This afternoon both of my girls are refusing to nap. That, in itself, is annoying. I have a million things to do that I can only do when they are asleep; and I count on some brief spell of common nap to organize my mind -- as well as my house, my life, etc. When I'm really lucky, I even get a spell of time to write.
Today I'm just out-and-out stealing it. Dee is crawling around on the floor under my feet while I am typing. I took Dee out of Kay's and her room because Kay was climbing up into Dee's crib every time I left the room. And then smiling at my rising temper which, of course, sent it right into overdrive. Nothing like proving to my two year old daughter that she is more in control than I am to make me lose it altogether. I slammed the door after rudely dumping Kay back in her own bed again, while saying to Dee "Let's go have some fun while your sister is alone in here."
So, (a) I was spiteful and out-of-control, (b) I used Dee against Kay, (c) I made napping a punishment; and (d) I even lied to Dee, who is, as I write, grumbling about the lack of attention I am giving her.
Bad, bad, bad, seriously BAD mommy!
I suck. I feel exactly as tall as a deflated balloon.
Someday in the future -- with the convenient gloss-over of hindsight -- maybe I'll reminisce about days like today with a compassionate smile. The steam hissing out of my head will seem, then, almost funny -- maybe? This tight knot of anger and frustration and impatience will -- if I remember feeling it at all -- seem a little histronic, a kind of missing-the-point of these special dear years with my girls, right? I mean, so what that they'll run out of clean diapers tonight? So what that the dishes pile up in the sink? So they miss a nap... really, what DOES prevent me from just laughing with Kay about it all?
I don't know. But I feel defeated and sad and wish very much I could just start the day over. I hate days like this.
11/30/07
11/12/07
The 'Stone
This morning we bring "That's the Job" to you on-location at Mama's favorite writing spot: the 'Stone, as I call it.
I first came to the 'Stone with my mom in the early 80's. What I remember about it is the smell of roasting coffee beans and the strange yet friendly voice of the fellow behind the counter who'd had his voice box removed due to throat cancer. I gathered from my mom's interaction with Lee that she frequented the place during her mysterious adult-world days. Lee may even have been the proprietor for all I know. But whether it was a place where you could sit for a coffee and pastry, I honestly don't remember. I was not a regular back then.
The espresso drink craze didn't catch on until I was in high school a few years later, and if the 'Stone caught that fever, I have to say, I don't know. I worked at one of what were considered by my peers "the two" coffeehouses: Robi's and Java City. Back then, nearly every coffee drink order we took was half a teaching experience (imagine having to explain to more customers than not, "A mocha is like hot chocolate with an espresso shot;" or "Espresso has a much stronger coffee taste than regular coffee."). We had to learn it all, too, of course. I was at Gelati Robi's, which aspired to be an authentic Italian coffeehouse -- and some of regulars were indeed old Italian men who would sit out front all day playing chess, arguing politics, making inappropriate -- if appreciative -- noises at every attractive female who passed by, and consuming vast quantities of espresso (with a little bit of lemon zest). They had no patience for American baristas who couldn't get the foam to milk ratio right on a cappuccino.
I worked at Robi's the summer between high school and college; it was an education in itself and I loved it. Robbie, the owner, was good to work for -- he expected us to know the business and to treat it like our jobs depended on its success (which they did). He could be tough, but he also knew how to give a compliment when it was earned. And he paid way better than Java City. Of course, Robi's is gone now, while Java City has gone on to become a national chain.
In fact, the 'Stone now belongs to Java City. To the corporation's credit, in my opinion, the sign still reads "Weatherstone," but it's a Java City store.
I've got nothing against Java City, anymore. Before I worked at Robi's, my friends and I were Java City regulars. The original store sits on a corner not far from here that used to be in a very quiet part of Midtown (it's now one of the hipper corners). There's a huge sycamore or elm on the corner; the roots were high enough to serve as benches. We'd stay out 'til curfew drinking our sweet milky coffees and smoking clove cigarettes pretending that we had some idea of who we were and what we were doing while internally churning with jealousies and insecurities about which of us the boys in our group really liked. I was happy to turn my back on Java City when I started at Robi's and put some distance between myself and those strangely painful yet electric evenings. With a lot of hindsight, those memories amuse and touch me much more than they hurt.
I "discovered" the 'Stone myself now over seven years ago. I had just separated from my first husband, Jeff, and was living alone for the first time just three doors down the street. I loved my apartment -- I still long for it at times. It had crown molding, built-in cabinets, and exactly enough space to feel like I could stretch, but not get lonely. And, Weatherstone became like my front porch. Whenever I needed to be in the midst of people, but not necessarily in connection, I would bring over my journal, some poems to work on, or a book to read and set up shop for hours. There were probably 20 or so other regulars doing the same thing. We came to recognize each other enough to nod or smile, but we were all using the 'Stone as public private space, so we weren't about forming friendships. All that energy went toward the baristas, who were funny, flirty and good at their trade.
