What Real Mothers Do

Oooh, now that MetroMama has tagged me for this, I'm forced into action.
(At least, now that Misterpie fixed my computer issues tonight...)

Real moms have bags. Lots of bags.


Some pretty,

some not so pretty.


(And, apparently, real mom bloggers will exploit
their own miserable cold for a cheap joke on a meme. Sad.)

Get All Up In My Business - Please!

So I'm getting more and more excited about the idea of spinning off a side business in glasswork. I have two different thoughts of how that might work, but in either case, I think I need to start thinking about putting together the business aspect a bit before I start fishing more solidly into the other half. And building stock, but I'm working on that.

First order of business? A name, of course. So I'm taking - begging, really - ideas from you. I have a few ideas of the kind of name I'd like. Categories, I suppose you could say. (bits in bold are some of my early brainstorming ideas)

I have a Carroll fixation, so something related to that would work for me - Glass Alice, Cheshire Glassworks, something along that line. (I'd kind of like the sound of Fantasmagoria, too, except that apparently Marilyn Manson is taking it and turning into some kind of horror movie, of all the ridiculous, irritating things, so it will get a very different connotation within a year or two! And my work is not exactly what you'd call gothic-inspired.)

Or maybe something that reflects materials I use in various crafts, that would leave me open to use the same name for other types of craft work. Something like Paper, Glass, and String.

There are tons of glass studios that have cute, clever, punny-type names, things along the lines of Growing Panes, or Lead Astray. I know of businesses called Paned Expressions, Pane in the Glass, etc. I'm not leaning strongly to this, unless something really fun pops up that I haven't heard before.

Or maybe something with "Shards" in it? Shards of Brilliance?

Lend me your brains, everyone. I'm in desperate need, since mine have been withering in my head these past few months (as you may have noticed, given the featherweight blogging that's been going on)!

Kittenpie, Laptop Slayer: The Second Killing

I'm getting a bad reputation 'round here. Misterpie is beginning to tease me. Soon, I won't even be allowed near a laptop if this continues. Yes, my name is kittenpie and I am a laptop slayer.

My first time, I poised at the top of a flight of lovely, freshly installed maple stairs, laptop in hand, about to descend. As I stepped, I felt the pull of the cord beneath my foot. As my body lurched forward, my mind churned - do I fall or let go and save myself? Laptop or me? Laptop. And I let it go. I watched its slow-motion trajectory as it hit a stair about halfway down, bounced with a crunch, hit another step near the bottom, bounced again with a cracking noise, stopped as it hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs with a thunk, and came to rest on the landingwith a loud clatter. I was still standing, hands braced against wall and railing, frozen, breathing hard, when Misterpie emerged from the next room to find out what happened. Those gorgeous new stairs bore dents, and the wall now sported a small hole. That computer was his work computer, he would have a hard time explaining how his wife dropped it down the stairs, but to his credit, even in that very moment, he told me I made the right call. One down.

And then last week, one night, as Misterpie napped, I was reading a few blogs, sipping some tea, thinking about going to bed soon. Henry often visits us when we are on the computer, hopping up on the desk, purring, sneaking in a few extra pats as we work or read. When he comes up, we will move any snacks or beverages away from his inquisitive nose and pushing, pat-seeking forehead. But that night, Wednesday night, his landing impacted my cup directly, spilling a tall mug of tea across keyboard, touchpad, and mousebuttons. I tried to catch the cup, shove him aside, and grab for something to mop up with, all at once. Time sped up rather than slowing down this time, and no matter how fast I moved, I knew it was too late to fix this anyhow. And indeed, we are now working on a computer with no keyboard. A second notch. Let the ribbing commence.

So if you find that I am not leaving comments, rest assured that I am reading. I just can't type you a comment! We are hoping we can attach some peripherals and use the poor thing as a CPU only instead, so I may be back up soon, but meanwhile it's catch as catch can on work time. I should have stuck to killing spiders...

Dear HBM: Since You Asked...

