New England Mamas

Thwarted by the Sea

This week - it's mid-November, and I'm trying not to be all, "How did that happen?" but seriously, how did it? - is the week of the annual Leonids meteor shower.  Normally, I read about it, give passing thought to trying to watch it, and then decide that my interest in sleeping outweighs my interest in standing in the back yard craning my neck to catch a glimpse of a burning piece of rock hurtling through the atmosphere.

This year, though, I'm already in meteor-watching shape, having been honed to a razorlike keen ability to be awake for hours every night by several months of pregnancy.  This is not a skill I actively sought, though I'm sure it arouses the frank jealousy of friends and family alike, but rather one I achieved in between bouts of unrelenting morning sickness and the chaos of moving to a new state.  I'm learning that pregnancy in my 30s is a lot different (read: a lot harder) than it was in my 20s.

Anyway, I knew I'd be awake for some portion of the event, so after some consideration I decided to tell my kids about the potential astronomical wonder scheduled for the wee hours.  What's the use of being a total stickler for bedtime and routine if you can't break the rules sometimes?  They - ages 9 and 5 - were both very interested in the concept of being allowed to go wander around outside in the middle of the night, not to mention the chance to see a shooting star outside of a Dora the Explorer cartoon.

They went to bed, I followed a while later, and very dutifully woke up at 2:00 to check the skies.  Clear as glass directly overhead, hazy-building-into-cloudy at the horizon.  Not helpful, since the meteors were supposed to be originating down low in the east (which, having moved from mid-state New Hampshire to Salem, MA, I know where the east is now, what with all that ocean serving as landmark). 

OK, fine, back to bed for a while.  Check again at 4:00... same story.  At 5:00, the entire sky was cloudy, as if to dispel any vague hope of glimpsing one rogue higher-than-average meteor. 

So, a disappointing attempt, to be sure, and reinforcement that it was a seriously good idea to insist that my daughter let me wake her instead of setting her alarm clock.  They slept through the night, and comforted their early-morning disappointment with over-sugared cereal and plans to try to catch the Perseids meteor shower in August.

And I'm left with an inability to feel too horribly upset by it all, because the reason we couldn't see the shooting stars was the haze rising up off the ocean.  If we were still living in New Hampshire, in a house I hated and a town I found soulless and uninteresting, I probably would have been able to see any number of bright streaks of light across the sky.  Having moved, at the last minute due to a dream-job offer for my husband, seems like enough wish fulfillment all by itself.  Someone else can use our wishes from this particular set of shooting stars, we're still basking in the glow of a new life near the sea.

Trying to Come up for Air

Yeah, that writing-every-Tuesday thing?  I haven't been so great at that, have I?

It's not for lack of topics.  I've had a ton going on, and I'm sure much of it could have easily enough been adapted to a New England Mamas sort of slant.  Back-to-school, health concerns, mother-in-law issues... it's been a busy few months. 

And that busy-ness, by itself, is no excuse, because I've been busy for the past several years and anticipate remaining so for the foreseeable future.  I've been able to keep up with my own blog, my children have been clothed and fed, my house is not in complete disarray.  Things are getting done.  And yet somehow I haven't been posting here.

Don't feel too bad; I've been neglecting other pockets of my life, as well.  I've all but stopped reading anything new or interesting; news, novels, magazines, online essays... if it's going to force my brain to accept any expansion whatsoever, I studiously avoid it.  Which is odd for me, because I can recall, once upon a time, enjoying the experience of learning new things and challenging myself.  Now?  No, thanks, I'm good right here with my complacency, thanks.  I've been lackluster in most email correspondance, though my inbox is crammed full of notes that I'll reply to any minute now.  Just you wait.

I think I normally run at a very high level of competency, and in recent months, I've been edging dangerously close to capacity.  Rather than slow down and admit that I'm juggling too much, because I honestly don't know which of these balls I can safely drop for a beat, I have quietly waylaid a few priorities - always things that are important to me, alone, and not especially important to the people around me, because that's what happens to moms, isn't it?  For a while I didn't even recognize that I had laid aside those pursuits, until 11:00 p.m. on a Tuesday would roll by and I would thump myself in the forehead for having forgotten to post, here, again.  Until I make it to the library and discover that the book  I wanted is no longer in the "New Releases" section.  Until I go to reply to an old email and have it bounced back, "unknown address." 

