. Directly in front of us sat twin boys, probably around 8 years old. Their mom was next to me, and their dad and grandma were toward the front. They were black.
Nugget quietly contemplated the little boys for a minute, then said, "Mom?"
I was looking up the ferry schedule on my phone. "Yes?"
"Why those boys have funny hair?"
I froze, afraid to take my eyes off my phone. I could feel everyone on the bus waiting for my answer. I think we were all dying inside, except everyone else got to think, "thank god that question wasn't for me."
"I don't think they have funny hair," I said finally, "I think they have very nice hair. Maybe they think your hair is funny. Do you think so?" Nugget laughed and shook his head.
For being on the spot, I think I didn't do too badly. But the conversation wasn't over.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Why they have those things on their ears?"
Oh yes. The boys had hearing aids. Because my preschooler wasn't satisfied with stomping his way through one highly sensitive and charged area like a bull in a china shop. We got the twofer.
"Honey, it's not really polite to comment on what other people look like or are wearing." Not a very good answer, but I was done with this conversation. In retrospect, I probably should have just explained what a hearing aid is. Fortunately, the boys' mom came to my rescue.
"They don't mind explaining what those are," she said. She prompted her sons for an explanation, but they apparently minded.
"They're going to have to explain them at school tomorrow," the kids' dad said. Guess my tactless son and I had given the family a practice run for the first day at a new school. Yay us.
Mom gave up on the boys and explained the hearing aids to Nugget. I struggled to come up with a warm and jolly comment to put the whole discussion to bed, but after considering and rejecting inanities like "Isn't that nice!" I just turned to the mom and said, with obvious relief, "Thank you."

Ay, kennel, puddle, sink

My dog is driving me crazy at the moment. She will not stop whining and scratching at the glass patio door no matter how many times I tell her that she cannot come in until she is dry. It makes me glad that Nugget is old enough to understand explanations. It hasn't been that long, but I'd already forgotten the daily frustration that goes hand in hand with the cuddly sweetness of babyhood.

The fact that Kiara--the dog (and no, I didn't name her, my Irish-name-obsessed sister did, but it's better than Lelu, which is what her previous family called her. She no longer answers to it. And who could blame her? They were the second family to abandon her before she was a year old. I'd want to forget everything about her life before me too.)--is soaking wet is completely her own fault, and I warned her it would happen, but "I told you so" is not that satisfactory when you say it to a dog. Who turns her head and cocks an ear and then barks again to be let in.

We went for a walk/run on the beach (most of the running was her, but I did run enough to get my heart rate up, which is something, for someone who abandoned her nascent soccer career after one day of practice freshman year of high school because there was too much running) and she insisted on going in the water. I managed to keep her from going in past her knees (which she wanted to do because there was kelp floating out there and she just had to know what it was), and she might have escaped without the full-body bath under a freezing cold hose when we got home if it weren't for this:

The standing water along the path to the beach was so thick with algae that it looked like solid ground. Appealing, right? I'm literally steps from the car and I look back to see where Kiara is, and she is actually going into that algae water. I could not believe it. What goes through that dog's head? I briefly considered making her run alongside the car rather than let her in the car with stinky algae-water dripping from her fur and stinky-algae-mud on her paws. And then I remembered that the back of my car is already covered in sand and dog hair and dried dog drool. Not to mention the toddler crumbs all over the middle seat. Plus the sunscreen that I was wearing on the way to the beach on Sunday, which got all over the front seat and, inexplicably, all over the outside of the car as well. So I loaded Kiara in and reflected that there is something to be said for a dirty car.

The other day when I took Kiara to the vet they told me that there are two boxers up for adoption at the humane society right now. "My husband would kill me," I replied. I went home and told him about it and he said, "No I wouldn't. You can adopt them if you want." My mouth hung open a little, and I wondered whether Trent had forgotten the regularity with which my separation-anxiety-riddled Kiara pees in the house when she's left alone. "You'd just have to move out," he continued. Oh. I guess I'll pass.

roaring for a chamber-pot

Warning: Readers without children may want to skip this post.

So I really didn't want to start potty-training, as I've mentioned, but Nugget has seemed very ready for a while so I felt like I should. I guess I have to reevaluate what constitutes readiness.

We went all out on potty training starting this morning, and in the less than four hours it took me to give up, Nugget went through six pairs of underwear, including one that I threw away (I know it's not ecologically or economically sound, but there's a reason I didn't do cloth diapering. I'm just not willing to go there.) and Nugget did not earn a single sticker.

