I was excited to read the headline of Sarah E. Needleman's blog yesterday on The Wall Street Journal Online: "Can Home-Based Entrepreneurs Be Stay-at-Home Parents, Too?" Like all creative types, I have myriad business ideas percolating on a daily basis and wonder how ambitious one can be as a SAHP (stay-at-home parent.) I know people, mostly moms, who work from home in varying degrees, but have at least part-time childcare. I have nobody to help me during the day and I do some freelance work from home. Right now I am stealing the time I should be spending writing a column on stock splits and cobbling a pitch about green energy. Michael Alexander has gone down for a nap and could wake in 20 minutes so I need to act fast on the keyboard. Yesterday he didn't nap at all and woke several times throughout the night, so I am taking this precious time to write while I can, sleep deprived and all. I haven't posted to Nommersland in so long I nearly abandoned it over guilt. But reading this WSJ post irked me enough to overcome any self-reproach.
Needless to say, I was needled by Needleman's post. "Christine Perkett, a mother of two, is usually home before and after her kids go to school. But she’s not your typical stay-at-home mom," writes Needleman. OK, I'm intrigued, even if I can't yet relate to a mom with school-aged kids. I'm also confused, wondering how a SAHP can sometimes not be home and still actively parenting. "Ms. Perkett, 40 years old, runs PerkettPR, a public-relations firm, out of her family’s Marshfield, Mass., home. When she started the company, she hired a nanny to take care of the kids while she’s on the clock. 'I needed a solution to dig into my work without feeling guilty,' she says, adding that she also requires her 20 employees, who also work from their homes, to make comparable arrangements if they have young kids." OK, I am pissed off! Perkett is NOT a a SAHP! She is using her likely sprawling South Shore home (judging from the photo of her kitchen) as an office. Perkett doesn't want to feel guilty? Hope she is paying her 20 employees enough to really offset the cost of providing all those nannies with a living wage.
Needleman reveals that "Ms. Perkett says parenting and working from home don’t mix. 'People think they’ll stick (their kids) in front of the TV,' she says, but adds that the move isn’t practical or fair. 'It’s nearly impossible to work productively and watch your children at the same time. And it’s not good for the child because they’re vying for your attention and they can’t get it.'" Now I'm fuming. Perkett assumes all SAHPs who do "outside" work are sticking their kids in front of a TV? I am typing on the MacBook Pro we bought to replace the one Michael Alexander knocked off my leg while I was writing a personal finance column when he was just a few weeks old. Sure, that "move" wasn't "practical or fair," especially in terms of the cost of replacing a laptop, but I wasn't neglecting my son while working.
As someone who contemplates the possibility of really becoming a SAHP entrepreneur (sans full-time childcare like Perkett), I'd like a breakdown of the startup costs and where she got the capital to pay 20 people's salaries. Launching a business like Perkett's isn't a reality for most people.
I am not out to vilify Perkett or any other entrepreneur or business owner. But I am calling out Needleman for classifying Perkett as a SAHP. Perkett gets props for her
savvy by saving on overhead and office costs by running her business from home. The blog post, which features a photo of the PR maven with her elementary school aged son and nanny, is raising kid(s) who spend most of the day in school, according to the lede. I know Needleman is banging out a couple of grafs on the quick just to fill a page, but by serving us just this little slice of Perkett's life, she dis-serving SAHPs like me who grapple with the guilt of "not working" by identifying Perkett as a SAHP.
Needleman also mentions "Jason King, also a home-based entrepreneur, (who) says his wife is a stay-at-home mom and takes care of their two kids during the workday. Still, he says he wouldn’t get much work done if he didn’t have a solid door blocking his basement office from the rest of his Odenton, Md., home." A solid door? I guess that means a hollow one wouldn't work. The founder and CEO of Accella LLC, a website and mobile-application developer, tells Needleman that “Being able to create some type of separation and a way for the kids to know their boundaries is important," and that without the door, his kids “would feel the freedom to come and go as they please,” adding that they’d also be a distraction if the door was made of clear glass. "They’d always be sitting outside looking in.” I guess you need to have a basement and live in suburbia where you can create a fortress from your offspring in order to build a business from home.
Needleman who signs off by asking "Readers, if you run your business from a home office and have kids, is a nanny or daycare necessary?" raises an important question with her lede, but falls short by giving us two examples of people who work from home but are anything but SAHPs. Instead of asking her readers if this is possible, perhaps she could have sought out someone who has actually tried to be a SAHP with a career or business venture. Instead, Needleman has simply produced another self-promoting link for Perkett's "In The News" section of her website. I'm not begrudging Perkett for her headline-hoarding, but I do knock Needleman for false advertising.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Grimm Reality
Over the last month I've discovered a whole new world of storytimes. There's yoga storytime and library storytime followed by playtime. There's something to do nearly every day without even boarding a bus. These free activities have had a tremendous impact on Michael Alexander, who is interacting with his peers and toddlers, mostly toddlers. I hate to miss one, as we are right now while Michael Alexander takes a rare nap that's allowing me to bang out by personal finance column and cobble something here. Most infants and toddlers that attend these mixed playgroups are accompanied by nannies. In the East Village there are more moms and dads than there are in the West Village, where nannies replace parents. But there are still more nannies in general, often nannies that accompany the moms. I had hoped these sessions would both boost Michael Alexander's social development and help me meet other moms (or dads) who've opted (or been forced by unemployment) to stay at home and raise their babies. It's certainly helped him grow, as he interacts well with the others, save for his not-so-uncommon fascination with hair-pulling. We even had a playdate with one his fellow baby yogis yesterday. I've met some moms, to mixed results in boosting my mommy confidence, profile and general understanding of mommyhood in the city.
The nice thing about Manhattan (and I'm sure some neighborhoods in Brooklyn) is that it's the anti-suburbia when it comes to mommyhood. Storytime reflects our unique lifestyle, as books and songs about transportation are edited to elevate the MetroCard and reduce the car's status to a vacation rental. Our offspring are cosmopolitan creatures born into a culturally rich landscape that will nurture their aesthetic tastes and a diverse streetscape that will spur a savvy that suburban sprawl can't cultivate. City kids talk about painting and sculpture and theater and opera and open mikes and know not to run into traffic or step too close to the platform. While I wish we lived within walking (or driving, if we had a car) distance to a great shoreline so my son and I could swim and sun, I believe raising a child here is superior to subjecting him to a closed community, even if he'd have a big lawn. Really, he's got his choice of the biggest lawns, from Central Park to Union Square to Tompkins Square to Madison Square. (The last three within quick walking distance.)
As I wonder how these early influences will shape my son's development and future, I'm also trying to figure where I fit in this new and evolving role as mommy. In her new book, Kids or No Kids, Zoe Slater considers interviews she conducted with women across the world. "In today's society, women often choose to have children later in life. New value systems mean that we are pickier about picking a partner, and embrace the lifestyles enabled by financial factors and modern living arrangements. The common denominator for all of us, is to one day confront the question of motherhood. Regardless of age or location, motherhood is like a sisterhood that bonds us," Slater writes. Manhattan is clearly representative of "today's society" in terms of waiting to have kids. A little over a week away from feting my 40th, I'm one of the "young" moms in these storytime groups. Sure some of my fellow moms, I learned just this week, are raising a baby with their *new* partner or spouse nearly two decades after raising their first with their ex. Still, we're all facing the same challenges of a digital parenting age where our babies are born masters at navigating our iPhone touch screens.
