Me and My Shadow

It is very difficult as a mother to find your own identity, to separate yourself from your child. I think of that often as I begin yet another blog about my son, or post yet another photo of me and my son on my Facebook profile. And then I realize how ridiculous it is to even try for that separation.

Reality check on motherhood: I am not a separate identity anymore. It's a tough transition to make, from independent persona to mother of child. It took a long time for Atticus's existence in our house to feel normal. But now it is normal. Once you give in, surrender to the intrusion of a life that you asked for in the first place, that identity shift happens. The struggle is over and life gets easy-ish again.

It's not at all easy before accepting that shift. And sure, I could have just accepted it on day one when we brought Atticus home from the hospital, but I didn't know how. I didn't even know I was supposed to because everyone says, "You have to make time for yourself." And you do, sort of, but not really, because "yourself" is a completely new concept and that individual existence is really gone. At least for me it was and is. Thank goodness I am communal and like being around people. Loneliness, how little I knew you.

And so I have this shadow always, but it's more like a light than a shadow. Atticus is almost eight months now. And he is everywhere - on my blog, in my conversations, on my Facebook profile, crawling across the floor, sitting in the chair next to me crying for my attention as I write this. And so I'll go and give him the attention he wants because I like him very much. He's good people, my kind of people. And he and I will never be entirely separate no matter how hard either of us might try. What a comfort that is.

Food Rut

It happens to all of us. There comes a time when nothing sounds delicious and no recipe intrigues. I am there. I am officially in a food rut.

Usually when this happens, I bust out the cookbooks, stroll through the pages and pull forth new and unexpected ingredient options to tease and awaken a sleeping palate. But this time, the cookbooks aren't working, nor are the cooking shows we watch ad nauseum, nor is my trusted and true Bon Appetit magazine - a boon which has contributed many a new recipe to our dining lexicon, such as blueberry lemon shortcake and fake fried chicken.

What to do when nothing at the grocery store excites one to eat something delicious? The only thing seasonal at this time of the year in Tennessee markets are pineapples. I like pineapples very much, but not so much as a savory component. And anyway, they are rather on the small side right now.

It's a time for ordering Chinese food in. That's usually my strategy, but one can only afford to do so a couple of times before one must return to ones own food stores. What to do? Where to eat? Food inspiration is in short supply.

Teaching Advice?

Forgive the cliche, but I am entering unchartered waters with my Public Writing class. I am starting a section entitled "Joining the Public Forum" wherein students will participate in political blogs, online videos (such as youtube), the writing of letters to the editor, and/or participating in the writing of political literature (essays or poetry) in some way.

Do any of my teacherly friends or otherwise savvy people have any suggestions of blogs, videos, political essays, etc ... that I could incorporate in the classroom toward the goal of familiarizing students with the craft and purpose of public writing in a political context?

Thanks, friends.

Stranger in a Strange Land

It comes as no surprise to those who know me that neither I nor my husband are huge fans of living in the South, and yet, I am committed to enjoying the rest of our time here. I've spent the last year and a half trying to explain what it is that we have found so unpleasant and I have always been aware of how flimsy our reasoning has been. So toward a happier experience here in this strange land, I will try to explain and excavate all that anti-South baggage.

For starters, it's a thousand little things. This is what I've finally come to. There are a thousand little things that are different about the South that make me feel like an interloper, an other, a conscientious objector.

Word Choice and Fun Expressions: I can't tell you how many times my heart's been blessed. Southerners really love to "bless your heart." This is not a complaint. It's just different. I don't think anyone in Michigan has ever blessed my heart. And Southerners call grocery carts "buggies." And when they have completed something - like, say, fixing a leaky pipe under the sink - they say, "Alright, that's got ya'," which is a great turn of phrase, though strange.

Nevermind the accent. I don't hear that anymore at all unless it's a particularly thick one. It's the different phrasing and word choices that pull me out of my daily routine and remind me that while it is nice here, I am not home.

On the Subject of Snow: A few weeks ago, a terrible hardship fell upon Knoxville. A smattering of fluffy snow that was too light to stick to the ground came down from the sky. Schools closed. Malls closed. Grocery stores crowded over and then closed. I was in Marshall's to decompress, enjoying a few scarce moments on my own, when over the intercom I hear the words, "The store will be closing in 15 minutes due to inclement weather."

Inclement weather? Are they serious? I looked out the window. Clear parking lot. Clear roads. Light snow falling. To no one in particular, I uttered, "Seriously?", then put down my potential purchases and walked out into a clear day no Michigander would come close to describing as inclemental.

Southerners defend this by saying
a) they do not have the equipment to clear snow,
b) the North does not have mountains like they do, and
c) they do not know how to drive in the snow.

In response to these arguments I say
a) there is no snow on the ground for a plow to clear away,
b) you live in a valley, and
c) go slow and drive more cautiously.

Slow and slow, that is the tempo: When we first came here, I thought my head might explode. I had heard all the cliches about the South living a slower paced existence, but I didn't think they were actually true in our oh-so-modern world. They are. Go to a bank, any bank in the South, and you will experience the Southern way to its fullest. All one may need to do is make a quick transaction - in and out and on to the next thing, but the teller has different plans. "How you? Oh, did you just move from Michigan? How do y'like it here? Well, you'll love it come late February and March. Oh, I cain't stand the snow."

