Author Archives: Naptimewriting

War on terror clarification

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Last week or so I alleged that the U.S.’s broadly named war on terror is a religious war, and I want to clarify.
Our declared war on terror is not just a fight with extremist muslims–it’s with anyone who might in some way threaten our way of life. A noble cause, I guess, but the killing that has ensued, and decimation of American civil liberties that followed sort of erode the nobility a bit.

I agree with stopping terrorists. Let me get that right out there. I believe we have the right and duty to protect our citizens. But not from pretend attacks or attacks that are not physically threatening. Anyone who hurts, maims, or kills other people because of some twisted interpretation of what god is and what it wants from them is an insane, horrible animal and I don’t think it’s wrong to stop them using any means necessary. (This applies to extreme, violent Muslim extremists who want to kill people and identically to people and governments who engage in genocide of “sectarian” others just because those people worship in a different way [e.g., Bosnia, Armenia, Rwanda, and Christian Nazi Germany). People who kill other people for their beliefs rather than their actions are bad people. And that’s where we get in trouble in the whole war on terror thing, and where some argue the U.S. government is acting like a terrorist. We’re bombing people who believe something different than we do, particularly Iraqis who want us out of their country.)

This war on terror, when it protects real Americans from real physical harm, is a justified, acceptable use of power. But when this war’s broad scope reaches beyond people who represent imminent harm to Americans to people who want us to leave them alone, it is a religious war, just as every other war fought in the name of a god has been. We are killing people who worship a different idea than we do. Our god, in this war, just happens to be Democracy (and demogoguery).
Our so-called war on terror is a religious war in that we are killing people during our demand that they believe what we believe. Just because we believe in democracy does not make it inherently right or supreme, and the rhetoric surrounding our insistence that everyone in the world worship our idea of democracy is, to me, the same as killing people to believe in our god.

(That doesn’t mean Russia needs to murder people in Georgia just to show us that they resent our heavy-handed “support” of democracy. And it doesn’t mean we can’t think democracy is the absolute best system going. I think it is. But I wouldn’t foster a civil war so that the like-minded could stay in power against national dissent just to get them to agree with me.)
The war on terror is much bigger than the world versus violent extremists (including 44 groups from half the major religions in various countries around the world we’ve declared terrorist organizations). This sweeping and cleverly encompassing war on terror deifies The Oval Office, because in declaring an undefined and interminable war, it gives Presidential powers an exponential boost. In time of war our President reigns supreme. And it’s smacking an awful lot of the divine right of kings, wherein, to modify a line from Real Genius, “it goes from God to Cheney to me.” The powers this Administration has grabbed for itself are Constitution-rending and society-threatening. The balance of powers on which our government functions has been eroded to the point that we have one branch of government and a bunch of bicameral and judicial ants scurrying around trying to build one iota of check-and-balance authority. We have allowed one part of our government to hijack the whole country for the belief that one President should get to do whatever he wants since we are, according to him, at war with ideas. That is a kind of deification that seeks to make worship of The White House into a religion to rival the six major world religions. And The National Standard, a politically conservative publication, made the point years ago that the right-wing of this country would be horrified if they stopped to think that all the powers Bush has decreed for himself could be transferred to President Hillary Clinton (this was well before the primaries began).

That’s what I meant by saying, as it is currently, broadly defined, the war on terror is a religious war. We’re killing some people who are terrorists, we’re killing LOTS people who live near terrorists, and we’re killing people because they don’t believe in democracy at the behest of our self-deified Leader.

Thank goodness it’s almost election time, and we can elect a President instead of a God.

Groceries and building blocks

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While we were at Trader Joe’s, Peanut dictated his grocery list. He usually draws it at home before we go, but we forgot. So he proclaimed, loudly, while ticking off on his fingers, and with a great sing-song rhythm:

“Blackberries, blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, soy, water, blender juice, bread, little bread, pizza.”

When we were building with blocks, he told me he was making a new house. I asked what he wanted his house to have.

