I've posted before about my favorite newspaper column, "Hints from Heloise." I do love Heloiseland in all its order and enthusiasm and problem-solving spirit. This week, however, was truly a highpoint for Heloise lovers.
First came Cindy H. from Baytown, Texas. Cindy, weighed down with those "older bottles of spray perfume that [she] no longer liked or that, with age, had become too strong," has found a creative solution. "I now give a few squirts of spray to the inside of my cardboard toilet-paper rolls so that, with each use, a nice scent is released."
And just like that, we enter the threshold of an alternative universe: Heloiseland, where so little goes awry that its inhabitants have time and energy to fret over excess perfume spray bottles and where now, thanks to Cindy H. of Baytown, Heloiselanders can enjoy the fragrance of old perfume with every wipe.
But it got better.
Betty Hill, of Grove City, Iowa, wrote in to tell us, "After washing and drying sweaters, blue jeans, hooded sweats, etc., remove lint from the inside of all pockets by turning wrong-side out and rubbing briskly with an emery board. This works like a charm."
Gosh. I didn't even know about the problem of pocket lint! I will confess, that in a shocking reversion to traditional gender roles, I am the household laundress--ok, actually, I only do Keith's and my laundry; as soon as the boys entered middle school, I introduced them to the wonders of the washer & dryer, and insisted they take charge of their dirty clothes--which means that to get into bed every night, Hugh has to wade through a knee-high "clothesdrift" (it truly does resemble a snowdrift, except it's a lot more colorful and it smells much, much worse, but hey, that's his problem)--and I admit I'm a laundry "lay-about," as the British would say: the journey from dirty clothes hamper through washer/dryer onto the folding table (aka the dining room table) and into drawers and closets can take weeks, yea, even months. Occasionally, Keith will casually inquire, in his best "I'm a feminist and I am in no way implying you should be delivering clean clothes to my wardrobe" tone, "Umm, have you by any chance seen my khakis?" I ponder and then reply, "Oh right. They're in the dryer"--where they've been for six days.
All of which may help explain my reaction to Betty Hill of Grove City, Iowa.
Betty Hill, I am in awe. I mean, I'm scrambling through the dirty clothes hamper to find my no-line panty that I wore three days ago but haven't washed yet and now need because I'm going to wear my tight skirt, and you, you, oh amazing Betty Hill, you are filing--or perhaps buffing is the correct word-- the inside-out pockets of blue jeans and hooded sweats with your emery board.
Betty Hill of Grove City, Iowa: Can I come live with you? Will you buff away my pocket lint? And maybe squirt aged perfume on my toilet rolls so that when I poop, all I smell is ancient Charlie or Estee Lauder White Linen? And I know you keep Heloise's Always-Ready Basic Muffin Mix on hand, so that when unexpected guests drop in, you can quickly blend in an egg and a half-cup of milk, and voila! produce home-baked muffins in ten minutes. Betty, I could use a muffin. Please, can I come stay with you in Heloiseland?
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Extraordinary Day
So I woke up the other day and it seemed like it would be a plain ol' ordinary day. Not a Bad Day, mind you, just a regular, run-of-the-mill day. And then, in the course of this generic, average day, my 19-year-old son sent me a hastily composed message that contained this sentence: "This tattoed boy loves you more than youll ever know." And with a click of a mouse, ordinary became extraordinary.
Motherhood. What a kick.
Motherhood. What a kick.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Old Lady Yoga
Today I returned to yoga class after a long hiatus. This is not tone-your-butt and streamline-your-thighs yoga but rather gentle yoga. Stretch and be at peace yoga. Old lady yoga.
Even so, I'm really bad at it. I have never been flexible--physically, I mean. (OK, right, probably any other way either.) When you sit on your mat with your feet straight in front of you and the instructor says to fold forward as far as is comfortable, well, my torso remains at a 90 degree angle to my feet. Everyone else, even the actually old old ladies, collapse on themselves, nose to knees, like living dinner napkins. Me, I'm like a textbook illustration of a right triangle.
But I'm also really bad at the mental/spiritual part of yoga. I'd like to be a good, deep-breathing, at-peace-with-my-innerness yogi; I really would. I do regard our materialist, empirical way of looking at the world as limiting and impoverished and I do absolutely believe that meditation and yogic practice and mindfulness would enrich my life. It's just that I fail so completely. I try, I really do, but when my yoga instructor, a petite cutie with a headful of dark curls and the right blend of intensity and laid-backedness, tells us to look through our third eye, I'm sorry, I'm blind. I'd settle for third eye near-sightedness, but no, I appear doomed to total blindness in my third eye. And when she instructs us to breathe into that space we've created between ourselves and the breath around us, there I am, floundering, peering wildly to my left and to my right, trying desperately to find that space I've created but, damn, it's just not there. And at the end, when we lie in our savasana pose and she guides us through relaxation imagery, and I'm supposed to be floating through the cosmos, sigh, I'll admit it, I'm composing my grocery list or trying to figure out what went wrong with that lecture this morning.
I wish I could leap unreservedly into the yoga pool of bliss. But that means letting go of the mind and honestly, there's not a chance. The life of the mind--I didn't know those words but good lord, I knew the reality, the exhilaration, the incredible possibility and power of it from the day I read my first book. all on my own: Ballerina Bess, a cardboard-covered book from the racks in the grocery store checkout line that, amazingly, I convinced my mom to buy for me one day early in the fall of my first grade. "I want to jump, said Bess. I want to dance, said Bess. I want to be a ballerina, said Bess." And damn, so did I. Because I was Bess, there, in my mind and I knew, I absolutely knew, standing there in the checkout line, that reading on my own meant I could be and do so much more.
And yet now I know, I do absolutely know, that the inability to shut off the mind explains so much of my insomnia, my anxiety, my limitations as a sexual partner, and yes, my failure at yoga. I would like to be transcendent. And deep-breathing. And able to fold up like a dinner napkin and see through my third eye. And oh, I really would love to float through the cosmos, a tiny speck-- but a totally balanced, mindful speck, a speck that is at peace with one's speckedness and at one with all that is and was and will be.
But really, cosmically, that's as likely as a toned butt and stream-lined thighs.
Even so, I'm really bad at it. I have never been flexible--physically, I mean. (OK, right, probably any other way either.) When you sit on your mat with your feet straight in front of you and the instructor says to fold forward as far as is comfortable, well, my torso remains at a 90 degree angle to my feet. Everyone else, even the actually old old ladies, collapse on themselves, nose to knees, like living dinner napkins. Me, I'm like a textbook illustration of a right triangle.
But I'm also really bad at the mental/spiritual part of yoga. I'd like to be a good, deep-breathing, at-peace-with-my-innerness yogi; I really would. I do regard our materialist, empirical way of looking at the world as limiting and impoverished and I do absolutely believe that meditation and yogic practice and mindfulness would enrich my life. It's just that I fail so completely. I try, I really do, but when my yoga instructor, a petite cutie with a headful of dark curls and the right blend of intensity and laid-backedness, tells us to look through our third eye, I'm sorry, I'm blind. I'd settle for third eye near-sightedness, but no, I appear doomed to total blindness in my third eye. And when she instructs us to breathe into that space we've created between ourselves and the breath around us, there I am, floundering, peering wildly to my left and to my right, trying desperately to find that space I've created but, damn, it's just not there. And at the end, when we lie in our savasana pose and she guides us through relaxation imagery, and I'm supposed to be floating through the cosmos, sigh, I'll admit it, I'm composing my grocery list or trying to figure out what went wrong with that lecture this morning.
