fast friday

I will admit that I read almost every parenting book that hits the shelves - well, within reason. I'm not into Ferberizing or cry-it-out, so books that espouse those sorts of parenting philosophies never make home with me. But I do own most of the Sears Parenting Library, as well as The Vaccine Book, The Happiest Baby/Toddler series, Baby Signs, books on organic foods, books on making your own baby food (which all turned out to be a waste since Bug never liked baby food and only wanted what she could pick up and feed to herself), books on babywearing, The Wonder Weeks (which I always recommend since it sorts through all the sleep regression stuff and actually tells you what's going on in their little heads), How To Raise a Reader From Birth, Nurture Shock (my most recent purchase) and more. Oh, I almost forgot Jonathan Safran Foer's new book Eating Animals - since I haven't given Bug any meat yet, and being sceptical about meat anyway (its safety, the huge farming industry it comes from, the environmental impact, etc.) I thought it was a wise read and I would totally recommend it to anyone in the same wishy-washy boat I was in before reading it.

Obviously, I am little bit of a wreck when it comes to gathering information. I want it all right in front of me, right now. I'll sort through the conflicting advice and studies and hullaballoo later on, in my own head - well, hopefully in my own head, as opposed to someone else's head. All the advice in the world never seems to trump a steady philosophy of moderation. And all of these parenting gurus, doctors and child phsychiatrists - read them if you want, I do. But take everything with a grain of salt. Do what comes naturally, except, of course, neglect or abuse or other awful things. But if that's what is natural to you, please seek help (and I don't mean this in a judgmental way).

My point is: it would seem, mostly from my reading frenzy, that I might be well on the path to becoming one of the so-called "helicopter parents." Please, do not ever let this happen to me. I loathe these people - even as I understand their motivation - I truly do detest this type of parent.

But America (god bless her little heart), being the bastion of hyper-functional, non-functional, marketing mecca that we are now has a cure for over-parenting. And you too could learn the ins and outs of how to schedule downtime for your child to rediscover his or her own toys. And you too can create your own toy library. All for the low cost of attending a seminar on de-overparenting or even having someone visit your home to create a custom plan to curb your helicopter parenting ways.

This article at Time should make you sufficiently squirmy on whether your on parenting style is enough, too little or too much for your child. And this article at Jezebel is pretty much a spot-on critique of said hysteria.

Sheesh. Everything with a grain of salt people.

shoes or choose!

Some nights I sit on the front porch drinking a glass of wine and smoking a cigarette.* I can’t help but look across the street – I mean, really, their houses are right in front of me, so I can’t help but look at them – and wonder about the lives being led in those walls. I’ve met, at least in passing, almost everyone in the houses across from and beside ours. I do know something about these people.

Also, Kate, one of my best friends since we randomly met in Latin class (talk about a bunch of losers) almost eight years ago now, lives across the street and two doors down. And as of this September, Maya, another best friend and my roommate from Chicago, now shares the apartment with Kate. Obviously I know all about their lives, since we see/text/call each other constantly.

But the other neighbors. I know only the barest bones of their stories. And because of this lack of information or intimacy (because honestly, their lives are not my business) I can sit on the porch and glance their figures moving behind the curtains and only imagine all of their lives as perfect – without the heavy detritus I know to pervade all of the lives around me.

It is an odd street where I live, such that the houses, some massive and some totally miniscule, are slammed together one on top of the other. An odd street even further crowded by the little stretch of pavement with parked cars lined up and down where only one car can pass at a time and everyone who drives it is forced into a game of chicken even though it is a two-way street. You can’t possibly live here without wondering about all of these inhabitants and their lives.

Sometimes, the lesbian couple directly across from me will be on their porch while I am on mine. And it is so easy to see them sitting outside, smoking and laughing together – to then imagine theirs as the perfect relationship. Unfettered with distrust and suspicion.

And the gentleman who lives to the right of them – he is single, mid-fifties. I imagine his house clean and outdated, perhaps with a plaid couch or two. Maybe some wood paneling in the hallways. But always with order and a constant routine which, to me, would sound like a lullaby.

But what do we really know about anyone with whom we share our space? (See how I made that sentence grammatically correct, even though its correctness takes you out of the flow of words. How dreadful.) It is too easy, when we are down or depressed or whatever euphemism you’d like to use – it is too easy to see everyone else as some ideal figure that we (I) cannot achieve.

But these are things I have to remember: it is easy to see perfection in lives that aren’t your own; it is easier to find happiness in memory and nostalgia than in the grit of day-to-day; that there will be tomorrow and we (I) can choose** to go willingly into that day.


*I know, the horror! A mother who smokes. But I had quit totally until my father died, and then it crept up on me again. First I would have 3 a day and then 4 and then now where I’m probably smoking around eight. Gross, I know. And I do really want to quit again. But, as a disclaimer, no one smokes in the house, and no one smokes and touches Buggy without first washing their hands.

