Why early parenthood is like college

Since I teach undergraduates, I spend much time envying their freedom, self-centerdness, and opportunity to swim, and sometimes drown, in knowledge. Oh, to be back in those days, living in a dorm room (no mortgage, no nagging repairs, minimal cleaning), going out most nights, being in close proximity of friends, and again, all the learning, the brain growing, the becoming. But I can't fool myself into glowing memories of halcyon days,:, one look at my students' faces, and I remember I how really felt -- stressed, anxious, impatient, and as if I were on a roller coaster where the highs and lows were of dire consequence. Only now, when the excitement and freedom of that period is long gone, do I realize how much I had, how much more I could have enjoyed instead of stressing out.

And so, it seems, I will feel a couple of years from now. Right now, I am sleep-deprived, stressed, anxious, and overwhelmed by all that must be done. My moods swing from delight to devastation. I'm not back in college (although I am trying to get a PhD, but more on that later....) I'm an early parent, with two young girls. And I am SO STRESSED!!!!! I'm on a roller-coaster again, thrilled with my child's latest achievement, depressed at the piles of bills, laughing at silly moments, pissed off at my husband -- all in the space of a few hours. I didn't realize, however, how similar this time is to college years until I heard my students going on about how STRESSED they are.

I thought to myself "you have no idea," and, in fact, they don't. Not that life can't get more stressful, it can get way more stressful in ways I can only imagine in my most anxious moments. But what I realized is that, I have no idea, either. These are the halcyon days, too, but I'm too overwhelmed by the challenge of it all to realize the joy I experience at the same time. Like college, the moments of pleasure seem compressed between lack of sleep, competing demands, and self-doubt. Now, it's a child (or children) who keep me awake past midnight. I juggle competing demands on my time, and wonder if I'm screwing it all up anywaay. I know that I have wonderful children, that they are an absolute joy, but I can't seem to let myself just sit back and savor the moment of their early childhood because I feel too pressured by all that is demanded of me.

When I ask my mother "what did you do about X?" when my brother and I were this age, she often says, "I don't know, we were too busy to worry about things like that." She was also too busy to remember many of the little, cute, day to day precious events. As she says "we didn't have any choice". That's how I feel, but I realize I do have a choice. It's not the automatic choice, to respond to the pressures the best I can, batting away incoming meteors before they shatter the very fragile order of our lives, but maybe I should make sure that when I'm not in the very midst of these challenges, I'm in the midst of savoring this short period of my life.

Yesterday, I had way too much to do (as always). The house was a mess, there were bills to pay (with the concurrent stress of knowing we couldn't pay them), books for both the PhD class I'm taking and the undergraduate class I'm teaching were whining to be read (yes, when you have a book that must be read but won't be enjoyed, it seems to whine on, doesn't it?) I had the impulse to plop Maisy in front of a Teletubbies video, again. (She's watched the video so often that she's as good as naming the four Teletubbies as speaking the name of her sister). But instead, I let her climb up the stairs, something that I couldn't mutlitask -- if I wanted my child in one piece, all my attention had to devoted to that little tushie struggling upwards. So I did, and I was rewarded with real pleasure, real uninterrupted joy (I say this as I type and same child is standing up, saying "Mama" and demanding attention -- we always are making these choices....) But yesterday, I didn't try to do, I just watched. I watched as Maisy climbed each stair, then would turn around, grin at me, waive her left hand. and say "bye-bye". I will cherish those five minutes forever (and remember them well when, fifteen years later, she says "bye-bye" while waving car keys to at me.)

The moments to cherish aren't always as clear, or as pleasurable, as this. Lillie will be home from school soon, demanding my undivided attention. Of course, there is no way I can give it to her, with a cute, competing little sister demanding the same. In fact, I'd much rather plop both of them in front of the TV and do my work, which is whining all the more noisily in my head since I've done no academic work since yesterday afternoon. But it's not just that, Lillie is more like a termpaper than just hanging around a dorm, as Maisy seems to be at the moment. Being with Lillie takes work -- not just being there, but actually engaging, thinking, being challenged. The pleasure is not so obvious, it may not even be felt for a long time, if ever; But, if I try to If I ignore her demands, as my students often ignore their assignments, I lose out. I won't get nearly as much from being her mother. Today, I regret that I didn't write a thesis, didn't get an internship. It just seemed too demanding, too unecessary, and all too easy to avoid. Tomorrow, will I regret playing Fairies with Lillie? I absolutely will. So I need to figure out a way to take the time, to find the pleasure in hearing Lillie say over and over, "pretend I'm Tinkerbell and you're Fira" or "pretend I'm Harry Potter and you're Hermione" or (ugh!) "play The American Girl Card Game with me!" It might seem pretty onerous right now, but later on, I'll regret I didn't realize how much I was denying myself by avoiding less pleasurable activitie3s.

