After Words

Like Sand Through The Hour Glass

I know the neglect at this blog is epic, and I really do hope to find my way back to it in a regular way, but in the meantime....

Halloween fell on a Thursday this year so I was charmed as the "Throwback Thursday" posts began to appear in my Twitter feed of people and their children in Halloweens gone by. One of my favorite pictures of The Boy is of him in a duck costume at 8 weeks old that I posted on my erstwhile blog way back when.

I remember the picture, but also everything that went into it: the harrowing trip to Old Navy with the baby for the costume; trying to nurse on a bench on the corner of the store, and then getting self-conscious and trying to nurse in the parking lot in the teeny tiny Honda Civic; all the photo shoots that were scrubbed because The Boy was fussy or I couldn't find the camera or because I was feeling overwhelmed and unfestive.

Halloween was much easier this year. The Boy decided to dress as Harry Potter sometime this summer.  Our only argument was whether or not he would wear the Gryffindor tie ("Mom, I don't work in an office; I don't need a tie."). He relented for a couple of pictures.

As I compared the two pictures I thought about how much had changed in eight years, and then I thought about what the picture might look like in another 8 years.  He is hardly my little boy now, but at age 16, I'm sure he'll actively chafe at being referred to that way. What will he be like? What will I be like?

I feel that it's taken me a long time to get my parenting legs, and even now I spend a lot of time worrying that I'm doing it wrong. Still the years feel very short. And getting shorter all the time.

 

 

Stuck in a Moment

Yesterday I tackled a long overdue task: cleaning out the closet in the office/extra bedroom. It contains hitherto unopened boxes from when we left the city for our suburban rental house in 2008 that we never managed to open when we settled into this house in 2009. Among the treasures I found was this:

This was the iPod my husband gave me to keep me company on the long slog from our apartment in Brooklyn to the fertility clinic on the Upper East Side, which was undertaken in the wee hours of the morning so that I could get back to Brooklyn for my student teaching gig that began at 8:30 am.

I remembered a playlist on the iPod that was the soundtrack for that journey and for so much more during that time--I could remember most but not all of the songs, and since the computer had been replaced and the iPod had been lost (or so I thought), I haven't been able to reconstruct it. Until now.

I don't think about our fertility struggles nearly as much as I used to. That all consuming ache that endured even after I was finally pregnant, after I had finally given birth disappeared at some point along the way, but I think infertility was the defining event in my life. It derailed my professional plans and the timeline I had envisioned for the rest of my life. It made me distrustful of my body and my identity as a parent. Though medicine ultimately saved the day, it made me acutely aware of the inequities and imperfections of the medical system.

I kiss my kids and marvel at the wonder of their existence, and then I sit back and listen to these songs, and I remember:

 

Eight

The Boy is eight.

This morning he marched off to third grade, grumbling a bit about the unhappy coincidence that his birthday happens to fall on the first day of school, but mostly he was happy and eager, and outside waiting for the bus nearly 20 minutes early.

We had a quiet but lovely summer. For the first time, the cornerstone of our activities (such as they were) was The Boy's participation on the swim team at our local pool club. He has always enjoyed the water, but he eschews most form of competition so I wasn't entirely sure how it was going to work.  At a cost of $90 for the entire summer season, however, it was a gamble I was willing to make.

The Girl was sadly too young for the swim team so I spent a lot of the first few days of summer corralling her and trying to eavesdrop on practice. One day, The Girl and I were Rainbow Looming off in a distant corner when I looked up and saw the swimmers diving off the racing blocks—something The Boy had never done before. I started to make my way to The Boy to tell him that he could just dive off the side of the pool if the racing blocks made him nervous. I made it just as his feet left the blocks and he dove—clumsily but confidently—into the water for the first time.

And so it went. On the way to practice, The Boy would complain to me that he was sleepy or tired of swimming, and I would make sympathetic noises until we got to the pool, and he would fly out the door, eager to be one of the first swimmers there so he could vie for the honor of swimming the lane lines across the empty pool.

He swam in a handful of meets—all at the exhibition level—and I never kept track of his time because it was entirely beside the point. Safely behind my sunglasses, I cried at every single race.

25 Days

This is the time of year I start to get anxious and find myself looking at the calendar and counting and recounting the number of days left in the school year.

Some of the reasons are logistical: I still do a bit of freelance work (writing, editing, and the occasional tutoring) and without the child-free hours provided by school, I have to lighten that schedule. Some of the reasons are, frankly, lifestyle: I savor each solo morning walk, each child-free trip to the grocery store, each early afternoon meal prep without someone asking when dinner's going to be ready and whether they really have to eat that.

