We Must Have the Manual Somewhere

Back the summer before last, when I was tres prego and we had no interest in going anywhere for Labor Day weekend, we got together for dinner one night with our friends the Mullins at a local old-timey burger and ice cream place. They live in Sacto, but were in town doing something or other since they already had birthed their two kids years earlier and were mobile and social as young families are.

We don’t see these fine folks anywhere near as often as we’d like, but work and life and their kids’ schools and Deanna’s busy career as a doc and the fact that there’s more than an hour’s drive between us, tend to throw a kink in making casual plans. Their last-minute call to get together was a welcomed surprise.

This dinner was the perfect setting for Mark and I to get us some parenting advice from pros. Dave and Deanna had been waiting patiently for years for Mark and I to even just get hitched, never mind have kids, and finally we were in the home stretch to parenthood. But that evening Mark and I learned the most from them about what our future roles would entail from just observing.

At one point in our meal their youngest, the beautiful Avery (who I’ll take bets right now will be a bigger pop icon than Britney Spears some day), took a bite of her burger which she insisted on smothering with ketchup and mustard, chewed it for a few seconds, then spit it out.

You could actually see Deanna’s blood pressure shoot up.

“We don’t do that, Avery,” she said levelly. “Please do not do that again.”

Well, you can probably see where this is going. Avery of course, took another bite and did it again. And Deanna was as unpleased as a Mama can get.

“That’s it! No dinner for you! We’re going to the car!”

And before we could say, “Hey, so how is work going, Deanna?”–since through all this Mark and I were naively trying to carry on our Grown Up Talk–Deanna whisked a bawling Avery out of the restaurant and into their parked car where they sat for the remainder of our meal. (From our vantage point we could see them in the parking lot, and I remembering being impressed that Deanna seemed utterly calm and relaxed once she addressed the situation properly. In fact, she quickly appeared to get engrossed in a novel we learned from Dave that she kept on-hand for these very reasons. Little did I know at the time, as a mother, a rare opportunity to read is something that must always be taken advantage of, despite the circumstances.)

Inside the restaurant, now a party of four with Dave and his older daughter, Kendra, Dave explained to us that the spitting out of food is “Deanna’s thing.” It’s her hot button. The thing she just can’t deal with. His was, well, I can’t remember what it was that puts him over the edge, but there was something.

Later that evening, like anthropologists furtively recording data in our field notes, Mark and I marveled over our new discovery. These parental hot buttons were both powerful and fascinating. What would ours be, we wondered? Would the same thing set us both off, or would the things that each of our parents stressed we couldn’t do as kids define our personal boundaries of acceptable behavior? Apparently we wouldn’t know until we experienced it.

Well, nearly 17 months into Kate’s life, we can now safely report that we know what at least one of these is for us. Kate does this thing… To even think of it gets my blood boiling, and I actually take it much better than Mark does—though at times an outside observer might witness my reaction to it and beg to differ. In the microcosm that is our blissed-out nuclear family life, a small war is waging, and Mark and I are utterly at wits’ end trying to determine how to put a clean end to it.

It seems silly to even say what it is, because in writing it seems far more benign than the searing frustration it elicits from us. But I guess that’s the nature of these things. You don’t know what will cause your undoing until you’re in the midst of a blind rage.

The thing is, she throws her food off her high chair tray.

See? It sounds so banal.

Whatever. So you have to pick it up. But, no. It’s much worse than that.

It started with her casually chucking things off the edge. A Cheerio or an unwanted steamed broccoli floret. Then she must have seen it get a rise out of us, and she started doing it more slyly. So, while engaging us in direct eye contact, she’d sidle her fist, which was clutching say, some scrambled egg or a chunk of avocado, over to the edge of the tray and release it slowly as if we wouldn’t notice.

Sometimes she’d do it more forthrightly, while saying, “No, no”–baldly tossing our admonishment back at us. The first time it was kind of funny to see her do it while saying no, though God knows we used all our powers of holding-back-laughter-in-church to not positively reinforce it. And the second time it turns out it wasn’t even remotely amusing.

More recently Kate’s Projectile Party involves chucking the entire bowl or dish contents and all over the edge, then taking a sidelong swipe of her arm and sending the sippy cup flying as well. It’s messy and loud.

And the one that really adds insult to injury is when you’re on your hands and knees picking up whatever has been tossed, and you get a fistful of baked beans tossed onto your head. In those instances, if we weren’t already at home, I’d have her in the car seat with no more dinner in no time, and not just because I’m really into the book I’m reading right now.

