The Paper Mountain Climber

I am a paper mountain climber; without carabiners, harness or ropes I fearlessly traverse and climb mountains of papers each day. Junk mail used to be the bane of my existence, but the fifteen pottery barn catalogs, multiple credit card solicitations and charity requests don't begin to compare with the mountain of paper when your five-year-old starts school. It's ridiculous; art projects, memos, art projects, reading logs, homework...every day, art projects, more art.......Then the after school program, with its endless paper fans, necklaces, purses, art projects. It never ends. What in the hell are you supposed to do with this many priceless pieces of memorabilia?

If left to my own devices, I have a system. I appreciate the original drawings for a day or two, then I chuck them in the bin, unless they really stand out - showing me a new stage in her artistic development. Hey, the people have arms now, the butterflies have antennae, the trees actually look like trees and the abstracts, oh the abstracts. These guys usually make it on the fridge or cupboards, until I chuck them. I only put true keepers in the keeper box and my judgement on these is arbitrary and capricious. Usually the holiday projects are cool. I have a book shaped like a turkey with forks for legs that I found particularly keepable. But I might have kept it because my Mom friend was volunteering that day in the classroom and told me how much work each turkey took to make. I guess I just use the force. I realize this is a bit harsh, but what can you do? I read in a magazine once that these kids were so upset by their mom chucking their art, that she and her kids painted the garage white and made it an art studio. Sheeeeeeeit! I like to think that there is a subset of mothers in the world that just needs less sleep than I do. These are the mothers that make it look easy, who have some natural beta blockers for stress and child care; the kind of mothers that think it's fun to spend an afternoon with their kids in a garage painting. I don't have a garage and if I'm painting it's because I have childcare.

Anyway, I'm not often left to my own devices with art redistribution. Harper is an art cop. Here's how it goes; I'm cleaning - sifting through our lives to determine what's important, what can be chucked when......... the art cop comes home. I should never let the girl near the garbage or recycling, because inevitably, she rifles through it, whereupon, she emerges from the kitchen with a look of teary-eyed betrayal, holds up a damn fine drawing and asks, with edgy restraint, "who threw away my picture?" Poor Chris; the number of times that his absence has inspired me to dump blame on him for art redistribution is scandalous. And I hate lying to her. In our house, candy is candy and "no you can't have it." It's not medicine. But something about all of her precious artistic impulses makes me all weak and guilty. So I lie and fish them out for another day or two, muttering, "wonder how those got in there," until she forgets about them. Then I chuck them again...but this time outside.

It's sad how much you have to throw away. Harp's art is a little piece of her and she's really good. But if I kept everything, our house would be a serious fire hazard inside of two weeks. I just hope that I haven't thrown anything away that we'll both regret. I think if we keep going as we are, we'll have a marvelously random assortment of art - one that will be just enough to recapture the magic of her first school year......someday when she's less prolific.

The Diaper Free Zone?

So Rosie is nearing two and she keeps taking her diaper off. Just likes the wind on her butt, I guess. But the prospect of cleaning pee from my carpets ranks up there with cleaning cat pee from my carpets, so I thought it might be a good time to teach Rosie where to go, other than the undesirable place where her parents are responsible for removal. Looking forward to it...in a big way. She's young, yes, but she already demands to sit on the toilet; true, it's always after her big sister sets the example. But still, she sits there for a minute, demands a book, says "done", grabs several yards of toilet paper, stuffs it between her legs, hops off, closes the lid, says "hands" which is my cue to flush and do some hygiene work. Nothing productive has happened yet, but I'm a big believer in easing into a new things.

