Matinee dates and other riffs

G and I have found it increasingly tough to get out together on a Friday or Saturday night. Those precious weekend evenings seem to fill up with our kids' events & social lives and the accompanying chauffeuring they require. Or, now that there are just two kids at home, often one of the kids has plans and the other doesn't, which leaves us feeling awkward and loathe to leave just one kid behind all evening to fend for his/herself. (It makes me almost long for the days of yore when we just called a babysitter and the kids had no after-dark social lives--or, even better, when Candyland with the babysitter ranked high in their social lives. Almost. If it ever had been as simple as "just" calling a babysitter.)  

Anyway, we would go months without a just-us-two night on the town. Then we realized: who says it has to be a night? Who says it has to be on the weekend? 

Liberated from our stringent definition of a date, we've come up with really terrific work-arounds. Meeting midweek for lunch, for example. And Saturday afternoon dates. The luxury of spending midday hours with my guy! Decadent, I tell you. Last weekend we saw a matinee movie and went to Costco together to look for a patio umbrella (hey! It counts.). Two weekends ago we had lunch by the lake and headed to the National Gallery of Australia to see the visiting Roy Lichtenstein exhibit. 

I felt like I had a compatriot in Lichtenstein as I admired his innovative riffing and reinventing and reconceiving. The guy had no problem with changing things up, fusing images in unexpected ways, experimenting with printing techniques, and bringing pop art into the established art realm.

I left thinking about our changing, growing-yet-shrinking family and how we all have similar license to shake things up now and then as our families and our needs evolve. Of course there are non-negotiables: love, support, structure, and learning will always stay a priority no matter the family stage. But still. There are ways to riff, play outside the lines, and reinvent.

There's a prevailing concept in the business world of disruptive innovation. A new idea comes along, turns conventional wisdom on its head, and succeeds in a whole new way, usually by serving a whole new set of customers or finding novel ways to address new needs.  I think this happens in families, too, as we come up with new traditions sometimes accidentally) and hit new stages, with epiphanies like:

• Who says I need to do all of the family laundry now that we're all old enough to understand how to do it well ourselves? 
• Who says date night has to be at night or on the weekend?
• Who says you have to have a big traditional Sunday dinner when Thursday nights work better? 
• Who says (as Sarah mentioned yesterday) that you can't have a family night with teenagers?  Or that you can't reinvent the form into a weekly book group, cooking lesson, or dance party?

 . . .

What work-arounds or innovations have you made to better address your family's needs, philosophy or stages?  What "who says" epiphanies have you had (or do you want to make)?

Climbed a mountain and I turned around

How to Climb a Mountain

Make no mistake. This will be an exercise in staying vertical. 
 Yes, there will be a view, later, a wide swath of open sky,
 but in the meantime: tree and stone. If you're lucky, a hawk will
 coast overhead, scanning the forest floor. If you're lucky,
 a set of wildflowers will keep you cheerful. Mostly, though,
 a steady sweat, your heart fluttering indelicately, a solid ache
 perforating your calves. This is called work, what you will come to know,
 eventually and simply, as movement, as all the evidence you need to make
 your way. Forget where you were. That story is no longer true.
 Level your gaze to the trail you're on, and even the dark won't stop you.

Maya Stein

 . . .

Over the last few months I've fallen in love with hiking. Who knew? I love the solitary climb, the burn as I push myself up the hill, the crunch of gravel underfoot. My barnacled thoughts loosen as I go and I can leave my unnecessary, unhelpful worries up on the trail as an offering at the altar of the day. Up there at the peak of a strenuous climb I feel clearer, my brain scrubbed clean, ready for what matters. 

Another truth follows, though: then I come down.  

