My children have all had a few annoying habits in common, corresponding with specific developmental stages.
First, was shoe flinging, which they all did as young walkers. Whenever they were seated in a stroller or car seat, they immediately proceeded to kick their shoes off. After you spend five minutes wrestling your baby's limp feet into, and then tying the laces of their first pair of shoes, only to find on arriving at your destination that said shoes are nowhere to be found, you get a little annoyed.
On more than one occasion when he was a baby, Sacha flung off a shoe while we were out for a walk, except I did not discover this until we were home. With one shoe. (Retracing our steps didn't help.) And so, I let him go barefoot in the winter. THAT REALLY TAUGHT HIM A LESSON.
Then, there is sock stuffing, which all three are still guilty of. Whenever I do a thorough house clean-up, I find socks hidden in every imaginable crevice; under couch cushions, behind radiators, under rugs, in the dishwasher (really; that's Sacha, I'm sure). They are all so reliable about this that it is a wonder I keep buying them socks, rather than sweep the premises when they tell me they need new ones. Sometimes a trip to Target is quicker than an archaeological excavation.
But the most annoying habit is the carping to watch television AS SOON AS WE GET IN THE CAR FOR A RETURN VOYAGE. This is a toddler habit which Sarah and Gabriel have aged out of, but Sacha is still in his prime. When the key turns in the ignition, Sacha brightly asks, “Can we watch TV?” I don't have a television in the car, so he is referring to the one in our den, which, when he asks, IS MILES AWAY.
That I refuse to answer this question in the affirmative does nothing to deter Sacha. So, we now have a well-worn conversational loop.
“Can I watch TEEVEE?” Sacha asks as I pull out of the parking space.
“Do you see a TV here?” I respond. I try to handle many discipline issues via the Socratic Method.
“Can I watch TEEVEE?”
“Please don't ask me about TV until we are home.”
“Can I watch TEEEVEEEE?”
This is followed by the sound of me banging my head against the windshield.
Today, on our way home from the pool, it began as soon as Sacha was buckled in his car seat.
“Can I watch TV?”
I opened my mouth to repeat my line, and Sarah chimed in: “Sacha, do we have a TV in the car?”
“Can I watch TV?”
I opened my mouth. Again, I was beaten to the punch.
By round three, I no longer bothered trying to speak. I gave Sarah the keys, and let her drive home.
29 June 2009
27 June 2009
Good enough mother
I am still working my way through Ayelet Waldman's book Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace, and yesterday I came across Insult and Injury on Judith Warner's Domestic Disturbances blog.
Both deal with the Mommy Police, the judgmental strangers that can't help but offer unsolicited advice or criticism on a mother's parenting, and are the bane of many mother's existence.
I have written here before about my dismay over the ridiculous expectations high achieving women expect of themselves, and others, where mothering is concerned. It upsets me when I hear women like Waldman, or my friends, who are clearly not bad mothers, refer to themselves as such, even in jest.
It is partly the fault of living in a society where far more is expected of mothers than of fathers to be considered competent parents. But just as there comes a point in one's life where you can no longer blame you parents for your own failings, we cannot lay blame for this solely on external forces beyond our control. As mothers, we are also responsible for buying into this.
No one should feel obligated to be a perfect mother. Perfection is an unrealistic, and unattainable goal, and if this is where you set the bar for yourself, you will never measure up.
What we should strive for is to be is a good enough mother, and a decent parent. Mistakes will be made, and often. I know mothers whom I think are too controlling, some a bit lax. Some I think should take a firmer hand in disciplining, while others need to lighten up. I know mothers with substance abuse problems, others who run anxious, and far too many who are unduly hard on themselves. I am sure my friends find faults in my mothering. Yet even with our many flaws, most of the mothers I know seem to strike the right balance; I would not call any of us a bad mother.
We are all imperfect mothers, which is as it should be.
