The only holiday music I’ve heard today:
Working in the living room, which faces the street, I heard young voices singing. We live on a quiet street, so I heard at least 100 feet’s worth of the musical walk home from school of three high school girls. Their carol of choice?
“Summer Lovin'” from Grease.
Happy Holidays throughout your Su-hu-mmer Ni-hi-ghts
Well, really, we’re offering our kid stickers to sleep through the night. We’ll see what happens. We gave him three stickers tonight and told him that each time he calls us and we have to come in, we’re taking a sticker back to bed with us. Whatever’s left in the morning he can keep. Whatever we take away gets back onto his bookshelf to try again the next night.
Because seriously, this shit has to stop.
For the record, when he’s scared from a nightmare or cold or hurt, I’m happy to go to him. It’s my job. It’s called parenting. No, we didn’t co-sleep. Couldn’t do it. Variety of reasons. Be gentle with me. I know what follows is not nice. But we’ve tried everything except letting him cry, and I’m hoping bribery is slightly better long-term.
And I know paying him to sleep is totally against our parenting ideas. A child who wakes at night and really needs help, we say, is a child who gets our help. We’ve tried just letting it go. We’ve tried the pediatrician-recommended straight talk express: “Your body needs sleep, mommy’s body needs sleep, daddy’s body needs sleep. When you call for us at nighttime for a cuddle, you wake us up and we don’t get much sleep. If we don’t get much sleep, we get cranky. You don’t like us cranky, so let us sleep. Cuddle your doll and don’t call us.” Didn’t work. He tried hard. But he can’t help waking. He can, however, control whether he calls us or not.
Yeah, well, last night there were seven times between 3am and 4:30am when he NEEDED his socks pulled up and NEEDED his tucked-in covers more tucked in and NEEDED to find a place to put his tissue. So needed them so much that he called out, then called out, then cried, then sobbed. So I told him, each time that he cried enough to convince me he was awake and genuinely sad, and I got out of bed and onto freaking crutches in the wee hours, that he did not need me for those things, and that he was old enough to do it himself. From his doorway I refused to help. Bad parenting awards can be sent to 123 Years I Haven’t Slept, NotNiceParentville, Crappy Parentland, 01234.
And so help me, the seventh time I went in, when he, fifteen minutes after visit number six to his doorway, asked, then begged, then cried, then sobbed that he needed his socks pulled up again, I yelled at him that if he woke me again he’d have to sleep in the yard. He cried. “I don’t want to sleep in the yard.” He’s two and a half. I’m not nice. I’m going to parenting hell. You don’t threaten your kid with sleeping in the yard. That’s not attachment, that’s disordered. I don’t want to yell. But he is capable of sleeping through the night. He’s done it before. He’s just pushing my buttons, and I’m out of patience. I haven’t slept in three years.
Hence the sticker bribe.
I don’t know what else to do. When he was tiny this was expected. When he was wordless, it was still normal, if hard. Now he’s big enough to do most things on his own, if not well. We respect him all his waking hours, but have lost the will to live from 10pm to 5am.
So we’re paying him to leave us alone at night. I’ll let you know how it goes.
When the English professor who torpedoed my doctoral-program applications seven years ago walked into my gym this morning, I had two simultaneous thoughts, and neither was based in vengeful hatred, as they well should have been.
One: any other time I would launch off this erg and choke you for costing me a chance at an academic career when I was still considered of viable PhD program age, but your gross incompetence and callous disregard for your promises allowed me to find a couple of great professors at a college I never would have considered and gave me the window during which to have my son. So fuck you, but I can’t even spare a “fuck you” for you.
Two: I’ve always pictured you, in my pathetic, depressive, post-academic-door-slammed-shut slump, as a bilious monster. You’re actually quite pathetic in your fisherman’s sweater and nylon track pants, there on the treadmill in broad daylight when you could be out walking the world and observing how real humans live.
And for the record, I am right now reading something that, in addition to being far superior to anything you published back in your productive days, has inspired me to return to academia, allowing me to forget for a moment how traitorously you abandoned me one day before your letter of recommendation was due. Did I mention fuck you? And I’m better than you? And you’re pathetic? And I’m not a big enough person to forgive you, but I am big enough to keep working out right next to you, complete lack of recognition on your face, knowing that I’ve lost almost seven years of my dream because of you. I don’t really care about you anymore. I don’t have time.
But the funniest part of seeing you? When the ladies from the early morning dance class tittered that you should join them and you said, “I would love to, but I just don’t play well with others,” I actually bit my tongue to keep from agreeing aloud. At least you’re self aware. Remind me again why that assuages my wounded pride and remedies my incomplete education?
Oh, yeah. ‘Cuz I have a cute kid. Okay. Hope that gets me through the day. And the next day. And every day for about six years until I take your job and laugh at your shriveled hull.
See ya then, treadmill boy.
So I’ve always been leery of Facebook, what with the full-disclosure, “work life cross referenced with personal life,” “naked pictures of your kid online for all the pedophiles to find” kind of stuff.
Now I have a new reason to be afraid. (Not very, very afraid. Let’s be real, here. It’s just a Web 2.0 social networking deal-io. It’s not actually Orwellian. But I love me some melodrama. And I try hard to keep myself awake at night worrying about something, so it may as well be this.)