Soon enough, I'll only have memories and poor second chances. Doing a masters was not nearly as life-illuminating as my undergraduate studies, and I doubt my PhD study will be much different. And certainly, being a grandparent will be a joy, but it will never equal the moments spent engaging with my young girls. So I'll end here, and go blow bubbles with Maisy.

Insanity at 4 a.m.

Picture the scene.....
Time: 4:15 a.m.
Place: my older daughter's bedroom
Action: Oldest daughter, sitting stark naked, wide-awake, organizing her "magic wands" (pencils) by size under the bright light of her bedside lamp. Mama walks in, bleary eyed.

Olkay.... now what?

Take one: Mama is empathetic. She's had nights (like right now) where she wakes up and can't fall asleep. Asks what Daughter is doing, feigns interest. Goes to move pencils lined up on bed, Daughter howls, Mama leaves them be. Tells her to turn off the light and go to sleep by 4:30 (points to digital clock on nightstand) gives her a kiss, wanders back to own bed and passes out.

Take two: (One hour later). Mama, again walking bleary eyed, emerges from Younger Daughter's room (5:15 nursing --purely for comfort -- for Mama) to see light still blaring in Older Daughter's room. "You were supposed to go to sleep an hour ago!" "I didn't look at the clock." (Well, that's one way to avoid obeying an order to go to sleep at 4:30). Leaving pencils still lined up (but taking book being read) Mama turns off light strernly, stumbles back into bed.

Take three: (Less than three mintues later) Light emerges from under closed door of Older Daughter's room. Mama looks at clock, past 5 a.m., justifiable to wake (morning person) husband. Informs him of situation, rolls over and tries to go back to sleep. Hears Abba go into Older Daughter's room, bellows (somewhat quietly) at her to TURN OFF THE LIGHT and BE QUIET! Takes pencils. Daughter howls (higher pitch, almost as loud as Abba bellow). Abba repeatedly hisses (still loudly) BE!!!! QUIET!!!! Mama lies in bed, praying Younger Daughter doesn't wake (having just been put back into crib after emo-nurse) and wondering if she did The Right Thing by sending in Cranky Abba. Now child is snuffling miserably, Abba is bent out of shape, Mama can't sleep (Younger Daughter, miraculously, is still sleeping).

Now, what would you have done if you walked in on your 6 1/2 year old, starkers, lining up pencils and in the middle of the night. Is this Normal? Is it Weird? Does it Matter?

Could this be anxiety about starting a new camp tomorrow? A brilliant, over active imagination that won't let her sleep? A blazing streak of independence that refuses to anything but what she wants to do? All of the above? And is the whole scence, Mama, Older Daughter, Abba (let's leave out Younger Daughter until she can at least talk) -- INSANE?

Or am I just overtired?

Political nightmare

Warning: This post is NOT for the faint hearted......

Recently, my little one has been in a growth spurt, which means that when she's not eating, she's sleeping, and thus, so am I. And during this more abundant sleep, the dreams have been coming fast and furious. Most are your basic anxiety dream, occasionally R-rated, but nothing truly interpretive. Until now.

Maybe I've been reading the news too much, maybe speaking to my husband (and politics junkie) too much (not possible, we barely have time for conversation), but it's seeped into my unconscious. Last night, I dreamed I was a Muslim woman, veiled and all, having sex with (hold on to your lunch) George Bush! But this same woman, when walking down a secret flight of stairs, was then transported to Georgetown, and was now unveiled and a Paris Hilton type. Disturbing, no?

