Here's the amazing thing about being a new-ish mom: Tons of Bad Things happen to you, things that no one can prepare you for because there are so many, and there's really no way of knowing which particular one will rock you the most. I thought I was tough as nails, but I surprised myself with how tooth-grindingly difficult it was for me to let my baby cry until he fell asleep in hiccuping exhaustion. I have never yet met a mom who wasn't totally blind-sided about some aspect of motherhood.
This morning as I was contemplating my saggy belly, I was thinking about when a woman is truly ready to have a baby. When I stopped taking my little packs of pills, I'm pretty sure I didn't think, "yes, I'm ready to say goodbye to my body, my peace of mind, my clear-headedness, my traditional career, my social life, and my independence."
I'm pleased to report, however, that I would have Baby again in a heartbeat. Right now he is padding around and around the kitchen table in his little mocassins, wagging his head from side to side and singing "ma ma ma ma." It is heart-breakingly cute. It's easy to say it's all worth it right now. Yesterday, Baby reached his hand into his poopy pants smeared his findings across his face, his clothes, and the carpet. I'd prefer to believe that he didn't get any in his mouth, but just between us, I'm not totally sure. Was it worth it even then, while Baby screamed and hung on my sweatpants and I scrubbed poop off of my carpet with a fistful of wet wipes? I have to admit, I had a brief picture of myself striding up the steps off a pillared courthouse in a tailored dry-clean only suit, carrying a tiny purse and a legal pad in manicured hands. No loans, new car, clean house, hot body . . .
Nope, still not worth it. That's how delirious with happiness this Baby makes me. I want to be completely clear about this. When I am confronted with dozens of Bad Things that I've never confronted before, I will tend to emphasize them. I think they are funnier/more interesting/humbler(?) than an uninterrupt stream of bliss. But the truth is that I am happy, so happy.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Family Vacation
Even without the groovy city of Seattle, the overdue visits with family and friends, and the unspeakably beautiful Northwestern fall scenery, our recent week-long vacation was an unqualified success: Baby learned the following things:
When he sees fish, he says "fshshshsh"
When he sees anything else impressive he says "o-o-o-o-oh!"
When he hears his Raffi CD, he responds to the "Brush Your Teeth" song with the appropriate actions and sound effects.
When he is allowed out of his stroller, he holds onto the side of it and pushes it along. This is a slow way to move down a sidewalk, but it gives him exercise, keeps him close, quells tantrums, and it's cute.
When other toddlers try to hug him to say they're sorry for knocking him down, he tolerates it.
When he asks for a cracker ("caw-caw?") he gives Mom adequate time to dig through the diaper bag to find one--or, if a cracker cannot be located, to change the subject to something equally enthralling.
When he doesn't like the food he is given, rather than howl, he rubs it into his hair, knowing that Mom will remove the offending food item just as quickly.
He feeds animals at petting zoos.
He sleeps for extended periods of time in locations other than his Provo bedroom: ten hours at his aunt's house and six hours in his car seat with no interruptions.
When he sees fish, he says "fshshshsh"
When he sees anything else impressive he says "o-o-o-o-oh!"
When he hears his Raffi CD, he responds to the "Brush Your Teeth" song with the appropriate actions and sound effects.
When he is allowed out of his stroller, he holds onto the side of it and pushes it along. This is a slow way to move down a sidewalk, but it gives him exercise, keeps him close, quells tantrums, and it's cute.
When other toddlers try to hug him to say they're sorry for knocking him down, he tolerates it.
When he asks for a cracker ("caw-caw?") he gives Mom adequate time to dig through the diaper bag to find one--or, if a cracker cannot be located, to change the subject to something equally enthralling.
When he doesn't like the food he is given, rather than howl, he rubs it into his hair, knowing that Mom will remove the offending food item just as quickly.
He feeds animals at petting zoos.
He sleeps for extended periods of time in locations other than his Provo bedroom: ten hours at his aunt's house and six hours in his car seat with no interruptions.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Dishwashing thoughts on a law school regret
One of the lectures in my international law class was about multi-party negotiations. The professor decided to illustrate the point of how multi-party negotiations were virtually impossible by giving the class a negotiation where a decision could not be reached without unanimity. At first she tried doing something with dividing money among the people in the class, but she only used ten one-dollar bills, and we quickly decided as a class to send someone across the street to the creamery to buy us all root beer floats.
Obviously the stakes weren't high enough. Law students care deeply about money--can we say student loans?--but ten dollars wasn't enough to really start a negotiation. We needed higher stakes. This professor knew that another thing (the only other thing?) law students care deeply about is law school grades. She told us that if we could unanimously decide our grades for the class as long as we used a 3.3 median. There were thirteen people in the class. If seven would agree to get 3.3's for the course, then the rest of the class could get 4.0's.
Most professors adhere to the 3.3 median rule by grading on a simple bell curve. Many people get 3.3's, one gets a 4.0, and a couple of students fail with a 2.6 or lower. I'd guess that no one in that class had ever gotten a 4.0 in a law school course.
This professor was a gutsy lady. She taught the feminism and the race relations class at Brigham Young University, after all (loved them!).
What followed was a nail biter of a negotiation. There was only one issue, and there was no range of values. Either you agreed to take the 3.3 or you held out for the 4.0. One by one, students agreed to take a 3.3. One student was a transfer student, and she just needed to pass anyway. Another student admitted that even a 3.3 could only improve his GPA. Another student was a lawyer seeking continuing legal education credit who just needed to pass. Another student said she'd be willing to do it just to see if the professor would really hold to her promise to skip the final exam. One student did it just to be nice.
After five students had agreed to take 3.3's in the course, the discussion turned personal. The students were actively seeking out those who shouldn't care whether or not they got a 4.0 in the course. A girl turned to me and said, "What are your plans after graduation, Ms. Portia?" She looked pointedly at my six months' worth of pregnant belly.
