Occasionally, as I'm quickly scanning and scrolling friends' posts and blogs and articles from sites I follow on Facebook, I will come across a title that sounds interesting to me. But because I have mere seconds to scan, I "share" it, so that it will appear on my own page, and I can come back to read the whole thing later without having to search endlessly for it.
Yes, sometimes I ask myself if I really want to share something with friends that I am not even sure I actually like. In the end, though, I do it because I figure the topic is interesting enough and just because I have it on my Facebook page does not necessarily mean I agree with every single word in an article or blog post. And I was okay with that. Okay with it being on my page. Okay with my name being associated with whichever issue I took interest in, because at least, regardless of the opinion given by the author, I am interested in the general discussion.
Until today.
This morning I saw a Huffington Post blog title that struck me to my core: "I dropped everything in my life . . . but gained so much more."
Totally me! I was on the fast track to a PhD program, thrilled to get to teaching, having my own classroom; I had pretty much given up on the idea of having children naturally, and then I missed a period. Two years after beginning to try to have a baby and here I was in the prime of my life, ready to embark on a whole new journey... pregnant.
So I did drop everything and gain so much more. I wrote my thesis as quickly as I could and threw myself into motherhood. I embarked on a whole different new journey. And I have never for a second wished it were any other way.
So I was eagerly looking forward to Celaya's naptime today so that I could read what this woman had given up and what she had gained.
From the very first paragraph I was angry. By the time I got to the end of the essay I was outraged and ashamed. Ashamed that I had put my name on this woman's blatant disregard for humanity in the name of self satisfaction.
I have since deleted the post from my page (the only time I have ever done that), but I am reposting it here, so that I am not mistaken as overdramatic or misrepresenting her story.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/02/19/i-dropped-everything-in-my-life_n_4769872.html
Essentially, this woman still has the hots for her high school sweetheart, and, because she is consumed by a sense of her own mortality (her mother is dead, her father seems to be dying in a hospital nearby), decides to uproot her entire life and move in (to her childhood home) with this man.
So? Who cares, right? To each her own.
Sure. I have been there. I was married when I was much younger and left my husband for another man who gave me the hots. Been there done that.
But I did not have children. I was terribly unhappy. And I was a child.
This woman is forty years old, describes her marriage as having been happy, and has children at home in New York. The man, ironically named Carlos, is also married with children. And she left it all.
Because Carlos gives her great orgasms.
In a nutshell.
The entire piece is a drippy Harlequin romance that allows for the feelings of not one other person. She writes as though her children came happily along, across the country from their daddy, to live with a stranger and his children. Additionally, she simply asks Carlos to move in, and he does, with his children. And now they are all so happy to wake up in the morning and life is perfect.
Really? The fact that she could ever be held up as any kind of champion, strong woman, risk taker, is so atrocious to me that I just sat there with my jaw dropped.
I am not so furious that she hurt people. Although I am certainly upset about that. What I am enraged over is that she writes about it all as though we, as fellow humans, fellow women, should be proud of her, should nod our heads in agreement, should follow her lead. "Yes, yes!" She wants us to shout. "Carpe Diem! Vive L'amour!" Because, she justifies, she does not want to wake up just okay with life, she want to wake up "with ardor."
A forty year old woman should know, having lived forty years, that not one person on earth wakes up every single morning for years on end with ardor.
This woman, the epitome of self-servitude, is not even content in life with happiness (the thing I have been ranting about for a few days), she needs ardor!
Fittingly, I was working on a passage of reading last night in a study book for the MCAT (a dear friend of mine is taking the MCAT, ne pas moi), and the topic was individualism. In the end, the author makes clear that socialism actually feeds into individualism; it is just that, he says, we have been thinking about both socialism and individualism all wrong. We, as a society, think capitalism and individualism go together because "I want money, or houses, or cars, or clothes, so I should have it, and capitalism will help me get it." Basically, individualism in our minds is equal to what we have. But, this writer points out, individualism is not about what we have, it is about who we are. And if we are so focused on what we have, how can we ever figure out who we are? Whereas, in a modern socialist society, where people agree to work for the common good, and not let their fellow citizens slip through the cracks, we are focused on doing good work for others, on being good members of society. Ideally, of course.
Then I read this article today, and cannot help but think that this woman is the perfect example of ill defined individualism.
Because, really, at some point she will have to face herself, right? Wonder what kind of person she really is. Who she is. What good she is doing for anyone other than herself. Have to look her children in the eyes and explain her actions to them. Wake up and smell Carlos' nasty breath, or look at his softening middle, and think, "oh yea, I gained so much more."
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Obsessed With Happiness
Last week I listened to an interview on KQED Forum about whether people with children are happier than people who do not have children. The answer, it turns out, is no. In fact, Michael Krasny reported in his signature professor's tone, people with children may in fact be less happy.
This study that was done, in addition to the book written as a response to that study, All Joy and No Fun, by Jennifer Senior, did not surprise me in the least.
The interview with Senior was a good one; she discussed the nuances of parenthood, the hundreds of parents from all walks of life she interviewed, her own personal take on the results, and so on. She pointed out that we all have different rulers by which we measure our happiness, that perhaps we put too much pressure on ourselves to be happy. The callers to the program ranged from overwhelmed by and regretful of their parenting duties to outraged that anyone would dare be unhappy as a parent.
Later that week I came across a Huffington Post blog that discusses the downside of parenting. This woman says that she is not always happy to be doing her mothering duties, and that that is okay; we should, she insists, be able to talk about how unhappy we are with particular aspects of motherhood. In fact, she confesses, sometimes she is downright miserable, and that is okay, she assures us.
In the last few weeks there have been dozens of other radio shows, articles, books, and blogs that have come my way about this very issue: happy parents? happy children? rageful mother? depressed children?
The question that began to formulate in my head from the beginning of the All Joy No Fun interview is still ringing in my ears:
Why does it matter?
We as a society have become entirely too obsessed with our feelings.
We cannot help ourselves when someone says he or she is happy, we have to compare our own feelings to his or hers.
