When the sweetest word sounds foul

These days we can get Clementine to attempt to say just about anything, even if she doesn't understand how the sound she is making relates directly to the object or action. This works mostly with people's names and the occasional please and thank you, but I've also tried it with a few oddball phrases like kick ass (ill advised) and rampant consumerism (I got a blank stare in return). Isn't it fun to make your kid a puppet? Next I'm going to take her to the bookstore to request the new Thomas Pynchon novel for her dad's Christmas present--we practiced in the car this morning, but all she could really get out was pin over and over again, and then she started pointing to the radio while chanting pin, pin and I realized I have now probably fucked her verbal development by just trying to have a little fun.

One thing she definitely has down, though, is Mama. I think it's her favorite word apart from all done, which is almost as good as no for expressing her general displeasure with an activity. She says Mama first thing when she wakes up, Mama in the car, Mama at breakfast, Mama when I drop her off and pick her up. She does a lot of Dada reciting in the car on the way home, but once we're home again it's all Mama. Her voice is a little crystal chime with a perfect baby doll lilt as she says it with such satisfaction, and I'm still trying to find a way to record it so I can play it over and over again while I'm at work and missing her. It may be my favorite sound in the world.

Except when it isn't. And sometimes it's not. Like last night, for instance, when she was awake from 11 PM to 2:30 AM for no apparent reason. She spent some of this time crying, some of it singing and playing quietly with her blanket and Lammie, some of it snuggled between us and trying to fall asleep. Most of that time, however, she spent repeating Mama Mama Mama while climbing over me, kicking me, pulling my hair and trying to knead me into the perfect position for her general use. It didn't take long before I caught myself longing for the pre-Mama days, a time when she could grunt and gurgle and not vocalize. How could such a sweet sound turn into such an ugly one?

The other downside of all this Mama talk is that Nate is starting to feel a little marginalized. I think rationally he understands that the fickle affections of a toddler ebb and flow depending on the day and her mood, but how can he not take it personally that she spends half her time with him crying Mama Mama? It breaks my heart, and I know he is struggling to not let it get to him. We're trying everything to make it better, too, like letting him do the whole bed and bath routine, Mama totally absent. He gets to dance with her and hang out with her by himself, but it's not having any dramatic effect. Do other families have this preference problem? What's a good way to solve it? You know I'm loathe to actually go look at a parenting book, but Nate is such a fantastic and affectionate dad I hate to see him spend a single second not knowing it. Perhaps while I'm leafing through the pages it's time to look for strategies for getting Clementine happily and securely into her own bed so she can party all night long if she wants to and not wake her sweet Mama up.

It could be an ugly couple a weeks at our house.

Doting...the conversation continues

About a month ago, I was shocked when my boss told me to beware my "doting" on Clementine, which I think we can all agree was a stupid comment to make, especially since the connotation was that I am ruining her life by caring too much. I will cop to being very interested in my child, my TODDLER, very involved in her life and doing anything I can to make more time for her, and if that makes me doting, then lay it on me, brother. I'm not sure what kind of parenting he would support, but I'm pretty sure it's the kind that leaves all things child at home waiting for me like a sad, abandoned pet. He is the typical workaholic who gets way too much of his identity from his job, stays late, arrives early and thinks anyone who sticks to a normal schedule lacks dedication. He thinks you need to work at a place for years before you enjoy any perks and is all about putting in one's time. I wouldn't be picking on him too much if he weren't continuing to pick on me...and not even to my face.

I heard from a coworker that he is now espousing opinions about how I should have another kid soon, lest I smother Clementine with too much doting and attention. Because at heart I tend to be insecure, when I first heard this I felt a twinge of embarassment before the red hot anger. Am I doting? Am I not being professional enough? Though this workplace calls itself "family friendly," it's a complicated friendliness that is really about being friendly to families that have one working parent and one that stays at home. Many jobs here provide free housing and food, which allows one parent to stay home and care for the child(ren) while the other works. See, family friendly. Of course nothing is really free, so the housing means the employee has to do dorm duty weekly and chaperone dances, attend open houses, etc., but it's a pretty good deal, especially if it frees one's spouse to pursue a career with less rigid hours or stay home entirely to support. Sure, there are a few families who manage to pull off having two full-time working parents, but those are teachers, which means summers and vacations for at least one parent completely off. There is not a single year-round administrator here who has young children (or children at all in most cases) AND a working partner. Oh, except me. I am the only one trying to balance the enormous responsibilities of my job with the important responsibilities of raising a young child with my working spouse, and I'm not asking for special treatment (OK, I did, but since that was denied I'm sucking it up). I'm asking that they stop this sniping, this shitty commentary that makes me feel insecure or guilty for the few ounces of love I squeeze out of my work day and spend on darling C.

