Unfit Mother

Unfit Mother is

on facebook and can't remember how to blog.

Why I Love Trader Joe's

WELCOME Babble visitors. Be sure to peruse the "Previously On Unfit Mother" section to your right.

Reference Point

From time to time I will leave a comment on someone’s blog that turns into an essay. And I think this compulsion to wax garrulously is what inspired me to have my own blog in the first place. So anyway, I read a friend’s post that was essentially her way of commenting on ANOTHER post and so on ad nauseam like a free flowing meme. What follows is my response about names and whether to take your husband’s last one.

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My sister named me. Already having two younger bothers, she asked my mother for a baby sister and here I am christened with her request. I have to say I was never fond of my middle name (with apologies to my mother, its only redeeming quality is that it contains no proper vowels). And as I struggled with my relationship with my father and found feminism in college, I created a new last name for myself. I went so far as to inquire at the social security office how to make it legal, but never did. And when I asked my school about the consequences for obtaining transcripts with a name change, I was congratulated for getting married. When I corrected the assumption I was treated to the slack jawed and eye squinting judgment that sent me scuttling from the south to the open arms of the west coast where crazy people named “Rain” and “Summer” did that sort of thing every day. (Don’t get me started on the garden variety “Bubbas” and “Peggy-Sues” grown on the other side of the continental divide and to the right.)

But even here, in the lenient Pacific Northwest, I never persued the paper work part even though I adopted the alias in my professional life. And interestingly enough, the law requires you post the new name for a specified time on a special board where it is fun to read all the changes (mostly adopted children and trans-gendered people trying on a more fitting title). When I married, I hemmed and hawed about the decision to assume my husband’s last name. Oregon law is very generous with its tolerance for last name distribution so I had an opportunity to do what I wanted in terms of my identity. Which is what the agonizing is all about. I had already been reborn into a new identity and how would sharing my husbands name sit with this old school feminist? My fiancé did not protest or really have an opinion – he left me to my own choice. His ambivalence on the matter is probably what made it easier for me to take his name. Which is what I did, bumping the formerly changed last name to the middle .

Part of the decision is because we have children – the sole reason we tied on the ankle chains – and like to travel abroad. Upon your departure from this country and entering a new one, if your passport does not bear the same family name as your child’s, you must present paperwork that proves your relationship to the child. And if you are traveling without your parental partner, you must have their written consent to leave the country with your child. It becomes one more serrated piece of tape that becomes more comfortable to shed with the other airport hassles. Knowing we would be a family with a suitcase always packed, we decided to all bear the same luggage monogram.

And I purposefully gave my children middle names that could suffice as a last name if they so chose. In fact, my younger two have first names (in honor of my grandparents) that even sound a little clunky with their father’s last name tacked on and only flow melodically with their middle names inserted. I have over-thought this issue to the point of considering to not bestow middle names for my children in the event they would like to choose one themselves or add their potential future spouse's last name onto the already burdensome train of monikers with which I parceled them. However, when their name is called by the gym teacher imparting 11th grade American History, he will read their last name first so it will sound better. Or it will ring more harmoniously if we ever move to Southeast Asia where the family name always comes first.

(I warned you that I had a lot to say on the subject; I’m avoiding the gym.)

When I utter my full name or I hear it spoken, the ending always sounds awkward to me as if I am incognito or using a pseudonym. But I also like the anonymity it provides. My last name can be found among hundreds in an archaic phone book or on just about any NFL jersey. My husband even has a doubly named cousin because it can also be used as a first name (although what CAN’T these days), making a great onomatopoetic serial killer character on Law and Order - dun dun. 

Because I have done so much research and analyzing on the topic, I have discovered some interesting anthropology. Iceland, for example, has a unique naming system based on the gender of your child. A surname is selected by affixing either “son” (son) or “dottir” (daughter) to the end of your given name, offering both a matronymic and patronymic system (although I am unclear whether of not this includes the mother’s given name, or just the father’s). Björk Gudmundsdóttir' is an example. This system is actually less confusing to me than the previously employed distribution of names by other Scandinavian countries that depended not only on your gender, but also your birth order and whether you would have your father’s, mother’s, grandfather’s or grandmother’s last name. And as I mentioned earlier, in Southeast Asia your last name comes first and in Indonesia most folks just go by one name (also if you are a celebrity of international renown) so it’s all a matter of cultural perspective.

