Archive for the ‘parenting’ category

Prom Season (With Elephants)

June 4, 2010

June Prom

The skies take a short break, waiting for the hair.
In one case, it is fine, sleek hair
which will only stay up till
the photo’s click, less than the time
I’ve stood behind the girl, working with
bobby pins.  “Wispy is good,” I say as
she fumbles in the back for smooth.
The make-up is smooth; two-toned
eyes converge with Egyptian directness
onto the shade of dress’s shine.

Skies grumble.  “Maybe
you better hurry,” I say.
“Why did I squeeze it?” one wails.
I palpate tint and powder onto a spot on
her breastbone, repeating a mantra
of don’t worry, it won’t show.

Another wants to keep the price tag on, tucked
inside the dress’s backless back
because it’s the most expensive she’s
ever owned.   Mid-twirl, she cries, “oh no!  It smells
like smoked fish.  Why does it smell like smoked fish?”
I tell her it’s fine, but offer perfume.  The one with the squeezed pimple
leans in supportively:  “I can’t smell it.”
“Oh God,” the twirler moans, “I
can smell it from here.”

Lips stretch shimmer
onto smiles perfected
over eighteen years.   And then, the camera
down, they really smile, not bemoaning
their lack of dates, only—and that less
and less–the possible scent
of smoked fish.

Darkness greets them with what sounds like applause.
I chase down a cab, then, umbrella in
each hand, ferry them one at a time,
hovering over hair, shoulders, skirt.
Slippered feet glisten through the tarred, watery drumroll,
as if made partly of glass,
the other part celluloid.
I laugh with the doorman as the taxi pulls away,
taillights as bright as Christmas in this storm,
the mother, the friend’s mother,
the one left to put away
the little jars, hangers, bobby pins,
to scoop from the floor the finally cast-off
tag, happy to be needed
by these large, beautiful, creatures,
happy to be out of the rain.

Gritted (Pleasing) Teeth–Important Tool In the Kit for Women Seeking Raises and TIME.

May 14, 2010

Pretty Please

Although I really do try to keep my work life separate from my blog life, I wanted to weigh in on an interesting article by Tara Siegel Bernard in today’s New York Times, “A Toolkit for Women Seeking a Raise.”

I’ve never asked for a pay raise.  This reflects well on my employer, who I have always believed to be both generous and tolerant.  But it is also apparently typical of women, even more typical (I fear) of women of my age and  and generation (middle/end of baby boom, beginning of feminism).

On the other hand, I am someone who, years before it was fashionable, negotiated flexible work arrangements due to the different pulls of child care, creative life and work life.

I’m not sure if these factors truly equip me to comment on the article, but here I go:

Two things jump out at me: first, a new study conducted at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government, which found that women “need to take a different approach” than men to requesting pay raises, an approach which is “more nuanced” and “avoids undermining their relationship with their boss.”

As Hannah Riley Bowles, an associate professor at Kennedy says, “we have found that if a man and a woman both attempt to negotiate for higher pay, people find a women who does this, compared to one who does not, significantly less attractive…. Whereas with the guy, it doesn’t seem to matter.”

Sorry, but, DUH!

Anyone who has followed Hillary Clinton’s political career knows how difficult it is for women to assert themselves in our culture and still be considered very likeable, (as opposed to “likeable enough”.)

The range of what is considered attractive, both on a physical and a behavioral level, is simply narrower for women than men.   This range does not allow women much leeway for self-assertion.

What Professor Bowles seems to say, in fact, is that in order to negotiate a pay raise and keep a boss’s good opinion, a woman needs to grit her teeth (but not visibly), and please.

To give Professor Bowles credit, her advice is based in pragmatism.  Still, there’s something awful about it.

Another point of the article that struck me discussed women’s negotiations on child care issues.  Bernard  here cites Paula Hogan, a Milwaukee based financial planner, who tells women to take responsibility for a need to be with children.  As Ms. Hogan points out, most companies are not going to say, “Gosh, I notice you have three kids now. Would you like Tuesdays off?”  Women need to think through what they want and then ask for it.

Of course, Ms. Hogan is right.  One additional piece of advice I would offer is that once you figure out a solution, and (if you are lucky), get your employer’s agreement, then you need to grit your teeth again, and stick to your agreement.

I cannot overemphasize the “gritting your teeth” part of this equation.   The fact is that employers may be fair-minded enough to agree to a certain amount of flexibility—but that doesn’t mean that they will be thrilled by your late arrival (because you took your kids to school), or assist you in meeting an early departure (so you can pick up your kids at school).   Nor will your employer feel particular sympathy for the fact that, even with the flex-time, you are still gasping for breath.

