Trash Talkin

Ayup. So yesterday I felt kinda flat, blah, no juice, no spark of enlivening, fortifying, galvanizing zing to make my soul sing and my fingers move at anything other than a reticent pace. And I didn’t really feel like I had anything to say, and I had Connor and he was starting to cry anyway, so I emailed my lame effort to myself to post this morning and, well, then . . . the cat peed on the Roomba.

Now this is perhaps the oddest 21st century sentence I’ve had to utter since the turn of the century. Yes, we have a Roomba. It’s a small circular vacuum cleaner with sensors in the front like those mechanical pets. When it hits a wall, it turns around. It’ll keep turning through your rooms til the place is vacuumed. It helps if you’ve given the place a good once-over before you begin, but the thing is pretty cool for keeping those wads of cat hair, bits of string, dust bunnies and general schmutz off the baby, who is now all over the floor.

We have a Roomba because a couple of neighbors got married, were renovating their house and loaned us this exquisite example of modern convenience while they were still picking wood nails off their floor. After a few rounds, we looked at all the hair wound in the thing and realized that there was no way we could return it in anyway near it’s original state and purchased them a new one. The device is plugged in next to my desk, which is incidentally near the cat box. Since I didn’t really hang out at my desk last night, I didn’t notice that the cat box hadn’t been cleaned yet that day – which is stupid since I’m in charge of the downstairs cat box. I just never see the damn thing. And when I do, I’m busting ass so hard to use the little time I have wisely that the last thing I’m going to do is go play with the kitty poo using a spoon.

I would like to think that if we keep that box pristine, my ancient 19-year-old spiny, spiky, wobbly beast of a hairball yakking cat is going to stop peeing on things,. In fact, though, I think this is vengeance. I think the cat has intuited (as they will) my affection for the vacuum cleaner that just runs itself and is jealous. I also think he’s got Alzheimer’s or whatever version of it cats get. He’ll sit and stare at the wall, hunched like an old man. I think he’s trying to dream up things to pee on.

So my lovely husband and I find this as I’m trying to get out of the house this morning. I have a new routine – pile a bag or two of recycling into the trunk of the car on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Between porch sitting, band practice, cooking, cat food, plastic juice bottles and pickle jars, our recycling is the stuff of epic. The city used to pick it up and sell it to a recycling plant, but decided that kickbacks to its road builders would be a more useful investment of city funds. So now we have no bullet train and no recylcling service but great roads by which to haul the crap to the center yourself. Being as I have some extra times in these morning, I take a few bags down to the center on my way to school. It adds about 15 minutes to my morning commute, but the dwindling pile bottles and cans is worth it.

But there’s nothing like a peed-on Roomba to bring out the worst in two people loading recyclables into a trunk. Nothing seems to be quite a deconstructive moment than deciding which bins, bags, and baby wipes to use to rid the world of too many beer bottles.

So the recycling is three bags less and my day is just starting, but at least yesterday’s sleepy blahs are gone and I’m ready to do good in the world again. Even if its one bloody bag of trash and one thorough Roomba cleaning with alcohol and Q-tips at a time.

Laps

It’s calm under the waves, in the blue of my oblivion. – Fiona Apple

Yesterday, I went swimming, as I usually do twice a week, for a bout a half an hour. I did 20 laps – 33 is a mile – again, like I usually do. If I get there with enough time, I’ll do the whole mile. But mostly the point is to get into the water, move the blood around, look at no-one, talk to no-one, see no-one. If you ever see me in there, don’t worry: I’m not wearing my glasses and my goggles are foggy from the bathroom soap I use to rinse the chlorine off of them. I’d worry about anyone seeing me, but I’m usually underwater, well at least the bits of me of which I have less reason to be proud. But, in the condom cap and goggles, it wouldn’t really matter what the bits below the bra looked like – it would all appear slightly insectoid.

I love my time in the water. I didn’t know that I would. We had a pool when I was little – we were living with my grandparents – and in the myriad apartment complexes we inhabited before and after that. I remember swimming lessons at 5 years of age. I was a skinny kid, though, they were all at 7 in the morning, and under-appreciated by the skinny kid who couldn’t stay warm in the pool. I came flapping out, blue-lipped and shivering once to go snug with my mom. She sent me back in saying, “just swim faster, you’ll warm up.” Later on in the summer, with my now water-proofed self able to cruise around the family pool with confidence, we could always sun like lizards on the pool deck, warming and swimming and eating, like primordial creatures.

I suppose that’s why I decide to swim when I was pregnant with Connor. I knew that my lack of will power with all manner of fried food and my recent separation from all form of distilled beverages and cigarettes would make me want to munch. I knew I would need to do something to keep from swelling that dude in Dune who had to have an air pump in his suit to keep his fat ass buoyant enough to walk. I also needed something I could do at seven months pregnant and after doing the Thriller zombie dance downtown at five months, was pretty sure that it wouldn’t be aerobics. Everyone and their cocktail guests wanted that I should do yoga. Everyone. If I hadn’t had a course conflict with my downtown class, I’d have had to listen to it till I acquiesced, or was drug -- kicking, screaming and munching on microwave popcorn –to the mats.

