...or maybe just get out of the house. The local, very ramshackle, mini strip mall is the only place I get to regularly. It is easy -- just a mile or so away. And I don't feel like going far these days. Too muich of a hassle with two kids, work -- I just have no time.
The CVS is my main destination (probably because we have all been sick in one way or another -- requiring cold meds or psychotropic meds). It is a sad little CVS. But it functions well enough. Though finding Hanukah candles there was a fool's errand. Are there no Jews in this area? Come on!
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Thanksgiving
So I actually cooked something (Abraham is the cook of the house) -- but only two things: cranberry relish and cranberry steamed pudding. (I am the cranberry maven, turns out; I also love cranberry juice.) Both are my mother's recipes. I make the relish every year without fail. But the pudding is more of a pain, taking 2 1/2 hours to steam in a mold on the stovetop. I often skip it.
My mother used to ask every year if I had made both dishes. She was usually in Australia, but she loved Thanksgiving. And she seemed disappointed when I didn't make the pudding. So I made it this year, in her honor. She is smiling from whatever afterlife there is -- she believed life couldn't just end and promised she'd watch over me. So she'd better be, I say!
(Next posting will be about something besides my mother -- I hope -- Az's small size, only 12 pounds at 5 months old; Iz's storytelling and how much I miss him now that I have the demands of two children... my writing, my painting -- but so much is wrapped up in my mother's memory right now.)
My mother used to ask every year if I had made both dishes. She was usually in Australia, but she loved Thanksgiving. And she seemed disappointed when I didn't make the pudding. So I made it this year, in her honor. She is smiling from whatever afterlife there is -- she believed life couldn't just end and promised she'd watch over me. So she'd better be, I say!
(Next posting will be about something besides my mother -- I hope -- Az's small size, only 12 pounds at 5 months old; Iz's storytelling and how much I miss him now that I have the demands of two children... my writing, my painting -- but so much is wrapped up in my mother's memory right now.)
Monday, November 19, 2007
I remember my mother
I spoke in person at my mother's memorial in New York City on October 14. It was so hard to prepare -- I almost decided against it. But then my stepmother suggested that I would regret it if I didn't. She was right. So I spoke. I was not at all nervous -- I usually am speaking in front of a crowd. And this was a crowd that included many writers and practiced speakers. I did completely choke up on the first sentence and had to pause for a good long time (probably seconds only, but felt like a while) until I was capable of speaking. Here is what I said:
I could not have asked for a better mother. She was unconditionally loving and supportive, sensitive and understanding. She was also a tremendous role model in many ways – brilliant, adventurous, creative. Yes, she could drive me crazy sometimes, but she was my mother. Whose parents don’t drive them nutty sometimes? And she had an amazing memory – which fed her writing ability and probably even demanded that she write.
My mother always said her earliest memories – from when she was 2 or 3 – were clear and her thoughts were more sophisticated than she could express at the time. I wish I could recall the exact memory she related as an example – it had to do with listening to a piece of music.
I am so worried that I will forget all the stories she told me and that the memories that only the two of us share will fade in me, the sole holder of them now. I have been writing again, as she always wanted me to do, and a great deal about her.
I have been writing “I remembers” in bits and pieces. With so many writers and teachers of writing in the room, you probably know what I am referring to. My mother assigned her students this exercise: Write a piece in which every sentence begins with “I remember.” It was a way to tease out concrete writing.
Since I have been considering how to convey what a fantastic, loving mother she was. And how interesting and intelligent. How much she meant to me, her only child.
A somewhat random selection of my “I remembers” is a place to start:
I remember she called me “darling.” As in, “I love you, darling” and “How are you, my darling?”
I remember how she neatly quartered apples and pears, sliding the knife effortlessly in an arc to cut out the seeds. Then she put the quarters on a little plate. I remember she cut the tip of a banana off instead of snapping the top open, leaving a cone of banana flesh, which I wanted to eat first, in the tip.
I remember she bought a miniature, kiddie-sized set of wicker table and chairs so I would sit still and eat. I remember her plan didn’t work. She also tried plates and bowls with pictures, such as those of Winnie the Pooh, so that I would eat all my food eagerly to get to the bottom. This also didn’t work.
I remember the giant floor pillows covered with colorful Moroccan print fabrics that she set up under the built-in bookshelves in the living room. I remember she would sit on the pillows with me and read to me. Or I would sit there and cut up her magazines to use pictures as paper dolls.
I remember my mother taking me to the carousel in Central Park. I remember she told me about the brass rings, hanging high, that carousel riders of the past would try to grab. I remember I believed she knew the origins of all sayings, phrases and words.
I remember my mother’s office, next to my bedroom, the walls covered in world maps. I remember her office in Sydney, covered floor to ceiling, wall to wall, in Monet posters. I remember she sent me cards and postcards reprinting paintings of windows with girls looking out of them, their backs to the viewer. I think they reminded her of me. They are on my office wall.
I remember my mother almost always had music playing – the radio tuned to the public radio classical station. I remember she recognized most pieces, “Oh, that’s so and so’s such and such.” She also knew the words – in the original language – of many opera pieces. And she would sing.
I remember my mother singing show tunes, often in the kitchen, and pre-rock pop tunes such as “You’re the top” and “Button up your overcoat.” I remember getting older – a teenager – yelling at her to stop – embarrassed though no one else was in the apartment.
