As a youngest child I was born with examples right before me to observe, mimic, identify with or not. I would look up to my elder sister and watch her navigate the world. Six years my senior, she had a handle on her studies (always a good student); she was knowledgeable and responsible; she knew how to get to Manhattan and see a play on her own when she was only 15. She could cook and taught me to bake cookies. And, as adolescence came upon her, she became grouchy, reactive, and yet always remained the good girl who -- whilst complaining -- did as was requested.
My brother was the funny and quiet one. Many a summer we were alone together and he made do with this and taught me to fish, to catch salamanders, to fillet, to climb trees, and later, to improve my pie crust, acquire a few frisbee throws, and juggle two balls in one hand. With adolescence he became somewhat sulky, sullen, long simmering then -- though never raising his voice -- overpoweringly mad, fed up. He started having difficulty getting up in the morning, was always causing my parents to yell up the stairs, making everyone late to school. He, the smartest of the family, started to struggle in school by sheer frustration and I think personality conflicts with teachers far less quick than he. He mastered the technique of always answering in the positive to requests from my mother, and then simply never getting around to getting them done.
You could call my elder siblings opposites. I spent many a year observing and considering their varying approaches to life. My sister, so efficient, obediant, good, but often bemoaning the degree to which she was put upon. My brother, mostly good-humored (when not contraried), wickedly smart, and off in his own world, fiercely stubborn.
In their cooking they differ as well. My sister cooks quickly, efficiently, as necessary for her family. Or she does take out. These days, super-busy as she is, home-made meals are a rather rare occasion in her home. But they manage.
My brother masters recipes. He takes the time to do them just so each and every time. He measures carefully, he follows the directions, he perfects his creations. I drive him crazy in my complete and total inability (some pastry excepting) to do likewise. As he would say, I've never seen a recipe I could actually follow faithfully.
Now that we're grown, and living in distant worlds, my siblings are far less the individuals I observe and consider. I've opened my perspective to a wider world. And when I travel back home (home?) to New York and I visit the friends I grew up with, or went to school with, or shared a first job with, I observe what they've made of their lives, the choices they've made, the values they reflect.
One dear friend is living a fascinating and demanding career, alongside a husband who is doing likewise and more. Perhaps he'll even be a senator one day? or she? They've their blackberries at the ready, tapping away throughout the day. They've good wine in the cabinet, elegant glassware, a gorgeous chess set from an art gallery, a country home up in the hills. Pretty awesome. But, they don't have much time. They don't seem to slow down -- can they? Family time is minimal, precious, and too quickly over. Stress and intensity seem to be a regular sensation. They've one lovely child: precocious, intense, demanding. Another wouldn't be possible. This year they'll be living mostly apart due to job choices. And next year?
Another dear friend is managing a toddler in her low forties. She's got a good corporate job, relatively flexible, with good benefits. She got her six weeks of maternity leave, and when it ended, back to work she went. Her husband works in a similar environment. They depend heavily upon their nanny, and are enjoying this late-in-life blessing. However, if she wanted to spend more time with her child, she could not. Her job's benefits are too essential to their situation. So, onward with the formula that no doubt many must choose till their child is of school age.
But then I visited friends who seemed to have found a magic formula: a balance of work, accomplishments and family: Nurturing of the next generation, time for each other, and success on the career front. Amazing. I met sensible and delightful and affectionate adolescents, solid and supportive adults, warm and welcoming individuals and families that reach inward to their own, and outwards to friends from afar. Ah, how did they manage to choose their partners so well? What portion is family values? What portion intelligence? What portion having a good example in their own parents to learn from?
Do I have a simple and clear response to all my observations? Have I learned the magic formula? No. I'm just -- perhaps, if I'm lucky -- a touch clearer on my own values of raising my children, and hopefully, being in a supportive, affectionate, equal, delightful partnership one day. In the meantime, I'll focus on the boys, and figure out which of my projects to bring to fruition.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
Cats in the Cradle
There are times when that song from my childhood, Cats in the Cradle, just streams through my head:
Cats in the Cradle and a Silver Spoon,
Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon,
When're you coming home Dad, I don't know when,
But we'll get together then son,
you know we'll have a good time then....
I suppose in many ways I'm living my life accordingly. Sensitive to the theme of this song, that the father who prioritized his work and had little time for his son, reaps his just rewards in that his son has little time for him in his old age, and hoping to avoid its message in my own family entourage.
Life is a cycle, or at least, I believe it is so. What goes around comes around. What we put into motion ever so unconsciously, can come back to catch us.
I felt this cycle in a strange way during these holidays. I went for a walk with my mother, and for the first time perhaps ever, she walked more slowly than I, frightened of slipping and falling in the icy snow. Mostly, I was able to slow down and walk at her speed, but I felt myself resisting, frustrated, and yes, a bit resentful. Why?
Scenes of my childhood when she was always in a hurry, out the door before me, honking the car, ahead of me by a few yards, urging impatiently for me to catch up, rarely waiting till I was actually ready... No, it wasn't all the time, but enough that the impression has stuck.
I see as well my grandmother ten yards (or ten minutes) ahead of my grandfather, abandoning him as she strode strongly along while he trailed behind hobbled by weak legs. Was it so important to arrive minutes before the other?
I want to stop this. I don't want to be the impatient mom always urging her kids along.
And yet, I have been thus. I remember countless times zooming across Arles with Leo in tow -- thankfully, he was able to keep up most of the time, especially with his hand in mine. But when we had a friend of his with us, one who was far more dreamy and slow, inspecting every crack in the sidewalk, every piece of paper on the ground (no matter the cars that nearly toppled him over!), I would go, admittedly, rather batty. I have even thanked the stars that I've a son like Leo who can keep up. If I'd had a child like his poor friend no doubt it would have been torture for us both.
And so, how to stop this? Well, I'm trying. I'm making moves in this direction. We walk hand in hand, or if not, I look back when they dawdle, and stop when I sense they've fallen behind. Then simply, during those precious times when the clock isn't weighing upon me, I stand and smile as I wait for them to catch up -- rather than urging and berating and tapping a foot, or worse, heading off alone expecting them to keep up ...
It will come.
Cats in the Cradle and a Silver Spoon,
Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon,
When're you coming home Dad, I don't know when,
But we'll get together then son,
you know we'll have a good time then....
I suppose in many ways I'm living my life accordingly. Sensitive to the theme of this song, that the father who prioritized his work and had little time for his son, reaps his just rewards in that his son has little time for him in his old age, and hoping to avoid its message in my own family entourage.
Life is a cycle, or at least, I believe it is so. What goes around comes around. What we put into motion ever so unconsciously, can come back to catch us.
I felt this cycle in a strange way during these holidays. I went for a walk with my mother, and for the first time perhaps ever, she walked more slowly than I, frightened of slipping and falling in the icy snow. Mostly, I was able to slow down and walk at her speed, but I felt myself resisting, frustrated, and yes, a bit resentful. Why?