If you can't let go of your desire for perfection for yourself, at least try to do so for your children's sake. The more you build yourself up in your children's eyes, the farther your descent will be on your inevitable fall from grace. If you think you need to serve on PTA committees, volunteer at your local soup kitchen, provide stimulating activities for your kid's entertainment because you are worried about them watching too much television, keep a well stocked craft closet for rainy days, provide freshly cut fruit or home-baked items for every charity bake sale at your children's school, work a full-time job outside of the home, all while keeping up with basic household management and the care of your family, you are headed for a nervous breakdown.
This job is really, really hard. Mothers need to help one another out, rather than spend undue energy taking each other down. To those that seek to judge you, give them an insincere smile and a silent “Fuck you,” and hold your head up high as you take your children by the hand and walk away.
Both deal with the Mommy Police, the judgmental strangers that can't help but offer unsolicited advice or criticism on a mother's parenting, and are the bane of many mother's existence.
I have written here before about my dismay over the ridiculous expectations high achieving women expect of themselves, and others, where mothering is concerned. It upsets me when I hear women like Waldman, or my friends, who are clearly not bad mothers, refer to themselves as such, even in jest.
It is partly the fault of living in a society where far more is expected of mothers than of fathers to be considered competent parents. But just as there comes a point in one's life where you can no longer blame you parents for your own failings, we cannot lay blame for this solely on external forces beyond our control. As mothers, we are also responsible for buying into this.
No one should feel obligated to be a perfect mother. Perfection is an unrealistic, and unattainable goal, and if this is where you set the bar for yourself, you will never measure up.
What we should strive for is to be is a good enough mother, and a decent parent. Mistakes will be made, and often. I know mothers whom I think are too controlling, some a bit lax. Some I think should take a firmer hand in disciplining, while others need to lighten up. I know mothers with substance abuse problems, others who run anxious, and far too many who are unduly hard on themselves. I am sure my friends find faults in my mothering. Yet even with our many flaws, most of the mothers I know seem to strike the right balance; I would not call any of us a bad mother.
We are all imperfect mothers, which is as it should be.
If you can't let go of your desire for perfection for yourself, at least try to do so for your children's sake. The more you build yourself up in your children's eyes, the farther your descent will be on your inevitable fall from grace. If you think you need to serve on PTA committees, volunteer at your local soup kitchen, provide stimulating activities for your kid's entertainment because you are worried about them watching too much television, keep a well stocked craft closet for rainy days, provide freshly cut fruit or home-baked items for every charity bake sale at your children's school, work a full-time job outside of the home, all while keeping up with basic household management and the care of your family, you are headed for a nervous breakdown.
This job is really, really hard. Mothers need to help one another out, rather than spend undue energy taking each other down. To those that seek to judge you, give them an insincere smile and a silent “Fuck you,” and hold your head up high as you take your children by the hand and walk away.
25 June 2009
Neda, myth, and martyr
Here is an interesting thread I noticed on XX Factor, a blog on Double X, Slate's newest venture. Double X is a website for women; I've only perused the site briefly, but my first impression is one of cross between Lifetime and Bust Magazine.
First Dana Stevens posted Is The "Neda" video a snuff movie?", a somewhat measured musing on the "construction of a martyr mythology in the blogosphere’s reporting on Iran," and concludes, "Western sympathizers convinced they’re manning the virtual barricades by turning their Twitter avator photos green, resetting their locations to 'Tehran,' and feverishly forwarding a graphic unsourced video of a young girl’s death strike me as both touchingly enthusiastic and dangerously inane." Fair enough.
As follow-up, there was Of Course the Neda Video is a Snuff Movie, by Susanna Breslin, a post whose self-righteous title is meant to be provocative. Just reading that title, I found my sensibilities offended to the point where I had to read on. The argument is the feminist trope that the world is gripped by the video of Neda Agha Soltan's murder, not merely because it is horrifying, but because she was young, and pretty, and female.
