ever-fixed mark

I am self-employed and often visit clients during the day, but I’ve been experiencing a lull and so have been playing at being a Stay At Home Mom (SAHM) for a few weeks. Conventional wisdom holds that being a SAHM is The Hardest Job in the World, and frankly I’ve been a bit perplexed by this designation, because it’s been a piece of cake for me. Then I started listening more closely to the complaints of other SAHMs and suddenly realized: You all are doing it wrong. This is how to be a SAHM:

1. Stay at home.

2. Send the kids elsewhere, preferably a place where they are safe and cared for by responsible adults. (I think this is where most of you are going wrong. In no circumstances should the children and the mother be “at home” at the same time. That way lies madness.)

3. While you are at home, eschew anything that smacks of work: no housework, no yardwork, no freelance work, no work work — you get the picture.

Following these simple steps, I had a lovely day today. After dropping off Aitch and Dog, I met a friend at the wildlife refuge for a run. It was a beautiful sunny morning. The trees have broken out in fresh green leaves that are almost transparent in the bright light. Conditions at the wildlife refuge were nearly perfect, with high pressure and a slight wind. Between the high winds, the mosquitoes, the black flies, the green flies, the other biting flies, and plover season, there are only about three or four good running days a year at the refuge, and we hit one.

The refuge is a well-known bird sanctuary, and today we saw two wild swans and some sort of egret. We kept running into thick clots of gnats on one side of the road; a birder helpfully called out to us, “Sorry about the gnats, but they’re attracting the warblers!” The warblers were attracting swarms of birders huddled at various points on the path. At one point they blocked both lanes of a two-lane road. We literally had to stop and push a few people and their huge tripod-mounted binoculars out of the way to continue our run.

So how, you may ask, does one support such an indolent lifestyle? After the run I gathered up all the loose change in the house and took it to the coin machine at the grocery store. $304.31! (Ironic, isn’t it, that when I cashed in the voucher I ended up with that 31 cents.) It took me about 15 minutes to sweep all that change into the little slot, and when I finished my fingers were black. I felt like such a mom busting out my Wet Wipes from my diaper-bag-fashionable-enough-to-double-as-purse-even-when-no-baby-in-sight.

You may be wondering, what kind of people are these that they have $300 in change lying around unaccounted for? I’m wondering that myself. For most of my life I would not have left more than a few pennies unspent. When I lived in Tunisia they made coins that were worth about half a cent US, and by the end of each week I would have gathered them up to buy bus fare or bottled water or something else that I needed.

The last time Husband and I cashed in our change, we had enough to go out to dinner at Tru in Chicago. I like trendy food — all the better if it is actually good — so I was intrigued to read this article in the New York Times (registration required) about the newest directions in Chicago dining. Lollipops of foie gras encrusted with Pop Rocks! An electric sugar cube! Cinnamon smoke! How much of this can I get for $304.31?

When we were preparing to adopt Aitch, I worried a lot about the maternal instinct. Would I have an inborn aptitude for mothering, or did it somehow require pregnancy and birth pains to jump-start it?

Imagine this: You hear a piteous cry — your child, a voice you could distinguish among thousands. You rush to his side and quickly assess the situation. Your child needs your help! Effortlessly, your instincts kick in. You know what to do and how to do it.

You grab the camera. Motherhood from the gut.

Husband must have been especially pure of heart last week, because this morning he ascended bodily into the heavens en route to the relative paradise of room, maid, and cable service. In other words, he went on a business trip to Albuquerque, and I’ve been Left Behind® to deal with with the Tribulation of a crabby toddler and needy Dog.

(Incidentally, I don’t recall ever learning about the Rapture in catechism class. I looked it up, and it turns out that there are different schools of thought on what the Rapture entails, with catchy little abbreviations like “pre-trib” and “post-trib” to describe them. This site does a pretty good job of differentiating them. Who’d have thought the Catholic Church would take the most reasonable position on a theological issue?)

I don’t mind being on the “deserted” end of a business trip for a change. I miss Husband terribly either way, but it’s cozy, somehow, to miss him from the comfort of my own environment. It’s kind of a non-stop sprint, being home alone with the kid and dog, but I was careful to plan this week well so all would go smoothly.

So, Left Behind ®Day 1:

This morning, after dropping Aitch and Dog off at their respective playschools, I caught a kickboxing class at the gym. It’s the first formal class I’ve been to in a while, because I usually can’t be bothered to show up for a workout at a precise time. Kickboxing is great; the instructor calls out the combinations and you execute them, first on one side, then another. It’s like a chorus line, but with potential for violence.