Ugh. Yes, sometimes the summit clarity stays with me and holds me over until next time. But often the buzz wears off quickly. After recently launching Lauren on her mission--the latest big figurative mountain I climbed--I've been feeling it this week, the inevitable, predictable post-summit valley. (As I did after our moves. And when L. left for university the first time. And after the holidays every year. And after back-to-school rush. And after the thrill of a fun vacation.) The thing about launching is--if you do it right, then they're gone. (Come on, sing with me now...climbed a mountain and I turned around...then the landside brought me down.  I'm pretty much the poster girl for that song these days. That and the Fiddler on the Roof song about sunrises and sunsets.)

Then I remember this wisdom, discovered a couple of years ago and put to good use ever since:

"You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know"  (Rene Daumal, Mount Analogue).

I'm still figuring out what that means for me, exactly, and how to conduct myself in the valleys. Remembering and knowing is a good start. And new mountains. But first I think I'll take a long bath and indulge in some cinema therapy.

Here's to you and your mountains--to the grit and vistas and the descent and even the occasional landslides.

. . . 

p.s. Speaking of hiking:  In praise of America's parklands and encouraging Congress take a hike.

"It's not my wife; it's not my life."

While I was in Provo this week (moving my baby into her dorm), I was lucky enough to have lunch with my Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Chuck. We had a great time discussing BYU, classes, majors, dorm rooms, and skiing (always wishing for good snow). I’m not even sure how the subject came up, but my Aunt explained that they’d had some flooding in their basement – an accident resulting in unexpected repairs.

Unexpected house repairs? That’s my middle name.

My Uncle Chuck brushed it off. He told us about Willie Davis, a baseball player with the Los Angeles Dodgers in the 1960s and early 70s. During the 1966 World Series, Davis somehow managed three consecutive errors during the second game. When asked about his poor performance, he replied, “It’s not my wife; it’s not my life. It’s just a game.” And that – in a nutshell – was Chuck’s philosophy: The unexpected repairs might be frustrating or annoying for the moment, but in the greater scheme of things, they were inconsequential.

Chuck’s sentiment resonated with me – so wise and true.

But then I quickly returned to the Great Dorm Move-In of 2013.

This is not a random picture of my study. Read on, if you dare.

Fast forward to Saturday afternoon --  when my SIL and I are speeding through the barren (but beautiful) landscape of New Mexico. I get a text from Parker: “Are you there?” I’m driving, and since I would never, ever, ever text and drive, I call him back.

Me: “What’s up bud?”

Parker: “Here’s what happened.”

[Note: No mother wants to here the preamble of “here’s what happened.”]

Parker: “I was sitting in the living room watching television when I heard a loud crash. I ran into the study and all of your shelves fell off of the wall and crushed your iMac.”

Me: “Are you kidding? Are you pulling a prank? Seriously? Really?”

Parker: “I’m not kidding.” (I made him repeat that like 15 times.)

I moaned and groaned about the state of affairs for a while, and then Debbie (my SIL) reminded me, “Well, it’s not your wife and it’s not your life.”

Amen, sistah.

There was nothing I could do from New Mexico, and Sterling assured me everything was fixable, so I pushed the matter from my mind and returned to hours upon hours of driving.

When I walked through the front door Sunday evening I was so happy to see my family! I’d been gone nearly a week. But when I looked into the study I had to clench my fists and breath very deeply to keep from crying. My books, which had once been organized by time period, location, genre, and special interests, were in piles all over the floor. My beloved (and I do mean beloved) iMac lay shattered on the dining room table. I had (foolishly) not backed up my dissertation in some time. My desktop lay upended in a corner of the room. It was in tatters people. I don’t typically deal well with tatters.

But then I sat in the living room with Sterling and the kids, catching up on their first week of school. As we talked and laughed I remembered Chuck’s wise words. The computer and room would get fixed. Eventually. With some hard work and repair costs, everything would work out.

Becca and I continued talking. She was frustrated with some disappointments at school – she hadn’t made the first cross country meet, and she hadn’t been placed in the choir she was expecting. “Becca,” I said, “Let me tell you about a baseball player named Willie Davis. . .”

