camden, me

silent house

D took A to the mall a few minutes ago, since it is too hot outside to take a walk without bursting into flames. I am still feeling whiny and fatigued, though much better than last week. 2 friends had mercy on me and babysat my son yesterday, since it was our 7-year wedding anniversary as well.

Today was okay till "the witching hour" of 5 PM, when A turns on the whine and sets his player to repeat. Even with a hefty dinner and a clean diaper, he still kept saying "bob.lally.lello, bob.lally.lello, lello, lello lally. BEEEE!" (translation: bob and larry video...please!! Bob and Larry being Veggie Tales characters he loves more than most real people). We had already watched a video--or deebeedeebee, as A calls them--earlier that day, and I just don't want him to sit around watching TV as a habit. As a visual person, it is my greatest temptation to zone out to whatever is on a screen, computer or otherwise. I could surf the web all day, reading pointless websites about Harry Potter theories or political cartoons, or if we had anything but basic cable, I would just watch "unwrapped" or the cartoon network like a vegetable. I really have no self-control in this area; it's not really a matter of snobbishness or elitism.

So I took A up to his room and tried to read a magazine while I waited for D to come home. Change of scenery or whatever. A is so cranky today, with a short nap, that every little thing frustrates him, which frustrates me, which makes me lose my cool, etc... And as they were leaving this evening, A was crying MAMA, MAMA, byebye, MAMA, la-lew (love you) and made me want to cry all over again. I would think he would jump at the chance to get away from the person who has clearly thwarted his plans for hours on end, but there you are.

The house is quiet. The AC is working overtime. There are all these new albums to listen to, and a great 80's mix from my birthday party. I just don't have the heart to listen to anything but the fan in my laptop and the ticking of the clock.

Regrets

Today I had what my nephew would call a "MELT-down." Mostly it's my fault: I haven't had a do-nothing day for about 3 weeks, what with vacation, teaching a small camp class this week, full weekends. Plus I have been staying up till 2 AM every night since Saturday, reading the new Harry Potter book aloud with D. Duh. (And if you are a reader of this blog, you already know I am a nerd so just let me be a nerd!) Then, every naptime has been drastically slashed to an hour and a half, with the first part taken up with A crying MAMA, (sob) MAMAAAA, (sob), MA-MA? (sob) once I leave the room after depositing his sleeping body in the bed. I don't know what he is afraid of, or anxious about, but he has never--I really am not exaggerating--never had trouble getting to sleep. I used to just put him in his bed awake, and he'd lay down obediently and talk himself to sleep.

(some might say, well perhaps he doesn't need a nap anymore? that he is outgrowing them? To which I reply, he is tired out, totally pooped, when I lay him down. He seems to be staying up out of sheer stubbornness. I can't think of another plausible reason)

So my meltdown. Today I decided to try the let-him-cry method, while I tried to read the ending of this horribly depressing book whose ending was blabbed to me 3 days ago by a student. I also think I ate some bad blueberries, so there was plenty of opportunity to read if you get my very gross drift. I desperately needed a nap as well, but it was hard to do any of this while A just cried and cried and cried, MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMAAAAA MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA.... There is not enough space to record how many times I heard my own name in an hour of this.

As I lay there, or sat there, so many horrible things went through my head, from the terrible happenings in the fictional world to my own boiling anger and misery. I started to think about how nice it will be when A goes to school finally, and I will have some time to myself, to have two consecutive thoughts without a little person demanding every ounce of my energy. To do a painting during the daylight hours. To do ANYTHING by myself during the daylight hours. To take a crap, for God's sake, without someone pining away loudly in the other room or right next to me, pulling all the toilet paper off the roll. I resented the jolt in my stomach that I always have whenever he cries, like when Mia Wallace gets the adrenaline shot in Pulp Fiction after snorting heroin. He would get quiet for 3 seconds, I would think wildly, "thank you God for helping him get to sl---" MAMA MAMA MAMA, sob, quiver, MAMA MAMA....

I went into his room, after slamming my own door pretty hard and grinding my teeth. I picked him up, and his face was all red and sweaty, his hair sopping wet with sweat too. I rocked us both to sleep, and thought my God, I am just wishing away this time, and what do I have, just another year of this? That's it, then he goes off to become a little person, a boy, a teenager. And if I only have him, the one child--which looks to me to be the healthiest thing after the destruction caused by his birth--then I just can't keep saying "I can't wait until _________so this is more convenient for me." I felt horribly guilty, and was crying so much that A woke up again to see what the trouble was.

There is just so much I want to do that doesn't involve children. Or even one child. I don't feel guilty for wanting to do other things, because God did not give me talents to just taunt me with them--I know he wants me to use them, not waste them or fall out of practice. All the same, I am out of practice. And what is life like with a toddler, staying at home? A messy breakfast full of demands, 3 or 4 hours of ?? board books, toys, changing a poopy diaper. Going shopping if I can get dressed and get to the car without forgetting something important. While shopping I forget what I came for, it's hot, I hope he doesn't fall asleep in the car before lunch. Then a messy lunch, full of even more demands. Making a quickly-filled dent in the pile of dirty dishes. Naptime. Then two or three hours of toys, board books, maybe a video if things are really bad and I am trying to cook. It's not really cooking so much as making food. Then if I am lucky, D is home and can help out a bit. A messy dinner, an hour or two of stuff. Then brushing A's teeth, which is more of a wrestling match. Pray, sing a song, put him down. It all looks so placid on paper, but I know that every one of these things is a struggle, a colossal pain in the ass.

