“Get your boats ready! Does everyone have their boats?” A mom has commandeered the water table. Her long straggly blonde hair and brown corduroy skirt flap in the morning breeze.
“Boat!” Toddler shouts, scrambling around to where the mom is handing out pieces of playground bark. The cement water table is in the shape of a mountain. A twist of a knob on the side releases a bubble of water through the top. Channels guide the water around and down the mountain, alternately into pools and over precipices.
“Here’s a nice one” the mom says bending down and offering Toddler a piece of bark. He grabs it, pulling it in to his chest.
The mom points to where a piece of bark is stuck in an eddy near the top of the mountain. “See? This other’s one’s too long. It’s gotten stuck.”
“Stuck!” Toddler repeats, crestfallen.
The children watch transfixed as the mom dislodges the troubling piece of bark sending it lobbing down the mountain buoyed by the current.
Despite its appealing shape and the opportunity to get refreshingly wet from the overflow of water, the water table doesn’t usually hold kids’ attention long. It’s an activity requiring parent involvement. Anxious to promote conservation the parks department engineered the faucet so that it must be held down to keep water flowing. The average preschooler isn’t strong enough to hold it down for long. The average parent isn't patient enough.
Today children are drawn to the table like magnets though. The loud blonde mom is holding down the knob ensuring a continued flow of water down the table. She has violated the normal rule of instructing only her own toddler. She has taken it upon herself to give any child within earshot a lesson in boating.
“Ready with your boats? Okay! On your marks, get set, go!” The children release their boats near the top of the mountain with anticipation. At first their eyes are glued to their individual boats, but they soon begin to experiment. They watch the fate of other children’s boats. Some are trying to make rocks float – to no avail.
Sand accumulated into a pile stops the course of Toddler’s boat.
“Leaf!” he demands. Has he figured out that a leaf might not have gotten stuck like a piece of bark? I grab him a leaf. We used leaves as boats once before at the water table. (I didn’t have the presence of mind to call them “boats,” though.) Other children quickly notice the leaf boat and begin testing the floating properties of leaves themselves.
At first, we playground moms had deferred to the blonde woman who was managing the activity. We enjoyed watching our kids enjoying themselves. We contentedly nursed our Starbucks, glad to be relieved of the burden of parenting for a moment.
Then our best parent selves took over. We began testing boats alongside our kids and soon everyone was wet, talking with each other and the children. Previously all strangers, we became community.
The children eventually disperse. It has become hot in the noonday sun and they instinctively have drifted toward the canopied playground structure. I spy the blonde mom there.
“You must be a teacher.” I mean to compliment her.
“Nope. Just too much coffee this morning.” She grins.
“Come on Caden! Let’s check out the tunnel!” Her son, toddling a bit aimlessly now, trots over to his mom. She excitedly leads him off to the next adventure.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Are Smartphones Making Us Dumb?
I started this blog entry two weeks ago but didn’t post it. I was worried it wasn’t quite fully articulated. I was worried some readers might construe it as a condemnation. (By the way, I have more than five “followers.” Thanks, you guys, for all your feedback and encouragement.)
When I heard a teaser for a story on NPR yesterday on how receiving e-mails by phone produces anxiety – similar to my topic in this post – I punched the air in frustration. They scooped me! I can’t find a link to the story on their site. Did anyone else hear the piece? This blog entry is a little different from my original. Maybe I wouldn’t have finished it if I hadn’t heard the NPR teaser. Maybe NPR gave me the validation I needed to hit "publish." I'm finding that blogging is a balance of the ideas and the writing. This entry isn't perfect but at least it's out there. I have limited writing time and if I set something aside because it needs more work it could be weeks until I get back to it. During that space of time I lose the thread of the idea. I have moved on to something else.
In the future perhaps this entry would be an “op ed” piece somewhere. I’ve gotten bitten by the freelance bug and recently finished my second article for my local online newspaper. That article is here. The prior one is here. It’s an unpaid gig, but great practice in writing for an audience. Until I get my act together to pitch my stories to paying media outlets, you can find my good ideas on this blog. This is where I’m practicing.
Anyways, here’s the post:
I am at the beck and call of enough people and too many things, which, I have decided will not include e-mail, as much as I do love it. I just a got new phone: the fancy kind. I can access the internet from it (for free for one month) and, niftily, check my email. That’s what I wanted to do, check my e-mail, not have my e-mail check me.
I caught myself grabbing my new phone waiting in the car as my husband got money from the ATM for our date on Saturday. What was I doing? Did I need a device to occupy my every idle minute? I put my phone back in my purse. No. I decided then and there that I’m not going let the phone fragment my quickly deteriorating ability to focus on something or, in this instance, my ability not to focus on something.
There were hours and hours of my childhood when I wasn’t doing anything. These do-nothing moments were when and how my young mind grew. I appreciated the cool of the shade in a covered picnic area at a park with my mom on a hot and humid day. Sitting on the porch after dinner I was available to chat with a neighbor passing by on a walk. When I was in college the radio in my car didn’t work. People wondered how the silence didn’t drive me nuts, but I looked forward to the two hours it took to drive home to see my parents. I composed essays during those drives. I thought through nuances of relationships. I made plans for myself, for my week, my year, my career, my life. Are our new devices preventing us from thinking? Just as troublesome, are our new devices preventing us from relaxing and being truly present in our lives?
