Weekdays

A mother duck hustling her brood up the driveway. Frozen drinks. Fuchsia colored peonies. A sleeping baby in her carseat…

These are the things that make my weekdays ok.

On our busiest days, Iris and I spend a lot of time in the car. We take Carl to work at 10. We might stop on the way home to pick up whatever random thing we need that somehow didn’t make it onto last week’s shopping list. If I’m lucky, Iris falls asleep in her carseat and her morning nap runs long enough for me to park her in the living room and put away the laundry or wash a few dishes. She barely has time to wake up and eat before we have to zip out to shuttle Carl from work to his PT, where his appointments are now so long and intensive that it no longer makes sense to wait in the parking lot. We drive home. I eat. We pick up Carl and take him back to work. It’s mid afternoon now, and I’m wiped. Having napped so long earlier, Iris isn’t very interested in napping now. It’s also almost 90 degrees. I strip her down to her diaper, turn on the fan, and lie next to her on the floor, pretending that she’ll go to sleep anyway. She gurgles and kicks me gleefully. When hunger kicks in we enter this weird twilight zone of nursing and dozing that lasts until Carl texts to say he’s ready to be picked up, and I’m not quite sure whether or not I slept but I must have slept because it’s now too late to set out that steak to defrost, so I’m going to have to improvise something else for dinner when we get home.

Busy and not busy. My body is moving, working, sustaining life at all times, but my mindscape is wide open—if a bit foggy from lack of sleep. I think a lot. I process.

It’s good.

Although I think I’m going to punch the next person who tells me to “sleep when the baby sleeps.” If I did that we would both be roadkill.

Ants & other Small Matters

I didn’t kill an ant today.

It dropped out of some peonies I gathered this morning, the armload of white and ruffled blooms fresh from the garden’s morning sunbath. It seemed a shame to waste the flowers, since Carl is too unsteady to risk the crumbling steps out back and Iris too fidgety to enjoy sitting out on the lawn with me.

I brought them inside and trimmed the stems and arranged the blooms in a square, shallow glass bowl that I set on the center of the table. Iris being asleep, I decided to do a little writing, enjoying the sweet, heavy scent of the flowers at the same time.

And then an ant dropped out.

I don’t go looking for insects to kill, but I generally do kill the ones I find in the house. Spiders, ants, earwigs. I know they all have a part to play in the great circle of life, but I have never been fond of the living room floor as wild savannah motif. I don’t want to think of them hiding out in the closet, scuttling up the sleeve of the sweater I’m about to put on.

So I dashed to the living room for a tissue, came back, and… laughed.

The ant was standing about three inches from the flower bowl, tense and poised, his tiny antennae going up and down like a kung fu fighter raising and lowering his guard. Then he made a dash for the edge of the table. Scooted out to the very edge. Flicked a leg down the side, and pulled it back to safety. A no go. Went scouting the other way.

Poor ant! Just a worker, doing his job among the arced ruffles of the peony blooms. He didn’t ask to be on a flower that got cut. He didn’t know he was In My House. Frankly the notion of a house this size would be incomprehensible to an ant… assuming ants comprehend.

Of course, now that I’d actually gotten a good look at him, imagined his life and the confusion of having one’s work environment suddenly transplanted to a foreign country and laughed at his kung fu cuteness, killing him was totally out of the question.

So I didn’t.

I put him outside, feeling a bit sad that having lost his own trail he would probably never find his way home. Odysseus, I thought, trying to make his prospects seem less mournful—or at least bring some gravity to the moment.

I liked that ant, and the more I thought about him the more I liked him.

… Coming back to this post a few days later, still ruminating on my Facebook encounter with the feminism-hating pastor, I like the ant even more.

It’s so easy to get caught up in killing the things you’re brought up to kill.

It’s easy not to think in general. To imagine that the boundaries you live by are a universal standard for all of life, and to see the lives and pursuits of others as being rather small, insignificant—even “cute”—compared to the obvious importance of your own… what? blogging?

