I Am Thankful for Reality Checks

Of all the things I love, and do not love, about my family, the big, heaping, strong spoonful of reality is what I love the most.

There are the little things.

"Okay, I'll run down to mom's, finish my blog, grab the spinach, and be right back to make the spinach dip," I explain to my sisters, both beautiful, sitting elegantly sipping wine in Tammy's kitchen.

"No.  Get the spinach and come back here and make the spinach dip.  It's an appetizer.  Dinner's in an hour,"  Tammy knows how to give me a look that tells me she knows me so well, and that she is not going to buy what I am attempting to sell.

"What?  I already started it.  It will take me like ten minutes.  I'll be right back."  I head out the door, and before it closes behind me, Tammy says, "Shanna, don't finish your blog."

Well, in the 3 minutes it took me to walk down to my mother's house I realized she was right; it would have taken me at least another hour to write and edit my blog.  Sure, I would have been satisfied with my own personal accomplishment, but I would have let my family down.

Never mind the fact that no one ate my spinach dip.  I still can't figure out why my family is so anti-vegetable.

And then there is the family I chose.  Well, kind of.

All day I have been shopping and prepping for a big post Thanksgiving meal.  My mother's dinner was fabulous.  It always is.  But it was the traditional turkey, mash potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, gravy, etc.  I have been compiling new Thanksgiving recipes for the last few years that have made their way into my own celebratory meal and I was looking forward to putting some perfections on already tried dishes and to trying some new ones.

I spent hundreds of dollars at Whole Foods.  Not like that is a difficult thing to do; the wine, chocolate, and cheese alone cost upwards of fifty dollars.  For dinner I prepared a turkey, unstuffed, baked herb apple and onion stuffing, roasted bacon brussel sprouts, crock pot cheesy potatoes, and a cranberry and mandarin orange green salad with citrus vinaigrette.  All but the turkey, bacon and cheese were organic.  And everything was made from scratch except the pie crust.

I was pretty proud.

I had planned on having a few people over, friends and family, and was disappointed to be stood up by people very close to me.

But the fact that our good friend Scott showed up has been a huge reality check for me.  No matter what happens, Scott is always there.  He specifically took the time off work, at a very busy time of the year for his business, to be here with his "family," telling his coworkers that he was "going to his brother's house for dinner."

Scott loves my husband much like a brother.  They both moved to California at the same time and were new employees where they instantly became friends as food servers at Chevy's.  I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that Scott will be with us for the rest of our lives. We have been through ups and downs with Scott, celebrating the ups, and comforting through the downs.  He hated me for being the one Carlos chose, putting an end to Scott's hopes that Carlos might cross over to the other side.  He humbled himself to me soon afterward, acknowledging my firm position in Carlos' life.  He toasted us at our wedding.  He was one of the few people who came to see me in the hospital after Celaya was born.

He always brings wine when he visits.

And he always makes me laugh.

As we sit here now, Carlos and Scott watching boxing (correction: Carlos is watching boxing.  Scott is admiring the half naked men), me eating the perfectly tart (if I do say so myself) Lemon Merengue pie I made, my brother is looking through the front closet for something, and Scott calls over to him, "hey Teno, is my boa in there?"

"What the hell is a boa?"  Teno wonders from the hall.

"You know, a boa.  It's green.  I think I left it here a long time ago."

"Like a snake?"

"No, it has feathers.  It goes around your neck."

Teno looks at him, looks at me, and heads back down the hall toward his room, shaking his head.

Scott looks over at me.  "Is that a no?"

Yes, Scott is family.

And this most recent reality check, though bittersweet, is nonetheless a great reality.

I Am Thankful for Noise

Loud.  Raucous.  Rambunctious.  Ear Deafening.

That's the family I come from.  I come from a woman who loves to talk and a man with a booming voice who also loves to talk.

So I am loud and I love to talk.

My mother is the oldest sister of five girls.  All of them love to talk.  And they talk over each other.

I am the oldest of three girls and a boy.  The boy is the only quiet one.

So last night I'm sitting at the computer, trying in earnest to finish my latest blog post before I forget the funny moments I want to put in print, and I am noticing the volume of the room.  At a regular level, meaning no arguing (well, no angry arguing), no boxing matches or football games to yell about, the room is full of noise.  We talk, we laugh, my nephew screams, my niece sings at top volume, the television is on.  And I look at the monitor to see my baby sleeping soundly through all of this.

Yep.  She's one of us.

Despite the fact that she is accustomed to sleeping in a pretty quiet environment, she settled right into the cacophonous clan.  It makes me proud.

I do enjoy my talkative, debating, crazy family.  They remind me why I love being from a large family. Every time.  Even when we fight.

At one point I observed my brother having a conversation with my brother in law while also playing a video game, and my sister having a conversation with my other sister who was sitting next to my brother in law.  So there's this triangle of discussions going on, my brother on one couch, talking across the room to my brother in law, my sister on the adjacent couch talking diagonally to my other sister, with my nephew crying in my sister's arms, my niece watching her cartoon on my sister's phone, my mother commenting on whatever television show she had been watching earlier in the day, to no one in particular, and my other brother in law playing a video game on his phone.

You would think this was chaos, especially in our small living room.  But it was a normal Thanksgiving for us.

In fact, if one of us wasn't there, the topic of conversation would frequently come around to what a jerk that person was for being absent from our chaos.  My husband, my brother, my baby and I all drove up for a quick two day turnaround trip specifically to be part of the jocularity.

The table is always packed, Celaya singing ABCs, Myah refusing to eat anything but bread, Shaun pointing out Teno's unshaven baby face, Teno coming back that Shaun looks as though he hasn't showered, Max telling everyone that he hates us (he's joking... I think), and my mother running around trying to please everyone, always sitting last, always cleaning up after everyone.

I love the noise.  Without it I would be lost.  I would be lonely.  I would be a different person entirely.  When I was younger my own personal noisiness was a bit obnoxious, I'll admit.  But I hope that mine has now become a more mature, playful, participatory noisiness.  And I hope I'm raising my daughter to be the same fun, joyful, infectious kind of noisy.

Like when I point out the pterodactyl on the page of my daughter's book, Oh My Oh My Oh Dinosaurs! and tell her, "That's a pterodactyl.  It says, 'PCAAAAAAAAAAH!'"

And she dutifully responds, at top volume, in her sweet baby voice, "PCAAAAAAAAAAH!"

And in the end, I get in the car, my baby falls asleep, and we sit for an hour and a half of our ride home in silence.

The rest of the car ride was noisy, of course, music, conversation, ABC songs, and so on.

But I got to come home, put my baby to bed, and sit at my computer with the dishwasher running quietly in the background, my brother settled in his room, my husband watching Spanish television on low, candles lit.  I look out over the street below, cars rushing past, and think about how much I enjoy the quiet, the calm, the peace.

And how much I miss the noise.

I Am Thankful for Travel

I was not dreading the trip north to my mom's house, but I certainly wasn't looking forward to it.

