I think of myself as a much better parent than I actually am. When I saw frustrated mothers wrenching the arms of petulant children in the aisles of grocery stores, I shook my head disapprovingly and thought how I would do it differently, how I use words to explain why the world works the way it does and how I will instill feelings of compassion and goodwill in my children by example. But that was all before I actually had a two year old who drives his trucks forcefully over his newborn brother's head, who runs out into the street in the flash of an eye and screams to eat grapenuts cereal when I give him kix (silly me). As the author of the book I just finished said about her two year old, she must constantly"foil his attempts to kill himself"and I might add, foil my own attempts to wring his skinny little neck. Because obviously grapenuts will not kill him but the process of explaining to me that he wants one thing over another gets him and me worked up into such a lather that one of us ends up screaming and crying. And in these moments, I am irrational. I yell and snap and have even been known to wrench an arm here and there. Because thinking of a way to explain to Finn that he must not propel himself down the ravine of our backyard atop his riding truck takes too long. I must snatch him out of danger, not explain to him how to make good decisions so he keeps himself firmly planted on the cement of our back patio. No one warned me about this part of parenting. I thought that if you are a level-headed relatively laid back person in regular life, that you might be mostly that same person as a parent. Not so. I mean, I do have my good moments where Finn and I excitedly make connections between the ducks on the stream near our house and the ducks in the books that we read or that Grandpa Tom Tom does indeed have an RV like that one on TV and many others. But I am not the parent that I pictured I would be. I am the type to breathe a sigh of relief when they are both asleep because I am no longer on lifeguard duty or give in and feed Finn chocolate easter eggs because I don't want to fight him and explain the nonexistant nutritional value of the candy coating. In short, I am more impatient and lazy.
There was a great article in the most recent Wondertime magazine where the writer argues that lazy parenting might actually be good for the kids-ie they are more independant, lower maintenance and more easily adaptable. And I am just now watching the View where barbara and whoopi (we are on first name basis) are talking about their grown children coming to appreciate them and developing friendships with one another as adults. I know this reality with my own mom, realizing how much she loved me even when (or especially when) she sent me to my room to scream about the injustice of not getting LA gear sneakers. So I know I can redeem myself. And in the mean time, I'll probably let him eat grapenuts, snatch his truck away and say the thing I said I never would: "because I said so"
I don't think I am alone in thinking that my own voice--on a message machine or a video--sounds so shockingly not like the voice I hear myself speaking with that it always catches me off guard when I hear it, like 'who is that? oh, it's me...is it me?'
I know this phenomenon has to do with hearing the tone of your own voice through the reverberation of your own body or something like that and this makes sense. I have a particularly vivid memory sitting on my mom's lap at thanksgiving and listening to her talk as I leaned my ear against her sternum, hearing the muffled version of her voice and thinking this must be what her voice sounds like to her.
But as my sister Mandy visits us this week with her husband Scott and their new baby Jake, I realized something about my own voice- or maybe just cemented a thought that has floated around for some time. When I am talking with authority or with confidence-the voice I hear talking is Mandy's. And when I am telling a story and I know I am being funny, my voice sounds to me just like my childhood friend Emily's.
I'm sure this is not exactly coincidental or even genetic. I think to some extent I actually emulate these two voices when in the situation where their voice would lend some experience-like I channel them to communicate more fully. Because Mandy-the oldest of my three sisters- as a kid was the big boss of all of us by age and disposition and her voice in this mode sounds sort of cynical and annoyed, like she knows more than you do, thank you very much. We have a home video where she runs the camera, darting around our backyard in New York and barking orders-telling 4 year old me to stop limping (I think I had just gotten a shot). Now grown, this isn't her only tone. She is gentler and more diplomatic and we've leveled out in recent years, both adults, mothers and better friends. But she is a doctor in the military and a naturally electable leader so she's still got authority, even if not over me.
And Em sort of dallies through a story with no real set up or show, like she's sort of complaining about something-not whiny, just matter of fact and spontaneous. But then you are listening to what she's saying and it's hilarious and so unpretentious, like she doesn't even realize herself that it's funny until you erupt in hysterics. So when I am telling something, I use this voice. Not consciously, mind you- I just realized all this this week. But I do; I sound like Em and like Mandy and probably like a number of other people if I think about it. Mostly those two though
So Em and Mandy, you are the voices in my head (for better or worse). Congratulations.
I've realized on earlier birthdays than this one that birthdays change considerably as you grow older. No more bringing cupcakes into class or birthday parties at the roller rink of course, but also no more princess-type of days, where everything is special. Yesterday I woke up at five in the morning to feed Henry, woke up again at eight to ferry both boys downstairs (Henry in my arms and Finn clinging to my shoulders and hanging down my back as I barump, barump down the stairs to his glee) made breakfast-peaches and cheerios and coffee for me and settled in to watch Sesame Street. So far nothing straying from every other weekday morning except that when James kissed me goodbye he said "Happy Birthday, I'm glad you were born". The day progressed with both regularity and a few very princess-y moments:
My one consolation on making my birthday special-when the boys were both asleep so no nutritional accountability hovered, I made myself five pieced of bacon and cinnamon rolls-the kind that pops out of the refrigerated cylinder-because that was exactly what I felt like eating
When putting my makeup on later that afternoon, I found my foundation particularly thick and cakey and realized that I still had cinnamon roll frosting on my fingers and had smeared it on my face with my makeup.