I appreciate that ant.

I need more of those moments.

 

Thou Annointest My Head with EVOO

Iris has cradle cap—a mild case, it’s true, but enough of the little scalies that I decided it was time to act. The scales first appeared as a minor dusting on her forehead. Dry skin, I thought, rubbing a little unscented baby lotion in. They never turned into that awful crusty stuff some babies get (knock on wood), but they were definitely THERE. And they seemed to be spreading.

I tried a tiny smidge of dandruff shampoo, which only seemed to result in the entire top of her scalp turning into one of those dry riverbeds you see in artsy photo mags, cracked tiles of flakiness.

I googled. I talked to her pediatrician. I solicited for remedies from friends.

Olive oil was the only unanimous answer.

Which sounded like crazy talk, so I kept searching but nothing popped up with the same regularity as a little squeeze of extra virgin olive oil. The acreage on her scalp was increasing by the day, so I finally gave in (although I resisted the urge to paste it on with a pastry brush). Just a few generous dabs with my fingers, let her sit in her bouncy seat for ten minutes or so while I did the dishes, and then into the bath. It was all very biblical.

And you know what? IT WORKED!

For like three whole days. I just noticed yesterday that the scaling is coming back, although in more limited areas. She’s about due for another bath, so we might give it a try again. But I’m not sure I’m up for weekly olive oil dousings. I guess it’s better than the scalies. Truly, parenthood is an exercise in least-worst-choice scenarios.

At least she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s the Esther Williams of three month olds, grinning and wiggling in the tub.

Cute, cute stuff.

One More for the Files

Well, it’s official: I have now unfriended every pastor on my Facebook friends list.

This is both true and highly overblown, as I only ever had 2 pastor friends on Facebook. I unfriended the first last year after some incredibly unsavory remarks about Mexican immigrants in a discussion he proctored on his wall (remarks I occasionally still think about when I look at my one-quarter Mexican daughter), and I unfriended my second this morning.

We had one of those unproductive and irritating exchanges yesterday—the kind that gets deleted after a few hours, leaving people scratching their heads at all the response posts that remain, responding heatedly to empty space. Wavering between amusement and irritation, I posted my own status update:

I used to be astonished by the number of misinformed and antagonistic people there are in the world. Then I realized I was a feminist Christian.

The pastor immediately commented below: Or maybe we just disagree [smilie].

I love a good difference-of-opinion caveat, and I’m being totally sincere about that. I appreciate it when people can see past their own opinions enough to grant that others might view things differently. I love the step back and deep breath approach to touchy subjects, and mostly I like the idea of getting on with life and allowing other people to do the same.

Unfortunately, the difference of opinion move comes with a few requirements.

Actually…. just one: you have to be discussing opinions. It’s hard to have a difference of opinion about a basic fact.

Yesterday, my pastor ex-friend posted a link to a CNN article and wrote a long couple of paragraphs about feminism including the real humdinger: “To the modern feminist, the pinnacle of womanly achievement is the ability to abort your baby and free birth control.”

Since I couldn’t think of a single feminist who would affirm that statement, I capped this fascinating quote and asked what feminists he had read that led him to this conclusion.

His response: I would reverse that question: what feminists have you read that would NOT lead you to this conclusion?

And then things got ugly, because I told him about the books I’d been reading and he never did give me a title of any books he’d been reading or how he came to his conclusion. Feminism can never offer the freedom of Christ! He said. I agree! I said, but it’s a bit like calling your auto mechanic a failure because you’ll never love him as much as you love your kids. You can’t fault it for failing to deliver something it never offered. Feminism is a tool, not a religion.

The closest I ever got to an explanation for his view of feminism was that all feminists agree that reproductive rights are important (which, by the way, is somewhat different from abortion) and Antonia Senior’s quote that the two concepts “cannot be separated.”

Just because two concepts cannot be separated doesn’t mean they’re interchangeable, I said, trying to find an explanation that might mean something to him. You can’t separate the idea of Christianity from the idea of hell, but that doesn’t mean that the ultimate expression of Christianity IS hell.

