Archive for May, 2005

EBF
May 31, 2005 at 1:13 pm · Filed under Meme Heaven, Rantalicious

or: Commuter Commitment Phobia

First, five interview questions for CubbieGirl. Remember to go to her page to check out her answers.

Questions

  • 1. What religious environment (or lack of) were you raised in, and do you still practice that religion (or lack of) today?
  • 2. If you had a time machine and could go back and undo one thing in your life, what would it be?
  • 3. If money wasn’t an issue, what would be your perfect vacation and why?
  • 4. What was your favorite cartoon when you were little?
  • 5. What person (or people) are your hero(es)?There you go, CG. Remember, everyone, to visit her site and keep the game going.

    Today’s post: EBF (E)nforced (B)us (F)riend. Or: How do you break up with a stranger?

    I’m sure many of you will be familiar with how it starts. You start off one month with the friendly nod. The friendly nod is nice. It makes you feel connected to a larger world, and yet isn’t time consuming. The friendly nod is good.

    Then, like a bad Seinfeld episode, everything spins out of control. The next thing you know you’re being saved a seat. You’re being asked questions that look innocuous, but which quickly become intrusive as you realize that the questioner files everything away in a giant filing cabinet marked “desperation” and written in their own blood.

    I have an enforced bus friend. Let’s call her Mindy. Mindy has Issues with a capital I. Mindy has problems walking normally and is about four foot nothing tall. Mindy has a wullet (woman mullet) and wears clothes circa 1985. Mindy has the best of intentions, and yet Mindy also lives a life that I generally disapprove of. Unfortunately these facts have come to life in bits and trickles, and any time I call Mindy on anything she backpedals so fast it’s a wonder she doesn’t fall over.

    Here are some things I believe about Mindy: I believe that Mindy needs friends. I believe that Mindy is lonely. I believe that Mindy was probably not given the best start in life. I believe that Mindy hates herself. I believe that Mindy wants to be a better person and doesn’t know how. I believe that Mindy’s boyfriend takes advantage of her. I believe that Mindy will never have a good friend until she stops caring so much about being alone. I believe that from now until the end of time, Mindy will save me a seat on the bus and ask about my child and my husband in an attempt to draw me out. I also believe that being friends with Mindy is toxic and time-consuming and a lost cause.

    Mindy knows very little about me. She knows I have a son and a husband. She knows that we like football. She knows that I’m going to school. She doesn’t know where I live and I turned her down outright when she asked for my number. Mindy does not take social cues.

    My general approach has been to talk to Mindy in the mornings. I don’t especially like her, but that doesn’t mean I have to be rude, and the 15 minutes on the bus isn’t so much to ask, really. I just let her talk and I make noncommittal noises. She also asked for advice with her boyfriend and I gave it. Some of it she took, some she didn’t.

    However, last Thursday’s bus ride involved her using (loudly) the phrase “Smear the queer” and telling me that she encouraged her boyfriend to drink a twelve pack on the way to a concert, but that she was concerned because he already has two DUIs and she has two, which is why she’s not driving.

    Both of these items came to light in a two minute period, and both made me see a wash of red. I decided in that moment that Mindy and I were not meant to be buddies. Mindy and I were not meant to talk. I drive the same roads with her and her beer-swilling asshole boyfriend and her main concern about him drinking a 12 pack behind the wheel of a car is that he might get caught, not that he might smear my gorgeous son all over the road in drunken stupidity.

    And before one shouts out “Smear the Queer”, one should probably no ones audience and whether said audience will be likely to spit on one’s bigoted, weirdo ass.

    So I came to the conclusion that I had to dump my EBF. The problem with dumping a stranger, however, particularly one that is impervious to all but the most overt social messages, is how to make it clear that you are not friends, without resorting to ranking and filing like the morning bus is a microcosm of Jr. High School.

    I think Mindy is a mess, but I also think that she’s got true and serious problems. I think she needs friends, I just know that I’m not at all interested in being one of them. I think she may benefit from listening to someone’s advice, but I know that I’m not in the frame of mind to take on a project of that magnitude. I have enough fixing myself to do, I have enough being there for people who don’t drink and drive.

    Plus, frankly, you shouldn’t have a friend who listens to you while fantasizing about tackling you and cutting your ridiculous wullet off. In fact, that just may be outside the bounds of what one may safely deem “friendship”.

    As a result, twice now I’ve just gotten on the bus, said hello, then sat elsewhere. So help me, she’s got a funny gait and can’t keep up with regular walking, so I exited the bus and walked to the train at a good clip. When I looked behind me today I got the heartbreaking tableau of me hurrying away from her as she’s limping along pathetically behind me making “wait for me” noises. It was awful.

