Tom and I realized that we haven't planned a summer vacation yet which is unusual for us. Our vacation is usually the pinnacle of our year, a camping odyssey carefully mapped out and executed. But it's a different phase of life now and things grow more complicated. We need to include things like college visits this year for our impending high school senior. And last summer's camping trip showed me that taking two teen aged girls into an electronic and shopping-free zone isn't all that relaxing.
A nice transition. I realized that I never finished writing about last summer's alpha and omega journey: New York City followed by Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore in the upper part of lower Michigan.
Ah, Michigan. I never meant to fall for you. You were always the kid next door while I was growing up in Wisconsin. The other mitten state. We had our own north woods and Great Lakes so I didn't need you. But now that I've moved on and only have Lake Erie to cling to I find that the time we spend together means so much more.
I don't remember how we first discovered Sleeping Bear, but this was our second time there. The "bears" referred to are actually sand dunes. It's a gorgeous patch of dunes and Lake Michigan. I don't want to say too much more or else other people will want to go there.
There are three things I remember from this trip: boredom, the traditional rain while trying to break camp, and Regan from Muskegon.
First, the boredom. This was when it became painfully apparent that my kids were no longer content to just take in the sights, listen to birds, play in dirt, and relax. In fact, spending 24/7 with your parents in a place with no running water or electricity with only a fabric shelter to retreat to is probably the teen version of Hell.
It wasn't all pain and whining, though. I did get to spend some individual time with each girl during sunsets at the beach. Amelia and I went on a crazy rock hunt one evening. The next night Miriam and I skipped, or tried to, skip stones, whooping and high-fiving after each pathetic attempt. Amelia learned, much to her chagrin, what happens when you forget the sunscreen while wearing sunglasses. And the cool young park rangers, Zach and Sarah, kept things interesting.
And I have to mention the rain while breaking camp because it happens so often as to have become an integral part of the vacation experience. It goes like this: we have a beautiful couple of days camping somewhere, planning on packing up and moving on the next day. Sometime in the early hours of the morning we're leaving we hear a rumble of thunder, leading to a (usually futile) mad scramble to pack everything into the car before the tent gets wet. Then we drag our wet, disheveled selves to the nearest diner for breakfast. I'm not kidding, this has happened to us at least 5 times that I can think of. Joe's Diner in Honor, Michigan took good care of us this last time.
A highlight for me, however, was Regan from Muskegon. That's how he introduced himself. As in all camping, you take your chances with your neighbors. With nothing separating you from each other the quality of the neighbor impacts the overall camping experience. Our favorite campground at Sleeping Bear doesn't take reservations, so we were just happy (and lucky) to get a site, even if it was next to a chain-smoking guy who favored staying up at night by his campfire drinking beer (probably Bud Light) and listening to classic rock (Led Zeppelin/Rolling Stones era).
If he were a dog, Regan would be a golden retriever -- big, shaggy, and enthusiastically friendly. I figured him to be in his 50's. He was not tall, but big. Muscular (oak tree biceps), but paunchy. His tangled blond hair fell to his shoulders but he had a sizable bald spot. He favored wearing faded tank tops, shorts, and mirrored shades. He was the neighbor who would walk out and talk to you while you were walking by (which, truth be told, made us consider alternate routes to the outhouse).
He buttonholed me our first day there, I believe, while I was returning from my morning stumble to the rest facilities. He strode out to wish me good morning. Now, I'm not a self-conscious person upon rising, and I have no real problem strolling around in pajamas before completing the daily grooming. Regan made a good-natured jibe about my hair, then grabbed a nearby fork and proceeded to run it through his. He asked after the rest of the family, referring to us by name. Turns out he had talked to Tom the night before and had scrawled our names on a paper plate so he'd remember. While we were talking one of the ever present daddy-long-legs crawled up my shoulder. Regan grabbed it away and said he was adopting them as pets. He was going to name that one Jeff.
I was amused and somewhat charmed.
It was easy to remember his name because of the rhyme -- he's Regan from Muskegon. He had spent the past twenty plus years as a furniture salesman but this was the beginning of the economic downturn. Even though he had seniority and experience they laid him off. He also had recently separated from his wife of twenty some years. He was up here to kayak and gather his thoughts. He still had his house in Muskegon, but wasn't sure he wanted to return there, and it was a bad time to sell. He hadn't found new work, didn't know what he wanted to do, but knew unemployment was going to run out. A buddy had contacted him about going out west to be a rafting guide. He was considering it.
I think I recognized his state of mind. Somewhat. It makes me think of the last job I walked out on. No, not the nursing home. The law office. That job was a complicated psychodrama beyond going into here and one day I just walked out. It was only about 11am and I just walked out and climbed into my car without any clear idea of where I was going, just knowing I didn't belong in that office. As I turned the key in the ignition the radio turned on and Tom Petty's "Free Falling" was playing. I still consider that a magical moment. I felt I had jumped off a cliff.