I was at the library several times this week with Toddler (and Baby, asleep in the stroller) while Girlie was attending a preschool camp in the building next door. Toddler has been entranced with the library’s new train table. I’m so excited that he has found something to hold his interest. I now may be freed up to do something else nearby while he plays trains. Perhaps I should check the library catalog for a book to place on hold for myself, or, even better, I should find a book and start reading it. But last week, when Toddler came up to me presenting the incredible spiffyness of yet another steam engine, I feigned interest as I looked up from yes, my phone. Ugh. The fact that another mom was checking hers too did not make it okay.
Before the new phone I would have been sitting there vegging out while Toddler played. Actually I partly would have been watching his play and partly people watching. Maybe browsing some titles on the parenting shelf. A little parenting technique I love is to watch my child until he looks up at me from his play. We make eye contact and I give him a silent nod of encouragement. Maybe we share a quick smile then both go back to our separate pursuits. Pouring my face into my phone the day Toddler discovered the new train table I was missing out on moments of actual human connection.
So I decided to turn off the feature that alerts me whenever I get a new e-mail. I contemplated returning the phone and going back to my old one. But I’ve finally figured out that I can still check my e-mail by bringing up my yahoo account on the internet. Now that my daughter’s preschool sometimes sends important messages via e-mail, now that my friends are more inclined to e-mail than pick up the phone, now that I’m writing articles and needing to grab information when I have a few spare moments, now that I’m “working,” I’ll probably pay the ten extra bucks per month to keep internet access on my phone. With the e-mail alert feature turned off at least my spare moments won’t be interrupted by that important-sounding chime. I have space to think and be. For now.
When I heard a teaser for a story on NPR yesterday on how receiving e-mails by phone produces anxiety – similar to my topic in this post – I punched the air in frustration. They scooped me! I can’t find a link to the story on their site. Did anyone else hear the piece? This blog entry is a little different from my original. Maybe I wouldn’t have finished it if I hadn’t heard the NPR teaser. Maybe NPR gave me the validation I needed to hit "publish." I'm finding that blogging is a balance of the ideas and the writing. This entry isn't perfect but at least it's out there. I have limited writing time and if I set something aside because it needs more work it could be weeks until I get back to it. During that space of time I lose the thread of the idea. I have moved on to something else.
In the future perhaps this entry would be an “op ed” piece somewhere. I’ve gotten bitten by the freelance bug and recently finished my second article for my local online newspaper. That article is here. The prior one is here. It’s an unpaid gig, but great practice in writing for an audience. Until I get my act together to pitch my stories to paying media outlets, you can find my good ideas on this blog. This is where I’m practicing.
Anyways, here’s the post:
I am at the beck and call of enough people and too many things, which, I have decided will not include e-mail, as much as I do love it. I just a got new phone: the fancy kind. I can access the internet from it (for free for one month) and, niftily, check my email. That’s what I wanted to do, check my e-mail, not have my e-mail check me.
I caught myself grabbing my new phone waiting in the car as my husband got money from the ATM for our date on Saturday. What was I doing? Did I need a device to occupy my every idle minute? I put my phone back in my purse. No. I decided then and there that I’m not going let the phone fragment my quickly deteriorating ability to focus on something or, in this instance, my ability not to focus on something.
There were hours and hours of my childhood when I wasn’t doing anything. These do-nothing moments were when and how my young mind grew. I appreciated the cool of the shade in a covered picnic area at a park with my mom on a hot and humid day. Sitting on the porch after dinner I was available to chat with a neighbor passing by on a walk. When I was in college the radio in my car didn’t work. People wondered how the silence didn’t drive me nuts, but I looked forward to the two hours it took to drive home to see my parents. I composed essays during those drives. I thought through nuances of relationships. I made plans for myself, for my week, my year, my career, my life. Are our new devices preventing us from thinking? Just as troublesome, are our new devices preventing us from relaxing and being truly present in our lives?
I was at the library several times this week with Toddler (and Baby, asleep in the stroller) while Girlie was attending a preschool camp in the building next door. Toddler has been entranced with the library’s new train table. I’m so excited that he has found something to hold his interest. I now may be freed up to do something else nearby while he plays trains. Perhaps I should check the library catalog for a book to place on hold for myself, or, even better, I should find a book and start reading it. But last week, when Toddler came up to me presenting the incredible spiffyness of yet another steam engine, I feigned interest as I looked up from yes, my phone. Ugh. The fact that another mom was checking hers too did not make it okay.
Before the new phone I would have been sitting there vegging out while Toddler played. Actually I partly would have been watching his play and partly people watching. Maybe browsing some titles on the parenting shelf. A little parenting technique I love is to watch my child until he looks up at me from his play. We make eye contact and I give him a silent nod of encouragement. Maybe we share a quick smile then both go back to our separate pursuits. Pouring my face into my phone the day Toddler discovered the new train table I was missing out on moments of actual human connection.