I wish I could leap unreservedly into the yoga pool of bliss. But that means letting go of the mind and honestly, there's not a chance. The life of the mind--I didn't know those words but good lord, I knew the reality, the exhilaration, the incredible possibility and power of it from the day I read my first book. all on my own: Ballerina Bess, a cardboard-covered book from the racks in the grocery store checkout line that, amazingly, I convinced my mom to buy for me one day early in the fall of my first grade. "I want to jump, said Bess. I want to dance, said Bess. I want to be a ballerina, said Bess." And damn, so did I. Because I was Bess, there, in my mind and I knew, I absolutely knew, standing there in the checkout line, that reading on my own meant I could be and do so much more.
And yet now I know, I do absolutely know, that the inability to shut off the mind explains so much of my insomnia, my anxiety, my limitations as a sexual partner, and yes, my failure at yoga. I would like to be transcendent. And deep-breathing. And able to fold up like a dinner napkin and see through my third eye. And oh, I really would love to float through the cosmos, a tiny speck-- but a totally balanced, mindful speck, a speck that is at peace with one's speckedness and at one with all that is and was and will be.
But really, cosmically, that's as likely as a toned butt and stream-lined thighs.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Junior League
Perusing the Sunday paper, cruising through the People section, skimming along past "Out and About" --and there they were, a set of photographs of Junior League's "Ho Ho Hollydays." I try to just flip on by but no, no, I can't. The pull is too powerful, the addiction--once again-confirmed. I turn back and stare at the photographs for a long, long time.
I'm not addicted to Hollydays. I'm not even sure what it is, actually, just that it happens every year in Baton Rouge. I think it has something to do with shopping and fundraising--and lots of thin white women with expensive haircuts in tasteful sheath dresses. They are my addiction--the women in the photos, the Junior Leaguers. They're so completely outside my experience, so utterly foreign, that I find them fascinating. See, I've never met a Junior Leaguer.
Oh dear. I sound like my mother, saying she's never known anyone who is gay.
I suppose, like my mom and gay folks, that over the years I've been introduced to many a Junior Leaguer, and just not realized the JL thing going on. I mean, there must be closeted Junior Leaguers, women who don't usually dress like Jackie Kennedy, women whose hair is a mass of frizz, women who fantasize about chucking their hummus-dipped pita triangles at the tv screenwhenever Glenn Beck comes on. (but don't actually do it because they know they're the ones who will be stuck scraping the hummus off the screen). And then trip on over to Ho-Ho-Hollydays and smile for the camera.
I guess. But I don't know. And that's the source of my fascination--that I don't know. I stare at the photos and I wonder, "Who are you?" They all look like they've just left the set of Mad Men--but it's 2010. I suppose it's the same reason I stare at the Amish. (I know, I know; it's really ignorant and rude and I do try to be discreet. . . but come on, 'fess up, don't you find yourself peering over as well?) Here are these people, from another time, except no, they're here, in our time--and historian that I am, I'm mesmerized.
Besides, I keep wondering, what happens when these women age? Why is there no Senior League?
I'm not addicted to Hollydays. I'm not even sure what it is, actually, just that it happens every year in Baton Rouge. I think it has something to do with shopping and fundraising--and lots of thin white women with expensive haircuts in tasteful sheath dresses. They are my addiction--the women in the photos, the Junior Leaguers. They're so completely outside my experience, so utterly foreign, that I find them fascinating. See, I've never met a Junior Leaguer.
Oh dear. I sound like my mother, saying she's never known anyone who is gay.
I suppose, like my mom and gay folks, that over the years I've been introduced to many a Junior Leaguer, and just not realized the JL thing going on. I mean, there must be closeted Junior Leaguers, women who don't usually dress like Jackie Kennedy, women whose hair is a mass of frizz, women who fantasize about chucking their hummus-dipped pita triangles at the tv screenwhenever Glenn Beck comes on. (but don't actually do it because they know they're the ones who will be stuck scraping the hummus off the screen). And then trip on over to Ho-Ho-Hollydays and smile for the camera.
I guess. But I don't know. And that's the source of my fascination--that I don't know. I stare at the photos and I wonder, "Who are you?" They all look like they've just left the set of Mad Men--but it's 2010. I suppose it's the same reason I stare at the Amish. (I know, I know; it's really ignorant and rude and I do try to be discreet. . . but come on, 'fess up, don't you find yourself peering over as well?) Here are these people, from another time, except no, they're here, in our time--and historian that I am, I'm mesmerized.
Besides, I keep wondering, what happens when these women age? Why is there no Senior League?
Friday, October 22, 2010
In a funk
I'm in a funk.
Could be a menopausal funk--the gloom brought on by increasing quantities of facial fur--matched only by the decreasing volume of head hair--and the pounds that seem to fly on and stick to my stomach like flies on a dead squirrel and the ever-decreasing libido that makes me feel like the Frigid Bitch of the North.
Could be a generational funk--the fear that I've failed to realize my potential as a scholar, the sense that my students regard me as this sometimes amusing historical relic, my longing to Do Something or Be Someone Important.
Could be an existential funk--the doubts about meaning and truth and purpose, the growing restlessness with going through the motions,the impatience with answers that used to satisfy and arguments that once seemed convincing.
Dunno.
Just know that I lay in bed last night and thought, "Life is just a bunch of orifices, just a matter of in and out." You eat, you drink, you poop, you pee, you have sex, you listen, you repeat, you smell, you sneeze. . . hydration, consumption, defecation, urination, copulation, communication, organization. . . all just a matter of in and out in and out in and out. . .
in and out in and out again and again on and on and on just life in the lower-case no capitals no highlights no need for punctuation and the more you go on the more the highs and lows level out and it's just this vast plain this tundra and the colors all fade and the whites turn dingy and the blacks lose their vibrancy so it's all the same dreary grey grizzle and you can't hear the laughter or the screams just the low ceaseless moan and the monotonous buzz buzz buzz of fake lighting and soon itjustallcollapsesinonandtheresnothingintheuniversebutfakepolitepeopleataneternal cocktailpartywithwatereddowndrinksandpackagedtastelesssnacksandsoyoubegintowonderififif
So. I'm thinking, brownies.
Could be a menopausal funk--the gloom brought on by increasing quantities of facial fur--matched only by the decreasing volume of head hair--and the pounds that seem to fly on and stick to my stomach like flies on a dead squirrel and the ever-decreasing libido that makes me feel like the Frigid Bitch of the North.
Could be a generational funk--the fear that I've failed to realize my potential as a scholar, the sense that my students regard me as this sometimes amusing historical relic, my longing to Do Something or Be Someone Important.
