Working It

Today was Take Your Child To Work Day. This annual holiday, this national celebration, this cornerstone of American society completely passed our household by—at least, until I started seeing all my friends’ adorable pictures popping up on Facebook.

I thought, Awww! Look at him! He’s getting so grown up.

And, Wow—she’s really helping. Awww!

Then I thought, Aw, crap. How did Big A. wiggle out of this again?

To be fair, I’m sure Big A. would LOVE to take the kids to work with him. We’re just out of it—we didn’t know it was today. I mean, *I* only took a kid to work with me because it’s our default setting. Every day, they’re in my hair  office  general laptop space while I edit. As for my mom job, they go with me to get groceries and to get my hair cut and to the bank and to the gynecologist…. You think I’m kidding? I assure you, I’m not. 

 

So today S. went off to school as usual—but, then again, she’s rehearsing all day for the spring musical revue. That’s kind of like one of my ex-jobs, so she’s good.

And, as usual, I dragged Little A. around with me all day; today we were doing errands for my Girl-Scout-troop-leading job. He was a good sport about it, although I think he got a little tired of listening to “Come On Get Higher” by Matt Nathanson.

I briefly debated taking the song off repeat based on the innuendos involved, but then I decided that A) not even super-genius boy would catch the innuendos, and B) having mom in a good mood outweighed any premature exposure to entendre.

Ironically, this led to Little A. joining me at my poet job later on. As we ate lunch, we had this talk.

“Mommy, I’ve got that part stuck in my head—‘pull me down hard and drown me in love.’”

He’s got that tone of voice. This is going to be A Conversation. Okay, we’ve talked about poetic language before. And I’m an English major. I can spin ANYthing. I got this.

“So, what does that make you think about?”

Little A. shrugs, eating away at his lunch.

“Normally, pulling someone hard hurts, right? And drowning is bad, right?”

Little A. meets my eyes and nods. Clearly, this is what he was getting at. “Yeah.”

“But what else is he talking about?”

Little A. lights up; now HE’s got this. “Love. And love’s a good thing!”

“That’s great! And have you ever wanted a good thing so much that you just can’t say how much you want it?”

Nothing.

“Or have you ever wanted lots and lots of something good, like wanting to eat chocolate ice cream even after your tummy is full?”

Crickets. After Little A. thinks a minute, he shakes his head.

“So you wouldn’t want to drown in love, even if it’s really good?”

Little A. giggles. “Noooo.”

I get whimsical. “What about Legos? Would you want someone to drown you in Legos?”

Little A. gets excited. “Yeah! Police Legos! Lots and lots of police Legos!”

And we moved on.

So there you have it: Legos trump love when you’re a five-year-old boy. That’s probably why pre-K boys don’t write a lot of pop hits. And why poets don’t take their kids to work. At least, not literally.

And I think we’re going back to Roger Day and Sweet Honey in the Rock in the car….

The Voices In My Head

I’ve always been highly susceptible to what those crazy kids nowadays call “ear worms.” Songs get stuck in my head like nobody’s business. Medleys do, too—my own medleys where a scrap of one song feeds into a snippet of another and then sometimes a third and it all repeats again and again and again….

I even used to be able to memorize entire plays. Shakespeare and Moliere, Shaw and Brecht—many classic shows have echoed around up there. I remember one night, while I was directing Pygmalion, I dreamt that I saw the lines floating in front of me. That experience sticks out in my mind because the words haunted me visually, as opposed to…well, whatever you call it when you hear something in your head.

Now, it’s more a string of storybooks. Lots of Sandra Boynton, The Little Blue Truck, and Dr. Seuss. Dear lord, Dr. Seuss! I just read Horton Hears a Who to Little A. tonight and, as I did dishes afterward, I swear my thoughts all started scanning and rhyming. “A person’s a person, no matter how small… daDAda daDAda daDAda daDA, daDAda daDAda daDAda daDA.”

AAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCKKKKK!

