Spin Me Right ‘Round

The other night while seeking inspiration for DawningDreams‘ Gorgeously Gothic Spinalong, I came across PluckyFluff’s Handspun Revolution to be exhibited in Lillehammer, Norway. I found the idea intriguing for several reasons. First, fiber art is something that should be supported, especially given my feelings on the concept of art and handicrafts. Second, I realized after reading that I had the perfect fiber for the project. This particular fiber had me thinking more about the importance of fiber arts in my life.

Why was it this particular fiber? A few weeks ago, I joined a friend at her church for a fundraiser for Heifer International. The children had raised money for Heifer International and were purchasing an alpaca for a family. The children had learned all about alpacas and the fundraiser included a lesson about alpacas, meeting alpacas, watching me spin up fiber, and my friend knitting alpaca yarn. What fascinated me was that my spinning wheel became almost as fascinating as the themselves. Several of the children were so fascinated by the wheel, that they almost forgot the alpacas were in the room.

This particular fiber was the fiber I brought with me. It is a beautiful shade of dark teal. It’s soft. It’s fuzzy. The children were thrilled to pass it around and feel it. They were petting the fiber. Fascinatingly enough, the breakdown was oddly gender based. The girls wanted to touch the fiber and play with it. The boys wanted to spin the wheel faster and faster and fasterfasterfaster. They took hold of the front of the pedals and three at a time were pushing the pedals to make them go. They watched as I drafted and drafter faster and faster and fasterfasterfaster. Yes, the fiber became overspun. Yes, the thought meandered through my mind, “wow, what am I going to do with this? It’s not going to be fit to be finished yarn.” It became lumpy and bumpy in places where they unspun it. It became overly spun in places where I couldn’t draft fast enough.

Last night, in preparation for this post, I navajo plied the single I’d made. Some of it is even. Some is lumpy bumpy. Some is overspun.

I could fib. It’s possible that this could be qualified an “art yarn.” Its imperfections could be argued to be “design” elements, and in some ways, they are. The perfection of this yarn, the reason it will be making its way to Lillehammer, is that it is the prime example of what makes spinning such a wonderful experience.

Spinning is a type of magic. Something raw is processed into something final. It is an experience to touch the fiber. It is an experience to view the fiber. It is, in some instances, an experience to smell the fiber. Fiber has a quality of opportunity. It is a chance for the individual working with it to create from scratch. It is, in many ways, similar to cooking. Basic materials become so much more.

In this case, this yarn, this moment in time, the yarn being sent out is one that also served to educate and inspire youth. One young boy, so enamored of the fiber, “stole” little pieces of it to make a ninja headband/halo/nest for his bird finger puppet. In that moment, the spinning became less than the inspiration of the child’s creativity. Without the moments of wonder that these children showed, the spinning would have been nothing more than another example of an adult performing like a trained seal.

Speaking of adults, several were as fascinated as the children by the spinning process. They stopped by. They stared. They couldn’t get over how interesting/amazing/cool it was. Some of the older adult shared with me stories of grandparents or other family members who had spinning wheels or who used to spin yarn themselves. These adults were just as wondrous as the children. In those moments, the adults were able to, without realizing it, have moments of childhood wonder and innocence. For me, that is what makes spinning amazing.

Spinning is not about the final project, for me. Spinning is about the process. Spinning is about the creation. Spinning is about having the fiber tell me what it wants. Spinning is about making right in a world where so much is wrong. To me, that is what makes spinning so revolutionary. Spinning may not change the world, but it can change the individuals in it, even if for a moment. And in that moment, it can spin you around from someone living in a banal world to someone living in a world of wonder. That is the magic of spinning.

Guilty Pleasures

A few weeks ago, on one of the moms boards that I read (and really, there’s two…and they’re both on Ravelry), someone asked, “What is your guilty pleasure in being a mom?” Ever since The Kid was a few weeks old, my guilty pleasure has been snuggle naps. They started innocently enough. I was getting ready to go teach class but wanted to give the three week old some cuddles before I left. The three week old hadn’t napped long that day. (Yes, I went back to teaching one class three weeks after I gave birth.) I was tired. I was sad at leaving him. I picked him up, sat on the couch, and, well, promptly dozed off with him in my arms as he fell asleep as well. This was a big step for Little Mister No-Naps. I soon found that if he was snuggled in with me, he would sleep for twice as long as if he was on his own. Thus instituted the ‘Snuggle Naps.”