"Having my baby," I said confidently. Why didn't I just stop there? Why didn't I actually make the girl try to convince me that a woman who has a baby immediately after law school has less of a reason to deserve good grades in law school than a woman who graduated single and virginal like her taut-bellied self? Instead I continued, "But, um, that doesn't mean that I don't need good grades because, you know, someday, I might need to get a job, and I need a good transcript from law school, right?" That was it: My one fleeting chance in law school to publicly defend my decision to attend law school, succeed in law school, and work full-time for my husband and my baby and not for the American justice system. And I pretty much flubbed it.
I was thinking today about why I regret my missed opportunity to take a stand for educated motherhood, but I don't regret my missed opportunity to take a stand for fair and accurate grading of knowledge and ability in a law school course. We were basically assigning grades based on who was kind enough or apathetic enough to accept an undeserved 3.3. I don't think anyone mentioned any qualms about how ridiculous this was.
Frankly, this didn't bother me in the least. After two and a half years of law school, one thing I'd absolutely learned was that grades, while not exactly arbitrary, weren't fair. Why not base grades on students' kindness, apathy, or stubbornness? Was that really all that different from exams based on attendance? Exams based on your tolerance for sleep deprivation? Your typing speed? The accuracy of your bootlegged lecture transcript? (Sidenote: I had excellent attendance, a high tolerance for sleep deprivation, a zippy typing speed, a famously accurate lecture transcript).
Also, I secretly suspected that there was no way this professor would let us get away with it. Things like that didn't happen in law school. There were rules against antics like these. In the end, one of the deans reread the 3.3 median rule, and determined that our method of assigning grades was against law school rules, and we would have to take a final comprehensive exam. On which I got a 3.8, thank you very much.
And really, isn't that how lawyers roll? They don't really worry too much about the higher moral implications of their arguments because (1) the world of the law is pretty immoral and unfair to begin with, and (2) in the end, if you get too crazy, someone always steps in to keep things predictable, if not necessarily fair.
Obviously the stakes weren't high enough. Law students care deeply about money--can we say student loans?--but ten dollars wasn't enough to really start a negotiation. We needed higher stakes. This professor knew that another thing (the only other thing?) law students care deeply about is law school grades. She told us that if we could unanimously decide our grades for the class as long as we used a 3.3 median. There were thirteen people in the class. If seven would agree to get 3.3's for the course, then the rest of the class could get 4.0's.
Most professors adhere to the 3.3 median rule by grading on a simple bell curve. Many people get 3.3's, one gets a 4.0, and a couple of students fail with a 2.6 or lower. I'd guess that no one in that class had ever gotten a 4.0 in a law school course.
This professor was a gutsy lady. She taught the feminism and the race relations class at Brigham Young University, after all (loved them!).
What followed was a nail biter of a negotiation. There was only one issue, and there was no range of values. Either you agreed to take the 3.3 or you held out for the 4.0. One by one, students agreed to take a 3.3. One student was a transfer student, and she just needed to pass anyway. Another student admitted that even a 3.3 could only improve his GPA. Another student was a lawyer seeking continuing legal education credit who just needed to pass. Another student said she'd be willing to do it just to see if the professor would really hold to her promise to skip the final exam. One student did it just to be nice.
After five students had agreed to take 3.3's in the course, the discussion turned personal. The students were actively seeking out those who shouldn't care whether or not they got a 4.0 in the course. A girl turned to me and said, "What are your plans after graduation, Ms. Portia?" She looked pointedly at my six months' worth of pregnant belly.
"Having my baby," I said confidently. Why didn't I just stop there? Why didn't I actually make the girl try to convince me that a woman who has a baby immediately after law school has less of a reason to deserve good grades in law school than a woman who graduated single and virginal like her taut-bellied self? Instead I continued, "But, um, that doesn't mean that I don't need good grades because, you know, someday, I might need to get a job, and I need a good transcript from law school, right?" That was it: My one fleeting chance in law school to publicly defend my decision to attend law school, succeed in law school, and work full-time for my husband and my baby and not for the American justice system. And I pretty much flubbed it.
I was thinking today about why I regret my missed opportunity to take a stand for educated motherhood, but I don't regret my missed opportunity to take a stand for fair and accurate grading of knowledge and ability in a law school course. We were basically assigning grades based on who was kind enough or apathetic enough to accept an undeserved 3.3. I don't think anyone mentioned any qualms about how ridiculous this was.
Frankly, this didn't bother me in the least. After two and a half years of law school, one thing I'd absolutely learned was that grades, while not exactly arbitrary, weren't fair. Why not base grades on students' kindness, apathy, or stubbornness? Was that really all that different from exams based on attendance? Exams based on your tolerance for sleep deprivation? Your typing speed? The accuracy of your bootlegged lecture transcript? (Sidenote: I had excellent attendance, a high tolerance for sleep deprivation, a zippy typing speed, a famously accurate lecture transcript).
Also, I secretly suspected that there was no way this professor would let us get away with it. Things like that didn't happen in law school. There were rules against antics like these. In the end, one of the deans reread the 3.3 median rule, and determined that our method of assigning grades was against law school rules, and we would have to take a final comprehensive exam. On which I got a 3.8, thank you very much.
And really, isn't that how lawyers roll? They don't really worry too much about the higher moral implications of their arguments because (1) the world of the law is pretty immoral and unfair to begin with, and (2) in the end, if you get too crazy, someone always steps in to keep things predictable, if not necessarily fair.
Some thoughts on changing seasons
Fall in Provo is pretty darn terrific. The weather is almost always perfect, and when it's not, it's never that bad. Yep. I'm sure enjoying the fall.
I'm getting ready for winter food. I love late summer food: zucchini, garden tomatoes, corn on the cob, etc. But when you have a lot of friends and family with Provo backyard gardens, you get your fill of it really fast. There are only so many ways to consume 20 pounds of fresh tomatoes. On to winter food: pot roast, mashed potatoes, hot chocolate, etc.
