[Josh Blackman] O.J. Simpson and Lindsay Clancy
22 hours ago
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Nature 1: Nurture 0
Following LesbianDad's lead, I'm beginning a nature v. nurture tally in our little household. An interesting topic on both gender lines and well, in her words, because us non-biological parents are "all nurture, no nature."
The most recent example ocurred the other morning which belonged to a string of such mornings that I was single-parenting it as BioMom has been travelling for work a bit more as of late. Seven and I were doing our morning routine and she was chatting to me while getting dressed. The previous night had been a bit chilly and we had resurrected an old standby snack: warm honey milk.
Big was beside himself with this sweet treat, sucking it down at light speed and practically pounding his fingers into his hand using the sign for 'more'!
In fact, we ran out of milk. There was not a drop left in the house by bedtime.
So, here we were, the next morning.
Seven: Can I have some honey milk?
Me: No, Honey, (get it? 'honey' I called you 'honey'?) remember, we ran out of milk? Plus, that's really an after school snack.
Seven: Oh. . . I just thought maybe you would have gotten some by now?
Me, mustering patience and thinking that after they were in bed the previous night I lasted all of 30 more minutes before following them. I practically BEAT them to sleep. Even had BioMom been home I would have NEVER made it to the store to buy milk: Remember, Mom's not home. How could I go to the store?
A few minutes goes by.
Seven: Can I have some honey milk tonight after school?
Me: I dunno, honey (again with the pun!). We'll see if I get to the store and get some milk.
Seven: Okay. Let's make a SCHEDULE for snacks!
Me, stomach and neck muscles begin to tense: Schedule?
Seven: Yeah! Honey milk on Tuesday. . .
Me, interrupting: But we may not HAVE milk today.
Seven: Okay, honey milk on Mondays. . . Goldfish on Tuesdays. . .
This sort of schedule-making goes against all of my personal sensibilities. It feels like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Plus, it just adds another thing to my 'to do' list.
I imagine what the teacher at our Early Childhood and Family Education class would do in my shoes. She's the picture of patience, empathy and democratic-style parenting. She is focused, engaged, and intentional. When, for example, parents in class ask what to do with the toddler who hits or bites, she models holding the young one and praising them for their power and strength, all the while, redirecting their zealous energy to more appropriate outlets.
I'm sure she'd sit down and help Seven write out a schedule, let her go through the process of this. Help her choose healthy snacks and then, once she was neatly tucked back into the routine of her school day, she'd go to the store and fulfill the list.
When, say, a couple of weeks later, after the list had been forgotten for some time, and then was rediscovered by Seven in a moment of distracted boredom in which the schedule was noticed, peaking out from underneath the stove, and then re-taped to the refrigerator and, accompanied with an enthusiastsic announcement "It's Thursday! Time for our soy-nut milkshake!" she would eagerly pull out the extensive ingredient list and, happily, whip up the snack of the day.
I think: what would BioMom do?
BioMom would lovingly take part in the process of creating the schedule. It would be neatly written, lined with a plumb, and, ultimately, laminated.
She may even have the best intentions of helping to fulfill this wishlist. However, as soon as her right foot hits the accelerator, and her thumbs meet Blackberry, all thoughts of a snack schedule are vanquished. She feels comfort knowing that this, too, will happen to her clone-like daughter.
By the time after-school rolls around and I'm busy checking the list and trying to match it up with what's in our cupboards, they look at me quizzically: snack schedule?
Instead, I can only think in terms of Meyers-Briggs acronyms: Damn, she MUST be an ENFJ, where I am all INTP.
I guess we'll always have "N."
The most recent example ocurred the other morning which belonged to a string of such mornings that I was single-parenting it as BioMom has been travelling for work a bit more as of late. Seven and I were doing our morning routine and she was chatting to me while getting dressed. The previous night had been a bit chilly and we had resurrected an old standby snack: warm honey milk.
Big was beside himself with this sweet treat, sucking it down at light speed and practically pounding his fingers into his hand using the sign for 'more'!
In fact, we ran out of milk. There was not a drop left in the house by bedtime.
So, here we were, the next morning.
Seven: Can I have some honey milk?
Me: No, Honey, (get it? 'honey' I called you 'honey'?) remember, we ran out of milk? Plus, that's really an after school snack.
Seven: Oh. . . I just thought maybe you would have gotten some by now?