However, since then, he just enjoys them. He no longer sleeps longer, per se, but often happier. The Kid knows when I say “snuggles” that it means a nap together. This is a guilty pleasure for me as it is something that I used to hate but now find special. I know that some time soon he won’t be interested in snuggling mommy. I have decided to enjoy these small moments while I can. A lot of family and friends, and even myself, have made quiet comments about these naps. yes, he can sleep in his crib. Yes, he takes at least one nap a day in his crib. He only sleeps in the bed at night if he’s really sick and can’t settle down on his own or needs to be elevated which he can’t really do on his own in his crib. He is an independent sleeper. In fact, for a while, I covered the fact that I enjoy feeling the heat and weight of his tiny body against mine by making it feel and sound like a burden. Somewhere around July, I realized that these will not last. Sometimes, they are an interruption in my day. However, they will not last. He will not go off to college taking snuggle naps with mommy. In that respect, I have a limited amount of time to enjoy my son. I plan on drinking in every tiny moment.

We have a little routine, he and I do. First, we cuddle up and sometimes there are cartoons involved. He finishes the last of his bottle. Then, we turn off the television. Once the television is off, the true routine begins. He likes to talk to me. A lot. He likes to play with me. I tickle his tummy, his face, his ribs, his ears. He giggles uncontrollably. Once he’s been sufficiently tickled, he talks some more, or, conversely, decides to beat me up. One or the other. I’m trying to decide if he beats me up on purpose. Sometimes there are head butts. He likes to stick his thumb up my nose. His most recent trick is to try to pull my eyelid away from my eye. For the record, there’s a rather fabulous slurpy thwapping sound that accompanies this one. I love this snuggling and playing time together. As does The Kid. He very obviously looks forward to this special mommy time. When getting him ready for a nap, he knows that when I say “snuggle nap” it’s going to be his very favorite type of nap. In fact, he stops fussing and crying the second I walk him into our grownup bedroom. He knows that when I put in my earplugs, playtime in bed is coming to an end.

What I love most about snuggle naps with my son is watching him drift off to sleep. He has little patterns. I love that I know these little patterns. I love that I know that when his “words” start to slur, I know he’s getting tired. When they start going from “Ma MA mA mA MA” to “malagagamama”. I know that this means he’s getting ready to settle in. I love that he looks to me for his cues – he looks over at me to see if I am starting to get dozy. He looks to see if my eyes are still open.

I love watching his hands as he drifts off. He loves to play with his fingers or with mine. In the course of trying to distract him from biting my fingers, I taught him to lick the palm of my hand while I tickle his forehead and nose with my fingers. He loves this game. He starts his sleepy time hand play by grabbing my thumb and pinky and pulling them in towards his face, licking my palm while I tickle his forehead, then pushing them back out again. Rinse. Repeat. He plays with his own fingers – touching each one with his thumb. I do something similar with my finger nails. Sometimes, like today, he’ll play with my fingers – letting me hold ihs hand with my fingers intertwined between his. Then he pulls them out then reaches out for me to do it again. He’ll wrap his not-as-tiny-as-they-used-to-be-but-still-small fingers around one or two of mine. He’ll move my hand around by holding onto my fingers. The sleepier he gets, the slower he does this. The less precise his own fingers are wrapped around mine. The less tightly he holds on. Until, eventually, he either lets go or has them lightly resting on my hand.

When he is finally ready to sleep, he likes to sleep on his side, facing away from me, but then scoots to curl into me. He likes feeling my cheek on his head. If my cheek is not resting on his head, he tends to push his head backwards until he feels the warmth of my face and breath on his. As for me, sometimes, I just drink in these moment. I enjoy feeling the changing weight and heat of his body against mine. It’s definitely a lot more comfortable than thinking about it while carrying him. I can’t lie – when I’m walking around the house picking him up? I definitely miss the 6lb 7oz peanut. When he’s snuggled into me, however, I love that he is slowly becoming this amazingly awesome little person. Sometimes I just enjoy looking at him and holding him, knowing that he won’t let me do this forever – the looking and holding. I like knowing that for now, he does allow me and even wants me to do these things. I love that for right now, he wants to be bonded to me.

This is my guilty pleasure. My guilty pleasure is knowing these small intimacies of my son. I love knowing them. I love watching them. I will only give them up when he tells me he doesn’t want to snuggle anymore. Yes, it is in part for me. However, if I knew that it made him unhappy, I would stop in a heartbeat. In that sense, I’m not that guilty. I’m guilty for enjoying these moments. I’m guilty of not discouraging these moments. I’m guiltily enjoying the pleasures of being my son’s mother.

There’s Something About Sports

Super Bowl Sunday. It used to be that sports and I, well, did not understand each other very well. If you think about it, most sports are pretty silly. Professional football, for instance, consists of adult men carrying a small, brown oblong object, running around on grass, and trying to beat the bejesus out of each other. For all intents and purposes. Baseball, if you think of it, basically consists of adults (men in the pros), trying to hit a small sphere with a stick. Don’t even get me started on the logical ridiculousness of golf.

