What's This All About?

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Showing posts with label more serious than silly. Show all posts
Showing posts with label more serious than silly. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Now We're Talking

Last Friday, I wrote a post about Judith Warner's latest Domestic Disturbances piece wherein Warner provocatively posits that there is a dangerous resentment toward affluent and educated women brewing in our contemporary society. Though her words sparked a storm of criticism among many readers, those same words struck something in me. I was moved to do something I am actually very bad at doing -- to write a thank you note. To be honest, the note wrote itself. I just sat there, rattled, impassioned, pounding the keyboard. And when I posted said note on the NYT and then later on here on ILI, I felt a familiar breed of nausea. Immediately, I worried that I had gone too far, said something it was not my place to say. That perhaps I should have just ingested Warner's words, mulled them over, and then moved on.

The temporary existential unease, the fleeting fire of regret, was well worth it. Within hours of posting my thoughts on the matter, I had a few comments from fellow bloggers who applauded me for saying something, for starting - or rather continuing - an important and necessary conversation. And then yesterday, these compatriots continued the discussion, each on her own blog.

Lindsey of A Design So Vast bemoans our inclination to judge others based on appearance, on external qualities. She writes, "It is impossible to know, from how someone looks on the surface, what is going on inside his or her heart. I have learned enough in my life to know that with absolute certainty." And she is on to something, isn't she? Because this is what affluence and education are - superficial, surface markers of an individual that often reflect poorly what is going on internally. Thankfully, Lindsey is another curious soul who refuses to remain quiet because of her arguably fortunate life. She states, "I will not be muzzled; I believe there is too much to be gained by telling our stories, whoever we are and whatever formal education we have."

Lindsey's classmate Mama of The Elmo Wallpaper highlights an interesting and overlooked feature of the Montana mom saga, namely that this woman was so overwhelmed that her judgment was possibly compromised. Being overwhelmed, stretched thin, drained are phenomena to which all of us mothers can surely relate, regardless of pedigree or paycheck. Mama makes a number of stellar points, her arguments rooted in her own experience as "one damn lucky woman" and concludes, "An education or a privileged background doesn't guarantee us anything, and everyone has a story to tell."

I want to thank these two women, these Cheerio Compatriots, whom I've never met in real life. Yes, because they linked to me. But more because they are keeping this conversation, this fundamentally important, albeit incendiary, conversation, going. Because they are telling their stories. Yesterday was a good day; I read their words, their ideas, and through the screen their conviction was pure and palpable. I felt a surge of old school academic adrenaline and nodded and said to myself, Now we're talking.

Let's not stop now.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

One Year


Dad
March 22, 1942 - July 12, 2008

"But I always remember the fish I lose more than the ones I land."
Strachan Donnelley, Big Little Snake: Metaphor Mongers and Mountain Rainbows


Thursday, July 9, 2009

Is Quitting Always Bad?

Unless you've been living under a big, fat, sound-proofed rock, you know that Sarah Palin recently announced her decision to step down as Governor of Alaska. And, unsurprisingly, this move has triggered a maelstrom of criticism and controversy.

Frankly, there are infinite variables to explore here -ethics, finances, sexism, scandal, media bias, family/work balance, political agenda - but I would like to focus on something basic and timeless, something that transcends this contemporary Sarah saga: the stigma of the quitter.

From a young age, we are spoonfed encouragements to persevere. We are whispered the wisdom that quitting is intrinsically bad, a telltale sign of weakness. Obviously, these messages only apply to quitting arguably good things, things that are ideally meant to enhance our existence (jobs, teams, marriages). Obviously, quitting bad things (smoking, drugs, criminal activity) does not carry with it a social stigma, but the opposite.

But I wonder if we need to reevaluate our cultural belief that quitting good things is always bad? I quit my plum job at a law firm and though met with judgment and even disdain, I have never been happier. Friends and family members have called off wedding engagements to very likable and loving people and have never been happier. I had many friends at Yale who, after torturing themselves, decided to quit their sports teams and never looked back.