Vitriol aside, what I'm starting to see clearly about this workplace is that ANY evidence of parenting aside from one or two photos or quick, amusing stories could be seen as doting by people like my boss. Struggles with parenting or balancing a job and a family life need to remain invisible, as should any anecdote that is more involved than "Clementine really likes grapes, too." If it's more than a sentence, I'm doting for some of these old schoolers, and it's making it hard for me to sit with them at the lunch table and not feel like I'm being picked apart. It's one thing to be chastised for caring for one's child...I can't even begin to address the fact that my boss also feels like he should have input on my rate of reproduction.

When I posted on doting before, I got an email from a friend with a list of all the things I should start saying back to my dippy boss whenever he makes stupid comments like this. It's fun to imagine the witty and childish retorts I could silence and embarass him with, but I'm starting to think of an offensive strategy instead of just defense--and not a righteous, empowered, I-am-mother-hear-me-roar kind of offensive strategy. I'm thinking instead of making those obnoxious photo buttons with pictures of darling C and pinning them to every shirt, coat, jacket, sweater, bag and briefcase I carry. I will paper my office with pictures of her. I will create an email list with a cloyingly cute Clementine story of the day and send it to everyone who has tried to make me feel guilty for bowing out of a late meeting or leaving early on a nice day so we can get to the park or doting on her. I will answer every personal anecdote my boss tells me with one about Clementine. I will even use her as an example or analogy in work discussions. If he wants to know what doting is, I will aim to become the text book example.

Oh shit. I just realized he and I are going on a business trip together in February. I bet he's going to be really sympathetic to any of my feelings about leaving my child alone for the first time in her life as I fly across the country.

I'm buying a lottery ticket on the way home.

Hiatus over

Know how hard it is to exercise when you haven’t exercised in a long time? How it just gets harder and harder to get motivated the more you put it off, and then it becomes this vicious circle that you can’t break. A long break from blogging is the same kind of thing—the more I didn’t do it, the easier it was to forget about it. And to tell the truth I was getting a little disenchanted with blogging and especially blogging parents who use their blogs as soapboxes or adult popularity contests. I was writing, but I sure wasn’t reading (who has time?) because when I did I started to feel the same insecurity I do when I see some mom whip out those crazy anti-germ shopping cart/high chair activity bags at Target: should I have one of those? No, of course not, that’s crazy. But what if she’s right? No, she’s crazy and overconcerned with minutia—you aren’t that parent. But maybe she knows something I don’t. No, it’s OK to make different choices. But…. OK, maybe it was just the impending holiday and accompanying insanity. Work was crazy the week before Turkey Day, and I took the actual holiday week off in its entirety to hang out with my little family unit. We had a blast.

So now I’m back in the saddle at work and trying like hell not to bore my lone employee with all the tales of a week with an almost-15-month-old rascal, whose world and vocabulary I could actually see getting bigger. Here’s what I’ve heard her say in the last week (chime in, Nate, if I’m missing anything):

Mama
Dada
shoes
duck
tattoo (I’m so proud!)
yogurt
Baxter (her favorite dog)
Dizzle (as in Uncle Dizzle—she’s not confused about whether or not she’s Snoop Dog)
K (as in Aunt K)
Hudson (her best pal)
fish
more
milk
yoga
yay!
yeah
Santa
vroom vroom
all done

She’s also signing like crazy, and I’d worry that she seems to sign for “eat” constantly, except that she’s such a skinny Minnie I’m happy to do anything to plump her up.

Since I’ve been an off duty blogger forever, there’s no way to catch up on all we’ve been doing. We survived our first kiddie music concert (Dan Zanes) and had a blast with Clementine’s friends Maya and Hudson, we hosted my sister and her family for a weekend of chaos (four adults, three kids and no sleep), and we had a week of amazing late-November weather. We went to all kinds of parks, including one on Belle Isle that might be my all-time favorite in Detroit, visited a nature center, saw the floats from the Thanksgiving parade, ate a lot of turkey, took great family naps, colored, hung out at Cranbrook and did yoga. We didn’t shop or go to a mall at all. We also didn’t have any family in town to plan around, but we didn’t get too lonely or stir-crazy—I think that’s mostly thanks to the weather. Last year it was miserable and by Sunday we were ready to crawl through the walls of the house in desperate escape.

Some pics:

At one of the dozen parks we hit:

Doing yoga (which she apparently loves to do)

Setting up her Christmas tree:

Checking out the floats:

Oh, and of course, visiting the world's largest cast iron stove at the Michigan State Fairgrounds:

But really what's better than rocks?

