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."
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
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.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Recruitment
For those readers who don't know, my husband is in the process of being recruited to work for a law firm in New York City. He is paid a large salary, given an office with a gorgeous view, taken to lunch every day, driven around in a Lincoln towncar, flown first class to Latin America, and taken on a number of outings to show him just how fabulous his life with be if he works for this law firm. The law firm is doing a pretty good job of recruiting him: He's developing a palate for the finer things in life, if you know what I mean.
They're not doing the best job recruiting me. Most law students in the United States are single, childless, religiously unaffiliated, and in their mid-twenties. The law firms use that demographic to plan the summer activities so significant others are not really part of the plans. Children are definitely not part of the plans. As a result, I have not seen my husband for four days because he's been in Colombia. He just returned an hour ago. Tonight, he's feeling bad about missing a party to which I am specifically uninvited. I'm having trouble feeling bad for the poor lawyers who want to party with my husband after feeling lonely for him for four days.
Admittedly, when he told me that he had the chance to go to Colombia, I told him that it sounded like a great opportunity and I would be fine on my own for a few days. Also, I have almost always encouraged him to network in unstructured situations with the other attorneys at his firm. I think that it's my past life as a law student that makes me extra supportive of my husband's legal career. Maybe I shouldn't be though. Maybe I should assert my interests as a stay-at-home mom more. He's never pressured me to contribute to the family finances by workng away from home. Should I refrain from pressuring him to spending more time with his kids? Something tells me that the two responsibilities aren't even comparable, but I haven't really figured out how it all fits together.
In the meantime, yes, complaining about it does help.
They're not doing the best job recruiting me. Most law students in the United States are single, childless, religiously unaffiliated, and in their mid-twenties. The law firms use that demographic to plan the summer activities so significant others are not really part of the plans. Children are definitely not part of the plans. As a result, I have not seen my husband for four days because he's been in Colombia. He just returned an hour ago. Tonight, he's feeling bad about missing a party to which I am specifically uninvited. I'm having trouble feeling bad for the poor lawyers who want to party with my husband after feeling lonely for him for four days.
Admittedly, when he told me that he had the chance to go to Colombia, I told him that it sounded like a great opportunity and I would be fine on my own for a few days. Also, I have almost always encouraged him to network in unstructured situations with the other attorneys at his firm. I think that it's my past life as a law student that makes me extra supportive of my husband's legal career. Maybe I shouldn't be though. Maybe I should assert my interests as a stay-at-home mom more. He's never pressured me to contribute to the family finances by workng away from home. Should I refrain from pressuring him to spending more time with his kids? Something tells me that the two responsibilities aren't even comparable, but I haven't really figured out how it all fits together.
In the meantime, yes, complaining about it does help.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
D is for Discipline
So here's a problem:
My baby likes to bite me while I'm nursing him. He has eight beautiful, sharp baby teeth. It is every bit as painful as you might imagine, and I'm having trouble making him stop. The problem is that discipline is based on repetition: he gets some negative consequence each time he engages in the naughty behavior. You know what else is based on repetition? Humor. Especially one-year-old humor. When I tried saying "no" loudly every time he bit me, he was startled and upset the first couple of times, but then he thought it was a hilarious game and he would purposely bite me and giggle every time I said no. Then I tried flicking him on the nose. I don't think he liked it, but he soon realized that Mom's humor is just as funny when it hurts a little. What was I supposed to do? Make it hurt a lot?
Then yesterday when I was feeding Baby his Cheerios, he learned that he could reach in his mouth and take his Cheerios out to enjoy them twice. Mom wasn't happy about that, so she tried her disciplinary tactics on this behavior as well. Baby was delighted: every time his stuck his finger in his mouth, he could depend on Mom frowning and pulling his hand out. It got ridiculous really fast. Fingers in, pull them out, fingers in, pull them out.
Imagine the cutest baby in the world, laughing his head off, and then imagine flicking him on the nose and saying "no, stop laughing!" Think you can do it? Good, you're hired. I'll take him back when you're done.
My baby likes to bite me while I'm nursing him. He has eight beautiful, sharp baby teeth. It is every bit as painful as you might imagine, and I'm having trouble making him stop. The problem is that discipline is based on repetition: he gets some negative consequence each time he engages in the naughty behavior. You know what else is based on repetition? Humor. Especially one-year-old humor. When I tried saying "no" loudly every time he bit me, he was startled and upset the first couple of times, but then he thought it was a hilarious game and he would purposely bite me and giggle every time I said no. Then I tried flicking him on the nose. I don't think he liked it, but he soon realized that Mom's humor is just as funny when it hurts a little. What was I supposed to do? Make it hurt a lot?