Looking at Regan, I thought I saw some of that stomach-churning elation. He had lost everything that anchors a person and he was just going, casting his fates to the wind. He ran out of time at Sleeping Bear so thought he'd head out to Manistique for more kayaking. After that, who knows?
He was such a character that he still pops into my mind now and then, and every time I think of him I pray a silent prayer that life is treating him kindly.
Wonder what this summer holds?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Epiphany!
WARNING: THIS ENTRY CONTAINS SELF-ABSORPTION AND PSYCHOBABBLE. Welcome to my world.
Epiphany: Liturgically it is the manifestation of Christ to the gentiles. I like to think of it as light bursting forth in the world. It also describes the flash of realization, that just-got-hit-with-a-bolt-of-insight/Eureka! sensation. I'm writing this on the heels of one of those moments.
All I have to say is thank-you, Mom (something that probably can never be said enough) and thank-you New York Times!
It started innocently enough, as these things often do. Today is my day off from childcare duties. My psyche has not been in a good place (too complicated to describe) so I was just kicking back. Thought I'd spend some time on the ol' computer. The Google homepage had a link to a Laura Bush book review in The New York Times. I read it. It was good. Along the side was the title of another story called "Mind Over Meds." Figuring it was about depression, my favorite bete noire, I read it.
It's been a salient issue for me. I had come to realize that I was starting to isolate myself, pushing coffee and sugar, feeling like it was taking all my energy just to get through a day. I'm depressed. And I was frustrated. It feels so amorphous. There are so many sub-issues going on. I've seen this coming and had the foresight to get me back to therapy. All well and good, except that the intelligent, insightful woman I had been seeing retired. I'm trying to start anew and it's not easy. I feel like so little of what I have to say makes sense without the backstory. It makes for 45 minutes of highly pressured speech from me explaining what's bothering me and why, then waiting two weeks to do it all over again. I didn't see this going anywhere.
It was a really good article by a psychopharmacologist who was reconsidering the split between the medicinal and psychotheraputic treatments of depression. My last shrink had been psychologist who very much believed in the neurobiology of depression. There is a knotty chicken and egg dilemma at the heart of the treatment debate: which comes first, unhealthy thought patterns or flawed neurochemistry? Pat seemed to lean towards the "physical" model. When my thoughts were problematic she would encourage medication to bring the depression under control, which would then help me untangle what was going on in my mind. Zoloft keeps me going. I'm really quite functional and I like to think that I come across as an unlikely depressed person. But even though I've been talking to a professional my interior life still feels like a mess.
Here's where mom comes in. We've reached that neat stage in life in which we are friends, not just relatives. And she's good for commending to my attention interesting things to read and consider. One of them was a New York Times article titled "Depression's Upside" (NYT February 28, 2010). She brought it up to me almost two months ago. Did I mention that procrastination is one of my problems?
So I finally sat down and read it this morning since I was surfing the net anyway, and, as the kids say, OMG!!! Never before have I felt like someone was describing the way my mind works. I ruminate. I go over things, considering and reconsidering. When the issue is positive it is creative, energizing, and inspiring. On the flip side I revisit dark moments over and over, re-feeling, trying to re-interpret, trying to figure out what went wrong (probably me).
Even more fascinating is the fact that ruminators, or "ruminants" as I preferred to be called, tend to be writers. Our prose is more polished because we're constantly editing, re-examining what it is we're trying to say.
Look at how quickly I've adopted the "we" and "our." I'm not a random, hopeless, psychological freak! There are other people who think and feel like I do! And maybe I can learn to manage this, and use it to my advantage, with the Zoloft to keep it from spinning out of control. It's hard to explain the tremendous feeling of relief this gives me.
I liken my blog entries to beach glass. They are what happens when an idea gets stuck in my mind's surf, being tossed and tumbled until even the trash is rendered beautiful.
This also explains why I've haven't been blogging as much. Much of the stuff running through my head right now can't be shared with a general audience. Not yet.
Thanks, Mom. I owe you a phone call.
Epiphany: Liturgically it is the manifestation of Christ to the gentiles. I like to think of it as light bursting forth in the world. It also describes the flash of realization, that just-got-hit-with-a-bolt-of-insight/Eureka! sensation. I'm writing this on the heels of one of those moments.
All I have to say is thank-you, Mom (something that probably can never be said enough) and thank-you New York Times!
It started innocently enough, as these things often do. Today is my day off from childcare duties. My psyche has not been in a good place (too complicated to describe) so I was just kicking back. Thought I'd spend some time on the ol' computer. The Google homepage had a link to a Laura Bush book review in The New York Times. I read it. It was good. Along the side was the title of another story called "Mind Over Meds." Figuring it was about depression, my favorite bete noire, I read it.
It's been a salient issue for me. I had come to realize that I was starting to isolate myself, pushing coffee and sugar, feeling like it was taking all my energy just to get through a day. I'm depressed. And I was frustrated. It feels so amorphous. There are so many sub-issues going on. I've seen this coming and had the foresight to get me back to therapy. All well and good, except that the intelligent, insightful woman I had been seeing retired. I'm trying to start anew and it's not easy. I feel like so little of what I have to say makes sense without the backstory. It makes for 45 minutes of highly pressured speech from me explaining what's bothering me and why, then waiting two weeks to do it all over again. I didn't see this going anywhere.