    At the same time, I think it’s got to be kinder than the “Look, we’re not friends, and here’s why” speech that would only rip her up and confuse the hell out of her. She obviously depends so much on what other people think and has decided, probably because I’ll actually talk to her, that I’m worth knowing.

    Nothing like breaking some stranger’s heart every morning to kick-start the day.

    • Comments (3)

    A Plethora of Memes
    May 26, 2005 at 9:14 am · Filed under Meme Heaven

    or: So much glorious me, and so little time

    I’ve had a sudden slamming of memes lately, and because it’s important to me that people post here and talk about me, I’m going to do them all. As a result this blog may be a tad more popcorny than usual, but I’m sure we’ll all get through it.

    Today’s meme was brought to you by Silent Whispers. Go and read her blog.

    You can do this, too, if you ask (and I hope you do). These are the rules:

  • 1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying “interview me.”
  • 2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person’s will be different.
  • 3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
  • 4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
  • 5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions. 

    • Here were my five questions:

  • 1. If you could possess one superpower what would it be and what would you do with it?I have always wanted the ability to stop time. Just freeze it where it is and then resume later so that I can take naps, or catch up on things without feeling rushed or stressed out. Need an extra few hours to finish that paper? ZAP! Need to stretch out with a good book? ZAP!

    I’m embarrassed that my superpower isn’t one that can really be used for good. Unless I were to stop time and go replace all the guns in the Iraq war with carrots or something. But I feel that it’s likely that if there’s a way to kill each other using carrots, people will find it.

    The other superpower I’d love would be the ability to transport instantly from one place to another and take anything I touch with me. So I’d take the boy to various parents’ houses for Sunday dinners, and Andy and I could go to all his friend’s weddings and see them all the time. The world is too big sometimes.

  • 2. If you could quit your job tomorrow, money was no issue, what would you do with your day?I would:
    get up in the morning with the baby
    take him to day care
    have two classes at college
    get home around noon and exercise for an hour
    tidy for an hour
    go get the baby at 3 or 4
    spend the evening lounging with the baby and my husband
    go to bed at 9:30

    Boring as hell, I know, but boy would that make me happy.

  • 3. If you could have any view in the world visible from your bed, what would you choose?I would love to have a panoramic view of the sky at night through a glass ceiling (the ceiling would darken before the sun came up). I’d love to be above all the light pollution and fall asleep looking up at swirling bunches of stars and the moon. To me, the night sky represents hope. A sound of the train in the distance, etc.
  • 4. If you were to be stranded on a deserted island with only one person and one bag, who would it be and what “must haves” would you bring?One person, eh? Who would that be? Heh.

    I’d bring my husband, without question. The must haves in the bag would include the baby, all his supplies, a radio, books, food… I suspect I’m not embracing the internal meaning of this question… and condoms. I’m not getting pregnant on no desert island, thankyewverymuch.

  • 5. What is the one aspect of your personality that you wish you could change?I lack the ability to be happy and satisfied with my life. I lack it utterly. If I’m east I wish I was west. If I’m up I will find the bad things about up and decide to be down. Despite all my best efforts I’m a glass-half-empty kind of person. Which bothers me mightily since my life is unquestionably a glass-totally-full kind of life.

    I’m always trying to anticipate the next problem. I’m always looking for worries, or for ways to complicate my life. I don’t have the ability to be happy. I don’t know if I don’t think I deserve it or what.

    I have to make a conscious effort to appreciate what I’ve got and not go searching for more, and I usually fail. There are only two exceptions to that: 1) Andy and 2) Wallace. These two people are the only thing, ever, in my life that have so far surpassed what I was hoping for that I never question what might be better.

    Those are my answers. So, how about it? Would you like to be interviewed?

    • Comments (2)

    Everyone Has Got One
    May 25, 2005 at 1:35 pm · Filed under Rantalicious

    or: It is a dangerous thing possess a vagina in this world

    Do you want to scare yourself? Do you? Have a small child and then look up the registered number of sex offenders in your town. Go on. Do it. I’ll wait.

    My town has 49, yes, 49 registered sex offenders. Some of them kiddie porn fanatics, some of them assault rapists, some incestuous predators and some murderers or abductors. I’m even willing to add a generous three in there who may have been convicted of having sex with their 17 year old girlfriends when they were 21 by overzealous mothers. So let’s call it 46. That may seem like a lot, but from most of the towns I entered it’s generally pretty typical. Sometimes it’s a little less, sometimes more, but mostly somewhere around the 40 range.

