Although I'm a first-born, I'd heard enough complaints from my younger-child friends about having no baby pictures that I was determined E would be adequately photographed. And she was. I think there may be more pictures of E than of M, so many pictures that eventually I just stopped taking any photos at all. (It's generally feast or famine with the camera around here: we'll take dozens of pictures over a week or two, then none for six months.)
But where E really has been ripped off is in little kid activities. We were never big on storytime, but I'm sure M went at least half a dozen times. E went once. I think I blogged about the art museum activities that we used to take M to every month? E went once.
There are consolations, of course. M didn't go to the ballet till she was eight; E went at four. E's been scrambling up climbing walls since she was two. And don't even ask how much big-kid TV she's gotten to watch...
But the other thing she doesn't have much of is control. So many things we do are M-centered, and even during family activities, M is still there, leading the way.
Today M was out with my mom and I took E to a farm. It was all E. She held the map. She decided to go see the pigs instead of the sheep. She made a friend. They dug in the garden and scared the deer by the pond and hiked through the woods. She got tired and I gave her a piggy-back to the car. We both had a great time.
Must remember to let E lead the way.
[M is reading over my shoulder as I write. Here's what she has to say: "You're saying second children are better than first children. And like E never leads the way! And never is in charge--NOT. She gets carried. Come on, Mom. You gotta think. You aren't thinking, Mom. Think of all the things that she gets and I don't. Such as carrying, perhaps, as an example. Why are you writing everything I said? Mom!"]
Monday, October 31, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
I Give Up
I was determined to wait until November. But it got to the point where we all kept our fleeces on in the house. M would put on a hat when she got home. At night, S and I would leap from our clothes into winter pajamas and then dive under the covers, only to huddle against each other, shivering. When we returned from dinner last night, the thermostat read 58.
The heat is now on.
The heat is now on.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Friday Morning
This week I think we've finally gotten the routine down (knock wood). The last tantrum was Saturday night--it was a doozy, but we haven't had one since (KNOCK WOOD). S was home Friday night, Saturday, and Tuesday, and that definitely made a difference. M has quit swim team, for now, and that has made a huge difference.
I no longer attempt bedtime starting at 8; instead we go to bed when the evening is over: when the kitchen is clean and the homework is done and the clarinet is practiced and there has been a bit of relaxing and I can just say "ok, time for bed," rather than "Come ON. Hurry UP. It's TIME FOR BED!" E is still usually down by 9 and M by 9:15 or 9:30 at the latest, and neither seems the worse for wear. E doesn't fall asleep during nap at school, and while M is her usual grumpy self in the morning, once she's had her oatmeal and hot chocolate, she's good to go for as long as we let her keep going (that girl is going to be a total coffee addict some day).
S has been home in the mornings for a while now, so he does breakfasts and lunches while I get to go running or take a shower and get dressed in my own sweet time. I don't need to kick in till about 7:45, when I dress E, make sure everyone has what they need, and participate in the general departure. Then S walks M to her school, I drive E to her school, and we are all off on our respective days.
But then Friday morning arrives. S goes in early on Friday, before we wake up. This is good because it means he's home Friday night. This is bad because it means that after four days of not worrying about the morning, Friday morning is all mine to worry about. And I tend to screw it up. I get up too late. I get the girls up too late. I don't know what goes in the lunches. I'm making breakfasts and lunches at the same time and I forget to make the hot chocolate, so M is still drinking the hot chocolate when it's time to be brushing hair and putting on shoes, which is when I'm getting E dressed so I don't notice that she hasn't brushed hair and put on shoes. We're inevitably running out the door, and M is annoyed that she's not getting her usual walk to school with S. Ugh.
But--we're making progress, really, we are--at least this week I didn't yell.
Lies
What is perjury? It's lying. Not telling the truth. Saying something that you know is wrong. It's what Scooter Libby apparently did.
I read the indictment, all 22 pages of it. It's right there. The first charge: Libby told the Grand Jury that 1) Tim Russert asked if he knew that
If M did this to me, I would send her to her room. If I did this to my boss, I would get fired. If Libby did this to the Grand Jury (and I know, it's an indictment, not a conviction, but it's a pretty convincing indictment--well-written too), he should go to jail.
Sorry, Kay Bailey Hutchison, this is not "some perjury technicality." This is bullshit.