As a result, in order to keep this kind of split arrangement going you may have to give up on some of the pleasing, and just take the agreed flexibility.

One further piece of advice:  once you do leave the office, be very very sure that when you are with your child to enjoy that walk (or drive)  home from school.

V-E Day (Back in My Mother’s Day)

May 8, 2010

My Mom's Favorite Flower

May  8th.  Anniversary of V-E Day.   Mother’s Day tomorrow.   Anyone who knows my mother (my wonderful mother) knows that this is a thought-provoking juxtaposition.

It seems to me very difficult for young, or even middle-aged, Americans today to conceive of the impact of World War II on the generations who lived through it.  There’s so much tribute paid to the War at this point—the stern stone eagles at the World War II memorial in Washington, D.C., the heavy Samuel Barber music that accompanies so much WWII footage (at least on YouTube), even the high-flying term the “Greatest Generation”.   The bunting of commemoration makes it very hard to see the truly memorable; the grandiosity somehow diminishes the greatness, both of the effort and the suffering.

The magnitude of loss is also something almost impossible for Americans today to understand.   Most of us know a little about the millions of lives lost.  Sometimes smaller numbers are more comprehensible: I read today, for example that the two and a half months of the Normandy Invasion cost the lives of nearly 20,000 French civilians.  As a comparison (not intended to diminish the level of suffering there), it is estimated that 90 Afghani civilians have died since the beginning of this year.

Which brings me to my mother.  (Hi Mom, if you ever read this blog!)

My mother was neither a WAC or WAVE, but had the curious experience of working as a civilian in both the U.S. occupation of Japan and Germany, closely following the end of the War in both theaters.   She is rightfully proud of her experiences.  And she truly was intrepid—she came from a small town in Iowa, a farming family, which was very very far from post-War Japan.  Her dad actually drove her by horse and buggy to catch the train that would take her to San Francisco where she would embark for Yokohama.

While she is proud of her own grit, and the grit of her generation, my mother does not believe in the greatness of war.   When the subject comes up (even sometimes when it doesn’t come up), she speaks passionately of her memories of cities flattened, whether by the Atom Bombs, or incendiaries—she visited both Hiroshima and Nagasaki, as well as Tokyo and Dresden.  She talks too of the massive fields of white crosses in France, the large mass grave sites in Russia, the grim, death-scented, ovens in Dachau.   Her visits to these places impressed her beyond measure, and she is anxious to pass on her memories, to somehow make them as vivid and meaningful to others as they are to her.  Even though she is absolutely certain of the horror of the Nazis, though she loved FDR, though she is very proud of my father, a veteran of both the European and Pacific War, she has no faith in war’s value to solve conflicts; it all just seems like killing to her, killing until people are sick and tired of killing or being killed, something to be avoided at all cost.

I don’t always know what I think.  I consider myself a pacificist, though I’m not completely certain of peaceful solutions in a irrepressibly violent world.  Still, it seems to me useful to pay attention to voices of experience, and, of course, the voices of mothers, even though listening to one’s own is almost invariably a little bit hard.

15th Day of National Poetry Month – “Communion”

April 15, 2010

Ah, Blue!

It’s the 15th day of National Poetry Month  and also you know what.  I started to write my daily draft poem about an idle tax day comment overheard at a Florida Starbucks, but then ended up working on a completely different draft poem, something a little closer to home.

Communion

What a gift it is to sit
with someone you love and not hear
about the body/blood, given/shed,
for your or anyone’s salvation,
redemption,
success/despair,
education, regeneration
in remembrance of.

What sweetness not to discuss
any house in any location,
great aunt or uncle,
small town or large,
teacher or outfit (with
or without peter pan collar,
ruffed cuff),
income or IQ;
patience so much more elusive than gratitude,
love task-like in its minutiae,
the sullenness of childhood a sharp stone
on memory lane.

Ah, the communion of the trivial shared right now,
the small square tile that bears a silent “e”,
the ace on the card table,
the deliciousness of breeze or scone.

I sit with my parents and paint.
Those who do not paint often
focus intently on
a carefully drawn petal or jagged blotch of sea.
Ah, blue; ah, green; ah, yellow.

How To Be Cool. For Those Whose Slang (Like Their Mahtabili) Is A Little Bit Rusty.

January 24, 2010

Cool!

I am currently lying under a fleece blanket and two down comforters.    The heating unit at my side is turned off.  I could jump quickly into the cold, twist it on, then slip back into my lair, but, for some reason, I just don’t.

