Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
On Language Development in Toddlers
We were at a restaurant the other night when Big (loudly) recognized and then announced, in tandem, one of his utensils and then the round time-telling device on the wall.
Problem? He hasn't quite accomplished the "ell" sound for the letter "L" or the "arr" sound for the letter "R".
Problem? He hasn't quite accomplished the "ell" sound for the letter "L" or the "arr" sound for the letter "R".
He Just Missed National Coming Out Day!
JK Rowling just announced Dumbledore's sexuality!
Were he living, we'd be sending the male-version of the toaster: a year's subscription to Details.
Were he living, we'd be sending the male-version of the toaster: a year's subscription to Details.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Is BioMom Happier than Baba?
There's been a bunch of back-and-forth going on in the newspaper articles, blogs, and listserves that I frequent about David Leonhardt's article in the New York Times about two economists research (Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers) about changes over time in women vs. men's self-reported happiness.
Basically the story being told by the research reported by Leonhardt is that there is a growing "happiness gap" between men and women.
Here is a direct quote from the author:
Two new research papers, using very different methods, have both come to this conclusion. Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers, economists at the University of Pennsylvania (and a couple), have looked at the traditional happiness data, in which people are simply asked how satisfied they are with their overall lives. In the early 1970s, women reported being slightly happier than men. Today, the two have
switched places.
Mr. Krueger, analyzing time-use studies over the last four decades, has found an even starker pattern. Since the 1960s, men have gradually cut back on activities they find unpleasant. They now work less and relax more.
Over the same span, women have replaced housework with paid work - and, as a result, are spending almost as much time doing things they don't enjoy as in the past. Forty years ago, a typical woman spent about 23 hours a week in an activity considered unpleasant, or 40 more minutes than a typical man. Today, with men working less, the
gap is 90 minutes.
The Language Log has a great overview and critique of the entire discussion if you're interested.
In particular, Jezebel is quoted on the topic from this blog entry (I'm borrowing the quote in its entirety because it is so funny):
Remember that study on women being less happy than men? Sounds about right, right? The internerds thought so! (Different ways internet commenters said no shit: "Boo hoo, the feminists made their bed and now they have to lie in it with their cats" and "Men are dogs. Dogs are happy. The end" and "Duh, we get Halo, and you get periods." ) But hold on! Some linguists think it's not true! It's an academic freestyle battle! So after the linguists called bullshit (and by the way, what the fuck is up with linguists knowing everything about everything?) the original economists who published the study struck back to say the linguists were wrong, women really were unhappier, and here's their proof:
* Gender happiness gap at the beginning and end of the sample
oprobit HAPPY SEX [aw=wt] if YEAR==1972
oprobit HAPPY SEX [aw=wt] if YEAR==2006
* Changes in the gender happiness gap using only the first and last years
xi: reg vhappy i.SEX*i.YEAR[aw=wt] if YEAR==1972 | YEAR==2006
xi: reg unhappy i.SEX*i.YEAR [aw=wt] if YEAR==1972 | YEAR==2006
Ha ha ha ha, here's a little regression theory for you guys! (Get it? Blow me! Don't you think I'd be happier if you could?)
Maybe the real happiness gap started setting in whatever year it became popular for economists to stop working on the economy by day and getting their wives off at night and started applying advanced calculus to every single mundane happening in their lives including though not limited to why their wives were faking it! Because that happened in 2004.
The idea of significance is old and the point that the Language Log makes is obvious. Despite this critique, however, I think the article has a true ring to it. BioMom and I are currently discussing our future as two career women with two young kids. My stint at the local college ends at the end of this year and I'll be expected to return to my home institution that is 2.5 hours away. With that I'll be commuting a few nights a week. This reality has put a significant dent in both of our expectations of ourselves as mothers and as workers. I've really enjoyed being home more, and becoming the "primary" to the kids. She's really enjoyed ramping up her career. But both of us ahve also experienced a 'grass-is-greener' effect with each other. I mourn the potential loss of being a 'serious economist' and she mourns the potential loss of not being 'primary' to the kids (especially Big, to whom I've been the primary caretaker for the majority of his life.
Another quote in the original article rang true for me:
Ms. Stevenson was recently having drinks with a business school graduate who came up with a nice way of summarizing the problem. Her mother's goals in life, the student said, were to have a beautiful garden, a well-kept house and well-adjusted children who did well in school. "I sort of want all those things, too," the student said, as Ms. Stevenson recalled, "but I also want to have a great career and have an impact n the broader world."
I've often thought that gender roles (if not too constraining) provide a nice 'short cut' to complicated rational decisions in life. For example, in the proto-typical (stereotypical?) 1950's household, men and women didn't have to spend time (read: opportunity cost) negotiating about who was going to mow the lawn. The upside for the 1950's women was that her constrained choices in the job market translated into easier decisions for the family. It just made economic sense that women stayed home and raised the kids, while men went to the market and worked.
Of course, there were a bazillion downsides to this 1950s stereotype, not least of which was that women who wanted to work didn't have a nice range of choices from which to decide, and men were discouraged to stay home with their kids (and even take a strong role in raising them).
Feminism can take some credit for expanding these roles. This is the upside. Women, now have many more options in school and in the labor force, they can choose to stay at home, and some lucky ones can even have a bit of both, with some part-time options available (albeit quite limited). Further, men can choose to be stay-at-home-dads (if the family can afford it).
The downside is that with choice, comes anxiety. Especially when the ghosts of traditional roles still haunt our homes. I've long said that women can't win in the work/stay-at-home wars. If you stay at home, women wonder why you don't work, or are envious that you can afford not to. If you work, you feel guilty being away from the kids. Without the strict roles of the 1950's we have nothing to blame but ourselves.
As Jezebel put it, maybe it's all the economists causing the problems. In that case, our household is facing a triple-whammy: two moms, two careers, one economist.
Now that's significant.
Basically the story being told by the research reported by Leonhardt is that there is a growing "happiness gap" between men and women.
Here is a direct quote from the author:
Two new research papers, using very different methods, have both come to this conclusion. Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers, economists at the University of Pennsylvania (and a couple), have looked at the traditional happiness data, in which people are simply asked how satisfied they are with their overall lives. In the early 1970s, women reported being slightly happier than men. Today, the two have
switched places.
Mr. Krueger, analyzing time-use studies over the last four decades, has found an even starker pattern. Since the 1960s, men have gradually cut back on activities they find unpleasant. They now work less and relax more.
Over the same span, women have replaced housework with paid work - and, as a result, are spending almost as much time doing things they don't enjoy as in the past. Forty years ago, a typical woman spent about 23 hours a week in an activity considered unpleasant, or 40 more minutes than a typical man. Today, with men working less, the
gap is 90 minutes.
The Language Log has a great overview and critique of the entire discussion if you're interested.
In particular, Jezebel is quoted on the topic from this blog entry (I'm borrowing the quote in its entirety because it is so funny):
Remember that study on women being less happy than men? Sounds about right, right? The internerds thought so! (Different ways internet commenters said no shit: "Boo hoo, the feminists made their bed and now they have to lie in it with their cats" and "Men are dogs. Dogs are happy. The end" and "Duh, we get Halo, and you get periods." ) But hold on! Some linguists think it's not true! It's an academic freestyle battle! So after the linguists called bullshit (and by the way, what the fuck is up with linguists knowing everything about everything?) the original economists who published the study struck back to say the linguists were wrong, women really were unhappier, and here's their proof:
* Gender happiness gap at the beginning and end of the sample
oprobit HAPPY SEX [aw=wt] if YEAR==1972
oprobit HAPPY SEX [aw=wt] if YEAR==2006
* Changes in the gender happiness gap using only the first and last years
xi: reg vhappy i.SEX*i.YEAR[aw=wt] if YEAR==1972 | YEAR==2006
xi: reg unhappy i.SEX*i.YEAR [aw=wt] if YEAR==1972 | YEAR==2006
Ha ha ha ha, here's a little regression theory for you guys! (Get it? Blow me! Don't you think I'd be happier if you could?)
Maybe the real happiness gap started setting in whatever year it became popular for economists to stop working on the economy by day and getting their wives off at night and started applying advanced calculus to every single mundane happening in their lives including though not limited to why their wives were faking it! Because that happened in 2004.
The idea of significance is old and the point that the Language Log makes is obvious. Despite this critique, however, I think the article has a true ring to it. BioMom and I are currently discussing our future as two career women with two young kids. My stint at the local college ends at the end of this year and I'll be expected to return to my home institution that is 2.5 hours away. With that I'll be commuting a few nights a week. This reality has put a significant dent in both of our expectations of ourselves as mothers and as workers. I've really enjoyed being home more, and becoming the "primary" to the kids. She's really enjoyed ramping up her career. But both of us ahve also experienced a 'grass-is-greener' effect with each other. I mourn the potential loss of being a 'serious economist' and she mourns the potential loss of not being 'primary' to the kids (especially Big, to whom I've been the primary caretaker for the majority of his life.
Another quote in the original article rang true for me:
Ms. Stevenson was recently having drinks with a business school graduate who came up with a nice way of summarizing the problem. Her mother's goals in life, the student said, were to have a beautiful garden, a well-kept house and well-adjusted children who did well in school. "I sort of want all those things, too," the student said, as Ms. Stevenson recalled, "but I also want to have a great career and have an impact n the broader world."
I've often thought that gender roles (if not too constraining) provide a nice 'short cut' to complicated rational decisions in life. For example, in the proto-typical (stereotypical?) 1950's household, men and women didn't have to spend time (read: opportunity cost) negotiating about who was going to mow the lawn. The upside for the 1950's women was that her constrained choices in the job market translated into easier decisions for the family. It just made economic sense that women stayed home and raised the kids, while men went to the market and worked.
Of course, there were a bazillion downsides to this 1950s stereotype, not least of which was that women who wanted to work didn't have a nice range of choices from which to decide, and men were discouraged to stay home with their kids (and even take a strong role in raising them).