It's not that I don't enjoy the summers themselves, it's just that I still haven't found exactly the right balance of structure and sloth for the kiddos and, of course, for me.

So it was with a chip on my shoulder that I attended The Girl's kindergarten field day at school yesterday. It's not that I didn't want to see her, or bask in the glow of her athletic accomplishments. It's just that after a week that had included field trip chaperoning, welcome desk sitting, bake sale cookie baking, and school carnival attending, I had some things to do.

Also, though I've never been much of an athlete, I've always been a competitor, and the memories of my own elementary field day experiences are entirely of other students: the cheers we made up as our fellow red team members raced down the three-legged race course; the collective groan when we lost the tug-of-war; the eagerness to run just a little bit faster in the relay to finish ahead of the girl who sat next to me in music.

There was an authenticity to those experiences. It was not high stake competition, but it was real. In my children's field days, no one keeps score, everyone wins, and the emotional satisfaction is provided by the parents who beam obliging from the sidelines--assuming, of course, you have a parent with a flexible enough schedule to be able to spare 3.5 hours in the middle of the week. It seems a sub-optimal situation for all involved. I'll see if I feel the same after The Boy's field day next week.

 

It's Not About the Muffins

The Girl likes to have strawberry muffins for breakfast. They're easy to make and they freeze really well so I don't especially mind making them when I have the time. But I don't always have the time.

One morning recently The Girl was making do with cinnamon toast and expressing her frustration at the lack of muffins. "Make some while I'm in school, okay?"

I laughed because that's what you do when your five year old exudes that sort of casual confidence about her control over your life even when she's not in your presence, even when she's at school and you're supposed to be at home watching soap operas or eating bon bons or steam cleaning the curtains or whatever it is stay at home parents are supposed to do in their time "off."

This is what I've struggled with so often as a stay at home parent: to what extent am I still entitled to time off? Do I earn it by baking muffins or cooking dinner or doing laundry or taking the kids to ballet/karate/the playground? Do I have to justify myself in the moments that I'm not caring for them or gazing at them beatifically or photographing them or even thinking about them?

I have a hard time writing or talking about it without getting ranty and shrill, which is why I particularly admire when someone else does it so well.

On Mothers and Daughters and Friends

I met my best friend when I was 5 years old, and she quickly became the world to me. She was my next door neighbor and we spent hours building forts in her room or hanging from our knees on the jungle gym in her backyard. We had a tree house that straddled our yards that, in a stunning display of creativity, we called Teribithia.

We roller skated in my basement with the lights out and "Da Doo Ron Ron Ron" turned up loud. We played "Charlie's Angels" and raced up and down the cul-de-sac on our banana-seat bikes. When I conned my mom into buying me "Forever" we hid in the laundry room and read the good bits out loud to one another.

Our friendship was epic, but so were our fights. I remember times that we stood in our driveways and screaming at one another (I did most of the screaming; she was always more reasonable) and periods of time when we didn't speak to each other because I was mad that she had had a playdate with Shannon instead of me or had signed up for tap instead of ballet AS WE HAD AGREED or she refused to perform "YMCA" in the school talent show with me.

When I moved away when I was 10, my heart was broken, but somehow we stayed in touch. When I was 13, I went to visit her and squandered all my money on a pair of Girbaud jeans that she convinced me I absolutely had to have (she was not wrong). When I was 15 and going through a deeply unhappy period, she talked to me on the phone every night for 2 weeks without making me say what was really wrong (which was exactly what I needed). When I was 17, she made me my first mix tape. And on it went.

When I was 29, she stood up for me at my wedding ("best woman," was the title we gave her in the program). She was single at the time and yet was the willing repository of all my bridal angst. She worked the word "competent" into her toast, which was a kind of code word for all the various anxieties we'd had in our lives, and thus demonstrated that she was the only person on the planet who knew me as well as my husband.

So I get friendship--girl friendship in particular. It has not been lost on me that The Girl, now 5, is the same age I was when I met my friend. Almost immediately upon starting school, she threw herself into playdates and reading buddies and the all important question of who sat with whom at lunch.

