Somedays you aren't as aware of the work as others, but it's always work. This is neither good, nor bad, but a value-neutral fact.
I'm reminded of this alot this week for many reasons, including Dr.Bloom's insistence that "work is taking it out of him." I know this to be true. I know he is overworked. But so am I, and I'm not so sure he knows that, and I'm overworked at home.
I read a Miss Manners: a stay-at-home dad needed to find a polite way to tell his work-out-of-the-house spouse to stop calling and saying "You won't believe the day I'm having . . ." Even the tacked on "How are things there?" grates on the poor man, who just wants to play ball with his son, or do the dishes, or put the laundry away without hearing about the "important" things happening at his wife's workplace.
At first Miss Manners considers this a refreshing change, but she quickly rejects this: regardless of sex, the out-of-the-home partner should not assume that hometime is interruptable for minutiae.
But what if it isn't minutiae? Imagine that this husband not only stays at home, but also works from home (meager earnings to be sure but earnings nonetheless in an endeavor both thought worthwhile), but imagine also that the work-out-of-the-home spouse is a doctor. Switch the sexes, add one more kid, and you begin to see the growing problem at Chez Bloom.
Take a recent bad day. We're driving down the main street, arguing about whose work is more or less important at the moment, when we come upon a terrible bicycle accident. I stop yelling, pull to the rightmost lane, and dh calmly gets out while I circle the block for somewhere safer to stop. Then he runs across four lanes. As I find a place to stop, Miss I asks "Where Daddy go?" "There was an accident," I said, "and Daddy is a doctor, so he had to stop." "Okay, but why did we have to stop?" she asked earnestly. She's two and a half; it's not her problem -- or at least, she doesn't know that it IS yet.
My dad set a fantastic example by stopping for accidents -- I so expect to both see them and stop that our car is stocked for them (so is my bag, and indeed we have made use of the gloves and gauze I carry). I want my kids to be like my dad wanted me to be.
But the argument? Guess who automatically wins everytime. Guess who ends up feeling, when her partner is running late, like a two-and-a-half year old.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
open up
I've been a bit neglectful over the past few weeks (or at least, in a public way, though I've been thinking a lot about it) of something that should continually matter to adoptive parents.
If you haven't already, head to Mia's Here for disappointing records decisions news.
Our daughter's adoption is currently closed by distance, language, time, the loss of instrumental people and relationships (though we are working to change this to the extent that we can), but we have far more information than most adoptees do, and we won't forget how significant that is. My daughter has names, dates, places, ethnic information, limited medical information, an OBC, and it will break my heart if this is all she ever has. She has so, so much more than many, who have so much less than is their right.
I've written a bit in the past about our own use of post-adoption intermediary services (they've been fantastic and even called me to see if there was a reason we had not sent in our materials when I dragged my feet for a bit under the weight of it all, called to help but also to remind us of the import if we'd forgotten or changed our minds), our hopes for responses to our letters, our hopes for traveling and meeting, our hope that our daughter will not have to search and that others' daughters and sons will not have to search and their other parents and grandparents, brothers, sisters . . . will not have to search for information or for reunion. She has her OBC, even if it was only generated retrospectively.
As Mia rightly points out (and Amy as well) mutual registration (particularly with fee-based intermediary services) is far from a solution. Voluntary registration does not claim access to OBCs as a right, and can cloud the Access to OBC issue with questions of search and reunion.
But in the meantime Regday is one way to make a difference for some.
If you haven't already, head to Mia's Here for disappointing records decisions news.
Our daughter's adoption is currently closed by distance, language, time, the loss of instrumental people and relationships (though we are working to change this to the extent that we can), but we have far more information than most adoptees do, and we won't forget how significant that is. My daughter has names, dates, places, ethnic information, limited medical information, an OBC, and it will break my heart if this is all she ever has. She has so, so much more than many, who have so much less than is their right.
I've written a bit in the past about our own use of post-adoption intermediary services (they've been fantastic and even called me to see if there was a reason we had not sent in our materials when I dragged my feet for a bit under the weight of it all, called to help but also to remind us of the import if we'd forgotten or changed our minds), our hopes for responses to our letters, our hopes for traveling and meeting, our hope that our daughter will not have to search and that others' daughters and sons will not have to search and their other parents and grandparents, brothers, sisters . . . will not have to search for information or for reunion. She has her OBC, even if it was only generated retrospectively.
As Mia rightly points out (and Amy as well) mutual registration (particularly with fee-based intermediary services) is far from a solution. Voluntary registration does not claim access to OBCs as a right, and can cloud the Access to OBC issue with questions of search and reunion.