P: “Garden. Flowers. Blackberries, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blueberries, pick, eat eat eat. ‘Matoes. No like ‘matoes. Pick throw.”

M: “Sounds like a nice garden, with flowers and lots of berries. Do you want to have a kitchen inside for cooking?”

P: “No. No kitchen no bathroom no dining room. Pick eat pee poop garden.”

Well. sounds like we’ll be a big hit once we move.

On another note about building blocks and toddlers, I’m kind of sick of the build-it-just-to-knock-it-down thing. I’ve tried casually suggesting he build his own stuff. That works until he sees what I’m compiling, and he knocks it down. I’ve tried getting him to collaborate with me. He just knocks down what little I’ve built. Seriously, dude, it would be nice to maybe get this thing more than two blocks high, or maybe get some structure to it. No offense or anything, but you’re not much fun when it comes to playing blocks. Sure, watching you have fun is pleasurable for a while and all that, but this gig is getting boring. Mommy used to have a job where people liked what she did and didn’t instantly knock it down. In fact, when mommy did work at a place like that, she quit. She prefers work environments where lots of people collaborate to build things, or work independently then show everyone the fruits of our labors. Mommy kind of wants a job like that again. Whadya say?

Toddler or Anarchist?

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With whom would you rather share your home—-a toddler or an anarchist?

Hmmm. Tougher choice than it seems. Unless you have (or have had) a toddler. In that case, you know pretty much where this is going.

Two-year-olds can be loving, can be interesting, can be wonderful companions. They also, though, often strive for independence and control over their own ideas and bodies, usually in wildly disproportionate episodes of writhing, screaming, and sobbing. In short, they are trying on independence without any of the skills it takes to button the cuffs of social diplomacy.

Anarchists, on the other hand, just want coercive government to go away. They have social skills, and their tactics are often in direct response to the perceived threat to their independence. You don’t have to baby-proof a house for an anarchist. They have better things to do than chase your cats, break your favorite coffee mug, or pee on your phone.

Like toddlers, anarchists come with all manner of agendas and methodologies. Like toddlers, anarchists can be loving, interesting, and wonderful companions. Unlike toddlers, anarchists aren’t out of their illogical, irrational, freaking minds.

Two-year-old evidence from yesterday: Peanut kissed me at least 45 times each hour, for all 14 hours he was awake. Big, full, lip-on-lip, sweet Peanut kisses. Most of the kisses accompanied by my favorite sentence from 19 months on: “Peanut…Like…Mommy.” Score one for toddlers. It was a good, good day.

Further two-year-old evidence from yesterday: Peanut walked into sporting good store, after agreeing that, yes, this store has some no-touches, so please ask mommy before you touch. He asked, then defied, on four items, each time looking right at me as he touched. I said, “no, thank you. No touch.” He said, “Please” as he touched again. I said, “No. No touch. Please listen to my words.” He touched again and repeated “please.” I shook my head and gently removed his hand. He cried “No Mommy move Peanut hand!” On the fourth item (sunglasses…why, oh why do they put those at waist-level instead of up by our eyes, where they should be?!) he threw a fit. Reaching for it…”I said no touch. If you touch that, we will leave the store.” Touch. Scoop up and take outside. Screaming, crying. Sobbing really, with tears streaming down his face. “One minnow!” (see the one minnow post. priceless. for all other toddler moments, there’s MasterCard.)

“Nope. We’re all done.” Cried on the sidewalk in my arms for, no joke, ten minutes. My biceps were on fire. I tried silence. I tried gentle talk, offering different options. I did not offer (or acquiesce to) a return trip into the store. Crying, crying, crying. Cried a few times as people walked by, I’m sure, just to inform them of my bad parenting. His words, not mine.

Anyway, toddler loses that one. (It was still a good day, btw.)

