Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Up north, one week later
Maybe it's because Mondays are so shitty, but I'm dreamin' of vacation here and wondering why it always takes me so long to pull pictures off the damn digital camera to enjoy. Our trip up north last weekend may have been rainy and cold, but it was very fun. There's not a ton to do in the small Michigan thumb towns, but we managed to entertain ourselves in both a child-friendly and adult way. Wow, that sounds like we had strippers, but I assure you there was no such nonsense. Instead, we rollicked across the countryside with the kids, visitng apple orchards and country stores, holiday festivals and antiques stores. We did also manage to put our kids down from time to time and found something to talk about other than how cute they are, how much they sleep or eat and how smart they are getting. Oh, and we drank some beer.
Our traveling companions:
It's an amazing place, and we're so lucky the judge and his wife let us use it whenever we want. While my heart belongs to Lake Michigan, it's nice to hop in the car and be on Lake Huron in just a few short hours.
On an unrelated, non-vacation topic, I was just sorting through old and new photos and found these two taken in the same chair almost exactly one year (to the day) apart. I know I used to want to sock people really hard in the shoulder every time I had to hear a comment like "Enjoy these times, they go so fast," but I am speechless in the face of such tangible proof of just how true that is.
Our traveling companions:
A fine retail experience at the Dollar Store/Ice Cream Parlor/Thrift Store (Courtney still can't believe the dress I got for Clementine for a mere 50 cents, and I don't think the disbelief is the good kind):
Searching for a good family shot that we never can seem to get:
Some bedtime reading that is apparently very disturbing...you can just see it in her eyes (no joke: I'm across the room reading a Nancy Drew book):
And lots and lots of fall:
It's an amazing place, and we're so lucky the judge and his wife let us use it whenever we want. While my heart belongs to Lake Michigan, it's nice to hop in the car and be on Lake Huron in just a few short hours.
On an unrelated, non-vacation topic, I was just sorting through old and new photos and found these two taken in the same chair almost exactly one year (to the day) apart. I know I used to want to sock people really hard in the shoulder every time I had to hear a comment like "Enjoy these times, they go so fast," but I am speechless in the face of such tangible proof of just how true that is.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Doting? Really?
I really have gotten a thick skin as far as this whole mothering thing goes. People all the time provide unsolicited advice and "help," admonishing me to put Clementine's hood on or let her cry herself to sleep or put her down lest she get spoiled, and I've learned to smile and blow it off, all the while cursing these fine citizens in my head. This morning at work I was showing a co-worker who is kind of like a boss a picture of my lovely child, and his comment was, "You better hurry up and have another so you can disperse some of this attention around. I've never known such a doting mother." My first reaction was to defensively point out that I see my kid for 3 or 4 awake hours 5 days a week, which can hardly provide ample time for doting. Yes, I actually jumped to my own defense instead of leaping on the offense and asking him what the hell business of his my parenting is. Why can't people who are so wholly unconnected with my life just say, "Yes, that is a nice picture. Her eyes are beautiful," and move the fuck on?
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
I've met the enemy
We’re pretty certain at my house that as far as Clementine is concerned, TV is the devil (my relationship with TV is another story, as I’m experiencing the joys that Tivo can bring to your life and I’m not ashamed of my serious addictions to Project Runway and Heroes). Because she is in day care all day (and exposed to heaven knows what), I just can’t get behind the few precious hours we have with her being spent in front of the idiot box being sucked into consumer culture. My sister has a different approach to her kids’ relationship with TV, and I applaud her. I know if I was home all day with C I’d probably be singing a different song if Calliou bought me a little extra blogging time. Do what you will with your kids and I respect it—I’m just not playing that game in the Punk Rock House.
Truth be told, it’s not just the advertising, the giant mechanism that is TV, the propaganda or the bullshit that I object to—it’s how insipid most programming is, especially for kids. I would rather have C listen to black metal on the stereo all day long than show her five minutes of Teletubbies or that weird show where the characters are all people’s painted hands. I have heard horror stories from other parents about the sick fascination their children have with all things Elmo, and that’s just not for us, thank you very much.