Then yesterday when I was feeding Baby his Cheerios, he learned that he could reach in his mouth and take his Cheerios out to enjoy them twice. Mom wasn't happy about that, so she tried her disciplinary tactics on this behavior as well. Baby was delighted: every time his stuck his finger in his mouth, he could depend on Mom frowning and pulling his hand out. It got ridiculous really fast. Fingers in, pull them out, fingers in, pull them out.
Imagine the cutest baby in the world, laughing his head off, and then imagine flicking him on the nose and saying "no, stop laughing!" Think you can do it? Good, you're hired. I'll take him back when you're done.
Shopping blues
I went shopping with my baby yesterday at a really crowded department store. The line for the fitting rooms was long and I didn't think that I'd be able to fit a stroller in with me once I got there anyway, so I decided to just eyeball the sizes on my clothes.
Actually, what I'd originally decided was to try on the clothes in the aisle of the department store. It's amazing how comfortable I am doing really undignified things ever since Baby came bouncing into my life. Don't get the wrong idea: I wasn't standing there in my underwear; I was just discretely slipping a skirt on over my dress. Not in a shoplifting kind of way, but in a will-this-waistband-reach kind of way. Anyway, apparently customers are not supposed to try clothes on unless they're in the fitting rooms, no matter how long the lines or how un-stroller-friendly the fitting rooms may be. So, I used my 14 years of experience buying my own clothes to see if they would fit.
I chose well for two of my items, but I was way wrong on one. I am writing this post while squeezed into a shirt that is way too small for me. It might, just maybe, fit my eleven-year-old sister. That's always depressing when you think something will fit you with room to spare and it actually is uncomfortably tight. I'd like to think that I'm actually thinner than I think I am, but it turns out that I'm fatter. And it's not just baby weight at this point, it's just me. So I guess it's back to the crowded department store for me to exchange the shirt for a larger size. Hmmph.
Actually, what I'd originally decided was to try on the clothes in the aisle of the department store. It's amazing how comfortable I am doing really undignified things ever since Baby came bouncing into my life. Don't get the wrong idea: I wasn't standing there in my underwear; I was just discretely slipping a skirt on over my dress. Not in a shoplifting kind of way, but in a will-this-waistband-reach kind of way. Anyway, apparently customers are not supposed to try clothes on unless they're in the fitting rooms, no matter how long the lines or how un-stroller-friendly the fitting rooms may be. So, I used my 14 years of experience buying my own clothes to see if they would fit.
I chose well for two of my items, but I was way wrong on one. I am writing this post while squeezed into a shirt that is way too small for me. It might, just maybe, fit my eleven-year-old sister. That's always depressing when you think something will fit you with room to spare and it actually is uncomfortably tight. I'd like to think that I'm actually thinner than I think I am, but it turns out that I'm fatter. And it's not just baby weight at this point, it's just me. So I guess it's back to the crowded department store for me to exchange the shirt for a larger size. Hmmph.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Banged up
With one notable exception, I've never lived in an apartment that wasn't painted landlord white. In this apartment, the paint is particularly boring because we don't have much furniture. We got it unfurnished, and we've only added what we plan to use during the next six weeks or so. As I got out of the shower this morning, it crossed my mind that the most colorful things in the apartment were the bruises on my legs. I think I get a new bruise every time I carry the stroller up or down the subway stairs, so by now I've acquired quite a collection: nineteen little dime-shaped bruises on my right leg (I carry the stroller on my right side) in various shades of green, yellows, pink, and purple.
It just goes to show that if/when we move here for good, I'll definitely need to paint my apartment.
It just goes to show that if/when we move here for good, I'll definitely need to paint my apartment.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Chewing Cigars
I watched Gigi for the first time in a long time yesterday. I hadn't seen it since I was a little girl, but I watched it a LOT when I was a little girl, so I thought I remembered every scene, every line of dialogue.
But I didn't. I had misheard so many lines in that movie. The most obvious mistake was the line where Aunt Alicia (sp?) says "You must learn to choose cigars." I had heard that line a hundred times, always hearing it as "You must learn to chew cigars." Gigi's disgust made perfect sense to me. Then, years later, I hear it again and realize that I had been wrong all along and Aunt Alicia's suggestion wasn't quite so gross.