You understand, I hope, that I am talking out of my frustration here. There's loads of self-pity and whining, when I am fully aware that my lifestyle is a luxury. I don't worry about bills, or day care, or a crappy neighborhood. I have other mom-friends who I can be honest with, who understand the soul-crushing monotony and frustration. I have an excellent marriage. So don't think I am ungrateful for this, or unaware, or disillusioned in any way. I expected life with a child to suck so much worse than it has. I'm merely venting here, because sometimes it's just so hard. Even when it's easy, it's hard. I trained my whole life for something other than raising a child, so it seems like a surreal detour sometimes. I know it isn't a detour, and that raising this little boy, who I love more than my own life, is what I'm supposed to be doing right now. But some days I wind up too frustrated to see that clearly.

A and I at the beach

Family Photo, Rehoboth

Cap'n Kate

the loaded diaper museum

We just returned last night from a trip to Maine to visit my sister and her family. It was a long drive, very rainy the first few days, then beautiful for the rest. I spent my 30th birthday kicking my husband's butt at miniature golf (2 holes in one, thank you very much), eating lobster corn chowder, and browsing old Nancy Drew books. I spent other days drawing at the harbor, playing with nephews and my son, going to the bar with my sister, and crocheting while watching professional wrestling with my brother-in-law. Talk about eclectic. Not to mention the normal touristy things like boat trips, feeding ducks, scenic drives etc. It really was a blast.

We stopped in boston to see friends on the way back, and I have re-confirmed my belief that taking a toddler to an art museum is usually a bad idea. Taking toddlers anywhere can be a bad idea, but museums have that perfect blend of un-run-aroundable open spaces, echoing halls (great for screaming!), sublime water fountains, short pedestals perfect for climbing but never allowed, and usually one baby-changing station in the whole cavernous place, impossible to find until you've already made do on a wet countertop.

I love John Singer Sargent, and was thrilled to see his huge portrait of the Boit children there, which I copied (very small) in college. Several of his other pieces were there, but it's so hard to look at art when I am not by myself, and especially when I am worried about my son screaming his head off--or worse, repeating MAMA, MAMA, MAMA, MAMA, MAMA, MAMA as he is more wont to do. So we spent our time looking for paintings of doggies, people with boo-boos, and nuu-nuu people (naked, which my son loves pointing out).

Things were ok for a while, then we went to lunch, and I got up to take him to change his diaper. I lifted him up, and his entire bottom half, including his long shirt, was soaking wet. Like he had sat down in a kiddie pool. I haven't brought extra outfits with me for about a year and a half, because my son hasn't needed them for a long time. So I told D to go to the museum store and pick up a new shirt for him, and try and find some pants too, if they were to be had, and I took A to the aforementioned bathroom and started to change his diaper. The paper towel machine had a sensor to signal more towels to drop down, and of course I was right in front of it. The diaper left a puddle when I set it down, which has never happened in almost 2 years of changing soggy diapers. Then, as I was getting ready to put on the new one, A peed again, all over his sock and shoe, and changing pad, and already-wet countertop. Luckily I was setting off the paper towel machine with every move, so I never had a lack of those. My friend returned with the shorts that D washed, and a cute t-shirt with an artist on it. But the hand dryer just didn't cut it. So A walked around the rest of the day, through Harvard Yard no less, in his diaper and a t-shirt.

Some may say, what's the big deal here? and I am inclined to agree, a little, that my embarrassment is far greater than the situation should allow. Still, I felt like I myself was walking around without pants. And as much as I would like to give strangers the benefit of a doubt, I honestly don't think they would think highly of me if my kid is walking around pantsless, looking ridiculous, while we saunter along without a care. It's just the type of thing you read about in the paper and say, what a dumb woman. I guess I am the dumb one this time.

freakonomics

D and I just started reading a very interesting book, Freakonomics, by Steven Levitt. Its basic premise is that people weigh lots of different incentives in making decisions, doing business, dating, and everything else, and many times the "conventional wisdom" about certain problems is just wrong. For example, they talk about why drug dealers, if they make so much money, still live with their moms. The answer is that 95 percent of drug dealers don't make that much money, but they are competing for the boss job, which makes a ton. But most people give up or are shot before they can get to that job. A nice summing-up of nearly every career with the potential for big money (business, hollywood, professional atheletes).

Even careers without a lot of dough have a lot of cheating, like teaching. They talk about high-stakes testing and how certain incentives (say, 25 thousand extra bucks for a dramatic increase in test scores) are dead easy to attract cheaters. Just confirming my already low opinion of high-stakes testing, and the warped philosophy of public education in general.

I used to teach art in a wealthy county in Virginia, in a great school that had scored poorly on their high-stakes tests, the SOL's (No joke, their tests were called the Standards of Learning, and you were SOL if you failed them). Our school could have been reconstituted if we didn't up the scores within 2 years, and the teachers--including the art teacher--were given 2,000 extra bucks that next year to bring up the scores. What I found ironic, or just sad, about the whole thing was when I was hired all the phone interview questions harped on the belief that every child can learn, that all different learning styles were essential to incorporate in my teaching. Meaning, I needed to not just verbally give information, but get those kinesthetic children physically involved in the lesson, use visual directions (check!), help kids interact as groups and on and on. I believe in that, it works in the classroom to get everybody's learning style participating. However, a timed, high-pressure, 3-day test where you fill in thousands of little bubbles after reading or listening to selections only tests two learning styles at most, verbal and some visual learners. You can't very well act out parts of the test, or anything else besides. It sounds really nice to say "we really support diverse modes of learning," but the money goes to learning how to take this stupid test, sit in your chair, and fill in bubbles just so with your number 2 pencil.