    Now, I don’t know anything about these men1, personally. I have looked at all the photos and don’t recognize any of the faces. As far as I know I haven’t seen them at the local store or when I was out for one of our walks, but with 46 of them out there I certainly could have waved or smiled to one as we strolled down the street and not known it.

    I was also have a discussion with a neighbor recently, and her rape story came up, as did a friend’s today:

    Friend: “You know, the guy that date-raped me”
    Me: “NO! I don’t know about this! What the hell???”

    Yes, it’s so common that sometimes we forget who we’ve told. Duh, we’re women, of course we were sexually molested. Everyone has a story, everyone’s been there.

    I have my own stories, as has every woman I’ve ever talked to about it. These transgressions can range from minor and disturbing, but not overly-damaging encounters, to intense and hideous experiences with long-term ramifications. And if you possess a vagina, you’re more likely than not to have experienced it at least once, and often multiple times in different forms.

    This begs the question: what can be done? Honestly, anything I’ve ever seen is generally reactive. “If this happens to you call (999) SUCKS TO BE YOU to talk with someone who can apologize for the world being a shitty place” “Get counseling” “Call the cops” “Go to the hospital” “Tell a trusted adult”

    Well, what about prior to the event? What about the mothers and fathers out there who are good parents? What do they do to keep the kids safe? Is it practical to suspect everyone? Why haven’t we made strides in protecting ourselves? Our children? If a woman is raped every two minutes, why haven’t we made it three? Five? Ten? A thousand?

    Take it from me, telling your kids about the privacy of their ’special area’ isn’t going to ensure anything. Under a certain age they are programmed to listen to adults regardless of the message. It’s inconceivable to a young child that the adult is doing something they shouldn’t be doing. After that age is over, oftentimes the age of shame begins, and the end result is the same. They don’t stop it. They don’t tell you.

    I have my own stories. I don’t want to tell them here, but let’s just say I speak from experience. I was well-protected, taught to be good to myself and generally looked after very well. And it happened just the same. The only thing that ever gave me any peace was the class where I learned to break a man’s arm in three places. And, of course if there’s a gun, that changes everything. Assault with a deadly weapon.

    I have no answers and this post is more disjointed and flighty than I’d like. The conversation with my friend just completely threw me for a loop and it brought up a lot of old rage. What do you do with rage like this? Where does the rage go? I have no idea.

    What I do know is that if you have a young child or a daughter of any age, keep a close eye out for changes in behavior. Sudden skittishness or a reluctance to be touched even in a safe, friendly manner. Watch for sudden flushing or going waxy if someone comes into the room. And if a child doesn’t want to visit with uncle Theo or aunt Ethel and won’t tell you why, let them out of it.

    And if you have a spouse, male or female, with a consistently mixed reaction to sexual encounters, don’t assume it’s you. It’s a dangerous thing to be a person in this world with a vagina.

    FYI - Rape Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN)

    1All the offenders in my search were men

    Comments (2)

    Through the Fog
    May 24, 2005 at 9:29 am · Filed under Meme Heaven

    and Under the Frog

    Once again, articulate and thoughtful entries will have to wait. My brain is caught in sleep-exhaustion soup. We’re having trouble with Wallace’s DCP who seems unable to get him to nap reliably. That means that he crashed out cold last night at 6pm, missed dinner, and was up happily chirping at me at 4am. This will not stand. No. We’re talking to D, the lady in charge, but if she doesn’t get a handle on things we’re going to be looking for a new day care.

    When he’s home with us he has at least two naps, usually two hours long apiece. I don’t know what the problem is.

    While we wait for my brain to come back online, a quick meme from George:

  • 1) Total number of books I’ve owned: A lot. A lot a lot. Thousands, probably. I’m addicted to books the way some people are addicted to heroin. Every now and again I manage to force myself to collect all the crappy dime-store novels up and give them away, or the second copies, but basically our basement is filled with my books and I love each and every one of them. I used to run up to my dad with armloads of books and ask him how many I could get and, bless his heart, he used to callously say “Only six” and I’d have to weed out the most alluring six from my fourteen must-haves.
  • 2) The last book I bought: Good Dog, Carl. In my defense, it was for a class project in my Early Language Development class, but Wallace adores it. I see many, many children’s book purchases in my immediate future. We have a literary cocoon of family and friends and Wallace already has his own library going. His grandpa got him a $100 gift certificate to Borders, which strikes me as a singularly marvelous gift.
  • 3) The last book I read: Am reading, or have read? In the past week alone, during my out-of-school-for-the-summer glut of pointless reading, I have read; Over the Edge of the World: Magellan’s Terrifying Circumnavigation of the Globe, Among the Thugs (about football hooligans), Rich Dad, Poor Dad (about financial saavy), The Ice Queen, and Song of Susannah, the sixth book in the rapidly deteriorating Dark Tower series by Stephen King. I’m sucked in despite how bad it is, gods cuss it. You can really tell the guy was hit by a car. Next up: The Elegant Universe. I’m enmeshed in a glut of pointless reading now that my three months of enforced school-book diet is over.
  • 4) 5 books that mean a lot to me:I hate this question. It’s just like the “what’s your favorite movie” question where the answer changes from day to day and sometimes minute to minute. I’ll pick five favorites, but please keep in mind that this changes regularly, and the moment I hit ‘post’ I’m going to remember fifty others that belong here (and I’m going to steal some from George because great minds think alike):

