I was thinking of "home for the holidays" the other day, and I got an amazing rush of holiday nostalgia. Winter sun slanting in through the bay window in the living room. Music playing from the stereo, so lively and bright in the morning that no one wants to sleep in. The smell of bread and cookies baking. The cheerful, warm clatter of activity in the kitchen, my mom emanating a sense of comfort and peace as she bustles around. The knowledge of days off from school stretching ahead, and the prospect of family meals, presents, or other special activities. Most importantly, all of us being together. It seems like we need a special occasion to all join in a common pursuit. Normally my brother disappears into his room, my dad is watching TV so unavailable for conversation, and it ends up being my mom and me chatting in the kitchen - which is nice, but I like it when it's all of us.
I wonder if you ever manage to recreate that feeling of comfort in your second family - the one you build with your own spouse and children. So much of feeling happy at the holidays, for me, was basking in the sense of being cared for, of being a small cherished piece of the family unit. When I'm in charge of recreating that for my child, I can do it, I think - but will it feel as comforting for me?
Maybe I'll just enjoy it vicariously through her. I've noticed that many of the joys of parenthood come from living vicariously as your child discovers things. It sounds like it wouldn't be as good as experiencing things yourself, but actually I think it is. I get this huge glow of pride and happiness whenever she's happy.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Starvation
I just came across a picture online that breaks my heart. When I saw it, I almost started crying. It's a photo of a baby in the last throes of starvation, all heavy head and stick-thin legs, trying to crawl toward a United Nations food camp while a vulture watches in the background. The baby looks too young to even know how to crawl yet. According to the caption the camp was a kilometer away. I wish I was there so I could pick up that baby and carry it to the camp myself. Or adopt it. I can almost feel how its bony little body would feel in my arms, how I would be afraid of cracking a rib as I carried it.
How can photographers take pictures of things like that and then just walk away? (As this one did - he apparently left the scene immediately after taking the picture so no one knows what happened to the child.) I know their job is only to document misery, not to alleviate it, that they don't have the resources to save every starving child they see, that they can't save one and leave others behind... but still. How could he not have intervened this once to carry the child that 1-kilometer distance that meant the difference between life and death? I know it's not that he wasn't affected by the scene. This particular photographer committed suicide just a short time later, alluding in his suicide note to the overwhelming pain in the world. He's right about that. The capacity for suffering in this world seems to have no limit.
How can photographers take pictures of things like that and then just walk away? (As this one did - he apparently left the scene immediately after taking the picture so no one knows what happened to the child.) I know their job is only to document misery, not to alleviate it, that they don't have the resources to save every starving child they see, that they can't save one and leave others behind... but still. How could he not have intervened this once to carry the child that 1-kilometer distance that meant the difference between life and death? I know it's not that he wasn't affected by the scene. This particular photographer committed suicide just a short time later, alluding in his suicide note to the overwhelming pain in the world. He's right about that. The capacity for suffering in this world seems to have no limit.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Why I Don't Mind Paying Taxes
Baby on my hip, I walked cheerfully out of the bank, holding up my car keys and jingling them to amuse her. "Keys," I said cheerfully as I unlocked the car. I tossed them on the front seat to have my hands free for buckling her into her car seat. Then I kissed her on the forehead and slipped into what biologists term a fixed action pattern: locked the car doors, shut them firmly, and walked around to the driver's side, reaching into my pocket for my keys as I went. Oh no. Oh, no, no, no! There was my baby, grinning up at me from the back seat. There were the car keys, sprawled on the front seat. There were the four doors, firmly locked. Ahhhh!
As the first jolt of panic hit my heart, I ran around the car trying the doors anyway. Of course none of them opened. Then I ran back into the bank. There were tons of people standing around in the lobby waiting, but my stride got the attention of the employee at the main desk, who glanced up at me in alarm. "I just locked my baby and my keys in my car! Can I use your phone?" I blurted. The phone didn't have a long enough cord to reach the counter, but he was nice enough to dial the number for me and hand me the receiver.
