I was late to the social-networking party. By nature, I am not the most social of creatures; my idea of a fun Friday evening is dinner with my family, and in bed by 10pm. (Wouldn't you love to hang out with me?)
I've been so busy with the child rearing this past decade, that it wasn't until I got my iPhone that I began to move into the twenty-first century. And while I heard my friends talking about Facebook, I did not have much interest. I am generally not nostalgic about my past (what with the haze of depression), and didn't have much interest reconnecting with old friends. The way I see it, relationships that have dwindled off, did so for a reason.
So I resisted the evangelizing of friends, who told me what fun Facebook was, until Carrie Brownstein, one of my favorite bloggers, musicians, and all around people (although of course I do not know her personally), wrote, in January, on her excellent blog Monitor Mix, that she had joined Facebook. She wrote:
A few months ago, Facebook membership among my friends reached a Gladwellian tipping point. A lot of people who would theretofore never have considered joining a social-networking site caved in, shed their mistrust of visibility and nostalgia, and embraced the concept wholeheartedly. For the two Monitor Mix readers who are not on Facebook, think of it like this: Do you ever wonder what the guy you sat next to in high-school math class is doing? Right now? Well, Facebook answers that question. He is doing his laundry. Yes, it's that exciting.
Not exactly the most ringing endorsement, but it made me laugh, and was an accurate description of where I stood on the subject. Well, if Carrie (I like to call her that, although we've never met) did it, surely I could? I thought about it for a few months more, and eventually, my curiosity got the better of me, and/or I succumbed to peer pressure, and signed myself up.
I am not in love with Facebook. I find it overwhelming. I liken it to shopping at Ikea, in that it is deliberately disorienting. It's like wandering around the showroom looking for the kitchen accessories, and despite what you thought was an excellent sense of direction, you keep finding yourself back in the lighting department. And although you just came to get dishtowels, you end up coming home with a lamp, a chair, and some batteries. And you forgot the dishtowels.
You can get lost in Facebook, and then when you finally look up, bleary-eyed, from your screen, you think, WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE LAST 3 HOURS? I had laundry to do, and dishes to wash, and a really good book to read, and AND NOW IT IS BEDTIME AND I HAVEN'T ACCOMPLISHED ANY OF THESE SIMPLE TASKS.
I also think of it more as Acquaintancebook. For me to consider someone my friend, I have to have slept with you, dined with you, been mat to mat with you in a yoga class, or at some point, engaged in a substantial discussion about one thing or another. And so I sometimes feel disingenuous "friending" people who in reality, I don't know all that well. (Perhaps this is why I don't have many "friends"?)
But I don't think Facebook is all bad. I am glad to know where my my friends from high school are, and that they are happy and thriving, and it has helped me to forge stronger connections with people in my present who have been on the periphery of my life for a long time, who I am glad to get to be knowing better. And of course, it is good for self-promotion.
Soon after I joined Facebook, I decided to look into Twitter. And while I am lukewarm about Facebook, I LOVE Twitter! The short format (140 characters) is limiting, and forces you to be more succinct. Perhaps this has something to do with why I find it less disorienting than Facebook; for me, it is easier to dip in to Twitter without getting lost.
I find the self-limiting nature of tweeting to be a good writing exercise. It reminds me of one of the most challenging, but useful English classes I took in college, where we had to read a book a week, and write a one-page paper on it. Margins, font point, and line-spacing all had to be within a specified range, so you could not cheat. It forced you to choose your words very carefully, and make your argument elegantly.
Essentially, Twitter is a socially acceptable form of stalking. (Although come to think of it, so is Facebook.) Initially I was sheepish about following people I didn't know personally, so for the first few weeks, I spent a lot of time talking to my husband, my brother, and my sister-in-law, which was sort of ridiculous because I can speak to them any time I want.
Once I got over that fear, I found it less daunting to "follow" someone, as opposed to "friend" someone on Facebook. So I follow some of my favorite bloggers, and even a few celebrities. (I don't believe Carrie is on Twitter; I looked.) I followed Tom Waits for a while, but I started to suspect that he wasn't really Tom Waits, because he seemed to spend a lot of time talking about some Twitter specific pyramid scheme, so I un-followed him. (That sort of thing happens a bit on Twitter; it's easy to impersonate a celebrity in cyberspace!) I followed Neil Gaiman for a while, and while I adore his writing, I found him a bit too tweety for me, so I nixed him too. (Nothing personal, Neil; you're still one of the most gifted storytellers I've had the pleasure to read.)
