Foray into the Muffia

Kate Reddy, the heroine of Allison Pearson’s I Don’t Know How She Does It , has a high powered job in the world of finance, a yen for a Yank that supposed to be a client, and an enormous guilt trip about leaving her kids so frequently. Her number one enemies, though, she terms the “Muffia,” the self-righteous, kid pushing matrons of her London neighborhood. Their lives sport drug problems and anorexia, and are far from perfect. Yet Kate feels obligated to them somehow, assuming that their ability to stay home with their kids makes them better mothers, even as her erstwhile paramour assured her that his mom, who’d bear the acronym “SAHM” on the internet, spent her days playing cards and swimming around the bottom of a martini glass with her friends.

All of this I consider as I sit in an overcrowded, stuffy walk-in clinic with a 5 year old who is probably suffering from bronchitis. A few Y chromosomes have made their appearance, but they’re pretty rare. And these men somehow manage to have a look of boredom in their eyes, as opposed to the women. These ladies faces radiate concern, aggravation. I’m starting to believe most of them are considering homicide in order to move up their place in the queue. Their cubs are sick, and they have lives, can’t the rest of us understand that?

I wonder who these women are. What do they do? I hear smatterings, bits and pieces of their lives. These two graduated from the local high school together, this one works 2 days a week at a hair salon, this one waits tables at a bar. They’re as different from Kate’s from the Muffia as Ness is from Capone…yet not. Woven in among the trivia, day care centers are compared, sicknesses (length, severity) made to measure up. It’s competition, just at a lower scale.

Dance Moms

Once, out of a combination of peer pressure and curiosity (I’m from Pittsburgh), I decided to  watch Dance Moms. Two thoughts. First, I want those ten minutes of my life back. Second, someone out there owes me some cash for mental pain and suffering.

Both of my daughters take dance lessons. Hence, by default, I get to share the title of “dance mom” not only with the trashy show, but also directly with about thirty other women, two days a week. And, since I’m writing this while the Younger Daughter is tapping her little heart out, I’m now going to take a good look around the room, to see if that’s all.

Yup, that’s all.

That and two X chromosomes.  (I assume.) Here’s a few things that I don’t share with these other women:

An inability to actually watch my kids‘ dance class

An ability to talk very loudly about every little detail of their houses for an hour straight

A French manicure.

I assume a higher tax bracket might also be included, but I don’t have any proof of this (just a suggestion by the manicures.) All of the above are meant without judgement – these are just observations.  But they must mean something, or they wouldn’t have merited my attention.

I guess it makes me wonder about out human need to fill space. When I was dating my husband, we spent a lot of time on the phone, sometimes two or three hours at a clip. I knew I was in love when I realized we’d sometimes go for ten minutes or more without speaking. We were in love, and the silence was comfortable. Clearly my fellow waiting room companions don’t find any comfort in silence. Instead, it’s a competition, with their kids’ ascent to the top of heap being fought out by proxy. And it’s time to be judgmental: it irks me…but not for the reason you think it would.

It irks me because I know why they do it. Because it reminds me that we share something very essential, these dance moms, and I. Because sandwiched in all of the very loud talk of grout, of preschools, of filthy bathrooms and constant laundry, of Broadway shows seen, and trips to New York City taken, there’s another quiet conversation going on. It takes place every week, and it never ends.  And it always starts with the same four words: “When I Go Back.”

When I Go Back. When I go back to work, to teaching, to being what I was before I became this person, this mom, this dance mom. Even, if it’s sometimes His Girl, His Wife. When I Go Back – whether I look forward to it, or dread it. When I Go Back Oh God things are going to be so different am I going to be able to do it or will I fail and if I do what will happen to me? It’s the whistling past the graveyard of the suburban set. I hear it. I recognize it. And it scares the hell out of me.

Simplicity is Complicated

I have a sign that hangs over the the entranceway between my living room and my unused front door hallway. It bears a single word, written in grainy, faux-antique, Shaker-esque capitals:

SIMPLIFY.

Written that way, it’s almost a command, and a pervasive one.

Should I volunteer to…?