This sense of trepidation came mostly from knowing that my daughter is not a fan of the car.  She starts pitching a fit on the way to Trader Joe's.  She gets buckwild crazy traveling to Berkeley from Hayward, especially if there's traffic.  I could only imagine her mood on a day trip to Humboldt from the Bay Area, a 300 mile distance.  Add to the mix the fact that it is the day before Thanksgiving.  During rush hour. 

Not too bright, huh?  Yea, I'm aware. 

But I had grown tired of night travel, arriving at 2 in the morning, exhausted, up again at 6 or 7 when Celaya pops up, "hi!"  No, she was old enough now, I figured, to pitch a fit (if absolutely necessary) and get over it.

So we hit the road...

And it was great.

Sure, Celaya pitched a couple of small fits.  She's at the age now when the waterworks come on whenever she is upset.  We sat in two hours of traffic, so she wasn't a huge fan of that, but all in all, she was great.

I have only grudgingly begun to allow Celaya to watch Baby Einstein videos on YouTube in the mornings when we wake up.  She watches "Discovering Shapes" on my phone while I cling to the last dregs of sleep or, if I'm surprisingly fully awake, sip coffee and browse one of my magazines. 

These videos were a life saver in the car.  Celaya looked at clouds.  She enjoyed the cars.  She sang along to Wheels on the Bus, Twinkle Little Star, Itsy Bitsy Spider, and ABCs (sorry Teno).  And she played with her special car toy that we had just purchased that day.  That all lasted about an hour and a half, of a five hour drive (without traffic).  My plan was to save the YouTube videos as a last resort secret weapon.  They worked like a charm.  She watched the same videos over and over for the last bit of driving before dinner.  We stopped at Round Table for pizza about halfway up the coast, and she fell asleep quickly after getting back into the car for the last two hours of the drive. 

So we survived our first long day trip with Celaya.  I am very thankful.

But even more than that, I am incredibly grateful for the time I got to spend in the car with my immediate family.  I do love road trips.  I loved making stops along the way in different places for coffee, for pizza, for gas.  I loved listening to random music, 90s on 9, 40s on 4 (Carlos does great jazz hands), on Sirius radio in our rented VW Jetta. 

I adore renting cars as a Hertz Gold member.  My stepmother is a Hertz employee and for the last year I have rented several different vehicles of different sizes.  As a bike commuter looking to buy a car in about a year, this opportunity has been wonderful for exploring my options. 

One unexpected surprise joy was the chance to watch my brother close up with his niece.  I know, logically, through experience, and through Celaya's reactions to her Teno, that he is a good uncle.  But watching him in the rearview mirror reach out and play with her feet, lean his head against her carseat, and, best of all, listening to him read her books before she fell asleep, really brought home for me the strength of their bond.  Carlos and I sat in the front seat and exchanged smiles as we silently mouthed the words to the books we have both read hundreds of times:  "'What big blocks!' said the dinosaur.  'Those aren't blocks.  Those are buildings.'  Said Danny.  'I love climbing.'  Said the dinosaur.  'Down boy!'  Said Danny."  Hearing the stories come from an uncle who cherishes his niece was heartwarming.

Finally.  I forgot how funny my husband, in our long road trip conversations, is.

"Well," he began, as Teno and Celaya slept in the back seat, the road dark, our headlights the only ones brightening up the path ahead, "if I ever can't take care myself, we should tell our kids that whichever one wants to take care of us will get our house."
"What?!"  First of all, we don't have a house.  Second of all, our children are not wiping our dirty old butts. 
I told him as much.
"Ew!  Why do they  have to wipe our butts!?"  He was genuinely shocked and disgusted.
"Um, honey, what do you think 'can't take care of ourselves' means?"  I wondered  "If you get dementia, you're going to need someone to wipe your butt at some point."
"Dimension?  What does dimension have to do with anything?  This is a tramp."
I couldn't help laughing out loud.
"Dimentia.  Dimentia.  It's when you get old, your mind goes, and basicallly, you can't wipe your butt.  Don't worry honey, no one is sending you to another dimension.  And I am not setting a trap."

It was a great trip.  I am so glad I made myself leap into the unknown.

I Am Thankful for Shame

Yes.  Shame.

In my work on the American History curriculum at our tutoring center I have been reading about the stark contrasts between Europeans and Native Americans in pre-Columbian times.  In the most liberal textbooks this wide ranging area of differentiation is a major point of focus because understanding it is crucial to understanding the way the colonists treated the Native Americans upon arrival, like aliens, like foreigners.

Some of the differences are common knowledge: the sense of community; sharing housing, food, and trade goods was a normal way of life for most tribes.  One colonist wrote in his letters home that no one would ever starve if even one person in the tribe had riches.  There was no hoarding and no boot-strap theory.

Other differences may not be so familiar to all:  a woman could hold positions of great power, sitting on councils, choosing her husband, and having the option to divorce a man who displeased her; she simply placed his belongings outside the home.  "You really messed up this time, buddy," I can imagine his friends saying.

But one custom I was reviewing of the Native American tribes is one that, while I was already aware of, struck me in a profound way now that I am a mother:  shame.

The Europeans practiced as a centuries-old tradition corporal punishment, physical discipline.  It was expected that you would hit your child for misbehaving, that you would yell, berate, and make him or her feel small and powerless.  "Spare the rod, spoil the child."  While I believe this biblical advice is not advocating hitting your kid with a stick (or even physically harming your child at all), I do realize that that is in all actuality how it sounds, and that, more importantly, that is how good Christians interpret it.  

Adults in a European society could expect to be tortured, jailed, hanged, stretched, lashed, put in the stocks, and on and on, for any matter trivial or great, depending on the magistrate and current rules mandating discipline.

The lesson, at least as I learned it, being brought up in much this way, and in a society that still pretty much adheres to the good old European way:  don't get caught.  Oh, and also, hitting is okay if you have the power and someone else wrongs you.

In striking contrast, the Native American means of dealing with people who act against the good of the family or the tribe is one of shame.  When children misbehave they are shamed by their parents through losing family privileges, like partaking in family functions, meals, activities, etc., or having a responsibility you are proud of taken away.  You have lost trust, and you must earn it back.  When adults wrong the tribe in some way, they are treated in much the same way, shamed by the crowd, unable to partake in community gatherings and festivals.  If you continue to misbehave, you will be cast out of the group entirely until you prove you are prepared to reenter and follow the expectations therein.

The lesson here:  behave appropriately or you will be cast out of the light, cast out of the love.  That warm feeling you have when you are gathered with your closest friends and relatives will be taken from you.

This idea of shaming is one that has always made sense to me.  I have been hit.  I have been grounded. I have been beaten.  Nothing changed my attitude more than being told that I was a disappointment.  I had let people down.  I had hurt someone.

It also occurred to me that this was a practice I had already established in my own home.  I have never struck Celaya.  In fact, the one time I saw Carlos knock her on the back of the skull in play, Celaya skipping off to play elsewhere, I went on a twenty minute rant about what we are teaching our daughter about violence.  Yea yea, I know, slight overreaction.