At one of the uglier moments in the process of finalizing the end of our marriage, Jeff brought the woman who had been the straw on this camel's back to spend an afternoon at Weatherstone at a time I still believe was calculated to coincide with when I would be here or see them. Friends, and my brother, saw them here, but I didn't -- I didn't even know about it until enough later that it just seemed pathetic and had no power to rouse my anger, or my grief. It still galls me a little, however. While Jeff's incursion was ultimately harmless, it might very well have robbed me of a sanctuary I have been otherwise unable to replicate. I'm so grateful that I didn't see them and lose the sense of safety and belonging that I still feel here.
It hasn't been a seven year love affair, however. When Skip and I coupled up (after I'd been in my apartment a little less than two years), I moved into his house in another area of town. Leaving my apartment, I left the 'Stone, too. It's only been since the birth of my daughters that I have rediscovered it. My mom, who lives just a couple of blocks away, takes the girls three days a week, and I come here for a coffee and to journal.
It's an ideal writing place for me. If I lack inspiration, I need only look around. The 'Stone is full of Midtown characters. I'm partial to a few them: the older Hispanic man, always clean and sober, who pushes a cart around town full of cans and bottles. He comes in for a coffee, speaks to the only Spanish-speaker behind the counter, and then takes his coffee across the street to sit a stoop and sip it awhile. We are on a wave and smile basis. Is he homeless? Is he just supplementing his income? On occasion, I've seen him run into other folks who collect trash but who aren't quite as upright, and always they greet him so warmly: hugs from the ladies, big hearty handshakes from the men.
Then there's this a big bear of a man who wears an outfit that, in my ignorance, I would term casual California Hassiddic Jew. He's at least 6'5" tall and 3' across the shoulders and he (always) wears an apricot-colored linen tunic over raspberry colored linen trousers -- the tassels of a prayer shawl hanging below the tunic's hem -- and a straw fedora from underneath which long white curls hang down either side of his face, draped over his large bush of a white beard. He and his midrash partner debate the concerns of the day from theological perspectives over tea and almonds.
I also hold a great tenderness toward a trans-gender woman whose body is slight and whose mannerisms are entirely feminine, but whose prematurely balding head and dark stubble give away her biological character. She is often at work over a complicated beading project.
None of us talk to each other, and whenever I overhear conversations they are engaged in, I suspect that is for the best. We aren't the stuff of friends. But we are each other's friendly, familiar faces, and that is a treasure in itself.
The baristas here all know me by name, and my drink order (a small decaf coffee, half-full; I fill the rest with non-fat milk -- it is inexpensive enough that I can indulge it guiltlessly every day if I like), and we smile at each other and exchange kindnesses. And this is all I want and need from this place, socially. Because I come here not for the coffee, and not for conversation, but to write.
I am hard-pressed to define what makes the 'Stone so conducive to writing. It is almost always noisy -- and sometimes very noisy (like now, when the lunchmeat slicer is going). Sometimes there are as many distractions as inspirations. I often see familiar faces and am troubled until I can place the face (occasionally, I even see old Robi regulars). The music is inane and often unfortunately contagious.
I attribute the magic of this place, at last, to conditioning. I write here. I know that I write here. So, when I'm here, I write. Whatever the explanation of that mystery, I'm happy for it.
Recently, I've been wondering at what age my daughters will become aware of the time I spend here and what that will mean to them. I've watched mothers with young children here before and been reminded of how impossible it would be to do much more than attempt to rein in chaos if I brought my own. That will change as they age, of course. But as tempted as I sometimes feel to bring them into this part of my world, I also recognize that while not as injurious an incursion as Jeff's might have been, having them here could threaten a delicate thing. It is too precious to me for that. (Which I suppose is evidence that I do protect my time to write.)
My computer battery is about to give out -- an artificial, but probably none too soon, pressure to conclude. So, I sign off, sitting alongside a huge picture window, watching the wind whip yellow and orange leaves in big goofy airborne loops against a gray sky, sucking down the last of my (second) cup of coffee, and counting my blessings. Thanks for reading.
Where do you write?
I first came to the 'Stone with my mom in the early 80's. What I remember about it is the smell of roasting coffee beans and the strange yet friendly voice of the fellow behind the counter who'd had his voice box removed due to throat cancer. I gathered from my mom's interaction with Lee that she frequented the place during her mysterious adult-world days. Lee may even have been the proprietor for all I know. But whether it was a place where you could sit for a coffee and pastry, I honestly don't remember. I was not a regular back then.