Quickly, I told my husband what had happened. He has the only other key for the car. "Can you come meet me?" I asked. But how? We only have one car, and we live about a mile from the closest train station. He would have to catch a bus to the station, then it would be a 45 minute ride to the closest station to me, then he still would have no way to get to the bank. As we talked, I thought of the sun beating down into the car. Of course, I had parked in the sun. "There used to be a spare key hidden on the car," he remembered. It was in one of those magnetic boxes you stick under the front bumper. "I'll go look," I said, and hurriedly hung up.
A few minutes later, I was road tar and oil up to the elbow, and my hands were bleeding from brushing over the fragments of glass embedded under the bumper. I couldn't find the box, though. I think it probably fell off years ago.
Next I sized up the car windows and tried to decide which one to break. If I could smash the little one in the back, I could probably reach in and unlock the door. But I couldn't see anything in the parking lot that looked sturdy enough to smash a car window with. No rocks or chunks of asphalt or anything. I also felt anxious about putting a rock through a window when my daughter's car seat was right there - even if it's supposed to be safety glass.
I ran back into the bank. The bank guy winced slightly as he noticed the oil and grease all over my hands, but he dialed for me and handed me the receiver again. "I can't find it!" I told my husband. He advised me to call the police. So in a minute I found myself speaking to a 911 dispatch operator. "Is the baby in distress?" she asked. "Not yet," I said. In fact, the baby had fallen asleep at this point, but that didn't diminish my panic much.
It probably only took a few minutes for help to arrive, but it seemed like ages. I leaned over the back of the car and tried to block the sun with my body while I waited. Inside the car, I could see my daughter's face was red and there were droplets of sweat beaded on her brow. She flopped around uneasily in her sleep. Finally, in the distance, I heard a siren - gradually getting louder - oh my gosh, is that for me? I had expected a single cop car. Instead, there was a giant rescue squad ambulance van, about as big as a fire engine but without the ladder. It took up most of the parking lot. A couple of guys in their early twenties hopped out and came over to the car, and, with a nod of greeting at me, started working on the problem.
First they wedged a tool that looked like an ice scraper into the side of the door and levered it open as far as possible. Then they used a pump to crack it open even more. With a wire they tried to roll down the window or jiggle the lock mechanism open. Minutes passed. After a while one of them glanced at me and spoke for the first time, with a sheepish grin: "It usually doesn't take this long." At least now I know the car is hard to steal. It took multiple tries with different tools from their kit, and about 10 minutes of work, before the door suddenly popped open. "Yes!" one of them said.
Quickly I opened the back door and hauled the car seat out so my baby could get some air. I gushed some thanks to the rescue guys, who were all business ("all in a day's work, ma'am") as they headed back to their van. The bank customers who were standing around watching the scene dispersed. I drove to my parents' house, which was nearby, so I could call my husband back and reassure him.
Later that afternoon, I got a couple of spare keys made. Of course, this will probably never happen again. But if it does, I'll be ready. And in the meantime, yea for 911 and emergency rescue services!
As the first jolt of panic hit my heart, I ran around the car trying the doors anyway. Of course none of them opened. Then I ran back into the bank. There were tons of people standing around in the lobby waiting, but my stride got the attention of the employee at the main desk, who glanced up at me in alarm. "I just locked my baby and my keys in my car! Can I use your phone?" I blurted. The phone didn't have a long enough cord to reach the counter, but he was nice enough to dial the number for me and hand me the receiver.
Quickly, I told my husband what had happened. He has the only other key for the car. "Can you come meet me?" I asked. But how? We only have one car, and we live about a mile from the closest train station. He would have to catch a bus to the station, then it would be a 45 minute ride to the closest station to me, then he still would have no way to get to the bank. As we talked, I thought of the sun beating down into the car. Of course, I had parked in the sun. "There used to be a spare key hidden on the car," he remembered. It was in one of those magnetic boxes you stick under the front bumper. "I'll go look," I said, and hurriedly hung up.
A few minutes later, I was road tar and oil up to the elbow, and my hands were bleeding from brushing over the fragments of glass embedded under the bumper. I couldn't find the box, though. I think it probably fell off years ago.