So I decided to turn off the feature that alerts me whenever I get a new e-mail. I contemplated returning the phone and going back to my old one. But I’ve finally figured out that I can still check my e-mail by bringing up my yahoo account on the internet. Now that my daughter’s preschool sometimes sends important messages via e-mail, now that my friends are more inclined to e-mail than pick up the phone, now that I’m writing articles and needing to grab information when I have a few spare moments, now that I’m “working,” I’ll probably pay the ten extra bucks per month to keep internet access on my phone. With the e-mail alert feature turned off at least my spare moments won’t be interrupted by that important-sounding chime. I have space to think and be. For now.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
A Wind Change
It’s been too long since I last blogged. I’ve wanted to try to post at a rate of every week to ten days, but I’ve fallen behind now that writing time has become even more precious with three little ones to watch instead of two. My big writing project in July was reporting and publishing my first newspaper article in 15 years! I only was able to do it because hubby watched the two older kids for me during the event that I covered and my mom watched Baby. She left town this morning with my dad after a visit of nearly six weeks.
Mom quickly settled into a routine here: She arrived by 8 am, helped me take the kids out for a morning outing, helped with lunch, and supervised during the afternoon so I could sleep or run errands while Toddler napped. Mom tried to leave by around 5:30 each day, after I had prepared dinner but before hubby came home and we sat down to eat. She and dad stayed at a hotel nearby and ate dinner out each night. Mom thought the time apart was essential to prevent all of us from getting sick of each other before the six weeks were up. She also wanted us to have private family time in the evening during the important rituals of dinner, bath, books, and bed. She knew we needed to adjust to our new dynamic.
To Girlie, my mom is “Nanny,” (the pet name I have for my mom’s mother too) and she certainly has lived up to the dictionary definition of that word during this transition time. She ran after Toddler at the park and was more careful to minimize knocks to his head than even I. She managed his persistent diaper rash. She played Barbies with Girlie in the afternoon. She braided Girlie’s hair. But Nanny’s chief role was baby whisperer. I noticed Baby markedly relaxed in her arms this week. He had become comfortable with this woman, master at inducing his sleep. She brought to bear every pertinent mothering skill except breastfeeding. That stressful function was reserved for me.
Fittingly, the movie “Mary Poppins” has been the soundtrack of my parents’ visit. I really can’t blame Girlie for her recent obsession, as I too find “A Spoonful of Sugar” and “Chim Chim Cheree” supremely comforting. My mom enjoyed watching “Mary Poppins” again too. Its relevance to our current situation was not lost on her. “I can feel a wind change coming,” my mom tearfully said last weekend with the knowledge that her visit – and her usefulness to us while we adjusted to being a family of five – was coming to an end.
We all are better adjusted to our new family roles and responsibilities than we were six weeks ago. We are in no way close to finding a new groove, or breathing a sigh of relief, or getting more than three hours of sleep at a time, but we are blinking in the sunlight, opening our eyes, and getting a lay of the land. It is a land that is starting to seem appealing, one we might be able to navigate, if not now, then soon – hopefully.
I’m no longer frozen in fear at the prospect of facing my three children every morning without my mom’s help only because I was blessed to find a nanny – of the dictionary definition. She starts Monday. She will watch Baby and Toddler for two afternoons every week while Girlie is in preschool. In addition, my in-laws, who live nearby, will watch Baby and Girlie one morning a week while I take Toddler to preschool. So I will have a lot of help.
Actually, of the two days the nanny comes, I need to spend one afternoon with Girlie at her preschool (which is a co-cop), so I really have only one afternoon per week completely by myself. But it’s something: a little bump in the sheer rock face towering above me on which I can grab my toe.
I plan to write during that afternoon.
Mom quickly settled into a routine here: She arrived by 8 am, helped me take the kids out for a morning outing, helped with lunch, and supervised during the afternoon so I could sleep or run errands while Toddler napped. Mom tried to leave by around 5:30 each day, after I had prepared dinner but before hubby came home and we sat down to eat. She and dad stayed at a hotel nearby and ate dinner out each night. Mom thought the time apart was essential to prevent all of us from getting sick of each other before the six weeks were up. She also wanted us to have private family time in the evening during the important rituals of dinner, bath, books, and bed. She knew we needed to adjust to our new dynamic.
To Girlie, my mom is “Nanny,” (the pet name I have for my mom’s mother too) and she certainly has lived up to the dictionary definition of that word during this transition time. She ran after Toddler at the park and was more careful to minimize knocks to his head than even I. She managed his persistent diaper rash. She played Barbies with Girlie in the afternoon. She braided Girlie’s hair. But Nanny’s chief role was baby whisperer. I noticed Baby markedly relaxed in her arms this week. He had become comfortable with this woman, master at inducing his sleep. She brought to bear every pertinent mothering skill except breastfeeding. That stressful function was reserved for me.
