Clearing through the clutter

Have you read some of the articles and books blooming in the online space lately? If so, tell me what you think below. If not, here are summaries so we can discuss.

In Defense of Single Motherhood,” Katie Roiphe, New York Times. Roiphe argues that Americans live in a fantasy world that trumpets heteronormative two-parent families despite the statistical reality that two-parent families are increasingly rare and that they often produce screwed up kids. She suggests we focus on social policies that help families raise good citizens instead of worrying so much about the logistics of their household.

I feel her argument that happy kids come from happy households are a welcome reminder that each person has to find the right household for them and that we, as a society, owe our fellow humans more than empty aphorisms and entreaties. We need public policy that makes sure workers are paid a liveable wage, child care is safer and more affordable for all parents, and so-called “different” family structures (including the child-free, whom Roiphe doesn’t mention) are honored just as highly as conventional households.

Why Women Still Can’t Have It All,” Anne Marie Slaughter, The Atlantic. She explains how hard it is for even highly educated, financially blessed families to raise children and how women are forced to make untenable choices in the face of a mythology that says we can have it all. She flatly refutes this outdated and harmful claim. She offers helpful perspective on phases in which we focus more on career or children and helps readers rethink the career arc (a later peak for women who raise children at any point in their career) and children’s needs (teenagers need as much time and energy as infants even though the parenting focus is different).

Her article rocked my world because it allowed me to reframe the career-family balance I seek, cheer for the recent honesty of third-wave feminism, and hope we can frame new basic work policies that allow all people to do their best work on their terms whenever possible.

Raising Successful Children,” Margaret Levine, The New York Times (based on her book of the same title). Levine argues that raising people means letting them be people. They need the respect and space to make mistakes and learn. They need support to learn good habits and character. But other than that we need to do for our children less, listen to our children more, and praise our children rarely, and then only for effort not results or innate talents. I found her reminders about building children’s confidence by standing back more and about modeling  by doing more in for ourselves in our own, adult world welcome entreaties to keep doing better for my kids and myself. They learn about themselves by doing and they learn about adults by watching. So choose your activities and values well, then let them do the same.

So. Have you read any or all of these? What do you think?

Pitter patter of little feet

My version of heaven:

I’m downstairs, working on my book. I hear Butter wake from his nap, climb out of his newly converted toddler bed, pad to the bathroom, pee, wash his hands, and start walking downstairs.

And it happened today.

Except the walking downstairs part. He played in the sink for a few minutes before I came up to greet and redirect him.

Just when I thought I might lose my mind from the 24-hour-a-day “on” child-rearing status of my brain, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Complete adulthood (for me) is decades away,  but it’s there. Hills and valley betwixt there and here, but it’s there.

NB: ten minutes later he was screaming because I gently mentioned that, while lollipops taste good, they’re not really a post-nap snack food. And we don’t have any. Tantrum lasted twenty minutes.

My summer vacation

Things I learned this summer:

1. The lyrics to dozens of classic songs to appease the insatiable children who suddenly want all new songs at bedtime. Songs I’ve memorized include Home on the Range, Do Your Ears Hang Low, Polly Wolly Doodle, There’s a Hole in the Bucket, and I’ve Been Working on the Railroad. Useful for bedtime and ending unwanted adult conversations early, for nobody wants to stay in a meeting with someone whistling Polly Wolly Doodle. All six verses.

2. How to plan, prep, and cook four meals a day without any childcare help, ensuring that my kids won’t kill each other or watch t.v. (Hint: pretzels and hummus for dinner) (Second hint: and lunch and breakfast)

3. The name of every sea creature ever discovered. Go here and print out all the cards. Make your kids cut them out, color them, and play with each other. Mine wouldn’t, choosing instead to make me read each card to them. Over and over and over.

4. Scrivener is exactly what my novel and I needed to be better friends. Editing is proceeding slowly but steadily. In addition to learning how to use Scrivener, I’ve learned how to use it while one of the four yowling creatures in my house howls in a different room. Editing and ignoring: skills from the professional world translating to an investment interval at home. Sounds like someone should update her LinkedIn profile.