Curriculum Night
The Good: I was worried that I'd feel like the New Mom in Town, skulking around with no one to talk to. But I walked in the door and there were the fourth grade moms I know: G from down the street and C and K from religious school. As we headed toward the classroom, I ran into my friend from work and finally met his wife whom I've only talked to on the phone. After the teacher's presentation, I introduced myself to the mother of the boy who sits across from M, and it turns out he talks about her as much as she talks about him. I felt like a veritable East Town Mom.
The Bad: If I never hear the word BSPT (Blue State Proficiency Test) again, it will be way too soon. My god, you'd think all that kids need is to be drilled until they can pass a fucking standardized test. Oh yeah, that IS all they need in this No Child Left Untested era. Math problems to practice for the BSPT. Reading comprehension exercises to practice for the BSPT. Learning to write long essays to practice for the BSPT. And I tell you, I started getting tense just looking at those math problems--and I don't have to do them. When I asked the teacher if they have time for anything else, she looked sad and said that she'd like to spend an afternoon doing a project, but she feels guilty that she's not working on the curriculum and it might hurt them in the BSPT. This is where I start to wonder how much is the BSPT and how much is the teacher.
And this is where I once again revisit the question of whether we've made the right decision, a question I revisit at least a dozen times on a bad day, maybe once in a good week. M and E were accepted into a fancy progressive private school this year, the kind of place where they have themes and all-school art projects and affinity groups for biracial adopted children of queer refugee parents (I mock, but I respect, really I do). Where there are 14 kids and two teachers in each class. Where children write endless journals and spell creatively and read stories about little mineworker children learning to organize in the golden sun. Where there is nary a xeroxed work sheet to be seen, and the word BSPT is not allowed to cross the precious lips of children or adults. Where you pay $17,000 a year for pre-kindergarten, and it only goes up from there.
Um, not an option.
But would my kids be better off? Would they be happier? Would their intelligences be flowering under the gentle nurture, rather than withering under the pressure?
Um, I don't think so.
Why is M at East Town School, and why is E joining her there next year? Because we can afford it. Because the kids at the school speak 40 different languages and live in projects and fancy condos and have parents who drive buses and teach at fancy universities. Because in M's class there's a kid from Somalia and a kid from China and a kid from Nepal and a kid from Ecuador and a kid from Greece and a kid from New Mexico and a kid from Red State and a bunch of kids who've always lived in Town. Because they can walk to school. Because when we go into the bakery we always run into families from the neighborhood and kids from school. Because they are learning to get along with kids who are different from them, rather than reading books about kids learning to get along with kids who are different from them. Because M is learning about minerals and long essays and King Tut, and while that might not be what she'd learn in Fancy Progressive Private School, it's still worth learning. And because we teach them all the time at home and help them follow their passions and remind them that standardized tests are stupid but sometimes you've got to do stupid things.
If M hated school, if she was miserable, if she was keenly suffering every moment she was in the building, I'd pull her out. I'd scrape up the money for Fancy Progressive Private School, or I'd cross-enroll her in City or Other City or some other nearby community, or if I had to, I'd homeschool her. But she's not. Sometimes she's a little bored, but she loves to kick the boy who sits across from her, and gossip and play with her friends. She loves her gifted program and her clarinet lesson and gym and music and art. She loves the scary story she wrote this week and her first long essay, "All About Me." She's fine.
OK, you thought that was long-winded and self-justifying? You've heard me say all this before? (Sorry, mom). Imagine having to go through that entire thought process a dozen times on a bad day, and at the very least once a week. Obviously I'm still conflicted. And what I would do to that BSPT if I met it in a dark alley...well, let's not go there. But hey, M had a great time at childcare during curriculum night, running around with L from the other class and pointedly ignoring the boy who sits across from her. I got to read her scary story and her "All About Me" essay and they were fabulous. We came home and she wrote spelling word sentences and did a xeroxed reading comprehension paper. Then she went to bed. Tomorrow she'll get up and go to school, and then she'll come home and tell me about the day's egregious behavior from the boy who sits across from her, and then she'll read for two hours, and life will go on. It can't be that bad.
The Bad: If I never hear the word BSPT (Blue State Proficiency Test) again, it will be way too soon. My god, you'd think all that kids need is to be drilled until they can pass a fucking standardized test. Oh yeah, that IS all they need in this No Child Left Untested era. Math problems to practice for the BSPT. Reading comprehension exercises to practice for the BSPT. Learning to write long essays to practice for the BSPT. And I tell you, I started getting tense just looking at those math problems--and I don't have to do them. When I asked the teacher if they have time for anything else, she looked sad and said that she'd like to spend an afternoon doing a project, but she feels guilty that she's not working on the curriculum and it might hurt them in the BSPT. This is where I start to wonder how much is the BSPT and how much is the teacher.