So, it seems like she's ready. And so are we, so let's go. Except, I can't remember anything about potty training. All I can remember is that there were several stages, involving plastic chairs, or plastic seat inserts. And right when you think you're done, the inevitable accidents surface to mar the beauty of the newly established diaper free zone. After a successful first stage, Harper was totally "trained" at 2 years and a couple months, but then after a traumatic visit abroad, in which she peed on everything - beds, couches, me, Parisian merry-go-rounds, more beds, me again, she regressed a bit. After our trip, I would usually find her under the kitchen table, surreptitiously dropping a load in her pants, with a mischievous/guilty look on her sweet face. A friend told me that her girl pees without problem in the toilet, but feels most comfortable pooing in her pants. Much like myself, she had no idea that the unrelenting middle poo part would take so long. Isn't it supposed to be diapers one day, toilet the next? Before Harper's sub-table exploits, I would have bet the house. Now, I forget even the mistakes I made the first time.

So I thought maybe with the next impressionable young lass under my toilet tutelage, I would arm myself with more knowledge. I'd approach the potty zone with some battle armor - a list of strategies, a no fail game plan that would get this boot camp done in a hurry. Yeah, that's how parenting works. Realistic. I should have just looked on line, but I remembered hearing about this book. From where, I can't tell you, because I haven't know many uber stern parents. But I'll let you be the judge. This passage is from, Toilet Training in Less Than A Day and these wise men tell us the most effective way to manage potty training accidents:

"As soon as you see that your child has wet his pants reprimand
him immediately and with sufficient emphasis to make him
realize that pants wetting is not a grownup action. Try especially
to show your disapproval immediately after the wetting by
loudly saying 'NO!' as soon as you detect the wetting, in the
hope that your loud voice will cause the urination to be
interrupted. Then tell him why you are displeased by statements
such as, 'You wet your pants,' or 'Your pants are wet.' Express
your disapproval by pointing out that you are not pleased with
what he has done. 'Wetting is bad,' or 'Big Boys don't like wet pants,'
or 'Mommy doesn't like wet pants,' or 'Only babies like wet pants.'

Holy shit! Child or dog? No one knows.

So, I'll admit, I drop the hammer, maybe more so that any other parent I know. Chris and I tightened up the discipline early because Harp is an edge seeker and pushes every limit. She's Chuck Yeager in The Right Stuff, always pushing the new jets, flying too high, too fast, looking for the next thrill and crashing into her parents with her reckless enthusiasm. Harp takes creative management, and by that I mean we're firm.

But, these toilet fascists aren't firm; they're just, just, so many things are wrong with this I can't even begin. Now...... given, I should have researched the book before I bought it, checked out the publication date, 1974, and should have probably used better sense before I spent two bucks, but come on, shouldn't these books be removed from publication and burned in some kind of enlightenment bonfire, where we all acknowledge that our kids are smarter than dogs? Did these people actually write these books? Did people actually read these books, follow these books, yell "boo" to interrupt bodily functions midstream?

God, I hope not. Someone should do a research study on the effects of this particular training regimen on youngsters. They're probably all Republicans. For my part, the book's already made it to the recycling and I think maybe I'll just hand Rose's toilet training over to Harp. She can't read yet and she's bound to do a better job of it than I did.

Singing the Praises of Goofiness

This weekend, Harp had a choral performance with the Oakland Youth Chorus. It's a big production, a coming together of many schools, ages and grade levels. I cried every time she sang. I wonder why we cry at these things. It's a little embarrassing. My mom was there and I noticed her wiping her face as well. Marching down the aisle of the big hall, taking their places under bright lights, they become bigger. It's like sending them out into the real world, seeing them separate from yourself - real people doing real things, instead of asking for more juice or another story.

It's also pride; knowing that you haven't screwed them up so much that they can't stand in front of four hundred people and sing under bright lights. You see exactly who they are under pressure. One little girl barely knew the words, but was bouncing happily to the music, in time. Another tapped her foot rhythmically to the beat, alternating back and forth with happy concentration. One little boy standing just behind Harp was enjoying himself more than almost any other. He was swaying and swinging his hands and clearly marching to the beat of his own drummer. This clearly offended my girl, who had definite opinions about the way to do things correctly - swaying and swinging were not in the program. She would glance behind her with a look of disbelief, even disdain at his departure from the prescribed movements.