It was a really good article by a psychopharmacologist who was reconsidering the split between the medicinal and psychotheraputic treatments of depression. My last shrink had been psychologist who very much believed in the neurobiology of depression. There is a knotty chicken and egg dilemma at the heart of the treatment debate: which comes first, unhealthy thought patterns or flawed neurochemistry? Pat seemed to lean towards the "physical" model. When my thoughts were problematic she would encourage medication to bring the depression under control, which would then help me untangle what was going on in my mind. Zoloft keeps me going. I'm really quite functional and I like to think that I come across as an unlikely depressed person. But even though I've been talking to a professional my interior life still feels like a mess.
Here's where mom comes in. We've reached that neat stage in life in which we are friends, not just relatives. And she's good for commending to my attention interesting things to read and consider. One of them was a New York Times article titled "Depression's Upside" (NYT February 28, 2010). She brought it up to me almost two months ago. Did I mention that procrastination is one of my problems?
So I finally sat down and read it this morning since I was surfing the net anyway, and, as the kids say, OMG!!! Never before have I felt like someone was describing the way my mind works. I ruminate. I go over things, considering and reconsidering. When the issue is positive it is creative, energizing, and inspiring. On the flip side I revisit dark moments over and over, re-feeling, trying to re-interpret, trying to figure out what went wrong (probably me).
Even more fascinating is the fact that ruminators, or "ruminants" as I preferred to be called, tend to be writers. Our prose is more polished because we're constantly editing, re-examining what it is we're trying to say.
Look at how quickly I've adopted the "we" and "our." I'm not a random, hopeless, psychological freak! There are other people who think and feel like I do! And maybe I can learn to manage this, and use it to my advantage, with the Zoloft to keep it from spinning out of control. It's hard to explain the tremendous feeling of relief this gives me.
I liken my blog entries to beach glass. They are what happens when an idea gets stuck in my mind's surf, being tossed and tumbled until even the trash is rendered beautiful.
This also explains why I've haven't been blogging as much. Much of the stuff running through my head right now can't be shared with a general audience. Not yet.
Thanks, Mom. I owe you a phone call.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Sweet Dream or a Beautiful Nightmare? (Thanks for that, Beyonce)
Childcare is a lot like having a late in life child. Almost like childbirth, I find it amazing how much of the agony and ecstasy gets forgotten.
Spring has sprung with a vengeance here in Northern Ohio, and we're having a burst of June in April. Brandon (now 15 months) has re-discovered the outdoors and he is done with being inside. He grabs my keys, says "buh-bye," and heads for the door. He hands me his shoes. The inside toys have lost their fascination. Banging something with a stick outside is ever so much more fulfilling.
I believe all small children are that way. I have yet to meet the baby who doesn't calm when walked outside, especially if there are trees to make patterns against the sky. And toddlers love their aforementioned sticks, as well as exploring dirt. Sitting in it, feeling it, and tasting it.
It's also amazing how tuned-in children are to the acoustic world. Brandon will hold his hand up to his ear and I'll realize there's an airplane droning, or he'll "woof" and I'll realize there's a dog barking in the distance.
Children are also natural birders. During the winter baby Max, then about 6 months, loved nothing more than lying on his belly by my back door watching the birds (and squirrels) dancing around the feeder. He even got to see a hawk (a harrier, I believe, it seemed to have a brown and black striped tail) take out a starling right in front of him. Now that it is spring Brandon has fixated on different bird calls: the screech of a blue jay, the piercing whistle of the cardinal, the song of a robin. He looks for the source.
It is refreshing to experience the world anew through little eyes and ears. But, as Paul Harvey would so famously say, and now for the rest of the story. At the playground I was charmed by Brandon's absolute belief that he would catch that squirrel. Shortly afterwards he choked on his water and threw up (just a little bit, true) down the front of his shirt. Or being outrageously cute while grocery shopping, waving at everybody in the store, but pooping his diaper as we were approaching the check-out, with me having left the diaper bag in the car. This morning, which overall has been enjoyable, has had its issues. Incipient molars + fatigue + excitement seems to = BITING. Apparently this is an honor reserved for mommy, grandma, and me. Just a little fly that threatens the ointment.
Ah, yes. I vaguely remember the joy and challenges of this stage from my own girls. It's good to be reminded, now and again, that there is a yin and yang to the world.
P.S. to Carla and Marla: Nightmare really is too strong of a word, but I bet you know what I'm talking about.
Spring has sprung with a vengeance here in Northern Ohio, and we're having a burst of June in April. Brandon (now 15 months) has re-discovered the outdoors and he is done with being inside. He grabs my keys, says "buh-bye," and heads for the door. He hands me his shoes. The inside toys have lost their fascination. Banging something with a stick outside is ever so much more fulfilling.