Scenes of my childhood when she was always in a hurry, out the door before me, honking the car, ahead of me by a few yards, urging impatiently for me to catch up, rarely waiting till I was actually ready... No, it wasn't all the time, but enough that the impression has stuck.
I see as well my grandmother ten yards (or ten minutes) ahead of my grandfather, abandoning him as she strode strongly along while he trailed behind hobbled by weak legs. Was it so important to arrive minutes before the other?
I want to stop this. I don't want to be the impatient mom always urging her kids along.
And yet, I have been thus. I remember countless times zooming across Arles with Leo in tow -- thankfully, he was able to keep up most of the time, especially with his hand in mine. But when we had a friend of his with us, one who was far more dreamy and slow, inspecting every crack in the sidewalk, every piece of paper on the ground (no matter the cars that nearly toppled him over!), I would go, admittedly, rather batty. I have even thanked the stars that I've a son like Leo who can keep up. If I'd had a child like his poor friend no doubt it would have been torture for us both.
And so, how to stop this? Well, I'm trying. I'm making moves in this direction. We walk hand in hand, or if not, I look back when they dawdle, and stop when I sense they've fallen behind. Then simply, during those precious times when the clock isn't weighing upon me, I stand and smile as I wait for them to catch up -- rather than urging and berating and tapping a foot, or worse, heading off alone expecting them to keep up ...
It will come.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
A day with Leo
Jonas is with his friend till this afternoon. So yesterday Leo and I had one of those rare evenings (and today mornings) with just the two of us. We snuggled down to read another chapter of The Lightning Thief -- almost finished-- and then went on to watch one of my favorite kids' films, My Side of the Mountain. I'd fogotten that it takes place way back in perhaps 1969? or earlier? In any case, though the cars and clothing styles are quite dated, the story still resonates for a little boy the same age as the protagonist. Can you really live off the land alone? Is it a true story? Many times since Leo has told me how much he appreciated the film.
There is hope after Transformers, Chainsaw Masacre (I can't believe it, but a friend of his showed him this last week!) and Dofus.
It was a special Mom and son evening and with him there, I slept like a baby, grounded, at peace.
Today was errands' day. The first was to drop off the car for some last repairs. From there, on foot, into town and the tax office, the employment office, and the grocery. Leo accompanied me for all this. So 8:30 on the dot, out the door we were, Filou at our side. From the garage we were off for our walking excursion across our island, across the bridge and into the ramparts. Leo pleasantly at my side, holding my hand.
Me and my big boy who is already 164cm! He nearly tops his dad, though not quite. So I suppose we were an odd sight, but I wasn't going to discourage the hand-holding. It was simply too lovely. Though the morning was long, my meetings went well, and we were back in good spirits, enjoying the light as it turned to warmth and a beautiful blue sky.
Goodness I'm grateful for my kids! And you know, they seem to love me too!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
A Teaching Moment - of an unusual sort
Pre-teens present all sorts of interesting opportunities for social interaction, question and answer sessions and just being. Taking a page from my aunt who mothered nine children's book of child raising, I enlist my troup in all house projects. I do my darndest to insist on participation, a certain level of enthusiasm, and actually finishing the job at hand.
However, when your thirteen year old girl says she has a tummy ache, and in fact she's got her period, and can she just sit it out? In this particuliar case it was sitting out the stacking the wood pile job. Well, it's awkward to be thirteen and it's wierd and scary having your period, so, okay, chill for a while, and do you want a pain reliever?
The pack mentality is such that, if one is missing, the others come looking. Why is she sitting down? We're not finished yet. Are you coming back out? Etc., Amongst the first to question this situation was Leo. So I said she had her period, a girl thing, and wasn't feeling so well. Oh? says Leo. And I said, haven't you learned as yet that girls bleed once a month? Hunh? says Leo.
Ah, a teaching moment presents itself. After all, twelve years old is a good age to learn something about girls, no? So, I shared the strange fact that we girls have eggs, and from the same age as he and other boys start having facial hair, a deeper voice, etc., we start menstruating. We produce an egg a month. And for this egg we make a nest in our uterus. But, if the egg isn't fertilized, if we do not have a relationship with a man, then the egg and its nest go away. And the way they leave our body is by disintegrating into blood. We bleed. Sometimes this time of the month hurts, and sometimes not. But in any case, this is something we live with for the rest of our lives till we get a few years older than I (his mother) am.
Oh. Okay, says Leo. And in the next while he was all solicitous of our very lovely pre-teen girl. It was quite touching.
That night Leo wanted me to stay later in his room so we could have one of our deep discussions. He loves these. He basically opens himself up to more teaching moments, a chance to converse at depth, to reach down into my feelings and whatever I'm willing to divulge. He also skilfully puts off that undesirable moment of Mom leaving the room and turning out the light. So, I continued on the discussion of girls, our menses, our monthly cycles, our relationship to the moon, the French and English definitions of Lunatic, the origins of the word hysterical, and some societal assumptions of why women are moody, or particularly vivacious at different times in the month. I spoke of the possibility (not all of us exhibit this, but many of us do) that women's mood variations are linked to the monthly cycle. I discussed the fact that men occasionally make rude comments about such, but that the concept is rooted in at least a modicum of truth. However, best to not to make assumptions, and yet to be aware.
As is often the case, I spoke perhaps too much, and not at a level necessarily adapted to a twelve year old. But he listens so intently, soaking up whatever is proferred. So the temptation is enormous to keep on sharing and teaching. At the very least, seeds were sown in a young man to be. May these seeds flourish, as he grows, help him better understand, or at least listen and pay attention to, the women in his life.
It's pretty cool mothering a boy.
However, when your thirteen year old girl says she has a tummy ache, and in fact she's got her period, and can she just sit it out? In this particuliar case it was sitting out the stacking the wood pile job. Well, it's awkward to be thirteen and it's wierd and scary having your period, so, okay, chill for a while, and do you want a pain reliever?
The pack mentality is such that, if one is missing, the others come looking. Why is she sitting down? We're not finished yet. Are you coming back out? Etc., Amongst the first to question this situation was Leo. So I said she had her period, a girl thing, and wasn't feeling so well. Oh? says Leo. And I said, haven't you learned as yet that girls bleed once a month? Hunh? says Leo.
Ah, a teaching moment presents itself. After all, twelve years old is a good age to learn something about girls, no? So, I shared the strange fact that we girls have eggs, and from the same age as he and other boys start having facial hair, a deeper voice, etc., we start menstruating. We produce an egg a month. And for this egg we make a nest in our uterus. But, if the egg isn't fertilized, if we do not have a relationship with a man, then the egg and its nest go away. And the way they leave our body is by disintegrating into blood. We bleed. Sometimes this time of the month hurts, and sometimes not. But in any case, this is something we live with for the rest of our lives till we get a few years older than I (his mother) am.