    Under the Frog by Tibor Fischer. One day I was in a used bookstore an couldn’t choose a book I wanted, so I closed my eyes and reached up and pulled out this book. It’s a fantastic read. Hysterical, at the same time sardonic and weighty. I’ve had many copies of this book because people keep stealing it. Please go and get it. My friend, Dave, says that The Collector Collector by Fischer is better, but I just think it’s more abstract and Dave is drawn to abstracts.

    “Under the Frog” is shorthand for a Hungarian saying, “Under the frog’s ass at the bottom of a mineshaft”, meaning you can’t possibly get any lower. It’s amazing. Go buy it.

    From Publishers Weekly
    Fischer’s debut novel, about two young men who escape Communist Hungary to live a carefree live of sex and unemployment while being part of a traveling basketball team, was a Booker finalist.

    The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams: What can I say? I gush about this book and it’s followers. I gush. And then I read and gush some more. It’s the perfect example of dry, British humor, and because I really am forming a post reviewing the movie and comparing the book (I swear I am, I really swear I am) I’m not going to go on and on and on about it. Although I could. It’s that kind of book. I’m not even going to tell you to go buy it because you should be smart enough to do that on your own. Seriously.

    I wrote about all the DNA/H2 thingies here.

    Now, George has listed The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever, by Stephen Donaldson as a favorite series. I agree that it’s an incredible series that can be read over and over again. The first and the second. But I have to say that his The GAP Sequence is at least as good, if not better. It’s a science fiction series that, like all the best science fiction novels, is not about science fiction but about people. Morn Hyland has gap sickness. When she goes mad and kills her entire family while chasing the murderer and pirate Angus Thermopole, Angus saves her for his own twisted reasons. Morn is then rescued by a dark and handsome stranger, or is she? Has she been abandoned by the people she claims to serve? What lengths will she go to save herself? The story also intertwines humanity’s approach to alien entities as well as deep corruption from within and tremendous self-sacrifice. The characters are so real you could pinch them. I love this series with my entire heart.

    Ender’s Game, by Orson Scott Card: How do I describe Ender’s Game? I don’t know if I can. I usually just give people copies, and tell them to read it. Inevitably they tell me they don’t like science fiction. I ask them to read it anyway. They do, and I never see my copy of that book again. It’s like, I don’t even know what it’s like. It’s like having someone blindfold you and tell you they are going to feed you something, and then biting down on the most delicious and flavorful steak you’ve ever tasted. It’s intense and powerful. The book has been used to train military personnel, and is also used in the Peace Corps.

    They are apparently making a movie of EG, which I think is a terrible, terrible idea. I don’t know how you could convey Ender’s inner struggle on screen, which is really the reason to read the book. Go read and decide for yourself.

    Last, but not last, only if I’m limited to five, is the book The Power of One, by Bryce Courtenay. A story of a South African boy adrift in a world that makes no sense. As he grows and things are stripped from him, he learns that there are good people in the world, and if he’s true to himself he can find what he seeks. And revenge is sweet.

    This is the book that made me want to kickbox, and that made me good when I did it. I heard they made a movie of it, but I never saw it. I always read it when I’m feeling low. It’s worth having in your collection.

    Those are the five I can think of right now. Luckily for you, I’ve run out of steam for the moment.

    However, if you’d like to keep investigating new books:

  • 5) Tag 5 people and have them fill this out on their blogs:
  • Cubbie Girl - to take her mind of the inimitable wait
  • Along - because she’s from a different culture than I am and I’m sure will have interesting answers.
  • Mercy Buttercup - because she seems to have some time to kill these days
  • Kristina Marie - because it always pays to know what KM thinks
  • and finally MetroDad - For the male perspective, and if he has the time and inclination 

    • Comments (6)

    Jonesing Badly
    May 23, 2005 at 2:19 pm · Filed under Parenting

    Last night I thought up a particularly biting and humorous review for the Hitchhiker movie, but it’s going to have to wait. I am not feeling especially articulate today.

