Time Warp! What happened?
2008 and I'm talking about a flaccid 4 year old at a wedding, and now it's 2012, and I have another 4 year old (and the previous one is 8). Something to be said for that. My "new" 4 year old's nickname is "time warp". There's an eternity that passes between the time I decide to do something and when it actually happens, including opening her car door and waiting for her to get out (or get in - even worse).
((Here I am again. My head's above water. HA! And I'm trying not to simply spew the last four years into the WYSIWYG editor. I will do my best to not have it act as my therapist...))
So, the difference between 4 and 8 is a big one. It's all about questions, and well, answers for that matter. Doubling a kid's age, exponentially expands the complexity and, ahem, "uncomfortableness" of what they ask you. Not only what they ask you, but how it fits into the very large social realm of peers, and pop culture, and honesty, and what mommy and daddy do.
I have this alter-ego of myself, that's very much like June Cleaver. She's a perfect mom, full of sugar and spice and everything nice. She never snaps, she never has a hair out of place, and for goodness sakes, she never gets crazy at a party with her friends! She's got a nice little nuclear family, and that seems to be enough. No village for this woman... she's got Ward, and that seems to be enough.
Alas, times have changed, and we've got facebook, XTC, websites for having discreet affairs, fake leather, and musicians with "explicit" lyrics. I simply cannot be June, in a world that holds such things. This is not to say that I partake in all of the aforementioned things. I do however "party" as a parent (gasp!), and have a crew of friends that like to do the same.
Recently, I was invited to a seven year old's birthday party. My kids are not close to him. We were not invited because of that - they came more as collateral. He did have some of his school friends there, but their parents did not stay. They dropped their kids off early, and toodled along on their way to do whatever they needed to do with the next three hours. Upon their return, they walked into a party of adults and kids (some collateral, some theirs) laughing and dancing to the latest dance tunes in the middle of the living room. The Gruet was being poured and the "house cocktail" had been critiqued by a few (of course only for the adults).
In the eyes of June, total debauchery, taboo, and a general "no no". Sex, Drugs, Rock-n-Roll. Not in front of MY kids. But, I guess Ward wasn't a punk rocker with "explicit" lyrics, and medical marijuana was unheard of, and it was before doll companies published books on what to do when you get your period.
As a mom of two girls, I've become aware, that "a period" is the start of the sentence - or the question.
My 8 year old has a very inquisitive friend. We all ski together, and before the long drive down the mountain, the girls and I usually have to pee. So, we commence on piling into one stall, and having what I call a "potty party". It's amazing what kids will ask when they know they have you trapped with your pants down. About a year ago, it started with the little silver box depository on the side of the stall. I told her it was for "trash" - had to make sure that her dad knew what she had asked AND if he wanted her to know what the little box was for. (I also must preface this with the fact that I've known this "little" girl since she was very young, and I've acted close to a second mom. She's not some random kid). So the next trip to the stall we talked about periods, and breasts, and tampons, and the big yeachy "adult diapers" that her mom had told her about in the interim. I think June only had pads back in those days, didn't she?
I have to say, that I've been pretty upfront with my oldest about the "birds and the bees". When she was five, we had a different friend (who was only 4) in the car. We drove by a place where I used to live. I mentioned it, and the conversation went something like this:
"Was I in your belly then, Mommy"
"No, not yet"
"Well how did I get in there?"
(silence, stutter)
"Well, part of you was in Mommy and part of you was in Daddy..."
(WAIT!!! BACK UP! Now the kid's thinking 'well my arm was in Daddy, and my leg was in Mommy... this is NO good.)
So we went down the seed path... "Daddy had a seed that he gave to Mommy and that's what you grew from."
Silence... and then "Well, how did the seed get in your belly?"
It's the killer question, and now I'm thinking, "wow, it would have been so much easier to say 'babies come from Heaven'", but she doesn't know what that is.
I don't want to shrug it off, or make it something that sounds secretive, or taboo, so I decide to give a very clinical answer that includes all involved anatomy (and then follow up with my Anatomy for the Artist book, when we get home). All the while her friend is silent in the back seat listening too, and I'm wondering if this is a "major faux pas" (which is what my husband said when we conceived our second child). I know her mom very well, and we're all very open. I decide that I simply got caught off guard, and that she would understand.
Pulling up her driveway, I spot her mom, flowing hippy dress, patchouli drenching the air around her.
"Ah, I hate to say it, but we just had a conversation about the birds and the bees."
Smiling broadly, "Oh she's known about that forever! I just told her that her daddy and I made loooooveeee, and that's how she was made."
I guess I underestimated THAT reaction. So much for June.
The one thing that I've told my daughter, is that even though she knows about these things, she should keep them to herself. After all, there are other kids who's parents who DO believe in Heaven. She's did very well with keeping her secret. I knew this because her inquisitive ski buddy friend brought it up in the stall, "You know you have to be married to get pregnant". YIKES! A chill ran down my spine, and I told her that she should probably talk to her dad a bit more about the subject. "Yeah, just ask him about the birds and the bees", my daughter followed with. I then proceeded to give her dad the "heads up", that she might be asking.
So, now it's a new ski season, and everybody knows about how baby's are made. It's all in the open. Things have settled, and I'm glad for our dialogues. I'd rather have my girls know what happens, than get caught off guard, or told from some other kid at school. I know they are only eight, but I also know that talk and "pressure" starts sooner now than it did for me. I don't want them to be drawn to the "taboo-ness". And I definitely don't want them to think that you can't get pregnant if you're not married.
Our "potty parties" have waned a bit, now that the girls are getting more modest about their bodies. But I'm not off the hook yet - the chairlift is another place that they catch you with nowhere to run. Ten minutes, 60 feet above ground, two kids... asking questions.
"So what does that song that says 'I've got a party in my pants, and I'm not afraid to show it' mean?"
Where the heck did they hear THAT song? Probably at some seven year old's birthday party... you know where all the parents were dancing? They didn't hear that, they're just little kids. And now I'm wondering if that registered with my four year old, and when the questions are going to start coming from her. Round two.
How quickly we go from "potty in my pants", to "party in my pants"... sometimes it just takes a few "potty parties" to get through it.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Happily Ever After
"Weddings are tough, huh?" I whispered to my flaccid four year old as I tried to pull her purple princess nightgown over her head.