I used to also like fall for the clothes. I love wool pants and cashmere twin sets. I think it's a preference I picked up in law school when I realized I didn't have to continue wearing my Provo High sweatshirt anymore and I could start dressing like a grown up. The problem is that those clothes are dry-clean only. My baby is an average baby as far as tidiness is concerned, but that still means that dry-clean only clothes are not gonna happen. Even if I steer clear of Baby's high chair, he's still going to find a way to use my sweater as a Kleenex, napkin, towel, barf bag, or wet wipe. So the wool pants and twin sets stay in the box that they've lived in ever since I got pregnant. I wear sweatshirts and jeans.
I'm pleased to announce that the Provo High sweatshirt still fits just fine.
I'm getting ready for winter food. I love late summer food: zucchini, garden tomatoes, corn on the cob, etc. But when you have a lot of friends and family with Provo backyard gardens, you get your fill of it really fast. There are only so many ways to consume 20 pounds of fresh tomatoes. On to winter food: pot roast, mashed potatoes, hot chocolate, etc.
I used to also like fall for the clothes. I love wool pants and cashmere twin sets. I think it's a preference I picked up in law school when I realized I didn't have to continue wearing my Provo High sweatshirt anymore and I could start dressing like a grown up. The problem is that those clothes are dry-clean only. My baby is an average baby as far as tidiness is concerned, but that still means that dry-clean only clothes are not gonna happen. Even if I steer clear of Baby's high chair, he's still going to find a way to use my sweater as a Kleenex, napkin, towel, barf bag, or wet wipe. So the wool pants and twin sets stay in the box that they've lived in ever since I got pregnant. I wear sweatshirts and jeans.
I'm pleased to announce that the Provo High sweatshirt still fits just fine.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
A Fish Out of Water
I've been over a month without internet access in our house. Every stolen minute on the ancient family desktop at Grandma's house is like a gulp of cool water.
Actually, yesterday I took a couple of minutes while Baby was preoccupied at Grandma's house to finally update this blog. After writing two frenzied paragraphs, of course, Baby came toddling over and slowly, deliberately pushed the glowing green power button. Oh well, it was just a blog entry. I suppose I should be glad I'm out of law school and my term papers are behind me and safe from Charlie's remarkable intuition with technology. Today, I accepted sweet Husband's offer to take Baby for the afternoon while I put in some quality time with public computers in the law library.
No internet, no TV, no newspaper. I am almost totally unconnected wtih the outside world. I actually checked a paper map of Utah county the other day to figure out where something was. And a phone book. What, there's a Mormon running for president?
In this temporarily primitive state, Baby and I have resorted to primitive forms of entertainment to pass the time: storytelling, circle stomp dancing, VHS tapes, etc. Instead of parking in front of my laptop, I've started showering and cleaning my house during naptime. Needless to say, my hair and my house haven't been this clean in over a year.
But it's so not worth it. I'm losing my mind. I feel like I'm living on a different planet, missing everything that's going on with my friends on Earth. Well don't worry, friends, I'll be back soon.
Actually, yesterday I took a couple of minutes while Baby was preoccupied at Grandma's house to finally update this blog. After writing two frenzied paragraphs, of course, Baby came toddling over and slowly, deliberately pushed the glowing green power button. Oh well, it was just a blog entry. I suppose I should be glad I'm out of law school and my term papers are behind me and safe from Charlie's remarkable intuition with technology. Today, I accepted sweet Husband's offer to take Baby for the afternoon while I put in some quality time with public computers in the law library.
No internet, no TV, no newspaper. I am almost totally unconnected wtih the outside world. I actually checked a paper map of Utah county the other day to figure out where something was. And a phone book. What, there's a Mormon running for president?
In this temporarily primitive state, Baby and I have resorted to primitive forms of entertainment to pass the time: storytelling, circle stomp dancing, VHS tapes, etc. Instead of parking in front of my laptop, I've started showering and cleaning my house during naptime. Needless to say, my hair and my house haven't been this clean in over a year.
But it's so not worth it. I'm losing my mind. I feel like I'm living on a different planet, missing everything that's going on with my friends on Earth. Well don't worry, friends, I'll be back soon.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Sleepless in Provo
I've been awake since 3:30 am. I have a feeling today will be a cranky-pants day.
This is one of the less appealing life changes that came with motherhood: Nighttime feedings were not bad, but after a year of never getting more than 5 consecutive hours of sleep, I've been trained into an insomniac. The piddlingest little thing on my mind will keep me blinking at the ceiling, twitching my ankle, listening to Baby and Husband snore through the early morning hours. And I'm so tired.
And what's on my mind? What's so desperately pressing that it can't wait until I've had a teensy bit more sleep? Let me share just a sampling: what happened to that one pair of shoes during the move from New York, where will I keep the jogging stroller in our new apartment, how will I make Baby sit still while I clip his toenails before church this morning, remember to e-mail sister in Missouri, remember to find a babysitter for next Wednesday night, etc.
I remember hearing new moms complain about this problem before I got pregnant. I'm pretty sure I thought they needed more exercise or maybe a good snoozy book. I hope I didn't say anything to them. If someone told me today that I needed more exercise, it would probably be the last thing they ever said. Unless they could still talk with a chewed-off head.
This is one of the less appealing life changes that came with motherhood: Nighttime feedings were not bad, but after a year of never getting more than 5 consecutive hours of sleep, I've been trained into an insomniac. The piddlingest little thing on my mind will keep me blinking at the ceiling, twitching my ankle, listening to Baby and Husband snore through the early morning hours. And I'm so tired.
And what's on my mind? What's so desperately pressing that it can't wait until I've had a teensy bit more sleep? Let me share just a sampling: what happened to that one pair of shoes during the move from New York, where will I keep the jogging stroller in our new apartment, how will I make Baby sit still while I clip his toenails before church this morning, remember to e-mail sister in Missouri, remember to find a babysitter for next Wednesday night, etc.
I remember hearing new moms complain about this problem before I got pregnant. I'm pretty sure I thought they needed more exercise or maybe a good snoozy book. I hope I didn't say anything to them. If someone told me today that I needed more exercise, it would probably be the last thing they ever said. Unless they could still talk with a chewed-off head.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Funny Education Week Story
Opening joke of the Dead Sea Scrolls lecture:
"My wife used to call me a model husband, and I thought it was a compliment until I looked up model in the dictionary and the definition said 'a cheap imitation of the real thing.'"