I'm not sure that there will be an immediate solution, but I'm hoping that awareness, and public acknowledgment thereof, is, if not half the battle, at least a reasonable first step. 

House Rules

We have two new people moving in here in three days, including a three-year-old with a good heart but boundless energy and a lot of chaos in her life just lately.  She responds best, as many toddlers do, to simple declarative statements and peer pressure. 

So I've been trying to think through our house rules, trying to articulate some of the main ones before Moving Day. This is what I have so far. 

What are some of yours?  How does your house roll?

Food and drinks stay in the kitchen, with the exception of water.

No singing at the table.

Wrestling and horseplay happens outside, unless Mama is at work, in which case it happens on the living room floor.

We do homework and chores at 4:00 p.m. 

Chores are optional, and are compensated at a dime per chore, deposited into a jar for each kid.   No chores means no allowance, which is how we buy Matchbox cars and treats from the ice cream truck and Pokemon cards and the other necessities of childhood which parents just don't understand.

After meals, we put our own dishes in the sink.  Those able to reach the faucet rinse them off before leaving the room.

No shoes in the house.

We don't hit.  We don't bite.  We don't call names.

Each kid is the boss in his or her own room.  This means that the occupant chooses the activities, the music, and the participants - it is allowed for anyone to say, "I want to be alone," and close the door.  Any activities in public areas (living room, backyard, playroom, minivan) are shared and the nearest available grownup is the boss.

Ask before having a snack.

Mom and Dad's bedroom is off-limits without permission or an adult present.

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Cross posted at One More Thing.

Be a Fan of the Game

I have a lot going on right now, emotionally and professionally and so on, and rather than miss another week of posting here, I'm copying a post from my own blog.  And not only am I copying a post from my own blog, but I'm copying a post that I didn't even write.  My husband did.  But he's close enough to being a New England Mama that he's married to one, so I thought you'd all forgive me...

It’s Sunday night, and we’re in New York City to watch the Yankees and Red Sox play another much-anticipated game.  This will be our first, and quite likely only, trip to Yankee Stadium, since it will be demolished at the end of the year to make way for a new stadium.  As the resident sports nut in the family, this trip is mostly for me, but I’m sure my wife and 3-year-old son will appreciate the spectacle.

I really enjoy attending live sporting events, but I only go a few times a year.  In my entire lifetime, I’ve been to 2 NFL games, and about 10 MLB and 20 NHL games.  So when it happens, I really look forward to it.  But this game is really up there on the coolness meter.  To be able to see, arguably, the best rivalry in American sports, in a famous stadium, on 4th of July weekend – well, that’s pretty cool.

I also have a rooting interest in this game.  I’ve been a Red Sox fan since 1999, the year before our daughter was born.  That summer I was between jobs, and Kate worked from 3pm to 11pm, so I ended up watching a lot of baseball.  I definitely got caught up in the team spirit and the competition.  Since I never watched baseball when I was a kid, the transition was easy – I became a Red Sox fan.

Back then, Boston was the city that could not win a championship (in any sport).  They were the Lovable Losers.  The rivalry with the Yankees wasn’t much of a rivalry at all – the number of World Series championships between 1918 and 2000 was 26-0 in favor of New York.  Since then, however, the teams have been much more evenly matched.  I’m happy to say that since 2000, Boston has won the World Series twice, while New York has come up empty.

The main motivation for this post is in that last sentence.  Like most Red Sox fans, I want the Yankees to lose.  I want them to finish in last place.  I want them to be the laughingstock of the league.  However, I am not like most Red Sox fans in that I choose not to broadcast this hatred on a daily basis.  First and foremost, I enjoy the game of baseball, and I appreciate a good play, no matter which team benefits.

