There's some old poem about how your kids will never remember that your doilies were starched, but they'll remember the trip to the park one summer day, or some such thing. It always makes me feel obscurely guilty to read it. I do take my daughter to the park, and we bake cookies together and do fun stuff like that. Every Wednesday we go to storytime at the local library. Every Saturday we do arts and crafts at the local nature center. Pretty much my whole emotional being revolves around her and being her mother.
But I also spend a lot of time cleaning, and occasionally ignore her in favor of cleaning. There are days when she's whining for attention, dragging on my arm or whatever as I'm trying to dust, and I go on with what I'm doing or tell her "Play by yourself." At those times, I know I'm putting the cleanliness of the bookshelves over her immediate happiness.
One of my mom friends is kind of the opposite of me. I think this particular friend is awesome. I have so much respect and admiration for her, and also just think she's a really nice person. She has been so supportive of me during my hard times. She's different from me in that she has a hotshot career she's not putting on hold to do child-rearing; she basically single-parents her son most of the time while her husband is on frequent business trips, but she's also working full-time and a rising star in her field. She's also different in that she does not spend time cleaning. Their house is always kind of chaotic and filled with a million half-finished projects, lonely socks, dog toys, etc. - the kind of house where the clutter alone tells the story of artistic, energetic people who have better things to do than dust.
Sometimes I wish I was more like her. I'd like to send the message to my daughter (and anyone who might visit our home) that what matters most to me is the time we spend together.
Other times I think of justifications for my cleaning obsessions, like:
Keeping the house relatively clean helps justify my working only part-time. I'd feel bad if my husband came home after a long day and found the house a disaster zone.
This way, I can always find stuff - I don't have to hunt through clutter looking for those missing jigsaw pieces or my green earrings. Everything is pretty much back where it belongs, at the end of each day.
If visitors are coming over, I don't have to make a special effort to clean up.
I like doing it. When I'm in the midst of a routine yet satisfying cleaning job, I feel like I'm achieving "flow" - that state of total absorption where you don't really notice the time passing, that comes as near to a definition of happiness as anything.
I'm not sure I can turn it off anyway. Last time we visited my friend, I had to fight the impulse to start cleaning her house, even as we sat around and talked. If she went out of town for a weekend, I would love to go over there and just wash dishes, do laundry, glue broken toys back together, and sweep until the house was clean. It's sick, right?
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Flakes
Why in the world are some people so flaky? I have a few old friends I'm trying to keep in touch with, who just aren't returning the effort. I email them from time to time, call and leave messages, but no response. One of my friends, an old college roommate who I haven't seen in a few years, actually stood me up at a restaurant where we planned to meet to have lunch. I was looking forward to catching up with her, but she never showed. I called her and got her voicemail as always. Later, when I emailed her to ask what had happened, she wrote back that she decided to take a nap instead. She didn't even apologize.
I tried to toss it off like it was no big deal. But I was so hurt. When I think about it now, I'm still hurt, even though this was some time ago. I don't think I've ever done anything to offend her or been anything but a loyal, fun friend to her. I guess she just has bigger fish to fry.
I have enough friends who do seem to care about me and whose company I really enjoy. For some reason I feel compelled to try to keep up the friendship with these few, however, who don't seem to be giving anything back. I wish I could just let it go. I'm like an ex who can't come to terms with the fact that I've been dumped.
I tried to toss it off like it was no big deal. But I was so hurt. When I think about it now, I'm still hurt, even though this was some time ago. I don't think I've ever done anything to offend her or been anything but a loyal, fun friend to her. I guess she just has bigger fish to fry.
I have enough friends who do seem to care about me and whose company I really enjoy. For some reason I feel compelled to try to keep up the friendship with these few, however, who don't seem to be giving anything back. I wish I could just let it go. I'm like an ex who can't come to terms with the fact that I've been dumped.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
What's Gonna Work? Teamwork!
I love the WonderPets. (My daughter's summary: "A piggie, a turtle, and a duck... go in a boat... and get lots of animals!" That's about as accurate a description as I could come up with.)