So what does this mean? It CERTYAINLY does not mean I find George Bush attractive. Is it about said Head of State and his policy towards the Middle EAst -- i.e. let's screw it? My interpretation is a little more nuanced -- that the powers that be in DC have misled Georgie into thinking that the Mid East wanted him and was his to "enter", tricking him into thinking the will of the "Georgetown" was the will of the Mid East.

But whatever. In the end, I jsut feel a little grossed out and have GOT to stop reading about Paris Hilton :)

strapped

My husband's koala, Einstein, did himself in today. Daniel found him hanging by his (Daniel's) belt from the wardrobe in our bedroom. Okay, so Einstein is a puppet, but still, it was quite the statement, wasn't it? Did I have anything to do with it.... hmmm? Well, let's just say that this morning, in a half awake, very cranky state (as is of most mornings) I was woken by noisy child #1 (due to the benign neglect of said husband), shuffled into the bathroom, took a look at myself in the mirror on the door, and added to the horrors of my unwashed for two days hair, was a long, leather belt, hanging from the hook above.

Call me neurotic, call me father fixated or penis envious or childhood traumatized, but I cannot stand seeing his belt hanging like this. He could say it's pure laziness but if that's so, why are the rest of his clothes on the floor with only the leather member swinging in the bathroom breeze? Not only do I have to see it menacingly on the door, but in front a mirror, so it's double the aggression. Needless to say, I don't think it's just laziness. Now is this my thing? Well, sure, partly. As a kid, my brother and I were spanked, and my father often threatened bad behavior with "I'm going to take off my strap" -- i.e.. belt. Did he actually hit us wth the belt? No. It was just the brutality of the threat, clearly made in anger. That was scarier -- it wasn't a belt, it was a strap!

So when I see it hanging in our bathroom, don't blame me for being offened by the, at minimum, arrogance, and maximum, threat and aggression evidenced by my husband.

And don't say I'm one of these women who expects her husband to read her mind. Trust me, I let my husband know exactly what's on my mind like the daily headlines. I've been telling him not to hang his belt there since we first moved in together nine years ago. And this morning, cranky as I was, I took a deep breath and gently pointed out to him that he had left his belt hanging again after his shower, along with his glasses on the stepstool in front of the sink (not THAT'S smart - just perfect for little feet to step on). So he went back in, and put away the glasses. And later, when I woke up, there the belt still was.

So poor furry little Einie had to suffer for his "daddy's" mistake. As I explained to Daniel, maybe Einstein didn't want to live anymore in a world, or at least a home, so filled with strife. Or maybe I just wished for a moment that my husband would take that belt and put it around his own neck (just for a moment -- his life insurance policy probbly doesn't cover suicide).

Fortunately, Einie pulled a Heather. Or at least Einie's poor life was saved when my daughter asked "what happened?" All of sudden, Einstein was just bungee jumping. So he got a reprieve -- I'm still convinced, however, that this will come out in Lillie's therapy session circa 2038 -- "my mother was so passive agressive, she hung my father's stuffed animal with his belt"-- well, yeah, although there's nothing "passive' about it.

Will Daniel put his belt away next time, probably for a week or two, but then he'll revert to the same semi-conscious passive-agreessive habit of his own. And I don't believe in passive-aggressive. So next time, I'll just belt him. THAT should be good fodder for my children's future therapists.

Hit by a Wagner

As a Jew, one needs to be careful as to where to lay one's cultural head. Opera, for example. Opera should be a Jewish thing -- it's educated (you have to be able to read to enjoy it, learned in a foreign language to truly understand. It's expensive. It's big in New York. It has snob appeal. However, while a Jewish opera buff is safe cruising along, relishing "The Magic Flute" or delving into "Einstein on the Beach", let your guard down and you and you could be hit with a Wagner! And then what. Does an excuse of "art is art" make up for that art coming from brain also pickled in anti-semitism? It's an awkward position to be in, kind of being a vegatarian who indulges in marshmallow Peeps (gelatin, you know).

Food is a big one for us Jews. Even when we don't care about Kashrut, eating pork in front of non-Jews, who know about our being Jewish, feels like being on the hot seat. I participated in a interfaith retreat once, and while I don't keep kosher, I felt I had to eat the nasty, Meal Mart packaged food brought in just to be appreciative of those thoughtful enough to want to feed the Jews and to prove my "I'm into my religion but still can relate to others" cred.