An hour later into the lecture:
". . . You see, the author personifies wisdom as a woman. Why? Obviously, because women are models of wisdom. . . . Oops! I didn't mean to say models."
"My wife used to call me a model husband, and I thought it was a compliment until I looked up model in the dictionary and the definition said 'a cheap imitation of the real thing.'"
An hour later into the lecture:
". . . You see, the author personifies wisdom as a woman. Why? Obviously, because women are models of wisdom. . . . Oops! I didn't mean to say models."
Brain Games
So I spend a lot of time sitting alone with my baby, nursing or whatever. While this is calming, safe, celestial, etc., it's also pretty boring. But I recognize that it wasn't that long ago that I would have loved the chance to sit and think. I've been trying to remember what exactly I promised myself I would think about when this chance came.
I'm pretty sure that at some point I told myself I would think really Good Ideas to eventually put into a really Good Book. Ironically, when there is nothing to do but think of Good Ideas, my head seems stuffed with dumb ones. When I worked parttime at the public defenders office (probably the busiest I've ever been), I know that there were plenty of days that I got ideas for cool crime novels, but I didn't spare myself the time to think about them in that context, much less write about them. I put them off until I had time. Now I have time, but no "zest for the imagination."
But that might not be the problem. There have been plenty of heartbreakingly brilliant writers who had much more boring lives than I do. I have a feeling that if I started writing something, then the ideas would start coming. Maybe that's the rub: I don't have a lot of time to write, I have a lot of time to think. Baby does not like Mom to sit at the computer or behind a notepad. During the hours that Baby is awake, if Mom is not holding Baby, nursing Baby, or playing with Baby, her other acceptable occupations (pushing a stroller, driving a car, etc.) don't exactly lend themselves to writing. They lend themselves to thinking. With nothing to think about, it's hard not to feel like I'm getting stupider.
I'm pretty sure that at some point I told myself I would think really Good Ideas to eventually put into a really Good Book. Ironically, when there is nothing to do but think of Good Ideas, my head seems stuffed with dumb ones. When I worked parttime at the public defenders office (probably the busiest I've ever been), I know that there were plenty of days that I got ideas for cool crime novels, but I didn't spare myself the time to think about them in that context, much less write about them. I put them off until I had time. Now I have time, but no "zest for the imagination."
But that might not be the problem. There have been plenty of heartbreakingly brilliant writers who had much more boring lives than I do. I have a feeling that if I started writing something, then the ideas would start coming. Maybe that's the rub: I don't have a lot of time to write, I have a lot of time to think. Baby does not like Mom to sit at the computer or behind a notepad. During the hours that Baby is awake, if Mom is not holding Baby, nursing Baby, or playing with Baby, her other acceptable occupations (pushing a stroller, driving a car, etc.) don't exactly lend themselves to writing. They lend themselves to thinking. With nothing to think about, it's hard not to feel like I'm getting stupider.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Injury Inventory
When I first had my baby, I got a lot of comments on the theme of "hooray for you: look at the perfect person you've created." I looked, and he was perfect, so I accepted credit as I am wont to do when I get a compliment on my baby. After all, I was pregnant for nine months, and those first few weeks of nursing were no picnic. Even so, I felt a little sneaky for accepting credit for my baby's perfect little body when I really hadn't specifically designed his elbow dimples, digestive tract, earlobes, etc.
Well, I'm earning that credit one day at a time. This last week he has been determined to find a way to bruise, gash, puncture, break, and shatter any and all of his heretofore perfect body parts. This project, which consumes all of his waking hours (read: all of my waking hours), has resulted in a skinned knuckle, three lumps on his head, a lost toenail, and a scabbed nose. The nose is the real trophy of the week; the attention it brings from every person who sees him makes it well worth his sidewalk tumble. He has been doggedly attempting a repeat performance ever since. Imagine what he could have cheerfully done to himself had I not been waddling behind him all week, hunched in toddler-snatching pose.
That's all I have to say. I don't have a conclusion, but even if I did, I don't have time to say more because, well, I need to track down my baby before he hurls himself into a post (again).
Well, I'm earning that credit one day at a time. This last week he has been determined to find a way to bruise, gash, puncture, break, and shatter any and all of his heretofore perfect body parts. This project, which consumes all of his waking hours (read: all of my waking hours), has resulted in a skinned knuckle, three lumps on his head, a lost toenail, and a scabbed nose. The nose is the real trophy of the week; the attention it brings from every person who sees him makes it well worth his sidewalk tumble. He has been doggedly attempting a repeat performance ever since. Imagine what he could have cheerfully done to himself had I not been waddling behind him all week, hunched in toddler-snatching pose.
That's all I have to say. I don't have a conclusion, but even if I did, I don't have time to say more because, well, I need to track down my baby before he hurls himself into a post (again).
Monday, August 20, 2007
Education Week: Day One
BYU hosts Education Week every year the week or so before fall semester begins. The name is not the most helpful in actually describing what goes on there, but I can't think of a better one that would describe it. Basically a bunch of people teach a bunch of different classes, and other people attend them for the purpose of, well, getting educated. There's definitely a religion-centered theme to the classes ("Symbolism in the Gospel of John," etc.), but some of the most popular ones are "Folk Dancing for Fun and Fitness" and "Beautiful Skin at All Ages." Whatever people feel like learning, they'll teach it at Education Week.
Since I'm starting my thirteenth year of living in Provo, I've known about Education Week for a long time, but this is the first time I've actually attended. It was a little humbling to don my necklace name badge and carry my Education Week schedule around campus after twelve years of secretly scorning the Education Weekers.