She didn't answer, hand through sleeve... out.
Last week we went to the pool and the yellow squirter fishy married the purple squirter fishy, oh, 8 or 9 times in the course of an hour. The green one functioned as the wicked stepmother, evil witch, and monster keeping them from each other, over and over. Our sitter informed me the next day that my daughter "got married 4 times". Her dollies all have wedding gowns. You get the picture. She has an undying fascination with marriage.
It's not so much the superficial fascination of weddings, but the little glimpses of what getting married means to her. My husband and I had an argument and before our bath she asked "Mommy, when are you and Dada getting married again?". Her four-year-old mentality simplifies it into something about "true love". Go figure, she's got ALL of the princess movies, something I said would never happen, something that crept its pretty little stereotypical head through the crack in the door one day–and never went away.
Really, it's not that silly. It's the reason I still cry at weddings, or in the case of today, balled uncontrollably in my place as "matron" (god I hate that word) of honor. We idealize it. Through the ceremony we listen to the words about perfect love, listening to one another, and giving ourselves fully to the one standing before us. Nobody does it with the thought of "my god, the odds are against us. 50 50 we'll get divorced".
About two years ago, the bride who's wedding we were at today gave my daughter The "Paper Bag Princess". It had been stepped on and spilled on, pages sticking together, and finally found its way, unreadable, into the trash. So much for the independent woman. She can do it all, so why not just use her and abuse her, and throw her to the side to deal with her own mess?
Bitter? Maybe. Independent and taking it a day at a time... or even as pages stuck together melding into one big blob of continuum. Yes.
I was at the wedding by myself with the two kids. 7-and-a-half hours from home.
My daughter wore her "Belle" dress to the wedding. The bride said she could wear anything she wanted, and I figured that if this would make my life easier, then it was worth it to allow her to be in her fantasy of what a wedding should be–Fancy, magical, star-lined, with singing birds and mice, and flowers that bow to the bride's every move.
In this wedding though, the bride was barefoot, holding a bouquet of wild wheat grass, tied with twine, drooping daisies in her hair. She looked beautiful, but not in the sense that my daughter might think of a bride looking beautiful. The "minister" wore shorts, and married them in a circle of stones on the rim of a large green field. A big sheepdog was the ring bearer.
I keep looking through the tears to see what my daughter's reaction was. She was in and out, running off to play with the other kids, and color in her Princess books, not entranced, not even really entertained. She didn't like the cake, the sitter I had watching her was "okay", and the other kids "messed up her coloring books".
The night culminated with the sheep dog almost biting her face, and her wetting herself because she got scared. I rushed crying blindly into the bathroom, looking to see if she was hurt. (Thank freaking goodness, she wasn't and I will knock on wood a thousand times for that one!). I thought that she was crying because she was scared. Through sobs, she said that "no", she was feeling "shy" now. I introduced to the word "embarrassed" and I made her laugh by putting her wet underwear in the front of mine, under my dress (so we could hide them from the crowd). "Just hold me" she said and I carried her out, hiding her face, trying to deflect well intended comments.
"Just hold me", my broken little girl, exhausted and embarrassed.
Tonight I carried 50 pounds of human beings through the hotel lobby, up the elevator, and down the hall to our room. 50 pounds of sleeping baby and sleeping child, settled into beds, sleeping soundly, after a long day. A day of ceremony, a day of joy, a day of love and hope, and a day of embarrassment.
Again, "weddings are tough".
That's all I have to say.
She didn't answer, hand through sleeve... out.
Last week we went to the pool and the yellow squirter fishy married the purple squirter fishy, oh, 8 or 9 times in the course of an hour. The green one functioned as the wicked stepmother, evil witch, and monster keeping them from each other, over and over. Our sitter informed me the next day that my daughter "got married 4 times". Her dollies all have wedding gowns. You get the picture. She has an undying fascination with marriage.
It's not so much the superficial fascination of weddings, but the little glimpses of what getting married means to her. My husband and I had an argument and before our bath she asked "Mommy, when are you and Dada getting married again?". Her four-year-old mentality simplifies it into something about "true love". Go figure, she's got ALL of the princess movies, something I said would never happen, something that crept its pretty little stereotypical head through the crack in the door one day–and never went away.
Really, it's not that silly. It's the reason I still cry at weddings, or in the case of today, balled uncontrollably in my place as "matron" (god I hate that word) of honor. We idealize it. Through the ceremony we listen to the words about perfect love, listening to one another, and giving ourselves fully to the one standing before us. Nobody does it with the thought of "my god, the odds are against us. 50 50 we'll get divorced".
About two years ago, the bride who's wedding we were at today gave my daughter The "Paper Bag Princess". It had been stepped on and spilled on, pages sticking together, and finally found its way, unreadable, into the trash. So much for the independent woman. She can do it all, so why not just use her and abuse her, and throw her to the side to deal with her own mess?
Bitter? Maybe. Independent and taking it a day at a time... or even as pages stuck together melding into one big blob of continuum. Yes.
I was at the wedding by myself with the two kids. 7-and-a-half hours from home.
My daughter wore her "Belle" dress to the wedding. The bride said she could wear anything she wanted, and I figured that if this would make my life easier, then it was worth it to allow her to be in her fantasy of what a wedding should be–Fancy, magical, star-lined, with singing birds and mice, and flowers that bow to the bride's every move.
In this wedding though, the bride was barefoot, holding a bouquet of wild wheat grass, tied with twine, drooping daisies in her hair. She looked beautiful, but not in the sense that my daughter might think of a bride looking beautiful. The "minister" wore shorts, and married them in a circle of stones on the rim of a large green field. A big sheepdog was the ring bearer.
I keep looking through the tears to see what my daughter's reaction was. She was in and out, running off to play with the other kids, and color in her Princess books, not entranced, not even really entertained. She didn't like the cake, the sitter I had watching her was "okay", and the other kids "messed up her coloring books".