Me, mustering patience and thinking that after they were in bed the previous night I lasted all of 30 more minutes before following them. I practically BEAT them to sleep. Even had BioMom been home I would have NEVER made it to the store to buy milk: Remember, Mom's not home. How could I go to the store?
A few minutes goes by.
Seven: Can I have some honey milk tonight after school?
Me: I dunno, honey (again with the pun!). We'll see if I get to the store and get some milk.
Seven: Okay. Let's make a SCHEDULE for snacks!
Me, stomach and neck muscles begin to tense: Schedule?
Seven: Yeah! Honey milk on Tuesday. . .
Me, interrupting: But we may not HAVE milk today.
Seven: Okay, honey milk on Mondays. . . Goldfish on Tuesdays. . .
This sort of schedule-making goes against all of my personal sensibilities. It feels like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Plus, it just adds another thing to my 'to do' list.
I imagine what the teacher at our Early Childhood and Family Education class would do in my shoes. She's the picture of patience, empathy and democratic-style parenting. She is focused, engaged, and intentional. When, for example, parents in class ask what to do with the toddler who hits or bites, she models holding the young one and praising them for their power and strength, all the while, redirecting their zealous energy to more appropriate outlets.
I'm sure she'd sit down and help Seven write out a schedule, let her go through the process of this. Help her choose healthy snacks and then, once she was neatly tucked back into the routine of her school day, she'd go to the store and fulfill the list.
When, say, a couple of weeks later, after the list had been forgotten for some time, and then was rediscovered by Seven in a moment of distracted boredom in which the schedule was noticed, peaking out from underneath the stove, and then re-taped to the refrigerator and, accompanied with an enthusiastsic announcement "It's Thursday! Time for our soy-nut milkshake!" she would eagerly pull out the extensive ingredient list and, happily, whip up the snack of the day.
I think: what would BioMom do?
BioMom would lovingly take part in the process of creating the schedule. It would be neatly written, lined with a plumb, and, ultimately, laminated.
She may even have the best intentions of helping to fulfill this wishlist. However, as soon as her right foot hits the accelerator, and her thumbs meet Blackberry, all thoughts of a snack schedule are vanquished. She feels comfort knowing that this, too, will happen to her clone-like daughter.
By the time after-school rolls around and I'm busy checking the list and trying to match it up with what's in our cupboards, they look at me quizzically: snack schedule?
Instead, I can only think in terms of Meyers-Briggs acronyms: Damn, she MUST be an ENFJ, where I am all INTP.
I guess we'll always have "N."
Friday, November 09, 2007
Irregular Monthly Newsletter: 23 Months
Happy 23 months, Big!
One year ago today:
Two years ago this month:
So, we're shopping for birthday presents, dear son!! And probably having as much fun doing it as you'll have with a few new toys.
There are three strong themes for this past month: language, lifting and, as if to warn us for the incoming twos, hoarding.
Your language exploded this month. It seems, literally, like a month since you were saying a handful of words. Now you say just about everything and even, once in a while, string together a couple of words. For example, one of your favorite thing to say is "UNT ___!" which translates into "I want ____" fill in the blank.
You have a penchant for lifting what you perceive to be "BIG!" or "HEAVY!" things and bringing them over to us, or whomever will accept your token of affection. Since Seven (at two) would never have considered showing off her physical prowess, or be concerned with 'the weight of all things', this has caused another chink in my gender-as-constructed armor. There is just something in you that seems to make you more 'boy', although it is hard not to react to your dramatic lifting an announcements of all things heavy. Especially when you're on your third or fourth go-around and I'm sitting there with a lap-full of enormous trucks.
Lifting has gone hand-in-hand with hoarding. We went to the Children's Museum the other day and ended up in this huge room meant for playing with vehicles on ramps and roads that you could move around. Unfortunately, there were only four or so trucks there. We were doing fine until another person about your size meandered in. You FREAKED! "MINE! MINE! MY UCK! MY UCK!" I talked to you (in as reasonable a voice as I could muster) about sharing and gave you three of the little ones and the one HUGE one to the little boy. You continued to freak and practically terrorized the kid by chasing him around the room, all the while attempting to keep hold of (and at one point even hide) the three cars you actually had. "MINE! MINE!"
And then, when it was time to leave the museum (or Elmo, as you had come to call it due to the enormous signage out front) you threw yourself on the floor and, as I went to scoop you up, bit me on the arm, leaving loving little marks that I can still see and feel today.
We love you, sweetie.
