parenting

Civilization, Regretting Chocolate, Brain Fatigue

Children don’t understand what it means for your brain to be tired, so they ask complicated questions at bedtime, or when you are trying to daydream while driving. What is the next number in this series? Why is it important to be civilized? This is the point in the test at which I want to start bubbling in C for everything. Or is it B? I think it’s just important that you fill in all the bubbles, or was it one bubble per row? Will I be expected to show my work?

Usually I cool off at some point and give them the correct answers—both are logarithms—then remind them of the child’s mandate to read everyday, even better if you read something besides the names of Minecraft video clips on Youtube. My own parents must have felt just as strongly about reading, which is why they set limits by having only one TV and no TV reception. The house was full of books, and while my friends who had cable were out to dinner or on vacation with their families, I read several of them.

My dad must have noticed that I didn’t pack Die Odyssee when I left for college—I had discovered it was a translation, not a vampire book—and I think that’s when he started sending me clippings from The New York Times to encourage me to keep up my vocabulary and critical thinking skills. In fairness to UVA, Physics for Non-Majors, e.g., might have provided either of these, but I didn’t sink my teeth into it as I might have if I hadn’t had mono so much. After school I tested out a non-linear series of jobs and then got married, and he continued to send the clippings. I wonder if they still come now and then–I rarely open my paper mail. Come to think of it, when I was in my twenties, there were times I was in Las Vegas or Cuba or living with a mouse and a catalog model and a Swedish recluse in Gramercy and generally difficult to pin down. I might have missed some letters then too. I bet that’s when my dad sent the epic letter containing all his “life advice.” If I had read it, I might have had a better answer for my son to his question why be civilized? As it is, it sounds like what he has learned from me is to regret eating chocolate, a behavior I hope I have neither modeled nor promoted.

Every so often, I try to read one book to the two children. Recently it has been Rebecca. More than a page about the rose bushes of Manderley is enough to convince my daughter she wants to read something current, in solitude. Her brother falls asleep. When my brain is tired from making up answers all day, this works pretty well.

Storyboarding, Old-timey War, Legacy

Hmm. I hope I haven’t been confusing having strong opinions with saying everything I’m thinking, because according to “friends” I do a lot of the second thing. I do have some extremely strong opinions for a housewife, so after a month or so of reflection, meditation, and storyboarding Rosamunde Portsmouth—when you know you have a franchise on your hands you need to have a solid understanding of a character’s trajectory before you begin—I’ve decided to start writing down my thoughts again. And because it’s not the 70’s anymore, except in women’s denim, I’m doing it publicly.

I don’t want to say I’m a loose cannon, because I don’t want my mom to text me to correct my grammar and admonish me not to use the language of (old-timey) war. Funny I get so much advice from her now, because when I was trying to grow up, most of the guidance I got from my parents was probably too subtle. Certainly, there was plenty of theatrical gesturing across the dinner table whenever I slurped or slumped or used an index finger to push aspic onto my runcible spoon. And I think my bedtime stories were often parables, but there were so many names to keep track of that it could be hard to follow the subtext. I feel like I could have used a really practical directive now and then—something like “don’t shave your eyebrows” or “cutting bangs isn’t going to help.”

Is worldliness a good thing, or is that Weltschmerz? Anyway, I know I have those things now, but I still don’t feel the need to go advising everyone I meet, except when it comes to oven drying un-flavorful (or overripe) tomatoes, because there’s almost no tomato that can’t be rescued by seasoning it and putting it in a low oven with a little olive oil. I guess I also say things to my children that might come off as advice, but I think that’s because I want to be sure they will be able to form an outline of me in their memories after they have moved 5 hours away by car and our only communication is Words With Friends. I want to be sure they will be able to tell their spouses or live-in pets what their mom always used to say–for instance: “you realize that doesn’t match.”

Actually, kids—if you ever read this—and you ever read The Great Santini, I can only hope you’ll think of me as part Bull Meechum and part Maria Von Trapp, since I also taught you to sing in harmony.