As a society, we seem to tolerate quitting better if there are sound reasons offered. It's okay to leave one job if you have another, better job lined up. It's okay to leave your fiance if he beats or cheats. It's okay to stop playing soccer if you are injured. But what if there are no articulable reasons? Sometimes the best decisions don't have reasons attached. Sometimes instinct is the best measure.

I'm not saying that quitting should be done with haste. Or that there isn't often virtue in perseverance in the face of obstacles. But I do think we should all be more open-minded about the decisions others make. And I know it is a pipe dream, but I think we need to move beyond thinking in problematic binary oppositions (good/bad, right/wrong, smart/dumb).

In terms of Sarah Palin, I am guilty like many of you. I heard that she was quitting and I jumped fast. A scandal is afoot! A lawsuit is brewing! She couldn't hack it! No, I'm not a mega Palin fan. (Severe and diplomatic understatement.) But I'm going to try to practice what I preach. I'm going to zip it and reserve judgment on this latest development until we all have a little more information. I need to study up on my Palin-tology. And this is something I vow to do because I think that whether we like it or not, we haven't seen the last of this Alaskan. And whether or not we like her politics or her wardrobe or her grammar or her maverick-y ways, we owe it to ourselves to study this creature.

Thoughts on quitting? Do you always think there will be a stigma attached to quitting?

Keep Asking. Always.

"Philosophers are adults who persist in asking childish questions."

- Isaiah Berlin

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Simply Brilliant (& Scary)

Do you want to become a better you?

I know. I know. This question might make you shiver or cringe or roll your eyes. But answer it anyway.

Most questions do not have right answers. But this one does. The answer: YES.

If you do not answer this simple question in the affirmative, you are either (1) delusional (because you think you are the most perfect you); or (2) lazy (because you don't want to bother).

But the biggest question is HOW. How do we become better versions of our perfectly imperfect selves? Leave it to the ever-wise Danielle LaPorte over at White Hot Truth to take a crack at this one. LaPorte offers 11 Slightly Scary Ways to Become a Better You and they are well-worth checking out. A few of my favorites involve standing in front of a mirror naked, underachieving, and saying no. My least favorite? Choosing silence. We all know how I feel about silence.

What do you think about this eleven step program for personal betterment? Have any scintillating, but scary steps to add to the list?

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Know Your Nanny

Guess I look pretty trustworthy. Because the following thing happened to me yesterday.

I sat at my little table in the back of my Starbucks (don't you love how I'm getting possessive of a mega-chain coffee store?) and a nanny pushed a stroller up to my table and left it with me (without asking) while she went to the bathroom. Maybe she saw my furrowed brow indicating superhuman focus on my laptop screen and assumed (quite correctly) that I would not run away with the Maclaren.

But there was one little problem: there was a child in said (gray and orange) Maclaren. Yes, a living a breathing toddler. A cute one too. He was probably three, had shaggy blonde waves, and looked quite at home sitting with me. In fact, he finagled those safety straps off and all of a sudden, I had myself a handsome little coffee date on the chair next to me.

When his nanny came out of the bathroom, she zipped up her jeans (yes, outside of the bathroom. Lovely. She must have been so worried about this little boy!) and reunited with her charge. And I looked at her and thought: Who do you think you are? Someone trusts you to take care of this little boy. Wheel the freaking stroller into the massive bathroom like I have done practically twice a day for 2.5 years. But when I made eye contact with this woman, what did I do? I smiled sweetly. Didn't say a word. And off they went.

I could not stop thinking about this for the rest of the day. Was I supposed to chide this woman I didn't know? Was I supposed to scribble down a description of this nanny and post it on some bad nanny website because sadly I know they exist. Or, was I supposed to mind my own business just like I did, safely burying my nose and my conscience back in my keyboard?

Thankfully, we adore our nanny and it is up for debate whether our girls adore her more than they do us. This is a good thing. Husband and I joked last night about asking her if she's seen that Big Love show (the series about polygamy) to get a sense of whether she would marry us if we proposed. In all seriousness though, please know your nanny. I do not want any more impromptu coffee dates with your babies.

Monday, June 15, 2009

How Many Friends Do You Have?