5. The name of every type of truck used within a 30 mile radius of our house. Butterbean is keenly interested in trucks in a way that rather devastates my desire to raise the boys in a gender neutral, “everyone likes trucks and trains and fairies and glitter” kind of way. Thankfully, he likes pink trucks best, so I’m not too worried. But my willingness to debate skid steer versus front-end loader, dump truck versus tipper truck rather frightens and annoys other parents. And construction workers. And everybody, really, except my youngest child.
6. Several online recipe sites have the chutzpah to categorize bacon posts as vegetarian, asking me to “try making without bacon for a vegetarian option.” Chef? You and I both know recipes made with bacon taste good. Taking out the bacon means not enough salt or flavor. Please don’t tease me. Create a veggie recipe that stands on its own and take this deliciousness out of  the veggie category, ‘cuz you’re just taunting us.

7. Buying local costs a heck of a lot more and involves kids throwing major fits and breaking stuff in public.  I’m not saying I’m not willing to have more stress and pay through the nose for that stress; I’m just saying consider that in your self-righteous campaigns about how good it is for my community. Try the tagline, “Buy Local: It’s Good For Everyone but You and You Owe It to Your Neighbors to Subvert Your Needs and Sanity for Your Principles!”

8. Six Year Olds are totally old enough to play Scrabble. Since I had children primarily to have Scrabble playmates, my life is finally beginning in earnest.

9. Returning to fencing at 40 has pros and cons. Pros: great exercise, rare opportunity for intense focus, good reason to ditch Spouse with the kids. Cons: knees, ego, knees.

Thank you PlayMobil for including fencers in the Olympic figures collection. Thanks for giving them foils. Next round maybe add a lefty and a female, please.

I also learned how to remove creosote from a toddler’s nose, how to make cool alka-seltzer rockets, how to fold paper airplanes, how to switch to fluoride-free toothpaste to thwart a goofball toddler, and to never go on a roadtrip with my children ever again.

But the best thing I learned this summer? Scientists can take a huge robot, mount it on a crane, fit it with an ablating laser, fill it with chemistry sets, launch it 350 million miles into space, and land it safely in a Martian crater. I am so gobsmacked by this real and actual fact of intergalactic engineering I have nothing  to say. Congratulations JPL, NASA, and scientists everywhere. You rock space rocks.

Looks as though I’m avoiding the dreaded summer knowledge loss. How about you?

Twenty-nine more days

Oh, sure: summer is nice. Long days, bone-warming sunshine, delicious fruit, swimming, and popsicles. Delightful summer goodness.

But you’ll forgive me, I’m sure, for counting the days until both boys are in school. 29. If I make it through today.

Butter, our two-year-old, can now handle his own bathroom needs, and his running pronouncements that he’s on the way don’t mean I have to drop everything to help him avert disaster. I finish up my task, then join him for the end-of-task cleaning.

Further, Peanut, the six-year-old, is making frequent, concerted efforts not to beat the crap out of his younger sibling for toddler-esque transgressions.

And they have both adopted several new adorable phrases this summer.

In response to my request that they end play to do something dreadful like eat or go on an adventure, the toddler makes intense eye contact, furrows his brow, and shouts, “Mommy, I heeyo zhou! One moe mini!” So charming. He hears, he acknowledges, he wants another minute. Sure. Can’t wait until you try that on a teacher.

Peanut, the six-year-old, just rolls his eyes at anything I say. He sighs, “Oh, come on,”  exasperated with my existence. Clearly I should reconsider my position after such a persuasive argument. I generally tickle him into submission and move on with my day.

He has been particularly moody and mercurial, though, acting out in wildly annoying and nasty ways. So I’ve sought help from my favorite internet and offline opediatric resources. Dr. Sears notes that an angry child is often a forlorn creature whose needs aren’t being met. Easy diagnosism, then: the older one is pissed because he gets very little attention.  The younger child is still quite dependent.

But I try. I read a book to Peanut, with Butter whining and shrieking for attention. “Excuse me, but I’m reading to Peanut. This is important to him. When I’m done I’ll listen to what’s important to you.” Textbook response that honors both and should buy me a few minutes. Right?

Yes. Four minutes, to be precise, during which Butter went upstairs and ate a quarter of a tube of toothpaste.

Does fluoride poisoning cut down on sassy comments? If so we might come out ahead on that one.