I took an offensive number of photos over the course of the week, so click away if you want to see the many faces of Clementine. I can't figure out which is more addictive--leftover stuffing or taking pictures of her sweet, sweet face.

What's for dinner?

I know I bitch a lot about how hard it is to work all damn day, rush home to spend time with my family, maintain a clean house and still feel like I have time for myself--I'm not apologizing for adding to the whining here. Although I hate that my house looks like wolves have torn through it ripping apart well-organized bins of toys and leaving bits of chewed up food all over my kitchen floor before grinding it in with their heels, our home's constant state of dishevelment doesn't bother me nearly as much as the great struggle that is dinner. When Nate and I lived alone, we didn't have to think about dinner at all (or at least nearly as much as we do now). We could spend all night cooking a fantastic four course meal, eat at 10 and not do the dishes for a week. We could eat potato chips and ice cream if we wanted or just bread or just peas. Better yet, if we didn't want to deal with it, we didn't have to eat at all.

But dinner now that we are providing a home for a growing toddler is frankly a pain in the ass that seems to require four or five phone calls between us a day, seemingly endless trips to the grocery store (I should have my own parking place by now) and strange experimentation to find meals that are easy and quick to make and provide a pretty balanced variety of veggies, proteins, tastes, etc. without having so many ingredients that I spend time whirling around the kitchen saying stupid things like, "Now where is that smoked paprika again? I can only seem to find the sweet" instead of playing with darling C or at least making sure she doesn't cause herself major head trauma by standing up on the sit-n-spin. Again.

About a week ago I had a total meltdown at Nate when he called to ask me what I wanted for dinner. I know this sounds crazy because I listen to so many women at work bitch about how their husbands don't cook. Mine does, and he's more than willing to when I ask (though I still somehow end up doing more of it which is either my inner control freak, some gender preprogramming we can't seem to shake or my inability to ask for help when I need it), for which I know I should be grateful. But maybe what irks me is that I have to ask. Or, if he takes the initiative, I still have to answer a 20-question survey on what I feel like eating and what else he can get for the girl. Yes, I know this is very considerate and I'm a world class bitch for complaining about it (he's just trying to make me happy, right?), but what I really want on the nights Nate cooks is to not think about it AT ALL. I don't want to plan the shopping list, think about what pan to use or how to modify it for toddler tastes. I don't want to tell him which I like better or what I've been craving because really all I want is to not think about food and still have it appear. He could make tripe with sour cream for all I care, as long as I don't have to think about it or discuss it before it magically appears in front of me.

The upshot of my meltdown (once the smoke cleared and Nate saw I maybe had a point) is that we're working on a system to divide household labor in a way that is fair and equal. We're not doing this because one of us is bad at pulling his or her weight. On the contrary, I think we both pull more than our weight most of the time in order to keep up with the ebb and flow of parent energy. We run into problems, though, when we're both ebbing (or is it flowing?) and neither of us wants to pull any weight. When that happens on the same day we end up eating lord-knows-what for dinner, secretly tabulating how much more work we do than the other and glowering at each other while trying to get C to stop throwing the food over her high chair. It's not pretty. But neither are the conversations on the need to divide labor better because Nate feels like we're only talking about it because he isn't doing something right. Talk about frustration! The way I see it we need a system because my only everyday parenting role model was my mom--a single working woman who brought home the bacon and fried it up in a pan. I have a serious need to be able to do everything and I feel guilty about asking for help. We clearly both have issues.

I feel like a system, a division of labor with clear expectations, will really help us navigate the nights when we're just too tired to think about anything but lying on the couch and watching shitty TV. I hate to say it because I loathe this much forethought and organization (next we'll be scheduling sex), but I was briefly considering a chart or calendar to help us keep straight whose turn it is to do what. This way someone will know that even if she wants to eat peanut butter out of the jar and call it a night she can't because it's her turn and no one else's to think about, shop and plan for dinner. And do laundry. It sounded OK in theory, but we just couldn't figure out a system to equally divide the seven nights of a week--if we go on a routine (every Monday and Wednesday = me, Tuesday and Thursday = Nate) it seems too structured (will I ever get to spontaneously eat with a friend on a Wednesday?). If we flip-flop every other day, no one really gets a break.

Calling Donna Reed! We need a housewife, someone who will wear an apron and vaccuum and pack lunches and bake cookies and make dinner and change the sheets more than once a month (who am I kidding?) and have dinner in the oven when we come home and organize our bookshelves and pay our bills and file our mail and dust, yes, dust and have perfect hair all the time.