The night culminated with the sheep dog almost biting her face, and her wetting herself because she got scared. I rushed crying blindly into the bathroom, looking to see if she was hurt. (Thank freaking goodness, she wasn't and I will knock on wood a thousand times for that one!). I thought that she was crying because she was scared. Through sobs, she said that "no", she was feeling "shy" now. I introduced to the word "embarrassed" and I made her laugh by putting her wet underwear in the front of mine, under my dress (so we could hide them from the crowd). "Just hold me" she said and I carried her out, hiding her face, trying to deflect well intended comments.
"Just hold me", my broken little girl, exhausted and embarrassed.
Tonight I carried 50 pounds of human beings through the hotel lobby, up the elevator, and down the hall to our room. 50 pounds of sleeping baby and sleeping child, settled into beds, sleeping soundly, after a long day. A day of ceremony, a day of joy, a day of love and hope, and a day of embarrassment.
Again, "weddings are tough".
That's all I have to say.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Love and Fishing
The love that I feel for my children is the only love that I have ever felt that hasn't faded over time (and I am presuming it won't). I now know how dogs feel. You can kick them, and scream at them, and demand things from them that are outside of their very nature. Still they will sit next to you and slobber, and lick you and love you beyond all reason. I have been bitten, and screamed at, and asked to do things outside of my nature. Yet, I sit here and slobber, all love. MOM=DOG. Three letters, both containing an "O".
This is love, and honestly I believe it's the only kind that exists–truly. I used to think that love was something you felt for one of your peers, in my case, of the opposite sex. I used to dream of a "soul mate", someone that fit perfectly with my needs and desires. One might say that I have met him and had two children with him. I will be honest, that I don't know if I love my husband as intensely as I once did. For sure, the feeling's essence has changed.
I was visiting a friend of mine last night after going to the pool with the kids. He had just been fishing at a reservoir with his dad and four year old daughter (who is also my daughter's best friend). We were on the other side of the dam, headed towards the waterfall. I was trying to convince my oldest that she actually could make it the next 100 yards to be able to see the waterfall (and possibly Ariel swimming there). Basically we all were within a half-mile of each other but separated by a huge concrete barrier and 500,000 tons of water. We didn't know this until later though.
At his house, the baby wanted something to nibble on, so I was going to run out to my car and get a MEGA-box of goldfish that I had bought at Target that day. My friend said not to, that he had some in his cabinet. I grabbed them out of their little sealed plastic bag (I guess to keep them fresh, or maybe so they were more manageable than having to grab the MEGA-box that he bought from Sam's club). I threw some on a paper-towel for the baby, and the older girls immediately came over.
"They aren't the colored ones".
"I am a one-goldfish kind of guy", my friend responded. We both laughed over this. He's going through a nasty divorce, and we've had several discussions about how he's not intending on settling down with one person because he no longer "believes in monogamy".
Through several conversational transitions, we went from goldfish-monogamy to love.
"How many times had I been in love?". I thought it was two. I had two very specific people in mind. Then something happened. I kept changing people. I kept thinking of particular moments with one or another.
My friend decided to teach the girls how to clean the fish he had caught. There were 6, one was special because it had brown spots. Of course this fish needed to be shared between the girls. There was much discussion as to which fish were girls, and also much haggling over who would clean the "girl fishes". My friend decided that they were ALL GIRLS, and then the haggling stopped. Everyone was covered in scales and guts, everyone was laughing (except the fish of course). I guess the kids are "one kind of fish" people too. Or maybe too many choices just lead to too many debates.
Putting all the thoughts together I started to realize that maybe my "in love with" partners kept changing because the choices were so situational... I "loved" one for the way he held my hand on the bus, another for the song he wrote. I guess, for me, how much you "love" someone depends on where you are in life, what's important to you then. Maybe my needs change too much and too often. Maybe I don't have a strong enough set of moral values to hold up to love of this sort. Or maybe I am just fickle.
We do so much searching in life to find out who we are, why we are important, and where we belong. Is this a contemporary situation? Do we have too many choices in this land of plenty? Is this why the divorce rate is skyrocketing? We no longer have a good foundation of morality to stand on, and nothing to guide us?
Having children has changed my value system. I used to want to be a famous artist, an eccentric, see my name in lights. I wanted to be the brown-spotted fish that everybody wants. I have "lost" this part of myself, and more and more I simply want a life that's safe and happy and quiet. I can't quite figure out if this is "sad", (as in "how sad that she lost herself once she had kids"), or if I should take it as quiet contentment.
I want to give my kids clothing and shelter, and a good chance at surviving this life. I've always wanted them to be able to make their own choices, but maybe choice is not the key to happiness. Choice can be quite superficial.
I asked my daughter if she would want to eat fish more now or less. She said "more", so I told her that that meant we would have to go fishing. That she would have to work hard to eat her next fish. That she would need to clean it and fillet it, and then take the joy of eating it.
This is the lesson that I wish to teach my children. If you want something, sometimes you need to work to get it. We have forgotten that idea in our "do you want ice with that fish?"-wrapped in paper/plastic world.
And after that fish is gone and in her belly... after the initial thrill of the catch, will she remember it as it's own? Even if it's the special brown spotted one?
It's very doubtful. She WILL remember the experience though. She will remember the situation that brought her the fish. She will remember the blood and guts of cleaning it, and the work that's involved... so much more than if her mom just bought one at Whole Foods (wild caught, free range).
And we all must remember in love or fishing "there are plenty of fish in the sea", but maybe that's the problem.
This is love, and honestly I believe it's the only kind that exists–truly. I used to think that love was something you felt for one of your peers, in my case, of the opposite sex. I used to dream of a "soul mate", someone that fit perfectly with my needs and desires. One might say that I have met him and had two children with him. I will be honest, that I don't know if I love my husband as intensely as I once did. For sure, the feeling's essence has changed.
I was visiting a friend of mine last night after going to the pool with the kids. He had just been fishing at a reservoir with his dad and four year old daughter (who is also my daughter's best friend). We were on the other side of the dam, headed towards the waterfall. I was trying to convince my oldest that she actually could make it the next 100 yards to be able to see the waterfall (and possibly Ariel swimming there). Basically we all were within a half-mile of each other but separated by a huge concrete barrier and 500,000 tons of water. We didn't know this until later though.
