Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Burnt Marshmallows and Unconditional Love
My mom died when I was nine.
That morning, when my older brother told me that she had passed, a gloomy Friday in October, remains one of the single most defining moments of my life.
All of my memories huddle around that bold line: before and after.
Cousin and I will recount doings from our childhood and know our age based on if my mom was around in our memories. As in, "how old were we when we had that sleepover on your backporch and we pulled my cat up in a bedsheet?" "Oh, we must've been eight because that was when mom and dad were on vacation and I was staying with you."
I mark time by that day.
Once eighteen, I had been living longer without her than with her.
On the 25th anniversary (again, I am always surprised at the passage of time without her), I planted a cherry tree in the front yard (see it below a little five years later--it actually produces yummy sour cherries!).
And this past year, when I turned 39, now with children of my own, ironically aged 3 and 9, I had lived (survived?) an astonishing 30 years without my mother.
Lately, in my rush toward middle age, I have been urgently, literally and metaphorically cleaning out the deadwood in my life.
We have this hedge in the backyard that you can see from space.
I mean that. I checked it out on Google Maps.
Anyway, the hedge had gone for for years without much attention. An annual trimming here or there, but no real clearing of the deadwood. No raking of the dead leaves. No opening, no renewing.
This year, I find myself inside the hedge. Tugging out the dead, opening up space for new growth. Bagging lots of leaves.
We had about 10 bags of lawn waste the other day about which neighbors commented relentlessly.
At a little BBQ, I began burning some of this wood. The pieces are awkward, bent and ill-fitting in the little firepit, so I have to be on constant vigilance, hand on hose, for stray fires in the surrounding area.
We had s'mores at the end of the night, for Big, his first. He loved the combination of fire, hot marshmallows, melted chocolate and graham crackers.
As I toasted his, I remembered my mom fawning over the most charred ones, gobbling up all of my mistakes as though I had produced a Renoir or a short story by Tillie Olsen for her to savor.
Then it dawned on me: she couldn't have loved my charred marshmallows. . . At least not at the Taylorist, scientific management rate at which I produced them.
She just loved me and eating those blackened marshmallows was just one of the many gifts she gave me during our short time together.
So here is a toast to all those mothers out there who are eating burnt marshmallows, or chewing ABC gum, or enjoying open-mouthed-snotty kisses (BioMom got one of those this morning!) or faking surprise at breakfast-in-bed, or sacrificing their alone time, or putting off their careers to spend time with their kids when they are young, or pining for dandelion bouquets and all of the other small and large sacrifices that translate into small and large gifts that may not go appreciated until they grow up and stop to recognize what had been given.
That morning, when my older brother told me that she had passed, a gloomy Friday in October, remains one of the single most defining moments of my life.
All of my memories huddle around that bold line: before and after.
Cousin and I will recount doings from our childhood and know our age based on if my mom was around in our memories. As in, "how old were we when we had that sleepover on your backporch and we pulled my cat up in a bedsheet?" "Oh, we must've been eight because that was when mom and dad were on vacation and I was staying with you."
I mark time by that day.
Once eighteen, I had been living longer without her than with her.
On the 25th anniversary (again, I am always surprised at the passage of time without her), I planted a cherry tree in the front yard (see it below a little five years later--it actually produces yummy sour cherries!).
And this past year, when I turned 39, now with children of my own, ironically aged 3 and 9, I had lived (survived?) an astonishing 30 years without my mother.
Lately, in my rush toward middle age, I have been urgently, literally and metaphorically cleaning out the deadwood in my life.
We have this hedge in the backyard that you can see from space.
I mean that. I checked it out on Google Maps.
Anyway, the hedge had gone for for years without much attention. An annual trimming here or there, but no real clearing of the deadwood. No raking of the dead leaves. No opening, no renewing.
This year, I find myself inside the hedge. Tugging out the dead, opening up space for new growth. Bagging lots of leaves.
We had about 10 bags of lawn waste the other day about which neighbors commented relentlessly.
At a little BBQ, I began burning some of this wood. The pieces are awkward, bent and ill-fitting in the little firepit, so I have to be on constant vigilance, hand on hose, for stray fires in the surrounding area.
We had s'mores at the end of the night, for Big, his first. He loved the combination of fire, hot marshmallows, melted chocolate and graham crackers.
As I toasted his, I remembered my mom fawning over the most charred ones, gobbling up all of my mistakes as though I had produced a Renoir or a short story by Tillie Olsen for her to savor.
Then it dawned on me: she couldn't have loved my charred marshmallows. . . At least not at the Taylorist, scientific management rate at which I produced them.
She just loved me and eating those blackened marshmallows was just one of the many gifts she gave me during our short time together.
So here is a toast to all those mothers out there who are eating burnt marshmallows, or chewing ABC gum, or enjoying open-mouthed-snotty kisses (BioMom got one of those this morning!) or faking surprise at breakfast-in-bed, or sacrificing their alone time, or putting off their careers to spend time with their kids when they are young, or pining for dandelion bouquets and all of the other small and large sacrifices that translate into small and large gifts that may not go appreciated until they grow up and stop to recognize what had been given.
Friday, May 01, 2009
My Woman
Sorry for the lack of posts. I've been suffering from some sort of midlife trauma that has taken me off course. Cousin is here now though and life seems to be moving back to some sort of normal, whatever that is.