Anyway, it was a good day. Husband was sweet enough to take baby for over 4 hours, so I went to 4 classes. I have to say, running around campus again made me feel a little blue to see another school year looming when the only formal education I'll be getting this year is Education Week. Bless its heart, but Education Week can't really measure up to an honest-to-goodness degree program. It's not that I want to pursue another degree (the thought makes me ill), but I think I need something to rub my brain cells against--something slightly more tricky than regulating Baby's bowel movements and something slightly more active than reading for pleasure.
One of the classes today was about setting up a preschool co-op for your own alone time as well as for the social development of your children. That would give me a few hours a week to start planning the next phase of my career. Hmm.
Since I'm starting my thirteenth year of living in Provo, I've known about Education Week for a long time, but this is the first time I've actually attended. It was a little humbling to don my necklace name badge and carry my Education Week schedule around campus after twelve years of secretly scorning the Education Weekers.
Anyway, it was a good day. Husband was sweet enough to take baby for over 4 hours, so I went to 4 classes. I have to say, running around campus again made me feel a little blue to see another school year looming when the only formal education I'll be getting this year is Education Week. Bless its heart, but Education Week can't really measure up to an honest-to-goodness degree program. It's not that I want to pursue another degree (the thought makes me ill), but I think I need something to rub my brain cells against--something slightly more tricky than regulating Baby's bowel movements and something slightly more active than reading for pleasure.
One of the classes today was about setting up a preschool co-op for your own alone time as well as for the social development of your children. That would give me a few hours a week to start planning the next phase of my career. Hmm.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Home again, Home again, Jiggle-de-jig
Some observations on living in Provo again after our 3.5 month stint in New York City:
1) Life in Provo is less physically fatiguing. I'm having trouble falling asleep at night. My eyelids aren't droopy enough. This is the first time I can remember feeling this way.
2) Walking a stroller in the middle of a Provo street is really fun: no curbs, no cracks, no people . . . no cars.
3) Remind me to go to the drugstore for lotion, chapstick, bug spray, and sun screen.
4) Grandmas might enjoy one-year-olds even more than I do. And they are extremely capable and enthusiastic babysitters after a 3.5 months absence.
5) Baby doesn't remember Provo so it doesn't provide any kind of a calming influence on him, and with molars giving him grief, he could really use a calming influence.
6) A summer of New York cuisine has only enhanced and enriched my enjoyment of Provo's best restaurants: Bombay House, Gurus, and Rubio's, for example. It has lessened my enjoyment of the restaurants I never really liked anyway: IHOP.
1) Life in Provo is less physically fatiguing. I'm having trouble falling asleep at night. My eyelids aren't droopy enough. This is the first time I can remember feeling this way.
2) Walking a stroller in the middle of a Provo street is really fun: no curbs, no cracks, no people . . . no cars.
3) Remind me to go to the drugstore for lotion, chapstick, bug spray, and sun screen.
4) Grandmas might enjoy one-year-olds even more than I do. And they are extremely capable and enthusiastic babysitters after a 3.5 months absence.
5) Baby doesn't remember Provo so it doesn't provide any kind of a calming influence on him, and with molars giving him grief, he could really use a calming influence.
6) A summer of New York cuisine has only enhanced and enriched my enjoyment of Provo's best restaurants: Bombay House, Gurus, and Rubio's, for example. It has lessened my enjoyment of the restaurants I never really liked anyway: IHOP.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Lesson learned
I learned when I was engaged that I'll be a lot happier if, instead of focusing on what it is about my situation that makes my life hard, I focus on what it is about my particular situation that makes my life uniquely better. Being engaged pretty much stinks. There are very few things you can do when you're engaged that aren't better either when you're just dating or you're married. In order to maintain my sunny disposition, however, I have to find those few things and capitalize on them. In case you're curious, those things are (1) planning a wedding for real and (2) going on really nice double dates with single friends.
I revisited this philosophy when I was pregnant in law school. Believe me, it's really easy to feel sorry for yourself when you're pregnant in law school, especially if, like me, you're naturally inclined to be lazy. But there are somethings about law school that are better when you're pregnant (having an additional insight into discussions about abortion, child advocacy, career planning, feminism, and disability law, for example) and there are some things about being pregnant that are better if you're in law school (having really good friends to tell you how cute you are and who might throw you a themed baby shower, for example). No matter how cold comfort these things sound, you really will have a better life if you find out what they are and really throw yourself into making the most of them.
The trick is to make sure that you focus on your own situation and keep your awesome ideas to yourself. If you think too much about why other people should be happy about their lives, it's kind of like thinking about why you should be unhappy, and that defeats the purpose. I have a bunch of friends who are single Mormon women, and lately I've been thinking too much about how happy I would be if I were a single Mormon woman because I could focus on my education, my career, and my independence. It started making me feel bitter about my temporary pauses in my education, career, etc.
This morning, as Baby sneezed soggy cereal all over himself, his mother, and his last set of clean clothes, I saw myself as my single friends might see me: a cereal-covered young married mom who can't seem to keep her baby bathed, her husband fed, and her hair brushed into it's limp little ponytail. Who, instead of focusing on the celestial bliss of wifehood and motherhood, whines about her lack of autonomy. There's nothing like a shower of Crispix to jerk you back into reality.
So, at least for today, I plan to reconsider the manifold merits of being a cereal-covered young married mom in Provo. (Did I mention I'm back from New York? I'm back from New York.) In fact, here is one right now: On a deathly hot day like today, I have the option of splashing around in a wading pool with my baby, making him profoundly happy. That is what I'm going to do.
I revisited this philosophy when I was pregnant in law school. Believe me, it's really easy to feel sorry for yourself when you're pregnant in law school, especially if, like me, you're naturally inclined to be lazy. But there are somethings about law school that are better when you're pregnant (having an additional insight into discussions about abortion, child advocacy, career planning, feminism, and disability law, for example) and there are some things about being pregnant that are better if you're in law school (having really good friends to tell you how cute you are and who might throw you a themed baby shower, for example). No matter how cold comfort these things sound, you really will have a better life if you find out what they are and really throw yourself into making the most of them.