I believe all small children are that way. I have yet to meet the baby who doesn't calm when walked outside, especially if there are trees to make patterns against the sky. And toddlers love their aforementioned sticks, as well as exploring dirt. Sitting in it, feeling it, and tasting it.
It's also amazing how tuned-in children are to the acoustic world. Brandon will hold his hand up to his ear and I'll realize there's an airplane droning, or he'll "woof" and I'll realize there's a dog barking in the distance.
Children are also natural birders. During the winter baby Max, then about 6 months, loved nothing more than lying on his belly by my back door watching the birds (and squirrels) dancing around the feeder. He even got to see a hawk (a harrier, I believe, it seemed to have a brown and black striped tail) take out a starling right in front of him. Now that it is spring Brandon has fixated on different bird calls: the screech of a blue jay, the piercing whistle of the cardinal, the song of a robin. He looks for the source.
It is refreshing to experience the world anew through little eyes and ears. But, as Paul Harvey would so famously say, and now for the rest of the story. At the playground I was charmed by Brandon's absolute belief that he would catch that squirrel. Shortly afterwards he choked on his water and threw up (just a little bit, true) down the front of his shirt. Or being outrageously cute while grocery shopping, waving at everybody in the store, but pooping his diaper as we were approaching the check-out, with me having left the diaper bag in the car. This morning, which overall has been enjoyable, has had its issues. Incipient molars + fatigue + excitement seems to = BITING. Apparently this is an honor reserved for mommy, grandma, and me. Just a little fly that threatens the ointment.
Ah, yes. I vaguely remember the joy and challenges of this stage from my own girls. It's good to be reminded, now and again, that there is a yin and yang to the world.
P.S. to Carla and Marla: Nightmare really is too strong of a word, but I bet you know what I'm talking about.
Monday, March 8, 2010
A Post-Feminist Commentary in Honor of National Women's Day! (Thanks, Chris A. and Chuck A. for the inspiration!)
I am a daughter of the Women's Movement.
I grew up with Ms. Magazine around the house, and even once sent in an ad I found offensive for their "No Comment" section. (I think I was offended that they linked smoking with being an empowered woman). I was the perfect age for "Free to Be...You and Me." (Mommies are people...people with children...) It was assumed I would go to college and launch a profession. The constant message I heard was that I COULD DO ANYTHING!
Then life happened.
I did go to college, but, unfortunately, received a degree that just doesn't launch into a career without a lot more schooling. (BA in psychology, right up there with English in my book!) Instead of grad school I got my MRS degree. The incredible Mr. Tom is worth it.
I finally stumbled into something of a career path when I took the job of legal assistant at a local Social Security Disability law firm. That job, unfortunately, coincided with the beginning of the motherhood phase. No problem, right?
To be truthful, I really don't think I would have been a good full-time mom, especially not in those days. I took 3 months off from work with each baby, was lucky enough to have an excellent childcare provider down the street, and I didn't find returning to work traumatic. In fact, I looked forward to it. They (the children) were happy where they were, and I was happy where I was. I needed the human contact and status that the job gave me.
For a brief shining moment I seemed to have it all, but all it gave me was something of a breakdown. My job would suffer if a child got sick, didn't sleep well, or had a special school event. And the house, never really known to be spotless, was a wreck. I was a wreck. It was the classic situation of trying to do two jobs, neither one very well. I mean, I probably did OK, but it was stressful! I quickly realized that "having it all" really meant being able to delegate chunks of one's life: day-to-day child rearing (which I really had no problem with, emotionally), and/or housekeeping, which I couldn't afford to outsource. I've come to appreciate that the lion's share of professional women (A kinda funny-sounding phrase. What does that make me, an amateur woman?) who are successful and happy have nannies and housekeepers. I had neither.
Through a process really too long to go into here, I gradually made the shift to homemaker/at-home mom, ironically after my children were both in grade school. (Such timing!) While commenting on one of my blog entries, Chuck A. commented on his time spent as stay-at-home dad, and how it was strangely unsatisfying to which I say AMEN, BROTHER!
Keeping house and parenting are, as Chuck pointed out, exhausting. Mainly because it's never ending. Laundry and dishes remind me of Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill - no sooner is it done when more comes rolling back. And is there any way to scrub a tub that is not back-breaking? And, I'm sorry, living creates clutter. It just does.
Even worse, I think, is the boredom, which is my undoing. I crave intellectual stimulation, and listening to NPR every day can only do so much. There is nothing inherently interesting in scrubbing the floor, although I do find vacuuming to be kinda Zen since it does such a good job of shutting out the outside world. Oh, sure, there is reading and crossword puzzles and such, but add a young child or two and that becomes fairly impossible. Even worse is the repetitive activity phase in which a small child takes great delight in repeating the same mundane task over and over (i.e. pretend trick-or-treating, pretend checking out at the grocery store) until one's brain is screaming for mercy.