And because it seems to be HBM week around here... answers to her blogging questions. She's doing a panel discussion and some other thingummies, and is taking a survey of sorts - though an informal, not-so-scientific-type survey. Her questions are in bold. Feel free to ponder them and answer yourselves - but do let her know, so she can add your voice to the choir. (She also notes that she'd take suggestions or other questions, so if you're feeling inspired, let her know!)

1. Who are we? What is a mommyblogger? What kind of mommyblogger (parent blogger) are you?
Who are we? Parents, readers, writers, thinkers, people who like to converse with others, even when time is short. I suppose I think of a mommyblogger as nothing more than a blogger who happens to be a parent, though I suppose there may be parents who don't blog about their kids and are not, thus, grouped into the mommybloggers. (I tried that and came into the fold anyhow...) So maybe more parents who blog about their children at least part of the time. Myself, as I say, I started out trying to back off the mommyblogger thing, but I'd say I likely blog about my Pumpkinpie half the time or so, now, as she becomes more interesting and newsworthy. I'm not sure what "kind" of mommyblogger I'd say I am - are there "kinds?" I have found there to be both great commonality and great individuality, so I have a hard time thinking in terms of "kinds" here, frankly.

2. Who are we writing to? Who is our audience?
I think who I envision reading has changed over my blogging year. I started out with no audience in mind, and quickly found Mary P. Then I found others, and they found me, and I started to put people in my mind's audience. Meeting some in person made them more solid, and I would say that now I write for a small community of somewhere between ten and twenty people who occasionally visit. And, of course, for the fact that I'm enjoying just doing it. It had been a while, and it's nice to be in the habit of thinking on "paper" again.

3. Why are we writing? What is our purpose?
Aside from the abovementioned joy in simply writing again, exercising a muscle I had forgotten, I have loved the community of women I've met. I love sharing, reading of their experiences, getting a laugh or an occasional deep thought, being prodded or challenged by some, supported or touched by others. I love knowing there are people I like out there, kindred spirits of sorts, people with whom I have come to feel at ease. I also sometimes write things that I want to kep for myself, maybe to share with Pumpkinpie one day, thoughts or moments I want to capture, and occasionally also to probe something in myself and figure out how to get it out there.

4. What is the context for our writing? What are we saying? What is our message?
I see the context here as being within the small mommy community that I feel a part of. A sort of neighbourhood. I feel like our communications are comparable to a weekend brunch or barbecue where you catch up, share anecdotes, cement and grow friendships in these little sharings and occasional deeper discussions or debates. Wat we are saying sometimes doesn't matter - the conversation equivalent of the weather to keep conversation going - and sometimes acts to let each other know we share things, we are alike, sometimes serves to put forth opinions or bat around ideas, sometimes gives a glimpse of what you hold dear, allowing someone to et to know you better. I see the message being about shared experience and an enjoyment of each other as people with lively conversation and active minds. It is so much like talking over coffee with good friends is at its best.

5. How does the medium of blogging affect all of the above (that is, does, or how does, the communication of our messages through blogs, bear upon the message itself? Bonus points if you leave Mcluhan out of it.)
Blogging as a medium is an interesting departure from merely posting on a website because of the commenting and interaction, I think. The diary format allows for lots of topics, which allows a blogger to talk about many different things that interest them, which I think also lets us know people in a more complete fashion. The blogrolls allow us to start building community further out, as we explore who this person that we like also likes. But the comments are the big thing. There, you can discover other bloggers who have said interesting things by clicking on their profile link. You can put in your own two cents. People can respond to what you have to say. It is here that we really get to feel the bonds of friendship forming as people respond and you get a feel for them as people, beyond the more polished prose of their posts. It also means, because of its conversational feel, that people spark ideas off of each other - like the recent discussions about privilege, like last month's discussions of hipster parents, and the month-before's discussion of cocktail playdates. People read about things on other people's blogs, comments, ponder further, and put up their own take on the subject at their place later. Sparking more discussion. Which I think makes for interesting and sometimes wide-reaching conversations.

