ever-fixed mark

Sometimes, when Husband goes away on a business trip, I discover reserves of energy and efficiency that are not available when he is around to help. Not only do I handle on the normal kid and house chores by myself, but I actually take on extra. This week, I made home-cooked meals every night, changed a bunch of lightbulbs that have been winking out one by one for weeks, made evening plans with friends two nights in a row, did a bunch of errands downtown with the kids in tow, and then worked two late nights in anticipation of a ninety-degree Wednesday, so I could spend the morning kayaking.

If I had known the mercury would climb this high, I might have just planned to stay inside in front of the computer.

When Husband got back to town, though, I desultorily reverted back to my slothful self, and everything began to slide slowly to hell. I mean, we are still keeping the kids fed and clothed, but it seems like much more of an effort, and all the little touches–tidying, errands, shopping, etc.–that I was taking care of have fallen by the wayside. I’m not sure why I, flying solo, am more productive than both of working together, but I am willing to concede that it may not entirely his fault.

For one thing, I seem to be opportunistically lazy, and when there is possibility (however remote) that someone else might pick up the slack, that’s reason enough for me to spend 15 minutes reading “Television without Pity” instead of taking out the recycling. But more to the point, it’s much easier to manage and perform the caretaking and household chores than it is to pass them back and forth from person to person.

Husband and I have a very unusual partnership in that respect. I’m aware that most (some? any?) men take a large role in child-rearing and housekeeping these days, but in most relationships, one person is the primary caregiver and, therefore, house-occupier, and the other, by virtue of being out of the house more of the time, is not. Husband and I are home exactly the same amount of time, and we share the child-care responsibilities fifty-fifty. Not only do we divide the work evenly, but we also trade off on particular tasks. Neither one of us is the primary put-to-bedder or meal supervisor or playground monitor.

On a typical day, I get the boys up and feed them breakfast, Husband takes Minor to the babysitter, I take Aitch to school, Husband plays with Minor who comes home early, I do dinner, Husband puts Minor to bed, I put Aitch to bed. And then the next day we reverse the tasks: Husband gets the boys up, I take Aitch to the babysitter, etc. Sometimes there are variations, but that’s pretty much how it goes. We never intentionally set out to do that. It started with fairness (”you sleep in today, I sleep in tomorrow”) and evolved for the sake of variety (”I put Aitch to bed last night, so I’ll do Minor tonight”). We have a more traditional division of labor when it comes to household chores, traditional in the sense that each of us has a job we do all the time (he cooks and kills bugs, and I . . . handle everything else).

I suppose it is a good thing if both parents share child-rearing equally in terms of time, but I’m not sure whether there’s any value to having each parent take turns doing each job. Intuitively, it seems very New Bohemian and appropriate and non-sexist, but in nine out of ten families one parent gets the kids ready for school while the other leaves early for work every day, and I can’t find anything wrong with that. There was a post on Bitch Ph.D. a while back blasting parents who divide child-care tasks along traditional gender roles (the mom always bathes the kids, the dad takes them to the park), but I think what she and others were objecting to was the dad appropriating the fun or easy tasks, claiming helplessness or ignorance to avoid dealing with the tough ones.

I have to say that our kids have not reacted particularly well to being handed off from Mommy to Daddy to Mommy throughout the day. They protest at the transitions. Usually, they only protest when going from Daddy to Mommy, but once they’re with him they also behave horribly. Is this because I’m so unlovable (Husband’s theory), Husband is such a pushover (my theory), or they’re anxious because they don’t know who their primary caregiver is? You might say the poor kids are constantly negotiating between different parenting and discipline styles. I honestly don’t think that Husband and I are that far apart in our approach to the kids, but they have obviously caught on that he’s a little more lenient, and they play us against each other just like children of divorce.

At the risk of sounding like one of those “feminists” who thinks we’d all be better off if women would just put on a pretty dress, modulate their voices, and submit themselves to their husband’s authority, maybe our two-parent hands-on child-rearing method is not a step forward. Maybe kids do better when they have a primary caregiver, with one or more “satellite” adults providing additional role models. Note that I am not saying it is the mother’s job to be that caregiver. Once the biological jobs of birthing and breast-feeding are done, there’s nothing about being female that equips you especially for that role. With adopted children, there’s not even that, which may be why Husband and I adapted to this child-care arrangement so easily.

I’m sure there’s a study out there that says kids with a dominant caregiver have IQ scores 2 points higher than kids of hippies who share child-rearing tasks (standard deviation = 2 points). It’s undoubtedly being used by Focus on the Family as evidence that gays and liberals should not be able to adopt.