Could be an existential funk--the doubts about meaning and truth and purpose, the growing restlessness with going through the motions,the impatience with answers that used to satisfy and arguments that once seemed convincing.
Dunno.
Just know that I lay in bed last night and thought, "Life is just a bunch of orifices, just a matter of in and out." You eat, you drink, you poop, you pee, you have sex, you listen, you repeat, you smell, you sneeze. . . hydration, consumption, defecation, urination, copulation, communication, organization. . . all just a matter of in and out in and out in and out. . .
in and out in and out again and again on and on and on just life in the lower-case no capitals no highlights no need for punctuation and the more you go on the more the highs and lows level out and it's just this vast plain this tundra and the colors all fade and the whites turn dingy and the blacks lose their vibrancy so it's all the same dreary grey grizzle and you can't hear the laughter or the screams just the low ceaseless moan and the monotonous buzz buzz buzz of fake lighting and soon itjustallcollapsesinonandtheresnothingintheuniversebutfakepolitepeopleataneternal cocktailpartywithwatereddowndrinksandpackagedtastelesssnacksandsoyoubegintowonderififif
So. I'm thinking, brownies.
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Old Lady Gig
I let down my guard over the last couple of weeks and ate whatever I felt like. Nothing extreme, just a biscotti with my mid-morning coffee, a couple of low-fat Oreos after lunch, a round of pita bread and hummus when I got home from work. Got on the scale today and discovered I gained four pounds. Good lord. Getting old really sucks.
Meanwhile I've scheduled my first old lady surgery. (I figure there will be many more.) Once the semester ends and I've filed my course grades, I'll limp on over to the hospital for foot surgery, with the aim of restoring "some mobility" to my left big toe. Amazing how much a toe matters. "Appreciate your toes while they are mobile," counsels the wizened old woman.
The surgery is scheduled for December 16, and then I'm to keep my foot up and my body prone for two weeks. If you do the math, you'll discover I've scheduled myself out of any meaningful role in Christmas celebrations. I hadn't really thought it through--I was focusing on limiting any interruption to my teaching schedule--but now I'm rather looking forward to reclining on the sofa like a Victorian invalid while the holiday festivities flow on around and about me. I figure I'll dip my toe in now and then. And maybe, occasionally, someone will have pity on me and will bring me a reindeer cookie. Except there won't be any, as I won't be able to make them. Hmm. Slight difficulty in the Victorian invalid scenario. Well, what the heck. Christmas will survive without reindeer cookies, and I need to lose four pounds anyway.
But the thing is, I remember my grandma sitting on the sofa while the holiday whirlwind rushed on and around her. With my first old lady surgery, have I somehow propelled myself precipitously into wholesale old ladydom? Am I doomed to early irrelevance? Will people whisper about me and instruct their children to be nice and say hello?
And yet. . . my gram was a clever woman. Maybe there's more enjoyment to be had on the sofa than, well, hustling in the kitchen or trying to pacify the warring tribes of children. . . Dunno. Maybe this old lady gig won't be so bad after all.
Meanwhile I've scheduled my first old lady surgery. (I figure there will be many more.) Once the semester ends and I've filed my course grades, I'll limp on over to the hospital for foot surgery, with the aim of restoring "some mobility" to my left big toe. Amazing how much a toe matters. "Appreciate your toes while they are mobile," counsels the wizened old woman.
The surgery is scheduled for December 16, and then I'm to keep my foot up and my body prone for two weeks. If you do the math, you'll discover I've scheduled myself out of any meaningful role in Christmas celebrations. I hadn't really thought it through--I was focusing on limiting any interruption to my teaching schedule--but now I'm rather looking forward to reclining on the sofa like a Victorian invalid while the holiday festivities flow on around and about me. I figure I'll dip my toe in now and then. And maybe, occasionally, someone will have pity on me and will bring me a reindeer cookie. Except there won't be any, as I won't be able to make them. Hmm. Slight difficulty in the Victorian invalid scenario. Well, what the heck. Christmas will survive without reindeer cookies, and I need to lose four pounds anyway.
But the thing is, I remember my grandma sitting on the sofa while the holiday whirlwind rushed on and around her. With my first old lady surgery, have I somehow propelled myself precipitously into wholesale old ladydom? Am I doomed to early irrelevance? Will people whisper about me and instruct their children to be nice and say hello?
And yet. . . my gram was a clever woman. Maybe there's more enjoyment to be had on the sofa than, well, hustling in the kitchen or trying to pacify the warring tribes of children. . . Dunno. Maybe this old lady gig won't be so bad after all.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Living in Pier One
Yesterday I did something I try not to do. Ever.
I entered the doors of Pier One.
What can I say? It was a football day (see last posting). And I'd had a less-than-productive week, one in a sequence of less-than-productive weeks, stretching back, oh, well, let's see, Owen's 19 1/2 years old, so that would be 19.5 x 52--gah! advanced math--let's make it 20 x 52--so, ok, stretching back about 1040 weeks. Thus I was feeling a tad bummed. And I was looking for Halloween ornaments. And where else does one go for Halloween ornaments other than Pier One?
I suppose the Halloween ornaments might need explanation. It's my friend Karen's fault. She bought me this beautiful metal table-top tree. And in one of those rare but evidently inevitable Martha Stewart moments, I thought, "Oh, wouldn't it be fun to decorate my metal tree for various holidays?" Back when I was sane, that moment would have vanished almost immediately as I moved on to do important things. But it's been a long time since I've done anything important and even longer since I was sane, and so Saturday found me Halloween ornament shopping at Pier One.
I found several, bought a few, bought lots of other stuff, too. . . had a delightful time. Left with great regret. See, here's the problem: I want to live in Pier One. I want to live the Pier One life. I want to change my dishes every season; I want wine glasses of every possible permutation; I want to dress in brightly colored Indian cottons and drift about my fully equipped, trendily furnished, patio-deck-back yard, glimmering with torch lights and seasonally colored little candles, while beautiful guests, accessorized with playfully themed cocktail glasses and party plates, mingle and reassemble in ever-changing, casual yet graceful groupings.Witty intellectual interchange abounds. We are Happy Multi-Cultural People. Partiers with a Purpose. We live the High Life, yet it is a Deep Life.
So, a couple of overpriced glass bats and skulls now hang from my metal tree. I drank my morning coffee from a new mug, my evening wine from a new glass. The High Deep Life eludes me. I'm thinking, maybe I should try Pottery Barn?
I entered the doors of Pier One.
What can I say? It was a football day (see last posting). And I'd had a less-than-productive week, one in a sequence of less-than-productive weeks, stretching back, oh, well, let's see, Owen's 19 1/2 years old, so that would be 19.5 x 52--gah! advanced math--let's make it 20 x 52--so, ok, stretching back about 1040 weeks. Thus I was feeling a tad bummed. And I was looking for Halloween ornaments. And where else does one go for Halloween ornaments other than Pier One?