Oh. Okay, says Leo. And in the next while he was all solicitous of our very lovely pre-teen girl. It was quite touching.
That night Leo wanted me to stay later in his room so we could have one of our deep discussions. He loves these. He basically opens himself up to more teaching moments, a chance to converse at depth, to reach down into my feelings and whatever I'm willing to divulge. He also skilfully puts off that undesirable moment of Mom leaving the room and turning out the light. So, I continued on the discussion of girls, our menses, our monthly cycles, our relationship to the moon, the French and English definitions of Lunatic, the origins of the word hysterical, and some societal assumptions of why women are moody, or particularly vivacious at different times in the month. I spoke of the possibility (not all of us exhibit this, but many of us do) that women's mood variations are linked to the monthly cycle. I discussed the fact that men occasionally make rude comments about such, but that the concept is rooted in at least a modicum of truth. However, best to not to make assumptions, and yet to be aware.
As is often the case, I spoke perhaps too much, and not at a level necessarily adapted to a twelve year old. But he listens so intently, soaking up whatever is proferred. So the temptation is enormous to keep on sharing and teaching. At the very least, seeds were sown in a young man to be. May these seeds flourish, as he grows, help him better understand, or at least listen and pay attention to, the women in his life.
It's pretty cool mothering a boy.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Feeling at Peace
Somehow, somewhere, some why, I'm feeling at peace. Many people have known me to be often hyper, often a bit distracted, and often deeply affected by swaying feelings and sentiments. I can be frazzled, toss and turn all night, you name it. For those of you who've read my more personal posts, I would think this comes across... just a bit? So, what a relief, and what a pleasure, to be well, calm, and coping.
Why? Who only knows. My kids are doing well, that's a blessing. Even as they shift and change, I can see where we've a clear understanding, where I've earned their respect and that they are sure of me. We have our rhythms, and into these we three welcome others. It works.
But I am also in a clearly more accepting state of mind. I've put aside my frustrations of last year, my sense of schizophrenia, my efforts to find a way to blend together my weekend life and my week life, i.e. my life with the vintner and my life with my children. The root causes that so disturbed me are still there: I live two lives, I'm alone raising my kids, and though he says he likes children in general, he doesn't much care for mine. These are all serious issues that are still present. And yet, for the moment, I'm able to simply enjoy what is good -- someone is tender, gentle, present and attentive to me over my weekends; my kids and I are doing well under my roof -- and temporarily let be what so upset me last year. There is a clear sense that what I'm living is ephemeral. But it has its virtues. It is pretty clear that the day I take it upon myself to choose more in my life--joint projects, finding someone who will love my children as well as me--I'll be free to do so. My vintner is a very lovely individual, and very good to me, but no, he'll never be a foster parent to my kids, nor is there truly space in his world for there to be an us that goes forth as a unit to create and build.
It's been a very intense few years. Not only in the area of sentiment and relationships, but also financially. I feel that there must be a parallel universe out there where my father left me an inheritance, and/or another one where the b&b sold easily. Somehow, two major events have converged to leave me rather short of funds, that might have, in all justice, been expected and considered reasonably mine to help me on my way in this life. But no. It was not to be. My karma is to make it on my own, at least for now. It's almost absurdly amusing and contrary. But if this is the way of it, I shall most definitely make the best of my particular hand of cards (and mix metaphors by the minute!).
I've received an extra nudge to be careful about resources, to conserve energy, to cook and bake from scratch for the kids, to explore a kitchen garden, to limit my time in the car, and to convey these values to my boys. Not such a bad thing, eh? As I keep telling myself: I've still got my house, and my banker has yet to make a personal phone call with bad news. So, by all means, let's look on the bright side. And bright it is. We are all in good health, my car hasn't broken down (touch wood), and I've managed to find odd jobs here and there so far to keep me afloat. It could be so very much worse.
Thank you Universe for this gift of peace, for moments of calm, and for nourishing friendships, opening doors and new perspectives.
Why? Who only knows. My kids are doing well, that's a blessing. Even as they shift and change, I can see where we've a clear understanding, where I've earned their respect and that they are sure of me. We have our rhythms, and into these we three welcome others. It works.
But I am also in a clearly more accepting state of mind. I've put aside my frustrations of last year, my sense of schizophrenia, my efforts to find a way to blend together my weekend life and my week life, i.e. my life with the vintner and my life with my children. The root causes that so disturbed me are still there: I live two lives, I'm alone raising my kids, and though he says he likes children in general, he doesn't much care for mine. These are all serious issues that are still present. And yet, for the moment, I'm able to simply enjoy what is good -- someone is tender, gentle, present and attentive to me over my weekends; my kids and I are doing well under my roof -- and temporarily let be what so upset me last year. There is a clear sense that what I'm living is ephemeral. But it has its virtues. It is pretty clear that the day I take it upon myself to choose more in my life--joint projects, finding someone who will love my children as well as me--I'll be free to do so. My vintner is a very lovely individual, and very good to me, but no, he'll never be a foster parent to my kids, nor is there truly space in his world for there to be an us that goes forth as a unit to create and build.
It's been a very intense few years. Not only in the area of sentiment and relationships, but also financially. I feel that there must be a parallel universe out there where my father left me an inheritance, and/or another one where the b&b sold easily. Somehow, two major events have converged to leave me rather short of funds, that might have, in all justice, been expected and considered reasonably mine to help me on my way in this life. But no. It was not to be. My karma is to make it on my own, at least for now. It's almost absurdly amusing and contrary. But if this is the way of it, I shall most definitely make the best of my particular hand of cards (and mix metaphors by the minute!).
I've received an extra nudge to be careful about resources, to conserve energy, to cook and bake from scratch for the kids, to explore a kitchen garden, to limit my time in the car, and to convey these values to my boys. Not such a bad thing, eh? As I keep telling myself: I've still got my house, and my banker has yet to make a personal phone call with bad news. So, by all means, let's look on the bright side. And bright it is. We are all in good health, my car hasn't broken down (touch wood), and I've managed to find odd jobs here and there so far to keep me afloat. It could be so very much worse.
Thank you Universe for this gift of peace, for moments of calm, and for nourishing friendships, opening doors and new perspectives.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Readying the house for four new arrivals
Friends look at me askance and wonder how on earth I could choose to house and feed four extra pre-teens (well three pre-teens and one teen-ager) in addition to my two boys. It is an unusual thing to do in these times of small families and private space. But as a family, my boys and I have chosen this arrangement. Oh it has its moments of stress and difficulty, but, it has innumerable virtues that only those from large families can comprehend. As of Monday I will have two girls, 11 and soon to be 14, and two boys, soon to be 13 and 15. They'll mix with my children, two boys, 7 1/2 and 12.