No specific anarchist data for same day, but passed several pedestrians in San Luis Obispo who were undoubtedly familiar with the tenets of at least one anarchist, and they seemed a welcome, quiet change from a two-and-a-half-year-old. Anarchists do not frequently scream or cry or try to grab things that society asked them not to touch. Anarchists break things and destroy property to reject the notion of property. They are rebelling. I can get on board with at least the idea, if not the reality, of this sort of rebellion. Two-year-old rebellion I do not support, as it makes absolutely no sense. (Yes, I know it does. Yes, I know why they try power battles over everything at bedtime and whenever you really, really need to get somewhere. Yes, I know why very gentle and well-behaved children turn into screaming banshees when you’re on the phone. Yes, they make sense. But not in a grown-up logical way. In a animal kingdom kind of way. But seriously. Let me have my little diatribe here. I need an outlet. Heaven knows I need an outlet.) Where anarchists may destroy property to protest capitalism, toddlers touch stuff that’s not even interesting. They don’t try to possess, or refuse to think in terms of possession. They just touch stuff to touch it. And especially if told no.

Give me an anarchist any day. I understand how infuriating and terrifying it must be to control so little of your world (unless you’re Peanut, of course, who controls more of his world than 99.8% of other two-and-a-half-year-olds do, and therefore should really cut me some freaking slack. We don’t use coercion in his world. He doesn’t even have a right to anarchy. Peanut protesting coercion is like white, middle class kids complaining about how hard their lives are, and turning to drugs because they’re bored. Get a job. Volunteer. Shut up. Go work for Amnesty International for a while.) I do not understand the battles pre-preschoolers choose. Don’t get it. Score one for anarchists.

Two-year-old evidence from today: walks through the kitchen and 1)opens the trash can for no other reason than to peer inside. Thrice. 2) Reaches on tiptoes into the sink to grab the sponge, wet, and throw it on the floor. 3) Grabs a fistful of straws from the choosing cup (I know, I know–my fault for leaving it on the table) and drags them along the wall. 4)Unwinds the whole paper towel roll. Again. 5) Screams bloody murder everytime one of Parker and Skylar’s horses fall over, even though they fall over because he accidentally knocks them down. His fault, but gravity’s response is physically painful to him. When I empathize and tell him that, yes, it’s frustrating when you work hard to stand up a horse just to have it fall down, and that maybe we should try again, he hits me.

Please send me an anarchist for Christmas. Or Channukah. Or Memorial Day. What a great co-brand that would be: Hallmark offering anarchists for Mother’s Day. “When you care enough to give mom a break, send an anarchist.”

Anyway, each of these incidents of strange but typical toddler behavior got a casual, measured, supportive, and corrective comment and a plea to “please don’t do that” because fill-in-the-simplest-reason. Except the hitting. That got a time out.

Here’s the problem. By incident number four I actually said, “Please don’t do that because…can’t you just be civilized? We have the same rules every day. They don’t change. It’s the same rule Sunday as it is Thursday.” [“Thursday,” he cries, “Movie!” He’s right. Thursday is movie day. One half hour of some video that is not geared toward kids. It’s the only way I get to see Planet Earth. But that’s not the point. The consistency of rules is. Or so I thought. Not in his world. Consistency, choices, whatever. He doesn’t really care that we have always been careful with our “no”s because we saved them for genuine danger. He thinks we’re restrictive no matter how many ways we use to suggest activities other than the disgusting, irritating, or destructive one he’s chosen. Please, please. An Anarchist for the weekend. Please. On a toddler for disestablishmentarian trade program?]

An anarchist might look in the trash to find food, subverting the establishment’s insistence on exchanging money for sustenance. Not just to look in there, and not just after I helped her wash her hands. An anarchist might throw the sponge at a representative of government, to suggest any number of metaphoric or literal needs to clean up. But probably not just to piss me off. An anarchist might…okay, seriously, what self-respecting anarchist would drag straws along the wall or unroll paper towels? And therein lies the reason I’d probably choose to live with an anarchist over a toddler–they know the rules and break some to make a point. Toddlers have heard the rules, figure they’re the center of the universe and not subject to the rules, and just do things to get a reaction out of those who watch them. Kisses make mommy sigh with happiness, and ridiculousness pisses off mommy. Gonna try each twenty times today to see what happens. And they quite enjoy that power.