Mama and Baba
One year ago today:
Two years ago this month:
So, we're shopping for birthday presents, dear son!! And probably having as much fun doing it as you'll have with a few new toys.
There are three strong themes for this past month: language, lifting and, as if to warn us for the incoming twos, hoarding.
Your language exploded this month. It seems, literally, like a month since you were saying a handful of words. Now you say just about everything and even, once in a while, string together a couple of words. For example, one of your favorite thing to say is "UNT ___!" which translates into "I want ____" fill in the blank.
You have a penchant for lifting what you perceive to be "BIG!" or "HEAVY!" things and bringing them over to us, or whomever will accept your token of affection. Since Seven (at two) would never have considered showing off her physical prowess, or be concerned with 'the weight of all things', this has caused another chink in my gender-as-constructed armor. There is just something in you that seems to make you more 'boy', although it is hard not to react to your dramatic lifting an announcements of all things heavy. Especially when you're on your third or fourth go-around and I'm sitting there with a lap-full of enormous trucks.
Lifting has gone hand-in-hand with hoarding. We went to the Children's Museum the other day and ended up in this huge room meant for playing with vehicles on ramps and roads that you could move around. Unfortunately, there were only four or so trucks there. We were doing fine until another person about your size meandered in. You FREAKED! "MINE! MINE! MY UCK! MY UCK!" I talked to you (in as reasonable a voice as I could muster) about sharing and gave you three of the little ones and the one HUGE one to the little boy. You continued to freak and practically terrorized the kid by chasing him around the room, all the while attempting to keep hold of (and at one point even hide) the three cars you actually had. "MINE! MINE!"
And then, when it was time to leave the museum (or Elmo, as you had come to call it due to the enormous signage out front) you threw yourself on the floor and, as I went to scoop you up, bit me on the arm, leaving loving little marks that I can still see and feel today.
We love you, sweetie.
Mama and Baba
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Halloween: Part 3 of 3
Our day, in reverse order, began with me, of all people, in my new role as PTA VP, organizing a "staff luncheon". No pictures here to document, but, suffice it to say that bugging people about whether or not they were going to bring carnitas is not my forte. Below are the highlights of Halloween 2007.
About the whole trick-or-treat thing, I don't think Big really understood the concept until we were about half way around the block and in Minnesota, you really only go around the block as Halloween usually begins the 'cold season'. Seven, after having gone off with her friends for a bit, came back and started showing him the ropes. He never got around to the "trick or treat" part, but after each door, he'd come running down the steps yelling "WEEN! WEEN!" which, was a shortened "Happy Halloween" followed by an urgent "OPEN! OPEN!" to us which meant that he wanted to immediately consume whatever he had just plundered.
Here are our three amigos this year and about three years ago.
And lastly, the parade at school. Big got to go up on stage with his big sister.
By the end of the night, Seven, over-sugared and sad that the next holiday is over three long weeks away, was in tears, and we could hear Big in his crib yelling out "WEEN! WEEN!"
About the whole trick-or-treat thing, I don't think Big really understood the concept until we were about half way around the block and in Minnesota, you really only go around the block as Halloween usually begins the 'cold season'. Seven, after having gone off with her friends for a bit, came back and started showing him the ropes. He never got around to the "trick or treat" part, but after each door, he'd come running down the steps yelling "WEEN! WEEN!" which, was a shortened "Happy Halloween" followed by an urgent "OPEN! OPEN!" to us which meant that he wanted to immediately consume whatever he had just plundered.
Here are our three amigos this year and about three years ago.
And lastly, the parade at school. Big got to go up on stage with his big sister.
By the end of the night, Seven, over-sugared and sad that the next holiday is over three long weeks away, was in tears, and we could hear Big in his crib yelling out "WEEN! WEEN!"
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Halloween: Part 2 of 3
Great Pumpkin Karma
Seven came home a week ago with a plan to fill this box with coins. She would do her daily "duties" (getting dressed, brushing teeth, brushing hair, packing up backpack etc. and the reverse on the flip side) and in exchange we'd put $0.50/day in the box. Grandma would, hopefully, match the donation.
It's due tomorrow and we're scrambling to find enough change to fill the box tonight.
Needless to say, Seven is already a much better person than I was at that age.
The following story is one of those family lores that is requested on a regular basis at bedtime: "Tell me a [Blogauthor] and [Cousin] story! . . . The one about the pumpkin!!!"
