On the record

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Okay, it’s official. I’m going to go way out on a limb and proclaim:

Fourteen hours a day (every single day) with small children is too much. But at least it’s not sixteen.

Five years of fourteen hours a day with small children (three of those years were actually sixteen hours a day, which is how I know fourteen is an improvement), with ten days total away (ten days of one thousand eight hundred and twenty-five, which is 99.45% work days) is too much.

Four years of major sleep disruptions (waking at least every three hours, generally more) is too much.

Further, seared polenta topped with goat cheese and marinara, followed by sliced beets and goat cheese glazed with balsamic, followed by honey on goat cheese is too much.

But just as I wouldn’t change the reasons I have had only ten days off in five years and haven’t slept well and haven’t had a complete thought to myself in I can’t remember how long…just as I wouldn’t change those decisions, I wouldn’t change the cheese addiction, either. Given all the legal and illegal coping mechanisms out there, cheese is at least a decent source of protein.

You must be joking

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I swear to Neptune I feel like I’m living in a cartoon today. Brace yourself for a long panel.

This morning was a pediatric appt. for both boys. (Aside: One and Five? Holy guacamole, how did that happen?) Predictably, the young one with strong opinions protested the ear check (oh, shocking…ear infection number eight in nine months) and getting his diaper back on.

Also predictably, the older one with strong opinions (and intensity and persistence and resistance to change and sensitivity) refused to get weighed or measured or checked until it was on his terms. I convinced him to see if he was taller than Dad, to see if he weighed more or less without his clothes, and to let the doc probe him by explaining what a liver, hernia, and scoliosis were.

And then, while I was cuddling the baby post-iron-check, the nurse got tired of waiting for Peanut to agree and told Spouse to hold him down for shots. He screamed, used his words, and tried to hit them, but they gave him four shots completely against his will.

That became the topic of the day.

“Mom, I’m going to kick that nurse if I ever see her.”
“P, it sounds like you’re really angry. We don’t kick when we’re angry. Can you think of a way to say how angry you are?”
“Dear nurse, you’re a fucking nurse.”

He went to school and hung out with the wrong crowd, and I watched him making horrible choices in the yard while I sat in the car with the sleeping toddler.

We went to ice cream with a friend and got several seconds of happy silence.

Went home and he went to wash his hands while I fed Butter. I heard something unusual. Three times. And as I hollered, “What are you doing?” he came crying, terrified, up the stairs.

“I turned on that fire thing.”

I figured he meant the wall heater, which he is forbidden to touch, and which I feared would cause a fire if used. I went into the downstairs bathroom and saw smoke everywhere but no flame or source. I freaked out. And as I whirled to go get the phone to call the fire department, saw the fire extinguisher. Pin removed, covered in white powder. The same stuff floating in the air.

Cue parenting moment…

Charged up the stairs and he ran, face registering that he sensed a beating coming. (NB: we don’t believe in beatings. Or spankings. Or hitting of any kind. But that kid is no fool.) I yelled.

M: Get back here!
P: [terror, tears, compliance]
M: [hugging him gently] I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t ever ever ever ever EVER do that again.
P: [nodding, sobbing]
M: That is dangerous. The chemicals in that can hurt you. That is for grownups in emergencies. Not for playing. Don’t ever ever ever EVER do that again.
P: [nodding, sobbing]
M: Don’t touch things that you don’t know about. There are reasons for rules, reasons for high shelves in cabinets, reasons for locks on doors.
P: [nodding, sobbing]
M: What you did was very dangerous. You could have been hurt. You are not hurt. You are okay. The bathroom is okay. I am okay. Butter is okay. Don’t ever ever ever ever EVER do that again.
P: [nodding and sobbing]
M: I can clean up the chemicals. The very dangerous chemicals. Very hurtful chemicals that are bad for breathing, bad for seeing, bad for bodies.
P: [nodding]
M: Ask before you do new things.
P: [nodding] That fire thing hurt me! [sobbing resumes]
M: Hurt you?
P: Yeah, it hurt my feelings that I did that.
M: Good. It should. That means you know good decisions from bad decisions. And you made a bad choice. Choose differently next time.
P: [nodding]

And then there was soccer. And dinner. And bath. And bedtime. And the poor kid was nice to his brother and calm and fun to be with every moment from 3pm on.

Apparently he needs the sh*t scared out of him, twice, to be an easy little creature.

Worth it?
No.
Cleaning monoammonium phosphate SUCKS. That stuff goes everywhere; burns eyes, nose, and throat; and lingers after sweeping, sweeping, mopping, and vacuuming.

