Last night we went to my parents' house for dinner. My mother is such an amazing cook. She learned from my grandmother who was also an amazing cook. Mom made a carrot parsnip ginger soup that was restaurant quality, and Dawson retold the story of his birth.
"FIRST," he yelled, as he always does, "I LIVED IN YOUR TUMMY FOR THIRTY NINE YEARS."
"That's how it felt," I said.
"AND THEN YOUR BELLY BUTTON EXPLODED AND I SAID, HERE COMES ME!! THEN WHEN I WAS OUTSIDE YOUR BELLY BUTTON WENT BACK IN AND NOW IT'S LITTLE AGAIN."
"Okay," I said. "Let me get this straight. First you lived in my tummy..."
"Oh Mommy," Dawson interrupted me. "Let's just not talk about it ever again."
Fine. But just for the record, thirty nine years is a very long time.
The Museum of Natural History
Home again, and I'm so happy to be back. I had a quick stopover on the way back in New York, where I met up with Tommy and the boys and we went to the Museum of Natural History. Tommy and I loved it. Liam and Dawson were quickly bored. "How can you be bored?" I said. I mean really. Life-sized dioramas! What is there to complain about? "Look!" I continued. "A full sized grizzly bear!" Every time I go to the Museum of Natural History I want to be there at night by myself, just to see what it's like to be around all those life-sized, realistic looking, but very still creatures. It must be so amazing.
Dawson got tired and lay down on the floor, and Liam started whining about food. (These people need to be fed constantly.) The thing they enjoyed most was a slanted windowsill on the second floor that they could climb up and slide down. Then Liam and I lost Dawson and Tommy and when we finally found each other, we lost Dawson while Tommy and I were arguing about how we got separated in the first place. We found him in the gift store wearing a hard hat with a flashlight on the front. "I'm just going to borrow this," he said.
"I don't think that's how it works," I said.
"You don't know," he said.
And I thought, well, he's right about that. No one does know how it works anymore. All week I'd been talking to other writers and artists and people in general about the economy and what's happening, and how everything is folding or moving to the web, where no one really gets paid. I had just read an article in this month's Harper's magazine that talked about how publishing has moved from being run by a bunch of people who didn't need to make a lot so they just published what they loved, to a corporate model that is more focused on the blockbuster.
"I wonder if we're going to go back to that," said my friend Tim, who had come over to see us with his son who is Dawson's age. "That maybe we'll move to a model where people do things because they love them and it's exactly what they want to do, and they make enough money to sustain themselves, but not so much money that they do insane things." Like buy gold helicopters.
"Almost like a slow art movement," I said.
It made me think of being in the Museum of Natural History, and looking at all of those dinosaurs, those huge creatures that died out, and gave way to much smaller, busier, creatures. Is smaller better? I tend to think so. In theory it should be fairer and more sustainable. Although you could argue that human beings have done a lot of damage.
Tim added that he'd read that the creatures who are benefiting the most from global warming are insects and viruses. Then he told me that the best place to take a small child in the museum is the room with the big whale hanging from the ceiling because that's where all the pre-schoolers just run around in circles.
So at least now I know that. If you go to the Museum of Natural History with a small child, take them to the whale room, and save the life sized dioramas for the adults. As far as the economy goes the jury is still out. But for some reason that I still can't put my finger on, I feel fairly optimistic about things.
Dawson got tired and lay down on the floor, and Liam started whining about food. (These people need to be fed constantly.) The thing they enjoyed most was a slanted windowsill on the second floor that they could climb up and slide down. Then Liam and I lost Dawson and Tommy and when we finally found each other, we lost Dawson while Tommy and I were arguing about how we got separated in the first place. We found him in the gift store wearing a hard hat with a flashlight on the front. "I'm just going to borrow this," he said.
"I don't think that's how it works," I said.
"You don't know," he said.
And I thought, well, he's right about that. No one does know how it works anymore. All week I'd been talking to other writers and artists and people in general about the economy and what's happening, and how everything is folding or moving to the web, where no one really gets paid. I had just read an article in this month's Harper's magazine that talked about how publishing has moved from being run by a bunch of people who didn't need to make a lot so they just published what they loved, to a corporate model that is more focused on the blockbuster.
"I wonder if we're going to go back to that," said my friend Tim, who had come over to see us with his son who is Dawson's age. "That maybe we'll move to a model where people do things because they love them and it's exactly what they want to do, and they make enough money to sustain themselves, but not so much money that they do insane things." Like buy gold helicopters.
"Almost like a slow art movement," I said.