I do understand comparing a lot of things, specifically when you are working toward goals and others are achieving those same goals. I want to run an hour a day, and I see a mother in a situation similar to mine who gets it done. "Great," I think, "if she can do it, so can I."
But when did we start comparing our happiness to that of others? How can you possibly measure your own feelings next to someone else's? We are all unique unto ourselves, different experiences, different backgrounds, different desires, different emotional makeups. Something that makes me joyous could make another mother in a similar situation simply shrug. My imaginary jogging competition may hate running an hour a day, but she does it to lose weight or stay fit. I, on the other hand, look forward to every time my shoes pound the pavement, I am exhilarated by the runner's high I get. Then I go eat an entire milk chocolate caramel bar because damn it tastes so good.
I did not become a mother to be happy. I did not marry my husband to be happy. I did not get my graduate degree to be happy. I do not go to work to be happy. But I worked hard to bring those things into my life, and I work hard at them daily because they fulfill me.
Am I a happy person? In general, yes, I would say I am happy overall, but it is because I have built my life around being fulfilled, and I do fulfilling things every day.
My number one wish, aside from good health, is not that my child be happy, but that she find purpose.
I think it all comes back to this excessive sense of individualism we have come to in this country. Are my needs being met? Did I get what I want? Will this make me happy? Are you happy at your job? Are you happy being a parent? Are you sad? Why are you sad? Give every child a trophy, so each will be happy and not sad.
I don't spend my day thinking about whether I am happy or sad, angry or joyous. I get up, and I find ways to both get done what needs to be done and take time to rest in between bouts of work. I have found that I work better and have a capacity to work harder, at any given thing, if I take time to rest and reflect.
And yes, the vast majority of the time, if I was asked, I would say, at any given moment, that I am happy.
But who cares?
My life would make someone else miserable. Someone else's "happy" life would drive me crazy.
In the end, we are asking the wrong questions. Perhaps if we focus less on whether we are happy and more on whether we are good, doing good for others, living good lives...
we could all be a little happier.
This study that was done, in addition to the book written as a response to that study, All Joy and No Fun, by Jennifer Senior, did not surprise me in the least.
The interview with Senior was a good one; she discussed the nuances of parenthood, the hundreds of parents from all walks of life she interviewed, her own personal take on the results, and so on. She pointed out that we all have different rulers by which we measure our happiness, that perhaps we put too much pressure on ourselves to be happy. The callers to the program ranged from overwhelmed by and regretful of their parenting duties to outraged that anyone would dare be unhappy as a parent.
Later that week I came across a Huffington Post blog that discusses the downside of parenting. This woman says that she is not always happy to be doing her mothering duties, and that that is okay; we should, she insists, be able to talk about how unhappy we are with particular aspects of motherhood. In fact, she confesses, sometimes she is downright miserable, and that is okay, she assures us.
In the last few weeks there have been dozens of other radio shows, articles, books, and blogs that have come my way about this very issue: happy parents? happy children? rageful mother? depressed children?
The question that began to formulate in my head from the beginning of the All Joy No Fun interview is still ringing in my ears:
Why does it matter?
We as a society have become entirely too obsessed with our feelings.
We cannot help ourselves when someone says he or she is happy, we have to compare our own feelings to his or hers.
I do understand comparing a lot of things, specifically when you are working toward goals and others are achieving those same goals. I want to run an hour a day, and I see a mother in a situation similar to mine who gets it done. "Great," I think, "if she can do it, so can I."
But when did we start comparing our happiness to that of others? How can you possibly measure your own feelings next to someone else's? We are all unique unto ourselves, different experiences, different backgrounds, different desires, different emotional makeups. Something that makes me joyous could make another mother in a similar situation simply shrug. My imaginary jogging competition may hate running an hour a day, but she does it to lose weight or stay fit. I, on the other hand, look forward to every time my shoes pound the pavement, I am exhilarated by the runner's high I get. Then I go eat an entire milk chocolate caramel bar because damn it tastes so good.
I did not become a mother to be happy. I did not marry my husband to be happy. I did not get my graduate degree to be happy. I do not go to work to be happy. But I worked hard to bring those things into my life, and I work hard at them daily because they fulfill me.
Am I a happy person? In general, yes, I would say I am happy overall, but it is because I have built my life around being fulfilled, and I do fulfilling things every day.
My number one wish, aside from good health, is not that my child be happy, but that she find purpose.
I think it all comes back to this excessive sense of individualism we have come to in this country. Are my needs being met? Did I get what I want? Will this make me happy? Are you happy at your job? Are you happy being a parent? Are you sad? Why are you sad? Give every child a trophy, so each will be happy and not sad.
I don't spend my day thinking about whether I am happy or sad, angry or joyous. I get up, and I find ways to both get done what needs to be done and take time to rest in between bouts of work. I have found that I work better and have a capacity to work harder, at any given thing, if I take time to rest and reflect.
And yes, the vast majority of the time, if I was asked, I would say, at any given moment, that I am happy.
But who cares?
My life would make someone else miserable. Someone else's "happy" life would drive me crazy.
In the end, we are asking the wrong questions. Perhaps if we focus less on whether we are happy and more on whether we are good, doing good for others, living good lives...
we could all be a little happier.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice
Yea right.
My daughter is not made of sugar, or spice, or everything nice.
Of course she's nice. When she wants to be. She's entering the terrible twos though, for goodness' sake. She is generally hell on wheels. And damn if I'm not proud of her. As I've said, it's the girls that make the most trouble that become leaders.
The reality is, Celaya is more snakes and snails and puppy dog tails.
Her favorite books, the ones she asks for repeatedly, are about dinosaurs, elephants, giraffes, bats, monsters, and yes, a little troublesome pig. She does love Ladybug Girl; it's true. But even that sweet little girl gets excited about digging for worms, not playing with makeup or baby dolls.
This is, of course, not to say that she does not like baby dolls, makeup, or jewelry. She has her Auntie Tammy, her grandma, and her granny Sue to thank for that. And I think that's beautiful. They show her a side of life I just do not have to offer.