The espresso drink craze didn't catch on until I was in high school a few years later, and if the 'Stone caught that fever, I have to say, I don't know. I worked at one of what were considered by my peers "the two" coffeehouses: Robi's and Java City. Back then, nearly every coffee drink order we took was half a teaching experience (imagine having to explain to more customers than not, "A mocha is like hot chocolate with an espresso shot;" or "Espresso has a much stronger coffee taste than regular coffee."). We had to learn it all, too, of course. I was at Gelati Robi's, which aspired to be an authentic Italian coffeehouse -- and some of regulars were indeed old Italian men who would sit out front all day playing chess, arguing politics, making inappropriate -- if appreciative -- noises at every attractive female who passed by, and consuming vast quantities of espresso (with a little bit of lemon zest). They had no patience for American baristas who couldn't get the foam to milk ratio right on a cappuccino.
I worked at Robi's the summer between high school and college; it was an education in itself and I loved it. Robbie, the owner, was good to work for -- he expected us to know the business and to treat it like our jobs depended on its success (which they did). He could be tough, but he also knew how to give a compliment when it was earned. And he paid way better than Java City. Of course, Robi's is gone now, while Java City has gone on to become a national chain.
In fact, the 'Stone now belongs to Java City. To the corporation's credit, in my opinion, the sign still reads "Weatherstone," but it's a Java City store.
I've got nothing against Java City, anymore. Before I worked at Robi's, my friends and I were Java City regulars. The original store sits on a corner not far from here that used to be in a very quiet part of Midtown (it's now one of the hipper corners). There's a huge sycamore or elm on the corner; the roots were high enough to serve as benches. We'd stay out 'til curfew drinking our sweet milky coffees and smoking clove cigarettes pretending that we had some idea of who we were and what we were doing while internally churning with jealousies and insecurities about which of us the boys in our group really liked. I was happy to turn my back on Java City when I started at Robi's and put some distance between myself and those strangely painful yet electric evenings. With a lot of hindsight, those memories amuse and touch me much more than they hurt.
I "discovered" the 'Stone myself now over seven years ago. I had just separated from my first husband, Jeff, and was living alone for the first time just three doors down the street. I loved my apartment -- I still long for it at times. It had crown molding, built-in cabinets, and exactly enough space to feel like I could stretch, but not get lonely. And, Weatherstone became like my front porch. Whenever I needed to be in the midst of people, but not necessarily in connection, I would bring over my journal, some poems to work on, or a book to read and set up shop for hours. There were probably 20 or so other regulars doing the same thing. We came to recognize each other enough to nod or smile, but we were all using the 'Stone as public private space, so we weren't about forming friendships. All that energy went toward the baristas, who were funny, flirty and good at their trade.
At one of the uglier moments in the process of finalizing the end of our marriage, Jeff brought the woman who had been the straw on this camel's back to spend an afternoon at Weatherstone at a time I still believe was calculated to coincide with when I would be here or see them. Friends, and my brother, saw them here, but I didn't -- I didn't even know about it until enough later that it just seemed pathetic and had no power to rouse my anger, or my grief. It still galls me a little, however. While Jeff's incursion was ultimately harmless, it might very well have robbed me of a sanctuary I have been otherwise unable to replicate. I'm so grateful that I didn't see them and lose the sense of safety and belonging that I still feel here.
It hasn't been a seven year love affair, however. When Skip and I coupled up (after I'd been in my apartment a little less than two years), I moved into his house in another area of town. Leaving my apartment, I left the 'Stone, too. It's only been since the birth of my daughters that I have rediscovered it. My mom, who lives just a couple of blocks away, takes the girls three days a week, and I come here for a coffee and to journal.
It's an ideal writing place for me. If I lack inspiration, I need only look around. The 'Stone is full of Midtown characters. I'm partial to a few them: the older Hispanic man, always clean and sober, who pushes a cart around town full of cans and bottles. He comes in for a coffee, speaks to the only Spanish-speaker behind the counter, and then takes his coffee across the street to sit a stoop and sip it awhile. We are on a wave and smile basis. Is he homeless? Is he just supplementing his income? On occasion, I've seen him run into other folks who collect trash but who aren't quite as upright, and always they greet him so warmly: hugs from the ladies, big hearty handshakes from the men.
Then there's this a big bear of a man who wears an outfit that, in my ignorance, I would term casual California Hassiddic Jew. He's at least 6'5" tall and 3' across the shoulders and he (always) wears an apricot-colored linen tunic over raspberry colored linen trousers -- the tassels of a prayer shawl hanging below the tunic's hem -- and a straw fedora from underneath which long white curls hang down either side of his face, draped over his large bush of a white beard. He and his midrash partner debate the concerns of the day from theological perspectives over tea and almonds.