What Slater fails to address is how these demographic differences are truly divisive. Sure I can relate to suburban moms on many matters from sleepless nights to teething pains, but the challenges of being a mother in Manhattan are unique and can be more isolating than a house tucked away on a quiet cul-de-sac. In most suburban, country or low-income communities, moms are generally in the same socioeconomic situation, save for a few hundred grand in mounting debt for many of the suburbanites *living* well beyond their means. Manhattan is a mix of struggling artist moms and dads who tuck their toddlers into a nook in a one-room walkup -- to those who spa and shop and socialize while nannies tote their toddlers to the same free storytimes -- to everyone in between. It's tough being trapped in the middle (is that how we define class in this city?) where your sensibilities, academic and artistic achievements, professional prowess (even when it's on hold) and choice to mommy (in varying degrees) bridge the real estate and childcare gaps. Motherhood is no more a sisterhood than a shared career goal or haircolor. In fact, motherhood is the source of the same -- or more severe -- competitive strife that pits women against other women in the workplace or the salon. And in this city, it's a struggle on steroids as the haves are so preoccupied with the have-mores that we often forget the have-nots.
As I try to do best by my son, I strive to put my plight into perspective. I can't shake brownstone envy, especially when I take Michael Alexander to his pediatrician's office on a picturesque Village block where a nice family home (a renovated late 1800's townhouse) just sold for $12 million. Mike and I want more than anything (other than to have a healthy, happy son and a blissful marriage) to be famous novelists or magazine editors. Famous authors with a Village townhouse, of course. Meantime, I'll try to not complain about my life as one of the haves, even by a New York perspective. I hate when I compare myself with the have-mores, especially when I'm confident they're not nearly as content as I when it comes to my son, my husband, my family and my appreciation of this city's myriad perks, many cheap or free. I'm comforted by conversations with like-minded moms, who agree that the backdrop of storytime -- the tales of babies sleeping through the night and sleeping in until mommy-only yoga -- are clearly a Grimm reality.
The nice thing about Manhattan (and I'm sure some neighborhoods in Brooklyn) is that it's the anti-suburbia when it comes to mommyhood. Storytime reflects our unique lifestyle, as books and songs about transportation are edited to elevate the MetroCard and reduce the car's status to a vacation rental. Our offspring are cosmopolitan creatures born into a culturally rich landscape that will nurture their aesthetic tastes and a diverse streetscape that will spur a savvy that suburban sprawl can't cultivate. City kids talk about painting and sculpture and theater and opera and open mikes and know not to run into traffic or step too close to the platform. While I wish we lived within walking (or driving, if we had a car) distance to a great shoreline so my son and I could swim and sun, I believe raising a child here is superior to subjecting him to a closed community, even if he'd have a big lawn. Really, he's got his choice of the biggest lawns, from Central Park to Union Square to Tompkins Square to Madison Square. (The last three within quick walking distance.)
As I wonder how these early influences will shape my son's development and future, I'm also trying to figure where I fit in this new and evolving role as mommy. In her new book, Kids or No Kids, Zoe Slater considers interviews she conducted with women across the world. "In today's society, women often choose to have children later in life. New value systems mean that we are pickier about picking a partner, and embrace the lifestyles enabled by financial factors and modern living arrangements. The common denominator for all of us, is to one day confront the question of motherhood. Regardless of age or location, motherhood is like a sisterhood that bonds us," Slater writes. Manhattan is clearly representative of "today's society" in terms of waiting to have kids. A little over a week away from feting my 40th, I'm one of the "young" moms in these storytime groups. Sure some of my fellow moms, I learned just this week, are raising a baby with their *new* partner or spouse nearly two decades after raising their first with their ex. Still, we're all facing the same challenges of a digital parenting age where our babies are born masters at navigating our iPhone touch screens.
What Slater fails to address is how these demographic differences are truly divisive. Sure I can relate to suburban moms on many matters from sleepless nights to teething pains, but the challenges of being a mother in Manhattan are unique and can be more isolating than a house tucked away on a quiet cul-de-sac. In most suburban, country or low-income communities, moms are generally in the same socioeconomic situation, save for a few hundred grand in mounting debt for many of the suburbanites *living* well beyond their means. Manhattan is a mix of struggling artist moms and dads who tuck their toddlers into a nook in a one-room walkup -- to those who spa and shop and socialize while nannies tote their toddlers to the same free storytimes -- to everyone in between. It's tough being trapped in the middle (is that how we define class in this city?) where your sensibilities, academic and artistic achievements, professional prowess (even when it's on hold) and choice to mommy (in varying degrees) bridge the real estate and childcare gaps. Motherhood is no more a sisterhood than a shared career goal or haircolor. In fact, motherhood is the source of the same -- or more severe -- competitive strife that pits women against other women in the workplace or the salon. And in this city, it's a struggle on steroids as the haves are so preoccupied with the have-mores that we often forget the have-nots.
As I try to do best by my son, I strive to put my plight into perspective. I can't shake brownstone envy, especially when I take Michael Alexander to his pediatrician's office on a picturesque Village block where a nice family home (a renovated late 1800's townhouse) just sold for $12 million. Mike and I want more than anything (other than to have a healthy, happy son and a blissful marriage) to be famous novelists or magazine editors. Famous authors with a Village townhouse, of course. Meantime, I'll try to not complain about my life as one of the haves, even by a New York perspective. I hate when I compare myself with the have-mores, especially when I'm confident they're not nearly as content as I when it comes to my son, my husband, my family and my appreciation of this city's myriad perks, many cheap or free. I'm comforted by conversations with like-minded moms, who agree that the backdrop of storytime -- the tales of babies sleeping through the night and sleeping in until mommy-only yoga -- are clearly a Grimm reality.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Working on "Not Working"
Before Michael Alexander was born, I never expected to be a stay-at-home mom. I'd spent too many years, made too many sacrifices, to get where I was as a journalist after abandoning my first career pursuit, academia. I'd planned to go back to work after three months, like most (it seems) moms in the city. Now I can't imagine being in an office every day and missing the moments that are most precious, knowing I can care for my son better than anyone else. Not because I'm infinitely more qualified, but because I love him more than anyone else could. I'm unwilling to debate that.
Motherhood with all its joys has its pains, most inflicted by others. There's the worry that you're not giving your child enough. In Manhattan, that's an uber worry as the megarich, and those who drown in debt to feign such wealth, perpetuate a culture that compels you to spend a fortune on childcare. I see nannies every day. I see them tow children from townhouses to pricey play facilities where they chat away with other nannies. I see them shop for cosmetics, for clothes, for anything that's not for the babies. I hear them blab away on their cell phones or with other nannies as the children they are caring for cry, scream, laugh, whatever. The kids are being ignored, at best. In the rare case, I see a nanny abuse a child, like the one who slammed a stroller into the brick wall outside a Babies"R"Us. The toddler was yelling and weeping while the nanny was on the phone. I'm guessing it wasn't the parent/employer on the other line. I am not trying to malign nannies. I am not trying to guilt or scare the parents who fork over a big chunk of non-Wall Street salaries for this service. I am not even trying to make myself feel better. Really, I'm not. At least not by hating on paid childcare workers. I believe those who care for children should be paid -- and treated -- well. And I also believe those who care for their own children should be treated well, or at least with some respect. At least as much respect as they demanded in the workplace they left behind to stay at home.