Feminism can take some credit for expanding these roles. This is the upside. Women, now have many more options in school and in the labor force, they can choose to stay at home, and some lucky ones can even have a bit of both, with some part-time options available (albeit quite limited). Further, men can choose to be stay-at-home-dads (if the family can afford it).
The downside is that with choice, comes anxiety. Especially when the ghosts of traditional roles still haunt our homes. I've long said that women can't win in the work/stay-at-home wars. If you stay at home, women wonder why you don't work, or are envious that you can afford not to. If you work, you feel guilty being away from the kids. Without the strict roles of the 1950's we have nothing to blame but ourselves.
As Jezebel put it, maybe it's all the economists causing the problems. In that case, our household is facing a triple-whammy: two moms, two careers, one economist.
Now that's significant.
Irregular Monthly Newsletter: 2 Months to 2 Years
Danke schoen, Darling, danke schoen!
At 22 months, Big, BioMom and I agree that you've become a heckuva lot easier. You're fairly easy-going, you can concentrate long enough to play a bit on your own or with other kids, you can go up and down stairs by yourself (although you'd prefer a little help) and you're learning to communicate.
Ahhh.
I was mostly waiting for the day when you could do stairs so that I didn't have to constantly freak out: SHUT THE GATE! SHUT THE GATE!
Oh, and we're much less worried about you choking on stuff. Which is a really good thing since we haven't re-proofed the house since the whole toy-scare. I'm sure we've got Polly remnants somewhere in the basement with the magnets that could seize up your intestines, but we'll worry about that later.
You did recently have your first temper tantrum for Mof4. A harbinger of months to come, I suspect. As she relayed the story to me, it was hard for her to keep from giggling about your over-reaction to not getting to play with kids on their bikes that you saw from a block away. On the way home you angrily threw your cars cars and dumped a box of animal cookies all over her car. Upon arrival, you laughed about it all.
That's the nice thing about you; your sense of humor. You've got this infectious laugh and cute little dimples that make it practically impossible not to laugh back at you.
As far as words go, you're into the stage of copying everything we say, but some new favorites are "cookie" and "cake". Those two are irresistible to me, too, Big. There's construction on the freeway nearby and while driving the other day I heard you saying "Cain! Cain!" while pointing out the window. I finally understood that you were saying "Crane!" without the "r".
You're also starting to express preferences in loads of areas. Or, maybe we're misunderstanding preference expression with a desire to say "no" with a firm shake of the head. BioMom said that the other night when she was putting you down, she'd start to sing a song and you'd shake your head back and forth. She understood that to mean that you didn't want the particular song she had begun. She went through the list in her head of bedtime songs, but all of them were unacceptable to you. Finally, to a made-up tune, she just started listing all things with wheels and all things that move:
"Trucks, balls, cars and diggers. . . Buses, tractors, cranes and more balls."
You snuggled right up and fell asleep in her arms.
We love you, sweetie.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
No Gay People In The Following: Iran, Boy Scouts and Books
There's been a theme running through our lives lately.
Seven's curmudgeonly ex-nun teacher-replacement while the real one is on maternity leave assigned the kids weekly homeworks to examine and present international, national, state and local news.
Yeah. I know what you're thinking: brilliant idea! Gets the kids interested in real-world topics, and gives them some tools for reading the news or any other story. I thought that too, at first.
It is actually infinitely more difficult than I imagined. Take last week when we were hunting through our local rag, the New York Times and some online sources to find a story that was palpable, readable (to a seven-year-old) and not-too complicated (read: to understand you need years of back-information).
I thought: There must be something about Hillary.
In fact, it was a complicated, wonky article about political strategy.
Okay. Here's something about Ahmadinejad’s visit to Columbia. Great! Free speech. That'll be easy AND I can rile up her penchant for drama and tell her about the little spat I had with my sister-in-law about the whole ordeal earlier that day! The first sentence of the article read:
There are no homosexuals in Iran.
She knows that we call ourselves "gay" and "lesbian", but I had never used the term "homosexual" with her, and wasn't interested in dealing with the clinical term, let alone the Kinsey Report with her at that point in time.
As an aside, check out Alison Bechtel's comment about the cover on this week's New Yorker (I just got it in the mail but hadn't had a chance to look at it). She's right . . . It's brilliant!
The next night a uniform-clad boy from Seven's class came up to our back yard selling (his soul) popcorn etc., for our little school's cub scout troop.
Seven: What're we gonna buy? It's for our school!!! What're we gonna buy??? Can we get some popcorn?
I started into the whole the Boy Scouts discrim-um-hurt-um-won't let-um I mean, well, I mean to say that the Boy Scouts aren't nice to gay-um-people like us-um-I mean, me. And mom. Yeah, and mom too.
The boy looked at me with a huge question mark on the top of his head as if to say: My troop is hurting someone?
Harlyn Aisley, over at Are You My Mothers recently posted about a friend of hers' son receiving a flyer to join the local troop and their decision to boycott the whole thing despite the fact that the kids wanted to join. She says:
"The issue that plagued my friend was not simply this, but that a public school – the one to which she entrusts her children and donates her time and money – endorses an organization that excludes members of its community."
It is funny, the places you find yourself in life. We're already down the path of joining the discriminating muck, what with being in a Catholic school and all. At some level, we've already chosen the path of 'change from within.' I'm not sure if Big will want to be apart of the Boy Scouts, but part of me wants to join and get involved (and make a big stink of it if they don't let me). I can't imagine telling Big that he can't be apart of it, if all of his friends are as opposed to joining and trying to make it a better place. Also, both of my brothers and my two nephews are eagle scouts. We'll definitely cross that bridge when we get to it.
Lastly, a perennial problem is the books that we have around the house. LesbianDad has been posting reading lists in honor of banned books week. These posts are well worth your time.
For a future post: what I think is missing in the literature.
Seven's curmudgeonly ex-nun teacher-replacement while the real one is on maternity leave assigned the kids weekly homeworks to examine and present international, national, state and local news.
Yeah. I know what you're thinking: brilliant idea! Gets the kids interested in real-world topics, and gives them some tools for reading the news or any other story. I thought that too, at first.
It is actually infinitely more difficult than I imagined. Take last week when we were hunting through our local rag, the New York Times and some online sources to find a story that was palpable, readable (to a seven-year-old) and not-too complicated (read: to understand you need years of back-information).
I thought: There must be something about Hillary.
In fact, it was a complicated, wonky article about political strategy.
Okay. Here's something about Ahmadinejad’s visit to Columbia. Great! Free speech. That'll be easy AND I can rile up her penchant for drama and tell her about the little spat I had with my sister-in-law about the whole ordeal earlier that day! The first sentence of the article read:
There are no homosexuals in Iran.
She knows that we call ourselves "gay" and "lesbian", but I had never used the term "homosexual" with her, and wasn't interested in dealing with the clinical term, let alone the Kinsey Report with her at that point in time.
As an aside, check out Alison Bechtel's comment about the cover on this week's New Yorker (I just got it in the mail but hadn't had a chance to look at it). She's right . . . It's brilliant!
The next night a uniform-clad boy from Seven's class came up to our back yard selling (his soul) popcorn etc., for our little school's cub scout troop.
Seven: What're we gonna buy? It's for our school!!! What're we gonna buy??? Can we get some popcorn?
I started into the whole the Boy Scouts discrim-um-hurt-um-won't let-um I mean, well, I mean to say that the Boy Scouts aren't nice to gay-um-people like us-um-I mean, me. And mom. Yeah, and mom too.
The boy looked at me with a huge question mark on the top of his head as if to say: My troop is hurting someone?
Harlyn Aisley, over at Are You My Mothers recently posted about a friend of hers' son receiving a flyer to join the local troop and their decision to boycott the whole thing despite the fact that the kids wanted to join. She says:
"The issue that plagued my friend was not simply this, but that a public school – the one to which she entrusts her children and donates her time and money – endorses an organization that excludes members of its community."
It is funny, the places you find yourself in life. We're already down the path of joining the discriminating muck, what with being in a Catholic school and all. At some level, we've already chosen the path of 'change from within.' I'm not sure if Big will want to be apart of the Boy Scouts, but part of me wants to join and get involved (and make a big stink of it if they don't let me). I can't imagine telling Big that he can't be apart of it, if all of his friends are as opposed to joining and trying to make it a better place. Also, both of my brothers and my two nephews are eagle scouts. We'll definitely cross that bridge when we get to it.
Lastly, a perennial problem is the books that we have around the house. LesbianDad has been posting reading lists in honor of banned books week. These posts are well worth your time.
For a future post: what I think is missing in the literature.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Control Freaks Unite! We Have Nothing to Gain but More Chains!
con·trol (kn-trl)
tr.v. con·trolled, con·trol·ling, con·trols
1. To exercise authoritative or dominating influence over; direct. See Synonyms at conduct.
2. To adjust to a requirement; regulate: controlled trading on the stock market; controls the flow of water.
3. To hold in restraint; check: struggled to control my temper.
4. To reduce or prevent the spread of: control insects; controlled the fire by dousing it with water.
freak 1 (frk)
n.
1. A thing or occurrence that is markedly unusual or irregular: A freak of nature produced the midsummer snow.
2. An abnormally formed organism, especially a person or animal regarded as a curiosity or monstrosity.
3. A sudden capricious turn of mind; a whim: "The freaks of the psyche can no more be explained than the Devil" Maurice Collis.
4. Slang
a. A drug user or addict: a speed freak.
b. An eccentric or nonconformist person, especially a member of a counterculture.
c. An enthusiast: rock music freaks.
I didn't know that I was a control freak before I became a parent.
Seriously.
After a few right-turns in my life, a bit of introspection, and a few hours on the couch, I thought I had conquered that particular problem (one down, 200,000 to go).
It was really my obsession--my compulsive obsession--about my pens that drove me to this conclusion.