Before you decide to come over here and ream me out, let me just finish. Since meeting Mr. A, sports has become an important part of life in the household. Mr. A is a Bosox fan and a Giants fan. The seeming conflict has something to do with Mr. A’s father being a Red Sox fan prior to Boston having a football team. That’s the best I got on that one. Anyhow, since sports is on the television around here for 11 out of 12 months of the year, I’ve become slightly more than a passive fan. I’m a Mets fan because, well, I still find baseball boring, it’s inherited since my parents are from Queens, and, in the interest of full disclosure, I don’t have to pay attention because if they’re doing well it’s front page news, otherwise its just another day in Metsland. I’m a passive Jets fan for the same reason but am coming around on the Giants. I hate the Patriots because they made promises to Hartford, then they reneged.

However, sports has an interesting hold on people. Thinking about the Super Bowl today, I had a stark realization. Sports is about the “what ifs” in life. In listening to some pre-game commentary, one of the conversations was about “what if the Colts had chosen Leaf instead of Manning?” Then there was a discussion regarding whether a second Super Bowl win would cement Manning’s position in football history against the Pats. It occurred to me that, really, the allure of sports lies in the “What ifs”. What if my team wins? What if I miss an historic play? What if someone gets hurt?

Sports represents a lot of the feelings people have about life. When watching sports, people can remember certain moments. I still remember, to this day, the Suns versus Bulls game in 1993 where Majerle missed a 3-pointer while the Suns were ahead, giving the Bulls the opportunity to win the game. There are sports moments that everyone remembers. This moment, to me, was mindblowing. When you’re ahead, with  little time left in the game, don’t go for the hero shot. Play it safe. Do what you need to win, not what you think needs to be done to be the hero. Lesson the first.

People watch sports because of those moments. Every day, people send their children or significant others or other loved ones out into the world. People hope that their loved ones come home safe and sound. Every week, teams send their players onto the field – be it baseball or football – and hope that they come off the field in the same shape they went on. It’s a small similarity, but it’s so great in the scope of the human psyche. People can watch sports and hold their breath on a hard hit during a football game. They can see the stretchers come on the field. They can cheer for the player standing up and walking off the field. These are the moments where, if anyone has had family in a car accident or other life-threatening situation, people are nothing but people. These are the moments of catharsis that carry sports.

Sure, people can talk about the thrill of competition. They can talk about the statistics. They can talk about the strategies. However, any of these could carry other things – such as, oh, say, chess – as well. However, these are the intricacies of the sport. They are not the true heart. The true heart of sports lies in the people, the players and fans. The true heart lies in the connection between the fans and the game. This connection is the something that makes sports special. There really is something about sports.

Princess Puppypants – The Story of a Dog

Back in July 2004, I was studying for the Bar exam. This was by far a pleasant experience. Mr. A and I had always been in school, ever since we’d met. we were looking forward to spending some quality time together without all the stress, cost, and hassle of working full time while being in school at night. We were looking forward to being carefree and untethered. However, around that same time, we were finally in a place to get a dog. Mr. A’s parents had dogs as he’d gotten older. Personally, I’d never considered myself much of an animal person. In fact, the first time I showed up at his parents’ house, the two bischons inside scared the pants off me, and I nearly ran away.

However, one day, while I was home studying, Mr. A called me and told me that a notice had been posted near the elevators at work that a woman was looking for a home for a new litter of puppies. Mr. A and I debated whether we wanted to tie ourselves down to another life. We were finally ready to be footloose and fancyfree. However, we decided that we would, at minimum, take a drive out to see the puppies and make a decision then. By the time we arrived, only three puppies were available for sale. One was way too exuberant. In fact, usually, the cutest most active puppies are the ones who turn into terrors as they get older, or so the information we’d read told us. The second one was extremely skittish. Poor dog was so afraid of us, that all she did was cower and shake. The third one, however, curled right up on my chest and dozed off. We looked at each other, and we knew our hearts had been stolen.

So, we put in the down payment and named the dog J.D. Yes, our dog is named Juris Doctorate, wanna make something of it? We used the last of our tuition reimbursement to pay for her. So, she got named for the money that allowed us to bring her home. We took some pictures, and we left her for the next four weeks. She had to grow more and be weaned from her mommy. During the last push to the Bar exam, whenever I needed a pick me up, I’d take out the picture of JD and look at it.