What about politics? Can you be anti-immigrant if you grew up hearing stories of your great-grandparents escaping with just the clothes on their back from The Old Country and weeping for joy when seeing the Statue of Liberty? Or can you support bilingual education when, in the same story, you hear how your grandparents "learned the language and didn't expect anyone to do them any favors."

The ultimate conundrum is Israel. It used to be if you were a Jew, you supported Israel, the israeli government, military, period. Now, not only do we reckon with the label of "apartheid" and scenes of Palestinian or Lebanese civilians caught in the crossfire, but you also are standing shoulder to shoulder in your support with Evangelical Christians who might be the same ones supporting anti-immigration, as well as anti-abortion, anti-homosexuality, and anti-secular legislation.

You've got to look both ways before you take a stand, or you could be hit with a Wagner and not even see it coming.

The metro as metaphor?

Recently, I was riding the metro here in Washington, DC. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I don't use metro very often, instead opting to drive my car. My excuse, at least for now, is time. I'm still nursing, so I have four hour windows, at most, between feedings. I had an appontment at 2, and if I take the Metro, I need to (as I did ) leave by 12:30 and might not be home until 4 (I was back at 3:45, but only because I took a taxi from the metro stop). If I had driven, I would have left by 1:30 and been home by 3:15. But this essay isn't about self-flagelation for not chioosing the environmentally-conscious (never mind saler) mode of transport, it's about the metro as metaphor for the city.

I've lived in a few big cities, Boston, New York, London, and Washington, DC (I also lived in a Latin American capital, but n o metro there). I've visited plenty others. In each, there is the usual mix of urban dwellers, plus tourists and those who, save for poverty, would drive if they could but instead have to take the, as above, less efficient option. The experience I have had of each, differed in many ways, but one is, which emotions does the ride bring about? In Boston, it's often intellectual curiousity, "I wonder what school that kid goes to / what he's studying / what he's reading?" Glamorization of "Southies" nonetheless, Boston's subway (T) riders are a brainy lot. In New York, it's a cutlural question -- "What is he/she/it wearing / doing / eating / singing / bugging me about?" In London, it's geographic -- "where is that bloke / strnage accent / veled woman from?" Here is's political.

Politics stir many emotions in me, very few benign. I chose to study international relations, and avoid as much as possible domestic politcs, becuase I find Congressional bickering far more depressing than wars and genocides. When the two cross, such as the knagaroo court of latest Congressional protest against our war against Iraq, I'm at the end of my emotional tether. The metro rubs salt in this psychic wound.

On my ride in, I noticed an interest satorical trend -- camoflague. But for most (not all) it was not of choice. When I first came to DC, one of the big shockers was the frequent sight of military personnel. But then, most of them were resident at the Pentagon or other tyoes of desk jockey - middle aged, burdened with a spouse and kids, tired and bored; little different from other goverment-employees save that their poor choice of garment was not their own doing. (I had a friend who became positively hypertensive at the site of so many women in suits and running shoes). These days, Washington's residents are a prettier, better-dressed lot (all that money generatedi n K streeet is going to Barney's and Bloomie's, it seems). The most beautiful of the government minions, however, are the ones garbed in camo.

Thoise r5iding the metro obviously employed by DoD were now soldiers. Vibrant young men and women, healthy, alert, vibrating with energy, and wearing the colors of death -- various shades of green and brown, anchored by heavy black boots. When I stared at this lovely young woman, shiny brown hair pulled into a neat pony-tail, glowing, clear skin and the young man, even boy, with his strong jaw and bright eyes and gorgeous smile, I filled with anger and sadness. While these two may be lucky enought o be desk-jockeys as well, although more likely the elder desk-jockeys mules, running too and fro bearing messages and briefcases, they could be two of the hunderds of thousands beautiful, vibrant souls currently in Iraq and Afghanistan (and all the other stations supporting the "war effort"). And so many of these beautiful faces will be covered with blood, strong hands hanging off a dismembered arms, shining eyees gone curdled in death.