I suppose the Halloween ornaments might need explanation. It's my friend Karen's fault. She bought me this beautiful metal table-top tree. And in one of those rare but evidently inevitable Martha Stewart moments, I thought, "Oh, wouldn't it be fun to decorate my metal tree for various holidays?" Back when I was sane, that moment would have vanished almost immediately as I moved on to do important things. But it's been a long time since I've done anything important and even longer since I was sane, and so Saturday found me Halloween ornament shopping at Pier One.
I found several, bought a few, bought lots of other stuff, too. . . had a delightful time. Left with great regret. See, here's the problem: I want to live in Pier One. I want to live the Pier One life. I want to change my dishes every season; I want wine glasses of every possible permutation; I want to dress in brightly colored Indian cottons and drift about my fully equipped, trendily furnished, patio-deck-back yard, glimmering with torch lights and seasonally colored little candles, while beautiful guests, accessorized with playfully themed cocktail glasses and party plates, mingle and reassemble in ever-changing, casual yet graceful groupings.Witty intellectual interchange abounds. We are Happy Multi-Cultural People. Partiers with a Purpose. We live the High Life, yet it is a Deep Life.
So, a couple of overpriced glass bats and skulls now hang from my metal tree. I drank my morning coffee from a new mug, my evening wine from a new glass. The High Deep Life eludes me. I'm thinking, maybe I should try Pottery Barn?
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Playing the Game
It's football season.
Sigh.
Being a non-football fan in south Louisiana during football season is like being a non-gambler in a casino. Basically, you have no point. There is no reason for your existence. Why are you even here?
I should be used to this. Oh hell. I am used to this. The thing is, as used as I am to this, I should be better at this. I should be the world's foremost expert, frankly.
It's not just football. All of my life, I have walked out of step, never fit in, failed to find that common ground. And yet, I'm not weird. Truly. I'm just, I dunno, unfortunate. The first girl in the family, after five boys. An A student in a family of 'why-not-coast-by-with-Ds'. A humanist and pro-unionist surrounded by accountants and small business owners. By the time I was 5, I had embraced feminism (tho' I had no idea that was what it was called) and so guaranteed myself a life on the fringe of my immigrant subculture. By the time I was 14, I realized I was a progressive Democrat in a sea of rightwing Republicans. By the time I was 18, I knew I was a liberal Christian, at odds with the increasingly fundamentalist formulations of family and friends. A Chicagoan in every fiber of my being, I've ended up spending most of my adult life in the suburban Deep South. It's no coincidence, I do believe, that I feel most at home in England, an ipso facto foreign country.
So really, football season should just be same ol' same ol': I'm Here and the Rest of the World is Over There. And yet, it never gets easier: The fact that, come late August, I can no longer participate in or contribute to most general conversations in the supermarket check-out lane or in the church vestibule or in the departmental mailroom. That every time I turn around, the tv channel has been changed to one of a hundred football options (with the sound turned off, mind you--Keith truly makes an effort to respect my non-footballness, and I am grateful). That all the mannequins in the storefront windows suddenly sport purple and gold. That my students cannot be expected to focus in class on Mondays because they're rehashing Saturday's results and of course they can't be expected to show up on Fridays because they're preparing for the next day's game. That I can't even listen to my usual Saturday morning radio rhythm-and-blues buffet without having to endure more talk about "The Game." That I have to coordinate my Saturday shopping to coincide with the traffic patterns induced by said "Game." That even my nail lady can only talk football throughout the fall months.
By mid-October I feel like I'm in one of those old science fiction movies, where the heroine realizes that although everyone around her looks normal, they're actually creatures from another planet. I'm on my own in this town of lunatics, a city-wide insane asylum, yet I'm the one made to feel as if I'm crazy. Case in point: I know a lady, a respectable woman, who cannot pee if the LSU Tigers are playing that day. By late afternoon she's in actual pain but she cannot urinate until the game is over. I kid you not. And yet I'm considered the odd one.
No one else seems to notice that football subverts even the legendary Southern politeness. It's Sunday afternoon. We're sitting on a neighbor's porch, having drinks. "Did you see The Game?" asks my host. "Well, no--" reply I. "Boy, could you believe that pass/drive/tackle/ blahblahblah? I mean, I was saying, no way could they pull that one off, did ya think, and then," he's off and running, utterly oblivious to my muttered, "umm, no, no, didn't see that, didn't actually watch. . ."
Some day, I will snap. Instead of muttering quietly to myself, I will leap out of my seat and I will wrap my hands around my host's neck and I will thump his head against the concrete while shrieking, "NOOOOOO! I DID NOT SEE THE GAME! I do not--ever-- watch The Game! I . DO. NOT. CARE. ABOUT THE FRIGGIN' GAME!!!!" And when I am convicted for murder, folks will say, "Well, I always thought she was strange." "Mmm, hmm, I heard, once, she showed up for tailgating and she was wearing, can y'all believe it, a Chicago Cubs tee-shirt." "'Course, she was, you know, [whisper] from up North. . . "
Football season is such a lonely time.
Sigh.
Being a non-football fan in south Louisiana during football season is like being a non-gambler in a casino. Basically, you have no point. There is no reason for your existence. Why are you even here?
I should be used to this. Oh hell. I am used to this. The thing is, as used as I am to this, I should be better at this. I should be the world's foremost expert, frankly.
It's not just football. All of my life, I have walked out of step, never fit in, failed to find that common ground. And yet, I'm not weird. Truly. I'm just, I dunno, unfortunate. The first girl in the family, after five boys. An A student in a family of 'why-not-coast-by-with-Ds'. A humanist and pro-unionist surrounded by accountants and small business owners. By the time I was 5, I had embraced feminism (tho' I had no idea that was what it was called) and so guaranteed myself a life on the fringe of my immigrant subculture. By the time I was 14, I realized I was a progressive Democrat in a sea of rightwing Republicans. By the time I was 18, I knew I was a liberal Christian, at odds with the increasingly fundamentalist formulations of family and friends. A Chicagoan in every fiber of my being, I've ended up spending most of my adult life in the suburban Deep South. It's no coincidence, I do believe, that I feel most at home in England, an ipso facto foreign country.
So really, football season should just be same ol' same ol': I'm Here and the Rest of the World is Over There. And yet, it never gets easier: The fact that, come late August, I can no longer participate in or contribute to most general conversations in the supermarket check-out lane or in the church vestibule or in the departmental mailroom. That every time I turn around, the tv channel has been changed to one of a hundred football options (with the sound turned off, mind you--Keith truly makes an effort to respect my non-footballness, and I am grateful). That all the mannequins in the storefront windows suddenly sport purple and gold. That my students cannot be expected to focus in class on Mondays because they're rehashing Saturday's results and of course they can't be expected to show up on Fridays because they're preparing for the next day's game. That I can't even listen to my usual Saturday morning radio rhythm-and-blues buffet without having to endure more talk about "The Game." That I have to coordinate my Saturday shopping to coincide with the traffic patterns induced by said "Game." That even my nail lady can only talk football throughout the fall months.