6. What kind of citizen are you in the parent blogosphere? How and why do you comment? Link? Give awards? How important is 'off-blog' (or inter-blog) activity to the parent blogging community?
Hmm. Oddly, and I'm not always sure why, there are some blogs I always comment on, some I comment on sometimes, and some I just read. Sometimes it has to do with time, sometimes with post content and whether I have anything to say to it, sometimes with how many comments are there already (ie. I never bother to comment on waiter rant because really? Comment #275? Who cares?), sometimes whether I know the blogger well and want them to know I've been by. I mostly link in posts where the person has made me think about something or where I want to use someone as an illustrative example. I also have a blogroll, which serves as my personal reading list - I'm not sure if other people use it or not. I have only given awards a couple of times, when something struck me as truly exceptional. I'm not all about patting backs for the sake of it - it has to really strike a chord with me. And of course, I have to remember to do it... which is a big hurdle! I'm not surehow much "off-blog" activity there is among bloggers outside of Toronto, though I hear about occasional meetups. I think it's great to meet people you already like online and find they are jsut as wonderful or better in person. I love how my online friends have, in many cases, become even better friends for knowing them face-to-face. I don't think it's a necessary part of the experience, though. There are bloggers I'll never meet that I am really quite fond of. I think it's a really nice frill, I guess.

7. What are some tried and true hangover remedies that you know?
Erm, I don't tend to get hungover much... Once the spins leave, I'm okay, just a bit tired, so it's just water and a good breakfast - though big and greasy seems to be extra helpful.

Privileged

HBM's mom has sure stirred up a hornet's nest this week... and tons of bloggers are talking about the notion of privilege. It's something that has been discussed on and off a lot for the year I've been blogging, something that seems to be acknowledged with some wringing of hands and then passed over again, for really, what else do you do with it? Find someone less privileged and offer to drive them to the library and look after their kids so they can have some time to blog? They'd quite rightly think you were nuts. And perhaps that's the point, that we have the luxury of thinking blogging might be something really worth giving over time to, and perhaps not. Whatever. What I think is interesting, though, is that even while we are admitting that yes, we are privileged, we are not talking a lot about what we mean by that. Perhaps because we are people who are privileged in many different ways, so we can just nod and not delve. A couple of people, though, have started to dissect it a bit, to talk about what it means to be "privileged," and I think it's worth a look.

Toyfoto said in HBM's comments, Everyone is lucky. Everyone is unlucky. Bub&Pie just posted a longish piece about how she was, in some ways, very privileged, while in others, she was not. I quite agree. I think maybe this is why so many of us balk slightly at the label. It's not that we don't know we have it good. It's that it's not all good. And it's not that we don't know we're lucky, it's that we wonder why we should be made to feel bad about it. And why it matters. Back to that later.

I want to be clear here - we are all lucky on global terms. I recognize that. But I don't live in war-torn Sierra Leone, a slum of Calcutta, a child brothel in Bangkok. I live in Canada, and I am talking here in the context of developed nations, of comparable scenarios, of Canada, the U.S., the peace-enfolded regions of Western Europe. To say I'm privileged in terms of the entire planet is a platitude, frankly, and I don't think any of the discussions of privilege are really seeking to make this comparison. Just for context, so you know I'm aware. (and you know, so you don't think I'm a giant ass.)

So what are we talking about? Let's think about the label. White, educated, middle-class women with time and access. Okay. Let's look at those to start with.

White - many, most, yes, though some not. Whatever. I'm not sure how much race has to do with this, although I would say that perhaps those more "North-American-ized" are more inclined to blog, from what I see, than those not. Whatever colour they might be. I think culture more than race might be at play here? Anyone?