Despite all these objections, I recently recorded The Doodlebops because a friend of mine kept telling me how much it reminded her of me. So I pose this question to the Internet at large: what’s worse…that The Doodlebops exist at all, or that someone who knows me thinks I would enjoy it? Maybe she knew I would enjoy mocking them? Or maybe because she knew in my life I’ve dyed my hair all the colors that the Doodlebops sport? OK, maybe because I like music and dream of fronting a great punk mama band there’s a connection, but even that’s a stretch. I mean, look at them...they don't even have real hands...they aren't even playinig their own music...they're worse than Milli Vanilli...
And if that’s not bad enough, when I watched the 11 minutes I could stand, Clementine stood 1 foot in front of the TV, totally and utterly transfixed. I haven’t seen her focus on anything for that long ever, not even her favorite bedtime books. She wasn’t just passively watching either—she danced, she swooped, she frolicked, and when Dee Dee Doodlebop started talking about her fabulous pink hair, Clementine grabbed her own hair as if to say, “Me too, Dee Dee!” When I stopped thinking about how brilliant my little love is, I grabbed her from in front of the horror and deleted it from my Tivo forever. Why such a visceral reaction? The program was terrible, and I wanted to punch the lights of each one of the Doodlebops out repeatedly every time they said anything. As far as a review, i know that doesn't give you much, but I can't be coherent in the face of such utter crap.
I’m not trying to be one of those holier-than-thou anti-TV mamas here. But seriously…who is allowing their kids to watch this crap? And is this going to be like the Cheerios thing for me—will I resist at first but eventually become glazed-over and dependent like a zombie? Please say no. The very thought makes me shudder.
Truth be told, it’s not just the advertising, the giant mechanism that is TV, the propaganda or the bullshit that I object to—it’s how insipid most programming is, especially for kids. I would rather have C listen to black metal on the stereo all day long than show her five minutes of Teletubbies or that weird show where the characters are all people’s painted hands. I have heard horror stories from other parents about the sick fascination their children have with all things Elmo, and that’s just not for us, thank you very much.
Despite all these objections, I recently recorded The Doodlebops because a friend of mine kept telling me how much it reminded her of me. So I pose this question to the Internet at large: what’s worse…that The Doodlebops exist at all, or that someone who knows me thinks I would enjoy it? Maybe she knew I would enjoy mocking them? Or maybe because she knew in my life I’ve dyed my hair all the colors that the Doodlebops sport? OK, maybe because I like music and dream of fronting a great punk mama band there’s a connection, but even that’s a stretch. I mean, look at them...they don't even have real hands...they aren't even playinig their own music...they're worse than Milli Vanilli...
And if that’s not bad enough, when I watched the 11 minutes I could stand, Clementine stood 1 foot in front of the TV, totally and utterly transfixed. I haven’t seen her focus on anything for that long ever, not even her favorite bedtime books. She wasn’t just passively watching either—she danced, she swooped, she frolicked, and when Dee Dee Doodlebop started talking about her fabulous pink hair, Clementine grabbed her own hair as if to say, “Me too, Dee Dee!” When I stopped thinking about how brilliant my little love is, I grabbed her from in front of the horror and deleted it from my Tivo forever. Why such a visceral reaction? The program was terrible, and I wanted to punch the lights of each one of the Doodlebops out repeatedly every time they said anything. As far as a review, i know that doesn't give you much, but I can't be coherent in the face of such utter crap.
I’m not trying to be one of those holier-than-thou anti-TV mamas here. But seriously…who is allowing their kids to watch this crap? And is this going to be like the Cheerios thing for me—will I resist at first but eventually become glazed-over and dependent like a zombie? Please say no. The very thought makes me shudder.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Back in the saddle
I'm back at work today after several days off with my girl and a wonderful trip up north with friends. I juiced up with way too much coffee to get going this morning, and I've been unable to type due to the excessive shaking that much caffeine causes. I also can't hold a single thought in my head for very long. I am already missing the time I got to spend with darling C while I was off, especially because I feel like we were just starting to get in the routine of being together all day. That said, I think many of my fantasies of being at home with her full time have been based on a notion of what our days would be like that is simply not real or possible.