The story is not one of which I am proud. In fact, it captures one of my most morally bankrupt moments. At night, before bed, for Seven, it goes like this:
When I was little, we didn't go to the pumpkin patch to get pumpkins. They were all out on this little platform at our local grocery store, Food City. Let's just say that this store was no Kowalski's. It was seriously named Food City and I remember many community events in the big Food City parking lot: pancake feeds, rummage sales, and, of course, pumpkins.
This particular year, I was determined to have the biggest pumpkin on the lot.
Every time we'd walk by the pumpkins, on our way to shop for groceries, I'd nag at my mom, hanging back and picking out the biggest one. And every time she'd ignore my pleadings.
As Halloween approached, I knew I'd have to take matters into my own hands.
Cousin has an older sister--about five years older than me--who would plant seeds in our heads about life's possibilities. I reached into this little bag of tricks she'd built for us, and came up with a "fundraising plan" to get the money to buy the biggest pumpkin: get a pop cup from the Runza Hut in the same shopping complex, head over to K-Mart (I shudder now to imagine Seven crossing the enormous and very busy street that we crossed to get there. I know, by triangulating these events around other major occurrences in my life, that we had to have been about 8 when this happened) and set up shop outside, posing as fund raisers for Unicef.
I don't know why, but the plan actually worked. Despite the fact that we were "collecting" for Unicef with Runza cups, people dropped nickels and dimes in the cups, and we looked at each other in shock as the coins clinked together at the bottom of the cup, people passing by without questioning our true motives.
At one point, I got an elbow in the rib from Cousin, looked up, and saw one of my mom's good friends approaching. She saw us and smiled what I thought, even then, was a naive smile, dropping an actual five dollar bill into the cup.
It was at that point we felt seriously guilty.
Not guilty enough, however, to track the people down, return the money and apologize.
Or ACTUALLY give the money to Unicef.
Having landed the big load, we headed right over to the Food City pumpkin platform, practically drooling and dizzy with the excitement of having the freedom of getting to actually GET the largest pumpkin on the entire lot.
I can't remember even how we chose it. I can't remember how much it cost. I can't remember going in to pay at all, or eating the candy that I'm sure we purchased with the leftover money. All of that is gone.
My next memory is having the pumpkin, turning to Cousin, and realizing that we had no way to get it home. We hadn't considered actually HAVING the pumpkin. We hadn't considered anything at all beyond the moment of picking it out. What would we tell our moms? How had we paid for it? How would we carry it home? It was bigger than us!
Going home and getting a wagon and coming back the four blocks each way was too much of an eternity to us. I'm sure I tried to con Cousin into going for me so that I could keep watch over my Great Pumpkin, but she'd have nothing to do with that. In retrospect, I'm surprised she didn't take me up on my offer and leave, never to return to me and my pumpkin.
My next best plan was to roll the pumpkin home. It wouldn't be too difficult as it was downhill much of the way. I was convinced it was possible.
You probably know what happened to the pumpkin. My karmic justice was immediate. Before we even made it to the bottom of the hill, it was so severely pockmarked, that you could hardly even tell what it was. We abandoned what was left of it it at the curb and headed home.
Now THAT'S karma.
Here's a poem I wrote about the experience a couple of years ago with a few changes to protect the innocent.
I Still Don’t Know If She Knew That I Was Lying
Standing with my reluctant cousin
Triggering the automatic doors with her anxious toes
My elbow dug into her ribs
Whenever another K-Mart Shopper approached
And we held out our emptied Burger King cups
Announcing “Easter Seals!” with rehearsed sincerity
Mom never let me choose the biggest pumpkin.
It called out to me from its parking-lot home
Standing earnestly like a teenager
On tip-toes angling for a back-row position
In a family photo
And it was going well
People smiled, hurried and grateful
Dropping nickels and dimes into our makeshift collection cans
Checking off their day’s good deed
And moving on to their more pressing errands
We were elated, successful entrepreneurs
Periodically sizing up our profits
Dreaming of the biggest jack-o-lantern in the neighborhood
Until I saw one of my Moms’s friends approaching.
I had played at her house a million times
Bored with the quiet of no young kids
The smells of coffee, cigarettes and gossip
I thought to hide the cups
And their guilty contents
But even our presence there was suspicious
We were still so small, less than nine because mom was still alive
She said nothing her eyes looked quizzically:
“Alberta didn’t tell me you were volunteering!”