When you first join Twitter, it's common to have Tweeter's block. You can't think of anything witty or clever to say, so you clam up. You spend the first week or so following people and wondering what the point is, and how is it any different that a status update on Facebook. But then you have an Eliza Doolittle moment, and all of a sudden, YOU'RE TWEETING ALL THE TIME! You can't stop, you have so much to say. All the funny thoughts that occur to you throughout the day: tweet, tweet, tweet! It's a bit like being in an infinitely sized room with no walls with a bunch of people who suffer from Tourette's syndrome. You're all running off at the mouth, and every once in a while, you happen to collide with someone else.
It is great for freelancers, or housewives; people who work from home, and spend a lot of time by themselves. Talking into the ether somehow helps you to feel less lonely. It gives a little thrill to see your thoughts blasted out into the ether. On Sunday, I tweeted Delicious spring evening, gentle breeze, Campari + soda. And moments later: Delicious spring evening now being marred by smell of rotting, sulphorous diaper wafting in on the breeze.
Sometimes these tweets take on the flavor of little zen koans: Practical advice: know which way the wind is blowing before shaking out a flour covered towel outdoors.
I also find it a great tool for anger management. I am a little crazy about pedestrians having the right-of-way, and last week as I was crossing Bellevue Avenue with my kids, someone decided to make a left turn. While I was in the middle of the cross walk. With my kids. And I had the right of way. She just kept coming, even though I looked her directly in the eye. I finally held up my hand and demanded she stop, which she did, with much rude gesticulating in my direction. I was so furious, that as soon as we got safely to the other side of the street, I whipped out my phone, and tweeted: One who looks you in the eye as you cross the street with your children, and STILL tries their left turn is called...an ASSHOLE. It took a little work to condense my anger into 140 characters, but once I got it off my chest, I felt much better.
Or this, which I was compelled to write while reading about our former Vice-President: DICK Cheney; never was a man more aptly named.
Tweeting sometimes gives me ideas for blog posts. I got two posts out of items I tweeted this week, while in Costco; one about the store itself, and the other, about SPF, all because as I passed the sunscreen display, I tweeted: Does anyone else think things have gotten out of control w SPF#s?, and the next day, off I went on the blog.
So if you like Facebook, and social-networking in general, I encourage you to join me on Twitter. I am @rollergrl, although I'm thinking of changing that to @njhausfrau, you know, for branding. (@hausfrau is already taken; drat.) In fact, I tweeted last week to solicit people's opinions on whether I should change my screen name, but since I don't have that many followers, no one answered. (I didn't take it personally.) So if you join, then I'll have more real friends to "talk" to.
05 June 2009
04 June 2009
Coffee and cocktails
Since becoming a parent, two rituals have become very important to me; my morning coffee, and my evening cocktail.
I love the coffee for several reasons, chief among which is that it tastes so delicious. The caffeine is nice, but secondary; when I was pregnant with Sacha, I could not metabolize caffeine very well; one cup and I felt like a speed freak. So I switched to a half decaf blend, and have never bothered switching back. It is the ritual that is most sacred to me, and while I would notice a difference in the taste if I switched to decaf, the ritual would still sustain me. I love the silence in the house when I come downstairs, all the kids (hopefully) still asleep, and those few precious minutes alone; with my thoughts, the newspaper, my warm mug, before the chaos of the day begins.
And then there is the evening cocktail. Once you become a mother, and spend great amount of time alone with small children, it becomes clear why so many women were popping tranquilizers half a century ago, and why many mothers drink today.
Again, the ritual of my evening drink is sacred. I start my dinner preparation, pour myself a small glass of wine, or an apertivo, and start cooking. Just as my cup of coffee signifies the start of the day, the evening drink signals that the day is winding down.
So when I read Lisa Belkin's column, A Mother Gives Up the (Wine) Bottle this morning, it gave me pause.
It is about Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, a mother of 3 young daughters, and a blogger and author. Wilder-Taylor writes a blog on Mommytrackd.com called Make Mine a Double: A Tale of Twins and Tequila. Yesterday, she wrote an essay entitled My Sobering Secret in which she held the mirror up to herself, and publicly admitted she has a bit of a drinking problem, and that in late May, she stopped drinking.