Beyond a certain touch of personal insanity and masochism, my house is large enough. I've two rooms to spare. One had been for the au pair, the other a living room. But, when it's just the three of us, we don't ever use these rooms. They might as well be closed off. We're an odd family with no TV, nor a family computer (mine is for me alone), nor another such object around which we might cluster in a family room or salon; we happily enjoy our "family time" in the kitchen, or outside on the terrace. I also take the hackneyed statement, "the more the merrier," with nary a grain of salt. Whatever the potential disasters, it is nonetheless true that with more children boredom is just not an option. Life becomes a party. And yes, with a house that is larger than we three need, the mortgage is commensurate. Hosting four children does bring in a bit to help ends meet at the end of the month.
For myself, I've imported kids to play with my children, to exchange, to learn from, and to live alongside. My boys are benefiting from the need to welcome, respect and be considerate of others. They share their space, take their turn in the bathroom and get to spread amongst six the burden of household chores and errands. Justice is paramount: together we make up a calendar of the various chores to be handled on a daily basis. Coupling up (e.g. the youngest and the eldest will do dishes together), and collaborating when the going gets tough -- I've five cords of wood on order that will need stacking--is necessary. Many hands make light work of just about any task.
For the children it's a mini-sleep-away school. A prep-school it is not, but they're in outside lodging and need to bend to my not very onerous expectations and requests. They're testing their limits, distancing themselves from their parents, striking out, and learning autonomy (particularly as concerns their homework) in a safe environment with plenty of good food and warmth.
For the parents, they've put their children in the care of this odd American who speaks fluent and fast French, cooks up a storm and promises lots of organic meals, light-handed parenting and a certain regularity and firmness balanced with a good sense of humor and the ridiculous. They're all relieved, and more than a bit pleased that I've no TV in the house. We all want our kids to read more (goodness don't we all!), and they hear tales of chess playing, backgammon, cards and baking bread with a hint of nostalgia and wistfulness. If the Steiner/Waldorf world does one thing, it brings together the many of us who flee the threat of media-overdose and its nefarious effects on our children. However, few have gone so far as to banish the TV completely. Thus these kids will get their fair share when they go home on the weekends, no doubt.
In fact, a common trait of the kids I'm boarding is a touch of hyper-activity and difficulty concentrating. Something that is more and more common in our overly electronic world, and a frequent trait in children who come later in life to the Waldorf schools. They've each been to visit or are scheduled to begin visiting speech and writing therapists to bring them up to speed. Alert, friendly, good-hearted, yet struggling with the basics of reading and writing. They're loath to take up books for pleasure, preferring movement, or a computer screen (if it were available). I hold out this torch of a promise that maybe, just maybe, with no other options open to them, they might pick up a book or two for pleasure during their time in my house. At the very least there'll not be a battle over TV after school and getting home-work done.
I've now readied the rooms, made the beds, vacuumed and mopped the floors and dusted the surfaces. All is ready for Monday afternoon and the arrival of my beasties. Other years we welcomed au pairs and cooking assistants into our lives, now we welcome children. My boys take it in stride, and truly, I think they'd miss the presence and warmth of the extra bodies. Certainly, they'd miss the regularity and variety of my week day dinners. Nothing like having an army to feed to get me moving in the kitchen.
Beyond a certain touch of personal insanity and masochism, my house is large enough. I've two rooms to spare. One had been for the au pair, the other a living room. But, when it's just the three of us, we don't ever use these rooms. They might as well be closed off. We're an odd family with no TV, nor a family computer (mine is for me alone), nor another such object around which we might cluster in a family room or salon; we happily enjoy our "family time" in the kitchen, or outside on the terrace. I also take the hackneyed statement, "the more the merrier," with nary a grain of salt. Whatever the potential disasters, it is nonetheless true that with more children boredom is just not an option. Life becomes a party. And yes, with a house that is larger than we three need, the mortgage is commensurate. Hosting four children does bring in a bit to help ends meet at the end of the month.
For myself, I've imported kids to play with my children, to exchange, to learn from, and to live alongside. My boys are benefiting from the need to welcome, respect and be considerate of others. They share their space, take their turn in the bathroom and get to spread amongst six the burden of household chores and errands. Justice is paramount: together we make up a calendar of the various chores to be handled on a daily basis. Coupling up (e.g. the youngest and the eldest will do dishes together), and collaborating when the going gets tough -- I've five cords of wood on order that will need stacking--is necessary. Many hands make light work of just about any task.
For the children it's a mini-sleep-away school. A prep-school it is not, but they're in outside lodging and need to bend to my not very onerous expectations and requests. They're testing their limits, distancing themselves from their parents, striking out, and learning autonomy (particularly as concerns their homework) in a safe environment with plenty of good food and warmth.
For the parents, they've put their children in the care of this odd American who speaks fluent and fast French, cooks up a storm and promises lots of organic meals, light-handed parenting and a certain regularity and firmness balanced with a good sense of humor and the ridiculous. They're all relieved, and more than a bit pleased that I've no TV in the house. We all want our kids to read more (goodness don't we all!), and they hear tales of chess playing, backgammon, cards and baking bread with a hint of nostalgia and wistfulness. If the Steiner/Waldorf world does one thing, it brings together the many of us who flee the threat of media-overdose and its nefarious effects on our children. However, few have gone so far as to banish the TV completely. Thus these kids will get their fair share when they go home on the weekends, no doubt.
In fact, a common trait of the kids I'm boarding is a touch of hyper-activity and difficulty concentrating. Something that is more and more common in our overly electronic world, and a frequent trait in children who come later in life to the Waldorf schools. They've each been to visit or are scheduled to begin visiting speech and writing therapists to bring them up to speed. Alert, friendly, good-hearted, yet struggling with the basics of reading and writing. They're loath to take up books for pleasure, preferring movement, or a computer screen (if it were available). I hold out this torch of a promise that maybe, just maybe, with no other options open to them, they might pick up a book or two for pleasure during their time in my house. At the very least there'll not be a battle over TV after school and getting home-work done.
I've now readied the rooms, made the beds, vacuumed and mopped the floors and dusted the surfaces. All is ready for Monday afternoon and the arrival of my beasties. Other years we welcomed au pairs and cooking assistants into our lives, now we welcome children. My boys take it in stride, and truly, I think they'd miss the presence and warmth of the extra bodies. Certainly, they'd miss the regularity and variety of my week day dinners. Nothing like having an army to feed to get me moving in the kitchen.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
A mother of boys
I'm a mother of boys. And yet I'm a pretty girly girl. Somewhere in my mother's attic is my collection of miniatures: the house, the parqueted floors, the knitted covers, quilted quilts, leather-bound books, and copper wire bird cages and chandeliers. I spent my childhood immersed in a little girl's world of barbies, dress-up clothes, and dreams of being a princess one day. I adored watching Ivanhoe, but found Elizabeth Taylor so very much more lovely than the bland blond who won the knight's affection. I also adored very pretty clothes, frilly pink dresses, having long hair, and ballet dancing.