The Kellerman’s Song, Layers in Bed, Orbach and I/Me?

When it comes to eighties movies, I’m not as solid on Dirty Dancing as I am on Fletch, but I watched it recently with my children, because what I remembered about it as I flipped through OnDemand Family Movies was the Kellerman’s song, and I had definitely forgotten how much of the plot hinges on back alley abortion. I think the rating is only PG-13, whatever that means, but my eight-year-old felt it should have been R. When I asked him why, he explained it was because a boy and a girl were in bed together “totally naked” (though this is implied) and the staff kids are dancing together in a way that suggests “they must be in love with each other.”

In the last scene, when Baby finally nails the lift and regains her father’s approval, I can identify with Jerry Orbach for a moment—in part because I too am a doctor,* but also he decides to admit his huge, cruel mistake only because he’s feeling powerful and energetic, and he’s in a crowded room where no one is paying attention to him. “When I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong,” he tells Johnny, and I bet he actually believes himself when he says it. I’m wrong all the [darn] time–I went ahead and edited my language so Christine won’t have to do it in her Facebook comment—but whenever I realize it, I tend to have these tedious internal conversations about it, more or less on the level of pairing wine with food. Then, as with food and wine, I eventually realize I am either too uninformed or too tired to pursue the matter. I would like to think if I had misjudged Johnny and Robbie, and hadn’t had too much Pinot Noir or Gewürztraminer–depending on the dish–to articulate my mistake, I would have done the same thing.

Once in a while, though, I fixate on something trivial–I may have bored or offended someone at dinner the night before, or blogged ungrammatically. I might start thinking about one of my mistakes on a long drive, and Brad might ask, “Watcha thinking about?” “Nothing,” I might say, since I know husbands like this answer better than anything very complicated. (“What I’m planning to cook later” is also acceptable.) I had a thing like that happen on the way back from the Rochester camp bus drop-off yesterday. Some time ago, in a post about establishing intellectual authority over one’s children—a pursuit I will have to abandon after the Dirty Dancing debacle, I used an abbreviation for the word microphone. I started with “mike” but I didn’t care for its informal, un-capitalized look, so I changed my spelling to “mic.” That looked better and more familiar to me, but I had no idea which spelling was correct. I’m chagrined that this preference puts me at odds with Ben Yagoda, and aligns me with layers in bed who are not blankets, but like me, the “c” spelling is rooted in hip-hop. So maybe there’s no mistake after all.

*pretend

Things I Like to Pretend, Gu™Energy Gels, Triathlon!

With so little time left before my birthday to behave as though I am not yet my current age, I’ve had a lot of dancing to do recently. It’s okay to pretend not to be a grown-up sometimes, because by day I’m a surgeon (cardiothoracic–also pretend). To paraphrase my eight-year-old, it is a complete coincidence that I was beyond-four-cups-of-coffee exhausted when I woke up at 4:30 this morning to go watch his first triathlon, but someone else was pretty whiny too because he had been forced to eat breakfast, and there was simply no time for a Belgian waffle with powdered sugar, maple syrup, and a Maraschino cherry. Brad, at least, was not whiny, but I think he would have missed about a third of the stoplights if I hadn’t been there with my 37% caffeinated pretend surgeon’s brain.

A triathlete is something maybe even a little too crazy to pretend to be. I can’t figure out why it doesn’t appeal to me more, since when I break it down into its basic parts—standing around a little underdressed for the weather, jumping into cold water, and then working out for a few hours—it’s all kind of what I end up doing a lot of weekends anyway. So maybe the turn-off for me is having to put it all together in a prescribed order, and having to remember so many more components than your running watch and your Trader Joe’s Gummy Penguins–or Gu, which is probably what I should have mentioned if I’m ever going to get sponsored. I think I did have Gu during the New York Marathon, which was very successful in some ways. So if you’re reading this, whoever makes Gu, I’ll take a coupon, although I don’t think I’ve ever used a coupon. Also, I’m not much of a swimmer, or a biker, which I learned today counts for something like two-thirds of your score.