It suggests a naive political correctness by ascribing base motives to those who have seen the video: "We watch the video not purely for political reasons, but also because we are curious. About life, and death, and what happened. And in that, it becomes a form of entertainment. We fetishize it, its story, and its characters."
Stevens elaborates: "We're talking about the something else the video becomes when its focus and attendant narrative take on the qualities of martyr and myth. The video becomes something else altogether, something that, more often than not, is more about us than the subject itself."
The part that disturbed me the most was this: "No, like a 'true' snuff movie, the video was not created for the purpose of entertainment. Although why it was created, at least for now, remains something of a mystery. One man stood over Neda and videotaped her while she died. Somebody else uploaded it to the Internet. Now, we disseminate it. It plays before our eyes, enigmatic, and we imbue it with meaning."
I beg to differ.
I can tell you exactly why this video was created, and why it has caught the world's attention. Something horrible is happening before the eyes of the world in Iran, and I imagine that those who have the misfortune of bearing witness to it must feel an obligation to tell the world the truth. As one reader on Andrew Sullivan's The Daily Dish put it, what is happening in Iran is Anne Frank's diary. Live. Multiplied by millions.
Someone recorded this moment because a helpless woman lay dying and there was nothing anyone could do to save her. Neda Agah Soltan was powerless, as was everyone around her. Confronted with being so utterly useless in the face of such brutality, the videographer did the only thing he could do; record it for posterity, so that the world could see first hand what this regime is capable of.
By removing the Soltan family from their home, and denying them their right to mourn in keeping with their religious customs, and to lie about the cause of her death, it is the Iranian regime — not the media, not a bunch of perverts who enjoy jerking off to images of a woman killed — that is responsible for turning Neda into a martyr.
The story of Neda Agha Soltan's death is about human, not women's suffering. To pose an argument about the feminist implications of this horrifying clip while in the thick of a humanitarian crisis is small minded and reductive, the kind of naive, microcosmic feminism that gives feminism a bad name.
First Dana Stevens posted Is The "Neda" video a snuff movie?", a somewhat measured musing on the "construction of a martyr mythology in the blogosphere’s reporting on Iran," and concludes, "Western sympathizers convinced they’re manning the virtual barricades by turning their Twitter avator photos green, resetting their locations to 'Tehran,' and feverishly forwarding a graphic unsourced video of a young girl’s death strike me as both touchingly enthusiastic and dangerously inane." Fair enough.
As follow-up, there was Of Course the Neda Video is a Snuff Movie, by Susanna Breslin, a post whose self-righteous title is meant to be provocative. Just reading that title, I found my sensibilities offended to the point where I had to read on. The argument is the feminist trope that the world is gripped by the video of Neda Agha Soltan's murder, not merely because it is horrifying, but because she was young, and pretty, and female.
It suggests a naive political correctness by ascribing base motives to those who have seen the video: "We watch the video not purely for political reasons, but also because we are curious. About life, and death, and what happened. And in that, it becomes a form of entertainment. We fetishize it, its story, and its characters."
Stevens elaborates: "We're talking about the something else the video becomes when its focus and attendant narrative take on the qualities of martyr and myth. The video becomes something else altogether, something that, more often than not, is more about us than the subject itself."
The part that disturbed me the most was this: "No, like a 'true' snuff movie, the video was not created for the purpose of entertainment. Although why it was created, at least for now, remains something of a mystery. One man stood over Neda and videotaped her while she died. Somebody else uploaded it to the Internet. Now, we disseminate it. It plays before our eyes, enigmatic, and we imbue it with meaning."
I beg to differ.
I can tell you exactly why this video was created, and why it has caught the world's attention. Something horrible is happening before the eyes of the world in Iran, and I imagine that those who have the misfortune of bearing witness to it must feel an obligation to tell the world the truth. As one reader on Andrew Sullivan's The Daily Dish put it, what is happening in Iran is Anne Frank's diary. Live. Multiplied by millions.
