Three Things

Child Number 1 has a small doe-colored freckle in the middle of his forehead, just below his hairline. My husband and I nicknamed this freckle after a feisty terrier we encountered one day long ago at the Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown. Martin and I were lying in the grass one sunny weekend (long before kids, long before anything resembling the present) when a woman from the neighborhood walked by with her wiry little dog. The dog came up to sniff and check us out, wagging and wriggling the whole time. We pet his fur; he licked our hands. Upon parting, the owner called out in her thick Boston accent, "Come ahhn, Chahhh-lee! Let's go!" We resolved to one day have a dog as good as little Chahhlee. After Child Number 1 was born, and we came to know his personality in bits and pieces, we found the naming of that one lovely freckle after that happy, tail-wagging terrier to be a perfect fit for our small boy. Sometimes I lift the blond hair on No 1's forehead when he least expects it, when he's eating cereal--his eyes still full of sleep and dreams, and greet "Charlie the Freckle." I give the boy a kiss, and with my best Boston accent exclaim, "Hey Chahhlee!" I know I've performed this small ritual correctly, if he wiggles away, gives a withering look, and sighs "Maahhhm!"

Child Number 2 is both observer and observed. He points out plastic bags in trees, the shape of shadows, airplanes passing through cloudless skies. His focus is always on some object, or movement, or idea out in the world that captures his attention for the moment, the day, the week. And that object/movement/idea in the world that captures him so wholly is then discarded just as quickly-- becoming merely an empty nest, an overturned jar sans cricket, a page of a book already read. It is the project, the process, the movement itself that is of interest to my smaller boy. It is not the toy car; it is the road he finds to drive across. It is not the box, rather all that the box might become. (I wonder, what child is this?) What child is this who refuses to move along lines more solid, more objective, less subjective? What child is this, who is so often occupied by some other more alluring world? He is his father's son. He is the butterfly moving from leaf to leaf, beautiful to watch, undeserving of capture.

Child Number 3 is moving now; practicing pushing/standing/touching/ grasping over and again and again; grabbing fistfuls of grass in dimpled fingers; rolling and laughing (some ancient chime is sounded in the heart at the tiny-strong sound); vocalizing. Bahh-baaa, she says at the door. Bahh-baa-baa. Baby teeth below (just two) and two more tiny tooth nubs at the top. Tiny baby gums gum-gumming at crackers, berries, cheese. Stretching toward brothers and brother's plastic toys; (No-No Baby. That's Not For You. The big brothers scold softly at first, then more seriously.) Holding picture books; tearing pages; grabbing at the world with two chubby hands. Hands that form tight fists in frustration; hands scratching toward familiar faces; hands fluttering and twisting to some orchestra sounding its final note, and only baby girl holds the baton. Bravo, baby girl. Bravo.

Cleaning House

The phrase "cleaning house" has all sorts of interpretations depending on its usage. Cleaning house in its literal form can mean ridding rooms of dust and dirt, whereas "cleaning house" in its newer Recession Era usage can mean having an excuse to get rid of low-performers at the office. Neither interpretation sounds particularly appealing. But just for fun, let's go back to the more literal usage. There are thousands of us (millions, even?) seemingly invested in this idea of cleaning house. We buy brooms and mops, storage bins and closet organizers, and subscriptions to "Real Simple" magazine (http://www.realsimple.com/) where we find advice on simplifying even our application of make-up. (Really?) Why are we all so feverishly cleaning and decluttering? Why the bumper stickers proclaiming "simplify" next to the ones giving "peace" a chance stuck to the bumper of every old faded car on the road? Well, clearly to make room...for more stuff.

This stuff/clutter/cleaning house thing is all the rage. On the one end you have retailers selling stuff to help us organize our stuff (i.e.Target selling large plastic bins by the pallet the day after Christmas) and at the other end, you have people like the man who threw nothing away for a year: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=17778816 who seemed to want to make a statement about all the stuff, and yes, the need to simplify. To simplify has become the mantra of the middle class. We say it in breathless whispers to one another...I just want to simplify. I'm trying to simplify my life, my house, my wardrobe. It's tempting to simplify because who the hell wants to complicate? But it is complicated.

Before we start dumping stuff overboard it seems we need to look at our motivations for doing so. I think we need to acknowledge that this is a middle-class behavior esteemed highest by those with the opportunity to acquire the most. (And yes, I include myself in this group.) Although I'm risking generalities here, I doubt that the poor kids I taught in Salem, MA (yes, I said "poor" which is what they were) hold the same affinity for ditching material goods. In fact, many of those kids were fixated on that elusive "American Dream," white-picket fence and all. I wonder how many of those kids 10 years from now might subscribe to "Real Simple" magazine? I wonder how many of them might realize that the dream of stuff, much like the dream of simplification is still focused on the thing, but is not the thing itself?

Forgive me for not remembering where I read or heard the following, but it seems an apt way to end this post: Our children don't want more stuff. What they want is us.