At his house, the baby wanted something to nibble on, so I was going to run out to my car and get a MEGA-box of goldfish that I had bought at Target that day. My friend said not to, that he had some in his cabinet. I grabbed them out of their little sealed plastic bag (I guess to keep them fresh, or maybe so they were more manageable than having to grab the MEGA-box that he bought from Sam's club). I threw some on a paper-towel for the baby, and the older girls immediately came over.
"They aren't the colored ones".
"I am a one-goldfish kind of guy", my friend responded. We both laughed over this. He's going through a nasty divorce, and we've had several discussions about how he's not intending on settling down with one person because he no longer "believes in monogamy".
Through several conversational transitions, we went from goldfish-monogamy to love.
"How many times had I been in love?". I thought it was two. I had two very specific people in mind. Then something happened. I kept changing people. I kept thinking of particular moments with one or another.
My friend decided to teach the girls how to clean the fish he had caught. There were 6, one was special because it had brown spots. Of course this fish needed to be shared between the girls. There was much discussion as to which fish were girls, and also much haggling over who would clean the "girl fishes". My friend decided that they were ALL GIRLS, and then the haggling stopped. Everyone was covered in scales and guts, everyone was laughing (except the fish of course). I guess the kids are "one kind of fish" people too. Or maybe too many choices just lead to too many debates.
Putting all the thoughts together I started to realize that maybe my "in love with" partners kept changing because the choices were so situational... I "loved" one for the way he held my hand on the bus, another for the song he wrote. I guess, for me, how much you "love" someone depends on where you are in life, what's important to you then. Maybe my needs change too much and too often. Maybe I don't have a strong enough set of moral values to hold up to love of this sort. Or maybe I am just fickle.
We do so much searching in life to find out who we are, why we are important, and where we belong. Is this a contemporary situation? Do we have too many choices in this land of plenty? Is this why the divorce rate is skyrocketing? We no longer have a good foundation of morality to stand on, and nothing to guide us?
Having children has changed my value system. I used to want to be a famous artist, an eccentric, see my name in lights. I wanted to be the brown-spotted fish that everybody wants. I have "lost" this part of myself, and more and more I simply want a life that's safe and happy and quiet. I can't quite figure out if this is "sad", (as in "how sad that she lost herself once she had kids"), or if I should take it as quiet contentment.
I want to give my kids clothing and shelter, and a good chance at surviving this life. I've always wanted them to be able to make their own choices, but maybe choice is not the key to happiness. Choice can be quite superficial.
I asked my daughter if she would want to eat fish more now or less. She said "more", so I told her that that meant we would have to go fishing. That she would have to work hard to eat her next fish. That she would need to clean it and fillet it, and then take the joy of eating it.
This is the lesson that I wish to teach my children. If you want something, sometimes you need to work to get it. We have forgotten that idea in our "do you want ice with that fish?"-wrapped in paper/plastic world.
And after that fish is gone and in her belly... after the initial thrill of the catch, will she remember it as it's own? Even if it's the special brown spotted one?
It's very doubtful. She WILL remember the experience though. She will remember the situation that brought her the fish. She will remember the blood and guts of cleaning it, and the work that's involved... so much more than if her mom just bought one at Whole Foods (wild caught, free range).
And we all must remember in love or fishing "there are plenty of fish in the sea", but maybe that's the problem.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Why do we have feet?
I love taking my car to the mechanic.
First of all, I finally found one that I can trust. This is no small feat for the average pedestrian, however, it's even harder for me in that my father had his own shop for 27 years. He just closed it, not to mention that he's 2000 miles away, and even in this world of telecommuting, this does me no good for it's hard to turn a wrench over the internet.
Secondly, I love being a pedestrian. I love to walk and it's not too often that I can find a legitimate excuse to do it, or come up with excuses not to do it.
I dropped my car off this morning. My husband gave me a ride there. They asked me if there was any particular time that I would need it, and I said that I really didn't know when my husband was getting off work. I may not be able to pick up the car today, but if they really needed me to, I could always walk. It happened that a neighbor of mine was also there. She gasped and said "That would be a pretty far walk". I told her that it was six miles, and that really it was no problem, because I had done it before.
I had already been through a similar conversation earlier that day with my husband who asked how I was planning to get our daughter home from school. Of course, I would walk.
"WALK?"
I've had that word spoken in disbelief to me four times today (one via email, and another in Spanish). I responded simply yes "that's why we have feet". Simple.
So, I set out about a half hour earlier than I would if I was putting the peddle to the metal, 8 month old in stroller, Bjorn packed underneath for the way home (thinking the stroller would be occupied with my oldest on the way back). The stroller had a bit of a flat, so it was a little bit harder to push, so I stayed on the pavement on the way there.
The trip there was about a half hour, which gave me quite a bit of time to form my rebuttal to the endless debate of "WALK?". The best thing that I could come up with though was, "why not?"
Why is there such a diversion to walking in our culture? People are not as opposed to skiing as they are to walking. When you say you are going skiing, people say "Oh Skiing! Have fun!" whether they ski or not. I think it's about the gear. It doesn't take any special gear to walk, and thus it's not worthy of us because it literally costs no money to do. However if you are so inclined you CAN buy special walking shoes. I prefer not to because then there is the monetary guilt factor of "wow, I spent money on these shoes, I SHOULD be walking". "Should" is a word that I don't want to impart on my walks. I prefer to just walk in my boots, or whatever I have on.
I also think that people actually have a fear of walking. Not so much walking for exercise, but walking to actually get somewhere. When you are walking, it is just you and what you can carry. We have a fear of leaving our possessions behind, so we take our two ton little rolling casitas filled with crap with us wherever we go.
When I got to my oldest's school and walked through the door, bundled baby not in car-seat, but in hand. I started talking to a little boy. He was distracted by the next car that pulled up into the drive. "That's my mom! That's her car... she's got a black BMW". I almost asked him if she had feet too, but thought better of it.
I bundled up my oldest and explained to her that we were walking home. We've done this before, but it the past she's always ridden in the stroller. This time she was going to walk. I thought that she would raise a total fuss over this, but I was wrong, she happily trucked along beside me as we dodged car after car in the driveway, and made our way to the nifty little trail that runs next to the road.