I also hold a great tenderness toward a trans-gender woman whose body is slight and whose mannerisms are entirely feminine, but whose prematurely balding head and dark stubble give away her biological character. She is often at work over a complicated beading project.
None of us talk to each other, and whenever I overhear conversations they are engaged in, I suspect that is for the best. We aren't the stuff of friends. But we are each other's friendly, familiar faces, and that is a treasure in itself.
The baristas here all know me by name, and my drink order (a small decaf coffee, half-full; I fill the rest with non-fat milk -- it is inexpensive enough that I can indulge it guiltlessly every day if I like), and we smile at each other and exchange kindnesses. And this is all I want and need from this place, socially. Because I come here not for the coffee, and not for conversation, but to write.
I am hard-pressed to define what makes the 'Stone so conducive to writing. It is almost always noisy -- and sometimes very noisy (like now, when the lunchmeat slicer is going). Sometimes there are as many distractions as inspirations. I often see familiar faces and am troubled until I can place the face (occasionally, I even see old Robi regulars). The music is inane and often unfortunately contagious.
I attribute the magic of this place, at last, to conditioning. I write here. I know that I write here. So, when I'm here, I write. Whatever the explanation of that mystery, I'm happy for it.
Recently, I've been wondering at what age my daughters will become aware of the time I spend here and what that will mean to them. I've watched mothers with young children here before and been reminded of how impossible it would be to do much more than attempt to rein in chaos if I brought my own. That will change as they age, of course. But as tempted as I sometimes feel to bring them into this part of my world, I also recognize that while not as injurious an incursion as Jeff's might have been, having them here could threaten a delicate thing. It is too precious to me for that. (Which I suppose is evidence that I do protect my time to write.)
My computer battery is about to give out -- an artificial, but probably none too soon, pressure to conclude. So, I sign off, sitting alongside a huge picture window, watching the wind whip yellow and orange leaves in big goofy airborne loops against a gray sky, sucking down the last of my (second) cup of coffee, and counting my blessings. Thanks for reading.
Where do you write?
11/9/07
Woman's Work
Today, it's Kay to whom I'm listening on the monitor as I sit down to write. On Fridays, Dee goes to grandmother's house for the afternoon so that she can have one-on-one time with my mom, and I can have one-on-one time with Kay. On Fridays, after her nap, Kay and I launch out for some special outing or another. She didn't get to go to her very-loved swim class last night, so my tentative plan is to take her to the gym to swim this afternoon. This plan hinges on two things: (1) that she take a nap, and (2) that she wakes in time to make it feasible before we reconnoiter with Dee.
As I write, Kay's been in her bedroom for an hour already, resisting a nap. Mostly, she's been playing quietly. I checked on her a few minutes ago and reminded her that the sooner she goes to sleep, the sooner we can have some fun together. "Yeah!" she said and crawled into bed. But ever since I closed the door, she's been working one of her fake wailings -- the one that sounds as though she is half-listening to it herself to see how well it passes for the real thing. I'm not a fan of the wail, but I can't help but be amused by her. At last, it bores her and she's quiet. Only time will tell, however, whether that means she'll fall asleep.
In the meantime, I'll see how far I can get.
I want to address a comment on my last post by Sheri: "(and why the parenthetical about being a SAHM and a feminist??? not opposing things...)"
I wholeheartedly agree with this. The comment I made in my last post that elicited this response ("[me] who considers herself a feminist (stay-at-home-mom though [I] be)") was borne out of a reaction I had to a book I read while resting my back last weekend. The book, Dispatches from a Not-So-Perfect Life, by Faulkner Fox, as it is about her experience of early motherhood, was one I very strongly related to, but as it characterizes her as a feminist, I was feeling that I fall short. Sheri's comment turned up the volume on my own inner voices also protesting that sentiment, however, and got me to thinking about what exactly I might have been reacting to.
One of the things that I must have mentioned several times to Skip -- since he said so -- is how confronted I felt by Faulkner's own commitment to writing as a new mother. She frequently referred to the importance of honoring the legitimacy of her work as a writer as part of the feminist identity she sought to maintain as a mother. I've already lent out this book -- a clear sign that I loved it -- so I can't refer to examples of this and I'm a little anxious that really what I'm describing is my impressions of what she actually said, which may be more personal than accurate. However, I am sure, because this dug a deep groove into my brain, that she and her husband arranged their lives to provide her with four hours to write, in isolation, every day.