But in the meantime Regday is one way to make a difference for some.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
WalMart Syndrome
Miss I climbed up on my lap at dinner and refused to get down. "Momma, I scared. I scared. I scared. Hold me," and she was serious, but she wouldn't say what was so scary.
Dh finally got it out of her: "I scared of WalMart comin to get me."
Apparently something about my conversation with Little Bun about heartless giant multinational corporations struck terror into her little being.
I mean, I hate large retailers/big box stores too, but . . .
Dh finally got it out of her: "I scared of WalMart comin to get me."
Apparently something about my conversation with Little Bun about heartless giant multinational corporations struck terror into her little being.
I mean, I hate large retailers/big box stores too, but . . .
On the Other Side
I've been reprocessing distant and recent events lately, for a whole host of reasons (including that I return to them under times of regular stress, and that I still haven't adequately established what being so sick earlier this year really means). At the same time I'm reading Hip: The History by John Leland (New York: Harper, 2004).
I came across this:
"In an oft-quoted passage from Hammett's The Maltese Falcon, the hero, Sam Spade, tells a story to explain why he does what he does . . . It concerns a real estate man named Flitcraft, who went to lunch one day and narrowly missed being crushed by a falling construction beam. For Spade as for Flitcraft, this brush with random, meaningless death was a lulu. 'He felt that somebody had taken the lid off life and let him look at the works.'" If death could come at any moment, what of this life he was living? "He kept walking, leaving behind his name, his job and his family."
But here's the best part: "When Spade tracked him down a few years later, Flitcraft had rebuikt a life nearly identical to the one he left behind, falling into it with the same inevitability as the beam that had nearly killed him" (90).
What to make of Flitcraft's story? Is it such a bad thing?
I came across this:
"In an oft-quoted passage from Hammett's The Maltese Falcon, the hero, Sam Spade, tells a story to explain why he does what he does . . . It concerns a real estate man named Flitcraft, who went to lunch one day and narrowly missed being crushed by a falling construction beam. For Spade as for Flitcraft, this brush with random, meaningless death was a lulu. 'He felt that somebody had taken the lid off life and let him look at the works.'" If death could come at any moment, what of this life he was living? "He kept walking, leaving behind his name, his job and his family."
But here's the best part: "When Spade tracked him down a few years later, Flitcraft had rebuikt a life nearly identical to the one he left behind, falling into it with the same inevitability as the beam that had nearly killed him" (90).
What to make of Flitcraft's story? Is it such a bad thing?
Monday, August 06, 2007
Coming Home
I brought back from my trip some new research ideas but little accomplished research, some new shoes (from W 8th between Sixth and Fifth if you are looking), a new doll named Tia rechristened Chrisita nicknamed Tita, an oddity from KidRobot, and a Magic School Bus Germ Set from Scholastic that will allow Little Bun to explore microbiology to his heart's content without requiring me to help him prepare a slide from a st**l sample (no seriously, he asked and yes I really did say "no," I don't care the educational benefit).
I also brought back Vanessa Redgrave's voice intoning words from Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, which resonates with Wit. If you haven't read or seen either, you should, and both.
Finally, I brought back an awareness that I must do this again. I need to be a grown-up, even if I spend the whole time buying things for my kids. I need to sit in a nice restaurant, and remark on how they couldn't, or eat in a casual cafe, and remark on how they'd love it. I need to be with my bff just because.
I came home to a son who "just can't stop saying I love you, Momma," and a Little Girl who tells me she's all grown-up. "Are you so proud?" she asked. Indeed I am.
I also brought back Vanessa Redgrave's voice intoning words from Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, which resonates with Wit. If you haven't read or seen either, you should, and both.
Finally, I brought back an awareness that I must do this again. I need to be a grown-up, even if I spend the whole time buying things for my kids. I need to sit in a nice restaurant, and remark on how they couldn't, or eat in a casual cafe, and remark on how they'd love it. I need to be with my bff just because.
I came home to a son who "just can't stop saying I love you, Momma," and a Little Girl who tells me she's all grown-up. "Are you so proud?" she asked. Indeed I am.
Anti-Racist Parent Meme
Judy tagged me for the Anti-Racist Parent Meme, which was a bit hard -- but how could I not do it? The questions are great, and she called me one of her homeys, which honors me.
1. I am:
Norwegian, German, Irish, and English.
2. My kid is/kids are:
Little Bun is Norwegian, German, Irish, English, Italian and Welsh.
Miss I is Kembata (ET).
3. I first started thinking more about race, culture, and identity when:
To be honest, it’s probably all too familiar. It was when I was in kindergarten and I wanted a black doll and a family member in an older generation said that was not to be – white mommas had white daddies who had white children. But my parents gave me the doll, and in that place and that moment that was revolutionary. Would that it had not been.