I really tried to stick with it, even after I repeatedly asked him to be very specific about whether he had to poop or had already pooped, and, with his full assurance that he had not pooped, I pulled down his pants and poop fell out.

The final straw was after I cleaned him up from that little incident, and I asked him over and over again whether he wanted to sit on the potty before putting clean underwear on; he said no, no, he didn't have to pee, so I foolishly listened to him and put clean underwear on. Whereupon he immediately told me he had to pee. Whereupon I discovered he had in fact already peed. In the underwear that had been on him for less than two minutes.

This is why I am not ready to potty train. Not because I don't want my baby to grow up. Nugget will always be my baby, even when he doesn't need me to clean up his poop. Even (sigh) when he does need me to clean up his poop.

such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff

During my last year of college I volunteered in a after-school arts program at a local elementary school. I and a partner planned and implemented arts-related activities for about a half-dozen fourth graders once a week.

I had to apply to get into this program, and I was initially rejected. But then someone dropped out so they called me. Possibly after calling a half-dozen other people. I am pretty sure I was a last resort. In part because during the interview I told the two students who led the program that I thought my weakness would be discipline and keeping the kids focused. "Thanks for your honesty," they said. But also because the sample lesson plan I submitted with my application was built around having the kids recount how their families came to America. The students at the school were mostly African-American.

My favorite moment from this class was when we had the kids enact talk shows featuring characters from fairy tales. One girl, portraying Goldilocks, confronted the three bears, wailing plaintively, "I was cold! And I was hungry! And I was NAKED!" Those kids were amazing.

But the moment I recall most often was the day we were reading The Little Prince and I needed to explain the word "sacred" to the kids. It's not an easy word to define under any circumstances, and I was on the spot. But what complicated it was my hazy half-baked idea that I was not supposed to make any reference to religion under any circumstances because this was a public school and we had to maintain the separation of church and state. Yeah. Chalk it up to youthful naivete and let's just forget that I was 21.

Anyway, accepting this faulty premise, how the heck do you define "sacred" without making reference to religion? I suppose it can be done, but I was obviously not thinking very clearly. So I told the kids that "sacred" describes something that is magical, like a dragon. Yeah, a dragon. Even the fourth-graders knew that was not what "sacred" meant. I can still picture the incredulous, derisive looks on their faces, and it still makes me cringe. My partner jumped in quickly to set the record straight. I don't recall what he said, but I'm pretty sure it did not involve dragons.

Thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs

My dog, Kiara, often pees in the house to get back at me when I leave her home alone. She's been doing this pretty much since I got her six years ago, although it is worse now, probably because of our recent move. She was abandoned twice before she was a year old, so she's got some issues. Notwithstanding the last six years of not being abandoned.

Since it doesn't get that cold here, I've taken to just bringing her along every time we leave the house, and leaving her in the car while we go in the store or whatever. She barks the entire time, but at least she doesn't pee in the car. So, in my current life as a stay-at-home mom, I don't go anywhere without my entourage: dog and toddler.

But before I started doing that, when we would come home to find the telltale puddle, I would of course yell at Kiara, believing it necessary to let her know this is not acceptable, however hopeless it seems. So that's the background.

The other day when Nugget was throwing a tantrum about something or other, I sat him down for a discussion about appropriate ways of showing anger, I said: we don't yell when we're angry. You see where this is going, right? He said, "Mommy yell at Kiara?" Busted.

Exit, pursued by a bear

Nugget and I went on a safari this morning at the Olympic Game Farm. It's called a game farm because it is privately funded and not because you can shoot the animals. You can't. But I did bring the bright orange vest my mom bought Nugget when we moved here, just in case.

Visitors are permitted to feed the animals bread, and the animals have come to expect it. They were unbelievably pushy about begging for food. Had I stopped long enough, I think the car would have gotten surrounded, stranding us out there. We did not feed them bread, which did not stop them from terrorizing us in the hope that bread would be produced. In fact, I was afraid to even open a window most of the time.

The bison and elk did not bother to get up and come look for food, which is good because they really could have done some damage if they were hungry enough.

But the yaks and llamas, sometimes working collaboratively, were diabolically clever: they walked directly in front of the car first, forcing us to stop or slow down to a crawl (I don't think I ever got up to the 10 mph maximum), and then they came alongside and pushed their noses against the window. Nugget thought it was hilarious. I thought it was creepy. Some of the llamas even ran to get in front of the car to make us stop. Sneaky devils. No way was I cracking the window.

The carniverous animals--including lions, a tiger, cougars, wolves, and bears--were behind fences or in cages, fortunately for us. Unfortunately for them, some of the cages were quite small and depressing and I'm not sure I want to go back for that reason. Also because I may have nightmares about the llamas.