Now, I would love to have four hours to write -- especially in isolation, because as she described of herself, I also need room to write. It may not make sense; I mean, I'm just sitting at a desk with computer or pen in hand, and I don't need silence or even to be alone. I've done some of my best writing in noisy cafes. But I do need a lot of emotional elbow and leg room and most often, that requires physical distance from my loved ones. Not acres, but certainly a separate room and the promise of some stretch of uninterrupted time to occupy it.
That said, I realized as I read this book that I would not seek to arrange my life or ask Skip to rearrange his to allow myself that. There's certainly writer's insecurity involved in that fact (don't get me started on how depressed I was by Faulkner's encounter with a counselor who told her that most of the new mothers she counseled thought of themselves as writers); but in my bones I know I am a writer -- I may not ever be a commercially or critically successful or even moderately-achieving one, but I must write, and as far as I'm concerned, that makes me a writer. If I take a hard look at the question, I even feel that I'm enough of a writer to deserve the time to write, and I think that's where the crisis of feminist credibility came in.
You see, despite that, as I said, I know I would not arrange my life or ask Skip to rearrange his to gain myself four hours to write a day. And at first, recognizing this fact, caused me some fear that I just don't take myself seriously enough because I'm a not enough of a feminist. I began to worry that having become a stay-at-home mom had corrupted my sense of empowerment in and entitlement to the world of work. The comment in my last post stemmed from this place. From the sneaking suspicion that "good" feminists do both: they have work -- things to do that truly are of the world of work -- and they "stay-at-home" with kids.
This isn't where I'm going to make the case that staying at home with kids is real work. No one who is has spent any significant time alone with very young children alone (did I mention the alone part?) could possibly doubt this. Of course it is work. And it is truly fully occupying. But I will argue that staying at home with the kids is not a way of participating in "the world of work."
And, what's more, I'd argue that no one should be striving to make it be.
See, here's where I have finally come to on this issue: The reason that I wouldn't want, right now, to have four protected hours a day to write as a way to develop myself as a writer, which would almost certainly entail the expectation of seeking paid publication, is exactly that it would put me back into the world of work. And I didn't and don't absent myself from the world of work because I don't feel empowered in or entitled to it -- it's because I don't like it.
I chose to stay at home with my kids for a great variety of reasons, and certainly among them are "nobler" ones having to do with believing this is good for the girls, etc. However, also prominent among them is this fact: I am not a work-er. I just never have been. I don't necessarily wear the mantle of slacker proudly, but really, I like controlling the pace of my life, the activities in which I engage and having the freedom to do nothing. Being a stay-at-home mom is not totally compatible with these ends, but it is SO much more so than any job I've ever had. I choose to be a stay-at-home mom because I can and I want to -- mostly because it gets me closer to this ideal than anything else available to me right now -- and that is as empowered and entitled a statement as is necessary to prove my feminism to myself.
Even if it is kind of ridiculous.
Kay wakes. Gotta go have some fun.
As I write, Kay's been in her bedroom for an hour already, resisting a nap. Mostly, she's been playing quietly. I checked on her a few minutes ago and reminded her that the sooner she goes to sleep, the sooner we can have some fun together. "Yeah!" she said and crawled into bed. But ever since I closed the door, she's been working one of her fake wailings -- the one that sounds as though she is half-listening to it herself to see how well it passes for the real thing. I'm not a fan of the wail, but I can't help but be amused by her. At last, it bores her and she's quiet. Only time will tell, however, whether that means she'll fall asleep.
In the meantime, I'll see how far I can get.
I want to address a comment on my last post by Sheri: "(and why the parenthetical about being a SAHM and a feminist??? not opposing things...)"
I wholeheartedly agree with this. The comment I made in my last post that elicited this response ("[me] who considers herself a feminist (stay-at-home-mom though [I] be)") was borne out of a reaction I had to a book I read while resting my back last weekend. The book, Dispatches from a Not-So-Perfect Life, by Faulkner Fox, as it is about her experience of early motherhood, was one I very strongly related to, but as it characterizes her as a feminist, I was feeling that I fall short. Sheri's comment turned up the volume on my own inner voices also protesting that sentiment, however, and got me to thinking about what exactly I might have been reacting to.
One of the things that I must have mentioned several times to Skip -- since he said so -- is how confronted I felt by Faulkner's own commitment to writing as a new mother. She frequently referred to the importance of honoring the legitimacy of her work as a writer as part of the feminist identity she sought to maintain as a mother. I've already lent out this book -- a clear sign that I loved it -- so I can't refer to examples of this and I'm a little anxious that really what I'm describing is my impressions of what she actually said, which may be more personal than accurate. However, I am sure, because this dug a deep groove into my brain, that she and her husband arranged their lives to provide her with four hours to write, in isolation, every day.