And then, if these things aren't enough to make the homemaking/parenting job unsatisfying, then serve-up a heaping helping of good old-fashioned guilt and lack of status on the side. I am woman, remember? Hear me roar? I had pioneers before me who broke down walls and threw themselves against the glass ceiling so that I didn't have to stay home. But I am staying home, and it feels a bit like I'm letting my sisters down.
But why is that? Because of the even more fundamental problem that homemaking and nurturing are so seriously undervalued in our society. This attitude is not, I believe, the fault of the women's movement. I believe women were moved to escape from the home because it was a role held in such contempt. Look at early sitcoms. ("Donna Reed," "I Love Lucy," "Mr. Ed"...you know, the good ones). The women are childlike, helpless, and UNBELIEVABLY STUPID. Who wouldn't want to get away from that?
It's ironic that the more hands-on the care, the lower the status the job is accorded. I've heard it said that it's really too bad that nurses and teachers aren't respected and paid like corporate executives or sports stars are. True. But nurses and teachers are social and financial giants compared to nurses aides and babysitters. Aides are considered low-skill and thus poorly paid, attracting people to the job who may not feel they have many other options. Is that the sort of person you want caring for your most basic and private personal needs? Ditto with babysitting. It seems to be a job for the person who can't get a job.
At least when I tell people I do childcare, I do get a lot of people who commend me for doing such important work and think it perfectly acceptable to get paid. (And believe me, it ain't much.) If, however, I were caring for my OWN child and expecting to get paid for it in the form of, say, public assistance, I would be labeled a lazy sponge, even though the work I'd be doing is largely the same.
What is my point?
Well, I call myself a "post-feminist" because by my generation the stereotypes were already crumbling, but we're still defining and re-defining our social roles. I was told I could do it all, but I really couldn't. Not happily. I have a critical voice in my head for being a woman of intellect without professional credentials to show for it. But I've also discovered that homemaker is a crucial role. Somebody really has to do it, or pay someone else to do it for them.
I'm of the school that says we need to reclaim "woman's work" and accord it the respect it deserves. And it doesn't need to be done by a woman, we should be equally supportive of homemaker dads. Each person should be allowed to do as they are best suited.
Free to be...you and me.
I grew up with Ms. Magazine around the house, and even once sent in an ad I found offensive for their "No Comment" section. (I think I was offended that they linked smoking with being an empowered woman). I was the perfect age for "Free to Be...You and Me." (Mommies are people...people with children...) It was assumed I would go to college and launch a profession. The constant message I heard was that I COULD DO ANYTHING!
Then life happened.
I did go to college, but, unfortunately, received a degree that just doesn't launch into a career without a lot more schooling. (BA in psychology, right up there with English in my book!) Instead of grad school I got my MRS degree. The incredible Mr. Tom is worth it.
I finally stumbled into something of a career path when I took the job of legal assistant at a local Social Security Disability law firm. That job, unfortunately, coincided with the beginning of the motherhood phase. No problem, right?
To be truthful, I really don't think I would have been a good full-time mom, especially not in those days. I took 3 months off from work with each baby, was lucky enough to have an excellent childcare provider down the street, and I didn't find returning to work traumatic. In fact, I looked forward to it. They (the children) were happy where they were, and I was happy where I was. I needed the human contact and status that the job gave me.
For a brief shining moment I seemed to have it all, but all it gave me was something of a breakdown. My job would suffer if a child got sick, didn't sleep well, or had a special school event. And the house, never really known to be spotless, was a wreck. I was a wreck. It was the classic situation of trying to do two jobs, neither one very well. I mean, I probably did OK, but it was stressful! I quickly realized that "having it all" really meant being able to delegate chunks of one's life: day-to-day child rearing (which I really had no problem with, emotionally), and/or housekeeping, which I couldn't afford to outsource. I've come to appreciate that the lion's share of professional women (A kinda funny-sounding phrase. What does that make me, an amateur woman?) who are successful and happy have nannies and housekeepers. I had neither.
Through a process really too long to go into here, I gradually made the shift to homemaker/at-home mom, ironically after my children were both in grade school. (Such timing!) While commenting on one of my blog entries, Chuck A. commented on his time spent as stay-at-home dad, and how it was strangely unsatisfying to which I say AMEN, BROTHER!
Keeping house and parenting are, as Chuck pointed out, exhausting. Mainly because it's never ending. Laundry and dishes remind me of Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill - no sooner is it done when more comes rolling back. And is there any way to scrub a tub that is not back-breaking? And, I'm sorry, living creates clutter. It just does.
Even worse, I think, is the boredom, which is my undoing. I crave intellectual stimulation, and listening to NPR every day can only do so much. There is nothing inherently interesting in scrubbing the floor, although I do find vacuuming to be kinda Zen since it does such a good job of shutting out the outside world. Oh, sure, there is reading and crossword puzzles and such, but add a young child or two and that becomes fairly impossible. Even worse is the repetitive activity phase in which a small child takes great delight in repeating the same mundane task over and over (i.e. pretend trick-or-treating, pretend checking out at the grocery store) until one's brain is screaming for mercy.