My biggest struggle isn't keeping up with the Manhattan standard of hemorrhaging money hand over fist for activities that babies don't even understand or enjoy. It's accepting the terms and the tone used to describe my decision to "stay at home." Even my supportive, loving husband has said "Natasha isn't working, so ..." He'll deny it, I'm sure. But I have witnesses. I know Mike means no offense and isn't displeased with my staying at home to raise our son. But hearing anyone say "Natasha isn't working" makes me cringe, and when I'm alone, cry. I do some freelance, as much as I can with a very active son who seems allergic to napping. Michael Alexander demands constant attention and I give it to him. That may be a mistake on my end, at least according to many childcare experts. But I can't abandon my work ethic, even if I'm "not working" by most people's standards, and my job is to care for my son every second he's awake and to check on him every few minutes on the rare occasion he naps for more than half an hour. I'm actively seeking a full-time job, but I'm not sure I want to go back to work, yet. I don't want to take a job just to offset the cost of a nanny. I want to send Michael Alexander to a daycare where he interacts with other children and with other adults. The costs of such daycare in our neighborhood are astronomical.
As I consider when and why I want to return to an office, I try to maintain a positive perspective on my current condition as "not working." A 2010 Kansas State University study found that people value, and do not differentiate between, mothers who stay in the home full time and mothers who find a compromise between working and at-home motherhood after they have a child. People also devalue mothers employed full-time outside the home, relative to their non-employed counterparts, and perceive their children to be troubled and their relationships to be problematic, the study showed. But I'm not in Kansas. I'm in Manhattan, where we're measured by very different criteria. I'm supposed to be a supermom and a superwoman executive and, oh yeah, a size 2 at most, and that's with the baby weight. "The most interesting, and potentially dangerous, finding is the view that if a child has a working mother, people don't like that child as much," said Jennifer Livengood, a graduate student in psychology who did the study for her master's thesis and collaborated with Mark Barnett, professor of psychology. "People really devalue a mom who works full time outside the home in comparison to a mom who doesn't. People like mothers who fulfill traditional stereotypes, like staying at home. That's just not a reality and not a preference for women as much as it used to be." Ha! Well, at least people -- all kinds of people -- like my son, regardless of my work status. He's too charming to be measured against my career path, even when I've careened off course.
Another study published this month in the journal Child Development found that the longer a mother works outside the home, the more likely it is that her kids will become overweight. So far, Michael Alexander is long and lean, like his father's father. I hope Michael Alexander continues to be blessed by those genetics (not my sluggish thyroid), and I will not let him consume poisons such as high fructose corn syrup and will encourage him in any and all athletic pursuits. Researchers from American University in Washington, Cornell University and the University of Chicago studied data on more than 900 children in 10 U.S. cities, focusing on kids in Grades 3, 5, and 6. They found that every five months or so that a mother was employed was linked to an increase in her child's BMI that was 10% higher than other kids their age. Before I take credit for my son's infant fitness, I'll be first to acknowledge such studies are often anecdotal, at best. And lead researcher Taryn Morrissey notes that "We want to emphasize that this is not a maternal employment issue; this is a family balance issue. This is not about maternal employment per se; this is about some other environmental factor or several factors." As for environmental factors, I do take pride that Mike and I are raising our son in a city that bans trans fats and a borough that battles evil behemoths like Walmart.
It's taken me over an hour to bang this out, as I steal seconds while Michael Alexander engages in toys instead of tapping the keys. If I were "working" in an office I could have banged out thousands of words of copy in that hour or so. Back in the AP days, I'd have filed dozens of stories in the first hour of a busy shift. It's tough to recall more than a dozen stories that stood out in that frenzy. But now that I'm "not working" I can count every word that I manage to bang out. And every one of those words count, even if they don't command a salary. I'm not working, but I am working on being the best mother I can, and if Michael Alexander's disposition and development is any indicator then I can take pride in my joblessness.
Motherhood with all its joys has its pains, most inflicted by others. There's the worry that you're not giving your child enough. In Manhattan, that's an uber worry as the megarich, and those who drown in debt to feign such wealth, perpetuate a culture that compels you to spend a fortune on childcare. I see nannies every day. I see them tow children from townhouses to pricey play facilities where they chat away with other nannies. I see them shop for cosmetics, for clothes, for anything that's not for the babies. I hear them blab away on their cell phones or with other nannies as the children they are caring for cry, scream, laugh, whatever. The kids are being ignored, at best. In the rare case, I see a nanny abuse a child, like the one who slammed a stroller into the brick wall outside a Babies"R"Us. The toddler was yelling and weeping while the nanny was on the phone. I'm guessing it wasn't the parent/employer on the other line. I am not trying to malign nannies. I am not trying to guilt or scare the parents who fork over a big chunk of non-Wall Street salaries for this service. I am not even trying to make myself feel better. Really, I'm not. At least not by hating on paid childcare workers. I believe those who care for children should be paid -- and treated -- well. And I also believe those who care for their own children should be treated well, or at least with some respect. At least as much respect as they demanded in the workplace they left behind to stay at home.
My biggest struggle isn't keeping up with the Manhattan standard of hemorrhaging money hand over fist for activities that babies don't even understand or enjoy. It's accepting the terms and the tone used to describe my decision to "stay at home." Even my supportive, loving husband has said "Natasha isn't working, so ..." He'll deny it, I'm sure. But I have witnesses. I know Mike means no offense and isn't displeased with my staying at home to raise our son. But hearing anyone say "Natasha isn't working" makes me cringe, and when I'm alone, cry. I do some freelance, as much as I can with a very active son who seems allergic to napping. Michael Alexander demands constant attention and I give it to him. That may be a mistake on my end, at least according to many childcare experts. But I can't abandon my work ethic, even if I'm "not working" by most people's standards, and my job is to care for my son every second he's awake and to check on him every few minutes on the rare occasion he naps for more than half an hour. I'm actively seeking a full-time job, but I'm not sure I want to go back to work, yet. I don't want to take a job just to offset the cost of a nanny. I want to send Michael Alexander to a daycare where he interacts with other children and with other adults. The costs of such daycare in our neighborhood are astronomical.
As I consider when and why I want to return to an office, I try to maintain a positive perspective on my current condition as "not working." A 2010 Kansas State University study found that people value, and do not differentiate between, mothers who stay in the home full time and mothers who find a compromise between working and at-home motherhood after they have a child. People also devalue mothers employed full-time outside the home, relative to their non-employed counterparts, and perceive their children to be troubled and their relationships to be problematic, the study showed. But I'm not in Kansas. I'm in Manhattan, where we're measured by very different criteria. I'm supposed to be a supermom and a superwoman executive and, oh yeah, a size 2 at most, and that's with the baby weight. "The most interesting, and potentially dangerous, finding is the view that if a child has a working mother, people don't like that child as much," said Jennifer Livengood, a graduate student in psychology who did the study for her master's thesis and collaborated with Mark Barnett, professor of psychology. "People really devalue a mom who works full time outside the home in comparison to a mom who doesn't. People like mothers who fulfill traditional stereotypes, like staying at home. That's just not a reality and not a preference for women as much as it used to be." Ha! Well, at least people -- all kinds of people -- like my son, regardless of my work status. He's too charming to be measured against my career path, even when I've careened off course.
