Baby Steps

One of my favorite movies of all time is What About Bob? Now, some of you may think that's...lame. Not very intellectual. But it's hysterical, and you can use a line from What About Bob? for just about anything. So it comes in handy when you don't want to look for your own material.

Take "baby steps." Dr. Leo Marvin, Bob's new psychiatrist, tells Bob to just take "baby steps" in his life, and there's a great scene where Bob is waiting for an appointment he's made to call Dr. Marvin, and Bob keeps pacing and saying, "Baby steps to four o'clock, baby steps to four o'clock." Okay, I'm sure something is lost in translation here. (By the way, did you catch that little reference? It was totally unintentional.) I know people who actually hate this movie, but I guess I just bond with Bob and all of his phobias, most of which I understand all too well.

Anyway, baby steps is the point here, not Bob. It was my birthday over the weekend, which led to a few (brief) moments of reflection. I think I usually do a lot more reflecting on my birthday than at New Year's. So...I was contemplating what would make this year any different than the last. How on earth will I ever start writing this novel, something I'm actually terrified to do? And the answer came to me on my birthday, in the form of a story. I now know that all I need to do at this time is give this thing a little water and a little sunlight each day. Right now, it's just a seed. But it's my seed and my job to care for it. I don't have to do much -- just give it a little water and a little sun. Every day.

Perhaps none of this is making any sense to you, but for me it does -- and this idea is a relief. A little each day I can do. Baby steps. The big picture is terrifying to me. How will I finish it? I don't even have the plot fully mapped out. Can I do it? It's completely intimidating. So I mention this here because I want to have a place to be accountable. Am I taking care of this little seed or not? It's kind of ironic that this metaphor speaks to me, because I kill almost every plant I cross paths with.

American Idol

Last night, as we embarked on another season of American Idol, I wondered whether this is what my children will remember about their childhood. When they're all grown and married and have their own kids will one of them say, "Remember that show we used to watch together? What was it called? American Idol?" It's one of the highlights of our winters. I'm serious here. Is that actually sad?

Oh well. If it's sad, then so be it. It's great bonding over the goofballs and the talent. There's something so fun about watching people succeed, a bit of good fortune come their way when they put themselves out there. Dreams come true and all of that. Well, as long as they're not arrogant. I'm no fan of arrogance, and if you must know...I like to see those people go down. I think we all do. Well, everyone in our family that is.

What fascinates me about this show is the level of delusion. Obviously there are people who audition and purposely act weird or sing badly just so they can get on TV. However...there are people who are truly awful who think they have a real shot. And that intrigues me. Where are their families and friends? Does no one tell them the truth?

Honestly I think this is a parent's greatest responsibility. To help their children understand and pursue their gifts and talents. It can be a tricky business. Made a little more difficult, perhaps, when you have an uber-talented child and then some mere mortals. Perhaps even worse when all are the same gender. I speak from experience here. Last night my oldest returned from his basketball game and said he'd received the game ball. Son2, who seems to be utterly lacking in any sports talent, congratulated him, which impressed me. If he was my brother, I might hate him. MVP of his soccer team this fall, all-star in baseball every year, great student, and a good actor. His acting ability annoys me, I confess. That's what Son2 excels at. Why does Son1 have to have any acting ability whatsoever? Doesn't the kid have enough talent? Anyway, I pray that the three of them make it through their lives with a minimum of jealousy and a lot of support and congratulations for one another.

Back to American Idol. I just wonder how anyone gets to be 18, 21, 25 or whatever and still doesn't understand their innate abilities. Wait, that's not true. I do understand that. When I was 18, I didn't know what I excelled at (probably because my parents' generation didn't obsess over their kids the way we do). But I certainly knew what I WASN'T good at. For instance, I knew I couldn't sing. I would never have tried out for American Idol. Would you?

Writer's Block

I am grateful that no philosopher ever said, I blog, therefore I am, because I’d be in some serious trouble at this point. This is the reason I hesitated to ever start a blog – I feared this sort of lapse and the accompanying guilty feelings. Oh well, I guess I’ll have to get over it. My apologies to the three people who ever even look at this blog. I’ll try to do better…Really. Other people’s blogs are sometimes a bright spot in a dull or dreary day, and if I've ever been your bright spot...well, I haven't been too bright lately.

