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Herding cats

I survived the day-long trip to the amusement park with the middle school band. As the parent of a 6th grade band member, I was assigned to chaperone a group of six 6th grade boys. I was supposed to share those duties with another parent, but a minor family emergency prevented her from coming on the trip.

So there I was, in a major theme park with four preteen boys I’d never met (plus the two I had brought with me). One of my new acquaintances immediately informed me that he has ADHD. I’m not sure if he was giving me fair warning or simply trying to excuse his behavior in advance. Personally, I would have diagnosed him as a compulsive shopper: he dragged the group through every gift shop on the property and squandered a good deal of money in the arcades. He spent every penny in his wallet, which unfortunately included money unwisely entrusted to him by one of the other boys.

We headed off into the park. The boy whose mother had to bow out because of the family emergency kept running ahead of the group, and the two who had come with me are notoriously slow. Thus I spent a great deal of the day alternately hollering at Speed Demon to stay with the group and admonishing the Sloth Boys to keep up.

A little more than halfway through our day, Speed Demon decided to check himself out for a visit to the men’s room. We were in a gift shop with an alarming number of exits and lots of clutter; having only two eyes, incapable of independent movement, put me at a distinct disadvantage. To make matters worse, a couple of the boys decided to sit on the floor to check out merchandise on the bottom shelf of a display. I had to comb the shop to locate them, and a quick head count left me one short. Speed Demon was missing.

I asked the Floor Boys if they knew where he was, and they thought he might have gone to the men’s room, the nearest of which was several buildings away around a corner. At this point I failed the Good Shepherd Test; I was unwilling to abandon the five charges I had in hand to go in search of the one who was missing. Even if I told them to wait for me in the store, I wasn’t confident that Mr. ADHD would remember the order once he completed his purchases. I was 100% certain that if one of them left, the whole bunch would follow.

As I hovered in the doorway closest to the distant men’s room, urging the Floor Boys to wrap it up so we could all go in search of Speed Demon, the latter sauntered into sight. I pounced on him and read him the riot act; he seemed genuinely contrite, but the group dynamic took a decided turn for the worse from that point.

We limped through the rest of our day, heat, fatigue, and significantly longer lines taking their toll on group morale. When dinner time rolled around, Speed Demon discovered that Mr. ADHD had spent all of his (Speed Demon’s) money. I bought dinner from a sidewalk vendor for Speed Demon, who then proceeded to take off in search of a table (there were none in sight) while the rest of the party ordered their meals. And then I lost my cool.

I bellowed at Speed Demon in my angry parent voice. He was smart (or experienced) enough to come back, though he was pre-adolescent enough to act like he didn’t know what I was so worked up about. I barked at him to sit on the curb until the rest of us had our food; I was the last to order, and when I turned around with meal in hand I found all six of them perched meekly on the curb. The herd mentality had finally clicked in.

The rest of the day passed without incident. As we headed back to the bus, I sent the rest of the boys ahead with other band members so I could walk with Speed Demon. I asked him about the family emergency that had prevented his mother from coming with us. He actually seemed relieved to have someone to talk to, even if only for a few minutes. I found myself wishing we could have found another adult to go with our group — we might have avoided some of the difficulties of the afternoon if my attention hadn’t been so divided.

At least we got to end our day on a more peaceful and conciliatory note.

The girls are back (but some of them are guys)

The Spirea japonica started blooming last week, which means that the aphids were out in force. Each slender flower stalk rippled with successive rows of the little life-sucking critters, tended by worker ants who collect the honeydew that the aphids excrete. It looked like a pretty serious infestation, the sort of thing that might cause an industrious gardener to run for the bottle of Ortho spray. I am far from industrious, however, so I decided to let the self-correcting mechanisms of my little corner of the ecosystem play out.