By mid-October I feel like I'm in one of those old science fiction movies, where the heroine realizes that although everyone around her looks normal, they're actually creatures from another planet. I'm on my own in this town of lunatics, a city-wide insane asylum, yet I'm the one made to feel as if I'm crazy. Case in point: I know a lady, a respectable woman, who cannot pee if the LSU Tigers are playing that day. By late afternoon she's in actual pain but she cannot urinate until the game is over. I kid you not. And yet I'm considered the odd one.
No one else seems to notice that football subverts even the legendary Southern politeness. It's Sunday afternoon. We're sitting on a neighbor's porch, having drinks. "Did you see The Game?" asks my host. "Well, no--" reply I. "Boy, could you believe that pass/drive/tackle/ blahblahblah? I mean, I was saying, no way could they pull that one off, did ya think, and then," he's off and running, utterly oblivious to my muttered, "umm, no, no, didn't see that, didn't actually watch. . ."
Some day, I will snap. Instead of muttering quietly to myself, I will leap out of my seat and I will wrap my hands around my host's neck and I will thump his head against the concrete while shrieking, "NOOOOOO! I DID NOT SEE THE GAME! I do not--ever-- watch The Game! I . DO. NOT. CARE. ABOUT THE FRIGGIN' GAME!!!!" And when I am convicted for murder, folks will say, "Well, I always thought she was strange." "Mmm, hmm, I heard, once, she showed up for tailgating and she was wearing, can y'all believe it, a Chicago Cubs tee-shirt." "'Course, she was, you know, [whisper] from up North. . . "
Football season is such a lonely time.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Generation Gap
Hugh's phone got confiscated in school yesterday. "I was just getting my gym shorts and when I pulled them out of my backpack, my phone fell out, and I picked it up but my jeans are too tight so I couldn't put it in my pocket so I was leaning over to put it in my backpack and then . . . " Sigh. So he borrowed my cell phone as obviously he couldn't survive fifteen hours without texting.
A few minutes after said phone transfer: "Geez, Mom, you've got messages in here from last winter!"
Yes, yes I do. indeed. Because I get so few messages I don't bother to delete them. Because I don't give out my cell phone number. Because although I do usually carry my phone in my purse, I rarely remember to charge it. Because I'll admit it, I'm not ashamed, I'm a cell phone slacker.
In Hugh's world, a cell phone slacker is my world's equivalent of an historian who makes up documentary evidence. No, no, that's not it. Because such historians do exist. And the thing is, in Hugh's world, cell phone slackers simply cannot exist. Because why should they? How can they? On one side of Hugh's universe: phones. On the other side: people. People who want to text. And the two sides must come together. Why should they not? How can they not?
I try to explain to Hugh that I don't find "'how r u?' 'k'" a fulfilling, friendship-sustaining form of genuine communication. He just stares at me and sighs. He brings copious and well-researched evidence to support his case for family i-Phones. And I say, "But why would I want an i-Phone? What's the point?" He stares at me and sighs. "But Mom, you could read your email anywhere." "But why?" say I, confused. And I'm not being a bitch. I really am confused. I have a computer at work. I have a laptop at home. I check my email several times, most days. Why would I need to check it while thumping canteloupes for freshness in the supermarket?
OK, if I were President Obama, there'd be a point, tho' I doubt Barack has to buy his own canteloupe these days. At least I hope not. I'd like to think he's spending his time on more important things. But me? I teach European history. I doubt there will ever be an absolute emergency that demands my immediate response. "Ohmygod. You mean you can't remember why the Austrian-Hungarian Empire decided to declare war against Serbia in 1914?!!" Nah. I try to explain this to Hugh. He stares at me and sighs.
I remember being embarrassed by my mom. But, honestly, she never seemed a completely alien life form. Not completely.
A few minutes after said phone transfer: "Geez, Mom, you've got messages in here from last winter!"
Yes, yes I do. indeed. Because I get so few messages I don't bother to delete them. Because I don't give out my cell phone number. Because although I do usually carry my phone in my purse, I rarely remember to charge it. Because I'll admit it, I'm not ashamed, I'm a cell phone slacker.
In Hugh's world, a cell phone slacker is my world's equivalent of an historian who makes up documentary evidence. No, no, that's not it. Because such historians do exist. And the thing is, in Hugh's world, cell phone slackers simply cannot exist. Because why should they? How can they? On one side of Hugh's universe: phones. On the other side: people. People who want to text. And the two sides must come together. Why should they not? How can they not?
I try to explain to Hugh that I don't find "'how r u?' 'k'" a fulfilling, friendship-sustaining form of genuine communication. He just stares at me and sighs. He brings copious and well-researched evidence to support his case for family i-Phones. And I say, "But why would I want an i-Phone? What's the point?" He stares at me and sighs. "But Mom, you could read your email anywhere." "But why?" say I, confused. And I'm not being a bitch. I really am confused. I have a computer at work. I have a laptop at home. I check my email several times, most days. Why would I need to check it while thumping canteloupes for freshness in the supermarket?
OK, if I were President Obama, there'd be a point, tho' I doubt Barack has to buy his own canteloupe these days. At least I hope not. I'd like to think he's spending his time on more important things. But me? I teach European history. I doubt there will ever be an absolute emergency that demands my immediate response. "Ohmygod. You mean you can't remember why the Austrian-Hungarian Empire decided to declare war against Serbia in 1914?!!" Nah. I try to explain this to Hugh. He stares at me and sighs.
I remember being embarrassed by my mom. But, honestly, she never seemed a completely alien life form. Not completely.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Bizarro
Today's newspaper contained a great Bizarro comic: A couple walk on a deserted beach. She says to him, "I'm having such a great time that I must be in a pharmaceuticals commercial."
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Baby Love
A couple of days ago, I found out that a friend of mine, who's older than I am, has just adopted a newborn baby. I'm happy for him and his partner. Really. So very very happy. Honestly.
Excuse me, it is possible for one to be be genuinely happy for someone while at the same time consumed with jealous rage. One is a complex being. One is capable of multi-tasking one's emotions.
One really wants a baby.
Ridiculous. One is a menopausal mother of two teenaged sons.
So--Babies? Done and dusted. Shoot, I've even done it both ways: the birth-via-my-body thing and the adoption-via-massive-bucks thing. (Tho'--full disclosure here--I didn't actually go thru with the entire birthing process. I tried. I did. 24 hours of labor before the doctors jumped in with great glee, wielded those knives, and C-sected that baby outa there.)
And I have so many friends who've been unable to have a baby either way. I've hoped with them, screamed with them, cried with them. And I've mourned with friends who have lost their babies and agonized with friends who struggle daily with the horror of watching disease devastate their kids. I know how very very lucky, blessed, rich I am. I know I've had my share, more than my share, of beautiful, healthy babies, gorgeous sons with the world wide open before them.
I know all this. But. Dammit. I. Want. A. Baby.
It's sick. I find myself in the wee hours of the morning secretly hoping one of my boys will knock up a lovely young girl who will bravely decide to have the baby but will recognize she/they can't provide the baby with all that she/they want for that baby, and so, yes, I will get the baby.
Part of it is that I just really enjoy babies. Some people like football. Or Coen Brother movies. Or Andy Warhol. Me, I like babies.