I remember my mother tsk-tsking jaywalkers when she was driving, and I swear that she sped up to make her point. I remember she denied this.
I remember my mother’s “clothing museum” of our clothing. Things we’d never wear again, but that reminded her of significant events. Pigskin bell bottoms, a red corduroy toddler jacket with embroidered flowers on it. I remember a fair bit of polyester (a long black sheath dress, an orange/red/pink striped mini dress.
And these are just a small handful memories. But a place to start, to remember her, preserve our shared stories, to try to capture what she was like. I cannot believe I will never see her again.
I could not have asked for a better mother. She was unconditionally loving and supportive, sensitive and understanding. She was also a tremendous role model in many ways – brilliant, adventurous, creative. Yes, she could drive me crazy sometimes, but she was my mother. Whose parents don’t drive them nutty sometimes? And she had an amazing memory – which fed her writing ability and probably even demanded that she write.
My mother always said her earliest memories – from when she was 2 or 3 – were clear and her thoughts were more sophisticated than she could express at the time. I wish I could recall the exact memory she related as an example – it had to do with listening to a piece of music.
I am so worried that I will forget all the stories she told me and that the memories that only the two of us share will fade in me, the sole holder of them now. I have been writing again, as she always wanted me to do, and a great deal about her.
I have been writing “I remembers” in bits and pieces. With so many writers and teachers of writing in the room, you probably know what I am referring to. My mother assigned her students this exercise: Write a piece in which every sentence begins with “I remember.” It was a way to tease out concrete writing.
Since I have been considering how to convey what a fantastic, loving mother she was. And how interesting and intelligent. How much she meant to me, her only child.
A somewhat random selection of my “I remembers” is a place to start:
I remember she called me “darling.” As in, “I love you, darling” and “How are you, my darling?”
I remember how she neatly quartered apples and pears, sliding the knife effortlessly in an arc to cut out the seeds. Then she put the quarters on a little plate. I remember she cut the tip of a banana off instead of snapping the top open, leaving a cone of banana flesh, which I wanted to eat first, in the tip.
I remember she bought a miniature, kiddie-sized set of wicker table and chairs so I would sit still and eat. I remember her plan didn’t work. She also tried plates and bowls with pictures, such as those of Winnie the Pooh, so that I would eat all my food eagerly to get to the bottom. This also didn’t work.
I remember the giant floor pillows covered with colorful Moroccan print fabrics that she set up under the built-in bookshelves in the living room. I remember she would sit on the pillows with me and read to me. Or I would sit there and cut up her magazines to use pictures as paper dolls.
I remember my mother taking me to the carousel in Central Park. I remember she told me about the brass rings, hanging high, that carousel riders of the past would try to grab. I remember I believed she knew the origins of all sayings, phrases and words.
I remember my mother’s office, next to my bedroom, the walls covered in world maps. I remember her office in Sydney, covered floor to ceiling, wall to wall, in Monet posters. I remember she sent me cards and postcards reprinting paintings of windows with girls looking out of them, their backs to the viewer. I think they reminded her of me. They are on my office wall.
I remember my mother almost always had music playing – the radio tuned to the public radio classical station. I remember she recognized most pieces, “Oh, that’s so and so’s such and such.” She also knew the words – in the original language – of many opera pieces. And she would sing.
I remember my mother singing show tunes, often in the kitchen, and pre-rock pop tunes such as “You’re the top” and “Button up your overcoat.” I remember getting older – a teenager – yelling at her to stop – embarrassed though no one else was in the apartment.
I remember my mother tsk-tsking jaywalkers when she was driving, and I swear that she sped up to make her point. I remember she denied this.
I remember my mother’s “clothing museum” of our clothing. Things we’d never wear again, but that reminded her of significant events. Pigskin bell bottoms, a red corduroy toddler jacket with embroidered flowers on it. I remember a fair bit of polyester (a long black sheath dress, an orange/red/pink striped mini dress.
And these are just a small handful memories. But a place to start, to remember her, preserve our shared stories, to try to capture what she was like. I cannot believe I will never see her again.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
a tribute to my mother
My mother died on July 11, 2007, from metastasized ovarian cancer. I am so very sad. Following is what I wrote for her funeral:
My Mother
My mother always said her earliest memories – from when she was 2 or 3 – were clear and her thoughts were more sophisticated than she could express at the time. I wish I could recall the exact memory she related as an example – it had to do with listening to a piece of music.
This is one of my major concerns now that she is gone: I will not remember all the stories she told me. And the memories she and I alone shared are now just mine – and I worry I won’t remember everything.
I remember little things:
- She called me “darling” (as in, I love you, darling”).
- She neatly quartered apples and pears, sliding the knife effortlessly in an arc to cut out the seeds. Then she put the quarters on a little plate. She cut the tip of a banana off instead of snapping the top open, leaving a cone of banana flesh, which I wanted to eat first, in the tip.
- She let me cut up her magazines and newspapers so I could make paper dolls of the pictures.
- She bought a miniature, kiddie-sized set of wicker table and chairs so I would sit still and eat. (It didn’t work.)
Trying to write well, especially about my mother who deserves the best and who was herself such a fantastic writer, f eels difficult. Like rusty gears turning? The gears are there, but not used nearly enough these days. My mother always said I write very well – but she may have been too kind, idealizing me a bit.