The thing is, if I were the non-primary caregiver, I think I would really miss being shut out of certain jobs on a regular basis. I would hate it if I were NEVER the one to have breakfast with the boys, or give them a bath, or take them swimming. Although I think stay-at-home parent is the hardest job in the world, I don’t know if I could handle the jealousy of being the not-at-home parent.

Is there anyone out there who is not the primary caregiver? How do you feel about this? Or any even-Steven child-care sharers out there like us?

When I was a kid, I was only interested in hobbies I was good at. I guess most people have more fun doing things they are good at than otherwise, but I was actually afraid of things I was bad at. I have since discovered that this is a typical Pennsylvania Dutch trait that somehow wormed its way into my childhood psyche although I had not a drop of German blood in my veins.

I was afraid of new experiences, afraid of looking foolish, afraid of not being good at something. In team sports, I was afraid of the ball coming my way. When I skied, I was afraid of not being able to buckle my boots and terrified of going too fast. In math, I was afraid of not getting the concepts immediately. So I avoided team sports, skiing, and math. Problem solved.

In high school, though, I sort of accidentally learned how to run a mile in gym class, slow but without stopping, and in a fit of optimism totally unsuited to my character, I signed up for the cross country team. I was terrified. I was afraid of being out of breath, afraid of getting too tired, afraid of being last. I was an untalented runner and I was breathless, tired, and last pretty often. But this was one sport I didn’t quit. (Must have been the endorphins. ) Instead, I discovered the joy of sucking. No one expected me to be good, so I could do it just for fun, and I was free to compete against my own fears instead of other people. This was exhilarating, because competing against myself, I sometimes won.

As time wore on I decided to try some other things I was likely to suck at, just for fun. I started talking to strangers, playing tennis, taking photographs. I learned how to play guitar, took a course in statistics, changed careers. Success was elusive, but almost everything I’ve tried has been fun. I am now officially 75% less Pennsylvania Dutch.

Recently, I’ve been intrigued by surfing, despite the fact that it’s a sport at which I’m very likely to suck. I am afraid of the undertow. I am afraid of being hit on the head by a surfboard. I don’t relish the prospect of being dumped in the sand by a strong wave. I am not a strong swimmer. I’m not crazy about cold water. I have inner-ear issues that affect my balance and lousy vision that affects my depth perception. I am afraid of losing a contact lens in the water. I don’t have the upper body strength to “pop up” from a prone position to Warrior II even on a stationary yoga mat, let alone a moving surfboard. Hell, I don’t have the upper-body strength to don a wetsuit. I am afraid of looking stupid. Also, I’m afraid of fish brushing up against me in the water.

So last weekend, I took a surf lesson.

Some of my fears were realized. I had to ask for help with the wetsuit. I was hit on the head by my board, twice. I was dumped in the sand, repeatedly. I could not “pop up” to save my life. (I did manage to kneel several times and once even planted one goofy foot on the board. Turns out that even though I’m right-handed, I’m left-footed). I looked very, very stupid.

I also had a ridiculous amount of fun. I can’t wait to do it again. Don’t get me wrong; I haven’t totally overcome my fears. In fact, now that I know what to expect, I have a few more to add to my list. Like, I didn’t know that if you don’t paddle hard enough in advance of the wave, your board will go nose-under and the wave will go up your nose. And who knew you had to worry about other surfers running into you? But I can’t wait to scare myself stupid again.

Oh, the immediacy of film! I snap a photo and then two weeks and two continents later, here they are: Gidget und Mondhündchen.

Incidentally, I am taking my first surfing lesson ever this Sunday (on an ocean, not on a creek). I expect to spend the afternoon plastered prone to the board, too terrified to move. I’ll keep you posted.

There is a clerk at the neighborhood drugstore who has rather alarming hair. It is carefully arranged, with the aid of copius amounts of product, into a kind of pompadour wave on top of his forehead. It’s a kind of unholy cross between Jimmy Neutron and Ed Grimley, and I CAN’T LOOK AWAY. I feel like that socially inept friend of Husband’s who always addresses remarks to my chest; I can’t talk to him without looking at his hair. And he’s always very pleasant and professional, so I need to respond to his, “How are you?’ and “Do you have a CVS card?” and “Have a great day!” out of basic politeness. In fact, although he’s only a teenager, he’s the most professional clerk in the store.

I found out recently that he’s 17 years old, he just graduated from high school, and he’s running for mayor. He seems pretty serious about it, too. Although it seems like folly to turn over the reins of our city to someone so inexperienced at this point, with the school budget crisis and all, I can’t help hoping that he makes a good showing. He’s a sort of Obama in a field of smarmy Hillary types, two of whom have grave problems with the English language. This kid has at least taken a grammar class in the past five years, and anyway, a guy with the confidence to wear that hair would probably be able to face down a bunch of city councilors with ease.