Anarchists push society’s buttons to make us question assumptions. Toddlers push our buttons because it’s fun. I just want to scream at Peanut: “Have some principles, at least, like those comparatively upstanding and logical anarchists. The world is not your plaything, and my rules are really just society’s rules. So put on some pants so we can leave the house, pick up the sting ray so mommy doesn’t hurt her foot again, and please put your plate in the sink or I’m going to have to remember that all the things I’m teaching you will make you thoughtful and logical. Just like an anarchist!”

Who, looking at an infant, would think anarchy would be a positive trajectory?

Well, it’s a serious improvement over two-and-a-half.

Confounding politics

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Just when you think you’ve got a few things figured out, the presidential race gets weird:

McCain says that “In the Twenty-First Century, nations don’t invade other nations.” Great point. Quick: someone tell the Iraqis. They might have running water and electricity again soon, and all their dead civilians (except the ones Saddam Hussein murdered) will be coming back to life any day now.

Maybe he meant nations shouldn’t invade other nations to squelch democracy. But they still really ought to consider invading to force democracy down a nation’s throat. That’s a great political platform. Someone should tell the right about it.

Deployed troops overwhelmingly support Obama, if sending cold, hard cash counts for anything. Maybe they’re sick of cramming democracy into the unwilling and incapable. Or they’re hoping we don’t have to go to war with the rest of the world in the first few months of another hawkish administration.

Interesting breakdown of electoral college math by Karl Rove at PoliPundit.com. Would love to not hear about Florida this year…

Okay. Enough politics. We now return you to your regularly scheduled mid-life parenting meltdown.

Wait! Before you send out your holiday cards…

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Dear friends,

I know this is a busy time of year for you. From the looks of last year’s holiday card, you start around now with the drafting of your family’s newsletter and photo-taking. I do love the updates. And the pictures. Whew! I can’t believe it’s been another year, but there’s the proof: pictures of kids I’ve never met and never agreed to be friends with, and not so much as the hint of your presence anywhere in your own family. Keep ’em coming!

Anyway, here’s the reason I’m writing: I can tell from the obvious time and energy that goes into your holiday extravaganza of correspondence that you send cards to a lot of people. And in so doing, you’re perpetuating a bit of a linguistic problem. So many look up to you that I’m hoping you can help me turn the tide back in favor of correct and precise language.

The thing is, your name and your family’s name fall into a certain category of words–those that take an “s” to become plural. And they take an apostrophe-ess when the singular becomes possessive. But, and here’s the kicker, when the plural of your name becomes a possessive, it takes an ess-apostrophe. I know that sounds like silly book-learnin’ talk, so let me break it down for you. I won’t use those pesky Smiths as an example. We’ve all had enough of them. They are just trying to keep up with the Joneses. But that’s another letter.

If your name, for the sake of argument, were Harkin, then you would be Sally Harkin. You know that, I know. Here’s where it gets trickier. If you owned a pencil, it would be Sally Harkin’s pencil. If, let’s be bold here, you had a family tailing behind you at some or most occasions, they would be Sally Harkin’s family. But if we’re talking about the whole family, you are The Harkins. And if your whole family has something tailing behind you at some or most occasions, like maybe a dog or a car or a genuinely wrong-headed political view, it would be the Harkins’ dog, Harkins’ car, and Harkins’ political ignorance.

So your holiday cards should not say The Harkin’s. Or From the Harkins’. They should say The Harkins. From The Harkins. Apostrophes are just not necessary. In fact, they’re kind of out of place in a family as full as yours. You have enough creatures roaming around within the confines of your family home that you don’t need extra apostrophes cluttering things up.