SIMPLIFY.

Do I really need to clean out…?

SIMPLIFY.

Should I try to…?

SIMPLIFY.

Over the years, well-meaning family members have presented me with knick-knacks of various sorts inscribed with the same word. I appreciate their intention, but am a little bemused at how I’m supposed to reconcile the thought with the object. (I have issues with Real Simple magazine, for the same reason, as well as the craft show mavens burdened with baskets full of handmade curiosities emblazoned with the same word.)

Me, smug? Never. Me with my fairly Spartan furnishings (okay, that’s because I hate to dust.) Me, with my faint scorn for parents who stuff their kids‘ after school time with activity after activity? Never.

But.

At night, when I’m waiting for sleep, thinking about the day, trying to untangle the knots in my thoughts to make straight the path for Morpheus, (as we used to say) – what then? When I do the battle with the mundane anxieties of “Am I?” Am I a good mom? Writer? Friend? Daughter? Wife? Have I been honest today? Acted with integrity? I often end my days as far away from simplicity as I can get.

I have a great love for the song “Simple Gifts.” The tune is well known – the lyrics, not as much so. Believing as I do, that all things are genetic, I like the think that I love it so well because of some latent Shaker bit of DNA, passed down from some hoary ancestor, who lived simply not because they wanted to, but because they had to. My favorite bit is:

“When true simplicity is gained, to bow and to bend, we will not be ashamed.”

I also, of course, hate this part. Because it states so succinctly the hard part of simplicity. The easy part is to say I don’t need that thing, or to bask in feeling good about myself and my house when I donate things to charity. Sure, it unclutters my life. But the lyrics are demanding a little more. They ask that I do the thing that I am really, really terrible at, yet something that’s so important, that even in my mind it bears a capital: Accept.

Accept that giving up happens sometimes.

Accept letting go.

Accept who others are as well as who I am.

 

Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me. Better not get rid of that sign just yet.

A walk in the woods

Nature philosopher Henry David Thoreau knew the value of time spent outside.  “An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day,” he wrote.  Although this thought has been used to generate enthusiasm for exercise and weight loss, Thoreau meant a walk in a natural setting, not on a treadmill or around a track – or even, apparently, through an urban area.

Over a century later, science has finally caught up with Thoreau.  A study headed by  Stephen Kaplan at  University of Michigan’s Psychology Department, “The Restorative Benefits of Interacting with Nature,” offers some clinical evidence that walking in nature is more than good for the circulatory system and the waistline: it’s good for the mind.

How so?   The brain (specifically the pre-frontal cortex) constantly assesses our surroundings.  It’s a reflex designed to keep us from harm.  The pre-frontal cortex also performs a process called executive function, essentially defined as the brain’s ability to plan our actions based on incoming stimuli.  Is it necessary to run away from that car that just blew its horn?  To duck or turn away from the exhaust from the bus?  Is it okay to just keep going and ignore that dog barking at us from the parked car?  In an urban or electronically “plugged-in” environment, the prefrontal cortex is constantly stimulated, and the brain has to work hard in order to sort out the stimuli.  When we walk in the city, we have to avoid fellow pedestrians, dodge cars, pay attention to traffic signals, and so on; the brain, calling on our memory, also tunes out ambient city noise, buses going by, etc., since they’re (in general) not harmful threats.  Hence, a walk in the city is good for the muscles, and may alleviate stress, but the brain really doesn’t get a break – it’s constantly being bombarded with the sights and sounds of potential danger.

Consider the alternative.  While walk in a natural setting may have interesting sights and sounds such as a soaring eagle or magnificent view, psychological research has suggested that these stimuli are perceived as a whole.  For example, the prefrontal cortex receives a gorgeous sunrise as a stimulus, but it doesn’t require much of an executive decision.  There is no reason to act upon it (except to maybe take a picture.)  The brain doesn’t have to process it any further.  According to this research, a walk in the woods is like a vacation for the mind: it allows the prefrontal cortex to relax a bit, restore itself, and then be able to function better when we do go into a more exciting environment.