Now, I would love to have four hours to write -- especially in isolation, because as she described of herself, I also need room to write. It may not make sense; I mean, I'm just sitting at a desk with computer or pen in hand, and I don't need silence or even to be alone. I've done some of my best writing in noisy cafes. But I do need a lot of emotional elbow and leg room and most often, that requires physical distance from my loved ones. Not acres, but certainly a separate room and the promise of some stretch of uninterrupted time to occupy it.
That said, I realized as I read this book that I would not seek to arrange my life or ask Skip to rearrange his to allow myself that. There's certainly writer's insecurity involved in that fact (don't get me started on how depressed I was by Faulkner's encounter with a counselor who told her that most of the new mothers she counseled thought of themselves as writers); but in my bones I know I am a writer -- I may not ever be a commercially or critically successful or even moderately-achieving one, but I must write, and as far as I'm concerned, that makes me a writer. If I take a hard look at the question, I even feel that I'm enough of a writer to deserve the time to write, and I think that's where the crisis of feminist credibility came in.
You see, despite that, as I said, I know I would not arrange my life or ask Skip to rearrange his to gain myself four hours to write a day. And at first, recognizing this fact, caused me some fear that I just don't take myself seriously enough because I'm a not enough of a feminist. I began to worry that having become a stay-at-home mom had corrupted my sense of empowerment in and entitlement to the world of work. The comment in my last post stemmed from this place. From the sneaking suspicion that "good" feminists do both: they have work -- things to do that truly are of the world of work -- and they "stay-at-home" with kids.
This isn't where I'm going to make the case that staying at home with kids is real work. No one who is has spent any significant time alone with very young children alone (did I mention the alone part?) could possibly doubt this. Of course it is work. And it is truly fully occupying. But I will argue that staying at home with the kids is not a way of participating in "the world of work."
And, what's more, I'd argue that no one should be striving to make it be.
See, here's where I have finally come to on this issue: The reason that I wouldn't want, right now, to have four protected hours a day to write as a way to develop myself as a writer, which would almost certainly entail the expectation of seeking paid publication, is exactly that it would put me back into the world of work. And I didn't and don't absent myself from the world of work because I don't feel empowered in or entitled to it -- it's because I don't like it.
I chose to stay at home with my kids for a great variety of reasons, and certainly among them are "nobler" ones having to do with believing this is good for the girls, etc. However, also prominent among them is this fact: I am not a work-er. I just never have been. I don't necessarily wear the mantle of slacker proudly, but really, I like controlling the pace of my life, the activities in which I engage and having the freedom to do nothing. Being a stay-at-home mom is not totally compatible with these ends, but it is SO much more so than any job I've ever had. I choose to be a stay-at-home mom because I can and I want to -- mostly because it gets me closer to this ideal than anything else available to me right now -- and that is as empowered and entitled a statement as is necessary to prove my feminism to myself.
Even if it is kind of ridiculous.
Kay wakes. Gotta go have some fun.
11/5/07
Step on a crack...
On Saturday morning I got up from the toilet and turned toward the sink to wash my hands and oh.my.god. I fell to the floor, my back seizing in vicious spasms. I lay there until my husband called out, “Hey, what are you doing in there?” And then I rolled over and bravely tried to pull myself back into an upright position. He saw me hobbling out of the bathroom. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Um, I think I threw my back out.”
“Oh, well, what do you want me to do?”
Saturday mornings are usually his time to take care of the girls. Ordinarily, I would have just gimped my way back to bed and he would have taken over with the girls no questions asked. However, once a month, Skip goes to the local homeless shelter to help prepare a meal with a bunch of people from our church who then also serve it. It’s a little thing, but it matters to him; it’s a way of putting more than just our money to work. It feels real.
Skip also has a chronic back condition and he gets migraines. This particular Saturday morning he was on day two of a migraine headache and his back was hurting. Per normal he was acting as if nothing were wrong. In fact, I’ve watched him grimace and strain through all kinds of activities that serve our family or me just because that is part of what it means to him to be a man. I accept that it is sometimes hard to know what it means to be a man in contemporary society, especially when coming from a more traditional family and yet having a wife who considers herself a feminist (stay-at-home-mom though she be) and two daughters who expect and require a lot of emotional availability, equal respect, etc. Since his definition of manhood poses no conflict to co-parenting, or to viewing and treating each other as equals (albeit with different strengths), I’ve come to appreciate and accept his chivalry.
Why exactly I thought what was called for was for me to be “the man,” however, is harder to explain. “He does it, so I’ll do it,” I thought. “It’s only two hours. I can get through two hours. I’ve given birth to two children, goddammit; I can do this.”
