November 17, 2005

We Are Continuing Our Research

. . . into baby furniture and small layette items. Today we looked at cribs and changing tables.

We're starting to get an idea of what we want: it's just a question of finding it at the right price. Simple styling; sturdy and safe. Natural wood finish. Converts to a toddler bed.

With respect to things like onesies and diapers, I'll proably get a few of everything, but keep the receipts so everything can be exchanged if we get a one-year-old rather than a newborn, for instance.

But I'm flummoxed on bottles. Eventually I'll need a lot of them, since I probably won't attempt breatfeeding.

Plain old bottles, or one of those systems (e.g., Playtex) that keeps the baby from swallowing so much air? I'll make myself a sampler pack, I guess, and see what works.

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November 04, 2005

I Saw the Most Beautiful Spider Yesterday Evening.

It was weaving a web on my balcony, and I could see it from inside and across the room: a reddish-brown, perhaps 2 1/2 inches across (including legs). What a beautiful creature.

My brother had a pet tarantula when he was in college. But don't tarantulas move less gracefully than little spiders? And somehow the little ones look sleeker. And I love their webs.

Perhaps I should have a boy after all, and we can play with trains together. And trucks. And spiders. And sidearms.

Though buying clothes might be more fun with a little girl.

With my luck, though, my child—boy or girl—will like lizards. I'm afraid of lizards.

01.jpg

Is he a cutie, or what? Bachelor #1 here is a native of Mexico. I'll see if I can get a digital pic of one of my arachnid roommates (our brownish outdoor spider, or our blackish indoor spider, who tried to help me read last night).

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October 20, 2005

I Had a Nightmare

That I was carrying a frightened child around in a dystopian environment, surrounded by violence and violent expressions of sexuality. I had to protect myself and the child at the same time.

But in the dream I had money. What does that mean?—that I'm more afraid of societal decay than I am of being broke?

Or that I'm still shitting gold bricks at the prospect of parenthood?

Note to self: What to Expect the First Year is not appropriate bedtime reading.

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Now That We're Officially Approved

for adoption, Attila the Hub wants me to look into getting a crib or bassinette and a basic layette, since placement can take anywhere from . . . ten minutes to ten years.

(What we're being told is a year or two, but our profile is pretty desirable. And sometimes kids fall into the agency's lap rather suddenly, so my husband's correct: we should be prepared.)

If you hear about an unplanned pregnancy in your community, let me know. And if you hear about any good deals on cribs in Southern California, I'd love to hear about that as well.

Terrified right now. Just so you know.

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June 26, 2005

On Fatherhood

Debbye has a terrific post up about the importance of fathers in the lives of boys. Fathers are equally important to girls, of course.

The specifics of the lessons could vary from generation to generation, of course (that is, we could argue all day long about whether it's a dad's duty to teach his boy how to fight). But the man's presence is paramount, and his abillity to convey an ethical code is absolutely critical.

And the woman in this situation needs to reject the fashion of belittling men and convey her respect for (and unity with) the man of the house. Likewise, of course, he needs to back up her decisions when she's taking the lead.

I know everyone's going to get mad at me, but I'm not trying to be PC, here. I'm trying to come up with a model of what might actually work. You know: in real life.

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June 25, 2005

Adoption Update

Friday I went to see the social worker with our "adoption profile" in tow. Seeing her always reminds me anew how deep and dark my problem with authority figures truly is. When we had the home visit I managed not to freak out, but I was being asked for paperwork when I'd already cleared away all my clutter so the house would look neat. I did feel at times like I was close to tears.

Now I feel all those same things, but they don't get as close to the surface, post-prozac: I can maintain a little bit better. And I needed to on Friday.

The adoption "profile," at our agency, consists of two different things. First, there's a resume, which is silly information about age, religion and ethnicity, along with a photo (which renders some of the info listed below rather redundant: after all, can't the average birthmother look at the photo and figure out that we're white, and what color our eyes and hair are?). On the flip side of this sheet, in the same plastic protector, is a "dear birthmother" lettter, in which we talk about ourselves and our approach to parenting.