And writing letters to fucking nurses tries my patience.

If Dennis the Menace and Bill Waterson’s Calvin and Eeyore and Yosemite Sam had a love child, s/he might give my kid a run for his money. Barring that…

Blog Avoidance Syndrome

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I’ve recently diagnosed myself with a mild case of Blog Avoidance Syndrome. The causes are many, the symptoms are simple, and the prognosis is unclear. Let me ‘splain. No there is too much. Let me sum up.

We just moved. We just had several birthday parties. For small people. Involving cupcakes with candy eyeballs. The unpacking is getting really old. I have pressing things to do, like finish an article to submit it a.freaking.sap to a journal before someone else writes it and publishes it and rides its genius all the way to fame and glory and a tenured position at a major University. And I have to rework the novel that is 98% there and has been submitted to decent responses from agents but that needs just a a couple of days of work. And I need to exercise for the first time since January. And I need to get a babysitter so I can go more than 10 minutes without losing my cool. And I really need to update my playlist. And make baby food. And get a parking permit. And overthink the kindergarten decision we’ve kind of sort of maybe made.And hang pictures and knit something and sew something else and find a cure for cancer and start baking my own bread.

So while ideas for blog posts flutter in and out of the corners of my mind, I can’t hold a thought ’til the end of the day, which is when I carve out time to blog. Nor can I seem to find the time to write and edit. Nor prioritize the lame-ass musings I offer herein for the 200+ awesome readers who visit semi-regularly. Because I have other things to do. And the longer I go without posting, the more I think that those other projects are better uses of my time.

So forgive me my blahs. I need to get my act in gear and put my energy where my priorities are. But I can’t until I find the box that has the stuff I need. You’d think it’d be labeled as such, but I’m down to “office stuff,” “hats and shoes,” and “wine glasses”. And we all know which of those gets priority.

What I don’t understand is how other people do this. A mom of five children who unschools with respect and creativity for all. A mom who is promoting her new book and managing a business and reading up a storm. Families move all the time and manage to hang on. Other moms have small children and projects put on hold for longer than they’d like. Other academics get swamped with work and don’t keep up in one field. They all catch up eventually. So why am I counting on not getting back to things, not fixing the imbalance, not ever finishing any of the dozens of things on my list?

How are you all working and exercising and parenting and reading and connecting and moisturizing and cooking and thinking and enjoying? How the hell do you do it? Because I’m not doing any of it, really. Please, do, tell me your secret.

Superhero powers

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The metamorphosis of a superhero:

Me: Peanut, come up for lunch, please.
P: Can’t. I’m working on a map of Rexington D.C.
M: Rexington D.C.?
P: Yep.
…
P: Here it is. The picture of Rexing D.C.
M: Rexing D.C., eh?
P: No. [articulating as though I’m learning the language] Ruxing D.C.
M: I see. Tell me about this. Looks like you worked really hard on it.
P: I didn’t have to. I’ve seen Ruxing D.C. It’s like kind of a wolf and kind of a coyote. The best kind of dog.
M: I see. Ruxing D.C.
P: No. Rexing D.C.
M: Right. A wolf kind of coyote kind of dog.
P: Right. My friend Rexing D.C. He’s like my superhero powers.

Um, okeedokee. There you have it. A map of  a picture of a canine friend that offers superhero powers.

Maybe my super power could be getting through the rest of preschool with my budding storyteller/coyote/superhero/dog nation’s capitol.

Surviving Rexington D.C.

Coming this summer from somewhere north of Hollywood.

 

The Pale King approacheth

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It took me a while to read the reviews of the soon-to-be-released David Foster Wallace novel The Pale King. I think I am the only academic who has cried at the two conferences I’ve attended where Wallace papers were presented. I might be the only contemporary literature scholar who is not eagerly anticipating the arrival of his final novel.

And I’ve been saying that since Michael Pietsch announced that Little Brown would be publishing whatever he could agglomerate of Wallace’s final, incomplete work. (Quick note: I am of the school that Pietsch and Green knew and loved Wallace and his work well enough to know whether they had enough to publish and honor the art and artist. I find it ludicrous that some people are alleging that this novel is about cashing in or commodifying Wallace’s death. Those people should, with no respect due, shut their pie holes.)

But I digress (so you don’t remember I’m the one crying when someone reviews a book I haven’t read yet. Ahem.)

I feel like an ass admitting that I cry every time someone mentions the upcoming book. I feel like a dolt blogging about it. But such is my asinine doltishness. See also my asinine doltish posts on parenting, scholarship, flotsam, and jetsam.