Educated - many, yes, though I think there's a wider range here than we know or think about. Some with high school, some working on undergrad, some with masters, some with docs. I haven't found this to have much bearing on the quality of the writing or my interest in it, nor the desire to write their own blog. As far as privilege is concerned, education to some level is a right here in Canada, and to go further is, indeed, a privilege, though there is certainly a lot to be said about the fact that it is not the same privilege as class or money. It is often connected to those automatically, but I think it's important to note that some very poor people have gone through a lot to get an education because they put value on it, while plenty of well-off people ride what they've got, without formal education, so I have to say that I'm not sure these are as intrinsically connected as we assume. To carry the presumption that one will naturally go off to university after high school, even without a definite goal, perhaps, is the privilege of the middle-class, so perhaps people are talking in this general way when they bandy that about. Okay.

Middle-class - well, mostly, yes, I would agree. Right now. The thing about wealth, though, (and I think when we talk class these days, for most people in North America, we are talking about finances, for class as caste is less deeply ingrained here) is that it ebbs and flows. Some of us have known more at other times, some have known less. Myself? As I said in HBM's comments, I have known times in childhood where we, my single mother and I, lived in communal housing and subsisted on home-grown bean sprouts, home-made pea soup, sardines, and powdered milk to keep us going as cheaply as possible. My clothing was hand-made or second-hand, most of my few toys crafted by my mother's hands. We traveled by bicycle in all weather. Conversely, I have known times in my late twenties when a $200 meal on a Friday night was not uncommon. And now, I find myself somewhere in the middle. Both much-reduced and much-improved. On a relative scale, privileged indeed, though it still feels like struggling some days.

Time - Time. Well, many of us work full-time, as well as trying to keep the house from floating away, but there is indeed time to be found for what you think is important. Some go to the gym, some read, some watch TV, some cook more elaborate meals than are strictly necessary, some go out, some make crafts, and so on. We have hobbies. One of them is blogging. There are indeed women with a lot more time - make that unscheduled, unscripted time - on their hands, but it is not all about leisure. There are indeed people who do not have the time to blog, for one reason or another, but mostly, time is something that can be found here and there if you make it a priority, I think. It depends on whether you think writing is important to you. Whether that's the feeding your soul that works for you. (But maybe that's privilege talking. heh.)

Access - It's assumed we all have computers in our homes. I do have an antiquated and inherited (thanks, FIL!) laptop at home, but at least as often, I blog on breaks at work, given that Misterpie needs that computer for school prep, too. However, that is, to some degree, neither here nor there. Thanks to Bill and Melinda, anyone who can make it to a library has access now. In a city like Toronto or New York, this means a library will be within 1.25 miles, an easy walking distance. Many areas of the city have two or three branches within walking distance. In the suburbs, distances may be greater, as it was assumed by urban planners that suburban dwellers travel by car (since you have to drive to get something as basic as milk in many suburbs, as they were laid out for a car-driven society long ago, though that is changing somewhat now). Libraries in cities and 'burbs are open late at least a couple nights a week, if not four or five nights, and at least Saturday, with some including Sundays, too. In rural areas, it all depends.

Okay, so we have these privileges. These labels. It seems to me that it is not just one privilege, but layers of many overlapping, that makes it possible for us to blog. We need time at the same time that we can get access. That might mean we need to have the money to have a computer in our own home. Or that we have time and/or transportation to make it to the library to blog there. It seems like many people have or could string together some combination, if it was something they really wanted to do - but that doesn't mean they will blog, does it? I mean, there are tons of people with time, access, and money who don't blog. And tons of people who make time and money for things that speak to them, even if those "privileges" are in short supply. Well, again, it's multi-faceted, this thing, and pointing out exceptions and shortcomings of the label is an exercise in futility, really. It doesn't say much, does it?

Besides that, this is not the only way I think we should look at privilege. I don't think it's just about the label. Because there are plenty of people who fit that label, but it's all about surface. There are people who fit that label now who have lived through a lot and struggled hard to get there. People who bear scars we'll never see. People who have wrestled with death, mental and physical illness, abuse of many kinds, disabilities of wide variety. I know bloggers who have suffered many of these things. Is that privilege? Would you trade places with someone who has had a hell of a time in their life, but now lives in a nice house with a computer? Was Anna Nicole privileged because she knew great wealth at times, great beauty at times, great adulation at times? Or not privileged because she also knew abuse, poverty, scorn, and heartache? Everyone is lucky. Everyone is unlucky.