She walked an entire mile. I can hear it now "Child ABUSE, Can you believe that woman actually made her four year old walk home from school?". Yes, maybe she should be riding in a black Beamer. Remember Linus from the Peanuts? "From the back of the bike to the shopping cart, to a stroller in the mall, to the back of the bike, sometimes it's an entire day and my feet don't touch the ground at all!". At least his mom was on a bike.
So after a mile, she got tired, and I switched the baby to the Bjorn and her to the stroller and we continued on our way. We saw crows dancing on telephone poles, and little birds, and got to see what thistles look like in winter.
The best thing about it is, when she lays her head down tonight, I know she won't have any trouble going to sleep. Nor will I. I can pick my car up tomorrow in the morning, but you know... I am considering leaving it there for a couple more days.
First of all, I finally found one that I can trust. This is no small feat for the average pedestrian, however, it's even harder for me in that my father had his own shop for 27 years. He just closed it, not to mention that he's 2000 miles away, and even in this world of telecommuting, this does me no good for it's hard to turn a wrench over the internet.
Secondly, I love being a pedestrian. I love to walk and it's not too often that I can find a legitimate excuse to do it, or come up with excuses not to do it.
I dropped my car off this morning. My husband gave me a ride there. They asked me if there was any particular time that I would need it, and I said that I really didn't know when my husband was getting off work. I may not be able to pick up the car today, but if they really needed me to, I could always walk. It happened that a neighbor of mine was also there. She gasped and said "That would be a pretty far walk". I told her that it was six miles, and that really it was no problem, because I had done it before.
I had already been through a similar conversation earlier that day with my husband who asked how I was planning to get our daughter home from school. Of course, I would walk.
"WALK?"
I've had that word spoken in disbelief to me four times today (one via email, and another in Spanish). I responded simply yes "that's why we have feet". Simple.
So, I set out about a half hour earlier than I would if I was putting the peddle to the metal, 8 month old in stroller, Bjorn packed underneath for the way home (thinking the stroller would be occupied with my oldest on the way back). The stroller had a bit of a flat, so it was a little bit harder to push, so I stayed on the pavement on the way there.
The trip there was about a half hour, which gave me quite a bit of time to form my rebuttal to the endless debate of "WALK?". The best thing that I could come up with though was, "why not?"
Why is there such a diversion to walking in our culture? People are not as opposed to skiing as they are to walking. When you say you are going skiing, people say "Oh Skiing! Have fun!" whether they ski or not. I think it's about the gear. It doesn't take any special gear to walk, and thus it's not worthy of us because it literally costs no money to do. However if you are so inclined you CAN buy special walking shoes. I prefer not to because then there is the monetary guilt factor of "wow, I spent money on these shoes, I SHOULD be walking". "Should" is a word that I don't want to impart on my walks. I prefer to just walk in my boots, or whatever I have on.
I also think that people actually have a fear of walking. Not so much walking for exercise, but walking to actually get somewhere. When you are walking, it is just you and what you can carry. We have a fear of leaving our possessions behind, so we take our two ton little rolling casitas filled with crap with us wherever we go.
When I got to my oldest's school and walked through the door, bundled baby not in car-seat, but in hand. I started talking to a little boy. He was distracted by the next car that pulled up into the drive. "That's my mom! That's her car... she's got a black BMW". I almost asked him if she had feet too, but thought better of it.
I bundled up my oldest and explained to her that we were walking home. We've done this before, but it the past she's always ridden in the stroller. This time she was going to walk. I thought that she would raise a total fuss over this, but I was wrong, she happily trucked along beside me as we dodged car after car in the driveway, and made our way to the nifty little trail that runs next to the road.
She walked an entire mile. I can hear it now "Child ABUSE, Can you believe that woman actually made her four year old walk home from school?". Yes, maybe she should be riding in a black Beamer. Remember Linus from the Peanuts? "From the back of the bike to the shopping cart, to a stroller in the mall, to the back of the bike, sometimes it's an entire day and my feet don't touch the ground at all!". At least his mom was on a bike.
So after a mile, she got tired, and I switched the baby to the Bjorn and her to the stroller and we continued on our way. We saw crows dancing on telephone poles, and little birds, and got to see what thistles look like in winter.
The best thing about it is, when she lays her head down tonight, I know she won't have any trouble going to sleep. Nor will I. I can pick my car up tomorrow in the morning, but you know... I am considering leaving it there for a couple more days.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Alice in Wonderland
I went out for a girl's night tonight. It was a friend's birthday party composed of a Russian beekeeper, an astrologer, a therapist, the beekeeper's daughter-going to school for finances, two photographers, and an eclectic young woman dabbling in teaching photoshop and collecting wild edible/medicinal herbs.
The UCLA basketball game was also on, and although I have no interest in this whatsoever, my husband does, thus there was a bit of conflict, considering we only have basic cable in the house. Maybe this is cause to get a bit more out of our cable service.
I offered to come back at 7:30 (after being deterred until 5:50 throwing together a pizza and pasta for the kids and husband and him asking if there was time for him to go get a chicken from the market). This would allow him to catch some of the game, but this was brushed off as "silly", which it is because he's been out and about for the last two games---me at home with the kids. I said that I should probably be home at 8:30 anyhow to make sure the baby was able to get to sleep (dangerous habit).
I left the party at 8:45 (although I expressed to the women that I wished is was a sleepover), so that my husband could make it to the pharmacy by 10 (something that I had no idea was in the plans for the night). But I digress... this is not meant to be blow by blow of my three-phone-call-home night out. It's meant as a celebration of sanity and adult conversation.
I actually met another woman who owns a sawsall. She is in the process of trying to get pregnant. Her friend is "donating sperm" and she intends to do this all on her own. Kudos.
I mean really, she's got the sawsall, what else does she need?
The beekeeper's daughter asked me in my ancient wisdom "what are your thirties like?". I realized, that it's very hard to answer a question about your current frame of mind. I resorted to a comparison of my twenties. What was I like back then? Much like her, I was "depressed" or as I prefer to call it melancholy. I reveled in it and have the scars to prove it (nothing serious, just one on my hand that came about during a depressed painting session where I thought a little bit of adrenaline and blood might amp up the "value" of what I was making).