But there's also the sad and dirty fact that when I had my babies, my beautiful boys, I was fairly fucked up. To put it mildly. (Not on drugs, mind you. Never done those. OK, yes, I've done lots of drugs--for allergies and tummy disorders and headaches and vulvadynia and depression and anxiety and chronic strep throat and yeast infections. But none of the fun stuff. ) Nope, no drugs, not that much alcohol. Just, well, basically, back then I was a total wingnut. Torn apart by the demands of scholarship and teaching and motherhood and wifedom and sisterhood and friendship and daughterdom and sex and laundry and lawn care and the desire for a really good brownie. I do not regret, then, that I returned to work right after the boys came into the world. Had I stayed home with them, they'd have ended up fairly fucked-up little fellas as well. Instead, I gotta say--despite the fact that neither seems capable of shutting a cabinet door, closing a dresser drawer, hanging up a towel, or flushing a toilet; despite the march of tattoos across Owen's body; despite Hugh's Republican leanings-- my guys are all right.
And, even in the context of total wingnutdom, I enjoyed them as babies.
Most of the time.
Sometimes.
When I wasn't crying because I feared that any kid with a mom like me was doomed.
But these days, despite menopausal mania, I think it's fair to say my wingnuttiness has moderated. I'm no longer shredded by the various demands of my various roles. I've learned to say, oh, what the hell. I've accepted that I will never be a Scholar Star. And (most of the time), I'm ok with that. These days, I could and I would stay home with a baby. We'd hang out, chill in the mornings over Cheerios, nap on the sofa, watch some Baby Einstein, do some park swings, snort some formula, while Springsteen played in the background. I do know that you're supposed to flood a baby with Mozart if you want him or her to be a math wizard, but the world has plenty of quantitative geniuses. Me and the imaginary baby, we prefer quality--political passion, concern for the underdog, respect for the way words work, sound narrative sense, and thumping rock 'n' roll. So we'd scrap the Mozart and follow Scooter and the Big Man into the swamps of Jersey.
Instead, I'm heading to the mall. Gotta go buy a baby gift for my friend. Which I will send with lots of joy, much love, an abundance of good wishes, and a hearty helping of good, old-fashioned, deep dark green envy.
Excuse me, it is possible for one to be be genuinely happy for someone while at the same time consumed with jealous rage. One is a complex being. One is capable of multi-tasking one's emotions.
One really wants a baby.
Ridiculous. One is a menopausal mother of two teenaged sons.
So--Babies? Done and dusted. Shoot, I've even done it both ways: the birth-via-my-body thing and the adoption-via-massive-bucks thing. (Tho'--full disclosure here--I didn't actually go thru with the entire birthing process. I tried. I did. 24 hours of labor before the doctors jumped in with great glee, wielded those knives, and C-sected that baby outa there.)
And I have so many friends who've been unable to have a baby either way. I've hoped with them, screamed with them, cried with them. And I've mourned with friends who have lost their babies and agonized with friends who struggle daily with the horror of watching disease devastate their kids. I know how very very lucky, blessed, rich I am. I know I've had my share, more than my share, of beautiful, healthy babies, gorgeous sons with the world wide open before them.
I know all this. But. Dammit. I. Want. A. Baby.
It's sick. I find myself in the wee hours of the morning secretly hoping one of my boys will knock up a lovely young girl who will bravely decide to have the baby but will recognize she/they can't provide the baby with all that she/they want for that baby, and so, yes, I will get the baby.
Part of it is that I just really enjoy babies. Some people like football. Or Coen Brother movies. Or Andy Warhol. Me, I like babies.
But there's also the sad and dirty fact that when I had my babies, my beautiful boys, I was fairly fucked up. To put it mildly. (Not on drugs, mind you. Never done those. OK, yes, I've done lots of drugs--for allergies and tummy disorders and headaches and vulvadynia and depression and anxiety and chronic strep throat and yeast infections. But none of the fun stuff. ) Nope, no drugs, not that much alcohol. Just, well, basically, back then I was a total wingnut. Torn apart by the demands of scholarship and teaching and motherhood and wifedom and sisterhood and friendship and daughterdom and sex and laundry and lawn care and the desire for a really good brownie. I do not regret, then, that I returned to work right after the boys came into the world. Had I stayed home with them, they'd have ended up fairly fucked-up little fellas as well. Instead, I gotta say--despite the fact that neither seems capable of shutting a cabinet door, closing a dresser drawer, hanging up a towel, or flushing a toilet; despite the march of tattoos across Owen's body; despite Hugh's Republican leanings-- my guys are all right.
And, even in the context of total wingnutdom, I enjoyed them as babies.
Most of the time.
Sometimes.
When I wasn't crying because I feared that any kid with a mom like me was doomed.
But these days, despite menopausal mania, I think it's fair to say my wingnuttiness has moderated. I'm no longer shredded by the various demands of my various roles. I've learned to say, oh, what the hell. I've accepted that I will never be a Scholar Star. And (most of the time), I'm ok with that. These days, I could and I would stay home with a baby. We'd hang out, chill in the mornings over Cheerios, nap on the sofa, watch some Baby Einstein, do some park swings, snort some formula, while Springsteen played in the background. I do know that you're supposed to flood a baby with Mozart if you want him or her to be a math wizard, but the world has plenty of quantitative geniuses. Me and the imaginary baby, we prefer quality--political passion, concern for the underdog, respect for the way words work, sound narrative sense, and thumping rock 'n' roll. So we'd scrap the Mozart and follow Scooter and the Big Man into the swamps of Jersey.
Instead, I'm heading to the mall. Gotta go buy a baby gift for my friend. Which I will send with lots of joy, much love, an abundance of good wishes, and a hearty helping of good, old-fashioned, deep dark green envy.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Indelible Ink
Owen now has three tattoos, with another one scheduled for November. These are not discreet tattoos; they do not nestle around his ankle bone and wink from behind his shoulderblades. These are more like Bette Midler. They strut across the stage and belt out brassy show tunes.
"Slow down," I tell him. "You're 19. You've got a lot of years left and only a finite amount of flesh."
He's 19. He ignores me.
I want to shake him. I want to make him see reason. I want him to think ahead. I want him to consider the consequences. But much of the time, I just want to be him.
Once when Owen was in middle school, he asked me to proofread an English paper he had just finished. It was a good paper, and I told him so. I also suggested a number of ways he could improve it. He looked hard at me.
"The paper's good, right?"
"Yes, absolutely, I'm just--"
"Good enough to get a B?"
"Yes, definitely, probably an A, in fact, but it wouldn't be that much more work to just--"
He grinned and shook his head.
"I'm good," he said, and turned back to the PETA website.
I wanted to shake him. I wanted to make him see reason, to think ahead, to consider the consequences, to understand the importance of pushing and striving and setting high goals and achieving excellence and. . . and. . . dammit, mostly I just wanted to be him. To be so comfortable in my own skin that I could take a B on something I didn't care much about so I could spend time on what I thought really mattered.
