Hypocritically adding to the problem

I liked Michael Jackson’s music as much as the next middling fan, but really now, enough is enough. I’m not even watching the memorial service, but it’s still getting at me via osmosis. The sighs and sniffs around me are telling the story of an insane, overwrought spectacle. Truth be told, I’ll probably take a peek on youtube at some point today, and I will feel bad about myself when I do. Where was this kind of national day of mourning when Paul Newman passed? Though it’s better this way. He was too classy and human for this madness.

why i wish i had my kids’ doctor

I’ve been waiting a week now, to get on top of the strep throat I knew I had when I walked into the doctor’s office last Saturday. The diagnosis was given only after the long-form, old-school lab test that the doctor finally consented to send to the lab after my insisting I must have strep came back positive. How was I sure, so sure that I wanted the doctor to give me a prescription to have in my hand just in case? Well, my daughter has strep, and I felt/feel like there is an anvil sitting in my neck, I had a headache and a stomach ache, which absolutely have everything to do with strep, as any mom can tell you whose kid is a chronic strep getter. Contrary to the dismissive hand wave these symptoms got from this doctor, strep often manifests there first discomfort-wise. The pediatrician corroborated this bit of down-home wisdom too, so I am not making it up.

This woman isn’t my regular doctor, something I don’t really have anyway, because every doctor I’ve encountered in the last 15 years has been mostly uninterested and/or impatient to get me out of the office. I used to have a doctor who seemed like she genuinely gave a shit, actually remembering me from visit to visit, but that was 15 years ago. Maybe it’s the fast food version of an office visit that the industry is forcing now, or maybe it’s the doctors own ambivalence, but either way it sucks. And it is not how the pediatricians operate, thank god. Which is why I want them to treat me too. Maybe I just need to find a family practitioner like the one we had when I was a kid. One who knew your family, and would give you a strep test right then if your kid had it and you had a sore throat. Instead of forcing you to make another appointment with someone else, pay for parking, and wait two more days to have that stick jammed down your throat—a stick that would be wrong on the first go round anyway.

So now, after finally getting the diagnosis days later, and being assured that a prescription would be called in for me, I’m sitting in my office waiting for a call-back from the doctor-on-call. Why, you ask? You, by whom I mean me, when I read this later? Because, when I called the pharmacy to check on my prescription’s status, they had no record of it. Because after I called the doctor’s office at 4:30 to find out what happened, I got the mf-ing answering service, even though the office (as stated on their own message) is open until 5. Because this is my only course of action if I want antibiotics before tomorrow, with the added bonus of being charged  the $50 phone-consultation fee for their fucking screw-up. Whoa to the accounts payable person I encounter when that bill comes due, let me tell you.

I know that there is a country full of really sick people who have to deal with this kind of bullshit all the time, and to you, I apologize. I feel a small particle of your pain, and I tell you, it fucking sucks.

Birthday anxiety

Today is my daughter’s 9th birthday, and she seems okay with it. Now. Last night she was tearful, wanting to “stay 8 forever” and not have to grow up. I did my best to cheer her, telling her about all the wonderful things I could remember about being nine (leaving out the less delightful subject of my parent’s divorce) and reminding her that getting older can also mean getting stronger and smarter and more able. And I do believe that, but I get her point too. Though I quickly tire of sameness, I hate change. I’m almost always glad of it after the fact, but when it’s first standing in front of me, I’m terrified. I probably should have shared that with her, there in the dark room. Either it would help her go to sleep, or give her fodder for more fearful thinking. At what point in their development are children really ready to hear that their parents get scared too? That we worry about what’s waiting around the bend in a very deep and existential way that keeps us from sleep. Maybe not the best thing to bring up to a child who already dwells too often on subjects outside her scope of responsibility, especially when she’s crying.

She did fall asleep, finally accepting assurances that she is still a child, that the rhyme elves and other mythical creatures will still leave tokens for her–that the magic will not fade away until she is ready to let it.