Another study published this month in the journal Child Development found that the longer a mother works outside the home, the more likely it is that her kids will become overweight. So far, Michael Alexander is long and lean, like his father's father. I hope Michael Alexander continues to be blessed by those genetics (not my sluggish thyroid), and I will not let him consume poisons such as high fructose corn syrup and will encourage him in any and all athletic pursuits. Researchers from American University in Washington, Cornell University and the University of Chicago studied data on more than 900 children in 10 U.S. cities, focusing on kids in Grades 3, 5, and 6. They found that every five months or so that a mother was employed was linked to an increase in her child's BMI that was 10% higher than other kids their age. Before I take credit for my son's infant fitness, I'll be first to acknowledge such studies are often anecdotal, at best. And lead researcher Taryn Morrissey notes that "We want to emphasize that this is not a maternal employment issue; this is a family balance issue. This is not about maternal employment per se; this is about some other environmental factor or several factors." As for environmental factors, I do take pride that Mike and I are raising our son in a city that bans trans fats and a borough that battles evil behemoths like Walmart.
It's taken me over an hour to bang this out, as I steal seconds while Michael Alexander engages in toys instead of tapping the keys. If I were "working" in an office I could have banged out thousands of words of copy in that hour or so. Back in the AP days, I'd have filed dozens of stories in the first hour of a busy shift. It's tough to recall more than a dozen stories that stood out in that frenzy. But now that I'm "not working" I can count every word that I manage to bang out. And every one of those words count, even if they don't command a salary. I'm not working, but I am working on being the best mother I can, and if Michael Alexander's disposition and development is any indicator then I can take pride in my joblessness.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Shardstorm, Shitstorm, Snowstorm
Every weekday morning starts the same. I have goals for the day -- what I'd really like to get done before Mike gets home from work, usually around 6:30, when I escape to the gym for my only alone time. And then there are the minimum goals I can realistically hope to achieve, and that's on a good day. Most days I'm lucky if Michael Alexander naps for 20 minutes, giving me that much time to hustle even as I would like to join him in a nap. Writing, even answering emails, is a constant challenge as he wants to pound on the keys as soon as he sees the laptop open. I steal away what little time I can in the minutes he'll entertain himself in the jump-a-roo. Like right now. I am typing as quickly as I can because I am determined today to write something, anything.
The day started with a shardstorm. I placed Michael Alexander in the jump-a-roo as I ran to the bathroom to pee. (Little luxuries that stay-at-home moms cherish. I have become a master at holding it to keep toilet visits to a minimum.) I had just unzipped my jeans when I heard a colossal crash that rattled me to the core. I can see and hear Michael Alexander from the bathroom, so I knew he was fine, but I still dreaded the source of that scary sound. The light fixture on the kitchen ceiling had thundered down, showering the black tiles with shards of white polished glass. Some pieces were large enough to scoop up by hand, most had to be swept up and a powder had to be very carefully removed. The kitchen floor and parts of the counter and stove were covered in what looked like a dusting of snow. Tiny shards and some powder made it into the living room. I carefully stepped into a pair of flip flops just outside the kitchen every few minutes to soothe Michael Alexander as I scoured the floors for every last razor sharp shard. It took a full hour just to be sure all visible powder was discarded. I sliced off a sliver of my right middle finger as I carefully pulled a chunk of glass from under the dishwasher. I've managed to keep Michael Alexander out of the kitchen all day. That's a tall order, as he insists on following me in there and enjoys searching for any remnants and pushing the dishawasher buttons and opening the oven door. He's so tall that at 9 months, he can reach higher than most 18-month-olds. To be sure, I scrubbed the floor and the oven and the counters. That called for a another series of sweeps to distinguish between the clean shine and stubborn shards.
Shardstorm over, save for the particles I missed and the ongoing battle to keep Michael Alexander out of the tiny kitchen he finds so fascinating. As much as I dread grocery shopping ahead of another threat of stormageddon, I had to get to get food and water just because we're one of those unusual Manhattan households that prepares most of its meals despite the endless delivery options. We went to Whole Foods first, but too many staples, like the sports cap electrolyte enhanced water, were sold out, so we returned to slippery sidewalks and headed to Trader Joe's. Trader Joe's in Union Square, unlike its sister stores in suburbia, is cramped and always crowded beyond capacity. I was relieved that there was no line outside, as that often stretches half an avenue while people wait to clear the entrance. Trader Joe's is boring. Boring for anyone, especially an extremely active 9-month-old confined to a stroller for what seems like an endless, sluggish journey snaking the narrow aisles. Michael Alexander is such a happy baby, so animated and engaging he earns the adoration of child-hating hipsters. Shoppers are rabid and packed like sardines. There are no pleasantries. Michael Alexander isn't accustomed to such a somber scene. He's used to constant compliments and a sea of smiles. Understandably, he got a little cranky as we weaved our way around the weary sourpusses and sad saps. As always, there is plenty of carriage slamming. There's always a shopper who repeatedly rams her cart into the backs of my ankles as if that will expedite her trip to the register. The woman behind us on line today was particularly nasty. The bitter old hag hates babies. I could sense this even before her verbal assault, as my radar was honed in my years as a bitter young hack who had little tolerance for crying babies in crowded stores. As the hag slammed her push cart into my back, she knocked a package of ground turkey from the stroller. It landed near her feet. "Please, remove that immediately," she barked. "I cannot be exposed to meat. I cannot handle meat." I said nothing as I retrieved the warehouse sealed package from the ground, inches away from her filthy rubber rain boots. Meantime, her face was closer to the shelves of beef than her boots were to the single package of poultry. "Disgusting," she mumbled. "Children should not have contact with meat." Hmmm ... I was a vegetarian, briefly, as a younger person. We all make mistakes, go through phases. If she's so adamant about her problem, err, I am mean choice, perhaps she could avoid stores that stock the flesh she so fears. Even the vegans that nibble away at their bowls of overpriced leaves and legumes from the trough where these items sit all day turning every shade of food poisoning don't scoff at the carnivores flanking them at the Whole Foods checkout line. Maybe it's because they're technically stealing (and breaking state law) by chowing down on the food that's priced, and supposed to be purchased, by the pound. In any case, this hag's anti-meat madness was above and beyond the worst offenders I've encountered in the mixed (omnivores and other uber eating races) retail company. As if her veg venom were not vile enough -- or perhaps my lack of response annoyed her -- the hag sought to set me off by swearing at my sweet son. "Ugh!" she launched into tirade No. 2. "Uuuugh! Why is that child here?!" Again, I ignored her. "Children should not be allowed here! There is no room for children!" My stubborn silence sent her seething, it seems. She pulled out her ancient flip phone and greeted the unlucky number with another, louder round of "Ughs!" "I am at Trader Joe's," she grumbled into the telecom artifact. "There is this woman, with a baby, throwing meat on the floor!" Lady, if my baby or I were throwing meat, you wouldn't be standing. Yet it was my very calm, my refusal to acknowledge her tedious tirade, that really ticked her off. She groaned and groaned some more. "This line is taking forever. This is bullshit! This woman with the baby! This is what nannies are for. To stay home with the babies!" Really? Nannies are for stay-at-home moms who need to grocery shop solo? Fascinating! I am pretty sure the uber rich who afford such leisure and luxury need not shop on their own, at Trader Joe's. We made it to a register, where we were greeted by the charming cashier. He is named Mike, like so many a kind-hearted and quick-witted man. "How was your shopping experience?" he asked with a smirk. "I've had better days." Curious, he quizzed me for more. I summed up the hag's harassment. "Want me to get a manager? We can ban people like that from the store." I thanked him, but explained that this hag's misery was self-inflicted punishment enough, and the manager need not endure her fury.