I tried to give the big guy some soul-food attention the next day by planning and working on a science project with him. Butter made lots noise about needing company while he played, but I told him this was Peanut’s time, and that he could watch or wait to do something together with me in just a few minutes.

Mind you, the kid gets 13.75 of 14 hours a day. Peanut wanted fifteen minutes. Needed it.

So Butter got my stash of chocolate out of the freezer and gnawed happily on it. A lot. I found him standing on the stepstool, freezer door open, half a bar of Dagoba lavender chocolate gone. Quite tidy, for what that’s worth: no chocolate on his face at all. Mad skillz. Hard to criticize the waste of electricity, safety issue, and violation of chocolate privacy.

Yesterday, as I stood watching, the little guy figured out how to climb one of our backyard trees into his brother’s treehouse. Not with a ladder, y’all. We pulled that a year ago so the big guy could have some space just to himself and so the little guy wouldn’t be tempted. But yesterday Butter quickly scaled the tree branches into the treehouse. At age Two. In the giant outdoor playpen we call a backyard, into which I shoo both children each evening so I can make a lightning fast homemade meal.

He was very proud of himself. And yelled at me when I offered to help him down. So I watched and waited, and the second I turned my back he climbed back down and stood grinning, proclaiming, “Me need Mommy…no!”

So we’re looking at 29 days of freezer meals. I guess it’s a good thing Butter made room by demolishing my chocolate.

Shut the cluck up

Poor, dear Emily over at Motherfog is in the middle of a sh*t tornado. Go leave a bottle of cyber-wine or a bouquet of cyber-flowers to make her feel good, please.

And now we begin our regularly schedule rant.
People close to the Penn State football program are actually bemoaning the pain caused to the innocent people by sanctions of a program that…wait for it… institutionalized pain caused to innocent people. Shut up about your money, your scholarship, and your football inconveniences. Your privileged life will continue, with only the logistics altered. Sandusky’s victims are Penn State’s victims, and they faced trauma the likes of which a small blip of inconvenience do not compare. You want to know what hurting innocent people really looks like? Talk to the victims. Selfish jackasses.

***

The US Congress is narrowing in on approving a Farm Bill that takes $16 billion away from a program that feeds hungry families, and gives $36 billion to giant agribusinesses. That’s what small government means, I guess: decreasing what U.S. taxpayers spend on people and increasing what we all pay to companies.

Congress is rushing, pretending that passing the bill affects crop insurance for this year’s drought, which it doesn’t. It also includes language that would bar states from enacting their own laws, as California has in banning grotesque chicken farming practices. States rights, apparently, are paramount only when legislators and big business want them to.

***

Sally Ride was a hero for all Americans, but especially of science geek girls (like me) everywhere. She taught us we really can do anything and go anywhere. But her partner of 27 years is not eligible for any of Ms. Ride’s federal benefits because lesbian heroes aren’t, according to our government, equal citizens under the law.

***

The further we get into this election cycle, the more mad I’m getting at the gross ineptitude of our government to treat us with decency, humanity, and honesty. They’re lying to us, their big corporate donors are lying to us, and they’re not doing their jobs, choosing instead to perform political theater for the rest of this year.

Oh HAY-il no.  No.

Public Service Announcement

There are four ligaments in your knee.

They are all quite important.

At least one will abandon you somewhere around 40.

 

[Shhhhh…Don’t tell them I said anything. They get unpredictably mad at irrational things and totally…OW.]

[Damn. Someone must have told my already irritated ligaments. My blog has a mole. A knee mole.]

[That should totally be a thing. A knee mole. Not a mole on your knee but, like, the naked mole rat’s distant cousin, the knee mole…]

[I think I’ve undermined the newsworthiness of the information of my post on the importance of knee ligaments with this exciting discovery of the world’s first knee mole.]

[Maybe. Unless there’s a whole bevy of them and once outed they’re going to take over the world.]

[Holy guacamole, people. I hope you have emergency supplies. This is about to get ugly. Sorry to have unleashed this knee mole apocalypse on you. Forget what I said about the importance of your knees. Totally moot point now that we’ll be at the mercy of knee moles.]

I’m mean.

Word on the street is that I’m mean. Former employers, current clients, friends, and Spouse haven’t heard this rumor yet, but it’s burning like wildfire through the living room.