I cannot imagine being so comfortable in my own skin that I could decorate it with permanent ink. I have never been good with permanence. I hate making choices of any kind, let alone lasting ones. What if I get it wrong? And then it's permanently wrong? I need to know there's a way to erase or at least revise what I have done; I need a Plan B. When Owen was about two weeks old, it hit me that for the first time in my life, I had no Plan B, that no matter what happened to him, I would always be his mother. Always. I broke down sobbing. I sat in the tub, shaking and gasping and crying, knowing I was not good enough for this, terror-stricken that I had dared do something so indelible.
In the years since, motherhood has brought me great wonder and unmatchable pleasure and immense satisfaction. Yet that leap into permanence has not taught me to to embrace decision-making and lasting choices. The terror of getting it all wrong remains. And so, I watch enviously and Owen grins. The needle bites his skin and inscribes it with indelible ink. He says, "I'm good."
"Slow down," I tell him. "You're 19. You've got a lot of years left and only a finite amount of flesh."
He's 19. He ignores me.
I want to shake him. I want to make him see reason. I want him to think ahead. I want him to consider the consequences. But much of the time, I just want to be him.
Once when Owen was in middle school, he asked me to proofread an English paper he had just finished. It was a good paper, and I told him so. I also suggested a number of ways he could improve it. He looked hard at me.
"The paper's good, right?"
"Yes, absolutely, I'm just--"
"Good enough to get a B?"
"Yes, definitely, probably an A, in fact, but it wouldn't be that much more work to just--"
He grinned and shook his head.
"I'm good," he said, and turned back to the PETA website.
I wanted to shake him. I wanted to make him see reason, to think ahead, to consider the consequences, to understand the importance of pushing and striving and setting high goals and achieving excellence and. . . and. . . dammit, mostly I just wanted to be him. To be so comfortable in my own skin that I could take a B on something I didn't care much about so I could spend time on what I thought really mattered.
I cannot imagine being so comfortable in my own skin that I could decorate it with permanent ink. I have never been good with permanence. I hate making choices of any kind, let alone lasting ones. What if I get it wrong? And then it's permanently wrong? I need to know there's a way to erase or at least revise what I have done; I need a Plan B. When Owen was about two weeks old, it hit me that for the first time in my life, I had no Plan B, that no matter what happened to him, I would always be his mother. Always. I broke down sobbing. I sat in the tub, shaking and gasping and crying, knowing I was not good enough for this, terror-stricken that I had dared do something so indelible.
In the years since, motherhood has brought me great wonder and unmatchable pleasure and immense satisfaction. Yet that leap into permanence has not taught me to to embrace decision-making and lasting choices. The terror of getting it all wrong remains. And so, I watch enviously and Owen grins. The needle bites his skin and inscribes it with indelible ink. He says, "I'm good."
Friday, October 8, 2010
Driftwood
Once again, Keith and I are knowingly, willingly, even somewhat actively tossing ourselves into a situation that we 1) know we will hate, and 2) could easily avoid.
Nope, we're not having a third child.
Actually, I'd love to have a third child. . . yes, yes, I know I'm 50, but look at what's-her-name, you know, the blonde news anchor. But--me and Keith and the whole third child debate, oh, let's not go there. It's not, umm, scenic. . . .
So, we're having a garage sale. We've had garage sales before. We've sworn we would never, ever have garage sales again. Yet tomorrow morning we're having one.
Why do we do these things to ourselves? It's not like, say, indulging in a huge slice of German chocolate cake when you're on a diet, or having those last three glasses of wine when you promised you'd stop at one, or buying that oh-so-cool pair of boots when you had resolved to cut back on spending--I mean, with all those things, you get something you want. Yes, you do pay a price, and maybe it's not a price worth paying, but there is pleasure in there, fleeting tho' it may be.
Garage sales do not bring us pleasure. Not even flickery little fleeting bits.
First, garage sale people are--at least in our experience--strange. And not strange in funky, amusing, intriguing ways; no, this is the "ohmygoshsomeonegetmeoutofhere" sort of strangeness. (I do apologize to all you garage sale people readers. I'm sure you're the exception to the strangeness rule. The sort of people I'm talking about would not be reading a blog written by a menopausal liberal Christian history professor mom. Not a chance.)
Second, and far more fundamental, garage sales lead to existential angst. We're having a garage sale because we're drowning in all this crap, and--to give us our due--we don't want to just add it all to the landfill. We believe in "Reuse--Recycle--Re-" shoot--"re-something." Whatever it is, we believe in it and try to practice it. But from whence cometh all this crap? What sort of person am I, that I have accumulated, sought out, yea, even desired, such stuff? And more horrifying, what kind of Me do I project, who is the public persona I have created, that my beloved ones shower me with all this shit? And why have I saved it? What was it all for? Who was I hoping to become?
And what the hell was I trying to do to/for/with my kids? For so much of this junk testifies to parenting gone mad. The ridiculously expensive sewing machine, resting there like driftwood washed up from Hugh's brief fashion design phase. All the sports paraphernalia, the detritus of the various teams and lessons into which we jollied the boys. Spools of thread and glue bottles and felt squares and paint canisters and wood burning tools in an anarchic heap, leftovers from arts and crafts projects long abandoned. And the heaps of music books--cello and piano and drums and flute and harmonica and recorder and guitar (both rhythm and electric).
A bit here, some tat there. All these shabby remnants of dreams discarded and hopes shrugged off, of that horrible moment when vision confronts reality. All this waste.
Really. This whole garage sale thing. It's not a good idea.
Nope, we're not having a third child.
Actually, I'd love to have a third child. . . yes, yes, I know I'm 50, but look at what's-her-name, you know, the blonde news anchor. But--me and Keith and the whole third child debate, oh, let's not go there. It's not, umm, scenic. . . .
So, we're having a garage sale. We've had garage sales before. We've sworn we would never, ever have garage sales again. Yet tomorrow morning we're having one.
Why do we do these things to ourselves? It's not like, say, indulging in a huge slice of German chocolate cake when you're on a diet, or having those last three glasses of wine when you promised you'd stop at one, or buying that oh-so-cool pair of boots when you had resolved to cut back on spending--I mean, with all those things, you get something you want. Yes, you do pay a price, and maybe it's not a price worth paying, but there is pleasure in there, fleeting tho' it may be.
Garage sales do not bring us pleasure. Not even flickery little fleeting bits.
First, garage sale people are--at least in our experience--strange. And not strange in funky, amusing, intriguing ways; no, this is the "ohmygoshsomeonegetmeoutofhere" sort of strangeness. (I do apologize to all you garage sale people readers. I'm sure you're the exception to the strangeness rule. The sort of people I'm talking about would not be reading a blog written by a menopausal liberal Christian history professor mom. Not a chance.)
Second, and far more fundamental, garage sales lead to existential angst. We're having a garage sale because we're drowning in all this crap, and--to give us our due--we don't want to just add it all to the landfill. We believe in "Reuse--Recycle--Re-" shoot--"re-something." Whatever it is, we believe in it and try to practice it. But from whence cometh all this crap? What sort of person am I, that I have accumulated, sought out, yea, even desired, such stuff? And more horrifying, what kind of Me do I project, who is the public persona I have created, that my beloved ones shower me with all this shit? And why have I saved it? What was it all for? Who was I hoping to become?
