the modernity ward

Two Things

First, a nifty trick for setting up a glass baby bottle in a pinch. With a name like Smuckers, it has to be BPA-free!

Second, preschool. Man oh Manischewitz. Sophia had a bit of a meltdown when gently asked to climb down from a chair (it was time for music circle), because while she is impervious to the most furious mama-yelling, she will weep for days over the gentlest (perceived) correction. "Watch out, honey, your fingers might get caught in the drawer!" once derailed an entire Thanksgiving dinner, leaving extended family members baffled and guilty. Then there was some sort of incident I didn't see in which "a boy HIT me!" and I had no idea whether it had been a deliberate cuff or an accidental brushing. We've been talking about what to do when someone hits/pushes/otherwise manhandles us, which entails informing the hitter "Don't hit me! Hitting hurts!" and seeking the help of an adult if needed, and she was eventually able to practice on her friends (harmless brush-by push, gave her a reason to work her skills), but she freezes, deer in headlights, when confronted with most kids.

Three things leave me hopeful, though. 1) would be the wonderful teacher M, who seems to totally get Sophia and was full of good suggestions for how to work with her. 2) was the fact that, when asked how preschool went, Sophia grinned big and said, "Gooooood!" 3) is the nap we both took upon arrival home. Two solid hours, man. And she's still tired enough for bed.

As am I. Shadrach, Meshach, and to bed we go.

I Did Has Cheezburger

The McDonald's kind. It was SO FUCKING GREAT. Well, both of them were.

Either Something Terrible Has Happened or I'm getting better at dealing with the nausea. I'm voting for B), because it's less horrifying than A) and also it means I get to keep eating things like a 32-oz tub of hot clam chowder. That I bought on an impulse. At nine p.m. After a large Thai dinner. Seriously, it was like a Big Gulp of clam chowder. I kept sipping its steamy thickness all the way home. And eating it for/after every meal. Best morning sickness remedy EVER.

Really, it seems that the answer is to always, always be eating something. And to pack that something with enough protein and fat that I'm not starving fifteen minutes later. No, heavy cream and whey powder can push that interval all the way to thirty, forty-five minutes. Mixed with organic chocolate milk and used to chase a Caesar salad and boy, you got yourself a Friday night. Or Saturday morning. Between-meal snack. Look, I have to go now. I'll see you by the seafood counter, where the seabottom stench of chowder wafts from the steam table...

I Do Solemnly Swear

Our phone was dead for about fifteen hours, as was our internet. When questioned as to the origin of the problem, the phone company (we use a local outfit) suggested we get the full story from our building manager, who in turn casually mentioned an "altercation" between the guy from Local Phone and some dude named Gary. Internet was cut off (what, in the scuffle?) and as the only people on the planet who use a land line, we experienced a phone outage as well. Motherfucker.

Anyhoodle. So the first trimester proceeds apace. I had forgotten the full-body intensity of "morning sickness" (Ahahahahaha morning.), which can best be replicated by the following formula:

1) Be from Wichita, Kansas, where all roads are perfectly level and run at right angles to each other
2) Take trip to Eureka Springs, Arkansas, the Switzerland of, Um, Arkansas, where the shops sell walnuts with googly eyes glued on to remind you of your trip to Eureka Springs, and where you can walk down a sidewalk and touch the steeple of the church on the next block
3) Experience first mountain roads and hairpin turns
4) Do so from the airless, windowless back of a rental van awash in your mother's cigarette smoke
5) Chase it all down with a funnel cake
6) Heave in misery on floor of van while rest of family views Christ of the Ozarks

The dizziness, the agony, the desire to eat funnel cake while avoiding large plaster replicas of Our Lord and Savior -- they're all the same. Significant others of pregnant women, take note -- if you want to impress the heck out of your woman, just undertake the above-described voyage. Arrive home, green around the edges and bearing a googly-eyed walnut, to assure her that you really, really understand her. She will totally bake you a meatloaf.

I swore, twenty or so pounds into my fifty-pound postpartum weight loss, that I would Never Do That Again, That With the Carbs. Next time, were I so fortunate, I would be a Brewer Diet-Atkins Diet-Protein Machine of a pregnant lady, scarfing entire chickens wrapped in dark leafy greens, eschewing sugared donuts and crates of Lucky Charms. I stand by that oath, or rather I would, if I weren't so busy lying on the sofa. I remember the agony of childbirth, but somehow the reality of all-day pregnancy nausea coupled with fatigue had left me.

Therefore I declare: Starting with the second trimester (Lord willing and the creek don't rise), I will be Protein Monster. Braised chard will be my dessert. My weight gain will not be more than double the recommended amount. I will eat eggs like a snake: whole, without removing the shell.