It came about that I actually miss this feeling. I tried to explain to the therapist, astrologer and beekeeper's daughter, "you know on the way here I was listening too... too... um, Um, I can't remember, ah, shit, some goddam depressing music that I can't remember the name of now". It sums it up completely, my state of mind right now. I am so darn busy that I can't even remember the name of the musical group that was making me depressed.
I explained to them that I miss the feeling of "I am just going to run off into the desert and wilt". No serious intentions of killing myself, by just running off, wilting, starving, getting bit by rattlers... whatever. I guess it all rotates around the "whatever".
"Whatever" is different now. It actually doesn't exist anymore. It's been pounded out by the overbearing "what if?".
I start with the "whatever" and then I get a 3 and a half foot "mommy I need you" that brings me up and out. Whether I want to be there or not. There is a purpose that needs to be filled. Two living purposes much greater (and smaller) than me. A cry, a hungry belly, a skinned knee, a drive to school, a fever, a runny nose, a hug.
I have no time for depression. I have no time to cut myself, or stay in bed, or fantasize about OD-ing on cough syrup. Not that I do not feel depressed from time to time, but the emotion (or lack of) flows through me and it's amazing what going on with what needs to be done can do for you.
Call it Survival Mode. It's kind of a paradox really. If you are busy surviving, then you don't really have time to worry about not surviving. There are people that need me. period.
Where we all run into danger is when we actually have down time. Where we can drive in the car and listen to god-knows-what depressing music. The kids are sleeping, time to put wet towels under the door, make plans for the nanny to come and stick our head in the over (Sylvia Plath). And the only thing that saves us from that is that it's a rare case that you can find a nanny that you can actually trust enough with these precious beings-even their dad.
So, I drove back to the house blasting my depressing music writing poetry in my head, and pulled up the drive at 9:15. ALL the lights were on. The baby was up, the 4 year old was just starting to watch a movie. I nursed the baby and turned off the movie instigating screams about "watching Alice in Wonderland RIGHT NOW!".
My husband went to the pharmacy. The baby fell asleep through the screams of Alice-wanting. I tried to read The Lorax through Alice-wanting, I casually walked down stairs into the lower bunk being chased by Alice-wanting. I stared into space through biting, and hitting, and more screaming of over-tired Alice-wanting. I locked myself in the laundry room to escape physical damage from Alice-wanting. I opened it slowly to Alice-wanting, and Alice-wanting less and less and less and finally a story and a little song and a little talk about how we shouldn't hurt mommy. Because when it comes down to it, none of us really wants to hurt.
Although it would be nice to have the time to be able to hurt, and wallow in it, and drive into the desert listening to, oh yes, it was "Alice" by Tom Waits, if only it is just to drive home again.
The UCLA basketball game was also on, and although I have no interest in this whatsoever, my husband does, thus there was a bit of conflict, considering we only have basic cable in the house. Maybe this is cause to get a bit more out of our cable service.
I offered to come back at 7:30 (after being deterred until 5:50 throwing together a pizza and pasta for the kids and husband and him asking if there was time for him to go get a chicken from the market). This would allow him to catch some of the game, but this was brushed off as "silly", which it is because he's been out and about for the last two games---me at home with the kids. I said that I should probably be home at 8:30 anyhow to make sure the baby was able to get to sleep (dangerous habit).
I left the party at 8:45 (although I expressed to the women that I wished is was a sleepover), so that my husband could make it to the pharmacy by 10 (something that I had no idea was in the plans for the night). But I digress... this is not meant to be blow by blow of my three-phone-call-home night out. It's meant as a celebration of sanity and adult conversation.
I actually met another woman who owns a sawsall. She is in the process of trying to get pregnant. Her friend is "donating sperm" and she intends to do this all on her own. Kudos.
I mean really, she's got the sawsall, what else does she need?
The beekeeper's daughter asked me in my ancient wisdom "what are your thirties like?". I realized, that it's very hard to answer a question about your current frame of mind. I resorted to a comparison of my twenties. What was I like back then? Much like her, I was "depressed" or as I prefer to call it melancholy. I reveled in it and have the scars to prove it (nothing serious, just one on my hand that came about during a depressed painting session where I thought a little bit of adrenaline and blood might amp up the "value" of what I was making).
It came about that I actually miss this feeling. I tried to explain to the therapist, astrologer and beekeeper's daughter, "you know on the way here I was listening too... too... um, Um, I can't remember, ah, shit, some goddam depressing music that I can't remember the name of now". It sums it up completely, my state of mind right now. I am so darn busy that I can't even remember the name of the musical group that was making me depressed.
I explained to them that I miss the feeling of "I am just going to run off into the desert and wilt". No serious intentions of killing myself, by just running off, wilting, starving, getting bit by rattlers... whatever. I guess it all rotates around the "whatever".
"Whatever" is different now. It actually doesn't exist anymore. It's been pounded out by the overbearing "what if?".
I start with the "whatever" and then I get a 3 and a half foot "mommy I need you" that brings me up and out. Whether I want to be there or not. There is a purpose that needs to be filled. Two living purposes much greater (and smaller) than me. A cry, a hungry belly, a skinned knee, a drive to school, a fever, a runny nose, a hug.
I have no time for depression. I have no time to cut myself, or stay in bed, or fantasize about OD-ing on cough syrup. Not that I do not feel depressed from time to time, but the emotion (or lack of) flows through me and it's amazing what going on with what needs to be done can do for you.
Call it Survival Mode. It's kind of a paradox really. If you are busy surviving, then you don't really have time to worry about not surviving. There are people that need me. period.
Where we all run into danger is when we actually have down time. Where we can drive in the car and listen to god-knows-what depressing music. The kids are sleeping, time to put wet towels under the door, make plans for the nanny to come and stick our head in the over (Sylvia Plath). And the only thing that saves us from that is that it's a rare case that you can find a nanny that you can actually trust enough with these precious beings-even their dad.
So, I drove back to the house blasting my depressing music writing poetry in my head, and pulled up the drive at 9:15. ALL the lights were on. The baby was up, the 4 year old was just starting to watch a movie. I nursed the baby and turned off the movie instigating screams about "watching Alice in Wonderland RIGHT NOW!".