The first time I saw the series, the cutesy voices made me squeamish. The voices are done by little kids who lisp and say things like "We'we a gweat team!" But I've gotten past that and learned to appreciate the finer aspects of the show. Here's what I like about it:
1. The pacing. Each episode opens with a crisis - an animal's in trouble! - and the WonderPets have to go to the rescue. There should be an underlying sense of fear and urgency, what with the need to build the flyboat anew (from the pieces scattered around the classroom in unpredictable places), get to an unknown destination, and solve some puzzle to save an animal that's in danger. Each of those tasks seems difficult. But the WonderPets don't hurry, and they don't worry. They take their time discussing the situation ("A baby seal... stuck on a rock... this is sewious... we have to help her..."). Then they mess around in the costume chest looking for their capes, and slowly put the boat together. They don't worry about how to get there because the boat just finds its way magically right to the animal. They don't feel trepidation about solving the puzzle because they just know that they'll find the tools they need. They trust each other completely and know that they'll win. I wish I could approach unknown tasks with the same calm faith in my own success.
2. The solutions. The tools to solve each puzzle are always right there, often in the early experience of assembling the flyboat (if they have to use a flashlight to retrieve a piece from the closet, then it's a sure thing they'll need a flashlight later to rescue the animal). Other times there's a pile of bricks or a rowboat right next to the homeless animal or the river. There is always one right way to do it, and they always find it.
3. The simplicity of their enjoyment. They take time out from their rescue missions to giggle and try on other costumes, slide around on the ice, or dance their way through the forest. They don't fight or whine that they're tired, like real preschoolers, or argue about the best way to go, or complain that they're bored. They just seem to find pleasure in everything that happens.
4. The clues. The decorations in the classroom are always relevant to the later adventure - if they're going to be rescuing a frog, there will be pictures of frogs, a diorama of a pond, and stuffed frogs displayed around the room. It's fun to notice these things and predict the storyline.
5. Old-fashioned charm. The classroom is a one-room schoolhouse of the most comforting, archetypal kind - cupola with bell, flag, peaked roof, maple trees planted all around. Very New England. Each episode opens with the children's voices saying goodbye to the pets, cheerful and friendly. Compared to the way my daughter is often crying and fighting as I try to transition her from one activity to another, the simple good naturedness of the children as they leave seems idyllic.
6. The supportiveness. The WonderPets really seem to like each other. They're always saying appreciative things - "Great job Tuck! You're really good at swimming!" "And you really helped when you found the wheel!" They don't take opportunities to cut each other down like real people do when they're working on a team project. They are just constantly pumping up each other's self-esteem. I wish people were like that.
The first time I saw the series, the cutesy voices made me squeamish. The voices are done by little kids who lisp and say things like "We'we a gweat team!" But I've gotten past that and learned to appreciate the finer aspects of the show. Here's what I like about it:
1. The pacing. Each episode opens with a crisis - an animal's in trouble! - and the WonderPets have to go to the rescue. There should be an underlying sense of fear and urgency, what with the need to build the flyboat anew (from the pieces scattered around the classroom in unpredictable places), get to an unknown destination, and solve some puzzle to save an animal that's in danger. Each of those tasks seems difficult. But the WonderPets don't hurry, and they don't worry. They take their time discussing the situation ("A baby seal... stuck on a rock... this is sewious... we have to help her..."). Then they mess around in the costume chest looking for their capes, and slowly put the boat together. They don't worry about how to get there because the boat just finds its way magically right to the animal. They don't feel trepidation about solving the puzzle because they just know that they'll find the tools they need. They trust each other completely and know that they'll win. I wish I could approach unknown tasks with the same calm faith in my own success.
2. The solutions. The tools to solve each puzzle are always right there, often in the early experience of assembling the flyboat (if they have to use a flashlight to retrieve a piece from the closet, then it's a sure thing they'll need a flashlight later to rescue the animal). Other times there's a pile of bricks or a rowboat right next to the homeless animal or the river. There is always one right way to do it, and they always find it.
3. The simplicity of their enjoyment. They take time out from their rescue missions to giggle and try on other costumes, slide around on the ice, or dance their way through the forest. They don't fight or whine that they're tired, like real preschoolers, or argue about the best way to go, or complain that they're bored. They just seem to find pleasure in everything that happens.
4. The clues. The decorations in the classroom are always relevant to the later adventure - if they're going to be rescuing a frog, there will be pictures of frogs, a diorama of a pond, and stuffed frogs displayed around the room. It's fun to notice these things and predict the storyline.
