the modernity ward

Considering the Quiver

I always envisioned myself as the mother of many children. Not a Duggaresque line of baby quails trailing one mother, but maybe three, or four. Five was not out of the question.

Now? Not so much.

As Marta put in in the comments section a few posts back, heck, I could have a baby a year, every year, but when they get big? And kind of mouthy? I would require a phalanx of Julie Andrews clones to help manage the lot, and maybe some sort of kitchen staff as well. Except, no, I like the kitchen part. Maybe a housekeeper. Because apparently some people consider wet-mopping a more-frequently-than-annual event.

I could handle the cooking, because with my Trusty Julie Andrewses to amuse the crew, it could be a solitary activity. I like solitary activities. I like them an awful lot. And -- surprise -- that's something you don't get a lot of when there are small children about.

I also have less tolerance than I imagined for the whim and whimsy of childhood.  Especially when that whimsy involves pouring a glass of tea into the sofa and climbing on top of a large plastic car to unlock the deadbolt and leaving the apartment door cracked for most of the morning. Hi, neighbor! Hope you didn't mind the frank and loud discussion of the stinky poopoo!

These things are enjoyable in retrospect, and I'm glad they happen to me because they make good stories (and what else is the point of mildly unpleasant human experience?) but in the context of a day, sometimes they're more than I can handle, especially when the almost-four-year-old is screaming about some goddamn thing every ten minutes.

I like the baby part. Babies are easy for me -- the constant physical need doesn't trouble me in the least, I'm happy to nurse and bounce and change all the day long. Where some see unformed larval humans, I see expressive aware beings -- and I love it. Some women absolutely HATE that stage, though. But they love their three-year-olds! Now, I love my own personal three-year-old, and every day there are moments of breathtaking awesomeness, but every day, no matter how awesome, I feel like I've been through a wringer washer. It literally takes all my reserves to get through almost every day.

As a result I stay up 'til midnight, tanking up on solitude -- I'm tired the next day, but the idea of going to sleep right after putting the kids down is like the thought of crashing into bed unshowered after a ninety-minute aerobics class.

However: I still have this weird judgy voice in the back of my head telling me that unless I have more kids than X number, I can't win. At mothering. I know; slap me a little. Being a content yet exhausted mother of two is not NEARLY as good as being an equally happy and tired mother of three. Or four. It's stupid calculus, no? And yet I didn't realize it was in my head until about last week. I don't know where I got it from, but there it is.

Reality itself is slapping me around a little bit, though, and I'm realizing that I have to reconfigure the expectations. I love being a stay-at-home mom, and I want to someday be a going-to-nursing-school mom, and thence a working-outside-the-home mom -- that part of the plan is intact -- but it may need to happen on a rather different time scale than I had originally intended. Like, school sooner. I'm not taking the possibility of a later-in-life child off the table -- after I've started working, several years down the line -- but I'm painfully aware that you can't bank on fertility at any given point, let alone after 35.

But oh, what luxury to get to choose anything at all! We didn't get to start having kids when we wanted to (if we had, we would have an eight-year-old!), but other than the "when," the "what" is pretty much exactly what I wished for. I'm so thankful every day for that, even when I'm being kicked in the shins by a tiny furious person. Sometimes especially then. As much as her inner fire drives me bananas, I'm so glad Sophia's the pistol she is -- as a formerly docile, terrified-of-not-behaving child myself (can you believe it?) who only later in life found her voice, I'm hoping she'll be better equipped to deal with the slings and arrows of outrageous middle school. She's an intense, careful person who feels things deeply, and I want to be able to tune into her and give her what she needs.

I'm the same kind of person. And I need to feed my own needs too. I was raised in the culture of the completely self-effacing mother, and let me tell you, there is no good outcome possible there. I can't do it -- and I'm finally starting to realize that I shouldn't.

We Have a Winner!

Bop on over to Filthy Lucre blog for deets...