While often irritating, this quirk of the mind can be quite useful, too. When I edit a book, I hear the author’s narrative voice in my head, which allows me to pinpoint jarring spots and to suggest changes that will blend in with the overall narrative. At least, I hope that’s what it does!

Of course, this has led to some funny situations. I edited a fabulous, powerful book about a teenage girl and her gang who bullied every kid they came across. (Unfortunately, it hasn’t been published—it portrayed bullying with terrifying, thought-provoking realism.) So, the narrative voice of the book was a little…rough. Lots of “Bleep this” and “Give me your money, you bleeping bleep” and “Like I give a bleep.”

Well, S. was two and a half at the time and just outgrowing naps. So we’d created “quiet time” in the afternoon, a time when S. supposedly played in her room so Mommy could do some work. I’d settle down and get the “bleeping” law-of-the-jungle voice going through my head, then hear the pitter-patter of little feet.

                “Mommy, can you open this box for me?”

                What the bleep do you…

                Deep breath.

                “Sure, sweetie. Then you can go play, okay?”

I focus again. The main character hops into my brain. “Look, you little bleep. I’m going to cut you…”

Little feet pitter-patter.

“Mommy, does Mickey Mouse like cheese?”

What the bleep? I don’t bleeping know!

Deep breath.

            “I guess so, sweetheart. Most mice do.”

Back to work. Some poor high school girl’s got her head in the toilet. But before the narrator has even had a chance to get going, little feet pitter-patter.

                “Mommy, will you read to me?”

                “Sure, sweetie.”

She knows I’m a sucker for The Lorax.

You Work from Home?

I get pretty predictable reactions when I say I work from home.

Mostly people make vague, general comments just to say something—comments like, “You’re sick? Good thing you work at home.” Or just the generic, “That must be nice.” That one comes up a lot! I also get the occasional, “I could never do that.”

How is it really?

I’m not going to lie—I like it. I like being available when my family needs me, I like working in mom clothes, I like the fact that I worked when my kids were little without needing to find daycare. I like doing laundry and answering emails at the same time. I like my dog on my feet while I work. I like the fact that, when I finish, I’m done. I have no timecard to punch. I even like the work I do—a lot!

I’m a very lucky girl.

Or course, there are challenges. I’ve yet to be without kids for more than three hours a day, so there is a lot of prioritizing and multi-tasking. When I do sit down—exhausted—after bedtime, it’s so I can get to work. And usually sleep gets prioritized right off the bottom of my to-do list.

Don’t even get me started on phone calls! I mostly work online, but, on the rare occasions when I need to talk to someone during business hours, I have to make sure the kids are not home, are unconscious, or are tied up. So, basically, not home.

Editing requires concentration and attention to detail. I can do a lot of the reading, note-taking, commenting, and outlining in my one to three hour chunks on weekdays. However, the final making of the edits, the part when I need to keep every thread of the story and all my suggestions in my head, requires sustained concentration. That part, I do on weekends when Big A. can do all the parenting.

So, every three to four weeks I disappear for about three days. And by that, I mean that I work from about eight in the morning (I have breakfast with the family) until about two in the morning. Sometimes I have dinner with the family, sometimes I can even do bedtime, too. Some longer books take two weekends in a row.

I have to say that my family handles those weekends beautifully! They have their different-yet-awesome Team Dad vibe without me and I love catching glimpses of it when I come up for coffee.

And that brings me to the geography of the whole situation…. My “office” is one of those nifty armoires with storage and work surfaces that pop out, then fold up so that it looks like normal furniture. It’s in the great room—the only non-bedroom space in our house, the kitchen/ family room/ living room/ dining room space—and it’s directly next to the tv.

Remember the whole “requires sustained concentration” thing? On working weekends, I move my “office” to a bed tray. In our bedroom. On our bed. Of course, I have to move back out if Big A.’s ready to sleep before I finish for the day, but it works well enough. The only hitch is that I’m getting too old to sit crisscross applesauce for 18 hours at a stretch!

Our big, beautiful bedroom windows open onto the pool. We are so blessed to have a pool and Big A. and the kids take full advantage of it on their weekends, nine months out of the year. And, as I watch them out the window whenever I look up from my laptop, all my feelings about working at home—pro and con—bubble up.

