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You've got questions, she's got answers. Be among the first to read Elise Mac Adam's new etiquette guide.
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I have never let my schooling interfere with my education. - Mark Twain
To become a mother is to enter the Land of the Mandate. Every two seconds you get hit with a new imperative, no matter that they all contradict each other. While I was dandling Felix poolside at a birthday party, a mother told me I absolutely had to get him to swimming lessons before it was too late. Apparently, if he doesn't learn some elements of swimming soon, he'll lose some important instincts and then he'll have to wait to learn until he's two, at least. Days later I was told by a friend that the only thing her pediatrician cautioned her not to do under any circumstance was put her babies in a pool.
You won't catch me quibbling with swimming (I do live on an island, after all), but in spite of the sun, the drooling baby in my arms, and the presence of fabulous barbecue, I found myself thinking about Pride and Prejudice.
In chapter 8, Elizabeth Bennet is stuck in her neighbor's living room, waiting for her sister to get over some sort of flu and suffers through an annoying discussion with Miss. Bingley and Mr. Darcy about what a woman must do in order to be considered accomplished. By the end of it, Elizabeth explodes: "I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe united."*
People have lots of plans for their children and I suspect they are never more firmly articulated than when the little beasts are too young to talk. Mandarin lessons, swimming, golf, music theory, gymnastics, soccer, ballet, chess, karate, horseback riding, yoga, piano, racquet sports, skiing... these are all things that various parent friends and acquaintences of mine would have their children learn. I'm sure there are a lot of perfectly sensible skills I've left out. One friend said that for many, this list of "required elements"would be incomplete without a Latin mandate (this is brilliant since it would give kids a leg up in Scrabble, crossword puzzles, and maybe the SAT's).
I have never thought in these terms, though I did take the dog to two rounds of obedience class (and he could use a third, frankly). And I know all about best laid plans and what the road to Hell is littered with, but while we're making lists, I thought I'd toss out a few things that I would love for Felix to learn.
In order to avoid his mother's solipsism, he should have some recreational skills up his sleeve: pool (the sport, not of the swimming variety), ping-pong, and poker or bridge.
He should be able to use rudimentary kitchen appliances (can opener, not necessarily Cuisinart).
He should learn how to write and use eating utensils (forks and chopsticks) with both hands.
He should learn how to nap (not a problem now).
He should learn how to play with dogs.
He would do well for himself if he learned some basic plumbing.
Now maybe this is too much for him to learn before he's two (and his little fingers aren't quite coordinated enough yet to change a washer in the sink), but perhaps he could be something beyond accomplished, that is to say, competent.
I can't imagine I've missed something, but if I have, do tell.
* If you want to see what irked Lizzy, here's the discussion from Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 8:
"'A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved.'
'All this she must possess,' added Darcy, 'and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.'
'I am no longer surprised at your knowing ONLY six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing ANY.'"
posted by Elise at 7:51 PM
5 Comments
Plug
Hey, hey, the week exploded, but at least the oven is working again and the air conditioner is fixed and ready to face the heat wave that is about to descend.
While waiting for the mugginess to set in, I had a chance to swing by Chez Miscarriage, and I'm pleased to say that she's right. Go quickly and read her June 22nd entry before it vanishes.
Cheers
And coming soon - What are your musts?
posted by Elise at 9:54 AM
0 Comments
Side Effects
So I was running home the other day to catch the oven repair guy. Two days earlier, after I disabused him of his belief that he had been summoned to fix the dishwasher, he diagnosed the stove as having a "weak igniter" and was returning to replace it. Everything falls apart in the summer. Last year, the refrigerator went belly-up in an exceptionally rude fashion.
Coming around the corner, I spied one of the Dog People I know slightly. In my neighborhood, there are Dog People who are friends and others with whom I have only a nodding acquaintance. This fellow is one of the latter, in part because he has two of the worst behaved golden retrievers on earth. (They are so nasty that people tend to walk their dogs across the street to avoid them, which is sad for one woman whose two extremely friendly goldens are frequently mistaken for the miscreants. She is often in the position of having to call out: "It's all right! These are the NICE ONES!")
Anyway, I was about to wave when the man said something: "Nice rack." Now, the relative niceness of my figure is not for me to discuss, but my bra size is significantly larger than it was before Felix, and I am uncomfortable enough about the state of my person that it might be worthy of some time on the couch. I know that Mary Louise Parker thanked her son for helping her look so fabulous in her Emmy-awards dress, but I am not a movie star, and I wasn't on a red carpet.
When one lives in a city, one tends to hear and become immune to a certain amount of street attention, but what made this comment hit like a spitball was the fact that I know this guy. I know the state of his wife's health (indifferent) and his dog's names, and he sort of knows me. I have to say I really don't care for my acquaintances treating me with the familiarity they would only accord a total stranger.
