Unfit Mother

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.

Black Holes

I have fallen into one on the blogosphere. And I am: uninspired, gardening, doing Japanese homework, getting ready for new exchange intern, overwhelmed with Tavi's therapy, involved with school volunteering, bemoaning pet peeves at the gym, socializing with friends, sewing, spring cleaning... . Shall I go on?

Margaret Cho tomorrow night. And oh yeah, I broke my toe.

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.

Unfit Mother

My first job was at a gym. I was sixteen, fresh off the employable vine, living in Memphis, Tennessee. Have you ever walked into a restaurant or a retail store and there is a paper wrapped box sitting on the counter promising a prize? Maybe you are bored waiting so you submit your name into a drawing for a chance to win a free membership to a gym. These slips were collected and dumped onto a table in a windowless room where 10 fresh-faced adolescent belles gathered them by the handful and began dialing the hopeful numbers scrawled across the notes. We congratulated each and every entrant on her 2 free week package to Mademoiselle Spa Lady, the second prize. Next we made an appointment for the lucky winner to come tour the facilities where upon her arrival each was told her free two weeks would be added to the end of a paid membership. Obviously, it was a scam. I became one of the highest commissioning procurers even after my conscious caught up with me and I quit but the scores still trickled in. There was one thing that lingered in my subconscious from that place. It was the smell of the chlorinated Jacuzzi wafting thought the ventilation shaft mingling with the distinct odor of human sweat and accompanied by the reverberating bass notes rattling the drywall. I was hooked on the gym scene.

Even as a sluggish, surly, black-clad teen, I would pedal miles on my bike in my combat boots. I managed to win the president’s physical fitness award in high school even though the sporty image was one I was surely trying to avoid. But I watched the track team with envy; was angry even title nine did not guarantee a girls’ soccer team at my school. I worked out in secret; was a closet jock. And I have been a card-carrying gym member every year of my adult life. Except for the last year and a half.

When we bought a new house in July of 2006, our family had to reallocate every penny of the budget to make the West Coast real estate market work in our favor. One of the first items on the chopping block: my gym membership. I tried to exercise at home – I went for walks, calculated household chores into calorie burning equivalents and thought about running. But despite my best laid plans I became flabby. With folds of skin pooling on top of each other in soft mounds, I gradually lost muscle tone. I spend my days in a puddle at the computer and at night dreamed of accumulating digitized hours on a treadmill in a musty room pumping house music. I did not realize how depressed I was becoming. Delving deeper into a dark tunnel of melancholy while my eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

Soon my clothes seemed tighter and even though I weighed about the same, my body changed and betrayed me. I became self-conscious and began wearing the same oversized sweat pants and baggy shirts until I morphed into a ridiculous parody of the frumpy housewife. A role I did not realize I was playing and yet fit the part perfectly. Somewhere inside this method actor haus frau, Gym Girl slept waiting for the kiss of a bar coded membership card to a full amenity exercise palace.

After I tacked the new 2008 calendar to the wall, I decided to make the change. I felt like one of those enthusiastic new years resolutioners when I walked into the 24-hour fitness office Friday morning. The West Coast heavy oligopoly is building a facility only two blocks from my house in the new Vanport Square development. When I read about it in my neighborhood rag I was excited beyond relief. A full Magic Johnson Super-Sport building is coming! But when? The block has been demolished, but the hard ground is unbroken. I decided I could wait no longer. Our finances have adjusted to the new mortgage and I reclaimed a line item for this necessity. Taking advantage of my nanny time, I made my way to the further location. The young car sales type recruiter had an easy mark; I was not a hard sell. Show me the machines and sign me up! I was practically in tears when I saw the saline Jacuzzi and both a wet and a dry sauna. My heart was pounding for a long lost love.

I returned a few hours later donned in my work out regalia, albeit a little more snug than usual and impacted further by the predictable holiday ten. I took my place among the rows of treadmills and began my routine. Tentatively at first, I began sneaking peeks at my co-workers out. I was not the pudgiest and I began gaining confidence. No one was staring at my accumulated bulk. All fingers were busy selecting target heart rates, calorie counts and volume settings; none were pointed at me fronting gales of giggles. By the time I made the rounds on the machines I was back in my element. The body has a memory and neglected muscle groups were perking up, singing. I was so impressed with the amenities of the gym that I did not think about the throngs of tank-topped muscle-heads. I was intimidated until I realized that there were so many people here, even on Friday night, I was anonymous. They looked like ants milling about a mound with a mission. There were the worker ants, the soldier ants and the soft-bellied queens. No one noticed me or if they did, I did not care. I was back in my house of worship; my religion is in the gym.