    First of all, thanks for your good Wallace wishes. He’s been fever-free for over 48 hours now and his dad said this morning that he was exceptionally smiley. Today is a good day to be a baby. We’re going to have a tooth any second now, and I’ll let you know when it comes in.

    I’m depressed today because I had four days with my baby boy and I liked it and I want more. When I say he’s so cool that doesn’t do any justice to how TOTALLY COOL he is. This child is the coolest. He laughs and chatters and does new things all the time. He’s changing daily and I got to see it close-up for four days, and I want more. He’s like crack. Crack cocaine in a small, baby-shaped package.

    It wouldn’t actually work, mind you. I don’t believe in stay-at-home parenting, simply because if something happens to my spouse I have to be employable. Also, let’s face it, I’m not a stay-at-home girl. I’d go completely mad within a week. I hate housework with a passion and despise cooking. I need adult interactions to keep me sane.

    But I officially don’t want to be here today. I officially don’t want to deal with all the little, piddly things I have to deal with today. I would be just as happy today at home, with a movie in the DVD player and a chunky, laughing baby on my lap. Even if it meant I had to make dinner.

    I’m deep in Wallace-withdrawal.

    Meanwhile, yesterday I was gently bumping foreheads with him, and as we leaned in to each other the fourth time he gave a huge, smelly, formula belch right in my face, just as I opened my mouth. Then he laughed. And it made me PROUD.

    How twisted is parenthood?

    Comments

    Sad, Sad Dinner
    May 19, 2005 at 7:49 pm · Filed under Parenting

    and a trip to the ER.

    Last night at 3am a small baby woke up crying. I went upstairs ready to put a binkey back into his mouth, or give him a bottle for a minute and he’d zonk right out. But he looked sort of bleery and puffy and red, so I put my hand on his forehead and it burned off.

    I checked his temperature and it registered 103.5. That worried me, if I might understate dramatically for a moment, and so I called the doctor. She said, “Meh, eight months? 103? You can go in or not. How freaked out are you?” I said, “Pretty damned freaked”, so she said, “Then you know what? Take him in. Go with your gut.”

    So my gut and I gave the baby a dose of Tylanol and then raced downstairs to shake awake my husband.

    Andy was sound asleep for good reason. Part of being a decent musician is getting out, much as any business, and making connections. Pressing the flesh, deconstructing Jazz with the boys. If you’re a musician, you press the flesh around a pint of lager. That’s just how it’s done.

    Since we had the baby, my former mildly party husband, who was a formerly insane boozer husband, has turned teatotaller. Not by choice, but design. When you have a small person that will be awake at 6am whether or not you’re sober, you tend to put off the drinking.

    However, teatotalling doesn’t get you gigs. People assume you’re busy, you’re not interested, or that you’re going legit. God forbid. So last night, when the last of his three gigs put him at a pub near our home, he took the opportunity and did some social business investing. In the form of, yes, lager.

    Being a responsible citizen, he’d left the car two miles away at the pub and walked home. I’d imagine you can see where this is going.

    I came racing down the stairs, flipped on the lights, and announced we were going to the ER. He sat up, still with an alarming blood alcohol content, and said to me, “I bet you’d really like to know where the car is right about now, hunh?”

    I believe my response was, “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK”.

    So I left my husband with my burning baby and walked two miles in four minutes. In ten we were at the emergency room door. They took his temperature: 103.8 and climbing. Then they weighed him. Our delicate little 8 month old baby has now topped 24 lbs, and his dosage is no longer 0.8mg, but 1.6.

    So they gave him 1.6 of motrin and stuck us in a room to wait. A half an hour later they gave him a clean bill of health, all except for the fever, which had dropped, and sent us home, cheerful, chirpy Wallace in tow.

    We went back to bed at 6am, were up briefly at 8am and were back out until 10:45 for Wallace and me, and two in the afternoon for poor hungover dad. He had dreams all night about terrible things happening to the baby. Poor guy. He goes out once in eight months, does it responsibly, and that happens to be the one time we have to go to the ER.

    I had high hopes for Wallace today, but his fever has been building. I just ran out and got some Motrin so that we can alternate it (in the correct dosage this time) with the Tylanol. We gave him a lukewarm bath that briefly brought his temperature down, but it’s climbing again. He’s waking up really uncomfortable about every hour or so. It’s going to be a long night.