Should I have stopped and reminded the Retriever Guy that he knows me? There was already enough of my embarrassment hanging in the ether for both of us. Lots of friends have commented that they felt completely unsexy and invisible after having their children. I don't feel this way, which is not to say that I feel comfortable with this high jiggle quotient. My altered state makes me feel strangely young, the way I did when I got my breasts in their original size. I wouldn't have been inclined to challenge Retriever Guy then either.
posted by Elise at 7:27 AM
67 Comments
A Quiz
Only in my wildest dreams did I think that having a baby might somehow turn me into a glittering conversationalist in the style of Myrna Loy's Nora Charles, whose son only made her more charming in the Thin Man series.
This was a fantasy, of course, life isn't always given to brilliant dialogue and babies do tend to get one mired in the quotidian and even the things that seem most novel, for a long time, are rather banal. Don't misunderstand me. For the most part, it is much preferable to have nothing unusual to report about one's child.
Still, I had a series of encounters recently that made me feel as if I were filling out a tax form:
1. What is the baby's name?
2. How old is the baby?
3. That baby is big/small isn't s/he?
4. How much did s/he weigh when born?
If your answer to question 3 was < 8 pounds 8 ounces, skip to question 6.
5. Did you have a c-section?
If your answer to question 5 was "Yes" skip to question 7.
6. Why didn't you have a c-section? That kid is huge.
7. Are you breastfeeding?
If your answer is "Yes" skip to question 9.
8. Why aren't you breastfeeding, doesn't everyone?
9. How long are you going to do that?
NOTE: If the person posing the question is your husband's former teacher, the question may sound like this: How long are you going to continue being a cow?
10. When will s/he be eating "real" food?
11. Does s/he sleep through the night?
If your answer is "yes" skip to question 15.
12. Why don't you just let him/her cry?
If you said you don't want to, go to the next question and skip questions 14 and 15. If you said you do let him/her cry it out, go to question 14. If you said you never thought of that, skip to question 15.
13. Well don't you ever want to sleep again?
14. What kind of barbarian are you?
15. What are you, stupid?
16. Can s/he roll over yet?
At this point I try to stop this give-and-take before something terrible happens.
Baby conversation always starts with good intentions from all parties. It only spins out of control when the person asking the questions starts getting bored or feels like pressing an agenda or the parent gets bored or feels defensive. Sometimes this defensiveness comes out of nowhere- people are just curious, intrigued and being polite, and it isn't their fault that so many questions about the baby, which is such a public thing, intrude upon matters that are very private (one's breasts and bikini line, for instance).
Before Felix, I rarely had the same conversation twice, and now I often feel stuck. It's nobody's fault but my own, of course, but I admit when faced with the Inevitable Quiz, I always wonder what Nora Charles would say, but she had Dashiell Hammett putting words in her mouth, which puts her at quite an advantage.
posted by Elise at 7:45 PM
0 Comments
Fine Young Cannibals
About nine years ago, a good friend of mine was teaching nursery school, and I relished her tales of the classroom because they were riddled with amusing bad behavior and linguistic misunderstanding. One particularly memorable case she had, which was actually not very funny, was about an unrepentant biter. This kid was four-years-old and would not stop biting his classmates. He had a primary victim but would choose others if his favorite was unavailable. I asked my friend why he singled this little girl out, and her reply was calm:
"I can completely see why he picked her. She still looks a bit like a baby, you know, round and pink and... juicy."
The poor thing did sound succulent. The school insisted that the biter get therapy, because such behavior, at such an advanced age, is antisocial, dangerous, and a possible sign of other problems. I don't know what became of this little boy, who is now probably in middle school. In light of having my own child, of course, the story is frightening. I do not want my boy to become a biter or to be bitten, for that matter.
I'm not alone. Recently Neal Pollack wrote a strange article for Salon called When Toddlers Get Fired, and it is full of the confusion and guilt and helplessness that I have always found so terrifying that I almost decided not to have a child.
This writer has a biter. The kid is just two-years-old and has been kicked out of school for sinking his teeth into his classmates. Needless to say, the article has made serious rounds in the blogosphere and has been heavily criticized in the Letters to the Editor section of Salon. I won't float the self-righteous rants, the angry dismissals of Pollack's and his wife's abilities as parents, the litany of solutions and arguments spawned by the letters. Let me just say that everything about this biting business intimidates me.