This has been a problem in Boston for the past decade.  We have become a city of Yankee Haters.  This attitude has spilled into other sports as well.  It’s no longer sufficient to say, “my team is the best.”  The Boston fan must add, “and your team sucks.”  Those of you who live in New England are probably well aware of this.  It is poor sportsmanship, and I choose not to take part.

Especially in the other team’s stadium.  It’s not about avoiding a fight behind enemy lines, it’s about respecting the game.  I’ll wear my team’s colors and cheer their successes, but I refuse to jeer the opposition.  I hope that other Red Sox fans will do the same. Enjoy the evening at a famous ballpark. Experience one of the few remaining American pastimes. Be a fan of the game.

Lawn Seats

My daughter was a well-traveled toddler. 

At 11 months, she spent a week or so in Holland.  The first three days were m-i-s-e-r-a-b-l-e, to the point that, by the third night, I turned to my husband and announced, "I am walking home tonight.  Enjoy the rest of your vacation."  But after that, she figured out the whole jet-lag/time-change thing and was a delight. 

We took trips to the beach, trips to New York, trips to the Maritime Provinces.  We went to concerts, and art museums, and aquariums.  We visited family.  We did stuff.

My son?  Not so much.  Second-child syndrome attacked, though it really wasn't about the birth order.  When he was born, I was a full-time doctoral student and my husband was a high school teacher.  We were brokety-broke-broke-broke.  We were also living in an isolated town over in western New Hampshire, cute enough to look at but more than an hour from anywhere else.  Even back in the day when a tank of gas wasn't a major investment, driving anyplace meant a full day trip, not a quick trip in and home before naptime.  It just didn't happen.

And then, last summer, things started to change.  We realized we could afford the little trips again, and that, having moved over near the Seacoast, we were within easier reach of more stuff.  It's still a bit remote, but less than half the distance to Boston and a good trebuchet could get you to the beach from here.

So we went camping, and we started paying attention to the touristy stuff and the opportunities that came through.  And this weekend he's going to his first big-name concert.  Never mind that, by this age, Emily had already seen Blues Traveler, Duncan Sheik, Seven Mary Three, Godsmack and the Barenaked Ladies.  (Not all at the same time.  Can you imagine?)  Jacob, at three, is starting a little bit late, but I think that the Dave Matthews Band is a good first concert for anybody.  At any age.

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Cross-posted at One More Thing.

Score One for the Seacoast Growers Association

HE SAYS:  I have the whole summer off.  I want to start a garden in the back yard.  We should eat more vegetables, and they'd be organic, local, you know.  Trendy.  And cheaper than the grocery store, right?

SHE THINKS:  Oh, you silly man.  You have no idea how much work a garden is.  Simply getting the ground broken and tilled and ready is a big project, not to mention measured out and somehow fenced or otherwise protected from the small creatures that inhabit the yard - and that's just the children.  We don't even know what kinds of animals are in the neighborhood, except for cats.  And cats are bad in gardens, because they like to deposit cat droppings therein, which are not nicely compostable and helpful like, say, cow droppings.  We'd have to start from plants, not seeds, because of how far into the season we already are, which will be much more expensive and high-maintenance.  And we're traveling or having company every weekend but two this year.  When will we have time to do the silly things like watering, weeding, thinning out?  By the way, we're planning to move next summer.  The back yard is already not very large, and adding a garden plot could make it seem smaller, not to mention being a lot of work for something we'll only use for one season.  There's space for a vegetable garden near my dream house, I just know it.  And a good, healthy blackberry bramble.   Here, we don't have the space for storing canned goods, so we'll waste untold quantities of zucchini and the lettuce will be wasted on you anti-salad savages, anyway. 

SHE SAYS:  Good idea.  Or we could just make a habit of going to the farmer's market once a week instead.

HE SAYS:  Hmm.  OK.

A Soccer Mom Walks Into a Bar

Last night, for the first time in several months, I was able to go out to the Monday night knitting group at a bar a few towns over.  I used to attend regularly, and then Willem's class schedule got in the way, so we comforted ourselves with a smaller gathering at my house to watch cheesy television and bang small pointy sticks together with string.  But the school year is over, and despite my tendency toward low-grade social anxiety and plain old inertia, I do enjoy getting out and being part of the group.