And then she made a friend who I'll call Ashley. They sit together on the school bus, have lunch together, play "magical fairies" together on the playground at lunch time. We haven't had a ton of playdates with Ashley because our schedules just haven't meshed, and I'm not perhaps the best planner in the world. A few times recently The Girl has come how in tears because Ashley was having a party and she didn't think she'd been invited (some backchannel communication with Ashley's mom revealed that there was no party, but there was no convincing The Girl).

I've tried to reason with The Girl: You have to cool it, I'll say. Everyone needs some time apart, even friends. But she doesn't want to hear it. And I remember: neither did I.

Today I was the mystery reader in The Girl's class. The Girl was excited to sit with me and turn the pages, and I was happy to be there. Until I saw it: there at the edge of the reading rug, Ashley was sitting with another girl. And they had their arms around one another, a kindergarten declaration of BFF-ness if ever there was one. It was all I could do not to stare.

To be clear, nobody is doing anything wrong. Friendships are tricky at 5. Even now at 43, I often find myself stymied. Looking at those two girls at the edge of the rug, my heart broke a little for The Girl and all the losses (major and minor) that she will suffer and that I cannot prevent--should not prevent, even if I could.

So I said nothing to The Girl. At the end of the reading she walked me out of the classroom and thanked me for coming. I hugged her and told her I loved her and couldn't wait to see her when she got home from school. And she walked back inside. Alone.

Another Seth MacFarlane Post

I've been trying not to write about this because I feel like its a tricky issue to talk about without inflaming passions on all sides. But I was inspired by Maryann Johanson's piece about The Onion, and just felt like I needed to get it out there for the record.

I think Seth MacFarlane is funny--not so funny I wanted to see Ted or any recent episodes of "Family Guy" or stay up and watch the second half of the Oscars, but you know, funny. Ish.

I chuckled through the first part of the Oscars--yes, even at the "We Saw Your Boobs" song. I laughed in particular at the coincidence that at the very same time that song was being performed on TV, my Twitter stream was filled with discussion of whether Anne Hathaway was deliberately displaying her nipples. Art imitating life. In real time!

The song made me think that it was interesting just how many female Oscar winners had shown some nudity at some point in their careers, and I idly wondered if there is a point at which nudity becomes a statment of seriousness. As a female actress, do you have to do a nude scene to show just how committed you are to your craft? And if so, why?  Why does showing your boobs demonstrate your level of commitment when many, many male actors are recognized for their seriousness without a nudity requirement?

Now, after the song was over, some people whom I respect said that they thought that the song shamed the actresses by objectifying their bodies. And I can see that. Having watched the Oscar pre-show, I was awash in objectification of women's bodies already, and I didn't see MacFarlane's references to women's bodies as all that different than E!'s, but I can understand how others might.

Later still, I read several pieces that talked about just how many of the movies referenced in the song involved scenes of sexual assault or rape. And that made me like the song a lot less. And yet. The song was not about the characters in the movies exposing their bodies in these horrible situations: it was about the actresses, and the actresses hadn't been coerced in any way (important exception: Scarlett Johansson whose phone was hacked and had nude photos disseminated against her will). Or had they? And so I'm back to thinking about compulsory nudity among serious female actresses, which I think is an interesting and complicated topic--and one that I was made to think about by Seth MacFarlane.

And So It Goes

And just like that, I'm a licensed teacher. 

After paying some $700 in application and testing fees (not counting the cost of the whole graduate degree and all), the good state of Connecticut has seen fit to grant me an interim initial educator's certificate that will become an initial educator's certificate assuming I passed the exam I took last week. Which I suppose ought not be assumed.

It's funny jumping right back into again--especially getting back in touch with people I haven't spoken to since I was student teaching, which is also when I was secretly IVFing (or fretfully gestating) on the side. People are surprised to hear from me, and especially surprised to hear that I am the mother of two and now living in the suburbs. I sometimes feel like sometimes I need to explain myself--that the path wasn't as American Dream-y as it may seem--but I'm not sure how to do that without sounding ungrateful.

When last I wrote (cripes--a whole month ago), I said that I hoped for the courage to hold my breath and leap when the time comes, and as I've begun to apply for teaching jobs, I feel I'm at that point. The kids have been in the loop to some extent, and The Girl is already lobbying to do aftercare at the Y so she can take gymnastics. The Boy is unenthusiastic at the prospect of any change in his routine. I wring my hands a lot and wonder how so many other people get through a daily life that combines work and family without hyperventilating. 