Someone recorded this moment because a helpless woman lay dying and there was nothing anyone could do to save her. Neda Agah Soltan was powerless, as was everyone around her. Confronted with being so utterly useless in the face of such brutality, the videographer did the only thing he could do; record it for posterity, so that the world could see first hand what this regime is capable of.
By removing the Soltan family from their home, and denying them their right to mourn in keeping with their religious customs, and to lie about the cause of her death, it is the Iranian regime — not the media, not a bunch of perverts who enjoy jerking off to images of a woman killed — that is responsible for turning Neda into a martyr.
The story of Neda Agha Soltan's death is about human, not women's suffering. To pose an argument about the feminist implications of this horrifying clip while in the thick of a humanitarian crisis is small minded and reductive, the kind of naive, microcosmic feminism that gives feminism a bad name.
24 June 2009
Generation gap
Becoming a parent, and getting older in general, entails a willingness to eat a lot of crow.
When Sarah was an infant, I remember making a trip to the mall with my mother, and being appalled watching another mother casually converse with someone, while her baby wailed in the stroller. Once we were out of earshot, I turned to my mother and said, "Well, she's not very attentive to her baby."
Flash forward three years, and there I am with my back turned to Gabriel, my newest wailing baby, jiggling my stroller and chatting.
I issued a silent apology to that mother whom I was so quick to judge.
So I am more careful about things I say I will never do, because of the potential for embarrassing myself. Nonetheless, an exchange I had with my mother last night made me laugh.
I mentioned that I'd taken Sacha to the doctor because he'd developed, not one, but two distinctly different rashes, on his face and leg, and was uncharacteristically sedate.
"The rash on his face is probably impetigo," I said, "which I just learned sometimes accompanies staph or strep infections."
My mother stopped me: "Oh; well, I may not come tomorrow then. We're getting ready for our trip, and I don't want to risk exposing us to anything at this point."
"When are you leaving?" I asked.
"July 26."
The incubation period for strep infections is 2-5 days, which, by my calculations, puts my mother well outside the danger zone for a late July excursion.
So when I am a grandmother, and say something similar to my children, let the record show that I did not say I would never say something like this.
When Sarah was an infant, I remember making a trip to the mall with my mother, and being appalled watching another mother casually converse with someone, while her baby wailed in the stroller. Once we were out of earshot, I turned to my mother and said, "Well, she's not very attentive to her baby."
Flash forward three years, and there I am with my back turned to Gabriel, my newest wailing baby, jiggling my stroller and chatting.
I issued a silent apology to that mother whom I was so quick to judge.
So I am more careful about things I say I will never do, because of the potential for embarrassing myself. Nonetheless, an exchange I had with my mother last night made me laugh.
I mentioned that I'd taken Sacha to the doctor because he'd developed, not one, but two distinctly different rashes, on his face and leg, and was uncharacteristically sedate.
"The rash on his face is probably impetigo," I said, "which I just learned sometimes accompanies staph or strep infections."
My mother stopped me: "Oh; well, I may not come tomorrow then. We're getting ready for our trip, and I don't want to risk exposing us to anything at this point."
"When are you leaving?" I asked.
"July 26."
The incubation period for strep infections is 2-5 days, which, by my calculations, puts my mother well outside the danger zone for a late July excursion.
So when I am a grandmother, and say something similar to my children, let the record show that I did not say I would never say something like this.
22 June 2009
Full contact snuggling
Yesterday morning, David was lying on the couch in the den while the boys watched TV. I watched Sacha climb on top of him, as David executed a skillful maneuver to protect his groin. It is a move he has perfected by now, as he has to utilize it often.
"I should have gotten you a cup for Father's Day," I said, to which David replied,"Sacha is just nature's way of saying, 'I am your last child.'"
