ever-fixed mark

I have been dreading this trip to Berlin for a while. The last few times I’ve been to Europe, I’ve experienced this weird kind of…malaise. I can’t sleep at night, and I’m not allowed to sleep during the day, so I feel edgy and hopeless and disconnected. The feeling disappears as soon as I’m back home and on my usual schedule. This time, I had a brainwave: why not try a sleep aid?

Considering I used to work for the company that invented Ambien, it’s rather amazing that I’ve never tried a sleeping pill. (Their parent company made Agent Orange and genetically modified food, as I mentioned earlier; the company itself was responsible for Flagyl, a horrible anti-parasite drug that I ate like licorice while I was in the Peace Corps, and Nutrasweet. That’s a lot to answer for.) I wasn’t motivated enough to get a script (plus, the whole eating-in-your-sleep thing? like I need that!), so I grabbed some Tylenol PM before I left. The first night, I took two at the normal sleeping hour, fell into a deep sleep, and woke up completely refreshed.

The difference between this trip and the last two is indescribable. I feel terrific: energetic, happy, normal. Hell, I feel better now than I have at home, where Aitch and the Dog jump in and out of our bed at all hours of the night. I had one little low point when I turned on my computer at the start of this morning’s meeting, and saw the internal clock read “3:00 a.m.,” but other than that it’s been wonderful. The weather has been cooperating beautifully, as well, and since I’ve been running the meetings we’ve been finishing by 4:00 every day, because I hate to see bored, desperate faces staring up at me.

I’ve gotten to see so much more of the city than I did the last time. On Monday, I visited the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag, the Lustgarten, and the Berliner Dom. Yesterday, I got an amazing view of the city during a group dinner at the Fernsehturm (because, really, what says “tourist” better than “revolving restaurant”? If there is something, please don’t show it to me). Today, I walked through the Tiergarten to the Siegessäule and back. Tomorrow, I have tickets to the Staatsoper. It’s practically a mini-vacation.

Except, of course, for the fact that I desperately miss my boys. Even the news that Dog was skunked in my absence has not diminished my ardor to return home.

Two “art schools” for children have opened in our town in the past month. They offer both mother-and-child classes and drop-off classes, or as Husband alerted me, “Cheap babysitting.” It sounds like a no-fail business model, doesn’t it? I mean, who wouldn’t want to drop off her kid for a few hours on a Saturday afternoon, the better to run a few errands or have a mani-pedi? Small businesses in our town tend to fail pretty regularly and pretty spectacularly, though, so I’m withholding my investment dollars. Even high-end businesses, like the well-designed and quite delicious New Zealand-themed restaurant, don’t get the numbers they need. Unaccountably, though, the shoe stores that only carry one size of every style hang on for years.

The local mothers’ club arranged a members-only class at one of the art schools this weekend, so I took Aitch to check it out. The school is in an old mill building that has a number of other shops. The space was kind of odd: a long, thin rectangle with a really high ceiling, under which was tucked a little loft. The bottom floor space was taken up by a large, low table, with the tiniest little chairs I’ve ever seen. I mean, they weren’t kindergarten chairs or even toddler chairs: they were seats for children that had just learned to sit up. There was no other seating, so all of us, adults and children, had to perch inches from the ground with 25 feet of space echoing above us.

The teacher told us that the theme of the week was Emotions, because any time two or more infants are in a room together, there must be a Curriculum: that’s the law. We started by singing an introductory song, which struck me as a kind of benediction before the main event. Then the teacher passed out construction paper and shiny paper and announced that we were going to make mirrors, to reflect our Emotions. It hit me, all of a sudden, that an hour and a half was a long time to do art projects with a two-year-old. Heck, ten minutes was a long time, in my experience. And I hadn’t eaten lunch yet; Aitch had not yet napped.