The swimming has an added benefit in all that cool blue, though. It’s calming and head clearing. This is a good thing for a pregnant woman or one with a new baby. It’s the one 45 minutes a day where no-one can find me. The cell phone is off and not only am I in the bowels of a beautiful old stone building, I’m underwater in an ancient and algae-stained body of water. It’s about as away as you can get and the pool stays warm up through November or December. When I lose my desire to clamber into cold water in the middle of winter, there’s always biking again. If I wear my swimming goggles and my Ipod, I’m sure no-one will recognize me, let alone bug me.

I’ve used other spaces for this in other lives. There was the racquetball court in the NYU gym. It was a big, white room, empty and cavernous, just right for beating the mess out of a little blue ball, some handstands, some stretching, some flurried attempts at running after the ball, some zen-calm volleys. I went there for the exercise, yes, for the moving of the blood and the strengthening of limbs. I also went for that getting-away-from-everyone head-clearing property of a large space that you get to have all to yourself because you’re moving quickly in it. I think at the time I was writing my dissertation in an apartment full of my husband’s employees. I did many times love having the business in the dining room, living room, etc. But it was hard to get some time to yourself to think. And with space in New York City being at such a premium, a large soothing-to-the-soul white room would have been cheap at twice what folks paid their shrinks. Free for all students, I'm surprised I only had to stand in line once or twice to use it.

So a little exercise is good for a lady and the cleared headspace means I’m less likely to scream at or maim someone. These days of late nights, early mornings, fussy teething babies, busy husbands and stressed-out-friends, it helps if I can keep my cool. Yes, exercise for young women will improve their health, their interactions with others, keep their endorphins up, increase their self-esteem, reduce the number who allow themselves to be beaten or abused, and clear their minds now and then. In a near-40 academic, it seems to be the difference between crippling neurosis, too many bad habits, sleep problems and divorce -- the “if I don’t settle my shit out, my husband is going to divorce me” kind of solution.

And you know what, it’s kinda calm down there, in the blue, between the devil and the deep blue . . .

Dan the Man

After last week’s blog, Dan told me that he’d kind of liked what I wrote, but that he felt like he’d been left completely out of the equation I had described. I explained to him that last week’s blog was a trimmed-down political rant that almost veered in socialism and that I’d been focusing more on the experience of everywoman and not myself, specifically.

As a fairly affluent working mom with a very supportive husband and wonderful friends who keep offering to baby-sit, my experience is not entirely representative.

I want to drop a word of thanks to my dear husband, whom I love madly, who sometimes stays out too late and is rather limp and somewhat limited the next day, but who always comes back and does the dishes, the laundry, the yard, and takes care of Connor for my Sunday morning sleep-in or Saturday nap. If I really need it, he’s got my back. He doesn’t quite do the dishes or the laundry the way I would, but do the forks, knives and spoons really need to be sorted in different parts of the silverware holder in the dishwasher? Does the laundry really need to be sorted like a librarian on Dexedrine with (Dan’s shorts, Dan’s shirts, Dan’s socks, Dan’s skivvies, my shirts, my skirts, my tights, my skivvies, baby clothes, baby socks, baby blankets, baby towels, our towels, upstairs washcloths, downstairs washcloths, baby bag wash cloths – well, you get the picture). Dan’s housekeeping isn’t as Japanese, center-the-vase, laundry-origami, Rage for Order kind as mine is, but it is not to be discounted either. When I get home, the deeds are done; and done is beautiful. And when did I get to be such a freak anyway?

A recent U.S. News and World Report article cited more supportive spouses as one of the major new tools available for working moms. Alongside flexible work schedules, non-peak hour travel, working at home and starting their own businesses, the article cited spouses who were either willing, or had been convinced they were able, to take on more of the housework. I’m mentally stacking this up against word-of-mouth reports from husbands who say that they’d like to be more involved in the childrearing or housekeeping, but feel like every time they pick up the baby, a sauce pot or a load of clothes, their efforts are so heavily criticized as to be discouraged.

What?!?!?

Why are my over-worked, over-tired, over-zealous ladies in arms doing such a very, very stupid thing (and I don’t believe in the word “stupid” in general, but this is stupid!)? Now, first- time parents can be driven by inexperience and anxiety to a great deal of fussing over the right way to sleep-train, feed, dress clean and properly stimulate our little darlings. We easily cut deals like “Okay, you be boss cause I’m tired of fighting about it.” By the second or third child usually the knowledge base and the understanding that babies are harder to kill, ruin or just maim from ignorance saves the marital energy for other fights. But if the darling man (or woman!) wants to help, let him or her. And don’t fuss. If your laundry is folded like a Shar Pei puppy, so what, at least it’s clean. If the dishwasher, when opened for unloading, looks like a Macy’s houseware’s department exploded, so what! At least it’s done and you have a clean cup for your coffee. If your bathroom is wiped down but not bleached into EPA-report toxicity, so be it! You can at least put the baby in the tub without getting cat hair between his fingers.