We were scheduled to pick JD up four days after the Bar exam, a Sunday. Saturday night, we spent the even near Boston and stayed overnight because we had tickets to a Cirque Du Soleil show. The next morning, we woke up, hopped in the car, and drove straight from Boston to near Cheshire, CT. It was one of those August days where the rain pounded down. The rain was so intense, that we had to pull off the highway for a while in the middle of the thunder storm. To this day, whenever we pass this section of I-91, the memories of driving to bring home our little girl flood back.

JD was so tiny. She was a wee little thing. She was somewhere around 5 pounds at the time we brought her home. She could fit, nearly, in the palm of Mr. A’s hand. The storm had obviously scared her. She sat on my lap, curled up and shaking, during the entire half hour ride home. She never tried to crawl off my lap. From the very beginning, her intense trust in us overwhelmed us.

When we arrived home, she timidly scoped out her new surroundings. She was so tiny that she could fit under the four inch high legs of a small side table we had. She would climb under them and find comfort. Although we tried to prepare for bringing her home, we were missing something, although at this point I can’t remember what it was. Mr. A went to the local pet store to get it, while I stayed home with our new little girl. I picked her up, she curled up on my chest, and she promptly fell asleep.

We have tons of pictures of JD’s first years with us. However, the digital camera that we took them on used, believe it or not, a floppy disk. Yes, one of those 3×5 inch floppy disks. We have pictures of her doing everything. For the longest time, Doodle girl was my shadow. She would follow me everywhere. She would spend hours in my office with me, just lying at my feet. During the cold winters, she would curl up on my lap. For her first birthday, we had a puppy party – with hats and cake – with one of her “puppy friends”. We took her to obedience training. Shockingly, it didn’t last long. While she did well in class, she only listens when she wants to at home.

JD – Doodlebug, Doodle Girl, Puppypants, Prissypants, Princess Puppypants, Dudes, oh the many names – has always and will always be my baby girl. However, it appears that after we brought Max, and then The Kid, home, that she feels left out. JD knows the term “couch snuggies”. Whenever I sit on the couch with blankets, I’d tell her, “Come on JD, do you want to come snuggie on the couch with mama?” Yesterday, while The Kid took a nap, JD was on the chair next to me. I turned to her, and said, “Come on JD, want some couch snuggies? Come on, come snuggie on the couch with mama.” Instead of jumping off the chair then back up onto the couch, JD was so excited that mama wanted to spend time with her, that she walked from the chair to the couch without getting down.

JD was my first baby. I can remember getting food poisoning, so badly that I ended up in the ER, and JD stayed by my side and wouldn’t leave me while I was sick. I can remember training her to go up and down stairs in the house – it took two weeks, feeding her cookies for every stair she would go up. I can remember reading Marley and Me and lying in bed, crying for an hour, worrying that something would someday happen to her. I can remember her first back spasm, when The Kid was three weeks old, and how all she wanted was me. She couldn’t lie down, so she sat up against me, with her head on my shoulder. Every night, we snuggle in bed. She curls up next to me. I can remember the first night we let her sleep in the bed, instead of leaving her crying pitifully in the crate. We were so afraid that we would squish her that we carefully placed her between our two pillows. She was still so small that she fit perfectly, just the length of the short side of the pillows. She still likes to lie between them. I can remember when she did not know she could bark. Then she learned how. Now she barks at the magical, menacing nothing that lives in the yard. Sometimes, she does that constantly.

JD will always be my puppy girl. Sometimes, she’s insanely needy. Sometimes, the look on her face is one of such forlorn needing that it breaks my heart. On that note, it is time for the newly instituted Doodle Snuggle Time. But first, a few pictures of my baby girl.

Zerbert Laughing

Given that the last several posts have been serious and given that I’m feeling silly tonight, I’ve decided that tonight’s post is going to be based on things that make me laugh because they’re silly. The title of this post, and the post itself, are inspired by the fact that, apparently, a search hit for this blog was “zerbert laughing” and so…let the silliness begin.

Watching Max wiggle his butt when he’s happy. He’s got a stump for a tail because he was over-cropped. When Max is happy, he doesn’t wag his tail. His whole back half wiggles. It’s totally hilarious in a silly way.

Watching Liam when he’s overtired. Seriously, the kid gets a mad case of the giggles and just rolls around on the floor with his Big Tigger toy.

Putting Max in The Kid’s sleep sack. Because, nothing says silly better than dressing a dog in children’s clothing. God bless this dog. He’s a patient little man.

The fact that there is actually a judge in Louisiana who is willing to put court proceedings on hold because the Saints are in the Super Bowl.

The Puppy Bowl. Come on, it’s puppies running around for two hours fighting and playing and stepping in water bowls. It’s hilarious. I’m rooting for Oreo and Addison.