All that I can give

Many, MANY thanks to Christie for guest-posting this week. Her final post for today had me brushing back a few tears and nodding my head in silent agreement. We've been up early getting kids to cross country for weeks now, and sometimes, on the drive home, I formulate certain lectures that their sweet little hearts just don't need. Turns out they often have the perspective I lack. But Christie tells it so much better . . .

---

I wake up and sigh, feeling as though I could sleep for another year.  I ache from exhaustion and long to curl up into a ball and sleep. 

Mentally, I tally up the day’s to-do list and know that there are not enough hours to get it all done in.

I sit on the edge of the bed, stretch, and squint painfully.  Getting bids on shutters in the master bedroom has just climbed several notches on that never-ending list.  Stupid sun.  Stupid east-facing windows.

I limp tentatively into the kitchen, feeling left heel pain with every step.  Plantar fasciitis again, I’m sure of it.  Too bad there’s not time today to take care of that.

The open jar of peanut butter and half-empty glasses of milk on the counter tell me that the boys have already been here.  I sigh and grumble as I wipe it all down.   I scrape off big globs of peanut butter, thickly coating the butter knives.  Turning, I trip over a pair of football cleats, and the irritation bubbles up in a hurry. 

The bags from last night’s scout project are strewn all over the living room floor.  A dirty pair of inside-out socks lie limply on the couch.  A pile of papers litters the coffee table.

I grit my teeth, and start planning the lecture I’m going to give all of them.  Opening my mouth to call them downstairs, I feel two skinny arms wrap around my waist. 

“Good morning, mama.  Did you sleep good?”

Squeezing her back, I feel her hang on a few seconds longer than I do.  Guilt washes over me and I feel the icy wall around my heart begin to melt.  Smoothing her blonde tangles, I ask about her own sleep.  She chatters away, her button nose scrunching together the freckles I love so much. 

I listen for the first time to the conversation that is taking place upstairs.  I smile, as I hear my boys building each other up and offering compliments and reassurances.  I remind myself of the anxiety we are all feeling with the new move and school starting on Monday.

Instead of a lecture today, these babies need love.  All that I can give them.

Shame washes over me.  Chastising myself, I look around me with a fresh perspective.  I see the unimportance of what really isn’t such a big mess at all.  I see three kids who are busy and happy, leaving evidence of that contentedness behind them.  Laughter bounces off the walls and wraps around them all day long.  Independence and confidence are taking root in these amazing souls.  Love is what they breathe as easily as oxygen.

In less than four days, my hours will be my own again.  Their happy banter and teasing smiles will be given away to new friends across the lunch table.  The easy companionship that has buoyed me all summer will be absent from my daily life.  The cleats, papers, snacks, and socks will be put away.

(At least until the early part of the evening, anyway.)

And I know, with every fiber of my being, that my heart will break and pine for their messy, incredible, amazing selves.

So settle down cobwebs, and dust, and all the little messes.

These babies definitely won’t keep.

Passing the Bridge of Sighs

Lauren and I are on the road this week, visiting family and getting her ready for her next adventure. This weekend we attended my cousin's wedding, which was gorgeous and inspiring on every level. I especially loved the palpable hope and joy in the newlywed couple's gazes and listening to their vows of love and loyalty. And yet, as much as I love witnessing and remembering that giddy matrimonial newness, I wouldn't trade it for where we are now in our marriage, G and I. We've come a long way, baby.

Many years ago, when our marriage had that just-out-of-the-box shine, we visited England together.  In Cambridge we decided to try punting on the river Cam.  (Punting, as you probably know, involves steering a long skinny boat with a long skinny pole while standing balanced in the back, like the gondoliers in Venice.)  We were students living on love, air, and jacket potatoes so we opted to guide ourselves down the river rather than spend the extra money on a guide.

G had no way of knowing the vision that was playing out inside my head--or how long it had been looping through my rose-tinged dreams.  He had no idea that I had snatched him up from where he stood and cast him in a historical BBC drama (the ones he actively avoids) in which we drift peacefully down the river, trailing my fingers in the smooth water, choral music wafting from the King's College Chapel as we drift on toward the Bridge of Sighs. (And by "we" I think I really meant me.)