Yesterday Nine, Big and I wandered over to our local coffee shop for French Sodas (them raspberry and cherry and me cherry/lime) when Big noticed a dalmation and his pal with their human owners a couple of tables down.
Big: Are those guys yours?
The stranger: Yeah. Is that woman yours? (pointing at me)
Big: Yeah. That's my woman!
I was surprised. He often identifies me as a boy. . .
Yesterday Nine, Big and I wandered over to our local coffee shop for French Sodas (them raspberry and cherry and me cherry/lime) when Big noticed a dalmation and his pal with their human owners a couple of tables down.
Big: Are those guys yours?
The stranger: Yeah. Is that woman yours? (pointing at me)
Big: Yeah. That's my woman!
I was surprised. He often identifies me as a boy. . .
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Pulling Her Leg: My Response
Easter Morning, April 2009
Dear [Nine]:
Thank you very much for your letter, dated April 10, 2009. I do often receive letters such as your own, so please forgive me if I provide my pat answers to your questions. There are, as you can imagine, many many children with questions such as your own.
Your first question is apparently, of high concern among children, particularly children from Western countries like the United States of America. I am curious about this. Are you, somehow, insecure about whether or not you have behaved naughtily throughout the past year? Do you fear that you, somehow, deserve rocks in your Easter Basket?
I, in fact, do not deliver rocks to naughty children. Even us bunnies realize that all children are both naughty and nice to varying degrees at different times. Furthermore, such behavior is often precipitated by choices made by the parents. Did you ever, as an example, read the book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? Do you remember the character Veruca Salt? Veruca, the only daughter of the wealthy Henry and Angina Salt, regularly exerts petulant behavior in order to get what she desires. When Veruca demands that she must have a Golden Ticket, her father buys numerous cases of Wonka Bars, and orders his factory workers to put aside their regular duties of peanut-shelling and unwrap the bars. The process lasts three days, all of which Veruca spends complaining that she doesn't have her ticket. When the ticket is finally found, Veruca is "all smiles again." Her father later confesses to Wonka that he knows his daughter is "a bit of a frump." So you can see, even spoiled little boys and girls deserve a chocolate on Easter.
You can decipher for yourself if I find you and your brother to be naughty or nice.
Do bunnies like carrots? Indeed, we do enjoy carrots. The story of Peter Rabbit and his trials and tribulations with Farmer McGregor were all true. We risk life and limb to acquire the tasty delicacies of fresh fruits and vegetables from people’s gardens. If only we were served or had the means to pay for such vegetables at the upscale groceries that cater to humans like yourself. Alas.
Why do humans dye eggs? Why is Easter in spring? Did Jesus die and rise again? Why are you the symbol of Easter? Did they have the seasons back then? I put all of these questions together because they are inextricably linked.
The Easter Bunny as a symbol has its origins in Alsace Germany where it was first mentioned in German writings as early as the 1600s. Why rabbits though? Well, rabbits are symbols of fertility (ask your parents what that means) from a long long time ago. Since birds lay eggs and rabbits give birth to a large number of babies at one time in the early spring, these (both eggs and bunnies) became symbols of the rising fertility of the earth at the Vernal Equinox (this just means the beginning of spring). So you can see, your questions are perfectly related as Easter, bunnies, eggs, renewal and the changing of the seasons are all intertwined.
Bunnies, then were symbols of spring when the celebrations were very different sorts of celebrations than they are now with, as you said, a link to the death and rise of Jesus. The celebration of spring was and still is, for some, what is known as a Pagan holiday – that is one without explicit religious connotations. People around the world, for all times have created celebrations around the changing of the seasons. In the fall, people celebrated the harvest and the beginning of winter, with days getting shorter and the cold weather and lack of abundant food. As spring comes, people celebrate rejuvenation, and life, and abundance. The ancient Saxons celebrated the return of spring with an uproarious festival commemorating their goddess of offspring and of springtime, Eostre.
So, now, on to eggs. Eggs, too, are a celebration of fertility that is quite separate from the life and death of Jesus. The precise origin of the ancient custom of coloring eggs is not known. Many eastern Christians to this day typically dye their Easter eggs red, the color of blood, in recognition of the renewal of life in springtime. Some also used the color green, in honor of the new foliage emerging after the long dead time of winter.
As for your question about Jesus. I cannot, unfortunately, answer this for you as it is a personal question of your faith and beliefs.
As for my life before obtaining this post as the Official Easter Bunny. I was born of meager means in the southern tip of Albania in a small town outside of Saranda near the Greek island of Corfu on the Ionian Sea, in the late Twentieth Century. I studied hard at school and was quite diligent in my duties at home in my community. I never expected to be assigned to this post as an adult, but am very grateful for the opportunity. It is an arduous task with long hours, particularly in the months of February, March and April, but, certainly, when I receive letters such as yours, the rewards are immeasurable. I will pass on this post in two years time and go back to my life with my family (I have approximately 1,326 children of varying ages).
Good luck young [Nine],
E. B.
Who is Pulling Whose Leg Now?
We are not parents who never lie to their kids.
Particularly in the realm of the holiday fantasies.