So what is the solution? If working full time while Nate does the same isn't right and staying home full time while Nate shoulders the load isn't right, then what is? It should be easier to navigate these tricky waters of working parenthood, and I'm frankly a little bit shocked that it's as difficult as it is since so many working parents have gone before me. Why aren't we demanding more (and in turn, I might argue, giving more back to the workplaces that support us)? If I wasn't trying so hard to balance these precious 9-5 hours every day I would feel like a much better parent, and I know I would be a better worker. This seems like such a no-brainer, and I know I'm not inventing the argument when I say half the at-home moms I meet stay home because they were unable to find the flexibility they need between work and parenting. The "opt-out revolution" has been talked to death, but even though we're able to study the problem from all angles, I don't see many solutions for those of us who can't opt out, who need two incomes, who want to try to make a go of doing both. This system seems so very broken, but I'm not sure it's on anyone's list to fix it, especially when no one's making any noise.
I have no easy answers, but I sure as hell am going to start making some noise at my workplace. I loved my time home with Clementine, but I was happy when work called or I got to get on my email a little and turn on my work brain. For me, it's important to do both, but I want to be able to reap the benefits of both (meaning, I don't want to take a "part time" 30-hour job that is really just as much work but with less pay and no benefits). There are more than enough hours in the day and days in the week for me to do both, and I think if I could have some power in deciding what I do when I would be a much better worker. If nothing else, I think I'd be so damn grateful for the consideration and respect I wouldn't spend part of my work day blogging or running errands I can't find time to run at night. And it goes without saying (right?) that just because I want to do both doesn't mean I don't have a ton of respect for those who choose to do one. I totally made an ass of myself in some of the at-home parenting environments I visited during my work furlough by asking my new friends questions like, "So what do you do?" I swear it was my social awkwardness and not by inability to relate!!
If all else fails in my pursuit to balance parenting and this job, I am coming to realize I'll have to move on and look for a job somewhere else. The people I've met who are making this whole balancing act work are people who either have enough time off through a school schedule, some flex time or just plain not going in until 10 a.m. (ahem--yes, I'm talking about you) or those who work with a non-traditional schedule like adjunct teaching or freelance. I've been afraid to take a leap and leave the security of this job behind, but the trade-off seems especially worth it when I've been reminded what I'm missing. Look at that face when she first saw the polar bear close-up:
So what is the solution? If working full time while Nate does the same isn't right and staying home full time while Nate shoulders the load isn't right, then what is? It should be easier to navigate these tricky waters of working parenthood, and I'm frankly a little bit shocked that it's as difficult as it is since so many working parents have gone before me. Why aren't we demanding more (and in turn, I might argue, giving more back to the workplaces that support us)? If I wasn't trying so hard to balance these precious 9-5 hours every day I would feel like a much better parent, and I know I would be a better worker. This seems like such a no-brainer, and I know I'm not inventing the argument when I say half the at-home moms I meet stay home because they were unable to find the flexibility they need between work and parenting. The "opt-out revolution" has been talked to death, but even though we're able to study the problem from all angles, I don't see many solutions for those of us who can't opt out, who need two incomes, who want to try to make a go of doing both. This system seems so very broken, but I'm not sure it's on anyone's list to fix it, especially when no one's making any noise.
I have no easy answers, but I sure as hell am going to start making some noise at my workplace. I loved my time home with Clementine, but I was happy when work called or I got to get on my email a little and turn on my work brain. For me, it's important to do both, but I want to be able to reap the benefits of both (meaning, I don't want to take a "part time" 30-hour job that is really just as much work but with less pay and no benefits). There are more than enough hours in the day and days in the week for me to do both, and I think if I could have some power in deciding what I do when I would be a much better worker. If nothing else, I think I'd be so damn grateful for the consideration and respect I wouldn't spend part of my work day blogging or running errands I can't find time to run at night. And it goes without saying (right?) that just because I want to do both doesn't mean I don't have a ton of respect for those who choose to do one. I totally made an ass of myself in some of the at-home parenting environments I visited during my work furlough by asking my new friends questions like, "So what do you do?" I swear it was my social awkwardness and not by inability to relate!!