First homework assignment

Our kids attend a Waldorf school. One of the many things we like about it is that there isn’t any homework assigned until the fourth grade. However, third grade does have one big project as part of the curriculum: the kids have to chose, design and build a model shelter, then make a presentation to the class. Our daughter has had about two months to get this done, and, much to our surprise (and contrary to any parental example she has been given) she did not wait until the last minute to get started. She made her choice (a Pueblo-style adobe house) early, and we checked out books from the library weeks ago. (Yes, the library still has books with which to do research! But even my media-deprived child thought the computer was the only place to go at first. Sad.) She read the books, drew many drafts of her design, and all seemed on track to finish in a stress-free way.

Yesterday was the last full day she would have before her project was due, and I was determined to have her first homework assignment NOT be an 11th hour freak-out. We gathered clay and soil from our neighbor’s recently excavated yard (amazingly, our deep soil is full of clay, and perfect for this) helped set up her workspace on our porch. Once the brick cutting began, she hit the wall. She looked at the bricks, saw how much time it would take to actualize her design vision, and lost it. We had to ride her for two hours–coaching her absolutely against her will to get moving. J did most of the heavily lifting on that front admittedly; I escaped. The mother/daughter dynamic was insurmountably counter-productive.

Somewhere, about three hours in, she turned a corner. I think she could see that she would finish, and her desire to do well for her teacher and her classmates kicked in. By dinnertime, it was done. When I came home, she practically leapt into my arms, gleefully shouting, “Mom I’m done!” She was so friggin proud of herself–a complete 180 from who she was in the morning. It was another of those moments when I totally get what the curriculum is trying to do and see how effective it is. If they can help her not be the procrastinator that her parents are, it will be worth every penny.

April Fool

I’ve never been very interested in April Fool’s Day. It’s always made me feel vaguely uneasy and/or put upon. But now it’s on the radar of the children. The planning began last night at dinner; the two of them young enough still to conspire in front of me, at least at first. Once they realized the need for secrecy, they asked (politely) for me to leave them in the bathroom together to concoct their nefarious plan for trickery. In the end I was back in the loop, since they needed an assist to pull one over on Daddy.

The plot? Shocking their father when he came into their rooms in the morning to get them dressed because, get this, they would already be dressed!! Under the covers! Their excitement over this is still making me smile. I had to wake up early to get their clothes on before J woke up. And I’ll tell you, I now wish April first came everyday. They clocked in at about 7 seconds from dead asleep to completely clothed. Amazing. The only thing standing in the way of a successful surprise is the fact of J’s insomnia. He is almost never asleep at 6 in the morning. Fine father that he is, though, he played possum during the whispered proceedings and did a fine acting job, fooling even me into thinking he was actually asleep. I went downstairs where the glorious shouts of “April Fool!” echoed along with the time-honored sounds of fake parental shock.

The kids sailed down to breakfast, completely satisfied. Even performing their own fake surprise at the forks I had placed beside their cereal bowls–the only April Foolish thing mommy could come up with before having coffee. Har de har har.

Circus child

Wisdom from a childless 26 year-old circus guy: “It’s gotta be hard not to live vicariously through your kids.” Amen to that, Nick.

This conversation took place in the bowels of the United Center, as we were waiting to escort 30 youngsters onto the court for a pre-Bulls-game performance of circus arts. My 8 year-old daughter was nervously hoping to pull off a mistake-free German Wheel routine on the holy boards that once witnessed the antics of the God of Basketball himself, Mr. Jordan. In how many different capacities can a parent live vicariously?

J, Em, and I left the group just before showtime to take our places in section one (sitting there for the pre-game documentation only–it was up to the nosebleed seats for the actual game), video and still cameras in hand. When M lightly jogged out onto the floor alongside her giant metal wheel, looking toddler-sized, my stomach exploded with crazy stage-fright. It was not the familiar mother-fright that comes with watching your child do something a little dangerous (M had, just days before, landed in the ER after a fall from the top of a wheel in mid-turn–though stitches turned out not to be necessary). No. It was the fright of the performer. Stage-fright (mine, at least) is a particular kind of stomach upset that can be described as “butterflies” if those butterflies are made out of heavy metal and there are thousands of them crammed together, jockeying for position non-stop. I was unprepared for my vicarious experience to go to that level of involvement. What the hell?