The object was to glue the shiny paper on the construction paper to make the mirror, then glue a construction-paper frame over the top of that. The teacher stressed, though, that any and all parts were optional: “There’s no wrong in arts and crafts!” That’s not strictly true, though. Sure, it may not be “wrong” for Aitch to squirt glitter glue all over the face of his mirror, but it’s definitely “wrong” for him to empty the entire bottle of glue just for the pleasure of watching it squirt out. When we did sand painting, it wasn’t “wrong” for him to mix two different colors of sand together, but it was “wrong” to dump the sand on the floor. I discovered that this is why I hate arts and crafts. We give kids license to make a mess, but not unlimited license. There are boundaries that nobody knows are there until they are crossed. Policing those boundaries is exhausting for the parent.

It was hard to tell if the kids were really enjoying themselves. The little girls worked diligently, producing projects that followed the teacher’s model. The little boys, who were younger, were more unfocused, but not particularly giddy. I suppose the strange setting and unfamiliar people dampened their spirits a bit. Aitch was very interested in the glitter glue and sand, and he seemed fascinated by the other kids, but he didn’t talk or laugh too much. Still, it was a really nice outing for us together. The next day, he said, “Aitch have fun at party, Mommy. Aitch like arts and craps.”

Hmm. A combination art school…and kiddie casino? Now there’s a sure-fire moneymaker.

Lufthansa now offers wireless internet service on its aircraft. The last brick in the communicative firewall between Heaven and Earth has spalled to dust. Ecco — my first post from 33,000 feet.

Do I sound any different from up here?

Spotted on a sign today outside a hotel on Route 1:

NEW ROOMS
FREE HOBO

Could I get my room without the hobo?

Am I the only expectant mother in the contiguous forty-eight who has not devoted even a minute to decorating the nursery? It’s not that I’m not interested in design or wouldn’t love a sweet softly-colored child-appropriate nest for our newest addition. It’s just that the decision-making process paralyzes me with fear, and the shopping process fills me with ennui.

This inertia affects the whole house, not just the nursery. Take our walls, for example. Please. (Ba-dum dum.) When the previous occupants restored the house, they papered the walls with Victorian-looking paper. This interesting style was used for the living and dining rooms, a sizeable area:

Pretty dramatic, is it not, in a “Miss Havisham’s parlor” kind of way? Definitely not what I would have chosen. But what would I have chosen? I’ll never find out. I would much, much rather live with someone else’s questionable taste than with my own questionable taste. If they did it, it’s quirky, charming; if I did it, it’s a hideously expensive mistake.

The bedrooms are a little more restrained, but not much. We are currently preparing to renovate our attic (because, hey, what better time to undertake a pricey, invasive remodeling project than when you have a new baby?), so when that work is done we’ll be shifting bedrooms around a bit. Here are our choices:

This is currently Aitch’s room. It’s not too bad, right? I mean, it’s more “AARP Weekly” than “Pottery Barn Kids,” but it’s subtle, even if it does contrast with the Thomas the Tank Engine comforter.

This is currently the guest room, and will be the new baby’s temporary room until construction is done. It’s the best room in the house: big, airy, nice view. It was our bedroom for awhile until we got rid of the frightening unicorn wallpaper border in the master bedroom (now, that I was motivated to do). But I have to admit that during my tenure there I was unnerved by the busy pattern. It reminded me of that story, “The Yellow Wallpaper,” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, which was based on her experience being shut up in a bedroom as a “rest cure” for post-partum depression. In the story, the patient imagines that she sees another woman behind the yellow wallpaper, struggling to get out:

I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled off yards of that paper. A strip about as high as my head and half around the room.

Man, did I feel for Charlotte after spending a few months in that room.

And, finally, the pièce de résistance:

This room is currently our office, but will probably be the new baby’s permanent place after construction is finished. The funny thing is, I really like it as my office; something about it makes me feel calm and ready to work. I’m just not ready to rip it down and paint it seafoam green. So the baby will have to suffer the psychological wounds of growing up in a black and brown color scheme.

Do you think I could find a sweet little skull-and-crossbones border at Pottery Barn Kids to set off the pattern?