I smiled and looked away
She dropped a five dollar bill into my cup
It made no sound
A lonely bill next to the raucous, cooped-up coins
In their own bottom-of-the-cup rendezvous.
Even so, its fall was deafening to my ears
Echoing for the last three decades.
Seven came home a week ago with a plan to fill this box with coins. She would do her daily "duties" (getting dressed, brushing teeth, brushing hair, packing up backpack etc. and the reverse on the flip side) and in exchange we'd put $0.50/day in the box. Grandma would, hopefully, match the donation.
It's due tomorrow and we're scrambling to find enough change to fill the box tonight.
Needless to say, Seven is already a much better person than I was at that age.
The following story is one of those family lores that is requested on a regular basis at bedtime: "Tell me a [Blogauthor] and [Cousin] story! . . . The one about the pumpkin!!!"
The story is not one of which I am proud. In fact, it captures one of my most morally bankrupt moments. At night, before bed, for Seven, it goes like this:
When I was little, we didn't go to the pumpkin patch to get pumpkins. They were all out on this little platform at our local grocery store, Food City. Let's just say that this store was no Kowalski's. It was seriously named Food City and I remember many community events in the big Food City parking lot: pancake feeds, rummage sales, and, of course, pumpkins.
This particular year, I was determined to have the biggest pumpkin on the lot.
Every time we'd walk by the pumpkins, on our way to shop for groceries, I'd nag at my mom, hanging back and picking out the biggest one. And every time she'd ignore my pleadings.
As Halloween approached, I knew I'd have to take matters into my own hands.
Cousin has an older sister--about five years older than me--who would plant seeds in our heads about life's possibilities. I reached into this little bag of tricks she'd built for us, and came up with a "fundraising plan" to get the money to buy the biggest pumpkin: get a pop cup from the Runza Hut in the same shopping complex, head over to K-Mart (I shudder now to imagine Seven crossing the enormous and very busy street that we crossed to get there. I know, by triangulating these events around other major occurrences in my life, that we had to have been about 8 when this happened) and set up shop outside, posing as fund raisers for Unicef.
I don't know why, but the plan actually worked. Despite the fact that we were "collecting" for Unicef with Runza cups, people dropped nickels and dimes in the cups, and we looked at each other in shock as the coins clinked together at the bottom of the cup, people passing by without questioning our true motives.
At one point, I got an elbow in the rib from Cousin, looked up, and saw one of my mom's good friends approaching. She saw us and smiled what I thought, even then, was a naive smile, dropping an actual five dollar bill into the cup.
It was at that point we felt seriously guilty.
Not guilty enough, however, to track the people down, return the money and apologize.
Or ACTUALLY give the money to Unicef.
Having landed the big load, we headed right over to the Food City pumpkin platform, practically drooling and dizzy with the excitement of having the freedom of getting to actually GET the largest pumpkin on the entire lot.
I can't remember even how we chose it. I can't remember how much it cost. I can't remember going in to pay at all, or eating the candy that I'm sure we purchased with the leftover money. All of that is gone.
My next memory is having the pumpkin, turning to Cousin, and realizing that we had no way to get it home. We hadn't considered actually HAVING the pumpkin. We hadn't considered anything at all beyond the moment of picking it out. What would we tell our moms? How had we paid for it? How would we carry it home? It was bigger than us!
Going home and getting a wagon and coming back the four blocks each way was too much of an eternity to us. I'm sure I tried to con Cousin into going for me so that I could keep watch over my Great Pumpkin, but she'd have nothing to do with that. In retrospect, I'm surprised she didn't take me up on my offer and leave, never to return to me and my pumpkin.
My next best plan was to roll the pumpkin home. It wouldn't be too difficult as it was downhill much of the way. I was convinced it was possible.
You probably know what happened to the pumpkin. My karmic justice was immediate. Before we even made it to the bottom of the hill, it was so severely pockmarked, that you could hardly even tell what it was. We abandoned what was left of it it at the curb and headed home.
Now THAT'S karma.
Here's a poem I wrote about the experience a couple of years ago with a few changes to protect the innocent.
I Still Don’t Know If She Knew That I Was Lying
Standing with my reluctant cousin
Triggering the automatic doors with her anxious toes
My elbow dug into her ribs
Whenever another K-Mart Shopper approached
And we held out our emptied Burger King cups
Announcing “Easter Seals!” with rehearsed sincerity
Mom never let me choose the biggest pumpkin.