She was brilliant. From the “handstand on” to her last-minute mastery of the double straddle, she was all business. But that’s how she operates. If she is committing to something, it’s with 100% buy-in and the self-inflicted pressure to not make a single mistake. You can see it in her face. She hasn’t performed enough to know how to keep the concentration and determination out of her features. That’s one of the things I treasure about watching these kids do circus. You can see how hard they’re working, and if they smile, it’s because they’re having the time of their lives, not because someone told them they had to. There’s no pretense, just presence. It’s a beautiful thing.

The other beautiful thing I witnessed was her coach’s determination to keep her safe. She’s the youngest, newest wheel student there, and M’s wipe out effected him too. There are a couple of still photos of the event featuring him and M in which his readiness to catch her is palpable. In his face, his focus, and the set of his hands. Needless to say, these are M’s favorite photos too.

I don’t know yet if the thrill of this performance will translate into the addiction that her mother has for it, but it’s gratifying to know that not only did she get through it, she felt good about it. Her strength and determination awe me; and I vow to work to keep my ego the hell out of the way.

On film – Adrienne Shelly’s “Waitress”

Yes, I’m a little behind the times. This film came out 2 years ago, and I’m talking about it now. Well, that’s the price you pay when you have two small children and no babysitting budget to speak of. Thank god for Netflix, so we can at least drop a name or two at the odd cocktail party. Do people even have cocktail parties anymore? That they refer to as such? Essentially, it’s just a bunch of folks in a room getting hammered, so isn’t that really just a frat party in a fancy dress? But I digress.

Waitress. It’s a gem of a film, one that manages to hold all kinds of opposing stylistic forces inside of itself. It is broad and subtle, campy and utterly real, hilarious and scary, often all in the same scene. There isn’t a weak performance in the bunch, and I think a lot of the credit goes to Shelly. She must have had a steady (yet firm and resolute) hand in guiding these actors, given all of the unexpected choices made. She managed to get major buy-in from the actors, and that means creating an atmosphere of absolute trust, and that ability is a rare one.

There are so many moments inside of this film that you never, ever see on the screen. The entire relationship between Keri Russell’s waitress and her fresh-off-the-boat-from-Connecticut gynocologist is built on these moments. It’s a monument to cringing, unavoidable, yet somehow sexy awkwardness. Their affair feels inevitable and out of their control, and occupies this odd space outside the moral universe. You neither judge nor celebrate their affair, you don’t root for the end or desperately pray that they’ll end up together, but you are completely engaged in it, nonetheless. How did Shelly pull that off? It’s amazing to me.

Her brutal murder was tragic and awful for so many plainly human reasons, but also because her utterly unique voice as a filmmaker has been silenced way too soon.

See this film if you haven’t. There’s nothing else like it.

monday monday

Unlike so many other people around the globe, I am lucky enough to be alive to witness another glorious day. Sun shining, breeze blowing, no whining, coffee flowing. The window of my favorite weather is wide open–that interlude of early spring, when the temperature hovers around 70, and you get the high-drama changability that characterizes this time of year. Dark clouds, hard, insistent rain, then an explosion of sunshine and wet earth smells. I can pretend I live in San Francisco for a few weeks, before this pleasantness gives way to the brutality of a Chicago summer. Just drinking it in while it lasts.

And here I get to sit, in this lovely little cafe with it’s eclectic song selection and tasty brownie bites, surrounded by other laptap sporting individuals probably writing blogs of their own. It’s insignificant in the grand scheme of things, this satisfying moment, and colored not a little by my guilt at being able to have it, but since it’s given me, I will not squander it but will glory in it and celebrate its fleeting-ness.

the best laid plans of mice and (wo)men

I swore to myself when I started this thing that I would write every day. Something. Anything. That was the whole point of it—to give myself an unstructured outlet in which to write, with the motivating pressure of the public forum (though only a slight pressure because no one else is actually reading it). It’s been nearly a month since my last post, so I must admit that I’ve failed, yet again, to form a habit that is good for me. The self-destructive behaviors are effortless to maintain, but somehow my good intentions desert me almost immediately. What is the story with that? Why can’t those of us with addictive personalities get hooked on stuff that is productive and/or good for us?!? Is it the lure of the forbidden? That’s a thought, but if the powers-that-be were to suddenly forbid me brussel sprouts, I don’t see myself lying awake at night pining desperately for them.