**I almost wrote “shoes” since little Buggy is absolutely obsessed with that word lately. She wants only to grab everyone’s shoes and announce its terminology as “SHOES!”

doppelganger

So, Kate found my Italian doppelganger on The Sartorlialist

I’m not entirely sure what to think. Outdated glasses – check. Dark curly hair – check. Affinity for scarves – check and check.

But, that bag – sadly enough, no check. Those particular glasses – double sad, no check. The generally chic sensibility – only if that includes blouses stained with spit-up.

You judge:

Also, I clearly had to take my own damn picture, since no one else was around. Poor me. I really think it's the sweetest thing that the lovely woman in that picture reminded Miss Kate of me. What a compliment.

The end.

eau de toilet

I realize that everyone lands squarely on one or the other side in the great co-sleeping debate. Personally, I am a huge fan of the family bed/co-sleeping arrangement. But I’ve mentioned this before and will spare you another lengthy diatribe listing my reasons.

I will, however, say that co-sleeping with a mobile infant can become a dangerous experiment. If a baby sleeps in a crib, you can at least rest knowing that it’s fairly unlikely that your child has escaped her confine only to wander the house unsupervised. Whereas with co-sleeping – well, I’d say that it is still unlikely your child could get away without waking you in the process. But then there are those stealthy few, like Bug, who possess some super secret ninja skill which allows them to get out of bed and rage unnoticed.

So, this morning when I woke without her still next to me, I was filled with sheer dread at what I might find. It wasn’t unrealistic to think that I could possibly find the worst of the worst, the horror of her dead or maimed in some way – though I like to think I would wake upon hearing anything too odd or jarring.

She walks and now she’s begun climbing pretty much anywhere that she can (literally) get a leg up. But she hasn’t yet mastered operating a traditional round doorknob – so far it’s only the long, lever style handles she can manipulate. But, the bedroom is totally baby-proofed: the outlets are covered; I’ve put away my switchblades until she’s a little older; heroine needles usually get disposed of before she goes down for the night. We sleep with the hall door (with a round knob) closed thus pretty much enshrining her for the night. So all in all it’s pretty safe.

That is, until we come upon the little matter of the door to the bathroom which is of the lever variety. This, combined with her current obsession with toilets and her inherent love of shoes (this bathroom leads into my closet) proves irresistible. She fixates on the bathroom to the point of total insanity. She will stare at the closed door while furrowing her brow and screeching to be let into that damn bathroom. In the mornings, while I get dressed, I let her play on the floor with some old makeup brushes and shoes – and for her, it is pure joy. Well, except that I won’t let her play in the toilet. Because that’s nasty and we all have our limits.

Twice now, she has given me the slip. And twice now, I have found her in that bathroom. The first time, a few weeks ago, I found her sitting quite contentedly with a dirty pair of my underwear wrapped around her neck like a scarf, holding my favorite fancy shoes which I bought the last time I was in Paris, and tearing the pages from an old issue of Lucky magazine. WTF, Buggy? I know that Lucky totally sucks, but it’s a mindless way to spend my time on the treadmill. Lighten up, lady.

This time, this morning, I found her in the bathroom, again with the underwear around her neck (I think this is some sort of imitation, since I am totally addicted to wearing scarves), again with the same pair of fancy shoes. But this time, she was sitting crosslegged inside of the toilet, dabbling my shoes in with the shitwater and splashing around like the Jacques Cousteau of the sewer. Well, this is lovely.

The really stupid and ironic part of everything: I bought a toilet latch to keep the lid locked down just 3 days ago and procrastinated putting it on.

it's not you, it's me

I haven't had much to say lately. I guess that when things start turning to shit, there isn't really much to be said at all. I just find myself moping and thinking and thinking about moping some more.

So, Daniel and I are breaking up. And that's just about all I have to say about that.

I'll write more when I feel a little less defeated. Today, however, is not that day.

halloween

And now back to your regularly scheduled inanity. Halloween. Daniel and I had a few words regarding each other's choices for Bug's halloween costume. I thought she would make an especially charming little panda bear. He was of the opinion that she would make a better zombie. This mess started about a month ago and the disagreement left us in something of a standoff. Neither was willing to compromise, so naturally no costume was actively being made nor purchased. Until, my mother just up and bought her a costume without really giving either of us a choice thus ending the quarrel altogether.

So Bug went as a witch. Was it what I would have chosen? No. But it certainly was better than dressing a one-year-old as a card-carrying member of the flesh-eating undead.

This was the first and last moment she would tolerate her witch's hat.

I swear that some days I can feel myself aging. Unfortunately, this was one of those days hence the expression.

While Bug would have nothing to do with the hat, Daniel showed no qualms about trying it on. What we have here is not nearly as witchy as it is Hasid.

The girl and her cat.

Thomas the cat with Daniel in the background.

In the spirit of the day, I dragged out the hat to an old bee costume.

healthcare

This is the line stretching around the building.