Sure enough, inspection of the bushes a few days later found the flowers in full bloom, their stalks bearing only a few aphid remains. The cause could be found lurking on the undersides of several leaves: ladybug larvae. They looked like tiny black accordians with legs, and they had completely cleared all the aphids from every spirea in the yard.

lady-bug-larvaeEach spring for the past five years this little drama has repeated itself, and each year I feel the same sense of anticipation and affirmation. First I discover the aphid infestation and am tempted to get the hose and blast them all off (a very effective, non-pesticidal response.) Then I counsel myself to wait: if I get rid of the aphids, the ladybugs won’t come. I decide to check back in a few days, and voila! There they are! How can something so entirely predictable feel so miraculous?

Maybe the wonder lies in the fact that even the most probable thing isn’t guaranteed. Something might happen to change it, to keep it from happening as expected. There are thousands of reasons why the ladybugs might fail to appear on my spireas each spring, from environmental conditions to pathogens to just plain bad luck. Some incalculable maze of probabilities has been navigated every spring when they seem to arrive on cue, and I can’t help but feel giddy with joy and amazement.

It’s the motivation, stupid

As I puttered in the yard yesterday morning, a utility worker was making the rounds of the neighborhood, reading meters.

“Your yard looks really nice,” he said. “I wish I had that kind of motivation.”

I thanked him and then tried to minimize the compliment with self-deprecating humor: “I’d much rather work in the yard than clean my house!” We both laughed; he went on his way and I went back to weeding.

The truth of that remark stuck with me, though. Why do I feel that way? What is it about yard work that appeals to me, so much more strongly than house work?

A few things came to mind that were true but didn’t seem to carry enough weight. I love being outdoors. I love plants and critters, invertebrate as well as vertebrate. I love doing the stuff that yard work entails: digging, pruning, weeding. I also love doing laundry, though, and putting things away where they belong. What else, I wondered?

Yard work is very satisfying because the results are so tangible: the grass looks neatly trimmed, the beds are a pattern of flowers rather than a riot of weeds. But house work produces tangible results, too: dirt is removed, clutter becomes harmonious and orderly, questionable odors disappear.

But the results are so fleeting, I lamented. You clean up the kitchen from one meal and a couple hours later you start preparing the next meal. You wash all the clothes in the house and at the end of each day there’s a new pile of dirty clothes. When you mow the lawn, it looks nice for a week or more. When you weed, it takes a while for new weeds to grow.

And there it was — my “Aha!” moment. House work seems like such drudgery because the next mess happens almost as soon as its predecessor is cleaned up. Or worse yet, the next mess is in progress before you finish cleaning up the current mess. With yard work, you stand back at the end of the day and survey your accomplishments, knowing that you’ll get to savor it every time you pass through the yard for the next few days. With house work, you stand back at the end of the day and think, I get to do this all over again tomorrow.

Excuse me, Mr. DeMille, but what is my motivation in this scene?

Better living through chemistry

A nurse I knew once offered that (the title of this post) as a toast when we raised our margarita glasses at a gathering of suburban mothers. Our kids were all in kindergarten together, and we had met at birthday parties and school functions often enough that we decided to get together during the day while our kids were in school. (This was a district with full-day kindergarten.) We only managed it one time before the school year ended, so it stands out clearly in my mind. We had a light lunch of salad and finger sandwiches, then drank a pitcher of margaritas between us.

That afternoon is etched so brightly in my memory, but what shines brightest is the look on the nurse mom’s face when we all heartily echoed her toast. She had offered it as a cynical joke from the nursing world, but we embraced it with a humor that tempered the bitterness of its truth. She was genuinely moved that we hadn’t passed judgment on her for it, and that moment seemed to open up a safe space for all of us. We talked about the joys and nightmares of parenting, about the difficulties of finding balance between work and family, about home repair and yard work. We debated the merits of Ritalin, Valium, and various antidepressants, then saluted them all with raised glasses and the same toast.

That toast has become sort of a rallying cry for me, useful in a lot of different situations. Today, for example, I speak it in praise of the salutary effects of the medications my doctor prescribed to keep my sinus ailment from becoming bronchitis. I feel miraculously improved in a mere 24 hours, proof that my visit to the doctor was not at all premature or unnecessary. I suppose I should toast the doctor, too, and shall do so when I take my next dose of cough medicine. I could probably even use a shot glass to make it seem more festive.