Now, don’t get me wrong. This isn’t as egregious as “10 items or fewer,” which none of the markets in my area seems to choose, favoring instead the “10 items or less” that is ruining our society. No, no. Your extra apostrophe is only problematic because, as I mentioned before, so many look up to you as an example. They, to be more like you, are adding apostrophes to their names, too. It’s similar to the phenomenon where someone, somewhere, saw CDs and DVDs and thought they looked too bare without punctuation. So every company and catalog starts listing CD’s and DVD’s, neither of which is really what they mean. Unless they are speaking of the CD’s songs and the DVD’s menus. Then, sure, bring on the apostrophe. But a spindle of CDs and a collection of DVDs? Plain, please, without the apostrophe a la mode.

Please forgive my trespass on this one. But if you don’t mind, please, let your friends the Traxes know about that whole superfluous and really rather appallingly incorrect apostrophe thing, too. Because Annie Trax thinks that when her family gets together they are The Trax’s. And I just know I can’t send her this letter. She’s not as evolved as you. She couldn’t bear to know that The Traxes’ winter mailings are taxing our circle’s good nature. For that matter, she couldn’t bear to know that her family’s good qualities, fine china, and dreadful children, should be labeled Traxes’. I’m sure you can convey it, with your usual wit and charm. Maybe something in your massive December 1 mailing?

Have a great week, dearie. I’ll let you go, for I’m sure you have to pick out your Thanksgiving decor AND start making the New Year’s favors this month. All my best!

Your friend,

Millicent Fussbudget

Please proofread your mailbox

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Dear Neighbor,

Please excuse the intrusion into your personal life, but the sign outside your home beckoned. It made me feel at home, if not in a literal sense, at least comfortable enough to be honest with you.

I just want to let you know that the education system has failed you. I’m not sure whom to blame, but someone, surely, should have told you that, if your last name is Jones, then your family is The Joneses. And if you own a house all by yourself, and people call you Jones, then you can put a sign outside that says Jones’s. Otherwise, if more than one of you resides in your house, please, for the name of all that is sacred in the English language, if you must put out a sign, make sure it says, Joneses’. Now that you see how silly it looks, maybe you’ll flashback to the day you actually paid someone to burn Jones’ on that scrap of redwood burl

Better yet, please don’t decorate your home with your name. Or that tacky, glittery flag you put out every month. Nobody needs a flag to know it’s leaf season.

Your presence in this neighborhood means so much, and it would be just lovely of you to correct the aforementioned sign. Thanks ever so much, and keep up the over-watered, pesticide- and herbicide-laden gardening. The local children, pets, and wildlife thank you.

Sincerely,

Your Neighbor

Fire alarm

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Ah, Peanut. I’m glad we named you something that would go well with either “Supreme Court Justice…” or “Recently Indicted…” because you’re getting to be a bit of a handful.

I was carrying him up the stairs to my mom’s place and he pointed and asked what the fire alarm was. I said, “That’s a no touch. It is for when you really need help, like an emergency, and it rings an alarm at the fire fighter’s stationhouse.” So he reached out and grabbed it. To be fair, it didn’t have a cover, and the little lucite dowel that usually keeps us from accidentally tripping the alarm was missing. Nevertheless, the alarm went off in eight or more condos Sunday just before noon. Thanks, Peanut. Nice way to meet grandma’s neighbors.

People were worried, but we were standing on the porch, reassuring everyone it was a false alarm, and very willingly blaming Peanut. “He did it. We told him not to, but he didn’t listen. We’re so sorry.” Everyone was, I’m sure, just waking up at noon to watch the Olympics and sit in their underwear spooning ice cream into their gaping maws (I assume people, given a day off, are able to do all the things we can’t do now that Peanut is here. Sleep in? Check. Watch t.v.? Check. Eat ice cream? Check. Hang out in either jammies or underwear, willfully defying the social rule that one must dress for the day? Check. Things we have to do under the cover of darkness for the one hour he actually sleeps–that’s what people with real lives do. Nobody else was off volunteering at an animal shelter, or befriending the elderly, or anything. That’s what I’d do if I had a day off. After the ice cream and Olympics and nap. And a little more ice cream. And flip through the channels in case I’m missing anything. THEN volunteering.)