And this is where I once again revisit the question of whether we've made the right decision, a question I revisit at least a dozen times on a bad day, maybe once in a good week. M and E were accepted into a fancy progressive private school this year, the kind of place where they have themes and all-school art projects and affinity groups for biracial adopted children of queer refugee parents (I mock, but I respect, really I do). Where there are 14 kids and two teachers in each class. Where children write endless journals and spell creatively and read stories about little mineworker children learning to organize in the golden sun. Where there is nary a xeroxed work sheet to be seen, and the word BSPT is not allowed to cross the precious lips of children or adults. Where you pay $17,000 a year for pre-kindergarten, and it only goes up from there.
Um, not an option.
But would my kids be better off? Would they be happier? Would their intelligences be flowering under the gentle nurture, rather than withering under the pressure?
Um, I don't think so.
Why is M at East Town School, and why is E joining her there next year? Because we can afford it. Because the kids at the school speak 40 different languages and live in projects and fancy condos and have parents who drive buses and teach at fancy universities. Because in M's class there's a kid from Somalia and a kid from China and a kid from Nepal and a kid from Ecuador and a kid from Greece and a kid from New Mexico and a kid from Red State and a bunch of kids who've always lived in Town. Because they can walk to school. Because when we go into the bakery we always run into families from the neighborhood and kids from school. Because they are learning to get along with kids who are different from them, rather than reading books about kids learning to get along with kids who are different from them. Because M is learning about minerals and long essays and King Tut, and while that might not be what she'd learn in Fancy Progressive Private School, it's still worth learning. And because we teach them all the time at home and help them follow their passions and remind them that standardized tests are stupid but sometimes you've got to do stupid things.
If M hated school, if she was miserable, if she was keenly suffering every moment she was in the building, I'd pull her out. I'd scrape up the money for Fancy Progressive Private School, or I'd cross-enroll her in City or Other City or some other nearby community, or if I had to, I'd homeschool her. But she's not. Sometimes she's a little bored, but she loves to kick the boy who sits across from her, and gossip and play with her friends. She loves her gifted program and her clarinet lesson and gym and music and art. She loves the scary story she wrote this week and her first long essay, "All About Me." She's fine.
OK, you thought that was long-winded and self-justifying? You've heard me say all this before? (Sorry, mom). Imagine having to go through that entire thought process a dozen times on a bad day, and at the very least once a week. Obviously I'm still conflicted. And what I would do to that BSPT if I met it in a dark alley...well, let's not go there. But hey, M had a great time at childcare during curriculum night, running around with L from the other class and pointedly ignoring the boy who sits across from her. I got to read her scary story and her "All About Me" essay and they were fabulous. We came home and she wrote spelling word sentences and did a xeroxed reading comprehension paper. Then she went to bed. Tomorrow she'll get up and go to school, and then she'll come home and tell me about the day's egregious behavior from the boy who sits across from her, and then she'll read for two hours, and life will go on. It can't be that bad.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
I Heart Jonathan
This morning I heard a Velvet Underground song on the radio, I don't remember which one. The Velvet Underground is one of those bands that I know I should like, but I don't really know. I don't go "hey, that's the Velvet Underground," or "wow, I love that Velvet Underground song" when I hear them on the radio, though when a DJ says "that was the Velvet Underground," I usually liked the song.
But really what the Velvet Underground makes me think of is Jonathan Richman. Either you're nodding your head, or you have no idea what I'm talking about. Let's just say that as much as I love Jonathan, which is simply enormously, Jonathan loves the Velvet Underground; indeed, one might even go so far as to say that Jonathan IS because of the Velvet Underground. And whenever a DJ says "that was the Velvet Underground," Jonathan's voice in my head goes "How in the hell did they make that sound? Velvet Underground."
I feel like a frivolous bimbo blogging about Jonathan Richman, but I don't have anything meaningful to say about the 2000th American death in Iraq or the death of Rosa Parks, much as both have been on my mind. These days I'm leaning toward the blog-as-minor-vehicle-of-pleasure-and-connection-in-the-face-of-the-world's-horrors model, rather than the blog-as-place-to-share-my-deep-thoughts model.
Listening to the Velvet Underground and thinking about Jonathan Richman were bits of pleasure in my day, and bits of pleasure are well worth holding on to, not to mention sharing.
