What the flock are you talking about?

A flock of spastic flamingoes, chasing a black-and-white spotted ball around a field. That’s what my child’s soccer team is.

And Kelsey is basically the team cheerleader, disguised as one of the players. She follows around after the kids who have the ball, on whichever team, just to be in the fray, in the moment. Just digging the grouping, flocking herding of like-sized bodies, the craze of inexplicable direction changes (The ball? Where’s the ball? What ball?). She stops to hug a teammate. She asks a fallen opponent if he’s OK. She looks to the sideline and gives me a thumbs up! I melt and laugh and wish I had video.

Next spring it’s T-ball. And then, next fall I’m thinking cheerleading. Because, really, every sport I put her in is going to end in cheerleading, whether it’s conscious or not. Because my child is the cheerleader. And since I am her driver, as my father-in-law so sensitively informed me, it appears I’m going to be a cheerleader mom. I can see my future. I’m sure it involves a minivan. But, damn it, I’m keeping the long hair, the hippy skirts and the hemp necklaces. I might get a tattoo even, to proclaim my uniqueness in this new cookie-cutter community that wants to make me just another bland sugar cookie.

I am NOT a cookie. I am a fantabulous trifle. Or a T-licious sundae.

Just kidding about the tattoo.

Rah, rah.
Number 9

Play = Work – fun + 2 x eggplants cuz they’re silly

Play is the work of children.

You hear this saying everywhere: children’s museum, indoor playgrounds, preschools, theme parks. Everywhere you go where they take your money so that your child can play work for the profit of some business. You go to one of those kid-oriented restaurants, and there’s a guy in a rat’s suit just inside the door, beckoning for my kids to enter the big rat play area “Come on in. Play is the work of children. Yeah, *cough* please have your credit card waiting, yada yada yada.”

And every time I hear it, I picture Kelsey trudging down the stairs in the morning, going straight to the refrigerator and pouring herself some juice into her cup, getting ready to start her work day. Walking into the play work room, where her dinosaurs await being hitched up to the ducks and puppies for the first parade of the day, the first item on the agenda before having to begin negotations with the 2-year-old. Their daily meetings involve who gets to use the soft go-go puppy first. And after the first parade, after the negotiations, there’s always so much more work play to do. There’s bugs to stuff into the bug cage, a ton of plastic fruit to throw all over the room, and–talk about the drudgery–the hats and tutus and magic wands ALL have to be tried on in front of the mirror.

I see her get all fed up, trying for the upteenth time to get the remote control T Rex to eat the doll’s head (the jaws just don’t close all the way, do they?) “Aw, fuck this. I need a vacation.” Stomping off to her room to pack.

If play is the work of children, what is the job I’m doing? Is it work? If play=work for some in our species, at what age does that become a false statement? I don’t consider what *I* do work, as a lot of the time I’m playing! But doesn’t it sound irresponsible to say that MY work is play? “Do you dare leave the kids with me, honey, because we’re going to go off and PLAY and the hell with responsibilities!”

Perhaps it’s the words themselves. We assume that “play” and “work” are opposites. And therefore the juxtaposition of the word “play” and “work” in that statement “Play is the work of children” gets your attention. But what if you don’t put a lot of stock in the belief that “play” and “work” are in opposition? Aren’t there some other words we could throw in there, just to shake things up? Why must we have always this seeming contradiction in our language, this black or white dynamic? How about “Play is the tea of children” or “Play is the building blocks of children.”

I’m also noting that I personally am assuming that “work” is rather a pejorative term. It’s got a negative connotation. But is that fair to those of you who LOVE your work, those of you for whom working is more akin to playing? Oh hell.

Play is the work of children. MY ASS, I want to scream. Play is the play of children. And get your damn hands out of my wallet!

If I fetishize coffee, does that make me a kinky hot beverage freak?

I gave up coffee last week. *takes sip of coffee*. Yeah, it didn’t stick.

Every so often, I feel the need to gain some control over my various addictions. None of them are particularly dangerous, unless you consider the side effect of ultra-crankiness to be dangerous. If I’ve had four cups of coffee in a small amount of time, that’s bordering on unsafe. I get dangerously bitchy and twitchy.

But I’ve recently grappled with my psyche for control over caffeine once again by reigning it in and going back to moderating. Damn it. And it makes me think a lot about such things as addiction, and what types of behavior we decide fall into this category.

In grad school, I drank alcohol to excess on regular occasions. But, as my husband argued in a sociology paper once, such behavior isn’t really classified as alcoholic when one is in college. It’s just… being in college. That same behavior, when applied outside the context of college would be called alcoholism. I’m not being clinical here. I’m not in the mood to support my claims with scientific research. Hey, it’s my blog.

I hear a lot of women claim that they are addicted to chocolate, and they always say this with a giggle. Sometimes it’s a nervous giggle, with that junkie glint in their eyes, but usually it’s a harmless way to say “yeah, I LOVE THE HELL out of chocolate.” Few of these women are, I believe, actually suffering from an addiction to chocolate.

It’s also much more politic to say one has an “addiction” to something rather than a “fetish”, because that latter word is taboo! It’s sexy! Here’s a few definitions for fetish, from dictionary.com:

fet·ish also fet·ich Audio pronunciation of "fetish" ( P ) Pronunciation Key (ftsh, ftsh)

n.

  1. An object that is believed to have magical or spiritual powers, especially such an object associated with animistic or shamanistic religious practices.
  2. An object of unreasonably excessive attention or reverence: made a fetish of punctuality.
  3. Something, such as a material object or a nonsexual part of the
    body, that arouses sexual desire and may become necessary for sexual
    gratification.
  4. An abnormally obsessive preoccupation or attachment; a fixation.