Lately, actually, I’ve been…scattered. Lots of people for Thanksgiving. Play practices. Basketball. Christmas shopping. Working. I can’t seem to collect my thoughts to say anything at all on this blog. Ideas, anyone?

I hoped this blog would help me start writing, and though I continue to contemplate the seed of this book that's in my head and give it some water and sun...it's all still in there...and not only am I not writing it, I'm not writing this blog. Oh well, time to clean the house and finish Christmas shopping.

The Good, the Bad, and the Mundane

I'm not sure whether I'm staying remotely faithful to my blog title. These are the kind of small things I worry about.

So, in keeping with the motherhood angle of the title, here goes. It's a sort of modified day in the life of a working mom.

5 a.m.-- Wake up. Wonder at the fact that I've not been woken up earlier by Son2 who's had a migraine for 48 hours and has been in my room standing by the side of my bed the past two mornings at approximately 3:30, gripping his head in blinding pain. Phew. Maybe it's over.

5:30 -- Get up, go downstairs and realize immediately that the fire is out in the woodstove. It's freezing. Feed cats who are behaving as if they haven't eaten in weeks. Make coffee!

5:40 -- Try to pray, but that proves elusive for some reason. Brain overload or something. Read Bible until it's time to make lunches.

6:30 -- Make lunches. Ten minutes out of the day that I really hate. Where are all the lunchboxes? Why didn't everyone put their cold packs back in the freezer? Wait! Someone (Son1) left the freezer ajar last night. Great. Load lunchboxes with water, apples, packs of chips, a different sandwich for everyone, and squeezable yogurt. Say thanks that it's done for another day. If I was wealthy and school lunches were healthy and vegetarian, then I'd have my kids buy lunch every day.

7:22 --I say to Son1 before he walks out the door, "why are you wearing your new basketball shoes?" He says, "Because my sneakers have poop on them and the other ones smell because they got all wet." Lovely. Why do his sneakers have poop on them? Because he and his brothers don't pick up after the dog out in the yard like they're supposed to.

7:27 -- They've left for school. Breathe deeply and remember what work I need to get done.

7:30 -- E-mail, work, exercise, shower, laundry, and so forth. Get a decent amount of work done but avoid a project that I don't feel like starting.

1:30 p.m. -- Leave the house to do errands. This includes buying a bizarre assortment of items for the boys. Sweatpants for Son3 because he's playing in this flag football league after school on Wednesdays and he doesn't have a pair of sweatpants that aren't way too short. Son1 needs a calculator that does sin and cosin (sp?). We didn't have those calculators when we were kids. In fact, I'm fairly certain we were never allowed to use a calculator. He also needs posterboard for a history project presentation, and I need to buy a toner cartridge because our toner is low and he'll have to print out a million things. Of course, he's known about this for weeks, but he'll be putting together the project tonight -- the night before it's due.

3:00 -- Get to school and dispense cash to Son1 and Son2 for snacks because I've forgotten to bring any. Sit on the freezing cold metal bleachers for the next hour and a half to watch Son3 play flag football. Miss his touchdown because I'm so engrossed in another mom's story about her oldest son's concussion. With three sons I figure it's important to listen to someone describe in vivid detail the signs of a concussion. Decide to pretend I saw the touchdown since I saw him make some other plays.

4:28 -- Find out from another parent that my child doesn't need POSTER board, he needs a presentation board. Realize I will now have to take my freezing and starving children back to Staples before we can go home.

5:10 -- Driving home after the day's second visit to Staples, Son2 pipes up from the back seat, "Do you have any medicine with you?" Feel my stomach sink.

And so it goes. We get home, I proceed to direct everyone to their work and help Son2 get comfortable on the couch. Son3 has math, history, vocab, Bible, and science homework. History and science involve me helping him look information up online. What are three natural resources of Maryland? Name three important dates in Maryland's history. Find a picture of a place you like to visit in Maryland. Why does this take so long? Fortunately, the science isn't due until Friday. Let's procrastinate! Gee all you'll have to do tomorrow night is write a half-page paper about the Sycamore tree, collect a twig and some leaves, and draw a picture. No problem.Hopefully there won't be too much other homework. Finally I send him to bed at 8:30 to study his Bible verse.

Son2 has fallen asleep on the couch. He's too big to carry. I have to wake him up and he does the class drunken sailor weave through the house and up the steps. He climbs up to his bunk and is immediately back in a deep sleep. I have to wake him again to get him to swallow his migraine meds. Phew.