My husband went to the pharmacy. The baby fell asleep through the screams of Alice-wanting. I tried to read The Lorax through Alice-wanting, I casually walked down stairs into the lower bunk being chased by Alice-wanting. I stared into space through biting, and hitting, and more screaming of over-tired Alice-wanting. I locked myself in the laundry room to escape physical damage from Alice-wanting. I opened it slowly to Alice-wanting, and Alice-wanting less and less and less and finally a story and a little song and a little talk about how we shouldn't hurt mommy. Because when it comes down to it, none of us really wants to hurt.
Although it would be nice to have the time to be able to hurt, and wallow in it, and drive into the desert listening to, oh yes, it was "Alice" by Tom Waits, if only it is just to drive home again.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Search Engine Test
This is a test to see if I can get picked up by search engines by typing all the words I'd like to be picked up for in random sentences across this blog. Wahm comes to mind, although I don't believe in wahms. How many "mommy blog"s are there anyhow. I really enjoy mom blogs even though I think they focus on growth percentiles too much. My mommy blog does not, I am a true mommy blogger.
I am a designer mom, that sits in front of her laptop, or under her desk similar to the woman in the American Express ad. Maybe I don't need sentences about being a wahm or a mommy blogger, or owning power tools and being a woman that has kids. Maybe I can just type in the words, but this is more fun.
What else? disgruntled house-wife? No that's not me. I go by maniamom. Manic, maybe, mom, yes. I work as a designer and take care of the kids. I nurse my baby at my laptop while working at home.
Work at home and earn money, doing data-entry, and selling candles. Just like many WAHMs I know that sell Avon, and Mary Kay. Just like Naomi Wolf and Abigail Adams.
I don't put pictures of my kids online or talk about birth weights or how they are doing in school. Not yet, at least. My husband is a mathematician and doesn't know how to use power tools. I am the handy-man, or handy-woman of the house.
I like long moonlit walks on the beach, quiet dinners, and punk rock.
Okay, let's see where that gets me.
Love, Maniamom
I am a designer mom, that sits in front of her laptop, or under her desk similar to the woman in the American Express ad. Maybe I don't need sentences about being a wahm or a mommy blogger, or owning power tools and being a woman that has kids. Maybe I can just type in the words, but this is more fun.
What else? disgruntled house-wife? No that's not me. I go by maniamom. Manic, maybe, mom, yes. I work as a designer and take care of the kids. I nurse my baby at my laptop while working at home.
Work at home and earn money, doing data-entry, and selling candles. Just like many WAHMs I know that sell Avon, and Mary Kay. Just like Naomi Wolf and Abigail Adams.
I don't put pictures of my kids online or talk about birth weights or how they are doing in school. Not yet, at least. My husband is a mathematician and doesn't know how to use power tools. I am the handy-man, or handy-woman of the house.
I like long moonlit walks on the beach, quiet dinners, and punk rock.
Okay, let's see where that gets me.
Love, Maniamom
Thursday, December 6, 2007
No experience necessary - the Myth of the WAHM
"Work from home and earn 20-25 bucks an hour. No experience necessary."
You will see several ads for this on wahm.com,
...and for data entry,
...and posts about women who have their own multi-million dollar "Candle Business".
I am here to debunk the myth of the WAHM (For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it stands for "Work at Home Mom"). I personally think the term should be WOHP-Work at Home Professional. It's a much cooler term, and it doesn't bias the situation with sex.
I know several people who work at home, work in the car, work at the coffee house. They are both men and women, both moms and dads.
I work from home, and happen to be a mom too. The more the term WAHM is thrown around, the more I find myself being taken less seriously. I don't sell candles, I don't do data entry, I don't do ghost writing for Stephen King. I do exactly what I did before I had children (design). I know WAHMs that work for the Rand Corporation, that are Sociologists, etc.
One of the women in my "virtual office" was featured on the Today Show a few months back. It showed her shuffling her three kids off to school in an orderly fashion after feeding them a healthy breakfast, and "commuting 6ft. to her office". She confided in me that this was the most organized she's ever been. They were up at 4:30 to have everyone neat and tidy for the show.
What I found interesting is that they focused the show on a woman. It wasn't about work at home parents, it was about a work at home mom. The show concluded with a woman who sold "designer clothing" from her home. She summed up the show in a sales pitch about how the clothing was the "finest quality" (holding a garment for the camera to see) and how you too could join her team and sell these "fine"products. I swear I saw the camera zoom to the street and her driving away in a pink Cadillac branded with Mary Kay.
My colleague that was featured is nothing like this woman. She has skills beyond your typical Avon sales lady. She is doing what she did before she became a mom, she just happens to do it remotely. She is not kicking legos around under her desk while she works. She goes to meetings. She owns suits.
I remember going to a meeting with a banker that was going to work a loan out for a home we wanted to buy. My husband was there first, I came second with the kids. The man (granted, he was an older fellow, stuck in the stone-age) looked at me as he worked out our finances, and said "with these two, I am presuming that you stay at home". I was in the midst of putting out coloring supplies for my oldest to keep her occupied, and probably nursing the baby at the same time. So, I guess it was an honest mistake. I simply said "yes". It was true. I DO stay at home.
While he was working out the numbers, he suggested "we'll just put no income down for you". I honestly don't know where he thought we were going to get the money to buy the house we were looking at if I had no income. I think the words "back up buddy" came out of my mouth. Maybe I just stuttered "Oh no. I have a profit statement here from my business, please take a look". At this point it became apparent that I could bring home the bacon and nurse the baby at the same time.
Still that doesn't take me out of the Avon lady role. I probably could sell enough Avon to buy a house. I don't know, does Avon still exist? I know that Mr. McConnell (and Jr.) made a bundle from women going door to door, and selling products to their friends. Timing is everything. Women! You can now work! Go sell beauty products to your friends! They even "Sponsored Radical Feminist Hate for Fathers Day, featuring known lesbians, man-haters, and supporters of child sexual predation such as Rosie ODonnell, Jane Fonda, Eve Ensler, and Marlo Thomas. (What? Get a load of THAT link if you want a laugh).