But when it's just us, her and me, she jumps in puddles, digs in the dirt, throws motorized cars around, and collects rocks and sticks.
And thank the gods, she has her papa and her uncle to reinforce those joys.
Just today, seconds after I walked in from work, she and I built a tower with her Lego blocks and she looked over at her Uncle Teno, who promptly said, "Celaya, destroy!"
She crashed down on her tower, ripping the pieces apart like a baby gorilla, with all the vigor and animation her little 24 pound body could manage, giggling the whole time. It was a scene straight out of Rampage.
So imagine my dismay when, just yesterday, I entered the toy section with Celaya in search of some fun little take home prize for being such a good (read: crazy yet manageable) girl during all of our shopping, especially after having been cooped up with a fever all week. The first aisle was full of toddler learning toys, Leap Frog, wagon, shovel, bubbles, musical instruments, etc. The next two aisles were an explosion of pink with a tad bit of purple mixed in. The following four aisles were clearly designed for boys, dark blues and black with a splash of red and green here and there.
I suppose this was the first time that I consciously explored the toy section with my child. Before now we had pretty much been limited to the toddler aisle. But now, honestly, we have all the useful things from that aisle and are ready to move beyond it, to older kid toys.
So as we enter the first pink aisle, I notice Celaya in a kind of daze. She reaches out for something called Little Pet Shop, or something along those lines. It is essentially a small carrier kit with tiny ponies, maybe an inch tall, that apparently belong to a pet shop of some sort. What, on earth, is my kid supposed to do with that? How does it relate to anything at all that she experiences as a two year old? Everything in these two aisles had something to do with being the societally accepted "little girl": makeup kits, dolls of all shapes and sizes, a kitchen, a shopping cart, a jewelry making kit, dress up clothes, you name it.
Before it all really registered in my brain, my husband came over to join us from another part of the store and take over playing with Celaya. I started to leave to get some shopping done in another section when I noticed the next few aisles of "boys toys." I turned back.
"Carlos, why don't you take her a few aisles down, to where the cool stuff is?"
He did. And they spent the next twenty minutes playing with trains, planes, cars, trucks, tractors, and all the other replicas of things she gets excited about everyday.
In the end, we bought her a helicopter, for under ten bucks, that lights up and makes sounds. She played with it the whole way home and woke up the next morning saying, "go see helicopter."
I do not mind if Celaya wants to wear make up when she grows up, or even if she wants to pretend now. She loves having her auntie put lip gloss on her when Tammy visits. I like that she gets excited to dress up in the silly fluffy outfits her granny Sue bought her for Christmas.
What I do mind is that the toy section, and life in general, designates what she is supposed to like, what I am supposed to supply her with, and the image she is supposed to fit or squeeze (or die trying) into as she grows.
Which means that I am charged with spending the rest of her growing years taking her over to the boys aisle, encouraging her to explore football as well as ballet, to put her barbies into monster trucks and splash her pink boots through the mud.
It is a much more active role than I had originally realized I would have to play in terms of gender norming.
Recently, I have been thinking about what general theme I want to have for Celaya's upcoming birthday party.
She doesn't know what princesses or ballerinas are. She doesn't watch TV, so she has no connection to Tinkerbell or Dora the Explorer. The books we read are not really based on a particular character, unless you count Olivia, and I do, but I think she is still too young for an Olivia party. Next year would be better for that.
I sat down to read to her before bed tonight, in the back of my mind reflecting on this gender issue I've been mulling over since yesterday, and as I was finishing up, preparing to put her in bed, she pleaded, "'nother one! Read 'nother one!"
"Okay," I agreed. "Which one do you want?"
"Dinosaurs After Dark," she begged.
So that's it, I decided in that moment, and began the planning in my head as I read the lines to my enamored child:
"Splashing through the fountains, and swinging from the cranes. Racing through the station, and playing with the trains. Underground and in the air, those dinosaurs played everywhere!"
We're having a dinosaur party.
My daughter is not made of sugar, or spice, or everything nice.
Of course she's nice. When she wants to be. She's entering the terrible twos though, for goodness' sake. She is generally hell on wheels. And damn if I'm not proud of her. As I've said, it's the girls that make the most trouble that become leaders.
The reality is, Celaya is more snakes and snails and puppy dog tails.
Her favorite books, the ones she asks for repeatedly, are about dinosaurs, elephants, giraffes, bats, monsters, and yes, a little troublesome pig. She does love Ladybug Girl; it's true. But even that sweet little girl gets excited about digging for worms, not playing with makeup or baby dolls.
This is, of course, not to say that she does not like baby dolls, makeup, or jewelry. She has her Auntie Tammy, her grandma, and her granny Sue to thank for that. And I think that's beautiful. They show her a side of life I just do not have to offer.
But when it's just us, her and me, she jumps in puddles, digs in the dirt, throws motorized cars around, and collects rocks and sticks.
And thank the gods, she has her papa and her uncle to reinforce those joys.
Just today, seconds after I walked in from work, she and I built a tower with her Lego blocks and she looked over at her Uncle Teno, who promptly said, "Celaya, destroy!"
She crashed down on her tower, ripping the pieces apart like a baby gorilla, with all the vigor and animation her little 24 pound body could manage, giggling the whole time. It was a scene straight out of Rampage.
So imagine my dismay when, just yesterday, I entered the toy section with Celaya in search of some fun little take home prize for being such a good (read: crazy yet manageable) girl during all of our shopping, especially after having been cooped up with a fever all week. The first aisle was full of toddler learning toys, Leap Frog, wagon, shovel, bubbles, musical instruments, etc. The next two aisles were an explosion of pink with a tad bit of purple mixed in. The following four aisles were clearly designed for boys, dark blues and black with a splash of red and green here and there.
I suppose this was the first time that I consciously explored the toy section with my child. Before now we had pretty much been limited to the toddler aisle. But now, honestly, we have all the useful things from that aisle and are ready to move beyond it, to older kid toys.