But when Celaya acts out in general I tend to get quieter, more patient, and finally, I will become very serious, not speak at all, and just look her in the eyes.  Not angry, just not my usual playful, smiling, laughing self.  On a few rare occasions I have walked away into the next room.  She of course follows quickly after me at which point I'll say, "well then, let's pick up your blocks like Mama said."  I do this knowing instinctively that she will follow because she adores me, because I adore her.  This whole approach only works because of just how much love I show her, just how much I snuggle her, just how much attention I pay to her.  She is the light of my life and all the big bright glowing rays of motherly love shine down on her from me like manna from heaven.  I am her whole world.  The very thought of being cast even momentarily out of that world whips her into shape.  Well, toddler shape.  She basically throws a couple of blocks in the box while I do the rest.  She's 20 months after all.  But hey, it's a start.

This is not to say that I do not yell.  If she goes for the knives in the dishwasher, stands up on a kitchen chair, tries to climb on a bookshelf, or anything else that puts her in immediate danger, she gets a "HEY!" in my sternly raised Mama voice.  It's effective.  She's still alive.

The point about shame as opposed to physical punishment is this:  shame is more difficult; physical punishment is easy.  It takes time, day after day, hour after hour kind of time, to build up the love, trust, and security that people are afraid to lose.  It takes hard work to earn people's respect, even your children's, so that they don't want to lose yours.  It matters to me what my child thinks of me, if she thinks I am a strong, intelligent, moral, wise, loving mother, she will, logically, want to stay in my good graces, most of the time anyway.  I am aware of the sheer and utter insanity that is adolescence.  Remember, I said logically.

But this means I have to work every day to be the kind of person I hope my kid wants to be like.  I have to devote time every day to show her how important she is to me.

I guess this is why they say it takes a village.  How much more difficult this task would be if I had to do it alone, and even more difficult if I had family and friends that belonged to the physical punishment school of thought.  Thankfully, I do not.  They are quite enlightened.

Well, most of them.

And those who aren't?

Well, shame on them.

I Am Thankful for My Period

I don't understand why it is such a shameful thing to discuss.  

I have seen advertisements on television, in magazines, and on public transportation for erectile disfunction medication.

"Hey, grandpa, want to have sex but your body has decided that you're too old?  Here's a pill, because your life only has meaning if you're having regular sex for the rest of your life, literally until the day you die."

Right, totally appropriate.

But if I say I'm in constant snacking mode, or I'm feeling extra cranky or emotional because my period is approaching, even if I use a euphemism, "it's that time of the month," it's inappropriate.  

Why?

The female menstrual cycle is not only normal, it is wonderful.  It tells you your body is working.  It starts everything clean and fresh again.  I remember when doctors first started offering a birth control pill that would allow you to only have four periods a year, and I thought, "why on earth would anyone want to do that?"  

I have been on the worst birth control pill for the last few months and as a result haven't had a period.  I have just felt incomplete.  

But perhaps this has something to do with my basically cyclical personality.  I like the beginning of the week as much as I enjoy the end of it.  I like the early morning as much as the late night.  I take comfort in both the prepping and cooking of a meal as much as in the cleaning and looking around my sparkly kitchen afterward.  I look forward to beginnings and I savor the final moments.  Of everything.

For me, a period is a fresh start, a washing away of a long month of hard work, preparation for a new, better month to come.  

A month without a period is like a week with no weekend.  Week after week of Monday through Friday with no Saturday and Sunday to reflect on the week, prepare for a new one, think of ways to improve on the progress you made the week before.

My period also allows me to cry just for the hell of it, which can be a hell of a release.  I enjoy chocolate on a different level.  I sleep better at this time of the month, heavier, waking up more rested.  

So I have to deal with blood.  Big deal.  

Yes, for those of you who know me, I'm not a fan of blood, the exact opposite in fact.

But for the benefits that come along, the small mess is resoundingly worth it.  

Oh, you say, how can you devote an entire blog post to something so personal, so private, something that should be so discreet?

This is one taboo subject that I think needs to come out of the closet.  I have a daughter.  Someday I am going to need to explain to her the basics of the female menstrual period, and I want that conversation to be matter of fact, congratulatory even.  Welcome to the world of womanhood. 

This is not Carrie.  Girls should not be terrified, horrified, or, worst of all, shocked the first time they menstruate.  They should be encourage to ask questions, to develop normally, unhindered by the expectations of an intolerant and hypocritical society.   Menstruation is not a choice.  Every woman experiences it.  

If Miley Cyrus can dry hump a stage and great grandpas everywhere can read erectile disfunction ads on city busses, I can celebrate my period.

Please feel free to join me.

Katy Perry Vs. Miley Cyrus

Right now?  Katy Perry.

I turn on the radio and hear her singing about strength, getting the eye of the tiger, and roaring.  Meanwhile Miley Cyrus is grabbing every phallic object she can find and miming blow jobs for the camera.

A couple of years ago?  Miley, of course.

Miley was singing about strength and enjoying the journey while Katy Perry was singing about extraterrestrial sex and kissing girls and liking it.

This ambiguity, I think, is the joy of music.  I can turn the radio on and off, switch the station, encouraging role model behavior based on lyrics and meaning behind each individual song while making irrelevant the singer and the singer's personal views.

This truth also stands with movies and television.  I can watch the remake of The Parent Trap with my daughter and enjoy the content without encouraging her to see Lindsay Lohan as a role model.  She can love reruns of the Mickey Mouse Club someday without wanting to grow up to be like Britney Spears.

Unfortunately, this logic does not hold true with literature, which includes literature that is developed into film.  I cannot turn off a book.  I cannot allow my daughter to read a book that deals with real life, relatable issues (as all literature should) without having a deep discussion about the content and meaning.

Which brings me to the real issue at hand:  Twilight versus Hunger Games.

Both of these series of books and films have sparked a teenage craze.  Many of my students, and even my family members, have read both series and seen all the films.

But if you think about it, these stories teach strikingly contradictory lessons.

Bella is lost, alone, dark, depressed, tragic.  She is inherently weak, only finding strength in men throughout the first three books.  If one were to argue that she stands up and fights at any point in these first three books, it can only be said that she sacrifices herself for romantic love.  She is willing to die for love.  Blah blah blah.  In the fourth book, Bella only becomes strong once she has been turned into a vampire, i.e. upended her life and all of its meaning for a man.

I knew long before I even thought about the dichotomy between these two series that I could not possibly encourage Celaya to someday read Twilight.  What message does it deliver to little girls?  Life is only worth living if you are hopelessly tied to a man whose everlasting loves requires your entire existence and identity?  No thanks.

On the opposite end of the spectrum we have The Hunger Games heroine, Katniss.  She is quite the reluctant heroine, too.  She hunts, illegally, for food to feed not only her own family but also the families of those she loves.  She sacrifices herself for her helpless and innocent sister.  She declares that she never wishes to marry, never to have children, because the world is far too bleak and damming to curse a child with its burdens.  When push comes to shove Katniss rises to the occasion every time.  She shows real ingenuity against a brutal and harshly fearsome government entity, not because she is arrogant or prideful, but because she has a clear sense of right and wrong and refuses to buckle under even the harshest pressure.