I’ve often assumed she idealized me because I am her daughter. She thought I was beautiful, smart, a good writer – and said so often. (Who could ask for a better mum, right?) Of course I was special in her eyes. (I know how special now that I have two children.)
In talking to her friends over the past few days, I realize that she had a similar effect on others. They have said she made them feel special, she was an influential friend, she was a fantastic teacher – all variations on the theme: she had a major impact that made her daughter, friends, colleagues, and students feel significant, important.
I don’t think she knew what an impact she had on others – even on her own daughter.
- She taught me that I should do what I love – even if my choice were quirky.
- She taught me that reading and writing are essential to living a full life – I feel strange if I have not done one or the other for too long.
- She taught me that women can do anything –it very occurred to me that I couldn’t do something because I was female.
- She taught me that questioning and examining are simply what one does – Abraham, my husband, often teases me about examining and discussing the most trivial thing.
My mother was unconditionally loving and supportive, sensitive and understanding, rarely – if ever – critical (I know many women whose mother’s make comments about their weight, their life choices – not my mother). She knew me better than anyone (except perhaps my husband Abraham – but I write “perhaps”) – and I cannot believe I will never see her again.
I already miss talking to her on the phone – being able to call her and talk about nothing important. With the time difference between us, we often talked at odd hours for her, even 11 or 12 at night. Even the “nothing important” stuff was interesting to her. She could discuss anything as if it were a story or a philosophical question to be examined – whether the topic were something trivial like a bad haircut or something meaningful like becoming a mother.
I will miss her visits to the States. I am so sad that my sons will not get to spend more time with her. I cry when I see her handwriting, hear her recorded voice on her answering machine.
But this is the sad stuff.
Because she is still here in so many ways. That may sound clich̩d Рbut if anyone could still be here, she could. She was that kind of presence.
When my mother came to visit – once a year, sometimes twice – she stayed with us in Cheverly, Maryland, just outside of Washington DC. Iz, who turned three on April, loves his grandma. She was not loud and boisterous with him, she was very much herself. She read to him, talked with him as he played with his toy animals (in the tradition of his grandma, telling stories with them), and she took him to the nearby playground.
Though I had taken him to the playground many times, I had never noticed the hollow but very alive tree on the walk there. My mother did. She was fascinated with it – because things could be hidden in it. She and Iz would put a flower, stick, or little toy in it on the way to the playground and pick it up on the walk home.
On her most recent visit in April, she was not up to taking Iz. But one day she went out for a walk by herself and took one of his little plastic dinosaurs. She left it there for him to find later. He was thrilled, and I will keep up the tradition she started.
I already called the tree “Grandma’s tree” in her honor because Iz did not see her often – so he would think of her. He insists on stopping at it every time we walk past, and notes it even when we drive past, “Look, Grandma’s tree!” Now it will remain Grandma’s tree, so he does not forget her.
I believe Izwill remember her. She was a powerful presence, even though she was quiet – maybe because she was quiet. (Though “quiet” is not the right word. Thoughtful? Observant? Calm? No one word can describe the presence she had.)
My son, Az, was born on June 14 – when my mother as already in the hospital. In a way, his birth complements her passing – maybe offering some healing. And though he will not meet her in the flesh, her line and her spirit can live on in him. I look at his little face as I write this, and, for a moment, he looks just like her.
The day after she died, we went to the tree with a bunch of flowers from our garden – black eyed susans and purple cone flowers – and left them in the tree for her. I imagine her spirit checking in with us – making sure we are okay, watching over us. In a short letter she wrote me when she was first diagnosed in 2005 (a letter I just opened because she instructed me not to open unless she died), she wrote, “I’ll watch over you, and just think of me and how I love you.”
Thursday, July 05, 2007
many happenings
Since I last wrote (over nine months ago), I have:
- been pregnant (Sept-June)
- traveled to Australia to cheer up my mother who was being treated for metastasized ovarian cancer (Dec-Jan)
- had a baby (June 14)
- heard my mother is now actually dying from further metastasized ovarian cancer (June) and may only have weeks to live
Monday, September 11, 2006
city kid and September 11
city kid
While I was at the playground with my mother and little sister, I saw a girl playing
After a while, she and her mother left, but as they were leaving, I heard her say: “And the two little rabbits hopped down the sidewalk and lived happily ever after.”
After I heard that, I thought, “Only a city kid would say ‘And the rabbits hopped down the sidewalk.’” (“Metropolitan Diary,” The New York Times, September 11, 2006, A21.)
After a while, she and her mother left, but as they were leaving, I heard her say: “And the two little rabbits hopped down the sidewalk and lived happily ever after.”
After I heard that, I thought, “Only a city kid would say ‘And the rabbits hopped down the sidewalk.’” (“Metropolitan Diary,” The New York Times, September 11, 2006, A21.)
I don’t read “Metropolitan Diary” in The New York Times often. (Hell, I usually don’t get to read the newspaper – certainly not every day.) The fact that this was a nine-year-old writing didn’t register upon first reading. (I mean, what a sophisticated observation for a nine-year-old to make.)