So I packed up and headed out, with a quick stopover at Emily's softball field to deliver winter coats and gloves to the kids, because there's no reason to assume that, by May 19, the weather would actually be warm enough for outdoor activities.  I arrived at the bar right around 7:00, and was the first of the group there.

It turns out that only myself and Gretchen actually showed up last night.  I'm fairly certain this was not evidence of a conspiracy.  And it's just as well, because our normal table, the only one with decent lighting, was coopted by a man and his MacBook, and no amount of subtle glaring and telepathic messaging convinced him to get up and leave.

Instead, I took a seat on one of the couches surrounding a coffee table at the front of the bar.  The couches are low, with the kind of long, overstuffed seats that make you lean way back and consider napping; not what I would choose when I expect people to want to sit up and reach their drinks on the table, but this is not the only example of how things would be different if I ran the world.  I'm coping.

I sat down alone, got myself a glass of Riesling (and felt appropriately smug and grown-up to have been able to order a wine by name and not promptly spit it back out).  When I returned to my couch, a young man - perhaps 25? - had taken a seat at the couch opposite me.  We exchanged the eye contact and nod, like you do, and I started knitting.  Gretchen appeared shortly afterward, and we chatted.

It took me a while to realize that the guy on the other couch was paying a lot more attention to me than to his magazine.  No-pages-turned sort of attention.  And then he started making small talk, about the music and the weather and the strange little bar dog - a springer spaniel, small but not puppyish, who seemed to feel right at home - who wandered over and curled up next to me on the couch, because we all know how much I love dogs.  Later, he started talking about the beer he was drinking, and how good it was, and it was clear that an offer to buy me a drink was imminent.

Let me be perfectly clear: I am not a person that gets hit on in bars.  I don't even go to bars very often, but when I do, I bring myself.  My almost-31-year-old, 20-pounds-overweight, mother-of-two, married-and-boring, pleasant-but-not-beautiful self.  I'm not unhappy with the way I look, and I don't dress provocatively or in a way intended to draw attention.  I'm just me, and that's fine.  And me is not a ruthless sexual weapon.

Beyond appearances, my whole life centers around work - which I very rarely discuss in public - and family.  I dropped Willem's name in conversation frequently, not as a warning to the guy on the couch, just because he features so prominently in my life that if I tried not to include him, I wouldn't have much else to say.  I talked about the kids.  And just in case I wasn't sending off sufficient Married-Boring-Mom vibes on my own, Gretchen was going out of her way to use phrases like "your husband" in conversation, as well.

So it was all very strange.  Not uncomfortable, never inappropriate or offensive, just strange.  I think I rolled with it pretty well, and I was prepared to decline a drink from a stranger because somehow that sends off a certain implication that idle chatter does not.  It never became an issue, because once it was clear the rest of the group was not meeting that night, we left to go to Gretchen's and watch cheesy television and bang small pointy sticks together with string.

But it was odd, and if there had been a way for me to ask, "What are you doing?" without sounding freaked-out or offended, I would have.  Because I was neither freaked out nor offended, but I was curious and a little baffled.  I'm so out of practice that I didn't even realize it was happening, at first.  My harmless-flirting muscles have atrophied through disuse.

This is OK with me.

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Cross-posted at One More Thing.

Sports Personalities

Springtime in New England... the grass begins to take on a faintly greenish hue, the weather only dips below freezing a few nights a week, the birds' feet have thawed out enough to allow them to bombard the birdfeeders with a desperation that is simultaneously sad and hilarious. 

It's also the time of year when outdoor sports become a possibility.  It's not a comfortable, fun excuse to run around in the warm sunshine just yet - that's June - but it does provide the option of sending your children outside in light clothes without risking a visit from Social Services. 

When my daughter was four years old, she fell out of her twin-sized, regulation-height bed onto her carpeted floor and broke her collarbone.  Snapped the sucker right in two.  That put a damper on her ability to participate in any activity that might include physical contact for several months, and it put a damper on my willingness to let her risk that sort of activity for several more.  Then we got caught up in the frenzy which is packing and moving across the state, and thus she was five before we ever considered signing her up for an organized, team sport.