Pollack may be writing for effect, he may be trying to inject some lame humor into his article, he may simply be groping in the dark, grabbing at details that help him explain his son's really bad behavior (the biting is disastrous and he, too, singled out a little girl as his prime victim, which must have freaked her parents out). Whatever the case, Mr. Pollack was attacked quite savagely. Some said he didn't deserve to be a parent, was a terrible father, should stop being selfish and get a "real" job (because as a freelance writer he can't make enough money to pay for a nanny). Mr. Pollack clearly asked for it by writing this article, and I don't agree with much of what he says or the way he says it, but I am shocked by the shame heaped upon him.
So I read this article and thought about the way I become frightened about parenting things. Of course I worry that Felix could become a biter (there is no real evidence of this tendency right now since, as I've said before, he has no teeth and precious little motor control), but behind that concern is something more tender. Whether you get them coming or going, these issues are inevitable, and I worry not only about how I will deal with problems like this one, but also with the shame associated with them.
Everything that every child does has so much language attached to it, and this language seems to imply that the parent can be entirely responsible for all of the kid's behavior- the good and the horrendous. I watch Felix lying around, learning how to be a person, and I love him, and hope desperately I can do well by him. But what if he does bite, or do something comparably awful? How can I be his champion while adequately correcting him? How can I guide him to be a good citizen of the world while I myself cringe when I think about the ocean of wagging fingers out there, ready to scold me and my son when we stumble.
It would be nice if Mr. Pollack is having a better summer than he predicts with his little biter, and even better if he gets help so that he can have a kid who is less of a vampire. For me, his story and the responses to it show me a glimpse of my future with Felix- not that I predict he will be wicked. We are a team and for a long time his troubles will be mine. I just hope I have the grace to respond to criticism and the confidence to know when he and I are actually doing just fine and can tell the rest of the world where to go. Politely, of course.
posted by Elise at 9:17 AM
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On the Other Hand - Support
I must pause for a moment and say that my experiences nursing in public have been quite happy, and I think I'm very lucky in this, since I am someone who retreats from my family to breast feed (see the lament about the lackadaisical and distracted eater that Felix is, below).
In an effort to encourage establishments to appreciate nursing mothers, I'm starting to compile a list of places to recommend. Here's the first:
About two months after Felix was born, I staggered into the wonderful East Village shop Jill Anderson in search of something on sale that would accommodate my new cup size and not only had the folks there road-tested all of their dresses to see which ones would be most nursing-friendly, they let me go in the back to feed a super-cranky Felix (it is a small store), and they provided a little snack for my ever-hungry terrier. So there is my first pick of a great store that celebrated nursing women and makes them feel great.
Please feel free to let me know of any other happy experiences you've had.
posted by Elise at 9:47 AM
1 Comments
Boobs on View
By now the 200 woman-strong Nurse-In that took place in front of ABC studios (in 90 degree heat, I might add) has been written about and blogged to death, but I have to say it is truly beyond me why- given how incredibly offensive people are to one another without breasts being involved- this is has to be such an issue.
It is completely absurd that Barbara Walters, a woman who wrote a book called How to Talk With Practically Anybody About Practically Anything, a woman who started a career as a journalist in the early 1960's, could feel so "uncomfortable" when seated near someone doing something as banal as breastfeeding her child. Here is a woman who asks politicians and celebrities some of the most intrusive and annoying questions and she can't handle this small, non-verbal, entirely innocuous gesture. What is her problem?
As for Elizabeth Hasselbeck, she's entitled to breast feed or not, but- and I'm speaking as a new mother who is thrilled by many of my kid's "firsts"- soliciting applause for giving her child a bottle of formula is just dopey.
I'm glad people reacted strongly to these supposedly casual comments. Television programs that are watched by so many people and are so potentially influential really do women an incredible disservice by enforcing the idea that we should be ashamed of our bodies, while at the same time waving the "Girl Power" flag.
So, Ms. Walters was offended by spying a tiny fragment of breast. Well, I am offended absolutely constantly by the much much, much more nasty things I have to hear that people shriek into their cell phones. It is much easier to delicately avert one's eyes than it is to close one's ears to things like this, while one is sitting in a restaurant:
"It's not disgusting, it's a medical problem I have with my foreskin!"
For my part, I would love to be more comfortable nursing Felix in public. I hate the way, even at home when people are over, I do feel inclined to retreat to the bedroom to feed him. But this is a problem of my mind, not my breasts. Just last week, I marveled at how easily my friend fed her daughter. She was so discreet that I doubt even the queasy, keen-eyed Ms. Walters would have noticed. I have neither the coordination nor Felix's cooperation to do this very well. Felix gets distracted, pops his head off and looks around to see who's talking, what's happening, enjoys a break, contemplates world events, thinks about the dog, and burps before picking up where he left off. If anyone has any suggestions as to how I can encourage him to do his ruminating after he's eaten, I would love to hear them, because I do get self-conscious.