This happens to me all the time. Sometimes it's because I learned the sexual humor or the literary allusion or whatever during the interim. And sometimes I don't know why I heard it one way over and over again before and realized it so obviously later.
It makes me want to rewatch all of those old movies and reread all of those books that I overwatched and overread when I was younger. I don't know if it would be worth it to sit through "The Buttercream Gang," but I could go for a walk down memory lane with "Pipi Longstocking."
But I didn't. I had misheard so many lines in that movie. The most obvious mistake was the line where Aunt Alicia (sp?) says "You must learn to choose cigars." I had heard that line a hundred times, always hearing it as "You must learn to chew cigars." Gigi's disgust made perfect sense to me. Then, years later, I hear it again and realize that I had been wrong all along and Aunt Alicia's suggestion wasn't quite so gross.
This happens to me all the time. Sometimes it's because I learned the sexual humor or the literary allusion or whatever during the interim. And sometimes I don't know why I heard it one way over and over again before and realized it so obviously later.
It makes me want to rewatch all of those old movies and reread all of those books that I overwatched and overread when I was younger. I don't know if it would be worth it to sit through "The Buttercream Gang," but I could go for a walk down memory lane with "Pipi Longstocking."
The continuum between tourist and native
Last night we welcomed our first overnight guests to our New York apartment, which, for me, is a major turning point because we have made part of that transition. I still feel like a wide-eyed country mouse, but it cannot be denied that my little family has a residence and a job and experience here in the city. Granted it's just a little residence, job, and experience, but it's better than nothing, and plain old New York tourists have none of those things. As of last night, we also have had guests, another major step on the path from newcomer to old-timer.
It's also a reminder of the things that we haven't done yet in the city that we need to do before we leave. I'm to the point where I don't go out touring all day every day. I spend my time living more like a native: keeping up with errands and cleaning the apartment, maybe with a quick trip to the park. Being a long-term tourist is tiring. After weeks and weeks of waking up every morning to plan a new itinerary, figure out the transportation, work out the logistics for feeding, napping, changing, and sunscreening my baby, etc., I start to get really worn out. More and more, I find myself wanting to stay home rather than push the stroller through another world-class art collection. Still, on the days that I do yank myself and my baby out of the apartment and go somewhere, I'm almost always really glad I did. It's probably always worth it to stay a little bit of a tourist.
Yesterday my husband called at 2:30 to tell me that he had gotten Yankees tickets for that night. That gave me four and a half hours to get organized, go home, get ready, hoof it to Hubby's work, and take the train to Yankee Stadium. I was stressed the whole four and a half hours and really regretting my decision to go to the game as I jogged across Times Square during rush hour with an enormous baby strapped to my chest. But when we sat down in the stadium and got our hotdogs and watched Derek Jeter hit a homerun, it was absolutely worth it. Absolutely. And that's why, when my husband calls tonight and tells me that we have free tickets to Carnegie Hall, but I need to find a babysitter, change into a dress, pick up his suit from the dry cleaners, and meet him at work with a to-go dinner to eat on the subway, I will say, "sounds fantastic--let's do it."
It's also a reminder of the things that we haven't done yet in the city that we need to do before we leave. I'm to the point where I don't go out touring all day every day. I spend my time living more like a native: keeping up with errands and cleaning the apartment, maybe with a quick trip to the park. Being a long-term tourist is tiring. After weeks and weeks of waking up every morning to plan a new itinerary, figure out the transportation, work out the logistics for feeding, napping, changing, and sunscreening my baby, etc., I start to get really worn out. More and more, I find myself wanting to stay home rather than push the stroller through another world-class art collection. Still, on the days that I do yank myself and my baby out of the apartment and go somewhere, I'm almost always really glad I did. It's probably always worth it to stay a little bit of a tourist.
Yesterday my husband called at 2:30 to tell me that he had gotten Yankees tickets for that night. That gave me four and a half hours to get organized, go home, get ready, hoof it to Hubby's work, and take the train to Yankee Stadium. I was stressed the whole four and a half hours and really regretting my decision to go to the game as I jogged across Times Square during rush hour with an enormous baby strapped to my chest. But when we sat down in the stadium and got our hotdogs and watched Derek Jeter hit a homerun, it was absolutely worth it. Absolutely. And that's why, when my husband calls tonight and tells me that we have free tickets to Carnegie Hall, but I need to find a babysitter, change into a dress, pick up his suit from the dry cleaners, and meet him at work with a to-go dinner to eat on the subway, I will say, "sounds fantastic--let's do it."
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