The messages within Hunger Games are legion.  Is there a love story?  Sure.  Life is full of love.  It would be ridiculous to expect a three book series not to include love.  But even here the reader does not have to bear with unending weeping and heartbreak because of a bad breakup, the heartbreak in these books is much more serious in terms of real decisions about what love even means and who a woman should choose in all practicality (as opposed to pure sexual attraction) to spend her life with.  And the answer to that question, as Katniss realizes, is quite complex (and also, thankfully, not the primary point of the story).

In mentioning my feelings about these two series to my boss, he nodded his head, agreeing with my sentiment, and said, finally, "But they both have to look good, don't they?"  Well, duh, it's Hollywood. He was of course referring to the films.  And that is a completely separate discussion.  The point I am making here is about the actual works of fiction.

To that end, I have donated my Twilight books to the local bookshop so that I can stand by my declaration to make all books on my shelves available to Celaya as she becomes interested in them.

As for the Hunger Games series, I will not display it on my bookshelf.

I will put it on hers.

Fathers Are Not Irrelevant

I have had this conversation, coincidentally, with several people in the last few weeks:  what it means to be a good father, the difference between a father and a mother, growing up with a bad father, overprotecting fathers of daughters, and yes, absentee fathers.

One conversation had to do with the relevancy of fathers at all.  The person I was talking to said, quite matter of factly, "fathers are irrelevant."

I did not quite know how to respond to this statement as she speaks from two different, very personal perspectives.  Her father was an alcoholic who died only a year ago.  He did the best he could, as an alcoholic, to be a dad and, like most men who fail at fatherhood, worked hard to make up for it by being a better grandfather.  At the same time, this woman's daughter's father has abandoned them, deciding to take no part in the life of his daughter, a beautiful, happy, rambunctious, innocent toddler.

What do you say to someone who has such conflicted feelings about fathers?  I simply nodded my head, taking it all in.  But I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.

Is the role of the mother more important than that of the father?  Before my daughter was born I might have said yes.  Now, I watch my own daughter interact with her father in ways she simply does not with me.  He is an altogether different playmate and role model than I could ever be, or even want to be.  He will teach her what a man is supposed to be like, how a man is supposed to love a woman, what kind of man she should look for in the future.  He will show her a perspective on the world that I can say I do not have because of my own particular experience with fathers.

My father too was an alcoholic for over 20 years.  Even after he woke up one morning and decided to quit drinking, my relationship with him only changed in that now he was incapable of showing real emotion without alcohol as opposed to incapable of showing real emotion with it.  And honestly, much of his own stoicism traces back to his brutal stepfather.  My stepfather, who has been in my life since I was seven, had his own set of abuse issues (yep, you guessed it, tracing back to his father) that he only really began working through when he began having grandchildren.  My daughter responds to my stepfather in ways I never thought possible, often insisting during FaceTime with grandma that she get "grandpa! grandpa! grandpa!"

Both of those relationships shaped me, made me who I am.  Would life have been easier/better/fuller if my fathers had been better fathers?  Absolutely.  Would life have been easier/better/fuller if my fathers had simply not been around?  Absolutely not.

This last answer may be surprising to some who know me and know how much I have struggled (another blog, another day) and how much hatred and hurt I carried around.  But I learned from those relationships, for good and bad.  I grew from them.

There is no child psychologist on earth who would say that children would be better off without fathers.  I take issue with women who go to sperm banks, or intentionally get pregnant by men they have no intention of keeping around.  You cannot, you should not, attempt raise a child without a father.  Period.  And saying that fathers are irrelevant is to say that they make no difference, have no impact, and would be no loss if they were not present.

In fact, this kind of thinking, and it is everywhere present (hello Jennifer Lopez in Back Up Plan), is, I believe very strongly, what leads men to thinking they do not really need to stick around.  The blame for men not living up to their duties as fathers lay partly at the doorstep of women.  We women have spent the last 50 years (thank you extreme feminism) telling them we don't need them.

But we do.  And we know we do.

Having a good father shapes your identity.  Having a bad father shapes your identity.  Having a father with issues shapes your identity.

And yes, having no father shapes your identity.

No matter what, without fail, our parents shape us.  We cannot escape this reality.  What we can do is work with it, work through it.  This particular woman I was talking to about the irrelevancy of fathers, I think, misspoke.  She is doing everything she can do reinforce positive male role models, which I fully support.  And because of her awesome and very difficult decision to entirely change her life partly so that her daughter could have a strong, constant father figure in her life, I do believe her daughter will grow up well adjusted and confident in the fact that there are good, strong, compassionate men in the world.

Precisely because fathers are not irrelevant.

Our Newest Family Member

My cat no longer reliably shows up when I pop the top off of my yogurt container anymore.

This ritual used to be a nightly, unfailing occurrence.  So ingrained in our relationship was Lucas sharing my yogurt with me each night that when I had ice cream instead or had forgotten (on the oh so rare occasion) to restock, he would jump up on the couch and sit next to me, staring, accusing me with his reflective green eyes.  "Really?  You forgot our yogurt?  What kind of a pet owner are you?"  I just knew those were his exact thoughts.

But recently, a change has come over my eight year old cat, and he goes by the name of Knight.

A lean, pitch black stray from the neighborhood stole my brother's heart a few weeks ago, and almost $1,000 later we have added this young male cat to our family.

I was very clear from the beginning:  Teno would have to make this decision, he would have to take him to the shelter to get him cleared and checked, he would have to pay the pet deposit and monthly rent.  This would be his cat.  We would welcome him, but the responsibility, the weight of pet ownership would be on him.

So I split the pet deposit with him.

So he sleeps in my bedroom on occasion.

So he likes to sleep under Celaya's crib while she naps.

So he formed an instant bond with my cat and completely changed the dynamic of this household.

It really never occurred to me, even knowing my cat and all his quirks, that we were unequivocally introducing an entirely new personality into our existing blended family.

He turned my cat into a teenager again.  Lucas still comes to me often while I am enjoying my yogurt, but his participation in this tradition is no longer a sure thing.  The two cats run around the apartment at all hours of the day and night, when they're not both sleeping smack in the middle of the hallway, the table, one of our beds, or under furniture.  Carlos and I will hear them when we're sitting up and watching television on my nights off, skitter skitter skitter slide crash! around in the kitchen.  "Well, one of them just hit the blinds."  "Ooooh, I think that was the table leg."  "Dang it!  Knight's on top of the refrigerator again!"

This commentary has become commonplace to our lives.

He has won me over because he has captured my daughter's adoration.  "Knight!  Knight!  Knight!  Go see Knight!  Hi Knight!  How you doing Knight!"  She is overjoyed now to have two kitties to terrorize.

