Author Archives: Naptimewriting

Take that, parenting experts

Posted on by

Let’s not bandy about the word precocious. Let’s not say anything about the apple falling from the tree. Let’s just say you parenting dorks and your stupid games are making me feel like an ass.

Me: Hey! I just heard that all the animals in the zoo are out roaming around and they’re hiding in someone’s mouth! Let me use your toothbrush to check your mouth to see if they’re in there.
Peanut: Mommy, we don’t put animals in our mouths because they have germs that can make us feel crummy. And did you know this? We use our eyes to look and sometimes a telescope.

Next day
Spouse: Gee, I can’t remember how to brush my teeth. Peanut, can you come in here and help me? I don’t know how to do this.
Peanut: Daddy, you went to college. You know how. And I saw you brushing today. Are you telling me a true story?

Next day
Me: Hmm. I’m feeling pretty fast today. I wonder if I can brush m teeth faster than you!
P: Mommy, we don’t brush quickly. We brush carefully. Are you feeling careful today?

Good luck, my friends who are in labor even as we speak. This might be genetic.

Aaaaaah.

Posted on by

Only 21 more days ’til January.

Tomorrow is my day to prepare, bring, and serve a healthful snack at preschool. 25 kids, 12 adults, and a requirement for whole grains and protein, all organic. WTF, people…I already have enough trouble getting three people fed around here.

Tonight my sewer is overflowing into my garage. No big deal. Landlord has a standing account with a 24-hour plumber. How’s that for a silver lining in a shitstorm?

Computers are still busted. Found a loophole that lets me write one sentence each hour and eventually post. I think my computers want me on Twitter and off everything else.

Packing for an awesome trip that will be way too short and that is sure to be fabulous until the moment USAir (why they are still in business escapes me) strands us in Phoenix on the way home. As they always do. Without fail. It’s like the Phoenix chamber of commerce paid the whole airline to make sure people read those lame ass signs for just a few extra hours. People, if I wanted to be in Arizona, I would be in Tucson. Not Phoenix, and not the Phoenix airport. Save your money and let us pass. I can answer your three questions AND I brought you a shrubbery.

Now it’s only 20 days until January.

Massive computer fail

Posted on by

Netbook and laptop both took a huge dive. After several days during which any click of the mouse takes, no joke, 8 minutes to register I think I’ve figured out that Microsoft auto-updated my Windows XP to a new and Internet-outraging service pack. Or some other geek talk I don’t get. Neither computer can perform basic functions and I’m left hanging for days after asking for a virus scan or a return to backup.

What I do understand is that both my computers are useless and I’m a mess. Can’t pay bills, can’t check our plane reservations, can’t send email, can’t handle the huge address book that has all the info for our holiday cards.

I need Kipper. Any chance he and Jake could come over and fix both computers, since it seems I have to download and reinstall something onto computer that is completely unable to even copy or delete a file?

Microsoft, if this is your fault, I’m totally and completely going Linux on my PCs and am using my Mac for EVERYTHING from now on. Jerks. Losers. Monolithic asswipe computer ruiners. (I usually reserve my “The Man is bringing me down” category for politics, but Microsoft is *The Man* and The Man is so thoroughly bringing me down, man.)

I’ll be back when I can actually access the Internet.

This week in Peanut, early December

Posted on by

During dinner: “Maybe we could name the baby Jazz. Jazz is nice music. Maybe we could name the baby Art Tatum. He plays good pinano. Maybe we could name the baby LyleLovett because he talks his singing. Or name the baby Flower. Because I like flowers. Or maybe name the baby out of snow. ” Later, specifies we should *make* the baby out of snow, not name it Out of Snow.

In the tub, apropos of nothing: “Daddy, could you do me a favor? Can I have short shirt jammies tonight instead of long sleeve? Thanks.”

Spouse: If you drink from the bath, I”m taking you out…..okay, you’re out.
Peanut: Oooops. Here we go.

P: The baby is pretending the water it’s in took a trip to the ocean and it came back and now it’s hiding.
Me: The baby is hiding from the ocean-going water?
P: No. That water is hiding from the baby.
M: Where?
P: Anywhere that’s not a uterus.

“Mommy, I love you much as apple.
I love you much as snow.
I love you much as Daddy is stinky.
Mommy, I want to lick your eye.”

Quick 2009 primer

Posted on by

Fascinating.

Top 10 Stories You Missed in 2009 this year, as rated by Foreign Policy. Seriously, read it.  It’s relatively short and absolutely worth your time.