5. Old-fashioned charm. The classroom is a one-room schoolhouse of the most comforting, archetypal kind - cupola with bell, flag, peaked roof, maple trees planted all around. Very New England. Each episode opens with the children's voices saying goodbye to the pets, cheerful and friendly. Compared to the way my daughter is often crying and fighting as I try to transition her from one activity to another, the simple good naturedness of the children as they leave seems idyllic.
6. The supportiveness. The WonderPets really seem to like each other. They're always saying appreciative things - "Great job Tuck! You're really good at swimming!" "And you really helped when you found the wheel!" They don't take opportunities to cut each other down like real people do when they're working on a team project. They are just constantly pumping up each other's self-esteem. I wish people were like that.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Breaking the Taboo
I'm in my first cycle of fertility treatment. I feel like trumpeting the news to everyone. For some reason, it seems to be kind of a taboo topic - other people who are having fertility problems don't seem to talk about it, and people who are not having problems don't seem to want to know. I have the impression that if I do talk about it, I will just make them uncomfortable. One person I told (over email) responded to every other part of my email except for that bit of news, and another person I told (at a group dinner; we were sitting side by side) immediately turned away and began a conversation with the person on the other side, as though I hadn't spoken. I have to just assume that the topic made them uneasy and they didn't know how to respond.
I think when I mention to people that I'm doing fertility treatment, it's akin to saying, "I'm in pain. I have this great sadness in my life, and I'm trying to get help to fix it." I think the ideal response would be to recognize that pain and to express some kind of support. I guess what I'd like to hear is something like "I'm sorry you have to go through that. And I wish you luck." That would be nice.
Of course some of my friends have been wonderfully supportive. They do me the favor of asking periodically how it's going. I feel sometimes that I'm desperate to talk about it, because it's a big absorbing thing in my life. It's affecting a lot of facets of my daily existence, what with the pills and the injections and the waiting and hoping, so it's such a relief to be given permission to talk about it. One friend even confided that he and his wife are having similar problems but didn't know where to go, and I was able to recommend the fertility clinic I've been visiting.
My strongest support and ally through this whole process has been my best friend, the one who went to the same clinic and is now pregnant. We're easily capable of talking about this stuff for an hour at a time. It's amazing how much we have to say to each other about it. I still wish we were pregnant together, but I'm hoping we'll still have young babies around the same time.
I think when I mention to people that I'm doing fertility treatment, it's akin to saying, "I'm in pain. I have this great sadness in my life, and I'm trying to get help to fix it." I think the ideal response would be to recognize that pain and to express some kind of support. I guess what I'd like to hear is something like "I'm sorry you have to go through that. And I wish you luck." That would be nice.
Of course some of my friends have been wonderfully supportive. They do me the favor of asking periodically how it's going. I feel sometimes that I'm desperate to talk about it, because it's a big absorbing thing in my life. It's affecting a lot of facets of my daily existence, what with the pills and the injections and the waiting and hoping, so it's such a relief to be given permission to talk about it. One friend even confided that he and his wife are having similar problems but didn't know where to go, and I was able to recommend the fertility clinic I've been visiting.
My strongest support and ally through this whole process has been my best friend, the one who went to the same clinic and is now pregnant. We're easily capable of talking about this stuff for an hour at a time. It's amazing how much we have to say to each other about it. I still wish we were pregnant together, but I'm hoping we'll still have young babies around the same time.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Halloween Finery
Last week I took my daughter to the Halloween parade at her daycare. It's one of those iconic traditions, like the first day of school or the first loose tooth. Just like when I was a kid, all the kids marched around the playground in their costumes, occasionally peeling off to grab their parents from the sidelines or chasing each other across the hopscotch markings. There was much carousing and fun.
Oddly, I didn't notice a single homemade costume. Some of them were dimestore-type Superman capes and plastic masks, while others were beautifully stitched Renaissance tunics with velvet boots, but they were all new looking and from a store. When I was a kid, I made my own costume every year. In fact, I had been thinking about sending my daughter in a cat costume. I made the ears using a black headband and pipecleaner wires, with black tights stretched over them. In the end, she went as a dragon instead, because I happened to have an old purple dragon costume someone had given us.