I’m not quite sure what this reason is.  I pay for heat in my apartment, so there’s an element of miserliness.  It’s blown hot air  (dry and noisy),  so there’s simple distaste.  There’s also, of course, my  heightened, if terribly inconsistent, environmental consciousness.  Then too, there’s the memory of my last apartment where Super-controlled heat blasts made for January sweats.

All of these combine into a perverse, hardier-than-thou, pride that keeps the heating units switched off.

I have recently found that this pride makes me part of  “Cool Crowd,” a class of people depicted in the New York Times the other day who eschew indoor heat in cold climates.

Being part of this cool crowd feels really great (despite the weight of the blankets).  I always was embarrassingly unhip as a child.  Actually, I’ve felt unhip my entire life.  I’ve rarely known the names or music of hot bands, TV shoes, movies, films.  My slang, like Alec Guiness’s “Mahtabili” in the film classic Kind Hearts and Coronets, has always been “a little bit rusty.”

Given the fact that the temperature in my apartment probably rarely dips below 50/45  (I don’t have a thermostat), I’m guessing that I’m only on the “luke” edge of the “cool crowd”.    Even so, no less than three members of my family separately asked me if I had seen the NY Times article.

These family members are extremely patient.   They don’t openly groan during my monologues about the merits of long silk underwear,  the importance of wool,  the risks of sock-removal.  They joke about the fact that I constantly tell them that they can turn on the heat, if they want, then proceed to turn it off again (if they’ve dared) after only a few minutes.

I warn them against wimpiness.  I regale them with tales about the time the water in my toilet bowl froze.   I protest that this is not about me disliking warmth, reminding them that I don’t turn on the AC in summer either.    They don’t actually need reminders of that.

Ah, Summer.  That’s when we get to be part of “who’s hot.”

P.S. – sorry for any misspelling of Mahtabili.  Please feel free to correct.

Thermal Power (Not What You Expect)

January 22, 2010

Thermos

I’m going back today to the endless snack/media culture: children hooked in and chomping little individually wrapped servings all day long.  (See prior post ‘The Matrix of Cheetos”.)   This worry has been compounded by a new Australian study describing the increased mortality  (for adults) associated with increased hours of TV viewing.  (Although the report of the study seems to blame sitting for the increased mortality, the actual activity that seemed to lead to the deaths was sitting in front of the TV.)

This Australian study makes it clear that parents should consider limiting their own media time.  But we all know the problems with that.

So going back to trying to limit kids: “just say no,” is easy to say; “no” is a lot harder.

With young children (under ten or twelve), reading aloud may be a useful substitute; by this, I mean adults reading aloud to children, not children, especially children with difficulties, practicing reading. (I’m certainly not against children working on their reading with their parents, but I’m talking about fun activities here, not torturous ones.)

If parents are not great read-alouders, even listening to books on tape together seems preferable to the nonstop perusal of little teeny (or oversized) screens.

Snacks:  I’m an inveterate snacker, meal skipper, meal avoider.  But, like many, I am very happy to tell people to do as I say and not as I do.

The obvious advice—make meals.  Even if snacks are going to be snuck in throughout the day, try to provide your kids with a real, if ceremonial, breakfast, dinner.  Sit down together while dinner is eaten.    (Even if the TV is also a companion, at least sit in front of it together.)

To the extent possible, eat these meals on plates and not from packaging.   Try not to allow eating, directly from boxes, cartons, bags!  (Okay, okay, I do it too, but it definitely undercuts the understanding that food has been in fact consumed, and how much.)

Last tip:  when taking snacks into the world, add in a thermos.  There is nothing like a hot drink, shared with child (or adult) that gives a sense of quiet community.  Granted, some hot drinks from thermoses; i.e. milky tea, can have a bit of a tinned flavor.  Even so, warm feelings arise from the fact that  you and your child have carried along your own little liquid home-made hearth; that you have prepared  your own little portable tea party.  The steam tinges the moment with the specialness of a memory-to-be.  (For me, who really does love hot tea, it feels like having my own little traveling Delphi, though I’m not sure it helps much with the oracular.)

Delphi On A Checked Cloth

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The Matrix on Cheetos

January 20, 2010

The Matrix On Cheetos

Two tremendously scary articles in today’s New York Times.

No, I don’t mean the one about Robert Gates in India warning of interlocking Asian terror networks.  Or the one about ex-convicts from the U.S. joining  with Yemen radicals.   Or even the ones about the defeat of Martha Coakly in Massachusetts.