Yeah, no unrealistic expectations there.

So it turns out that punting is much more difficult than it seems--in fact, quite challenging.  We launched out down the river shakily, ping-ponging wildly between the two banks of the boat-filled river.  Next the pole got stuck in the mushy riverbottom and we spun around and around, pivoting on the stubborn pole. Then, regaining control of the pole we lost control of the boat banging broadside into another boat and knocking that guide into the water. Yes, really. (And by "we" I really meant, and blamed, G.) 

I wish I could say I laughed and made it a lighthearted, BBC romance kind of moment.  But, no--it also turned out that I was a terrible boat passenger. I threw all sorts of "helpful" advice-slash-commands in G's direction, irritated that my vision was getting all sullied with the reality of guiding a boat with a pole down a crowded river. This, of course, was highlyunhelpful and only made G feel worse.  By the end of the ride we were terse and angry with each other. 

Poor G, saddled with the heavy weight of my unspoken expectations. Notice that all of the actual work of my vision was unfairly placed squarely on his shoulders?  Is it any wonder we have avoided anything involving a boat and high expectations ever since?

Given a chance for a do-over these many years later, I would just lie back and enjoy the view.  I would laugh + jump in with the guy we knocked off (like the dance scene in It's a Wonderful Life!) and offer to buy him lunch. I would offer to take a turn steering us rather than offering backoftheboat advice.  I would lower my expectations and raise my compassion.  Or at least I hope I would.

I think we might be ready for another trip down the river after all.

And by "we," I really do mean both of us.

In the kitchen

via ApartmentTherapy

Guys, I'm trying my hardest not to let my academic work infiltrate the blog because I don't want to bore anyone to death. NOT that my academic work is boring. In the least. But I do have to sift through a bunch of boring stuff to get to the exciting bits. When I'm done with this you can just call me Dr. Sifter.

At any rate, my current chapter has much to do with the kitchen, how the kitchen is represented in contemporary culture, and how such representations affect cultural codes, roles, and perceptions. A very good professor once told me that all research is personal -- meaning that you will gravitate towards research interests that touch your own life. And thus it is for me. I have long wondered at and struggled with women and domesticity -- how to balance family life and work life, why domestic spaces are so aggressively assigned to women, why I'm the only person in the family who notices THERE ARE 73 WATER GLASSES ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER. You know, important stuff like that -- that's what I'm thinking about.

But more on point for this blog is how I talk about, teach, and pass on culturally specific gender roles to my own kiddos. How can I teach my son that the domestic is his responsibility just as much as it is my daughters'? How can I help my daughters navigate the tricky path between work and family? And whose job is it exactly to mow the lawn and empty the dishwasher?  How can I raise enlightened individuals who want to work together within their families to build the best life possible?

Huh? 

Unfortunately I don't have any get rich quick domestic-equality schemes. But I do think it's interesting and important to examine and discuss (with the kiddos) the way kitchens as geographic spaces function in literature and popular art. 

I recently came across this article, "Coming Out of the Kitchen: Texts, Contexts, and Debates," that positions the kitchen as "an improvisatory and rebellious zone." The author, Janet Floyd, isn't so much decrying the kitchen as some radical space to launch a feminist rebellion (cuz that's hard to do when the chicken needs to be done by 5), as she is utilizing the kitchen in popular culture to "generate arguments about gender, class and nation." There you go. That's what I'm talking about. Arguing. I do love to argue. And if I can do that while mixing up some chocolate chip cookies -- ALL THE BETTER.

Floyd talks about a number of specific kitchens. Surprisingly, she's interested in the kitchen Monica and Rachel share in Friends. Monica as the obsessive, detail-driven homemaker wanna-be is consistently contrasted with the frazzled and hopelessly sloppy Rachel. And audiences like both of them. Monica's over-achiever neurosis makes her less-than-ideal, and Rachel, quintessentially beautiful and hip, is beautiful and hip even amidst her failures in the domestic. So what's the message there? The beauty is that there is no one unified message. No, "GIRLS! Get yourselves into the kitchen." 