Lucas always tolerated her pat pat patting him on the back, head, tail, foot, nose.  I was worried that a stranger to the house would not be so understanding.  But he is.  He runs from her for sure, but he also allows her to get up close, to pet, to talk (loudly) to him about his and her adventures.  "Silly Knight!  Don't be crazy Knight!"  "Play toys Knight."  "Mama kiss Knight?"

Carlos and I have in the past had several discussions about the pros and cons of taking on a new pet, especially now with a child.  I had always been the hesitant one, unwilling to take on the additional responsibility, unsure of how the new pet would respond to and interact with Lucas and Celaya.  I never would have guessed that it would have worked out this way.

He just fits right in.

Television

"No screen time before 2."

I read this recommendation from the American Pediatric Association so many times by the time my daughter was born that it seemed like common sense.  I hadn't really thought about it before, but after all the articles, studies, and research that were virtually flying at my pregnant face, I had integrated the information into my own view of parenting even before I became an actual parent.

Sure, while she was a newborn and slept for hours on end (and breastfed for hours on end) I would watch marathons of Real Housewives of Wherever and take on new shows I had heard rave reviews about, but by the time she was old enough to turn her head to see the television screen, I had learned to prop her in one arm while she slept and hold a paperback book in the other.

I never have the television on when Celaya is awake.  I can be in the middle of a steamy episode of Scandal during her nap, and if she wakes up early for any reason, I click the TV off, and resume my TV free day with my tiny toddler.

However....

Screen time applies to all screens, it would seem.  And in this particular area I am definitely guilty.  The APA says no screen time because of how rapidly babies brains are growing and developing before the age of 2.  Not even my iPhone videos.  The existing evidence shows that time spent in front of a screen slows and/or interferes with those developmental stages.

But I love my morning time lazing about in bed, especially because I tend to be awake later on work nights; I don't even get home until ten thirty.  So I started showing Celaya videos of herself on my iPhone, learning to walk, running, singing, splashing in puddles with her cousin, and she loved them.  She soon got into the habit of asking for the videos as soon as she got into bed with me in the morning: "baby.  baby.  baby," she would demand until I turned on the videos.

In the last couple of weeks I have noticed her becoming less interested in these videos, so I decided, what the heck, she's 20 months old, almost 2, I'll find some of those Baby Einstein videos I keep hearing about.

Sure enough, I found one called "Discovering Shapes." It essentially shows a drawing of a shape, a voice then says the name of the shape, "circle," and a series of images of those shapes in the real world are shown in a calm, slow, manner, to background music typical of a crib mobile, soft, gentle instrumental tunes.  Celaya took to this video quickly, shouting out all of the images she saw, "watermelon!  egg!  oval!" and if I'm not right there with her to at least repeat back, "yea, baby, that's an egg," or explain, "no, honey, that's not a square, it's a rectangle.  Oh look, there's a graham cracker," (heaven forbid I leave her side to go the bathroom) she quickly becomes bored and wanders away from my phone, or starts pressing buttons and ends up pocket calling her grandma or her babysitter.

Then, my husband got involved.  This weekend, he decided to look up nursery rhymes on youtube and they sat for several minutes while I did dishes in the kitchen, and I could hear "itsy bitsy spider" playing over and over again from the living room.  Of course I thought it was cute.  That is until I saw the video this morning in bed with her, and I saw the look on her face while she watched it.

With the Baby Einstein video she engages, interacts, talks to me about what she's seeing, wanders away and comes back.  With the nursery rhymes cartoon she stares blankly at the screen, transfixed, in a daze.  She doesn't talk, she certainly can't keep up with the rapid pacing of the songs, and she simply says at the end, "again."

Needless to say, I have to find a way to get my husband to stop the cartoons.  (Carlos, are you reading this?)

Cartoons.  Animation.

This seems to be the major problem with screen time period, the animation effect.  According to the studies that have been coming out for the last decade, the rapid pace of the images changing on the screen, especially in animated features and videos games, rewires something in babies' brains and leads them to expect that type of rapid pacing in the real world, which, as we all know, usually functions at an incredibly slow pace.  They become impatient with the real world and turn back to TV or video games, which only feeds the need for rapidity even more, and the vicious cycle continues.

I do accept that I am going to have to set limits at some point on even Baby Einstein as my child becomes more engaged and more demanding.  The average child today apparently engages a screen of some sort, iPhone, iPad, video game, television, computer, for entertainment purposes for 8 hours a day.  I worry about my kid going over 30 minutes.  I certainly don't want to get to 8 hours.

But more than how long my child watches the screen, I do worry about what it is she is watching, who she is watching it with (as in alone or with someone to discuss what she is watching), and whether what she watches can then be connected to the real world.

If she watches Baby Einstein and learns about squares, we can point out squares throughout the rest of our day together.

If she watches cartoons with overly bright, loud, fast talking and singing cartoon characters, what can we point out?  What is there to talk about?

I already sing the ABCs, Itsy Bitsy Spider, Twinkle Star, and other nursery songs to her throughout our day, and we work on them together; she sings along with me or repeats after me.  If she watches these crazy cartoons doing these same things, will she become bored with my version?  Will she demand I do it their way?  Will she come to prefer cartoons to mama-as-entertainment?

Let's hope not.

After all, I do a damn good Little Teapot.

Why I Speak English

Before my daughter was born, long before I was pregnant even, I had thought that I would speak only Spanish to my children.  Elena Poniatowska, in her fictional memoir, La Flor de Lis, recalls her mother, a woman belonging to the upper class society in Mexico City, saying that Mariana (Elena) would learn Spanish in the streets, that it was not an important language to study.  She went to school in English, the language spoken in their home was French, that of her father's native country, and Mariana did pick up Spanish in her everyday life in Mexico.  My first Spanish professor in college, on the other hand, a Mexican man from whom I took two years of Spanish, a long time educator of Spanish who insisted, indeed still insists (we're Facebook friends), on the proper use of Spanish, spoke only Spanish to his children at home.  His wife spoke to them in French, her native language.  Their thought was that the children would learn English in school here in the US.  I have met a couple of his children, grown college graduates now, and I can attest to the fact that you would never know that English was not their first language.

My sentiment was quite similar; Carlos and I would speak to our children in Spanish and they would learn English, and hopefully other languages, in school.

Then Celaya was born, and I cooed and babbled, and snuggled and nuzzled, from the day she was born.  And I found that I would talk to her about the world around her, introducing this wide eyed baby panda to trees and birds, to cars and fire trucks, to apples and peaches (she does not like peaches), to carpet, hardwood, and tile.  I tried at first to repeat myself in Spanish, to identify objects in Spanish, to call her amorcito and bonita, the way my husband did so affectionately.  But it fell flat.  I kept trying.  I forced myself back to Spanish with her.  But I would always, almost instantly, lapse back into the familiar English.