I’m talking about the article by Jennifer Steinhauer reporting that “Snack Time Never Ends” for U.S. children, and the one by Tamar Lewin, “If Your Kids Are Awake, They Are Probably Online.” (This one reports that, with the advent of smart phones, personal computers, and other digital devices,  internet time never ends for U.S. children.)

Reading these articles, one gets a picture of a U.S. child blindfolded by a miniature screen, which he manipulates with one hand, while using the other to repeatedly lift crinkly snacks to his lips.  (It’s kind of like the Matrix on Cheetos.)

I don’t mean to sound critical.  I myself spend much of the day on the computer.  I am also an inveterate “grazer.”

The difference between me and most U.S. children, however, is that I’m old enough to know better.  I have had enough experience of the benefits of (a) uninterrupted concentration, (b) delayed gratification, and (c) discipline, to understand that there is something to be gained from thinking deeply and quietly while repressing the urge for non-stop stomach and mind candy.  Even my body (especially the toothy bits)  has a deep (if sometimes neglected) understanding of the benefits of not constantly chewing.

In other words, I feel guilty.

My personal difficulties bring up the fact that adult society has, to a large degree, fomented this conduct among children.   In the case of adults,  however,  ADD (attention deficit disorder) is generally called “multi-tasking.”

It’s bad for us too.   There has been study upon study about the dangers of texting while driving, texting while walking, texting while taking care of young children.  Then, of course, there are the soaring obestity rates.

But it all seems worse when children are involved.

Though I  don’t mean to criticize parents, part of the problem is simply their  busy-ness.   Working hard, their lives, and the lives of their children, are highly scheduled.  Snacks and media are used to silence childish impatience;  both allow parents to participate in their children’s lives in a way that makes them feel (and is) caring, as cook, food-buyer, internet-regulator, but is also somehow less personal and confrontational, than acting as direct companion and/or adversary.

Older generations focused on the behavior of children (and both parents and children had the relief of unsupervised play–time that was free and apart from each other); but in our world, it’s not enough for children behave the way that we want them to;  we also want them to be happy while behaving this way (while remaining in a fairly confined location).   Some parents trot out long explanations to children, trying to secure agreement to restrictions;  others (or maybe the same parents) trot out snacks, gameboys, smart phones, trying to pre-empt disagreement, discomfort, wear and tear.

It doesn’t really work.  But the parent is busy, stressed;  besides, he or she has some browsing to do.

Homemade Presents- Forget the Pomander

December 13, 2009

As those of you know who read about the “sheep” costume made by/for a young daughter at Halloween, I’m a big believer in home-made celebrations.  It’s fun for kids, a great way to hold out against commercialization, and terrific for grandparents who have pretty much all that they need.

That said, coming up with gifts that can be made by very young children can be difficult.  Of course, there’s always the picture–the child’s painting or drawing which can be framed, or better yet, converted (commercially) into a plate or mug.   (My mother-in-law had a beautiful hors d’oevre plate emblazoned with a vivid shooting scene made by a young grandson, for example.)

But my kids and I tried to come up with things that could be completely made at home.

Our first effort was a set of “pomanders”.  These are those oranges stuck with cloves.  Supposedly, people like to stick them in drawers to make the drawers smell nice (and not just to hide the pomanders.)

Pomanders are not a terribly satisfying gift.  For one thing, they are much harder to make than they look.  This is probably not surprising because they look incredibly unimpressive.

We moved on from pomanders to home-made Christmas ornaments.  Did you know that you can bake playdoh?  You can, but shouldn’t.

If you do not heed this warning (let’s say, because you have no viable sense of smell), you can make some hard-baked cute little blue animals and yellow stars.  Remember to leave holes for strings or ribbons with a scissors point or sharp pencil before baking.

Ornaments made from cardboard, colored foil, and glitter (lots and lots and lots of glitter), instead of playdoh,  might work out better if you ever want to use your oven again.

Speaking of baking, one of our most enterprising home-made gifts was a gingerbread house.   My kids did a few of these at school fairs with graham crakers, canned frosting, and all kinds of gumdrops.   These were pretty artificial constructions, however, built with artificial stuff over milk cartons; strictly inedible.   Finally, we graduated to the real thing.  A gingerbread house baked from dough rolled out into matching rectangles, i.e. walls.

The walls were to be stuck together with sugar glue, not elmers, and, most impressively, were to have stained glass windows, made from powdered hard candy.  (Put the hard candy in plastic wrap and hit it with a hammer.)

The project was both amazingly time-consuming and nervewracking.  A great deal of extra frosting and an unexpected interior wall was needed in the end, as were several books to hold the walls in place until all the sugar and frosting cemented (about twelvehours)

The end result was amazing.  A lit candle could be put inside, and the stained glass windows (not blocked by the unanticipated interior wall) shimmered.  It also, eventually, tasted quite good.  (Gingerbread has a long shelf life.)