Snuggling with Sacha is an extreme sport. It starts off nice enough, when he comes into our bed after waking, smelling of sleep and little boy. For a few minutes he lies between us, nuzzling and sighing contentedly.
Foolish parents, we fall for this every time! Isn't this lovely; isn't he delicious? How nice to have this quiet time to transition from sleep to wakefulness!
But soon enough, Sacha gets restless, and what was so sweet a minute ago quickly morphs into something more dangerous.
It begins with a few elbow jabs, at which point we instinctively turn our backs in protection. But now, Sacha's movement has been restricted, so he turns himself 180 degrees, to cleave the space between us, and more effectively use his arms and legs. I have to admire his efficiency as he simultaneously claws one of us while kicking the other. Insulted that we have turned away, he then climbs over one of us — usually David; this is the down-side of being the favored parent! — to make his way back into his arms.
At this point we must assume a defensive fetal crouch to protect ourselves from the blows reining down.
Sacha uses full contact snuggling as the platform for some fairly imaginative play. One recent morning he began to paw at my chest. I swatted him away, but he kept coming back, repeating “Elevator going up!” This was extremely irritating, and I had no idea what he was talking about. I gave David my WTF look, and he explained: buttons.
MY SON WAS USING MY BREASTS TO CALL AN IMAGINARY ELEVATOR. I hope he learns greater finesse before he starts dating, as I don't imagine many women would enjoy his type of foreplay.
Yesterday morning, soon after he had to initiate groin protection, David lay on the couch with his knees bent. Sacha began to use his head as a battering ram, trying to pry David's shins open, all the while saying "I'm a credit card." David and I looked at each other; here was just one more example of the ways in which our youngest is insane. But eventually, understanding began to dawn; Sacha was role playing, and had cast David as the swipe reader.
It does a mother proud; when it comes to loving, Sacha is not only sadistic, but clever! The Marquis de Sade could have learned a few things from his play book.
"I should have gotten you a cup for Father's Day," I said, to which David replied,"Sacha is just nature's way of saying, 'I am your last child.'"
Snuggling with Sacha is an extreme sport. It starts off nice enough, when he comes into our bed after waking, smelling of sleep and little boy. For a few minutes he lies between us, nuzzling and sighing contentedly.
Foolish parents, we fall for this every time! Isn't this lovely; isn't he delicious? How nice to have this quiet time to transition from sleep to wakefulness!
But soon enough, Sacha gets restless, and what was so sweet a minute ago quickly morphs into something more dangerous.
It begins with a few elbow jabs, at which point we instinctively turn our backs in protection. But now, Sacha's movement has been restricted, so he turns himself 180 degrees, to cleave the space between us, and more effectively use his arms and legs. I have to admire his efficiency as he simultaneously claws one of us while kicking the other. Insulted that we have turned away, he then climbs over one of us — usually David; this is the down-side of being the favored parent! — to make his way back into his arms.
At this point we must assume a defensive fetal crouch to protect ourselves from the blows reining down.
Sacha uses full contact snuggling as the platform for some fairly imaginative play. One recent morning he began to paw at my chest. I swatted him away, but he kept coming back, repeating “Elevator going up!” This was extremely irritating, and I had no idea what he was talking about. I gave David my WTF look, and he explained: buttons.
MY SON WAS USING MY BREASTS TO CALL AN IMAGINARY ELEVATOR. I hope he learns greater finesse before he starts dating, as I don't imagine many women would enjoy his type of foreplay.
Yesterday morning, soon after he had to initiate groin protection, David lay on the couch with his knees bent. Sacha began to use his head as a battering ram, trying to pry David's shins open, all the while saying "I'm a credit card." David and I looked at each other; here was just one more example of the ways in which our youngest is insane. But eventually, understanding began to dawn; Sacha was role playing, and had cast David as the swipe reader.
It does a mother proud; when it comes to loving, Sacha is not only sadistic, but clever! The Marquis de Sade could have learned a few things from his play book.
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