Because my evening cocktail is so important to me, I have asked myself on many occasions; do I have a drinking problem? Most nights, I have something to drink while preparing dinner, and maybe a half a glass of wine with dinner. If I've had no wine with dinner, I will sometimes join David for a bit of wine (usually with a piece of chocolate) after the kids go to bed.
For me, the answer to whether or not I have a drinking problem is no, for several reasons. While I look forward to that evening drink, I do not need it, and do not feel deprived if I don't have it. I am none the worse for going without it.
The other reason is that I never drink to excess. Since I have had children, I can remember one occasion, when Sarah was a baby, when I got drunk, and was hungover. It was so unpleasant, I haven't done it since.
The other reason, for me, is that I am always aware of how my behavior, both conscious and unconscious, affects my children. We are extremely powerful, Godlike, in their eyes, and they are watching our every move. There are times when I think I've seen my children whip out their metaphorical notepads, making note of some important bit of evidence, for future reference.
I am not about to offer my children a drink, but I think that if they see me drinking, but not to excess, it will help them to learn, as they get older and begin to experiment with alcohol, that drinking responsibly is not a big deal. I am sure before they leave our nest, they will get good and drunk, and David and I will know it--I can't imagine that a hungover teenager is a very good actor--and we will have to have a TALK, and there will be CONSEQUENCES.
I don't think my either of my parents had a drinking problem, but I can remember many occasions when I knew my father was hungover. (My mother may have been drinking as well, but she was so depressed, it was hard to notice anything else.) But at some point, Mommy explaining that Daddy doesn't feel well this morning no longer rings true. From this, I extrapolated, that unless my mother had not been drinking, and drove home, my father had driven them home drunk. (I also recall, at one point, when I hope to god I was past the age of 21, my father giving me this advice: if you ever have to drive home after having had a bit too much to drink, put your hazards on, and go slowly and stay in the right lane.) This is not the kind of sage parenting advice I hope to pass on to my children.
My father was also a pot smoker, and by the time I was a young adolescent, before I could even conceive that I would ever do such a thing myself, I knew something weird was going on with him. Why did he leave the house for a drive, and come back shortly thereafter looking so odd, with a shit-eating grin on his face? I asked him directly about it, and after skirting the issue for several months, he eventually had a talk with me. I remember his exact words: "Every so often, just to relax, I like to go out and smoke a joint." I believe I was twelve or thirteen when we had this conversation. It was when the scales began to fall from my eyes, because while he may have believed he was doing me a service by being honest, this heart-to- heart did not endear him to me. Instead, I was filled with an uncomfortable, squirming feeling, which I now recognize as one of wild confusion because he was supposed to be an adult, the role model. Needless to say, any further advice he gave me about not doing drugs did not have much authority behind it.
One of the defining moments of my adolescence came shortly after my family moved to New Jersey, from Staten Island. I was a sophomore in high school, not an easy time to move, and I was chronically depressed. (As were, I believe, my parents. But since they did not know this about themselves, how could they have recognized it in me? All they knew was that I was unhappy, and they were desperate to make me happy again.) I spent a weekend back in Staten Island with my old friends, where I proceeded, to literally drown my sorrows by gettiing rip roaring, puke-spewing drunk. I also happened to sleep at the home of some family friends, who saw me come home half-conscious, and alerted my parents.
Once I was home, my parents sat me down at the kitchen table for a talk. I don't remember exactly what was said, but I do remember when my father told me he knew I'd been drinking, that he slapped me across the face. I mustered all the self will I could summon to keep myself from crying at the blow. Certainly, I was shocked, and the punishment clearly did not seem to fit the crime. Discovering that your teenager has drank to excess is an unfortunate rite-of-passage, that in this day and age, parents must brace themselves for. But I do remember thinking very clearly, at that moment, about my father, "You fucking hypocrite."
Raising children is hard work, and lord knows it can drive you to drink. When I was a child, my parents were very unhappy people, and it is hard for unhappy people to raise happy children. My parents are divorced and remarried now, and I think they are both considerably happier, and my children are the beneficiaries of their happier, better-adjusted selves.
A key part of becoming an adult is realizing, slowly, over time, that your parents are not gods; they are imperfect, and all too human. I have my flaws; I could give you a long list of them right now, at the top of which is that I am very judgmental; can't you tell? I am sure I am giving my kids many, many reasons to put themselves on the couch someday. But our children learn by the example we set, and it is our sacred obligation to them to provide the very best example we can.