All of which is not the point of my post. I have a bad mom confession. After a while when I realized that Nugget could not see the shorter animals--rabbits and roosters and peacocks--that were all over the place, I freed him from his car seat and let him sit on my lap as I drove, Britney Spears style. And when he started complaining that he wanted to take a nap, which I did not want him to do because I paid $11 to get in and he was going to enjoy the hell out of my $11 whether he liked it or not, damn it, I fed him candy to keep him awake. I am going to mommy hell.

*
Back to the stay-at-home vs. working mom thing, because a dead horse can always use more beating, to my way of thinking. I have discovered that Trent was right--being home with a kid full-time is incredibly  hard, in many ways, some of which I did not really expect. Some things don't bother me, like the isolation. It may not be good for me, but I like to be isolated. So that's not affecting me yet, although if I don't force myself to get out and talk to people I likely will become increasingly weirder and sketchier until I have reached the Emily Dickinson stage and my doctor has to examine me from the other side of a closed door.

I think I have written already about the mental, emotional, and physical strain of having a very needy appendage that makes frequent demands, has a shallow grasp of reason, is subject to volatile mood swings, and requires that I be on my guard even when it appears to be content or at rest. By which I mean my beloved child, of course. I think I am coping pretty well with that, better than some but certainly no supermama farting sunshine.

Then there is the feeling that I am allowing valuable skills to lay fallow while the rest of the world toils on. The lazy sow rooting in mud with her piglets when she could be feeding the world bacon. OK, bad analogy because it implies self-sacrifice and I don't believe that's necessary. Which gets me to the breakthrough I had in thinking about this. SAHM vs. working is a continuum, not a choice between two exclusive extremes. I wasn't happy working 60-80 hours a week, and I won't be happy devoting myself exclusively to child-rearing and homemaking. That much is clear. There is a balance to be struck.

What's more, that balance is different for everyone. Some parents are happier at the extremes, most are probably happiest somewhere in between, but we all fall at different points along that continuum, and that's ok. It's ok for us as women, so long as we are the ones making the choice, and it's ok for our kids. If mom and dad aren't happy, the kids won't be either. There are no hard and fast rules about life and parenting, except maybe the one about not feeding your kid candy while you drive with him on your lap. We all have to find our own way. The tricky thing about that is that when you know you were miserable at a given point in the spectrum, it's hard to understand why other moms seem to be happy there. And so we get into these arguments about what's best that can never be satisfactorily settled because the answer is different for everyone. So stop it already. You're all right.

Sorry, I think I just farted a little sunshine there.

Not sure what to think about this

Nugget (my two-year-old) put a garbage can on his head and said "I'm a woman."

I am pretty sure I didn't find it as funny as my husband did, although I did laugh. And then I contemplated explaining to him that it was offensive and decided to get over it and let it go ... he is two, after all. A luttle early to be explaining the politics of sex and gender.

More matter with less art

As my eighth grade graduation approached, my parents decided, for reasons that are a whole 'nother story, to let me choose where I wanted to go to high school. (A decision they later regretted, but that's yet another whole 'nother story.)

I chose a school at which I did not know anyone and no one knew me. I don't think that's why I chose it -- as I recall it had a lot to do with hearing that you could do anything you wanted at the school, like, even walk out of the classroom to go to the bathroom without raising your hand for permission! which appealed to me as a lifelong student at Catholic schools, and most recently an all-girls Catholic school, at which, just to give an example, it was the norm for every single student to say "thank you Mrs./Mr./Sr. So-and-so" to the teacher as we filed out of a classroom (in single file. of our own accord.) to go to our next class.

For whatever reason, at any rate, I ended up a stranger in a strange land, with nothing but my severely under-developed social skills to make my way. But a few weeks before classes started, I started going to swim practices. This was a good way to make friends, right?

Unfortunately, the high school I had chosen was in fact a K-12, meaning that many of the people I was going to school with had known each other since kindergarten. They'd had ten years in which to develop a complex caste system, about which I knew nothing. Indeed, having never been in a school with more than 30 kids per grade, I knew little about such systems in general, much less the specifics of who I must never, ever be seen talking to, and who I must not attempt to talk to absent express invitation or until I had sufficiently established my own equal or superior place on the ladder that I could so presume without invitation.

Unfortunately for me, many of the other freshman girls on the swim team, whom I attempted, clumsily, to befriend, happened to be at or near the very pinnacle of this caste system. Imagine their surprise and disdain at my advances! Imagine my confusion and terror! Oh, the hilarity and shame that ensued.