Another thing I said in HBM's comments was that while my childhood was certainly not privileged in terms of wealth, I lived in abundance in other ways. I was awash in wonderful stories, in words read aloud and songs sung on high, in paintings made for me alone and shared moments of wonder. I was much-cuddled, much-adored. My mother made most of my few toys, as I said above, with her own hands - labours of love. Lovely wooden cars that Pumpkinpie plays with, a thread-spool-and-coat-hanger unicorn that sits in my bookshelf, a mobile of boiled and painted chicken bones that hung over my crib. A treasured photo shows me dangling in a jolly jumper, staring at a daffodil bought for me to look at while I jumped. How privileged, to be so beloved while some children are unwanted, abandoned, abused. How privileged, to have a mother who bathed my ears in so many words that I spoke and read early, making school a relatively easy prospect for most of my years. How privileged, to be surroundede by bits of beauty, even when at times we lived in squallor-filled houses and cracker-box apartments. How privileged, to be bounced and serenaded to my great delight so that music has delighted me ever since. How privileged. Years later, when I wrestled with her mental breakdown and the family-breaking fallout, I felt less blessed. Everyone is lucky. Everyone is unlucky.

In the end, though, whatever privilege means, I leave you with Bub&Pie's question, one that cuts to the core of this discussion: So what? So what if we are privileged? Does that make our voices less true, our experiences and stories less real, our writing less authentic? Does it make us less interesting, less accessible, just less? And why should it? Why should we feel apologetic for our lives, for our desire for something fulfilling, something reflective, something that feeds us? Why should we feel a need to point to the negatives in our lives to make our voices accepted as worthy? Why should we need to point out the very things that blogging helps us escape from, or that we seek to rise above at times rather than dwelling on the negatives? Everyone is lucky. Everyone is unlucky.

Some will say that it's about the less privileged not being represented. Okay, I take that point. But I go back to the question I began with - what is it that we should do about that? Stop writing for the shame of it? Hang our heads and wring our hands over something not of our making? Try to make opportunities for others, who would think such an attempt ridiculous anyhow, who, if they were drawn to blog might find a way, anyhow? What is the real point of this whole business of flinging around the label of privilege, in the end?

Anyone? Anyone?

May The Bubble In Your Chest Not Choke You To Death - And Other Lovely Irish Blessings Upon You

Okay, so I'm not generally a parade-going kind of gal, but Misterpie found out that Toronto has a St. Patrick's Day parade (did you know that? I, personally, did not, but there you are.) and was all set to go stake out a curbside seat. So we did, and he did, right at Bloor and Bellair.

And because it's a corner, where traffic might be tempted to try to flow, there were two police officers standing just a bit ahead of us, between us and the parade.

And because I don't attend parades too often and the most recent has been a Macy's Thanksgiving one (hey, I said it's been years, didn't I?) and not very celtic in flavour, I had forgotten about the bloody bagpipes. I have a bagpipe problem. I don't know why, I really don't, but I cannot hear the keening and droning and skirling of a set of pipes without choking up. Seriously choking up. And here they come up the road.

Just as they are passing by, one of the police, a younger Asian man, turns around and looks right into my face. My face slightly pinched and misshapen with the effort of not breaking out into heaving sobs for no apparent reason. I'm thinking to myself, "This man thinks I'm a freaking moron. And I can't really disagree..."

Please tell me someone else has this bizarro reaction, too?

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P.S. - I have a new post up at MommyBlogsToronto!

.... Aaaaaand It's Gone Again. Crap.

Just as I was holding out hope of Pumpkinpie's sweet nature returning, she pulls a mean trick. Her first that I know of, in terms of a deliberately mean thing to do, and I am SO not impressed.

I was running her bath, went into the hall to toss her clothes into the laundry pile, and came back to see my 1001 Sudoku obsession, er, book floating in the bathtub. I exclaimed and snatched it, dripping, from the waters, only to have her grin at me and tell me that she "pushed it in on purpose." Cue rising red tide, ear smoke, and scream of steam whistle.