Life is hard and pain is inevitable, and uncomfortable. We will try to do anything possible we can to avoid it, to anesthetize that pain. Having children brings us face to face with the unresolved pains and conflicts of our childhood, whether we are aware of it or not. If we are blessed to be aware of it, we then have a choice as whether to confront that pain, or run from it screaming. But when we do not confront our pain head on, it comes to haunt us in other ways. Other ways which may, at some point, hurt our children, either directly, or indirectly, in the form of bad habits and negative qualities that we do not want them to inherit. So I have to hand it to Stefanie Wilder-Taylor for being brave enough to hold the mirror up to herself, confront her uncomfortable truth, publicly, and do something about it.
I love the coffee for several reasons, chief among which is that it tastes so delicious. The caffeine is nice, but secondary; when I was pregnant with Sacha, I could not metabolize caffeine very well; one cup and I felt like a speed freak. So I switched to a half decaf blend, and have never bothered switching back. It is the ritual that is most sacred to me, and while I would notice a difference in the taste if I switched to decaf, the ritual would still sustain me. I love the silence in the house when I come downstairs, all the kids (hopefully) still asleep, and those few precious minutes alone; with my thoughts, the newspaper, my warm mug, before the chaos of the day begins.
And then there is the evening cocktail. Once you become a mother, and spend great amount of time alone with small children, it becomes clear why so many women were popping tranquilizers half a century ago, and why many mothers drink today.
Again, the ritual of my evening drink is sacred. I start my dinner preparation, pour myself a small glass of wine, or an apertivo, and start cooking. Just as my cup of coffee signifies the start of the day, the evening drink signals that the day is winding down.
So when I read Lisa Belkin's column, A Mother Gives Up the (Wine) Bottle this morning, it gave me pause.
It is about Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, a mother of 3 young daughters, and a blogger and author. Wilder-Taylor writes a blog on Mommytrackd.com called Make Mine a Double: A Tale of Twins and Tequila. Yesterday, she wrote an essay entitled My Sobering Secret in which she held the mirror up to herself, and publicly admitted she has a bit of a drinking problem, and that in late May, she stopped drinking.
Because my evening cocktail is so important to me, I have asked myself on many occasions; do I have a drinking problem? Most nights, I have something to drink while preparing dinner, and maybe a half a glass of wine with dinner. If I've had no wine with dinner, I will sometimes join David for a bit of wine (usually with a piece of chocolate) after the kids go to bed.
For me, the answer to whether or not I have a drinking problem is no, for several reasons. While I look forward to that evening drink, I do not need it, and do not feel deprived if I don't have it. I am none the worse for going without it.
The other reason is that I never drink to excess. Since I have had children, I can remember one occasion, when Sarah was a baby, when I got drunk, and was hungover. It was so unpleasant, I haven't done it since.
The other reason, for me, is that I am always aware of how my behavior, both conscious and unconscious, affects my children. We are extremely powerful, Godlike, in their eyes, and they are watching our every move. There are times when I think I've seen my children whip out their metaphorical notepads, making note of some important bit of evidence, for future reference.
I am not about to offer my children a drink, but I think that if they see me drinking, but not to excess, it will help them to learn, as they get older and begin to experiment with alcohol, that drinking responsibly is not a big deal. I am sure before they leave our nest, they will get good and drunk, and David and I will know it--I can't imagine that a hungover teenager is a very good actor--and we will have to have a TALK, and there will be CONSEQUENCES.
I don't think my either of my parents had a drinking problem, but I can remember many occasions when I knew my father was hungover. (My mother may have been drinking as well, but she was so depressed, it was hard to notice anything else.) But at some point, Mommy explaining that Daddy doesn't feel well this morning no longer rings true. From this, I extrapolated, that unless my mother had not been drinking, and drove home, my father had driven them home drunk. (I also recall, at one point, when I hope to god I was past the age of 21, my father giving me this advice: if you ever have to drive home after having had a bit too much to drink, put your hazards on, and go slowly and stay in the right lane.) This is not the kind of sage parenting advice I hope to pass on to my children.