It made me think of being in the Museum of Natural History, and looking at all of those dinosaurs, those huge creatures that died out, and gave way to much smaller, busier, creatures. Is smaller better? I tend to think so. In theory it should be fairer and more sustainable. Although you could argue that human beings have done a lot of damage.
Tim added that he'd read that the creatures who are benefiting the most from global warming are insects and viruses. Then he told me that the best place to take a small child in the museum is the room with the big whale hanging from the ceiling because that's where all the pre-schoolers just run around in circles.
So at least now I know that. If you go to the Museum of Natural History with a small child, take them to the whale room, and save the life sized dioramas for the adults. As far as the economy goes the jury is still out. But for some reason that I still can't put my finger on, I feel fairly optimistic about things.
Back home again tomorrow, finally
Since I'm in transit, I'm reposting this from October:
Dawson had such a horrible time falling to sleep tonight. First I had to sing him "Ring of Fire" five times. Then he wanted to have a talk about cookies.
"Dawson," I said. "It's night time. It's time for sleep."
"Sing me another song."
"I will sing you one more song, and then I'm going to go work."
"On your computer?" (which he pronounces, "bombuter.")
"Yes."
"You working on a book?"
"Yes, honey, now go to sleep."
"I going to work on my puppy book."
"Fine," I said. "But I don't recommend writing books for a living."
Actually, that's not really what I said. I said something soothing like, "You can work on your puppy book tomorrow Dawse, but now it's sleepy time."
"No! I want to WRITE. MY. BOOK!"
"Dawsie!" I said. "It's quiet time." I got up to go brush my teeth.
"I WANT TO WRITE MY BOOK!" Dawsie yelled. "YOU ARE NOT BEING VERY NICE TO ME!"
Which summarizes the way I've felt for a third of my career.
Finally I got him to sleep by singing, "I Never Will Marry."
"I so broken-hearted," he said drowsily, and went to sleep with our black cat Ryely curled up at his feet.
Dawson had such a horrible time falling to sleep tonight. First I had to sing him "Ring of Fire" five times. Then he wanted to have a talk about cookies.
"Dawson," I said. "It's night time. It's time for sleep."
"Sing me another song."
"I will sing you one more song, and then I'm going to go work."
"On your computer?" (which he pronounces, "bombuter.")
"Yes."
"You working on a book?"
"Yes, honey, now go to sleep."
"I going to work on my puppy book."
"Fine," I said. "But I don't recommend writing books for a living."
Actually, that's not really what I said. I said something soothing like, "You can work on your puppy book tomorrow Dawse, but now it's sleepy time."
"No! I want to WRITE. MY. BOOK!"
"Dawsie!" I said. "It's quiet time." I got up to go brush my teeth.
"I WANT TO WRITE MY BOOK!" Dawsie yelled. "YOU ARE NOT BEING VERY NICE TO ME!"
Which summarizes the way I've felt for a third of my career.
Finally I got him to sleep by singing, "I Never Will Marry."
"I so broken-hearted," he said drowsily, and went to sleep with our black cat Ryely curled up at his feet.
Nothing is more difficult than a crying baby
I'm at my sister's in Oregon with her new baby Amalia, who is the easiest baby I have ever met in my life. She sleeps for hours on end. She's fussed maybe three times in the four days that I've been here. Even when she does cry, it's so delicate and for such a short time that it's almost funny.
"Having this baby is like having a minor cold," I said to my sister and her husband the second night I was here. "You can't stay out as late as you normally would, and you might not sleep as well as usual, but in general, she just doesn't slow you down that much."
Then I took every chance I could get to tell anyone who would listen how colicky and Liam and Dawson were.
"Liam would NOT nap," I said to Emily's friends Gwenn and Cosmo. "He was up from eleven in the morning until eleven at night. And Dawson. That child had a scream like a pterodactyl."
I might as well have said, "That's right. Feel sorry for me."
(Which is what my friend Margaret said after telling me that if her husband didn't have sex five times a week he'd get very agitated.)
The next day I told my sister that I was sorry I kept bringing up how hard it was when Liam was a baby and he wouldn't sleep every time anyone mentioned how easy Amalia was. "I feel like an old woman who keeps bringing up her bunions," I said. Like oh, you have a good baby? My children had eight heads. And they were all screaming. Have you ever tried to nurse an eight-headed child? It's not easy.
"Maybe you need to talk about it," she said. "I've talked about how traumatic Amalia's birth was for weeks. It's the only thing that made me feel better about it."
So I started talking about Liam's infancy, (most of which she'd missed because she lives so far away.) He had a hernia which was undiagnosed for six months, and so he was in a lot of pain and none of us knew why. He would go on crying jags for hours, often in the middle of the night. He couldn't nap, no matter what I did, and my husband was traveling for work and I was alone with him during the week. "It really was traumatic," I said. "I was so sleep deprived, I felt like a crazy person." Although I still feel strange saying that, because of course, lots of people have much more difficult things to deal with than a crying baby.