The trick is to make sure that you focus on your own situation and keep your awesome ideas to yourself. If you think too much about why other people should be happy about their lives, it's kind of like thinking about why you should be unhappy, and that defeats the purpose. I have a bunch of friends who are single Mormon women, and lately I've been thinking too much about how happy I would be if I were a single Mormon woman because I could focus on my education, my career, and my independence. It started making me feel bitter about my temporary pauses in my education, career, etc.
This morning, as Baby sneezed soggy cereal all over himself, his mother, and his last set of clean clothes, I saw myself as my single friends might see me: a cereal-covered young married mom who can't seem to keep her baby bathed, her husband fed, and her hair brushed into it's limp little ponytail. Who, instead of focusing on the celestial bliss of wifehood and motherhood, whines about her lack of autonomy. There's nothing like a shower of Crispix to jerk you back into reality.
So, at least for today, I plan to reconsider the manifold merits of being a cereal-covered young married mom in Provo. (Did I mention I'm back from New York? I'm back from New York.) In fact, here is one right now: On a deathly hot day like today, I have the option of splashing around in a wading pool with my baby, making him profoundly happy. That is what I'm going to do.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Stepping update
So now that Baby has turned one, I know the question on everyone's mind is whether or not he's walking. Although my son is bright, cute, well-adjusted, curious, and breastfed, and although both of his older cousins walked before they were one, no, he is not walking at this time. Thanks for asking. He is confidently stepping along, holding a rope while Mom holds the other end of the rope, but I realize that doesn't count.
I don't think I'd be uncomfortable about this if it weren't for the fact that the whole world knows that he's on the wrong side of his first birthday. From this point on, he will be a late walker. There's nothing like having your baby negatively labled before he can even talk to really make you think about how many lables people give babies even from the moment they are conceived. I'm thinking any mother could rattle off the list for any given baby. For example, my baby is not much of a kicker, an easy pregnancy, a late delivery, an fast delivery, a good nurser, a colicky infant, a fitful sleeper, a ticklish baby, a social baby, a big baby, a vocal baby, a cuddly baby, a wiggle baby, a water baby, a fast crawler . . . and a late walker. That's just in the first year. During this next year, we'll find out his preferences with regard to talking, sharing,
singing, and much, much more.
I don't think I'd be uncomfortable about this if it weren't for the fact that the whole world knows that he's on the wrong side of his first birthday. From this point on, he will be a late walker. There's nothing like having your baby negatively labled before he can even talk to really make you think about how many lables people give babies even from the moment they are conceived. I'm thinking any mother could rattle off the list for any given baby. For example, my baby is not much of a kicker, an easy pregnancy, a late delivery, an fast delivery, a good nurser, a colicky infant, a fitful sleeper, a ticklish baby, a social baby, a big baby, a vocal baby, a cuddly baby, a wiggle baby, a water baby, a fast crawler . . . and a late walker. That's just in the first year. During this next year, we'll find out his preferences with regard to talking, sharing,
singing, and much, much more.
Moving day
Did I mention that I hate moving? There's nothing like moving to make you feel like a disorganized slouch who owns nothing but junk. It doesn't help things if you also happen to be a disorganized slouch who owns very little besides junk.
One upside for this move is that I was able to get rid of some of my larger pieces of furniture with the held of my new best friend, craigslist. Craigslist is manna from the heavens, dear readers, when one is moving into or out of Manhattan. Not only will you get ready, willing, and able NYU students to buy, dismantle, and move your furniture, but you'll get to meet their mothers. I enjoyed a solid hour yesterday listening to the life story of Linda, a Pennsylvania nurse, while her 18-year-old son (who "loves dogs but doesn't seem to be interested in giving [Linda] grandbabies") dismantled and removed my obnoxiously heavy bed frame. I ate a popsicle.
It's not actually exactly moving day just yet. I will officially move on Tuesday evening. Today is just the last Saturday before moving day--the last day I will have my husband's muscles and babysitting skills. In spite of various obstacles in various forms, we've actually accomplished quite a bit today. And for the next three days, I will have virtually no furniture or kitchen appliances while I spend my time alternately cleaning hand-shaped tomato sauce stains off of my walls and distracting my baby from packing boxes and cleaning supplies. I plan to download two very engaging audiobooks and just plough forward.
One upside for this move is that I was able to get rid of some of my larger pieces of furniture with the held of my new best friend, craigslist. Craigslist is manna from the heavens, dear readers, when one is moving into or out of Manhattan. Not only will you get ready, willing, and able NYU students to buy, dismantle, and move your furniture, but you'll get to meet their mothers. I enjoyed a solid hour yesterday listening to the life story of Linda, a Pennsylvania nurse, while her 18-year-old son (who "loves dogs but doesn't seem to be interested in giving [Linda] grandbabies") dismantled and removed my obnoxiously heavy bed frame. I ate a popsicle.
It's not actually exactly moving day just yet. I will officially move on Tuesday evening. Today is just the last Saturday before moving day--the last day I will have my husband's muscles and babysitting skills. In spite of various obstacles in various forms, we've actually accomplished quite a bit today. And for the next three days, I will have virtually no furniture or kitchen appliances while I spend my time alternately cleaning hand-shaped tomato sauce stains off of my walls and distracting my baby from packing boxes and cleaning supplies. I plan to download two very engaging audiobooks and just plough forward.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Dream dream dream
I don't dream much lately because I think during the short amounts of time that I do sleep, I go straight into REM sleep and I am woken up before I drift back up into dreamland. It's ok. Dreaming is not usually that cool when you think about it.
When I do dream, like when Husband takes Baby on Saturday mornings, I have weird dreams. I don't wake up screaming, but I wake up realizing that I must have some kind of sick mind to have concocted such a weird dream. Last night it had something to do with living in a compound with women and children while all of the men were gone to fight the Babylonians (really, the Babylonians), and all we had to eat was dog meat, and for the entertainment of my fellow starving women and children, I decided to put on a play about this woman who shoots a canary because it's making too much noise, and then I put my baby on a ferris wheel by himself without strapping him in and he started to cry and crawl over the edge while I watched from the ground.