My father was also a pot smoker, and by the time I was a young adolescent, before I could even conceive that I would ever do such a thing myself, I knew something weird was going on with him. Why did he leave the house for a drive, and come back shortly thereafter looking so odd, with a shit-eating grin on his face? I asked him directly about it, and after skirting the issue for several months, he eventually had a talk with me. I remember his exact words: "Every so often, just to relax, I like to go out and smoke a joint." I believe I was twelve or thirteen when we had this conversation. It was when the scales began to fall from my eyes, because while he may have believed he was doing me a service by being honest, this heart-to- heart did not endear him to me. Instead, I was filled with an uncomfortable, squirming feeling, which I now recognize as one of wild confusion because he was supposed to be an adult, the role model. Needless to say, any further advice he gave me about not doing drugs did not have much authority behind it.
One of the defining moments of my adolescence came shortly after my family moved to New Jersey, from Staten Island. I was a sophomore in high school, not an easy time to move, and I was chronically depressed. (As were, I believe, my parents. But since they did not know this about themselves, how could they have recognized it in me? All they knew was that I was unhappy, and they were desperate to make me happy again.) I spent a weekend back in Staten Island with my old friends, where I proceeded, to literally drown my sorrows by gettiing rip roaring, puke-spewing drunk. I also happened to sleep at the home of some family friends, who saw me come home half-conscious, and alerted my parents.
Once I was home, my parents sat me down at the kitchen table for a talk. I don't remember exactly what was said, but I do remember when my father told me he knew I'd been drinking, that he slapped me across the face. I mustered all the self will I could summon to keep myself from crying at the blow. Certainly, I was shocked, and the punishment clearly did not seem to fit the crime. Discovering that your teenager has drank to excess is an unfortunate rite-of-passage, that in this day and age, parents must brace themselves for. But I do remember thinking very clearly, at that moment, about my father, "You fucking hypocrite."
Raising children is hard work, and lord knows it can drive you to drink. When I was a child, my parents were very unhappy people, and it is hard for unhappy people to raise happy children. My parents are divorced and remarried now, and I think they are both considerably happier, and my children are the beneficiaries of their happier, better-adjusted selves.
A key part of becoming an adult is realizing, slowly, over time, that your parents are not gods; they are imperfect, and all too human. I have my flaws; I could give you a long list of them right now, at the top of which is that I am very judgmental; can't you tell? I am sure I am giving my kids many, many reasons to put themselves on the couch someday. But our children learn by the example we set, and it is our sacred obligation to them to provide the very best example we can.
Life is hard and pain is inevitable, and uncomfortable. We will try to do anything possible we can to avoid it, to anesthetize that pain. Having children brings us face to face with the unresolved pains and conflicts of our childhood, whether we are aware of it or not. If we are blessed to be aware of it, we then have a choice as whether to confront that pain, or run from it screaming. But when we do not confront our pain head on, it comes to haunt us in other ways. Other ways which may, at some point, hurt our children, either directly, or indirectly, in the form of bad habits and negative qualities that we do not want them to inherit. So I have to hand it to Stefanie Wilder-Taylor for being brave enough to hold the mirror up to herself, confront her uncomfortable truth, publicly, and do something about it.
03 June 2009
My amp goes to eleven
You may recall I went to Costco earlier this week. One of the things on my list was sunscreen; now that the Montclair Beach Club has opened, it is time to lay in a supply.
But when I arrived at the sunscreen display, I just couldn't do it. They were selling two brands, one with an SPF of 50, and the other, 70. WTF?
What has happened to 15 and 30?
The way I understand it, as a layperson (any dermatologists reading, correct me if I'm wrong), SPF, or sun protection factor, is a measure of the effectiveness of sunscreen. According to Wikipedia, the SPF refers to the amount of time a person with sunscreen applied can be exposed to sunlight before getting burned, relative to the time a person without sunscreen can be exposed. To give a concrete example, someone who would normally burn after 15 minutes in the sun can stay in the sun 15 times longer with the protection of SPF 15.
However, with regards to SPF, at a certain point, there are diminishing returns. An SPF of 50 only provides 1% to 2% more protection than an SPF 30. So higher does not necessarily mean better.
The other factor at work here is Vitamin D, which helps to maintain our organs, specifically the intestines and kidneys. Our skin naturally produces Vitamin D when it is exposed to the sun. The use of sunscreen interferes with the production of Vitamin D, and Vitamin D deficiency can lead to liver or kidney disorders, and can contribute the bone softening diseases such as rickets, and osteoporosis.