Growing up, I actually spent far more time with my older brother than with my older sister. She had made some recipes with me, used me to test her gynmastics' knowledge, teaching me back flips, handsprings, and more with the collection of house mattresses piled on the floor. And I was a useful listener when complaints of unfairness -- the subject generally being my brother or my parents -- needed airing.
But, she didn't seek me out by choice, and after a time, nor did I seek her. When dolls and the Four Story Mistake ceased to interest me (or palled for a time), I went in search of my big brother. Amidst the teasing, the tormenting, and the knocking about, there were moments of joy and hysterical laughter. Many was the summer that I was his only option for a playmate. And so he made do. He taught me all the basic games, and played them with me assiduously (I nearly never won, but that's another story); chess, checkers, backgammon, card-games by the dozens. He used me to test his knowledge of bridge bidding, and many a prank. "Do you know the game 52 pick-up?" he'd ever so innocently ask, before sending me to the floor to gather up the splattered deck.
I trailed after him climbing trees, lifting logs to unearth salamanders, catching and caging snakes, toads, and whatever the natural world offered up. As the long summers sped by, he taught me to hook a worm, to clean and filet a fish. From him I acquired overhand frisbee tossing, and the rules to Ultimate Frisbee. I never mastered spinning a disk on my fingernail as he did, but I watched in fascination, great audience that I was. Likewise, I could barely handle juggling two balls in one hand, while he spent months mastering this skill and juggling 3 and 4 balls with his two. I don't believe he mastered 5, but he certainly gave it a good try.
My big brother is the reason I hit the tennis ball so hard, and make sure I'm well positioned to return a hard-hit serve. My big brother taught me to kayak, and to be simply sensibly afraid of rough white water. He teased me mercilessly when I complained of being tired on long walks as a ten year old touring across Europe with our mother. To banish this image and family reputation, I then pushed myself as an adult to never be the slowest, weariest, and certainly never to be known as a complainer. He also taunted me about my concerns about gaining weight (whereas my sister went on diets of cottage cheese and grapefruit), making me scream with frustration as I would say, "I only weigh 132 lbs" and he would interject "thousand" handily between the "two" and "pounds."
I was a favorite target to practice wrestling holds on. And at one point, I would fall to the floor laughing and screaming at simply the idea that he'd tickle-attack me. But through all this, I knew I existed. He played with me. Even if we had our share of battles (and did we ever), I cared about his opinion of me, and reveled in the time he taught me and spent with me. Never have I played such good tennis as with him coaching me along to master returning his top-spin.
So, though I was a girly-girl, I adjusted to the masculine habits of my brother. It was a childhood marked by feminine pleasures, and my often attentive big brother. Today I am a mother of boys. Being 43, I think I'm finished producing children, and so this is what I'll remain. To whom will I offer one day my collection of dolls and miniatures? and later my gorgeous wardrobe of Darbury Stenderu originals and pretty jewelry from the grandmothers?
But also, with whom will I paint my toe nails, pluck my eye brows, go shopping and pampering? Yes, I've girl-friends, but, not friends with time and funds to play. And the intimacy of the vanity table is not one that come easily. My sister has two girls. Her toe nails are painted with flowers, her eyebrows plucked to perfection, day trips to spas were part of their lives till recently. Pretty clothes and sharing a taste in elegant shoes are things she can share with her teenagers.
All this is leading to the other evening, reading to the boys, I was benignly plucking at my chin hairs. Yes, now over 40, those stray eyebrow hairs are responding to gravity. I've not a perfect set-up for this in the house -- neither the lights nor the magnifying mirror -- so I just pinch away blindly. And Leo, seeing this, noting this, asked to help me out. I didn't think twice, but agreed with alacrity. I lay back, tilted a lamp towards my face, and handed the tweezers to my now twelve-year old son. With care and concentration he went at the task. It pleased him, and it pleased me. As I care for my mother when we're together, my elder son entered into an intimate female moment with me. And I, so appreciating a moment of care and attention, lay back and closed my eyes and enjoyed his gestures.
I know that if I had a girl child, likely this would never have come to pass. And, if I lived with a man (particularly someone as macho as JP), neither would I have allowed such a moment to occur. But, alone with my boys, the old laws and customs are shifting. It's me and them. They're my source of strength and the beings for whom I am responsible. We spend many an evening curled up, the three of us, reading books, watching a film, chatting. I am the person Leo comes to with his questions about men, women, sex and growing up. Not his father. And he is the one I bounce ideas off as often as not, as I make my way in this world, confused and seeking. By default, he is seeing more of the female world, and I am his primary adult reference -- both feminine and masculine.
Good? Bad? Indifferent?
Growing up, I actually spent far more time with my older brother than with my older sister. She had made some recipes with me, used me to test her gynmastics' knowledge, teaching me back flips, handsprings, and more with the collection of house mattresses piled on the floor. And I was a useful listener when complaints of unfairness -- the subject generally being my brother or my parents -- needed airing.
But, she didn't seek me out by choice, and after a time, nor did I seek her. When dolls and the Four Story Mistake ceased to interest me (or palled for a time), I went in search of my big brother. Amidst the teasing, the tormenting, and the knocking about, there were moments of joy and hysterical laughter. Many was the summer that I was his only option for a playmate. And so he made do. He taught me all the basic games, and played them with me assiduously (I nearly never won, but that's another story); chess, checkers, backgammon, card-games by the dozens. He used me to test his knowledge of bridge bidding, and many a prank. "Do you know the game 52 pick-up?" he'd ever so innocently ask, before sending me to the floor to gather up the splattered deck.
I trailed after him climbing trees, lifting logs to unearth salamanders, catching and caging snakes, toads, and whatever the natural world offered up. As the long summers sped by, he taught me to hook a worm, to clean and filet a fish. From him I acquired overhand frisbee tossing, and the rules to Ultimate Frisbee. I never mastered spinning a disk on my fingernail as he did, but I watched in fascination, great audience that I was. Likewise, I could barely handle juggling two balls in one hand, while he spent months mastering this skill and juggling 3 and 4 balls with his two. I don't believe he mastered 5, but he certainly gave it a good try.
My big brother is the reason I hit the tennis ball so hard, and make sure I'm well positioned to return a hard-hit serve. My big brother taught me to kayak, and to be simply sensibly afraid of rough white water. He teased me mercilessly when I complained of being tired on long walks as a ten year old touring across Europe with our mother. To banish this image and family reputation, I then pushed myself as an adult to never be the slowest, weariest, and certainly never to be known as a complainer. He also taunted me about my concerns about gaining weight (whereas my sister went on diets of cottage cheese and grapefruit), making me scream with frustration as I would say, "I only weigh 132 lbs" and he would interject "thousand" handily between the "two" and "pounds."