The constant accusations from my six-year-old are that I’m mean, not fair, and stupid.

The latte I won’t stand for. He hears, “We don’t say that word. It hurts. You may not call me names.”

The other two, though, get operatic replies.

“You’re being mean, Mom.”

[singing]
Mom, you’re mean
Mom, you’re mean
Mom I can’t bear anymore of this scene.
Mom you’re a brute
Mom you’re so rude
Mom if I ask nicely will you get me some food!
But nay she won’t feed me
And nay she won’t need me
To clean up, for she gives me no toys!
My mom she deprives me
And yes, she derides me
Cuz my mom she is so mean.

The lyrics change each time, but the tune is always catchy with a bit of melancholy. In the song I note how I’m mean for giving him nothing, doing nothinbg, never listening, and making untenable rules.

It’s the rules, after all, that are rendering his life unlivable.

“Mommmmm. You’re not being fair.”

[singing softly] Mom is not fair
Mom doesn’t care
Mom drags me around
The house by my hair!
Mom is so cold
And yes, even bold
As to walk around making
The rules though she’s old!
Mom gives much more
To everyone at the store
Than even to her dear sweet son!
My mom is so bad
It makes me so sad
That I think I’ll get a new one.

The first-grader doesn’t like the fair songs either, though the two-year-old seems to.

I’m sick to death of the word mean. I’m tired of avoiding the “life’s not fair” lecture. I would much prefer a cogent list of grievances and demands so I can carefully consider them and reject them.

Because I’m mean. And not fair.

I blame Costco

To Peanut: I’m glad you got a sleepover with grandma and with it the alone time you crave. You really did not have to spend 24 hours back in three-year-old tantrum land to prove to me that re-entry is so hard. I get it; I’m supportive and understanding. Knock it off.

To Costco: when you say, “Come in; we have nine tires to replace the one you just blew and the three that will soon,” and I come in, then go home for my checkbook because you have a sweetheart deal with KILLING ME  that card I only use in emergencies, and *then* when I come back you tell me you can only find three tires? You lose a customer for life.

To tire dealerships within a 20 mile radius: Seriously? I have the most popular car in the area. Surely you knew you’d need four of this size soon. A pox on your auto-service establishments. All seven of them I called.

To my children: I could kiss you on the faces for being patient at the tire store and the other tire store and the mechanic and the knee doctor and the grocery store. Considering the fact that you’re six and two, you were rockstars*. You’re the only group in the whole lot that gets a customer for life.

*Except for Peanut’s 24 hours of age-inappropriate tantrums. And Butter blindsiding me twice in my bad knee while playing a game of “run away from nothing.” Not cool, guys. Not cool. I will forgive you because the tires are on, the knee is healing, and the kitchen is full. And because I have way too much invested in our brand to ditch you now.

Of campfires and pinot

Oh, my, dear readers. You might not be able to smell it, but there’s a good chance you can: Naptime reeks as though someone rubbed a citronella candle in a dirty armpit and barbequed it. Four days of camping with the small people and Spouse was just wonderful.

I know some people don’t like the whole sleeping-on-the-ground thing, the lack-of-shower thing, the cooking-over-an-unpredictable-flame thing. But I think camping is awesome. I love falling asleep and waking under trees and clear skies. I love having nothing to do but hike. I love the lack-of-electricity excuse for going to bed with the kids and waking up in a quiet, bone-chilling dawn.

It helps that I packed well. Bags and bags of food, enough toys, great books, good snacks, plenty of non-toxic bug lotion, clothes for every weather, and lots of wine. When, every now and then, I open a bottle of wine, it takes me five days to finish it. For this four-day trip, though, I packed three bottles. And drank them all.

Because did I mention I went camping with a two-year-old? Peanut, the six-year-old, was in heaven. He collected leaves and climbed trees and ate his weight in scrambled eggs and watched the campfire and begged for more than five hikes a day. Butter, bless him, learned his first lesson in how hard it is to get pinto-bean-sized piece of creosote out of your nostril. And how when your parents tell you not to throw the contents of your shovel, they do it to avoid days of itchy leaf litter in your unwashed hair. And how constant entreaties to get off the picnic table are intended to avoid that big fall where you gouged your forehead open on redwood detritus. He was a filthy, bloody little urchin when we got home, but he had the time of his life.