See? This word is so much more fun than the word addiction. I could say that I have a stationery fetish, and it could either mean I only get off if there’s a ballpoint pen in the room OR it could be completely innocent, and mean that I simply have a fixation and attachment to fine papers and office supplies. But you don’t know! I could be the queen of stationery kink, or just your average somewhat obsessive compulsive person who likes to hang out at Office Depot.

You just don’t know.

Anyway, TANGENT. Enough about fetishes. Back to addiction.

For me, when I’m feeling dependent on something like coffee, when I feel it’s ruling me and affecting my personality negatively, I need distance. I go cold turkey. I went a full week this last time. In the past I’ve given it up for years, especially while pregnant and nursing. My addiction doesn’t rule me. I am stronger than a Starbucks triple grande two-equal latte.

*looks lustily at empty coffee pot*

Skinny women make me nervous

I work out. I mean, I’m not thin, but you wouldn’t mistake me for a walking barn or anything either. I’ve got curves, some in places that used to be a bit flatter, but, hey, I’ve had two kids. And like chocolate. And I take my coffee with extra extra. That’s Dunkin Donuts-ese for “too much sugar, and too much cream, please!”

Skinny women just give me the creeps.

They’re always passing up the muffins at get-togethers. Drinking bottled water. Worried about that 5 pounds they put on during the holidays. “Yeah,” I think, “I’m not so worried about the 5 pounds from the holidays…it’s the other 40 that are kinda weighing on me!”

Skinny women are twitchy, to borrow a word from a friend of mine. You don’t want to hug them because they’re bony and self-conscious of that 5 pounds. Or maybe they just act all nervous, afraid that I’ll crush them?

Yes, I know. Americans are all obese and we’re all going to die with a pork chop in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other. And the rest of the world will say “I told you so!” Heart disease, diabetes, choking on pork chops…. all big killers in the land of the free.

It’s just not natural for your bones to stick out, girlfriend. Go eat a sandwich and turn on CNN to see the people who are REALLY starving. Yeah, it’s nice to have great abs. If you’re a body builder. But what’s wrong with looking like a woman? Curvy. Satiated.

Bring on the voluptuous women models, ye paragons of media! I’m trying to raise women here, and I could use a little help!

Mommy Blogging and Brain Damage

The New York Times in January ran a story about parents who blog, and there have been a lot of comments regarding the article on the mommy blogs I check out regularly. So I thought I’d add mine. I’m sure all of my 8 or so readers have been dying to read my reaction!

The American family has changed drastically over the last century, leaving many parents on their own with newborns, their own parents far away, living their own lives. Many mothers find themselves alone for many, many, many hours, trying to find the humor in being covered with infant spit-up and sore boobs and weird-colored substances coming out of their new little angels. Usually, the fathers have to return to work. Mothers are admonished by their pediatricians to stay indoors, away from other people for the first few weeks, so that baby’s immune system can kick in. It is these two or three weeks that indoctrinate new mothers into the brain damage that is parenthood.

Now, Bill Cosby first told us about the brain damage. He hypothesized that the brain damage was something our children suffer from, and he was mostly right. What he forgot to mention was that it’s contagious. Mothers get it from their babies.

OK, it’s perhaps not fair to say that it’s “brain damage” so much as just “brain rewiring.” It is intuitive in new mothers to attune their bodies, their minds toward keeping the dear little bundle alive. In simple terms, and forgive me if I sound condescending, it’s necessary to the continuation of the human species. Women find very early on in their new careers as mothers that their once-sharp wit has been lost; that big vocabulary words get stuck somewhere on the back of the tongue, never making their way into normal conversations. Many call this “mommy brain,” and it doesn’t matter if the mother goes back to work when her child is 6 weeks old or 6 years old, every mother I’ve met has suffered from mommy brain for at least the first year of her child’s life. It’s hormonal, and it’s natural. I used to feel true shame, as I have a whole lot of student loan debt that needs to be paid off someday, loans that I used so that I could shove vast amounts of knowledge into my brain for use in a career and in life. Now, I’m lucky if I remember to brush my hair in the morning before heading off to the playground.

One way many mothers have coped with the mommy brain is to blog. For some, words flow more loftily and easily out of the brain and through the fingers than through the apparatus of the mouth. And I think to combat the fact that many mothers are alone, they seek to throw their voices like ventriloquists out into the world to convince themselves they’re not dummies. They find community with other mothers who are in the same boat; they find useful tips or just damn funny stories from mothers who have navigated the same snark-infested waters.

I cracked up yesterday when I read about Leta figuring out how to stick her finger in her nose! Sure, Bill Simmons might not find this terribly entertaining (well? Actually, he might…), but as a mother, I thought of my own stories of my kids’ first nose-picking incidents, and I thought it was funny what Leta’s mother’s reaction was: “Pick a winner, little one. Pick a winner!”

It’s self-absorption, yes. But isn’t all blogging? For that matter, isn’t all writing? Why do we write? Why do we privilege writing, setting mommy blogging below, let’s say, blogging about politics or the electronics industry? What is blogging, anyway? It’s opinion, first-hand account experiences, written down and presented in a medium that anyone with an Internet connection can access. Every interest has its niche. I’m just glad that, during these years when I am dealing with rotavirus, snot, potty training, and bloody noses, I can read about Zach and VomitFest 2005.

Thank you, mommy bloggers and the people who read them. You make my job much more amusing!