Anyway, it took the fire department 25 minutes, so say the more irritated of Zsa Zsa’s neighbors say, to arrive with their shiny pumper truck. Peanut asked the fire fighter (whom I’ll call Young, Buff, and Gorgeous Number Three, only because there were two before him that got that name. I might have named them something else, had I seen YBaGNThree first). YBaGNThree confirmed that it was a pumper, not a hose wagon, as was Peanut’s second guess. Seriously. Okay, a little more honestly, Peanut asked me if it was a pumper or a hose wagon, and instructed me to ask YBaGNTwo. I was going to, when Three appeared and caught my eye. Instead of asking him if he knew a good attorney and would be willing to wait for me while the divorce paperwork processed, I asked about the truck. Whatever. Can’t believe I know the difference between a rear-mount aerial ladder truck and a snorkel truck, anyway. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, and nobody would confuse the two once they knew, but still. I’m pretty sure that cluster of neurons would be resting right now if it weren’t for my two-year-old’s g..d.. book collection.

So I kept apologizing to the fire fighters, telling them I knew they had better things to attend to, like, for instance, emergencies; and tried not to cry every time they said it was okay. Because the last three times I’ve seen a fire fighter up close, it was an emergency, and they were much less jovial and much less silly, but just as friendly and supportive. I know more than a few police officers who have no special love for fire fighters. I know the reasons abound. But I have had nothing but good experiences with the few fire fighters I’ve met, and I have nothing but gratitude in my tiny little Grinch heart for them.

Anyway, the Older, Buff, and Outrageously Handsome fire fighter (OBOH) praised Peanut for doing a good job. Told him he knew he’d hire him on the spot in 18 years. Gave him a red plastic fire fighter’s helmet, and told him to keep up the good work. Wonderfully nice, totally counter-productive stuff, parenting-wise.

Now we have to pay for the false alarm call, and frequently remind Peanut not to pull fire alarms, all while watching him run through the house naked, fire helmet on, pretending to squirt everything and everyone with anything that seems like a hose. Yes, that means anything—-drum stick, hockey stick, imaginary hose, and little boy parts. The reality that little boys get to have all the fun of a built-in friend is probably half the battle of gender-based differences that show up before those horrible other kids bring their parents’ baggage to kindergarten.

Oh well. At least ours can rouse all those lounging neighbors whenever he feels like it.

Rewriting history and fairy tales

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I feel dishonest, I feel manipulative. But we change just about every book in the house because the content just isn’t appropriate for a toddler.
The troll in the Billy Goats Gruff, at least here, is a “great, big, silly troll” who pretends he’s going to eat goats up, but really just wants to go swimming.
The wolf in Little Red Riding Hood is proud of his huge mouth, for it’s all the better to kiss you with.
The coyote in The Three Little Pigs just wants to eat all the pigs’ cookies, and when he can’t get into the brick house, the pigs eat the cookies themselves.
Even in Where The Wild Things are, the monsters gnash their teeth and roll their eyes and show their claws, none of which is horrible. And Max isn’t sent to bed without supper. He just goes to bed.
I don’t like that I have to warn other people to read our books “correctly.” But I also don’t like that Ming Lo’s wife never has a name, even though she has just as many lines and pages as Ming Lo, and even when she does ust as much to move the mountain. So in our house she’s Sing Lo. Because my son isn’t going to grow up thinking the world is scary (he’ll find that soon enough) or that woman are just “so-and-so’s wife.”

Spent fuel

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When did we stop calling it “radioactive waste,” and start calling it “spent fuel”?
Maybe it’s just moms, who have to, um, handle a variation of nuclear waste every day, and who actually fear that radioactive waste will be buried next door for the convenience of politicians who don’t particularly care about the long-term, in this increasingly here today, dont’ care about tomorrow mortgaging of the future political landscape, but are they seriously glossing over the waste problem associated with nuclear power?
I know if we just call torture “enhanced interrogation tactics,” and if we just call civil war “sectatrian violence,” and if we just call religious war “war on terror,” that we can fool most of the people most of the time.
But “spent fuel”?