Pug Bowling. Nothing is better than Pug Bowling. Trust me.

Tickle Me Emo. You KNEW that Elmo had to have some kind of dysfunctional family member, right? either that or you know he’s high. No one, no age, regardless of Muppetness is THAT happy. All. The. Time.

Of course, zerbert laughing has to be a favorite silly. Liam finally figured out how to give baby zerberts in the air. He loves to stick out his lower lip and blow air out, sending spit flying around his general vicinity. Then? He laughs riotously. Zerbert laughing must be my all time favorite silliness ever. Here’s to a night of silly.

Regularly Scheduled Programming

I’m not trying to turn this into a Mommy Blog. I promise there’ll be non-Mommy stuff coming up in the near future. After all, I have 24 more days to go until the end of the month. Hooowwwwwever…

The more time I spend with The Kid, the more I realize that children’s programming and music is really, well, condescending. A few months ago, Anthony Bourdain posted his rant about children’s programming on his blog. Even if you dislike Bourdain or have no children, this particular rant is both amusing and on point. The longer I spend time with various children’s targeted television in the background, the more I analyze the effect these have on children.

First of all, nothing beats old skool Sesame or The Muppet Show. Let’s just get this straight right at the beginning. I’ve been watching them lately. Also, I resent the fact that old skool Sesame contains a disclaimer that it is inappropriate for today’s children and is for adults only. Let’s be honest, people, it’s not pornography. It’s Muppets.

With all that being said, I’ve been on the lookout lately for kid-geared television and music that I find to be not condescending. I’d like to give a nod to Bourdain’s take on The Wonder Pets. I’m sorry, but aside from the annoying list, I find any show that has as it’s plot, “There’s a puppy, he has to pee-pee but he’s alooooone and stuck in the house” to be…well…demeaning to the intelligence of even my eleven month old. When the song then continues with “pee-pee, wee-wee, tinkles!!!” I have to leave the room. Sorry folks. I don’t care how hard the creators work on the “cutification” process (and yes, the interview uses that exact term).

Television Shows

The Imagination Movers rock. Any show where the theme song is “you’ve got to think about it…you’ve got to talk about it…you’ve got to sing about it. I think that what the situation needs is some imagination” wins in my book. The dudes are actually kind of cool. They definitely act as though kids are little people, not morons. I get really tired of shows that basically assume that small children by lack of mental maturity are, in effect, stupid. It’s demeaning to me, let alone them. The Imagination Movers have totally taken over the top spot in my house. Besides, The Kid likes to rock out to them and the songs are pretty funky (check out “Clean My Room”). I give them a good solid A-. I gotta say that the magic red baseball hat and the x-ray goggles are weird. Sorry dudes. I like Rick’s rat-a-tat-tat though. Solid.

Olivia is another neat little show. Olivia is a bit…precocious. I kind of love her. She’s overly creative and very much your typical little five year old, except she’s a pig. No, literally, she’s a pink pig. She’s hilarious. Plus, I enjoy the occasional toss out to parents when you’re watching. Every so often mom or dad will make a comment under their breath and you’re thinking to yourself, “That’s what *I* said!” Any show that adds a little humor meant just for me wins. I’d give this one a good A. The stories are funny, and Olivia doesn’t always realize how hilarious she is in her slightly over-exuberant curiosity.

Paz the Penguin is adorable. I love that his mommy works. The first episode I ever caught was one where Paz wanted to play with mommy, but she worked at home and had to do work instead of play. They sat down and he colored while she worked. In the end, she got up to play with him. However, I think it’s great for kids to see that mommies work and that it’s ok. In fact, the other episode that I saw recently was Paz’s mommy getting ready to go on a business trip. With one pending soon, I loved the way that this show handled the prospect. Paz rocks. He’s cute. His little friends are cute. Big Penguin is an awesome mama. I give this an A-. The show is based on a series of books by an Irish author, and the little friends have some hard-to-place accents which I find distracting. Once again, though, it’s not condescending.

Music

I’m all for listening to music with The Kid that is age inappropriate. Hey, he’s heard NWA. He’s a Linkin’ Park fan. He’ll listen to a few other bands on and off. I’ve noticed that his fascination with “All the Single Ladies” does indeed transcend Beyonce’s bootilicious video. However, every once in a great while, I’m on the search for children’s music that I feel is slightly more age appropriate. So far, I can safely say that I’ve found two happily non-obnoxious bands to pass on.