Not that our household bliss wasn’t hard won. Some remember the blog a couple of weeks ago fussing and fuming that was quickly taken down and replaced with another. A week of negotiating for a life that works is cheap at twice the price, even if it’s half the laundry detergent. And letting go may be the first step to getting everything you want.

This weekend I stayed up too late, got up too early, did too little on Saturday, tried to make it up on Sunday while Connor peed, pooped, urped and lurped on me. No manuscripts were cleaned up, only little clothes and certain muslin blankets and spots on the floor. Dan did the yards, washed the clothes, put in a much-needed doorknob and latch on a door (babyproofing!) and brought me a lamp. I did some dishes and made some dim-sum – not well, but it’s a work in progress. Sunday night, I had to wash Connor from the series of nasty things he’d done to himself and that’s one load of laundry that should probably be handled with Haz-Mat gear. Nonetheless, the house was happy, got clean, and no-one yelled.

It’s the good life.

Triage

A Fench term used in battlefield medicine and emergency rooms, “Triage,” means “to sort.” The practice is simple. Take the most serious cases first – those likely to die without immediate care, the less serious cases after, and then those that can wait until after all the other bleeding is done. There are those, however, that you just have to admit aren’t going to make it and need to be quietly put aside to meet their maker while three others are saved with the surgeon’s time. Busy people all know this: they sort and resort, triage through their day. And Moms are busy people.

Even those who write about how busy moms are getting tired of being so busy at it all the time. I recently read an article in a magazine (can’t remember which one) where a critic was writing about being sick of blogs, articles, books and newspaper articles on motherhood, babyhood, parenting, working moms, part-time working moms and all the vagaries, challenges, bitches and ecstatic joys of all those spaces. I suspect she’s got her bases covered and her balls momentarily all in the air and would really like to just spend some time with her kids without thinking too much about it.

I can totally relate, as my students would say. I’m sure that Madame X is tired of the media onslaught and I have to admit to throwing Parent and Child against the wall because they want to insist that I think about “10 Things To Do With a Toddler” or “Bringing Back Dinner Time.”

Who eats dinner?

I’m catching cold bologna sandwiches while spoon-feeding (and wearing) that gack that passes for baby food into Connor, at the same time doing the mental calculations of how many student papers I’ve read and how many I have left to go before I’m free to collapse in bed with a book. If I have an hour and a half to cook, serve, sit at while wrassling the baby like a greased pig, and clean up after dinner, I’m damn sure going to work on my manuscript or play on the floor with my baby boy. It’s easier, more fun and actually gets something valuable accomplished. Life these days is about getting organized, using time wisely and taking no prisoners when it comes to things, people and projects that aren’t good time investments. Some would say that I’m getting lazy about the housekeeping, some would say I’m getting smart if I want to use that time to write, talk or play with the baby instead. We all have to cut our deals and dance with our devils.

I easily devolve into spitting fury these days, however, at those stupid enough to suggest that the problems of working mothers can be solved with a day planner and a bowl for your keys.

Before school started, I cleared the decks of my closets, bathroom, desks and in-box so that things would roll smoothly. No extraneous and useless pieces of clothing, extra jars, hairpins, etc. would clutter my smooth and facile way to getting ready in the morning, getting out the door and getting to the desk in the afternoon. Things must and would work with only the necessary pieces of equipment – no reaching through the slogs of useless things to get to the essential. No cluttering of the house, no up-and-downstairs with cleaning equipment; each level had what it would need to stay clean.

It is to laugh.

Well, after several weeks, I can tell you that it’s probably working better than if I hadn’t done all that, but I’ve let go many of my Rage for Order projects that seemed to be more about Rage and less about Order. I’m beginning to treat every day, closet and workspace as if I’m going on vacation tomorrow, don’t have time or inclination to deal with extra minutia, and would really play with my baby than have to dig through extraneous bits to find the right bra-underpants-tights-shoes combo to go with a dress or turn 5 dollars worth of ingredients into a vat of food that no-one will want to eat anyway. To hell with it, it’s all black and the summer wardrobe be damned. Ironing has gone the way of the large cooking projects on Sunday. In fact, one of the blouses I bought second-hand while I was in between sizes needed ironing and I managed to shrink out if it before I got an iron to it to wear it. So be it. Moving right along.

Yes, restructuring both our national health and child care systems would take an egregious weight off working moms – probably work out to an extra 5 hours a week one way or the other that they could feed back into their days, and hundreds if not thousands that families could feed back into their budgets for groceries, babysitters, and ironing. All working women know that money buys time – food that is cooked for you, housekeeping, babysitting, car washing. The broke do all their own cooking and cleaning. A few extra dollars and there’s money for take-out now and then and some dry-cleaning.

Because of these kitchen-level economic realities, I’ll be watching our presidential candidates very closely and voting for family-friendly policy making. Til that happens though, I’m going to keep throwing things away that don’t work: plans, clothes, projects, arguments, recipes and housekeeping expectations. I learned this morning, in about a half hour, that there’s little you can’t do with a Swiffer pad and a damp sponge and the rest isn’t that important anyway.