Next I sized up the car windows and tried to decide which one to break. If I could smash the little one in the back, I could probably reach in and unlock the door. But I couldn't see anything in the parking lot that looked sturdy enough to smash a car window with. No rocks or chunks of asphalt or anything. I also felt anxious about putting a rock through a window when my daughter's car seat was right there - even if it's supposed to be safety glass.
I ran back into the bank. The bank guy winced slightly as he noticed the oil and grease all over my hands, but he dialed for me and handed me the receiver again. "I can't find it!" I told my husband. He advised me to call the police. So in a minute I found myself speaking to a 911 dispatch operator. "Is the baby in distress?" she asked. "Not yet," I said. In fact, the baby had fallen asleep at this point, but that didn't diminish my panic much.
It probably only took a few minutes for help to arrive, but it seemed like ages. I leaned over the back of the car and tried to block the sun with my body while I waited. Inside the car, I could see my daughter's face was red and there were droplets of sweat beaded on her brow. She flopped around uneasily in her sleep. Finally, in the distance, I heard a siren - gradually getting louder - oh my gosh, is that for me? I had expected a single cop car. Instead, there was a giant rescue squad ambulance van, about as big as a fire engine but without the ladder. It took up most of the parking lot. A couple of guys in their early twenties hopped out and came over to the car, and, with a nod of greeting at me, started working on the problem.
First they wedged a tool that looked like an ice scraper into the side of the door and levered it open as far as possible. Then they used a pump to crack it open even more. With a wire they tried to roll down the window or jiggle the lock mechanism open. Minutes passed. After a while one of them glanced at me and spoke for the first time, with a sheepish grin: "It usually doesn't take this long." At least now I know the car is hard to steal. It took multiple tries with different tools from their kit, and about 10 minutes of work, before the door suddenly popped open. "Yes!" one of them said.
Quickly I opened the back door and hauled the car seat out so my baby could get some air. I gushed some thanks to the rescue guys, who were all business ("all in a day's work, ma'am") as they headed back to their van. The bank customers who were standing around watching the scene dispersed. I drove to my parents' house, which was nearby, so I could call my husband back and reassure him.
Later that afternoon, I got a couple of spare keys made. Of course, this will probably never happen again. But if it does, I'll be ready. And in the meantime, yea for 911 and emergency rescue services!
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Umbrella Angel
When I stepped out the front door, it wasn't raining. When I got on the bus, it wasn't raining. But on the way to work, the skies opened. By the time I arrived at my stop, it was a torrential downpour - water sluicing off the top of the bus down the windshield, wipers barely able to keep up - and I didn't have an umbrella. I scurried over to a nearby cafe and took shelter under their awning while I tried to figure out what to do next.
My office was three blocks away. First I thought I should just make a dash for it, but I saw a few people splashing along the sidewalk without umbrellas, and they were soaked to the skin. One guy was wearing a nice suit, plastered to his skin. I didn't have any dry clothes at the office that I could change into. I tried holding my backpack over my head and made a quick foray out, but the rain was so intense that after only a few steps I ran back. I wondered if I should just wait it out, but worried that it might be a while.
While I was standing there in an agony of indecision, a woman walked up to the cafe under a big umbrella. I barely glanced at her, but envisioned a perfect world in which she would just give me her umbrella. In this world she would say, "Hey honey, would you like my umbrella?"
Then she said it again, "Hey honey, would you like my umbrella?"
I turned and realized she was actually talking to me. She said, "You can bring it back later. I'll be here until six." She gestured at the cafe and I realized she was an employee there. I said, "Really?" I couldn't believe my luck. Here was a total stranger offering me salvation. I practically fell over myself thanking her. It was a good umbrella too, one of those great big ones that stretches out about two feet on all sides.
Walking toward my office, I felt flooded with gratitude. Whenever something happens to make me think that people aren't particularly nice - like that boy in the library - I get a reminder that indeed, most of them are, and that nice things happen far more frequently than not-nice things.