Parenting in the Spotlight

Aren't we all, these days? I was just thinking, after coming across four different articles about Today's Shitty Parents and Why They Are Shitty Without Even Realizing It, Yes I Mean You, that very little of what I read has much bearing on the parenting I observe. Not because they're wrong in their entirety -- not that kids aren't sometimes rude or naughty or hyper-parented or narcissistic or whatever -- but because I just don't see these things as trends. Some kids are rude sometimes, and are corrected; some kids are little turds and aren't corrected. Some parents hover sometimes because they know their kid is going through an Unforeseeable Sudden Smash-You-With-a-Truck phase, and some hover all the time because that's how they roll. Some don't watch their kids closely because they finally have a chance to chat with friends, and some ignore kids who end up cracking their noggins on the toilet bowl.

And all those parents are me, at times.

So what's frigging new about all that? Twas always thus, and always thus 'twill be.* As I child in the seventies and eighties, I witnessed a gamut of parenting styles, and some mommies would watch you while you ate your one saltine at the table from a plate, and then let you play in the fenced backyard for twenty minutes.  Some houses had cabinets full of cupcakes and candy. Some houses had mothers who swore and let you do the same; some wouldn't let you say "fart." Some had cable and some had Atari and one had every Sweet Valley High book ever written. Some made you go to sleep during a slumber party, and some let you stay up all night.

I'd be willing to bet it's not that different today -- there are big variations in what's considered appropriate by family, and while there may be certain larger trends at work, it's just not as simple as "Parents today don't discipline their kids!" or whatever.

But then what would the media report on if it weren't manufacturing fluff pieces about "parenting trends" that ultimately lead to comments-section kerfuffles and nothing more? Sigh. Me, I'll continue alternately neglecting and helicopter-parenting my children; either way I'm sure to contribute to the downfall of society. Bases covered.

*Keating.

Get Some For Yourself

Thousands of dollars in cash and prizes-- oh, okay, chance to win one prize, 23andMe-themed, but it's a good one -- here, at my paid-review site.

Smackety Smack

The whole Gosselin thing creeps me out. I mean, there's not actually much about Gosselin Enterprises that doesn't make me throw up in my mouth a little bit -- but the whole "kids need spankin's!" contingent the latest story has flushed out makes me roll my eyes all the way to Jersey. Especially since it generally represents a serious misreading of Biblical text. Do these jackasses think a shepherd uses his rod to beat the sheep? Rod = guidance.

At the same time, I cut a lot of slack for occasional loss of control. I've picked up Sophia in a not-so-gentle way before, but the worst stuff is the shit you didn't even mean to do -- yesterday she decided to have a meltdown in the middle of the parking garage (to which I will be delighted to bid goodbye forever, in six weeks), and I had Daphne in an Ergo, about forty-five pounds of groceries, the jacket and lunchbag she threw on the ground and wouldn't pick up -- and I picked her up by the upper arm (so as not to dislocate the elbow, I don't care how awful it looks to bystanders, it's actually a lot less likely to cause real harm than pulling by the hand) and she tried to fling herself down in my path right as a car was driving up to us and in my haste to get everybody out of its path I totally stepped on her leg. Sucky.

I was spanked occasionally as a kid, and I certainly don't consider it child abuse; just sort of shame-inducing, and largely ineffective.

Eh. Sean asked me why I was snapping (literally, snapping my fingers) at Sophia during a freakout session the other day. I explained that it keeps me from doing worse things; I got the idea from Elizabeth Pantley, who recommends that you clap your hands together if you feel an urge to hit. Helps dissipate the urge in a non-violent way. Far less disturbing than the time I stomped on a piece of pizza. (Really.)

I don't have any well-formed thoughts on the matter, just...gross, all around. I wish the Gosselin adults would go away for a while. I'm sick of their faces.

And I don't even have cable.

In completely unrelated news, I absolutely adore babies and the thought of never having another baby around after Daphne makes me sad, but I don't know if I need more than two children. Granted, three years old is no picnic under the best of circumstances, but three + major cross-country move + new sister = never-ending scream. Well, sometimes it turns from a scream to a wail to a whine to a fake sob to a shrieking laugh, but it doesn't really end.