Today we lined up with hundreds of other families to get the H1N1 vaccine for Buggy. Our regular pediatrician’s office only received 50 doses, which is obviously insufficient given that there are over 10 doctors in the practice and who knows how many children are patients. They allotted all of their doses for children whose health was already comprised in one way or another – and rightfully so.

This left us at the health department, somewhere most frequented by the very poor and uninsured. More importantly, this left us somewhere I could see firsthand the absolute necessity of this country’s recent push toward nationalized healthcare.

Before I start receiving your glaring eye rolls and negative feedback – like, oh, you just now think that you understand the plight of the poor and uninsured after having to stand in line for something for once in your life … before all of that, let me say that I have supported government healthcare since before Obama and before this almost-actualization of it. (Note to self: knock on wood, keep your fingers crossed, never speak too soon. Just please let it happen.)


Thank god or whoever your deity of choice may be, thank luck if you believe in no deities at all, that this country is willing to pay for these vaccines, that they are handed out for no cost to whomever wishes to attend these clinics. But please, do not forget that every nation has a huge, vested interest in the health and wellbeing of their citizens – and that, by extension, we as citizens have an interest in the health of our fellow citizens.


We do, after all, live next door to these people, we speak to them and play with their children, some of them serve us food, and some of us take care of them in hospitals or law offices. They ride our public transportation and smile at us on the street. They handle our produce and check our baggage – they are, all of them, us. So if you are truly loath to taking a basic humanistic view of other people’s health, you can at least see the imperative that we all be healthy, disease free, interactive people.


For those of you who are detractors, I will say this: I do not hail from an immigrant family - not that this should ever come into consideration in my book, though I know of people who are afraid healthcare reform would benefit immigrants - as though clearly immigrants should simply be used for the jobs they perform and discarded. (Wake Up!) My family has been in these United States for hundreds of years. Well, except for some interloping Jews here and there. And maybe some of those pesky Native Americans who we all but obliterated – but wow! We conquered this land and they should just get the fuck out! Obviously.


I come from a family of educated, beyond-college educated people. I was raised in a very typical, post-feminism, upper middle class atmosphere. (My parents had a brief foray into the hippie kingdom and came out on the other side.) I have lived according to the accepted, natural timeline of women in this country. I went to school, went to college, traveled Europe, went back to grad school.


And then, all hell broke loose. My younger sister died at the age of 26 – we were only eighteen months apart. My father was in the advanced stages of Parkinson’s Disease. For approximately a year and a half, I could be counted on for being nothing but drunk and mourning. Which is actually what I mean by the title ReFormed by Motherhood - that I'm no longer drunk and mourning. Not that I've seen Christ's light or been saved. Only that I seem to have come out on the other side.


Buggy came just in time to save my life. I say this with no irony or nuance. I was seriously drinking myself into death. I was working at the time. I had moved back to Louisville from Chicago to be close with my family, because honestly, after she died I couldn’t be anywhere but right beside them. Still, even within the close confines of family-ville, I was seriously killing myself in mourning. (And if you ever wake up one day and feel the immediate need to check on your sister only to find her dead, unbreathing, cold and unresponsive to CPR, well, then, you tell me how to get through it.)


My point being – not my sob story – I have played by the old, white man’s rules. I have run my tour. I did my duty on the upper-middle-class scale of how-to-live-your-life. But then, I found myself here. Unin-fucking-sured.

So, I do commit insurance fraud (fraud with a capital F) every day. Why, would you do that, you ask? Lets see: Daniel works a full time job that offers no benefits. After my father finally died of Parkinson’s my family’s assets were so wasted in paying his $8-10,000 prescription bills a month that we had nothing left. (And, yes, when you have Parkinson’s or cancer and the insurance company won’t pay, guess where it comes from. And guess how much that would be if you were diagnosed at 40 and died at 60. And guess how much it takes to figure transportation to doctors and remodeling the bathrooms so that no one falls and to have an on-call nurse there at the house to help and treat and administer.)


I commit insurance fraud. Yes, I do it. But you know what, Bug and I are both covered. And you do what you have to do. Poor Daniel is not covered. And I worry about him incessantly.

My greater point is, simply: how does it ever get to the moment, this moment, where all of the people of America believe that if you don’t have health insurance, you simply deserve to die? Because that is, in fact what is happening now and what has happened for too many years. You have money, okay, you get a pass, you get a free pass to the joyous land of preventative care and a primary practitioner. You don’t have money – well, so sorry, you essentially die. Lack of healthcare is truly, at its very nature a death sentence.


The majority of my friends are uninsured or underinsured. They all hail from similar backgrounds – for the republicans out there that means white, educated, middle to upper middle class working people. One of my closest friends pays into her insurance plan, but due to money, has opted out of maternity coverage. Seriously, at our age, maternity coverage is likened to having plastic surgery. Elective. Disgusting.


I will always ask this question: how is it that we have an inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness if we don’t first have our right to health?