But really what the Velvet Underground makes me think of is Jonathan Richman. Either you're nodding your head, or you have no idea what I'm talking about. Let's just say that as much as I love Jonathan, which is simply enormously, Jonathan loves the Velvet Underground; indeed, one might even go so far as to say that Jonathan IS because of the Velvet Underground. And whenever a DJ says "that was the Velvet Underground," Jonathan's voice in my head goes "How in the hell did they make that sound? Velvet Underground."
I feel like a frivolous bimbo blogging about Jonathan Richman, but I don't have anything meaningful to say about the 2000th American death in Iraq or the death of Rosa Parks, much as both have been on my mind. These days I'm leaning toward the blog-as-minor-vehicle-of-pleasure-and-connection-in-the-face-of-the-world's-horrors model, rather than the blog-as-place-to-share-my-deep-thoughts model.
Listening to the Velvet Underground and thinking about Jonathan Richman were bits of pleasure in my day, and bits of pleasure are well worth holding on to, not to mention sharing.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
The Paradox of Maternal Love
All I want is to escape my children, but I can't bear to leave my children.
M's Firsts
Yesterday M baked her first cake and stayed home by herself for the first time.
It was a lemon poundcake from a mix, but she did everything herself, even melting the butter. E was her assistant, and I was allowed in the kitchen only to get the rest of the batter into the pan and to take it out of the oven--though she tested it to see if it was done. It was delicious. And she even put all the dishes in the sink and sponged the table.
She has actually stayed home by herself before, but only when she was sick and I needed to go get E from school and she spent the whole time talking to me on the cell phone. This time she was on the phone too, but she was talking to L in Red State, and she stayed by herself for 20 minutes while E and I went to get Grammy. Definitely the beginning of something new.
It was a lemon poundcake from a mix, but she did everything herself, even melting the butter. E was her assistant, and I was allowed in the kitchen only to get the rest of the batter into the pan and to take it out of the oven--though she tested it to see if it was done. It was delicious. And she even put all the dishes in the sink and sponged the table.
She has actually stayed home by herself before, but only when she was sick and I needed to go get E from school and she spent the whole time talking to me on the cell phone. This time she was on the phone too, but she was talking to L in Red State, and she stayed by herself for 20 minutes while E and I went to get Grammy. Definitely the beginning of something new.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
What I'd really like to be doing this weekend
is seeing Wilco in Paris.
It's Wilco weather. And I'm in a Wilco mood: modernist pain and beauty and all that. I've been playing Yankee Hotel Foxtrot for three days now.
Wilco is not in Paris; Wilco is in Brazil. But I figured if I were imagining my ideal weekend, which began with wishing I could see Wilco, I might as well imagine it in Paris.
It's Wilco weather. And I'm in a Wilco mood: modernist pain and beauty and all that. I've been playing Yankee Hotel Foxtrot for three days now.
Wilco is not in Paris; Wilco is in Brazil. But I figured if I were imagining my ideal weekend, which began with wishing I could see Wilco, I might as well imagine it in Paris.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Chocolate Banana Cake
It's been a long time since I did Nigella. First there was summer, which isn't really a cake season for me, though I did bake Chocolate Guiness for my brother-in-law's birthday and Chocolate Meringue Truffle for my mom's. Then it was fall and I was ready to bake, but I haven't had time. Plus there's the lack of interest in the remaining cakes problem. Then a few weeks ago, Nigella had a ridiculously-easy-looking chocolate banana cake in her column, and we even had browning bananas in the fruit bowl, but I didn't get to it.
This week I got to it.
Nigella's Chocolate Banana Cake is perhaps the easiest cake in the history of cake, as easy as my favorite Joy of Cooking brownie recipe where you just melt the butter, add everything to the pan, stir, pour, and bake. In fact, it's basically the same recipe except cocoa instead of melted chocolate, and bananas instead of no bananas, and sour cream--ok, it's not the same recipe. But it's just as easy, and in fact the girls did most of it, except for the heavy stirring and pouring the batter into the pan. And the icing, which I made long after they went to bed--with the Valrhona that we bought at the Very Nice Gourmet Shop (and which I apparently forgot to put on the list of things we bought at the Very Nice Gourmet Shop).
This cake is outstanding.