The Trance

Sending invitations out for this blog has created more pressure to write than I might have expected. (And the weekend with its 45-degree weather and mean winds did little to inspire, so I chose not to write.) It nagged at me though, the Not Writing-ness of my weekend. Which is why I got up early this morning to begin an entry before the whole house was awake and wanting.

Today I ask you to look back at my last post referring to Isabel Allende’s deceptively simple do-it-yourself instructions for becoming a writer. And here is what I have to say: Ms. Allende – You forgot to mention moods…of which I have many. Regardless of moods or moodiness, you need to write. And to provide a parallel for this in the realm of motherhood, this is much like the fact that you need to say, prepare a snack for Child Number 1 (and a slightly different snack for Child Number 2, and again different for Child Number 3.) again and again, day-in, day-out because of the incredibly relentless nature of children. (Oh, yes—and the fact that children really do need to eat.)

Ms. Allende did not refer to the discipline it takes to write, rather she spoke briefly about the trance-like state she is lifted into upon entry into that other world of magical composition. But discussion of discipline or not, it was clear that she orders life to her liking by scheduling her first day of writing a new book to fall on the same January day. Leading up to that date she rushes about doing laundry, cleaning house, gathering up her papers and research. Clearing the space, if you will. Making room. (A reference to Virginia Woolf here would be too easy, right?) But this makes sense because writing does engross. Writing does make one criss-cross the world and come circling back again. Mommy’s writing. I can’t look at— Not right now— You’ll have to get your own snack—

For those of you who have the time to do so, you may want to listen to the NHPR radio broadcast of the interview at http://thedianerehmshow.org/shows/2010-05-05/isabel-allende-island-beneath-sea . The most surprising/unexpected moment of the night was her insistence that we as an audience sit up and pay close attention to the issue of slavery. She spoke about its prevalence across the globe, and how we have slavery “even here in the United States.” She got very loud about this, and leaned directly into her microphone to suggest that any naysayers could Google it, or go directly to: http://www.freetheslaves.net/

The way I see it, and can ultimately relate to the idea of slavery is to view it as a continuum; at one end you find the looser use of the term “slavery” to suggest being a slave to other people’s expectations of you to say, buy a home, shop at The Gap, or make a certain amount of money. At the other end are the stories – not stories at all – of young girls forced into the sex slave industry, children chained to posts in rug-making factories, or whole families indebted, indebted beyond generations as yet unborn.

So do I make the easy connection here? Do I say that my life is so much easier than that imagined child in Pakistan, and therefore the simple indulgence of sitting at a computer on a Monday morning is a gift? Do I ask, dear Reader, for your forgiveness in complaining about moods, and making excuses for my inability to follow-through on a task? The trouble is I’m just not convinced it’s that simple. Each of us is burdened with a unique set of abilities and disabilities. Depending on the setting, an ability can make us appear different, when all we want at that moment is to appear the same as everyone else. A disability can at times splinter off like light hitting a crystal and cast color into the room. But hear me when I say this—each of us carries a burden. Some of us encounter financial troubles, while others face health issues. Whatever the trouble, the burden, the thing that enslaves us, it is our job to seek freedom.

Discipline

Writing is akin to raising a child. It requires tremendous discipline, and not the sort that is loud or aggressive in nature, rather the sort that is measured and even-handed as much as possible. At Portsmouth's Music Hall this past Wednesday evening, Isabel Allende responded to an audience member question (albeit predictable) about what it takes to write. Of course, her response was, "to write" and to write daily--that it would act as a cumulative building up of energy and muscle much like that of an athlete. (Again, a resounding -- of course.) So, through the rosy lens of my post-Margarita haze, I thought to myself that I might be able to do that- to write daily. Maybe I would only have the chance to write for five minutes, but five minutes would be better than zero minutes, right? In college I used to write essay upon essay upon essay. Where did that discipline go? Was it simply the structure of a classroom and teachers working their magic? Or was is my own drive to, Do well! Succeed! Get the "A!"

So now to the raising a child piece. My three little ones have been giving me many lessons in discipline. Enter Stage Left, Child Number 2, strong-willed, fiercely independent, artist-at-age-4, and relentless in his uprisings against any traditional form of discipline. He cannot be bought or bribed (except perhaps with the occasional donut hole, and then only for mere minutes of "good behavior.") Rather he forces me to engage with him in a very different way. A measured way. He demands that I be disciplined in my approach to him. This is a very challenging task.

I am finding that discipline is far less about punishment than it is about teaching. How do we remove the social baggage, the emotion, the hazy gauze of past experience that blinds us momentarily when dealing with our children? How do we access the truth of the thing, the moment, the narrative? Therein lies the real work.

Thursday's Child

Really, there is only one way to begin this blog:

Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

(Traditional English Nursery Rhyme)

We have far to go, friends. The question is, in what direction?