"Nothing is more difficult than a crying baby," my sister said. "Except for maybe losing a baby."
We were quiet for a minute, and then she said, "I don't think any of us understood how hard it was for you."
"I know," I said.
And then I started to cry. In a coffee shop, four years after I thought I'd put that time period behind me. And then Emily started to cry, and little Amalia just sat in her papoose, gurgling and cooing, as if our tears were nothing she hadn't heard a thousand times before.
"Having this baby is like having a minor cold," I said to my sister and her husband the second night I was here. "You can't stay out as late as you normally would, and you might not sleep as well as usual, but in general, she just doesn't slow you down that much."
Then I took every chance I could get to tell anyone who would listen how colicky and Liam and Dawson were.
"Liam would NOT nap," I said to Emily's friends Gwenn and Cosmo. "He was up from eleven in the morning until eleven at night. And Dawson. That child had a scream like a pterodactyl."
I might as well have said, "That's right. Feel sorry for me."
(Which is what my friend Margaret said after telling me that if her husband didn't have sex five times a week he'd get very agitated.)
The next day I told my sister that I was sorry I kept bringing up how hard it was when Liam was a baby and he wouldn't sleep every time anyone mentioned how easy Amalia was. "I feel like an old woman who keeps bringing up her bunions," I said. Like oh, you have a good baby? My children had eight heads. And they were all screaming. Have you ever tried to nurse an eight-headed child? It's not easy.
"Maybe you need to talk about it," she said. "I've talked about how traumatic Amalia's birth was for weeks. It's the only thing that made me feel better about it."
So I started talking about Liam's infancy, (most of which she'd missed because she lives so far away.) He had a hernia which was undiagnosed for six months, and so he was in a lot of pain and none of us knew why. He would go on crying jags for hours, often in the middle of the night. He couldn't nap, no matter what I did, and my husband was traveling for work and I was alone with him during the week. "It really was traumatic," I said. "I was so sleep deprived, I felt like a crazy person." Although I still feel strange saying that, because of course, lots of people have much more difficult things to deal with than a crying baby.
"Nothing is more difficult than a crying baby," my sister said. "Except for maybe losing a baby."
We were quiet for a minute, and then she said, "I don't think any of us understood how hard it was for you."
"I know," I said.
And then I started to cry. In a coffee shop, four years after I thought I'd put that time period behind me. And then Emily started to cry, and little Amalia just sat in her papoose, gurgling and cooing, as if our tears were nothing she hadn't heard a thousand times before.
Reading tomorrow night.
I'm traveling this week--in New York for the Pen Parentis reading. (Tomorrow night, 6:00 at the Libertine)and then on my way to visit my sister's new baby. But here's an old post I still like:
This was a conversation we had last night at Maxie’s where we went for dinner because school was closed due to an ice storm (even though the roads were FINE) and by the end of the day the last thing I wanted to do was cook.
“Mom,” Liam said. “Can you tell me a story about Ryely” our black cat “and the zombies?”
“No honey, I already told you that story in the car.”
“But do zombies eat people?” Liam said.
“Yes.”
“Do we have zombies in our basement?”
“No. There are no zombies in New York state. Zombies only live in Florida.”
“I really hate zombies,” Liam said. Liam has been using “hate” all the time lately. “I hate chicken noodle soup,” or “I hate that sweater.” It’s a little disconcerting. But what’s more disconcerting is listening to myself say, “Hate is a very strong word, Liam,” which is exactly what my mother used to say, and my sisters and I have teased her mercilessly about it for years, especially since swear words didn't bother her as much.
“Liam,” Tommy said. “We don’t say hate. We say, ‘I don’t like’ or ‘I don’t care for.”
“Well, I really don’t like zombies.”
"Understood," said Tommy.
“Why don’t you color on your placemat?” I said. Liam picked up a crayon and dutifully began to color.
“Do you hate children?” Liam said.
“Of course not,” I said. “I love children. Especially you and Dawson.”
Outside, we heard the lonely whistle of a freight train. “WHOO! WHOOO!” shrieked Dawson, causing a woman at the table next to us to drop a knife.
“Oh look a train!” I said to Liam. “Can you see it?” Liam, like my father, loves trains.
“I see it!” Liam said, “There’s two diesel engines! And one more! And a hopper car. Hopper car, hopper car, hopper car. Tank car!”