I read one sentence into the Esquire review of The Pale King and burst into tears. After two more tries (a couple of days apart) I actually made it through the glowing, bowing, scraping, and genuflecting review.

Now I might actually read the book. Who can turn down a text that Publisher’s Weekly calls “one hell of a document and a valiant tribute to the late Wallace, being, as it is, a transfixing and hyper-literate descent into relentless, inescapable despair and soul-negating boredom”? Not me. Already transfixed by boredom and relentless despair. To have that frustration and what’s-it-all-for anxiety narrated by my favorite author?

Sign. Me. Up.

Alsup alleges, in his Esquire review, that The Pale King might keep you up at night because “because D.F.W. writes sentences and sometimes whole pages that make you feel like you can’t breathe.” That is true, sir. That’s why I absolutely devour Infinite Jest each time I read it. That’s why I still wince at the pain of knowing David Foster Wallace isn’t writing any more. And I wince a bit with fear that The Pale King will be as uneven and good-but-uninspired as I found Oblivion.

If I read this novel, I need it to be earth shifting. I need it to top Infinite Jest. I need it to be a gift befitting DFW.

And that’s an unreasonable request, especially for an unfinished work.

That, probably, more than the sadness that lingers about his death, is why I don’t want to read The Pale King.

White banana

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My mom tells a story about a child who, when asked what color a banana is, replied, “White.”

True that.

I took Peanut and Butter to the playground as part of a whirlwind “let’s get out of the house even in the rain because I might kill both of you if the whining and the hitting and the jumping off couches continues” morning. Long walk, quick grocery trip, and playground. Peanut romped all over like a madman while I introduced Butter to the finest pleasure of all time: Acme sourdough baguette with Cowgirl Creamery Cheese. I selected a Mt. Tam because nothing says rainy day at the park like a ripe, triple cream brie.

Peanut got wind that we were basking in Bay Area deliciousness and joined us. Both boys would take a bite, then run off to climb or slide or play. Then come back for another bite. We must have had 7 or 8 minutes of bliss before it all went to hell again. That almost-ten is pretty good ’round these parts. See the rest of this blog if you doubt that assertion.

And after the spell was broken, we were all full of organic, local fat and carb-y goodness, a handful of kids from the nearby middle school came running over. Three grabbed empty swings and another started to mount the swing next to a land-based Peanut.

One of his friends reprimanded him, saying, “Hey, I think that kid was using that.” The boy, startled, asked Pea if he was, in fact, using the swing. Peanut shook his head, “no,” and the boy recovered his momentum into the saddle.

And as my five-year-old watched these teenagers swing, I listened to them.

“Don’t rob a green banana!”
“Don’t kill a green banana!”
“What’s a green banana?”
“Well, old people are brown bananas.”

I looked at my boys. One is a very, very green banana. One is barely an apple banana (the teeny tiny bananas that are so cute you want to just keep them in your sock drawer and coo at them).

And as I digested the bliss that came from the previous moments of culinary and parental joy, I realized that I’m neither a green nor a brown banana. I’m neither underripe nor overripe. Probably freckled with brown but not splotchy yet. Yellow. Somewhere between tomorrow and yesterday on the ripeness spectrum. And maybe, when I make it out from under the weight of all that is life, when I and step out for a moment or two as my own person in 20 years or so, maybe I’ll still have enough yellow left to do a few things, say a few things, and change a few things in this world.

You feeling green or brown or yellow today?

I feel quite like a white banana, under my peel.

Fine. I admit it.

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Fine. Yes, after Peanut’s birthday party I piped the extra frosting onto toast to eat during a Top Chef marathon.

Okay, I’ll admit it: I packed as many books as I could into a huge box because this time we’re paying someone to move us and I want my money’s worth.

Yes. You caught me. I actually drove one of my children to his first soccer practice, which thereby begins my tenure as a soccer mom. And as we drove home and I realized this, I threw up in my mouth a little.

Fine, I’ll come clean about yelling at my husband during our five-year old’s birthday party. Okay, I yelled at my mom, too. And almost one of the kids. But he did kick me. The kid, not my husband. The latter’s only primary sin was putting the cupcakes I had meticulously decorated with four colors of handmade cream cheese icing into a cool oven for safe keeping. On the top rack. While it was in broiler position. So when I rushed to the kitchen for cupcakes to keep the five-going-on-feral children from destroying my house and each other, I ruined all the frosting pulling them out. Totally my fault. Except clearly his fault. Everyone knows you leave the cupcakes on the counter where the cat would never dream of licking them, or the fridge where the baby would never stick his hand in and pull them to the floor. Not that the cat got to the ice cream sandwiches, nor the baby to the grilled cheese. No. Of course not.