Fittingly, the movie “Mary Poppins” has been the soundtrack of my parents’ visit. I really can’t blame Girlie for her recent obsession, as I too find “A Spoonful of Sugar” and “Chim Chim Cheree” supremely comforting. My mom enjoyed watching “Mary Poppins” again too. Its relevance to our current situation was not lost on her. “I can feel a wind change coming,” my mom tearfully said last weekend with the knowledge that her visit – and her usefulness to us while we adjusted to being a family of five – was coming to an end.
We all are better adjusted to our new family roles and responsibilities than we were six weeks ago. We are in no way close to finding a new groove, or breathing a sigh of relief, or getting more than three hours of sleep at a time, but we are blinking in the sunlight, opening our eyes, and getting a lay of the land. It is a land that is starting to seem appealing, one we might be able to navigate, if not now, then soon – hopefully.
I’m no longer frozen in fear at the prospect of facing my three children every morning without my mom’s help only because I was blessed to find a nanny – of the dictionary definition. She starts Monday. She will watch Baby and Toddler for two afternoons every week while Girlie is in preschool. In addition, my in-laws, who live nearby, will watch Baby and Girlie one morning a week while I take Toddler to preschool. So I will have a lot of help.
Actually, of the two days the nanny comes, I need to spend one afternoon with Girlie at her preschool (which is a co-cop), so I really have only one afternoon per week completely by myself. But it’s something: a little bump in the sheer rock face towering above me on which I can grab my toe.
I plan to write during that afternoon.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Collecting Book Ideas
As my blogger profile boasts, I’ve been working on ideas for a book, but very piecemeal. When I first mentioned it to hubby his suggestion was to come up with an outline. But I really am not sure exactly where my book is going, so writing an outline won’t work for me, at least not at this point. Following the oft-cited advice that writers should “write what they know,” I’m thinking the book will be about my largely positive experience growing up within a tightly knit Catholic school and church community in suburbia in the 1980s and early 90s.
Since I’m not yet sure how I will structure the book I’ve been writing a page or two on different topics that I think I will include in the book as they occur to me. I’ve been researching on the Internet and checking books out of the library in large stacks. It’s like I’m collecting tidbits I’ve found on a nature walk. I’m hoping a shape will start to emerge organically from these disparate efforts.
One of my strategies was to get a sense of spiritual memoirs written by people about my age. I conducted an Amazon search and came up with Not that Kind of Girl, by Carlene Bauer, released last year (Harper Collins). Unlike what one might think is the usual approach in writing a spiritual memoir, Bauer tells the story of losing her religion rather than of finding it. But Bauer lets go of her faith so thoughtfully that her book brought me to more closely consider why I have held on to mine and where the challenges lie in maintaining a spiritual outlook on life.
Bauer recounts how religious teachings at the nondenominational churches and Christian schools she attended shaped her perspective though elementary and high school and continuing in college and her early working years. Unfortunately, the shoots of her childhood spirituality, watered by the comforting wording and colorful stories of the King James Bible, were trampled during episodes such as a terrorizing experience where a Sunday school teacher vividly described the coming of the Antichrist at the end of the world. In high school, Bauer had trouble reconciling her love for the Jesus of the gospels with her distaste for her pastors’ vehement denunciation of popular culture. Nevertheless Bauer conscientiously took notes during the sermons at church and resolved to be the best Christian she could.
Bauer’s questioning intensified through college and her early working years. Despite a hope in God’s plan for her, she at the same time searched for proof that religion was bunk. She attended a small Jesuit college and there was exposed to existential philosophers, none of which quite reverberated with her. She was known as the “good girl” who didn’t party and was saving herself for marriage. But Bauer remained confused as to whether she truly believed the values she had embraced or was avoiding experimentation due to her timid personality. She resolves to test her spirituality by trying out the lifestyle she has avoided in New York City after college.
Bauer never feels fully comfortable eschewing her spiritual side. She tries out drinking and one-night-stands, but they don’t provide her questioning mind any solace. Finally she tries out the Catholic Church, converting in a quick decision that saddens her mom but cheers her grandma, a Catholic. Bauer doesn’t find her answers in the Catholic Church either, and that disappointment seems to cement her eventual disengagement from religion altogether. The suggestion at the end of the book is that she finally finds a man who satisfies her intellect and the relationship provides the mooring she had been looking for in the form of religion.
There are flashes of really elegant writing in the book, Bauer’s first. She was rightly encouraged by a high school English teacher to become a writer. But it depressed me that Bauer’s earnest search for spirituality was in the end fruitless. My nearness to my children, my witness of their growing up, has underlined for me the presence of the Divine in this life. But with a popular culture so largely disdainful of any sense of the spiritual or religion beyond positivity or self-actualization, my teaching my children prayers, bringing them to church, instilling in them a love for God, seems more and more counter cultural. Is a spiritual outlook relevant in today’s world? How do you encourage your spirituality, be it through structured religion or not?