The office routine was petty, and my boss was in a foul, vengeful mood, as she has been for the past few months. But I felt like I was just floating above it. Nothing could touch me. I took the umbrella back at noon, and passed it over the counter to her along with a bunch of flowers. She's my umbrella angel.
My office was three blocks away. First I thought I should just make a dash for it, but I saw a few people splashing along the sidewalk without umbrellas, and they were soaked to the skin. One guy was wearing a nice suit, plastered to his skin. I didn't have any dry clothes at the office that I could change into. I tried holding my backpack over my head and made a quick foray out, but the rain was so intense that after only a few steps I ran back. I wondered if I should just wait it out, but worried that it might be a while.
While I was standing there in an agony of indecision, a woman walked up to the cafe under a big umbrella. I barely glanced at her, but envisioned a perfect world in which she would just give me her umbrella. In this world she would say, "Hey honey, would you like my umbrella?"
Then she said it again, "Hey honey, would you like my umbrella?"
I turned and realized she was actually talking to me. She said, "You can bring it back later. I'll be here until six." She gestured at the cafe and I realized she was an employee there. I said, "Really?" I couldn't believe my luck. Here was a total stranger offering me salvation. I practically fell over myself thanking her. It was a good umbrella too, one of those great big ones that stretches out about two feet on all sides.
Walking toward my office, I felt flooded with gratitude. Whenever something happens to make me think that people aren't particularly nice - like that boy in the library - I get a reminder that indeed, most of them are, and that nice things happen far more frequently than not-nice things.
The office routine was petty, and my boss was in a foul, vengeful mood, as she has been for the past few months. But I felt like I was just floating above it. Nothing could touch me. I took the umbrella back at noon, and passed it over the counter to her along with a bunch of flowers. She's my umbrella angel.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Recapturing the Innocence
The other night we went out to dinner. Usually I check to see if I'm wearing a clean shirt as we head out the door and that's it, but this time I felt like dressing up a little more. I put on a flirty little dress from my college days, and some makeup, and even a necklace. I felt like I was trying to be pretty for my husband to remind him what it was like when it was just the two of us out on a date.
Of course it ended up being our usual dinner out, tag-teaming, one of us eating while the other held the baby and tried to keep her from fussing. It was late and she was tired and fidgety. No romantic gazes across the table; we were too busy keeping water glasses out of her reach and snatching forks and knives from her fretful grasp. No stimulating conversation either; we talked about her nap schedule and how many Cheerios she'd eaten that day. As soon as the check came, we hustled out of there. That's life with a baby.
Next week we're going on vacation - without her. I'm going to miss her terribly. I won't be able to just let go and enjoy this trip as fully as I did our honeymoon (the last trip we went on) just because part of my heart will still be at home. But it will be good for us to get away and reconnect.
In a way this trip will be about recapturing that time when it was just the two of us. But I don't have any illusions about those days. People always sigh and say about their pre-kid life, "Oh, it was so great." In reality, I remember feeling pressured and anxious all the time, worried that he wouldn't want to marry me, that I was getting older, that we wouldn't be able to have children. Overall, despite the stress of everyday existence, I'm happier and more relaxed now than I was then.
Of course it ended up being our usual dinner out, tag-teaming, one of us eating while the other held the baby and tried to keep her from fussing. It was late and she was tired and fidgety. No romantic gazes across the table; we were too busy keeping water glasses out of her reach and snatching forks and knives from her fretful grasp. No stimulating conversation either; we talked about her nap schedule and how many Cheerios she'd eaten that day. As soon as the check came, we hustled out of there. That's life with a baby.
Next week we're going on vacation - without her. I'm going to miss her terribly. I won't be able to just let go and enjoy this trip as fully as I did our honeymoon (the last trip we went on) just because part of my heart will still be at home. But it will be good for us to get away and reconnect.
In a way this trip will be about recapturing that time when it was just the two of us. But I don't have any illusions about those days. People always sigh and say about their pre-kid life, "Oh, it was so great." In reality, I remember feeling pressured and anxious all the time, worried that he wouldn't want to marry me, that I was getting older, that we wouldn't be able to have children. Overall, despite the stress of everyday existence, I'm happier and more relaxed now than I was then.
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