So as we enter the first pink aisle, I notice Celaya in a kind of daze. She reaches out for something called Little Pet Shop, or something along those lines. It is essentially a small carrier kit with tiny ponies, maybe an inch tall, that apparently belong to a pet shop of some sort. What, on earth, is my kid supposed to do with that? How does it relate to anything at all that she experiences as a two year old? Everything in these two aisles had something to do with being the societally accepted "little girl": makeup kits, dolls of all shapes and sizes, a kitchen, a shopping cart, a jewelry making kit, dress up clothes, you name it.
Before it all really registered in my brain, my husband came over to join us from another part of the store and take over playing with Celaya. I started to leave to get some shopping done in another section when I noticed the next few aisles of "boys toys." I turned back.
"Carlos, why don't you take her a few aisles down, to where the cool stuff is?"
He did. And they spent the next twenty minutes playing with trains, planes, cars, trucks, tractors, and all the other replicas of things she gets excited about everyday.
In the end, we bought her a helicopter, for under ten bucks, that lights up and makes sounds. She played with it the whole way home and woke up the next morning saying, "go see helicopter."
I do not mind if Celaya wants to wear make up when she grows up, or even if she wants to pretend now. She loves having her auntie put lip gloss on her when Tammy visits. I like that she gets excited to dress up in the silly fluffy outfits her granny Sue bought her for Christmas.
What I do mind is that the toy section, and life in general, designates what she is supposed to like, what I am supposed to supply her with, and the image she is supposed to fit or squeeze (or die trying) into as she grows.
Which means that I am charged with spending the rest of her growing years taking her over to the boys aisle, encouraging her to explore football as well as ballet, to put her barbies into monster trucks and splash her pink boots through the mud.
It is a much more active role than I had originally realized I would have to play in terms of gender norming.
Recently, I have been thinking about what general theme I want to have for Celaya's upcoming birthday party.
She doesn't know what princesses or ballerinas are. She doesn't watch TV, so she has no connection to Tinkerbell or Dora the Explorer. The books we read are not really based on a particular character, unless you count Olivia, and I do, but I think she is still too young for an Olivia party. Next year would be better for that.
I sat down to read to her before bed tonight, in the back of my mind reflecting on this gender issue I've been mulling over since yesterday, and as I was finishing up, preparing to put her in bed, she pleaded, "'nother one! Read 'nother one!"
"Okay," I agreed. "Which one do you want?"
"Dinosaurs After Dark," she begged.
So that's it, I decided in that moment, and began the planning in my head as I read the lines to my enamored child:
"Splashing through the fountains, and swinging from the cranes. Racing through the station, and playing with the trains. Underground and in the air, those dinosaurs played everywhere!"
We're having a dinosaur party.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Lost on the Sea of Motherhood
The last time I blogged was over two weeks ago.
And I've said this before, but I feel I must say it again.
When I'm so busy living, I simply do not have time for writing. I titled my blog Woman Wife Mama, and I have been, for the last two weeks, Mama Wife Woman. I think fondly, nostalgically, about my writing, looking longingly over at the computer, feeling the keys beneath my fingers even though I know it will be days and days before I have the opportunity to type once more. I have been drowning in this life that I love so much that I have not have the chance to come up for air and reflect on just how good I have it.
Yes, I mean to say that I have not had the chance, not that I have not taken the time. It has not existed to take.
There have been times in the past when I have been lazy or procrastinated writing that essay, email, letter, blog, or reading that good book, or making that long phone call, in the name of good old brain drain rest in front of the television. This gluttonous laziness has not been the case of late. I searched desperately for time alone, time to myself, time to breathe, relax, blog. It truly did not exist.
My sisters and my mother converged upon my apartment shortly after my last blog. It was a three day female festival. Yes, my brother, husband, and nephew were all here, but we all know that when women are in the majority, it is a female festival. Period. We gossiped, we ate, we drank, we shopped, we played games, we enjoyed the children, and I barely got enough sleep among the preparing, planning, doing, laughing, and loving to function. Once they left it was a matter of recuperating from the visit, cleaning, grocery shopping, getting back into routine.
Then someone died.
No one I was close to, but someone in my step family, so we hosted my stepfather for a week (and my sister for a day) in the midst of the wake, funeral, family get-togethers, and such. This visit of course involves more planning, shopping, accommodating, visiting, laughing, and loving.
In the middle of all the fun family fabulousness I was tutoring my students through their high school finals, which added hours to my normally manageable work week.
Finally, things calm down, and I turn to my husband.
"Hi, stranger, what's your name again?"
I barely get those words out when the Super Bowl arrives, my fridge is stocked with man goodies, ready to go, and my baby wakes up from her nap, an hour before the game, before guests begin arriving, with a fever of 102 degrees.
Suffice to say I have been in anxiety mode for the last four days. I stayed home from work the first day, but when I realized she would just have to ride out the fever, I entrusted her to my brother and husband. Trust?
A text conversation between Carlos and me while I am at work:
"Is she drinking water?"
"Yes, a little."
"A little?! She has to stay hydrated!"
"She's drinking."
"Did you give her the medicine?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"5 mL, like the detailed instructions you left said."
"Are you sure it was 5 mL? You read the syringe correctly?"
"Really?"
"Sorry, I know. I'm a freak."
"Yep. I know. Tone it down."
Once again. Poor Carlos.
So here I sit. My baby is fine, fever free all day. Sound asleep. My husband off to night class at the community college. My brother in bed early to get sleep before his early shift tomorrow. As far as I know we are neither receiving company or traveling anywhere for the next month.
I have so much to write about, so much to reflect on, so many issues I want to cover: life in the ghetto, a visit to the emergency room, being a tutor, but all I can think about right now is, yes! I'm free! Now, why have I been so damn busy?
Oh right, woman wife mama. Mostly, for the last few weeks, my life has been mama mama mama. That says it all. And before I turn to myself, I notice my husband waiting ever so patiently for a brief conversation, a moment of my time. And I hear my husband pounding up the stairwell, home from class, now.