As a final note, if you can’t manage a homemade present, kids can at least make wrapping paper.  Potatoes can be carved into great printing tools,  fingerpaint substituting for ink.    (If the potatoes don’t work, “hand” fingerprinted wrapping paper is also pretty terrific.)

Observations – Teenage-People, Child-People, Adults

December 12, 2009

Some people are born teenagers.  This is not to say that they don’t age and grey—sometimes with unfortunate clothing and very heavy make-up—but only that they have a certain kind of self-centeredness that focuses their whole lives.  They want what they want with little apology, their sense of entitlement profound enough to smother most glimmerings of guilt.  They can be antic and fun, spoiled and indolent.  They are pretty good at “moving on” from sadness and loss, less good at moving on from a perceived offense; a certain narcissism (which is different from self-confidence) makes the offenses of others feel pretty serious, also making forgiveness come hard.

Some people are born children; usually “good” children.  As good children, they  crave approval so much that the absence of it (a simple silence) can feel like implied castigation.  Child-people want to feel taken care of, by a benign fate as well as a loved one.   (Often, this doesn’t happen; the child-people are concerned enough about pleasing that they tend to do a fair amount of caretaking.)  Even so, always in search of signs of such care, they look for “silver linings,” justifications, explanations, nuance.  They can hardly bear not finding what’s “right” about something wrong, and go through endless convolutions trying to make it right.   This convolution makes it difficult for such child-people to make decisions, an abstract difficulty magnified by the obstacles child-people have identifying their own needs.  A sense of entitlement not natural to them, they need “permission” to satisfy their needs.  Because others may not be paying close attention to these needs  (the teenage-people in their lives, for example), the child-people may have a hard time getting this permission.

Some people are born adults.  They can make thoughtful decisions, understanding the concept of cutting losses.  They are happy to help others, but also understand the airplane rules of the dangling emergency oxygen mask (put your own mask on first.)   They also understand the limitations of help (i.e. that the helpee must be willing and able to be helped.)

Each of these types of people can be happy, indifferent, troubled, content.  (Well, I don’t know about content.)

In Search Of Saddle Shoes, Catholicism, Advent Calendars,

December 9, 2009

Two things I dearly wished for as a child were (i) to be Catholic, and (ii) to have saddle shoes.

They both represented a certain organization in my mind.  (Not organization, as in the Church, or Thom McCann;  organization in the sense of order, structure, rhythm.)

Catholicism was represented  by the couple of Catholic families on my street.  These each had enough children to require regimentation.  Rooms were shared; chores were assigned; eating was done only at meals, which were also on a kind of rota.  Fish sticks, of course, on Friday—these were not a particular source of envy.  Spaghetti on Saturdays.  The smell of the sauce emanated from my Catholic neighbor’s kitchen for hours, an unseen tomatoey aura that seemed to heighten the heavy greens of our semi-rural suburbia.  My Catholic friend, Susie, came out afterwards with sunsetty orange stains around her mouth.

Saddle shoes seemed in my mind to be Episcopalian.  (At least, the two girls I knew who wore them were.)  The mothers of these girls, like the Catholic mothers, did not work outside the home.  Less stressed than the Catholic mothers  (fewer children),  they wore their hair with either a schoolgirlish flip or bound in braids, and, on their feet,  trim white anklets.  (Seriously, anklets.)   They organized Brownies, Girl Scouts, volunteer stuff.  This, plus the anklets, seemed to give them a clear edge in the saddle shoe department:  they knew where to buy them.

I had a working mother, a rarity back then.  Yes, she made spaghetti sauce, but not for hours.   She wore hose.  And was too busy, and guilty (like many working mothers), to maintain a clear structure of delegated tasks.

As I grew older, a working mother myself, my childhood envy of Catholicism and saddle shoes spread to Advent calendars.  Setting aside all religious elements, Advent calendars represented patience, organization. If you’re going to have an Advent Calendar for your kids, you need to keep it in a special place,  consult it every day, only allow one little square to be opened at a time.

I tried.  But some  of us veer towards the energetic rather than systematic.  We squeeze things in, eating when we are hungry,  reading a book all night long.  We can hardly wait to wrap a present before we give it, make spaghetti sauce from a jar.  And will likely never ever get to wear saddle shoes.

Awww…

ps – for anyone who doesn’t know (I find this hard to imagine), saddle shoes are those beautiful, cow-like, curvy, black and white, or brown and white oxfords.