Oh, hell. It's rainy and I'm groggy and I need to pack stuff while Daphne sleeps. Now you say something, and we can all have a conversation.

How Are "You All" Doing?

This "South Land" is certainly a colorful place, the gentlemen courtly and elaborately mustachio'd, the women tanned and clad in sundresses and cowboy boots.  People are named things like "Itsy" and "Tiggy Man," and uniformly horrified by vegetarianism.

Although my sample here at the hotel might have been a bit skewed. Now that CMA Music Fest is over, Nashville looks like, oh, about any other place. The Whole Foods here is ree-fuckin'-diculous, fit for Nash-stralian royalty like Nicole Kidman and that man with the fancy hair she pals around with. The Harris Teeter near our house-to-be is plenty serviceable, and I am happy to report that there is dang good Indian food to be had (thanks for the recommendation, Namita!). Also Fido had the best veggie burger I have ever eaten in my entire life. Anyway.

We have a house rented, a very nice one with three bedrooms and hardwood floors and a yard, which is un-fenced but will do fine, and the landlords are just so sweet, and we can walk to an amazing park and a lot of other things. So that's good. Come visit sometime. I'll make something out of quinoa. You'll take something to be polite, but then you'll find you really like it.

Anyway, the more interesting places were the ones we didn't take: the dank, funky place (and I don't mean like, funkehhh, I mean stanky) across from what the landlord informed us was a razed crackhouse -- that same landlord who defended as "brand new" a paint job that looked like it had been applied by a couple of four-year-olds and a small house fire. The baffling maze of a house in which we unearthed bedroom after bedroom, six in all, but had only two we would consider livable. The attic with its ladderlike stairs was at least pretty, but didn't have a bathroom; the basement had a gorgeous big new bathroom, but had evidently flooded at some point, and rather than bother to dry the mess out the owner had opted to sop it up with new carpet. It smelled like catacombs. The kitchen was cute if tiny, and for some reason the dishwasher was located in the living room. It had to be wheeled into the kitchen and hooked up to the sink to be used. Most of the windows were closed; the ones that were open lacked screens.

That one did have a fenced yard, though. We had to talk ourselves out of it. Thankfully the Perfect House turned up right after that, so we canceled the one we had taken to calling "...the MURDER HOUSE!" based on its exterior appearance, and the one above a Chili's. Now we have a most satisfactory base of operations from which to scout other 'hoods and, oh, save a few rainy-day nickels (about four hundred thousand of those), and I am ALL DONE traveling, mostly because an almost-four-year-old can only take so much before she starts doing inconvenient things like whining and getting bored and constipated and overly wild. Poor kid. She's been a real champ amidst all the upheaval.

Sean is also getting bored and whiny (though, regrettably, not constipated) so we are going to watch laptop movies now. Bah-bah now.

Kasher!

Our family is now three-quarters Jewish. We almost weren't, at all, but thanks to my quick thinking and skill with the blow dryer, we most of us made it.

You're all like, WHAT? Let's rewind. (squeeblysqueeblysqueebly)

The scene: Monday afternoon. Philadelphia Zoo. Tired mama packs Sophia into carseat, goes around to the back to load stroller into trunk.

Except: Mama has heavy baby in sling on chest. And: Stroller is not totally folded. And: Mama has no goddamn sense and therefore tries to execute the stroller-in-trunk move whilst standing on curb, leaning way over to trunk of parallel-parked Civic. Why? No reason. Just doin' it stupid.

What happens next is, if you know me in person, utterly predictable: I go down. Down to Chinatown. Down like a clown frown. Down hard, into the gutter filth of a Philadelphia street. Fortunately I am able to execute a miraculous martial arts move in which I turn as I fall so that Gigantic Sling Baby lands safely on top of me, instead of under me; Daphne is spared, but my leg is hamburger.