Having a baby changes everything. Back in my pre-mommy days. Back when I was a bitter young hack, I'd never have kept shut and I'd likely have been banned when the other oldy-moldy meanies joined forces to counter my youthful rage against the hag. Today I am just happy to escape the hag's shitstorm, all that after surviving the shardstorm, at least relatively unscathed. All this and I thought today's super struggle was supposed to be a snowstorm. New Englanders and other non-New Yorkers, I shudder to say that I might have -- just for today -- preferred shoveling snow to shielding my son and self from the shards and shit.
The day started with a shardstorm. I placed Michael Alexander in the jump-a-roo as I ran to the bathroom to pee. (Little luxuries that stay-at-home moms cherish. I have become a master at holding it to keep toilet visits to a minimum.) I had just unzipped my jeans when I heard a colossal crash that rattled me to the core. I can see and hear Michael Alexander from the bathroom, so I knew he was fine, but I still dreaded the source of that scary sound. The light fixture on the kitchen ceiling had thundered down, showering the black tiles with shards of white polished glass. Some pieces were large enough to scoop up by hand, most had to be swept up and a powder had to be very carefully removed. The kitchen floor and parts of the counter and stove were covered in what looked like a dusting of snow. Tiny shards and some powder made it into the living room. I carefully stepped into a pair of flip flops just outside the kitchen every few minutes to soothe Michael Alexander as I scoured the floors for every last razor sharp shard. It took a full hour just to be sure all visible powder was discarded. I sliced off a sliver of my right middle finger as I carefully pulled a chunk of glass from under the dishwasher. I've managed to keep Michael Alexander out of the kitchen all day. That's a tall order, as he insists on following me in there and enjoys searching for any remnants and pushing the dishawasher buttons and opening the oven door. He's so tall that at 9 months, he can reach higher than most 18-month-olds. To be sure, I scrubbed the floor and the oven and the counters. That called for a another series of sweeps to distinguish between the clean shine and stubborn shards.
Shardstorm over, save for the particles I missed and the ongoing battle to keep Michael Alexander out of the tiny kitchen he finds so fascinating. As much as I dread grocery shopping ahead of another threat of stormageddon, I had to get to get food and water just because we're one of those unusual Manhattan households that prepares most of its meals despite the endless delivery options. We went to Whole Foods first, but too many staples, like the sports cap electrolyte enhanced water, were sold out, so we returned to slippery sidewalks and headed to Trader Joe's. Trader Joe's in Union Square, unlike its sister stores in suburbia, is cramped and always crowded beyond capacity. I was relieved that there was no line outside, as that often stretches half an avenue while people wait to clear the entrance. Trader Joe's is boring. Boring for anyone, especially an extremely active 9-month-old confined to a stroller for what seems like an endless, sluggish journey snaking the narrow aisles. Michael Alexander is such a happy baby, so animated and engaging he earns the adoration of child-hating hipsters. Shoppers are rabid and packed like sardines. There are no pleasantries. Michael Alexander isn't accustomed to such a somber scene. He's used to constant compliments and a sea of smiles. Understandably, he got a little cranky as we weaved our way around the weary sourpusses and sad saps. As always, there is plenty of carriage slamming. There's always a shopper who repeatedly rams her cart into the backs of my ankles as if that will expedite her trip to the register. The woman behind us on line today was particularly nasty. The bitter old hag hates babies. I could sense this even before her verbal assault, as my radar was honed in my years as a bitter young hack who had little tolerance for crying babies in crowded stores. As the hag slammed her push cart into my back, she knocked a package of ground turkey from the stroller. It landed near her feet. "Please, remove that immediately," she barked. "I cannot be exposed to meat. I cannot handle meat." I said nothing as I retrieved the warehouse sealed package from the ground, inches away from her filthy rubber rain boots. Meantime, her face was closer to the shelves of beef than her boots were to the single package of poultry. "Disgusting," she mumbled. "Children should not have contact with meat." Hmmm ... I was a vegetarian, briefly, as a younger person. We all make mistakes, go through phases. If she's so adamant about her problem, err, I am mean choice, perhaps she could avoid stores that stock the flesh she so fears. Even the vegans that nibble away at their bowls of overpriced leaves and legumes from the trough where these items sit all day turning every shade of food poisoning don't scoff at the carnivores flanking them at the Whole Foods checkout line. Maybe it's because they're technically stealing (and breaking state law) by chowing down on the food that's priced, and supposed to be purchased, by the pound. In any case, this hag's anti-meat madness was above and beyond the worst offenders I've encountered in the mixed (omnivores and other uber eating races) retail company. As if her veg venom were not vile enough -- or perhaps my lack of response annoyed her -- the hag sought to set me off by swearing at my sweet son. "Ugh!" she launched into tirade No. 2. "Uuuugh! Why is that child here?!" Again, I ignored her. "Children should not be allowed here! There is no room for children!" My stubborn silence sent her seething, it seems. She pulled out her ancient flip phone and greeted the unlucky number with another, louder round of "Ughs!" "I am at Trader Joe's," she grumbled into the telecom artifact. "There is this woman, with a baby, throwing meat on the floor!" Lady, if my baby or I were throwing meat, you wouldn't be standing. Yet it was my very calm, my refusal to acknowledge her tedious tirade, that really ticked her off. She groaned and groaned some more. "This line is taking forever. This is bullshit! This woman with the baby! This is what nannies are for. To stay home with the babies!" Really? Nannies are for stay-at-home moms who need to grocery shop solo? Fascinating! I am pretty sure the uber rich who afford such leisure and luxury need not shop on their own, at Trader Joe's. We made it to a register, where we were greeted by the charming cashier. He is named Mike, like so many a kind-hearted and quick-witted man. "How was your shopping experience?" he asked with a smirk. "I've had better days." Curious, he quizzed me for more. I summed up the hag's harassment. "Want me to get a manager? We can ban people like that from the store." I thanked him, but explained that this hag's misery was self-inflicted punishment enough, and the manager need not endure her fury.