Son1 will be working until 10:40 p.m on his history presentation. With my help. Printing. Cutting. Glueing. There's nothing like the last minute.

Can't wait to get up and make lunches in the morning.

Fifth Grade Writing

Yesterday afternoon Son2 came home from school and told me that his teacher had sent his book report home with him. She said some of his answers were too short, and he needed to expand his paragraphs. He said, "I answered the questions. I don't know what else to say."

First let me say that some of his answers were lacking. But others were simply short and to the point. Perhaps fifth grade is where people learn to blather on unnecessarily. Perhaps all fifth grade teachers out there believe they need to train the next generation of twenty-four hour cable newscasters. Keep talking, even if you have nothing to say.

I went to journalism school, and I confess to a certain obsession with the news. It's not a path I followed in my career, that whole thing about spending years writing obituaries kind of deterred me, but I feel a little crazy inside when I can't keep up with the news basics. I want the news when I want it, and the web is great for that. But cable news? Ugh.

CNN has introduced us to the horror of taking local news national. A five-car acccident is causing traffic on an LA freeway. A prisoner has escaped from a work detail in Texas. These are the headlines. I work at home and sometimes when my work is really dull or I'm just writing email I turn on the news to keep me company. Then I've been known to walk into my husband's office and announce the latest headlines with a voice of doom: "There is a fire at a nursing home in New Jersey! A fire! In a nursing home! In New Jersey! They'll keep us updated, but right now the fire appears to be under control."

This is what we're reduced to. Nothing about Africa, except perhaps that another celebrity has adopted a child from Ethiopia. Nothing about China, except those lead toys. No news about Europe unless it's about a princess who's been dead for ten years or her offspring or there's some unusually bad weather. But plenty of time to endlessly obsess about wildfires. California is burning! "I literally have soot on my clothes," announces the newscaster. "The sky is an eerie orange. I can smell the smoke." I guess those fifth grade writing teachers have really done their job.

When Books Become Movies

I pretty much hate it when books I've read become movies. The latest casualty is Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. I loved this book. I must read it again to remind myself why I love it so much. Anyway, the news that this book is soon to become a movie made me sad. Well, sad for the story, which in the book is just perfect. Happy for the author because she will hopefully get a big paycheck, which is something I can't begrudge almost any author. Notice I said, "almost any." A topic for another day.

I rarely enjoy movie versions of books, although I did love the Lord of the Rings movies, perhaps because it had been quite some time since I'd read them. I think there's almost no way for a movie to do justice to a story you love, one that you've pictured in your mind as you've read it, one that you've invested so much time in. I will have to ponder the best and worst examples of books made into movies and get back to you with my opinions, which surely you'll be breathlessly waiting for.

In the meantime, perhaps you can think of your own examples of dreadful and wonderful movie versions of books you've loved and let me know.

Little Hopeful Lies

I had no idea how much of motherhood would involve just totally making stuff up. This morning my youngest came downstairs still warm and fuzzy with sleep and said, "I have a pain in my temple." Hmmm. I leaned down and kissed his forehead to see if he had a fever. Nope. So I say, "Have some orange juice. You're probably just thirsty." What? If my husband said, "My temple hurts," I doubt I'd respond with a direction to drink some OJ.

I find I do this all the time. My response to nearly all pain complaints is: "You're fine." These are probably the words I've spoken more than any other (except, I hope, "I love you") since I became a mother. It works for everything.

Boy: "My leg hurts." Mom: "Put your leg up. You'll be fine."
Boy: "I cut my knee." Mom: "Don't drip blood on the couch. Go wash the cut. You're fine."
Boy:: "My throat hurts. " Mom: "Have a drink. You're fine."
"Boy: "I got a bug in my eye." Mom: "Close your eyes for a minute. It will come out. You'll be fine."
Boy: "I have a pain in my side." Mom: "Use the heating pad. You'll be fine."
Boy: "My stomach hurts." Mom: "You're just tired. Go back to bed. You're fine."

Sometimes I worry that I say it too much. I fear one of the boys will come to me with blood shooting out of his eye and I'll say, "Go lay down with your eyes closed. You're fine."

The flipside of this would be to take every complaint seriously, which sounds like a recipe for making some whiner babies to me. Seriously. Buck up little buddy, you'll be fine. Hopefully someday they won't each be sitting in therapy telling some stranger that I never took their pain seriously.