If all else fails in my pursuit to balance parenting and this job, I am coming to realize I'll have to move on and look for a job somewhere else. The people I've met who are making this whole balancing act work are people who either have enough time off through a school schedule, some flex time or just plain not going in until 10 a.m. (ahem--yes, I'm talking about you) or those who work with a non-traditional schedule like adjunct teaching or freelance. I've been afraid to take a leap and leave the security of this job behind, but the trade-off seems especially worth it when I've been reminded what I'm missing. Look at that face when she first saw the polar bear close-up:
Thursday, October 19, 2006
My life as an at-home mama
I have taken a few days off in celebration of day care being closed and my being too lazy to think about where else I could take Clementine so I could go to work. Really, though, it seemed a nice excuse to get some good time in with my kid. We weren't a few hours into our time together yesterday, though, before all my happy illusions of how much cleaner my house would be, how much saner I would be, how much happier we would all be together if I just didn't work were totally shattered. As I stood in the living room talking to the cable guy, Clementine got her hands on an open box of Cheerios in the kitchen (still on the counter because you can't CLEAN just because you're home--you're too busy chasing your kid around) and ran around the room shaking it, spilling out streams of cereal all over the floor. Of course the cat was delighted, and Clementine was very proud of herself, especially when she learned what a great noise the cereal makes when you crunch it beneath your feet. The cable guy made a quick exit in horror as I began to clean up the cereal, giving darling C a chance to make a break for it and run up the stairs. Knowing she was in for it as I lumbered over to get her, she hurled a bottle of nail polish (yes, I know, why was it on the stairs? I was trying to straighten, dammit), which broke at the base of our stairs and spilled a lovely blue all over the hard wood. Oh, glory glory.
We hit the zoo yesterday afternoon, which is our favorite place to walk around. I've never been on a weekday, though, and I was a little taken aback at how empty it was. We had fun walking around and having the place almost to ourselves, but it was a little lonely. I am doing my best to make friends with other parents, but I still find it's hard to assume that just because our children are the same age we have something to talk about. And I haven't gotten the groove of WHAT you talk to other parents about--sure, there are kids, but it has been so long since I've made friends with people outside an obvious common interest (grad school, work, etc.) that I don't know how to hit the other elements of conversation and being to wish I had my mom's talent for asking insipid weather-related questions. I realize I sound like an insecure 8th grader, but the mommy world can be a scary one, full of women giving you once-overs or talking loudly and passive-aggressively to their kids as a means of communication with other adults (i.e., "Jared, you'll just have to wait your turn to see the polar bear until that little girl is done hogging the ledge."). I want to give Clementine a peer group (and I'd love to find some people who understand that a 5:30 dinner with high chairs is a rockin' good time), but I also like keeping her to myself and not having to worry about socializing.
This morning we hit some rummage sales, which I've learned is impossible with a child in tow. There is just no way to keep her with me as I sort through old T-shirts or kids clothes, and the toy section was a mess. I could hardly get through housewares without her threatening to break every fragile thing in the room, so we stuck to furniture and linens. I managed to make a few good scores, but we were both happy to get the hell out of there and head down to a play time at a local community center. I know from my sister that things like this exist--places where you can let your kid loose in a gym with lots of toys and other kids, but I hadn't braved it myself. Clementine spent the first twenty minutes just staring at other kids and not really playing or interacting. Then a family we've met just once before showed up, and although she didn't really play with girl, she got a lot more animated. By the time is well past nap time, she refused to put her coat on and cried all the way home. Thank heavens she is now fast asleep.
Truth be told, I could use a nap too. Being at work is a hundred times less work, but it's not nearly as satisfying. I've got to take advantage of her down time to get some stuff done and prepare for what I can only imagine will be a wild afternoon.
We hit the zoo yesterday afternoon, which is our favorite place to walk around. I've never been on a weekday, though, and I was a little taken aback at how empty it was. We had fun walking around and having the place almost to ourselves, but it was a little lonely. I am doing my best to make friends with other parents, but I still find it's hard to assume that just because our children are the same age we have something to talk about. And I haven't gotten the groove of WHAT you talk to other parents about--sure, there are kids, but it has been so long since I've made friends with people outside an obvious common interest (grad school, work, etc.) that I don't know how to hit the other elements of conversation and being to wish I had my mom's talent for asking insipid weather-related questions. I realize I sound like an insecure 8th grader, but the mommy world can be a scary one, full of women giving you once-overs or talking loudly and passive-aggressively to their kids as a means of communication with other adults (i.e., "Jared, you'll just have to wait your turn to see the polar bear until that little girl is done hogging the ledge."). I want to give Clementine a peer group (and I'd love to find some people who understand that a 5:30 dinner with high chairs is a rockin' good time), but I also like keeping her to myself and not having to worry about socializing.
