Outtakes

"Amos, look at the camera.  Isaac, keep your eyes open, and try to do something with your brother's head.  Theo could you smile a little less . . . like that?"

"Does this seem like an improvement to anybody?"

"Isaac, what are you--"
"Mom, I don't know why you let him hold the--"
"WAAHHH!"

"Whew.  Good catch, bruh."

"Theo, what kind of photo shoot do you think this is?  And can somebody get Amos's tag?"

"Oh, foley shucking hit."

"Don't you even start, kid.  Don't you even."

Isn't There A Doctrine About This?

I don't object, in principle, to childless people giving me parenting advice.

One doesn't have to have children to have experience in what good or bad parenting does to children--every adult was once a child himself and is, at least in theory, able to reflect rationally on his childhood experiences and the results of his parents' or caregivers' choices.

And maybe I just have an unusually kind, thoughtful, wise, and good crop of friends, but most of my single or childless friends who reflect on family matters do a pretty darn good job of it.  (It probably doesn't hurt that they're unusually smart, and know enough to pander to a mother's ego by complimenting her children frequently and in great detail.  Spoonful of sugar, medicine, etc.)

So when the young, obviously childfree cashier at the Earth Fare started telling me yesterday about what all children Amos's age were like, and about how I should be feeling about kids that age, and about what he'd be like in a few years, I wasn't predisposed to be offended, simply because she didn't have children of her own.

But all I could think was, "Oh my gosh, lady, you would not say such things if you had any actual 24/7/365 experience with an actual two-year-old."

She said, "Oh, I love seeing kids that age in here!  They are so innocent!  They're just so pure in heart!"

And she had the nerve to look disturbed when I stared at her, wordlessly aghast.  I really couldn't form words to save my life.  (I blame Max, by the way.  It's hard to come up with snappy rejoinders when all the sleep you're getting comes in two-hour chunks.)

She started what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech about cherishing these years and enjoying their innocence and purity because "it gets destroyed all too soon in this world!"

I couldn't stop the snorting that escaped my throat.

And she started looking more and more disturbed by the second, though she didn't trouble herself to press pause and ask why I so obviously disagreed with her pronouncements.

I tried to come up with a story that would show her exactly how "innocent" Amos was.

I tried to come up with the words to describe how he sneaks out of the house at least once a week and tries to start the car.  Before we're awake.  Despite our trying to hide the keys.  And has been for at least a year now.

I tried to think of how to explain how he taunts his older brother when he is sitting in time out--sitting just out of reach, stretching his toes toward Theo until Theo starts crying "Stop TOUCHING me!!!!" and then jerking his legs back so that he can say, "I not touching Theo!  He talking in time out!!"

I tried to call up coherent sentences with which to relate the time he tried to take away Max's baby blanket, four times, while I sat in the rocking chair in the room.  How he tried to come up with convincing arguments. ("But it's mine!" "It's not cold today, Mommy." "He wants another blanket, not my blanket.")  And how in the end he just left the room and waited for me to go to the bathroom, and then darted silently into the room, stole the blanket, and had it completely hidden in his own room before I got back from the bathroom.

But, again, sleep in two-hour chunks.  Words simply would not come.

After a good twenty seconds of incoherent gutteral noises, I finally looked down at Amos and stuttered out, "Are you innocent, Amos?"

He looked at her, looked at me, and looked back at her and said, "No, I not.  I'm Amos."

And he was exactly right.

Brudders

Amos, the first day Max was home, peering into Max's crib: "I'm Amos, dat's Mommy, Daddy's inna kitchen, and you're my Baby Max."

Amos, the second day Max was home, watching me change his outfit: "Oh!  He has toes!  He so sweet!  And he has blue outfit!  Tha's sweet."

Amos, the third day Max was home, after shouting loudly enough to wake him up, shouting into his crib: "I'm sorry for wake you up, Max!  I'm sorry!  You go back to sleep now!"

Amos, the fourth day Max was home, discovering his pacifier in his crib: "OH!  Max have a blue fire-passy!"  (No, I really don't know.)

Amos, the fifth day Max was home, watching me feed him: "Mommy!  He still hungry!  You feed him!"

Amos, today: "Mommy, can we go back to the hospital and put Max back in you tummy?"

Brudders

Double kissies!

Finished Objects

I haven't been knitting for quite some time.

But a recent road trip provided lots and lots of knitting time, so I did get one little project done:

Of all my boys, Amos is the one to have mastered satisfying expressions of gratitude.