The bigger numbers are seductive, and surely, we want to do the best by our children. But there comes a point where manufacturers are preying on our insecurities; why would you go for SPF 30, when you can have the power of 70, 90, 110?
When I saw numbers ranging from SPF 50-70, I wondered if things may have gotten a little out of hand. This is a classic case of MY AMP GOES TO ELEVEN. Looked at another way, it is just one more manifestation of the American obsession with more is more, bigger is better. In Europe, sunscreen labels may legally only go up to 50; presently in the U.S., there are no comprehensive standards for sunscreen, which allows manufacturers to exploit are anxieties, and probably charge more for the privilege.
So as with all things, we must strike a balance. On the one hand, we do not want our children to get sunburns, which are painful in themselves, and over time, can contribute to melanomas. But we don't want to go so crazy with the sunscreen that we put them at risk for Vitamin D deficiency.
Trust yourself, and use common sense. If you are going for a short walk with your tender-skinned infant, put a hat on their fair head, and raise your stroller's hood, but let them soak up a little Vitamin D. If you are spending a day of prolonged outdoor exposure, at the beach, the pool, or sporting events, slather on the sunscreen, and repeat often.
But remember, the fact that the amp went to eleven was supposed to be a joke.
But when I arrived at the sunscreen display, I just couldn't do it. They were selling two brands, one with an SPF of 50, and the other, 70. WTF?
What has happened to 15 and 30?
The way I understand it, as a layperson (any dermatologists reading, correct me if I'm wrong), SPF, or sun protection factor, is a measure of the effectiveness of sunscreen. According to Wikipedia, the SPF refers to the amount of time a person with sunscreen applied can be exposed to sunlight before getting burned, relative to the time a person without sunscreen can be exposed. To give a concrete example, someone who would normally burn after 15 minutes in the sun can stay in the sun 15 times longer with the protection of SPF 15.
However, with regards to SPF, at a certain point, there are diminishing returns. An SPF of 50 only provides 1% to 2% more protection than an SPF 30. So higher does not necessarily mean better.
The other factor at work here is Vitamin D, which helps to maintain our organs, specifically the intestines and kidneys. Our skin naturally produces Vitamin D when it is exposed to the sun. The use of sunscreen interferes with the production of Vitamin D, and Vitamin D deficiency can lead to liver or kidney disorders, and can contribute the bone softening diseases such as rickets, and osteoporosis.
The bigger numbers are seductive, and surely, we want to do the best by our children. But there comes a point where manufacturers are preying on our insecurities; why would you go for SPF 30, when you can have the power of 70, 90, 110?
When I saw numbers ranging from SPF 50-70, I wondered if things may have gotten a little out of hand. This is a classic case of MY AMP GOES TO ELEVEN. Looked at another way, it is just one more manifestation of the American obsession with more is more, bigger is better. In Europe, sunscreen labels may legally only go up to 50; presently in the U.S., there are no comprehensive standards for sunscreen, which allows manufacturers to exploit are anxieties, and probably charge more for the privilege.
So as with all things, we must strike a balance. On the one hand, we do not want our children to get sunburns, which are painful in themselves, and over time, can contribute to melanomas. But we don't want to go so crazy with the sunscreen that we put them at risk for Vitamin D deficiency.
Trust yourself, and use common sense. If you are going for a short walk with your tender-skinned infant, put a hat on their fair head, and raise your stroller's hood, but let them soak up a little Vitamin D. If you are spending a day of prolonged outdoor exposure, at the beach, the pool, or sporting events, slather on the sunscreen, and repeat often.
But remember, the fact that the amp went to eleven was supposed to be a joke.
02 June 2009
It takes two
The need for siblings to fight is as primal as their love for one another; they are hard wired for both. As Sarah explained to me recently, "Mom, Gabriel and I love each other very much, but we're just at that stage where we don't get along that well."
Siblings are rivals for their parents' affections, always trying to best each other in our eyes. While sibling rivalry is a fact of life, so is the fact that it takes two to fight.
Most of the time I can't be bothered to pay attention to what my children are fighting about. The particulars are generally unimportant; I just need to put a stop to it (otherwise known as, get them to shut the fuck up.) But it is easy to take the bait when negotiating these conflicts, in other words, to forget that both parties are usually at fault.