The city newspaper recently reported on each candidate’s “war chest,” their ridiculous term for an election fund. The incumbent has the colossal sum of $11,000, virtually guaranteeing his re-election. A sign on every lawn! My friend C., who is on top of all things political in our fair city, told me that The Hair has $70. $40 came from his grandmother.

The primary is Tuesday. Godspeed to The Hair! I may not be voting for you, but I’ll be pulling for you.

When I heard that teaser on the local news, I steeled myself for a sordid tale of a shameless hussy who locked her kid in a hot, airless car for hours to hit the mall. But here’s what really happened:

A woman drove to downtown Wellesley, Mass to run some errands.

Her eighteen-month-old was asleep in the car seat.

She parked the car on the street, rolled down the windows, and went into one of the shops. The street was probably visible from the shop, although I don’t know this for sure.

After 5 minutes someone noticed the solo baby and called the police.

About 5 minutes later the cops arrived and located the woman in the shop. They charged her with reckless endangerment and called child services.

I ask you: Is this an overreaction, or what?

Confession: I have been known to step out of the parked car for brief periods of time while the boys are still strapped in — for example, to pick up the dog at day care, or to run into the drive-in to pick up a takeout order. (In both cases, the car is parked right in front of the door, and I remain outside the building. I also sometimes take advantage of the brief, beautiful lull that ensues when they are both strapped in their seats in the driveway to run into the house so I can load bags into the car, pee, grab my coat, tidy up a few things, etc. I suppose that qualifies me for handcuffs.

I have never left the kids in the car to run INTO a store, but not because I think my children would suffer mentally or physically. No, it is chiefly because I am afraid of the kind of censure that this poor Wellesley woman is enduring. Frankly, I would be thrilled if I could park outside the convenience store, leave the kids behind, and run inside for a loaf of bread. (OK, that is a lie. If I were going to leave the kids behind I wouldn’t waste it on the convenience store. It is the liquor store run that would really benefit from an absence of children. Just think how that would look on the news.) Have you ever tried to control a toddler in a parking lot or a store aisle filled with breakables? Leaving them in the car is at least as safe as shopping.

In the Wellesley case, the cop interviewed on the news (female) opined that it is irresponsible to leave alone a baby for any length of time since “there could be a medical emergency.” I would counter that a sleeping child strapped in a car seat in a stationery car is probably safer than 99% of her counterparts at that given moment. We routinely leave unrestrained sleeping children alone for up to 11 hours a night, and as far as I know there is no requirement to station a lifeguard in front of a video monitor in your home for those overnight hours.

The woman-on-the-street who called the cops raised the only real safety issue here: “The windows were down and if we could get to the baby, so could anybody.” Abductions are rare and probably just as likely to occur in a crowded store. It was probably a bit of a risk for the mother to take, perhaps mitigated if she were keeping an eye on the car. Bad judgment, certainly. But criminally negligent? I feel the pain of the Good Samaritan who had an obligation, once she discovered the solo baby, to stick around until she was sure the child was safe. But the woman could have achieved this just as easily by poking her head in a few shops before she called the cops.

Am I way out of line here? Because this just seems like demonizing the mother.

The other day I took Minor to the playground downtown to play. He insisted on going into the kids’ clothing store to buy a lollipop (damn that store! Why not stick to clothes?). A woman was shopping in their with her two girls, and when we came back out to the playground one of the girls, a five-year-old, came out with us. The mother shopped for about half an hour while the girl continued to play with Minor. (She must have been an heiress because that place is stocked with $40 onesies and $50 infant concert t-shirts. Half an hour? She must have vacated her trust fund.) Finally the mother came back and said to me, “Really irresponsible, right, leaving my child out here while I was shopping? She could have fallen.” I could tell she was half-trying to apologize for sticking me with her kid, and half-trying to stave off any judgment I might be throwing her way. I responded, “She could have fallen if you were right here.”

I didn’t feel it was any huge imposition to keep an eye on her little girl. In fact, I keep an eye out for other children all the time, even if their mothers are right there, and other parents do the same for my child. In fact, the other day some other woman told Minor not to run with his lollipop, and I thanked her for looking out for him. I suppose I should also have thanked her for not reporting my dereliction of duty to the authorities.

What do you think? Is it ever acceptable to leave your child alone? At what age? Would you have called the police on the Wellesley woman? The shopping woman? On me, if you saw my children alone in the car in the driveway?