A rare even-handed look at the conundrum in Afghanistan.

And, finally, a look at how pink ribbons have completely dumbed down our knowledge of women’s health issues in an article by Barbara Ehrenreich.  Politicians and corporations are still railroading science in this country, alas.

Play rather than memorize

Posted on by

Thanks to Elizabeth over at bleakonomy for linking to this article in the Washington Post about the importance of playtime over scheduled, formal instruction.

The quote Elizabeth pulled for her blog post is jaw-dropping:

Research has shown that by 23, people who attended play-based preschools were eight times less likely to need treatment for emotional disturbances than those who went to preschools where direct instruction prevailed. Graduates of the play-based preschools were three times less likely to be arrested for committing a felony.

Of course academic preschool doesn’t make people felons. That isn’t the argument in the article or in my ramblings. The argument is that formal, didactic learning for young children is counter productive. They need imaginative play with other children, supervised to make sure play is a safe and rewarding experience, but not scheduled and formalized to the point that the play becomes work. Or quote-educational-unquote. (Especially major corporation educational-for-profit type play. That means you, LeapPressure, Baby Neurotic, and Fisher for Dollars.)

Because seriously? Eight times less likely to need therapy is pretty significant. Especially given the other things we’re doing to screw our kids up.

Pssst. Academic…

Posted on by

You know it’s a bad sign when I take the time to print and annotate your journal article, covering it with “NO!” and “critical thinking?” and “WRONG” all over the margins; and then when a page falls out of the stack and I’m looking for scrap paper, that I’m willing to make a grocery list on the back of your alleged scholarship.

mutual guidance

Posted on by

I’ve been meaning to post for a while on what a difference Raising Your Highly Spirited Child has made in our family. But this article in The Atlantic pushed me to post sooner. (The article details how researchers have shown that, while some people have a genetic predisposition to psychological catastrophes, those same people, if nurtured well, can turn their potential liabilities into measurable assets.)

Our dear little Peanut, the tightly wound, sensitive, intense, persistent, introverted, empathetic, strong willed child is my greatest challenge. (When I typed “three-year-old” as a tag for this post, wordpress automatically suggested a previously used tag: “help, I’m being held hostage by a three-year-old.” ‘Nuff said.)

I can handle demanding bosses and confrontational colleagues and obtuse clients and tight deadlines, but my child is harder than anything I’ve ever come across. Because I want to do more than just love him; I want to allow him to be himself, guiding him to a future in which his self esteem and social skills will allow him to do whatever he wants with his life. I want to help him become his best self without squashing his individuality or molding him to my will. I want to find a way to apply gentle, attachment parenting styles to a child most parents would beat into submission and who, daily, takes way more out of me than I have to give. I want him to exist within firm, thoughtful, and broad boundaries within which he is free to explore with wild abandon whatever interests and compels him. I want him to be a full participant in our family, not a pet or accessory. I want what might seem like weaknesses now to become strengths, not just memories.

But it often feels like he is killing me.

To that end, I greatly appreciate Mary Kucinka’s Raising Your Highly Spirited Child because she breaks down some of the personality traits that parents find difficult to manage in typically developing children, and offers an empathetic perspective and some very practical advice on guiding (rather than managing or changing) behavior. One obvious technique she dispenses with quickly, before a lengthy quiz in which readers can discern just where on the spectrum their child resides and the specific realms in which she is “more” than other children, is to rename characteristics as assets. “Difficult” children can be strong willed, energetic, or cautious rather than stubborn, out-of-control, or shy.

What I appreciate even more than the specific advice, the enumerated parameters, and the reassurance, really, that my child has always been a whole handful and a half (and it’s not just my imagination), is the section that acknowledges that oftentimes the almost constant stream of adrenaline that comes from raising a spirited child intensifies when parents are highly spirited, too. I have been called by my family most of the negative terms Kurcinka urges us to reframe as strengths. Her bold acknowledgment that “recommending that spirited parents keep their cool was a denial of their own intensity….It doesn’t work to simply say, ‘I am supposed to be cool.’ The fact is, you’re not” rocked my world. I thought I was a failure for not keeping cool all the time. Now I know I was being me and just need different tools to keep both Peanut and myself from losing it at what turn out to be easily forseeable moments.