This isn't an easy question to answer these days. Because (too) many of us have Facebook friends and Twitter followers and then, if we are lucky, some "real" friends. You know - the living and breathing kind who smile and sob and tell stories and sip coffee. The best kind.

The NYT Idea of the Day blog explores the evolving meaning of friendship in this contemporary landscape of social media madness in its piece What Do Friends Mean? The Week in Review staff maintains that the concurrent rise of social media and decline of the economy has prompted us to ponder the shifting psychological, social, and economic faces of human friendship. And, according to the NYT, what does this inquiry leave us with? Confusion.

Confusion is right. Online networking is complicating what was once a more simple, old school process of making friendships and then maintaining them. Furthermore, many of us are admittedly using Facebook and Twitter and other social media tools for professional purposes - whether to blast our authorial voice into the world or to hawk a product or a website. Are the people we encounter while joining in this cyber-conversation true friends or fellow pawns in a big bad game of self-promotion? Both, I imagine.

Furthermore, the NYT piece suggests something alarming and sad; that the current recession is ruining true real-world friendships. Slate author Emily Bazelon states, “Because of the downturn, friendships between two people whose Saturday-night spending and overall class status used to calibrate precisely have now turned into trickier relationships between one person who still has money and one person who doesn’t.” A troubling statistic? Per the NYT, Science Daily data indicates that we lose about half of our close network members every seven years. Cheerio.

How do you define friendship these days? Has the current economic climate compromised any of your good friendships? Has your adoption of online friends and followers had an impact on your relationships with your real world friends?

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Party On, Mr. Pres

Honestly, I don't get it. Yes, he's our President. Yes, he has a big job to do. Yes, he has inherited some vast international and domestic messes to mop up. Yes, these are incredibly tough times. Yes.

But he is also a human being. With a beautiful and intelligent wife and two darling girls. He is a husband. A father. A good husband. A good father. (And, yes, I know it annoys some of you that is so good at everything, but get over it.)

So, if this man wants to take his wife on a date, let him. Let them go to the theater and eat a four-star dinner. If she wants to wear a fancy dress and show off those enviable arms, good for her. And if she wants to wear $500 sneakers with said fancy dress, rock on. Life and laughter should not cease just because this man has taken that somber oath of office.

It seems as if there is at least one other American who agrees with me. Or, I agree with her. Point is that we are on that same proverbial page. In her compelling NYT Op-Ed piece, Maureen Dowd asks Can The One Have Fun? and her answer is a big fat YES. Dowd laments the fact that the "fun police are patrolling Pennsylvania Avenue" and makes a good point: "Mixing play with intense work is not only a good mental health strategy; it’s a good way to show the world that American confidence and cool — and Cary Grant romantic flair — still thrive."

My take? Our President is not perfect. He is not a robot. Like the rest of us, he will be better at his job if he takes time to breathe. He will be a better leader of this nation if he presses pause on business as usual from time to time to court his bride and play with his kids. Let him get his Cary Grant groove on. Let him play a round of golf. I do not want a miserable, joyless, high-strung captain at the helm of this ship. No, I think the Leader of the Free World should be a free man. Free to smile and sip the odd (and much-deserved) cocktail with his wife. Free to frolic with his young daughters. Free to pursue the same happiness we all covet and crave in our own decidedly less presidential lives.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Having Some

Toddler: "Where's Mommy?"

Nanny: "She's working now, but you'll see her after your nap."

Toddler: "Then I wanna nap now."

On big writing days, I spend a lot of time outside the house. Because if I were home, Toddler would sit on my lap the whole time and pound away on my keyboard. And that would be fun, but Laptop would probably break. And my blog posts and book chapters would look like this: gdfWJKLGFHJ SSGLSDJFNNNNNNNNNN which does not a career make. So, I leave Toddler and Baby and head to my Starbucks sanctuary where I write. And though I'm able to enter a freakish zone of focus even in the Macchiato mayhem, there is always something in the back of my mind. Two things, actually. My girls. 