And I've said this before, but I feel I must say it again.
When I'm so busy living, I simply do not have time for writing. I titled my blog Woman Wife Mama, and I have been, for the last two weeks, Mama Wife Woman. I think fondly, nostalgically, about my writing, looking longingly over at the computer, feeling the keys beneath my fingers even though I know it will be days and days before I have the opportunity to type once more. I have been drowning in this life that I love so much that I have not have the chance to come up for air and reflect on just how good I have it.
Yes, I mean to say that I have not had the chance, not that I have not taken the time. It has not existed to take.
There have been times in the past when I have been lazy or procrastinated writing that essay, email, letter, blog, or reading that good book, or making that long phone call, in the name of good old brain drain rest in front of the television. This gluttonous laziness has not been the case of late. I searched desperately for time alone, time to myself, time to breathe, relax, blog. It truly did not exist.
My sisters and my mother converged upon my apartment shortly after my last blog. It was a three day female festival. Yes, my brother, husband, and nephew were all here, but we all know that when women are in the majority, it is a female festival. Period. We gossiped, we ate, we drank, we shopped, we played games, we enjoyed the children, and I barely got enough sleep among the preparing, planning, doing, laughing, and loving to function. Once they left it was a matter of recuperating from the visit, cleaning, grocery shopping, getting back into routine.
Then someone died.
No one I was close to, but someone in my step family, so we hosted my stepfather for a week (and my sister for a day) in the midst of the wake, funeral, family get-togethers, and such. This visit of course involves more planning, shopping, accommodating, visiting, laughing, and loving.
In the middle of all the fun family fabulousness I was tutoring my students through their high school finals, which added hours to my normally manageable work week.
Finally, things calm down, and I turn to my husband.
"Hi, stranger, what's your name again?"
I barely get those words out when the Super Bowl arrives, my fridge is stocked with man goodies, ready to go, and my baby wakes up from her nap, an hour before the game, before guests begin arriving, with a fever of 102 degrees.
Suffice to say I have been in anxiety mode for the last four days. I stayed home from work the first day, but when I realized she would just have to ride out the fever, I entrusted her to my brother and husband. Trust?
A text conversation between Carlos and me while I am at work:
"Is she drinking water?"
"Yes, a little."
"A little?! She has to stay hydrated!"
"She's drinking."
"Did you give her the medicine?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"5 mL, like the detailed instructions you left said."
"Are you sure it was 5 mL? You read the syringe correctly?"
"Really?"
"Sorry, I know. I'm a freak."
"Yep. I know. Tone it down."
Once again. Poor Carlos.
So here I sit. My baby is fine, fever free all day. Sound asleep. My husband off to night class at the community college. My brother in bed early to get sleep before his early shift tomorrow. As far as I know we are neither receiving company or traveling anywhere for the next month.
I have so much to write about, so much to reflect on, so many issues I want to cover: life in the ghetto, a visit to the emergency room, being a tutor, but all I can think about right now is, yes! I'm free! Now, why have I been so damn busy?
Oh right, woman wife mama. Mostly, for the last few weeks, my life has been mama mama mama. That says it all. And before I turn to myself, I notice my husband waiting ever so patiently for a brief conversation, a moment of my time. And I hear my husband pounding up the stairwell, home from class, now.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
When My Kids Are In School
It will get easier.
I can finally become a full time teacher.
I can make more money.
I will have time to myself again.
There will be less pressure.
These are all things I have said to myself in passing when I think about how much easier things get once babies become kids become students in school. Yes. I too have thought of school as a kind of daycare.
And that is where the problem lies, for me.
I have come to realize more and more, with each passing anecdote, that school has become glorified daycare. Daycare with tests and worksheets and, in my area at least, knife fights.
There was an all out brawl between two freshman boys in front of my apartment building last week because one boy stole the other boy's iPhone 5. The boy getting beat up was the one attempting to reclaim his stolen property. He ended up on the ground, receiving several kicks to his head and stomach, before the police finally arrived.
Flash forward to my child in her first year of high school. What do I tell her? Let people steal from you. No. That's not right. Stand up for what is right. And get beat up? No. That's not right either. Pay attention in your self defense classes?
Ugh.
Add to the issue of violence the one of test driven classrooms. Worksheets being sent home to the students I tutor that involve basically filling in the blanks. These answers can be found with a simple google search. The work takes less than ten minutes (depending on your internet speed), and my students are learning nothing. The night before a test, they memorize the information, get an A on the test, and forget everything before dinner the next night. These examples come from an area of wealth, from schools that are supposedly highly competitive and catering to children of educated parents. Imagine what schools in my inner city area are like.
Learning should be about critical thinking, about challenging expectations, about asking questions and communicating with peers. Ideas.
Fun.
A recent study published on education in kindergarden in the U.S.
http://www.thestrong.org/sites/default/files/play-studies/Crisis_in_Kindergarten.pdf
found that fewer than 30 minutes a day were dedicated to play for kindergardeners in school.
Apparently, teachers simply do not have the time to allow for play in the classroom anymore because of the intense curricular demands placed on them by districts pushing for improved test scores.
Test scores!?
For a five year old?
In kindergarden children learn letter recognition, beginning phonics, and phonetics. They work on colors, shapes, and basic counting with numbers. These are all things that can be taught through play. I know. I do it with my almost two year old.
We are now placing test taking pressure on five year olds to excel in literacy tests?
It is ridiculous.
Fine, you say, how about private school?
Here is my problem with private school then: is it really any better? Is private school also not just glorified daycare? I know kids who go to private school. For the most part, in my experience, private school is very child driven, giving children an overinflated ego and sense of superiority. This is not to say that there are not wonderful private schools with strong critical thinkers and creative ways of teaching. There are. I have taught at some of them. But my students complained that their peers were doing cocaine in the parking lots and having sex parties while their parents were out of town. So. Private school has its own set of problems.