In response to no particular demand, here’s a round-up of some of the entertainment of which I’ve been availing myself lately:

Thank You for Smoking It’s an uplifting, feel-good picture about a courageous…tobacco lobbyist? This was the best film I’ve seen in months, although in retrospect I can’t believe the movie had me rooting for this guy. (One great touch: no one smoked in the film.) I thought there was really something to his answer to the question, “Why do you do it?” which was, “Because I’m good at it.” Once upon a time, I left a do-good type job (high school teacher of disadvantaged students) for position at little company that had been bought by a large corporation, and some of my friends thought the conglomerate was evil incarnate. (OK, so one part of it invented Agent Orange, but not the part I worked for. I swear.) The thing was, I was happier and more fulfilled in that job than I had been as a teacher, and a part of me really identified with this guy.

Big Love I caught two episodes of this new HBO drama about a polygamous family while I was on the road, and now I’m hooked. Of course, we don’t get HBO at home, so I have to follow its progress via Television Without Pity. (Husband often asks, “How can you read a TV show?” but the recaps are quite skilful and there’s some good discussion on the boards, including comments from a number of Mormon posters who explain some of the finer points of doctrine.)

The show is interesting because of some well-drawn characters, the drama inherent in the situation, and the exotic Mormon fundamentalist elements. I don’t know that it really contributes to a dialogue about polygamy, though. The polygynous family at the center of the show has rejected fundamentalism; the mainstream Mormon church has rejected them; and they are not even particularly religious. Since they are pretty mainstream it’s hard to see what they get out of the polygynous lifestyle.

I’m disturbed at how people are always dragging polygamy into the question of gay marriage. Theoretically, if you don’t care what two consenting people do in their bedrooms, and support their right to form a contractual tie, you shouldn’t care what three or four or eight people do in their conjoined homes, and support their rights to form contractual ties. In practice, though, polygamy represses women and puts children in danger of abuse. Even if you could somehow ensure that women practicing polygyny were exercising their own free will, and then protect female children from being sold as wives and male children from being exiled from their communities, there would still be the odd question of legal protection. How would our legal system go about the business of administering multiple conjugal and paternal relationships? Imagine your typical death, divorce, or custody battle, now with seven more wives or twenty more children involved.

Muslim countries, like the LDS in Utah, have mostly outlawed polygyny, but need to reconcile its supposed religious legitimacy with their current rejection of it. When I lived in Tunisia, people justified it by saying, “The Quran says that a man can have up to four wives, if he treats them equally, but it’s impossible to treat four women equally so we’re really following the Quran by outlawing polygamy.” I always felt this was a cop-out, but now I’m beginning to see a solid legal argument for rejecting polygamy in this sophistry. People who feel called to more than one simultaneous intimate relationship will have to be contented with doing it the old-fashioned way: co-habitation, without benefit of more than one marriage. (This is technically what polygamists are currently doing, since they are not able to marry more than once legally.)

There was a rather pathetic article about Hugh Hefner’s 80th birthday bash in this weekend’s New York Times Style section. Hugh has three live-in paramours, scaled down from his previous seven, because “‘They got so jealous and competitive,’ he said sadly. ‘There was a lot of fighting, so I had to downsize.’” Even with three, all is not bliss. Hugh said, “I’m intimate with all of the girls, but Holly is my priority, and the other girls understand that,” but the article reports that one of his girlfriends looked “a bit jealous” when he got attention from another one.

I mean, if Hugh can’t keep harmony among his harem, what chance do the rest of us have?

The Bostonians I have a love-hate relationship with Henry James. I adored Portrait of a Lady and Washington Square, but The Wings of a Dove made me physically ill, and halfway through The Golden Bowl I found myself yearning for the sweet, sweet release of death (mine, or all the characters’; if the latter, preferably in a plot twist reminiscent of a good slasher flick).