She totally got a big old boring lecture and only one story.

I suppose it's wrong to hold a grudge against your two-year-old, huh?

The Sweet Is Back

So I've been posting a bit about my struggles with Pumpkinpie lately? And there was about three or four weeks there where she was quite lucky that I ran into neither the circus nor a band of gypsies, for her life may have taken a dramatic turn if I had. But we've had a week or two now of off and on, which is a step in the right direction, at least. Enough good times to make the bad moments livable. But the other day? She showed her sweet side in spades. I loved this, so I must share.

She and a couple of neighbours' kids were splashing in puddles in their rainboots. One little guy was standing apart, and she kept motioning to him and urging him to "come on" and join them. I explained that he didn't have any boots on, so he couldn't. After a few minutes, she exclaimed, "I have some little boots in the hall!" And I realized that she was right - her boots from last spring are buried in the front hall behind her stroller. And she was offering to let the little guy use them so he could join the splashing fun. And he did.

I can't believe she remembered they were there, realized that they might fit this younger kid, thought to offer them so he could be included, and conveyed this to me perfectly. Truth be told, I'm often impressed by her problem-solving abilities, but this was a little extra something. If it looked just a little extra bright out the other day? That might have just been me beaming about how proud I was of that.

Alone At Last, Alone At Last, Thank God Almighty, I'm Alone At Last

I had a rare occurance his afternoon - a moment alone in the bathroom. Normally, the sound of my pants falling acts as a siren song to all creatures three feet of height or less. Pumpkinpie will come running to join me, vying for face time alongside Henry, who will hop onto the ledge beside the toilet, anticipating hands free for pats. But today, Pumpkinpie was flaked out on the couch, contemplating Max and Ruby, Henry was no doubt snoring softly on my bed, Misterpie was involved in some minor plumbing in the kitchen, and I got to sit alone. So why am I about to complain? Here's the thing...

You rememer when your child was waking at night (or maybe you're still there, in which case I assure you of this - it will get better!)? And you'd go to bed at around the time that was a common waking time and lie there anticipating a cry instead of enjoying the sweetness of a deep pillow cradling your head? And that momsomnia killed the joy of being in your own bed?

Well, it seems the same applies here. I'd hear Misterpie set down a tool, and flinch, thinking I was about to be burst in upon. Pumpkinpie's laugh echoing down the hall made me feel I should hurry up, for surely she'd come barrelling down that same passageway herself, eager to share something with me. And so, feeling vaguely haunted by the phantoms of my usual visitors, I hurried up. Sigh. Even when I'm alone, I not alone.

Stained Glass: Where Am I At?

Okay, so for anyone who is actually interested in this stuff - now I've got all my glass cut for both windows. Next step?

Grinding the edges. This is the only part I really hate doing. It feels like pure drudgery, but it can really affect the way the pieces fit together, so it is an important step. And right after this, things start to really start looking like it's going to turn into something, as the pieces fit together more snugly and really sit on the pattern properly.

A quick mini-lesson on how a window goes together after that: There are two methods.
In one version, there are strips of lead that are shaped like an I, and the glass pieces slot into the channels on either side. The strips are joined at corners by solder to form the frame around each piece of glass. This holds all the pieces together. This is used for exterior windows, as a compound can be forced into the channels to keep out water. This is also the older method, so the stained glass in all the older houses in the city would be done like this.

The method I use is known as "copper foil," invented by L.C. Tiffany. Basically, it involves edging each piece in a copper tape, and then covering all the tape with solder to form the frames around each bit of glass that hold them in place and joni them together. This method does allow for finer seams and smaller, more intricate details, as you'd see in Tiffany's work. It does not allow for exterior windows, that I know of, so when I made the transom for my old house, for example, it is set behind the plain glass that was there to protect it.