Even though I see my girls all the time (and know there are countless women and men out there who are forced to spend the majority of their days and weeks away from their kids and I do not pretend to understand how hard this must be), even though I know my girls are mere blocks away and very happy, I miss them. And each and every day, I wonder if it's worth it. If it's worth pursuing goals that don't (directly) involve them, goals that necessarily take me away from them. And, at my little table in the back of that bustling and cliched coffee shop, I nod every time. Yes, it's worth it. Because I love writing. I'm happy when I write. And I'm a better mother when I'm writing and when I'm happy. So, it's both very worth it and very hard. 

And when I return home, Nanny usually has a litany of cute stories to tell me. And I love hearing them. Yes, even when they are stories about how much my girls miss me when I am gone.

No, we can't have it all. But we can have some. The challenge is to convince ourselves that some is indeed enough.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Baby's First Starbucks

The good mother keeps track of milestones. Often, she does so in a baby book designed just for that purpose; to document the "big days," the days when her baby rolls over or sits up or crawls or walks. Yes, she scribbles it all down: those first steps, that first tooth, that first haircut. Because firsts are important. And there are so many of them. And if the good mother does not maintain a written record of these developmental steps, everything will blur together in the chaos of her mind. So, diligently, the good mother keeps a diary.

I have a big stack of baby books. They are beautifully-bound. The pages are thick and substantial. There are places to insert photos and relics. These books are all empty.

But today Baby had a first worth recording. Her first Starbucks. I took her on a solo afternoon trip around the neighborhood and we ended up at our local Starbucks. As the friendly barista handed me my change, I asked if Baby could have her very own cup. The barista smiled and handed me the smallest Starbucks cup I'd seen. Not a Tall or Grande or Venti. A Short. And when I handed it to Baby, I've never seen a smile so vast on a creature so small. She grabbed the cup. And chewed it. And waved it in the air. And celebrated. 

And when Baby fell asleep in her stroller tonight as we ate dinner with my family, I took a picture of that little cup alongside her little feet. So that I would remember this day. This milestone. Those tiny toes. That smile. 

And I studied the cup and saw that on the back there was a brilliant quote from novelist Alice Randall.

Mother-love is not inevitable.
The good mother is a great artist ever
creating beauty out of chaos.

And when Husband and I carried our sleepy girls back into our beautifully chaotic home, I clutched Baby and that cup. And I thought: This is what it's all about. It's not about perfectly-penned baby books. It's not about maintaining an immaculate memory. It's not even about those trademark milestones we moms jabber on about. No, it's about the relatively random stories, the unbridled joy borne from a small paper cup and a magical quote. It's about the imperfect artistry that is motherhood and the inescapable chaos that is life. It's about those masterpiece moments we couldn't forget if we tried.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

A Laughter Hangover

"Against the assault of laughter nothing can stand." -Mark Twain

Last night, Husband and I did something we do very rarely these days: we went to the movies. We saw The Hangover, a film about a terribly ill-fated and ferociously funny bachelor party getaway to Vegas. Now, I was sure this flick would be yet another one of those cliched, more-stupid-than-funny movies about a medley of overgrown frat guys that Hollywood seems to spit out at an alarming pace. But the truth was that I was craving some stupid and superficial entertainment where I could recline and relax. So, off we went.

Guess what? It was HILARIOUS. Husband and I (and the rest of the folks in the packed theater) laughed hysterically throughout the film. And when the movie was over and we walked up Columbus Avenue toward home, my stomach muscles actually ached from my belly laugh binge. And, yes, this probably says something about the dearth of sit-ups and other abdominal exercises in my life these days, but it also says something about this movie. Yes, some of the jokes were in poor taste. Yes, the plot was absolutely far-fetched. There were instances of crude nudity and plenty of profanity. But still. It was good. The writing was good. The acting was good. It's worth seeing, my friends.

And I went to sleep happy and vowed to myself before nodding off that Husband and I would go to the movies more often because movies are lovely little escapes from life. And I woke up this morning, my tummy muscles still slightly sore. And I smiled big. 

I had a laughter hangover.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

If Crying, Insert Burger

Another Sunday. It would be so very easy, and so very appropriate, and so very safe to wax poetic about the day's surplus of sunshine and smiles. About glittering green grass peppered with quaint picnics and happy people.