    A few additional notes: You can tell how sick Wallace is by how serious he is about grabbing daddy’s glasses off his face. At 103, Wallace couldn’t even get the energy together to make a concerted effort. At 101, he can paw weakly and grumpily at dad’s nose. Anything below 101 and it’s the usual successful glasses yoink.

    He’s also practicing his d’s and saying “dada”. He doesn’t mean dada, but boy is it cool to hear.

    Last note is that tonight we had the most pathetic dinner you could possibly imagine. He polished off two jars of baby food, but he did it interspersed with impressive wailing. *WAIL* *WAIL* *WAIL* *gulp* *WAIL* *chomp* *WAIL* *WAIL*

    Evil mommy and daddy recorded sad eating for posterity. Even his parents don’t take his misery seriously. Poor baby.

    Comments (5)

    AP Schmapey
    May 17, 2005 at 12:03 pm · Filed under Parenting, Rantalicious

    Or: If it works, why monkey?

    Over at A Little Pregnant, Julie has posted about why she isn’t an AP parent. Even though many of her parenting practices fit in to those advocated by the AP theory, there are fundamental differences, she feels, in the motivations of caring for her child in a basic AP style.

    The post is followed up with insightful mothers basically all saying the same thing: Unless they conform to what is already working for you, parenting theories are useless. And I have to agree.

    Moments I’ve found parenting books helpful were when I needed hard facts, ie, common food allergies, or a different way of looking at a situation that isn’t working. If I’m caught in a parenting loop, where I’m like a circus dog and keep trying the same trick over and over again and getting the same miserable baby result, then a parenting book can often snap me the hell out of it.

    “Try feeding the baby with the end of the bottle that has the NIPPLE, moron!”

    Etc.

    Generally, we do what works and Wallace seems to be fairly happy with that. For example; I was sure that I’d be somebody that couldn’t let my baby cry, and for the first three or four months of his life I NEVER let him cry. I whisked him up at the first sign of a wail and cuddled him close. I developed a routine of quick change, bottle, blanket and the 5 s’ if he was having a difficult moment. He was tiny, his noises of outrage were all the same, and I wanted him to know that I was there. That I would always be there, good or bad. That he would never ever cry into a heartless void.

    Then came the day he developed his woe-is-me cry. That was the moment I started occasionally laughing at my son. With sympathy, of course, but laughing just the same. When he’d screw his little face up in earnestness and wail dramatically about the car seat (sans actual tears), I sympathized that he didn’t want to be in it. However, being in his car seat wasn’t a matter of opinion, and so he had to be there, even if he was very very earnest and persuasive that it was the torture death chair. I totally laughed.

    He is now a strapping 8-month-old Hulkbaby and has a myriad of sounds for every situation. He has started howling in outrage if it’s time to transition to another toy. He has started grunting and screaming in irritation when it’s time for his bath to be over, and he’s begun fighting sleep. Thrashing his head from side-to-side as his eyes cllllloooooooose then… OPEN!

    Mama, last night, had had enough. I went through our nightly routine. Lay him quietly in bed. Tucked him in. Binkey, kiss, bear and fish, and lights out. And then Mrs. Never-cry-it-out started cleaning up the mess of the day and listened carefully to vocal developments from the nursery.

    Almost immediately there was low grumbling. “Ba! Muh! Guh!” Followed by a slightly more insistent follow-up, “GAAAAAAAH! Guh GAHH!” Followed then by the most pathetic whining cry you ever heard. “Mmmmmmmaaaah. Muuuuuuuuuaaaaaaaaaahhhhh. Buaaahhhhhhh.” The cry could only be described as a whine. I could tell it was not a tear-producer, and it was halfhearted and occasionally trickled off into silence, then he would go back to talking to himself and remember to whine.

    I actually timed how long it took and at the third minute his cries got momentarily louder. I was almost poised to admit defeat and go in, when suddenly they stopped. With not even a sniffle. The baby dropped off to sleep after, what felt like long but was, in fact, very brief complaints. He got sleep and was incredibly cheerful this morning.

    “So”, you may be saying to yourself, “What you’re saying I should do is cry-it-out.”

    Rubbish.

    What I’m saying is that I thought I’d be much more into the AP type of parenting. I certainly began that way. Holding constantly, being attentive, paying attention to cries. However, now that he’s developed the ability to cry to his actual level of distress I’ve discovered that it’s much easier being firm. If he was hurt or genuinely upset I would have been in there comforting in a heartbeat, but he was fine. So suddenly I’m doing our version of modified cry-it-out, and I’m surprised at myself.