This morning we hit some rummage sales, which I've learned is impossible with a child in tow. There is just no way to keep her with me as I sort through old T-shirts or kids clothes, and the toy section was a mess. I could hardly get through housewares without her threatening to break every fragile thing in the room, so we stuck to furniture and linens. I managed to make a few good scores, but we were both happy to get the hell out of there and head down to a play time at a local community center. I know from my sister that things like this exist--places where you can let your kid loose in a gym with lots of toys and other kids, but I hadn't braved it myself. Clementine spent the first twenty minutes just staring at other kids and not really playing or interacting. Then a family we've met just once before showed up, and although she didn't really play with girl, she got a lot more animated. By the time is well past nap time, she refused to put her coat on and cried all the way home. Thank heavens she is now fast asleep.
Truth be told, I could use a nap too. Being at work is a hundred times less work, but it's not nearly as satisfying. I've got to take advantage of her down time to get some stuff done and prepare for what I can only imagine will be a wild afternoon.
Monday, October 16, 2006
At the hop
On Saturday we went to a sock hop to celebrate some friends' wedding. They held it in an old gymnasium with lots of pennants and long, low tables, and we had a great time getting all gussied up 50s style. I don't know what gets into us, but we are suckers for an opportunity to dress up, which is odd because I think of us as rather introverted. I got so excited I even sewed Clementine some fabulous duds using this retro rocket kid fabric, and she looked cute as a button--too bad most of the dress isn't visible in any of the pics. Her dad the beatnik and her mom the chaperone/housewife looked damn fine if I can say so myself, as did David, who got himself a pompdor for the occasion, and Laura who might have missed the decade her hair was made for.
(that's my bike they were using for the decorations!)
Don't we look like terrible old biddies there? I think we (I) were talking about the youngsters in the swing band.
And how cool is a wedding to which you are encouraged to bring kids? I know it's not everyone's ideal, but I loved watching Clementine go nuts on the dance floor (she had more fun than anyone there). I'm being forced to go to a family wedding out of town in November that isn't welcoming of kids, and it's a pain in the ass to travel there and then find a sitter. Nate's mom is coming in to do it, which is great because she hasn't seen Clementine in almost a year. But I'd really like to have Clementine with us, especially since she has the best moves on the dance floor.
(that's my bike they were using for the decorations!)
Don't we look like terrible old biddies there? I think we (I) were talking about the youngsters in the swing band.
And how cool is a wedding to which you are encouraged to bring kids? I know it's not everyone's ideal, but I loved watching Clementine go nuts on the dance floor (she had more fun than anyone there). I'm being forced to go to a family wedding out of town in November that isn't welcoming of kids, and it's a pain in the ass to travel there and then find a sitter. Nate's mom is coming in to do it, which is great because she hasn't seen Clementine in almost a year. But I'd really like to have Clementine with us, especially since she has the best moves on the dance floor.
A glut of fall photos
I spent last night sorting through the million or so pictures I've taken of Clementine in the past few weeks, and in lieu of a more substantial post about the weekend (a not-so-hot burlesque show, lots of cake, a 50s-style wedding and a visit from my mom that didn't make me want to shoot myself or her) I thought I'd put a few up. That should buy me some time to do actual work at work today since I'm making this a two-day week. Clementine's day care provider's daughter is getting married this weekend and she is closing shop for a few days. Instead of finding an alternative, I'm taking a vacation and finding some cool stuff to do, daughter in tow, for a while. What we won't need to do is find a pumpkin patch because we've got that covered in spades:
Isn't that last one ridiculously suggestive? She held those gourds there all afternoon.
And my new favorite shot of the three of us:
Isn't that last one ridiculously suggestive? She held those gourds there all afternoon.
And my new favorite shot of the three of us:
Friday, October 13, 2006
Happy Happy Happy
Today, 31 years after the Friday the 13th on which is was born, we are celebrating Nate’s birthday. A year ago we celebrated with bags under our eyes and a sweet little one-month-old baby in our arms, and truth be told I hardly remember what we did to mark the occasion. He sure as hell didn’t get lucky, and if we managed to stay up past 9, it was only because we were up again every two hours the rest of the night to tend to the bundle of screams we were starting to wonder why we had brought home with us. Don't we look shell-shocked:
What a difference a year makes.