Since I’m not yet sure how I will structure the book I’ve been writing a page or two on different topics that I think I will include in the book as they occur to me. I’ve been researching on the Internet and checking books out of the library in large stacks. It’s like I’m collecting tidbits I’ve found on a nature walk. I’m hoping a shape will start to emerge organically from these disparate efforts.
One of my strategies was to get a sense of spiritual memoirs written by people about my age. I conducted an Amazon search and came up with Not that Kind of Girl, by Carlene Bauer, released last year (Harper Collins). Unlike what one might think is the usual approach in writing a spiritual memoir, Bauer tells the story of losing her religion rather than of finding it. But Bauer lets go of her faith so thoughtfully that her book brought me to more closely consider why I have held on to mine and where the challenges lie in maintaining a spiritual outlook on life.
Bauer recounts how religious teachings at the nondenominational churches and Christian schools she attended shaped her perspective though elementary and high school and continuing in college and her early working years. Unfortunately, the shoots of her childhood spirituality, watered by the comforting wording and colorful stories of the King James Bible, were trampled during episodes such as a terrorizing experience where a Sunday school teacher vividly described the coming of the Antichrist at the end of the world. In high school, Bauer had trouble reconciling her love for the Jesus of the gospels with her distaste for her pastors’ vehement denunciation of popular culture. Nevertheless Bauer conscientiously took notes during the sermons at church and resolved to be the best Christian she could.
Bauer’s questioning intensified through college and her early working years. Despite a hope in God’s plan for her, she at the same time searched for proof that religion was bunk. She attended a small Jesuit college and there was exposed to existential philosophers, none of which quite reverberated with her. She was known as the “good girl” who didn’t party and was saving herself for marriage. But Bauer remained confused as to whether she truly believed the values she had embraced or was avoiding experimentation due to her timid personality. She resolves to test her spirituality by trying out the lifestyle she has avoided in New York City after college.
Bauer never feels fully comfortable eschewing her spiritual side. She tries out drinking and one-night-stands, but they don’t provide her questioning mind any solace. Finally she tries out the Catholic Church, converting in a quick decision that saddens her mom but cheers her grandma, a Catholic. Bauer doesn’t find her answers in the Catholic Church either, and that disappointment seems to cement her eventual disengagement from religion altogether. The suggestion at the end of the book is that she finally finds a man who satisfies her intellect and the relationship provides the mooring she had been looking for in the form of religion.
There are flashes of really elegant writing in the book, Bauer’s first. She was rightly encouraged by a high school English teacher to become a writer. But it depressed me that Bauer’s earnest search for spirituality was in the end fruitless. My nearness to my children, my witness of their growing up, has underlined for me the presence of the Divine in this life. But with a popular culture so largely disdainful of any sense of the spiritual or religion beyond positivity or self-actualization, my teaching my children prayers, bringing them to church, instilling in them a love for God, seems more and more counter cultural. Is a spiritual outlook relevant in today’s world? How do you encourage your spirituality, be it through structured religion or not?
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Wonderful Unknown
We pulled out of our driveway at about 4:00 am Friday. My sister-in-law seemingly had made record time on the drive over to our house to watch our two sleeping kids. “Good luck!” she said as I appeared in the kitchen to replenish my water bottle. “Don’t kiss me,” she added as I leaned toward her. “But, not to worry. It’s just a summer cold, nothing serious.” I did want to kiss her. I was so grateful that the birthing process had gone into motion: my water had finally broken and contractions were starting to crunch through me.
The moon was white and round in the black sky over the field across the street from the entrance to our housing complex. Every time I see the moon I think of all the nights my dad called me to the screen door of our townhouse to gape at its lustrous beauty. Hubby turned our car onto the empty road and a contraction started as we crossed the first intersection but, watching the moon dip under the glowing clouds over the hills, in place of panic a sense of calm nestled around me.
The girls at the reception desk in my OB’s office had joked that I would deliver last weekend because there would be a full moon. After pre-term labor at 35 weeks had suggested that Baby would come early like my other two children, we were all surprised that it appeared I would make it to my due date. I’ve never felt the ripeness of late pregnancy before. Toward the end of this pregnancy my earlier fears of needing to take care of a preemie baby, needing a c-section, or of some other unforeseen calamity, mercifully gave way to the relative peace of knowing that the pregnancy needed to end - in one way or another.
Labor surprised me as quick and unmedicated. There was not enough time for the two bags of IV fluid that were a prerequisite for placing an epidural. After a particularly strong contraction accompanied with a yelp for what I then knew was my illusive epidural, the labor nurse firmly instructed me to get in bed. She hurriedly checked me then desperately called for my doctor, who happened to be on duty at the hospital that morning. “You’re going to have this baby naturally,” the labor nurse, MJ, said. “He’ll be out in one good push.” Pressing into the pain as she and my doctor instructed, pressing through the push, the rest, the second push and the delivery, I was given the unexpected gift of doing it myself.