Among my many faults that made this endeavor so spectacularly unsuccessful was that I had a propensity to tell stories that did not proceed logically to a punch line, moral, or climax, or otherwise have any apparent point. These sorts of pointless stories became known as "Anne stories." At least, that's my impression, since it was behind my back.

I still tell Anne stories, although people are too polite to tell me so, and, one hopes, too grown up to say so behind my back. It's particularly amusing/painful/ironic because I would like nothing more to make my living as a storyteller. Sometimes that worries me a little. Other times I think, well, doesn't much of literature feel pretty pointless? I have twice now attempted to read Ulysses and abandoned the endeavor because of its (somehow frantically energetic, but still) narrative inertia.

Which is where the irony really gets going. Literature doesn't always have much of a plot, but personally, I think it should. I don't read books without plots. I used to force myself to do it, because I was pretentious, but I've decided life is too short and I have too little time to read and there are way too many books in the world for me to waste time reading books I'm not enjoying.

So is it possible to write books you don't want to read? Or at least, is writing a book without a plot more interesting than reading a book without a plot? I hope so.

’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d

The other night I went out in my pajamas at about 10 o’clock at night to get wine, ice cream, and jellybeans. There is a very reasonable back story there, but it's not the point of my story. I was wearing Trent’s polartech over my pajamas, my hair was in a messy bun, and I think I even had my glasses on, although I rarely wear my glasses in public. In short, I was not exactly looking my best. (I would like to think this is relevant.) 

I picked out my wine and my ice cream and jelly beans and got in line, clutching my goodies, behind a guy who looked to be at least 30, with long hair, a nose ring, and combat boots. He was buying a six pack of beer and a sack of potatoes. And he was arguing with the store clerk because his driver’s license was expired. He told her that was all he had because his wallet had been stolen, and he showed her his social security card as further evidence that the expiration of his license had not altered his age. She didn't budge. So I’m standing there, thinking, that’s really silly, and maybe I should buy the beer for him. But I live in a city and people don’t do nice things for strangers in cities. Even in Chicago, the nicest of cities. It would probably turn out awkwardly, I thought. But when my turn came and the guy was still standing there counting his change, I gave in to the impulse and asked the clerk for the beer she’d put behind the cash register. The guy looked at me, and seemed to give a half smile of recognition, and I gave a half smile to acknowledge what I thought was our silent pact, and then when I’d finished paying, I turned around and he was gone. No problem, I thought, he’s probably waiting outside the door. Nope. Gone. 

And, really, I can’t blame him. A woman buying wine and ice cream in her pajamas at 10 o’ clock at night wants to buy him some beer? I guess I’d run like hell too. 

So I ended up with a six-pack of Busch that I never intended to buy. Now, Trent and I are pretty snobby about beer. So I was pretty annoyed to end up with Busch, although I did count myself fortunate that it wasn’t Busch Light. Plus, it only cost me $4, so that's something. And when I tried it, I was actually pleasantly surprised that it was less like water than I expected. And yet it had a terrible aftertaste: the sour flavor of rejection, with a hint of regret for the lost beauty of youth. And a dash of irritation because I wasn’t actually even trying to hit on the guy, goddamnit, I was just trying to be nice. 

sound and fury

Yesterday at the beach Nugget pointed behind me and said "broken." (Actually it sounded more like 'bwoten" but I knew what he meant.) I looked and saw a man sitting under a tree, with nothing broken apparent around him.
"What's broken?" I asked Nugget.
"Man."
"The man is broken?"
"Man. Broken."
"That's sad," Trent said.
"Broken man sad." Nugget repeated for the next several hours.

Encouraged by this evidence that children possess unique psychic abilities, presumably because they were between lives so recently, I started questioning Nugget about whether he remembered meeting Jesus. The only response I got sounded like "hmmmm." Which probably indicates that Nugget was under orders not to share his knowledge of the universe with nosy parents. Trent's response to my questions was more articulate: "you're scaring me."
I'm so excited that Nugget has reached the age when he says amazing things. Finally, it's his turn to entertain us. I may actually get around to blogging once in a while now that he's feeding me material.

