Peanut: I’m eating the apple and the seeds.
Me: I wouldn’t eat the seeds if I were you, P.
P: Why?
M: Because they concentrate arsenic, a yucky chemical that can hurt your body. Eating one seed won’t matter, but don’t try to eat them, please.
P: Why?
M: Not good for your body.
P: [pause] Maybe we could name the baby Arsenic.
M: It’s a nice word, isn’t it?
P: Yeah. Can we name the baby that?
M: Probably not, P, because I want to name the baby something nice, not something that will hurt people.
P: Why?
M: Well, when the baby is little, we don’t want people to worry that it might hurt them, and when its big we don’t want people to worry that it might hurt them. Arsenic can hurt you, so nice word but not a great name.
P: Can we name the baby Hitting?
M: That’s a little more direct than arsenic, but no.
P: Why?
M: Nice names, not hurting names.
P: Maybe we could name the baby Pretend Hitting.
M: Maybe.
Author Archives: Naptimewriting
Bolano quote of the day ~2666~
Okay, we’re at the first Bolano benchmark (someone email me with tilde instructions because the en rather than enyay is killing me) and I’m not sure yet. Engaging, amusing, smart. But the whole mocking of academia and its internal machinations has grown a bit tedious, in part because it reminds me of what I dislike about conferences, departmental in-fighting, and journal publishing.
Oh well. I’m still in this for the long haul. I think.
Quote of the day: tie. Because I’ll probably only post once a week, I’m willing to give the daily award to two bits from the first 50 pages of the novel…
“A rather ordinary picture of a student in the capital, but it worked on him like a drug, a drug that brought him to tears, a drug that (as one sentimental Dutch poet of the nineteenth century had it) opened the floodgates oof emotion, as well as the floodgates that at first blush resembled self-pity but wasn’t (what was it, then? rage? very likely), and made him turn over and over in his mind, not in words but in painful images, the period of his youthful apprenticeship, and after a perhaps pointless long night he was forced to two conclusions: first, that his life as he had lived it so far was over; second, that a brilliant career was opening up before him, and that to maintain its glow he had to persist in his determination, in sole testament to that garret. This seemed easy enough.” (5)
“The first twenty minutes were tragic in tone, with the word fate used ten times and the word friendship twenty-four times. Liz Norton’s name was spoken fifty times, nine of them in vain. The word Paris was said seven times, Madrid, eight. The word love was spoken twice, once by each man. The word horror was spoken six times and the word happiness once (by Espinoza). The word solution was said twelve times. The word solipsism seven times. The word euphemism ten times. The word category, in the singular and the plural, nine times. The word structuralism once (Pelletier). The term American literature three times. The words dinner or eating or breakfast or sandwich nineteen times. The words eyes or hands or hair fourteen times. Then the conversation proceeded more smoothly.” (40-1).
See, just when I feel bored with the professional and personal nonsense, he waxes all Cervantes funny on me. And I dig that.
What in the heck…
A quiet and lovely Sunday. Peanut behaving as though he’s a human again—some joy, some frustration, lots of questions, generous helping of silliness, and fundamental lack of adult logic—which is a lovely change from last week.
Went bowling early, for the local lanes are a-hopping Sunday morning when games are half price. Peanut decided that, between the light balls for kids, gutter bumpers to ensure he scores higher than his mama, and arcade games complete with tickets he can trade for prizes, the bowling alley must be the site of his birthday party. Sold. They handle the whole thing, including pizza, and all we need to provide is cake and ice cream. Even 39 weeks pregnant (or not, as time will tell), I can handle that.
Grandma’s 94th birthday today, too. It’s really, really tough to get old, but she sure does it with style and grace and a cheerfulness that belies how long her days and nights often are. Glad we’re back home where I can see her and be with her more often. Ditto the rest of the family.
So.
Restful, food-filled, cake-highlighted, bowling-accented Sunday. Good times.