It’s interesting to note that giving the pre-frontal cortex a rest may be even more beneficial for children.  As I mentioned in an earlier article, executive function allows for kids to “self-regulate,” essentially to exert self-control and discipline, and to respond appropriately to their surroundings and peers.  When my kids seem to be better behaved after a nice long hike, I used to think it was because I wore them out.  Maybe it’s because I gave their brains a break.

Eulogy

On Monday, July 14^th, my retarded aunt died. 

That’s how I first knew her:  my aunt, my mom’s sister, was retarded.  As a grew up,  I became intellectually enlightened –  the term “retarded”  had evolved in society to the point where its sole function was to insult, so I was forced to retrain myself to think and say “mentally challenged.”  Soon I was sufficiently inured to wince when I heard my mom used the term “retarded” on the phone with doctors and social workers. 

In pursuing my teaching certificate, though, I discovered that even this was not enough.   Once, in a “Disabilities in the Classroom” class, I was marked down in a paper in which I referred to her has “mentally disabled” as opposed to “having” a mental disability, the former still being vaguely insulting, I learned, as not verbally isolating the affliction from the afflicted.    

Even later, newly pregnant with my first daughter, I discovered that “mentally disabled” itself is a slippery term.  Asked to define her mental disability on a medical form, I was surprised to find that, at 31, I had no idea how to do so.  She was able to live on her own, said the state, but not able to drive a car.  She could maintain a job through a work program sufficient to earn a small income, but not financially secure enough to live without a trust fund.  Things got even more confusing when I tried to determine the etiology of her mental state.   As a child, I had discerned from casual eavesdropping that it perhaps had something to do with a high fever during a bout of polio.  Still, there was some familial speculation that it was maybe something as “easily” treatable as severe dyslexia, something just not addressed sufficiently in the 1940s. 

Mentally challenged, dyslexic, it didn’t matter.  She was my favorite aunt when I was a child – we’d play cards, she’d show me her stuffed animals (each carefully named, first and middle,) and watch TV, mostly cartoons and reruns of old shows.  It should have lasted forever.  Of course, it didn’t.   First, I grew up.  I always felt that she considered this to be a betrayal.   

Later, the betrayal came in the form of pancreatic cancer, its claws sinking into a body weakened by a diet of mostly frozen over processed meals and Mountain Dew (but, as it turned out, strengthened by good genes.)  In the end,  as these things go, she left, leaving behind numerous gremlin dolls, boxes full of mismatched playing cards, and collections of U.S. quarters, relics of what she did and who she was on earth. 

She is buried now, next to her parents.  She had no religion, but I am confident that her spirit resides in a place better than this, unfettered by disability.  My mom confessed a few weeks ago that when the phone rings during dinner that she still expects her sister to be on the other end.  She is missed, and I hope someday to meet her again.

The Zen of Spring Greening

The following is a summer re-run.

(original to The Warbler, Spring, 2007)

My mother is probably not going to be happy when she reads this article.  I think it’s going to be disconcerting to learn, in a very public manner, that I’m raising her grandchildren in a less than clean house.  Right now, it seems like every nook in the place houses piles of dust and tufts of cat hair (as well as a smattering of Cheerios and a few wayward socks that have been hiding out under the couch cushions.)  The measure of winter in much of western Pennsylvania, it seems, is not marked by feet of snow, but of inches of mud and rock salt on the sidewalk, driveway, and, ultimately, the carpet.  Hence, it’s time to tackle the grit and grime of winter, so that I can welcome spring with a clean home (and mind.)

 

Normally, I approach housecleaning with all of the fervor of a child returning to school after winter break.  This year, however, in keeping with my resolution to consider the environment in such tasks, I am looking forward to shaking the dust and grime from my feet (as it were) and to shove Old Man Winter out the door.  If you are like-minded, here are some things you might want to try.