As a teacher, I cannot imagine sending my five year old off to a classroom to be taught to sit still, shut up, do well on tests, and get good grades.
She is not a bank, or a safety deposit box. I will not have teachers attempting to simply "deposit" information into her brain.
My favorite quote runs through my head every time I get caught up in my education rant: "Children must be taught how to think, not what to think."
Yet, as a mother, I cannot imagine spending thousands of dollars each year on a private school education that may or may not be any better than public school (except for the knife fights).
Here I am then. What choices are left to me?
Working harder to find a small private school that fits my desires for Celaya's education, that it be creative, that she be taught how to think critically, that she is challenged daily, that she has room to play, that she is encouraged to love learning.
It might work. Maybe I will find an affordable, revolutionary, local private school that serves all of these purposes.
The reality more likely brings me to the last two possibilities I have come up with:
Open my own school...
or
Homeschool.
I know. I know. Open my own school? What do I know about running a school? Where would I get the resources? Who would attend? Who would teach?
Ahhhh!
Homeschool?
When I mentioned this to my brother he raised his eyebrows at me and shook his head, "do not homeschool your kid."
Right? The image of the dorky kid with no social life flashes through everyone's mind.
Can I do better than that image with Celaya? Maybe. Hopefully.
What I know for sure is that the first option is out. I just cannot, in this moment, imagine sending her out into the wild world of public school.
We have also decided we will definitely keep her home for at least the first year. I can teach her kindergarden.
Beyond that? I am not sure. But I do know that the work begins now. I have to begin researching, preparing, planning, allocating resources, networking, and on and on.
I will keep you posted as I become more informed, better educated, less overwhelmed, and less terrified that "when my kids are in school" may not be a reality for a long, long time.
It will get easier, right?
I can finally become a full time teacher.
I can make more money.
I will have time to myself again.
There will be less pressure.
These are all things I have said to myself in passing when I think about how much easier things get once babies become kids become students in school. Yes. I too have thought of school as a kind of daycare.
And that is where the problem lies, for me.
I have come to realize more and more, with each passing anecdote, that school has become glorified daycare. Daycare with tests and worksheets and, in my area at least, knife fights.
There was an all out brawl between two freshman boys in front of my apartment building last week because one boy stole the other boy's iPhone 5. The boy getting beat up was the one attempting to reclaim his stolen property. He ended up on the ground, receiving several kicks to his head and stomach, before the police finally arrived.
Flash forward to my child in her first year of high school. What do I tell her? Let people steal from you. No. That's not right. Stand up for what is right. And get beat up? No. That's not right either. Pay attention in your self defense classes?
Ugh.
Add to the issue of violence the one of test driven classrooms. Worksheets being sent home to the students I tutor that involve basically filling in the blanks. These answers can be found with a simple google search. The work takes less than ten minutes (depending on your internet speed), and my students are learning nothing. The night before a test, they memorize the information, get an A on the test, and forget everything before dinner the next night. These examples come from an area of wealth, from schools that are supposedly highly competitive and catering to children of educated parents. Imagine what schools in my inner city area are like.
Learning should be about critical thinking, about challenging expectations, about asking questions and communicating with peers. Ideas.
Fun.
A recent study published on education in kindergarden in the U.S.
http://www.thestrong.org/sites/default/files/play-studies/Crisis_in_Kindergarten.pdf
found that fewer than 30 minutes a day were dedicated to play for kindergardeners in school.
Apparently, teachers simply do not have the time to allow for play in the classroom anymore because of the intense curricular demands placed on them by districts pushing for improved test scores.
Test scores!?
For a five year old?
In kindergarden children learn letter recognition, beginning phonics, and phonetics. They work on colors, shapes, and basic counting with numbers. These are all things that can be taught through play. I know. I do it with my almost two year old.
We are now placing test taking pressure on five year olds to excel in literacy tests?
It is ridiculous.
Fine, you say, how about private school?
Here is my problem with private school then: is it really any better? Is private school also not just glorified daycare? I know kids who go to private school. For the most part, in my experience, private school is very child driven, giving children an overinflated ego and sense of superiority. This is not to say that there are not wonderful private schools with strong critical thinkers and creative ways of teaching. There are. I have taught at some of them. But my students complained that their peers were doing cocaine in the parking lots and having sex parties while their parents were out of town. So. Private school has its own set of problems.
As a teacher, I cannot imagine sending my five year old off to a classroom to be taught to sit still, shut up, do well on tests, and get good grades.
She is not a bank, or a safety deposit box. I will not have teachers attempting to simply "deposit" information into her brain.
My favorite quote runs through my head every time I get caught up in my education rant: "Children must be taught how to think, not what to think."
Yet, as a mother, I cannot imagine spending thousands of dollars each year on a private school education that may or may not be any better than public school (except for the knife fights).
Here I am then. What choices are left to me?
Working harder to find a small private school that fits my desires for Celaya's education, that it be creative, that she be taught how to think critically, that she is challenged daily, that she has room to play, that she is encouraged to love learning.
It might work. Maybe I will find an affordable, revolutionary, local private school that serves all of these purposes.
The reality more likely brings me to the last two possibilities I have come up with:
Open my own school...
or
Homeschool.
I know. I know. Open my own school? What do I know about running a school? Where would I get the resources? Who would attend? Who would teach?
Ahhhh!
Homeschool?
When I mentioned this to my brother he raised his eyebrows at me and shook his head, "do not homeschool your kid."
Right? The image of the dorky kid with no social life flashes through everyone's mind.
Can I do better than that image with Celaya? Maybe. Hopefully.
What I know for sure is that the first option is out. I just cannot, in this moment, imagine sending her out into the wild world of public school.
We have also decided we will definitely keep her home for at least the first year. I can teach her kindergarden.
Beyond that? I am not sure. But I do know that the work begins now. I have to begin researching, preparing, planning, allocating resources, networking, and on and on.
I will keep you posted as I become more informed, better educated, less overwhelmed, and less terrified that "when my kids are in school" may not be a reality for a long, long time.