But since the whole point of this blog is to inject some organic honesty into this artificially-sweetened world of ours, I am not going to dwell on these things. No, I am going to tell the truth.

I woke up sad.  Very sad. So sad that I deduced that I must of had a terribly sad dream. It didn't help that I was embraced by the aftermath of a baby shower - the nibbled chips and flat bottles of soda and lonely ribbons and 100 sad and deflated balloons dying slow deaths on my hardwood floors.  No, this probably didn't help.

But I wasn't going to just curl up on the couch and watch Diego and eat leftovers and succumb to the nebulous morning sadness. So the four of us headed out into the aforementioned glorious sunshine. And it was glorious. And I immediately felt better when I walked by the flea market and saw signs for jewelry made from street lamps, and wacky magnetic paper dolls, and my absolute favorite: functioning vintage toasters.  The sheer randomness of these items made me smile.

And then we headed to Turtle Pond where Baby took a quick snooze and Toddler found a stick she then used to try to reach Belvedere Castle and her honest efforts to make that stick reach over that pond to that castle made me smile again.  

So the smiles were coming, softly but genuinely, and I thought: there is nothing, there is no emotional ailment, no Sunday sadness, that babies can't cure.  An empowering thought. Because I have babies. Two of them.

And as the morning faded and we headed home for naps, I saw Shake Shack, the wildly popular snack stop new to our neighborhood and I suggested we stop.  Now, this is unlike me. Because I am not a huge burger eater or shake sipper, but I figured a good dose of grease and calories couldn't hurt.  And while we were on line, clinging tight to squirming girls, I saw this onesie. If crying, insert burger. And this made me smile.  Again.  And I looked at the sizes and pondered a purchase for Baby. Because you see it said very clearly in big fat font, Baby Onesies.  Not Mommy Onesies.  But I wanted one for me. If only they sold onesies in size 24-36 years.  If only it were this simple.  If crying. Insert burger. If only.

And as afternoon turned to night, we headed to my Mom's for dinner with the family. We chatted and laughed. And then I got a nice dose of honesty from select sisters. That black and white picture of me on the upper left of this blog? They're not a fan. Apparently, I look strange in that picture. Not like myself. Apparently, they've actually never seen me make that face. 

And then I cried. And went into the other room, my childhood bedroom, and cried some more. And we all knew this wasn't about a few aired opinions and a goofy profile picture. But tears don't come with birth certificates, with explanations, with warnings.  They just come. 

And then I wiped the tears away and ate dinner with my family. And felt okay.

And then I came home and put my darling girls to bed. And then I logged on and added that little caption to my less-than-flattering photo which I will probably change in the next few days because as much as I dream of being a thick-skinned superwoman, I am sensitive and vulnerable and not impervious to the odd stretch of sadness.  And then I wrote this. And it's not short and sweet and sunshiny like today was, but it is very much true. And I might not be a fan of burgers or shakes or that photo I loved until just a few hours ago, but I am a huge fan of truth. Oh, and babies.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

If You're Happy and You Know It...


You would think I could get over the whole graduation thing.  Yes, it was a delightful weekend, but I am home now, swimming once more in a spit-up-seasoned sea of baby toys and diapers.  Miles from New Haven and college life and commencement.  But no.

Another thing that Yale Law dean Harold Koh said, other than eloquently encouraging us to be big trees in the forest of life?  He said (something like): Pursue happiness.  The right to happiness is an inalienable right. You can't sell it. Do not let anything -- the mortgage, the BMW payments, even children -- trap you in a job you don't like.

And, sitting there, anonymously, behind my obnoxiously vast Oliver Peoples shades, a Yale grad, a lawyer of latter day, a rookie writer, a young mom, a perpetually lost soul hungry for morsels of wisdom, I nodded.  Vigorously. 

Happiness. That's it. That's what matters in life.  

But mere moments later, I thought to myself: What is happiness? How can we pursue it if we don't know what it is?