All this brings to light the stunning parallels between raising dogs and children: consistency and consequences. We have started taking her food tray away when she does this, but we haven’t really made the consequences sufficiently dire. I’m not saying we’d resort to anything worthy of calling Child Protective Services on us, mind you. But just something negative enough so she learns that doing that leads to something she doesn’t want. No more salt lick. No more pellets.

What prevents us from following through with sufficient consequences is that often when The Tossing takes place, she hasn’t eaten what we feel is a sufficient dinner. We can’t bear the thought of sending her to bed hungry. (For the love of God, she might then wake up in the middle of the night!) So the punishment just amounts to a brief interruption in her repast. Eventually the tray comes out again with a different food item on it. We try again, hoping to lure her into actually consuming something, and civilly.

At those times, during Round 2, when she starts sending things flying again, I can only say that both Mark and I nearly combust with aggravation. It’s one part “she did it again,” with one part “she’s still not eaten enough,” and one large part “we clearly have no idea how to handle this situation.”

We’re rational people. We know there must be some course of action out there to manage this issue better. We have a strong suspicion it involves ending the meal then and there even though as an Italian American the thought of that pains me almost as much as The Tossing itself.

And for the life of us we’re unable to find our toddler Owner’s Manual to read up on the prescribed course of action. In the midst of the squash-tossing mayhem we both vow to get some book, or look online, or ask some friend, but once you’re in the trenches and you’re enemy is firing, it’s hard to effectively strategize from a defensive position.

And when it’s not happening, we tend to be off thinking about other things. Like how damn wonderful and perfect and adorable and smart she is. In those moments, the food fights seem to evaporate from our psyches. We live in the moment, in contented denial that nothing could ever be wrong. (Fast forward 15 years to the call from the mall store, “Our Kate? Shoplifting? Never!”)

Ah well. Perhaps we need to take it on with baby steps. For starters, I’m going to start wearing a shower cap at Kate’s mealtimes. It may not get to the root of the problem, but it seems like a workable solution for keeping my hair free of clumps of mac and cheese.

Mazel Tov Klezmatics!

I am thrilled and honored to report that our dear friend Lorin Sklamberg, lead singer of The Klezmatics, won a Grammy Award today!!!

Well, the whole band did, really. It’s for best world beat album. That might not be the exact name of the category, but I don’t think today’s winners have been posted on the Grammy site yet, and I’m too excited to bother to dig around to find it.

Anyway, it’s incredibly cool and not at all surprising for an immensely talented and spirited band. They work so hard, travel around the world, and take on super cool projects with other amazing musicians. Lorin even played at our wedding! (I’m sure that was an all-time career high for him…)

I spoke to Lorin briefly this afternoon and he was utterly thrilled and suprised by the win. They were off to the second part of the award ceremony–the televised portion–which Mark told me The Police are playing at. (Wait, they’re not still together, are they?)

I hope that Lorin is having the time of his life tonight. And I can only assume that by now his mother, Libby, has imploded with pride.

The Rain Cometh, But Will It Goeth Too?

My God, I’ve got mushrooms growing on my mushrooms. It’s only been raining for less than a week, but you’d think I’d moved to Seattle. Somehow rainy season with a toddler is a whole new ball of wax.

Pre-Kate, Mark and I would loll around reading or watching movies. Or even–gasp!–going out to matinees. But since we are blessed with our little blonde peanut relaxing during her waking hours just ain’t an option. And vegging out in front of the tube with her is something I can’t even tolerate the thought of.

So there’s lots of cabin fever indoor play, along with some dripping wet jaunts to the grocery store or out to lunch just so we can see some people other than ourselves.

Mercifully there was a break in it all this morning and we were able to go and worship at the farmers’ market. Nothing like a Blue Bottle latte, a hand-out of free pumpkin bread and your pick of local organic matter to set one straight on a Sunday morning.

Later today we’ll venture to SF to see Dad one last time before he leaves Ellen’s for a Palm Dessert visit with Judy. He spent three nights with us in Oaktown, in which time we had some nice meals in, had some nice meals out, and spent lots of time marveling at Kate’s beauty, vocabulary, and charm.

And once she’d be asleep for the night, Dad would say, “I’m telling you guys she is something! What a communicator! And she is just beautiful–just beautiful!” And Mark and I would agree in a kind of tell-me-somethin’-I-don’t-know kinda way, but still love more than anything to hear it all coming from someone else’s mouth.

So after he leaves tomorrow morning, another session of the Mutual Adoration for Kate Society will come to a close. And Mark and I will need to continue to convene privately until another grandparent crosses our paths.

Meantime, I’m going to go online and look into some vacation options while Little Miss naps. The plan is to be somewhere fabulous when I greet my next decade of life. Somewhere where it will hopefully not be raining.