(For the record, I do realize there are Christians who do not believe in hell. In the same way, there are also feminists who do not believe that abortion is morally acceptable. We were talking about the mainstreams of both movements).

Anyway. That’s about the time I stopped talking to him, posted my own irritated status update, and went to make dinner (steak with cauliflower and Brussels sprout gratin, because Carl has always claimed that he HATES Brussels sprouts, which of course can only be viewed as a personal challenge. Ladies and gentlemen: he liked the gratin. It had a full cup of cream and a full cup of parmesan, but I wanted to start with something at the outer limit of Brussels territory. We can titrate back from there).

And then I saw the pastor’s comment. Or maybe we just disagree [smilie].

Sigh.

No. I’m sorry. That just isn’t going to work for me anymore. Because this isn’t personal, this isn’t some fine distinction between friends. This is you, living in a fantasy world where it apparently makes sense that some guy who dislikes feminism has the right to decide what it means to be feminist. That’s so mind numbingly stupid, I just can’t waste my brain cells with it any more.

One more quote for the files….

I’m not sure why I tend to catalogue all the ridiculous [hateful] statements I come across. I think I started doing it to convince myself the sexism was real, because I felt my way to feminism pretty blindly, growing up in an environment that vehemently denied male privilege (letters requesting funds from my alma mater now call me Mrs. Carl Johnson on the envelope and misspell my name inside, which I take as a passive aggressive reminder that I have NEVER donated). I’ve long since convinced myself, but I keep storing the comments away, imagining they’ll be useful someday. Maybe for writing. Maybe for understanding.

In the mean time, I unfriend. My own private protest against people who abuse their spiritual authority to slander people and movements they have never bothered to understand. Whether that serves any useful purpose is actually a matter of personal opinion.

You are free to disagree with me on that one.

Our First

Yesterday, while we were nursing, Iris stopped out of the blue. Looking up at me intently, she said goo. Then she said it again. Each time with great deliberation, like a four-year-old lining up sand shells at the beach. Or a gambler with a full house. Goo. Goo. Goo.

Goo, I said, smiling back at her.

Goo, she said.

We said it to each other for a minute or so and then, with a funny little smile all to herself, she went back to eating her lunch.

I think we just had our first conversation.

My Cute Little Hobby

Nothing like starting the day off with a bang. Ok, for you Eliot fans, it did actually start with a 5:45am whimper, but that wasn’t why I was working up a good rant well before breakfast.

It started with the text ding on Carl’s phone.

I routinely ask Carl about his text and phone conversations because I’m an addict, and I need to know everything that everyone thinks about everything (and everyone). Carl humors me because he’s cool like that. Also because privacy is a total waste of time in our home. We are both astoundingly uncreative when it comes to passwords and use a predictable set of variations on the same ones we’ve used since high school. Carl can sign into any of my accounts. Probably the majority of my family could too.

Anyway.

Turns out it was a coworker who’s apparently thinking about having a baby and was curious about maternity leave policies and thought that, since we’d just had a baby, maybe we’d know something she didn’t. Carl had to use sick days for paternity leave (which ended up also being medical leave, but whatever). I guess they don’t offer maternity leave, he said, reading another text.

That’s illegal, I said promptly.

And then it occurred to me that I didn’t really know exactly what was or wasn’t legal, and since I was nursing anyway and my iPod was handy, I decided I had nothing better to do than start reading about maternity laws.

Just rockin’ the cradle while rockin’ the world

That’s when I got irritated. Turns out that I was right, it is illegal to refuse a woman’s request for maternity leave (certain restrictions apply). But nobody said anything about paid maternity leave. That’s totally optional.

A woman has the right to keep her job while pregnant, and a woman has the right to take up to 12 weeks of unpaid maternity leave. (Some restrictions apply).

How very far we’ve come.

You have the right to not be fired.