I've got these particular pens that I prefer to use for work (mostly grading and taking notes). For those of you who know this about me, you probably also know that these pens are usually not provided by my regular employer (I have actually gotten into a bit of a tiff with the administrative assistant about the fact that she refused to purchase these sorts of pens. Probably because people actually used them) hence, I have to purchase them myself. The issue is not that they are particularly expensive. It's just that I like to have them when I need them.
As an individual, I could only blame myself for losing pens. Within a family context, however, I find that Seven often "borrows" the pens (she too recognizes their superiority over the ample supply of ball points in the house). I often find them scattered throughout the house, tips broken or tops left off, drying out the pen.
I know this sounds crazy, but the wastefulness and absolute lack of carefulness with these pens really bugs me.
At our last ECFE class (early childhood and family education) we started talking about being "control freaks" as parents and what that term actually meant. I once heard someone describing parenting with another person as the ultimate form of control issues: you both want to control parts of your kids' lives, but probably, you have two different ideas about what you need to control and how to go about it. Hence, even more control issues, but now just about each other.
Our ECFE teacher actually complimented me for recognizing my control issues around parenting. She said that some people might behave like a fish out of water when they are out of control, but not recognize that the problem is that they're breathing air rather than water.
So I'm a good kind of control freak, I guess.
My most recent episode of control-freak recognition occured the other day when I observed Seven move a chair over to the kitchen so that she could hoist herself up and reach the gum she was desiring. It was the first time she had just gotten gum out for herself without asking for either a) permission or b) help getting it.
I don't really care that she wanted or even got the gum herself. She is wonderful with stuff like that. She'll take a whole pack and share it with the entire neighborhood. And when that pack is gone, she'll ask for another to share some more. Plus, I love why she loves gum. I know that for her, it signifies being a bit older. More mature. She thinks that teenagers have a monopoly on gum chewing.
Finally, she is much better at disposing of the gum once she's done chewing it. Once when I was far, far from becoming a parent, I had taken one of my nephews for the night. He wanted one of those huge packs of buble-gum that comes in a pack like a baseball player's box of chew. The next day, I found the empty container at the bottom of my car, and chewed up little pieces of gum under the seat, like in a movie theatre or on the bottom of a school desk. So my references to gum protocol are pretty bad comparatively.
Having said all that, I couldn't figure out what was causing the pit in my stomach about Seven taking this step forward, and getting the gum herself.
As I was telling this story at ECFE, I noticed the teacher writing a word on her little white board:
Grieving
I stopped: ?
She: That's what you're doing here, you know. . . .
Me: ??
She: If she can get the gum herself, what will she need you for?
I just wish I could control the speed at which they're growing up.
tr.v. con·trolled, con·trol·ling, con·trols
1. To exercise authoritative or dominating influence over; direct. See Synonyms at conduct.
2. To adjust to a requirement; regulate: controlled trading on the stock market; controls the flow of water.
3. To hold in restraint; check: struggled to control my temper.
4. To reduce or prevent the spread of: control insects; controlled the fire by dousing it with water.
freak 1 (frk)
n.
1. A thing or occurrence that is markedly unusual or irregular: A freak of nature produced the midsummer snow.
2. An abnormally formed organism, especially a person or animal regarded as a curiosity or monstrosity.
3. A sudden capricious turn of mind; a whim: "The freaks of the psyche can no more be explained than the Devil" Maurice Collis.
4. Slang
a. A drug user or addict: a speed freak.
b. An eccentric or nonconformist person, especially a member of a counterculture.
c. An enthusiast: rock music freaks.
I didn't know that I was a control freak before I became a parent.
Seriously.
After a few right-turns in my life, a bit of introspection, and a few hours on the couch, I thought I had conquered that particular problem (one down, 200,000 to go).
It was really my obsession--my compulsive obsession--about my pens that drove me to this conclusion.
I've got these particular pens that I prefer to use for work (mostly grading and taking notes). For those of you who know this about me, you probably also know that these pens are usually not provided by my regular employer (I have actually gotten into a bit of a tiff with the administrative assistant about the fact that she refused to purchase these sorts of pens. Probably because people actually used them) hence, I have to purchase them myself. The issue is not that they are particularly expensive. It's just that I like to have them when I need them.
As an individual, I could only blame myself for losing pens. Within a family context, however, I find that Seven often "borrows" the pens (she too recognizes their superiority over the ample supply of ball points in the house). I often find them scattered throughout the house, tips broken or tops left off, drying out the pen.
I know this sounds crazy, but the wastefulness and absolute lack of carefulness with these pens really bugs me.
At our last ECFE class (early childhood and family education) we started talking about being "control freaks" as parents and what that term actually meant. I once heard someone describing parenting with another person as the ultimate form of control issues: you both want to control parts of your kids' lives, but probably, you have two different ideas about what you need to control and how to go about it. Hence, even more control issues, but now just about each other.
Our ECFE teacher actually complimented me for recognizing my control issues around parenting. She said that some people might behave like a fish out of water when they are out of control, but not recognize that the problem is that they're breathing air rather than water.
So I'm a good kind of control freak, I guess.
My most recent episode of control-freak recognition occured the other day when I observed Seven move a chair over to the kitchen so that she could hoist herself up and reach the gum she was desiring. It was the first time she had just gotten gum out for herself without asking for either a) permission or b) help getting it.
I don't really care that she wanted or even got the gum herself. She is wonderful with stuff like that. She'll take a whole pack and share it with the entire neighborhood. And when that pack is gone, she'll ask for another to share some more. Plus, I love why she loves gum. I know that for her, it signifies being a bit older. More mature. She thinks that teenagers have a monopoly on gum chewing.
Finally, she is much better at disposing of the gum once she's done chewing it. Once when I was far, far from becoming a parent, I had taken one of my nephews for the night. He wanted one of those huge packs of buble-gum that comes in a pack like a baseball player's box of chew. The next day, I found the empty container at the bottom of my car, and chewed up little pieces of gum under the seat, like in a movie theatre or on the bottom of a school desk. So my references to gum protocol are pretty bad comparatively.
Having said all that, I couldn't figure out what was causing the pit in my stomach about Seven taking this step forward, and getting the gum herself.
As I was telling this story at ECFE, I noticed the teacher writing a word on her little white board:
Grieving
I stopped: ?
She: That's what you're doing here, you know. . . .
Me: ??
She: If she can get the gum herself, what will she need you for?
I just wish I could control the speed at which they're growing up.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Twice
BioMom and I have started a new 'date-night' tradition.
Because we're old and boring, we usually have no clue what movies are out. So, even if we look them up online to see what's playing, we may as well be reading Greek because the words and even the reviews mean little to our untrained eyes.
A week or so ago, our trusty sitter (1 of 4) had planned on coming over after the kids were asleep so that we could head out into the world as a couple. Pretending to be childless for a few joyful hours. It had been a long day and we had each had plenty of time alone, so we had decided to see if we could reschedule for a more needed date and time. Trusty sitter, however, has just started high school and, with that, a revitalization in her own social life. This meant that she was free that night only, for quite some time.
We jumped on it.
So, instead of reviewing possible movies online and planning it all out, we literally showed up at the local indy-movie palace and just saw what was there.
We have now done this twice and been thrilled at each movie.
The first, called Once, was just mentioned by Dooce. She agrees with our review. It has an added bonus of being filmed in Dublin so, those of you interested in seeing some great scenery, go now.
The second, called Eastern Promises was equally enticing.
Because we're old and boring, we usually have no clue what movies are out. So, even if we look them up online to see what's playing, we may as well be reading Greek because the words and even the reviews mean little to our untrained eyes.
A week or so ago, our trusty sitter (1 of 4) had planned on coming over after the kids were asleep so that we could head out into the world as a couple. Pretending to be childless for a few joyful hours. It had been a long day and we had each had plenty of time alone, so we had decided to see if we could reschedule for a more needed date and time. Trusty sitter, however, has just started high school and, with that, a revitalization in her own social life. This meant that she was free that night only, for quite some time.
We jumped on it.
So, instead of reviewing possible movies online and planning it all out, we literally showed up at the local indy-movie palace and just saw what was there.
We have now done this twice and been thrilled at each movie.
The first, called Once, was just mentioned by Dooce. She agrees with our review. It has an added bonus of being filmed in Dublin so, those of you interested in seeing some great scenery, go now.
The second, called Eastern Promises was equally enticing.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Another Sage
Big and I went downtown today to explore the extraordinary toddler section at the Central Library, only to find out that it, due to our increasingly minimalist public funding, the main library, like our local rinky-dink library, closes on Mondays.
Having paid the parking fee, we decided to spend a morning downtown, window shopping and enjoying the energy, sights and sounds of Nicollet Avenue. Big's vocabulary is beginning to burst (we counted 26 words last week and I'd bet he's already up to 40) and he could be heard atop my shoulders while, I could only surmise by the rocking of his body, pointing this way and that to "Bus!" and "Car" and "Guy!" etc. etc. We browsed books at the local Bunns and Noodle (see Allison Bechdel for her witty renaming of the book chain), and visited the Mary Tyler Moore statue, slowly meandering our way back to the car.
Pardon the trite observation, but there is absolutely nothing like a toddler to force you to stop and be present for the smallest, loveliest moments in life. And it's not just their innate joy in all-things-new that is contagious. It is also that their pace, so much slower compared to our own, allows for such a rich perspective, if you allow yourself to be taken up in it all, as opposed to fighting for your own agenda.
At one point we stopped by a man warming up to play his trumpet for the noon-hour pedestrians on their way to lunch. Big threw in a coupla bucks and we sat down to hear him play for a while. He was mesmerized by the sound and when the guy broke into that old Celtic song "Danny Boy" which I happen to sing to Big nearly every night (changing the words, usually to "[Big's first name] Boy") I am fairly sure I saw a hint of recognition in his eyes.