I was a city kid in the very same city as this kid. At the age of 30, I was at the suburban (almost rural – or recently rural) childhood home of my then boyfriend (now husband). I saw maybe 10 geese hanging out in a field near a lake. I asked him, “Who do those geese belong to?” I did not think this was an odd question – or I would not have asked it. He laughed… and laughed… and laughed. The city kid remains in me even at 30-something. Are there wild geese anywhere in NYC? Maybe somewhere. Of course there were pigeons. And, near my apartment building, peacocks roamed the grounds at St. John the Divine cathedral. But those peacocks belonged to someone. I’m certain there are no wild peacocks in NYC.
Another city kid tidbit: I have never used a lawnmower.
Now that I watch Sesame Street with Iz, the childhood in the city images look familiar yet feel far away. I now recognize them as unusual, or at least not the experience of all children. Iz does not have that experience. Why does that make me sad? I mean, of course two rabbits would hop down a sidewalk!
September 11
On a much more serious note (though related – I was a city kid in the city that was attacked) – I have been crying over September 11 mentions, reports, memories for, oh, at least three days now.
I did not lose anyone in the attacks. I was no longer living in New York (though I was living in Washington, DC and saw the Pentagon spewing smoke).
I have been cursing and yelling at the radio whenever politicians – especially Bush – speechify about September 11. How dare he? How dare he use this as a partisan, fear-mongering… damn. I am so angry that he is manipulating this tragedy to his own ends. How does he get away with it? Makes me even sadder.
The articles about the new towers (the Freedom one and the three others) are interesting – but why has nothing been built? Not that something huge and business-oriented must go up or the “American Way of Life” is compromised. I wonder if there will always be a hole in downtown New York City.
Like a family tragedy – I felt as if I should have been there on September 11, 2001. But I wasn’t. (I had moved to DC two years earlier.) I still feel as if I should be there.
I was a city kid in the very same city as this kid. At the age of 30, I was at the suburban (almost rural – or recently rural) childhood home of my then boyfriend (now husband). I saw maybe 10 geese hanging out in a field near a lake. I asked him, “Who do those geese belong to?” I did not think this was an odd question – or I would not have asked it. He laughed… and laughed… and laughed. The city kid remains in me even at 30-something. Are there wild geese anywhere in NYC? Maybe somewhere. Of course there were pigeons. And, near my apartment building, peacocks roamed the grounds at St. John the Divine cathedral. But those peacocks belonged to someone. I’m certain there are no wild peacocks in NYC.
Another city kid tidbit: I have never used a lawnmower.
Now that I watch Sesame Street with Iz, the childhood in the city images look familiar yet feel far away. I now recognize them as unusual, or at least not the experience of all children. Iz does not have that experience. Why does that make me sad? I mean, of course two rabbits would hop down a sidewalk!
September 11
On a much more serious note (though related – I was a city kid in the city that was attacked) – I have been crying over September 11 mentions, reports, memories for, oh, at least three days now.
I did not lose anyone in the attacks. I was no longer living in New York (though I was living in Washington, DC and saw the Pentagon spewing smoke).
I have been cursing and yelling at the radio whenever politicians – especially Bush – speechify about September 11. How dare he? How dare he use this as a partisan, fear-mongering… damn. I am so angry that he is manipulating this tragedy to his own ends. How does he get away with it? Makes me even sadder.
The articles about the new towers (the Freedom one and the three others) are interesting – but why has nothing been built? Not that something huge and business-oriented must go up or the “American Way of Life” is compromised. I wonder if there will always be a hole in downtown New York City.
Like a family tragedy – I felt as if I should have been there on September 11, 2001. But I wasn’t. (I had moved to DC two years earlier.) I still feel as if I should be there.
Friday, September 08, 2006
house on Zamia Street, done
My first major painting in years. I love it. It may not be perfect (crooked lines being the major flaw), but that is not the goal, nor my style. I did the sketches for this one way back in March.
What next?
Thursday, September 07, 2006
being a teenager
I can’t remember being a teenager. (Not because I drank a lot, though I did drink – but two beers could get me drunk. And not because I took drugs, though I did sample pot and LSD. Hey, I remember those things.) Well, I have tons of images, scraps of memories.
I just don’t really remember stories and timelines. Not sure why. I worry that I have blocked it out. I was not terribly unhappy – though I remember being very, very unhappy at times.
I was absolutely boy crazy. I was always “in love” with someone. I dated a fair amount – though “dating” for me meant hanging out and fooling around. (Sex did not happen until I was 17, though I wanted it earlier.) Those phrases, hanging out and fooling around, are perfectly clear to me, though they may seem vague to some. (I imagine my peers would be able to conjure an exact image/meaning for each phrase.) I hate that I was so boy crazy. I wish I could go back and fix that – not because I was distracted from more important things (I probably was), but because I perhaps did not focus on friendships with other girls (I have no close friends remaining from those years – except one with whom I am only in sporadic touch), perhaps because I am a good feminist who thinks, rationally, that boy craziness is just a tad misguided. Anyway…
And tried to get away with doing as little work as I could in high school. (I did a lot of my own writing, though.) When I was no longer was required to take a science class, I didn’t. Same with a language class. (O, how I wish I now knew French.) English and history classes were required throughout. Maybe I took only English and History my senior year. But that can’t be right. Maybe an art class? Can’t say for sure.