The Bostonians, though, looked like it was closer to Portrait than Bowl so I picked it up and haven’t regretted it since, even though James is even more misogynist and patriarchal than the head of the Juniper Creek compound. He paints a rather savage picture of “women’s emancipation” reformers in the late eighteenth century, singling out some of his acquaintances for rather unflattering treatment. The main character, Olive Chancellor, is likely Susan B. Anthony. One of the minor characters, Miss Birdseye, is allegedly based on Eliza Peabody , and another woman, Mrs. Farrinder, is supposedly a portrait of Margaret Fuller. Since Margaret Fuller was also the model for Zenobia of A Blithedale Romance, I’m now motivated to re-read that and do a bit more research on her. I’m fascinated by any woman who can inspire two literary characters.

That would be a good trivia question: Which real-life personage is the basis for the greatest number of literary portrayals? If I can add any more to Margaret Fuller’s list, or find anyone who has inspired more than two characters, I’ll let you know.

It was so beautiful here in Bostonland today that I decided to try out a new running route, along the river. This decision left me scrambling to find a water bottle before I left the house. I have developed a real problem with dehydration after runs. If I don’t get enough water to drink after a run, I get a dull headache that eventually develops, hours later, into a debilitating migraine, leaving me unable to sit up or think clearly. I first discovered this on a Hash run in Carthage about fifteen years ago; uncharacteristically, I was drinking fluids during the run, but the fluids were beer, negating the hydrating effect. (That’s right: running and drinking alcohol in public in a Muslim country. I’m the height of sensitivity.) Since then, I’ve had to be very careful.

On my usual route, I buy an overpriced bottle of Poland Spring water with a nozzle top to do the job, but I was going a different way so I needed an alternative. I used to use a Nalgene-type water bottle, but it got disgusting so I threw it out. So there I am, standing in my kitchen, thinking, “Where can I find a container for water that’s small enough to hold and is spillproof?”

I defy you to tell me how that’s any different from any water bottle being carried at the Boston Marathon on Monday.

Today I wrote four checks to the government (two federal, two state–I suppose I should be lucky that we don’t have local taxes here, too). Now that I am self-employed, tax time has lost quite a bit of drama compared to years past, when it was either, “I can’t believe how much I owe” or “…am owed!” Now I have to pay taxes on a quarterly basis, and my accountant plans it carefully so that I always do owe a big chunk come tax time, because why let Uncle Sam have any of your money a minute earlier than necessary, as he says? But he also completes all the documentation well in advance and files it electronically, so come April 15 all I have to do is write a few checks and put them in the mail. (In addition to paying taxes for the previous year, I have to pay my first quarterly tax payment on April 15, hence the four checks.)

I don’t know why the government can’t accept an electronic check, since the rest of the transaction is done on-line, but my accountant tells me to write a paper check, so that’s what I do. It’s quaintly anachronistic, this business of filling out the date and payee, recording the dollar amount in numerals and words (”Seventeen kajillion fifty million and 00/00 dollars”), and signing the check. I can’t believe this slip of paper means anything; it seems inherently forgeable.

Paradoxically, I always pause for a moment before licking the envelope, wary about transferring my DNA-laden saliva to the container that is going to the government. Who knows how this bit of evidence could be used against me? It’s a strangely high-tech coda to a low-tech process.

I suppose I could invest in some self-adhesive envelopes, but I don’t know if I want to waste the money as I’m betting that snail mail will pass out of existence before I could use up a whole box. Husband and I placed bets the other day on when the US Postal Service would stop offering regular daily service; I thought within 30 years, he thought within 50. Any takers?

Last week, we received yet another hand-addressed envelope from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services. This was the I600 approval, dated a scant 3 weeks after our referral and a scantier 2 weeks after submission. I compared this to the paperwork we received for Aitch (I know, don’t compare children! It’s so unfair! And I’m starting already!), and last time it took the government 6 weeks from referral to approval. That’s a fifty percent reduction in approval time from Baby 1 to Baby 2! (Sorry, this week at work we’re doing metrics.)

Anyway, at the bottom of the approval form we found this:

Do you recognize that row of little icons in the bottom right-hand corner? They’re “Wingdings,” that font that generates symbols from keystrokes. Go ahead, open Word, select “Wingdings” as your font, and try it. Exact same symbols, right?

The question is, why is the government using cheesy Wingdings on an official form?