The retraction of Kurcinka’s former stance that parents should just stay calm during a child’s most intense moments absolutely melted me. Her book is not a license to autocratic parenting behavior, as so many are, and her suggestions are teaching me how to guide myself as I am guiding Peanut. For instance, I taught him (very easily because he was open to both the technique and the acceptance of his intense passions it implied) that it’s okay, when other people are too much, to politely excuse yourself to your room to have some quiet time and get enough energy to deal with them again. That frustration and anger and hitting come from feeling like you can’t get away but that, really, you can notice that before it happens and get the space you need. Now I have allowed myself to say the same thing to him. “Love, I’m out of people energy and need a little quiet time with a book; I’ll be in my room for a few minutes and you’re welcome to come with me to quietly read your own book” is now something we both respect (and really enjoy). He usually declines because he doesn’t find me draining, exhausting, or infuriating most of the time. When he does want to rip my throat out, he tells me in calm, reasonable tones that he doesn’t like my approach and offers his own suggestions for making things better. We work on issues until we find a solution we both like (unless it’s a non-negotiable issue, in which case I have firm boundaries. But at almost four he’s way beyond fighting sunblock, seat belts, or holding hands in the street.) But when we’re not pressed up against on of those, we’re having a much better time figuring everything out.

The Loh Down on doing your best

Posted on by

I told you when I posted about Sandra Tsing Loh’s divorce article in The Atlantic that her perspective is interesting and intriguing. Much more so than Waldman’s (or any of the other so-called bad parents out there). Now that she’s posting about the difficulty of being a real parent in the era where all decisions seem judged crucial and the bevvy of “bad parents” are a disappointing group of flawed but decent parents who think it’s somehow funny to claim they’re failing while the rest of us struggle to make it through each day with our selfhood intact.

“Today’s Professional Class mothers are expected to have, above all, the personalities—and the creative aspirations—of elementary-school teachers. But if you’re like me, you can’t compete with those seasoned professionals for whom child education is an enthusiastic vocation.” Bless you for saying it. I love my child, I’ve said before, but I’m totally not cut out for this work. I’m doing a kick-ass goddamned great job, but this is not the job I want. Thank you for voicing what I’ve been desperately hoping is true: that smart, overeducated, middle class women who’ve hacked their way through the jungle of independence and career to carve themselves a creative niche make for depressed parents.

My favorite quote from the Loh article, in which she returns to second-wave feminism to decide who and what she is in this 1950s MadMen clusterf*ck of a society we find ourselves in:

“The 21st-century Creative Class mom’s life is actually far worse than that of her 1950s counterpart.”

She says in one sentence what I tried to say here and here and here, and Susan Maushart says in The Mask of Motherhood, a text I recommend to all families with or about to have a new baby.

And that prescient, erudite brevity is why Loh gets paid the big bucks.

Just what the doctor ordered

Posted on by

No, not swine flu vax. Still don’t have access. And not a healthy diet or steady exercise. Because I prefer organic unhealthy and sporadic respectively, thank you very much.

No, the Rx of which I speak was a solo trip to New York for personal and professional reasons. Was it a success? Aye.

Seeing old friends has always been my drug of choice. It makes me feel so intensely good I can’t put into words how I value faces and voices that span all the phases of my seriously stunted personal development. It was miraculous to see some of the people I thought had disappeared into the aether. (Yeah, I went Victorian on that one. I debated the contemporary spelling, but I just finished a George Eliot book and am sprinkling my life with the nineteenth century. For fun and profit. Well, really just fun, but you never know.) So it was lovely to see half a dozen people I value above sleep. (Yes, you five, I did just say I value you above that which I’ve dedicated my life to finding, achieving, and relishing. How do you like them apples?) All this in a setting where I wasn’t chasing a small child or trying to keep him occupied with things he likes so I can do what I like: sitting like a lump discussing books and food and politics and life.

It was also a great relief to get in one more conference before the Baby Formerly Known as Vomitron arrives. I had intended to polish and publish as many articles as I could before next fall and to apply to PhD programs as Peanut settled into what I hope will be a better year for both of us. The onset of 15 weeks of nausea made me reconsider, deflate lethargically, then kick the plans into high gear. The conference reassured me that 1)Some of my work makes me a viable candidate for consideration at the journals and Universities to which I’d apply; 2)I must continue to function at as high a level as possible for the next few months, because academia will just not be possible in 2010; and 3)the stuff on which I wanted to focus my scholarship ten years ago may actually start making its way into the mainstream soon, which is freaking awesome timing, all things considered (and Vomitron willing).