Macro Management 101

It’s so damn boring to bemoan the plight of the working mother. Despite its triteness, I can’t help but feel a bit of the “not doing either job well enough” thing.

Though, when I really think about it, I am doing right by Kate. It’s just my job seems to be able to fill up whatever space it is given, like some B-movie blob invasion. And the fact is, I’m allowing it to take up more space than I probably should.

Which brings me back to the other age-old question: “Is there really such thing as a part-time job?” Or, as I prefer to ponder: “Is there really such thing as a part-time job that doesn’t require a hairnet?” Sure, there are plenty of part-time jobs out there, I just don’t want to be on my feet all day wearing a name tag and earning minimum wage to fill one of them.

The thing is, I’m pretty lucky to have this job. It’s a great company, great position, and given my level of responsibility, pretty cool that I’m able to do it (allegedly) part-time. I just need to exercise a bit more restraint around not working when I’m not supposed to not be working. But the Email Temptress is just to strong a siren for a communication junky like myself. And add to that my control freakishness, and God help those poor employees if I don’t have a hawkish eye on them at all times.

So, the alternative is to let go a bit. But when I consider that option, I tend to envision letting go altogether–just stepping aside while briskly slapping my hands together, and watching from the sidelines what happens when I don’t interject myself into all the scenarios I’m certain will result in angry clients and confused aimless employees without my guidance.

Maybe Letting Go won’t be half as bad as I think it will be. Or maybe it will be catastrophic, but fun to watch. Maybe my boss won’t even mind, and will say, “That sure was a good show, Kristen! I can see why you wanted to test the laws of entropy!” Or maybe—most likely—the results will be uneven and I’ll realize there are places where I can ease off and others where I need to wrestle with the details like some leather-faced Floridian alligator wrangler.

For some reason I’m struggling with figuring out how to let go a bit–even though I know that I need to in order to make this job a marathon, and not collapse in three more months after a sprint. (It seems so cool to try to use sports analogies. How’d I do?) There’s got to be some workable middle ground between Madame Micro Manager and All Hell Breaking Loose. And for starters I think part of that middle ground should include me not working on my days off.

What’s funny is, I wonder whether all that it is that I think I’m doing to get things on the right path are even the right things to do. I’m not sure why I’m so convinced much of the time that my ideas are better. Today for instance, I had this moment while walking into the bathroom (my two minutes of reflection all day until now) in which I wondered whether the client will even be happy with the proposal we are pulling together, or if I am on crack.

But that was weird. Mostly I’m convinced that I’m at least making a smart decision based on some past experience. Have I been raised to embrace an unhealthy and unrealistic self esteem? Am I not a team player? Or maybe have I just been around the block at this point in my career and I do know a thing or two? Whatever it is, I just hope I’m not obnoxious.

Maybe I need to make a concerted effort to go with another person’s idea at work even when I’m fearful it’s not the best approach. Maybe I need to let go of the “how will this reflect on me” stress and just let some of the chips fall where they proverbially may.

All this said, I need to go print out some documents and outline how I think we need to handle a proposal we’re putting together tomorrow. Of course, I’ll be wide open to hearing how the other folks I’m working with want to tackle it, but I want to have my ideas on paper just in case…

Okay, so I need to work more on letting others fly (or flop). But I do intend to take both Thursday and Friday off this week while my Dad is in town, and only check email once those days.

I will control the blob, some day. I know I will!

A Belated Thank You

I’m way behind on my thank you notes, and unfortunately there is one that I no longer have an opportunity to send.

The father of my great childhood–and adulthood–friends the Connerys died two weeks ago today. Mr. C was as good an egg as there is. I don’t know what all to say to describe him because when you describe someone you liked who has since died it all sounds so cheesy and trite. But Mr. Connery was this good-natured Irish American guy who looked a lot like Jimmy Stewart, always seemed to be wearing madras plaid, and had those kinda twinkly friendly eyes. (I told you it’d sound cheesy.) That said, he also was one to tell it like it was.

Mr. Connery was never afraid to ask the “What’d you pay for that?” or “What’d you do that for?” kind of questions. And it was never obnoxious. It was just refreshingly candid. A couple years ago when his son Matt broke up with a girlfriend who Mr. C had vehemently approved of, he called her himself to let her know she was still welcome to come by the house on 4th of July. Nothing like the dad of a 40-something reaching out with a my-son-might-have-dumped-you-but-I-think-he-was-crazy-to phone call. Oy!

Somehow we–okay, I–overlooked inviting Mr. Connery to our wedding. It’s something I still kick myself over sometimes. Thankfully he never let it become the uncomfortable unspoken thing between us. When Mark and I dropped by to visit the Christmas after the wedding, he greeted us at the door saying, “You know I would have loved to have gone to that wedding!” I laughed and went to the kitchen to find John–leaving Mark to stammer his way through a response.