I felt guilty.  I understand fully the impact being bilingual has on a child's brain.  I have read, and I agree, with the studies that show the higher capacity for learning as a result of the brain's having adapted to translation and multiple language acquisition.  I was a failure in my own eyes.  I couldn't do it.  So I started researching immersion schools.  I figured if I couldn't speak to her regularly in Spanish, I would ensure that her time at school reinforced her father's native language and the import of fluently speaking two languages.  I would give Celaya every opportunity to thrive in this global world that continues on a daily basis to expand.

As I was mentally working through all of my shortcomings on this front I picked up Richard Rodriguez' autobiography, Hunger of Memory.  Rodriguez is a strong opponent of bilingual education.  He firmly believes that children should learn English only in this English speaking country.  He is the child of Mexican immigrants who spoke Spanish at home, and he describes how he suffered for years in school, feeling awkward and out of place in school with the other children who spoke English as a native language.

At one point in his narrative, he recalls realizing that Spanish was the language of affection, of emotion, of the home, and English was the language of education, reason, and logic.  Because of his "epiphany" he decided to reject Spanish and study English intensively.

As I read this passage from Rodriguez' personal account, I had my own realization:  for me, it was the reverse.  English is the language of emotion, feeling, love, passion, enthusiasm.  Spanish is a language I study formally, through literature, classwork, etc.

My guilt drained away from me.  The weight of failure I was harboring simply drifted out into the sea of misunderstandings.  It became clear to me all of a sudden that I could never be the kind of mother I had always envisioned in a language that was learned.  The loving, nurturing, nourishing, teaching, guiding, open minded, expressive mama I always wanted to be needed to draw from the depths of her soul.  And I simply could not, cannot, do that in any language but the one in which I learned all of those emotions.

I call Celaya "booger," "nut but," "baby foo," and all other sorts of crazy names that come to me spontaneously, in my mind, from the vast cultural language base I have been building for thirty five years.  She will learn how much I love her through my native language.  And that, more than anything else, more than brain capacity, more than economic opportunity, will give her the foundation for success in life regardless of which path she chooses.

I love my daughter in English.

Fortunately, she has her father to love her in Spanish.  We may still enroll her in an immersion school (although my current thoughts on the entire education system are developing into an entirely different blog post, or series of blog posts).  And I do read to her in Spanish twice a day, and still point out objects in both English and Spanish.

All in all, it is highly unlikely that she will suffer as Rodriguez did.

I'm sure her parents' failings will cause her to suffer in some other way though.

Or we simply wouldn't be parents.

Space

"I am always so ready for Myah to go down for her nap, but then once she's down, I can't wait for her to wake up again.  Do you know what I mean?"

"Totally."

No.  Actually, I feel the exact opposite.

The above quotes are from an exchange my sister, Tammy, and I had before her youngest was born.  We were both mothers of one girl.  Her daughter is two years older than mine.  Tammy was describing the feeling she has about spending all of her time with her daughter, why she lets her stay up late (Myah's bedtime has always coincided with her parents bedtime), how she comes home from work before going to the store so that she can take Myah with her, and so on.

I, on the other hand, transitioned Celaya into her own room when she was around 9 months.  She has a routine 8 o'clock bedtime, 8:30 is pushing it.  I prefer to go to the grocery store before or after work, alone.  And while I don't necessarily look forward to her nap, I pray to the nap gods that she will stay asleep for at least an hour and a half once she goes down.

Why?

For a long time I felt guilty about this difference between myself and not only my sister but many mothers.  Do I love my daughter less?  Do I have less of a connection with her than other women have with their children?

20 months after she was born I now realize more and more that it not only has nothing to do with a lack of mother/daughter bond or connection, but, in reality, it has nothing to do with her at all.  I have always been this way.  Since I left home, a small house perpetually crowded with people of all ages, shapes, and sizes, I have craved, more than anything else in the world, one thing:  space.

Only recently have I really been able to come to terms with my need for space, and this last week while my mother was here for 11 days, I felt fully aware of the one thing I was missing.  I had no time inside my own head.  Celaya went down, and my mother was here.  I came home from work at night, and my mother was here.  Don't mistake my meaning.  I love having her here and would have kept her longer if I could have, but the truth is that if she lived here, if she stayed for longer, I would make it a point to accommodate my need for space.

I feel bad about it sometimes.

"Go to bed," I tell Carlos when I find him still up when I get home from work.  "I want to come home to a dark, quiet house.  You need your sleep.  It's win-win."

Evil, right?

How could I insist that my sweet husband who only wants to spend some time with me go to bed and leave me alone?

Because it makes me a better person.  I'm sure of it.

If I can have my own personal quiet time, just a little bit each day, I can give everything else to everyone else the rest of the time.
I need my time to write.
I don't want to blog while the TV is on in the background.
I need time to watch my silly shows.
I don't watch TV while my daughter is awake.
I need time to focus on myself, to just think.
I don't think about myself, my needs, my goals, my personal feelings, when other people are around.  I am concerned with them, their needs, their goals, their personal feelings.  I am serving, cleaning, cooking, tending, loving, smooching, snuggling, listening, etc.  And I love these things so much that I can fully embrace each moment and give everything I've got.

But only if I get my space.

If I don't get my space, I become irritable, frustrated, curt, I make stupid mistakes, I get negative, I basically become downright bitchy.  And nobody likes me bitchy, especially not me.

It's Official

I am a bike commuter.

I have been working it out since I first had an inkling a couple months back that my car had taken a (huge oil leak quickly getting bigger) turn for the worse.

Do I need a car?  I asked myself.

Celaya hates the car, I reminded myself.

Next thing I know, I'm on the side of the road, having barely made it to the top of a freeway exit in the middle of the night on my way home from work with an overheated car.

On a positive note, a handful of samaritans stopped and offered help.  I do so love reminders of all the big and small good in the world.

So there I was, a few days later, determined that I would not spend a ton of money on repair, already working out the logistics of simply deciding to not have a car, and the key to my car goes missing.

Our mechanic shows up to take a look under the hood, and the very expensive to replace key is simply vanished.  Gone.  Nowhere to be found.  Sorry, mechanic, we'll call you if we ever find the key.

How embarrassing.

However, after freaking out about all my books for the classes I teach on Sundays being trapped inside the vault-like Volvo, my next thought was, "FREE!!"

If all of this drama with the car is not a clear indication from some powerful force (namely me) to go ahead with my bike commuter idea, then wait until you hear the rest.

A coworker lives right next to BART in Dublin, which is where I would need to get in order to work in San Ramon, and she has graciously agreed to pick me up and drop me off the two days a week I work in San Ramon.  My other office, in Berkeley, is a mere 1.5 miles from BART.  We have two perfectly functioning bikes.  I have been working (in a happy half assed quite unsuccessful way) to lose my last 30 pounds of baby weight (yea, it started at 70).  I live in the Bay Area, where it rarely rains nonstop.  My stepmother works for Hertz, so if I need to rent a car on rainy day occasions, or any other occasions, I get a great deal.  My brother and I have the same days off, so I can always recruit his driving skills (more likely just his truck while he lies about in bed) for grocery shopping or errand running.

And really, the list goes on.