I told him he should go.
For a while after he left I was convinced I could just muscle my way through the morning and that would be that. Maybe I wouldn’t be the most fun ever, but I could keep the girls occupied enough, I thought. However, not ten minutes after he left, I realized he’d forgotten his cell phone and my resolve withered. By the time he got home, I was lying immobile on the playroom floor whimpering with each new spasm, while Dee wailed with boredom a few feet out of reach and Kay had made a game of jumping over me to run through the house unsupervised.
(Running through the house unsupervised is how she recently broke her collarbone. That is something about which I’ve been meaning to blog, but well, haven’t. Specifically she was jumping off the couch and took a bad fall; I felt terrible, but that’s a different blog. She got a bad ow-ie. When I told her I also had a bad ow-ie, by way of explaining my back, her eyes grew big and round and in a hushed voice she asked, “What were you jumping on? )
I spent the rest of the weekend in bed, at both his and my back’s insistence. Which meant Skip was left to do all the childcare (except breast-feed and occasionally entertain Dee, which I could do from bed), do all the weekend chores (laundry, shopping, yard work), and prepare for – and host -- a previously planned 12 person birthday/dinner party (which I lamely, literally, attended by reclining on the couch the whole time). I’d tried to talk him out of the party, or at least to encourage him to let another set of friends host it instead, but he wouldn’t budge. “That’s not what you do to a friend who’s had the worst year of his life,” he said in his clenched-jaw don’t-argue-logic-with-me;-I’m set-on-my-course way.
Last night as he crawled into bed, landing with an uncharacteristic groan after a long soak in the spa, I said, “You’re my hero.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” he said grumpily. “I’m not a hero.”
When I started to write this morning I thought I was going to write about how awful I felt letting him do everything. How lying in bed, mostly unable to move -- a fact sufficiently acutely proven to me every time I tried – I nevertheless had this nagging shameful feeling that I was shirking my duties. Skip’s back was hurting, and he had a migraine headache. It really wasn’t fair for Skip to have to do it all – and if he were me, he couldn’t have done it all. But Skip, hell, he even took the girls to the zoo on Saturday and to playgrounds both Sunday and Saturday!
I tried a couple of time to put words to the knot of gratitude and shame I was feeling, but Skip would just tell me to take it easy, pointing out that I can’t do my job with my back out, while he can do his desk job, so my recuperation had to take priority. “Nevermind,” I‘d rejoin, “that you are doing 'my' job with your back out.”
“Well, my back always hurts,” he’d reply.
I have the feeling that there is a lot of fodder here for an analysis of male-female dynamics and specifically how those play out in my marriage. There’s a story here too, about the insanity of feeling guilty for being injured and needing sometimes to lay low, especially when it is easy to do so thanks to willing and gracious help.
For right now, I will say this: whether or not he’s a hero, he is a good man.
“Um, I think I threw my back out.”
“Oh, well, what do you want me to do?”
Saturday mornings are usually his time to take care of the girls. Ordinarily, I would have just gimped my way back to bed and he would have taken over with the girls no questions asked. However, once a month, Skip goes to the local homeless shelter to help prepare a meal with a bunch of people from our church who then also serve it. It’s a little thing, but it matters to him; it’s a way of putting more than just our money to work. It feels real.
Skip also has a chronic back condition and he gets migraines. This particular Saturday morning he was on day two of a migraine headache and his back was hurting. Per normal he was acting as if nothing were wrong. In fact, I’ve watched him grimace and strain through all kinds of activities that serve our family or me just because that is part of what it means to him to be a man. I accept that it is sometimes hard to know what it means to be a man in contemporary society, especially when coming from a more traditional family and yet having a wife who considers herself a feminist (stay-at-home-mom though she be) and two daughters who expect and require a lot of emotional availability, equal respect, etc. Since his definition of manhood poses no conflict to co-parenting, or to viewing and treating each other as equals (albeit with different strengths), I’ve come to appreciate and accept his chivalry.
Why exactly I thought what was called for was for me to be “the man,” however, is harder to explain. “He does it, so I’ll do it,” I thought. “It’s only two hours. I can get through two hours. I’ve given birth to two children, goddammit; I can do this.”
I told him he should go.
For a while after he left I was convinced I could just muscle my way through the morning and that would be that. Maybe I wouldn’t be the most fun ever, but I could keep the girls occupied enough, I thought. However, not ten minutes after he left, I realized he’d forgotten his cell phone and my resolve withered. By the time he got home, I was lying immobile on the playroom floor whimpering with each new spasm, while Dee wailed with boredom a few feet out of reach and Kay had made a game of jumping over me to run through the house unsupervised.