Having a baby changes everything. Back in my pre-mommy days. Back when I was a bitter young hack, I'd never have kept shut and I'd likely have been banned when the other oldy-moldy meanies joined forces to counter my youthful rage against the hag. Today I am just happy to escape the hag's shitstorm, all that after surviving the shardstorm, at least relatively unscathed. All this and I thought today's super struggle was supposed to be a snowstorm. New Englanders and other non-New Yorkers, I shudder to say that I might have -- just for today -- preferred shoveling snow to shielding my son and self from the shards and shit.
Friday, January 21, 2011
First Lady of Walmartians
Shame on you, Michelle Obama, for selling out -- again -- to the evil empire that is crippling the nation and chipping away at any goodness in the world. The White House announced that "First Lady Michelle Obama joined Walmart executives today to help launch the company’s Nutrition Charter, a groundbreaking new initiative that has the potential to have a transformative impact on the market place and help families across America put healthier, more affordable food on their tables." Even less appetizing are the *news* reports that rewrite this repulsive release without any mention of how this is another crime against our citizens. You'll need to read The Telegraph for anything more than a gratuitous endorsement masquerading as news: "The apparent contradiction between Sen Obama's political calculation to join the Wal-Mart-bashing lobby, and his wife's profitable role with a company that makes money from Wal-Mart, is being closely scrutinised by "opposition" research teams working for rival White House candidates, The Sunday Telegraph has learnt." For more on Obama's re-election to the board of Treehouse Foods, the Illinois-based union- and worker-hating pickles and peppers producer, click here: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/1551441/Obama-called-hypocrite-for-wifes-Wal-Mart-link.html
Walmartians aren't looking for "healthier" food. They consume processed crap in lieu of anything that resembles whole food. The socially conscious aren't going to trade down from their local farmer's market or Whole Foods to be fooled into believing they are saving money at the behemoth that sucks dry any semblance of humanity from the masses. The world's biggest retailer claims it is "reformulating thousands of everyday packaged food items by 2015 by reducing sodium 25 percent and added sugars 10 percent, and by removing all remaining industrially produced trans fats." Why is this poison loaded with so much sodium, sugar (no doubt mostly high fructose corn syrup) and trans fat to begin with? And why is it taking until 2015? Because the chemical concoctions on the shelves are forever fossilized in their processed state and "good" for years after they come off the production lines. Specifically, Walmart has vowed to "reduce sodium by 25 percent in a broad category of grocery items, including grain products, luncheon meats, salad dressings and frozen entrees." This death by diet campaign is acknowledging it doesn't stock whole grains but "grain products." Good luck finding lean protein at any price in this mecca of mock. There you'll find "luncheon meats." Luncheon meats? I guess that's what you serve with American cheese, a blend of milk, milk fats and solids, with other fats and whey protein concentrates. I'm too nauseous to even comment on the contents of the "salad dressings and frozen entrees." Walmart also promises to "reduce added sugars by 10 percent in dairy items, sauces and fruit drinks." Added sugars in "dairy items?" Want to commit to health Walmart? Don't sell diabetes causing "dairy items, sauces and fruit drinks" to human beings! Even fruit juice (just fruit without any of the fiber reduced to a "healthy" sugar) needs to be doled out in moderation. That something called "fruit drinks" is even legal is heinous. To round out the trinity of "reformulation," Walmart says it will "remove all remaining industrially produced trans fats (partially hydrogenated fats and oils) in all packaged food products." Thanks, Walmart, for introducing me to an even deeper, darker circle of dietary hell known as "industrially produced trans fats."
I dare doubters who still think I'm a snob to show me any evidence that even the slightest improvement in any packaged Walmart product will transform it into anything approaching healthy. Take a serving of Sam's Club frozen pizza. The store brand supreme pie packs 350 calories per serving. Sounds OK, right? That serving is a tenth of the pie, or 5.57 ounces. How many Walmartians really eat one slice? Let's be conservative and say a family of four shares the pie, with three slices doled out to dad, the biggest eater of the bunch. That means dad's scarfing down 1,050 calories, 48 grams of fat (24 saturated), 120 mg of cholesterol, 2,340 mg of sodium and 42 grams of sugar. And that's before the fruit drink. And what if mom, who's only eating two slices, decides to serve a healthy salad with store bought dressing? I'll spare you the staggering statistics.
Since I'm nowhere near a Walmart (one legitimate reason for paying astronomical rent) and I have vowed to never step foot in one, I can't give you a price comparison. But I assure you that you can find bulk items of whole foods like grains and legumes much cheaper at Whole Foods. I tried to search online for Walmart prices. Funny that a site search for "organic" in the grocery department yields just 10 results. Those items include tea, coffee, infant formula and diapers. What more do you need for a healthy, organic diet?
The press photos of the First Lady and Walmart President and CEO Bill Simon against a backdrop of super shiny peppers and tomatoes makes me squint (from the grotesque glossy veneer) and shudder. I challenge any Walmartian to monitor that produce pile, watch for any takers or any turnover of the shellacked racks.
Walmartians aren't looking for "healthier" food. They consume processed crap in lieu of anything that resembles whole food. The socially conscious aren't going to trade down from their local farmer's market or Whole Foods to be fooled into believing they are saving money at the behemoth that sucks dry any semblance of humanity from the masses. The world's biggest retailer claims it is "reformulating thousands of everyday packaged food items by 2015 by reducing sodium 25 percent and added sugars 10 percent, and by removing all remaining industrially produced trans fats." Why is this poison loaded with so much sodium, sugar (no doubt mostly high fructose corn syrup) and trans fat to begin with? And why is it taking until 2015? Because the chemical concoctions on the shelves are forever fossilized in their processed state and "good" for years after they come off the production lines. Specifically, Walmart has vowed to "reduce sodium by 25 percent in a broad category of grocery items, including grain products, luncheon meats, salad dressings and frozen entrees." This death by diet campaign is acknowledging it doesn't stock whole grains but "grain products." Good luck finding lean protein at any price in this mecca of mock. There you'll find "luncheon meats." Luncheon meats? I guess that's what you serve with American cheese, a blend of milk, milk fats and solids, with other fats and whey protein concentrates. I'm too nauseous to even comment on the contents of the "salad dressings and frozen entrees." Walmart also promises to "reduce added sugars by 10 percent in dairy items, sauces and fruit drinks." Added sugars in "dairy items?" Want to commit to health Walmart? Don't sell diabetes causing "dairy items, sauces and fruit drinks" to human beings! Even fruit juice (just fruit without any of the fiber reduced to a "healthy" sugar) needs to be doled out in moderation. That something called "fruit drinks" is even legal is heinous. To round out the trinity of "reformulation," Walmart says it will "remove all remaining industrially produced trans fats (partially hydrogenated fats and oils) in all packaged food products." Thanks, Walmart, for introducing me to an even deeper, darker circle of dietary hell known as "industrially produced trans fats."