And that is why I’m carefully applying icing only toast. Not because I have a stress eating problem. Because I have Post Traumatic Birthday Party Stress Disorder and need to do something right today.

Now where are those candy eyeballs so I can make this toast look like a friendly, animated, ass-enlarging monster?

March’s motto

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I was writing to a friend to catch up on our lives. We’re disconnected by thousands of miles and yet linked by enough similarities to feel warmth in our infrequent connections. And I told her of celebrations and big changes and concerns and frustrations and…

And I came up with a surprisingly pithy description of March 2011:

“Happy, happy…happy…joy, joy….oh fuck.”

Do you have a month like that? Or a year like that?

Never thought I’d say this. Again.

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Peanut, please stop standing on the toys.

Feet aren’t something to put in people’s faces.

Stop playing with your food.

Baby, no teeth on mama. Teeth hurt. That’s biting. Mama doesn’t like biting.

Peanut, we don’t stand on toys.

Please stop playing with your food.

Stop pretend shooting at me.

If you can’t listen to me, I’ll take that away.

Toys are not for standing on.

Butterbug, You’re frustrated. I know, but biting is not okay. Ow. Biting hurts.

Please eat your food. Don’t play with it.

Stop pretend shooting at me. Pretend shoot at something else.

Please get your feet out of his face.

Get off the toy. Toys break if you stand on them.

Stop playing with your food.

Eat your food.

Food is not for playing. It’s for eating.
Eat your food.
Stop playing with your food.

YOU: stop biting me! And YOU: stop playing with your food. Stop pretend shooting at me or I’ll rip that paper towel tube out of your grubby paws. And stop standing on the motherfucking toys!

I’m starting to feel like her:

Blink

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The first box is packed and I have a cut from the cardboard.

Poor prioritization means taxes have been submitted but journal articles haven’t.

Two bouts of flu in three weeks and I am now afraid of food.

Peanut is funny and defiant. Butter calls everything he likes a dog or a vacuum.

And they both run in different directions now.

Game on.

4 a.m.

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We’re almost out of soap.

Don’t forget to get soap

but remember to research and find one without fragrance or phthalates or parabens or all the other stuff on the EWG site and check out sanitizers too because we need to work on sanitizers and use them more and only alcohol-free and fragrance-free and what if the chemicals they use to replace alcohol is toxic and what if the toys we so carefully chose to be nontoxic turn out to be toxic and what if we move to a house with more air pollution and we don’t know and we pretend it’s okay but the ear infections get worse and then there’s asthma and loss of lung function.

I have to remember to email that woman.

I’m not sure if I should send her a hardcopy, too, since we’ve had problems with her getting emails

and while I’m emailing I’ll check in on that client and remind that friend and send out those and oh! I have to order those and print the labels and send them out but should we wait so it also has an address change and where are we going to get boxes and how will I remember to change the address with everyone and crap I think my driver’s license expired and damn I have to go to the DMV with a baby and probably a small child and what will I do if I’m sitting there for an hour and they lose it and I lose it and leave and have to go back. And is the air in the DMV filtered because what if it’s toxic?

I need to print that article and read it.

Maybe it’ll be useful for the paper I’m writing

but maybe the field has jumped ahead light years since I stopped working on it just before Butter’s birth and maybe I’ll have to read twenty journals before I start editing my piece and maybe while I’m reading those another will be published and then I’ll edit mine to reflect twenty new articles and it’ll seem better because it’ll take three months to do without a sitter or free time and maybe by the time I submit that one study I missed will be the talk of the academy and I will look like an idiot just because I didn’t freaking finish when I had the idea and the time last year and how embarrassing that I didn’t just publish it then. I should probably just give up.

I need to read that book about child development.

Feels kind of silly to only get to a birth-to-age-five book two weeks before he turns five, but it’ll be useful for the second one

except is the second one going to get more than the first because I know more and have more experience or is the second getting totally gyped because I’m already running on empty for patience, ideas, energy; and is the first missing out now that I need to pay so much attention to the second and is the second getting enough naps and attention and is the first getting enough protein and enriching activities and attention and is my work every going to get attention and what is that noise in the living room?

I think it’s supposed to rain today.

Rain helps with pollution so the air will be better tomorrow

but what happens if the rain cleans the air by adhering to particulates and pulling them down to the ground but then incorporate them into the soil and make the soil more toxic so that every rainstorm ever has polluted the soil and the baby has been eating rocks lately and the big one sometimes forgets to wash after playing outside and it turns out the dirt is the dirties toxic mass in the world and I didn’t even think about how insidious rain is because it does still clean the air which is terrible for tiny lungs, and…

[just as I posted, I found this. Thanks Universe.]