I kind of don't want to say any more, but you know me, why not say anything when you can go on and on? We ate it last night at Grammy and Grandpa's after vegetarian moussaka and a delicious salad (what did E eat? even less than usual--she went into the living room and fell asleep on the couch before she'd even finished her challah). The cake? Well, the cake was up there with Chocolate Guinness (hmm, rereading that post, I see that I am a bit repetitive when it comes to Nigella). It was beautiful (I just poured the icing on the top and let it a drip a bit down the side), moist (the bananas and sour cream), chocolatey (the Valrhona had the perfect bittersweet tang), and altogether exquisite. Everyone loved it. I'm guessing the rest will be eaten for breakfast--there isn't much left.
[Because the NY Times link thing is still bedevilling me (I tried the link generator, but it didn't work for this one), I am throwing copyright to the wind and cut-and-pasting the recipe below (I wish I could do that below the cut thing, but I don't know how that works either). This one's for you, Libby.
Chocolate Banana Cake
Time: 1 hour plus cooling
For the cake:
Vegetable oil or nonstick cooking spray, for cake pan
3/4cup (1 1/2 sticks) butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 3/4cups flour
2 1/2teaspoons baking powder
1/2teaspoon baking soda
1/4cup best-quality cocoa
1 cup sugar
2/3cup sour cream
1 1/2cups mashed banana (about 4 whole bananas)
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
3 large eggs
Pinch of salt
For the icing:
1/2cup heavy cream
4 ounces semisweet chocolate, finely chopped
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
Yellow sprinkles, optional.
This week I got to it.
Nigella's Chocolate Banana Cake is perhaps the easiest cake in the history of cake, as easy as my favorite Joy of Cooking brownie recipe where you just melt the butter, add everything to the pan, stir, pour, and bake. In fact, it's basically the same recipe except cocoa instead of melted chocolate, and bananas instead of no bananas, and sour cream--ok, it's not the same recipe. But it's just as easy, and in fact the girls did most of it, except for the heavy stirring and pouring the batter into the pan. And the icing, which I made long after they went to bed--with the Valrhona that we bought at the Very Nice Gourmet Shop (and which I apparently forgot to put on the list of things we bought at the Very Nice Gourmet Shop).
This cake is outstanding.
I kind of don't want to say any more, but you know me, why not say anything when you can go on and on? We ate it last night at Grammy and Grandpa's after vegetarian moussaka and a delicious salad (what did E eat? even less than usual--she went into the living room and fell asleep on the couch before she'd even finished her challah). The cake? Well, the cake was up there with Chocolate Guinness (hmm, rereading that post, I see that I am a bit repetitive when it comes to Nigella). It was beautiful (I just poured the icing on the top and let it a drip a bit down the side), moist (the bananas and sour cream), chocolatey (the Valrhona had the perfect bittersweet tang), and altogether exquisite. Everyone loved it. I'm guessing the rest will be eaten for breakfast--there isn't much left.
[Because the NY Times link thing is still bedevilling me (I tried the link generator, but it didn't work for this one), I am throwing copyright to the wind and cut-and-pasting the recipe below (I wish I could do that below the cut thing, but I don't know how that works either). This one's for you, Libby.
Chocolate Banana Cake
Time: 1 hour plus cooling
For the cake:
Vegetable oil or nonstick cooking spray, for cake pan
3/4cup (1 1/2 sticks) butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 3/4cups flour
2 1/2teaspoons baking powder
1/2teaspoon baking soda
1/4cup best-quality cocoa
1 cup sugar
2/3cup sour cream
1 1/2cups mashed banana (about 4 whole bananas)
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
3 large eggs
Pinch of salt
For the icing:
1/2cup heavy cream
4 ounces semisweet chocolate, finely chopped
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
Yellow sprinkles, optional.
1.For cake: heat oven to 325 degrees. Oil or spray a 9-inch springform cake pan and set aside. In a large saucepan over low heat, melt butter with olive oil. Remove pan from heat.
2.Add flour, baking powder, baking soda, cocoa and sugar. Mix well. Add sour cream and mashed banana, and whisk to combine. In a small bowl or pitcher, whisk together vanilla extract, eggs and salt. Add to saucepan and whisk until smooth. Pour into cake pan.
3.Bake until a cake tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 45 minutes. Allow cake to cool on a rack for about 15 minutes, then remove springform and allow cake to cool completely before icing.
4.For icing: In a medium saucepan, combine cream, chocolate and corn syrup. Place over low heat, stirring gently with a spatula to avoid creating air bubbles, until mixture is very smooth. Place cake on a stand or a plate and spread icing over it with spatula. Garnish immediately with yellow sprinkles, if using.