Goes farther if you cheer
Month late and $23 short
Decided upon my resolutions for this year…other than joining the 2666 group read.
I’m gonna make my own pasta and bread. Starting now. Peanut and I are measuring the insanely simple ingredients for egg noodles. We already make our own pesto, so tonight is fettucine and pesto all from scratch.
Sourdough starter is fermenting and bacteria-ifying right now for a project later this week.
And any one of you who suggests I get back to my other to-do lists, or who suggests that a few weeks before a new baby is not the time for labor-intensive resolutions can suck it.
*You* can be in charge of telling the Democrats to pull out the old reels of Republicans insisting that the fillibuster is un-American and every policy should get an up or down vote. And I will proof and roll out dough and bake.
Feels more promising of results, somehow, than getting the Democrats to grow a pair and move left instead of rending garments and weeping.
Hello, Freud, good to see ya
Because so many used bookstores in my ‘hood have gone under, I had to use amazon to find a used copy of Siblings without Rivalry.
They sent, instead, Mother Loss: Coping with the Death of a Mother.
My, Alanis, that’s almost ironic, given my recent posts about how the soon-to-be sibling is killing me.
Wit’s end
Well, we’re on Day Four of absolutely unacceptable behavior at Chez Nap. In the past six days we’ve had four days of unbelievable, out of control, unreasonable, tantrum and violent outburst horseshit. And I’m running out of ideas for not beating my kid.
This morning Peanut played by himself for about 20 minutes, then asked for help making a fort. I tried several different ways of helping and each time he screamed at me that I was doing it wrong. So I offered to sit back and watch, and he agreed but told me to leave the room. When I sat in the next room and watched, he yelled at me to come play with him. I told him if he could speak nicely to me, I would play with him, but that I wouldn’t respond to yelling. He asked nicely. He pretended to fix his bike, and asked me to join him. Every tool I touched, every bicycle part I looked at, he screamed that I was doing it wrong. Mind you, we never tell him there is such thing as wrong. Everybody does things differently. Everybody has different ideas. Blah blah kumbaya.
So after being yelled at three times I told him I was going to go read in another room. He sobbed he needed me. I told him I’d try one more time but if he told me I was doing it wrong or if he yelled, I was leaving. Tried. Yelled at me to stop doing what I was trying. Left.
Now he was screaming, sobbing. Not having any of this, I calmly told him I would respond to nice requests for play but i don’t play with people who yell at me: not at home, not at work, not with my friends, not with my family. He screamed at me to go out in the pouring rain and 50mph winds to get him a cookie. Amazingly, I didn’t laugh. I’m open to having a cookie with breakfast, and we have two varieties in the house. But I’m not leaving in this weather to get you a different cookie. (I held back the “You freaking maniac weird-ass hostage taker.”)
He lost it. Screaming, throwing. I calmly said I didn’t tolerate this and would be in my room when he was ready to talk calmly. He threw child-sized furniture at my closed door. (No joke. Wish it was. Little chair, little step stool, little doll bed.) I was tempted to open the door and correct that behavior, but I knew I’d manhandle the little f—er and am trying really hard to model better anger choices. Like hiding in my room taking deep breaths.
When he calmed down I came out to talk. And he hit me. I used my words and he hit me again.
So I dissembled the fort. I kept responding calmly that we don’t treat people this way. That angry is okay and that hitting is not okay. That angry feels like too much but that cuddles or talking or breathing help. He hit me with his stuffed monkey and I put the monkey in timeout. And he lost it even more. I restrained him in my lap while he raged, but he sunk into a slump of sobbing after a few seconds. He cried in my lap for probably ten minutes.
After the bodysnatchers replaced the angry shell of jerk they had filled with nonsense and crazymaking with my son, I fed him, I talked to him, I played with him. And when the whole series started again an hour later, I just picked him up, kicking and screaming, and put him in the car. Because if we stayed home I would have beat him. We drove around for half an hour. And when he said he was ready to find new ways to be angry, I took him home. We ate lunch, we played Candyland, and we napped.