Because I lived in a rural white community as a young child, I had few preconceived notions about anybody but rural white people. This combined with my parents’ 60's idealism was strangely protective -- and too much so perhaps -- against racism but also against awareness of race and culture.
My thoughts on race, culture and identity complexified in college as my world opened up, and it became clear the way they are tied to class and material concerns, but it was still largely academic in the way that whiteness allows.
Little Bun was fortunate to be born into our world of that moment -- a racially, ethnically and linguistically diverse working class neighborhood wherein a little blonde boy was in the minority and his playmates would speak Spanish. But it was the planning for Miss I's arrival a couple years out that made us become practical. I wish now we really claimed our position as "anti-racist parents" when we had just one white child.
4. People think my name is:
African American. In New York, when I first met people, they would say “Oh, I thought you’d be black.” They say the same to dh, as we share his last name. This expectation seems almost inexplicable here, where the name is quite common among black and white people. (Here I share the last name with one of my best friends, who is indeed black).
5. The family tradition I most want to pass on is:
Loving people you don’t have to love. The boundaries of our family have never been defined genetically, or in any other traditional way, and this has led to an unwieldy network of extended relations that I wouldn’t have any other way.
6. The family tradition I least want to pass on is:
Multiple Neuroses, but I suspect that this is what I will pass on most.
7. My child’s first word in English was:
Little Bun: Momma, followed shortly by “ball” and “I do it,” but these all followed his word below.
Miss I: “HiMomma,” on the telephone, from Ethiopia. “No,” to Daddy, in Ethiopia.
8. My child’s first non-English word was:
Little Bun: “Agua.” At two, he would give up this word, along with other Spanish words, insisting that because he did not hear them in our new city, they were “baby talk.”
Miss I: I don’t know. I know she said “Machina” and “Ishi” (it’s okay, which she repeated to herself for reassurance until she was sure it really was). Aye-yuh (either an endearment or “I see you,” “I’ve found you”).
9. The non-English word/phrase most used in my home is:
Ishi, ishi (it’s okay). The AmharEnglish combination with most uses is the following: “Ca ca or keum (stop) the po-po.” It’s now our life’s motto here at Chez Bloom and we like to spread the philosophy.
10. One thing I love about being a parent is:
The surprise. I think of myself as someone who hates surprises (no surprise parties, thank you – please tell me what you’ve gotten me for Christmas so I won’t wonder, no spontaneous trips) but my children are all of these things in the best possible way.
11. One thing I hate about being a parent is:
That I am ultimately not in control, though this is also the most beautiful thing. In my moments of clarity I am aware that I am blessed to watch the unfolding of these extraordinary little lives, which will become big lives that will take journeys I could never have imagined.
12. To me, being an anti-racist parent means:
My daughter likes to play “Matchy Match,” which she also calls the “Compare Game,” identifying things that are the same according to mostly random qualities. This is something that comes out of preschool card matching games and Memory, I’m sure, but it took a turn that should not have seemed unusual yet took me by surprise anyway. She looked at her skin. “I brown. No, I no brown. You no brown, I no brown. You pink, I pink. We ‘matchy match.’” Then she thought for a moment and frowned, “I brown,” she said. Then she flipped her palms up, and gestured for me to do the same. “Matchy Match!” she screamed happily.
I was nonplussed, part of me felt defeated by her strong desire for matchy-match. But being an anti-racist parent means to me striking a balance between matchy-match and difference, surrounding my children with a community full of vibrant difference, and recognizing that the rights of all people are dependent on the protection of those rights for others – in short, teaching my children that all of our interests are intertwined without resorting to a color-blind and a too naïve universality.
I tagged Erin, and she accepted the challenge. Check out her thoughtful responses -- and great stories about being the mother of two amazing little boys, at Holding Still.
1. I am:
Norwegian, German, Irish, and English.
2. My kid is/kids are:
Little Bun is Norwegian, German, Irish, English, Italian and Welsh.
Miss I is Kembata (ET).
3. I first started thinking more about race, culture, and identity when:
To be honest, it’s probably all too familiar. It was when I was in kindergarten and I wanted a black doll and a family member in an older generation said that was not to be – white mommas had white daddies who had white children. But my parents gave me the doll, and in that place and that moment that was revolutionary. Would that it had not been.
Because I lived in a rural white community as a young child, I had few preconceived notions about anybody but rural white people. This combined with my parents’ 60's idealism was strangely protective -- and too much so perhaps -- against racism but also against awareness of race and culture.