Anyway, when you’ve got history with someone, it gives you license be that up-front. Mr. Connery and my mom were friends back when they both looked hot in bathing suits and hung out in gangs of fresh-faced sunglass-wearin’ kids on the beaches of some New England town or other. It’s weird to think Mr. Connery knew my mom when she was probably smoking cigarettes out the bathroom window so her mom couldn’t smell the smoke. I ended up hanging out with the Connery kids through the same years of our lives. But in that self-absorbed way one has as a child, I never thought much about that ancient history our families had. I was more focused on my own friendships with Ellen, John and Matt. The thought that Mr. C and my mom might well have made out once (eeew!) never crossed my mind until just now. (And now I must deeply repress it.)

“The Connery Kids” as they’re dubbed in Bristol parlance, are all 100% originals. They were especially cool friends to have during teendom when adopting a more follow-the-flock life approach seemed the path to least resistance. But the Connerys were somehow hard-wired to not roll that way. They had the confidence to do their own things, so being with them let me do that too. With the Connerys, I let my freak flag fly (such as it was). I’m not saying I pierced my nose or anything–just that I never felt I had to act, dress, and speak in some prescribed way. Wackiness was welcomed. So my friendship with them was somewhat liberating, I guess. Plus, they were super fun, creative, and as the locals’d say, “wicked smaht.”

Example: One summer when Ellen had her tonsils removed she sent them into David Letterman. We watched the Viewer Mail segment religiously thereafter, desperately hoping she’d get some airtime. (She didn’t.)

So this is all my long way of saying that, especially as a parent myself now, I realize that cool kids are made from cool parents. Or maybe I should word it as: Cool kids probably just don’t happen on their own. More likely they come from the diligent good intentions of their parents. So, big props are due to Mr. and Mrs. C.

One thing they did right for sure was Forta July. Even after Mrs. Connery died about 10 years ago, Mr. C still hosted the Forta July celebration at their prime parade-route Victorian on High Street. Those first years with Mrs. C gone felt palpably different to those of us who expected her to round the corner at any moment with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and a tray of brownies. But even without Mrs. C’s physical presence, the spirit of the Connery’s celebration was so strong it was irrepressible. And thank God. Going to the Connery’s is what makes July 4th like Christmas for the rest of us. When you’ve put something like that out there for so many people for so many years, you just can’t let your fans down.

And their fan base is sizable. Literally hundreds of friends and families of every age and description make 123 High Street their Mecca. It’s not uncommon to see a 70-something woman sitting on the back deck next to a young guy with a pompadour and sleeve tattoos, both of them cooing over how good the chourico and peppers is this year. Mr. C walks around in his Keds and Bermuda shorts taking in the parade with his own brand of low-key bemused enthusiasm. One heat-wave year he really got hopped up and dragged the hose around from the backyard. He had a hell of a time spraying down sweating polyester-clad band members as they marched by.

The parade ends each year with the Bristol Police cars bringing up the rear, and like a six-year-old I feel instantly and suddenly deflated that it’s over. We lope home from the Connery’s to my dad’s house and all the onlookers that lined the streets are suddenly sucked into backyards for barbeques. One minute a marching band stops to play a command performance for you (a priviledge we’ve grown to expect in the past few years Chez Connery), then suddenly it’s all over.

Getting back to California after our July 4th pilgrimage to Bristol always is a big transition for me. I miss Rhode Island summer and the beach. I question why I live so far away from family and friends in a place where we can’t even afford a house. And I feel a deep sense of honeymoon’s-over loss that I’ll have to wait another whole year until I feel like a kid again on the Connery’s front porch.

Last summer when I was struggling to get back into my big-girl real-life routine I realized I should send a thank you note to Mr. Connery for hosting my favorite day of the year. In fact, I should have been sending him thank yous for nearly twenty years of Forta Julys. Of course, some little thing must have come up to distract me from the thought, and I never got around to it. And now, all those un-written thank you notes later, I won’t ever have a chance to do it.

So, in my too-little, too-late way, I send a thank you out to you now, Mr. Connery, wherever you may be. Thanks for making Matt, John, and Ellen the greatest friends a gal could have–from my foolish youth to my childish adulthood. And thank you thank you for years upon years of small-town family friendship, and for graciously and grandly hosting my favorite party on my favorite day of the year. I don’t know whether there will be a 4th of July throw-down at your house again this summer, but if there is, I can assure you there will be hundreds of people there making it one hell of a tribute to you, and I’ll be there on the front porch as always, waving my flag like a crazy lady.