And I’m telling you, readers, I will not take another day like this.
This is not about me not entertaining him enough…there is a tidy house with a new project and lots of old, well loved toys available every morning. I help when asked, stay away when asked, and offer suggestions when asked. And if he’s at a loss, I initiate something fun and invite him to join me.
I’m doing my part. Now what the hell do I do with him?
Seriously. What do I do? What are the patient, gentle, respectful options? I will not be an emotional martyr in my own house.
Every evening at dinner we go around the table and ask each other: What made you feel happy today? When did you feel sad? Frustrated? Angry? Surprised? Excited?
And when Peanut asked me tonight what made me happy I burst into tears.
Whatchya reading?
I posted the list from The Millions a couple of weeks? months? ago, and we had a lively discussion in the comments about what, in fact, the best books of the decade were.
Matt Bucher, over at one of his 40,000 blogs and social media sites, has posted his own list to rival The Millions’.
And he’s starting an Infinite Summer-like reading of Roberto Bolano’s 2666. Dan Summers says he’ll read along if I will.
So I’m toe-deep in 2666 and knee-deep in Don Quixote. What are you reading?
Nice move, Massachusetts.
Look, all I’m saying is that if the Democrats are so incompetent they can’t mount a successful campaign in Mass, or get anything useful passed in the almost two years they had a supermajority in Congress and the White House, why then, I’d like to see a new party come up to challenge the conservatives. A party that thinks very differently about how we treat our citizens, how we regulate our businesses and markets, how we educate our kids, and how we prioritize safe food, water, air, and citizenry.
Anyone for a party with actual progressive values? One that can sway independent voters with, say solid policy and the guts to sell it?
Sheesh. It’s Taxachusetts for heaven’s sake. How do you throw that one?
Take this job and shove it
This morning, as Peanut screamed an ranted that on movie day we *do not* have breakfast before movies and we might as well put him in an orphanage if we were going to be so cruel as to make and eat french toast on a holiday morning of family togetherness because ksdfjberijdfvbkja!! (I didn’t understand the last part, either) I told Spouse that *none* of my previous bosses acted this way. The guy I thought misunderstood my role in the company? Never screamed and danced the jig of impotent anger. And he gives a lot to charity. The corporate drones who stacked atop each other to Fortune 100 cloud-top perches never raged in my face while I tried to pee. The woman who ran a great company and gave me more respect, autonomy, and credit than I deserved never tried to bite me while repeatedly shrieking my name. And the other bosses, at companies large and small, generally had flaws that were within the bounds of propriety, reason, and social acceptance. Even if I didn’t appreciate it at the time.
I think it might be time for a job outside the home. The things I do best—writing, editing, and researching—are ideally done, for me, independently from home. But my home ain’t what it used to be and there’s no way to expect that I can gather together my shredded dignity, sanity, and intelligence to freelance while this monster and his soon-to-be-omnipresent sibling live here.
No doubt that, in a tough economy, many firms are clamoring to hire women who are 7 months pregnant. Right?
Babies are cute and cuddly…
…but they grow up.
Awoke yesterday morning to a small child climbing onto our bed. Cowboy hat, cat mask, and Mardis Gras beads which he was swinging over his head and cracking like a whip. I greeted him sweetly as I got smacked with beads and mentioned that necklaces are for wearing, not hitting. He said, “But that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m in the mood to hurt somebody.”
He’s nothing if not self aware.
It got much, much worse from there. I offered to take him to a playground to get out his energy (at 7am. Because I know how these days go.) He refused and tried to antagonize me by throwing clean laundry from the basket onto me. I refused to take the bait and offered to brush his teeth for breakfast. He took of his socks, threw them, then SCREAMED “Go get my socks!”
Um, no.