So Nine is now, clearly at a precipice. Not exactly sure what to do with her questioning and her hopes for all things Easter Bunny, Santa, Tooth-Fairy and the like.
Today she has left said Bunny a note, with the hopes of some clarification. The note reads as follows (I have not altered anything in any way to protect the innocent or her spelling concerns):
Saturday April 10, 2009
Dear Mr. Easter Bunny,
I have a couple of questions for you. Do you bring rocks to the naughty children? If so would you bring them to us? I hope not! Do bunnys really like carrots? Or is it just a symbol? Why do we dye eggs? Why is easter in spring? Did Jesus die and rise again in spring? Did they have the seasons back then? Why are you the symbol of easter? What was your life like before you were the "Easter Bunny"?
Love,
[Nine].
At this point, I feel somewhat compelled, in my response, to forge ahead with thoughts of our future relationship. The one that I intend to enjoy with her when she is, say, 16 or 17 when all veils are lifted and we can laugh a bit about life together over, say a cup of coffee, or later at age 25 over a gin and tonic. I feel a sort of pressure to make a humorous lasting impression, not unlike the feeling of the first day of a semester when one hopes to be compelling, challenging, interesting AND someone the students would like to befriend at some point after their grades had been long turned in.
I am reminded of one This American Life story in which a young woman recalls her long-held belief that their neighbor was the tooth fairy. (If you're interested, it is a fantastic episode. Check it out here: Kid Logic.
All this is to say that we are going to great lengths to respond, write, legitimize and, ultimately, print in some exacting way, a letter from said Bunny.
Particularly in the realm of the holiday fantasies.
So Nine is now, clearly at a precipice. Not exactly sure what to do with her questioning and her hopes for all things Easter Bunny, Santa, Tooth-Fairy and the like.
Today she has left said Bunny a note, with the hopes of some clarification. The note reads as follows (I have not altered anything in any way to protect the innocent or her spelling concerns):
Saturday April 10, 2009
Dear Mr. Easter Bunny,
I have a couple of questions for you. Do you bring rocks to the naughty children? If so would you bring them to us? I hope not! Do bunnys really like carrots? Or is it just a symbol? Why do we dye eggs? Why is easter in spring? Did Jesus die and rise again in spring? Did they have the seasons back then? Why are you the symbol of easter? What was your life like before you were the "Easter Bunny"?
Love,
[Nine].
At this point, I feel somewhat compelled, in my response, to forge ahead with thoughts of our future relationship. The one that I intend to enjoy with her when she is, say, 16 or 17 when all veils are lifted and we can laugh a bit about life together over, say a cup of coffee, or later at age 25 over a gin and tonic. I feel a sort of pressure to make a humorous lasting impression, not unlike the feeling of the first day of a semester when one hopes to be compelling, challenging, interesting AND someone the students would like to befriend at some point after their grades had been long turned in.
I am reminded of one This American Life story in which a young woman recalls her long-held belief that their neighbor was the tooth fairy. (If you're interested, it is a fantastic episode. Check it out here: Kid Logic.
All this is to say that we are going to great lengths to respond, write, legitimize and, ultimately, print in some exacting way, a letter from said Bunny.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Followup to the Blockbuster Incident
So yesterday I was interested in getting the new movie Bolt for the kids, and, to be honest myself, and was preparing to head back to the local movie peddler early enough to actually get a copy of the popular movie before the weekend started.
Big was actually paying attention to me when I gave him the "Dora Map" overview of the things I had hoped we would accomplish yesterday, and absorbed the full meaning of going to the movie store.
His response? In a sadistic tone, with slim, slanty eyes he said:
I'm gonna get some candy at the movie store.
What am I in for with this one?
Big was actually paying attention to me when I gave him the "Dora Map" overview of the things I had hoped we would accomplish yesterday, and absorbed the full meaning of going to the movie store.
His response? In a sadistic tone, with slim, slanty eyes he said:
I'm gonna get some candy at the movie store.
What am I in for with this one?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Touching the Butt at Blockbuster
So I just got back from a little errand for a Saturday Night movie from Blockbuster.
I took Big because he took the longest nap on the planet today and we were hoping to do the bait-and-switch with Nine, getting her to bed before him as she was MORE than ready.
Knowing what was in store, I spent at least 3/4 of the drive preparing him for the inevitable onslaught of sugary delectables that would entice, but which would, ultimately be denied.
To be clear: I was not going to buy any candy.
It all started out great. We looked around for movies, ran into a few friends (one of whom hilariously confused me for a different lesbian in one of his ECFE classes --"Didn't you move?" and then analogized with an episode from The Office in which a guy actually marked an Asian woman at a party that he was interested in, in order to not confuse her with the other Asian woman at the party).
We got to the infuriatingly long line, which left too much time to check out all of the glorious sugary goodness that shouted out to us: ME! PICK ME!! ME!
Apparently they shouted out to Big in a louder voice. He started opening a sucker.
Me (panicking slightly): Mr. [Big]. If you open that we will leave immediately. do not open that.
That time it worked. I literally think I said "Thank God" aloud.
Then he moved on to one of those push-up suckers and opened it as quickly as he possibly could and shoved it into his mouth.
I thought to myself F($*&#K. Now I have to follow through. How long can one damn line be? And is this movie WORTH it?
And then remembered why we never take him anywhere.