But you know, the mavericks are the kids who are most interesting to watch - the kids who aren't wound too tightly. In the winter concert, a little girl wore a brightly colored scarf, totally against dress code policy, and proceeded to swirl it and play with it throughout the performance. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. No one could; she was marvelously entertaining. Different and animated. Another girl kept popping on and off the stage and running into the audience, unable to contain herself long enough for Supercalifragilisticexpialidoscious to finish. I mean, who could?

But watching my very contained, very proper girl up there made me think. I'm totally driving her individuality into the ground. She's scared to step out - to be different. She didn't look like she was having any fun up there. And Mary Poppins is fun, dammit? I want her to have fun, to be carefree. But I would probably never have let her bring a brightly colored scarf with her on stage. I tow the line, so she'll tow the line. It's all a little depressing, honestly. To see what kind of effects you have on your kids, while innocently following your own programming. Really, this is my great great grandmother's fault, isn't it? As much as I try to be mindful - to give her room to breathe, I get the feeling like she'll be just like me. Not so bad - I know, but I want more for her. I want her to be relaxed, not just look it. And up on stage, glaring daggers at that goofy kid behind her gave proof through the night that my girl is not relaxed. I gotta give the kid a scarf next time.

Infinity and Beyond

I can remember conversations with my friends growing up and they were nothing like this one.

Topic: Drawing Appreciation



Harper: Well, I like your drawing
Best Friend C: Well, I like your drawing better
Harper: Well, I like yours better. Actually I like yours infinity.
C: Well I like yours more than infinity

And this is where the Generation X ends and Generation Millennia begins:

Harper: There isn't anything past infinity
C: Yeah, I know. Like if you add something to infinity, it's actually infinity
Harper: And one less than infinity is still infinity. And infinity plus infinity is just infinity
C: And infinity take away infinity is still infinity
Harper: No bigger number than infinity
C: Yeah. It's the biggest number there is.

Two five-year olds who draw with crayons and can barely read, but grasp something that I learned in high school. Nice.

What Does It Take?

The other day, this nervous-style mom stopped me on my daily walk with Rose. She looked a little frazzled. She's adopted two kids, the first an energetic tyke of two and then a year later a sister, a wily 13-month old who began walking the day after she arrived home from China. The woman has her hands full. So, I tried to interest Skipper in some interesting sticks on the ground and settled in for a marathon conversation....lasting all of five minutes.

Turns out that she's returning to work in a few weeks and beginning to question her decision, money, career - her future. She asked me straight out, what it takes to be a stay-at-home mom? Do I like it? What do I think about it? First of all I hate the term but I live in the language of the world and I reserve the right to comment on that absurd designation in the future. Can somebody with cultural capital address this outmoded job title? Anyway, she asked me about staying at home, because that's what I'm doing now. Living in a very small house, driving a beat-up car, struggling with the lure of credit cards and taking care of my kids nearly full-time.

What does it take? Such an interesting question and virtually impossible to answer. I told her, for me, it's all about temperament. What does she like to do? What makes her happy? I feel so lucky that we're able to have one of us home right now. And by lucky, I mean that Chris is a god. But not everyone would choose this reality. The majority of my friends with kids have to work, but they also need to work....for sanity - couldn't be around their children all the time, need outside stimulation, adult interaction. So I've come up with a set of questions - questions a person might want to consider before choosing to stay at home with kids. Not exhaustive, certainly not incisive or a final word, but a list of questions nonetheless, emanating from my own complex relationship to parenting:

1. Do you like to prepare food? A lot of food? Have you ever served food in a professional capacity?

2. Do you mind very much if said food is on your person, your hair or your clothing?

3. Can you watch the same movie, usually animated, fifty times or more?

4. Do you like going out? With a small purse?

5. Do you like repetitive tasks? Are they relaxing to you? Or do you talk to yourself in angry whispers as you wipe a surface for the fifth time in an hour?