It will get easier, right?
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
It's a Joke! Kind of.
"How was your break?" Asks one of my coworkers on my first day back from having eighteen days home for the holidays.
"Wonderful. Fabulous. So much fun. And I'm so glad to be back at work."
"He he he," is the general response in the room of a few of my coworkers.
It is an uncomfortable kind of laughter that people produce when a joke is inappropriate, or just lame.
And then again, tonight:
"The problem with Elmo is that he is supposed to be a typical four year old, which is cute, in moderation. But being with a small child like that all the time can get grating, which is what happened when Elmo was all of a sudden everywhere."
We were discussing children's programming at the end of the evening as a group of us were walking out, and the conversation turned to Elmo's irritating qualities.
"I know. I know. Why do you think I was so happy to come back to work? And mine's only almost two!"
Again: "He he he." Or even, "awww don't say that."
It's a joke! Kind of.
I am so happy to be back to work. Before my daughter was born, I thought I would go into a PhD program full time. Barring that, I figured I would find full time teaching work. After my daughter was born, I decided to be a stay at home mom.
Three months later, I went back to work part time.
This situation has been ideal for me. I have a Master's Degree in Comparative Literature and I get to use my education to pursue my passion for teaching and discussing language and literature.
I also get to be a full time mom who works part time, instead of the two alternatives: full time employee who is with her kid part time, or stay at home mom.
I am fully engaged with Celaya when I am home with her, playing, teaching, exploring, listening, reading, and those are just the things I do that center around her. Everything else I do when she is awake still involves her somehow. She empties the dishwasher with me. She helps me cook. She helps with laundry. She holds the cord while I vacuum. Or I hold her. She dusts my already dusted shelf while I am dusting. She is the absolute ultimate without question center of my universe when she is awake and we are together, which is the vast majority of my time.
And dear goddess is that exhausting. She wears me out.
But it is a good kind of worn out, like a great workout, or a productive day at work. Being a full time, fully engaged mom is hard work.
Going to my profession work is actually a break for me. It also reminds me that I have a vocabulary and reading and writing level beyond Olivia Helps With Christmas, an added benefit.
It is interesting to me that so many people are uncomfortable with a mother saying, "man it's nice to take a break from my kid."
Now, to be fair, all but two of the people I work with have no children, so obviously, in their minds, children are cute and cuddly or annoying and repulsive. The complexity of children and what is involved in raising them is beyond anyone who does not actually have children. I know. I was in the cute and cuddly camp before Celaya burst into my world with strong lungs and a thirsty, sponge like mind.
And the one woman I work with who has children asked today, when I mentioned how rigid I am about Celaya's schedule, "how do you get your husband to put her to bed on time?"
She was genuinely interested. There was a clear sense of "Mama needs her alone time" camaraderie.
She gets it. Parents get it. Or at least they should.
I read a blog on the Huffington Post today by a woman who was confessing to her rage issues with her children:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-bradford/the-part-of-parenting-were-too-scared-to-talk-about_b_4531665.html
I will confess, I cannot relate. I have never felt rage toward or because of Celaya. And I have felt some pretty extreme rage. But I know I am fortunate to be an older mom. Having my daughter at 33, after graduating from graduate school, and being married to an incredibly supportive and involved husband makes for an enormous capacity for patience and empathy. I have always tried to see things through my baby's eyes. How difficult it must be to be separated from her mother, how painful it must be to have colic, or to be teething, how frustrating it must be to want something and not understand why she cannot have it.
Yes, I get frustrated, but I have learned (over years and years of practice and dedication) to breathe through my frustration, and I try to reason with my quickly developing, energetic, anxious, eager toddler, in whatever way possible.
Rage? Never.
But I can empathize. I can try to imagine what it would be like to feel the rage I have felt in the past toward the person I love most in the world, and then the guilt and shame that must come from that. Since I have become a mother, I have tried not to judge other mothers who are clearly just trying to do the best they can with what they have. I have not always achieved this goal, but it is a work in progress, thanks, in large part, to having read Ayelet Waldman's Bad Mother. This book should be required reading for anyone who gives any thought at all to criticizing a parent.
My daughter pushes me to my limits. And I know that my limits are different than other parents' limits. And I know that I only have one child to push me (one big reason I have chosen to wait a bit longer before having another limit pusher). And I know that my child is not even two years old yet. Hopefully my limits will grow along with my little bundle of chaos warrior princess in light blue Converse.
She drives me crazy. She is the greatest reward I have ever been given. She makes me laugh. I cry when she hurts. I worry more, fear more, love harder, and push farther for her than I ever have before for anyone in this way. And yes, I am so happy to be back to work, back to balance, back to short, temporary breaks from my beautiful brazen bossy baby.
So please, parents and non-parents, just laugh at my jokes.
"Wonderful. Fabulous. So much fun. And I'm so glad to be back at work."
"He he he," is the general response in the room of a few of my coworkers.
It is an uncomfortable kind of laughter that people produce when a joke is inappropriate, or just lame.
And then again, tonight:
"The problem with Elmo is that he is supposed to be a typical four year old, which is cute, in moderation. But being with a small child like that all the time can get grating, which is what happened when Elmo was all of a sudden everywhere."
We were discussing children's programming at the end of the evening as a group of us were walking out, and the conversation turned to Elmo's irritating qualities.
"I know. I know. Why do you think I was so happy to come back to work? And mine's only almost two!"
Again: "He he he." Or even, "awww don't say that."
It's a joke! Kind of.
I am so happy to be back to work. Before my daughter was born, I thought I would go into a PhD program full time. Barring that, I figured I would find full time teaching work. After my daughter was born, I decided to be a stay at home mom.
Three months later, I went back to work part time.
This situation has been ideal for me. I have a Master's Degree in Comparative Literature and I get to use my education to pursue my passion for teaching and discussing language and literature.
I also get to be a full time mom who works part time, instead of the two alternatives: full time employee who is with her kid part time, or stay at home mom.