    What happened?

    Wallace happened.

    I was prepared to have a child who needed me all the time. I was prepared for face-burying and stranger-danger and clinginess. I was prepared to have a child who didn’t want to play with a toy unless there was someone else playing too. A child who sat on my knee, perfectly contented to stare in my face (and perfectly contented to be outraged that I had the gall to use the phone and pay attention to someone else). I was prepared for a child that needed quiet time, never ending attention, and a rigid schedule. I was prepared for a child for whom the cry-it-out method would seem cruel and terrible punishment just for being a baby.

    Instead, much to my everlasting relief, we had a child like we are. Wallace is a self-reliant extrovert. Wallace is the kind of child perfectly happy in his own bed. He loves us and prefers us, but sometimes he’d like to be on the floor alone so that he can throw himself at the cat. He loves it when we’re home with him, but he also adores day care, and he must go out every day or he gets cabin fever. I posted yesterday about his first football match, and honestly, that’s this kid. If it’s a party, he’s up for it.

    Thank god.

    I have no doubt that number two or three will baffle us with his or her introverted ways. I have no doubt that someday we’ll get a quiet child that prefers classical music to all the shouting and who doesn’t feel the sling is some sort of baby torture device. But for now we have a baby that doesn’t need too much coddling and who we’ll have to watch once he’s mobile because he’ll be happy to take off with perfect strangers and be unphased when we yell at him for trying to lick the wall sockets. Our challenge is going to be to remember that children are programmed to demand control, but they can’t really take it. Our task is going to be to make sure that this lovely, opinionated, outgoing person doesn’t snooker us into letting him be in charge of things that kids shouldn’t be in charge of. Like, for example, bedtime.

    There are a plethora of parenting theories out there, and they are all for shit, because Wallace knows what he wants, he knows what he likes, and he tells us so. We don’t parent other people’s children, we parent our own, and he already has a personality that demands what we give him. He would be annoyed as hell if we never put him down. He has Things To Do.

    So go with your gut. Your child will tell you what you need. Or find a parenting style that works with your kid and label yourself, but know that number two may require a completely different style and that you may need to re-label in the future. That’s the wonderful thing about people, they are all different.

    Comments (5)

    Old Lady Leary Lit a Lantern in the Shed
    May 16, 2005 at 2:23 pm · Filed under Parenting

    Or: His father’s son

    It must be genetic.

    This past Saturday night we took Wallace to his first ever football(1) match to see the Chicago Fire play the MetroStars.

    The play was atrocious. The refereeing was hysterical. I used to go see the Fire play years ago, and back then there was a good chance you’d see a win. They won all the time. These days, apparently, wins are harder to come by, and it’s not surprising given what we saw.

    Best moment: At one point one of our players hurled himself bodily at one of the MetroStar players, ass-first. It was hysterical. It was like he simultaneously curled himself into a ball and threw himself forward butt-first into the other guy’s back. They all go down in a heap, and the ref booked the guy that got assed!! It was a deadly assing. One of the few moments I was proud of our team.

    How did Wallace fare, being up until 10:00pm in freezing cold weather with nary a blankie, in the loud, roaring crowd watching a game he didn’t understand and missing his dinner? Why, he loved it. He died a thousand deaths full of baby joy. There was not one part of the evening he didn’t love. The fireworks! The crowd! The guys with the ball! Look mama, they’re running! Look dad!! Look at all these people! Look at the cute blonde at the concession stand! Life is great! WOW! AND CHEERIOS! WOO HOO!

    I’ve never seen a happier baby. And do not be misled, he spent at least 50% of his time munching Cheerios and cackling his newly developed dolphin-laugh with his eyes glued to the pitch, just grinning and spitting half-chewed Cheerios everywhere. With the exact same ecstatic look his father gets when he watches a game.

    We are a family of football fans.

    FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

    Walk & Roll Chicago Final Total!

    Our final total on the W&RC for the American cancer society came to (drumroll please):

    $1,060.00!!

    I feel great about that. It was a slow year charity-wise, and people just gave and gave. It was great. Grey and cold, but not rainy, and the boy slept the whole way due to the previous night’s football carousing. Hooray! Well done!!

    We’ll be taking more donations for the next two weeks, so if you can give, click here:

    Thanks!!

    (1) In our household, soccer is not soccer, nor ever shall it be. It’s “football”. If you’re talking about American football, you’ll have to specify.

    Comments (3)

    The First Year Crack Picking
    May 13, 2005 at 10:37 am · Filed under Parenting

    Or: This Year’s a Biter

    Family B Definition of Biter: Pants or socks, or any other item of clothing that pinches the skin, leaves a mark, or pulls at hair. Example - “Gah! These tighty-whities are biters!”