Centered, grounded day

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Today I parented at my brilliant best. No frustration. No yelling. Lots of cuddling and kisses and never once experiencing the caged-animal panic of “what have I gotten myself into?”

I guess it helped that Peanut’s fever was over 103 all day and he took five naps, all draped across me, trusting, sweaty, and vulnerable. Poor sweet Peanut. Hope you feel better tomorrow.

Are you two or twelve?

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Playing with pretend kitchen items today, Peanut made me a very elaborate meal. As I tasted it and marveled about the particular flavors I noticed in his pretend meal, he told me the sandwich was poop, the coffee was pee, and the pudding was full of squirrels and acorns.

Mmmm. Thanks. If only I could put you straight into fourth grade, where you apparently belong.

Ants in my pants

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Not funny that the day we brought Ants in My Pants home from the library, ants appeared in the kitchen. On day two, a stream came in through the bathroom. Day three: ants in the cats’ room.

That book is going back. I’d go tonight, if leaving Peanut home alone for 20 minutes didn’t smack of slightly irresponsible parenting.

And so is my policy of using only nontoxic, eco-friendly pest solutions. I’ve done the eco cleanser and vinegar wipe down three times a day for three days. I’ve done the line of cinnamon (hard to do on vertical surfaces). I’ve done everything except sell the house (ba ha ha ha hahahaha. would if I could.)

What can I do for ants that won’t harm Peanut, the planet, the cats, or me?

Reconnecting with a Duck

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As we get closer to moving, I get more anxious to make sure my human connections are strong. It’s as though I want to make sure I know where all my friends and family are, so when we turn eveything upside down in a move, I’ll know where to look for familiar faces.

In that spirit I finally found the one Duck I haven’t seen since 1997. The rest I saw after they moved to L.A. when I was in Berkeley and treated them awfully, or in Boston when I went back for a visit. This sweet Goose escaped my tractor beam during the last two moves. But I found him!

And he has the most gorgeous wife and amazing new twins! It was glorious to see them.

It was hard to leave when we had to leave for Peanut’s bedtime extravaganza. I was sad, and wanted to go back as soon as we got out the front door. As we were walking to the car, and I was telling Spouse how much the Duck means to me, and how sad it was to see this particularly pleasant Duck for the first time in eleven years just before I leave. Then some guy turned left into a motorcycle right next to us.

The rider was stunned ad bruised but fine, but his bike needed some help. The driver was shaken so badly most passersby tried to help him instead of the rider. The accident skittered away from us rather than into us, but I still stood there crying, hoping nobody else ever gets in a car accident (and watching Spouse take over the assistance efforts, directing volunteer helpers to do a variety of tasks).

Peanut wanted to know why I was sad. I couldn’t say, “because everyone I love is going to die and I’m sorry we had to leave the twins just because you need a bath but I’m supposed to be responsible now and that alone makes me cry sometimes.” So, instead, I said, “that car knocked down that motorcycle, and it scared me. That’s why everyone wears a helmet when they ride a motorcycle–in case they fall down. That man fell down, but he’s okay. Everyone’s okay. Mommy’s just sad because she got scared. But everybody’s okay.”

God, I hope everybody’s okay.

Attachment parenting

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Friends have asked me where the posts about my great parenting experiences are. Where, they ask, are the submissions about how patient you were, how you used love and respect where you were tempted to use knee-jerk techniques like bribes or yelling? Where are the stories about how you found great reward in parenting with patience and a child-centered perspective? They’re a bit horrified at the stuff I’ve posted so far, and I don’t blame them.