Vampire Novels, Grover Cleveland, Misunderstandings

One Christmas—one which I will place after the birth of our first child because I didn’t make all my cards by hand with thousands of tiny hand-painted hole-punches and a glue stick, but before the birth of our second, because I wasn’t yet sending around a cynical Family Christmas Letter–I bought a bunch of very pretty Christmas cards that turned out not to be Blank Inside. “Especially at Christmas, it’s always nice to think of you,” the cards read. Before they had been translated from the original language, the sentiment might have brought a tear to my eye. Unless it was Russian—then I wouldn’t have understood, since Ashley Alley only ever taught me to say “one of my breasts hurts.” One hopes—okay, I am the one hoping this—that being understood all the time isn’t the most important thing. For instance, I spent a very long time trying to memorize John 3:16 in Spanish one time from the Gideon Bible in my hotel room, and everyone thought I was talking about using an airplane seat to polish my spittoon. Unless I’m confusing several other useful Spanish phrases. Apologies to Jill, Billy, Samia, Anne, and any other Spanish language mentors I may be leaving out.

English is my Muttersprache, and even in this I think I tend to wander a bit, which is why I was so relieved to hear from a wise and reliable person that the author Stephen King–whose writing on writing, my reliable anonymous source and I agreed, is much less scary than his novels–has promised being misunderstood is okay. It is also a fine segue to the next thing I wanted to discuss, which is the book I haven’t quite finished reading, The Accursed, by Joyce Carol Oates. Stephen King reviewed it for The New York Times, but I will have a different emphasis, and a more curated readership.

I suppose I could have waited until I was finished with it to review this book, but I’m anxious to be known as a person who has a book in the hand that does not have a drink in it, or in the hand that is not putting the drink down for a moment, on a coaster, and tousling a child’s hair to soothe that child, or, more likely, to replace an unruly lock. There—now that I’ve used a word like lock, you will know that I am not making up the thing about reading a book. On second thought, I don’t think I’m going to write an entire review. You can read Stephen King’s review, if you enjoy spoilers, but I think I’d prefer you were surprised. Here is a taste: Woodrow Wilson has a stomach pump and despises Grover Cleveland, whose wife is a glamor puss! Anyone might be a vampire. Upton Sinclair is trying to join forces with Jack London. Why? Talk about a meat-eater! If you have finished this book, shhh! Alles hat ein Ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei.

Pancake Children, Famous Grouse, Goddamn Leftover Pizza

I’ve heard that sometimes when parents are dissatisfied with something in their lives, they will actually try to correct their own deficiencies by imposing on their children. Interesting, because this morning my breakfast tasted a little off—pre-grinding the flax seeds was probably the mistake, so I imposed buttermilk pancakes on one of my children to make up for it. This is the younger one—have I mentioned him? Man is he grumpy in the morning, and, even by my liberal standards, too young for coffee or cigarettes. It worked, though. It was the first day in months he didn’t grouse theatrically about his options, even though on a given morning I might offer several choices, including, say, a bagel with a schmear, a warm homemade soft pretzel with butter from Vermont, a bowl of cereal of the kind I would have been allowed only when my parents were away on vacation, or a slice of goddamn leftover pizza.

Transition [editor, please finesse]: I’m a third child, but–I am always telling him—I can relate! I remember being grumpy too. For instance, I was grumpy when I got up a few minutes early to have a little peace and quiet before anyone else was up grumbling about why there were no croissants or bacon, and then I made myself a really nice breakfast, but it had this off, fishy flavor because, I think, of the flax seeds. So, birth order: I have two older siblings and they are twins. Who knows what that means in terms of their psychology, except what I can tell you, which is very little of course, because they can beat me up. I did read recently about the “pancake theory” of birth order, comparing first pancakes to first children. I guess the idea is that they are similarly goofy, greasy and misshapen. Wow, it sounds like some well-meaning parent was trying to make a third or fourth child feel good, the way my parents used to look at an A- and reassure me that I might still become, if not a computer scientist or an academic, maybe an artist. In a way, I think I am one. My first pancakes are often just as pretty as the others.