It called out to me from its parking-lot home
Standing earnestly like a teenager
On tip-toes angling for a back-row position
In a family photo
And it was going well
People smiled, hurried and grateful
Dropping nickels and dimes into our makeshift collection cans
Checking off their day’s good deed
And moving on to their more pressing errands
We were elated, successful entrepreneurs
Periodically sizing up our profits
Dreaming of the biggest jack-o-lantern in the neighborhood
Until I saw one of my Moms’s friends approaching.
I had played at her house a million times
Bored with the quiet of no young kids
The smells of coffee, cigarettes and gossip
I thought to hide the cups
And their guilty contents
But even our presence there was suspicious
We were still so small, less than nine because mom was still alive
She said nothing her eyes looked quizzically:
“Alberta didn’t tell me you were volunteering!”
I smiled and looked away
She dropped a five dollar bill into my cup
It made no sound
A lonely bill next to the raucous, cooped-up coins
In their own bottom-of-the-cup rendezvous.
Even so, its fall was deafening to my ears
Echoing for the last three decades.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Arbeit Macht Frei?
And now, back to the (new) title of this blog: Confessions from a Stay at Homo.
Obviously, it is a take off from the acronym SAHM, which usually stands for Stay At Home Mom.
I am not exactly a SAHM. Nor am I a stay at home "Baba". I'm not even really a stay-at-hom-er. But right now, it feels like it.
Some for-and background:
So, last week I submitted a proposal to my department requesting a part-time schedule. It begins:
The following document outlines and describes the policy, process, and my proposal for what I am calling a “temporary-but-extended work reduction/buyout plan.” I am submitting this to the faculty of the economics department for review and discussion to explore the impact and feasibility of my proposal, and, ultimately, approval.
For those of you who have been following this blog over the years, you could probably read between the lines to see that I have been struggling with work-life balance for quite some time, mainly because of the commute. I'm tenured at a college about two hours away and, before Big came along, I'd head down on Tuesday mornings and return on Thursday nights.
This seemed fine. BioMom and I could each enjoy our careers, and I had some extreme flexibility on Mondays, Fridays, and in the summer.
Of course, we had some friction. It's never fun to be home alone with a kid on a regular basis. But again, it felt worth it, given that I really enjoyed my job and that it was, ultimately, so flexible.
Then came Big. I was off of work for the first six weeks of his life, and then on for the next semester while BioMom took her maternity leave. Then I took a semester off for FMLA, and then a semester's leave at a local college. That college offered me an opportunity to replace someone on sabbatical this year and so I bought myself another year without a commute.
Needless to say, it has been wonderful.
During this time, I have become more primary to the kids while BioMom has simultaneously stepped up her career. At the time, we thought this would be a good chance for her to do some traveling for work and take on some extra responsibilities in anticipation of me returning to my commute, and consequently losing flexibility while I would be gone.
It's funny. I would have never expected to find myself in a relationship and a household with such a seemingly strict, 1950's style division of labor with BioMom in the "public sphere" working for a wage, and me in the "private sphere" focusing on domestic work.
In reality, I have continued to both work and earn a salary, but it nearly feels like I am not working without the commute. Plus, I work a lot less than she does, and I don't travel.
At the start of this semester, my sister-in-law asked, in a concerned voice, how I was doing about returning to work. "Fine!" I said, and wondered why she'd be so worried. I realized after that she thought I was going back to commuting and leaving the kids for what ends up being three nights a week as I don't get home until after 9 on Thursdays.
My heart dropped thinking about it.
And I started processing in my head.
How could I give up six years of graduate school and another six years toward tenure? My job is great! I enjoy it, it has become manageable, I get summers off, I don't have a boss, I can be as creative as I want to, I can research problems that interest me. . . . The list goes on and on. How could I give up my life's work? Would something else come along? Would I regret it once the kids are off to college? I started interviewing people about their careers, gauging passion and commitment. I started seeing family and work as a true tradeoff. I asked HFRM#1 about the new director of the Walker Art Center (a 41 year old superstar curator who had risen to the directorship at the Hirshhorn): does she have kids? I questioned my commitment to my discipline: I don't rush out of lectures and talks with economics problems gushing out of my head! This must NOT be my passion!?! I'm not even UP for the John Bates Clark Medal and I'll be 40 in a couple of years!?! I wondered: What could I do instead? Is being at home with the kids enough? Can BioMom and I survive this role-reversal? Would it feel like we are in an unequal relationship?