So the next step for me is wrapping each piece in tape and rubbing it down firmly on all sides for a smooth finish and better grip, then trimming any places that are not nice and straight. I find that once the tape is on, it starts to look close to what it will look like:

I then tack the pieces together with solder at the joints to keep it from moving around on me when I do the final solder. Here's a detail shot with little blobs of solder:

And here is a shot of the whole piece almost all together, so you can see pretty clearly what it will look like.


Next I go over all the seams with solder on both sides. Once that is done, I'm pretty much finished. I need to put on an edging to increase the stiffness of the entire piece, possibly rub it with steel wool and put an evil chemical on if I want to colour the solder black or copper, and wash the piece. If I want to keep the solder a bright silver, I rub it with steel wool and then apply a car wax on it to seal it from the air. I should be done with the soldering this week, and then I'll post a good picture of the finished product, or at least one pane of it.

And then in this case, once the weather warms up, I will work on the frame and then join them together, but for now, I have the whole second panel to keep me busy for a while longer!

La Petite Artiste

You know how your kid is humming along, as they have been for a while, learning things in small increments, and you think you know where they're at and where they're going? And then suddenly, one day, they knock you on your ass with something new? A huge leap you didn't know they were ready to make? Pumpkinpie caught me square between the eyes this weekend.

She had always loved drawing - crayoning, painting, pens, markers, whatever. And in typical kid fashion, we had lots of scribbles which recently had morphed into pages with lots of very nice straght lines on them. Kind of the stuff I would have expected to see. Then this weekend? She made this:


You see it? The round head, the dots for eyes and line for mouth, the arms and legs and hair? Yeah. That's me! Then she made these ones, all on one page, together:
Daddy, Mommy












and herself.



The whole family - except Henry. (She drew Ginger in light pink, but ran out of steam before Henry's turn.) Wow. I was NOT expecting that any time soon. I'm not really sure when I would have expected it, maybe in another six months or so? But since it came with no apparent precursor, it blew me away.




What was even crazier was the next day. We were making some birthday cards, and I decided to test out her skillz, so I had her sit next to me and drew the first letter of a friend's name. "Here, Pumpkinpie, let's start with a C - it's a curved line like this. Can you make one, too?" A curved line, indeed, showed up, though it was oriented funny, more like a rainbow than a C. Next letter, a straight line, was no problem. Next came a circle with a straight line, again no problem, though we were running out of room on the paper. Next came a straight line with a little curved line, and here things began to go south, as she ran out of space and was unsure where to put the next part, so the last two letters sort of got overlaid over the others and were sort of semi-complete. But again, wow. I showed Misterpie, who could only shake his head, because his kindergarteners are so low-achieving that some can't trace a letter of the alphabet - but his school is like that, so it's hard to go by them.

It's amazing what they can do, isn't it? How easy to underestimate them, because sometimes, we don't even know, as parents, what they are capable of. I'm not going to say she's any kind of genius or anything but she's impressing the hell out of me!

An uncomfortable Truth

I've read a lot lately about the honesty of bloggers, about how moms online tell it like it is, don't candy-coat the messy stuff and hide it behind a veneer of perfection and try to maintain that everything is great, just great. And I have found a lot of that, it's true.

I've also read a lot about the deep love mothers feel instantly for their children. Everyone from HBM to Melanie to Gwyneth, talking about how some primal well of emotion opened up, how now they knew the meaning of love and maternal instinct.

But I've read only one lone voice (I can't remember who now...) confessing that she didn't much like this, and maybe even thought, at one week in, that she couldn't handle it. Even she, brave soul as she is to put that down, was certain to assure that yes, she loved her baby, even if she wasn't sure she liked it yet.

And I have yet to see anyone admit to not feeling that enormous wellspring, to not bonding to this squalling little lump right away. Why is that? Is it that it seems such a heinous thing to admit, given that it seems like a mother must be overwhelmed by that swell of, well, maternity, to be a good mother? I think in many ways, mothers do feel a lot of pressure to react to things in the prescribed fashion - it's all supposed to be so natural, right? That we deliver through our va-jay-jays, we breastfeed instantly, we bond and feel protective and loving immediately? And if it doesn't come naturally, does that make us less of a mother, less of a good mother?