They Might Be Giants has three kids’ albums.”No!” was their first. Then came  “Here’s Come the ABC’s”. I can’t say enough good things about this album. No, really. I love it. I listen to it even without him in the car. If you want to check out some songs, try “Alphabet of Nations” “C is for Conifers” or, my personal favorite, “LMNO“. The next one, “Here Come the 123’s” has some good songs. I’m not as big a fan of this one. I find the songs to be slightly less catchy. Then again, there is a song about infinity. How can you go wrong with that? Finally, “Here Comes Science” came out earlier this year. As this has my all-time ever most favorite TMBG song on it, “Why Does the Sun Shine“, it’s a clear winner of an album. (It shines because it’s a mass of incandescent gas, in case you didn’t know…) I love TMBG grown-up work. Really? How can you go wrong with a band who writes a song about James K. Polk???

Finally, I’ve saved my new favorite for last. Black 47’s lead singer, Larry Kirwan, came out with an album “Keltic Kids” that he wrote for his sons in 1998. Some of the songs on this album are pure freakin’ brilliance. “Whiskey in the Jar” becomes “The Pirate Boy”. There’s a version of “Wild Colonial Boy.” “Wild Rover” becomes “I Won’t Play with My Brother.” No nay never, no more. I won’t play with my brother. No never. No more. Seriously. It’s awesome. The music sounds just like regular Black47, only without the political messages. Since, y’know, little kids are probably vaguely uninterested in James Connolly and a little too young to listen to songs about drugs in NYC in the 1980’s. This album is my brand spankin’ new favorite.

In all honesty, a lot of regular programming is perfectly appropriate for children. I’m a big fan of letting The Kid watch whatever I’m watching. We watch a lot of Palladia (HD Music Videos and concerts). He’s a big Killers fan. He loved Katy Perry Unplugged. Every so often, however, I’d like him to watch something that’s right for his age. He doesn’t need to grow up needlessly. The flip side of that is that if I have to be in the same room, which inevitably I do, then it better not be something I find nauseating, condescending, or, well, just plain stupid. Children deserve better than that. Children deserve to be treated as small people, not as idiots. Just because they’re young doesn’t mean that they need to be treated as though they are somehow mentally incapable of understanding the world around them. They just need it to be simplified, not stupefied. Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Surprises

Life is full of surprises. Indeed, every day brings new ones. As I begin to mark the end of my first year of motherhood, I’ve had many surprises.

I’ve been surprised by how fast time can go, while at the same time dragging like it’s a never-ending single moment in time.

I’ve been surprised by how one small dictator can turn a good day bad simply by the turn of a nap.

I’ve been surprised by how watching a kid with his dog can be one of the most fulfilling parts of a holiday.

I’ve been surprised, sadly, by how yogurt that is an unnatural blue on the way in is not an unnatural blue on the way out.

More than anything else, I’ve been surprised by how much a single person can love another. Just over a year ago, I worried about how I was going to handle motherhood. It’s been difficult, this first year. It’s been an ever evolving experience. At times, I’m still surprised that this small person lives in my home. It’s those moments at night, when I’m getting ready for bed and can hear him snoring in the next room, that I wonder whether this last year has been real. Sometimes, the intensity of feeling I have for this small person still shocks and surprises me.

However, it’s not my love for him that I find surprising. It’s his love for me. I know my family and husband love me. I’m never in doubt of those feelings.  I know that the dogs “love” me, as much as, y’know, non-sentient beings are able. However, watching my son look at me every day fills me with wonder. A few days ago, I mentioned to someone, with sheer amazement, “He loves his mommy!” The person I was talking to noted, “He’ll always love his mommy best, you don’t need to worry about that.” What my conversationalist missed, however, was that I was not worried he would ever love someone else more, but that he loves me. Period.

What do I have that this small person finds so amazing? He’s the amazing one. Sure, I feed him. Hey, anyone could do that. I’ll admit, I change his diapers. Again, anyone could do that, although, maybe that’s the key – not too many people would want to do it. However, in the last few weeks, this tiny person has become so affectionate. He wants to cuddle. He’s learned to kiss. He wants to spend time with, specifically, me. I’ve never known someone to care about me in such an all-consuming way. I’m this small person’s whole world. I am this tiny person’s oasis of comfort. Yes, he adores his daddy. However, apparently, right now, in this moment, his daddy is not his human binkie. Mommy is.

I do not know what I did to deserve this love. I do not know what I can do to keep this love. This small person trusts me and needs me. This tiny person relies upon me for not just his physical but also his emotional needs. This tiny person looks to me before doing anything. Literally, anything. He waits for my reaction to his actions. He will do something, wait, and look at me. He waits to see if I will praise him or not. He continues to do things that he knows will gain my praise. He knows that when he puts the circle puzzle piece in the circle puzzle piece place that I will say, “Yay! Good job!” He waits to make sure that he receives his praise. He wants to know that I, me, specifically, am happy with him.