Tickets. Get your tickets.

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This weekend, Spouse took Peanut to an arcade museum. Pin ball machines, carnival games, and skee ball. Peanut was in heaven and has, since he came home, forced us to perform feats of skill and chance in exchange for tickets. Tape flags, really, that I gave him to get him to stop raiding my desk and (to my horror) the books I’ve flagged during my ongoing, stunted, stop-and-go research.

But that’s another story for another day.

Anyway. I’ve been bouncing balls across the room into yogurt cups for tickets. Spouse has been coaxing plastic toys through jumping contests for tickets.

And when Butter finally let go and walked on his own, Peanut counted the steps. And awarded Butter tickets for each unassisted step.

We have pages and pages like this.

Peanut is so excited to be in control.

Butter is so proud of himself it’s irresistible.

It’s a good time to be at Casa Naptime.

Mary Poppins need not apply

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Butter thinks he can walk. And he grabs my hand every opportunity he can, and drags me into the kitchen to see the vacuum.

“Gakaah,” he says, signing vacuum.
“Oh, yes,” I answer. “Here is the vacuum.”

He grabs my hand again and drag me into the living room, where we have a throw rug.
“Gakaah,” he insists, signing vacuum again.
“Yes. This is where we use the vacuum. The vacuum goes here. Vacuum is all done and put away.”

He drags me back to the kitchen and shows me the vacuum. Pulls me to the rug, shows me where to use it. Back and forth until he gives up. Clearly, I’m too stupid to understand that we need to vacuum again. Every hour or so.

Poor guy. When Peanut was tiny I totally vacuumed several times a day for him because he liked it. Pretending to be daft is a coping mechanism I’ve built over the past few years. And I fear for poor Butter (and Peanut and Spouse) that it’ll only get worse.

Never thought my highest aspiration would be acting thick. Oh well. It’s nice to be good at something.

Where in tarnation…

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In case you ever wonder why I go so long between posts…

This was screamed by Peanut from his bed at the end of an hour long bedtime battle royale from hell (screamed at his father):

“I want to go tell Mommy that I’m sorry I kicked you and hit you! [long beat] PLEASE! It’s important to me!”

Help me, Obi Won Ben or Jerry. You’re my only hope.

Rose-colored hindsight

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There was a time that a headache would strike at 4pm and I’d go into the corporate bathroom, two doors between me and the bright, loud, engaged world. I’d sit, disengaged, and I’d close my eyes for up to two minutes. Dark, cool, quiet. And if the headache didn’t resolve I’d know that in two hours there’d be peace and quiet at home. Solitude. Food.

Now when a headache hits at 4pm there is no dark, cool, quiet. There aren’t two doors between me and anything. There is no closing my eyes. There is no solitude (and often no food). Because two small people will get hurt and sad if I close two doors and my eyes. Now there are at least four hours before bedtime separates me and the bright, loud, engaged workplace. And those four hours will not be easygoing or peaceful. Those four hours will be escalating screaming and demands and hot, frantic, noisy unceasing tasks.

No sitting for four hours. No breathing or relaxing or closing eyes. That’s a lot of unfettered headache time.

Dinner comes much later, quiet comes much later. Cool, dark, quiet long blinks come much later.

Working is not a picnic. It’s rare to find an ideal work environment, and even when I do there are hard days. There are annoying people or clients or computers or projects. But there are bathrooms. And doors. And closed eyes. And a way to separate at the end of the day.

For people who leave work and come home to small, needy, loud, helpless creatures, it’s a jarring transition. And there are several hours before bedtime for them, too, after a long day of sometimes awful colleagues and awful bosses and awful projects and awful clients.

There’s nothing for me to leave. No “gee, today one job seems easier than the other and I’m glad I have work/home on days like these”. No closing some doors or opening others; no transition except bedtime—that sometimes relaxed and delightful, but usually dramatic and daunting cataclysm.

So 4pm headaches seem as though they’re a much bigger deal than they used to be. And when corporate bathrooms seem a dreamy vacation spot from my current world, maybe I need to reevaluate a few things in my life.

Where’s your dark, cool, quiet, disengaged happen? Is it hourly or daily or weekly? Is your dark, cool, and quiet at the mercy of others? Do you have a room of your own? Do you sit and blink and eat and go to the bathroom as you see fit?

How do you do that?