But seeing as we can't afford a polygamous lifestyle (or at least a housekeeper), we're going to settle on switching weeks. One week Nate will be Donna Reed (apron and all), doing all shopping, meal planning and cooking and even laundry, and the next I will take over. We have agreed this will work and are anxious to put our plan in motion and talk about it pompously at dinner parties when our friends ask "How do you do it all?" The only problem so far is that we haven't had actual time to sit down and say "Ready? Go!" to get the ball rolling. This means that dinner this week (up until tonight and Nate's fabulous chicken soup, that is) has bordered on the fend-for-yourself potluck side, not the healthiest for a child. I feel like I discovered a whole new universe last night when I decided we should have pancakes for dinner. It alwasy seemed like such a treat when we would get this as children, but as an adult I now see that pancakes for dinner is what you do when you need something easy, fast and predictable so your kids will just shut up and eat while you try to shake the cobwebs from your brain.

Yep, we vote

There will be hundreds of conversations today about why voting matters or doesn't--those of us who have reasons for voting or consciously not voting have our own compelling arguments (I'm not even acknowledging the apathetic masses who are too busy watching TV to have an opinoin or take any action whatsoever), and I'm sure many can state their cases in a more articulate fashion than I can. I believe 100% in voting and don't miss any elections, even midterms and local ones, and Nate is impressive in his insistence on voting his conscience (meaning mostly third party voting no matter how tight the races are--take that, Dems!) . This election promises to be a better voting experience for us because it looks like I won't end up too depressed and thus inscreasingly drunk as I watch the returns tonight AND we get to take Clementine for the very first time to the polls. You better believe there will be pictures.

On my way to work this morning, I was thinking about why I vote and how I can teach Clementine the importance of it, apart from dragging her to the sleazy Masonic Temple in our neighborhood where I'm pretty sure the poll workers are drunk and not trustworthy. I was thinking about my first voting experience, just 18 and happy to be standing in the lobby of my junior high. My mother, who worked for a Republican Congressman for 12 years (he was pretty moderate, so I didn't have a problem voting for him--I saw it as ultimately voting for myself since he helped my mom pay the bills), sent me to the polls with notes on which judges to vote for. Although my political conscience was still a bit nascent, I knew Mom and I weren't in step politically and used the list she sent me as a DO NOT vote list, adding the rush of outright rebellion against one of my parents to the rush of voting. It was a potent cocktail, made better only by my mother's rage when I told her what I'd done. OK, so it was immature and maybe not the most informed way to vote, but it was my first time and I had a thing or two to learn.

These days, my mom's opinion doesn't hold the same power for me--I'd even be happy to know we lined up on some issues or candidates. I find it incredibly frustrating to talk to her about politics because she goes into insta-rage at even the slightest disagreement. I like political discourse and love having reasoned debate (there's a limit, I know, but a little can be very stimulating), but my mom can't even handle a 4-second conversation on what it means to Hillary if Barak runs. She dissolves into a litany of cussing and spitting at the merest mention of Hillary's name and retreats, as so many Republican hardcores I talk to seem to, behind a screen of soundbytes and knee-jerk reactions.

What worries me about all this is that all the teasing I take from my family about raising an Alex P. Keaton-esque child could actually come true. If my political consciousness was somehow shaped in opposition to my mom, does that mean darling C today will learn the fastest way to get a rise out of me is to point to the conservatives on the ballot and beg me to choose that? Will her teenage rebellion take the shape of supporting big business and anti-woman, anti-gay, anti-minority legislation? Pierce and tattoo away, little love, just don't ever vote for another Bush.

Goodnight and good luck

Last night Clementine had her last sip of breast milk from the last bag of the ridiculously huge supply I stored away in our freezer (bought this time last year when I realized this whole breastfeeding things isn't always the most intuitive). Normally I would have found this occasion momentous, heartbreaking or somehow significant in terms of the kind of mother I am or want to be. How many hours of my life did I spend lamenting that Clementine wouldn't latch, that she wouldn't get the year of breast milk I wanted for her? Seriously, how much time did I waste? While I'm proud that I was able to pump for just about a year and give her 14 months of breast milk, it is only now that I'm looking back and wondering if I made a martyr of myself because I'm just that fucking stubborn. Is formula really that bad when you've exhausted every other possibility? I was raised on it. So many people told me it was OK to stop, but I just couldn't hear them--i really believed in what I was doing (and, truth be told, I was too cheap to buy formula). Even when I was crouched in a tent, Clementine sitting next to me and signing for milk as I pumped and pumped and then handed a bottle over to her it seemed like a good idea. What in the hell was I thinking?