I love hearing their laughter as background for my work, seeing glimpses of their happy faces going by, and knowing they are having a blast with their daddy. I love that he gets this “alone” time with them and that I get it during the week. I am so grateful that I can earn money for our family doing work that I love while they play with their dad.

But sometimes…sometimes giving up one or two weekends of whole-family time every month gets hard. Time is precious. Sometimes I want to act like the dog does when we go off on our bikes; I want to press my nose to the window and whine. Sometimes I want to just watch tv after the kids go to bed, sometimes I think longingly of ergonomic desk chairs, sometimes I wish I could get coffee without being accosted by children who share long, wandering stories that completely distract me—but, really, I’m grateful that I can work at home.

So that’s what working at home is like for me: it IS nice.

Up/Down or Around&Round

I've always loved the Grandma quote from the movie Parenthood. You know, the old school Parenthood and the time when Grandma talks about how she liked the roller coaster better than the merry-go-round. This one.

As the more optimistic of the two people in our marriage--you may all feel free to laugh; it won't hurt my feelings--I've always considered myself a true roller coaster fan. (Interestingly, I DO love actual roller coaster rides. Big A. does not. It's true.) I've been a bit superior about that, in fact, and you know what that gets you...

Life has undoubtedly had some majorly roller coaster-esque moments for us lately. In fact, it's been hard to write anything here with some pretty big-ticket concerns floating through my head 24/7. Amazingly, the last two weeks have been utterly...transforming? relieving? joyous? full of gratitude and giddy disbelief?

Miraculous might not be too strong a word!

So now that we're on the downhill? uphill?--I don't know, which one's better?--slope, I'm thinking hard about that roller coaster and that little old merry-go-round.

Add to that the fact that I'm starting to transform from a stay-at-home parent to a drive-everywhere-parent. Lately I've noticed that I can put as much as 60 miles on my car in a day...without going more than five miles from home!

I must be going in circles.

And yes, I know all the life-organizing, fuel-efficient, advice column wisdom about consolidating errands and driving the most effective route. Thank you. That's not the point.

I'm trying to say that the little old merry-go-round looks beautiful to me right now. I love the painted horses, with their ribbons and their roses--even the ones with the strong, manly colors. I love the mirrors and lights, the bouncy music, and the really cool mechanisms overhead--the ones that move the horses. I even love the stationary swan cart with benches, the one where grandmas tend to sit, guarding giant diaper bags.

Why do I love this ? Because I'm here with everyone I love and I have a chance to look at them, to watch them laughing, to blow them kisses.

I'm not too frightened, too scared, too sick, too excited, or too thrilled to wait for Little A. articulate a complex, beautiful thought or for S. to tell me an endless story about shenanigans on the bus. I can look Big A. in the eye rather than just clenching his hand as we scream on our way down.

I still agree with Grandma. I still plan to enjoy every minute of that roller coaster ride. I'm just taking time to enjoy the merry-go-round right now.

Beyond the Bjorn

Spending a day or two at Walt Disney World gives you lots of opportunities to observe humanity.

On our most recent trip, I was thrilled to see more of humanity has begun babywearing. I’m a huge fan of babywearing. I’m also a huge fan of anything that reduces the number of strollers plowing through people at WDW.

For some strange reason, though, I saw a good chunk of the babywearing folks pushing strollers as well.

I’m not sure I see the logic behind that. I did a LOT of babywearing at Disney to avoid the remote possibility of having to look for curb cuts to push my stroller through, or having to detour to Stroller Parking before getting on a ride, or having to unpack my child and belongings to fold up a stroller before getting on transportation.

Watching fireworks at WDW and using our homemade ring sling.

Babywearing at Disney made me so happy—I could walk anywhere just like a normal person, get on and off rides or monorails just like a normal person, and be free for the most part.

Babywearing in general made me happy. Who wouldn’t want a contented child, two hands, and less equipment to lug? But it was a long journey of learning.