She had already taken beginner swimming lessons, and would continue to do so, but we wanted her to be a member of a team.  There were so many things she could learn: camaraderie, cooperation, patience, shared objectives, small-fish-big-pond...  And, with a little luck, a smidgen of grace and physical self-confidence, both of which her mother lacks in significant quantities. 

So we talked it over, her father and I, and very quickly landed on soccer.  Minimal equipment to start, straightforward rules, the cuteness of a cluster of toddlers bonking off each other on a pretty, green field.  Emily got all dressed in her t-shirt and shorts, shin guards and sneakers, and off we went.

It was a smashing failure.  Emily, for all of her intensity and forcefulness of personality, is not a physically aggressive kid.  In many ways, this is a good thing: we've worked hard to create a violence-free household and we don't want her to push and shove her way to the front of every line.  But in soccer ways, she's too passive; she falls back away from the ball, doesn't run toward her own goal, flinches whenever another player gets too close.  She never scored one goal, the whole summer season, and when asked what her favorite thing was, she replied, "Sitting on the sidelines drinking juice." 

The next summer, then, we cast about for a different team sport.  Emily loves, loves the idea of being on a team, and had experienced the same sort of dementia that I'm having now, when I want to have another baby and have forgotten the frustrating and disappointing aspects of the whole process: "Soccer was great!  I loved it!  It was so much fun!  I was really good at it!"  Self-esteem is not a problem for this child.

After some discussion, we collectively agreed that perhaps she would have more fun in a different sport, and our next attempt has been softball.  She's now in her second season there, and it's going ever so much better.  Softball allows her the physical space she needs to be able to concentrate and not feel intimidated, but still has the team spirit and practice times to help her focus and build some skills that I can't teach her.  I'm not in love with the league, what with the surprise last-minute fees and righteousness of some of the other team parents, but it's working for us.  For now.

We went through a similar trial-and-error process when we wanted to give Emily an outlet from some of her creative energy, of which she has plenty.  Dance lessons were not a success, because, well, she is her father's daughter.   (Have you seen that man dance?)  But art lessons have gone over very well, and provide for a good wintertime activity.

And now our son is almost four and is entering into the sports mindset, himself.  We're starting with soccer, again, because he insists that he wants nothing but.  He's a far less aggressive child, personality-wise, than my daughter, so it will be very interesting to see whether he is physically more self-confident.  I'll be sure to stock some extra juice for the sidelines, just in case.

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Cross-posted at One More Thing.

 

Walking with Really Large Robots

To further our efforts to create an unrealistic sense of the world, we took the kids to see the "Walking with Dinosaurs" show at the Verizon Wireless Arena in Manchester, NH on Saturday.  Last month's expedition included the Harlem Globetrotters.  Just as soon as we can find a play or show that involves truthful politicians or live-action accounting practices, we'll buy tickets to that, too.

With both the Dinosaurs and the Globetrotters, they put on a decent performance and the kids enjoyed it.  Well, with the Globetrotters they were mildly amused but not enthralled; with the Dinosaurs, their heart rates hovered above 120 beats per minute and they were able to sustain a constant state of slack-jawed amazement through the entire two-hour performance, with a slight break during the too-long pterodactyl flight simulation.  Both were decent shows, and fun family outings , so I can't regret the days out... but neither was quite the mind-blowing, family-bonding experience it could have been.

The Globetrotters tiptoed on a fine line between a story of good old-fashioned rivalry and showmanship, with a tendency to err on the side of theatrics.  I'm not sure my kids even realized that the Washington Generals were there, much less that they were representing an opposing team in an actual game of basketball.  There was just so much ball-spinning and shorts-yanking that the idea of the game was completely lost, which leads me to wonder why they even bother with the storyline.  We all would have been perfectly happy to watch a however-long display of long throws and goofy pranks, without needing to crowd the floor with twice as many players.  The whole thing was especially beyond the attention span of my three-year-old, who was more focused on the cotton candy in the hands of the kid three rows ahead than on the action on the floor.