I grabbed him and in as composed of a voice and demeanor as I could muster, seriously put the candy on the counter (okay, slammed): That's it. We're buying it and you're going to watch me throw it away.
In my head I added: Out of your COLLEGE FUND, MISTER! And that one FRIGGIN dollar would have added up to at LEAST FIVE in this market by the time you'd have been eighteen -- IF, that is, you even GET there at this rate!
He: Screams.
Me, not exactly mortified, but attempting to wait patiently in line as though I don't have a dejected three-foot monster clinging to my knees and yelling BABA! BABA! WHY DID YOU SAY NO, BABA? WHYYYYYYYYY? I DON'T WANT YOU TO SAY NO!!! at the top of his lungs.
Me, incredibly calm, but bracing. Acid beginning to leak out of my stomach lining.
He: But... I'M HUNGRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!
The gal at the counter looked on understandingly and said that we didn't need to purchase the candy.
Me: Yes.
She: Should I just throw it away?
Me: No.
She checked us out and I walked around the side of the counter. The line was no less long as when we began.
Me, kneeling and in a very low, very serious tone (and I need to be clear here, I did NOT have my fingers wrapped tightly around his upper arm as my mom CERTAINLY would have at this point. See? I am growing up!): [Big], I warned you that we weren't going to have any candy from here. We're going home and having some ice cream. But no candy here. You didn't listen to me and I need to throw this away.
We walked out holding hands.
Me: Anticipating a G&T.
Him: Trusting me a bit more.
At least I hope.
I took Big because he took the longest nap on the planet today and we were hoping to do the bait-and-switch with Nine, getting her to bed before him as she was MORE than ready.
Knowing what was in store, I spent at least 3/4 of the drive preparing him for the inevitable onslaught of sugary delectables that would entice, but which would, ultimately be denied.
To be clear: I was not going to buy any candy.
It all started out great. We looked around for movies, ran into a few friends (one of whom hilariously confused me for a different lesbian in one of his ECFE classes --"Didn't you move?" and then analogized with an episode from The Office in which a guy actually marked an Asian woman at a party that he was interested in, in order to not confuse her with the other Asian woman at the party).
We got to the infuriatingly long line, which left too much time to check out all of the glorious sugary goodness that shouted out to us: ME! PICK ME!! ME!
Apparently they shouted out to Big in a louder voice. He started opening a sucker.
Me (panicking slightly): Mr. [Big]. If you open that we will leave immediately. do not open that.
That time it worked. I literally think I said "Thank God" aloud.
Then he moved on to one of those push-up suckers and opened it as quickly as he possibly could and shoved it into his mouth.
I thought to myself F($*&#K. Now I have to follow through. How long can one damn line be? And is this movie WORTH it?
And then remembered why we never take him anywhere.
I grabbed him and in as composed of a voice and demeanor as I could muster, seriously put the candy on the counter (okay, slammed): That's it. We're buying it and you're going to watch me throw it away.
In my head I added: Out of your COLLEGE FUND, MISTER! And that one FRIGGIN dollar would have added up to at LEAST FIVE in this market by the time you'd have been eighteen -- IF, that is, you even GET there at this rate!
He: Screams.
Me, not exactly mortified, but attempting to wait patiently in line as though I don't have a dejected three-foot monster clinging to my knees and yelling BABA! BABA! WHY DID YOU SAY NO, BABA? WHYYYYYYYYY? I DON'T WANT YOU TO SAY NO!!! at the top of his lungs.
Me, incredibly calm, but bracing. Acid beginning to leak out of my stomach lining.
He: But... I'M HUNGRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!
The gal at the counter looked on understandingly and said that we didn't need to purchase the candy.
Me: Yes.
She: Should I just throw it away?
Me: No.
She checked us out and I walked around the side of the counter. The line was no less long as when we began.
Me, kneeling and in a very low, very serious tone (and I need to be clear here, I did NOT have my fingers wrapped tightly around his upper arm as my mom CERTAINLY would have at this point. See? I am growing up!): [Big], I warned you that we weren't going to have any candy from here. We're going home and having some ice cream. But no candy here. You didn't listen to me and I need to throw this away.
We walked out holding hands.
Me: Anticipating a G&T.
Him: Trusting me a bit more.
At least I hope.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Girl-On-Girl GOP Catfight!
Yum.
Check out this great synopsis and analysis By Dahlia Lithwick of the McCain, Coulter, Ingraham drama that has been replayed over and over on every media outlet possible.
A couple of choice quotes for your perusal:
Ever wonder why some men think women are less than serious political thinkers? It certainly helps explain why so many men continue to believe that when it comes to "political discourse," women are all long, sprawling legs and silky blond hair in a tangle on the dessert cart. It's one thing to air your dirty laundry. But are we really stupid enough to be having a front-page battle over a plus-size thong?
And:
McCain's problem isn't her weight, or her views, or even the fact that she doesn't know a lot. It's that she suddenly holds a rather enormous megaphone without understanding that the person most likely to be smacked on the head with it is herself.
Check out this great synopsis and analysis By Dahlia Lithwick of the McCain, Coulter, Ingraham drama that has been replayed over and over on every media outlet possible.