I inherited a Baby Bjorn with S. She liked it okay as a newborn, when she faced my chest. When we moved to the outward-facing carry, she hated it. I did, too, because, with her long arms, she could reach anything I could reach—with either hand. What’s the point in that?

I’ve since learned that S. had good taste, even then. There are some pretty solid reasons not to use that style of carrier. But the point was that I gave up on any babywearing but a structured carrier after that. We had some excellent times in our backpack, but it wasn’t as versatile as a soft carrier…which I learned at Disney.

Hiking in the structured carrier!

But S. had turned two by then and gotten kind of hooked on her personal autonomy. That is, she loved to walk. So the ring sling was mostly for when she was tired. But still, how great is that? She could pop in and out as needed, and my back held up better with her weight evenly distributed.

I didn’t truly learn the joys of babywearing until Little A. came along. With an active three-year-old, I had to have a way to do, for example, trips to the park with a newborn. Enter the wrap. HEAVEN on earth!!!

Got the hang of wrapping with Little A.

I had to take Little A. out of the thing to get him to wake up enough to eat—otherwise he would have slept for days, I’m convinced of it. Soft, comfy, great on the back—I loved that thing! There was one awkward moment when a lady in a store mistook his head for one of my breasts, only grossly misshapen. But who cares? I was actually shopping for—and trying on—pants! With my five-week-old sleeping on my chest!

Once he started sitting up, though, I found the carrier that just suited me, the one I wanted to marry. They don’t actually make my brand anymore, but I got a pouch sling. By then, S. had started preschool and her classroom was a portable, up three steps. Instead of either pushing a stroller up there or dragging my incredibly heavy son in his lead-lined baby bucket up there, I just popped him in his sling and dashed on up to sign S. in for school. No fuss.

My favorite--the pouch sling!

Eventually, Little A. outgrew the pouch, the backpack, and even the ring sling—again a blessing for the mobile child. Now, I miss my babywearing days. I miss the comfort of running my hand down my child’s back and the joy of turning our heads together to look at some new marvel. I miss the privilege of my child laying a sleepy head on my shoulder. I miss being heart-to-heart with my children for some amazing moments.

It took a lot of trying things out to get there, though. If you’ve never tried babywearing or tried a Bjorn and given up, try again. Look for a babywearing group or ask other moms. You will be amazed—when you find the right fit, life opens up in a whole new way.

Besides, it has some really cute side effects...

Many, many thanks to Tanya, the Sarasota Babywearing Group and Birthways Birth Center for educating me! Hats off to my mom, who coached field hockey with babies on her back and thanks to my sister-in-law, my dear friend Nancy, and Tanya (again!) for giving me some of my carriers.

Mom Friends, Part 2

The Scooby Gang

I talked about newbie moms last time, so this time it only seems right to thank the universe for my Scooby moms.

Yes, I watched Scooby Doo as a kid, enough that I really identify with the person who said they always think of Scooby trying to say “waffle” when they see ROFL.

BUT, in this post, I’m referring to the Scooby gang from BTVS. I’m a longtime, hardcore fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, starting with the movie, which was on Cinemax just about 24 hours a day sophomore year in college when we got free Cinemax for some reason. I only watched it once a day or so, which is really quite reasonable for college.

Anyway, I’m a hardcore enough geek/fan to own the sound track to the musical episode of the TV show…and to still listen to it when I’m alone in the car. Just the other day, I thought of some of my mom friends when I heard Buffy and her friends, aka the Scooby gang, sing:

We’ll see it through

That’s what we’re always here to do

And we will walk through the fire…

No, we don’t actually walk through fire. (It just feels like it some days!) Still, I’m lucky enough know some beautiful, wise, warm, wonderful ladies who are definitely bad@ss enough to Slay as needed. And they’re witty. And fashionable. But the thing I really, really, really love about them?

They’re all the kind of people who ALWAYS see things through. If I ask, they answer—even if the answer is, “Yes, that makes your butt look big.” If I talk, they listen. If I’m going nuts, they ask who messed with me, and if I call on my [sisters] when I need a hand, I find that they just [do] understand. (Little shout out to Bill Withers there.)