The Age of Parenthood

I read this and thought this:

My sister always comments that I am an “older mom”. I find this amusing because I am about the median age among my peers with children of a similar age. And I can’t help but note a tone of resentment in her voice when she says it.

I was 32 when I had my first child. My sister married at 21 and had her first child a month after her 23rd birthday. Likewise, my mother was 23 when she had my sister, who was also her first child. Comparatively, my mother had me, her last child, at age 31. I have noticed that among my mom friends, many entered motherhood at roughly the same age their mamas were when they half consciously squeezed them out into the waiting arms of a scrub clad, masked spanker.  I have no scientific data to support this equated age claim; it is anecdotal at best, but a curious observation nonetheless.

I neither would have nor could have had a child in my twenties. That decade was a time of lost and found. A raging period of self-indulgent exploration and healing that only after, emerging in my 30’s, was I stable enough financially, emotional and maybe even physically to begin my family. A choice. Or maybe it is just the way things worked out. Circumstances.

I have navigated my life by the course of my sister’s mistakes. I don’t mean this with any disrespect or in judgment of my sister; quite the opposite. The big sister I always look up to and admire offered cautionary life experiences to which I took notice and headed like mythical parables. I simply learned from her hardships struggling as a young mom with three children. That was not a life I wanted to live. Which again is not a judgment on choosing to become a mother in one’s 20’s. But in the 1990’s, as an urban, educated, middle-class, white woman, I was able to make my choice with nary an eyebrow raised.

And while working through issues of post-traumatic proportions in my 20’s, I also lived with the relish of a wanton grrrl exploring all that life has to offer. At the prime age of 20, I suffered through a disastrous break-up with my first “true love” (which I now consider a near miss [near Mrs.]). Otherwise the course of my life could have echoed my oldest sibling’s. In retreat, I partied through college, trekked across Europe, moved cross country and had countless potential life partners (ok, maybe two or three real contenders) before I felt ready to “settle down”.  And at 27 I was ready, finally, to inventory my accumulated adventures and make a big change. I met my husband at 28, married at 29 and had Ivy at 32. My husband and I honeymooned by spending a month in Japan riding our bikes across the rural countryside and setting the stage for a life long cultural exchange.  In other words: before Saturn returned, I had sown my proverbial wild oats. 

My point is this: I would not trade my chosen path for one of different opportunities to have my children. And demographically, I insist I am in the norm and protest the “older mom” label. I have several friends, after all, who began their families in their 40’s. I have plenty of energy to chase my heinous monkeys around the living room or the neighborhood park. And I have the budget necessary to indulge them occasionally and keep them in the candy colored clothing proffered at the Hannah Anderson outlet. I am a better mom by having waited. I can be the mom I want to be.

All Apologies

I have been admonished by mamatried. I have not posted any blog entries is too long. I have a million excuses. Do you want to hear them? Well...
I finished a huge work deadline yesterday and I finally have been able to take my thumb spica off and can type a little better. I'm drained, I'm tired; what do you want to hear?
I had a great time reading the following books lately:
A Thousand Splendid Suns
Candy Girl
The Kind of Girl I am
and currently, The Autobiography of Malcom X. Which I read 15 years ago and am re-reading.
I saw a real movie in a movie theater last weekend. The new Coen brothers film: No Country for Old Men. Very good.

You are not alone in my neglect. My children have viewed just about our entire DVD library; Mulan, Totoro and endless episodes of PBS children's programing.  As I've mentioned before, I can barely afford a human babysitter so the ominous screen has sufficed while I score points in bad parenting.

But my deadline is finished. The bulk of my obligation fulfilled. And I'm anxious to complete the half dozen essays decomposing on my laptop.  And speaking of decomposing; I have driven by the squirrel twice not without breaking for photo documentation. Sorry Megan, but I will again.   