I was very warm in my black yoga pants. Who decreed that shorts were no longer fashionable attire for workouts? I can see wearing long pants for yoga, where you’re rolling around on a sticky mat half the time, but running and kickboxing are heat-generating sports. How is it that bare arms, chest, and midriff are acceptable, and pants can ride so low that you need a Brazilian to go to the gym, but bare legs are not? It’s hot in here, people.

After kickboxing I drove home and heard a great Loudon Wainwright III song that I’ve somehow missed the past two years: “Something for Nothing”. I highly recommend a download (from iTunes, not an illegal one).

After tidying the house, I went for a hair cut and style. I decided to take off a few inches and get a simple pageboy-style bob. I know it’s not the edgiest hairstyling choice, but I’m tired of the “modified Rachel” that I’ve been sporting for nearly a decade, and a bob is fairly easy to maintain. As the stylist was blow-drying my hair, a woman in her forties sat down in the chair next to mine. I gasped when I saw her, because her colorist had put a large bright red streak down the back left side of her head, and I thought it was a mistake. “Don’t turn the ends under,” the woman instructed the stylist. “I can’t stand that. I hate bobs. I would never get one. It’s just not me.” She went on and on about how prissy and conventional bobs are, as I sat there having my hair bobbed. I GET IT. YOU’RE PUNK AND FABULOUS, AND I’M DULL AS DISHWATER. BASTA.

I got home just in time to host Aitch’s playgroup. It was typically chaotic, and I had stupidly provided crumbly cookies that the kids distributed all over the floor like so many tiny Hansels and Gretels, but it was a congenial group. One of the mothers told us about a workshop she attended on toddler-wrangling. The pediatrician had recommended that mothers not intervene in toddler-on-toddler power struggles, because children that age are not capable of understanding the concept of “sharing.” Instead, he recommended that the mothers stand back and let the kids duke it out. (Funny, that was the same advice they gave us in puppy school.)

As I mentioned in an earlier post, in my playgroup-induced neurosis, I tend to over-correct Aitch and force him to share and take turns, even when I think it’s not that big a deal, because I’m afraid the other mothers will be offended if I don’t. Not surprisingly, everyone else felt the same way. We made a non-interference pact and placed a few friendly wagers on whose kid would triumph in the Battle of “Mine!” It wasn’t long before Aitch and a little girl began arguing over a toy.

It was very hard to sit by and say nothing, but the whole thing blew over in about five seconds — no bloodshed and no crying. Aitch was rather stunned as his friend carried off the spoils of victory, but he moved past it. She just wanted it more than you did, babe. Survival of the fittest! And no need for a tedious lecture on my part. There were lots of opportunities to talk about sharing in positive contexts, as we praised the kids for handing each other toys and snacks.

Three more days to go. I wonder how Husband is enjoying Paradise?

A few people have asked me what delights Husband has in store for me to celebrate Mothers’ Day. Actually, I’ve absolved him from the holiday, apart from perhaps taking Aitch for an hour so I can read the Sunday paper without interruption. After all, I’m not his mother. Aitch’s teachers at playschool did make me a nice paper heart with Aitch’s handprints attached with string, which I appreciated and thought was the appropriate level of effort for this made-up holiday.

As we were preparing for our referral, I always thought the first Mothers’ Day with Aitch would be a huge celebration, but somehow last year it got away from us, and that’s been just fine with me. I don’t want to add another holiday to our mental clutter unless it is going to be meaningful and we’re going to enjoy observing it. It’s not just because I’m too lazy to reciprocate on Fathers’ Day. Right now we make a big deal out of birthdays and Christmas, and go out to dinner for our wedding anniversary. Husband is a very thoughtful gift-giver, and I try to be, and I don’t want to stretch our creativity to the limit by establishing elevated expectations for elaborate preparations for a bunch of other minor holidays. There’s nothing worse than feeling ambushed with a gift-producing occasion every other month and then rushing out and buying the first suitable thing you come across because you just can’t think. I much prefer gifts of time — an hour to go to the gym or to run, an afternoon of kayaking, an evening out with friends — and Husband is extremely considerate with those sorts of everyday gifts.

Besides, it has just hit me this year what an exclusionary holiday Mothers’ Day is. It must be horrible for anyone who wants to be a mother and isn’t yet — people struggling with infertility, or trying to meet someone to spend the rest of their lives with. I imagine it is more than a little irritating for women who are not mothers and have no desire to be. The sentimentalization of motherhood chafes me. Although my relationship with Aitch is special and, well, sacred to me, I don’t think it elevates me above all other non-parental human experience.