In the meantime, there are a few rules I'm willing to abide by: No McDonald's cheesburgers (harder than you'd think). No artificial coloring or flavoring (this leaves Coke in the mix). Whole wheat whenever possible. Mix Honey Nut Joe's O's half-and-half with plain. And for the love of God, eat something before the only thing that will do is that venison gulash* I had in Budapest once.

I'm sure it'll be a piece of cake. Or better still, a piece of garlic anchovy pizza. Mmmm. Anchovy.

*What is up with that, by the way? The specificity of food cravings? Spicy burritos=bad, but tom yum goong=awesome. Beef anything=bad, but venison=(theoretically) good. Caesar salad from restaurant=awesome, and yet Caesar salad made at home=nightmare.

Yay.

Nice heart rate of 160 bpm. Didn't get all the measurement details, some doctor was supposed to come in and "give me a due date" but I chose to take the tech's "Everything looks good here" rather than wait another forty-five minutes. They'd already kept me waiting an hour and ten just to get scanned, a period of time I put to use writing angry notes to the hospital and dropping them in the suggestion box, and you know, I can understand a scan report as well as the next Doctor of Googleology.

More later, as Typepad is all fucked up.

Yay.

Nice heart rate of 160 bpm. Didn't get all the measurement details, some doctor was supposed to come in and "give me a due date" but I chose to take the tech's "Everything looks good here" rather than wait another forty-five minutes. They'd already kept me waiting an hour and ten just to get scanned, a period of time I put to use writing angry notes to the hospital and dropping them in the suggestion box, and you know, I can understand a scan report as well as the next Doctor of Googleology.

More later, as Typepad is all fucked up.

Not Dead, Just Waiting for the Frickafrackin' Ultrasound

Tomorrow at 11 am. Will update as soon as possible.

Sleep is for the Weak

Out of sheer laziness concern for your uncluttered reading pleasure, I have never festooned my website with ads. I don't insist that you Paypal me a brewski every time you like my post (yes, I saw this on a blog once). I don't ask for much, beyond undying devotion and constant clicking around the occasional drop-in.

But now, I must sell to you this most awesome thing of which I am but a tiny part. See this book? See it (at Barnes and Noble)? See it (at an indie bookstore)? Look over there on the right. ===>

Yeah, people. It's a book! And I am IN IT!

But that's not why it's awesome. It's awesome because I am in it it's jam-diddly-damn-packed with truly excellent writers who outstrip me both in talent and daily hits. It's awesome because a certain very wise woman thought to put the thing together. I ride on the coattails of giants, gentle readers, and you'd do well to get yourself a copy.

I Saw a Famous Person

In the midst of a stultifying day of jury duty (which entailed sitting around various rooms and being lined up by number and saying "here" and moving to other rooms) I had a most excellent Blogger Sighting.

I dorked out hardcore when I saw the lovely Emily attempting to eat lunch while a shameless groupie fawned shrilly (maybe I wasn't that shrill) (okay, so I probably was). She was, I am happy to report, very gracious in the face of a squee-ing blog fan. But how could I do otherwise? She who inspires my more inspired fashion choices was right there, people. What, was I supposed to act all nonchalant? And not drop my bagel on the floor in my attempt to bow and scrape?

God. It's like you expect me to comport myself with some modicum of dignity or somethin'. Well, let me tell ya, sister, it ain't happening. A grown woman who wets her pants with joy over a Trader Joe's cashier with a fake nametag reading "Bananaphone" is not the place to look.

Go on about  your business.

She's an Indie Rocker, and Nothing's Gonna Stop Her

Coming home from our rainy-day fun at Ikea (ball pit! macaroni and cheese!), Sophia whined and fussed in the back seat. "I want to go to the park! I want to go to the circus!* I want hey-ya-ya-hey-ya-ya!"

Having listened to that particular CD about seven frillion times in the past month, I declined, but put in the Fratellis' "Chelsea Dagger" at middling to high volume. She murmured something about liking it, and passed out. She's asleep in the next room as I type.

This is totally in character for her. Loud punky music reliably conks her out. The only time she ever fell asleep at a family gathering was after somebody busted out the Wii and Guitar Hero at Passover. (Which, I must point out, Sean totally rocked on his first try.) A cousin belted out "Satisfaction" at a not-particularly-kid-friendly volume, and Sophia drifted off peacefully on the sofa surrounded by matzo crumbs.

I guess it's fitting for a kid who attended a Pixies show as an 8-week embryo. Oh, sweetie. May it serve you well in high school and beyond, the ability to be lulled to sleep by the wildest night.

*Cirque du Soleil is setting up right now, and we pass their tents on the way to and from Ikea. She tells me she wants to "ride the circus steed;" that Madeline and Pepito, they're bad influences.