The biggest surprises in life are those that truly blind side you. I’ve been in love with this small person for the last eleven and a half months. I have loved him since before he was born, even if he scared the bejesus out of me. I have loved him forever, since before I even knew he would exist. What surprises me more than anything else is that he can look at me, smile, and you can see that he loves me.

This is the biggest surprise of motherhood.

Welcome to the Dollhouse

What is consciousness? What is self? Are people hardware to be programmed? Can technology replace humanness?

Joss Whedon’s latest creation, Dollhouse, aired its final episode last Friday. Tears were shed. At least, I shed me some tears. Dollhouse, in short, is about a corporation that wipes people’s memories, making them into “dolls” and then gives them new identities for each assignment that they have to go on.  Each doll has a history – a past that s/he would like to erase for five years. At the end of the five year contract, each doll’s personality is returned and the doll is handsomely remunerated.

However, the true heart of this show were the greater questions above. What aspects of personhood remain with us, regardless of our memories, thoughts, or knowledge? Whedon answers this question beautifully by showing how two dolls connect, or as it is called in the show, “couple”. Coupling is considered, within the Dollhouse, to be an error in hardware. However, it leads to the idea that there are human qualities that cannot be erased.

At the very bottom of all of this, the viewer begins to question what it means to be human. For example, we consider ourselves to be based on our pasts, our memories, the experiences that create “who we are.” What were to happen if all of that were erased? Clearly, when your self is on what looks more or less like an 8-track, you exist somewhere. Self, allegedly, can exist beyond the body. Self becomes a pattern of thoughts and behaviors. Self does not require that body and mind be together in order to exist. In fact, self appears to be entirely unlinked from the physical in many ways.

Technology, not even the large corporation Rossum who funds and develops it, is the Big Bad of this series. Technology can take away our human qualities. It can remove them. We can be molded into mindless, emotionless nothings through technology. We can have our selves erased, stored, and returned on a whim. This theme actually has greater reach in today’s world than even a sense of self does.

The expansion of the internet seems a far distance from having your mind’s hard drive wiped clean. However, is it a small step in the direction of having lived experience be erased. Although social networking sites help to facilitate friendships and keep connections intact, they can also start to create shallow social interactions that appear real. For example, if someone posts a status, a “friend” may assume that the status is somehow at the essence of the poster. If status updates have a general theme, it is because the poster has  an image s/he wants to create. That does not mean that the “friends” know that person. As technology becomes a greater location of social gathering, it also changes how people see themselves. It changes the lived experience for many. In fact, for those who use it, it changes the lived experience for all.

danah boyd discusses how teens utilize social networking sites as a way to “meet up”, in the same way that many pre-internet youth used malls. Sure, kids still go to the mall to hang out. However, most often during the week they are connecting via social networking sites. They are changing the way that they interact. Social interactions are becoming, with this new medium, progressively more digitized. By removing the old-fashioned lived experience, young people are changing the way that they create their sense of self.

This changing sense of self arising out of the use of technology means that we need to re-evaluate what we think our “essence” is. Today, we need to determine how to create a sense of self in a changing world. Allowing our lives to be based on bits and pieces of data dehumanizes us. We need to continue to make those connections that keep us from being nothing more than dolls. We need to couple – to make human connections in a world where technology increasingly reigns. We need to remain people and not dolls.

The Power of Hands

The first thing I’ve always noticed about people are their hands. Hands, to be, and not eyes are the true windows to the soul. Hands can tell more about a person than a full conversation. Hands cannot lie.

Long, skinny fingers. Short nails. Carefully tended. Sometimes with callouses, sometimes not. These are often the signs of a musician. These hands create more than sounds. They transform ideas from abstract principles of notes and math into feelings and emotions. These hands create and inspire.

Cracked skin. Rough nails. Cuts, callouses, and early signs of aging. These hands show signs of physical labor. They often seem hardened. However, their touch can be as soft as a baby’s skin. These hands belie a rough exterior and personality. These hands can also be as hard as they seem to be. They can pound, carry, hit. These hands may build or transport. These hands belong to someone who seems rough around the edges. These hands may physically abuse or may tenderly caress. How these hands flex or curve can tell whether they are the former or the latter. These hands show the true personality that may hide behind the public exterior.

Chapped skin. Cuts and dry patches. Short nails or long nails, both filed to ensure that no rough spots can cause scrapes or cuts. These hands show someone who cares for others. Hands that spend time in water but little time on themselves. These hands show through the softened nail edges that they worry about others. These hands hide the tears cried for others. These hands show the care for others in which this person engages. This person worries about hurting someone with nails but has no time to care for the hands themselves. These hands tell the story of a caregiver who gives more care than is received.