Yield:One 9-inch cake, 10 to 12 servings.]Friday, October 21, 2005
Jen and Vince
Yeah, it's been grim around here, hasn't it? And I know what you all really want to know. Enough with the bombs and the murders. What do I think about Jen and Vince?!
You know, I don't think much about Jen and Vince. I mean, obviously the question isn't Jen, it's Vince. Who cares who Vince kisses? Certainly not me. But Jen, well, everyone knows I have a soft spot for Jen, so I want things to work out for her. Which doesn't necessarily mean that we are considering the implications of a long-term relationship, but does mean that we want her to be hanging with a nice guy.
The thing is, I don't really have any feelings about Vince. I saw The Wedding Crashers and thought it was funny but not funny enough. Vince was funny, definitely funny, but not exactly studly. Then again, he's not a junkie, or a Scientologist, or a womanizer (whoa, just googled Jude for a picture and found out that he and Sadie might be back on??? what is the world coming to?!).
Mainly I just want Jen to be happy, and if Vince makes her happy, I'm happy. Besides, you don't end up with your first post-break-up boyfriend, so it might as well be Vince, for now.
And you know, I'm kind of ok with Brad and Angelina too. Oh dear, I must be falling for the earth mother/UN goddess thing. Stop me, now!
You know, I don't think much about Jen and Vince. I mean, obviously the question isn't Jen, it's Vince. Who cares who Vince kisses? Certainly not me. But Jen, well, everyone knows I have a soft spot for Jen, so I want things to work out for her. Which doesn't necessarily mean that we are considering the implications of a long-term relationship, but does mean that we want her to be hanging with a nice guy.
The thing is, I don't really have any feelings about Vince. I saw The Wedding Crashers and thought it was funny but not funny enough. Vince was funny, definitely funny, but not exactly studly. Then again, he's not a junkie, or a Scientologist, or a womanizer (whoa, just googled Jude for a picture and found out that he and Sadie might be back on??? what is the world coming to?!).
Mainly I just want Jen to be happy, and if Vince makes her happy, I'm happy. Besides, you don't end up with your first post-break-up boyfriend, so it might as well be Vince, for now.
And you know, I'm kind of ok with Brad and Angelina too. Oh dear, I must be falling for the earth mother/UN goddess thing. Stop me, now!
Deaths
The murdered wife of the famous defense lawyer is the kind of story I get obsessed with. I don't think I'd actually heard of Daniel Horowitz, though I read an article about the Susan Polk case a few weeks ago (that's one biased link, huh?). But mysterious, scary celebrity murders in the Bay Area...well, I just can't help it. I'm glad it wasn't the husband, though the punk kid neighbor thing is pretty frightening--not to mention getting hit in the head 39 times.
***
As I was obsessively checking the San Francisco Chronicle for murder investigation updates, I of course had to read about the mother who obeyed the voices that told her to throw her three kids in the Bay. I don't spend a lot of time in the blogosphere these days, so I don't know if the maternal murder debates have already erupted, a la Andrea Yates. But it just seems so obvious to me that a woman who strips her kids, throws them in the water, stands there and waits for the police, and then tells the police that voices told her to do it deserves only our profound pity. Poor children; poor mother.
***
My great aunt died yesterday afternoon. She was 95, the last of her generation. She was the youngest of four sisters, not the rich one or the smart one or the tough one, just the youngest one who married the kind of nerdy annoying guy, not the rich guy or the smart guy or the tough guy. But she and her husband outlived them all, and in the last decades of their lives, they were truly the patriarch and matriarch of the family, discovering their own magnanimous wisdom. Until my great uncle died last year, he kept a close watch on his senators and representatives, and one of the last things she said to me was "this damn war, there's nothing good about it." She knitted sweaters and made quilts for all the babies. They had three children, nine grandchildren, and I'm thinking maybe eleven great-grandchildren (Mom, how many kids does S have?). They called her G-g-ma (pronounced Gigi-ma). She was M and E's only great great aunt.
This summer she developed cancer of the pancreas and discovered that people loved her. She spent her last months at home near her daughter and got to see her youngest great grandson every week. Last month about 40 of her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, grandnieces and nephews, and great-grandnieces and nephews came to a party for her. At the party she said that now that she'd seen us all, she was ready to go. She said that when she died, she would be the happiest dead person around.
She died yesterday afternoon, quietly, peacefully, with both her daughters by her side. When I told M and E this morning, M said that now she was the happiest dead person.