When I finished the first sock, I put it on him to try it for size.  He got wide-eyed, put his hand on his chest, and said, "Do you make-ded that sock for ME?"

I said yes, and he said, as effusively as any child actor assigned a "thank you" scene, "Oh!  THANK you, Mommy!"

When I finished the second sock, he hugged them, and then he hugged me, and he refused to take them off for the whole day.

Now, I recognize A Certain Son's genuine gratitude as expressed through a surreptitious, "Yo, thanks, Mom," and A Certain Other Son's as expressed by pestery requests for three more of whatever I've just given him.

But, you know, Amos's way is a nice change of pace.

Developmental Milestones

I realize that charts of developmental milestones are supposed to be helpful--especially to help parents judge when their child might need some sort of therapeutic intervention.

Usually when I look at them, I'm the one that needs therapy.

I think I scared Theo's pediatrician once, when I openly snorted at her during her checklist.
"Is he able to verbalize his desires, sometimes in ways that you might perceive as defiance?"

She looked at me so strangely, but I really couldn't have formed words if my life had depended on it.  (I'm pretty sure his chart said, "Does not yet show any adverse effects from mother's bizarre affect.")

Anyway, the chart I recently consulted for Amos's developmental milestones had me similarly . . . amused.

"Can your child walk unassisted?"
He can tiptoe down the hallway in complete silence, if there's something he's not supposed to have at the end of it.

"Can your child pull toys behind him while walking?"
He can pull the whole toy bin behind him while walking through the house.  At 6am.
Also, he can pull his seven-year-old brother behind him while running.  This is usually at 6:30am, when he's decided that Theo Has Slept Enough For One Day.

"Can your child carry large toys or several toys at once?"
Do you know how many Thomas trains we own?  And he has to carry every. single. one of them to bed, all in one trip, or else the universe will explode.

"Can your child stand on tiptoe?"
Yes, but he prefers to drag a chair into place and climb up onto the counter.

"Can your child kick a ball?"
I don't know, but he kicks his brothers a lot.

"Can your child climb up and down furniture unassisted?"
Yes.  This is why we've removed all our furniture.

"Can your child scribble spontaneously?"
Have you SEEN our living room walls?

"Can your child turn over a container to empty out its contents?"
This is a milestone? I thought it was a torture technique.

"Can your child point to body parts when you name them?"
Yes.  In a house full of boys, you can imagine which parts get the most practice.

"Can your child use simple sentences, like 'want milk' or 'go for walk'?"
No.  He's more into, "Mommy, my milk cup is empty.  It's time for you to fill it.  Please stop dawdling and get it for me now."

"Can your child follow simple instructions?"
Not unless we make him think they were his idea in the first place.
But he's really good at giving instructions.  Long, detailed instructions.

"Can your child find objects even when hidden under two or three covers?"
Are you serious?  Locked doors cannot keep him out--what kind of moron only uses a couple of blankets?

"Is your child demonstrating increasing independence?"
No, he's already reached the threshold.

"Can your child give his age when asked?"
No.  But he knows the age limits for all the fun activities in town and gives the "right" age for them when asked.  ("Oh, honey, there's an age limit to go on this slide.  How old are you?" "Seven!" "Um . . .")

"Does your child imitate the behavior of others, especially older children?"
Yes.  This is why his older brothers are always grounded.

"Can your child describe things that he did earlier in the day?"
Yes.  We usually end up calling someone to apologize.

"Is he capable of goal-directed behavior?"
He sneaks out of the (locked) front door every morning, gets in the car, and pretends to drive it.  This morning, he took Stephen's keys with him.  He's almost figured out which hole they go into.

"Can your child repeat words he's overheard in conversations?"
Yes.  That's why we've stopped having conversations.

"Does your child speak clearly enough for strangers to understand?"
Unfortunately, yes.

"Does your child speak in sentences of four or five words?"
Oh, I do miss those days.

How Many Clueless Men Does It Take To Host A Radio Show?

I'm so glad so very many other people are commenting on the sheer stupidity evidenced by these two children masquerading as men.

It saves me the trouble.

Well, since it's not out of my way, I'll go ahead and state the obvious:

Sure, dudes, let's go ahead and make women responsible for cutting open their own bodies to avoid you missing a baseball game.

I'm sure your children, too, (will) appreciate hearing that you think they should schedule their neediness around your professional lives.  Being born surely takes a back seat to 1/162ndth of a single baseball season.  Thanks, Dad, for putting that into perspective!  I'll mark you down as a "no," then, for high school and college graduation, shall I?  And I won't dare to plan a summer wedding, don't you worry!