Now this is just depressing. I am a smart, capable woman. Really, I am. I earned my bachelor’s degree in the standard four years and had a 3.8 GPA. In my 20s, I earned my master’s degree in medieval history while working full time, was successful in my first teaching job, and ran many road races (including a marathon). In my 30s (so far – only halfway through), I have started a freelance editing business (I still run races, too!).
I just don’t really remember stories and timelines. Not sure why. I worry that I have blocked it out. I was not terribly unhappy – though I remember being very, very unhappy at times.
I was absolutely boy crazy. I was always “in love” with someone. I dated a fair amount – though “dating” for me meant hanging out and fooling around. (Sex did not happen until I was 17, though I wanted it earlier.) Those phrases, hanging out and fooling around, are perfectly clear to me, though they may seem vague to some. (I imagine my peers would be able to conjure an exact image/meaning for each phrase.) I hate that I was so boy crazy. I wish I could go back and fix that – not because I was distracted from more important things (I probably was), but because I perhaps did not focus on friendships with other girls (I have no close friends remaining from those years – except one with whom I am only in sporadic touch), perhaps because I am a good feminist who thinks, rationally, that boy craziness is just a tad misguided. Anyway…
And tried to get away with doing as little work as I could in high school. (I did a lot of my own writing, though.) When I was no longer was required to take a science class, I didn’t. Same with a language class. (O, how I wish I now knew French.) English and history classes were required throughout. Maybe I took only English and History my senior year. But that can’t be right. Maybe an art class? Can’t say for sure.
Now this is just depressing. I am a smart, capable woman. Really, I am. I earned my bachelor’s degree in the standard four years and had a 3.8 GPA. In my 20s, I earned my master’s degree in medieval history while working full time, was successful in my first teaching job, and ran many road races (including a marathon). In my 30s (so far – only halfway through), I have started a freelance editing business (I still run races, too!).
Monday, August 28, 2006
an hour with my two-year-old
I recently took Iz to the local outdoor pool. That was the pleasant portion of the day. We even managed to leave at 12:30pm without a full-on meltdown tantrum (sometimes I have to carry him out kicking and screaming). Was it the promise of a hot dog for lunch? Unlikely, Iz doesn't care about food (often even when he's hungry -- means he'd have to stand still).
So, we get home to attempt a meal before Iz became too tired to eat. Exhaustion usually sets in around 12:30pm, so I was pushing it. Things felt a bit urgent. I had to pee and I was still in a wet swimsuit. But I didn't pee or change. A hot dog and leftover broccoli were needed. (Iz has rediscovered willingness to eat broccoli.) I also made my lunch (a hummus and spinach sandwich) because I had things to do during Iz's nap.
We ate -- him in dry diaper and clothing, me still wet with a full bladder.
I left the room to put the dishes away, clean up a bit. And I hear a clattering -- lots of little hard things hitting the floor. I didn't worry about it... yet...
Iz had gathered and thrown handfuls of Zi's dogfood pellets all over the floor. I asked him to clean it up (a bit stern, perhaps I snapped, even yelled). He actually shook his head and said, "Uh uh." I am not suggesting he usually listens to me; he usually just ignores me and goes about his business. I had never heard him say, "Uh uh."
I took him to his room (time out in a chair or on a step doesn't work). He got his perfect little-upside-down-U frown and burst into tears.
I left him there screaming, cleaned up the dogfood, finally got to the bathroom, and even changed into dry comfy clothes.
Then, of course, I had to go comfort Iz, lie down with him, and nurse him to sleep (oh, yeah, he still nurses twice a day because I can't figure out how to wean him -- he'd never sleep again).
So, we get home to attempt a meal before Iz became too tired to eat. Exhaustion usually sets in around 12:30pm, so I was pushing it. Things felt a bit urgent. I had to pee and I was still in a wet swimsuit. But I didn't pee or change. A hot dog and leftover broccoli were needed. (Iz has rediscovered willingness to eat broccoli.) I also made my lunch (a hummus and spinach sandwich) because I had things to do during Iz's nap.
We ate -- him in dry diaper and clothing, me still wet with a full bladder.
I left the room to put the dishes away, clean up a bit. And I hear a clattering -- lots of little hard things hitting the floor. I didn't worry about it... yet...
Iz had gathered and thrown handfuls of Zi's dogfood pellets all over the floor. I asked him to clean it up (a bit stern, perhaps I snapped, even yelled). He actually shook his head and said, "Uh uh." I am not suggesting he usually listens to me; he usually just ignores me and goes about his business. I had never heard him say, "Uh uh."
I took him to his room (time out in a chair or on a step doesn't work). He got his perfect little-upside-down-U frown and burst into tears.
I left him there screaming, cleaned up the dogfood, finally got to the bathroom, and even changed into dry comfy clothes.
Then, of course, I had to go comfort Iz, lie down with him, and nurse him to sleep (oh, yeah, he still nurses twice a day because I can't figure out how to wean him -- he'd never sleep again).
Sunday, August 20, 2006
passionfruit, my college boyfriend, and greener grass
I find myself wanting to move to Sydney, Australia, and thinking about my college boyfriend (who continued to make appearances in my life until we were in our late 20s). These are not good signs. They are “the grass is greener” signs.