The point Floyd is making is that texts (including television texts) about or including the kitchen can both "insist on the richness of the domestic experience" while also transgressing social norms. And really, in the end, that's a good portion of what I want my kids to take with them into adulthood -- that the domestic can be a warm, creative, nurturing, and even transgressive space, but such an environment will almost certainly mean looking at the family dynamic in new and respectful ways. It will mean everyone working together to see that the dog gets fed, and the sheets changed, and the meals cooked, and books read, and art created.

Forget about Monica and Rachel. I'm all about Claire and Cliff. Remember Cliff's apron? He was a whiz at sandwich-making for Rudy.

And what about Elyse and Steven? A fair amount of sitcom action occurred in the family kitchen. Good stuff there.

What about you? Any fictional family kitchens you find fascinating?

On grief and villages

I am approximately 44 million miles away from where I want to be today. I would actually rather be on a couch in Idaho, sitting with my arm around the shoulders of my dear friend who just lost her husband yesterday to stupid, greedy pancreatic cancer. I would love to go honor our friendship in person and pay tribute to Tony's life well lived, the door opened and closed far too soon. 

Admittedly I was in that frame of mind when today I stumbled across a remarkable article about a Cincinnati school engaged in supporting and embracing a group of grieving teen boys. (Well, not stumbled, exactly. I found it via Longreads, which is such a great website and service, have you heard of it? They compile the best of longer articles published in magazines and online each week.)  I think that The Rules of Grieving: They Are Still Boys should be a must-read for social work students. Or, come to think of it, for any parent/neighbor/teacher/friend/human.

photo by Carrie Cochran via Cincinnati.com

The article underlines the truth of the old adage "it takes a village to raise a child." For a while there the notion that it takes a village was diminished and appropriated for cheap political dithering. But, the fact is, it really does take a host of people to raise a child. Between the ages of 10 and 20 I think this is especially true. Teachers. Advisors. Friends and their parents. A collective of other supportive adults, nudging, applauding, and pointing the way to adulthood.

Count them throughout the article: the women who start the bereavement group. The anonymous parent who insists on making chocolate chip cookies for the group meetings. The teachers who come in, willing to show their vulnerability and share their own experiences, like this one:

photo by Carrie Cochran via Cincinnati.com

"On this day, math teacher James Jewell sits at the table. Buckley and Munafo-Kanoza invite teachers to the group meetings to show the students that adults have grief to work through as well. They do it for another reason, too: It is a good reminder to the teachers that some kids might seem like they are having a hard day because, in fact, they are having a hard day.

Mr. Jewell is holding a pair of binoculars. He tells the students that he grew up with seven sisters, so he and his father were close. When he was about 13 or so, he would go trapping with his father to sell the skins for money. “We grew up rural,” he says to the astounded boys.

One morning, Mr. Jewell tells the group, his father mentioned, casually, how he wished he had a good pair of binoculars. So the boy saved his money from the skins, right up to the dime, and one day bought the best pair of binoculars at the local hunting shop. The store owner, Mr. Jewell remembered, offered to pay the tax on the binoculars since the boy didn’t know such a thing even existed.

Mr. Jewell’s father died when he was 19, and now he sat before the boys, in his 60s, telling the story, holding the binoculars, tears running down his checks. “These bring back a lot of fond memories for me,” he said. “I’m crying now, but these are really good memories.”

The boys sit mesmerized. An adult — a teacher, no less — sharing a story they could be telling themselves. And he remains so affected by the death of his father, who has been gone for so long. For the students sitting around the table, it feels like proof that what they are going through is real."

---

Here's to the village, yours and mine. We are each, after all, both recipients and contributors to it. As my mom used to say as she gathered up a meal to bring to someone who needed it, "it's just what we do for each other."

And I'll add this postscript today: I'm so glad to have been in that village with you, Tony. Thank you for blessing our family, literally and figuratively. We love you, friend.