The only negative I have found in my weeks of working this whole plan out in my head is that I am beginning my giant adventure right smack in the middle of the fall season, staring cold winter and rainy spring in the face.

But, honestly, even this minor detail is not a negative because I just see it as an excuse to go shop for gear.

I do want to own a car again.  But I want to buy my dream car:  a cute, modern (read high tech) little SUV that is eco-friendly and that I won't have to take a huge loan out for.  Right now I am looking at the 2010 Ford Edge.  My goal is to plan and save (and bike) for the next year, and take it from there.

So there you have it:  Woman Wife Mama is now officially a bike commuter.

Oh, and today, on my very first wonderful riding day out, I came across the perfect little flat bar road bike in all black with hot pink accents that I am now convinced I need as a serious bike commuter.

So the Edge may have to wait an extra month or two...

Veterans

I am wary of all oppositional expressions and phrases.  Ever since I discovered the reality of the false dichotomy I have watched and listened closely for them in articles I read and in discussions I have.

The most obvious example of this right now is the question on the debit/credit keypad at Safeway:

"Support the Veterans?"

And you can choose "Yes" or "No."

Choosing yes obviously means you will donate money to the Safeway Foundation. Choosing no obviously means you do not support the veterans.

Wait.  What?

Yes, you read that correctly.  Every time you choose no, you are in effect responding that, no, you do not support the veterans.

What if you have no extra money?

Well, if you really supported the veterans, you would manage to scrounge up a dollar, at the very least, for the men and women who have fought to protect our freedom.

Can I choose "yes," and not give money?  As in, yes, I do support the troops, but I am not going to donate money every single time I come through a Safeway checkout stand and have to pay with my debit card, or even, perhaps, at all.

Well then, once again, you are clearly lying about your support of the troops, because the only way to show this support would be to donate money.

Ultimately, I am grateful that Safeway and other companies, like Whole Foods, make the effort as major corporations to do some good in the world.  And I am aware that the guilt marketing strategy is effective; Safeway continues to surpass its set goals and outdo its previous years of charitable contributions.

What I do not like is being treated like I'm stupid, or inferior, by essentially being forced to respond that, no, I do not support the veterans, which is not the reality, nor do I think it is the reality for many people who choose not to donate on a particular day.

Aside from money, aside from celebrating a national holiday, what I choose to do primarily for any cause that I support is talk about it.  Get the information out.  Open discussions about what veterans really experience, about what our soldiers are experiencing now, what is being done for veterans who suffer from PTSD, what programs are in place for reintegration into a civilian society that certainly does not act like it is at war, much less does it have any consciousness about the bloody violence that a soldier may have experienced just last week, or the residual effects of being constantly in fear for your life.

The worst thing we can do is not talk about the sensitive subjects our communities, our country, and our world face for fear of offending someone or, goddess forbid, having a disagreement.

In addition to talking, we can actually do something ourselves.  We can take action, one person, one small gesture at a time.

In honor of the veterans, and at the same time in a nod to my husband, who is not from this country, I would like to share an example.

Carlos, my brother, my sister, and my brother-in-law, went to the 49ers game yesterday, and apparently, while Carlos was in line for beer, he was standing behind two marines.  When the marines got to the front of the line, Carlos paid for their beers.  Just like that, simple, because they fought for our country.

The only reason I know about this is because, in the process, he forgot to buy my brother the beer he promised him, and so Teno arrived home that night complaining about it.

I don't know if Carlos even realized that the next day was Veteran's Day.  Certainly no sign hung above their heads urging people to buy veteran's and/or soldiers beer, or donate to them in some way.

He just did it because he's Carlos.

So while I think that charity is important, and even that it is one way to support causes you believe in, I think that that charity, in whatever form that takes, should come from the heart, always, or else it is just another empty expression, like, "Support the Troops?"

None of These Diapers Are Working!

Every once in a while, since I began using special overnight diapers for Celaya, she will leak through the diaper overnight and her pajamas get a little bit wet.  On even rarer occasions, her sheet gets wet as well, and I have to change it.

Because I was certain that this was not right, I went in search of a better overnight diaper.

I was originally using Huggies brand, because this is the same diaper she wears during the day, and like I said, she only leaked through them once in a great while.

So, I happened to be in CVS and saw Pampers "Guaranteed Night Lock" diaper.

Great! I thought.  I can't go wrong with "Guaranteed Night Lock."

The first night, nothing.  Completely dry on the outside.  This was it.  I had found a winner.  I was so happy, I opened the entire package, unloaded the diapers and stacked them neatly on my nightstand, where we get Celaya ready for bed at night.

The next three nights in a row Celaya soaked through the diapers, once so bad that I had to change the sheet and the thick blanket I have beneath it in her crib.

Well, whatever, I thought to myself.  The diapers are cute and they fit her well, so I'll just use them during the day and head out in search of another brand.

Next came a trip to Target with my mom, where I found Luvs brand overnight diaper.  "Absolutely no leaking.  12 hour guaranteed or your money back."

Yes!  I reasoned, if they are offering to give your money back, they must be serious about this overnight diaper.  I bought them, opened them, and stacked them up in their new happy home.

The first night in the diaper she leaked through the diaper, through her pajamas, all up the front of her body and the back, through the sheet and the blanket underneath.

Not cool.

Why was this so hard?

This whole weeks-long saga got me thinking about how I never really shop around for things.  Once I like something, I stick with it.  When I find something I really like, I buy it and move on.  Carlos is always on me to shop around, check out my options, don't commit right away.  My argument has always been that if I know what I like and it works for me, why should I spend time, energy, and inclination that I do not possess looking around, getting frustrated, and ultimately ending up disappointed?

But, hey, I wanted my baby dry, and for once, I was willing to try shopping around.

That's when I started thinking about something else:  only for my baby.  I would not shop around for new toilet paper, even though Carlos and Teno begged me to, even though our butts were rubbed raw by Trader Joe's brand.  I refuse to change soap brands, even though Carlos is right, we use way more of the Pure and Clear than we ever did of the chemical filled version.  I still haven't even bothered to shop around for a different cable/satellite provider, ditto for the cell phone, even though we would probably end up saving quite a bit of money.

I do not do these things because I am a famous prioritizer and those tasks/changes simply fall too far down on the list to even merit mention.

But for my baby, for her sweet little body bundled up warm and dry at night, I will trek out to store after store, week after week, in search of the perfect overnight diaper.

Being a mother has changed me on levels I am still recognizing on a daily basis, in roundabout ways.

Although I am definitely keeping a backup stock of the Huggies overnights from now on.

Just in case.

My Daughter Likes You

When I first thought about hiring a babysitter for Celaya because of a catastrophic falling out with my youngest sister, who was watching Celaya two days a week, I was immensely stressed.

How could I possibly find someone?

Well, a few Google searches later I found Care.com, the most amazing website that connects parents to sitters, whether it be for date night or a full time nanny.  Originally I thought I might put Celaya into a daycare/early preschool a few hours a day, two days a week, so she could start socializing with an organized, structured group of kids.  Come to find out: daycares and preschools require a minimum of 20 hours a week.