Sure, I know Sydney. My mother lives there. I went to high school there for six months. (This escape to Sydney happened when I was 16, and I was definitely the driver of our move there. Almost as soon as I got there, I wanted to be back in New York City – so even then it was indeed a misguided escape, probably from some deep teenage angst.) I could live in a city! I could eat passionfruit (five for a dollar last time I was there, instead of the $2 each in the States, when you can find them). I wouldn’t have to mail order the best coffee ever (Vittoria) for my espresso maker. Speaking of coffee, I could have flat whites– which are a slightly stronger version of our lattes as far as I can tell – almost anywhere, instead of having to go to yet another Starbucks (though there are now a few Starbucks in Sydney). I even love the supermarkets – and the packaging of foods. I swear it is all smaller there, and less emphatically labeled (a calmer approach seems to prevail in marketing).
But I would be so far away – though Abraham does not run screaming from the idea, but I am sure the rest of our extended families would be upset to see us go so far. Sydney feels familiar yet fresh. And it is a city. I miss city living so much.
The college boyfriend is harder to write about. I could describe him – let’s call him Adam – and many things about him were fabulous. We were together for a long time. We grew up a lot together. Details are easy to remember, but I don't feel like committing them to "paper." I always worry when I start thinking about him, even dreaming about him (just run-of-the-mill dreams – nothing overtly sex-related here… really!). We were a good match – and there used to always be the feeling that we would end up together in the end (that’s a tad redundant, but you get the point)… though that feeling disappeared when I met Abraham, whom I love and did marry four years ago, whom I had a great kid with... But now I am thinking about Adam…
So what do I need to face here in my own life that is making me look at greener grass? What angst do I need to deal with? Living in the suburbs? Being married and having kids? Am I beginning a mid-life crisis? Too many questions. Am I ever just going to be able to relax and be?
Sure, I know Sydney. My mother lives there. I went to high school there for six months. (This escape to Sydney happened when I was 16, and I was definitely the driver of our move there. Almost as soon as I got there, I wanted to be back in New York City – so even then it was indeed a misguided escape, probably from some deep teenage angst.) I could live in a city! I could eat passionfruit (five for a dollar last time I was there, instead of the $2 each in the States, when you can find them). I wouldn’t have to mail order the best coffee ever (Vittoria) for my espresso maker. Speaking of coffee, I could have flat whites– which are a slightly stronger version of our lattes as far as I can tell – almost anywhere, instead of having to go to yet another Starbucks (though there are now a few Starbucks in Sydney). I even love the supermarkets – and the packaging of foods. I swear it is all smaller there, and less emphatically labeled (a calmer approach seems to prevail in marketing).
But I would be so far away – though Abraham does not run screaming from the idea, but I am sure the rest of our extended families would be upset to see us go so far. Sydney feels familiar yet fresh. And it is a city. I miss city living so much.
The college boyfriend is harder to write about. I could describe him – let’s call him Adam – and many things about him were fabulous. We were together for a long time. We grew up a lot together. Details are easy to remember, but I don't feel like committing them to "paper." I always worry when I start thinking about him, even dreaming about him (just run-of-the-mill dreams – nothing overtly sex-related here… really!). We were a good match – and there used to always be the feeling that we would end up together in the end (that’s a tad redundant, but you get the point)… though that feeling disappeared when I met Abraham, whom I love and did marry four years ago, whom I had a great kid with... But now I am thinking about Adam…
So what do I need to face here in my own life that is making me look at greener grass? What angst do I need to deal with? Living in the suburbs? Being married and having kids? Am I beginning a mid-life crisis? Too many questions. Am I ever just going to be able to relax and be?
Thursday, July 27, 2006
on vacation, or my in-laws drive me crazy
Really. A cliché, I know. But I can’t help it! They are both sweet and generous, but still.
We – Iz, Abraham, and Zi the Dog – are currently on vacation in Downeast Maine… at the in-laws gorgeous, huge house on a bay. The weather is fantastic – anything is compared to the DC area in July and August – and I am actually on real vacation – no work! I have not had a real vacation in a long, long time. Unfortunately, they are here the whole time.
- They have the same conversations over and over (their daughter needing to meet “someone”, what to have for dinner the next night while eating dinner, which side of Abraham’s family Iz looks like, how the food or a restaurant is “the best” in one way or another, how they and their neighbors are worried about property taxes – to name a few of the stock conversations).
- New conversations confuse them –especially my father in-law, who joins in a conversation with a hesitant, yet know-it-all tone, but is completely off about the actual topic. Any new conversations quickly devolve into the same old conversations.
- They do very little but putter (come on, they are in Maine, on vacation – do something for god's sake!) – she cleans and goes to the grocery store, he moves from room to room reading – and talk about potential plans (“Oh, there is a silent auction there,” “Such-and-such movie is playing,” “I want to build model boats,” etc.).
- They have no real interests – though maybe I am being a creative/intellectual snob here. Sure, he reads books constantly and others describe him as smart. Yes, she reads the newspaper. But he often reads very trashy thrillers et al (So badly written that Abraham often cannot finish what his dad recommends), and she reads the Style section, especially the wedding announcements in full.
- They seem so traditional – he is a doctor (mostly retired now), she was primarily a stay-at-home mom who still caters almost entirely to her husband – for example, she makes him lunch while he sits and reads; he hates writing thank you cards and making plans with others, so she does it all. Maybe part of my annoyance is culture clash – I just don’t get it.