 

My annual New Year’s resolution to stay organized was, as usual, the first one to be broken.  Luckily, I found a few ways to get rid of the stuff we’re not using.  In addition to donating to Goodwill and the Salvation Army, I’ve started leaving donations for the veterans (they pick up, which is a true blessing.) Also, if you haven’t heard about www.freecycle.org , please, allow me introduce you.  The goal of freecycle, as written in their guidelines, is to keep usable items out of the landfill.  You do have to sign up for e-mails (which can come in digest form,) but there is no other commitment, and no spam.  List members post “offered” and “wanted” items; the giver and receiver then make arrangements to meet (or pick up.)  I am amazed at the gamut of items “taken” that have passed through my e-mail box.  Everything from furniture to used craft supplies has found new a home.         

 

I was taught (and did teach) for years that the spread of antibiotic resistance was a “theory.”  MRSA’s prevalence in the news illustrates that we need no more evidence to see that bacteria have the capacity to outwit us (out-evolve, really.)    Here’s the rub: all the antibacterial products on the market are largely unnecessary. Cleaning methods from 100 years ago are just as effective as those that contain Triclosan (and a lot safer if you have little ones running around the house.)  Your cheap and green cleaning arsenal should definitely contain hot water, plain soap, and white vinegar.  Since vinegar is acetic acid, the change in pH that you create is very effective in wiping out bacteria, mold, and mildew.  Use it where you would a commercial cleaner: on floors, on tile and grout, and even in the toilet.  (See http://www.vinegartips.com/cleaning/ for more ideas and dilution tips.)  If you’re looking for fancier cleaners, (or you want a break from the pickle smell,) there are several companies that make eco-friendly products.  Brands like Bio-Kleen, 7^th Generation, and Mrs. Meyers are available in natural food stores or online from sites like www.drugstore.com .  They cost more up front, but I’ve found a little goes a long way, moreso than the more well-known brands, and most of them smell great.    

Here’s where the Zen comes in: you are making a difference.  It’s the progression of small steps that count.  Replace one bottle of commercial cleaner with a green one.  Use a rag or dishcloth to clean up a spill instead of paper towels or wipes.  Start by hanging out one load of laundry a week.  Pick daffodils.  When you clean, put on music, give each of the kids a rag, and dance.  Above all, don’t forget to open the windows, feel the spring breeze…and breathe.

Oreo Instinct, part One

The first time I ever gave my daughter Betsy, now three and a half, an Oreo cookie, she pulled it apart, licked the center clean of icing, and then ate each half cookie separately.  I was baffled.  This is a kid who’s never seen a commercial for Oreos in her life, nor had she ever seen anyone eat one.  “Another,” she declared.  I gave her one.  The same process ensued, after which, with some cajoling, she drank the rest of her milk, and left.  An ordinary snack time experience, but one worth considering; why do young humans explore, and old ones accept?  What makes us bite into the cookie instead of pulling it apart? 

 

No More Drama…

…is it possible that it IS more than a Mary J. Blige song? 

Al Giordano at the Huffington Post discusses the “individual as country” effect that  has been going on in America:

“Not only were Americans still being divided and economically segregated as white against black against brown against red against yellow, but by far more trivial lines of division: Apple vs. PC users, vegans vs. meat eaters, or dog owners vs. cat owners, or, concretely and absurdly back in my home town: dog owners versus young parents are at Civil War already in some neighborhoods when it comes to policies of determining the use of public parks and playgrounds in New York City.”

In an “OMG” moment, I realize that he just phrased something that has been binging around in my sleep-deprived brain as an “almost blog post” for months.  (More eloquently than I ever could, of course.)  Is this true?  Have we really been digging ourselves into holes of solitude, building walls out of almost anything that we can scrape together – iPods stuffed in ears, refusing to hear…cell phones and Blackberries as blinkers…laptops preventing our hands from reaching out to one another?  Instead of using technological resources to bridge gaps, are we creating new ones?

  My original idea on the subject was how bringing an iPod to a party can be construed as a social faux pas, a millenial kitschy-koo piece on how demanding a playlist be heard by a host who wants to set a particular tenor at a gathering is rude.  A fluff piece.  Somewhere in there I had thought about lamenting that the loss of mainstream radio stations has precluded us from a common experience.