We had not requested the song, or even shared a word with this man, yet, somehow, he choose a song that Big and I share when we are extremely close -- those moments before sleep. While I am no longer surprised by that sort of connection that living beings have with one another--I believe that we truly feel one another at some deep level that is infinitely more powerful than our formal forms of communication--I was, nonetheless, moved deeply.
He played it a second time and we sat for the entire rendition, only a few feet away from our soloist, Big tucked under my arm, watching, me softly singing along in his ear.
And then we moved on, Big pointing out buses, police cars and our little tram, climbing and jumping off of planters, taking our time back toward the car.
Having paid the parking fee, we decided to spend a morning downtown, window shopping and enjoying the energy, sights and sounds of Nicollet Avenue. Big's vocabulary is beginning to burst (we counted 26 words last week and I'd bet he's already up to 40) and he could be heard atop my shoulders while, I could only surmise by the rocking of his body, pointing this way and that to "Bus!" and "Car" and "Guy!" etc. etc. We browsed books at the local Bunns and Noodle (see Allison Bechdel for her witty renaming of the book chain), and visited the Mary Tyler Moore statue, slowly meandering our way back to the car.
Pardon the trite observation, but there is absolutely nothing like a toddler to force you to stop and be present for the smallest, loveliest moments in life. And it's not just their innate joy in all-things-new that is contagious. It is also that their pace, so much slower compared to our own, allows for such a rich perspective, if you allow yourself to be taken up in it all, as opposed to fighting for your own agenda.
At one point we stopped by a man warming up to play his trumpet for the noon-hour pedestrians on their way to lunch. Big threw in a coupla bucks and we sat down to hear him play for a while. He was mesmerized by the sound and when the guy broke into that old Celtic song "Danny Boy" which I happen to sing to Big nearly every night (changing the words, usually to "[Big's first name] Boy") I am fairly sure I saw a hint of recognition in his eyes.
We had not requested the song, or even shared a word with this man, yet, somehow, he choose a song that Big and I share when we are extremely close -- those moments before sleep. While I am no longer surprised by that sort of connection that living beings have with one another--I believe that we truly feel one another at some deep level that is infinitely more powerful than our formal forms of communication--I was, nonetheless, moved deeply.
He played it a second time and we sat for the entire rendition, only a few feet away from our soloist, Big tucked under my arm, watching, me softly singing along in his ear.
And then we moved on, Big pointing out buses, police cars and our little tram, climbing and jumping off of planters, taking our time back toward the car.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Gender and Socialization: A comment from the front lines
MimiSmartyPants has a recent entry in which she reviews the book Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity .
SmartyPants' one quibble follows (bolds mine):
"In one chapter Serano writes about how it is misguided (at best) to assume that a woman's pull toward the trappings of femininity is always socially constructed, and uses her own experience growing up as a boy as a very logical example. Despite feeling metric tons of pressure to express herself as male, she felt naturally drawn to feminine gender expression, which means that wanting to be feminine has to be at least partially inborn. Also, to assume that women are somehow "tricked" into stereotypically feminine gender expressions is insulting and misogynist, etc. And of course that's true. My only problem is that I think it is impossible for a cissexual woman to separate what is a "natural" pull toward femininity and what is years of near-constant socialization messages about How To Be A Girl. I mean, you can yell all you want about how you "naturally" feel pretty in high heels and makeup and a push-up bra, and maybe you do, but how do you know it's natural? None of us were raised in a cave. In some ways trans women have the best claim to "legitimate" desire of all things pink and girly (if indeed they do desire those things, since of course not all trans women do), because the desire is felt no matter how severely its expression is restricted. The rest of us get many subtle and overt cheers and props for doing the feminine thing, and for some women they want to do it anyway so it all works out fabulously. It just seems hard to know for sure that the path was freely chosen."
I think this point is absolutely true and important -- how do we know what is nature and what is nurture. However, I am not sure that transsexuals have the corner market on helping to illuminate this. Aren't all transsexuals also equally socialized with the rest of us? Admittedly, the socialization may affect them differently, but we all grow up within some similar social context.
Here's what I am getting at. I am not a trannsexual, however, I feel much more aligned with the masculine end of the gender continuum. And while, for the most part I suppose, I was discouraged from exploring my particular gender identity by the general population, I believe that I still receive(d) some accommodations for my masculine(ish) identity. This is to say that I don't believe that social approbations work linearly -- i.e. social pressure increases exactly opposite to the degree to which one expresses oneself outside of the social norms.
It is possible that people get implicitly rewarded to the extent that they "do gender" (to use Butler's term) correctly, regardless of their sex. The closer we approximate our stereotypes of gender (again, regardless of sex) the more comfortable people are around us. As an example (admittedly idiotic and simple), once a guy figures out that he doesn't have to open the door for me, we're okay.
I also wonder if this may be more true for masculine women than for feminine men. Our society is highly oriented toward the masculine, so any social kudos would be more likely to go toward people with more masculine gender expressions.
So, all I am saying is, we are no closer to solving the nature/nurture dilemma.
SmartyPants' one quibble follows (bolds mine):
"In one chapter Serano writes about how it is misguided (at best) to assume that a woman's pull toward the trappings of femininity is always socially constructed, and uses her own experience growing up as a boy as a very logical example. Despite feeling metric tons of pressure to express herself as male, she felt naturally drawn to feminine gender expression, which means that wanting to be feminine has to be at least partially inborn. Also, to assume that women are somehow "tricked" into stereotypically feminine gender expressions is insulting and misogynist, etc. And of course that's true. My only problem is that I think it is impossible for a cissexual woman to separate what is a "natural" pull toward femininity and what is years of near-constant socialization messages about How To Be A Girl. I mean, you can yell all you want about how you "naturally" feel pretty in high heels and makeup and a push-up bra, and maybe you do, but how do you know it's natural? None of us were raised in a cave. In some ways trans women have the best claim to "legitimate" desire of all things pink and girly (if indeed they do desire those things, since of course not all trans women do), because the desire is felt no matter how severely its expression is restricted. The rest of us get many subtle and overt cheers and props for doing the feminine thing, and for some women they want to do it anyway so it all works out fabulously. It just seems hard to know for sure that the path was freely chosen."
I think this point is absolutely true and important -- how do we know what is nature and what is nurture. However, I am not sure that transsexuals have the corner market on helping to illuminate this. Aren't all transsexuals also equally socialized with the rest of us? Admittedly, the socialization may affect them differently, but we all grow up within some similar social context.
Here's what I am getting at. I am not a trannsexual, however, I feel much more aligned with the masculine end of the gender continuum. And while, for the most part I suppose, I was discouraged from exploring my particular gender identity by the general population, I believe that I still receive(d) some accommodations for my masculine(ish) identity. This is to say that I don't believe that social approbations work linearly -- i.e. social pressure increases exactly opposite to the degree to which one expresses oneself outside of the social norms.
It is possible that people get implicitly rewarded to the extent that they "do gender" (to use Butler's term) correctly, regardless of their sex. The closer we approximate our stereotypes of gender (again, regardless of sex) the more comfortable people are around us. As an example (admittedly idiotic and simple), once a guy figures out that he doesn't have to open the door for me, we're okay.
I also wonder if this may be more true for masculine women than for feminine men. Our society is highly oriented toward the masculine, so any social kudos would be more likely to go toward people with more masculine gender expressions.
So, all I am saying is, we are no closer to solving the nature/nurture dilemma.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Chequamegon
Sorry for the lack of posts as of late. It's been a bit busy here what with the back-to-school festivities that at least two of us have going on. That and my first attempt at the "Short and Fat" mountain bike race at the Chequamegon National Forest in up-state Wisconsin.
I helped to make some lemonade from lemons as a friend's knee went bad while training for the race. She was kind enough to let me take her number (which, incidentally, reported my results in a category that was 10 years my junior!).
How was the race you might be asking?
Well, I'm a usual regular biker (at least for much of the summer) but with full-time care of Big and Seven, I got in (literally) less than 50 miles. That is, 50 miles THIS SUMMER! Including the round-the-lake-with-Burly-in-tow-for-a-picnic variety. So let's just say that the race, for me was mostly about either snailing my way up a hill or just hanging on (on more than one occasion I would look down to see my saddle actually between my legs. . . That is, without my rear end on it as it was FOLLOWING my bike down the extremely steep and rocky hill at hand).
I'm up for it again next year though, hoping to beat my 1 hour 40 minute time and my 607/824 placing.
I helped to make some lemonade from lemons as a friend's knee went bad while training for the race. She was kind enough to let me take her number (which, incidentally, reported my results in a category that was 10 years my junior!).
How was the race you might be asking?
Well, I'm a usual regular biker (at least for much of the summer) but with full-time care of Big and Seven, I got in (literally) less than 50 miles. That is, 50 miles THIS SUMMER! Including the round-the-lake-with-Burly-in-tow-for-a-picnic variety. So let's just say that the race, for me was mostly about either snailing my way up a hill or just hanging on (on more than one occasion I would look down to see my saddle actually between my legs. . . That is, without my rear end on it as it was FOLLOWING my bike down the extremely steep and rocky hill at hand).
I'm up for it again next year though, hoping to beat my 1 hour 40 minute time and my 607/824 placing.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Irregular Monthly Newsletter: 21 Months
You've turned 21 months now, Big. Not a big month per se, but still.
One cute new addition to your repertoire is that you sit down in different places and pat the seat next to you (emphatically) to indicate that you want someone to sit next to you. Often, your pats are in places where an adults rear-end could never fit.
Your spacial skills are somewhat absent in other areas as well, as I have seen you try to cram yourself into Barbie vehicles, and put your feet into cottage cheese containers (empty or otherwise).
Both you and your sister have gone through growth spurts lately. You literally grew eight teeth in the last three months and she has been falling all over herself due to the extra inch or two that she grew over the summer--a real Lucille Ball we have here. If she becomes an actress, her forte will surely be in physical humor.