I dare doubters who still think I'm a snob to show me any evidence that even the slightest improvement in any packaged Walmart product will transform it into anything approaching healthy. Take a serving of Sam's Club frozen pizza. The store brand supreme pie packs 350 calories per serving. Sounds OK, right? That serving is a tenth of the pie, or 5.57 ounces. How many Walmartians really eat one slice? Let's be conservative and say a family of four shares the pie, with three slices doled out to dad, the biggest eater of the bunch. That means dad's scarfing down 1,050 calories, 48 grams of fat (24 saturated), 120 mg of cholesterol, 2,340 mg of sodium and 42 grams of sugar. And that's before the fruit drink. And what if mom, who's only eating two slices, decides to serve a healthy salad with store bought dressing? I'll spare you the staggering statistics.
Since I'm nowhere near a Walmart (one legitimate reason for paying astronomical rent) and I have vowed to never step foot in one, I can't give you a price comparison. But I assure you that you can find bulk items of whole foods like grains and legumes much cheaper at Whole Foods. I tried to search online for Walmart prices. Funny that a site search for "organic" in the grocery department yields just 10 results. Those items include tea, coffee, infant formula and diapers. What more do you need for a healthy, organic diet?
The press photos of the First Lady and Walmart President and CEO Bill Simon against a backdrop of super shiny peppers and tomatoes makes me squint (from the grotesque glossy veneer) and shudder. I challenge any Walmartian to monitor that produce pile, watch for any takers or any turnover of the shellacked racks.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Mass. Emotion
It's taken me nearly a week to write this. Largely because I've had very little chance to write anything, and have stolen what little time Michael Alexander naps during the day to bang out my personal finance column. And this week I've struggled to even answer emails after he goes to bed. We're all sick with stuffiness, sore throats and sniffles, so my energy is zapped by the time the baby falls asleep. It's nearly impossible to eke out a sentence when Michael Alexander's awake, as the keyboard is far more fascinating than any of his baby toys and he dives in as soon as I start tapping.
There's also the emotional impact of writing about emotions. I might be writing this only because I have such limited time to put anything in print. My restrictions may be freeing me to get this out without overthinking whether I'm oversharing.
Michael Alexander and I last week spent four nights in western Massachusetts, two without Mike. We were there to celebrate Rosghestvo, Christmas by the Julian calendar. That's two nights of sleeping -- alone -- in the bedroom where my father died, right next to the bedroom where my grandmother died. And just a hallway away from the room where my grandmother was waked. Every childhood home is awash in memories, good and bad. Few childhood homes in today's America are like mine. Americans love to divorce themselves from the reality of their family's disease and death, shipping them off to nursing home where strangers bathe them, change their bandages, refill their IVs and generally regard them as flesh waiting to go cold and and be replaced. I have many friends who didn't see grandparents for months at a time, as they were removed from their reality, dying a sanitary (at least by emotional standards) and soulless death in some money-making deathpit.
As my favorite undergraduate professor, Charles Kay Smith, said, Americans are as Puritanical about death as the Victorians were about sex. We changed the name parlour (or parlor) to living room (what an absurd term!) to erase any trace of dying from our homes. Up until 1918, Americans and Europeans called the front room of the house the front parlor (or parlour). The 1918 flu pandemic (or Spanish Flu), a pandemic which wiped out between 50 million and 100 million people from June 1917 to December 1920, reportedly forced people to pile bodies in the front parlor. (The first cases were reported in the continental U.S. and the rest of Europe long before creeping to Spain. But the pandemic was dubbed "Spanish flu" because as a neutral country in World War I, Spain had no censorship of news regarding the disease and its consequences. Spanish King Alfonso XIII became the high-ranking poster child for the disease after getting sick.) All this death was far too depressing for American society to bear! The desire to boost sales of its lifestyle magazine drove the editors of "The Ladies Home Journal" to rename the parlor the "living room" in honor of those who survived. God forbid Americans grow too sad to seek advice on redecorating their new room!
Though I grew up in a bucolic New England suburb, cushioned by the liberal utopia of America's higher education mecca, my life was very different, at least at home. My mother, a fashionista who shopped at Saks in New York and walked the red carpet to her various executive roles, made every effort to ensure my sister and I were clad and coiffed to fit in with the proud Protestants and fallen Catholics. We played sports. We were Brownies and Girl Scouts (my mom was a troop leader.) I was such an archetypal New England child that I won a Memorial Day poetry contest and read proudly in patriotic red, white and blue. I marched in parades dressed as a pilgrim. But beneath all the costumes and conformity, I was buffered from the uptight American denial of death. I went to wakes and funerals as a baby. And Russian Orthodox wakes and funerals involve open caskets and close contact with the corpse. I am grateful I was raised this way. I cannot imagine the detachment and denial that plagues so many of my peers. Sheltering your children from reality and the natural cycle and ritual of life is absurd and unnatural. "The Ladies Home Journal" is not an infant care handbook. It can make for good comedy, though.
As always, I digress. While I wouldn't trade my old world upbringing for the milktoast, mundane, Main Street mainstream, I do acknowledge that my early emotional intelligence makes some adult experiences more volatile. Like coming home. Home, where my father and grandmother died. My mother cared for both of them, after she helped my grandmother care for my grandfather. She was incapable of discarding them in our nation's dollar-driven deathcare system. With names like Home of the Innocents, South Mountain Restoration Center and Cokesbury Village (among the winners of U.S. News America's Best Nursing Homes rankings), America disguises these places to die and makes people think they are doing something humane in exchange for a small fortune amassed in a lifetime. Some 1.5 million people are living in the nation's 16,000-plus nursing homes, and in a typical year more than 3.2 million Americans will spend at least some time in one. That statistic saddens me far more than the purpose of a parlor.
But I struggle to sleep when I am my mother's house, where I grew up. I am startled by nightmares (often re-runs from my childhood), flooded by emotion and angry at myself for how I neglected my mother in some of her greatest moments of need. I suppose if I were raised in a home that banished the old and ill at the first sign of convalescence I wouldn't have this problem. Sorrow aside, I am comforted most by compassion and empathy which can only come with experience. I wouldn't trade my tossing, turning and night terrors for a bland background.
"Our repugnance to death increases in proportion to our consciousness of having lived in vain."
_ William Hazlitt (1778-1830) British essayist (and Irish Protestant)
There's also the emotional impact of writing about emotions. I might be writing this only because I have such limited time to put anything in print. My restrictions may be freeing me to get this out without overthinking whether I'm oversharing.
Michael Alexander and I last week spent four nights in western Massachusetts, two without Mike. We were there to celebrate Rosghestvo, Christmas by the Julian calendar. That's two nights of sleeping -- alone -- in the bedroom where my father died, right next to the bedroom where my grandmother died. And just a hallway away from the room where my grandmother was waked. Every childhood home is awash in memories, good and bad. Few childhood homes in today's America are like mine. Americans love to divorce themselves from the reality of their family's disease and death, shipping them off to nursing home where strangers bathe them, change their bandages, refill their IVs and generally regard them as flesh waiting to go cold and and be replaced. I have many friends who didn't see grandparents for months at a time, as they were removed from their reality, dying a sanitary (at least by emotional standards) and soulless death in some money-making deathpit.