According to Fit Pregnancy, “Out of 173 countries worldwide, the United States is one of only five that doesn’t guarantee paid leave to give birth and care for a newborn.” That’s right. We come in neck-and-neck with Papua New Guinea on this one.

Under no circumstances would this be ok, but it’s also fails the basic logic test. Take our situation. Carl was able to work enough from home to stay on salary, but he could have taken advantage of the short term disability offered by his place of employment if he’d needed it. They offer short term disability, but they don’t “have any policy” about maternity leave?

I understand we’re a country enamored of Atlas Shruggery, and I can hear all the usual soundbites about free rides and honest days’ work, but let’s do the math, shall we?

1. Women represent less than half of the workforce
2. The average American woman has 2-3 children
3. The average American worker works a total of 5-15 different jobs

They spend more on birthday parties than they would ever spend on maternity leaves, I ranted as we pulled into the parking lot. Carl agreed. He said he already told his coworker that she could sign him up for any protest she cared to organize. I said I’d make picket signs and carry Iris around in the Baby Bjorn for extra oomph.

I think I discovered your next blog post, Carl said.

In my feminist utopian novel, I said, this would NEVER happen.

I am always threatening to write a feminist utopian novel, which I am, sadly, never actually writing. Although I do spend a fair amount of time mulling over the social structure necessary to make things run smoothly, and one of the primary rules of its social organization is this:

The bearing, rearing, and educating of children is one of the basic tasks any society must manage in order to survive.

Or, as I increasingly want to snap at the geniuses who run (or just wish they ran) our country:

Having babies is not actually a cute little hobby of mine.

That’s pretty much how our the majority of people seem to treat the issue. A hobby or personal enrichment course. That’s how people can pretend there’s a difference between short term disabilities and childbirth. Well, she chose to have children so she needs to be responsible for them. Basically, it ranks on the legitimacy scale somewhere between breaking your leg and liking to scrapbook.

For sure: having babies is a uniquely rewarding and totally natural part of a woman’s life cycle. Also for sure: those cute little babies will provide the labor (and tax revenue) that will sustain this country for the next 40 years.

Apologies in advance, but the more sentimental people wax about children and mothering instincts the more skeptical I get. Yes, I played with dolls when I was little, and, yes, I love being a mom, but there are plenty of boys who threw balls around when they were little who probably just LOVE being football players with multimillion dollar contracts now.

(I feel a poem coming on. I call it “The Angel in the Big House”).

“I make food!” “I make houses!” “I make taxpayers!”

Last time I checked “loving your work” meant you’d found the right career, not “you do not deserve to be paid.” So for all the natural crap you want to talk about my brain’s “wiring,” I’m going to have to go all Thomas Mann on this one.

Everything is political.

Unfortunately, I’m not particularly interested in politics, but IN MY FEMINIST UTOPIA, people with stressful and socially significant jobs will be trained appropriately for them and then compensated for doing them well. Women who love children, give birth to them, educate and raise them to adulthood will be financially compensated, not as welfare but because they earned it. I’m thinking a stipend per child (with a cap, obviously), something that works out to an average American income for a mom of three or four. If you’re concerned about all the money this would cost, don’t be. In my utopia all they’ve done is cut out the middlemen (or middle women, as the case may be). Instead of paying someone else to watch your kid in daycare and then paying a bunch of other people to educate her YOU will be equipped to care for and educate your own child. What a novel thought.

And for those who want to have children without investing quite that much into the project, I have another novel thought: shack up with someone who does.

The truth, of course, is that as long as we’re a wealthy society we will always pay more for entertainment than we will for things we make a point of taking for granted. (Surprise!) But if cutting out primary education and large chunks of secondary doesn’t free up enough cash (at a yearly budget of around 600 billion), what about tapping into the phenomenal and embarrassing amount of money that goes into our entertainment industry (an additional 700 billion)? If wealth redistribution is a problem for you, then we may have hit a sticky point because unfortunately that’s how government works. They take a portion of your money and give it to other people whose services they deem worthy. You can be mad about the amount they take or who they give it to, but wealth redistribution is just one of those civilization 101 things.