Which reminds me of an incident both Trent and I meant to blog about several months ago but neither of us ever got around to. (Reasons not to marry your perfect match.) Trent and Nugget came on a business trip to San Francisco with me (note to my employer: but I didn't charge any of their expenses to the client and I worked very hard). After I finished working very hard, we wandered around the Haight and got coffee at a little cafe with sidewalk tables next to a large mural painted on the wall. The mural looked like a rainbow from far away but up close you could see that each band of color was formed by a throng of creatures, a different creature for each color. It appeared to depict evolution -- the first band was amoeba-like organisms, then fish, amphibians, through to humans, and finally what I took to be angels taking flight. Two drunk/high hobo/hippie types (I think the Haight Tourist Authority was paying them to be there) stood in front of the mural discussing it with great reverence. One said the different bands of the rainbow represented stages of life, and that the angels--which he called ghosts--symbolized death. "Shhh," said the other one, indicating Nugget playing nearby. "Don't let the kid hear." As if death were a naughty word that must not be spoken before the children.

Earlier we had heard this delightful pair discussing Cherokees. Specifically, they were discussing whether Cherokees exist. "No man," one insisted, "Cherokees aren't real. They're like Eskimos." Whereupon further argument ensued. Terrible and yet so awesome.

Where Cupid got new fire

We purchased our first home this year, a lovely little condo that has a large jacuzzi bathtub. The only problem is that our hot water heater is not quite up to the task of filling the tub. Life is tough, I know. I think this might be the definition of a luxury problem.

So I treated myself to a nice long bath with a book and a glass of wine last night, but I neglected to keep a close enough eye on the tub when it was filling and it ended up being not as hot as I would have liked. Especially after I lingered in there with my book and wine as it it cooled. I gambled on having waited long enough that the hot water might have replenished, but I ended up making it worse by running cold water for a minute in the hope that it would heat up.

So I took a page from Little House on the Prairie and called out to my husband to boil me some hot water. Back and forth he went with three large potfuls and a kettle of hot water, and it still wasn't hot enough for me. (Is my husband not the greatest?)

When I was about 10 I desperately wanted to be Laura Ingalls Wilder, but I think it's safe to say I'm no frontier girl.

O, Reason Not the Need*

I took a class in the spring of my senior year of college called something like How Fiction Works, which was much less interesting and useful than it sounded and mainly involved the professor-- who had published a dozen or so novels but never achieved much success and was sort of lesser Saul Bellow--recounting anecdotes about famous writers he had met or known. There was a grad student in the class, a PhD student in comparative literature. He was odd. At one point he informed me that my feet were lovely and he derived great pleasure from admiring them during class. Eventually I realized that was him hitting on me, and was mildly disturbed.

But that's not the point I was heading toward. One day after class I was telling him that I had taken a job in a smallish town in Minnesota. I guess he was shocked that I would do such a thing, and in explaining why I was doing it I focused on the fact that the people there were very nice.** "Is that important to you?" he asked. I don't know what I said. I think I was speechless. It was not a question I'd ever thought to ask. In a way he had a point, because it turned out I didn't like living there. Of course, it turned out that the people were not that nice, they were mostly just passive aggressive. So I don't think it really proves he was right. I till value that a lot. And I really don't understand why anyone wouldn't, although I guess I know now that not everyone does. I just can't understand it.

Tonight my wallet was stolen. And then someone was rude to me for no apparent reason. And I'm not sure which event upset me more. I can understand why someone would steal my wallet. There are possible motivations there that I can comprehend, even if they're not nice and I don't agree with them. But the person who was rude to me for no apparent reason? I just can't understand that, and that makes it so much more upsetting. Even though it didn't cost me anything or require that I spend an hour on the phone cancelling credit and debit cards. Even though it didn't rob me of the little scrap of love note I've carried in my wallet since my husband gave it to me in the early days of our relationship.

Is there something wrong with me, that I need people to be nice to me? Or is there something wrong with the idea that being nice shouldn't be important?

* This is my favorite speech and scene in all of Shakespeare.
** I use the word "nice" in its bland modern sense. The history of the word is interesting but not relevant to my point. And the broad vagueness of the word suits my purpose. Don't be nice about it. If you don't have anything nice to say . . .

The Sweet Smell of Manila

Yesterday's post got me thinking about how my dad used to take us to church while my mother stayed home. I used to think it was because of her differences with the capital-C Catholic Church, which it probably was in part, but now that I am a mom myself I realize the obvious: she just wanted some time to herself. She got to sleep in and have a few hours alone while my dad took us all to church and out to brunch at our favorite greasy spoon diner, Roma's (which unfortunately closed many years ago).

Another slap to the forehead: my dad did not take us to work on Saturday afternoons because we enjoyed it, or because he wanted to spend time with us. We did love it, though. In my own work now when I come across old case files in those brown accordion folders with the elastic fastener, I get a very incongruous case of the warm fuzzies. I guess I never really stood a chance.