Every Stone on the Road

The holidays always bum me out a little bit so I was happy to welcome the new year, happier still to usher the children off to school and begin the process of reconstructing our daily routine. I don't think of myself as a particularly controlling person, but just a few (11--but who's counting?) days of totally unstructured time makes me cranky. And yet Christmas after Christmas I never learn to be more proactive about attempting to structure that time in advance. Alas. Onto 2013.

What will this year hold? I'm not sure. I'm nearly done with the process of earning my Connecticut teaching certication. I've passed the series of three Praxis I tests, and I have the Praxis II test in my subject area (English language and literature) coming up at the end of the month. Ideally, I'll find a part-time (ha ha ha) or long-term sub job starting in the spring that will roll into a full-time job in the fall, and ideally exactly the right balance of child care will make itself known. It still feels a bit like jumping into the void, but I hope for the courage to hold my breath and leap when the time comes.

I'm not much of a resolution girl, but I have a few self-improvement projects in mind for the year ahead. As before, I'm continuing to try to evolve into a cook--not a chef, but someone who can manage to get dinner on the table with a minimum of tears for both herself and her diners. I got a crock pot for Christmas so by all means send along your favorite recipes. My maiden voyage was this pork carnitas recipe (made with Trader Joe's rather than Old El Paso accoutrements), and it was edible but somewhat underwhelming.

And, of course, I hope to be more of a presence here in whatever form. As a (hopefully) future teacher, I feel somewhat constrained by what I can discuss here in the event that future students and their parents find this not-very anonymous blog. But I have things to say. (Mostly you can find me saying them on Twitter, but occasionally these things are longer than 140 characters).

The title of this post is taken from Stanley Kunitz's wonderful poem "The Layers," which was rolling around in my head when I woke up this morning:

Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.

It's spoken to me at various points in my life (for example, here), and each time it says something different to me. I hope it speaks to you as well.

Days Gone By

I've been thinking about the "good" old infertility days a lot recently.

First, Monday was the eighth anniversary of the embryo transfer that resulted in the birth of The Boy. I always feel somehow like that day should be marked in some way, but understanding the day's significance requires more of a grasp of assisted reproductive technologies than The Boy currently possesses. And as it happened, this year I had the flu.

Second, my brave and beautiful friend Lisa has written a very moving post about the isolation she has experienced when she received her recent metastatic cancer diagnosis, and, while I am not equating cancer and infertility, the emotions Lisa describes recalled the feelings I had all those years ago. Some of my relationships never recovered; a precious few were strengthened; and new relationships were forged, many here in the blogosphere (as I approach my 9th year as a blogger, it seems silly to consider those relationships new).

Third, I read Lisa Belkin's post about Kate Middleton, and I...lost my mind. Now, I don't always agree with Lisa Belkin, but I generally enjoy what she has to say. But not this time.

Maybe it's because I'm not much of a Royal watcher. I did think Kate Middleton looked lovely in her dress, and the wedding festivities were certainly fabulous, but I can't be the only one who watched with a sense a dread wondering about the pressure that this poor woman would be under to produce an heir, a male heir, post-haste. And it's not as if Middleton didn't know about that pressure, as Belkin writes "the spotlight comes with the job description. (Technically, becoming pregnant and birthing an heir essentially is the job description.)"

But isn't that pressure true for any couple--married or not, Royal or not--once they have decided to try to procreate? The spotlight isn't quite as grandiose, surely, but it sure feels like the entire world is watching everytime you show up to Thanksgiving without that bundle of joy your extended family has been expecting to see. And when then happens for many Thanksgivings in a row? Well, that spotlight is white hot.

And let's say that in the days, months, years that you've been dreaming of that cute reveal, the moment you'll show your partner the double line on the pregnancy test or slip the framed ultrasound picture under the Christmas tree, you realize that maybe you need a little assistance. You invite outsiders into your intimate space, by answering embarrassing questions about your sex life, submitting to invasive medical and/or social service procedures.

And if you're lucky, it works. The cute reveal is gone because you have too much invested at this point for the cutesy stuff anymore. It's all about the call from the reproductive endocrinoligist's office telling you that you're going to have to repeat the blood test or the adoption agency telling you they don't have your travel date yet. 

And if you're not lucky. It doesn't work. And you whither under the spotlight year after year, and maybe, if this study is correct, you get to die a little sooner than your child-rearing counterparts (h/t to Julie for that inspiring bit of news).

I wish all the best to Kate in her family building endeavors, but no, the fact that the announcement was shared early is not something that I think should make us sad. Let's save that emotion for people who will never make the announcement at all.