Recently, Sarah and Gabriel were fighting about something or another. Sarah had pushed Gabriel on the stairs, and I was about to yell at her for doing something so dangerous, when I realized that Gabriel, in true little brother fashion, had likely provoked her. If I had reamed Sarah out, it would have been a major score for Gabriel, and believe me, our kids are keeping track of these things.
So I stopped myself, and in my best STERN MOMMY VOICE told them that I suspected they both had a hand in this, and they needed to work it out. As I walked away, this is what I heard:
Gabriel said, "I'm sorry that I teased you, Sarah."
Sarah then explained to her brother, "Gabriel, I'm sorry I pushed you on the stairs. I need to work on my anger management."
Siblings are rivals for their parents' affections, always trying to best each other in our eyes. While sibling rivalry is a fact of life, so is the fact that it takes two to fight.
Most of the time I can't be bothered to pay attention to what my children are fighting about. The particulars are generally unimportant; I just need to put a stop to it (otherwise known as, get them to shut the fuck up.) But it is easy to take the bait when negotiating these conflicts, in other words, to forget that both parties are usually at fault.
Recently, Sarah and Gabriel were fighting about something or another. Sarah had pushed Gabriel on the stairs, and I was about to yell at her for doing something so dangerous, when I realized that Gabriel, in true little brother fashion, had likely provoked her. If I had reamed Sarah out, it would have been a major score for Gabriel, and believe me, our kids are keeping track of these things.
So I stopped myself, and in my best STERN MOMMY VOICE told them that I suspected they both had a hand in this, and they needed to work it out. As I walked away, this is what I heard:
Gabriel said, "I'm sorry that I teased you, Sarah."
Sarah then explained to her brother, "Gabriel, I'm sorry I pushed you on the stairs. I need to work on my anger management."
01 June 2009
I...like...Costco
Ten years into suburban living, I'm just going to come right out and say it. I like Costco!
For many people, suburban, and even urban now, the big box store is an inescapable part of life. Unless you are extremely wealthy, or extremely stupid, or perhaps both, everyone is looking for a good deal, especially in these troubled times. And that is where Costco comes in.
When we first moved back to New Jersey, my in-laws gave us a membership as a housewarming present. I avoided it like the plague, sending David whenever possible. It seemed so overwhelming; so cavernous, and intimidating! They sell so many unrelated things! I could get lost in there, in the netherworld between the dry goods and the best sellers and batteries, and no one would ever find me.
But as the years have gone by, and our the size of our family has increased, it seemed selfish of me to save the trip to Costco for the weekends, when David was available. The ability to run errands such as this is part of the reason why I chose to stay home with the kids.
So a year or so ago, I began to brave Costco on my own, and...it wasn't so bad. I've found it is one of those instances where looks can be deceiving. I don't think I will ever relish the thought of going, but I no longer dread it.
I do not do the bulk of my shopping there, not by a long shot. A lot of what I buy there is non-food items: diapers, wipes, vitamins, contact lenses, batteries, etc. Their trash bags are good, and a box of them will last about a year.
They are forward-thinking in their merchandise; you can get many organic items, and I noticed today that they now have their own brand of environmentally friendly laundry detergent, and dishwasher detergent. The next time I run out, I will try them.
I don't go in for the pre-packaged foods; I'm sure some of it is good, but I enjoy cooking too much. Plus, with some items, the quantities are so large that I don't think we would have the storage space, let alone get through things before they went stale. True, I could lay in a supply of oregano to last a decade, but would I really want to use it for that long?
I have tried their meat and their fish, and was not impressed. The price may be right, but to my taste, the flavor is just not there. But for certain items, the quality is excellent, and a very good buy. I get Parmigiano Reggiano there, as well as organic milk, and eggs.
But what I am most impressed with is how well it is run. Even when I have to wait on line to pay, and it looks I'm going to be there a while, it moves quickly.
Most importantly, the staff are really, really nice. They seem to enjoy working there, which means they are being treated nicely from on-high. I remember reading, during the ill-fated John Kerry Presidential bid, that Costco gives to Democratic causes, which made me more inclined to like them; knowing where Wal-mart spends their philanthropic dollars, when there was an idiot in the White House, did not encourage me to shop there. But Costco gives to causes I believe in; perhaps this has something to do with the pleasant environment?
Today, when I was waiting on line to pay, there was a slight delay because the cashiers were helping the person in front of me look for her baby's binkie!