As my favorite undergraduate professor, Charles Kay Smith, said, Americans are as Puritanical about death as the Victorians were about sex. We changed the name parlour (or parlor) to living room (what an absurd term!) to erase any trace of dying from our homes. Up until 1918, Americans and Europeans called the front room of the house the front parlor (or parlour). The 1918 flu pandemic (or Spanish Flu), a pandemic which wiped out between 50 million and 100 million people from June 1917 to December 1920, reportedly forced people to pile bodies in the front parlor. (The first cases were reported in the continental U.S. and the rest of Europe long before creeping to Spain. But the pandemic was dubbed "Spanish flu" because as a neutral country in World War I, Spain had no censorship of news regarding the disease and its consequences. Spanish King Alfonso XIII became the high-ranking poster child for the disease after getting sick.) All this death was far too depressing for American society to bear! The desire to boost sales of its lifestyle magazine drove the editors of "The Ladies Home Journal" to rename the parlor the "living room" in honor of those who survived. God forbid Americans grow too sad to seek advice on redecorating their new room!
Though I grew up in a bucolic New England suburb, cushioned by the liberal utopia of America's higher education mecca, my life was very different, at least at home. My mother, a fashionista who shopped at Saks in New York and walked the red carpet to her various executive roles, made every effort to ensure my sister and I were clad and coiffed to fit in with the proud Protestants and fallen Catholics. We played sports. We were Brownies and Girl Scouts (my mom was a troop leader.) I was such an archetypal New England child that I won a Memorial Day poetry contest and read proudly in patriotic red, white and blue. I marched in parades dressed as a pilgrim. But beneath all the costumes and conformity, I was buffered from the uptight American denial of death. I went to wakes and funerals as a baby. And Russian Orthodox wakes and funerals involve open caskets and close contact with the corpse. I am grateful I was raised this way. I cannot imagine the detachment and denial that plagues so many of my peers. Sheltering your children from reality and the natural cycle and ritual of life is absurd and unnatural. "The Ladies Home Journal" is not an infant care handbook. It can make for good comedy, though.
As always, I digress. While I wouldn't trade my old world upbringing for the milktoast, mundane, Main Street mainstream, I do acknowledge that my early emotional intelligence makes some adult experiences more volatile. Like coming home. Home, where my father and grandmother died. My mother cared for both of them, after she helped my grandmother care for my grandfather. She was incapable of discarding them in our nation's dollar-driven deathcare system. With names like Home of the Innocents, South Mountain Restoration Center and Cokesbury Village (among the winners of U.S. News America's Best Nursing Homes rankings), America disguises these places to die and makes people think they are doing something humane in exchange for a small fortune amassed in a lifetime. Some 1.5 million people are living in the nation's 16,000-plus nursing homes, and in a typical year more than 3.2 million Americans will spend at least some time in one. That statistic saddens me far more than the purpose of a parlor.
But I struggle to sleep when I am my mother's house, where I grew up. I am startled by nightmares (often re-runs from my childhood), flooded by emotion and angry at myself for how I neglected my mother in some of her greatest moments of need. I suppose if I were raised in a home that banished the old and ill at the first sign of convalescence I wouldn't have this problem. Sorrow aside, I am comforted most by compassion and empathy which can only come with experience. I wouldn't trade my tossing, turning and night terrors for a bland background.
"Our repugnance to death increases in proportion to our consciousness of having lived in vain."
_ William Hazlitt (1778-1830) British essayist (and Irish Protestant)
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Tooth and Nail
I've been fighting tooth and nail today to stay smiley. I'm finally feeling better after battling a monster headache. It's the intense throbbing and pounding pain that moves from temple to temple like with a migraine, but mercifully without the blinding nausea. I have to keep grinning and giggling, even as I grind my teeth and chomp the insides of my cheeks to offset the fear my head may implode. Michael Alexander has cut his first two teeth and he needs Nommers to be especially cheerful and patient and attentive and concerned with his pain, not hers.
Of all the baby gear people are convinced parents need, teething rings are the most useless. Michael Alexander cut his first tooth -- bottom left front -- on Thursday, the day before Rosghestvo (Christmas by the Julian calendar) and the second -- bottom right front -- on Saturday. He wants to gnaw on everything. Well, everything except teething rings. Clean socks. The diaper box. My knees. Just about anything seems to offer at least a few seconds of comfort. But the teething rings get ousted almost immediately.
Michael Alexander might be one of the happiest babies ever. He doesn't complain and rarely cries. Cutting teeth is the first thing to rattle (rattles, another useless item, as babies prefer the packaging) him. He had a fever over the holiday weekend at his Babushka's, but quickly perked up after a dose of Baby Tylenol. Now Daddy's sick with a cold, I have a sore throat and he's starting to sniffle. We can't all be sick at once.
Michael Alexander's being a champ compared with most teething babies. I just hope I'm feeling better tomorrow. This teething is tough enough without my being ill. And I'm going a little crazy as he demands much more of my attention. I've already spoiled him just a teeny tiny bit, so I am not allowed to so much as glance at the laptop when he's awake and watching. He wants to help me, pounding on the keys and striking macros I didn't even know existed. At just a couple months old, he killed one MacBook by shoving it off my left thigh as I attempted to write an article with the laptop balanced on my right thigh. He's since removed the Control keys from the new MacBook Pro and the the new PC. There is a major cost associated with focusing on anything other than his sparkling eyes.
But I'm not complaining. I know this is a major developmental milestone and I am so thrilled when he lets me peek inside that little mouth. They may be baby teeth, but they are sure sign my baby is growing up quickly. I'm so glad I get witness every amazing moment. As James Brown said, "Hair is the first thing. And teeth the second. Hair and teeth. A man got those two things he's got it all."
Of all the baby gear people are convinced parents need, teething rings are the most useless. Michael Alexander cut his first tooth -- bottom left front -- on Thursday, the day before Rosghestvo (Christmas by the Julian calendar) and the second -- bottom right front -- on Saturday. He wants to gnaw on everything. Well, everything except teething rings. Clean socks. The diaper box. My knees. Just about anything seems to offer at least a few seconds of comfort. But the teething rings get ousted almost immediately.
Michael Alexander might be one of the happiest babies ever. He doesn't complain and rarely cries. Cutting teeth is the first thing to rattle (rattles, another useless item, as babies prefer the packaging) him. He had a fever over the holiday weekend at his Babushka's, but quickly perked up after a dose of Baby Tylenol. Now Daddy's sick with a cold, I have a sore throat and he's starting to sniffle. We can't all be sick at once.
Michael Alexander's being a champ compared with most teething babies. I just hope I'm feeling better tomorrow. This teething is tough enough without my being ill. And I'm going a little crazy as he demands much more of my attention. I've already spoiled him just a teeny tiny bit, so I am not allowed to so much as glance at the laptop when he's awake and watching. He wants to help me, pounding on the keys and striking macros I didn't even know existed. At just a couple months old, he killed one MacBook by shoving it off my left thigh as I attempted to write an article with the laptop balanced on my right thigh. He's since removed the Control keys from the new MacBook Pro and the the new PC. There is a major cost associated with focusing on anything other than his sparkling eyes.
But I'm not complaining. I know this is a major developmental milestone and I am so thrilled when he lets me peek inside that little mouth. They may be baby teeth, but they are sure sign my baby is growing up quickly. I'm so glad I get witness every amazing moment. As James Brown said, "Hair is the first thing. And teeth the second. Hair and teeth. A man got those two things he's got it all."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)