What will you celebrate today? What miracle of chemistry — synthetic, interpersonal, biological, or whatever — has been wrought in your life? Let us raise our glasses together and salute them: “Better living through chemistry!”

Listening to chickens

I have just finished reading Catherine Goldhammer’s wondrous memoir, Still Life with Chickens. I took a chance on it because it had the word “chickens” in the title, and to my absolute delight I found a kindred soul within its pages. I liked Ms. Goldhammer from the very opening of the book:

I did not have a year in Provence or a villa under the Tuscan sun. I did not have a farm in Africa. Instead, my diminished resources dictated a move to a run-down cottage in a honky-tonk town where live bait is sold from vending machines. (p. 1)

Right away the reader knows that this is not going to be one of those soaring, romantic stories from which movies are made. This is not escapist literature. Instead, it is a tale about a woman whose heart leads her more deeply into her own life — not just any life, not the good life or the life she always dreamed of — HER life. And interestingly enough, reading her story placed me all the more firmly in my own life, like a hen settling down to roost. I could imagine myself faced with the same choices, and I could imagine myself choosing as she did for much the same reasons.

It isn’t easy being an alektorophile (someone who loves chickens). Most urban people think of chickens simply as an entree and most rural people think of them as a chore. In truth, few people think of chickens at all. It is rare to find anyone who appreciates and admires chickens as creatures, and rarer still to find someone who gives expression to those feelings. So it was with utter delight that I read what Ms. Goldhammer has to say about chickens.

She introduces the chickens by explaining that they were superficially intended as a bribe to secure her tween-aged daughter’s cooperation with the unavoidable move. A page or two later, however, Ms. Goldhammer reveals deeper motives:

I had wanted chickens for a long time, along with a goat or two, but my husband — who had put up with, but not been happy about, cats, dogs, gerbils, snakes, and fish — had drawn the line at livestock, and I figured I better not push it. (p. 19)

(I feel such affinity with this statement that Catherine and I are henceforth on first-name terms.) She is divorced from her husband, and chickens have come to represent the thousand little sacrifices that people make to be with each other. These “chickens of the mind,” as she calls them, are as much an enticement for her as they are for her daughter; they draw her forward into each next step of her journey, each new day of the life that is becoming more surely hers.

Chickens of the mind pale in comparison with chickens in the bathtub, in the library, in the back yard. Flesh-and-blood chickens are much more of an investment in time, energy, and worry, not to mention dollars, than their up-front cost (a couple of bucks per chick) suggests. Late in winter, Catherine is at the end of her rope, and the added complication of chickens feels like the last straw. Then a workman tells her about his ninety-three-year-old aunt who keeps chickens because, she says, “They’re what gets me out of bed in the morning.” (p. 140) Catherine has to concede “that if Leonardo’s ninety-three-year-old aunt could do it, I could do it.” (p. 140)

In addition to all the practical things Catherine accomplishes in pursuing her life with chickens, she gains the wisdom and humility to see them as teachers. To her they become “Zen priests, with minds like cloudless skies.” (p. 154) A neighbor asks Catherine not to put up a privacy fence because the chickens are soothing to watch, like fish in an aquarium. Pondering the chickens’ attraction, she writes:

…although the chickens were busy, they were not in a hurry. They were calming. They were funny, although they had no sense of humor. They puttered, but in a serious sort of way. Chickens take themselves very seriously, actually. They have a sort of mindless gravitas. (p. 168)

She begins seeing the Buddha in them, realizes that nearly every piece of wisdom in the Tao Te Ching could be said about a chicken. “I had followed the chickens this far,” she says, “and would follow them farther. They were still talking to me, singing to me, telling me a story.” (p. 173) Because she has the audacity to listen, they tell her a story of her life.

Catherine concludes her tale much as she begins:

I did not have a year in Provence or a villa under the Tuscan sun. I did not have a farm in Africa. It turned out that my life was not someone else’s book. It was not a picture and it was not still. It was moving, variegated, unpredictable. It was a life, with chickens. (p. 176)

For the reader who has the audacity to listen, Catherine’s story will in turn tell a story of the possibilities of the reader’s own life.