The second part of the profile is a photo album, and I was rather pleased with mine. I have a magazine background, so the layouts were clean, and my use of color was good. On the cover was a beautiful, artistic portrait done by Scanman in our backyard: Attila the Hub and are holding a tangerine out toward the camera, our eyes wide and knowing. It was a hip photo, beautifully composed, and my hand—along with the tangerine—was distorted because it was so close to the lens. The tangerine also lent it such a strong splash of color that I put this picture against a yellow background, and then constructed the "spine" of the notebook/album out of orange construction paper. On the back cover is more yellow background and a small, goofy picture of us eating home-grilled burgers and ears of corn on one of our anniversaries, with a little note: "thank you for looking at our profile." No one else does this on their profile albums, and Attila Hub compared it with those movies that have a small scenelet right after the closing credits, as if to thank people for sitting through them.

The social worker didn't like the front picture at all. "But it's art," I wanted to protest.

"You're not even smiling," she replied. I mentally stomped my little feet.

She got out a few other albums from her shelves. "This is what you're up against," she asserted, and then added quickly, "not that it's a competition."

"But it is," I acknowledged. And I looked through the other albums. They were very warm and reassuring. People smiled a lot. But the shots were ill-composed and the use of color was dreadful. Design elements were thrown around like so much confetti.

I was being told we might not get a child because we weren't Philistine enough.

Next she deconstructed the portrait of us that I'd used for the resume page (the flip side of the "dear birthmother" letter). Now I hadn't liked the way my hair looked in that shot, but Scanman and his office manager felt that the devoted way I looked into Attila the Hub's eyes said something about the relationship (probably that I'm terribly codependent). Scanmaster also insisted that Attila Hub looked younger in that particular frame, and that was important for adopting. (In retrospect, I think this might have more to do with Scanmaster's anxieties about fatherhood than the birthmother's, but we'll let that one pass. The fact is, Attila-Hub is, technically, on the far side of fifty despite his dashing good looks and even-steven blood pressure.)

No, no, insisted the social worker, who is a very nice person despite the fact that her job is to ride herd on me and push all my buttons. You both need to be facing the camera, and you both need big smiles. After all, a lot of the birthmothers see this one sheet first: we show them the resume before they see the album. If that single photo is appealing enough, some of them make their minds up just from looking at that.

I faced her and gave her a big smile. But my heart wasn't in it.

Meanwhile, she was scouring our album for more signs of my husband's teeth. "How come when he smiles we don't see his teeth enough?" she asked. It had never occurred to me that there was a correct number of my husband's teeth I should be seeing when he smiles. She turned to the trainee next to her and remarked that "Attila Hub has a marvelous, dry sense of humor."

I want to ask whether it would still be dry if he broke out into hail-fellow-well-met smiles all over the place, but I just folded my hands in my lap and tried to look obedient, and like I was hanging on her every word. And like I didn't think that the process of adoption—all things considered—sucks big donkey dicks.

In point of fact, she was probably right about all of this. But the life of a visual snob is hard and lonely, at least if you let on what you're thinking half the time.

If I had a blackboard here at home, I'd write on it : "I will not be arty, I will not be arty, I will not be arty."

And I guess I'll go look for more pictures of people—my husband in particular—showing teeth.

I can't go on; I'll go on.

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May 08, 2005

Yesterday Evening

. . . we went to mass. It's our new rhythm, so I can go to T'ai Chi class on Sunday mornings.

As we walked in I was handed a prayer card with the legend, "blessings to you this Mother's Day" on it. As mass ended we were told that the cards had been given to the mothers in the parish, and I was embarrassed. I do look like a mother, of course: I'm more than old enough.

The Annual Ritual of Humiliation happened then, with the mothers in the church standing for a special blessing. I placed the prayer card in the little rack in the pew that holds the hymnals and misselettes. My husband retrieved it as the prayer went on and on: bless mothers and grandmothers and birthmothers. Finally: bless those who are trying to become mothers. I was crying by then, but only my husband could tell.

I simply cannot see why this is necessary: this is a holiday invented by commercial interests. Why would a church buy into it? That's just my head talking. In reality it's a fine thing to do: thanking people who do a job that's difficult and ofen underappreciated. But my heart aches.

I'm not one of those infertile women who cannot even go to family gatherings if children are going to be present. I still like being around children. But every now and then the pain catches up with me. My former roommate is pregnant now with her second son, and it seems, yes—unfair. This pregnancy is all my friends want to talk about, probably because some of them don't understand why anyone would want to have kids at all. But pregnancy is something I'll never experience again. When the baby comes it'll all be water under the bridge, but at present the whole thing still twists a knife in me.

As we leave church my husband takes the prayer card I had tried to get rid of out of his shirt pocket. "Happy Mother's Day," he tells me. "This should be the last year you have to remain sitting."