(Running through the house unsupervised is how she recently broke her collarbone. That is something about which I’ve been meaning to blog, but well, haven’t. Specifically she was jumping off the couch and took a bad fall; I felt terrible, but that’s a different blog. She got a bad ow-ie. When I told her I also had a bad ow-ie, by way of explaining my back, her eyes grew big and round and in a hushed voice she asked, “What were you jumping on? )
I spent the rest of the weekend in bed, at both his and my back’s insistence. Which meant Skip was left to do all the childcare (except breast-feed and occasionally entertain Dee, which I could do from bed), do all the weekend chores (laundry, shopping, yard work), and prepare for – and host -- a previously planned 12 person birthday/dinner party (which I lamely, literally, attended by reclining on the couch the whole time). I’d tried to talk him out of the party, or at least to encourage him to let another set of friends host it instead, but he wouldn’t budge. “That’s not what you do to a friend who’s had the worst year of his life,” he said in his clenched-jaw don’t-argue-logic-with-me;-I’m set-on-my-course way.
Last night as he crawled into bed, landing with an uncharacteristic groan after a long soak in the spa, I said, “You’re my hero.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” he said grumpily. “I’m not a hero.”
When I started to write this morning I thought I was going to write about how awful I felt letting him do everything. How lying in bed, mostly unable to move -- a fact sufficiently acutely proven to me every time I tried – I nevertheless had this nagging shameful feeling that I was shirking my duties. Skip’s back was hurting, and he had a migraine headache. It really wasn’t fair for Skip to have to do it all – and if he were me, he couldn’t have done it all. But Skip, hell, he even took the girls to the zoo on Saturday and to playgrounds both Sunday and Saturday!
I tried a couple of time to put words to the knot of gratitude and shame I was feeling, but Skip would just tell me to take it easy, pointing out that I can’t do my job with my back out, while he can do his desk job, so my recuperation had to take priority. “Nevermind,” I‘d rejoin, “that you are doing 'my' job with your back out.”
“Well, my back always hurts,” he’d reply.
I have the feeling that there is a lot of fodder here for an analysis of male-female dynamics and specifically how those play out in my marriage. There’s a story here too, about the insanity of feeling guilty for being injured and needing sometimes to lay low, especially when it is easy to do so thanks to willing and gracious help.
For right now, I will say this: whether or not he’s a hero, he is a good man.
11/2/07
Just one thought
I've been thinking so much about this that I just want to get it out there, even inelegantly -- as this may well turn out to be.
I think when you have a job in addition to "parent," then something else does the work of holding some space open for you to maintain a connection with your sense of self. When "parent" is the whole way you have to describe what you're doing with your life (since typically no one answers the question, "what do you do?" with answers like "I notice the way the light changes with the seasons; try to journal as often as I can; read a lot of really great books; think a lot about God, both what "God" might be and about my relationship to it; alternately cherish and dread my daily existence, though more cherish than dread; and, keep trying to get better at being the mother, friend, and person I want to be"), it takes initiative to create and protect that kind of space, because parenting can eat up everything you are if you'll let it.
For the last several weeks, I've been trying to let a new thing grow up inside me: A conviction strong enough to act as a talisman against the fear otherwise, that while my children's needs are primary, one of their chief needs is for me to be (and to feel like) a whole person.
It's a good sign that I've got poems sprouting again. They may be very lightweight as Poems go, but they come straight out of my intact whole self --- even when they are about parenting.
I think when you have a job in addition to "parent," then something else does the work of holding some space open for you to maintain a connection with your sense of self. When "parent" is the whole way you have to describe what you're doing with your life (since typically no one answers the question, "what do you do?" with answers like "I notice the way the light changes with the seasons; try to journal as often as I can; read a lot of really great books; think a lot about God, both what "God" might be and about my relationship to it; alternately cherish and dread my daily existence, though more cherish than dread; and, keep trying to get better at being the mother, friend, and person I want to be"), it takes initiative to create and protect that kind of space, because parenting can eat up everything you are if you'll let it.
For the last several weeks, I've been trying to let a new thing grow up inside me: A conviction strong enough to act as a talisman against the fear otherwise, that while my children's needs are primary, one of their chief needs is for me to be (and to feel like) a whole person.
It's a good sign that I've got poems sprouting again. They may be very lightweight as Poems go, but they come straight out of my intact whole self --- even when they are about parenting.
Learning Curve
It was just the day after
I'd lightly said,
"They do have a survival instinct"
when I caught you
running through the house
with
long
scissors
in your mouth.
I'd lightly said,
"They do have a survival instinct"
when I caught you
running through the house
with
long
scissors
in your mouth.
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