6. Do you mind repeating yourself? Over and over and over again? Do you like the sound of your own voice?

7. Do you care if you sound like your mother? Do you like your mother?

8. Are you obsessive? A little or a lot? Really? Validate by looking in your linen closet?

9. Are you easily bored? Will you read the same picture book 3 times in a row? Roll your eyes while reading picture book? Or feign narcolepsy?

10. Are you an eternal optimist? (Please do not attempt to answer if you watch 30 minutes or more of CNN a week - including cnn.com. You cannot be an optimist.)

If this list of questions somehow had a scale, like some fancy magazine test that tells you whether or not you're a great parent, I would surely fail. But I love staying home. So, what is it that works, that floats my boat and keeps the crazies at bay until 4PM? All I could come up with is that I like small things. I'm simple - easily amused. I like the way Rosie says popsicle. I like that Harper sings in bed, in the shower and on the toilet. I like our house, all 800 sq. feet of it, and the light in the afternoon.

There's so much about parenting that's hard and trying and work. But if you're the kind of person that takes pleasure in the little things, staying at home with the kids is....well...where I want to be. Ask me tomorrow and I might say something else.

The Clarity of Illness

For the past couple of day's Harper's had the flu - high fever, stomach pain, general body aches and the miseries, as my Mom calls them. I've been thinking about sickness for awhile now, especially since we should have been quarantined with a plague flag this past winter. But she's sick again and I just had a thought; Harp is actually so much easier to care for when she's ill. This has led me to examine my own sanity and motivations. I checked with others to see if I was a nutter - I love the British. And after a quick check with some others, I got the green light for sanity. Apparently, at least a handful of people feel the same way I do.

And last night, I started to figure out why sometimes, and just sometimes, it's easier when they're down for the count. When you have a super-girl who never stops moving, the quiet times are few and far between. And I like quiet. I was blessed to have a first child who sets the world on fire, shows me the other side, what I've been missing - challenging my sensibilities and my own way of living in the world. But every once in a while, I just want to sink into quiet and peace. And sickness inspires or more accurately forces quiet on the household.

But even more than the eerie and unnatural quiet in the house is that sickness reduces people to essentials. I become the mom, taking care of her with singular purpose; she becomes the child in need of care. It becomes so clear, so simple and easy to understand. There's no need to refuse cookies or chips for breakfast, because she's hardly eating. She doesn't need time-outs, because she's not moving enough to behave badly. She doesn't need constant reminders to walk not run in the house (rattling the hanging pots of our neighbors below), because her energy is more likely to power a flashlight than a large city electrical grid. She doesn't need to be reigned in at all. She just needs ginger ale, cartoons, the occasional dose of ibuprofen and me to listen to the frequent comments about her inexorably declining health.

It's not only Harper; I behave with more clarity of purpose. Parenting is always a balancing act; I know, a shocking revelation. I'm always trying to clean, give people food that's reasonably healthy or write something funny. But when the kids are sick, everything goes to hell, because there is one clear objective - health. With a clear purpose and mind, you care for them to make them better, or at least you try to make them better. I'm talking mild illness here, rather than the more serious kind. The parents of seriously ill children live with a clarity of purpose that I can't even imagine.

I don't know if it's just me, but I like clarity in parenting, because usually I'm a clear as mud - contemplating balance, limits, love, exhaustion, incompetence (my own) all before breakfast. So I really like circumstances requiring hamster-like intellect. Refreshing.

My last insight into illness and kids is that when Harp is going full-throttle, I catch only glimpses of her whizzing by - in every sense. Normally when I ask her about her day, I'm dismissed with casual, "nothings". I don't know if I've done something to discourage information or sharing, but that's the way we roll. If I push for more detail, she retreats. But those rare times when she tells me a story, I sit quietly, holding my breath until she finishes - savoring the details and the narrow, fleeting glances into her large, hidden world. When she's sick, she talks endlessly, because she has no filters. She's forgets, momentarily, that we are at odds, that she defines herself against me. When she's sick we're closer again, like we used to be when she was little. And every once and awhile, coming back together, sick or not, is pretty special.