You know, now that you put it this way, I'm sure all parents will be nodding in agreement, that parenting is exactly just like that--you can arrange every detail of a child's life, from conception onward, to suit yourself.

Also, no one can respect a man that stops doing a life-or-death activity--you know, playing baseball--to do something stupid like hold his wife's hand after she, you know, does nothing of any importance whatsoever.  Real masculinity requires, positively obliges, men to be ready to dismiss at a moment's notice and for any reason, anything done, or valued, or said by people with ovaries.

And it's totally true that biology teaches us something important about ethics: men don't have boobs, so they're pretty much useless after they donate their sperm.  They can get on with more important things, like playing baseball.  Sure thing.

Yes, you're the one "putting food on the table" with your Really Important Work.  The fact that I can produce food with my very body--not important.  At all.  You're feeding us.  It's all you.

Also, the thing where you endanger women by casually tossing around your disgusting opinions about their bodies and their medical care so that you can have a cute little reputation as a "controversial" commentator--totally okay.  With all of us.

I'm definitely pointing you out to my sons as role models to follow.

Oops.  I think I may have gotten a little sarcastic there.

Despite the above sarcastiplosion, the idiocy, the ignorance, the appallingly willful and unabashed misogyny evidenced by these two men is not really the thing that troubles me about this video.

What troubles me more is the possibility that this will shift the conversation about child-bearing and -rearing toward the collectively-bargained rights enjoyed by a few privileged men and away from the lived experience of women who still cannot afford to exercise what few and inadequate protections they have.

Working mothers will hear every one of Esiason's and Carton's contemptuous dismissals of their needs as mothers, every one of their contemptuous rejections of a father's role in nurturing children, and gnash their teeth at being told by one more pair of assholes that it's their job to breastfeed the babies, alone, while their husbands go off and do "real" things, things that matter, things that put food on the table.

But they will also hear, in the background, everything contemptuous thing their co-workers and bosses say about "breeders," about women who take maternity leave at "inconvenient" times for the company, about women who "owe the profession" a single-minded dedication that leaves no room for child-bearing at all (much less child-rearing).

(I'm not making this up.  I've actually been told that it's my job as a woman in academia to delay childbearing until I have tenure, or forgo it entirely.  I've been told that it's what I owe the profession, and especially other women in the profession.  I mean "been told" literally, here.  Like, by a person, speaking to me.  In those exact words.)

They'll read all the articles cheering Daniel Murphy for doing such a "sweet" and "important" thing as showing up for his child's first week of life, and they'll remember all the times they, as working women, were criticized for doing the same thing, or for their failure to do so.

Women are criticized by traditionalists for failing to handle all the nurturing on their own, and they're criticized by supposed progressives for failing to protect The Company from the inconvenience of their functional reproductive system.  (I guess they're supposed to be grateful for the sort of "progress" that allows them to work for pay at all, and not pay attention to such things as maternity leave, lactation accommodation, and health insurance for dependents.) 

I was extremely grateful to my colleague at [my former college] for covering my classes for me the first two weeks of the spring semester after the birth of my third son, because it allowed me to have a full month's maternity leave.

But the insanity--the stark, raving insanity--that Amos's birth will forever in my mind be linked with all of the professional obligations he didn't interfere with (fall semester exams, grades due, seven Christmas Eve and Christmas Day services)!  I swear, I am not making this up: I have never once spoken of Amos's birth without joking about him "helpfully" waiting until the day after Christmas to be born "because of all of our pastoral responsibilities."

And the insanity--the stark, raving insanity--that I've met actual, real, live, educated, professional women who have told me that they went back to work within a week of giving birth because they "couldn't afford" to take maternity leave!

Please hear me: I am among the privileged few in the world, even if you can't tell it from my bank account.  My colleagues are other privileged women--women with terminal degrees in their field, with professional clout, with publications and numerous speaking invitations per year, women who've been on NPR, even.

If my colleagues and I have to worry about this . . . what on earth is going on in the rest of the world?

No.  I don't get worked up by the fact that a pair of idiotic men said some idiotic things about men taking paternity leave.

But I am worried that a bunch of men will use this as an excuse to spend their time wagging their tongues what wealthy men do with their legal rights and collectively-bargained contract protections, and ignore--once again, still, always--the needs and rights and near-constant vulnerability of women and children.

Battle Squirrel 2014

Well, that organic squirrel deterrent wasn't.

Not much from the spring planting survived.