Call me an anthroponymist and pass the salt. I have friends that have made all sorts of creative decisions when in came to the last name of their children. One friend kept her “maiden” or birth name and also gave it to her children, daughters. Another friend gave his children last names that were a combination of his and his partner’s last names (Smith + Jones = Smones). And yet another friend AND her husband hyphenated their last names and gave that to their children as well (which begs the often made point of continuingly hyphenated amalgams like Smith-Jones-Johnson-Nguyen). My point is our names are our identity and when it all comes out in the wash, who do you think you are? I have my political convictions, but I compromised to make nice with the international community and create some cohesion in my own little nuclear dynamic. My last name is merely a point of reference in relation to other people who may or may not live in my household and be found sitting next to me on an airplane. It’s all the same to me as long as you wear a nametag until I get it straight.

Slipping

Not blogging reminds me of gaining weight. It is a slow and gradual process and I try not to look at the scale that reminds me the numbers are increasing (or decreasing as the case may be). Out of sight; out of mind. Denial. My head feels like its gripped in a vice, pinched in a concussive shroud. Exhaustion is a formidable deterrent.

Paralyzed in the night by anxiety, I wrote myself a permission slip to take a break from blogging. And just when I thought this cloud of “bloggers block” would not lift, I had a breakthrough: I need hot water in order to think clearly.

I was at the gym, sitting in the Jacuzzi when the ache subsided slightly and a sliver of clarity emerged bobbing to the surface. I actually do have a medical condition that may be contributing to my blog-absence, but I really believe I have reached some sort of maximum thinking capacity. My brain is over saturated. For which there are many contributing factors that will sounds like rationalized excuses here. But, I am truly overwhelmed.

Sometime before daybreak this morning while I was wedged in fetal position at the end of my bed, pinned by flailing limbs and the heavy absence of my business class husband hurdling through the air on a Boeing 727, I resolved to try and get something posted today. Anything. And then I wondered if I should apologize. But would these words emit a tinny echo reverberating only against my keyboard? Because to whom do I owe an apology? (Bear with my rhetorical rant – There… there you are! It does feel like I am talking to someone after all.)

But for a few moments I wondered. Does anyone care if an unfit mother moans against a chorus of endless monotony? (You know, a variation on the ole proverbial tree in the forest... .)

My point is I vowed to keep a blog for myself. And along the way I began to care if anyone read it and the pressure to perform contributed to this anxiety that whacks me in the head and causes this pressure and pain. But I don't write just for an audience.

It was in the early 90’s while reading Milan Kundera’s, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, that I was ironically inspired by the concept of graphomania and began to keep a journal. Almost daily for over ten years. I have these tomes stored in boxes in a bench on the landing to the second floor and can feel the breath of all those years sigh as I pass. They pulse like my head and whisper back the repeated threats to read through and edit them for someone else to read. I often think if I never get to them before I die, I want my daughters to have them. (But in the event of an untimely demise, not until they are 18. The escapades of my youth are not even “PG” fare.)

So I am apologizing to myself.

Self, I am sorry. I am sorry I have been ignoring something to which I committed.

And if it entertains anyone else along the way, then join me. But this time I set aside to write is for me. A gift.

And I never want to think of this sanctuary as a burden so if I am sloppy and tired and let the days slip by again, know that this promise to myself is stronger than me at times.

And you would not believe what I have accomplished by NOT blogging.

R*I*P

My computer died. Back soon.

Your Ad Here

In the corner of this page, in the section to your right, you will notice I have not debased my integrity in this blog for any commercial gains. Mostly because I have not been asked. Nor have I pursued it. Until now. I still think of myself as a newbie to blogging in my ninth month – far enough along to produce a whole human child. So is it a baby yet? And is this baby ready to monetize writing efforts in participation with a nominal token of economic exchange? 

BlogQuake solicited me for ad space on my site. After reviewing their contract, and exchanging email negotiations with Luke, I declined. If they could not allow me veto power over a specific endorsement, then I would not submit. I would not be ok with posting an ad for McDonalds while preaching about diversity in the wholesome toddler diet and recommending Michael Pollan’s book: The Omnivore's Dilemma, for example. But the subject opened a new door to an internal dialogue. The conversation in my head went something like this:

Pro: I'm trying to take myself seriously as a writer, so being paid, however nominally, would legitimize that aspiration. 

Con: But am I compromising some purity if I offer ad space on Unfit Mother?

Pro: Why shouldn't I be compensated? Compensation legitimizes this endeavor.

Con: If I am rationalizing a pro-ad decision, part of me would feel like a "sell-out". And would my readership falter?

I decided to review the blogs that I read most often and see which have ads and which don’t. The result was approximately 50/50. And I wrote to some of my co-bloggers about their decision to either have or not have ad space. 