And then, if these things aren't enough to make the homemaking/parenting job unsatisfying, then serve-up a heaping helping of good old-fashioned guilt and lack of status on the side. I am woman, remember? Hear me roar? I had pioneers before me who broke down walls and threw themselves against the glass ceiling so that I didn't have to stay home. But I am staying home, and it feels a bit like I'm letting my sisters down.
But why is that? Because of the even more fundamental problem that homemaking and nurturing are so seriously undervalued in our society. This attitude is not, I believe, the fault of the women's movement. I believe women were moved to escape from the home because it was a role held in such contempt. Look at early sitcoms. ("Donna Reed," "I Love Lucy," "Mr. Ed"...you know, the good ones). The women are childlike, helpless, and UNBELIEVABLY STUPID. Who wouldn't want to get away from that?
It's ironic that the more hands-on the care, the lower the status the job is accorded. I've heard it said that it's really too bad that nurses and teachers aren't respected and paid like corporate executives or sports stars are. True. But nurses and teachers are social and financial giants compared to nurses aides and babysitters. Aides are considered low-skill and thus poorly paid, attracting people to the job who may not feel they have many other options. Is that the sort of person you want caring for your most basic and private personal needs? Ditto with babysitting. It seems to be a job for the person who can't get a job.
At least when I tell people I do childcare, I do get a lot of people who commend me for doing such important work and think it perfectly acceptable to get paid. (And believe me, it ain't much.) If, however, I were caring for my OWN child and expecting to get paid for it in the form of, say, public assistance, I would be labeled a lazy sponge, even though the work I'd be doing is largely the same.
What is my point?
Well, I call myself a "post-feminist" because by my generation the stereotypes were already crumbling, but we're still defining and re-defining our social roles. I was told I could do it all, but I really couldn't. Not happily. I have a critical voice in my head for being a woman of intellect without professional credentials to show for it. But I've also discovered that homemaker is a crucial role. Somebody really has to do it, or pay someone else to do it for them.
I'm of the school that says we need to reclaim "woman's work" and accord it the respect it deserves. And it doesn't need to be done by a woman, we should be equally supportive of homemaker dads. Each person should be allowed to do as they are best suited.
Free to be...you and me.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
And So a Story Ends
I read obituaries. My daughters think this is weird. My mom says it's a small town thing. I liken it to riding in a car down a highway at night and seeing illuminated house windows. Each one offers a fleeting glimpse of a life in progress, whether eating dinner, watching TV, or performing some mundane task. I note the scene and imagine a story.
Obituaries are a similar snapshot of a life. Was the person married? Single all their life but with a "special friend"? Did they have children? What were their interests? I'm also interested in the pictures that accompany the write-ups, and what does it mean when the best the family could come up with is some badly out of focus or horribly-lit shot? Some obits document lives of tragedy, or accomplishment. I'm most touched by the ones that speak of the person's nature and really give a feeling for why that person is going to be missed. Each life is a story full of ups and downs and important lessons learned. I feel that by reading the story, however brief, in an obituary I am somehow honoring the fact that this person existed and that they had a story to tell. They were more than a name.
This is the same reason that I read the list of U.S. military deaths printed daily in the Cleveland paper. I am pretty much unaffected directly by the wars we are fighting, but I feel it is important to pay attention to the fact that they are happening. And each soldier is not just a number, but a name. And each name is a story that has come to a tragically early end. I read the name, age, and hometown, and try to imagine the story that took that person to such a foreign land.
Today, for the first time, I saw a name from my hometown. MY hometown. Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, which, contrary to what the name sounds like, is not a military post at all. It's a town whose main claim to fame is being home of The National Dairy Shrine. I don't live there anymore, but it's where I grew up and it will always be my hometown.
I felt a shock. Lance Cpl. Jacob A. Meinert was only 20 years old. The last name sounded vaguely familiar like a name I remembered hearing while growing up. It's possible I went to school with his parents.
I didn't know him, but I know where he came from. A lot has changed about Fort since I left. I very much doubt that we would have had any of the same teachers. The first school I attended is now an apartment building (Caswell), my first middle school closed (Emory? Emery?), the junior high is now administrative offices, I think (James F. Luther), and my high school is now the middle school. But I bet he went to The Frostee Freeze, and walked along the Rock River, and gazed at the same church spire (St. Paul's Lutheran Church) that is visible all over town.
Unfortunately there have been military deaths of young people from Northern Ohio, although none from Oberlin. I find the stories sad, and see how it affects a whole community, but have never felt personally touched like I did with Lance Cpl. Meinert. I can readily picture his story. He died supporting combat operations in Helmand province, Afghanistan -- a world away, I'm sure, from the rolling farmlands of southern Wisconsin. But he carried with him some of the same images, I bet, that I treasure.
Suddenly those six degrees of separation seem awfully close.
Into your hands, oh Lord, I commend his spirit.