(But best of luck with your moon colony).

Clearly, this feminist utopia is right on track to exist nowhere except in my own mind, but I like to think it’s one of the rare social systems that would actually allow for gender equality.

Maybe someday when I’m not working 120 hour weeks for the sheer love of my work, I’ll even write a book about it.

The Garden in May

I found this garden stone after the lawn guys came the first time and bushwhacked the long grass at the very back of the backyard. Another one of those things that are not exactly my taste, yet perfect just as they are. I’ve decided there’s something a bit sterile about a space that is 100% to your taste. How dull.

I’ve also noticed that every time I move a stone in the yard roughly one thousand insects come pouring out.

These observations may be related.

Then again, the motto is just about right for the state of our gardening adventure. We’ve got lots of dreams for backyard barbecues and parties, sun lounging and croquet tournaments… but these days we’re still just me, pulling weeds here and there, drawing up plans, keeping an eye on the budding peonies.

Heavy dreaming stuff.

My goal is to have our first garden party for my birthday in September, but we’ll have to see what the summer holds and when Carl gets back on his feet. I did, however, finally start that garden journal I’ve been meaning to start since January. Just a brown parchment style journal, a roll of tape, a sharpie, and some snapshots. The pages are blank—perfect for sketching possible plans and beds.

I hope I actually keep up with it (I am, sadly, the Queen of Unfinished Projects), but given my love of scrapbooking, I think there’s a chance that I may. And maybe especially because it’s supposed to be raw and slapdash—no embellishments or finishing touches required. Just snaps taped and labeled, dreams shared.

In less etherial news, our lawn service guys have been prompt and efficient and pretty much the best thing ever. I could get used to having professionals in my life. The dandelions are even gone. Well, not gone, but at least short enough to no longer be an eyesore.

Ha ha!!! Suburbia accomplished!

Maybe one of these months I’ll actually get around to USING the weed killer I bought for them. We’ll have to see.

The second round of irises in the front garden have bloomed, a luxuriously dense display of purple and white. I’m thrilled to have such a classic color combo and still tickled to discover so many irises in our hand-me-down garden. Iris and this house were just meant to be.

Does anybody know what this last shrub is? We have a set of them separating our drive from our neighbors’ yard (technically, I’m pretty sure the shrubs belong to them, but since nobody’s living there right now, I’m enjoying them without qualm). I love the tiny blossoms, like snow clusters dusting the top of each branch.

Gorgeous stuff.

Your Daily Dose of Cute

No time for super awesome postage as I’ve spent large chunks of the day driving Carl to one of his new, extended PT appointments (he was cleared to start weight bearing at his doctor’s appointment yesterday! Woot! So far he’s able to put about 50 pounds on the ankle with hopes that he’s about on track for an August zero-crutch date). Ok, also I have spent large chunks of the day researching feminsty things. Gonna need dentures after all the teeth gnashing I’ve been through today.

Which is exactly why I need this cuteness as much as you do.

GOSH, I love that face.

Happy Wednesday, everybody!!

Oooo!

A Day of Mothering

We had a good one. Carl used his super daddy powers to put Iris down for her morning nap while I made lemon poppy seed pancakes with strawberries and cream for breakfast.

We were both successful.

Then it was a quiet day for us. Carl got slapped with some last minute projects and had to put in a couple of hours telecommuting from the couch. Iris and I went for a walk and killed a whole mess of zombies in Plants vs. on the iPod. For a girl who never watches zombie movies, I sure do love slaying them. Maybe it’s all the cute peashooter plants. I do like to garden.

We went out for a late lunch to Pei Wei and walked around Archiver’s to look at all the fantastic scrapbookery. I don’t know when I’ll find the time to get back into it, but I did pick up a couple of cute things for Iris’s baby book. So maybe someday…

And then we were off to a family birthday party.

A good day by all counts.

And not to jinx anything, but Iris slept for a 4.5 hour stretch last night, her longest ever. Somebody loves her mommy.