So my left knee has a place about the size of a half-dollar that's seriously ground up, full of grime that doesn't wash off later, and lacking any protective skin whatsoever. From there to mid-shin is a long raw surface scrape, like two dollar bills laid end-to-end -- the top of that is nasty and oozing, but the lower parts are pretty superficial. There are other small cuts, and a huge amount of bruising and swelling under the skinned parts, around the knee joint. My right leg has three big bruise-scrape things. Later I can feel all the hip bruising. And the protest of a joint knocked cockeyed.

Anyway, the half-dollar place is the problematic one -- you can't just waltz into a mikveh with oozing bleeding wounds. Not halakhically cool. "Is it dry?" asks the mikveh lady on the phone. "Um, how should I determine that?" I ask. "Press a tissue on it. If it comes away dry, it's okay."

It is okay. Until I decide to clean all the grime out Tuesday -- which entails a soak in the bath and some scrubbing with baby soap and a washcloth. A layer of gray disappears, but now after its soak...ew. And I have to meet with the beit din in three hours.

Out comes the blow-dryer and I work on that raw spot until it is dry and scabbed -- okay for the mikveh -- and off we go.

* * * *

My own dunk in the mikveh was lovely, strange, unlike anything else -- but Daphne's was a combination of beautiful and terrifying. No matter how expert the mikveh lady, it is danged hard to submerge your baby and remove your hands. Even just for a second. Daphne did fine, didn't cry, apparently had her eyes open underwater -- but I barely let go the second time, and couldn't handle a third dunk.

Sophia, in the end, wouldn't go under. She made it to naked on the stairs, and very nearly fell into the deep part (oh well), but turned back. I can't say I blame her -- if you haven't been all the way under, and you're a tiny person who's worried that she and her sister are going to drown (that's what she said to me Monday), you might feel it's prudent to wait until you're "six. Or four." So, no big deal, we'll do it in Nashville, in the window between "finally able to go underwater" and "no longer willing to strip nekkid in front of strangers."

I have no idea how big that window will be. For some it seems to extend into the late twenties. Anyway.

So. Here I am, not quite a year after I seriously started my conversion process, a full-fledged member of the tribe, to be found (very soon!) in a tallis having an aliyah to the Torah. The universe has seen fit to celebrate the occasion by hosting American Anti-Semitism Day (a white supremacist shoots and kills a security guard in the Holocaust Memorial Museum; Rev. Jeremiah Wright claims "them Jews" won't let him talk to Obama) but hey. I imagine being on the receiving end of hatred is a lot more shocking if you started out as, say, a white male. Pray for peace; work for peace. So it goes. When it comes to repairing the world, it's like the Rabbi said, "It is not your obligation to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist from it."

Amen.

Fast Times

Well, previous post went VERY well, and I hope to discuss it more soon! And please feel free to keep adding to the comments. In the meantime I have a lot on my metaphorical plate (as well as the real one, thank you very much Clark Park farmer's market) and might not be posting as much as I want over the next week or so. What's going on? Well...

Sunday: Wash sheets with baby poop on them. Resolve not to fall asleep next to naked baby ever again. Cherish memory of delighted infant ejecting liquid poop across queen-size bed.

Monday: Harass Nashville preschools for open slots/visiting times. Harass insurance company for erroneous billing. Gelato. Load up car with castoffs and deliver to thrift store, thus making room for TOWER (see Wednesday)

Tuesday: Conversion, complete with beit din and mikvah. Daphne in water, Sophia to throw fit and avoid conversion. Like opposite of Shabbetai Zevi except...not. Celebrate with gelato, maybe with booze in

Wednesday: Gelato in a.m (espresso?). Use Sophia preschool time to create first in series of TOWERS OF BOXES containing packables like winter clothes

Thursday: Pack for trip. Double-check car rental, car seats, hotel reservations. Acquire snacks and shiny objects for flight. Make sure to pack things kid hates like raisins, plaintain chips, raw snap peas. Swallow condom full of gelato later

Friday: Fly to Nashville. Find rental house, walking distance to univ, 3/2 or at least 2/1.5, fenced yard, w/d, no TULD* or m/l**, prefer r/n w/sc & w/o cf.*** Easy fuckin' peasy. Slaaaaaam dunk

Saturday: Dollywood in a.m., Jack Daniel's distillery in p.m. (maybe other way round?)