Obituaries are a similar snapshot of a life. Was the person married? Single all their life but with a "special friend"? Did they have children? What were their interests? I'm also interested in the pictures that accompany the write-ups, and what does it mean when the best the family could come up with is some badly out of focus or horribly-lit shot? Some obits document lives of tragedy, or accomplishment. I'm most touched by the ones that speak of the person's nature and really give a feeling for why that person is going to be missed. Each life is a story full of ups and downs and important lessons learned. I feel that by reading the story, however brief, in an obituary I am somehow honoring the fact that this person existed and that they had a story to tell. They were more than a name.
This is the same reason that I read the list of U.S. military deaths printed daily in the Cleveland paper. I am pretty much unaffected directly by the wars we are fighting, but I feel it is important to pay attention to the fact that they are happening. And each soldier is not just a number, but a name. And each name is a story that has come to a tragically early end. I read the name, age, and hometown, and try to imagine the story that took that person to such a foreign land.
Today, for the first time, I saw a name from my hometown. MY hometown. Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, which, contrary to what the name sounds like, is not a military post at all. It's a town whose main claim to fame is being home of The National Dairy Shrine. I don't live there anymore, but it's where I grew up and it will always be my hometown.
I felt a shock. Lance Cpl. Jacob A. Meinert was only 20 years old. The last name sounded vaguely familiar like a name I remembered hearing while growing up. It's possible I went to school with his parents.
I didn't know him, but I know where he came from. A lot has changed about Fort since I left. I very much doubt that we would have had any of the same teachers. The first school I attended is now an apartment building (Caswell), my first middle school closed (Emory? Emery?), the junior high is now administrative offices, I think (James F. Luther), and my high school is now the middle school. But I bet he went to The Frostee Freeze, and walked along the Rock River, and gazed at the same church spire (St. Paul's Lutheran Church) that is visible all over town.
Unfortunately there have been military deaths of young people from Northern Ohio, although none from Oberlin. I find the stories sad, and see how it affects a whole community, but have never felt personally touched like I did with Lance Cpl. Meinert. I can readily picture his story. He died supporting combat operations in Helmand province, Afghanistan -- a world away, I'm sure, from the rolling farmlands of southern Wisconsin. But he carried with him some of the same images, I bet, that I treasure.
Suddenly those six degrees of separation seem awfully close.
Into your hands, oh Lord, I commend his spirit.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Ring in The New!
I was startled when I saw the first of the "Best of the Decade" lists in some magazine. Really? This is the end of an entire decade? (OK. Not really. I know, I KNOW the decade ends when 2011 begins. But still.)
The new millenium was 10 years ago? I mentioned Y2K to Miriam and she stared at me blankly. "You know, when all the computers were going to crash and it was going to be the end of the world as we knew it?" Still nothing. Oh, yeah. She was only 2 1/2 when that happened.
Time is funny stuff. One day, one moment, can be an eternity. The past 10 years slipped right by. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that someone born in the 1980's is actually a legal adult. How does this happen?
And how will we remember this decade? And what the heck will we call it? The zeroes?
It has been a zero in a way. We've made an intimate acquaintance, as a nation, with terrorism. We're suffering through some low-grade wars. The current economic slowdown has been nothing to sneeze at.
But there's good stuff, too. Facebook, for example. I'm finding people I'd lost track of and it's my lifeline to the world. My girls have gone from little girls to young women. OK. Maybe that was a mixed blessing. But overall good.
But mostly the past 10 years have been planning suppers, getting people to school, running errands, and the various other minutae of daily life. Life is, after all, the stuff that happens while we're busy making other plans. Next year I'll be babysitting and dogsitting. Groceries will be bought, the floors will still need cleaned. The alarm will still be going off too early. I'll be focused on trying to make every deadline that each day presents, and, before I know it, another 10 years will go by.
Happy New Year. I hope twenty-ten brings everyone peace, love, and the perfectly ordinary.
The new millenium was 10 years ago? I mentioned Y2K to Miriam and she stared at me blankly. "You know, when all the computers were going to crash and it was going to be the end of the world as we knew it?" Still nothing. Oh, yeah. She was only 2 1/2 when that happened.
Time is funny stuff. One day, one moment, can be an eternity. The past 10 years slipped right by. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that someone born in the 1980's is actually a legal adult. How does this happen?
And how will we remember this decade? And what the heck will we call it? The zeroes?
It has been a zero in a way. We've made an intimate acquaintance, as a nation, with terrorism. We're suffering through some low-grade wars. The current economic slowdown has been nothing to sneeze at.
But there's good stuff, too. Facebook, for example. I'm finding people I'd lost track of and it's my lifeline to the world. My girls have gone from little girls to young women. OK. Maybe that was a mixed blessing. But overall good.
But mostly the past 10 years have been planning suppers, getting people to school, running errands, and the various other minutae of daily life. Life is, after all, the stuff that happens while we're busy making other plans. Next year I'll be babysitting and dogsitting. Groceries will be bought, the floors will still need cleaned. The alarm will still be going off too early. I'll be focused on trying to make every deadline that each day presents, and, before I know it, another 10 years will go by.