But the highlight of the trip was the food. I love good food, and I certainly have access in San Francisco and Berkeley. Really good food. Really, really good….but here’s the thing. Food eaten on vacation with friends in New York City in the just-beginning-to-crisp autumn achieves a whole new level of great over that which is sandwiched in between gulps and eyebrows that remind, constantly, exactly what the babysitter is costing. Some of the dishes in NY (gnocchi alla sorrentina, a grecian omelette, and pret a manger soup grabbed between conference panels) were fine but not spectacular. And some were as well balanced and nuanced as anything I’d had before (a bread pudding of perfect consistency, a brilliant artisan cheese and local veggies omelette, the freaking mindblowing TKO and linzers at Bouchon, and a brie sandwich on cranberry baguette).

But the absolute best time, money, and calories spent were achieved via a raging 25-month sheeps’ milk local artisan cheese from the farmer’s market is still coating my palate with a NYC magnet, pulling me to go back. And telling me that despite my instincts, there need be no punctuation in the above cheese’s hyper-adjectival clause. Cause a pause would ruin the magic, yo.

Believe me, cheese guy, if I could afford to, I would be back tomorrow. Because I have to get more of that cheese and give it to all my friends. Heck, I’ll even bring Peanut this time. Because he should totally get to see NYC at night in autumn. I loved it. Even more delightful this time than it was 13 years ago.

(Holy crap I’m old. Way to kill the mood about a great trip and future successes by recalling how many years have passed since I was vibrant and carefree. Geez. I need more of that cheese to salve my wounds. Oh, look. Brought home a pound. Good thinking.)

Phone calls home

Posted on by

I don’t think there is anything in this life I love more than talking to my son on the phone. (I realize that sounds cold, since it means I prefer distance to being in the room with those little eyes and lovely curls. But bear with me.)

His voice is positively adorable. I spend so much time with him that he feels quite old. But the phone does not lie—that voice belongs to a tiny person.

And I love his priorities. Ever single phone call begins this way before I even say hello.

P: I love you, Mommy!

Without fail he starts conversations with I Love You. There’s really no beating that. Plus, he always tells me two interesting things about his day and then says, “Bye Mommy, I love you. Good bye. Have fun. I love you. Good Bye.” And then he turns off the phone and moves on with his life.

*sigh*. I kind of didn’t want to come home.

Dear WordPress

Posted on by

Look here, wordpress. I know you’re not going to write posts for me, though I’ve asked you to. I know you don’t have time to check my spelling, grammar, and punctuation, though I’d really appreciate it if your would.

But would you mind not randomly password protecting my lame-ass posts? There is nothing I put on this silly little blog that others can’t read. I mean, I appreciate you looking out for my personal safety or intellectual integrity and all but…wait. Were you trying to protect me from embarrassment? Nah. You’ve let me post some really lame things before.

So quit with the password protection. It’s lame.

Airport announcements

Posted on by

Excuse me, lady with the skin-tight satin leggings? The shiny black satin leggings? What are those, supposed to make people think you’re wearing leather pants? Do you know skin-tight is not really a good look for you? Do you remember what happened to the seat of your swimsuit when you sit on the edge of the pool? Gets all nubby and bare? Um, that’s what happened to the seat of your pants. And THAT is why you are no longer allowed on the up escalator on a crowded day like today.

Pardon me, ma’am? Ma’am? Yes, you all in leather. Leather prairie skirt, leather vest, leather coat, leather boots, leather hat? Yes. Well, um, most of the other women here have decided *not* to look like cows and we’re wondering what makes you so confident that you can cover yourself in cow and think you don’t look bovine, metaphorically? I see. We’ll note that as you pass through security.

Excuse me, sir? Yes, you. The one who is looking sweetly across the aisle at your 8-year-old son and occassionally stroking his cheek as he sleeps? Yes. Well, you’re making me feel badly for leaving my kid at home. Smiling and cheering at being free. Would you mind not expressing so much unadulterated affection for your boy? Can we pretend this is the 50s for the duration of the flight and normalize that you ignore your kid so I can get some guilt-free free wifi and sleep and quiet time? Thanks ever so very.