For the next 30 minutes, he kicked and sobbed and screamed at the top of his lungs that I should get his socks. I calmly replied, each time, that he took off his socks, he threw them, and he could get them if he wanted. After he screamed even more loudly, I left the room, explaining that I don’t stay in the same room as people who act this way, but that I’d be happy to play with him or talk to him when he’s calmed down. He slammed doors and began to throw books. I escorted him out of my room and told him he could not be in my room if he was unable to control his anger. I told him asking for a hug was a great way to help get some calm when your anger feels like too much. He hugged me and clawed at my back. I stood up and told him I wouldn’t hug someone who tried to hurt me. He asked for another hug. I squatted to give him one and he pulled my hair with his teeth.
This went on and on and on for almost an hour, with me calmly removing myself and him escalating. I had more patience in reserve because the day before I had screamed at him when he bit me, and had grabbed him so hard (to tell him that hurting people when you’re angry is not okay), that Spouse noticed abrasions under Peanut’s armpits at bathtime. Carrying luggage on your shoulder through the whole Denver airport kind of broken capillary marks. Peanut said they didn’t hurt, and there were no bruises, but I was horrified and mortified and guilt ridden. So the next morning my remorse allowed one full hour of bullshit to get only calm, measured, parental responses. Because I’d rather teach him that freaking out doesn’t have any benefit, and that controlling anger is a useful skill. But I’m a terrible role model. Awful. Horrible. Trying to reform. Feeling penitent when small person has trouble with anger because he has two quick-tempered, often angry parents. Who have vowed never to hit or hurt him for all the reasons that wielding violence and fear do not work. One of whom just totally failed.
And then he stopped. After an hour of shouting at me and holding me emotional hostage he asked, “‘if I get my socks would you please put them on?”
Yes, I will.
“Thanks. Can I please have a blanket so I can lie down on the couch? I’m exhausted.”
Ya think?
And after Spouse got back from his morning track meet I left the house for the rest of the day. I had several projects to finish this weekend, including a reread of a book I’m editing, and I just couldn’t bear another day of anger and screaming and nonsense. It felt so good to sit in the car reading, to wander a grocery store slowly and without having to explain/correct/process/direct anybody else, it overwhelmed me. Why do I never get any time to think or be alone?
This…THIS…is what happens after I get a week of really impressive fun and tolerable behavior from my intense, persistent, sensitive, shy, empathic, high energy kid. An hour of screaming and biting and hitting. Most days are a mix of wonderful and terrible. If I get more than one day of wonderful, I pay in spades. [All the people who are impressed with his behavior on trips? THIS is what we get when we arrive home and he needs to decompress from all that “being good” (which we never label or praise it but which members of a different generation can’t seem to resist endlessly extolling).]
Gee, after mornings like that, why do I seem so scared to have two?
Little of this, little of that
Just not sure what to post. Thoughts of the utter devastation in Haiti, our relative insulation from it, parallels to New Orleans, venom toward those who would imply that anyone on this earth deserves a catastrophic disaster, impotence to help, fear for my family’s long term safety, guilt at that selfishness, and so on circle through my day.
I could post a response to someone else’s blog. But I feel uninspired to do so.
I could post a list of things I’m not doing but should be. Meh. That’d bore me even more than it would you.
I could write about how Peanut seems to have turned the corner on the three-year-old phase-from-hell, only 10 months into his fourth year on this planet. There, though, I risk jinxing this week’s reasonable behavior, as well as underreporting just how methodically and soul-deadeningly awful the first 10 months after his third birthday were.
I could detail preschool happenings or University library shenanigans or domestic frustrations or my debate over whether to participate in the Bolano 2666 read coming up.
I could vent frustrations that arise anytime I mingle with humanity, the bulk of which is really quite irksome.
Or I could go to bed early since Spouse is at a party and I’ll be damned if I do dishes while he interacts with both adults and fermented hops.
This week in mass confusion
Peanut: Mommy, I’m making duds. Do you know what a “dud” is?