There was also a sense of disjointed chronology amongst the whole thing.  On the one hand, you havd an old-time goofiness and harmless silly pranks, and on the other hand you have emcee's leading the crowd in "Soulja Boy" and making reference to Beyonce. 

Then you have dinosaurs.  Very detailed costumes and robots wandering around with minimal storyline and maximum roar, so that part was good.  Though they tried to throw in some science, which kind of missed everyone there: those of us old enough to appreciate the science were busily watching the remote-control operators and appreciating the sets, and those young enough to believe that these dinosaurs were as real as Big Bird were too young to understand the science.  I didn't feel like the narrative really enhanced the show, altogether, particularly because most of the audience has a hard time understanding the concept of "next week," much less "millions and millions of years."

But the dinosaurs blew my children's minds.  Even the just-turned-eight-year-old, who spent the week prior lecturing her three-year-old brother about how, "They aren't real, you know.  They're just fake.  Just people dressed up like dinosaurs, or statues, or something."  Even she bought into the show, which really was the whole point.

From the Outside

I spent several hours early Sunday morning at my workplace, the Emergency Department of a local hospital.  I do mental health assessments: crisis and placement evaluations for people who are suicidal, homicidal, psychotic, anxious, depressed, unsafe in some central way, confusing or overwhelming for their loved ones, really anything and everything that isn't quite medical in nature that might land someone in paper clothes and a room without a television for several hours.  I know the codes to the back doors, how to find the non-generic soda, which doctors are better and which are better avoided. 

But on Sunday, I went in the front door, and checked in at the front desk instead of ducking in the back. I was wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, my hair unbrushed, eyes bleary.  I wasn't working on Sunday; I was hurrying in with a wheezing, barking, panicking three-year-old with, as it turns out, pneumonia. 

Membership does, indeed, have its privileges, and the fact that I'm at least on the periphery of the in-crowd amongst the staff meant that we were whisked directly to a private room and seen by the head of the ED.  This is not to be taken for granted on a holiday weekend - even if we don't have a booming Jewish population, locally, there is still more quality-slash-crazymaking family time and alcohol consumption on Passover than a non-holiday - and a full moon, which hospital staff persistently believes causes more incoming traffic.  It was a busy night, with people in the hallways, and while I do admit to some guilt at our special treatment, it wasn't enough guilt for me to decline the opportunity to get away from the crowds. 

After the initial exam and the x-rays and the nebulizer and consultations, the doctor came back in with a diagnosis and discharge instructions.  He looked at me oddly, and finally said, "You know, I wasn't sure it was you, coming in.  I recognized the name, of course --" [we are the only Lastnames in the phone book, always] "-- but I think of you as 22 years old, just out of school.  I had no idea you had a child."

I thought he was kidding.  I have never, in my life, ever been accused of not looking my age.  This is not upsetting to me; maybe someday I'll want to look ten years younger than my actual age, but I've always been content at the assumption that I'm a bit more competent and mature than I actually am.  But he insisted, he really believed I was barely out of training, just starting in the world.  "I guess I would have known you were at least in your mid-twenties, because you've been working here for a while, but I just never pictured you as a mom.  No offense."

I half-laughed at him.  "My daughter just turned eight."  I could actually watch the thought process happen, as his mental image of me aged a decade in seconds.  I sympathized a little, because I know how it goes: you get to know someone in a certain setting, and you forget that they're not always there.  It's similar to the assumption that many of my husband's high school students carried, that he slept under the desk at night and ate chalk for breakfast.  They were always surprised to see him outside of school, like he was getting away with something.

This whole interaction took all of 30 seconds, and yet it has stayed with me.  More than anything, it makes me a little sad.  I want people to see me as more of a mom; I want that lifestyle.  I want to be home more than not, without timesheets and badges and a résumé.  I am grateful that I have a job I can do well, that I have a good reputation amongst my coworkers and a sense of making of difference in the world.  I just don't want to be 22 anymore; almost-31 is better.