But after all the extremes, I kept coming back to the thought of being without them each week.
And it wasn't so much the being gone. What felt so restrictive was that, by necessity, the schedule was rigid. In order to fit in my teaching load, it HAD to be Tuesday morning through Thursday late afternoon. Every semester.
For those of you with kids in school, you know that everything happens Tuesdays through Thursdays. So, I extrapolated to forever, thinking that I'd miss everything.
So here I am. Proposal to teach one semester per year submitted. If they accept it, it sort of lets me be both a worker and a SAHM. Possibly the best of both worlds.
Obviously, it is a take off from the acronym SAHM, which usually stands for Stay At Home Mom.
I am not exactly a SAHM. Nor am I a stay at home "Baba". I'm not even really a stay-at-hom-er. But right now, it feels like it.
Some for-and background:
So, last week I submitted a proposal to my department requesting a part-time schedule. It begins:
The following document outlines and describes the policy, process, and my proposal for what I am calling a “temporary-but-extended work reduction/buyout plan.” I am submitting this to the faculty of the economics department for review and discussion to explore the impact and feasibility of my proposal, and, ultimately, approval.
For those of you who have been following this blog over the years, you could probably read between the lines to see that I have been struggling with work-life balance for quite some time, mainly because of the commute. I'm tenured at a college about two hours away and, before Big came along, I'd head down on Tuesday mornings and return on Thursday nights.
This seemed fine. BioMom and I could each enjoy our careers, and I had some extreme flexibility on Mondays, Fridays, and in the summer.
Of course, we had some friction. It's never fun to be home alone with a kid on a regular basis. But again, it felt worth it, given that I really enjoyed my job and that it was, ultimately, so flexible.
Then came Big. I was off of work for the first six weeks of his life, and then on for the next semester while BioMom took her maternity leave. Then I took a semester off for FMLA, and then a semester's leave at a local college. That college offered me an opportunity to replace someone on sabbatical this year and so I bought myself another year without a commute.
Needless to say, it has been wonderful.
During this time, I have become more primary to the kids while BioMom has simultaneously stepped up her career. At the time, we thought this would be a good chance for her to do some traveling for work and take on some extra responsibilities in anticipation of me returning to my commute, and consequently losing flexibility while I would be gone.
It's funny. I would have never expected to find myself in a relationship and a household with such a seemingly strict, 1950's style division of labor with BioMom in the "public sphere" working for a wage, and me in the "private sphere" focusing on domestic work.
In reality, I have continued to both work and earn a salary, but it nearly feels like I am not working without the commute. Plus, I work a lot less than she does, and I don't travel.
At the start of this semester, my sister-in-law asked, in a concerned voice, how I was doing about returning to work. "Fine!" I said, and wondered why she'd be so worried. I realized after that she thought I was going back to commuting and leaving the kids for what ends up being three nights a week as I don't get home until after 9 on Thursdays.
My heart dropped thinking about it.
And I started processing in my head.
How could I give up six years of graduate school and another six years toward tenure? My job is great! I enjoy it, it has become manageable, I get summers off, I don't have a boss, I can be as creative as I want to, I can research problems that interest me. . . . The list goes on and on. How could I give up my life's work? Would something else come along? Would I regret it once the kids are off to college? I started interviewing people about their careers, gauging passion and commitment. I started seeing family and work as a true tradeoff. I asked HFRM#1 about the new director of the Walker Art Center (a 41 year old superstar curator who had risen to the directorship at the Hirshhorn): does she have kids? I questioned my commitment to my discipline: I don't rush out of lectures and talks with economics problems gushing out of my head! This must NOT be my passion!?! I'm not even UP for the John Bates Clark Medal and I'll be 40 in a couple of years!?! I wondered: What could I do instead? Is being at home with the kids enough? Can BioMom and I survive this role-reversal? Would it feel like we are in an unequal relationship?
But after all the extremes, I kept coming back to the thought of being without them each week.
And it wasn't so much the being gone. What felt so restrictive was that, by necessity, the schedule was rigid. In order to fit in my teaching load, it HAD to be Tuesday morning through Thursday late afternoon. Every semester.
For those of you with kids in school, you know that everything happens Tuesdays through Thursdays. So, I extrapolated to forever, thinking that I'd miss everything.
So here I am. Proposal to teach one semester per year submitted. If they accept it, it sort of lets me be both a worker and a SAHM. Possibly the best of both worlds.
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.
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