Happy New Year. I hope twenty-ten brings everyone peace, love, and the perfectly ordinary.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Merry Holly-Daze!! Random Christmas Thoughts
The presents are open, dinner eaten, I've been to church and talked to my distant family. This is my favorite part of the holiday. How rare it is to have moments where literally, except for breathing and such, there is nothing I HAVE to do. Except travel across town to care for a friend's german shepherd mix I affectionately call Cujo. I have a break from babysitting for the holiday, so naturally I'm dog-sitting. Sigh.
Oh my blog, I have missed you. I've composed so much in my head that just stayed there. It's been a combination of a recalcitrant laptop, caring for a toddler, and basic inertia. Good to be back. Again.
I was somewhat unsatisfied with my Christmas letter this year. I wasn't really feeling it. So, hey, what better than to report directly from the trenches?
It's been a lovely Christmas. Perhaps my favorite moment came this morning when my normally sardonic teenager looked up from her stocking, beamed beautifically, and said it was a really nice Christmas. I melted.
Although it was not easy, I wouldn't say Advent was stressful. We took turns with various ailments and I've basically had a sore throat since Thanksgiving. It really put a crimp in my holiday frenzy and I must say that, ultimately, I was OK with that. In my fantasy the house is beautifully, tastefully, and whimsically decorated (and clean, of course). I would host a cozy gathering of my dearest friends complete with wassail and perhaps a cookie exchange. We would have an advent calendar and a richly appointed nativity scene replete with angels in heaven.
In reality, we did manage to get a tree which Miriam decorated on Christmas Eve. And all thanks and credit to Tom who shouldered the burden of Christmas shopping and really pulled the house together. He truly is a helpmate. Amelia nipped at my heels to make cookie dough and she and Miriam worked on (and squabbled about) the baking project. As I look back on it I realize it was a real team effort this year.
I also bet that we only used about 30% of our Christmas stuff. I treasure it all, but for now I'm happy with lights, a tree with selections from our ornament collection, and the stuffed fabric nativity scene my sister made for me some years ago.
One source of joy this year is the fact that the girls seem to value the experience of Christmas as much as, if not more than, the presents. They enjoy the preparation. They had fun planning gifts for each other and the parents. They love the music and TV shows. Amelia worked really hard on a scrapbook she made for her best friend. Some of our worst moments actually came while we were shopping. They both are still teenagers, you know.
Yes, Advent was rough, and there were quite a few moments when I felt run-down and like I was going through the motions. But the motions were not a bad thing. And I am at complete peace at this moment (ouch, now officially the day AFTER Christmas) because even though it wasn't Home and Gardens, it was beautiful. Our Christmas dinner was a little funky (who pairs yorkshire pudding with ham?), I never did see my friends, but my little family was happy. What more could I want?
Oh my blog, I have missed you. I've composed so much in my head that just stayed there. It's been a combination of a recalcitrant laptop, caring for a toddler, and basic inertia. Good to be back. Again.
I was somewhat unsatisfied with my Christmas letter this year. I wasn't really feeling it. So, hey, what better than to report directly from the trenches?
It's been a lovely Christmas. Perhaps my favorite moment came this morning when my normally sardonic teenager looked up from her stocking, beamed beautifically, and said it was a really nice Christmas. I melted.
Although it was not easy, I wouldn't say Advent was stressful. We took turns with various ailments and I've basically had a sore throat since Thanksgiving. It really put a crimp in my holiday frenzy and I must say that, ultimately, I was OK with that. In my fantasy the house is beautifully, tastefully, and whimsically decorated (and clean, of course). I would host a cozy gathering of my dearest friends complete with wassail and perhaps a cookie exchange. We would have an advent calendar and a richly appointed nativity scene replete with angels in heaven.
In reality, we did manage to get a tree which Miriam decorated on Christmas Eve. And all thanks and credit to Tom who shouldered the burden of Christmas shopping and really pulled the house together. He truly is a helpmate. Amelia nipped at my heels to make cookie dough and she and Miriam worked on (and squabbled about) the baking project. As I look back on it I realize it was a real team effort this year.
I also bet that we only used about 30% of our Christmas stuff. I treasure it all, but for now I'm happy with lights, a tree with selections from our ornament collection, and the stuffed fabric nativity scene my sister made for me some years ago.
One source of joy this year is the fact that the girls seem to value the experience of Christmas as much as, if not more than, the presents. They enjoy the preparation. They had fun planning gifts for each other and the parents. They love the music and TV shows. Amelia worked really hard on a scrapbook she made for her best friend. Some of our worst moments actually came while we were shopping. They both are still teenagers, you know.
Yes, Advent was rough, and there were quite a few moments when I felt run-down and like I was going through the motions. But the motions were not a bad thing. And I am at complete peace at this moment (ouch, now officially the day AFTER Christmas) because even though it wasn't Home and Gardens, it was beautiful. Our Christmas dinner was a little funky (who pairs yorkshire pudding with ham?), I never did see my friends, but my little family was happy. What more could I want?
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