A couple of choice quotes for your perusal:
Ever wonder why some men think women are less than serious political thinkers? It certainly helps explain why so many men continue to believe that when it comes to "political discourse," women are all long, sprawling legs and silky blond hair in a tangle on the dessert cart. It's one thing to air your dirty laundry. But are we really stupid enough to be having a front-page battle over a plus-size thong?
And:
McCain's problem isn't her weight, or her views, or even the fact that she doesn't know a lot. It's that she suddenly holds a rather enormous megaphone without understanding that the person most likely to be smacked on the head with it is herself.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Food Experiment Continued: Article from Good Housekeeping
My Sister-in-Law sent us the article "the Junk Food Gene" from the March 2009 issue of Good Housekeeping.
In response to a woman's worry about her eight-year-old daughter's obsession with chocolate, a doctor responds:
"'On your way home, stop at the store and buy enough chocolate to fill an entire kitchen cabinet. In your kitchen, designate one cabinet The Chocolate Cabinet and fill it to overflowing with the chocolate you bought. Now tell your daughter that this is hers and hers alone. Tell her that she can eat as much of it as she wants and that you will fill it back up when the cabinet gets even a tiny bit empty. Do not criticize her. Do not watch her with hawk eyes. And make sure that cabinet is brimming with chocolate. Wait three weeks, and then let me know what happens.'"
Fast forward three weeks.
"'When I first told Gracie about the new plan, she didn't believe me. She waited until I left the kitchen, and then she plowed through the contents of her cabinet before I could change my mind. I filled up that cabinet four times that first week (with gritted teeth, I admit). But when Gracie realized I was not going to criticize her and that I was absolutely serious about letting her have as much as she wanted, she ate less and less. By the second week, I only had to buy a little chocolate, and by the third week, none at all. She is more relaxed around food. She is losing weight. I am a chocolate-cabinet convert!'"
The author replies:
It's not about the food. Although the chocolate-cabinet idea was radical, I was almost positive that what Gracie wanted wasn't candy. She wanted her mother's (positive) attention. She wanted her mother to trust her. But mostly, she wanted to believe in and trust herself, and the only way she could do that was first learning those skills from her mother. The drama around food and weight gain was the language that Gracie was using to communicate with her mother. The real issue is never about food.
And here's more:
Mothers from around the world ask her: "How do I best love my child when it comes to food? What will help her the most?"
And she responds: "'Attend to your own relationship with food first.'"
"And ask yourself this question: If you could fill a cabinet with anything--food, attention, time--what would it be? Chances are, it won't be chocolate. Commit to being lavish with yourself with what you really need. As you do that, you will become a living example of self-care and trust and love. You will be who you want your children to become. Believe me, they'll notice.'"
In response to a woman's worry about her eight-year-old daughter's obsession with chocolate, a doctor responds:
"'On your way home, stop at the store and buy enough chocolate to fill an entire kitchen cabinet. In your kitchen, designate one cabinet The Chocolate Cabinet and fill it to overflowing with the chocolate you bought. Now tell your daughter that this is hers and hers alone. Tell her that she can eat as much of it as she wants and that you will fill it back up when the cabinet gets even a tiny bit empty. Do not criticize her. Do not watch her with hawk eyes. And make sure that cabinet is brimming with chocolate. Wait three weeks, and then let me know what happens.'"
Fast forward three weeks.
"'When I first told Gracie about the new plan, she didn't believe me. She waited until I left the kitchen, and then she plowed through the contents of her cabinet before I could change my mind. I filled up that cabinet four times that first week (with gritted teeth, I admit). But when Gracie realized I was not going to criticize her and that I was absolutely serious about letting her have as much as she wanted, she ate less and less. By the second week, I only had to buy a little chocolate, and by the third week, none at all. She is more relaxed around food. She is losing weight. I am a chocolate-cabinet convert!'"
The author replies:
It's not about the food. Although the chocolate-cabinet idea was radical, I was almost positive that what Gracie wanted wasn't candy. She wanted her mother's (positive) attention. She wanted her mother to trust her. But mostly, she wanted to believe in and trust herself, and the only way she could do that was first learning those skills from her mother. The drama around food and weight gain was the language that Gracie was using to communicate with her mother. The real issue is never about food.
And here's more:
Mothers from around the world ask her: "How do I best love my child when it comes to food? What will help her the most?"
And she responds: "'Attend to your own relationship with food first.'"
"And ask yourself this question: If you could fill a cabinet with anything--food, attention, time--what would it be? Chances are, it won't be chocolate. Commit to being lavish with yourself with what you really need. As you do that, you will become a living example of self-care and trust and love. You will be who you want your children to become. Believe me, they'll notice.'"
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Why it Would Suck to be an Academic's Daughter: Part 1 of 10,572
You didn't know a bear could be cute, did you?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
39 Months and 5 days: Touching the Butt
I am finally getting around to reading my borrowed copy of Your Three Year Old: Friend or Enemy that I got about a month ago from Catherine.
From the prologue, I can tell you I'm already fearing three-and-a-half, but for now, Big is true to the description:
"Three now enjoys other children, but most of all he enjoys his [Baba]. He loves to do things with her--go for a walk, go to the store, 'help' with housework, and, above all, play. He is happiest when his [Baba] finds it possible to give up other activities and concentrate on him. Almost anything the two of you do together bring him joy. It is bliss to have [Baba] read to him, play games with him, talk to him, just be near him."