    Andy and I met over six years ago. For you long-timers, it’s going to seem like no time at all, but for both Andy and I that far surpasses any previous relationship length. When we met, it was instant adoration. Blatant adoration. I have to tell you, he was so fucking cool that every time I talked to him I panted like an idiot and almost wet my pants.

    We endured some drama, talked a lot, and got married two years after meeting.

    The first year of marriage was a bit of a roller coaster. He had given up his life in England and I (a notoriously bad sharer) was trying to accommodate his presence in my home without resorting to freaking the freaky fuck out. We both were invested in negotiations constantly about space and care for each other. We weren’t sure what was okay and what wasn’t, and we were both likely to take things too personally and sweat the small stuff.

    After about a year of frequent negotiations, things settled down and we got to the good part of being married. The part we really enjoyed. Phreow, we like being married, let me tell you. Some people talk about how binding it is, but lordy it’s the exact opposite. It’s the most freeing thing either of us have ever done. I loved/ love him so much it’s unreal.

    Last night, in the most recent of a surprising number of arguments we’ve had since Wallace was born, I realized that this year is a biter. It’s leaving a mark, just like that first year of marriage. It’s constricting and pulling at the hairs and damned irritating. And we’re picking at it. We’re trying to find a way to settle it so that it doesn’t slide right up our butt cracks and make us fucking crazy.

    I was told that when a baby is born, every aspect of your marriage is magnified. The good stuff gets better, and the bad stuff gets exponentially worse. I remember thinking before Wallace was born that we’d find only more of the good. Was I naive? You bet your sweet bippy I was.

    The good has gotten amazing. I’m so in love with my husband. I have all the support I could ever need or want in him. He’s an amazing dad and he’s an amazing partner. He’s not afraid to wade in when it needs to be done.

    The bad has gotten a bit worse. Making time for his career is something that I forget to do, and something that he suffers with. My tendency to want to go on autopilot and disengage comes to the front too often. As does my tendency to complain and see demons everywhere.

    I don’t want to spill too much about what’s going on, and we are CERTAINLY not in any trouble with regards to our core relationship, but good lord this year is a biter.

    In other places I was reading about Gottman and some of his theories about marriage. Gottman’s list of 7 principles of making your marriage work are:

  • 1. Know each other
  • 2. Focus on each other’s positive qualities
  • 3. Interact frequently
  • 4. Let your partner influence you
  • 5. Solve your solvable problems
  • 6. Overcome gridlock
  • 7. Create shared meaningAnother point was that Gottman touts positive interaction, rather than conflict resolution, as a key to a good relationship. He also says that the relationship of good interactions to bad interactions should not be less than 5:1.

    After reading this I realized that while Andy and I might still be at 5:1 (thanking each other for doing things, kissing, saying “I love you”) the negative interactions are up as well. Which may throw off the stats. If we used to have two negative encounters in a week (which is how it used to be), then the days of positive encounters blew those out of the water. Nowadays, we can have 2-4 negative encounters in a DAY, and the positive encounters are not keeping up with the negative.

    Or, I should say that we can have 2-4 little negative encounters in a day, and Andy has been trying with great determination to increase the positive, and I’ve been distant and unresponsive.

    So my new goal is to increase positive encounters. As of now. As of this moment I’m going to be dwelling on the bad encounters less, and focusing on creating positive ones. Notice, I don’t think that we can stop this first year from being a biter. We’re dealing with a lot more things and can get overwhelmed easily. Add on interrupted sleep and the situation is inherently volatile, but recognizing that we’ve been here before, and we’ll survive it as long as we are careful to love each other well, even if we don’t agree, is important.

    It’s something that I see clearly now, even as I pick my emotional wedgie.

    How’s your relationship going?

    • Comments (4)

    Walking Couches
    May 12, 2005 at 2:08 pm · Filed under Uncategorized

    or: A Lighter Subject (subjectively)

    I have been looking and looking and I think I found the place where our first dog is located. We’ll have to drive to California to find the pup, but I’m well willing to do that. These dogs look fabulous and happy and well-cared for, and come from a rescue besides.

    The hardest part for me right now is remembering that bringing a dog home at the moment would just be totally unfair to the dog, no matter how much we love him.

    Still, don’t they just scream:

    Come and get me, mom!!

    This is what I want: A Dog and his Boy

    This place is incredible. I can’t wait to find our dog there.

    Gentle Giant Rescue

    Comments (6)

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