There are a few things I’ve learned about parenting with someone in the last year. One is an affirmation of something my sister said: you never love or hate anyone quite as much as the person you have a kid with. Amen. There are no words for what I feel when I see the tenderness and love and goofiness with which Nate approaches every interaction with Clementine. He is a wonderful dad, and my heart melts (I swear, I have never grasped at my chest so many times in my whole live as I have in the last 13 months) about a hundred times a day as he chases her around the house, sings her to bed with his goofy lyrics to Beastie Boys songs or comforts her in the middle of the night with the patience of a saint. Sure, there is the flip side, usually at 2 a.m. when I can hardly function and he offers me some advice on how to handle her (I don’t take suggestions well) or doesn’t react fast enough when Clementine spits up in bed or pees on the floor. I hardly dwell on these, so let’s move on. The second thing I’ve learned is that kids can bring out the very best in people, and in Nate’s case I’ve seen not only his very best but some parts of him I would never have guessed could exist. He often surprises me with just how well he understands his daughter, just how connected to her and committed to her he is. It’s not that I thought he’d be a cold-hearted schlock, but when I look around at other dads I know Nate is a cut above. Every step of the way he is teaching me about parenthood and fatherhood, what true involvement is, and I’m almost always in awe.
But celebrating Nate is about more than just his finer attributes as a parent. He is a wonderful partner, one who puts up with my crazies and neuroses, one who supports me (even when no one else does), one who sometimes lives on the scraps of love and attention I have left at the end of the day and doesn’t bitch. This is starting to sound like a yearbook inscription, and I don’t want to reduce how amazing he is to a few lines of superlatives. Instead I have been looking for a quote of Karl Marx’s I once read about how he and his wife had been together for so long he knew every mark on her face and where it came from, but of course I can’t find it and can’t quite seem to get the sentiment right. I know where every mark on Nate’s face has come from (hell, I put some of them there). We have grown up together, we have seen the world together, bought a house, made a life and a baby together, and we somehow are still as in love as we were in college—more so. Sure, it’s not crazy in-bed-all-day love, my-heart-beats-fast-every-time-I-think-of-you love (thought it does beat fast when I see him). It’s better. It’s you-are-the-one-for-me love, I-love-you-even-though-I’ve-seen-you-at-your-worst love, I’ll-love-you-when-you’re-old-wrinkled-and-incontinent love. Even those words don’t cut it.
So today I celebrate Nate and his birthday. Nate, my bizarre and wonderful husband who has a Mercedes that runs of vegetable oil, a ’65 Impala he built as a teenager, a hundred odd bicycles and a million unfinished projects in the garage. Nate, who is good at math and yet reads Yeats and will talk to you all day about how amazing Victorian novels are (especially Thomas Hardy) before going downstairs to play with his remote control cars. Nate, who will let his daughter and his nieces dress him up in anything frilly, and will play doll house and tea party all day long if we let him. Nate, who is shy and likes to stay home but who transforms himself into this incredible extrovert every Halloween when we dress him up and take him out to terrorize or entertain the masses. Nate, who is the only one in our house cleans the floor and the dishes and tries to keep my clutter at bay. Nate, who takes things apart and can’t always put them back together, who will embark on any fool’s errand if we ask him to, who loves to travel, who will try anything, who eats hot peppers raw….Nate. Happy Birthday, enough said.
What a difference a year makes.
There are a few things I’ve learned about parenting with someone in the last year. One is an affirmation of something my sister said: you never love or hate anyone quite as much as the person you have a kid with. Amen. There are no words for what I feel when I see the tenderness and love and goofiness with which Nate approaches every interaction with Clementine. He is a wonderful dad, and my heart melts (I swear, I have never grasped at my chest so many times in my whole live as I have in the last 13 months) about a hundred times a day as he chases her around the house, sings her to bed with his goofy lyrics to Beastie Boys songs or comforts her in the middle of the night with the patience of a saint. Sure, there is the flip side, usually at 2 a.m. when I can hardly function and he offers me some advice on how to handle her (I don’t take suggestions well) or doesn’t react fast enough when Clementine spits up in bed or pees on the floor. I hardly dwell on these, so let’s move on. The second thing I’ve learned is that kids can bring out the very best in people, and in Nate’s case I’ve seen not only his very best but some parts of him I would never have guessed could exist. He often surprises me with just how well he understands his daughter, just how connected to her and committed to her he is. It’s not that I thought he’d be a cold-hearted schlock, but when I look around at other dads I know Nate is a cut above. Every step of the way he is teaching me about parenthood and fatherhood, what true involvement is, and I’m almost always in awe.