I have, in the past, posted some great children's books that we've happened-upon from the library. The following is one that brought tears to our eyes. It is titled You Are My I Love You by Maryann K. Cusimano and Satomi Ichikawa.
It goes like this:
I am your parent; you are my child.
I am your quiet place; you are my wild.
I am your calm face; you are my giggle.
I am your wait; you are my wiggle.
I am your carriage ride; you are my king.
I am your push; you are my swing.
I am your audience; you are my clown.
I am your London Bridge; you are my falling down.
I am your carrot sticks; you are my licorice.
I am your dandelion; you are my first wish.
I am your water wings; you are my deep.
I am your open arms; you are my running leap.
I am your way home; you are my new path.
I am your dry towel; you are my wet bath.
I am your dinner; you are my chocolate cake.
I am your bedtime; you are my wide awake.
I am your finish line; you are my race.
I am your praying hands; you are my saying grace.
I am your favorite book; you are my new lines.
I am your night-light; you are my starshine.
I am your lullaby; you are my peekaboo.
I am your good-night kiss; you are my I love you.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Maybe the Baba Experiement Has Not Yet Failed
Yesterday was my first day back at work. I'm going in on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Big is spending the days with Mom-of-Four down the street (plus some time on Wednesdays for me to prep).
He had a fabulous time yesterday, as evidenced by the screaming as Grandpa tore him away. So fabulous that, when BioMom checked in with a phone call later that night, MofF reported that Big called her "Mama" all day long.
Maybe I'll still be Baba someday afterall.
He had a fabulous time yesterday, as evidenced by the screaming as Grandpa tore him away. So fabulous that, when BioMom checked in with a phone call later that night, MofF reported that Big called her "Mama" all day long.
Maybe I'll still be Baba someday afterall.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Gender Identity
I just read this great graphic story (check it out here as well) about a family dealing with a (male) toddler wanting to wear skirts and who prefers pink by Rutu Modan.
Enjoy. It is fabulous.
Enjoy. It is fabulous.
Baba's Bedside Companion
I fell for the hype and bought the book The Dangerous Book for Boys by Conn Iggulden and Hal Iggulden. (Of course, kids of all gender stripes could enjoy it, not just boys).
For as much fun as it is, it should be titled: A must read for all current and former tomboys, and current and future Babas.
Enjoy!
For as much fun as it is, it should be titled: A must read for all current and former tomboys, and current and future Babas.
Enjoy!
The Butterfly Effect or Watch Out What You Wish For
Because you might get it.
Its funny. As a parent, I think, you simultaneously grieve their growing up, and are anxious for them to grow up.
It seems to happen too fast and not fast enough, all at once.
Our enigmatic Seven oscillates between wanting to be 13 years old and wanting to be turning 2, like her little brother will soon.
It is not the desires themselves that rubs on BioMom and I. It is just that the desires seem to be in areas that require extra effort or work on our part. For example, when it comes to bathtime (until very recently) she would prefer to be 2: running away and hiding when the bathwater starts, exhibiting an inability to wash herself in any way, once in the tub, refusing to get out of the tub, etc. etc. etc.
She doesn't want to be thirteen when it comes to helping to clear the table after dinner, or perhaps by helping with kitty care by feeding the two cats in the family. (No, we're not asking much on the chore-front.) She wants to be 13 when it comes to staying up too late, to watching pg13 television shows or movies, and wearing makeup (!).
We've given her the "bwa bwa... bwa bwa bwa bwa" Charlie Brown talk about how growing older is accompanied by both increasing freedoms and responsibilities "bwa bwa, bwa bwa bwa bwa." Which, naturally, goes un-listened to, if not unheard altogether. And I regularly try to cajole her into washing herself during the bath routine as Big is enough for a grown adult to handle in the tub (he treats it as his own little aquatic gymnasium).
Me: But FofF takes showers and baths all on her own!?!
She: She's unique!
Me: You know, there will come a time for you to bathe yourself, right?
After a night spent at her cousin's house (filled with older girls ranging from 9 to 15, with one 18 year old just off to college) she returned with an independent streak!
She: Today's the day! I'm going to start taking showers on my own!
This was a great turn of events, thought BioMom and I! She is taking an interest in her own hygiene!!!
Little did we know how one person in a family's actions could force the whole household to evolve.
She has now taken to taking a shower rather than a bath during our normal evening routine as well as taking a shower in the morning prior to going to school. Given our history, we thought "why not?. . . You can't get too clean, right?"
So, last night, after coming in from playing outside after dinner (I write this detail to emphasize the obvious: a bath in-and-of-itself is no fun, but precede this with having to a) stop playing and b) come in from outside, well, you get the idea) Big absolutely freaks when he realizes that his big sister has, for some unknown reason (I suspect he imagines she is getting out of bathtime) has disappeared upstairs. He refuses to take a bath.
"Okay," I think. "He just wants to be with her and take a shower."
I was half right.
He freaked in the shower.
Okay, so once past that hurdle, we negotiated with Seven about the new bathing routine.
Me: Okay, so at night you can get in the tub with him, and just play. No need to wash twice!
She: Sounds good! I was missing playing with him anyway.
First problem: FIXED!
So this morning, at SIX a.m., she comes bounding into our room with some information about the impending school day about which she was ecstatic.
She: Okay, I'm ready to take a shower now!
Us: Harrumph!
She: Mom, (speaking to BioMom), can you come in and keep me company???
BioMom, refusing: I'm waking up slowly, honey. I don't want to come in and sit on the cold toilet at 6 a.m. to keep you company. Lay down here for a little while, I'll do it later.
She: No! Now!!!
And the spiral began. At six a.m.
Moral: the household has a delicate balance. Even though you may wish for improvements in some areas, beware that small changes can have large effects.
Its funny. As a parent, I think, you simultaneously grieve their growing up, and are anxious for them to grow up.
It seems to happen too fast and not fast enough, all at once.
Our enigmatic Seven oscillates between wanting to be 13 years old and wanting to be turning 2, like her little brother will soon.
It is not the desires themselves that rubs on BioMom and I. It is just that the desires seem to be in areas that require extra effort or work on our part. For example, when it comes to bathtime (until very recently) she would prefer to be 2: running away and hiding when the bathwater starts, exhibiting an inability to wash herself in any way, once in the tub, refusing to get out of the tub, etc. etc. etc.
She doesn't want to be thirteen when it comes to helping to clear the table after dinner, or perhaps by helping with kitty care by feeding the two cats in the family. (No, we're not asking much on the chore-front.) She wants to be 13 when it comes to staying up too late, to watching pg13 television shows or movies, and wearing makeup (!).
We've given her the "bwa bwa... bwa bwa bwa bwa" Charlie Brown talk about how growing older is accompanied by both increasing freedoms and responsibilities "bwa bwa, bwa bwa bwa bwa." Which, naturally, goes un-listened to, if not unheard altogether. And I regularly try to cajole her into washing herself during the bath routine as Big is enough for a grown adult to handle in the tub (he treats it as his own little aquatic gymnasium).
Me: But FofF takes showers and baths all on her own!?!
She: She's unique!
Me: You know, there will come a time for you to bathe yourself, right?
After a night spent at her cousin's house (filled with older girls ranging from 9 to 15, with one 18 year old just off to college) she returned with an independent streak!
She: Today's the day! I'm going to start taking showers on my own!
This was a great turn of events, thought BioMom and I! She is taking an interest in her own hygiene!!!
Little did we know how one person in a family's actions could force the whole household to evolve.
She has now taken to taking a shower rather than a bath during our normal evening routine as well as taking a shower in the morning prior to going to school. Given our history, we thought "why not?. . . You can't get too clean, right?"
So, last night, after coming in from playing outside after dinner (I write this detail to emphasize the obvious: a bath in-and-of-itself is no fun, but precede this with having to a) stop playing and b) come in from outside, well, you get the idea) Big absolutely freaks when he realizes that his big sister has, for some unknown reason (I suspect he imagines she is getting out of bathtime) has disappeared upstairs. He refuses to take a bath.
"Okay," I think. "He just wants to be with her and take a shower."
I was half right.
He freaked in the shower.
Okay, so once past that hurdle, we negotiated with Seven about the new bathing routine.
Me: Okay, so at night you can get in the tub with him, and just play. No need to wash twice!
She: Sounds good! I was missing playing with him anyway.
First problem: FIXED!
So this morning, at SIX a.m., she comes bounding into our room with some information about the impending school day about which she was ecstatic.
She: Okay, I'm ready to take a shower now!
Us: Harrumph!
She: Mom, (speaking to BioMom), can you come in and keep me company???
BioMom, refusing: I'm waking up slowly, honey. I don't want to come in and sit on the cold toilet at 6 a.m. to keep you company. Lay down here for a little while, I'll do it later.
She: No! Now!!!
And the spiral began. At six a.m.
Moral: the household has a delicate balance. Even though you may wish for improvements in some areas, beware that small changes can have large effects.
Friday, August 31, 2007
What Would the Harper Valley PTA Do?
Tom T Hall, Harper Valley P.T.A. Lyrics
Looking for Tom T Hall tabs and chords? Browse alphabet (above)
The note said, "Mrs. Johnson, you're wearing your dresses way too high It's reported you've been drinking and a-runnin' 'round with men and going wild And we don't believe you ought to be bringing up your little girl this way. It was signed by the secretary, Harper Valley P.T.A. Tom T. Hall, "Harper Valley P.T.A."
I am so not a joiner.
No. Seriously. I rarely join anything generally, but when I do, I usually end up cutting off ties blaming beurocratic red tape, institutional sluggishness and either too much or too little activism on behalf of the group for wasting my time.
I wonder if that is a common trait for academics who can normally hole up in their office and spend their lives working with data that someone else collected.