Lie, Lay, EYE-lah?

When my children correct me about something from the as-I-say-not-as-I-do category, I like to talk to them about building intellectual authority, and then I prescribe continuing their music lessons and not ignoring grammar. “Early one mornin’ the sun was shinin’, I was layin’ in bed,” sings Bob Dylan, but I don’t turn that part down. Instead I explain that Bob Dylan is a poet, and he knows all the rules, and the characters in his songs may “lay” in, or across, beds sometimes, but that doesn’t mean that either of my children should do that. I mean, say that. I mean—they may certainly lie in their own beds, but only by themselves, for now, in the present tense.  By contrast, Barry Manilow, whose song I use only for the sake of comparison—or when I feel like someone is really hogging the mic and I need to monopolize a 17-bar interlude—could have asked “who shot whom?” at the Copacabana without breaking character. So, children, when I say “like” too frequently, remember that it’s with a wink—not, like, when Ariana Grande says it on Sam & Cat.

Gosh, intellectual authority—authority of all flavors—is so easy to fake within the parent-child relationship. It’s not as easy elsewhere, but I would like to point you towards some of my scholarly work, if you have a few hours, and read German: http://www.beckyloomis.com/Ichbinsehrsehrintelligent. The link has been a little fussy lately, but I hope you will get a chance to read at least a portion of this at some point, because I’m concerned you’re starting to believe me when I tell you I’m an airhead. Or maybe you’ve even witnessed that sort of behavior.  Last night, I was trying, as always, to be subtle! But the hills of [more in a moment] were calling me, because I’ve been on a rare bourbon streak recently.  Bourbon, it turns out, pairs nicely with the campfire smell lingering (permanently?) from the fire I made recently without opening the flue. So I needed to restore balance, and warm up, with a Lagavulin, before the Mary Chapin Carpenter concert. (Christine, she’s a folk singer.)  The bartender told me they didn’t have Lagavulin. I believed her, but she also looked puzzled when I asked for Laphroaig. So I got up—not in a huff—and walked down to the end of the bar to point it out, and the other bartender said “Oh! you mean [something I didn’t understand]?” and held up the bottle of Laphroaig.   “I’ve always pronounced it [same sound]”.  “Maybe,” I said. “I’ve never been to Ireland.”  I have also never been to Scotland, but I know where Islay is, more or less. At any rate, neither of them was disarmed by my mistake, and my white bean chili showed up with the cheese I had asked them to omit. I started to compliment the one bartender’s fishnets, or tell her I had a pair just like them, but that would have been a lie. Mine have the line in back.

Curiosity, Politics, Shhh…

The daughter I mentioned having in another post, who was, in that one–for narrative purposes–almost eleven, is, as it turns out, actually eleven now and has started acting more–yawn–socially aware. The other day she asked me if there is a difference between Democrats and Republicans. I have no idea where this came from, unless it’s that darn Montessori again. At home, we make a point never to discuss politics, calories, or Jon Snow’s parentage, but children develop curiosities all the same. You are likely not eleven, and I don’t want to be patronizing, so here’s an abridgment of what I told her:

Federalists, Abraham Lincoln, some of my best friends, blood on the steps of the U.S. Capitol, Religion, things that frighten people.

I voted, you know, but I did not discuss it. I don’t think it’s fair to assume that because I’m an airhead who falls down a lot that I’ve completely checked out.

Hey, can I get sentimental for a moment? Because I’m just remembering another time my daughter asked me about the differences between people. We were living in Vermont, so she couldn’t have been two yet, and she and her little friend [boy] were playing in the river. When his mother was changing him out of his wet swimsuit, my daughter observed that [N.] “has a different bottom”.  I was sure I was out of earshot of my grandmother in Virginia, so I decided it would be all right to be kind of Vermonty and open, and not just change the subject and offer her a maple candy. “Yes he does,” I said. Not an easy conversation, to be sure, but, I mean–now that I have an eleven year-old, I’m feeling pretty smug that I got it out of the way when I did!