"Next month," I respond, "let's find out when, exactly, they are going to celebrate Father's Day, and just ditch church that day. I don't want you to have to go through this." I blink back tears. "At least they remembered birthmothers: this weekend has to be even more painful for them."

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February 25, 2005

On "Mommy Madness"

Iowahawk is on fire, writing on the international effort to save wealthy women in Chicago and the coastal cities from the dangers of perfectionistic parenting:

From its inauspicious beginnings in rural Florida, the battle to preserve priveleged urban women's happiness has spread like wildfire. America's minority communities have been especially active in the cause.

"Suffering knows no color," says Latasha Evans, 26. "When I heard about all the career and time management struggles of these unhappy white women, I knew as a Christian, I had to do my part."

A mother of two in Harvey, Illinois, Evans persuaded her fellow parishoners at Calvary Zion AME Church to act on behalf of the victims. Evans' church choir, The Mighty Gospel Wings of Mercy, recently recorded a self-funded album to promote awareness of Affluent Supermom Syndrome. Entitled "Sweet Glory of Self-Esteem," the CD's proceeds will go directly to offset victims' Ballet and Pilates class dues.

Evans is also donating her time to the effort, travelling by CTA bus twice a week to Chicago's Gold Coast and North Shore as a volunteer care provider for needy white supermoms in need of a break for self-reflection.

"It's tragic when you hear, first hand, how these women don't get the parenting help they need from their male partners," she says. "The experience has made me realize how lucky I am to have D'Shawn [Collins], my babies' daddy, and the $150 he sends me most every month."

Read the whole thing, and if you really want to be good to yourself, follow his link to Lileks, who also weighs in on "Mommy Madness."

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February 17, 2005

I Just Walked Away

. . . from an argument over at Dean Esmay's site with two guys named Kevin and Michael that started with a discussion of Alan Keyes' family life and mutated into debates on:

• Parents' obligations to their adult children.
• Whether the term "colored" is offensive.
• Whether homosexuals can really "love" each other as much as heterosexuals do. (I really got drawn into that?—can you imagine? Next, I'll be debating my stuffed Stoney the Bear doll about Marxist dialectic.)
• Whether adoptive parents can love their children as much as biological parents do. Naturally, at this point—being on the verge of adopting—I felt myself about to blow a gasket and withdrew from the discussion.

Anyone who wants to take on the Christian Taliban over there, be my guest.

In the meantime I'm left to reflect on my passion as a potential mother. So far, I've experienced the echoes of this in terms of being an aunt. As I mentioned over at Dean's site, I'm very protective of my nieces and nephews, and if anyone messed with them they would be very likely to look like Swiss Cheese afterward (depending on the ordnance used). But there's a kind of defensive anger there. What scares me is what I turn into when the anger, the defensive emotion, is removed and only the ruthlessness remains. There's a whole new level once I attain parenthood.

My husband had oral surgery once and I had to convey him home afterward. We stopped at the drugstore on the way for his medications, and there was a line at the pharmacy. I became charming, and engaging, and spoke with the clerk, and the pharmacist, explaining that my husband was post-op and dozing in the car and it would be terrific if they could get me his medications as soon as possible. I was not cranky, which is what normally happens when I experience delays. I worked sweetly with the employees at the drugstore, and I went out to check on my husband in the passenger seat of my Saturn a couple of times. And if it would have helped I would have taken a hatchet to the back of the counter girl's head. With a smile on my face. I was going to get the drugs for my husband, and get him home to bed in the shortest period of time possible. By whatever means necessary, and with no rancor at all.

"Swell," I thought. "I can teach my child how to be a cheerful sociopath." I'm hoping, of course, that my morals will come back, but later that day I thought of those fierce-yet-calm feelings of protectiveness and my blood ran cold. "That's what I'll be like as a full-time mom. Holy shit."


They say black bears are only dangerous if you stray close to the spot where one has hidden its food, or if you unwittingly get too close to a momma bear's cubs. And when the momma bear sees that and puts you down for good, she does it without getting mad at you.

It's just business.

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February 06, 2005

Christmas

. . . is just like planning a wedding. Someone (generally the woman, if one's available) works her ass off, forfeits sleep, spends evey penny she owns, and sacrifices endlessly so a bunch of other people can have a good time.

But all the while, the woman is supposed to pretend that this is all really fun, and that there's nothing grander than busting one's ass for other people. "Hi, I've been up all night. Isn't it GLORIOUS?"