There is such a thing as a good death.
***
As I was obsessively checking the San Francisco Chronicle for murder investigation updates, I of course had to read about the mother who obeyed the voices that told her to throw her three kids in the Bay. I don't spend a lot of time in the blogosphere these days, so I don't know if the maternal murder debates have already erupted, a la Andrea Yates. But it just seems so obvious to me that a woman who strips her kids, throws them in the water, stands there and waits for the police, and then tells the police that voices told her to do it deserves only our profound pity. Poor children; poor mother.
***
My great aunt died yesterday afternoon. She was 95, the last of her generation. She was the youngest of four sisters, not the rich one or the smart one or the tough one, just the youngest one who married the kind of nerdy annoying guy, not the rich guy or the smart guy or the tough guy. But she and her husband outlived them all, and in the last decades of their lives, they were truly the patriarch and matriarch of the family, discovering their own magnanimous wisdom. Until my great uncle died last year, he kept a close watch on his senators and representatives, and one of the last things she said to me was "this damn war, there's nothing good about it." She knitted sweaters and made quilts for all the babies. They had three children, nine grandchildren, and I'm thinking maybe eleven great-grandchildren (Mom, how many kids does S have?). They called her G-g-ma (pronounced Gigi-ma). She was M and E's only great great aunt.
This summer she developed cancer of the pancreas and discovered that people loved her. She spent her last months at home near her daughter and got to see her youngest great grandson every week. Last month about 40 of her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, grandnieces and nephews, and great-grandnieces and nephews came to a party for her. At the party she said that now that she'd seen us all, she was ready to go. She said that when she died, she would be the happiest dead person around.
She died yesterday afternoon, quietly, peacefully, with both her daughters by her side. When I told M and E this morning, M said that now she was the happiest dead person.
There is such a thing as a good death.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
It's Too Hard to Even Think About It
The other day I heard a talk about the current state of arms control. It's not good.
For the first time in 50 years, the U.S. is not involved in any arms control talks--and the administration is explicitly not interested. Yes, Eisenhower supported arms control negotiations, as did Nixon, Ford, and Bush I. Not W, though.
As we've been not talking, Pakistan and India have gone nuclear, and North Korea and Iran are on their way. There are 1200 tons of uranium and 200 tons of plutonium hanging out in the former Soviet Union (the bomb dropped on Nagasaki used 12 tons of plutonium, and weapons have certainly gotten more efficient in the last 60 years). Significant poundage, if not tonnage, is unaccounted for. Meanwhile--and here I'm going to stop being specific because just googling this shit stresses me out--there are umpteen nuclear missiles and more countries doing the research and basically we're in a very bad situation here.
By the time the guy stopped talking, I was shaking. He was reasonably cheerful, but I guess he thinks about this stuff all the time, so he's used to it. I figure, though, that if you're in the arms control business, you better be playing Haydn sonatas or painting watercolors in your spare time, because the only thing that's going to counter that grimness is the temporary pleasure of beauty.
I feel about nuclear weapons the same way I feel about avian flu: totally petrified, totally powerless, and, as a result, barely able to think about it for more than a moment. Which doesn't help anything, but then again, me thinking about it doesn't help anything.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Apparently Attachment Is Not An Issue
E [holding up the shabby purple bear that became absolutely crucial when we went to England, and has been only marginally less central ever since, that is to say, the teddy whom S and I tear the house apart to find at least once a week]: I need a new teddy.
Me: Why?
E: This teddy is dirty. And he's chewed.
Me: You could stop chewing on him.
E: No, I want a new teddy.
Me: Well, I think you can pick another teddy to sleep with, or another stuffed animal.
E: OK. And then can we throw this teddy away?
[Note: I just read this aloud to the girls, and when M asked E if she wanted to throw teddy away, she said no. Phew. I'm not quite sure why I care, but somehow it seems psychologically problematic. Plus I know that if we throw it away, she'll want it the next day. Though I suppose I could tell her I'd thrown it away, but really keep it. Except I'm not that kind of mom. In fact, I told her in the original conversation that it wasn't a good idea to throw teddy away because she might want him later. Maybe that sank in.Or maybe she's just being her normal random self.]
Me: Why?
E: This teddy is dirty. And he's chewed.
Me: You could stop chewing on him.
E: No, I want a new teddy.
Me: Well, I think you can pick another teddy to sleep with, or another stuffed animal.
E: OK. And then can we throw this teddy away?