I was a favorite target to practice wrestling holds on. And at one point, I would fall to the floor laughing and screaming at simply the idea that he'd tickle-attack me. But through all this, I knew I existed. He played with me. Even if we had our share of battles (and did we ever), I cared about his opinion of me, and reveled in the time he taught me and spent with me. Never have I played such good tennis as with him coaching me along to master returning his top-spin.
So, though I was a girly-girl, I adjusted to the masculine habits of my brother. It was a childhood marked by feminine pleasures, and my often attentive big brother. Today I am a mother of boys. Being 43, I think I'm finished producing children, and so this is what I'll remain. To whom will I offer one day my collection of dolls and miniatures? and later my gorgeous wardrobe of Darbury Stenderu originals and pretty jewelry from the grandmothers?
But also, with whom will I paint my toe nails, pluck my eye brows, go shopping and pampering? Yes, I've girl-friends, but, not friends with time and funds to play. And the intimacy of the vanity table is not one that come easily. My sister has two girls. Her toe nails are painted with flowers, her eyebrows plucked to perfection, day trips to spas were part of their lives till recently. Pretty clothes and sharing a taste in elegant shoes are things she can share with her teenagers.
All this is leading to the other evening, reading to the boys, I was benignly plucking at my chin hairs. Yes, now over 40, those stray eyebrow hairs are responding to gravity. I've not a perfect set-up for this in the house -- neither the lights nor the magnifying mirror -- so I just pinch away blindly. And Leo, seeing this, noting this, asked to help me out. I didn't think twice, but agreed with alacrity. I lay back, tilted a lamp towards my face, and handed the tweezers to my now twelve-year old son. With care and concentration he went at the task. It pleased him, and it pleased me. As I care for my mother when we're together, my elder son entered into an intimate female moment with me. And I, so appreciating a moment of care and attention, lay back and closed my eyes and enjoyed his gestures.
I know that if I had a girl child, likely this would never have come to pass. And, if I lived with a man (particularly someone as macho as JP), neither would I have allowed such a moment to occur. But, alone with my boys, the old laws and customs are shifting. It's me and them. They're my source of strength and the beings for whom I am responsible. We spend many an evening curled up, the three of us, reading books, watching a film, chatting. I am the person Leo comes to with his questions about men, women, sex and growing up. Not his father. And he is the one I bounce ideas off as often as not, as I make my way in this world, confused and seeking. By default, he is seeing more of the female world, and I am his primary adult reference -- both feminine and masculine.
Good? Bad? Indifferent?
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Saturday before Vacation Ends
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
Yesterday I picked the boys up from Erick's. This vacation was organized with me having the boys at the beginning, and the end of the two weeks, and their being with Erick in between. As mom, I do my best to get them back onto a school schedule, and process them through a home-based television/computer de-tox program. As we drove from Arles to Avignon, Leo regaled me with the story lines of umpteen different TV shows. Jonas was in a bit of a daze. We stopped by the farm to pick up some fresh milk, and happily, Jonas showed his true colors and climbed out of the car to play with the farm dogs and investigate the barn where the new calves mulled around their mothers.
The evening was remarkably free of wigginess. Amazingly so. Normally the boys are flying off the wall when I get them back. But, for some strange reason (and for this I was grateful) they were calm. I put on the heat, started the fire in the stove and began cooking. We had a simple dinner of spare ribs and cauliflower, and watched the movie Billy Elliot together. Leo, who loves to dance to tectonic music, was inspired, and tried out a few double pirouettes just to see. And, in keeping with our tradition of having a good chat about life before he goes to sleep, we used the film as a starting point for talking about the gay friend Michael and what a great friendship the boys have, that no doubt a few of Leo's friends will some day come out as being gay, and that that's completely ok.
Teeth brushed and little boys cuddled and into bed, I curled up with M.F.K. Fisher's Alphabet for the Gourmet. But what's this? A little seven year old being is coming into my room to join me (and Filou, who, now that I'm back from Jean Paul's, has taken up his rightful spot at the foot of my bed). "I can't sleep because I keep seeing the images of the pubs from TV," he says. "I can't make them go away."
Ah, the invasion of televised images. As bad as an invasion of aliens in their souls. No child has a filtering mechanism built in to differentiate between real life and TV. Only time and richer, more nourishing fare can help purge these disorienting and conflicting visuals. Come on in and cuddle my dear. And he does so. Soon curled up by me, he's out like a light, while I read away. I look at that gentle little face that truly prefers playing with dogs and legos, running outdoors, cuddling with a parent and a book and climbing trees to being in front of a TV non-stop. But, that's what being at Daddy's is about, the stolen pleasures that Mommy limits. So, he overdoses intensely on the televised world, and comes back to me sick with these persistent images and ideas. A time of purging and processing is necessary, and then... he'll go back again next week.
The wind is whistling ferociously outdoors, through my little bedroom window I can see the branches swaying back and forth. Sleep comes easily for me as well. I'm calm in my own home, whole, pleased to be surrounded by my choices and my children.
Erick loves his boys intensely, but, to put it simply we've not the same ideas about raising and educating them. How to sort all that out and do the best for the boys? A father's love is precious, his approval and pleasure in having them with him sincere. But, never a book, rarely an outing, no limits, no chores. It's a balancing act for us all. For the moment, we're all working with the basic structure of our life, and the boys are doing pretty well. I often dread their Sunday night return -- the wigginess, their hyped out but weary selves. It takes the full week to bring them down to Earth, get them back to a normal existence, with daily rhythms, meals, books, playing outdoors, quiet time. And then I send them off again. And the pattern repeats week after week.
But, let me not be hypocritical or from outer space here. I used to watch way too much TV. The last of three kids, I was the least supervised of us all, and who might I have become if my brain hadn't been so filled with Charlie's Angels, The Brady Bunch, The Loveboat and other rich fare? How did I survive? Long TV-free summers, limits, books... Did I come out ok? The debate still rages. Silly TV shows of the 70s evolve into random generational connections and reference points. So, trashy though all that is, I'm fully aware of a (minimal) need for my boys to be of their generation, to be exposed to Pokemon, Dofus, Warcraft, The Simpsons, etc., But, it is painful listening to this spew from their lips, to the exclusion of anything else.
Parenting, divorce, choices, judgement. I'm not the first to contemplate, struggle, fight, accept, compromise. I hear advice from many corners. For the moment, the status quo is manageable, and my boys are good, getting better, learning and absorbing what I'm trying to teach them (though The Black Stallion in book form doesn't replace Dofus in cartoon form in Leo's hands). I do hope they are learning for themselves to weigh the two worlds they're living in. Easier for Leo at 11 than for Jonas at seven, just as Tuesday night is far calmer than Sunday.