I am fully engaged with Celaya when I am home with her, playing, teaching, exploring, listening, reading, and those are just the things I do that center around her. Everything else I do when she is awake still involves her somehow. She empties the dishwasher with me. She helps me cook. She helps with laundry. She holds the cord while I vacuum. Or I hold her. She dusts my already dusted shelf while I am dusting. She is the absolute ultimate without question center of my universe when she is awake and we are together, which is the vast majority of my time.
And dear goddess is that exhausting. She wears me out.
But it is a good kind of worn out, like a great workout, or a productive day at work. Being a full time, fully engaged mom is hard work.
Going to my profession work is actually a break for me. It also reminds me that I have a vocabulary and reading and writing level beyond Olivia Helps With Christmas, an added benefit.
It is interesting to me that so many people are uncomfortable with a mother saying, "man it's nice to take a break from my kid."
Now, to be fair, all but two of the people I work with have no children, so obviously, in their minds, children are cute and cuddly or annoying and repulsive. The complexity of children and what is involved in raising them is beyond anyone who does not actually have children. I know. I was in the cute and cuddly camp before Celaya burst into my world with strong lungs and a thirsty, sponge like mind.
And the one woman I work with who has children asked today, when I mentioned how rigid I am about Celaya's schedule, "how do you get your husband to put her to bed on time?"
She was genuinely interested. There was a clear sense of "Mama needs her alone time" camaraderie.
She gets it. Parents get it. Or at least they should.
I read a blog on the Huffington Post today by a woman who was confessing to her rage issues with her children:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-bradford/the-part-of-parenting-were-too-scared-to-talk-about_b_4531665.html
I will confess, I cannot relate. I have never felt rage toward or because of Celaya. And I have felt some pretty extreme rage. But I know I am fortunate to be an older mom. Having my daughter at 33, after graduating from graduate school, and being married to an incredibly supportive and involved husband makes for an enormous capacity for patience and empathy. I have always tried to see things through my baby's eyes. How difficult it must be to be separated from her mother, how painful it must be to have colic, or to be teething, how frustrating it must be to want something and not understand why she cannot have it.
Yes, I get frustrated, but I have learned (over years and years of practice and dedication) to breathe through my frustration, and I try to reason with my quickly developing, energetic, anxious, eager toddler, in whatever way possible.
Rage? Never.
But I can empathize. I can try to imagine what it would be like to feel the rage I have felt in the past toward the person I love most in the world, and then the guilt and shame that must come from that. Since I have become a mother, I have tried not to judge other mothers who are clearly just trying to do the best they can with what they have. I have not always achieved this goal, but it is a work in progress, thanks, in large part, to having read Ayelet Waldman's Bad Mother. This book should be required reading for anyone who gives any thought at all to criticizing a parent.
My daughter pushes me to my limits. And I know that my limits are different than other parents' limits. And I know that I only have one child to push me (one big reason I have chosen to wait a bit longer before having another limit pusher). And I know that my child is not even two years old yet. Hopefully my limits will grow along with my little bundle of chaos warrior princess in light blue Converse.
She drives me crazy. She is the greatest reward I have ever been given. She makes me laugh. I cry when she hurts. I worry more, fear more, love harder, and push farther for her than I ever have before for anyone in this way. And yes, I am so happy to be back to work, back to balance, back to short, temporary breaks from my beautiful brazen bossy baby.
So please, parents and non-parents, just laugh at my jokes.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Love Means Never Saying "I'm Sorry"
Of all the Hallmark card sayings, the empty expressions, the
meaningless phrases I’ve ever heard, this one is probably the biggest crock.
My husband and I have been together for almost a
decade. I say I’m sorry all the
time! I am constantly making
mistakes; contrary to popular belief, I am not, in fact, perfect. I mess up, I apologize, and I try to
learn from my errors. I am also a
mother of a toddler who watches everything I do now, so I am trying to be a role
model. I want the people who are
brave enough to love me, and those who do not really have a choice, to want to
be around me, to continue to love me.
So I humble myself, I think about what I’ve done, I apologize, and I
hope to fix it, make it up, heal the wounds I have caused.
I have not always been this way. I used to throw plates, and cut with my words. When I was much younger, I would use my
extensive vocabulary and skill with language to make people feel low, to hurt
as deeply as I could. Why? Because I was wounded myself, I suppose,
and misery loves company. I have
looked back on the damage I have caused, at the casualties I have left behind,
and I feel sorry. I have regrets,
and for the people still in my life, strong enough to have stuck it out, I hope
I have apologized enough, in enough ways, to move forward without looking
back. For those no longer in my
life, I hope the hurt I have brought has not led to further hurting.
I am sorry. I
do have regrets. Another
ridiculous expression: “Live life
with no regrets.”
Really? If you
could go back and accidentally hit that person with your car, you would do it
all again? If you could ignore
your children while you catered to your own selfish needs, you would still sit
watching that program on television while your daughter begged you to have a
tea party with her, still do those drugs, still push those babies away? You wouldn’t fight harder to go to
college? Pay more attention in
class? Hold your loved ones
closer? Tell them you love them
more often? Say I’m sorry quicker?
I would.
But we cannot go back.
What we can do is move forward, acknowledging our mistakes, and trying
to make them better. We can hold
our loved ones now. Tell them we
love them now. And say we’re sorry
when we hurt them. For we will
hurt them, no matter how hard we try not to.
I swear it seems like as soon as I learn from one mistake, I
make a new one.
And there is a clear difference between the “yea yea, I’m
sorry” that you give a sibling or friend when you are younger and your parents
make you apologize (or when you are older and you still act like you are
younger), and the genuine regret you show when you actually feel it.
We all know the difference, both the givers and the
receivers, so the false apologizers know what they’re doing when they say
“what? I said I was sorry.” Or
worse, “well, I don’t always want to be saying I’m sorry, because I know I’m
going to mess up again, and it’s going to start sounding meaningless.”
What? No. You say you’re sorry when you mess
up. Period.
Unless you are not, in fact, sorry.
In which case, I am.
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