A few broccoli.

Some herbs and peas.

And the pretty pansies, which really have been cheering.

The onions were squirrel-proof, as promised.  A few got dug up and nibbled, but the rest were entirely left alone.  But they didn't stop the squirrels from traipsing their way through and eating all the greens.

So, we're trying something new.

Stephen built me a few pest-deterrent cages.

 
(He had lots of help.)

Wood frame, covered in chicken wire.

All right, you vermin.  Here's another salad bar for you.  Come and get it.

Say What?

I love the learning-to-talk stage.

There's something to love about (almost) every stage of your child's life, if you look for it.  Some years you have to look harder than others.  But the learning-to-talk stage doesn't take much work to enjoy.

New words and sentences come out of Amos's mouth almost every day, and we're constantly saying, "Wait, what?  When did he learn THAT?"

We're also constantly saying, "Wait, what?  What are you trying to say?  I just don't understand."

Like this morning.

Amos said, "Eee pa, grrrr."

"What, sweetie?"

"Eee pa, grrrrrrrr."

"I don't understand."

"Eee PA, grr."

"I'm sorry, I just . . ."

"EEEEE PA! GRRRRRRR!"

"Panda says grrr?"

:points emphatically at the empty middle of the room:

"I'm just not getting it, baby boy."

:points, screaming:
 "EEE PA! GR!"

And I finally looked out of the window and saw . . .

The squirrel was eating my lettuce plants.

I'm pretty sure he'd had half a salad while watching me not understand Amos.  I think I saw him smirk.

He'll stop smirking when he gets a peek at my google search history.

"Hunting season squirrel Alabama."
"How to field dress a squirrel."
"Brunswick stew recipe."
"Tanning squirrel hides."

Anyway, some days, communication goes more smoothly than others.  But it's fun to watch Amos grow in confidence that he can communicate with us.

Brudders

During. And more during.

After all the work Stephen and Isaac did pulling down the sickly, thin, and annoying trees, there were still some serious problems with the trees.

There were several trees, like this one, that were just dead or dying.

And most of the rest were hackberry trees, which have a tendency to rot and split and generally make life difficult.

So we decided to take thirteen of the weakest and least healthy trees out.

The tree guys came, and very sensibly marked which ones we wanted gone.

And then on the appointed day, they came, all seven of them, with their bucket truck and Bobcat and ropes and pulleys and fourteen (!) chainsaws.

First they dropped the easy trees.  Right in the middle of the yard, without, like, measuring it or anything.

They used the Bobcat to help them cut it into pieces.

Then they brought out the bucket truck.

And we all watched . . .

(some of us more nervously than others)

. . . as they cut down the trickier trees.

I will admit that I got a little nervous at this point, too.

The guy in the bucket seemed less concerned for his safety than, perhaps, he ought to have been.

He kept leaning right out of the bucket, with the chainsaw in one hand, just lopping off big old branches.

I mean, he was really leaning.  Really far out of the bucket.  Using a chainsaw one-handed.

I found this a little stressful.  (But nothing went wrong, and we're all grateful for that.)

There were a few trees that needed an even more elaborate setup.

There were pulleys and anchors and a bobcat pulling rope and all kinds of fun stuff . . .

. . . so that they could drop the individual branches slowly and carefully, before taking the trunk down.

It was a fascinating process.

The Bobcat had a lot to do, in addition to anchoring ropes and lifting big trunks to be cut up.

It hauled all the trees to the curb.

There was a rather big pile.

So big, in fact, that they needed even more heavy equipment to come haul it away.

(I'm pretty sure Theo and Amos had the best day of their lives.  And I feel really stupid for failing to take video.  We could have made our own episode of Mighty Machines, and it could have been about two hours long.)

Theo hung out with the guys whenever they took a break.

Because, you know, he's Theo.  I'm pretty sure he wangled a job offer out of them.

And, finally, it was done.

We went from this:

. . . to this:

(Still not a huge change.)

This:

. . . to this:

This:

. . . to this:

And this:

. . . to this:

Alas, once more, the improvement left us feeling even more depressed and unhappy.

All the light finally flowing in to the yard only served to point up all its deficiencies.  And as hard as they tried not to destroy anything, you can't bring all that heavy equipment into a place without tearing up the soil.

We tried working with it.  We thought about ways to go piecemeal--a little grass seed on this side, a little mulch on that side, a few bushes here until we could get the ones we really wanted there.

But after a few weeks of trying to wrestle it into submission, we surrendered.

We got even more professional help.