Yesterday I picked the boys up from Erick's. This vacation was organized with me having the boys at the beginning, and the end of the two weeks, and their being with Erick in between. As mom, I do my best to get them back onto a school schedule, and process them through a home-based television/computer de-tox program. As we drove from Arles to Avignon, Leo regaled me with the story lines of umpteen different TV shows. Jonas was in a bit of a daze. We stopped by the farm to pick up some fresh milk, and happily, Jonas showed his true colors and climbed out of the car to play with the farm dogs and investigate the barn where the new calves mulled around their mothers.
The evening was remarkably free of wigginess. Amazingly so. Normally the boys are flying off the wall when I get them back. But, for some strange reason (and for this I was grateful) they were calm. I put on the heat, started the fire in the stove and began cooking. We had a simple dinner of spare ribs and cauliflower, and watched the movie Billy Elliot together. Leo, who loves to dance to tectonic music, was inspired, and tried out a few double pirouettes just to see. And, in keeping with our tradition of having a good chat about life before he goes to sleep, we used the film as a starting point for talking about the gay friend Michael and what a great friendship the boys have, that no doubt a few of Leo's friends will some day come out as being gay, and that that's completely ok.
Teeth brushed and little boys cuddled and into bed, I curled up with M.F.K. Fisher's Alphabet for the Gourmet. But what's this? A little seven year old being is coming into my room to join me (and Filou, who, now that I'm back from Jean Paul's, has taken up his rightful spot at the foot of my bed). "I can't sleep because I keep seeing the images of the pubs from TV," he says. "I can't make them go away."
Ah, the invasion of televised images. As bad as an invasion of aliens in their souls. No child has a filtering mechanism built in to differentiate between real life and TV. Only time and richer, more nourishing fare can help purge these disorienting and conflicting visuals. Come on in and cuddle my dear. And he does so. Soon curled up by me, he's out like a light, while I read away. I look at that gentle little face that truly prefers playing with dogs and legos, running outdoors, cuddling with a parent and a book and climbing trees to being in front of a TV non-stop. But, that's what being at Daddy's is about, the stolen pleasures that Mommy limits. So, he overdoses intensely on the televised world, and comes back to me sick with these persistent images and ideas. A time of purging and processing is necessary, and then... he'll go back again next week.
The wind is whistling ferociously outdoors, through my little bedroom window I can see the branches swaying back and forth. Sleep comes easily for me as well. I'm calm in my own home, whole, pleased to be surrounded by my choices and my children.
Erick loves his boys intensely, but, to put it simply we've not the same ideas about raising and educating them. How to sort all that out and do the best for the boys? A father's love is precious, his approval and pleasure in having them with him sincere. But, never a book, rarely an outing, no limits, no chores. It's a balancing act for us all. For the moment, we're all working with the basic structure of our life, and the boys are doing pretty well. I often dread their Sunday night return -- the wigginess, their hyped out but weary selves. It takes the full week to bring them down to Earth, get them back to a normal existence, with daily rhythms, meals, books, playing outdoors, quiet time. And then I send them off again. And the pattern repeats week after week.
But, let me not be hypocritical or from outer space here. I used to watch way too much TV. The last of three kids, I was the least supervised of us all, and who might I have become if my brain hadn't been so filled with Charlie's Angels, The Brady Bunch, The Loveboat and other rich fare? How did I survive? Long TV-free summers, limits, books... Did I come out ok? The debate still rages. Silly TV shows of the 70s evolve into random generational connections and reference points. So, trashy though all that is, I'm fully aware of a (minimal) need for my boys to be of their generation, to be exposed to Pokemon, Dofus, Warcraft, The Simpsons, etc., But, it is painful listening to this spew from their lips, to the exclusion of anything else.
Parenting, divorce, choices, judgement. I'm not the first to contemplate, struggle, fight, accept, compromise. I hear advice from many corners. For the moment, the status quo is manageable, and my boys are good, getting better, learning and absorbing what I'm trying to teach them (though The Black Stallion in book form doesn't replace Dofus in cartoon form in Leo's hands). I do hope they are learning for themselves to weigh the two worlds they're living in. Easier for Leo at 11 than for Jonas at seven, just as Tuesday night is far calmer than Sunday.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Wine Translations - Teen Girls/Brief Crisis
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
I've a huge wine tasting translation to finish by the end of the month. The Grand Guide to Wines. It's great fun, if a bit repetitive, and a touch stressful all at the same time. When I have a day at home, I get loads done. When I bring my computer along to Leo's hand-ball practice, ditto. Concentrated time alone (or relatively) to work is rare. Far more common are the days when I'm in the car 3/4/5 times with minimum 30 minutes out, pause, 30 minutes back and so on and so on. For instance, today. I luckily didn't do the morning route as my carpooling buddy handled it. But, Jonas, my little one, had a tummy ache, so he stayed home. Thus, up at 7, breakfast on the table, fire lit in the stove, costumes found for the Carnival party at school, snacks prepared, out the door at 8. I clean up from breakfast and sit down with a second cup of chai (yes I'm trendy, I love this beverage!, particularly the Tazo black chai... heaven). Jonas cuddles next to me and is quiet for a while as I type away, With its notes of tobacco and spices, this honest and seriously structured wine is still a bit linear, but with great length. and Dense, serious, tannic, with beautiful scents of wild herbs. It’s an intense and masculine wine, finishing on opulent and rich fruit. etc., etc.,
Today I'm in the clean up and improve the English stage. It's the second batch of translations, with a third (the largest) awaiting me, that I'm hoping to begin tomorrow. I work my way through a good chunk before Jonas pokes his head out of the covers, takes a drink of his hot chocolate and disappears upstairs. He comes back down thirty minutes later with a couple masterful bionicles in hand, proudly showing me arms and armor and spikes and swords. I ooh and ah appreciatively, and try not to be to quick about it. I then look up, uh oh, already 10 O'clock, got to get ready to go and collect the large organic bulk purchase -- grouped with 3 other friends. I make a snack for Jonas, settle him in with toys and covers, check with my neighbor to keep an eye on him, and off I go.
Back at noon, I put away the groceries, figure out what the girlfriends owe me, and start making lunch for my crew, soon to arrive. Jonas wants to play a hand of cards, so I oblige. Once everyone is happily fed, I then have from 2 to 4 to work some more -- but Leo is in a snit about the weekend plans/vacation plans and sits in front of me, arguing, debating, negotiating... This takes time. Then my 12 year old teen boarder wants to send an email (mine is the only computer in the house), and we need to get ready for handball, and I prepare everything to work at the practice... and forget my computer. Argh. So I take the time to write down all the phone numbers in my cell phone, just in case the worst happens some day... And why not a bit of yoga while I'm hanging out in a gym? Leo can handle the minor embarrassment of his mom being weird in the corner.