Myself, I am slow to warm to many important things - houses, partners, new haircuts. (You see, I do realize shoes are not that important, because I never have this problem there!) I am not one to profess instant love, I need to grow into things, to become accustomed to their faces, so to speak. And so it was with motherhood. I'm going to throw it down here, because if there is one thing this blogging business has taught me, it's that I'm never the only one.

I can't be the only one who looked down at the squirming new thing and wasn't that impressed, was just worn and ready to sleep now that that long day and night was over? Who, although I wasn't having PPD issues, was still having a bit of a hard time recovering from the physical shock and wrestling with the lack of sleep? Who was never into babies, particularly, though I love kids? Who viewed babyhood as something that you had to do to get to the fun parts? I knew I'd get there. I knew I'd love that little thing once I got on my feet, got used to it's peculiar frailness and mewling cries, figured out what was going on a little. I knew I'd love her once I had spent some time around her, had done for her for a few weeks, had become used to her small weight in the crook of my arm. I knew that once she became slightly more human and I could look into her eyes and see her look back, we'd connect.

And yes, after some weeks, some four or maybe even six weeks of being together, of caring for her and struggling to feed her and changing her weird little yellow poos, of singing and rocking and checking her sleep position, of cupping her soft downy head in my hand and sniffing it as she nuzzled in my shoulder, I began to find her enchanting. And as she grew, she grew on me. And sure enough, just as I suspected, that little bud grew into something all-consuming. A late-blooming love, perhaps, but a love as vast as any other mother's, a love that caught up quickly. A love that enfolds my heart in its leaves, forces smiles to blosssom on my face, and twines its roots through my brain every hour of every day, as surely as if she had planted herself there the instant she was implanted in my womb. We are become as others began, in our own good time.

I know I'm not alone here, right? You're out there too, wondering if you are the only one who didn't fall down the rabbit hole of motherhood immediately, aren't you? I am right, right?

One Year Gone, part II: The Navel-Gazing Year

As I was ruminating and navel-gazing about the one-year mark I've just hit, it struck me that this was both a highly apt way to celebrate something as inherently navel-gaze-y as blogging and a rather strange place for me.

I am, by nature, mostly a pragmatist. I don't dwell and linger too long on the why of things, I just like to get them done. I don't ponder philosophy and religion - what difference does it make, really, if I am because I think, if I am because I choose to be, or if I am because of divine will? Who cares?

I was also never a diarist and journaler and chronicler of my own life. I don't lead an extraordinary life, so who would ever care? What matter what I was thinking or eating or wearing or doing? If it was important to me, I'll remember it. Otherwise, why would I think I was so interesting or important as to be worth writing about at any length? Why spend my energy being absorbed in myself, when there are so many fascinating books and things and places and times outside of me to learn about? Who cares?

But here, this place, this thing... It has changed that a bit. And I think maybe it's been good for me. I have a tendency to just plow through things, keep going, live with the to-do list on my mental tickertape, and not stop to think, and breathe, and enjoy or appreciate - as I bet most of you do, too. I think it's a fact of modern living, a fact of being a mother, a fact of life for anyone with interest and hobbies and social contact that they would like to wedge into their lives around work and household stuff. But blogging has caused me to slow once every couple of days and think. Granted, my posts of late have been lightweight, not well-thought-out, but still, it means sitting and trying to string together a coherent thought about my life. And I think it's a good thing.

It's allowed me to vent, to look back, to express love and gratitude for people in my life, to share my joys and hopes and interests, and to really let myself think through some things I had tucked away for far too long. I've used it at times to encourage myself to actually do some of that digging and inward looking that I usually don't bother with - to think about things I would like to do, things that give me pleasure, and things that have caused me pain of one sort or another. And I think it's a good thing. It feels a little lighter, a little easier, a little more in tune. And even better is to know I'm not the only one in any of these boats. How fantastic. So I said it when I started this anniversary exercise, and I'll say it again - thanks for being part of this journey, all of you. (Yes, Tony, even the dads!)