The fact that breast feeding legislation is pending is also ridiculous and disappointing in a time where people regularly wear clothes that expose much more flesh than a nursing mother does (except me, see above), and I truly don't understand why it has to be such an issue. (By the way, a quick glance at the New York Times article that mentions the legal vicissitudes is incredible- check out the discussion of, ahem, "spillage.") All along, throughout my pregnancy, at the hospital and through the pediatrician, I have gotten nothing but encouragement to breastfeed, and only one relative has looked at me fish-eyed and said "So how long are you going to keep doing that?" So why is this such a problem for the world? Who is so sensitive and so bothered? And why are these tremulous types always the ones who stare?
posted by Elise at 12:59 PM
0 Comments
Include Me Out
Well, I was going to write about something else, and I still will, but my dander is up, up, up.
The New York Times has recently become obsessed with issues of class (registration necessary), so this article (registration required here, too) in Sunday's "Style" Section shouldn't have caused even a tremor of surprise; and perhaps it was such a slow week in the world of style that the Gray Lady was desperate for any story, but this seemed as Jane Austen would say "beyond everything." (If I had a blood pressure problem, I suspect I would be advised to avoid the Sunday Times.)
Apparently, a bunch of privileged mothers in New York City and Los Angeles are not happy with the usual advantages they enjoy and would like to find new ways of celebrating their status and bank accounts and they want to do this in an environment where they and their children can be protected from the hoi polloi. The threat from the outside is compounded by an internal problem, which is that many of these mothers don't want to spend tons of time alone with their children and they don't have enough time for certain spa treatments. These women have found a simple solution in an old tradition: the private club.
Imagine, please, a secluded expensive place with velvet ropes around the doors, where fancy mommies can force their children to become accomplished with cooking classes and language lessons while they enjoy beauty treatments and the challenge to eat only a few bites of spa meals with like-minded women, similarly burdened by their kids.
Now, I will happily believe that being a mother can sometimes be lonely and boring, and I have no quarrel at all with private clubs, though I can safely say I have never had the slightest inclination to join one. What I can't stand is the sense of entitlement that these women have, which will blossom in their children- the idea that they are so special that they must keep themselves apart from the world on the one hand, while calling attention to themselves as objects of envy on the other (I wasn't kidding about the velvet ropes). And I also deplore the attitude of this article, which while somewhat critical of these Mommy and Kiddie Clubs for being elitist, finds them so interesting and novel. Private clubs are hardly a new phenomenon, but the idea that this new breed is somehow important and necessary because it involves mothers and children is unpleasant.
The utopia that the Mommy and Kiddie Clubs promise is very strange. The idea behind them seems to be that these women want to somehow simultaneously faun over their children while ignoring them; nurture approved and improving interests for their offspring while getting pedicures and eating watercress salads. There's nothing wrong with sending kids to classes or getting a massage or sitting around with friends, and I suppose that elitism and social-climbing are facts of some people's lives, but claiming that this is virtuous or necessary is more than a little weird. Why encourage your kid into a person who feels superior to anyone who isn't a member of the silly club? Why foster the feeling that the world is a horrible and threatening place, save for these little provincial islands? And as for the media, why encourage the idea that a whiff of motherhood makes even the most offensive project worth celebrating?
posted by Elise at 10:10 AM
0 Comments
Kids Today With Their Hair and Their Clothes...
One must exercise considerable patience on the Friday of a holiday weekend on Canal Street, if one is actually trying to get anywhere. Block after block is packed with people looking to buy pirated designer handbags, Chinoiserie and fabulous sequined flip-flop slippers for $5.
While plodding East to the subway, I was distracted from my usual thoughts (which generally involve trying to understand the systems of lookouts and walkie talkies that the folks who sell fake Gucci/ Prada/ Kate Spade/ Louis Vuitton use to outsmart those who would arrest them) by an avalanche of reading material. All around me, prepubescent and teenage girls were wearing t-shirts that were nondescript except they said things like: "I like my men like dessert: sweet and rich," "Don't even think about getting lucky with me," and the more succinct "Sexy".
I don't object at all to freedom of expression, but I wonder what makes these girls want to wear these things. They all seem too young to have to care seriously about how they take their men, and by they time they are old enough, they will find that they would rather show, not tell, this sort of thing.
Of course, I did begin to think that I would probably not have to talk to Felix about why wearing shirts like this is problematic, creepy, unappealing, and hard to do with irony. Right now, the most extreme thing he has is his Righteous Babe creeper that reads: "Squirmer Babbler Burper Freak." This, I thought, was a happy bonus in having had a son.
But hubris must be punished. Just as I reached the subway, a teenage boy ambled past. His chest read:
World's greatest male escort.
posted by Elise at 3:57 PM
1 Comments
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