Now, tonight, I have managed to work through some more, but I'm getting tired and sloppy. Not a good state of mind for the precise work of language revision. So, a pause is necessary.
I'm also a bit out of wack due to a family crisis. We had a major young teen female moment. My twelve year old, lovely young brunette teen, graceful, a bit spoiled, persistent, persuasive, and determined... wanted to do a bit of shopping this afternoon for her party this weekend (at her mom's). She caught me off guard. I wasn't sure. I was out from 4:30 till 6:30 with Leo and his hand-ball, I could drop her off, but not pick her up right away. I couldn't accompany her, and nor was there a friend in town, nor her sister. Couldn't she wait for Friday when her mother would be here? She was quietly, intensely determined, and I said, ok, but, two hours is a long time to be in town for a short errand, why don't you walk straight home, the sun doesn't go down till 6, so you should be home in plenty of time, better that than to wait in town for me in a café for two hours. Or so I thought.
Yes, the classic (but far from the worst) happened. She took her time in town, visiting other lovely shops, and walked slowly home. On the way, now that the sun was down and it was already getting dark, she was hassled by young men in their cars who slowed down, spoke to her, drove on ahead and turned around and came back. Scary for her. A right of passage for way too many lovely young females barely out of the cradle. Somehow we live in a world where men think it's ok to hassle and proposition a lovely young girl who's only barely 12 years' old! I certainly lived through that, as I think most women have. I was whistled at, hooted at, ogled etc., from pre-puberty on. But I was more of an urban child, perhaps, I don't remember being afraid, simply finding the men ridiculous, and I would just lower my head and hurry away.
So, as is obvious for parents of young girls, she will not go again to town on her own and most certainly will not walk home on her own again. Yes, I was slow on the uptake. My son is amazingly obedient, and I know him, his level of innocence, his level of city-smarts, and what is ok for him. No doubt my limits are more relaxed than some mothers, more strict than others. I've not had girls till this year, and starting with pre-puberty is pretty intense. I should have put my foot down, simply said sorry, not doable, and not allowed myself to be persuaded by this graceful and determined young woman. I'll get a second chance, thankfully, and she's now had a very unpleasant lesson in growing up, and in why parents set limits.
I've a huge wine tasting translation to finish by the end of the month. The Grand Guide to Wines. It's great fun, if a bit repetitive, and a touch stressful all at the same time. When I have a day at home, I get loads done. When I bring my computer along to Leo's hand-ball practice, ditto. Concentrated time alone (or relatively) to work is rare. Far more common are the days when I'm in the car 3/4/5 times with minimum 30 minutes out, pause, 30 minutes back and so on and so on. For instance, today. I luckily didn't do the morning route as my carpooling buddy handled it. But, Jonas, my little one, had a tummy ache, so he stayed home. Thus, up at 7, breakfast on the table, fire lit in the stove, costumes found for the Carnival party at school, snacks prepared, out the door at 8. I clean up from breakfast and sit down with a second cup of chai (yes I'm trendy, I love this beverage!, particularly the Tazo black chai... heaven). Jonas cuddles next to me and is quiet for a while as I type away, With its notes of tobacco and spices, this honest and seriously structured wine is still a bit linear, but with great length. and Dense, serious, tannic, with beautiful scents of wild herbs. It’s an intense and masculine wine, finishing on opulent and rich fruit. etc., etc.,
Today I'm in the clean up and improve the English stage. It's the second batch of translations, with a third (the largest) awaiting me, that I'm hoping to begin tomorrow. I work my way through a good chunk before Jonas pokes his head out of the covers, takes a drink of his hot chocolate and disappears upstairs. He comes back down thirty minutes later with a couple masterful bionicles in hand, proudly showing me arms and armor and spikes and swords. I ooh and ah appreciatively, and try not to be to quick about it. I then look up, uh oh, already 10 O'clock, got to get ready to go and collect the large organic bulk purchase -- grouped with 3 other friends. I make a snack for Jonas, settle him in with toys and covers, check with my neighbor to keep an eye on him, and off I go.
Back at noon, I put away the groceries, figure out what the girlfriends owe me, and start making lunch for my crew, soon to arrive. Jonas wants to play a hand of cards, so I oblige. Once everyone is happily fed, I then have from 2 to 4 to work some more -- but Leo is in a snit about the weekend plans/vacation plans and sits in front of me, arguing, debating, negotiating... This takes time. Then my 12 year old teen boarder wants to send an email (mine is the only computer in the house), and we need to get ready for handball, and I prepare everything to work at the practice... and forget my computer. Argh. So I take the time to write down all the phone numbers in my cell phone, just in case the worst happens some day... And why not a bit of yoga while I'm hanging out in a gym? Leo can handle the minor embarrassment of his mom being weird in the corner.
Now, tonight, I have managed to work through some more, but I'm getting tired and sloppy. Not a good state of mind for the precise work of language revision. So, a pause is necessary.
I'm also a bit out of wack due to a family crisis. We had a major young teen female moment. My twelve year old, lovely young brunette teen, graceful, a bit spoiled, persistent, persuasive, and determined... wanted to do a bit of shopping this afternoon for her party this weekend (at her mom's). She caught me off guard. I wasn't sure. I was out from 4:30 till 6:30 with Leo and his hand-ball, I could drop her off, but not pick her up right away. I couldn't accompany her, and nor was there a friend in town, nor her sister. Couldn't she wait for Friday when her mother would be here? She was quietly, intensely determined, and I said, ok, but, two hours is a long time to be in town for a short errand, why don't you walk straight home, the sun doesn't go down till 6, so you should be home in plenty of time, better that than to wait in town for me in a café for two hours. Or so I thought.
Yes, the classic (but far from the worst) happened. She took her time in town, visiting other lovely shops, and walked slowly home. On the way, now that the sun was down and it was already getting dark, she was hassled by young men in their cars who slowed down, spoke to her, drove on ahead and turned around and came back. Scary for her. A right of passage for way too many lovely young females barely out of the cradle. Somehow we live in a world where men think it's ok to hassle and proposition a lovely young girl who's only barely 12 years' old! I certainly lived through that, as I think most women have. I was whistled at, hooted at, ogled etc., from pre-puberty on. But I was more of an urban child, perhaps, I don't remember being afraid, simply finding the men ridiculous, and I would just lower my head and hurry away.
So, as is obvious for parents of young girls, she will not go again to town on her own and most certainly will not walk home on her own again. Yes, I was slow on the uptake. My son is amazingly obedient, and I know him, his level of innocence, his level of city-smarts, and what is ok for him. No doubt my limits are more relaxed than some mothers, more strict than others. I've not had girls till this year, and starting with pre-puberty is pretty intense. I should have put my foot down, simply said sorry, not doable, and not allowed myself to be persuaded by this graceful and determined young woman. I'll get a second chance, thankfully, and she's now had a very unpleasant lesson in growing up, and in why parents set limits.
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