And then, because I have quite the non-linear attention span, I flashed to one of Toddler's Free To Be Under 3 classes where the teacher always leads a riveting rendition of that classic song If You're Happy and You Know It.  Come on. You don't have to have kids to remember this one. If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands! (And then there are a bevy of other verses involving stomping feet and tapping heads and air kisses and shouts of hooray.) Anyway, the point is that all of us parents and kiddies sing along each week: If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands!  And, sure enough, all the tiny tots clap their tiny hands. They don't even have to think about it.  Imagine that.

And suddenly, I imagined a room full of adults and what they would do with these simple melodic instructions.  And something tells me a few people would probably clap proudly and a bit insistently.  And then a few would probably not clap.  And then a few of us (maybe most of us?) would clap softly or apathetically or uncertainly.  Because this is not an easy question, is it?  In fact, if we are being technical, it is two questions:

(1) Are you happy?

and 

(2) Do you know it?

Patently, each of these questions is a biggie and has kept philosophers and other thinkers and regular people like the rest of us baffled and busy for centuries.  But that doesn't mean we shouldn't ask these questions and try to answer them. But how many of us are brave enough to ask these deceptively simple, childhood questions?

One such brave soul? Fellow Yalie/lawyer/Manhattan mom/writer Gretchen Rubin. Rubin is currently at work on her book THE HAPPINESS PROJECT a memoir of the year she spent "test-driving" tips and theories of happiness from the pedestrian to the profound to the philosophical.  Not only did Rubin press pause on her fast-track life to explore the enigmatic and idiosyncratic concept of human happiness, but she generously documents her experience and findings on her intriguing and insightful daily blog.

So.  Are you happy.  And, if so, do you know it?

Not sure?  I'm right there with you.  But I encourage you to check out Rubin's blog because while soaking up her sage musings, it occurred to me in a mini light-bulb moment that this blog you are reading might be my very own (and very accidental) happiness project.  That hammering away on my keyboard, spewing bits silly and serious and somewhere in between, that fashioning a new sense of authenticity in my own little world, is in fact making me a happier person. Whatever that means.  So maybe blogging is what it will take to get me clapping loudly and proudly?

What will it take to get you clapping?  Because as much as we might want to endorse and live by Koh's astute advice to cling tight to our right to happiness, to pursue happiness full-force, we cannot pursue something we can't recognize, can we?

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The Biggest Tree

Yale Law's Class of 2009 made an appropriate and affectionate choice for their graduation speaker: Harold Koh.  Koh, an international law professor at Yale since 1985 and its dean since 2004, was nominated this March by President Obama to be Legal Adviser to the State Department.  So, at the behest of his loving students and faculty, Koh returned to Yale from his extended leave to say a few words.  (After his soon-to-be "boss" Hillary Clinton popped by, making a surprise cameo and an energetic exhortation for this year's grads to come to work in the Obama administration.)

And Koh's words were compelling and simple and emotionally-charged, laced with humor and humility and the odd inside joke. One (of the many things) he said that stuck with me: 

The biggest tree gets the wind.

Now, I'd be lying if I said I knew exactly what Koh meant by these words.  But I will give it a shot.  Koh implored the graduates (and all of us) to be big, to live big, to do big things. To make a splash, to leave a mark.  But it also seems that he warned that the biggest tree qua biggest tree is in many ways on its own and necessarily so.  It doesn't blend in with the others.  No, it sticks up and out.  It gets buffeted, knocked around by the elements.  Translation: putting yourself out there means getting knocked around a bit by the world.  But isn't it worth it?

Now I am a sucker for good metaphors, particularly those about the natural world.  So I liked this one. Loved it.

But this Korean proverb also made me laugh.  Why?  See the tree depicted above?  The big one?  That was our view at the Commencement Ceremony on Yale's Old Campus earlier yesterday morning.  Maybe we lingered too long over our hotel eggs benedict, but our seats were not very good.  

And yet we didn't miss a thing.  No, we took it all in.  The Memorial Day air, ripe with music and metaphor. The ubiquity of sun and smiles. The soft and occasional gust of wind tickling that tree and whispering words and wisdom.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Congratulations, C!

Bulldog blues.
Barley blonde.
Bombshell beauty.
Blinding brilliance.
Burgeoning bump.
Baby boy brewing.

If I didn't love you so much, I'd have to hate you.