Can I freeze time?
Even as I read this, not focusing on him, but stealing time to blog, he is near me playing well enough alone, but asking for my help. In a few minutes he'll be by my side, a small foot digging into my leg, wanting to be touching. If the leg is not enough, he'll roll his whole body into mine and rub his face on my face.
It is like new love and spring and hot baked bread out of the oven all wrapped up together.
At night, when I'm walking out of his room after the bedtime routine, we have a little game that prolongs our time together:
Me: I love you!
He: I love you too!
Me: I love you more!
He: I love you most!
Me: I love you more than most!
And we giggle and have to practically start the process over.
The up-and-downside of our incredibly active and curious little Three is one of the most constant features of his personality: He touches the Butt.
If you aren't familiar with this line, check out this long but incredible clip from Finding Nemo (the relevant portion is in the last 5 seconds of this clip). Nemo swims out over the "drop off" to a boat with his father threatening him with all he can to come back and, finally, to not touch the boat. Nemo defies him by flicking a single finn on the boat.
His friend gasps: HE TOUCHED THE BUTT!!
Big invariably touches the butt.
We'll threaten. We'll time out. We'll ignore.
He still touches the butt.
Ignoring is the worst because he then has to bring it to our attention:
He: I'm touching the BUUUU-UHHH-TTT!
Also true to Your Three Year Old is his fascination with words. "Not only is he secure physically and happy socially and calm emotionally, but language now means a great deal to him. He LOVES new words--new words, big words, different words."
Today he asked what "naked" meant (his sister had on the television and there was a commercial for the Naked Brother's Band).
His response to the definition: But, they're wearing clothes???
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Nine
I can't believe she's nine.
Oh, and the boy, above, is turning into a bit of a pain in the arse, at least from her perspective. I wish I had the above moment on video. He was sitting there with her, next to her, singing, allowing her her moment. And then... The last verse:
. . . . Happy BIIIIRTH day dear [Eigh...ght] .... Happy birth... day... To...
[he blows the candle out]
YOUUUUU!
Friday, March 06, 2009
Our Food Experiment: A Week of Home Detoxification
So I am finally getting back to following up with my original post on our household eating experiment.
This topic seems to hit a nerve with people. Most kids, for example, seem obsessed with sweets and, because we all only care about our kids and want the best of them, I think parents get obsessed about kids' obsessions.
And we don't realize that things change. Kids change. They won't be how they are today, tomorrow, so issues today get compounded.
Anyway, on to our experiment with letting go of control.
To recap: BioMom and I realized, with some gentle nudging from a loving and concerned neighbor, that perhaps, we were part of the problem with what we perceived was an excessive obsession with food on behalf of our esteemed eight (almost nine) year old.
The suggestion? Why not try saying "yes" to everything?
Our response? How long?
The answer? Long enough to make a real habit if it. Say six or seven weeks?
So off we set into the land of the counter-intuitive: to help out with a food obsession, let HER have the control. Let HER make the mistakes. Let HER make decisions about her own body.
In conjunction, BioMom began reading How to get your kids to eat (but not too much)*, recommended to me by a mom from our ECFE class and several people have pointed me toward a recent article about one family's response to their daughter's obsession with chocolate (which I have yet to track down -- if anyone can help me here, I'd really appreciate it).
So on to Day One.
I was the one home that day when Eight came home from school looking for snacks.
Can I have a snack?
Sure? Have whatever you want.
At this point, I had no idea how much cr*&%)p was in our house, but as you'll see, Eight was HIGHLY in tuned.
Can I have a strawberry soda?
Yes.
She comes out to the living room where I was working (Big was taking a nap) with a box of vanilla wafers and a strawberry soda.
My immediate reaction was, what kind of freakshow household with kids still has three Crush sodas leftover from New Year's Eve in their fridge? I mean what kind of control freaks are we that they aren't gone?
I was prepared to let her have all three at once, if asked.
Gulp.
I emailed BioMom with an update. We have been processing this constantly, trying to read ahead in the book where necessary for advice about rules (if any).
When Eight was done with a few cookies (she ended up finishing the box in three setting which we realized was a slight amount over the suggested serving size, but said nothing) she just moved on with her day. No big deal.
Day 2: Soda number two of three and more cookies. And after dinner:
Can we have some ice cream?
Sure, I think we have some mango sorbet in the freezer.
I don't like that. Can I have some ice cream?
I don't think we have any.
She rushes to the downstairs freezer and pulls out an old quart of ice cream left over from Big's December birthday which I didn't know even existed. We open it and it is completely crystallized, but consumed with glee with the requested mini chocolate chips sprinkled on top.
Day 3: Soda number three of three. That evening:
Can we have some ice cream?
I don't think we have any.
Yes -- what about the ice cream from last night?
There isn't any left?
Can I have the mango sorbet?
This became a pattern. She essentially moved down her utility curve on preferred sweets. As we ran out of what was initially preferred, she would request the stuff that was rejected initially.
By the fifth or sixth day, most of the real junk in our house was gone. We weren't replacing, but this was only somewhat purposefully. We had hoped that she would stabilize before we re-introduced sweets.
We worried about what would happen when the girl scout cookies came. Would we just give her the box, or dole out servings?