Husband has a theory that the wingdings are a pictographic representation of what you go through in the adoption process. To wit: “You apply to the adoption agency (envelope), then you do the homestudy and they give you the OK to proceed (hand), then you choose a country (flag), then you pay the agency fee (blood drop), then you fill out Package A and Package B and the country-specific package and the I600 (manila envelopes)….” Feel free to finish the rest of the story in your heads.

My theory is that the wingdings are a secret code. Since our government’s track record at keeping secrets is not so stellar, it would probably be a simple cipher–say, a basic substitution of letters for their corresponding symbols.

*N(S0000157229*

Any thoughts?

For a little while last week, the conversation at the Holt Korea adoption board turned from referrals and travel calls to that most dangerous of Holy Trinities: religion, politics, and sex. Someone posted a poll asking for opinions on Catholic Charities’ decision to stop providing adoption services in Massachusetts. There were a few civilized exchanges, but it wasn’t long before the anti-gay remarks started flying, supported by Bible verses.

I was astounded. Then I thought back to a post on Julia’s blog about an acquaintance who made an remark complaining about the “Gay Agenda” at a book club Julia was hosting. I tried to imagine what would happen if someone came out with a gay-bashing comment at any event on my unglamorous social calendar: kiddie birthday party, weekly doggie play date, movie night with the girls. I think he or she would be shunned: perhaps politely, out of a desire to keep the peace, perhaps not so politely, but shunned nonetheless.

Now, I know I live in a liberal bubble, but honestly: are there still circles (outside of Bible study groups) where remarks like these are NOT received with incredulous gasps?

A few people came forward on the Holt thread to protest the pro-religious, anti-gay comments; sometimes, they protested the tone in which the comments were delivered. Immediately, the religious anti-gays came forward to complain that their religious freedoms were being abridged and their feelings not tolerated:

I often find it interesting that everyone calls for “tolerance”, [sic] but, oftentimes, people with “traditional values” do not garner the same sort of “tolerance” from those who are requiring “tolerance” from them.

A lot of the PUBLIC are religious and few seem to be able to TOLERATE that. It’s getting to the point where it’s the Christians who are being singled out and tolerance never seems to go the other direction. What the gay/lesbian lobby wants is total acceptance in every realm of society.

And…we have a Gay Agenda! What is the nefarious agenda? “Total acceptance”? The horror.

(Do you hear a tiny violin playing a sad, sad song for the poor Christians who are “singled out” for “intolerance”? Those pathetic, repressed people who make up a Moral Majority of the population? Who share their values with the president, the vice-president, and most of both houses of Congress?)

I couldn’t help responding to these comments, but Julie said it on Julia’s thread much better than I said it on the Holt thread:

“Disagreeing with [someone’s] being gay” is just like “disagreeing with someone’s being black,” or blonde, or short…. And if you’re going to disagree with such an immutable human trait — and by the way, if you’re dead set on being judgmental, let’s be precise and say you DISAPPROVE — then own that bigotry. Don’t try to dignify what is, at bedrock, bigotry as a stance deserving of protection and tolerance.”

Straight infertiles and gays have a lot in common, and I would love to see some of the Bible-thumpers get past the “gay as abomination” smokescreen so they could see it. First, we’re all forced to explore “alternative” methods to have children–assisted reproductive technology or adoption. Thus, laws regarding ART that may be established to hurt the “Gay Agenda” can easily hurt the “straight infertile” agenda as well. (Virginia, I’m looking at you.) Also, discriminatory stances against gay parents promote the concept that there is a scientifically valid ideal parenting model. Think about it: if people can be prohibited from adopting because they’re the wrong gender combination, what’s to stop the prohibition of transracial adoption, adoption of a child from a different religious background, or even international adoption? In all those cases, the adoptive placement certainly violates the two-parent, in-country, homogeneous race-and-religion ideal.

I leave you with one last quote from the thread:

Can I feel sad that children are adopted into homes by parents that are not only non-religious, but anti-Christian - absolutely, but I am never without hope that change can happen.

I’m hoping for change, too.