But celebrating Nate is about more than just his finer attributes as a parent. He is a wonderful partner, one who puts up with my crazies and neuroses, one who supports me (even when no one else does), one who sometimes lives on the scraps of love and attention I have left at the end of the day and doesn’t bitch. This is starting to sound like a yearbook inscription, and I don’t want to reduce how amazing he is to a few lines of superlatives. Instead I have been looking for a quote of Karl Marx’s I once read about how he and his wife had been together for so long he knew every mark on her face and where it came from, but of course I can’t find it and can’t quite seem to get the sentiment right. I know where every mark on Nate’s face has come from (hell, I put some of them there). We have grown up together, we have seen the world together, bought a house, made a life and a baby together, and we somehow are still as in love as we were in college—more so. Sure, it’s not crazy in-bed-all-day love, my-heart-beats-fast-every-time-I-think-of-you love (thought it does beat fast when I see him). It’s better. It’s you-are-the-one-for-me love, I-love-you-even-though-I’ve-seen-you-at-your-worst love, I’ll-love-you-when-you’re-old-wrinkled-and-incontinent love. Even those words don’t cut it.
So today I celebrate Nate and his birthday. Nate, my bizarre and wonderful husband who has a Mercedes that runs of vegetable oil, a ’65 Impala he built as a teenager, a hundred odd bicycles and a million unfinished projects in the garage. Nate, who is good at math and yet reads Yeats and will talk to you all day about how amazing Victorian novels are (especially Thomas Hardy) before going downstairs to play with his remote control cars. Nate, who will let his daughter and his nieces dress him up in anything frilly, and will play doll house and tea party all day long if we let him. Nate, who is shy and likes to stay home but who transforms himself into this incredible extrovert every Halloween when we dress him up and take him out to terrorize or entertain the masses. Nate, who is the only one in our house cleans the floor and the dishes and tries to keep my clutter at bay. Nate, who takes things apart and can’t always put them back together, who will embark on any fool’s errand if we ask him to, who loves to travel, who will try anything, who eats hot peppers raw….Nate. Happy Birthday, enough said.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Our new vocabulary
Tonight in the rush of coming in the door, putting down bags, tugging off coats, greeting the cat, hugging parents and children, Nate said very casually to me, "I think I figured out that pumping three times a day is really the best way to do it." At first I let these words slide right over me, hardly listening. How many times have I prattled on about how many times a day I need to pump or how many times I was able to pump or how many times I didn't get to pump because I was stuck in an awful meeting. But then my ear caught on the fact that he was saying "pumping," and I instantly got a little enraged, thinking how dare he tell me when I should be pumping--they aren't his boobs. But THEN I remembered I don't pump anymore, and I started to look at him as you would look at one who has totally lost his mind, one who thinks he can lactate in the face of our ever-diminishing, almost-out frozen breast milk supply. What the fuck? I started to wonder. Have I slipped into some wormhole? Did I forget I actually have kept pumping? Do I have amnesia?
And that's when it clicked: pumping doesn't always HAVE to refer to breast milk. Not all conversations have to do with feeding a child and there actually ARE other ways to use the verb "to pump" in a sentence that has nothing to do with hooking a bizarre machine up to your boobs and extending the reach of your nipple beyond what is normal to extract little squirts of milk. What a revelation. Nate was actually talking about pumping the waste vegetable oil into his filtering system in order to put it into our car. So, it's still a little weird, and people at dinner parties will probably still look at us a little differently when we talk about our pumping project, but I'm pretty sure they will be much less horrified from now on when we talk about how many times a day we pump.