So, the way I see it is: women were allowed to work. We gained stride... we got out of the bondage of the house. People questioned, "is it good for the kids?". Our guilt got to us. "Mr. Mom" was just not working. We decided that we could work at home. We could be professionals AND watch the kids.
Or maybe, just maybe, a little thing called "the internet" was developed an enabled more people to not have to commute. It enabled us to go to work on our couches, in our own living room office. To be at work at home. To be a professional on the toilet.
So, I guess the stigma attached with WAHM is, not so much the "Work at Home" part, but the "Mom" part. WAHM suggests that even though you work at home, you can still be responsible for the home and the kids, simply because you are a "Mom". ("WAHD" could also be an appropriate term for Dads. As in "Whad you say? I can't concentrate on anything else while I'm working". The site for WAHD's though was built by a WAHM. She decided to be a web designer too while she was at it.)
The Today Show says that this is normal, a new phenomenon. How wonderful that women can work at home so the kids aren't in day care. They actually make Supermom action figures now. I'll tell you, society better pump us up with this stuff, especially if we are going to keep our stride.
We tried to have men do their fair share at home after we hit the work force. This failed miserably in most cases. So we had a couple of choices:
1. Ditch our efforts and resolve to staying at home washing diapers
2. Continue to climb the corporate ladder, leaving our kids in daycare until as late as we can, so that we can compete with those not responsible for the kids (aka. men), all the while feeling a huge amount of societal guilt
3. Adapt by working where the kids are, thumb over the phone receiver, on conference call to London, LA, and New York, baby on the boob, laundry machine going.
4. Doing data entry and earn a WOHP-ing 20 bucks an hour.
You will see several ads for this on wahm.com,
...and for data entry,
...and posts about women who have their own multi-million dollar "Candle Business".
I am here to debunk the myth of the WAHM (For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it stands for "Work at Home Mom"). I personally think the term should be WOHP-Work at Home Professional. It's a much cooler term, and it doesn't bias the situation with sex.
I know several people who work at home, work in the car, work at the coffee house. They are both men and women, both moms and dads.
I work from home, and happen to be a mom too. The more the term WAHM is thrown around, the more I find myself being taken less seriously. I don't sell candles, I don't do data entry, I don't do ghost writing for Stephen King. I do exactly what I did before I had children (design). I know WAHMs that work for the Rand Corporation, that are Sociologists, etc.
One of the women in my "virtual office" was featured on the Today Show a few months back. It showed her shuffling her three kids off to school in an orderly fashion after feeding them a healthy breakfast, and "commuting 6ft. to her office". She confided in me that this was the most organized she's ever been. They were up at 4:30 to have everyone neat and tidy for the show.
What I found interesting is that they focused the show on a woman. It wasn't about work at home parents, it was about a work at home mom. The show concluded with a woman who sold "designer clothing" from her home. She summed up the show in a sales pitch about how the clothing was the "finest quality" (holding a garment for the camera to see) and how you too could join her team and sell these "fine"products. I swear I saw the camera zoom to the street and her driving away in a pink Cadillac branded with Mary Kay.
My colleague that was featured is nothing like this woman. She has skills beyond your typical Avon sales lady. She is doing what she did before she became a mom, she just happens to do it remotely. She is not kicking legos around under her desk while she works. She goes to meetings. She owns suits.
I remember going to a meeting with a banker that was going to work a loan out for a home we wanted to buy. My husband was there first, I came second with the kids. The man (granted, he was an older fellow, stuck in the stone-age) looked at me as he worked out our finances, and said "with these two, I am presuming that you stay at home". I was in the midst of putting out coloring supplies for my oldest to keep her occupied, and probably nursing the baby at the same time. So, I guess it was an honest mistake. I simply said "yes". It was true. I DO stay at home.
While he was working out the numbers, he suggested "we'll just put no income down for you". I honestly don't know where he thought we were going to get the money to buy the house we were looking at if I had no income. I think the words "back up buddy" came out of my mouth. Maybe I just stuttered "Oh no. I have a profit statement here from my business, please take a look". At this point it became apparent that I could bring home the bacon and nurse the baby at the same time.
Still that doesn't take me out of the Avon lady role. I probably could sell enough Avon to buy a house. I don't know, does Avon still exist? I know that Mr. McConnell (and Jr.) made a bundle from women going door to door, and selling products to their friends. Timing is everything. Women! You can now work! Go sell beauty products to your friends! They even "Sponsored Radical Feminist Hate for Fathers Day, featuring known lesbians, man-haters, and supporters of child sexual predation such as Rosie ODonnell, Jane Fonda, Eve Ensler, and Marlo Thomas. (What? Get a load of THAT link if you want a laugh).
So, the way I see it is: women were allowed to work. We gained stride... we got out of the bondage of the house. People questioned, "is it good for the kids?". Our guilt got to us. "Mr. Mom" was just not working. We decided that we could work at home. We could be professionals AND watch the kids.
Or maybe, just maybe, a little thing called "the internet" was developed an enabled more people to not have to commute. It enabled us to go to work on our couches, in our own living room office. To be at work at home. To be a professional on the toilet.
So, I guess the stigma attached with WAHM is, not so much the "Work at Home" part, but the "Mom" part. WAHM suggests that even though you work at home, you can still be responsible for the home and the kids, simply because you are a "Mom". ("WAHD" could also be an appropriate term for Dads. As in "Whad you say? I can't concentrate on anything else while I'm working". The site for WAHD's though was built by a WAHM. She decided to be a web designer too while she was at it.)
The Today Show says that this is normal, a new phenomenon. How wonderful that women can work at home so the kids aren't in day care. They actually make Supermom action figures now. I'll tell you, society better pump us up with this stuff, especially if we are going to keep our stride.
We tried to have men do their fair share at home after we hit the work force. This failed miserably in most cases. So we had a couple of choices:
1. Ditch our efforts and resolve to staying at home washing diapers
2. Continue to climb the corporate ladder, leaving our kids in daycare until as late as we can, so that we can compete with those not responsible for the kids (aka. men), all the while feeling a huge amount of societal guilt
3. Adapt by working where the kids are, thumb over the phone receiver, on conference call to London, LA, and New York, baby on the boob, laundry machine going.
4. Doing data entry and earn a WOHP-ing 20 bucks an hour.
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