Sunday: Jewish church (pretty sure is on Sunday)

Monday: Work on tan, bring gun to bar, get drink on

Tuesday: Leave Nashville along with 50,000 people from CMA Music Fest. This time remember to pack snacks Sophia will like: tiny chocolate cordials, unpitted olives, black coffee, tin of anchovies.****

So you can see how busy I'm going to be. I'll post from the road (by which I mean the airport or the hotel room) when I can. In the meantime, I leave you with this by way of public service announcement.

*Terrifying Un-Leashed Dogs
**meth lab
***reasonable neighbors with small children and without Confederate flag
****Kidding about the cordials, not about the other stuff. However, only kidding because have not yet tested hypothesis that she would probably love them.

If You Consider Yourself Pro-Life

By which I mean: if you don't agree that abortion should be legal and available at all, ever, under any circumstances.

And yet you don't wish murder upon doctors who provide abortions. You find the likes of Randall Terry repugnant. You are deeply horrified by the murder of Dr. George Tiller. You refuse to use the murder as a cheap pedestal from which to push your own agenda.

Then, people? You need to step the fuck up. Because the evil people have taken over, and they are speaking their malignant speech and rejoicing in murder in your name. You need to shun them and force them out and muzzle the hate-spewers of the media like Limbaugh and O'Reilly.

Say what you want about how you're not like them, and you don't agree with them, but until you contain them and stamp out that part of the movement, until all of you no longer fall under the same umbrella term "pro-lifer," any protestations are meaningless, the distinction difficult to make. If these men don't speak for you, then don't let them.

* * * *

On the other hand: If the thought of women using abortion as a consequence-evader for careless sexual behavior disgusts you, if abortion is a choice you would never make for yourself no matter what.

But you think there should be some exceptions made: for rape. For incest. For fetuses who have defects incompatible with life. When the life of the mother is at stake.

Then: you are going to have to work with pro-choice groups. Why? Because abortion is abortion -- and if you want that choice (such as it is) to be available when your daughter is pregnant after being raped, then you will have to make sure there is legal provision for doctors to perform abortions. You will have to ensure that medical students learn how to do the procedure. You will have to make doctors' offices safe places for the people who work there. When you have a dying fetus in your uterus and are fast on your way to dead yourself, you will depend on the justice system to keep the only doctor who can help you from being shot to death as he seats fellow congregants in church.

If you believe that there is any circumstance under which abortion should be permissible, then you bear the responsibility for making it so. Use your vote. Use your money. Use your typing fingers and your voice in the Fellowship Hall and with your neighbors.

Our national polarization regarding abortion is at the forefront once again, a compound fracture with bone shards breaking the skin. Life is full of gray areas, complexity, shades of meaning, but there's not a lot of middle ground here. Barring a life of domestic terrorism, there are two choices. Either you work to make this a country where doctors can perform abortion without fear of constant harassment and death, no matter what circumstances you consider acceptable for seeking abortion -- or you work through legal, civil means to block all access to abortion, and accept that women are going to die as a result.

* * * *

A note on comments: comments, agreeing or disagreeing, are welcome. However, anything that veers into hatred, threatening, or anything else scary will not be tolerated, and will be promptly deleted. Also, you may have noticed that I am not arguing about anyone's essential feelings about abortion -- just about actions.

Here's How Long We've Been Married

SO LONG....that all the photos from the wedding are the old-fashioned film kind so I can't post any online! Take my word for it: we looked like a couple of fourteen-year-olds.

Tomorrow will be our ninth anniversary, and not to be trite, but things have just gotten better and better. Yay for us!

* * * *

I have a lot more to say about the murder of Dr. Tiller, and the context in which it happened, but I don't have the psychic energy for it right now. Thankfully the internet is abuzz, and you can go to pretty much anywhere and find out where to donate, how to participate in vigils, etc.

* * * *

I'm tired and it's hot and I have a lot to do, so LYLAS, internets, more later.