Yes, it is their house (and we could not afford a vacation in a location such as this); yes, I am probably being supremely ungracious – and I feel more so because I often sense they are trying to please me, which makes my annoyance and guilt worse. I used to think I was a good person.
A major bonus (and source of guilt): they will babysit Iz, so Abraham and I can go running, cycling, kayaking… Oh, I am going to hell. Maybe not such a bad level of hell, but hell nonetheless.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
matchmaking circumcision
So I am receiving spam messages that are stock "tips." Maybe one or two a day.For, oh, a month, I have just been copying the (supposed) names of the senders and the titles of the messages. The names are pretty basic (Tim Shields), though sometimes a bit bizarre (Nappie Greer).
The messages titles can be compelling, from the simple (autocrat) to the poetic (energies solace).
I got the funniest message title by far today: "matchmaking circumcision." The closest runner up is "polar bear well rounded."
Monday, July 10, 2006
first run-in with death (don't worry)
Iz had his first run-in with death today. Not to worry -- I just mean that he saw his first dead animal, a robin at the playground. It was a rather neat scene -- just a robin lying on the ground with some flies on its head.
He and some other toddlers spied it and gathered around. We parents moved in and whisked them away in one way or another ("The bird is not working/not living", "Don't touch it," etc.). One parent moved it to the trash can using some branches like giant chopsticks. No one yelled, no one paniced. It was all a pretty calm, but clear, group parental reaction.
Iz seemed unaffected. Until he was playing nearby the dead bird site and a branch brushed his shoulder. He cried, terrified, and ran to me. Huh? I thought. Then he went back to play. A leaf on the ground brushed his ankle, and he had the same reaction. Does this have to do with the bird? I thought. An 11-year-old said to me, "Do you think he is scared because of the bird?"
He would not let me go after those two incidents. When we got home, he would not get out of his stroller on the grass. He insisted that I carry him to the cement path to the front door. Once inside, he wouldn't let me go for over an hour. He talkd about "bird" a few times, but I did not understand the words surrounding the one clear word (Iz is not a big conversationalist, though he can and does say a lot and have a decent vocabulary). If I tried to put him down, the fear tears started, and he would stand on his toes as if the ground was what he was trying to avoid.
I wonder why he thought to be that scared of the dead bird?
He and some other toddlers spied it and gathered around. We parents moved in and whisked them away in one way or another ("The bird is not working/not living", "Don't touch it," etc.). One parent moved it to the trash can using some branches like giant chopsticks. No one yelled, no one paniced. It was all a pretty calm, but clear, group parental reaction.
Iz seemed unaffected. Until he was playing nearby the dead bird site and a branch brushed his shoulder. He cried, terrified, and ran to me. Huh? I thought. Then he went back to play. A leaf on the ground brushed his ankle, and he had the same reaction. Does this have to do with the bird? I thought. An 11-year-old said to me, "Do you think he is scared because of the bird?"
He would not let me go after those two incidents. When we got home, he would not get out of his stroller on the grass. He insisted that I carry him to the cement path to the front door. Once inside, he wouldn't let me go for over an hour. He talkd about "bird" a few times, but I did not understand the words surrounding the one clear word (Iz is not a big conversationalist, though he can and does say a lot and have a decent vocabulary). If I tried to put him down, the fear tears started, and he would stand on his toes as if the ground was what he was trying to avoid.
I wonder why he thought to be that scared of the dead bird?
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
first day of school
I dropped Iz off for his first day of "school" -- a summer program in town that meets two days a week for four hours each day. One of the days is called"Mothers' Day Out", the other the "Early School Program." The former concentrates on holidays and social stuff, the latter on school-like topics (colors, shapes, numers, letters). But the teachers, kids, and place are the same. The kids arrive, play with toys, do an art project, play outside, eat lunch, and again play with toys or go outside. Perfect for little Iz.
How to explain to a two-year-old kid who has never been to school what school is... Didn't matter. We arrived at the door and he took off without a backward glance. The Seasame Street theme helped (he pounced on a little plastic Elmo action figure).
I hovered a bit before I left. I wasn't worried that the teachers couldn't take care of him. But I did wonder if I should tell them that he doesn't eat a damn thing. I decided not to because it occurred to me that he might eat better around other kids and when those around him had no idea he is a pain about food. We'll see. I'll probably get a starving, exhausted child back at 1pm. Maybe then he'll start figuring the food thing out.
This school thing is odd. Now I have four hours and no work on my desk to get done (when I don't have child care for him, I have tons of work -- am I cursed?). Sure, I could clean some part of the house. Yes, I could clean and organize my office. Maybe tomorrow, when he goes again. Now I think I am going to exercise out back, then paint a bit (I'm still working on the big version of the Zamia Street house). Maybe, maybe, then I'll start in on cleaning my office.
Update: I received an "Iz has messed himself, please come and change him" call an hour after I dropped him off. You see, they don't do diapers, though they don't expect a two-year-old to be toilet trained, just toilet "aware." I sent him in pull ups to at least pretend he is aware. I ran over (okay, drove over), changed him, and left again.
The report at 1pm was that he been great -- not even cranky when he was tired (which the teacher said some of the older kids were -- understandably). He is a rallyer when tired, as long as there are other kids around and toys to play with. But he didn't eat a damn thing.