The saying, of course, with respect to weddings, is "the wedding is for your friends and relatives. The marriage is for you." Well, you know: half of it, anyway.

To be fair, I had almost no help when I got married. I understand that often the bridesmaids help out with various tasks. My bridesmaids could barely be bothered to show up for the fitting of the dresses they complained about endlessly, but didn't help to pick out.


Naturally, I'm frightened about the child or children: I know this will be a life-changing experience. I know it will be a lot of hard work. I just don't know if I'll end up feeling used, or taken for granted. I just don't want it to be like all the other projects I've worked hard on for essentially no payoff. (The assumption out there being that women simply like to work really hard to make other people happy, so the act itself is its own reward.)

What they tell me is that kids are so wonderful that it's terrific to have them around (once you're past babyhood and the terrible twos). They say it's different. They say the work is grueling, but at the end of the day you don't really mind.

Can I get some of that in writing?

UPDATE: Attila the Hub takes me to brunch and mentions that he's read my blog. ("Why are you reading my blog," I want to ask. "That's my secret diary, where I file away things that I only want the entire universe to know." I think better of it.)

"Are you angry?" he asks.

"Of course not," I respond, souding like a six-year old, only a bit less mature. And, of course, the six-year-old would have the wit to explain that it's only her imaginary friend, Binky, who had periodically resented the division of labor in the household. I'm fine, but Binky is concerned that she doesn't get stuck making dinner every single night, because it's hard to cook when you're an invisible person.

On the way home I come clean and discuss my fears about the responsibilities of childraising, and we have a good discussion.

But honestly. Can you imagine trying to live with me? He has the patience of a saint.

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January 30, 2005

Seeing Double

Martha Brockenbrough, writing for MSN "Encarta," discusses the sub-culture of twin-dom, and the possibility that calling the Olsen twins fraternals is really some sort of publicity stunt, given that they are dead-ringers for one another.

After all, plenty of identical twins write with different hands. (In fact, though Brokenbrough doesn't cover this ground I wonder if the Olsens could be identical twins who formed later: apparently, the later the egg/pre-embroyo splits, the more the identicals will have in common. If it happens very late [yet not late enough that they are conjoined and therefore "Siamese" twins], one often gets "mirror image" twins, who share DNA but have organs on complementary sides.)

On the other hand, I certainly knew one set of twins who were technically fraternals, yet hard to tell apart. Heck—sometimes that happens with siblings who are close in age and share all the same features.

The two twins I know best, Professor Purkinje's boy-girl fraternals, don't even necessarily look like they're the same ethnicity. (This was the case between my two-year-older brother and I; he shows all the Creek Indian genes, and any black ones we've got lying around in the bloodline: dark skin, dark curly hair, high cheekbones. Other than my full lips and our both being smart Alecks we have nothing in common physically at all.) The professor's kids are an amazingly beautiful dark-haired girl and a light-haired boy who looks a little Celtic for my money. People will be mistaking him for a gentile, left and right.

I still want to adopt twins. But the odds are not in my favor. Not at all. Or a redhead. Or redheaded twins. If we got redheaded twins I'd start getting up every morning and going to mass during the week. At 7:30 a.m, which is like the rest of you doing it at 3:00 in the morning.

Did you know that every now and again a set of identical twins marries another set of identical twins, and that in each household the nieces and nephews are genentically equivalent their own kids? (I'll have to use that in a murder mystery someday.)

As for the Olsen twins, Wikipedia has an entry on them that includes a chart explaining all their differences—subtle to the outsider, presumably glaring to those who know them.

To me, though, the mystery is how the dynamic works among groups of triplets. I've been told that the most common configuration is "a pair and a spare." If you're the fraternal twin, and the two other triplets are identicals, do you feel perpetually left out? How does that alter the family dynamic?

Professor Purkinje tells me to give up on the romantic assumption that all twins play nicely together and entertain each other, making them "easier" to raise than singletons. After all, sometimes the twins are fraternal boys who fight a lot.

So there's that.

UPDATE: The good professor informs me that if we adopt twins—redheads or not—I'll be getting up by 7:30 anyway, but it won't be to go to mass. However, he's not the least bit clear on why I'd do such a thing.

Perhaps he thinks I'll be so excited to have babies in the house that I'll be blogging more than ever. That's certainly possible, but I should imagine I'll do that at night.

Hm. Very mysterious.

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