About 50 of my 87 friends on facebook wished me a happy birthday including my old friend from elementary school, Janet who reminded me that I shared a birthday with my almost first boyfriend Chad-who asked me out by the bus in fourth grade and I said no (what a heart-breaker I was).
James came home for lunch and announced that we would be going out to dinner sans children in a ridiculously extravagant way (at a restaurant with no color crayons on the table and where the cost per prawn would buy a number of McDonald's ice cream cones) while James' parents watched the boys.
While straightening my hair getting ready for said dinner, I realized that I had a line of yellow smodged down my index finger and onto the back of my hand that I could not distinguish-either baby poop or yellow paint from earlier craft project. Later at the lovely, fancy dinner, I realized that I also had yellow smeared on my wrist with a hue of black marker making me look like a domestic violence victim being taken out for an apology dinner and confirming at least that with the evidence of marker, it was in fact yellow paint and not poop.
As a birthday wish, I requested that James take care not to refer to me as mommy the entire time we were away from the boys.
I ate braised lamb with gnochie and yukon potatoes at a restaurant called Veritable Quandry, which even if the food had been yucky would have been worth eating at for its name alone. The lamb, which I don't normally eat because it reminds me of Finny's white lamby in his crib and the lamby's live counterpart, was delicious and which I justified in that it was a very special occasion.
We arrived at Cupcake Jones a little after eight and ordered four itty cupcakes: bananas foster, thin mint, pearl chocolate and something coffee-ish that I can't remember the name of to eat later when dinner had settled a bit.
And finally to finish the night, we came home and watched the two hour season finale of October Road- a guilty pleasure we share and can only stomach the cheesiness of by regularly berating the lines and the dramatic montages. This episode did not disappoint us for material-there were three lengthy montages of angst and making out. We watched ten minutes of the evening news, long enough for the weather man to comment that he had "a forecast for our travel plans" making me pause and then comment, "Travel plans? What about a Monday night in March, nowhere near a holiday weekend makes him think we have travel plans?"
I turned the TV off and gathered a handful of shoes, toy trucks and dishes to deposit in their various destinations before climbing the stairs, brushing my teeth and going to sleep-all in all a wonderfully ordinary day leading up to a lovely extraordinary night out as an adult-where I ate leisurely with no one else's food to worry about and where I wore high heeled boots and a dress and eyeliner for crying out loud.
Since finishing the Hours, I have started in on a stack of books I got from the library and a pile of magazines we got in the mail over the last week. Reading bits of one thing and then another based on my mood, the list of things I am learning and absorbing is oddly diverse and perhaps a good indicator of who I am right now: potty trainer, vapid style watcher, self-appointed political theorist, blogger and future grad student.
So here's the stack:
On becoming Potty Wise for toddlers by Gary Ezzo and Robert Buckman-I assume the same driving force that came up with baby-wise; uses lots of terms for the process of potty training I never imagined needing like: elimination, volitional development, and enuresis and breaks all potty options and development into three steps. I guess three is a magic number
the Spring Anthropologie catalogue-lots of bohemian waifs in lovely eastern-inspired photo shoot-think curry, jewel tones and crumbling architecture
Country Living-really amazingly adorable story about a upholsterer in upstate New York who covers things the way you might dress someone with one cushion different from another in vintage stripes, toille, florals and velvets. These are a few of my favorite things.
Writers talking to writers- an anthology from Believer magazine where writers interview other writers and talk about the issues predominant in their writing, techniques, motivation. Really a great book but tough to read cover to cover.
Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown and Clement Hurd-one of about seven copies we have of this book, which is a good thing because it really is Finn's favorite and there needs to be a copy wherever we are. I don't actually need to look at the pages anymore because I have the entire thing memorized. A couple of weeks ago, James and I actually laid in bed reciting it aloud, racing each other to the next line to prove we knew every word.
Practically Perfect in Every way by Jennifer Niesslein- a non-fiction book about a mom's journey with self help books and recommended by Catherine Newman, my favorite blogger that I don't actually know.
Rolling Stone-February issue- Beautiful picture of Jack Johnson on the cover (really, who doesn't love Jack Johnson, especially once you have seen his face? He's just so sandy and unpretentious) and the rest of the magazine seems to be about politics-Obama and McCain both make up stories listed on the front cover. Funny that my favorite political writer, Matt Taibbi writes for a music magazine.
Anybody have good book recommendations for me when I get mostly finished with(or give up on) these?