Baby robins in my hammock

They’re actually on the deck because we took the hammock down to mow and haven’t put it back up, but I mentioned the hammock in my previous post about robins, so it seemed appropriate. Usually the newly fledged robins hang out in my hammock the first day they leave the nest, attended by anxious parents who chirp encouragement from nearby planting beds where juicy worms abound.

I can see why the fledglings find the hammock attractive. It resembles a roomy nest, with space enough for everyone to spread their wings. It lets them get out of the nest of their hatching, like their folks have been after them to do, without having to be so high off the ground. Most of all, it allows them to temporarily ignore their parents’ frantic importuning and get their bearings, a luxury that landing on the dangerous ground does not afford. They preen and fluff their feathers; sometimes they just hunker down for a bit, taking in how really huge the world is.

Eventually they gather sufficient wits and nerve to launch themselves from the hammock and join their frazzled parents for the inevitable foraging lesson. They don’t go back to the hammock; I never see adolescent or adult robins in it, only comical, barely fledged babies who look surprised and somehow pleased with themselves to have fallen so fortuitously into this unexpected safety net.

Head case, redux

As I lay in bed this morning, eyes closed, I could hear my family moving about the house. Once or twice someone came quietly into the room for something then left just as quietly a few minutes later. I waited without moving, devoid of volition: sooner or later I would either stop breathing or have the desire to move. Neither option seemed more or less attractive than the other, nor did I feel as though the outcome would be by choice. It would simply…happen.

This must be what it’s like for some people when they’re dying, I thought. The quiet sounds of people coming and going, the feeling of calm, the sense of waiting for some process to unfold and reveal itself. I was a little more interested in what would happen if I stopped breathing because I knew what would happen if I stirred: I would begin the half-hour long process of clearing my lungs and sinus cavities of the night’s accumulation of mucus. Yes, I’m still fighting this blasted cold, and yes, I just implied that death would be more interesting and less tedious.

I have been told that I can be quite dramatic at times, and sometimes this overwhelms the message I may be trying to communicate. I acknowledge my tendency to hyperbole; I get it honestly, in different forms, from both sides of my family. But I solemnly swear that this time I am not exaggerating in the least, for dramatic effect or any other purpose. In that moment this morning when I hovered between consciousness and unconsciousness, it truly seemed more interesting to try something I hadn’t done before. It appears unfortunate in the retelling that the untried option was death, but it was wondrous and amazing in the moment of experience and in my memory.

Head case

I hate getting a cold or any other kind of sinus-related ailment. I would rather be violently ill with a stomach bug than have a head cold. When a stomach bug strikes, the whole body feels bad. No one wants the sufferer anywhere near them, and she is perfectly free to spend her days in bed (or on the bathroom floor, which often proves to be more convenient) until she once again feels fit for human company.

In contrast , a sinus malady is virtually invisible, unless the infection is so severe that inflammation causes the eyes to bulge. The entire event is, quite literally, in the sufferer’s head. The rest of the body is unaffected, sharing not so much as a sympathy pain.

The skull may be a great place to keep the brain, but it’s a lousy place to keep the sinuses, given that they interact with the environment with every breath. All manner of irritants and pathogens get filtered out by the sinuses; they are on the immunological front line. Why locate them in such a rigidly confined space? Give ’em some room to maneuver! While there are certain strategic advantages in deploying one’s defenses within a constrained field, it’s far from foolproof: think Thermopylae.

And why locate the front lines right next to the nerve center, the brain, where the consequences of immunological warfare can directly influence brain function? Anything that happens in my sinuses has an immediate impact on the way my brain operates, even if there is no medical evidence to explain it. It stands to reason that sinus swelling would transfer some kind of pressure to the brain cavity — just because we can’t measure it scientifically doesn’t mean that we don’t experience it.