And on and on. It took me a while to slow down, to welcome the random and constant stream of conversation from strangers. Now I can jump in the middle of a conversation with the best of them, but this is not a northern trait or tendency. We are saved by our ruthless efficiency.

Friendy friendy: This is related to the previous point. It isn't just that everything is slower, it's that everyone is friendlier. The South is superfriendly and if you are a northerner, this takes a little while to get used to. I don't want to suggest that the North is not friendly because that's plain wrong. It's just that generally speaking we do not want to bother you or otherwise impede the progress of your day. If you need something, directions or a restaurant suggestion, we northerners are only too happy to oblige. But if you engage in a conversation with us that lasts longer than five minutes, we will likely start to become suspicious of you and your intentions. Do they want to get us in their van, we wonder? Are they trying con us? Is there a second player involved? It's confusing. We are not bad people. We just have certain social expectations of strangers.

In the South, the social expectations of strangers is quite different. Everyone is fair game for conversation. I cannot tell you how many conversations about celery, soup stock, chicken cuts, or milk expiration dates I have had in Kroger with my fellow shoppers, strangers all of them. I am everyone's friend here. This is nice, but it would be a lie to say this did not take some getting used to. My husband is not at all used to it and his inherently shy and guarded self has had to invent all new defense mechanisms to accomodate this uniquely southern tradition.


And lastly, the worst thing about the South is the fact that my family does not live here. This is its grossest crime. It is likely I will be here for another year, perhaps two, and it's time to stop beating up the South for my mother not being around the corner.

So to the South, I apologize. I am ready to have my heart blessed, to return my buggy to the buggy corral, to discuss recipes with you at the grocery store, and to be your friend in all things.

But this snow thing --

Oh dear South, you must know it makes you a horrible wuss, and I will continue to make fun of you for unnecessary school closings and for shutting down the malls at the slightest mention of cold, white precipitation. On this point, I will ever hold true to my Yankee status.

The Feat of Sitting Up

Newborn babies are boring. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. They don't see well, they're fairly quiet, and their daily accomplishment are few and far between. The mother of a 3-month old baby excites over her baby's newfound ability to focus on objects several feet away from their face. It's cause for celebration.

A six-month old - on the other hand - a six-month old can do some pretty cool shit. A six-month old, for example, can sit up and play with blocks. Now we're cooking with gas.

I can hardly explain the novelty of Atticus being able to sit up. It is nothing short of a magic trick in my book. How DOES he do it after months of floppiness that necessitated constant carrying around? One second, he's a spineless fish nearly slipping out of my arms. The next, he's a strong little man sitting up, reaching for toys just out of his reach.

Not only does he sit up on his very own, he is also engaged with toys and very, very interested in this whole crawling business. If only he could figure out how to move forward. Backwards? Sure, we have that down. Forward is another thing altogether.

But the sitting up - this, according to Dr. Sears, is the master skill of the six-month old. And Atticus, well obviously he is a master at it even if he occasionally (read: always) falls over at some point during the sitting up. Still, the kid is good. I mean, he's, like, really, really good at it.

I cannot get over it. I sit and watch him do it and cannot go over the feeling that this is all very wrong somehow. He should not be sitting up, or rocking back and forth on all fours in an attempt at locomotion. I thought it would be more of a struggle, but he's no more than thought of it and the feat is done. And it is in those moments that I am utterly aware that Atticus is not an extension of me. While surely I encouraged his ability to sit up, I didn't teach him how to do it. That was all him. He is a complete and whole person whose instincts, both physical and emotional, will dominate his life in a way that even a mother cannot compete with. Not that I want to. I don't.

I'm the transition team. Me and Michael are. We're just here to get him through to adulthood, and with any luck, we'll be there then as well to continue to serve as buffer and pillow when he inevitably falls over again. Even the most mastered of skills fail us at times. But oh how it is fun to watch the skills be acquired. And oh how remarkable it is to be human. To grow, to learn, to get smart, to be interested, to lunge for toys, to sit up on ones very own. Motherhood is nothing if not a reminder of how miraculous we all are.

Goodbye to All That

I haven't written my Best of 2009 post yet and it's already halfway through January. No matter, the best of 2009 is Atticus. He's the best of everything. Right now he's chewing on a plastic star. You go get that star, little man. And all the other ones, too.


But I owe Atticus an apology. I've spent the majority of 2009 complaining to women about how difficult a baby is. And really, Atticus is probably the most magical baby in the universe, especially now that he's six months old and chewing on plastic stars in his magical exersaucer. I couldn't love him more than I do right now. Except tomorrow, I'll probably love him even more. That's how magical he is.

So goodbye to all that complaining. Of course, I'll still have things to say and there will still be challenging mama days, but I'm not going to let that run the show. Goodbye to all that ingratitude and hello to thanks.

Thanks for the best year, Atticus. I'm looking forward to a hundred more with you, magical little man. Love, love, and exponentially-growing love.

Spambusters!

Friends,

I promise to post a real blog soon, but I just wanted to say I had to change my comment posting settings to get rid of all the stupid spammers who have been littering my account with their sales detritus. You can no longer post comments anonymously but can do so with an OpenID.

Soon.
M.