And that's when it clicked: pumping doesn't always HAVE to refer to breast milk. Not all conversations have to do with feeding a child and there actually ARE other ways to use the verb "to pump" in a sentence that has nothing to do with hooking a bizarre machine up to your boobs and extending the reach of your nipple beyond what is normal to extract little squirts of milk. What a revelation. Nate was actually talking about pumping the waste vegetable oil into his filtering system in order to put it into our car. So, it's still a little weird, and people at dinner parties will probably still look at us a little differently when we talk about our pumping project, but I'm pretty sure they will be much less horrified from now on when we talk about how many times a day we pump.
Monday, October 09, 2006
WARNING: Chicago may cause projectile vomiting OR How I got my brother-in-law to detail my car
My Grandma Fran would say we have wheels on our butts--we were home only four days from up north (four days full of work and laundry and work and cleaning and work and packing and work) before trekking off to Chicago for a weekend of family.
And maybe it was all that commotion. Or maybe it was the candy corn (just one) we let her eat, the thrill of hanging out with her cousins or going to the pumpkin farm, the total lack of sleep (what's new?), the overwhelming number of new faces orbiting around hers, the strangeness of a new place. Who knows WHY Clementine hurled all over the back seat of my new car--all I know is that I saw it coming in the rear view mirror and could do nothing to stop her from opening her mouth like a kettle and pouring out the entire contects of her stomach (which included pizza and curdled milk--yuck). What's better than that? We were minutes away from a fancy anniversary party, all of us gussied up and ready for a big night.
These are the moments of parenting that no one prepares you for, just as no one prepared Clementine for the horror of being stripped down in a public parking lot and wiped down with diaper wipes while wondering why she feels so crappy. The girl took it all like a champ, but I felt horrible sending her home while I went to a big kids party. I deserved the martinis, though, for I was the one who had to lift her out of her vomit-soaked car seat and peel her clothes off her. I wasn't the only one tested--Nate and had clean the car seat and do all the laundry after caryring her home and bathing her.
By the next morning she seemed fine, but the whole experience took its toll and we waited until today to slowly make our way home via the beach. Details to follow. It was grand.
And maybe it was all that commotion. Or maybe it was the candy corn (just one) we let her eat, the thrill of hanging out with her cousins or going to the pumpkin farm, the total lack of sleep (what's new?), the overwhelming number of new faces orbiting around hers, the strangeness of a new place. Who knows WHY Clementine hurled all over the back seat of my new car--all I know is that I saw it coming in the rear view mirror and could do nothing to stop her from opening her mouth like a kettle and pouring out the entire contects of her stomach (which included pizza and curdled milk--yuck). What's better than that? We were minutes away from a fancy anniversary party, all of us gussied up and ready for a big night.
These are the moments of parenting that no one prepares you for, just as no one prepared Clementine for the horror of being stripped down in a public parking lot and wiped down with diaper wipes while wondering why she feels so crappy. The girl took it all like a champ, but I felt horrible sending her home while I went to a big kids party. I deserved the martinis, though, for I was the one who had to lift her out of her vomit-soaked car seat and peel her clothes off her. I wasn't the only one tested--Nate and had clean the car seat and do all the laundry after caryring her home and bathing her.
By the next morning she seemed fine, but the whole experience took its toll and we waited until today to slowly make our way home via the beach. Details to follow. It was grand.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Here comes the sun
We're back from a quick adventure up north all tuckered out and dreading the start of a new week. I do a lot of bitching about the lack of sleep in this house, but there are benefits I don't often think of. This morning, for instance, Clementine woke me up at 7 by kissing me a dozen times all over my face (kissing=putting her mouth on me, lifting it up and THEN making a big smack noise...it was especially delightful this morning with a night's worth of snot all over her face). It was still mostly dark outside, and the windows of the cabin were streaked with dew. I bundled us up and headed down to the beach where we watched the day begin together. The sun rose slowly at first, but was egged on, I think, by Clementine's shrieks of joy as she watched the glow get bigger and brighter. We don't often get a moment like that at the beginning of a day, and I wanted to stop time and hold that instant in my hands like a warm cup of tea (which I sorely needed on that chilly beach). I took dozens of pictures trying to capture that feeling of being alone in the world with my daughter, but I eventually just had to put that damn camera down and hold her on my lap to watch the waves meet the sand over and over again.
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