War can be objected to for an endless number of reasons, but at the moment of seeing young people in camoflague riding the metro, I mourned for beauty. George Bush must hate the beautfiul. Not people, clearly he is puffed with pride in his two daughtters fine Texas-style glamor. But he can live with the knowledge that he is destroging the most truly beautfiulthing in life, young life and all the potential it holds. More than engineering the death of so many young Americans (never mind all the Iraqis) he is killing the future. World War I is remembered for nothing more than Flanders Field, the poppies symbolic of all the dead young men, the glory of European culture badly bruised, the strength of it's youth ravaged. A whole generation was lost. WE won't, so far, lose a generation of young men and women to combat in Iraq, to a war as fabricated and so muchmore unecessary as Iraq. However, we will forever be reminded by it, by the beauty it gobbled up and defecated out in the form of the permanently traumatized, the horribly injured, the endlessly suffering veterans and their survivors.

As I sat on the metro, this was my one overwhelming source of emotion. The other was the gray-haired couple trying to figure out the train system. Why were they here? Were the "tourons" (I nomiker I had never heard before I met my husband, a native of the area). Did they come to see "our nation's Capital". Were they proud of being Americans? How did they feel about the war.

In Phillip Roth's book "The Plot Against Amerca", the protaganitst family comes to visit WAshington, DC for long-anticipated trip event hough they hate the sitting president and felt threatened by his agenda. They came in defiance, to reclaim their pride in being American's despite the doings of a administration they despised. Did this couple feel that way, or did they approve of Bush and his choices as leader. Or worst of all, did it not matter to them? What were they thinking as they say the young sodiers? I fear, most of all, that they were nothing special, just two more stupid Americans, fattened on a diet of low-culture, cheap patriotism, and geographic insularity. The same people who were duped into believing in this war and whose favor could be curried with the right sound bite or two. And then I think, could they have been visiting their son or daughter here? A college student? An intern in the office of a midwestern Congressman? Or, just perhaps, a soldier? Well, at least if they did have children, they were alive. These were not parents of a corpse. Not yet.

The baby package

Why do I adore babies? So many reasons. The little hands like soft flowers, the toothless grin, high pitched squeals, the crying that sounds like laughter and the laughter that sounds like bells. And the thighs! Those pulkes (Yiddish); I wished and prayed for a lovely pair on my second child -- the first was, and still is, a skinny kid. And boy did I get my prayers answered. Put a tutu on my naked daughter and you'd have one of the hippos straight out of Fantasia. Little, dimpled, rolled thighs tapering into tiny little ankles and fat square feet with fringe of toes. Yummy.

But enough about how I have a bizarre (and reverse Oedipla) desire to consume my children. Back to why I love babies, all babies, not just mine. Babies are a beautifully wrapped package. Adorable and enchanting to look at, but you have no idea what's inside when it's first put n your hands. But slowly, slowly, the wrapping peels away bit by bit, not in large, consistent sections, but a little snip here, and pulling seam there. Hints of what might lie inside. As I parent, I assume I'll spend the reest of my life watching these packages unwrap and open, but now I only see a flash of blue, and bit of s swirl, maybe a rough spot, and try to guess who the older child, teen, young adult, future parent, gray haired woman, might be. I should really write some predicitions down, and see how right or wrong I am, but I'm afraid I'd just reveal my presumptions that will shape the end product, for better and worse. Because that's the other thing about these packages, the longer you have them, the more you will push on and shape them. What's inside is all there, but years of rough handling can destroy the prettiest bits, where leaving it alone might cause other parts to get dusty and fade.

What's so hard about saying sorry?

I want to say sorry. I have lots of reasons every day, to my husband, my children, all the people out there on the roads the same time I am. But my apology isn't to them. It's to the future. When the history books look back on the US war / invasion / occupation / destruction of Iraq, they won't say "and why didn't Joni do more to stop it?" But they should. They should ask all of us. And the answer was, I'm too busy, I'm too insulated from it, I couldn't be bothered to inconvenience my life, I didn't want to try so hard that it might have a one hundredth of a percent chance of having any impact. But I do feel guilty. I know that if I leave this country and am detected as an American, I will be held responsible for the actions of my government. No I certainly did not vote for George Bush either time. But I am a citizen, I do live here, I do pay taxes, and I do take advantage of the many public services offered to me (I don't take my own trash to the city dump, do you?)

And becasue of this, I want to apologize. Not to the rude French person who sneers at me becasue I'm American and part of a war-mongering country (as if the French have clean hands -- ask the Algerians). No, I want to apologize to the children in Iraq. Even if we were justified in going in there (and we weren't, at least not as soon, as arrogantly, as we did -- but that's another post), we have destroyed their country and, at best, hobbled their future.