As did we all. Stinky, uncomfortable, well rested, exhausted, frustrated, and content.

 



The Bright Side

You know the upside of having kids shift their internal clocks for summer, going from 7pm-6am mostly asleep to 9pm-5am barely asleep? Absolutely nothing. Sucks rotten eggs.

You know what’s funny about being in the car while one kid screams, “Stop looking out my window! Look out your own window!”* while the second kid just stares across the car at nothing through his brother’s window? Again, nothing. No benefit at all.

*technically, he shrieks, “Peanuh! No look me weendoh! Own weenndoh!”

Wanna hear the silver lining, for me, of children who eat their own weight in watermelon every day? Once you push aside the exorbitant cost of organic watermelon, the sticky pink drips everywhere, the moonscape yard in which every available square inch of planting space is waiting for watermelon seeds to grow, and the pain in the neck of washing and sharpening a huge knife twice daily, the good part is…I don’t know, something about lycopene and prostates. No silver lining for me.

Hey, have I mentioned the great part about having friends who happily let my kid play with their kid, the results of which are 1) happy kids, 2) happy friend who can basically ignore children playing well together and spend a couple of hours doing whatever they want to around the house, and 3) a blissful return to a time when my toddler naps and I have time to write? Well, I just enumerated them, so consider the great parts mentioned.

So the score, if you’re playing along with our Fantasy Humanity League, is Summer 225, Me Infinity. (It’s new math, so let me give you the formula: annoyances are one point per day and time alone in the middle of the day is infinity points.)

How’s your summer score looking? Not that you keep score, of course. But if you did.

Best money I’ve ever spent

1. Online coupon for Scrivener completely overhauls my novel editing process.
Cost: $32 (tax-deductible)
Benefit: New lease on creativity, productivity, and immortality. Joyful hours in which I imported 310 pages of fiction into hundreds of scenes and move them around the way I’ve wanted to since a brilliant friend recommended I buy a giant cork board to index card my scenes. Complete revolution to my writing and editing. Giddy eagerness to tackle an otherwise daunting project. Elated moments of productivity even in the wee hours when I’m usually at diminished capacity.
Thank you Literature and Latte for knowing what writers need and for coding it all into little computer goblins who move words around at my behest.

2. Local grocer has a bottle of organic lemonade on sale. I buy one, freeze into popsicles. My kids, who are used to homemade yogurt and orange juice pops go nuts, sit sweetly together in the shade and eat two popsicles each.
Cost: $0.16 per child (calculated just the juice by the ounce and figured freezer costs negligible since the freezer would be running, anyway.)
Benefit: 30 minutes in which I stripped and washed the car seat covers, vacuumed the car seats (ew), vacuumed the living room, and ripped four CDs.
Thank you Santa Cruz Organic for the $0.64/hour babysitting. I plan to recreate with our overburdened lemon tree and newly minted, knife-accomplished sous-chef six-year-old for improved cost effectiveness.

3. NPR interviews Daniel Pink, and a year later I finally remember to buy his book Drive at a local bookstore.
Cost: $8 something.
Benefit: Interesting research, good writing, and highly useful appendices get me on track for several professional goals.

Go buy his book. Read it. Work through the appendices. Change your work, your life, your family, your employees, your children, your world.

That’s money well spent.

Dear Colorado

I’m so sorry you’re going through this. We’ve had our differences, but wildfires are terrifying and devastating and I wouldn’t wish them on anyone.

For those Coloradans who’ve lost homes and loved ones, I’m so deeply sorry. I know some of the heartbreak you’re dealing with and I know some of the nightmares you’ll face. If you can, find a support group or a professional counselor now. The next few weeks might be desperately hard, and leaning on the family and neighbors offering help might be enough. But it might not be, and that’s not the fault of you or your family and friends. I don’t know you or your lives, but I can tell you that the one-year anniversary could be more devastating that you might imagine, so having a support structure in place now will help then.

For those who were near the fires, please know that you have been through a trauma, too. People will tell you that you’re lucky even though you might feel more terrified and out of control than lucky. They’ll assume you’re fine because your narrow escape was a lack of actual damage.