The last two weeks hubby and I have been frustrated with our lack of control over when Baby would be born. Hubby started his leave when I hit 38 weeks, which was when Toddler was born, and seemed reasonable considering the pre-term labor scare I had already had with Baby. But Baby faked us out and came much later than expected. Hubby had wanted the majority of his two weeks’ leave to be bonding time with his new son, but he had to go back to work yesterday, after a scant two days at home with Baby. Actually, those two weeks that hubby intended to spend bonding with Baby were well spent giving Girlie and, especially Toddler, extra daddy time.
As parents we should know by now that really we can never fully control our relationships with our children, who are completely separate entities from us with their own personalities and desires. I remember being surprised that Girlie was such a stranger to me when she was born. I did not know her face. Baby is a stranger too. I don’t know how I will be called upon to minister to him. I don’t know how his presence in our lives will change our family. On day two of his life, desperate to snag a lactation consultant up on the pediatrics floor where I had been dispatched for my recovery, I finally reminded myself to be open to whatever messages Baby was trying to tell me about himself. He didn’t want me to put him down. All he wanted was to lay his cheek on my chest. Why was I so sure that was the wrong thing? So what if my other children ate, were satisfied and then slept? I needed to recognize that this child wanted to hang out with me.
Of course parenting is a balance of listening to your child and providing him with limits. In my experience with sleep schedules for my older children, for instance, I have learned that they thrive on the support of a structure. But I am trying to let Baby lead me through his infant days as much as possible. Yes, it means putting myself in the hands of someone whose only field of expertise is nursing (and “expertise” is a very generous term for his knowledge of that subject) but walking into the unknown has never felt so safe.
The moon was white and round in the black sky over the field across the street from the entrance to our housing complex. Every time I see the moon I think of all the nights my dad called me to the screen door of our townhouse to gape at its lustrous beauty. Hubby turned our car onto the empty road and a contraction started as we crossed the first intersection but, watching the moon dip under the glowing clouds over the hills, in place of panic a sense of calm nestled around me.
The girls at the reception desk in my OB’s office had joked that I would deliver last weekend because there would be a full moon. After pre-term labor at 35 weeks had suggested that Baby would come early like my other two children, we were all surprised that it appeared I would make it to my due date. I’ve never felt the ripeness of late pregnancy before. Toward the end of this pregnancy my earlier fears of needing to take care of a preemie baby, needing a c-section, or of some other unforeseen calamity, mercifully gave way to the relative peace of knowing that the pregnancy needed to end - in one way or another.
Labor surprised me as quick and unmedicated. There was not enough time for the two bags of IV fluid that were a prerequisite for placing an epidural. After a particularly strong contraction accompanied with a yelp for what I then knew was my illusive epidural, the labor nurse firmly instructed me to get in bed. She hurriedly checked me then desperately called for my doctor, who happened to be on duty at the hospital that morning. “You’re going to have this baby naturally,” the labor nurse, MJ, said. “He’ll be out in one good push.” Pressing into the pain as she and my doctor instructed, pressing through the push, the rest, the second push and the delivery, I was given the unexpected gift of doing it myself.
The last two weeks hubby and I have been frustrated with our lack of control over when Baby would be born. Hubby started his leave when I hit 38 weeks, which was when Toddler was born, and seemed reasonable considering the pre-term labor scare I had already had with Baby. But Baby faked us out and came much later than expected. Hubby had wanted the majority of his two weeks’ leave to be bonding time with his new son, but he had to go back to work yesterday, after a scant two days at home with Baby. Actually, those two weeks that hubby intended to spend bonding with Baby were well spent giving Girlie and, especially Toddler, extra daddy time.
As parents we should know by now that really we can never fully control our relationships with our children, who are completely separate entities from us with their own personalities and desires. I remember being surprised that Girlie was such a stranger to me when she was born. I did not know her face. Baby is a stranger too. I don’t know how I will be called upon to minister to him. I don’t know how his presence in our lives will change our family. On day two of his life, desperate to snag a lactation consultant up on the pediatrics floor where I had been dispatched for my recovery, I finally reminded myself to be open to whatever messages Baby was trying to tell me about himself. He didn’t want me to put him down. All he wanted was to lay his cheek on my chest. Why was I so sure that was the wrong thing? So what if my other children ate, were satisfied and then slept? I needed to recognize that this child wanted to hang out with me.
Of course parenting is a balance of listening to your child and providing him with limits. In my experience with sleep schedules for my older children, for instance, I have learned that they thrive on the support of a structure. But I am trying to let Baby lead me through his infant days as much as possible. Yes, it means putting myself in the hands of someone whose only field of expertise is nursing (and “expertise” is a very generous term for his knowledge of that subject) but walking into the unknown has never felt so safe.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
A Window into Franca
There are many things about pregnancy that are a little unsightly. One of mine is varicose veins. Luckily I found a wonderful product that makes them bearable: pregnancy support hose. A bonus in addition to the boost they give my achy legs is that the stockings are a daily reminder of my grandma, my dad’s mom. In my every memory of her she is wearing hose and heels. She said that her feet were so used to wearing high heels that even after she retired she needed to continue wearing them. She could no longer put her feet down flat.