I think the women and children thing had something to do with the fact that I don't see my husband very often these days, but I see a lot of women and children. The dog meat probably came from the really tough and overpriced shishkabob I ate last night in Times Square. Don't ask me where I got the idea of shooting a canary in the play I put on. I think the play was an opera-type of thing, actually. And I think I was playing a man who was watching the woman. Whatever. We're planning on going to Coney Island today so maybe that's where the ferris wheel comes from. Note to self: Don't put my baby in a ferris wheel car by himself without strapping him in.
Or maybe the dream is from that one time that I was in a compound eating dog with other women and children while my husband was at war. But that was the Macedonians, not the Babylonians.
When I do dream, like when Husband takes Baby on Saturday mornings, I have weird dreams. I don't wake up screaming, but I wake up realizing that I must have some kind of sick mind to have concocted such a weird dream. Last night it had something to do with living in a compound with women and children while all of the men were gone to fight the Babylonians (really, the Babylonians), and all we had to eat was dog meat, and for the entertainment of my fellow starving women and children, I decided to put on a play about this woman who shoots a canary because it's making too much noise, and then I put my baby on a ferris wheel by himself without strapping him in and he started to cry and crawl over the edge while I watched from the ground.
I think the women and children thing had something to do with the fact that I don't see my husband very often these days, but I see a lot of women and children. The dog meat probably came from the really tough and overpriced shishkabob I ate last night in Times Square. Don't ask me where I got the idea of shooting a canary in the play I put on. I think the play was an opera-type of thing, actually. And I think I was playing a man who was watching the woman. Whatever. We're planning on going to Coney Island today so maybe that's where the ferris wheel comes from. Note to self: Don't put my baby in a ferris wheel car by himself without strapping him in.
Or maybe the dream is from that one time that I was in a compound eating dog with other women and children while my husband was at war. But that was the Macedonians, not the Babylonians.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Scene on the E Train
I saw the saddest thing happen on the subway today. A woman had a baby in a stroller and a four-year-old trailing behind, and she noticed that the baby had dropped his bottle. "You are going to suffer for that," she said. "I'm not buying you a new one--you'll just have to suffer."
The baby, who was probably about eight months old, started crying. "Oh, don't give me that," Mom said. "Don't give me that. You're a brat. You lost your bottle." Then she started slapping the baby's hands with the papers she was holding. "Brat, brat, brat, brat."
And behind her the four-year-old was repeating everything she was saying. "Brat, brat, brat . . ."
I think I've become a lot more understanding of moms' shortcomings in the last year. It really sucks to lose a bottle. Or a pacifier or a rattle or a bib or a hat for that matter. And it's even worse when you realize that you lost it while you're traveling because you really will just have to buy a new one if you know you're absolutely going to need it before you can go home. I've been yelled at enough by idiot strangers to vow that I will only offer assistance to other mothers and never lecture them on how to rear their children.
The problem is, I've also become a lot more sensitive to the world of an eight-month-old. It's like I could hear him saying "Mom, mom! Please don't slap my hands! It was an accident! I didn't mean to drop my bottle, but I'm just a baby and it's really hard for me to remember not to drop my things. I'm not a brat, mom." I saw his childhood stretching ahead of him with a mother whom he couldn't trust to show him gentleness and self-control and an older brother who was learning to hit and humiliate him.
There was nothing I could have done, right? I hope I don't think of something I could have done later, because I will deeply regret having done nothing at all.
The baby, who was probably about eight months old, started crying. "Oh, don't give me that," Mom said. "Don't give me that. You're a brat. You lost your bottle." Then she started slapping the baby's hands with the papers she was holding. "Brat, brat, brat, brat."
And behind her the four-year-old was repeating everything she was saying. "Brat, brat, brat . . ."
I think I've become a lot more understanding of moms' shortcomings in the last year. It really sucks to lose a bottle. Or a pacifier or a rattle or a bib or a hat for that matter. And it's even worse when you realize that you lost it while you're traveling because you really will just have to buy a new one if you know you're absolutely going to need it before you can go home. I've been yelled at enough by idiot strangers to vow that I will only offer assistance to other mothers and never lecture them on how to rear their children.
The problem is, I've also become a lot more sensitive to the world of an eight-month-old. It's like I could hear him saying "Mom, mom! Please don't slap my hands! It was an accident! I didn't mean to drop my bottle, but I'm just a baby and it's really hard for me to remember not to drop my things. I'm not a brat, mom." I saw his childhood stretching ahead of him with a mother whom he couldn't trust to show him gentleness and self-control and an older brother who was learning to hit and humiliate him.
There was nothing I could have done, right? I hope I don't think of something I could have done later, because I will deeply regret having done nothing at all.
On the Education of Young People
I just finished the book "Copy This," by the founder of Kinko's. He was dyslexic and hyperactive (and also kind of nuts), but he managed to get through college and become wildly wealthy and successful. One of his biggest points in the book was that US schools only reward the students who are good at everything rather than the students who are able to use other people's strengths to make up for their weaknesses. That is a more important skill to have in the real world after all. Then, this morning on TV someone was talking about how it's dumb to give every kid in the little league a trophy instead of just the star players. The real world only rewards the excellent people, after all.
The two complaints come from different directions, but they are complaining about the same thing, really: that children aren't educated properly unless their education is a sort of microcosm of the "real world." I have a problem with that. Let's just suppose that childhood is the only time that you don't have to be in the real world. Why is it necessary to make childhood more like the real world?
I think it's ok to make childhood harder than the real world in some respects by teaching children to be able to do things for themselves that they will be able to pay other people to do for them in the real world. It's ok to teach children to be able to read and understand complicated works of literature, for example. Dyslexic children will have a harder time with this, it is true, but that doesn't mean that we should ignore this portion of their education. For a dyslexic person, childhood is probably going to be the only time that they will attempt to explore literature on their own because, it is true, later in life, they will most likely choose to do something that isn't so difficult for them. I happen to think that the literature being taught in public schools is worth the struggle. And the math and the science and so on.