I must be, however, turning over a new leaf that even Tom T. Hall, author of that old ditty, "Harper Valley PTA", could never have imagined. Because of an invitation by an amazing mom in Seven's second grade class, I have become, I suspect, the first out lesbian to co-chair the vice presidency of the parent organization of our little neighborhood catholic school.
We may get some notes home, but I doubt it'll be about the length of my dresses.
First South Minneapolis, then ROME!
Looking for Tom T Hall tabs and chords? Browse alphabet (above)
The note said, "Mrs. Johnson, you're wearing your dresses way too high It's reported you've been drinking and a-runnin' 'round with men and going wild And we don't believe you ought to be bringing up your little girl this way. It was signed by the secretary, Harper Valley P.T.A. Tom T. Hall, "Harper Valley P.T.A."
I am so not a joiner.
No. Seriously. I rarely join anything generally, but when I do, I usually end up cutting off ties blaming beurocratic red tape, institutional sluggishness and either too much or too little activism on behalf of the group for wasting my time.
I wonder if that is a common trait for academics who can normally hole up in their office and spend their lives working with data that someone else collected.
I must be, however, turning over a new leaf that even Tom T. Hall, author of that old ditty, "Harper Valley PTA", could never have imagined. Because of an invitation by an amazing mom in Seven's second grade class, I have become, I suspect, the first out lesbian to co-chair the vice presidency of the parent organization of our little neighborhood catholic school.
We may get some notes home, but I doubt it'll be about the length of my dresses.
First South Minneapolis, then ROME!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
The Failed Baba Experiment
So, BioMom and I's meager attempt to distinguish ourself to the kids in a manner other than the confusing (to us) "Mama" and "Mommy" seems to have failed miserably.
We had decided to use the monikers "Baba" (for me) and "Mama" (for her).
I've discussed the "name game" on this blog quite a lot (see The Big Questions page for background reading) and it has been a fairly serious issue at our household since Big came along and somewhat of an issue prior to that. Since I met Seven when she was 18 months old, we were careful not to force anything on her and as my inaugural post discusses, I was glad to be called anything by her -- just happy to be welcomed into the family.
Since that time, I have evolved into a semi-stay-at-home-mom (more on that and on the new title of the blog to come) and, as a result, spend more time at home with both kids than does BioMom. Seven, a few years back, started calling me "Mom" on average more than BioMom--to BioMom's sometimes dissapointment, sometimes relief as "MOM!" is usually followed by some sort of need or request.
Since Big, we've made an effort to say "Mama" and "Baba" on a regular basis. And since he's become more aware of the world, we often ask him where people are and get a little chubby finger point as a response as in "Where's Mama/Baba?" (point to her/me), or "Where's sissy?" (point to her) etc.
The problem is that Seven just doesn't use the term Baba. And, frankly, neither does the rest of the world.
Only in the last two weeks has Big really adopted the term "Mama." And, like any other skill, once learned, he is using it seemingly non-stop and with increasing intensity, as in:
"Mama. . . . MaaaaMa!. . . "MAAAAAAAAAA-MA!!!!"
He refuses to say "Baba" out loud.
I suspect this is due to one of possibly two explanations:
1.The Imitator: he aspires to be to be "all-things-Big-Sister-is"
or
2. The Economist's Son: he's being efficient and can get two for the price of one as we both respond.
Maybe he just uses it as a catch all, like his ASL sign for "more". To him, maybe "Mama" stands for the following: 'I need' or 'I want' or 'Get me outta this freakin' crib already!!'
We had decided to use the monikers "Baba" (for me) and "Mama" (for her).
I've discussed the "name game" on this blog quite a lot (see The Big Questions page for background reading) and it has been a fairly serious issue at our household since Big came along and somewhat of an issue prior to that. Since I met Seven when she was 18 months old, we were careful not to force anything on her and as my inaugural post discusses, I was glad to be called anything by her -- just happy to be welcomed into the family.
Since that time, I have evolved into a semi-stay-at-home-mom (more on that and on the new title of the blog to come) and, as a result, spend more time at home with both kids than does BioMom. Seven, a few years back, started calling me "Mom" on average more than BioMom--to BioMom's sometimes dissapointment, sometimes relief as "MOM!" is usually followed by some sort of need or request.
Since Big, we've made an effort to say "Mama" and "Baba" on a regular basis. And since he's become more aware of the world, we often ask him where people are and get a little chubby finger point as a response as in "Where's Mama/Baba?" (point to her/me), or "Where's sissy?" (point to her) etc.
The problem is that Seven just doesn't use the term Baba. And, frankly, neither does the rest of the world.
Only in the last two weeks has Big really adopted the term "Mama." And, like any other skill, once learned, he is using it seemingly non-stop and with increasing intensity, as in:
"Mama. . . . MaaaaMa!. . . "MAAAAAAAAAA-MA!!!!"
He refuses to say "Baba" out loud.
I suspect this is due to one of possibly two explanations:
1.The Imitator: he aspires to be to be "all-things-Big-Sister-is"
or
2. The Economist's Son: he's being efficient and can get two for the price of one as we both respond.
Maybe he just uses it as a catch all, like his ASL sign for "more". To him, maybe "Mama" stands for the following: 'I need' or 'I want' or 'Get me outta this freakin' crib already!!'
Two
Big learned the word "two" today, just in time for Seven's first day of second grade.
Below are some images of first days of years gone by (first grade and kindergarten respectively).
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Easy Come, Easy Go
We ventured to the Great Minnesota Get-Together yesterday for some end-of-summer fun.
I love the Minnesota State Fair as much as the next guy, but having seen it only through kids' eyes (and their tired legs), you'll have to pardon my non-native cynicism over the event. Rushing, as we were, because Big can only last so long, it felt like a short-hurdle-sprint from one high fructose food item to another high fat food item interspersed with rickety kids rides. After just having had Tiny Tim's Donuts, for example, Seven's eyes happened upon a Cotton Candy stand, which was follwed by the predictable refrain "Can I have some ______?" Insert here, "cotton candy."
We were heading down to the Midway gaming isle for our annual spend-a-bucket-load-of-money-on-rigged-games-to-win-a-soon-to-be-forgotten-
stuffed-animal-valued at-approximately-$0.10 (My cynicism is actually too heavy handed here. This is a blast) when Seven came across a five-dollar-bill on the ground. We spent a bit of time looking around the crowd to see if anyone had possibly known that they had dropped anything before claiming the cash for our own and explaining the concept of 'dumb luck' to Seven.
On to more of the beg/spend/eat cycle.
On the walk out, sweaty and exhausted, Seven strolled a few paces behind, sad to see the day and, effectively, her summer, end as she starts SECOND grade tomorrow. At one point she saw a man on the corner asking for money--a man that BioMom and I had not even really noticed. Without hesitation, she dropped her five into his little cup.
Her lack of attachment to things is saintlike and, well, refreshing.
In response to asking her motivations around the gift she said, He needed it more than I did.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Begin: establish, formulate, found, inaugurate, institute, originate, set up, start
Because potty training was so (ahem) challenging for all of us the first time around, we are simply not discouraging Big in his nascent interest in "the potty" and his more urgent interest in all-things-not-toddler (including booster seats in the car and not wearing diapers).
As I previously posted, once he acquired the word "PEW-OOP!", he let us know that he clearly has an awareness of from WHERE it comes and, recently, has been announcing pending BMs. Following his lead, I pulled out the old potty and the corresponding book that discusses what one does with the potty which we perused, delightfully, together.
Tonight, after taking a bath, we were playing trains and I was attempting to cajole him into his diaper and pajamas. At one point, I noticed that look in his eyes and asked him if he needed to go "PEW-OOP". He immediately got up and ran into the bathroom, me bumbling to my feet and racing behind. Once in the bathroom, he backed into the potty and I sat opposite him on our own, larger version for approximately 0.3 seconds after which he hopped up and then ran back into the playroom, looking back over his shoulder at me as if to say "Aren't you coming???"
Once back with the trains, Cousin called, and in the time it took to say "hello", Big had kneeled on the carpet and released his bowles. Let me clarify: released his bowles on the floor. I should have photographed for you all to see for yourselves. At least it was adult-like in form and substance (read: easy to pick up). This turd, sitting on the rug as it did, as if just asking for Big to absentmindedly turn his heel into it, may literally haunt me like those of the protagonist's Parkinson's-suffering dad, Alfred Lambert, in Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections.
By the time I carefully wrapped it into the clean diaper that had been intended for him and toted it to the toilet, gave him an encouraging "high five" (keeping in mind the potty-training mantra to 'keep it positive'), and tried again to wheedle him into the diaper, he leaned over and peed all over the floor.
Wish us, and our house, luck.
As I previously posted, once he acquired the word "PEW-OOP!", he let us know that he clearly has an awareness of from WHERE it comes and, recently, has been announcing pending BMs. Following his lead, I pulled out the old potty and the corresponding book that discusses what one does with the potty which we perused, delightfully, together.
Tonight, after taking a bath, we were playing trains and I was attempting to cajole him into his diaper and pajamas. At one point, I noticed that look in his eyes and asked him if he needed to go "PEW-OOP". He immediately got up and ran into the bathroom, me bumbling to my feet and racing behind. Once in the bathroom, he backed into the potty and I sat opposite him on our own, larger version for approximately 0.3 seconds after which he hopped up and then ran back into the playroom, looking back over his shoulder at me as if to say "Aren't you coming???"
Once back with the trains, Cousin called, and in the time it took to say "hello", Big had kneeled on the carpet and released his bowles. Let me clarify: released his bowles on the floor. I should have photographed for you all to see for yourselves. At least it was adult-like in form and substance (read: easy to pick up). This turd, sitting on the rug as it did, as if just asking for Big to absentmindedly turn his heel into it, may literally haunt me like those of the protagonist's Parkinson's-suffering dad, Alfred Lambert, in Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections.