Karrie: I used to be strongly opposed to the commercialization of private blogs, but now I am a bit less so. For me, running the same Blogher ads that 90% of women bloggers seem to run does not seem profitable, but I could be wrong.  Before when I was against those ads, I did not understand that the blogger retains some level of discretion--I was concerned about a big WalMart banner or a pro Dick Cheney button scrolling across my blog. 

My feeling now is that if a travel or outdoor company wanted to run an ad or give me swag in exchange for a review, I would do it. :But...very few people read the new blog,*so I doubt EMS or Icelandair will contact me seeking ad space anytime soon.

Kelly: I don't really get why we (as a society) don't want our artists and writers to get paid. Like how people get so pissed off at their favorite indie band for letting their music be on a commercial. As Dean Wareham from Galaxie 500 once said, ‘that commercial kept me from having to get a desk job that year’.

My readership doubled after getting the ads, because of the "More from Blogher" links at the bottom of the ads. And it's a woman-owned  and -operated company. And it gives me a better understanding of a part of blog culture that is somewhat different from the mother-bloggers.

So I’m out blog-walking the internet, trolling for ad johns. Since I am not happy with the contract sent by BlogQuake, I contacted BlogHer:

Hi, I have been approached by BlogQuake / IZEA about posting ads on my blog, Unfit Mother (http://unfitmother.typepad.com/unfit_mother/). After reviewing their contract and not being given answers with which I am comfortable, I asked other blogger friends about their choices in ads displayed on their blogs. BlogHer was the first, and most often the only choice. I realize that you are not currently accepting new applications, but as per your web message, I would like an email message to let me know when you are.

Hi Melissa,
Thanks for your email!  I'll be back in touch as soon as we are accepting new sites.  Also -- we'll definitely accept your site; it's really great!

So that’s where I’ve left things. If you have an opinion, I’d love to hear it.

Se7en Weird & Random Facts

if man is 5
then the devil is 6; if the devil is 6 
then god is 7

This monkey’s gone to heaven.

Kelly O, my favorite de jour high-brow, haus frau variety blogger tagged me (like 2 WEEKS AGO - sorry) with the 7 weird and random facts meme. Radical Mama’s post reminded me to submit. (My BFF from college was kind enough to excuse me a couple of weeks ago so I am overdue.)  And with apologies to Jen for never participating in her Thinking Blogger tag (that will be next) here goes.

RULES:
•Link to your tagger and post rules.
•Share 7 facts about yourself, some random and some weird.
•Tag 7 people at the end of post and list their names.
•Let them know they were tagged by a comment on their blog.

1. I am an army brat. In chronological order I have lived in Ohio, Tennessee, North Carolina, Louisiana, Alaska, New York, Germany, Tennessee again, Kentucky, Mississippi and Oregon. I consider my self a southerner, but usually only admit it after my accent is discovered smiling behind a shot of whiskey / burbon. “where are you from”?

2. I am a preachers’ kid. BOTH my parents are Lutheran ministers.  (Yes, each new therapist clears their schedule after I mention this coupled with fact number 1.)

3. When I was 22, I flew to Charles DeGaul airport alone with my bicyclette and rode solo across France, Germany, Holland and Belgium.   

4. I have a completely irrational fear of pictures of the following: underwater, deep space and geographic atlas pictures. The sight of them makes me dizzy, break into a cold sweat and the urge to flee. I also cannot look into a microscope or a telescope -probably why I was unable to be a science major in college. I would rather kill myself than attend an OMNI MAX show.

5. I was once in a performance art group/ band that opened for the Melvins.

6. I made breastmilk ice cream for my twins’ first birthday. (Not produced for mass consumption of non-progenious revelers.)

7. I have 7 tattoos; none can be seen while wearing short sleeve shirts (with pants/ skirts).

This monkey tags:
1. Mom Voyage
2. Red W(h)ine & Boo
3. Subartic Mama
4. Momish
5. 280 Main Street
6. Reflections In The Snow-Covered Hills
7. Up for Grabs - I think everyone has already participated in this shenanigan... (Although technicly, #2 is two authors so I'll count them twice.)

I’m Dreaming of a Green Christmas

BLOG ACTION DAY October 15: the environment

The crap cometh! It begins already, the Christmas decorations blinking and teetering on the top shelf in the department store aisles. Everyone complains how each year it arrives earlier, before Thanksgiving, before Halloween, before… Labor Day?  This year, my Harry and David catalog was the first to announce the season of waste giving – IN SEPTEMBER.

And my daughter’s school is hosting a fundraiser, for holiday gift-wrap. Great. I asked Ivy where she thinks all the used wrapping paper goes:

In the trash.

And where does all the trash go?

Into a pile.

What happens when every family at your school has a big pile of trash every week?

The pile gets as big as the whole world!

Exactly.