Tonight after Peanut finally crashed, I created my little Facebook world, happy to see friendly faces. Then I made the mistake of searching for old friends, classmates, colleagues. Ugh, what a terrible blow to the old (very, very old) self-esteem staying at home to raise world citizens can be.
The friends I used to admire, but with whom I held my own have impressive resumes and lists of degrees. But they have kids and PhDs. Or kids and careers. Or careers the likes of which I might have achieved if I had stuck with anything. But I’m a gypsy geographically, emotionally, artistically, and academically. I don’t stick with much, and the resulting resume looks impressive but feels thin. You know? And all the other hardcore, drive, self-defined brainiacs have their shit together. Even those who have kids.
So I could blame my lack of personal, professional, and intellectual development on the break I’m taking to raise a fully realized human. Or I can admit that I’m a lazy git who can’t stick with anything long enough to get impressive at it.
Me no likey Facebook. It puts the “what do you do?” shame of parties with full-time adults into my living room, where I strive to keep self-doubt at bay.
Didn’t I, just this week, blog twice about vowing to get productive, to unpack and finish two novels and get more freelance work and get back into shape and publish academic articles and get to work on applications for more grad school? Didn’t I?
Well, I organized my browser bookmark file. Does that count? Hmmmm? Does it, valedictorians and MDs and JDs and well-groomed, perfect people with whom I can’t bear to be Facebook friends because you intimidate me now, even though I only barely admired you considered myself a peer way back when?
Turns out I have very little class but plenty of wit and flair.
My result for The Classic Dames Test …
You scored 17% grit, 38% wit, 52% flair, and 7% class!
You are the fabulously quirky and independent woman of character. You go your own way, follow your own drummer, take your own lead. You stand head and shoulders next to your partner, but you are perfectly willing and able to stand alone. Others might be more classically beautiful or conventionally woman-like, but you possess a more fundamental common sense and off-kilter charm, making interesting men fall at your feet. You can pick them up or leave them there as you see fit. You share the screen with the likes of Spencer Tracy and Cary Grant, thinking men who like strong women
Want to test yourself? http://www.helloquizzy.com/tests/the-classic-dames-test
It’s day three without caffeine and everything is a disgusting shade of THROBBING and angry.
Do not, DO NOT get within one zip code of my wrath today.
Maybe by Monday I’ll be my usual, moody self. This weekend bodes nothing but irritable with showers of completely pissed off. Chance of clearing early next week, or whenever Peanut sleeps through the night, whichever comes first.
Thank you, Paola Timiras, for granting breadth and depth to my education. Your presence in lecture and in lab changed the way I viewed medical research, and your work in the field of aging, especially the cell-death theory of aging, informs my every daily choice of how I use my body and treat my family’s bodies. You were the consummate professor—-a wonderful lecturer, generously human lab director, and fascinatingly brilliant researcher. Thanks for all you’ve done for biology, Cal, and physiology.
May your work continue to inspire us to greater understanding of humans, especially as we approach what you warned us in early 90s would be the greatest sea change of our time—the aging of the Baby Boom generation. Thank you for making me think compassionately about the social and personal implications of aging.
And thanks for the letter for med school. It got me to the second round, when I dropped out of consideration to be a writer. I never told you that, in part because I still doubt the decision. But I will think of you each time I read about beta-amyloid plagues, aluminum in Alzheimer’s-affected brains, and strong women who tirelessly work to shine—intellectually, personally, and professionally.
We will miss you.
Warning: embarrassingly shallow moment approaching. should be blogging about world hunger, genocide, or animal welfare. But no. Here’s what you get:
You know personal time is at a premium when you finish the one shower a week when you can actually shave, you dry, you dress, you begin your day, and hours later you notice a full forest of hair that has grown beneath the surface of your shin, left untouched by the razor. Not infected ingrowns. Long, half-inch hairs thriving between layers of keratinized epithelial cells.
Now, I wish I could reject society’s ideas of beauty and let me legs go. I wish I could deny the ridiculous pressures put on women to fit a twisted, pedophilic ideal of hairless shins. But I really, really like the way naked legs feel. And I like shaving, more now, because it represents a self-involved indulgence I rarely get. Shallow, I know. I’ll work on becoming more liberated next year.
With a small creature running around my house I don’t get to shave often, and when I do it’s quick, half-assed, and usually grossly incomplete. But this week I took my time. I used a foaming product (albeit organic and vegan) instead of soap. I felt for stragglers.
But I missed at least three dozen hairs that have grown half-an-inch long beneath the surface of my skin. And what really impresses me is that I didn’t notice before the shower, I didn’t notice after I shaved, I didn’t notice in the four-second lotion dash, and I didn’t notice for most of the morning. Only when building a block tower did I realize I looked like I hadn’t shaved at all. And that got me thinking two things–why the hell bother? and, how is it possible to have so much dead skin built up that hairs can’t even break through? How long had it been since I dragged a washcloth over those shins? Seriously, people, what has my personal grooming regimen become?
Don’t answer that. Thank goodness I don’t blog on YouTube. Or Smell-o-vision.
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
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.
NaptimeWriting 