My one hope for Mothers’ Day was that Aitch would be in a great mood. Usually he’s pretty cheerful but lately, with teething, diarrhea, and general approaching two-ness, it’s been hit or miss. Yesterday we visited friends for the afternoon and he was the Golden Child — sweet, well-behaved, attentive, engaging, etc. I could bask in the (false) pride of raising a “good boy.” This morning he woke up crabby and started a low-level whine that increased in intensity until naptime. He whined when he wanted something; he whined when he didn’t get it; he whined when he got it; he whined in between. It was a whining filibuster, perhaps in solidarity with the Princeton students who began protesting Bill Frist but now, one suspects, simply enjoy the sound of their own voices. Finally we took him on a forced march through the woods despite the prevailing gale-force winds. This cheered him right up, although conditions were miserable for us, and he ate a hearty lunch and collapsed in a perfect child’s pose in his crib.

Four rainy weekends in a row! Shouldn’t they declare a State of Emergency for parents of toddlers and owners of dogs in Massachusetts?

Because Husband and I have seen all the “Firefly” episodes multiple times, and the the movie Serenity isn’t due for release until September, we have resorted to Netflixing “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” in hopes of some like-minded entertainment. I’ve been avoiding “Buffy” for years, despite the glowing recommendations of tout le monde, because horror bores me. We finally watched the first two episodes last week, and I shared my opinion with Husband.

“I liked the witty and angsty bits well enough, but I could do without the vampires.”

“Get rid of the vampires?” he said. “Well, it is ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer,’ not ‘Buffy the Literary Critic.’”

“Buffy the Literary Critic”? Now that would be appointment television! I would pay-per-view to see Buffy kick some po-mo butt. Buffy smashes Stanley Fish with a Bible: “Take that text, Fish!” Buffy wards off Derrida’s ghost with a cross and some holy water: “Deconstruct this, Jake!” Buffy, driving a sharp wooden stake toward Harold Bloom: “Where’s your swerve now, Hal?” In the final episode, Buffy exposes Roland Barthes to natural light and he dissolves into existential dust, leaving the world safe for graduate students once again.

While that’s in development, check out the Serenity trailer to tide you over.

David Brooks deplores the moral relativism of secularist thought and thinks that a little God in politics is not necessarily a bad thing. To bolster his argument, he recounts an anecdote in today’s New York Times about Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln reportedly told his cabinet that he signed the Emancipation Proclamation because he had made a bargain with God; he would sign it if God delivered a victory at Antietam. Brooks thinks that this decision demonstrates the salubrious effects of faith-guided thinking.

Do you know what I think is morally relativist? A politician who bases key decisions on chance events, rather than analyzing the issue and doing what he knows to be morally right.

Do you know what else I think is morally suspect? A politician who hides the real reasons behind a policy decision while providing a justification he thinks will be more palatable to the public.

Come on, David Brooks. Stop trying to push our liberal buttons by invoking the emancipation of slaves as a triumph of religion. Have you lost it? The only way you could believe this story illustrates your point is if you believe God really intervened at Antietam. And if you believe that, then why not base policy solely on the results of various tests of God’s will?

I know — “American Idol” is already in place. Why don’t we assign each contestant a positive or negative outcome related to some important public policy question, and then make decisions based on the winner of each round? If Anthony stays, we’ll support gay marriage. If Anwar stays, we’ll gut Social Security. If Bo stays, we’ll overturn Roe v. Wade.

Of course, if you accept the whole notion of litmus tests for God then you have to be prepared to differentiate between the legitimate and the bogus ones. You can just imagine all kinds of people coming out of the woodwork claiming that God told them to eradicate some ethnic minority or overthrow some government. We’ll need some kind of framework for sorting out the true God-fearing from the opportunists. Is this the kind of slippery slope we want to tackle?

Then again, David Brooks thinks that I’m poised on a slippery moral slope because my husband and I have separate checking accounts.

Brooks writes, “One lesson we can learn from Lincoln is that there is no one vocabulary we can use to settle great issues. There is the secular vocabulary and the sacred vocabulary. Whether the A.C.L.U. likes it or not, both are legitimate parts of the discussion.” Mr. Brooks? That voice in your head that tells you that slavery is wrong? That is Reason, sir. As secular as it gets. The voice in your head that identifies itself as God, revealing His intentions to you personally? That’s a “vocabulary” we don’t need to settle great issues.

Two of the three social groups to which I belong have recently collapsed into inertial heaps. I am trying not to take this personally.