I should probably say at this point that I did not struggle with any school subject except physical education so, admittedly, I don't really know how difficult it is for a student with a bona fide learning difficulty. I only know that as a stay-at-home mom, I don't draw on very much of my education at all on a day-to-day basis, and I don't use any of it to make money. Still, I treasure my education, and I'm tremendously grateful for all of it, even the stupid rope climb in PE. I'd like to think that I am successful in the real world because I am able to reflect on that education whenever I choose.
I also think it's ok to make childhood easier than the real world by giving trophies to the whole softball team instead of just the homerun star: rewarding children for effort rather than results. It's true that this doesn't mirror the real world, but, you know, it's just too wonderful for children to be rewarded this way. So what if they think they are better athletes than they actually are? They'll be straightened out eventually. I strongly support any encouragement children can get to try whatever they want, not because it makes children into better athletes or whatever but because it makes them braver to try other new things.
I married a man who is jaw-droppingly successful, not because he is smarter or stronger than anyone else but because he is braver. He was willing to just go for it whenever he saw something he thought would be good to do. Maybe we can't transform dyslexic children into natural readers and maybe we can't turn clumsy children into softball stars, but maybe by telling them how awesome they are every time they try something new or do their best, we can give them more courage.
Happy Birthday Baby
My son turned one yesterday. His birthday was funner than a ferris wheel. All day I was thinking about how much I loved him and how awesome he was. He was fabulously cute and well-behaved too. It'll be a shame when I don't get to plan how he spends his birthdays because, I have to say, I did a bang-up job.
At this time last year I was huge, sleep-deprived, ripped, bruised, and unwashed. Now I'm thin, not-so-sleep-deprived, only slightly scratched (and in much more comfortable locations), only slightly bruised (ditto on the locations), and showered. Puh-less, I have an awesome one-year-old asleep on the futon who, when he wakes up, will grin and make me feel like I'm the coolest person he's ever met. And maybe I just am.
At this time last year I was huge, sleep-deprived, ripped, bruised, and unwashed. Now I'm thin, not-so-sleep-deprived, only slightly scratched (and in much more comfortable locations), only slightly bruised (ditto on the locations), and showered. Puh-less, I have an awesome one-year-old asleep on the futon who, when he wakes up, will grin and make me feel like I'm the coolest person he's ever met. And maybe I just am.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Non dairy desserts
As most readers of this blog are aware, I haven't been consuming any dairy products for the last year. Ok, so I've slipped a little, but as a general rule, I have gone without milk, cheese, yogurt, ice cream, sour cream, whipped cream, cream cheese, cheesecake, milk shakes, chocolate mousse, egg nog, and Alfredo sauce for one full year, marked by my baby's birthday. As a result, I was able to nurse my baby, I lost my baby weight in a snap, and I lived for a year without the effects of a dairy sensitivity that I never knew I had (mild stomach aches, allergy symptoms, and rashes). I also had a sinking disappointed feeling every time my mom made lasagna for Sunday family dinner.
I think, all things considered, I could give up dairy completely if it weren't for dessert menus. Next time you go out to eat, look at the dessert menu and see if you can find more than one dairy free dessert. Most likely there will be a warm chocolate cake on the menu, and that will be your only choice. Now, I have nothing against chocolate cake; I'm just really, really in favor of cheesecake.
So, last night my husband brought home take-out from a Japanese dessert bar. I guess most Japanese people are lactose intolerant, so their desserts are mostly soy and fruit based rather than milk based. I think I've found my dessert replacement. Oh, the bliss of black sesame sweet tofu. Oh, the decadence of kuromitsu syrup. Every reader of this blog now has the assignment to find and buy every Japanese dessert they can find so that they will create a raging market for them and I will be able to get them cheaply when I don't live in New York.
I think, all things considered, I could give up dairy completely if it weren't for dessert menus. Next time you go out to eat, look at the dessert menu and see if you can find more than one dairy free dessert. Most likely there will be a warm chocolate cake on the menu, and that will be your only choice. Now, I have nothing against chocolate cake; I'm just really, really in favor of cheesecake.
So, last night my husband brought home take-out from a Japanese dessert bar. I guess most Japanese people are lactose intolerant, so their desserts are mostly soy and fruit based rather than milk based. I think I've found my dessert replacement. Oh, the bliss of black sesame sweet tofu. Oh, the decadence of kuromitsu syrup. Every reader of this blog now has the assignment to find and buy every Japanese dessert they can find so that they will create a raging market for them and I will be able to get them cheaply when I don't live in New York.
I [heart] NY
You know that one Seinfeld episode where Jerry dates the girls who's completely perfect but everyone thinks is a complete loser? And he dumps her when his parents like her? Today I've been thinking that New York is the opposite of that. Everwhere you go, people heaping praise on New York City. Eventually, you start to buy into it. Call it peer pressure. It's like that girl in elementary school who was popular just because she was and no one could stop talking about how fantastic she was and how lucky they were to be associated with her. I distinctly remember thinking that it wasn't perfect when we first arrived, and now I can't really remember what exactly wasn't perfect about it. The subway elevators are stinky, yes, but stale urine can be kind of, I don't know, cool. Yes, it's impossible to push a stroller through a crowded grocery store, but did I really want to go grocery shopping between the hours of 7 am and 10 pm?
And then, when it's nearing the time to go home, I start to get really sad about leaving. I kind of want to see Central Park in the fall. I bet Christmas is so gorgeous in midtown. Spring? Fuggetaboutit. It's not that New York feels like home, it's like New York feels like feeling. It's like being alive times ten. It's uncomfortable and complicated and not always beautiful, but it's basically fabulous, and I want to come back.
And then, when it's nearing the time to go home, I start to get really sad about leaving. I kind of want to see Central Park in the fall. I bet Christmas is so gorgeous in midtown. Spring? Fuggetaboutit. It's not that New York feels like home, it's like New York feels like feeling. It's like being alive times ten. It's uncomfortable and complicated and not always beautiful, but it's basically fabulous, and I want to come back.
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