Common experience – bingo, a precipitate!  Giordano’s piece caused this idea to crystallize and fall out of the cutesy technology solute.   Giordano, the politico, states that one of the reason for the Obama campaign’s success is that the candidate himself stands by the “no drama” meme, demanding that those involved remember that the campaign is not about them.

Naturally, I will not dispute such wisdom, though I wasn’t thinking politically. 

It’s NOT about you.  It’s about US.   

We need a common experience, even if it’s not immediately recognizable, or on an altruistic level.   It’s not being able to recite the rest of an advertising jingle (thanks to TiVo,) it’s not knowing the words to the #1 song according to Billboard (thanks to iTunes.)  I can’t even argue for the internet or many of its watering holes (Facebook/MySpace.)  It’s something much more intangible than a definition of patriotism, or of Christianity.

This is the part where one might expect the Hallmark moment, where you read the words, “What it IS…” followed by a platitude of some sort.  Problem is, I wouldn’t dare finish such a sentence.  As much as I think that we need one, I haven’t a clue as to “what it is.”

Any ideas?       

Made in…

The older of my two daughters used to own a Fisher Price Sesame Street phone, an earlier model of one that was just recalled because of possible contamination by lead in the paint.  Although technically not under the recall, I lost my trust in it, so out it went, with promises to replace it with something better.  I was sure that tears would follow, (and I was right;) what I’m not sure about is my personal ability to buy, in good faith, anything from Mattel or Fisher Price again.  The good company that has been able to stand on its name for such a long time has joined those who have had their names besmirched in a “Made in China” scandal.  Both of my children have been playing with Fisher Price toys that were mine, thanks to grandma’s foresight in keeping them in the attic.  All of the bear the stamp “Made in the USA,” (with the notable exception of a music box from Switzerland.  Really.)   Thirty years of use, abuse, and storage in a harsh environment have diminished neither their quality nor the “fun factor.”  Toys made in China bought less than 2 years ago have not fared nearly as well, on either front.

 

 

To be clear, I am not advocating a total boycott of Chinese made goods.  This is impractical, financially, and is on parallel with quitting smoking cold turkey; the relapse rate would be high.  A simple, viable plan does exist, but it involves some conscience examination.  Each purchase would have to be categorized as a “want” or a “need.”  If each person took the time to just give up one or two imported wants a year,  we could move away from the chokehold that other countries have on our wallets.  Just a “We won’t buy apple juice made in China anymore,” can and, though I’m no economics major, should have an effect.   All it takes is stopping, reading labels, a few minutes extra of time, and considering the ramifications of buying something, instead of buying blindly.  All we have to do is to lean to live without these wants.  Are we up to it?   

 

  

Diversify or die

There is an article in New Scientist (www.newscientist.com)  mentions more problems for the world’s food supply.  A strain of wheat fungus, Ug99 is spreading through some of the world’s most populated countries, including India.  It’s not your garden-variety stem rust, either:

“On mature wheat, the fungus reproduces asexually to release billions of identical spores. If the spores drift onto a barberry bush (Berberis vulgaris), however, they switch to sexual reproduction, and so could swap genes with other stem rusts to produce completely new variants.”

In other words, Ug99 sucker is evolutionarily ready to rumble.  By being ”smart” enough to be able to reproduce in almost any condition, this Andromedia Strain of plant fungus poses a real problem.  By putting all of our proverbial eggs in to one breadbasket, we’ve set ourselves up for a global food crisis. 

The biologist in me knows that diversity is the natural process of the world.  Humans, because of our habitual natures, have greatly focused on corn and wheat, and, I suppose, have hoped for the best.  The hippie (for lack of a better term) in me has learned that there are other grains out there (spelt, amaranth,) that are reasonable substitutes (even, in some cases, better substitutes, as far as nutrition.) Yet, these are not widely available, and therefore not widely known.  There’s plenty of blame to go ’round; government subsidies, and so on, but the real issue here is less about the blame, and more about the solution.  By continuing to stick our fingers in our ears and to yell “LA LA LA LA,” or looking with pity on those who have a “real” problem (and, in my estimation, more expensive pizza does not constitute a real problem,) we are only pushing ourselves higher up the mountain, and therefore towards a worse fall.