And if they call, I’m there, too—I’m not always my own biggest fan, but I know that much. I’m a girl of my word.

Like the Scooby Gang on BTVS, my mom gang includes lots of true individuals, folks who are comfy in their own skin, busy being themselves, and lots of fun because of it. I’m constantly amazed and perpetually grateful that I get to share the work of being a mom with these ladies.

And when any number of us get together on a project—or a mom’s night out—well, watch out, world! But I’m going to leave the details up to your imagination, because my loyalty to these ladies makes members of the Fight Club, the KGB, and the mafia look like spineless, loose-lipped weenies with a huge fear of commitment.

I love you, ladies!

And that’s the second thought I throw out to you: Mom friends get it done. Always.

Can we just get a shout out to Joss Whedon, creator of BTVS, here? In addition to his many cool accomplishments, bless him for saying this:

[imitating reporter] So, why do you write these strong female characters?

[as himself] Because you’re still asking me that question.

The Force is With Us

It’s the moment every [geeky] parent dreams of. My [geeky] husband and I [also geeky] have anticipated it for a few years now.

“Do you think they can handle it?”

“No…they’ve only seen animated movies. Better wait.”

We sigh in geeky frustration.

For the last week or so, the signs have begun pointing in our favor. A boy at Little A.’s preschool brought in the “can opener ship.”

At first we had no idea that this was such a hopeful sign—at first we had no idea what the #@%* a can opener ship was. We just knew Little A. and his buddies loved playing with it. Then came the big moment. Little A. reports, “And it comes with R2D2 and that guy that only roars.”

Picture me doing a cartoon spit take. Star Wars??? He’s into Star Wars all on his own? My baby is growing up.

In true geeky fashion, Little A. spent the next week absorbing every bit of Star Wars-related information that he can. Luckily he has a surprisingly well-informed friend. We just need to get past that hurdle of the “can opener ship.” Given that Chewie is aboard, we have to assume it’s the Falcon, but how on earth does that resemble a can opener? I explore various options like X-wings and some of the odd things Anakin flies, but no dice.

Finally we search for Star Wars toys on the internet (more geekiness!) and find pictures of the friend’s toy, a really awesome, sturdy-yet-detailed Playskool…Millennium Falcon.

With that resolved, Little A. starts seriously discussing all kinds of things with me, like the Sarlacc. Who knew? My little “I don’t like bad guys” kid is entranced by a giant man-eating mouth on the desert floor of Tatooine. We cover all sorts of topics, including R2D2’s various extensions and abilities, C3PO’s three million forms of communication, what Wookies are, who Obi Wan is (without spoilers, of course), and what the Force can do for you.

And the whole time I feel incredibly guilty that this gush of geekiness usually hits at lunch, right after school, and my husband is missing it! But they bonded over some of Big A.’s (not vintage) models this weekend, so I guess the force is with him, too.

NOW, the six-million-credit question is: should we watch the movie?

We really, really, really want to. But this is the kid who found the R.O.U.S.s too intense. Granted, he seems to have learned a lot about special effects because of his Fire Swamp experience, but can he handle A New Hope? (Or just plain Star Wars, as us old fogies like to call it.)

It all comes down to one scene for me. When I saw the movie at five years old (Little A.’s age) and, really, every time I saw it until I was in college, I completely missed one detail. I was not traumatized by the movie because I did not see what happened to Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru until I was over twenty. In fact, I often cite that scene to the authors I work with as an example of masterful storytelling—the answer is there, but so subtle that only those mature enough even understand it.

Now, I get swept up in a story. I’m not scientific and detail-oriented like Little A. On the other hand, he is innocent, just as I was, and has no reason to think of anything but Luke in that scene, as I did. So will the power of good storytelling protect him from that moment as well? Or will his mind zero in on the odd shapes in the flames?

I don’t know!

And even if we do decide to watch it with him, we face a still stickier question:

The original version or the re-mastered one?