I have hundreds of thoughts swirling in incubation. With Donna Summers torchsongs ringing in my ears, I've jotted notes and I'm ready to write something substantial. Thank you for bearing with me. 

The Sugar Fairies

2007 will be the first year I ration empty calories to my goblins on Halloween. Last year Ivy had a full understanding of the trick-or-treat tradition and the rewards reaped from holding out a pail and offering the obligatory “trick-or-treat” and “thank you” after being plied with candy. (Very little effort for the return.) Still she forgot about most of the candy after three days and then it disappeared. I am not counting on that kind of sugar-induced amnesia again. In previous years, the accumulated candy was minimal and controlled. So I have set out to ruin yet another American rite of passage for my children by over analyzing the situation. But I am attempting to establish some holiday traditions in our home as a result.

As a research junkie, I searched online for two queries:
1. Ideas for leftover Halloween candy
and
2. Should I let my child eat all her Halloween candy?

The first search lobbed back an array of helpful suggestions for freezing candy and making artful Christmas garlands. Not what I was expecting, but more to consider since I just today ate the last piece of Halloween candy from Forgotten Candy 2006. (Unexpectedly, it was neither frosted with white fungus nor stale.) But the second request dumped me into the parenting zeitgeist, The Poop. It was here I began to feel like I was constructing mountains from backyard rodent domiciles. So while I believe that left with too much time on one’s hands, some mothers often intellectualize parenthood, I cannot help myself. I think about these things. In a vain effort to undo the grudges left from my own childhood, I want healthy relationships with my children that will last well into adulthood. And more importantly, I want my children to have healthy relationships with food (something I struggle with and do not want to impart on them).  I do not want to restrict some confectionary indulgence, but also not condone binging behavior.

I found the middle ground among my friends’ suggestions. Surprisingly, many of my parent friends have established something along the lines of a Halloween / Candy / Sugar fairy who makes off with some designated amount of candy (each child keeps the number of pieces equal to her age – rounded up) and leaves a small token in return. Ivy’s friend, Jemimah, has such a tradition in her home. She told Ivy all about it and as Jem has a very clever mama, Ivy and I decided to appropriate their family’s mythology. I included Ivy in the decision and allowed the opportunity to construct her own variation. Ivy liked Jem’s family creation of the sugar fairies. I asked Ivy to tell me what happens with the fairies and draw pictures of them. Apparently, the sugar fairies need all that sugar to make it through the long dark fruit flavorless- non chemical rich- chocolate less winter ahead. Like hibernating bears, I guess. I like that it is in keeping with the origin of Samhain (winter =death yada yada yada).

But I am also the mom that never indulged in the Santa Claus mythos in our home. Ivy decided to adopt the figure after hearing so much about him from that notorious source of information: the playground. I asked Ivy if she thinks Santa is a “real” person but that’s a whole other story. My point is, I have this issue about lying to my kid and creating a subtext of dishonesty and conspiracy. I have employed many underhanded techniques to scapegoat these issues over the last 6 years. Anyway…

As a family, we decided to believe in the Sugar Fairies who will take the hard earned trove of sugary treats in exchange for a prize. (I’m thinking the copy of The Wizard of Oz tucked away in the basement for Christmas since it’s already on hand and in keeping with a theme.) I am also considering sending residual candy stash to soldiers in Iraq as per one online suggestion. This way I can work in a whole global, less biased anti-war conversation as Ivy helps the Sugar Fairies craft a note to the GI’s. That is IF there is anything left over from my 35 36 37 (er, HOW old am I?) piece share. (Or maybe I should sell the candy on Ebay and endorse the check to Ivy's therapy fund... At least I am aware of my neurosis.)

Lame Excuses

On why I am not writing:

1. Ivy has been on summer vacation for four days.
2. My neglected backyard is overgrown and wild and the house is a mess.
3. The nanny is sick.
4. I am planning Ivy’s half birthday party (she has a “Christmas” birthday so we commemorate her half birthday instead).
5. I’m hosting my book group next week and Barrio Boy just arrived today.
6. I’m developing an RMI.
7. I’ve been reading other blogs.
8. My sister called and talked to me for 81 minutes yesterday.
9. I’m tired.
10. I just bought season six, part 1 of the Sopranos. (This is really the one and only reason. Oh Girls! It's nap time...)