What?!

I needed help for 6 hours a week.  Therefore, my small potatoes were not attractive to the childcare centers, and as life generally works out, I found something even better.

This site connected me to dozens and dozens of sitters who could have possibly been a great match for my specific needs: two days a week, from 3 to 6.  A handful of potential sitters messaged me via the site within 48 hours.  

And after a few days, I found her.  The perfect sitter. 

Sounds like the title of a scary movie, huh?

That's what I thought.

I got her background check, I called references, I even Facebook stalked her.  You name it, I did it, all in the name of a mother of a toddler doing everything she can to ensure her daughter's safety.  I requested a resume, I have her social security number on file.

The list goes on.

But really, in the end, knowing my daughter and of course knowing myself, it just took that first day.

Celaya took her hand and led her into her toy room.  She sat down with her and played.  My new babysitter made my daughter comfortable enough to laugh, to talk, and (biggest moment of all) to walk away from me.  

This young girl with her crazy cool hip funky sense of style and inner city accent won my usually recalcitrant baby's trust in seconds. 

In the weeks that she's been sitting for us she has explored the neighborhood with Celaya, sung the ABCs with her, talked about colors and shapes, and crashed toy cars and trucks with her.  She is honestly a dream come true.  I came home last week after work to find three white printer pages with green handprints on them.  My sitter had spend the afternoon fingerpainting (handpainting, really) with Celaya after they saw a man painting his house outside.  She even included titles at the bottom of each page.  My favorite is "Celaya flower handprint 10/29/13."  She helped Celaya make a flower out of her own painted green baby handprints. 

Good help is hard to find, and my daughter genuinely likes her babysitter.

What more could I ask for?

Oh, yea, that she stick around for a long time.  

I wonder how she feels about watching two kids... 

A Blithesdale Romance

Every time I feel too tired to write I am reminded of this grand social experiment that Nathaniel Hawthorne and a handful of his fellow artists planned out and attempted to execute.  Likely the primary solid piece of work that actually came from this experiment was the fictional account, A Blithesdale Romance, that is based on that time.

The idea was that this commune of sorts would seek out and develop this plot of land, work the fields, the animals, clean house, and essentially perform all tasks necessary to keep a small, self sustainable country home running.  Then at night, invigorated from the pure, natural work done under God's sky, their creative juices would flow.

Ha.

By the end of the first week they realized that every night they were so exhausted all they wanted to do was crash and burn.  No one has the energy to push out serious artistic work at the end of a long, hard day's work.  (See Virginia Woolf and A Room of One's Own.)

For some reason beyond me (oh yea, Christmas is right around the corner), I have agreed to teach a full day's classes for the next five Sundays.  Here I am, Sunday night, too tired to write. 

So I stole from Nathatniel Hawthorne and Virginia Woolf to fill space and make my fingers move across the keys for a short time in acquiescence to the deal I made with myself to write every night.

Do you feel cheated?

My Sister

My mother got into town last night to stay for a week.

Yes, yes, I know.  The title of this post is "My Sister."

I mention my mother as a way of explaining why I missed a day of writing.  And also as a likely foreshadowing of a post on my mother to come soon.

But back to the title of this post.

There is a family story that has been repeated for as long as I can remember, so much so that it is almost a memory for me, even though it is clearly a shared memory because I was just shy of four years old at the time.

I am the oldest child in my family, and my first sister was born just about exactly three and a half years after me.  My parents were in the middle of a messy divorce, and Tammy and I were sitting at the base of the stairs in our small, two story townhouse.  The floor was hard tile, and my sister was not even six months old, just able to sit up on her own.  My mother says she was just out of reach when she looked over and saw my sister start to tip over and fall backward, her precious infant skull sure to make a resounding crack as it struck the ground.  But, as my mother watched, I reached out my nearly four year old hand and caught her baby head just before it hit, firmly bonding the older sister/younger sister dynamic that would last the rest of our lives.

Fast forward several years and I was desperate to be rid of her when my friends were around, but only too happy to play Little People or Barbies when we were alone.  We bundled up washcloths to make their beds in their little shoe box houses, tiny pieces of folded up toilet paper serving as their pillows.  Old dominoes made excellent tables while backgammon pieces were chairs.  We lived in an imaginary world unto ourselves for seven years until my next sister came along, and we took her, and then my brother three years after that, into our fold.

Tammy and I have shared laughter and tears.  I have fought with her as hard as I've fought with anyone, yet I've stood in front of hulking bullies that likely could have wiped me out in defense of my petite sibling, daring anyone to try to walk through me to get to her.

Fast forward again, to the present day.

We are as different as two sisters so close in age can be.  I live in the city; she lives in a small town.  I have a graduate degree and work in education; she has a high school diploma and runs an investment office.  I am, for the most part, a full time mom of one, working part time and renting an apartment, and she works full time, she's a homeowner, and she is the mother of two.

This last part is the part that has recently stood out to me the most.  For as long as I can remember I have said that I would be a stay at home mom, whereas she has never really made a statement either way.  One of the primary reasons I went so far in school, in fact, was so that I could earn a decent income while focusing most of my attention on my family.  And I frequently say that I am a supermom, superwoman, goddess, etc., etc.

I am very humble.

But my sister, my sister is a different kind of mom, a different kind of career woman, a different kind of wife, a different kind of woman.  And only since I have had my own child (her first came first) have I been able to truly appreciate the reality of one important point I have been missing in my estimation of my baby sister.  She is a goddess too.

If ever a woman could argue for being a full time employee and a great mom, it is Tammy.  She excels at work, dearly missed when she is out on vacation or maternity leave, and she thrives at home, fully immersed in her time with her babies when she has it.  Friends are hard pressed to force her out for a girls' night when she could instead be at home snuggling, cuddling, reading, cooking, or cleaning up after her family; to see her girlfriends, she organizes play dates or dinner parties that include her friends and their kids.  She allows her children to have later bedtimes so that she can have more quality time with them when she is home.  And why not?  They do not have school or daycare to get up and get out for the next day; she has worked out the perfect arrangement of a few days for the kids with grandma down the street, one week day at home with their dad, her husband, and one week day at home with her; since her youngest was born she has taken it upon herself to take an extra, unpaid day off of work to be with her darlings.  She is the best working mother I have ever met, and I am so immeasurably proud to call her sister.

Now, after thirty five years of life and thirty two years as a big sister, I am happy to admit that I see Tammy as a kind of mirror I stand in front of often, not to see if she looks like me, or if I need to lose weight (I do.  She's tiny.), but to see if, where it matters, I measure up.

My sister proves that different work and family decisions realistically can and do work for different people, without the children suffering, without being attacked by stress and/or guilt, without compromising values, that superwomen come in all shapes, sizes, and life choices.

Because, without saying a word, she makes me constantly re-evaluate my ideas, she reminds me to think before I speak, she shows me how to unconditionally love my husband, being her sister makes me want to be a better person.