Once the bulk of the junk was gone, she moved on to ingredients.
What is 'malted milk'?
Oh, that is stuff that you put into shakes to make them malts (we hadn't used it in years but it was in the 'baking section' of our kitchen.
Can I try it?
Sure!
At this point she started realizing that something strange and fantastic was happening in our house.
To friend after school one day after asking for a snack she says:
She'll let us have ANYTHING in the house!!
Friend: ANYTHING???
Eight: YES!!
Little did they know that the house had been quickly scoured for the junkiest of junk.
Another day:
Can I have some sugar?
That's when we imposed the 'You need to eat actual food. Not ingredients' rule.
At one point she asked for the rest of the mini chocolate chips in the bag described above. At that point I did have a little talk about serving size. (It turns out that a serving of mini chocolate chips is a disappointing number of 24, to both Eight and my's true dismay.)
I'll close for now on my initial report with a promise to follow up on what happened post detox.
*This turns out to be a better book than even its title suggests. It addresses the parent's own issues with eating as well as the kids need for control and how to deal with that. I highly recommend it to all, particularly those concerned with kids that won't eat a thing.
This topic seems to hit a nerve with people. Most kids, for example, seem obsessed with sweets and, because we all only care about our kids and want the best of them, I think parents get obsessed about kids' obsessions.
And we don't realize that things change. Kids change. They won't be how they are today, tomorrow, so issues today get compounded.
Anyway, on to our experiment with letting go of control.
To recap: BioMom and I realized, with some gentle nudging from a loving and concerned neighbor, that perhaps, we were part of the problem with what we perceived was an excessive obsession with food on behalf of our esteemed eight (almost nine) year old.
The suggestion? Why not try saying "yes" to everything?
Our response? How long?
The answer? Long enough to make a real habit if it. Say six or seven weeks?
So off we set into the land of the counter-intuitive: to help out with a food obsession, let HER have the control. Let HER make the mistakes. Let HER make decisions about her own body.
In conjunction, BioMom began reading How to get your kids to eat (but not too much)*, recommended to me by a mom from our ECFE class and several people have pointed me toward a recent article about one family's response to their daughter's obsession with chocolate (which I have yet to track down -- if anyone can help me here, I'd really appreciate it).
So on to Day One.
I was the one home that day when Eight came home from school looking for snacks.
Can I have a snack?
Sure? Have whatever you want.
At this point, I had no idea how much cr*&%)p was in our house, but as you'll see, Eight was HIGHLY in tuned.
Can I have a strawberry soda?
Yes.
She comes out to the living room where I was working (Big was taking a nap) with a box of vanilla wafers and a strawberry soda.
My immediate reaction was, what kind of freakshow household with kids still has three Crush sodas leftover from New Year's Eve in their fridge? I mean what kind of control freaks are we that they aren't gone?
I was prepared to let her have all three at once, if asked.
Gulp.
I emailed BioMom with an update. We have been processing this constantly, trying to read ahead in the book where necessary for advice about rules (if any).
When Eight was done with a few cookies (she ended up finishing the box in three setting which we realized was a slight amount over the suggested serving size, but said nothing) she just moved on with her day. No big deal.
Day 2: Soda number two of three and more cookies. And after dinner:
Can we have some ice cream?
Sure, I think we have some mango sorbet in the freezer.
I don't like that. Can I have some ice cream?
I don't think we have any.
She rushes to the downstairs freezer and pulls out an old quart of ice cream left over from Big's December birthday which I didn't know even existed. We open it and it is completely crystallized, but consumed with glee with the requested mini chocolate chips sprinkled on top.
Day 3: Soda number three of three. That evening:
Can we have some ice cream?
I don't think we have any.
Yes -- what about the ice cream from last night?
There isn't any left?
Can I have the mango sorbet?
This became a pattern. She essentially moved down her utility curve on preferred sweets. As we ran out of what was initially preferred, she would request the stuff that was rejected initially.
By the fifth or sixth day, most of the real junk in our house was gone. We weren't replacing, but this was only somewhat purposefully. We had hoped that she would stabilize before we re-introduced sweets.
We worried about what would happen when the girl scout cookies came. Would we just give her the box, or dole out servings?
Once the bulk of the junk was gone, she moved on to ingredients.
What is 'malted milk'?
Oh, that is stuff that you put into shakes to make them malts (we hadn't used it in years but it was in the 'baking section' of our kitchen.
Can I try it?
Sure!
At this point she started realizing that something strange and fantastic was happening in our house.
To friend after school one day after asking for a snack she says:
She'll let us have ANYTHING in the house!!
Friend: ANYTHING???
Eight: YES!!
Little did they know that the house had been quickly scoured for the junkiest of junk.
Another day:
Can I have some sugar?
That's when we imposed the 'You need to eat actual food. Not ingredients' rule.
At one point she asked for the rest of the mini chocolate chips in the bag described above. At that point I did have a little talk about serving size. (It turns out that a serving of mini chocolate chips is a disappointing number of 24, to both Eight and my's true dismay.)
I'll close for now on my initial report with a promise to follow up on what happened post detox.