Francesca, or “Franca” as friends and family called her, emigrated from Italy alone at age 17 by ship, leaving her father, sister, and brother behind. Her mom had recently died and her father had remarried. Grandma had actually been born in the U.S., but her parents had returned to Italy when she was young. Franca’s aunt graciously offered to house her after she arrived in New York. Knowing she needed a livelihood, Grandma learned the sewing trade, became a dressmaker and soon met and married my grandfather, a dress presser. They both worked in the NYC garment district. My grandfather was American born too, and also of Italian parentage. “Sam,” Grandma’s pet name for her husband, whose real name was “Rosario” for the Rosary, died when I was six months old so I never knew the gentle man who was my dad’s father.
Of the couple, Grandma earned more money. At the end of her career she had worked her way up to the privilege of fitting the prototypes of cocktail dresses to live models. Her boss, Leonard Arkin, owner of the prominent New York dress manufacturing company of the same name, called her his “golden hands.” Franca was a working mom. She enlisted a kind Irishwoman, Mrs. Woods, to care for my dad, my grandma’s only child. Franca, Sam, and my dad lived together in an apartment – first a “walk up” and later a rent-control building – and never bought a house. But my dad had every best opportunity, including parochial education through college.
Franca cooked famously. To this day a sob wells up in my throat when I open a can of tomatoes. My parents tell me that Grandma worked magic with olive oil alongside Sam, who shared her enjoyment in cooking. They didn’t spare expense to buy the best cuts of meat and fish from the local purveyors. Their American dream included entertaining friends, playing cards, and days at the horse races.
When I knew Franca she was still cooking famously but her days of chasing down buses in high heels were over. She was mostly confined to an easy chair. I remember her stocking-clad and swollen ankles bulging over the buckles of her two-inch heels. Grandma still sewed. She sewed doll’s clothing for my dolls and later made dolls for sick children. She also knitted almost compulsively. The sewing and knitting kept her busy, because she couldn’t walk very well. She used a cane when I was young and later a walker, when she moved from New York to the town next to where I lived to be closer to my dad and my family.
I remember Grandma’s stockings drying and the sweet smell of her perfume in the bathroom of her Queens apartment. Now I am drying stockings, these vestiges of earlier times that are reserved only for very special occasions like a black-tie evening event, if then. I too have swollen ankles (although not very swollen, really).
Grandma died in 2000 at the age of 90. My other grandma, my mom’s mother, another New Yorker and the daughter of Irish immigrants, is still alive, and will turn 99 this month. But it is Franca and her determination – as an immigrant and working woman – that I am reminded of every morning as I pull on my support hose before getting out of bed.
Francesca, or “Franca” as friends and family called her, emigrated from Italy alone at age 17 by ship, leaving her father, sister, and brother behind. Her mom had recently died and her father had remarried. Grandma had actually been born in the U.S., but her parents had returned to Italy when she was young. Franca’s aunt graciously offered to house her after she arrived in New York. Knowing she needed a livelihood, Grandma learned the sewing trade, became a dressmaker and soon met and married my grandfather, a dress presser. They both worked in the NYC garment district. My grandfather was American born too, and also of Italian parentage. “Sam,” Grandma’s pet name for her husband, whose real name was “Rosario” for the Rosary, died when I was six months old so I never knew the gentle man who was my dad’s father.
Of the couple, Grandma earned more money. At the end of her career she had worked her way up to the privilege of fitting the prototypes of cocktail dresses to live models. Her boss, Leonard Arkin, owner of the prominent New York dress manufacturing company of the same name, called her his “golden hands.” Franca was a working mom. She enlisted a kind Irishwoman, Mrs. Woods, to care for my dad, my grandma’s only child. Franca, Sam, and my dad lived together in an apartment – first a “walk up” and later a rent-control building – and never bought a house. But my dad had every best opportunity, including parochial education through college.
Franca cooked famously. To this day a sob wells up in my throat when I open a can of tomatoes. My parents tell me that Grandma worked magic with olive oil alongside Sam, who shared her enjoyment in cooking. They didn’t spare expense to buy the best cuts of meat and fish from the local purveyors. Their American dream included entertaining friends, playing cards, and days at the horse races.
When I knew Franca she was still cooking famously but her days of chasing down buses in high heels were over. She was mostly confined to an easy chair. I remember her stocking-clad and swollen ankles bulging over the buckles of her two-inch heels. Grandma still sewed. She sewed doll’s clothing for my dolls and later made dolls for sick children. She also knitted almost compulsively. The sewing and knitting kept her busy, because she couldn’t walk very well. She used a cane when I was young and later a walker, when she moved from New York to the town next to where I lived to be closer to my dad and my family.
I remember Grandma’s stockings drying and the sweet smell of her perfume in the bathroom of her Queens apartment. Now I am drying stockings, these vestiges of earlier times that are reserved only for very special occasions like a black-tie evening event, if then. I too have swollen ankles (although not very swollen, really).