Hands have the power of truth. They cannot be hidden. They cannot be masked. They tell the true story that lies in a person’s soul. Whether they are ingrained with dirt or continually cleaned, they tell a story. Hands care for others or for self. They dig in dirt or wash continually. They can be perfumed with lotion or with the smell of onions from cooking. A person’s hands tell the story of a life lived. Never underestimate their power.

Educational Equivalent

Over the weekend, a story in the New York Times discussed a new evolution in American high schools. This evolution is sweeping states and attempting to better American education. It is the idea of having actual college classes in the high school classroom instead of the traditional Advanced Placement classes.

Mulling this over while snacking this morning, several aspects of this program bothered me. First of all, the fact that it is considered, “an alternative to the high-pressure AP program, in which students receive college credits or advanced placement based on their performance on an exam at the end of the year.” True, bubble tests can only test so much knowledge. True, multiple choice does not always equate to intelligence. True, cramming at the end of a year of study is a lot of pressure. In classes like English or history, these arguments are valid. However, anyone who has taken an actual college class in one of the sciences can attest to the fact that this same cramming at the end of the semester in a first year science class is more or less the norm. In fact, for those classes, an AP class might actually be less “high pressure.” Further, watering down the “pressure” of an AP course might only serve to weaken students who go into college. College is a place replete with pressure. Simply because a student took a college course in her high school does not make her more prepared. If the college course is taught in a way that is considered low-pressure, this class might give the student a false sense of success. I’m not advocating the idea that students should not be eased into scholastics. I’m advocating the idea that as a college degree becomes more important and more necessary to individual success, giving high school students a false sense of security regarding their abilities creates greater pressure once the students reach college. Any college level educator who has worked with first semester first years has heard at least once per semester, “Well, I know I’m excellent at (insert subject) because I was so good at it in high school.” High school and college are two entirely different realms. As well they should be.

Second, as pointed out by Mr. A, these classes in many suburban high schools include a fee. True, this fee is a reduced fee. At the school the article discussed, student paid a fee of $250 for the course. The students at the college would pay $2,934. While this is indeed a reduced rate, these are opportunities in a public school that require students to pay for a course. How is this fair for students who cannot afford the $250 fee? In a public school, the goal is to create an environment for equal education. Equal means equal opportunity, not necessary equal intelligence. Fine. However, when some students can afford a different education within the same public school, the purpose of the public school is sullied. Say what you will, this creates an economic division within a school that only widens the already existing socio-economic education gap within American society. The article points out that the original purposes of these courses was to help get urban school students interested in college and give them opportunities. It does not, however, indicate whether there was a fee associated with those classes or whether these students would be able to receive a subsidy. In a school system where the majority of students see no hope, perhaps this is worthwhile and perhaps with subsidies for these students, some of the other aspects of this particular argument are non-issues. Admittedly, I did not further research these other urban programs.

Finally, I have to ask, as someone who works with first year college students, whether a college course at a high school taught by a high school teacher who is bound by the strictures of high school culture seem to limit the ability to have the academic freedom of a college. This past semester, I discussed issues such as polyamory and man-on-man porn intended for women. In a college classroom, these ideas, when tied to other issues of culture, are accepted. Students are required to step outside of themselves and experience new ideas. In a high school classroom, regardless of whether it is considered a collegiate course, somehow these ideas seem a scandal in the making. Other educators with more experience may agree or disagree. However, if the syllabus is set by the college and the high school teacher is simply following it, a question arises regarding whether this is truly a college level course. True, the Jericho teacher discussed 1984. Yes, this book is one of literature’s greats. True, college classes across the country teach this book. However, the question to be asked is how is this taught as opposed to what is taught. The students indicate that they spent two weeks on 1984. 1984, from a college perspective, is not a ten-class book. This seems to be watering down the discussion as opposed to accelerating it. In a college course, 1984 might be one or two classes, one week, with other readings included to help analyze it. In this course, it was analyzed for two school weeks, which in high school is ten classes. Again, within the confines of a high school curriculum and culture, the question that comes to mind is whether this is truly a collegiate course and whether the students are truly being prepared for college or being given a chance to pretend that they are ready for college when in fact they will be shocked when they arrive on a college campus.

In the end, neither option is the best. Students need to be prepared for college. They do not need to be given the educational equivalent of Boon’s or O’Douls in an attempt to let them think they are ready. They may learn skills; however, the shock they will feel upon being placed in a true college classroom is one that will reverberate. Students need rigorous academic intellectuality. They need preparation. They need to be challenged outside of themselves. They need more than the educational equivalent of intellectual curiosity. They need the real thing.