I’m experiencing it right now, which I why I decided to rant about it today. Sinus stuff makes me cranky and irrational (more than usual). From an experiential standpoint, it’s actually worse than PMS, not the least because PMS only lasts for a few days, whereas sinus maladies usually take more than a week to resolve.

I wonder if sinus-induced impairment of brain function has ever been used as a defense in a court of law?

Common to whom? (part 3)

(continued from previous post)

The first time I read the piece, this final section had me laughing out loud at what I took for a deliciously silly spoof. Abandoning all efforts at coherence, Mr. Rosemond theorizes that men have been brainwashed by feminist propaganda into participating in their own emasculation. Consequently, he says, men are no longer even adults, let alone fathers or husbands. For proof of this he cites the high-fives they exchange with their children. (As the great Dave Barry would say, “I’m not making this up.”) He laments the passing of “the good old days — when dads came home fully prepared, at a word from their wives, to strike terror into their children,” then concludes by quipping, “Is it too late to bring back the patriarchy?”

Once I suspected that the column I had read was not necessarily intended to be funny, I re-examined it more soberly. With a bit of luck and much hard work, the reader might be able to construct some convoluted line of reasoning that connects all the parts of the column, but it’s a dodgy undertaking at best. Everything seems to be vaguely related, but the same may be said of items in an idea cloud or cluster diagram, both of which are visual tools used to begin the process of organizing one’s thoughts. Had Mr. Rosemond ordered and articulated his thoughts more clearly, he might have delivered a scathing indictment of social mores in general and the current state of the family in particular.

I feel a peculiar sense of loss that he didn’t, although I suspect I would disagree with some of his conclusions. It is so satisfying to sharpen one’s own reasons against the sharp reasoning of another! What a disappointment it was to find Mr. Rosemond’s wit to be duller than I had first hoped.

I imagine that the enemies of the patriarchy sleep much the better for it, however.

Common to whom? (part 2)

(continued from previous post)

In truth, Mr. Rosemond had me up to the point that the man comes home wanting only to spend time with his wife. I can’t think of anyone, past or present, for whom this was or is the case, with or without children. If by “spend time with his wife” Mr. Rosemond meant a roll in the hay and falling asleep, he got it right some of the time for some of the people, but it’s still a pretty big stretch for a lot of folks. Both my parents worked full time, and my dad also worked evening jobs for the additional income; he often didn’t come home until very late at night. My partner’s dad traveled a lot and was often gone for weeks or even months at a stretch. Grandpa worked the second of two twelve-hour factory shifts, so he came home, ate breakfast, and went to sleep for the day. He got up when the kids came home from school, ate dinner with the family, and went back to work.

Mr. Rosemond continues by asserting that men used to know that the way to be a good father was to be a good husband, and they “came home from work not to…play with their children, but to catch up with their wives.” No doubt there have been people who have come home from work wanting nothing more than to spend time with a partner, but I have neither experience nor knowledge of them. The vast majority of people have come home from work wanting only something to eat and then some form of relaxation that distracts them from their responsibilities, family included. In my grandparent’s day, the newspaper or radio provided suitable distraction; for my parents it was television, and now the internet and video games also fill that role. Sex has always been a distraction; again, perhaps that’s what Mr. Rosemond meant by “catch up with their wives.”

He makes an excellent point that most parents find it difficult to set aside their domestic business partnership (child rearing and household management) in order to nurture their personal relationship, which got them into the domestic business in the first place. He further notes that a stay-at-home parent’s primary need is for quality time with a partner, and that this need is largely ignored by both parents and society in general. Unfortunately, he wraps these invaluable insights in a nebulous collection of near-blame: parents don’t realize that they need to maintain their personal connection, men because they are focused on being dads and women because they are glad to have a break from child care; children don’t realize that they are best served by parents who maintain a strong personal connection. The latter is particularly vague: “…if they knew the difference, [kids] would prefer that Mom and Dad spent that time together…but they don’t know the difference….” This might have been a very strong argument if only Mr. Rosemond had clarified between what the kids should, but don’t, know the difference. As it stands, it is puzzling and incomplete.

(continued in next posting)