Hello, ma’am? Yes, I know this is the bathroom and it’s okay to brush your teeth at a bathroom sink, but you’re in an airport. And you had to carry that floss and toothpaste and electric toothbrush all the way from where ever you’re from just to feel minty fresh? Do you know about rinsing and spitting, cuz that’s almost as good, as a short term solution. Do I have to watch you remove decaying food from your oral cavity while I obsessively wash and rewash and moisturize my hands because, between preschool and four flights this month, I’m feeling a little germy? How long are you travelling that you can’t just brush when you get where ever you’re going? Where *are* you going? I’ve seen OCD dental hygeinists who spend less attention on their oral health. We’re going to have to ask you to refrain from…oh, no, you didn’t just put that in your carry-on to use on the plane. Do you eat nothing but basil spinach corn on the cob or something?
Crap. Where’s my toothbrush?

for the record…

Posted on by

…the smaller you make the peanut butter cups, the more I need to eat to feel as though I’ve done something with my day. Work on super-sizing those bad boys. Then we’ll talk.

…apples are not protein. Neither are bananas. When I ask you what protein you’re going to have with your popcorn, you’d better actually name something with a complete amino acid profile. Otherwise you’re having almond butter spread on every single food you ever eat until you’re 20.

…turn signals are not optional. If you dillholes keep making me wait/threatening my life by refusing to use those signals, I will drive headlong into your stupid-ass SUV and tell the police officers that you were weaving and screaming as you hit me.

…calling yourself by a different name and trying to thrash my house and one remaining shred of sanity under the guise of having different rules at “your” house, when I know full well everything you’ve done for the past 3.75 years does *not* get you a free pass to roll all over me. Sure you can have a cuddle, whatever your name/alibi is.

…there is no reason on earth to charge that much for a cab ride. Do you know what taking the subway would cost me if it were still running this late?

…there is no reason on this earth that you need to wipe your hands on your shirt. We’ve been working on this for three years. You have two napkins by you. Use one.

…that’s nice that you love me *this* much. You still only get one movie on Movie Day.

…it’s really not okay to call your doctor’s office (or your child’s pediatrician) and curse at the office manager for not having the H1N1 yet. It’s not their fault. And, from the words of my childhood pediatrician’s office “I don’t mind being called a bitch, but one woman called me fat. i simply will not be talked to that way.” All people who lack civility go to the back of the line, anyway. And the nurse, who is too much of a professional to spit on your needle, calls your cafe and tells the barrista to spit in your overpriced attitude-worsening brew.

…I will be gone for the next four days and I don’t plan on blogging anything useful, but you never know.

Oh, you dear, sweet thing

Posted on by

Dear little person:

I am so sorry that the world feels out of your control. I’m sorry it’s so tough to be small.

I’m sorry that people will minimize your frustrations by saying “it’ll only get worse.”

And I’m sorry that it will. Only get worse.

I’m sorry that life moves too slowly when you want adventure.

I’m sorry that life moves too quickly when you need routine.

I’m sorry that not everyone will adore you as much as we do.

I’m sorry that society thinks its job is to beat out of you that which makes you You. I hope we can help you find and hone your strengths so you stay You in the face of Them.

I’m sorry you don’t know yet that you won’t, in fact, spin off into a million pieces when you feel as strongly as you do.

I’m glad I’m here to teach you that it’s okay to have very strong feelings.

I’m sorry not everyone will always be gentle or respectful. I’m also sorry you won’t be, either. I’m glad I’m here to teach you to strive for it, though.

I’m not sorry that you didn’t know what a donut was until today. And I’m not sorry you didn’t like the first one you ever tried.

I’m not sorry that in our family Santa is a story about a person who collects from those who have enough and gives to people who need, rather than bringing rewards if you are “nice.” I’m glad we don’t subscribe to that kind of reward/punishment structure. And I’m glad you know about giving to people and animals who need.

I’m sorry that you have to finish the first portions of fruit, protein, and carbohydrate in each meal before you get seconds. I’m not sorry that you’re always welcome to trade a meal you’ve tasted for hummus and crackers.

I’m sorry we have safety and respect rules about which we are not flexible.

I’m not sorry we’re flexible about everything else.

I’m sorry that, in the midst of all the other changes in your life, I decided to move the furniture in my room. I’m sorry that sent you completely around the bend. I’m not sorry that if you ever need to cry that you *always* get a shoulder on which to do it.

I’m sorry that you cried so hard into my shoulder about me moving my bed that you had huge, salty curls dried to your cheek while you slept.

But I’m not moving the bed back.

I’m sorry if having a new baby upends your world. But I’m not sorry that you will forever have a sibling. From what Daddy and I have found, they’re pretty nice things to have.