2) In my daughter's class of 15 kids, every other little girl was a princess. They were all wearing really pretty costumes, too - sparkly tops, tulle skirts, tiaras, magic wands, sashes. A couple of them had glittery fairy wings too. I watched her marching around rather grimly in her potbellied dragon suit - and then I saw the other little girls skipping and laughing together in their beautiful costumes, tossing their hair - and I felt such a pang for her.
She's only 3, but already I worry that she's going to be sidelined, ignored, or bullied by the popular girls in the years to come. There are a million reasons they might find for ostracizing her. She doesn't talk enough. She doesn't have "pretty" hair. All her clothes are hand-me-downs or from the thrift store. A fair number of them are actually things that I or my husband wore when we were little. She doesn't watch TV, so she doesn't have that pop culture connection. I keep the radio tuned to classical, so she doesn't know about Hannah Montana or popular music. She doesn't have a Barbie.
Most of the time I send her off to school wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, sometimes overalls, and sneakers. The sweatshirt is often something that a boy might wear. It seems like a practical, simple outfit, exactly what I would pick for myself. When I see the other girls at her daycare, though (on a regular day, not Halloween), that's not what they're wearing. They're all dressed in little skirts with tights, sparkly ballet-flat shoes, and Gap shirts. They all seem to have long hair that their mothers put up in bows or ponytails that cascade over their shoulders. My daughter's hair is a basic bowl cut, too short to put up.
I thought I had a few years before I needed to worry about her peer group, but perhaps at age 3 they're already noticing that she's different. I don't know how to equip her to deal with it. My own strategy was basically retreating into my own mental world, which was dominated with ancient Celtic mythology (Rosemary Sutcliff novels), horses, and fantasies where I had telekinesis. Whenever anything bad was happening to me, I just shrank away inside so it was almost like it was happening to someone else. Bullies eventually gave up on me because there was so little reaction. And the popular kids didn't notice me. That's not what I want for her, though. I want her to be happy in her own identity, and to choose her own friends - not just be stuck with whoever she can get.
Oddly, I didn't notice a single homemade costume. Some of them were dimestore-type Superman capes and plastic masks, while others were beautifully stitched Renaissance tunics with velvet boots, but they were all new looking and from a store. When I was a kid, I made my own costume every year. In fact, I had been thinking about sending my daughter in a cat costume. I made the ears using a black headband and pipecleaner wires, with black tights stretched over them. In the end, she went as a dragon instead, because I happened to have an old purple dragon costume someone had given us.
2) In my daughter's class of 15 kids, every other little girl was a princess. They were all wearing really pretty costumes, too - sparkly tops, tulle skirts, tiaras, magic wands, sashes. A couple of them had glittery fairy wings too. I watched her marching around rather grimly in her potbellied dragon suit - and then I saw the other little girls skipping and laughing together in their beautiful costumes, tossing their hair - and I felt such a pang for her.
She's only 3, but already I worry that she's going to be sidelined, ignored, or bullied by the popular girls in the years to come. There are a million reasons they might find for ostracizing her. She doesn't talk enough. She doesn't have "pretty" hair. All her clothes are hand-me-downs or from the thrift store. A fair number of them are actually things that I or my husband wore when we were little. She doesn't watch TV, so she doesn't have that pop culture connection. I keep the radio tuned to classical, so she doesn't know about Hannah Montana or popular music. She doesn't have a Barbie.
Most of the time I send her off to school wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, sometimes overalls, and sneakers. The sweatshirt is often something that a boy might wear. It seems like a practical, simple outfit, exactly what I would pick for myself. When I see the other girls at her daycare, though (on a regular day, not Halloween), that's not what they're wearing. They're all dressed in little skirts with tights, sparkly ballet-flat shoes, and Gap shirts. They all seem to have long hair that their mothers put up in bows or ponytails that cascade over their shoulders. My daughter's hair is a basic bowl cut, too short to put up.
I thought I had a few years before I needed to worry about her peer group, but perhaps at age 3 they're already noticing that she's different. I don't know how to equip her to deal with it. My own strategy was basically retreating into my own mental world, which was dominated with ancient Celtic mythology (Rosemary Sutcliff novels), horses, and fantasies where I had telekinesis. Whenever anything bad was happening to me, I just shrank away inside so it was almost like it was happening to someone else. Bullies eventually gave up on me because there was so little reaction. And the popular kids didn't notice me. That's not what I want for her, though. I want her to be happy in her own identity, and to choose her own friends - not just be stuck with whoever she can get.
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