*This turns out to be a better book than even its title suggests. It addresses the parent's own issues with eating as well as the kids need for control and how to deal with that. I highly recommend it to all, particularly those concerned with kids that won't eat a thing.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Waffle House Lesbian
So, my faux mother-in-law (there's no legal relationship going on around here) is hilarious.*
A couple of years ago we visited them during their month-long sojourn to the warm-land in January.
Having done my graduate studies on the east coast, I talked everyone into reliving some of my glory days by heading over to the Waffle House for breakfast.
Let's just say that the food was certainly not what I remembered or had my tastes simply grown with the slight increase in wealth (let's just say that I earn more than my graduate stipend which was then $8,500)?
But the service? That's where this story takes off.
We were being served by a waiter that BioMom and I immediately recognized as one of ours but whom the faux Father-in-law referred to as "Sir" as in "Sir, can I get a refill on this orange juice?"
She didn't flinch. But Eight (then Six or Seven) looked over at grandpa sharply as in "can't you tell that that's a woman? A woman like my Baba?? Are you an idiot?"
We so enjoyed ourselves that BioMom unknowingly left the restaurant with a souvenir mug in her quite accompanying purse.**
So today BioMom spent some time with her parents upon their return from the '09 visit to the land-of-warm only to return with a legitimate, paid-for substitute that I, and I told her so in my appreciative acknowledgment, value less.
*No, this is not a brown-nosing entry. She doesn't know this blog exists, although I do expect she'd pass an exam question such as the following: "What is a URL?" That is to say that it is not that she is computer-illiterate that she is unawares of the goings-on in this corner of the blogsphere.
**This blog author does not support or condone illegal behavior in any way. Do not try this at home.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Joining the Maddow Widowers' Support Group
So I recently joined LesbianDad's new support group for Widowers of partners lost to Rachel Maddow.
As I said in her comment section, on one recent Valentine's day, I found, upon retiring that evening, a little red card sitting underneath the remote control. Decorated with loving, flowery writing, it mentioned how our nights would, henceforth, be filled with humor and lightness.
Why? I queried my love.
Turn it on! She responded, barely able to hold back her delight.
I flicked on the television only to find a wolf in hot dyke's clothing (albeit unfortunately coiffed for prime-time).
I felt like a 1950's wife receiving a pink bowling ball for Valentine's day.
As I said in her comment section, on one recent Valentine's day, I found, upon retiring that evening, a little red card sitting underneath the remote control. Decorated with loving, flowery writing, it mentioned how our nights would, henceforth, be filled with humor and lightness.
Why? I queried my love.
Turn it on! She responded, barely able to hold back her delight.
I flicked on the television only to find a wolf in hot dyke's clothing (albeit unfortunately coiffed for prime-time).
I felt like a 1950's wife receiving a pink bowling ball for Valentine's day.
I Heart Crayola
Talk about gender-reversals... I've become way too crafty in my stay-at-homo role. See the below progression.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
And Baby Makes Five
So in addition to all of the discussion of the insane woman who just had octuplets, a friend of ours just delivered her fifth.
No I recognize that I am neurotic and that my reaction here is not very rational, but I can't help but seeing that decision and reacting personally to it.
In my gut I think Who would ever want FIVE children?
My next immediate reaction is: Why don't I want FIVE children?
What does this mean about me and my love for kids if I don't want more?
This is that lesson -- why do people want different things? -- that I've been coming back to ever since that first time I got dumped in high school.
But really. . . Doesn't Christmas (or any holiday) sound great with five excited kids running around, thrilled with the joy of the season? Don't you miss the stages as they go by--first smile, first giggle, first step, first word, first. . . . ? This friend of mine has one before and, now, two after Big so she'll be enjoying a three-year-old at Christmas for some time.
Does sibling rivalry have diminishing marginal returns as one has more kids? In other words, do kids realize that with more of them they get less of an effect either with the parents or with the other kids and therefore fight less?
Do they fight more?
Is it easier if you just give in to it all and not expect to have your own life?
My bottom line is gloves and all other winter paraphernalia.
How the hell can one or two people keep track of five children's winter paraphernalia?
Maybe children's independence increases as the number of siblings increases.
Maybe if we just moved to Hawaii I'd want eight.
No I recognize that I am neurotic and that my reaction here is not very rational, but I can't help but seeing that decision and reacting personally to it.
In my gut I think Who would ever want FIVE children?
My next immediate reaction is: Why don't I want FIVE children?
What does this mean about me and my love for kids if I don't want more?
This is that lesson -- why do people want different things? -- that I've been coming back to ever since that first time I got dumped in high school.
But really. . . Doesn't Christmas (or any holiday) sound great with five excited kids running around, thrilled with the joy of the season? Don't you miss the stages as they go by--first smile, first giggle, first step, first word, first. . . . ? This friend of mine has one before and, now, two after Big so she'll be enjoying a three-year-old at Christmas for some time.
Does sibling rivalry have diminishing marginal returns as one has more kids? In other words, do kids realize that with more of them they get less of an effect either with the parents or with the other kids and therefore fight less?
Do they fight more?
Is it easier if you just give in to it all and not expect to have your own life?
My bottom line is gloves and all other winter paraphernalia.
How the hell can one or two people keep track of five children's winter paraphernalia?
Maybe children's independence increases as the number of siblings increases.
Maybe if we just moved to Hawaii I'd want eight.
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