So I Finally Saw Juno

And you know, I actually liked it a lot.

Some thoughts:

-Really glad I watched it at home with Sean instead of in a theater. We were a handpicked audience of people prepared to Get It in a lot of ways that Joe Microbrew Six-Pack wasn't going to, and I'm glad I didn't have to listen to audience reactions.

-Because it was actually a far more nuanced and subtle movie than it got credit for. Well, to us it was glaringly obvious, but maybe to other people, subtle. By which I mean:

-The first scene with the adoption lawyer? Blindingly exploitative. Sharklike maneuver to turn it into a closed adoption with no discussion? Immediate drawing up of paperwork? Icky. If I recall, some figured that was because Juno was so empowered, but I read it otherwise. WAY otherwise. Someone in a position of power taking advantage of someone else in crisis. And it seemed so obvious to me and Sean, that this situation was NOT a healthy one -- but that this is how it can play out, absolutely. And we took it as unflattering and accurate commentary. Apparently we are in the minority.

-Adoptive couple: creepy. I can't believe anyone thought Jennifer Garner's portrayal of Vanessa was compassionate; it was spot-on, absolutely, of a winched-tight certain-type-of-mommy, and very well and complexly played, but if anybody thinks this is what most adoptive mothers are like, yeesh. Perfect for the part though.

-I read a defense of Jason Bateman's character Mark's skeezy behaviors as midlife crisis stuff, oh, somewhere, but I am aghast that anyone would excuse the way Mark acted. Again, another reminder that the various parties in an adoption are NOT on equal footing, and that it is so easy for one to abuse power. Abuse of power can be a very subtle thing.

-Most reviews cited a "scary-smart" Juno. Well, I thought she was awesome, and wonderful, and intelligent, and quick-witted, but honey, if that's what you think scary-smart is, you must have spent high school hanging out in Tantopia. Juno reminded me of myself and all my friends in high school -- and the fact that she's being hailed as such an anomaly is, oh, I guess evidence of the patriarchy at work still. Women not funny. Women not smart. Anyway.

-It felt like, storyline notwithstanding, someone had made a movie about teenage Sean and teenage me. If we'd known each other. I really liked those characters. I believed everything they did, you know?

-I also thought Juno's parents were really well played. Yeah, they said and did some fucked up things -- like making teen pregnancy out to be worse than hard drug addiction (if somewhat jokingly), and sort of hustling things along with regard to the adoption. At the same time, they clearly loved Juno and didn't shame her. Bren (Allison Janney) was especially great -- she commented right at first about how Juno didn't know what she was getting into (with childbearing), which read a little bit like, this is going to be harder than you think, this adoption thing. And she was very aware of the power differential with Mark, and the inappropriateness of his behavior (and the playing-with-fire nature of Juno's).
They seemed very real, and very human.

-Even though I knew how it ended, right up through the last scene I couldn't help believing that Juno might decide to parent that baby. Obviously I am in the minority of Americans here, but I thought she would have made a kickass mom. I was bummed that she didn't feel equipped (and with mother abandonment issues, I can understand) and that society and her family offered no support for that decision. I would have liked to hang out with her at the park, you know?

-It was a good movie, but it wasn't a funny movie. It had funny parts, yes, but overall it was a deeply sad movie. I'm guessing most of the U.S. of A didn't get that, and didn't get its critique of the process (which may not have been there in the writing, from what I've heard of Diablo Cody, but that did make it into the directing). Did it end on a happy note? I don't think so. It ended on a wistful note. I couldn't help but see into the future for those two good kids, the dead spaces inside, the blotted-out memories here and there. Maybe  they were fine; maybe they weren't. The movie ended before we got a chance to see. And the narrative arc was over a single year, four seasons, so I'm prepared to take the movie as it is. I forgive it its flaws, because even people who were enraged by it pointed out that it was indeed accurate -- it just stopped before a lot of the ugliness kicked in.

-Which is why the discussion that followed was such an important thing. I think it's possible to enjoy the movie for its humanity, to feel moved by it, and yet not come away thinking, "Wow, adoption is perfect! For everyone! Let's never change a thing!" In fact it kind of shocks me that anyone would see that as the take-home message, but...eh. It doesn't shock me that much. People like a quick and easy fix, and this is so much more complex.

-But in the end, I really liked the movie. And I almost cried through most of it. I cared about the people in it, believed they were real for two hours, couldn't quite wrap my head around the fact that the ending was a foregone conclusion. The only wish I have is for the rest of the world to wake up to the fact that life doesn't end where a movie does -- and that nothing, in the real world, needs to be a foregone conclusion. The problem isn't with the movie -- it's with us.