Maybe it’s the lack of structure that is making the daily blog difficult. I have no theme, really, except that I write what is stuck in my brain, and that’s all over the place. It’s a microcosm of my life, actually. A lack of focus has been my perpetual cross to bear—jack of all trades, master of none. I’m a generalist in a specialist’s world.

In which I am reminded that my daughter rocks

Okay, sometimes I lose sight (only for an instant, of course) of just what cool and excellent people my children are. When they are refusing to _____________ (pretty much any phrase will do here), or when they are in the throes of a full-frontal drama attack, or when they make me feel like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing—in those moments I can’t see the forest for the trees. I just blunder around, the high-priestess of self absorption and annoyance, attempting (without success) to sigh my way out of the conflict. Inevitably though, some seemingly small gesture or word from one of my kids skyrockets me into the blue, just below the cloud-line, and I finally see that lush and fertile forest in all of it’s depth and glory, as if for the first time.

Case in point: our trip to the doctor today. My son has had crazy high fevers for nearly a week, fevers that manifest themselves most pointedly in the wee hours of the morning (105 degrees at 3:30am is no party for anyone involved). The poor boy has been a trooper throughout, sweating and hotter than anything that isn’t actually on fire reasonably should be, yet polite and sweet in his request for yet another change of dry pajamas. It’s been a roller coaster ride of he’s-better-he’s-worse and so we had to make another trip to the pediatrician, and had to drag his sister along for the ride.

She was whining and dragging her heels from the moment she was appraised of the doctor plan, staunchly declaiming, “I’m NOT going. I WILL NOT go,” even as we made our way to the car. She hemmed and hawed in the backseat, sighing repeatedly and loudly (where’d she get that?), all the way to the waiting room. She managed to reign it in for the public good, but once the visit was over and we returned to the car, her crabbiness was ressurected. I’m driving, trying to remain neutral (She’s had a long day at school, of course she doesn’t want to get dragged to the doctor, who would? Sure,  I get it. She needs her dinner, she probably didn’t eat her lunch again or drink enough today and this is how it goes…but I wish she’d f*ing can it already). Somehow, we all make it to the front door in one emotional piece, and then she says, “gluey martin is a little tiny ghost.”
“What?” I say.
She repeats herself.
I am delighted by this sentence. “That sounds like the start of a poem,” I say.
Her eyes light up and she says, “His favorite food is jam on toast!” (slight pause) “I’m going to write the rest of it!” She kicks off her shoes in a way most joyful (and without hitting anyone) and runs to the kitchen, where all such things are created. She returns moments later (seriously, moments) with this, written out in her charming, 7-year-old hand:

Gluey Martin, the little tiny ghost
poem by MMG

Gluey Martin is a little tiny ghost.
His favorite food is jam on toast.
He sneaks around at ten o’clock.
When you see him he gives you a shock.
One night he scared some robbers away
By saying he would kill them if they wanted to stay.
So if you see a little tiny ghost
Don’t be afraid. It’s just Gluey Martin.

I am stunned by its completeness and its mix of the whimsical and the sinister. She beams up at me, utterly transformed from the quivering pile of complaints that she was ten minutes before into a self-assured second-grader who understands where she fits in the world and how the world fits around her. Now I realize that this poem isn’t Yeats or Elliot or Adrienne Rich, but I love it, and so does she. I reminded, not for the first time, of how incredibly creative she is. Art-making has been her friend and her tool almost from birth—by the age of two she understood (unconsciously, of course) that she could process her experiences, the good and the bad, by drawing them or sculpting them and so work out whatever she needed to. A lot of her foul moods can be softened immediately by putting a pen and paper in her hands (why do I not remember this more often?!?).

I am so thankful that she has connected with such a fundamental and powerful communication tool so early in her life. May she never become disconnected from it. I guess it’s our job to ensure she doesn’t, at least for the first 18 years.