Grandma died in 2000 at the age of 90. My other grandma, my mom’s mother, another New Yorker and the daughter of Irish immigrants, is still alive, and will turn 99 this month. But it is Franca and her determination – as an immigrant and working woman – that I am reminded of every morning as I pull on my support hose before getting out of bed.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Notes from a Semi-Reclined Position
I.Am.Fed.Up.With.Being.Pregnant! Although bed rest has brought its own blessings, I became grouchy and exasperated this week over my continuing quarantine here in the house and increasingly nervous about my upcoming delivery. I felt horrible barking at Girlie all through her morning getting-ready routine. Usually I coax her along, in a supportive yet firm manner.
I had early contractions last Friday and wound up in the hospital. Sensing I was unready to have this baby and acknowledging that he would do better with a couple more weeks in utero, my OB (who happened to be doing rounds at the hospital that day) sent me home with prescriptions for medication and bed rest. The combination is working, thankfully. But now I can’t go about my mom duties as needed and have to take rests after every task. Get breakfast on the table. Rest. Fold a few pieces of laundry. Rest.
I’m getting anxious about labor. I’m getting anxious about my ability to mother three children ages four years old and younger. Mostly I’m desperate to feel breeze on my skin and walk around the block! When I asked my OB Wednesday when she thought I might go into labor she was noncommittal. When I pressed her for her best prediction she said I might go another week. She was dead-on with her prediction on Toddler’s arrival date.
These days, lying in a semi-reclined position, it’s easy to worry about what may be and what can’t be. There is so much undone still. I have thought professional maternity photos would be fun, especially if this is my last pregnancy. I should get my daughter a new swimsuit before she starts swimming lessons in a week. But I need to let these things go… Talking with my mom on the phone put my situation into perspective. The priority now is giving this new baby, the new member of our family who will delight us and frustrate us in his own unique fashion, the best possible birth scenario, which means him staying inside me as long as I can hang in here.
I should be glad for what I have been able to accomplish on bed rest. I’ve been reading voraciously and scribbling notes down in my journal as if they are keys to the Meaning of Life. I’ve been thinking through and writing down ideas for my book. I’ve started an essay, a couple book reviews and several blog posts. Although I can’t move my body around much, my mind is spinning.
Beyond being thankful for having some opportunity to write this past week, the most inspiring aspect of my bed rest has been the support of family and friends. I’ve received emails of encouragement, meals, offers to do grocery shopping, and offers for housecleaning. (After I delivered Toddler two friends even cleaned my kids’ bathroom!) My in-laws have been over every day to take the kids to the park and let me rest for a couple hours every morning.
Before having children, isolated on the island of hubby and me in a new city, I remember praying for friends. I actually prayed for them, as if God would bother to arrange to send me friends. He did. A friend’s mom once said to me, “The Lord is faithful.” I didn’t know what she meant at the time. The Lord is faithful to us? Aren’t we supposed to be faithful to Him?
I understand what she meant now.
I had early contractions last Friday and wound up in the hospital. Sensing I was unready to have this baby and acknowledging that he would do better with a couple more weeks in utero, my OB (who happened to be doing rounds at the hospital that day) sent me home with prescriptions for medication and bed rest. The combination is working, thankfully. But now I can’t go about my mom duties as needed and have to take rests after every task. Get breakfast on the table. Rest. Fold a few pieces of laundry. Rest.
I’m getting anxious about labor. I’m getting anxious about my ability to mother three children ages four years old and younger. Mostly I’m desperate to feel breeze on my skin and walk around the block! When I asked my OB Wednesday when she thought I might go into labor she was noncommittal. When I pressed her for her best prediction she said I might go another week. She was dead-on with her prediction on Toddler’s arrival date.
These days, lying in a semi-reclined position, it’s easy to worry about what may be and what can’t be. There is so much undone still. I have thought professional maternity photos would be fun, especially if this is my last pregnancy. I should get my daughter a new swimsuit before she starts swimming lessons in a week. But I need to let these things go… Talking with my mom on the phone put my situation into perspective. The priority now is giving this new baby, the new member of our family who will delight us and frustrate us in his own unique fashion, the best possible birth scenario, which means him staying inside me as long as I can hang in here.
I should be glad for what I have been able to accomplish on bed rest. I’ve been reading voraciously and scribbling notes down in my journal as if they are keys to the Meaning of Life. I’ve been thinking through and writing down ideas for my book. I’ve started an essay, a couple book reviews and several blog posts. Although I can’t move my body around much, my mind is spinning.
Beyond being thankful for having some opportunity to write this past week, the most inspiring aspect of my bed rest has been the support of family and friends. I’ve received emails of encouragement, meals, offers to do grocery shopping, and offers for housecleaning. (After I delivered Toddler two friends even cleaned my kids’ bathroom!) My in-laws have been over every day to take the kids to the park and let me rest for a couple hours every morning.
Before having children, isolated on the island of hubby and me in a new city, I remember praying for friends. I actually prayed for them, as if God would bother to arrange to send me friends. He did. A friend’s mom once said to me, “The Lord is faithful.” I didn’t know what she meant at the time. The Lord is faithful to us? Aren’t we supposed to be faithful to Him?
I understand what she meant now.
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