There are moments, though, that I think it wasn't that bad. If I can't give my kid a year of inconvenience, what does that say? But then again, what does it say if, as a mother, I put all other needs above my own? How does that teach her to be her own person?

See, 14 months into it and I still have more questions than answers.

But last night I was proud of myself. No drama, no ceremony, no staged goodbye to the milk--I handed the bottle to Nate and went downstairs while he fed it to her. Another era gone by.

Say hey to my sis--it's her day!

I've been waiting all day to find a good chunk of time to write out a birthday hello for my lovely sister. We apparently grew up in separate households and have almost none of the same childhood memories (except that we fought ALL the time like rabid animals), but we have the most amazing adult friendship. Our lives are completely opposite, but we understand each other perfectly. I don't feel like anything has ever really happened in my life until AFTER I've talked it over with her, which is thankfully just about every single day in a number of short conversations, most of which end with a loud shriek from one of our respective children and a "Shit, I have to go."

Belle, you are an amazing woman, mama and friend, and no in the world makes me laugh like you do. You are wildly inappropriate and yet the most normal person in our family (which is admittedly not saying ANYTHING since we live among so many wackos, and I know you get the brunt of that since you live so close to them). Since I'm typing this at the end of the day, sitting just beside the bathtub as Clementine bathes, I can't take the time to write much more than that, but I'm here in the Motor City wishing I could come sit with you and take slugs from the same beer, cleaning out your Tivo, crafting and gossiping all at the same time. Instead of that fun, I'm going to try to get your neice out of the tub before she has her third major meltdown of the evening. It's about to get ugly, and....well...shit, I have to go.

Happy Birthday!

Is it over yet?

Halloween, with its pre-parties and weekend celebrations and day care parties and school parties, is getting to be one long-ass holiday. It's still my all time favorite, but I'm glad it's over for this year. Clementine was still just a little too young to toally understand what was going on, and she didn't dig the whole trick-or-treating nearly as much as giving out the candy. I think she thought of herself as some amazing celebrity or Christ child that costumed masses made pilgrimages to see, and she stood at the door for a full hour, candy in hand, waiting to see who would come next. She carefully examined all the costumes before dropping candy into the pillow cases and pumpkins, and when the trick-or-treaters slowed to a trickle, she started handing out candy to all the people-like decorations in the house.

Eventually, there were no more kids around, though Clementine didn't give up until we dragged her upstairs and put her, crying, in the bath.

I'm glad she was into the giving out candy thing because hardly anyone in my neighborhood was giving out candy. It's a big issue in my neighborhood because the objection is that too many people come over from Detroit (we live two blocks north of 8 Mile, the well-known literal and metaphorical dividing line between city and suburbs). The issue, simply put, is racial, though I think my neighbors would say it's more about the haves and the have-nots. I don't want to make a bigger deal out of Halloween than it is--give out candy if you want to, and it's really none of my business. I get it that times are tough and not everyone has disposable income with which to buy candy to give to total strangers. I do think if you are taking your kids out to get goodies you should probably put that same goodwill back into the universe by doing the same, but I'm not the Halloween police.

What disturbs me most about my neighborhood is the general attitude about how the traffic from Detroit has ruined the neighborhood feel of the holiday. A neighbor last night said to me she had to take her kids to another neighborhood to trick-or-treat because all the "Detroiters" (and anyone living in Michigan duing election season knows this is a code word, but at least they aren't using the language they normally do to discribe people of color) have ruined the celebration here. She must not be the only one who feels that way because I could only see 4 houses with lights on anywhere near our house, and I know many of the people in darkened houses were home and hiding. And it's not that I don't get their frustration--mini-vans full of kids (and no kidding on the full--they take the seats out and cram as many kids as possible in, which is a recipe for disaster) swarm the streets of our white trash suburb, and the parents are sometimes there trick-or-treating with their own bags or bags for someone "in the car." But, really, who can blame them? They come from neighborhoods where even fewer people give out candy, and it may not even be that safe to begin with. The spirit of the holiday demands that any goblin or witch or Spiderman who comes to your door get a little treat, and I feel strongly about honoring that no matter what. These issues of territory and race aren't children's issues, so why should they pay the price?

But I wonder how I'll feel next year when staying in the neighborhood means Clementine won't get to do as much door-to-door trick-or-treating? I want to be sure one of us is at home to give out candy, but I want to be sure Clementine can enjoy the holiday as well. Guess we'll have a year to think about it.

Today is Dia de los Muertos, and we're going to head down to Mexicantown to see the oferendas and other celebrations. I'm pumped for this but wish there was going to be a parade...

Happy Halloween!

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:

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.

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?

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.

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:

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.

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.