By the time I carefully wrapped it into the clean diaper that had been intended for him and toted it to the toilet, gave him an encouraging "high five" (keeping in mind the potty-training mantra to 'keep it positive'), and tried again to wheedle him into the diaper, he leaned over and peed all over the floor.
Wish us, and our house, luck.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Irregular Monthly Newsletter: No. 20
You're TWENTY MONTHS old today, Big. I think that that is officially too many months to be saying that you are "X months" when people ask, so today I told someone that you were "almost two." The gal told me that her kid was 22 months and that she knew someone who celebrated their 1000th day.
Once when BioMom took Seven (who was then "almost two") to Florida via plane, someone asked how old she was as she had a vocabulary of an english grad student. BioMom responded by saying "she's one!"
If I had to be honest to these Park-Moms, I'd have to say that you are twenty (months)-going-on-four (years). Ever since I took you too one of those little tester-classes at The Little Gym, you think you can jump or swing from anything.
You've taken to treating me as your own personal chariot, rushing around while we're walking, so that we are face-to-face, holding up your arms, grunting until I pick you up, then pointing and swinging your body toward where you would like to go, presumably in an effort to save energy or to move more expiditiously.
I'm not a fan as you're quickly approaching 35 lbs.
Your language continues to grow, however languidly. You clearly get everything, but you just keep most of it yourself. Although I did hear a clear "hot!" out of you the other day as you hopped across the sweltering deck toward the sprinkler.
The pictures posted here show more summer fun. The other night at National Night Out you really wanted to get dunked in the dunking machine, but settled for trying to get your sister; kickball with Cousin and kids, and your new tracktor from the Family-with-Four-Kids.
It feels like the adventure with you is just beginning.
Monthly Newsletter Addendum
P.S. I forgot the addition of one new word, an emphatic "POOP!" (pron: pew-oop) with the accompanied pointing and exclamating ("PEW-OOP! PEW-OOP!") in the general direction of the source of such substance on any being, especially the cats upon whom there is special attention and attempts at touching.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Bridges, Birthdays and other Catastrophes. . .
For those friends and family with whom I have not yet connected tonight, we're all okay. Seven and BioMom were downtown all day today, but came home early and, because we live south of the city, never passed over the bridge that collapsed. We're fixated to the news and our communication devices, hoping that all of our loved ones are okay, and praying for everyone else.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Not one that is particularly significant. But it feels so in that it is literally the first birthday that I don't personally care about -- well not in terms of myself anyway. Maybe that feeling itself is a mark of growing older. . . Like enjoying nuts in your brownies and on ice cream or taking two days to mow the lawn.
A few weeks ago BioMom was badgering me for some gift ideas and I literally could think of nothing. Furthermore, in terms of birthday activities, I can't imagine a better day than spending it with Seven, Big, BioMom, Cousin and her kids (they're coming tomorrow!).
Seven overheard the conversation:
Seven (incredulously): How can you not want anything for your birthday!?!
Me: I dunno. I just can't think of anything that I need or want.
Me (to myself): How lucky am I???
Me (surrepticiously behind BioMom's back): What if I asked for that Hanna Montana CD that you've been wanting for my birthday?
She (incredulously): YOU WOULD DO THAT??
Me (to myself): Getting to be your kid's hero for your birthday? Priceless.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Not one that is particularly significant. But it feels so in that it is literally the first birthday that I don't personally care about -- well not in terms of myself anyway. Maybe that feeling itself is a mark of growing older. . . Like enjoying nuts in your brownies and on ice cream or taking two days to mow the lawn.
A few weeks ago BioMom was badgering me for some gift ideas and I literally could think of nothing. Furthermore, in terms of birthday activities, I can't imagine a better day than spending it with Seven, Big, BioMom, Cousin and her kids (they're coming tomorrow!).
Seven overheard the conversation:
Seven (incredulously): How can you not want anything for your birthday!?!
Me: I dunno. I just can't think of anything that I need or want.
Me (to myself): How lucky am I???
Me (surrepticiously behind BioMom's back): What if I asked for that Hanna Montana CD that you've been wanting for my birthday?
She (incredulously): YOU WOULD DO THAT??
Me (to myself): Getting to be your kid's hero for your birthday? Priceless.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Intentional Families
Both LesbianDad and Dana Rudolph over at Mombian commented on the New York Times piece titled "Your Gamete, Myself" which explored "issues surrounding conception via an egg donor" and overlooked LGBT families.
Dana highlights (as quoted by LD) that "'intentional' parenthood characterizes some, but by no means all families in the current 'gayby' boom. Many kids are born into heterosexual families, before one or the other parent comes out and continues to raise them. Significantly, at least as of the moment, families planned and realized from within LGBT community skew towards the white and the middle class on up..."
I am very interested in the outcomes for kids of GLBT families and have noted the difference between kids who are born of heterosexual parents who later come out (actually the General Social Survey shows that there is no significant difference in number of kids of GLBT families and heterosexual families due to this phenomenon) and kids whose parents were "intentional" in conceiving them within the GLBT relationship.
In the book Freakonomics, Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner make the argument that Roe v. Wade explains much of the precipitous decline in crime in the 1990s. They argue that the kids who would have been born pre-Roe, to women who, given the choice, would have aborted them, were more likely to participate in criminal activities. They make the argument that these kids were somehow less wanted and the parents were less likely to "invest" in them (in all ways that parents invest in kids).
The corollary argument is that parents who intentionally have kids are more likely to invest in their kids and are likely to have better outcomes (however defined). This intentional GLBT group falls into this category.
Great argument for gay marriage, huh?
This is my next research project, given that I can locate some decent data.
Dana highlights (as quoted by LD) that "'intentional' parenthood characterizes some, but by no means all families in the current 'gayby' boom. Many kids are born into heterosexual families, before one or the other parent comes out and continues to raise them. Significantly, at least as of the moment, families planned and realized from within LGBT community skew towards the white and the middle class on up..."
I am very interested in the outcomes for kids of GLBT families and have noted the difference between kids who are born of heterosexual parents who later come out (actually the General Social Survey shows that there is no significant difference in number of kids of GLBT families and heterosexual families due to this phenomenon) and kids whose parents were "intentional" in conceiving them within the GLBT relationship.
In the book Freakonomics, Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner make the argument that Roe v. Wade explains much of the precipitous decline in crime in the 1990s. They argue that the kids who would have been born pre-Roe, to women who, given the choice, would have aborted them, were more likely to participate in criminal activities. They make the argument that these kids were somehow less wanted and the parents were less likely to "invest" in them (in all ways that parents invest in kids).
The corollary argument is that parents who intentionally have kids are more likely to invest in their kids and are likely to have better outcomes (however defined). This intentional GLBT group falls into this category.
Great argument for gay marriage, huh?
This is my next research project, given that I can locate some decent data.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Coming Out All Over Again
The other day Big and I attended a weekly event at our local branch of the public library. It was a little "story time" for kids, hosted by an animated librarian (who, incidently, I saw later that week at the Harry Potter Seven release party at our local women's bookstore).
While there, Big started goofing around with a kid about his age and his mother and I got to talking about the things that that SAH(M/MO/D etc.) talk about. She seemed interested in getting the boys together and talked of having us over for a play date.
It is at this point that I feel full disclosure is necessary. A) if someone is homophobic, I don't want to waste my time and b) if someone is homophobic I don't want to waste their time.
Coming out in this context still feels so strange and awkward to me. At one point during my "out and proud" twenties, I instated a personal moratorium on "coming out" because I felt that it was somehow confessional in nature and I had given up the Catholic Church and all of those sorts of rituals. Furthermore, I had had enough with educating.
I know that sounds immature, but gimmie a break. I was in my twenties.
I still don't usually formally come out to my students. But the reasons are different. It is probably just laziness at this point. Or maybe an assumption that everyone knows.
After attending my twentieth reunion this weekend, I came to the lovely realization that noone gave a rat's ass about it at all. It's so strange. In high school everything mattered. A bad hair day was significant (thanks to High School Friend and Taggert for processing this insight with me). And being glbt mattered in high school--on many levels.
So while discussing future school choices with the gal at the library we got to discussing the catholic school that Seven attends which happens to be only a few short blocks from both the library and this woman's house. She asked if non-catholics attended and I reassured her that yes, they did and that we were a glbt family and that we felt welcomed.
For me, now, it is all about Seven and Big. I'll cover over every crack in the China where their parent's sexuality is concerned to make them feel safe and secure in us, their family, and themselves.
While there, Big started goofing around with a kid about his age and his mother and I got to talking about the things that that SAH(M/MO/D etc.) talk about. She seemed interested in getting the boys together and talked of having us over for a play date.
It is at this point that I feel full disclosure is necessary. A) if someone is homophobic, I don't want to waste my time and b) if someone is homophobic I don't want to waste their time.
Coming out in this context still feels so strange and awkward to me. At one point during my "out and proud" twenties, I instated a personal moratorium on "coming out" because I felt that it was somehow confessional in nature and I had given up the Catholic Church and all of those sorts of rituals. Furthermore, I had had enough with educating.
I know that sounds immature, but gimmie a break. I was in my twenties.
I still don't usually formally come out to my students. But the reasons are different. It is probably just laziness at this point. Or maybe an assumption that everyone knows.
After attending my twentieth reunion this weekend, I came to the lovely realization that noone gave a rat's ass about it at all. It's so strange. In high school everything mattered. A bad hair day was significant (thanks to High School Friend and Taggert for processing this insight with me). And being glbt mattered in high school--on many levels.
So while discussing future school choices with the gal at the library we got to discussing the catholic school that Seven attends which happens to be only a few short blocks from both the library and this woman's house. She asked if non-catholics attended and I reassured her that yes, they did and that we were a glbt family and that we felt welcomed.