The dust is still wafting from the disintegration of Book Club (second rule of Book Club: Don’t talk about Book Club!). It’s hard to believe that the group has disbanded, because many Book Club members had ties that extended back years. I was one of the least-connected members, and I’ve known three of the other women for over a decade. That’s what made Book Club great; light on the get-to-know-you chit-chat, heavy on the textured conversation and subtle jokes that grew from and built on the deep background we all had on one another.

Unfortunately, this environment made it difficult for Book Club to attract the new blood needed to keep the organism vital. We tried to court new members, but they were scared off by the dynamic — “You pack of vultures,” I believe one rushee called us. This epithet was undeserved, I think, but it was a challenging group — I could see where a raptorial image would spring to mind. So the pack dwindled until it was impossible to maintain a quorum. I was keenly disappointed because we broke up just before we were scheduled to discuss Edith Wharton’s Roman Fever, which contains a terrific short story, “Xingu,” about a book club at least as bitchy as ours. A Book Club about a book about a Book Club! Oh, so meta.

The other organization that fell apart was Aitch’s play group, a more artificial construct arranged by the local mother’s club. Nap schedules were the ostensible downfall of the group, but I think apathy and boredom might have winnowed the herd there, too. Nonetheless, the mother’s club efficiently intervened and reassigned me to more a favorable napping cohort. My new play group (the early afternoon nappers) seems to be going well, but I find myself slightly apprehensive about attending, much more so than the Book Club meetings, “pack of vultures” nonwithstanding.

Whenever I get together with a group of random mothers, either by design or by accident, a little subtext runs through my brain: “I can’t slip up! They’ll crucify me if they get the chance!” Consequently, I’m on my best behavior at play group. I avoid religion and politics as conversational topics. I refrain from swearing. Upon pain of death, I compel Aitch to take turns and share. When it’s my turn to provide the snacks, I cut the grapes into atom-sized pieces, although I let Aitch eat them whole at home. I am decidedly en garde.

I’m not sure why this is. I’ve never been criticized at a play group. All the other mothers have been perfectly pleasant. During formal mother’s club events, many women have introduced themselves to me and welcomed me to the group. (At one such event, I introduced one nice woman to Husband, saying, “This is Kay, she just bought that house out on Island Road we looked at last month,” to which he responded, “That dump?!” and she still talks to me.) So this received wisdom that women are bitches who will stab you in the back does not hold up, at least in this situation. What is it, then?

After giving it some thought, I’ve concluded that monitoring a toddler makes me so scatterbrained that it puts me at a huge social disadvantage, and it is the potential for making a huge faux pas that makes me defensive and paranoid. Aitch is not a daredevil, but he is rather impervious to pain, and he is likely to run into the street or jump down the stairs if he sees an opening. Mommy multitasking dulls my wits to the point where I can barely remember the most basic information about a conversational partner.

The afore-mentioned “Xingu,” in fact, contains a wonderful description of a character who embodies my brain-on-Aitch: “Her mind was an hotel where facts came and went like transient lodgers, without leaving their address behind, and frequently without paying for their board.” Case in point: Last week, my playgroup was scheduled to meet at a playground. I arrived early and kept one eye out for people while I ran after Aitch. I was greeted by name by a woman who looked similar to one of the women in the playgroup. (Aitch dashed up a set of open stairs.) I assumed I was suffering from faces-out-of-context syndrome (Aitch went down the slide backwards), and she was indeed that woman (Aitch ran for the river), but I was confused by the fact that she was rocking an infant, because this woman had a two-year-old (Aitch ran in front of a swing) and was only a few months pregnant with her second. “Who’s baby is this?” I asked, and she gave me an odd look. “It’s my new baby. Denise, it’s Karen. Don’t you remember me?” It was a woman from my old playgroup. Now, I could remember everything about this woman I had ever seen in print–her e-mail address, her home address, the name of her new baby — but in my distracted state, I had mis-recognized her.

Is it any wonder I think that people are talking trash about me behind my back?

In the news this week in Philadelphia:

Item: A seven-year old boy was shot in the head while walking with his stepfather near his elementary school. His stepfather, the intended victim, fled the scene, leaving his stepson bleeding on the ground.

Item: A nine-year-old boy was found unconscious hanging from a closet hook in his elementary school. Police think it was a suicide attempt.

Item: On a school playground, a child pricked up to 19 fellow students on the arm with a diabetes testing needle. One of the boys was HIV positive. The prickings occurred over a three-hour period. Parents are questionining why it took teachers on duty so long to stop the perpetrator.

Philadelphia, when are you going to get your act together? You’ve spruced up downtown, and no mayor has dropped a bomb on the city for a good while, but your schools are still death traps.