I have read all the parenting books (vicariously), Contest!, Galaxy Austin

In spite of everything I’ve learned from the parenting books my sister has read and told me about, it turns out I’m failing my children. The other day one of them–I will protect her anonymity–told me apologizing made her feel weak. This is so weird because I’m sure I’ve “modeled” the apology. In fact just yesterday when one of them–again, I won’t say which, but it was the other one–attacked me for being late for school pickup, even though it was only 5 minutes and he hadn’t even lined up for aftercare yet, I apologized.
“[N.,]” I explained, “I’m sorry. But your sister is the one who still wants to go to this school even though it’s, like, 45 minutes from our house.” I have to stop saying “like” so much. And it’s actually closer to half an hour, but hyperbole is an important part of apology, even though they’re spelled quite differently. I hesitate to say this, because my mother has become an avid reader/critic of this blog, but I’m not so sure apologies were rampant in my household of origin either. I’m trying to remember whether this is because my parents were perfect, or because of the general sweep-the-leg mentality of the 80’s. What is the lesson here? [rhet.]

I don’t know if I remembered to announce it, but I held a blog-wide contest from October 14-16th to see if anyone could guess what I was thinking about when I posted a grainy picture of one and a half taxidermically preserved squirrels as my background photo. The most correct answer is the John Malkovich SNL sketch in which he plays Len Tukwilla, the driftwood sculptor. I would also have accepted Aspen, or a subtly proffered bribe. This week there were no winners.

I thought about “fleshing out” my first post about Austin a little bit, but I wouldn’t want to reveal that everything I know about Austin fit into the March paragraph of my 2011 Christmas letter. I mean, it’s one thing to name drop SXSW a few months after you were there, but a few years later… You kind of have to go back to Austin, or move on and talk about the places you’re hanging out now that you’re in your late thirties, like Boca Raton, and Perkins Cafeteria. My teacher, @matropolis , was at Austin City Limits the weekend I wrote that, and he offered us extra credit for putting up one blog post, so I decided to suck up a little. I can only imagine what kind of grade I might have expected if I’d had a chance to tell him about Galaxy the insane cab driver, whose card I might even have somewhere, but I was probably busy helicopter parenting and/or meditating.

I wonder if it does anything when you use someone’s Twitter handle on a blog. I left a space after @matropolis just in case, and that might not matter either. Which makes me feel a lot like my mother posting private messages to her friends on her own Facebook wall when she was sorting all that out. So I might owe her an apology.

Tattoos, Pets, Life Lessons

In a few weeks, my older child, a daughter, will be eleven, so I guess it’s time to start talking to her about not getting a tattoo. But you know, these days you go in for Restylane and Coolsculpting and your dermatologist asks if you want her to take off the tramp stamp while you’re in there. So maybe that’s not even a thing anymore?
I did bring up her changing body the other day–I mean, not hers specifically–God, she would kill me–and she really wasn’t receptive at all. So I think what I’m going to do to kind of check that box is to give her the talk about pet ownership. I’m not at all nervous about this one because I have given this talk to several of my newly married friends when they wanted to get pets either to “test things out” before they started having children, or just, I don’t know, travel less and spend their extra money on emergency vet bills.
Personal story: A long time ago I used to have a job. I won’t say what it is because that would be too personal a story, but I took both it and myself seriously enough that I believed the time was wrong for my dream animal, a German Shepherd (or similar).  So I got onto the dial-up internet and ordered some Burmese cats. (From Texas! Like I’m going to order cats from Burma/Myanmar.)  They are still alive. They have ruined most of my furniture because I used to be nice and I didn’t have them de-clawed and now the vet won’t do it.
It is much less humane to have two healthy cats removed than it is to have a cat tattoo removed, and, presumably, even more expensive, because of the discretion involved. Also, the vet bills, food, destroyed furniture and what-not add up. And if you get a dog, you can’t go on vacation. And you’ll stop liking it if you have a baby.

Next: Babies are also more permanent than tattoos.