For me, now, it is all about Seven and Big. I'll cover over every crack in the China where their parent's sexuality is concerned to make them feel safe and secure in us, their family, and themselves.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Park/Toddler Etiquette
So after having a few, ahem, incidents, I'd like to propose a formal set of etiquette or code to govern the expectations around social behavior at parks and playgrounds for kids (particularly toddlers) and their caregivers (SAHMS and the like -- my new personal moniker: Stay At Ho-Mo).
I have developed my own set of park-rules, based on several assumptions. Until recently, they seemed to work. However, I have come to realize that my assumptions may, in fact, not be universal.
Here are my assumptions when I go to a park or playground with Big:
1. If you are at the park and caring for a child of a given age, the child either a) is a toddler, b) will be a toddler or c) was a toddler. The age can be challenging and we need to all understand and respect that, giving both the toddler, him or herself, and the caregiver wide berth.
2. If you are at the park, it is your intention to be social. It is a public place, after all. If you wanted to be alone or with some preferred group of friends (kid and otherwise) you should have stayed home.
3. That one (possibly latent) goal of going to the park is to socialize your child. This may include the following activities: making friends (for him and yourself), introducing the notion of sharing, and gently disciplining unacceptable behavior like stealing, kicking, throwing sand and the like.
4. That at the park, however prepared you may be, your child will inevitably strictly-prefer whatever food, toy, hat, shoe style and other apparel that some other kid has over his/her own. Knowing this, I usually try my best (bringing along various trucks, balls and snacks) but am open to sharing anything and everything with any kid that comes my way.
5. That some toys will be left behind and some toys will be found (without a current owner) suggesting an organic "toy turnover" in the neighborhood.
Apparently these broad assumptions are not shared by all.
Today at a local beach we unfortunately missed the GLBT family play-date that was scheduled and so we set out to make-due without our sturdy companions. Big walked right up to a group of young girls (say threeish) who were in the process of constructing a somewhat intricate sand-city complete with what appeared to be a down-town area constructed from an empty cottage cheese container, and another park-like area consisting mainly of small would-be boulders (to the inhabitants of such a city). Big, fascinated by them and their work, set out to "participate" (i.e. demolish). I, being the ever-willing urban planner that I am, sat down with him and one of the now-somewhat-dissapointed-looking girls (the other two had moved on to other pursuits) ready and willing to rebuild as needed. I looked over my shoulder to find, presumably, one of the girls' mom giving me that passive-aggressive concerned look that I literally could not interpret. Here I was, engaging with the kids (not sitting on the bench) and it was, after all, SAND!!!
They are all big sisters. . . I guess they'll understand, said she.
I began to rebuild in ernest.
Oh, you don't have to do that, said she. Keep it up!, meant she.
In another recent incident, Big and I ran across a boy with a literal HEAP of matchbox cars. Big was fascinated and sat down with him and started playing. The boy turned to his mom, nearly weeping, and she looked at me as if to say "why did you let your son play with my son???"
?
The last installment at this time is a story of which I am not proud, but lends itself to the establishment of my proposed social code.
We were at a pool with some friends. It was time to go and, as is the case whenever kids have been swimming in the sun for several hours, a meltdown was imminent. They were hungry and tired, and we had to get out of the pool area, into the car, and home before those needs could really be met. Oh, and they didn't want to leave the pool.
Big had spotted a little matchbox truck, alone on a foldout chair. I grabbed it, knowing that it would distract him while I got him into the stroller and, hopefully, out of the pool grounds.
As we were leaving, we stopped to say goodbye to our friends. One friend's son (a bit older than big, possibly nearing four) recognized his truck. I turned to his mom and although in my head I was screaming "please don't make us give it back! please don't make us give it back", I said "oh! Is this yours?"
She recognized the toddler-predicament in which I stood and let is borrow the car for the time being.
What is your toddler/park code and what assumptions do you make about this unique social situation and its associated decorum?
I have developed my own set of park-rules, based on several assumptions. Until recently, they seemed to work. However, I have come to realize that my assumptions may, in fact, not be universal.
Here are my assumptions when I go to a park or playground with Big:
1. If you are at the park and caring for a child of a given age, the child either a) is a toddler, b) will be a toddler or c) was a toddler. The age can be challenging and we need to all understand and respect that, giving both the toddler, him or herself, and the caregiver wide berth.
2. If you are at the park, it is your intention to be social. It is a public place, after all. If you wanted to be alone or with some preferred group of friends (kid and otherwise) you should have stayed home.
3. That one (possibly latent) goal of going to the park is to socialize your child. This may include the following activities: making friends (for him and yourself), introducing the notion of sharing, and gently disciplining unacceptable behavior like stealing, kicking, throwing sand and the like.
4. That at the park, however prepared you may be, your child will inevitably strictly-prefer whatever food, toy, hat, shoe style and other apparel that some other kid has over his/her own. Knowing this, I usually try my best (bringing along various trucks, balls and snacks) but am open to sharing anything and everything with any kid that comes my way.
5. That some toys will be left behind and some toys will be found (without a current owner) suggesting an organic "toy turnover" in the neighborhood.
Apparently these broad assumptions are not shared by all.
Today at a local beach we unfortunately missed the GLBT family play-date that was scheduled and so we set out to make-due without our sturdy companions. Big walked right up to a group of young girls (say threeish) who were in the process of constructing a somewhat intricate sand-city complete with what appeared to be a down-town area constructed from an empty cottage cheese container, and another park-like area consisting mainly of small would-be boulders (to the inhabitants of such a city). Big, fascinated by them and their work, set out to "participate" (i.e. demolish). I, being the ever-willing urban planner that I am, sat down with him and one of the now-somewhat-dissapointed-looking girls (the other two had moved on to other pursuits) ready and willing to rebuild as needed. I looked over my shoulder to find, presumably, one of the girls' mom giving me that passive-aggressive concerned look that I literally could not interpret. Here I was, engaging with the kids (not sitting on the bench) and it was, after all, SAND!!!
They are all big sisters. . . I guess they'll understand, said she.
I began to rebuild in ernest.
Oh, you don't have to do that, said she. Keep it up!, meant she.
In another recent incident, Big and I ran across a boy with a literal HEAP of matchbox cars. Big was fascinated and sat down with him and started playing. The boy turned to his mom, nearly weeping, and she looked at me as if to say "why did you let your son play with my son???"
?
The last installment at this time is a story of which I am not proud, but lends itself to the establishment of my proposed social code.
We were at a pool with some friends. It was time to go and, as is the case whenever kids have been swimming in the sun for several hours, a meltdown was imminent. They were hungry and tired, and we had to get out of the pool area, into the car, and home before those needs could really be met. Oh, and they didn't want to leave the pool.
Big had spotted a little matchbox truck, alone on a foldout chair. I grabbed it, knowing that it would distract him while I got him into the stroller and, hopefully, out of the pool grounds.
As we were leaving, we stopped to say goodbye to our friends. One friend's son (a bit older than big, possibly nearing four) recognized his truck. I turned to his mom and although in my head I was screaming "please don't make us give it back! please don't make us give it back", I said "oh! Is this yours?"
She recognized the toddler-predicament in which I stood and let is borrow the car for the time being.
What is your toddler/park code and what assumptions do you make about this unique social situation and its associated decorum?
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Reconnaissance
So, on a suggestion from Cousin, BioMom and I have been watching Big Love in our spare time.
On a camping trip with the Family-of-Four-Kids, we got to talking about the show, Mormons, and polygamy more generally. Seven, AKA "Big Ears" overheard some of the conversation and announced that she wanted to become a missionary when she grew up.
What? said I.
Yeah! A Missionary! said she.
What, exactly, does a missionary do, do you think?
Go on missions. You know. Like a spy!
Ah. I thought. Since reading Harriet The Spy last year, she's had an interest in such activities. It all made sense now.
On the way home from the camping trip (it was Big's first, and he has, I believe, been won over with the whole thing what with being outside 24/7, hiking, sleeping in tents with your WHOLE family, fires and, of course, s'mores) we stopped at a little pizza joint in a local town.
While waiting for our flat, we played "I See You" games with who we suspected was a lesbian and wondered if she was accompanied by a partner and possibly children.
Me to Seven: Want to go on a mission?
She: YEAH!
Me: Okay. Now, what I want you to do is to casually, I repeat, CASUALLY, walk by that family in the second booth up there behind that little wall. Let me know if the person facing THAT WAY (I point toward the street) is a girl like me, or if the person is a guy.
She: Okay!
Me: Let us know if there are any kids.
BioMom: Yeah! We want to know if they are a family like ours.
Seven (nearly running with the excitement of SOMETHING TO DO), leaves.
She goes up the stairs in order to walk by so that she faces the more manly of the two suspected women. We see only Seven's head, and, as she walks by and looks (quite a bit more than casually, I must say) at her, her head followed the poor woman the entire way--practically straining her neck--as she walked by, obviously checking her out.
They were in fact a "rainbow family" and when I finally met the more manly of the two, she told me that our daughter had walked by and stared at her. She commented to her partner that the young girl had experienced "gender confusion". I clarified that no, it wasn't gender confusion, it was in fact, reconnaissance.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Monday, July 09, 2007
Irregular Monthly Newsletter: 19 Months
Nineteen months old today, Big.
Not a milestone per se. Not to anyone but us, your family, because a) we're over that little expected behavioral "hump" (heading speedily toward the terrible two's) and because you have finally (finally!) gotten your eye teeth--those terrible pointy teeth with literally longer roots than wisdoms.
Ahhh.
One little vignette provides a decent overview of month nineteen.
A few nights ago you were having a hard time falling asleep. I'd put you in the crib and walk away, fingers crossed, and you'd howl. We're quite empathetic with this behavior since it usually signals a problem on your side of the equation. In this case, as we expected, it was your impending teeth.
The third time I went in, I picked you up out of your crib and held you, humming a little comfort song, hoping you'd relax a bit.
You hooked your left arm around my neck and held tight.
As the song neared its end, you leaned back and emphatically and repetitively made the ASL sign for "more!"
One year ago, this month:
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
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