[Note: I just read this aloud to the girls, and when M asked E if she wanted to throw teddy away, she said no. Phew. I'm not quite sure why I care, but somehow it seems psychologically problematic. Plus I know that if we throw it away, she'll want it the next day. Though I suppose I could tell her I'd thrown it away, but really keep it. Except I'm not that kind of mom. In fact, I told her in the original conversation that it wasn't a good idea to throw teddy away because she might want him later. Maybe that sank in.Or maybe she's just being her normal random self.]
Monday, October 17, 2005
Sycophantic Overstatement of the Week
Over the past decade or so, Walter Kirn has been to literary journalism what Bill Gates is to software.
--NY Times review of Kirn's new novel
I think not.
Try: Over the past decade or so, Walter Kirn has been to macho overwriting what Hemingway is to macho understatement.
Except that Hemingway is a good writer.
--NY Times review of Kirn's new novel
I think not.
Try: Over the past decade or so, Walter Kirn has been to macho overwriting what Hemingway is to macho understatement.
Except that Hemingway is a good writer.
Phrases I Would Like Never To Utter Again
Let's go.
Hurry up.
Come ON.
MOVE.
What's in your mouth?
Get that out of your mouth.
Stop chewing.
Stop chewing your hair.
Stop chewing your sleeve.
Stop chewing your zipper.
Stop chewing your necklace.
Stop chewing your bracelet.
Stop chewing your seatbelt.
Hurry up.
Come ON.
MOVE.
What's in your mouth?
Get that out of your mouth.
Stop chewing.
Stop chewing your hair.
Stop chewing your sleeve.
Stop chewing your zipper.
Stop chewing your necklace.
Stop chewing your bracelet.
Stop chewing your seatbelt.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Friday Night Movies
E - Strawberry Shortcake. She liked it. M read a book. I checked my email.
M - Pee Wee's Playhouse. She liked it. E was scared. I read the newspaper. (I posted a while ago about my heretical lack of interest in Pee Wee, but I'm too lazy to find it.)
Me - The Upside of Anger. At first I watched impassively, thinking, great, here's another supposedly good movie that's doing nothing for me. Have I lost all ability to respond? Slowly, though, it grew on me. Joan Allen is another one of my favorites and she is excellent (if ridiculously thin) as a suburban mom who loses it when her husband disappears and leaves her with four troublesome teenage daughters. Kevin Costner does his shambling dude with a good heart thing, but he does it well. There is crisis after crisis, but some very funny scenes too (I laughed particularly hard when the bungie-jumping gay teenager crashed through the French doors, though perhaps the best was when the DJ overheard Andy breaking up with the producer because the mic was left on). Think The Virgin Suicides meets The Ice Storm, but I think I liked it better than either of those. Though I could have done without the precious voice-over. (And I wonder when I started identifying with mothers rather than daughters. Whenever it began, the identification is now complete.)
[In weather news, we are now well into our ninth straight day of rain. I took advantage of the rare occurrence of S's presence to go for a run this morning, thinking that perhaps it was only drizzling. Wrong. Then I washed my hair--at 8:30--and it's still not dry--at noon. Where's Noah when we need him?]
M - Pee Wee's Playhouse. She liked it. E was scared. I read the newspaper. (I posted a while ago about my heretical lack of interest in Pee Wee, but I'm too lazy to find it.)
Me - The Upside of Anger. At first I watched impassively, thinking, great, here's another supposedly good movie that's doing nothing for me. Have I lost all ability to respond? Slowly, though, it grew on me. Joan Allen is another one of my favorites and she is excellent (if ridiculously thin) as a suburban mom who loses it when her husband disappears and leaves her with four troublesome teenage daughters. Kevin Costner does his shambling dude with a good heart thing, but he does it well. There is crisis after crisis, but some very funny scenes too (I laughed particularly hard when the bungie-jumping gay teenager crashed through the French doors, though perhaps the best was when the DJ overheard Andy breaking up with the producer because the mic was left on). Think The Virgin Suicides meets The Ice Storm, but I think I liked it better than either of those. Though I could have done without the precious voice-over. (And I wonder when I started identifying with mothers rather than daughters. Whenever it began, the identification is now complete.)
[In weather news, we are now well into our ninth straight day of rain. I took advantage of the rare occurrence of S's presence to go for a run this morning, thinking that perhaps it was only drizzling. Wrong. Then I washed my hair--at 8:30--and it's still not dry--at noon. Where's Noah when we need him?]
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