But you might have some of the same post traumatic stress that other fire survivors have. I don’t pretend to know those whose homes were saved by the incredible efforts of firefighters, but I’m willing to guess that their lives might be consumed with fear and guilt for a while. You are survivors, too. There is no escaping a fire like this. Losing neighbors but not your own home or family is a blessing, but it’s a traumatizing experience, too. A lesson in “almost” and capriciousness and “what happens next time?” I’m glad you’re safe and that your houses still stand. I’m sorry about your loss of security and peace of mind.

Please give yourself the space to grieve. Please find a support group or a counselor to help you through, too. Fire victims have all manner of stories. Even those neighboring Colorado towns who feared the winds might come their way, watching for days every minute of television coverage have a story, will grieve for a while. Allow that, because it helps. I promise you won’t fall to pieces if you let the sadness take over for a part of every day.

Know that fire survivors all over the world feel for you this week, this month, this decade. You’ve joined a terrible, wrenching club. And I’m sorry to have you join us.

Fire fighters: I still don’t have the words and I don’t know that I ever will. With all the talk of heroism, embrace that you’re human. You, too, will have fear, make mistakes, feel guilt, and be emotionally exhausted. You’re allowed to grieve, too. This is what you’re trained for, but it’s scary. I still wish I could find the fire fighter overwhelmed by flames who had to ignore us as we fled down a burning fire escape. He looked so scared and I think we could all use a drink together. Tomorrow works for me.

May all of Colorado sleep well and get the emotional, financial, and spiritual help they need in the coming days and months. Fight the after effects of that bastard fire, survivors.

Be well, Colorado.

She needs psychological help

Oh, boy do I have problems.

I add to my list of Things I Simply Must Do Right Now just about anything that sounds like something I should be doing.

Note that I don’t add things that sound like fun. Or that could save time, money, or energy. I add obligations. Avoid fun and profit; do what sounds like something you should do.

Today when a friend talked about going back to school for a second Bachelor’s degree in Chemistry, I thought fondly of my days in the lab and mentally added a Chem BS to my list of things to finish. This year.

When a friend at a group outing last week mentioned that his kids eat more sandwiches when he uses his homemade peanut butter, I vowed to start making my own. (Food processor, he said, not blender. Add cashews to make it more spreadable, someone else said. Done and done. Or, rather, on the list and on the list.)

Except I’m not going to get a degree in Chemistry or make peanut butter. I’m just adding them to my list so I can promise myself that I’ll never get bored or stop striving or learning. Just in case, says my list of 4,128 things. Just in case.

That all stops now.

I hereby declare to you, publicly, that I will not. I won’t. I refuse.

I will not make my own peanut butter.
I will not learn to cross stitch.
I will not start my first quilting project this summer.
I will not break our chipped plates to make mosaic picture frames for a delightful hallway mirror.
I will not say yes to every playdate that comes along.
I will not take a job just because someone asks me to.

Know what else?
I’m never cooking potatoes again. They’re too much damned work.
I refuse to fold the laundry. Cramming it into drawers is basically the same, and nobody yet has said to any of us “Wow, you are one disheveled family!” If they do, I have some green, gnarled, raw potatoes to throw at them.
I won’t clean up after the boys anymore. They usually do their own tidying (regretfully, it’s sometimes on threat of throwing away anything left on the floor) but I often finish each night. Nope. No more. I’d rather step on it in the dark or stub my toe than bend over one more doggone time.
I will not water the stupid patch of weeds near the trash cans. I don’t care that the landlord calls it grass.
I’m also not planting food any more. We have a farmer’s market full of food grown by local organic farmers. I don’t have the energy to water and tend and protect and nurture any more goddamned creatures right now.

Because I’m tired of adding “should” to my long list of righteous obligations. I’m still going to purchase food, prepare food, cook food, serve food, clean up food, mow the lawn, pull weeds, clean the house, sort laundry, write books, edit other books, make playdough, tell my kids to be kind, play with my kids, clean up the feces, monitor the handwashing, manage the bathing, direct the shoeing, load the bikes and scooters, drive the people, maintain the car, pay bills, answer the mail, schedule appointments, plan trips, arrange playdates, send invoices, market services, and run.

And starting today, I’m going to shower whenever I feel like it.

Take that, peanut butter guy and chemistry lady. My big plans are to be zestfully clean.