If I weren't too lazy, too busy, too selfish, too involved with my own children, I'd start a campaign. A campaign for every person living in America (citizens, illegals, and everyone in between -- i.e. the Irish bartender who is still on vacation three years later). All 300 million. Each of us should apologize to the Iraqi children, and as a gesture of trying to do better, to make things better for them, each donate a dollar to rebuild schools. Schools where they can all learn, and where, in a conflict, they will all be protected. Three-hundred million dollars is barely a drop in the ocean (less than what's been spent on this war, too). But maybe we could use it to build schools like the new US Embassies -- bomb proof campuses, oases of safety, with dorms for students and / or teachers, to be used year round or only in emergency. Everyoone is suffereing in Iraq, but we are destroying childhoods and creating future terrorists (see Newsweek article). Aren't we sorry about this? Don't we, the richest people in the world, want to make it better for them? Can't we spare one dollar to do so?

Okay, so that's my dream campaign. But there it is. And it makes me reflect back on a conversation I had with my husband a few days ago. Why do so many people think that saying "sorry" is to humiliate yourself? Why didn't Baby Doc Bush actually say "I'm sorry" in his State of the Union? Would that, like disagreeing with the war, give Bin Laden larger cajones and convince him to train some more pilots? A true man, and true person, can admit their mistakes and say sorry, and realize what a gift they are giving in doing so. They are not only saying, "I am wise enough to reflect upon and analyze my own choices and actions" but they are also saying "and I am determined and capable that I will do much better now". If Bush apologized for his mistaken choices, we could regain world sympathy and support. That, not more troops, will win the war against terror in the long run.

You're both my favorite

My daughters are two different books. They share much the same content, even very similar plotlines, but how they are written and how I enjoy them differs.

One is stunningly crafted, fascinatingly complex story, and a thrilling challenge to read. I am constantly thinking, learning, growing as a person from the experience. The twists and turns sometimes baffle me, but after they make perfect sense and I am grateful how the best is demanded of me. The pleasure is not only in the story, although the story itself is wonderful, entertaining, engaging, but also in knowing that I am capable of truly understanding such a profund work.

The other is an equally marvelous book, I've only started this one six months ago. It is such a sheer pleasure, absorbing and funny. I don't want to put it down, for each chapter to end. The protaganist is utterly charming, and I can't wait to see what happens next.

But both books are my favorite book. Each child is my favorite child. I'm glad that the first is the challenging read, because I want to learn from her. And I do. She has me thinking on my feet, not because she's any more difficult to deal wtih than my second daughter, but because everything we do together is new to both of us. When she first touched my face, I had never felt my child recognize me. When she struggled with a cold, I never hurt so much from someone else's discomfort. When she went off to kindergarten, I never before feared so much that school could kill a love of learning. These powerful emotions were shockingly novel and so deeply wonderful. With my second, the experience isn't so startling, but since I know what is coming, more or less, I can revel in the experience itself, savoring it like a delicious dessert. And she does feel like dessert, becuase afterwards I'll have to leave the table. (How did I get from a library to a restaurant?)

Book number two is crying. The end.

Late night brain farts?

Why am I blogging? It's a bandwagon that I have seen, even encouraged, others in my life (husband, students, friends) to ride, but I have held off. I've never been very consistent at keeping a journal, producing written work, etc. so why would I be any more prolific with an audience (of zero at this point, but I'll probably indulge the ego and invite a few spectators soon enough). Will there be comment, will I be "discovered", will someone in my family get offended? Only the last is likely. But still, I have this annoying habit of being inspired to write - like heartburn, it comes only late at night and it prevents me from sleeping. If nothing else, I will forget the access code for this page,too, (as I did my personal page, hence evidence for my inability to stick to anything for very long....) but my daughters may someday stumble upon it as a quaint relic. And if so, maybe they'll get a different perspective, even insight, into who their mother was then. Maybe they even explain it to me (as if I'll care who I was or what I was thinking at 37 when I'm a wild 117 year-old hottie zipping around in my flying car). Well, you be the judge if these are brain farts or interesting ideas and insights. I just want to get some rest.