I sat for a minute, listening to Liam's recitation. There is a story my grandmother tells of my father doing the exact same thing when he was about Liam's age, watching a freight train pull into a station in Pennsylvania, and it made me nostalgic and happy to hear my son so enthusiastically responding to something his grandfather so dearly loves. I turned to Liam to give him a kiss, and caught him as he was just about to stab the waiter in the ass with a fork.
“Liam!” I said. “Don’t do that!”
“Well, well, well,” Liam said. “I just hate coloring
This was a conversation we had last night at Maxie’s where we went for dinner because school was closed due to an ice storm (even though the roads were FINE) and by the end of the day the last thing I wanted to do was cook.
“Mom,” Liam said. “Can you tell me a story about Ryely” our black cat “and the zombies?”
“No honey, I already told you that story in the car.”
“But do zombies eat people?” Liam said.
“Yes.”
“Do we have zombies in our basement?”
“No. There are no zombies in New York state. Zombies only live in Florida.”
“I really hate zombies,” Liam said. Liam has been using “hate” all the time lately. “I hate chicken noodle soup,” or “I hate that sweater.” It’s a little disconcerting. But what’s more disconcerting is listening to myself say, “Hate is a very strong word, Liam,” which is exactly what my mother used to say, and my sisters and I have teased her mercilessly about it for years, especially since swear words didn't bother her as much.
“Liam,” Tommy said. “We don’t say hate. We say, ‘I don’t like’ or ‘I don’t care for.”
“Well, I really don’t like zombies.”
"Understood," said Tommy.
“Why don’t you color on your placemat?” I said. Liam picked up a crayon and dutifully began to color.
“Do you hate children?” Liam said.
“Of course not,” I said. “I love children. Especially you and Dawson.”
Outside, we heard the lonely whistle of a freight train. “WHOO! WHOOO!” shrieked Dawson, causing a woman at the table next to us to drop a knife.
“Oh look a train!” I said to Liam. “Can you see it?” Liam, like my father, loves trains.
“I see it!” Liam said, “There’s two diesel engines! And one more! And a hopper car. Hopper car, hopper car, hopper car. Tank car!”
I sat for a minute, listening to Liam's recitation. There is a story my grandmother tells of my father doing the exact same thing when he was about Liam's age, watching a freight train pull into a station in Pennsylvania, and it made me nostalgic and happy to hear my son so enthusiastically responding to something his grandfather so dearly loves. I turned to Liam to give him a kiss, and caught him as he was just about to stab the waiter in the ass with a fork.
“Liam!” I said. “Don’t do that!”
“Well, well, well,” Liam said. “I just hate coloring
More evidence that my three year old is channeling Bukowski
Last night he came up to me at a dinner party and said, "Hey Bottom Face! Let's go to bed!"
Meanwhile, I have been chosen as one of the bloggers to be featured in the Mom Logic Community Coffee Club, which means that you can win a Keurig Single-Cup Coffee Maker.
Here's what you do:
First, leave a comment on my MLC Coffee Club post called "Labor Pains." I wrote it in January on the day our furnace quit and the pipes froze and my husband had a broken ankle and I wondered if the apocryphal tale of a woman who just walks out of her house in a bathrobe and slippers and never goes back was really apocryphal. In fact, I kept thinking of this collie we had when I was little who had puppies, and one day she just got up while all the puppies were nursing and walked to the other side of the yard, letting them fall off one by one. (She came back about a half hour later, so no one was hurt.) At the time I thought the dog was a terrible mother, but now I think I understand her better.
Anyway, then, you'll need to leave another comment on my profile page in the momlogic community, and there you go. You could win a coffee maker. Actually, I wish I could win the coffee maker. I'm spending a fortune at the coffee shop down the street.
Meanwhile, I have been chosen as one of the bloggers to be featured in the Mom Logic Community Coffee Club, which means that you can win a Keurig Single-Cup Coffee Maker.
Here's what you do:
First, leave a comment on my MLC Coffee Club post called "Labor Pains." I wrote it in January on the day our furnace quit and the pipes froze and my husband had a broken ankle and I wondered if the apocryphal tale of a woman who just walks out of her house in a bathrobe and slippers and never goes back was really apocryphal. In fact, I kept thinking of this collie we had when I was little who had puppies, and one day she just got up while all the puppies were nursing and walked to the other side of the yard, letting them fall off one by one. (She came back about a half hour later, so no one was hurt.) At the time I thought the dog was a terrible mother, but now I think I understand her better.
Anyway, then, you'll need to leave another comment on my profile page in the momlogic community, and there you go. You could win a coffee maker. Actually, I wish I could win the coffee maker. I'm spending a fortune at the coffee shop down the street.
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