Your impossibly proud big sis,
A

Friday, May 22, 2009

A Late Realization

Something occurred to me the other night.

This something should have probably occurred to me on New Year's Day 2007 around six in the evening when I gave birth to Toddler.

And then again on October 19, 2008 a little after two in the afternoon when I gave birth to Baby. 

But no.  It took Husband and me sitting side-by-side on folding chairs in the gym of Toddler's future Preschool for new parent orientation for me to realize this something: I am a parent.

The fact that I have babies, two of them, tomboys-in-training, is not a news flash.  Like most other moms, I blabber on and on about them and what they are up to.  On this blog, I share the serious and silly aspects of their development.  I post pictures of them on Facebook.  Yes, I talk about them.  I cannot stop talking about them.  

But I do not spend a lot of time talking about who I am vis-a-vis these babies.  And that someone is (gasp) an adult, a parent, a new kind of being, a different species.  What does it mean to be a parent?  What are our roles and responsibilities?  

Sitting there in a sea of other rookie parents, I felt an invigorating surge of newness.  Of unbridled hope and determination and purpose.  To carve out the best possible futures for my girls.  And, as I looked around at the mosaic of faces -- smiling, but scared -- and as I listened to the wonderful head of school speak candidly about September and separation, I had an electric thought: We are off to a good start.  

And, suddenly, I could picture Toddler running around in this space, making this school her home.  I could picture her painting and singing and laughing with new friends.  I could picture her learning. 

But I could also picture myself.  Letting go of that little hand.  Telling her to have fun.  Forcing that familiar smile as I walked away, leaving her to begin this new life.  Without me.  I could picture myself simultaneously fighting back tears and telling myself that those tears are utterly natural, necessary even.  That they are badges of transition, of change, of love.

And then I could picture my own Mom doing this many years ago.  Dropping me off.  Saying goodbye. Leaving me to become who it was I would become.  Walking away, wondering who she was with me underwing.  And without me.  

Maybe this realization has come so late in the game because it's not an easy one.  Because being a parent is a powerful proposition. A bittersweet blessing. Being a parent is about gaining everything all at once and then losing it slowly, isn't it?

If a preschool orientation has done this to me, I don't even want to know what's going to happen on that first day of school.  Or at the graduations.  Or at the weddings.  Or when my precious girls become parents themselves. Uh oh.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

I Can't Make This Stuff Up

Everyone is telling me that I shouldn't blog on weekends.  That everyone who is healthy and happy and has a modicum of control over his/her schedule should deem weekends sacred personal/family/non-work time. And, frankly, I'm beginning to see the merits of the argument... But, alas, here I am on what should be a sacred Sunday night, feeling a bit compelled to leave you with just a little something... Feeling a tad lazy and a tad uninspired and a tad curious about the angst of others, I conducted one of my uber-scientific anonymous online polls over at YouBeMom.  This week, I decided to prod the powers and perils of anonymity; to see what people will confess on an online message board, but not in real life. Below you will see the colorful array of responses I received in very short order.  I have inserted some translations for the those who are not tapped into the lingo.

What is the one thing you will admit here (anonymously), but not in real life?

  •  affairs
  • it's weird. i have been coming here for almost 5 years and i am here all the time, but there are still things i won't admit here. or irl (In real life).
  • affair
  • suicidal thoughts
  • my weight
  • that my ds (dear son) is on the spectrum. IRL (in real life), we don't share that information.
  • how much i hate my mil (mother-in-law)
  • that i've been on anti-depressants for the last year
  • that i was sexually abused
  • how worried i am about db (dear baby) and her stupid "milestones"
  • that i fight a lot with dh (dear husband)
  • the true extent of my hairiness
  • my dds (dear daughter's) IQ
  • i think fat people are lazy
Okay, so there you have it.  The upshot?  We all have stuff.  Stuff that we aren't willing to share IRL (in real life).  Stuff that brings us online to chat with complete strangers on the odd Sunday night.  

Insecurities abound.  On Sundays.  On all days.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

I Drink, Therefore I Can?