Here’s the problem with blogging: at the end of the day, I want time to write a little something. I don’t have enough left to work on my novels, and so I want to vent about the day. And after a day with dozens of AP successes and wonderful interaction, what I really want to talk about is the one or two moments of frustration, fury, miscommunication, and regret. I don’t want to talk about how well Peanut listens, and how hard he’s trying to both be himself please me. We’re done with child-led weaning, he’s in his own bed, the repeated times we go lovingly and gently to him when he needs help at night are NOT my favorite topic of conversation, and positive reinforcement for great behavior doesn’t make for good reading. There’s no reason to write all about how carefully I measure my responses or find the teachable moment out of the many things we experience. I don’t want to write about how I carefully set boundaries only around that which will help him learn and grow, and let him explore wildly around the stuff that doesn’t matter, can’t hurt him, and won’t make him an icky person later.

I don’t want to spend time on that stuff because that’s the parenting that takes every ounce of my compassion, nurturing, intelligence, and love. The hard work is being present in his needs and development almost every minute of the day, and I really don’t want to rehash it all because it took enough out of me the first time. The necessary consistency of AP parenting is exhausting to me, and I don’t want to write about it.

That’s why I feel so worn to the nub with this child-rearing job. Not because it’s inherently hard to maintain the safety of one kid. But because I throw myself heart and soul into making everything work for him, from a developmental, personal, emotional, and spiritual standpoint. I can’t spend my time complaining that it’s hard to raise a kid without t.v., with a healthy respect for child-centric principles, with an eye to growing a world citizen, and with the daily goal of making most moments count for something. Because that’s not good reading.

Besides, it’s not funny to talk about the moments that work. It’s just not. When our compromises leave us both satisfied, respected, and happy, that’s boring to everyone else. I want to entertain myself when I write, and only the moments of my self-defined poor parenting, or the snipets of my self-consciously pathetic life make the cut here.

Sorry to disappoint you. If you’re looking for good parenting tips, you’ll have to spend all day with us. Whatever you glean is yours to keep. Whatever leaves me shuddering is that night’s post.

Falling asleep on the job

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Drifting off during bedtime stories ain’t just for kids anymore.

I’ve read all our books, even the brand-newly-rented library books dozens of times. And I often change the words to engage Peanut in the story, adding questions for him or descriptions of the illustrations. In fact, he thinks one page of his favorite book actually says, “what do you see?” because when he reads it to me, that’s how he reads the page.

Anyway, when we read (several times a day), I sometimes (not proud of this) close my eyes and read the book from memory. I check in often, but I’m tired. My eyes hurt. We’ve read these books hundreds of times. They are not treatises in philosophy. They’re children’s books. I have a Master’s in English. With honors. I can handle faking Where the Wild Things Might Be if I Were Looking Right Now.

So I occasionally, also, fall asleep while intoning my made up version of the story. (I mentioned being somewhat ashamed of this, right? But I mentioned that the kid doesn’t watch t.v. and that he doesn’t sleep through the night and that our bedtime ritual is precise and regular and has been since four months old and that I don’t have any help except when Spouse is home and that I’m writing when I should be napping, right? You did, at least, get that from the title of the blog, right?) And Peanut sometimes turns in my lap to figure out why I’ve stopped. Or he begs, “Please. Read.” loudly enough for me to awake.

Last night I jerked back awake because I heard myself say, “They ask the pigs, but no help. They ask the police officer…but…no help. They…..ask…….the………..guerilla marketing.”

I only woke up because I thought I was in a meeting. Once I realized it was Bananas Gorilla, I turned the page and closed my eyes again. (Mr. Fixit comes next and tows the car, in case you were worried that the police officer didn’t help. He radioed for help but couldn’t stop. Chasing a repeat litterer.) Peanut didn’t know what guerrilla marketing meant. I need to step up the branding flashcard sessions.

As with the time I was on summer break and woke up with a book in my lap, terrified that I was missing lecture, late for a test, and late with a paper, only to realize that I was reading for pleasure; waking up this time I was terrified that I’d be fired for sleeping on the job, would have to find a new job, and would languish in a state of underemployment where I made no money and earned no respect.

Oh, wait. That wasn’t a dream. That was my life. Some days I wish I could get fired and that they could hire someone more capable for the job. Except that I’m the they and I don’t know that there is someone more capable.

Guess I should nap tomorrow.