Me: Something that doesn’t work?
P: No. Something that works really well. Not “dud.” “Duds.”
later…
P: Mommy, do you know what “mashed” means?
M: Smushed?
P: No. Something that is really working. Mashed. Really working well.
later…
P: I’m doing a mash.
M: Oh. Does that still mean you’re doing something well?
P: Yup. It’s so mashed it’s not going to be terribled.
Oh my heavens, I think my many careers in words and wordsmithing might be over. Clearly I don’t understand words as well as I think I do.
Been around the block
So as Baby 2 looms large in our thoughts for the next few weeks, I’ve been taking stock of our old baby gear, and deciding what needs an upgrade and what we missed the first time. Here are a few things I learned after doing the minimalist, all-you-need-are-cloth-diapers-and-boobs route with Peanut.
Keep in mind, this is not a complete list, and is only what I have learned from obsessing over every piece of advice I’ve been given over the past five years. Your results may vary.
A baby will grow up to resent you if you don’t have a wipes warmer.
Hand-me-down clothes probably pose a choking hazard. Probably.
If you get wooden, Waldorf toys, your child will go through a really nasty, anti-social period somewhere between ages 2 and 45.
If you have plastic, battery-powered toys, your baby will never learn anything. Ever.
People you don’t know will make sure to tell you how terrible it is to have your child in a stroller, so get a sling.
Strangers will approach you just to criticize your parenting if you wear your child in a sling, so buy a stroller.
Your child will never develop proper self esteem if you don’t have a book custom printed with their name as the title character.
Babies who don’t have a swing and a bouncy seat and a crib music box will cry and cry and cry the first three months.
People in the supermarket will look at you as though you have seven heads if you don’t have a ruffled car seat cover for your child.
People in the supermarket will look at you as though you have eight heads if you do.
Get shoes on your baby immediately after birth, or your child will never learn to walk.
You must teach your child at least one foreign language before it turns one, or you can forget about college.
You will regret, for the rest of your life, not having a pacifier leash.
Your child will be emotionally damaged, forever, if you use a pacifier.
The more expensive the stroller is, the better it is.
If you eschew bibs and just wash the baby’s dirty clothes, the Department of Child Protective Services will come calling.
If you don’t get a video baby monitor, you must not love your child.
You are cheating your child if you do not use the right baby soap, lotion, and shampoo. Every day. Because babies are *that* dirty.
Your baby will eventually need therapy if its sheets don’t match the comforter that you have to keep folded in the closet because comforters are a SIDS risk.
You child will never make friends if you make your own baby food.
You child will reach puberty at age 6 if you use store-bought baby food.
Doesn’t matter what approach you use to potty learning. Without a singing toilet, no child ever gets out of diapers.
This list, by the way, has been brought to you by the number 2, the letter Y, and the American Council on You Name the Life Event and I’ll Show You the Obscenely Long Shopping List of Must-Haves.
(Seriously, if you post a comment that all babies need is a safe place to sleep either with a sober grownup or by themselves; something to wear; a pair of functioning breasts or some non-melamine replacement; and a loving family, I will hunt you down and force-feed you rancid hemp protein. Mostly because we tried that stuff once and now just let it take up space in the guilt cupboard of healthy-food-that-tastes-nasty. Yeesh, it’s gross.)
Wait! What was that?
I just heard the sound of my own breathing. And it shocked me. I haven’t heard that sound since I regularly practiced yoga (and taught yoga) before Peanut was born. I rarely hear myself think, but tonight I heard deliciously calm air fill my nose, throat, and lungs, and then dance back out.
How delightful.
perspective time
It’s human beings like my friends who work hard to find families to children who deserve so much better, and stories like theycallmejane‘s that make me realize how important is every moment we spend with our children, with other people’s children, and with other adults. The more human we can be, to affect and be affected, the better the world is.
NaptimeWriting 