Leave it to NYT's Idea of the Day blog to get those languid brain cells dancing.  Today, the Week in Review Staff asks whether there is A ‘Churchill Gene’ for Creative Drinking? and explores the notion that a lucky (or unlucky) few of us have a gene that helps us turn booze into creativity.

The blog links us to Prospect Magazine's fascinating article I drink, therefore I can.  In this piece, Philip Hunter maintains that many of history's most feted artists and writers and thinkers -- including Winston Churchill, Mark Twain, William Faulkner, Vincent Van Gogh, Jackson Pollock, Francis Bacon -- used alcohol as a "fuel for [their] muse," namely as a means to their creative ends.  

Hunter points to contemporary scientific evidence that suggests that as much as 15% of the Caucasian population has a gene -- call it the 'Churchill gene' or the 'creative cocktail gene' or 'the G-variant of the mu-opioid receptor' -- that in fact makes ethanol behave more like an opioid drug, such as morphine, with a more intense than normal effect on mood and behavior.  It has been argued and observed that the gene creates an initial euphoria, followed by prolonged periods of relaxation and enhanced creativity.  It is interesting to note that Hunter also writes that people with this euphoria/creativity producing gene variant also seem more prone to alcoholism. 

What do you think?  Do you think the idea of an alcohol/creativity gene is plausible?  Is this an attempt to defend the historical or contemporary abuse or misuse of alcohol in our culture?  Have you experienced bouts of creative euphoria after knocking back a few? Do tell!

Friday, May 8, 2009

Chew on This

What if... instead of torturing ourselves with that ever-expanding check list of things we need/want to do, things we are convinced will make us happier creatures, we just relaxed our expectations?  What if we pressed pause for a moment and realized that maybe, just maybe, we might be fine with what we have. Hmmm... Novel concept worth chewing on. Check out Judith Warner's honest and humorous treatment of this "culture-clashing, anachronistic, out-of-this-world concept," namely the notion that we should  "know [our] limits" in her  Not-So-Great Expectations over at NYT's Domestic Disturbances.  What do you think? 

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Are You Paying The Price?

Last night, I did something I haven't done in a while: I read for pleasure.  And, no, it wasn't a juicy novel or a trashy magazine or a blogger's guide.  It was Little Sister's college paper. Wherein she explored Darwin's attitudes on slavery and abolition.  And it was good.  And she is a smarty pants.  And reading the paper made me homesick for feverish intellectual debate and discovery.  And oddly, I even found myself missing footnotes. 

So, since the babes were napping and I was craving a bit of intellectual back-and-forth, I just stopped by one of my favorite cyberspace haunts - NYT's Motherlode - and jumped into the latest debate/discussion.  Today, Belkin, eloquent and straightforward as ever, raises a perennial and perennially provocative question: do we women pay a calculable economic price for becoming mothers?  And, to the extent that we do, is this society's problem or ultimately a matter of personal choice?

As you can imagine, things got feisty.  And fast.  

And as I read all of the comments, I felt my pulse quicken, and the ideas multiplying.  I got that old school adrenaline rush that I used to enjoy when riled up in a Yale seminar when I would shoot a sweaty palm up in the air and wait my turn.  And though there was no prof there to call on me, I made my comment.  I talked about something the other kids in the class seemed to be ignoring (and now that I think about it that something was a bit off topic, but oh well): biology.  That, like it or not, men and women are biologically different and that while these differences certainly do not justify the inequities inherent in this modern world, they at least inform them.  That we are so quick to point fingers at men and each other and economic systems, but that perhaps it would behoove us to look at our biological roots too.

Anyway, I think my brilliant sister and her well-crafted paper got me thinking.  About big ideas.  About Darwin.  About the fact that I can be both a harried/happy mother and a student of life.  About the unrivaled joys of impassioned democratic debate.  About the limitless and lingering questions we must continue to ask ourselves and each other. 

A few of these questions:

Do you feel like you have paid a price (economic and other) by becoming a mother?

Do you think that anything can be done to level that proverbial playing field?  To ensure that men and women reap equal economic rewards for their work? Or is this a pipe dream?

Do you think the gender debate has gotten so loud that it is falling on deaf ears these days?

Do you sometimes want to go back to college like I do?

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