Yesterday I had a few meetings down by MIT, and on my way home I stopped by the dog daycare to pick up Dog. Whenever I pick up the kids OR the dog at daycare, I am always very curious to see them in action. How do they behave when they don’t know that I’m watching them? With the kids I always try to peer in the windows before they spot me, but Dog’s daycare is trickier. There’s an elaborate system of corridors and doors that prevents the dogs from escaping, and coincidentally also prevents the owners from seeing into the main area. Usually I have the kids waiting in the car, so I wait outside the door while they retrieve the dog.

So I took advantage of the kids’ absence to go inside and poke my head over the half-door that separates the vestibule from the staging area. The first thing I noticed was that syrupy Muzak was playing, loudly, over the PA system. It reminded me of that scene in Cuckoo’s Nest where the inmates are being given their medication. I could imagine a veterinary Nurse Ratched in there: “Mr. MacMurphy! Time for your dog treats!”

Then three dogs rushed the door, including an enormous one who looked like a Lab on steroids. “That’s Mojo,” the attendant told me. His giant head loomed over the door, even when he had all four paws on the ground.

“Mojo’s a big one,” I said.

The attendant managed to let my dog out through the half-door without letting the others escape, and then Dog and I exited through the front door. Suddenly, though, Mojo was in the parking lot, unleashed, right next to us. He had jumped over the half-door that was supposed to contain the dogs in the staging area.

My first thought was, “Hey, it’s Chief Broom making a break for it!”

We managed to get Mojo before he made it to the highway.

This week, after processing the medium-format film from my July vacation and also from last week’s trip to Germany (surfing pictures tomorrow!), I came to the conclusion that it would be cheaper for me to set up my own darkroom rather than continue to get my film processed commercially.

The lab with the best prices is located a half-hour drive over the state line. With tolls and gas (two trips: one to drop off the film, one to pick up), it’s about a wash with the local lab, which charges $2 an image and also takes 2-3 weeks to process the film. Then it’s another $2 an image for electronic copies, because let’s face it, who deals with prints any more? So the cost is potentially between $24 and $48 a roll, depending on whether I get prints, CDs, or both — pretty much like throwing dollar bills out the window, especially when I only manage to get 1 good picture out of two or three rolls.

So, why not a darkroom? The previous occupant of our house set up a workshop in the basement with lots of electrical outlets, shelving, counter space, etc. that would be perfect for it. I would need to partition it off, do some lightproofing, and set up the equipment. Basically, there are only three things standing in my way:

1. Funds
2. The least bit of practical knowledge on how to develop pictures
3. The mountain of crap in the basement.

Exhibit A: Here is the corridor that leads to the workshop area.

Those are the ducts from the newly-installed air conditioning that make this space seem so claustrophobic. That’s my brass Egyptian water pipe (everyone calls it my “bong”) that I hid down here so the kids wouldn’t destroy it (and so I wouldn’t have to fend off embarrassing questions from the parents) during Aitch’s birthday party. On the right is a fully functioning, albeit pretty stinky, refrigerator; why is the beer sitting on the floor next to it? Probably because it’s Amstel Light.

If you make a right after the refrigerator, then at the end of this long room is the workshop.

The previous occupant left us those shelves on the left-hand side of the picture with at least 72 kinds of nails. And, by-the-by, that’s my wedding dress hanging in the LL Bean garment bag. No, I did not get my dress at LL Bean.

Anyway, I am hoping that the photographic evidence of our packratty ways will be a shameful incentive to clean up the damn basement. This weekend, I decided to start a habit of moving one carload of stuff to the thrift store every week, along with one assload of trash to the curb. I spent about an hour going through baby clothes and gear and then loaded the best stuff into the car. I drove up Route 1 to the Salvation Army that has been the victim recipient of my largesse in the past. I drove. I drove. I crossed the state line. Confused, I drove back. And then quite close to home I recognized the outline of the building that USED to contain the Salvation Army thrift store, but now has a shiny “For Lease” sign on it.

An internet search turned up no thrift stores within a 25-mile radius. Sure, there are organizations that will take my nearly-new baby clothes, or near-pristine condition bedding, but no one that will take the lot off my hands.

Actually, there is one group, the Boys and Girls Club, that calls frequently to see if we will be home on Tuesday and have any stuff we want to donate? I have said Yes to this eagerly, once, but then our doorbell got disconnected (long story) and I have no idea if they ever showed up or not. But last week there was a front-page article in the local paper saying that this was a scam! Apparently, someone has been trying to bilk local residents out of their old clothes and VCRs in the name of the Boys and Girls Club! And I have to wonder, why hide behind the charity? At this point if someone called me up and said, “Hi, I’m Joe from down the street, could I come by Tuesday to rifle through your basement and carry away anything that tickles my fancy?” I would probably hand him the keys and make him a sandwich.

(I know what you are thinking. “Yard Sale.” Not sure I have the energy for that.)