Three generations removed from the great depression, I learned at an early age to save any scrap that could be used again. Like my mother before me and her mother before her, gift-wrapping was carefully removed, tape in place if it would tear the bright colored markings beneath, folded and placed neatly in a drawer for future gifts. The frayed folds were systematically cut for smaller and smaller packages until deemed fully used and retired to the trash. And it was not until 4th grade when I realized I was the only child bringing presents wrapped in the Stars and Stripes comic section to birthday parties. This scrimping was due in part to poverty although my family was not really significantly poor by the time I was in grade school. My parents were just so used to being poor, that my mother had grown comfortably accustomed to hoarding material to reuse, reuse and reuse. But also like my mother, saving scraps became habit for me as I became poor in my own right and could rely on the scavenging secrets passed down through generations.

This summer I purged all the unused crap from the bellows of my basement and heaved the lot in my front yard where I haggled and parceled forgotten trinkets to the amassing immigrant purveyors. A new generation of bottom feeders working their way up through the class structure that is America. Having more money than time these days, I have graduated to a higher tier of consumerism. But I try to remember the lessons of poverty that can be applied to reuse.

Over the weekend, I hosted a birthday party for my twins, Tavi and Bea. I asked that instead of a gift, attendees bring a children’s book to exchange at the party. (This keeps me from accumulating more garage sale fodder and solves the party favor issue.) I asked the guests to think of clever ways to wrap the book using reclaimed material. Prizes were given to the creators of: a caramelized sugar coating garnished with sprigs of lavender, a box constructed of empty milk cartons, a boy’s size six striped polo shirt and the front cover of a beautifully illustrated local newspaper. Keeping with the environmental theme and for their efforts, I awarded a gift certificate to the School and Community Reuse Action Project store, a notepad crafted from floppy discs circa 1989 and a forgotten favor from a birthday party last spring (yes, I am a regifter!).

So now I challenge myself to a greener Christmas. I am overcome with tremors of anxiety just thinking about the internal battle between pleasing my children and leaving the smallest of footprints on the earth. The slough of dunnage and plastic crap issued from the grandparent artillery alone will be more than my green heart can bear.

My goal is to eliminate additional wrapping. I have a huge assortment of fabric neatly cataloged in the basement from the days before I had two year olds who wind themselves in electric cords and find tiny ball-tipped pins from my sewing gear with which to poke one another and swallow. I plan to dig through this trove and use fabric to wrap all presents. I might be so inclined to created some sewn borders or enclose some sides to create bags. But from among this resource I am sure I can conceal all the unending crap thoughtfully-bestowed-toys in cute, colorful, albeit not seasonally thematic trappings.

The Japanese are renown for their ability to fold and artfully wrap any shaped object. The ancient art of cloth gift-wrapping, Furoshiki, is an environmentally friendly and attractive alternative to wrapping paper and cellophane. Often, traditional wrapping paper contains dyes and additives and has sticky tape affixed to it which makes it difficult to recycle. If I can at least eliminate the additional candy colored waste surrounding the gifts of Christmas present, then I will feel much more comfortable with my family’s impact on the environment.

Download furoshiki.pdf

Updates

The squirrel is still there. A 40 in a poke now rests with its decomposing corpse, but it remains suspended in the crotch of a branch. I wonder why no birds have pecked out its eyes and gorged on the advantageous fall feast. Perhaps the squirrel’s guardian is the owner of the malt beverage that is also positioned among the spindly branches. Its like some perverted decoration mocking the festive plastic evergreens beginning to sprinkle the department stores. A post modern enigma - which is the simuIacrum? I think about that rodent every day.

Baskin Robbins’ corporate office issued Ivy two $2 gift certificates in compensation for our experience.

We will notify the appropriate people of your experience and hope your next visit to Baskin Robbins will be more enjoyable.

At Baskin Robbins we value our customers and are committed to making your visit to our stores and use of our products a pleasant experience. Please accept our apologies and the enclosed gift as a gesture of our appreciation.

There has been no response from the Olympia franchise owner. But thanks to Sarah at Olyblog for directing local attention to our BR (as in butt rupture) experience. Hopefully that franchise experienced a tiny drop in business or at least a karmic headache for the owner.

Delurking Day was a success. Thank yous to all who bothered to leave comments: Reflections In The Snow Covered Hills, No Kids, No Life, Just a Wife, Red W(h)ine & Boo and O for Obsessive. Plus my pals without blogs. I feel the faintest of echoes across the internet; we are not alone.

PLUS
Read this great article about breastfeeding vs. marketing culture.

Pants on Fire

I promise, I really will be at Radical Mama's house soon... (I thought yesterday.)