And what the hell was I trying to do to/for/with my kids? For so much of this junk testifies to parenting gone mad. The ridiculously expensive sewing machine, resting there like driftwood washed up from Hugh's brief fashion design phase. All the sports paraphernalia, the detritus of the various teams and lessons into which we jollied the boys. Spools of thread and glue bottles and felt squares and paint canisters and wood burning tools in an anarchic heap, leftovers from arts and crafts projects long abandoned. And the heaps of music books--cello and piano and drums and flute and harmonica and recorder and guitar (both rhythm and electric).
A bit here, some tat there. All these shabby remnants of dreams discarded and hopes shrugged off, of that horrible moment when vision confronts reality. All this waste.
Really. This whole garage sale thing. It's not a good idea.
Friday, October 1, 2010
It's really ok
The summer after my first year in graduate school I worked as a nanny for my brother and his wife. Nancy was a stay-at-home mom, heavily pregnant with Baby #5, and heavily weighed down with doctors' appointments and medical tests for Toddler 4, a charming, curly-haired, chubby little charmer born with a host of "issues," as we say when we can't figure out what's going on. (Like when the specialist told me I had what the experts call "sore arm syndrome." Seriously. That's what they call it. It means, as the specialist went on to explain, "we see there's a real problem and we haven't a clue how to help you." I liked this guy.)
Anyway, back to my shortlived nanny career: in the course of that summer, my sister-in-law Nancy said something really important: "I love all my children all of the time, but I don't always like all of them all of the time. Sometimes, you know, you just don't like a kid for awhile."
She said it casually, as we were scraping a concoction of melted Legos mixed with Skittles off the just-refinished wooden floor. But this casual comment has helped me immensely.
In the short term, it helped me see that no, I was not crazy, my mom really didn't like me, but that was ok, she loved me, which is all one can really expect, and hey, I didn't like her too much at that point either. And that was ok too.
[OK, Transparency Moment: it took me many exhausting hour-long sessions and many shredded Kleenexes in neutral-toned offices with neutral-faced therapists to be able to type "that was ok". ]
In the long term, damn, absolutely, you love your kid but holy cow, sometimes, you just don't like him (or her--but I never had a her, sadly) very much. Or at all.
Take the last two days, for example. I love Hugh absolutely and unconditionally. But over the last two days, I haven't liked him at all. Because he's been a colossal shit.
(I know, I know, he's 15 3/4; he's supposed to be a colossal shit. And I'm supposed to be colossally [is that a word? doesn't look like a word, does it?] annoyed. We're both playing our parts. But it's just that he's sooooo good at his part.)
Hugh was furious with me because I came home tired from work and wouldn't immediately jump in the car and drive him to the library (a 20-minute drive, btw). For the last few months, he's met once a week or so with some friends at the library to "study biology." And I've driven him there and Keith has picked him up. But Keith was out of town and I was tired and I wanted a glass of wine (ok, yes, several glasses of wine) and I didn't want to drive for 80 minutes back and forth, back and forth. So I said no. Am I a Bad Mom?
Personally, I think it's a structural/societal problem rather than a parental issue. Why do I have to drive this child to the library? Why can't he walk there or take a bus? Must I really shoulder the blame and the consequences for the many many many wrong-headed, wrong-hearted decisions made about taxation and urban planning and mass transit?
Hugh could care less about the societal/structural issues. He sees things simply and clearly. Simply and clearly, I'm a Bad Mom. And so his response to my "no, not this week, honey," was to punish me. Over the next two days, I became acquainted with my shortcomings as a housecleaner, a cook. a pet owner, a laundress, a driver, a gardener, a wife, a teacher, and a friend; I learned why my clothes, my hair, my jewelry, my toenail polish, and my taste in tv shows were not only inadequate but an insult to humankind; I was forced to see that the way I walk, blow my nose, sleep, remember family vacations, pronounce various words, and chop onions all threatened the future of civilization.
So, I'm grateful to Nancy. Because of her, I know it's ok not to like a kid for awhile. I'll always love him. And sometimes I like him. Some time soon, I'm sure, I'll like him. And that's ok. It's all one can expect. And really, it's ok. Really. OK.
Anyway, back to my shortlived nanny career: in the course of that summer, my sister-in-law Nancy said something really important: "I love all my children all of the time, but I don't always like all of them all of the time. Sometimes, you know, you just don't like a kid for awhile."
She said it casually, as we were scraping a concoction of melted Legos mixed with Skittles off the just-refinished wooden floor. But this casual comment has helped me immensely.
In the short term, it helped me see that no, I was not crazy, my mom really didn't like me, but that was ok, she loved me, which is all one can really expect, and hey, I didn't like her too much at that point either. And that was ok too.
[OK, Transparency Moment: it took me many exhausting hour-long sessions and many shredded Kleenexes in neutral-toned offices with neutral-faced therapists to be able to type "that was ok". ]
In the long term, damn, absolutely, you love your kid but holy cow, sometimes, you just don't like him (or her--but I never had a her, sadly) very much. Or at all.
Take the last two days, for example. I love Hugh absolutely and unconditionally. But over the last two days, I haven't liked him at all. Because he's been a colossal shit.
(I know, I know, he's 15 3/4; he's supposed to be a colossal shit. And I'm supposed to be colossally [is that a word? doesn't look like a word, does it?] annoyed. We're both playing our parts. But it's just that he's sooooo good at his part.)
Hugh was furious with me because I came home tired from work and wouldn't immediately jump in the car and drive him to the library (a 20-minute drive, btw). For the last few months, he's met once a week or so with some friends at the library to "study biology." And I've driven him there and Keith has picked him up. But Keith was out of town and I was tired and I wanted a glass of wine (ok, yes, several glasses of wine) and I didn't want to drive for 80 minutes back and forth, back and forth. So I said no. Am I a Bad Mom?
Personally, I think it's a structural/societal problem rather than a parental issue. Why do I have to drive this child to the library? Why can't he walk there or take a bus? Must I really shoulder the blame and the consequences for the many many many wrong-headed, wrong-hearted decisions made about taxation and urban planning and mass transit?
Hugh could care less about the societal/structural issues. He sees things simply and clearly. Simply and clearly, I'm a Bad Mom. And so his response to my "no, not this week, honey," was to punish me. Over the next two days, I became acquainted with my shortcomings as a housecleaner, a cook. a pet owner, a laundress, a driver, a gardener, a wife, a teacher, and a friend; I learned why my clothes, my hair, my jewelry, my toenail polish, and my taste in tv shows were not only inadequate but an insult to humankind; I was forced to see that the way I walk, blow my nose, sleep, remember family vacations, pronounce various words, and chop onions all threatened the future of civilization.
So, I'm grateful to Nancy. Because of her, I know it's ok not to like a kid for awhile. I'll always love him. And sometimes I like him. Some time soon, I'm sure, I'll like him. And that's ok. It's all one can expect. And really, it's ok. Really. OK.
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