How to explain to a two-year-old kid who has never been to school what school is... Didn't matter. We arrived at the door and he took off without a backward glance. The Seasame Street theme helped (he pounced on a little plastic Elmo action figure).
I hovered a bit before I left. I wasn't worried that the teachers couldn't take care of him. But I did wonder if I should tell them that he doesn't eat a damn thing. I decided not to because it occurred to me that he might eat better around other kids and when those around him had no idea he is a pain about food. We'll see. I'll probably get a starving, exhausted child back at 1pm. Maybe then he'll start figuring the food thing out.
This school thing is odd. Now I have four hours and no work on my desk to get done (when I don't have child care for him, I have tons of work -- am I cursed?). Sure, I could clean some part of the house. Yes, I could clean and organize my office. Maybe tomorrow, when he goes again. Now I think I am going to exercise out back, then paint a bit (I'm still working on the big version of the Zamia Street house). Maybe, maybe, then I'll start in on cleaning my office.
Update: I received an "Iz has messed himself, please come and change him" call an hour after I dropped him off. You see, they don't do diapers, though they don't expect a two-year-old to be toilet trained, just toilet "aware." I sent him in pull ups to at least pretend he is aware. I ran over (okay, drove over), changed him, and left again.
The report at 1pm was that he been great -- not even cranky when he was tired (which the teacher said some of the older kids were -- understandably). He is a rallyer when tired, as long as there are other kids around and toys to play with. But he didn't eat a damn thing.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
where have I been?
It all started when Iz fractured his foot on May 31. He climbed on a little square cafe table on our back deck. As I walked toward him and asked him to get down, he smiled that "of course I'm not going to listen to you -- in fact, I'm going to make the whole situation more risky" and walked to the edge of the table and jumped. Not off the table, but the table tipped, he flattened out on the table top, and the two hit the ground. Not very fast, not very hard, not very far. But it was enough.
The foot breaking happened right when I had a huge, unfamiliar editing job for a new client that I had promised to them by June 5 (I did get an extension until June 9 -- and just managed to get it done). I may sound selfish here -- believe me, I would rather make sure Iz was okay than do the editing job -- but the facts were that I had this huge job and had made a promise to a client.
Iz was a mess for a few days (understandably). The first night, he slept no more than 3 hours combined -- no more than 15 minutes at a time. The rest of the time he was crying -- ranging from hysterical to wimpering. I knew he was exhausted and drove around with him for an hour at 2 a.m. (Interesting out there on the roads at 2 a.m. We live in an area which has a high number of car thefts and I think I saw a car being stolen. But what was I going to do about it? Pull over and ask the three young men -- who were hiding their faces from my view -- what they were doing while my two-year-old screamed. Not likely. They were gone by the time I made a third loop down the road -- as were two cars.)
The type of crying seemed like the pain kind, but it turns out he was totally frustrated with the splint. Took us two days to figure that one out -- if we unwrapped the ace bandage, he fell right asleep.
Anyway... I snapped. I indulged in my own hysterical crying and rants that spiraled into hopelessness. (A complete mental breakdown? Hard to say.) I think I still have not recovered. I am questioning everything:
Maybe I'll recover and stop doubting everything.
Iz is, of course, recovering (I was never worried that he wouldn't). He never had a cast put on because the first split gave him a huge blister -- and you can't put a cast on a blister (festering possibilities). So we can take off his splint, bathe him, stop him from screaming hysterically... And he runs around on the split like nothing is wrong. He calls it his "big foot."
The foot breaking happened right when I had a huge, unfamiliar editing job for a new client that I had promised to them by June 5 (I did get an extension until June 9 -- and just managed to get it done). I may sound selfish here -- believe me, I would rather make sure Iz was okay than do the editing job -- but the facts were that I had this huge job and had made a promise to a client.
Iz was a mess for a few days (understandably). The first night, he slept no more than 3 hours combined -- no more than 15 minutes at a time. The rest of the time he was crying -- ranging from hysterical to wimpering. I knew he was exhausted and drove around with him for an hour at 2 a.m. (Interesting out there on the roads at 2 a.m. We live in an area which has a high number of car thefts and I think I saw a car being stolen. But what was I going to do about it? Pull over and ask the three young men -- who were hiding their faces from my view -- what they were doing while my two-year-old screamed. Not likely. They were gone by the time I made a third loop down the road -- as were two cars.)
The type of crying seemed like the pain kind, but it turns out he was totally frustrated with the splint. Took us two days to figure that one out -- if we unwrapped the ace bandage, he fell right asleep.
Anyway... I snapped. I indulged in my own hysterical crying and rants that spiraled into hopelessness. (A complete mental breakdown? Hard to say.) I think I still have not recovered. I am questioning everything:
- I love taking care of Iz, but should I put him in more extensive child care so I can get work done?
- I can't imagine myself not working, but could I work much less and not be destitute?
- Should I bag the whole idea of having a second child?
Maybe I'll recover and stop doubting everything.
Iz is, of course, recovering (I was never worried that he wouldn't). He never had a cast put on because the first split gave him a huge blister -- and you can't put a cast on a blister (festering possibilities). So we can take off his splint, bathe him, stop him from screaming hysterically... And he runs around on the split like nothing is wrong. He calls it his "big foot."
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