My thoughts on race, culture and identity complexified in college as my world opened up, and it became clear the way they are tied to class and material concerns, but it was still largely academic in the way that whiteness allows.
Little Bun was fortunate to be born into our world of that moment -- a racially, ethnically and linguistically diverse working class neighborhood wherein a little blonde boy was in the minority and his playmates would speak Spanish. But it was the planning for Miss I's arrival a couple years out that made us become practical. I wish now we really claimed our position as "anti-racist parents" when we had just one white child.
4. People think my name is:
African American. In New York, when I first met people, they would say “Oh, I thought you’d be black.” They say the same to dh, as we share his last name. This expectation seems almost inexplicable here, where the name is quite common among black and white people. (Here I share the last name with one of my best friends, who is indeed black).
5. The family tradition I most want to pass on is:
Loving people you don’t have to love. The boundaries of our family have never been defined genetically, or in any other traditional way, and this has led to an unwieldy network of extended relations that I wouldn’t have any other way.
6. The family tradition I least want to pass on is:
Multiple Neuroses, but I suspect that this is what I will pass on most.
7. My child’s first word in English was:
Little Bun: Momma, followed shortly by “ball” and “I do it,” but these all followed his word below.
Miss I: “HiMomma,” on the telephone, from Ethiopia. “No,” to Daddy, in Ethiopia.
8. My child’s first non-English word was:
Little Bun: “Agua.” At two, he would give up this word, along with other Spanish words, insisting that because he did not hear them in our new city, they were “baby talk.”
Miss I: I don’t know. I know she said “Machina” and “Ishi” (it’s okay, which she repeated to herself for reassurance until she was sure it really was). Aye-yuh (either an endearment or “I see you,” “I’ve found you”).
9. The non-English word/phrase most used in my home is:
Ishi, ishi (it’s okay). The AmharEnglish combination with most uses is the following: “Ca ca or keum (stop) the po-po.” It’s now our life’s motto here at Chez Bloom and we like to spread the philosophy.
10. One thing I love about being a parent is:
The surprise. I think of myself as someone who hates surprises (no surprise parties, thank you – please tell me what you’ve gotten me for Christmas so I won’t wonder, no spontaneous trips) but my children are all of these things in the best possible way.
11. One thing I hate about being a parent is:
That I am ultimately not in control, though this is also the most beautiful thing. In my moments of clarity I am aware that I am blessed to watch the unfolding of these extraordinary little lives, which will become big lives that will take journeys I could never have imagined.
12. To me, being an anti-racist parent means:
My daughter likes to play “Matchy Match,” which she also calls the “Compare Game,” identifying things that are the same according to mostly random qualities. This is something that comes out of preschool card matching games and Memory, I’m sure, but it took a turn that should not have seemed unusual yet took me by surprise anyway. She looked at her skin. “I brown. No, I no brown. You no brown, I no brown. You pink, I pink. We ‘matchy match.’” Then she thought for a moment and frowned, “I brown,” she said. Then she flipped her palms up, and gestured for me to do the same. “Matchy Match!” she screamed happily.
I was nonplussed, part of me felt defeated by her strong desire for matchy-match. But being an anti-racist parent means to me striking a balance between matchy-match and difference, surrounding my children with a community full of vibrant difference, and recognizing that the rights of all people are dependent on the protection of those rights for others – in short, teaching my children that all of our interests are intertwined without resorting to a color-blind and a too naïve universality.
I tagged Erin, and she accepted the challenge. Check out her thoughtful responses -- and great stories about being the mother of two amazing little boys, at Holding Still.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Missing Miss I and Little Bun
My kids are with their grandparents this weekend so I can attend to some grown-up things (trying somehow to catch up at work, spending some much needed time with a friend, perhaps even Manhattan shoe shopping). I'm missing them like crazy already, though I desperately need both the time and the break. As awful as it is to have someone hanging off your knee growling (really) "I NO WANT YOU TO LOVE EDDYBOODY (anybody) ELSE!" from no particular context, it's far more awful without the clinger (if not the clinging).
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Ethiopian-American Idol
Miss I loves pop music. Sure, we've tried jazz, and she hears classic rock, but she's a pop princess. Thirty seconds of a Kids Bop (agh -- what are singers thinking licensing their music for this schlock?) commercial and she's going around our house singing the multilingual and toddler-accented "Yo Yo You You I Not - A Yike - Your Girl Head," which is far and away better than the original.
Of course you should hear her version of 4 Nonblonde's "What's Up," which for one day, she inexplicably called "her song."
Of course you should hear her version of 4 Nonblonde's "What's Up," which for one day, she inexplicably called "her song."
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