When it was my turn, the woman working the line showed me a picture of Sergio—the cashier at the next register—in his youth. He was considerably slimmer then. I said, diplomatically, his face looks the same. And the cashier replied, bluntly, but empathetically, "Yes, but look at his body. You don't have to be shy. He needs to take better care of himself. We keep trying to tell him he needs to watch what he eats, and get some exercise." Then, she added, ruefully, "He doesn't listen to us."
It's true that you can get lost in there, and the temptation towards impulse purchases is high. (David and I joke, when one of us is going, "Oh, I'll get diapers, floss, Cheerios...and a flat-screen tv...and, a hot tub.") But if you can stay focused—I look at it as a meditative exercise; stick to your list, get what you came for—you can get good items, for good prices, while shopping in an atmosphere where the staff are kind, happy to help you, and genuinely seem to enjoy each other's company.
And did I mention they sell wine? And that they are the top wine retailer in the country?
For many people, suburban, and even urban now, the big box store is an inescapable part of life. Unless you are extremely wealthy, or extremely stupid, or perhaps both, everyone is looking for a good deal, especially in these troubled times. And that is where Costco comes in.
When we first moved back to New Jersey, my in-laws gave us a membership as a housewarming present. I avoided it like the plague, sending David whenever possible. It seemed so overwhelming; so cavernous, and intimidating! They sell so many unrelated things! I could get lost in there, in the netherworld between the dry goods and the best sellers and batteries, and no one would ever find me.
But as the years have gone by, and our the size of our family has increased, it seemed selfish of me to save the trip to Costco for the weekends, when David was available. The ability to run errands such as this is part of the reason why I chose to stay home with the kids.
So a year or so ago, I began to brave Costco on my own, and...it wasn't so bad. I've found it is one of those instances where looks can be deceiving. I don't think I will ever relish the thought of going, but I no longer dread it.
I do not do the bulk of my shopping there, not by a long shot. A lot of what I buy there is non-food items: diapers, wipes, vitamins, contact lenses, batteries, etc. Their trash bags are good, and a box of them will last about a year.
They are forward-thinking in their merchandise; you can get many organic items, and I noticed today that they now have their own brand of environmentally friendly laundry detergent, and dishwasher detergent. The next time I run out, I will try them.
I don't go in for the pre-packaged foods; I'm sure some of it is good, but I enjoy cooking too much. Plus, with some items, the quantities are so large that I don't think we would have the storage space, let alone get through things before they went stale. True, I could lay in a supply of oregano to last a decade, but would I really want to use it for that long?
I have tried their meat and their fish, and was not impressed. The price may be right, but to my taste, the flavor is just not there. But for certain items, the quality is excellent, and a very good buy. I get Parmigiano Reggiano there, as well as organic milk, and eggs.
But what I am most impressed with is how well it is run. Even when I have to wait on line to pay, and it looks I'm going to be there a while, it moves quickly.
Most importantly, the staff are really, really nice. They seem to enjoy working there, which means they are being treated nicely from on-high. I remember reading, during the ill-fated John Kerry Presidential bid, that Costco gives to Democratic causes, which made me more inclined to like them; knowing where Wal-mart spends their philanthropic dollars, when there was an idiot in the White House, did not encourage me to shop there. But Costco gives to causes I believe in; perhaps this has something to do with the pleasant environment?
Today, when I was waiting on line to pay, there was a slight delay because the cashiers were helping the person in front of me look for her baby's binkie!
When it was my turn, the woman working the line showed me a picture of Sergio—the cashier at the next register—in his youth. He was considerably slimmer then. I said, diplomatically, his face looks the same. And the cashier replied, bluntly, but empathetically, "Yes, but look at his body. You don't have to be shy. He needs to take better care of himself. We keep trying to tell him he needs to watch what he eats, and get some exercise." Then, she added, ruefully, "He doesn't listen to us."
It's true that you can get lost in there, and the temptation towards impulse purchases is high. (David and I joke, when one of us is going, "Oh, I'll get diapers, floss, Cheerios...and a flat-screen tv...and, a hot tub.") But if you can stay focused—I look at it as a meditative exercise; stick to your list, get what you came for—you can get good items, for good prices, while shopping in an atmosphere where the staff are kind, happy to help you, and genuinely seem to enjoy each other's company.
And did I mention they sell wine? And that they are the top wine retailer in the country?
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