In Praise of Dabbled Things

(I don't want my paint job to look like this but it's lovely nonetheless.....)

The other day I got rather aggravated as I worked on a Home Project. This is not surprising since I have a love-hate relationship with household projects. Love the idea. Hate the actual execution, since I'm lazy and imprecise by nature and it requires ongoing supernatural powers to change me--but which I continue to invoke regularly. Anyway, to be specific: we had gotten the trim in several rooms painted but for financial and family disagreement reasons (the trim had been my idea while my husband preferred keeping it dark), we hadn't done some other adjoining rooms. So--once greater family unity was established on the esthetic end-- I  decided to tackle the trim in my kitchen (including a rather substantial bay window) myself. For a non-precision person like me, it can be a daunting task. As I struggled,  I found myself getting rather annoyed at the half baked way my family often does things. I mean, heck, it would have been so much easier if we had gotten the painters to do the whole thing. I wouldn't be sweating as I primed the window hoping that my nursing infant wouldn't wake up and need me before I'd cleaned the paint off my hands.  Why can't we do things right? I wondered (OK, muttered bitterly) to myself.  Why do we always DABBLE instead of doing things wholesale?

Somehow, luckily, I remembered a couple of things. One was some of the hundred houses or so houses we'd seen while house hunting. (Really, we did see a hundred between our two house hunts in the Philly area. More on that some other time). I remembered how many had clearly done the WHOLE HOUSE in a given period. That period often involved a predilection for thick green shag carpet, mirrored walls and possibly doors, and very bold, very adherent wallpaper. I was open to radical redecorating but I remember sometimes thinking that it would be hard to remove some of the decorating choices entirely from those houses, and that I probably couldn't afford to do so. I--and possibly the houses owners--would have been much better off if they'd done only one room or area at a time. Then they might not have fallen prey to thinking whatever was popular at the time was the way to do everything. They would have done better if they'd dabbled....

I also found myself thinking about Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem Pied Beauty (thank you, 11th grade English!). It's the one where Hopkins gives praise to "dappled things"--freckles and so forth. I love freckles and freckled people but back in Hopkins' era they weren't considered so very pretty. So he was giving thanks for a beauty that many people wouldn't have recognized. He was noticing and loving a loveliness that many hadn't yet come to appreciate.

So maybe there is an upside to all our home's Dabbled Things. Here's to hoping that time and maturity help me recognize their loveliness more fully.

How I Challenged the Universe—and Won

    ...well, maybe sort of.....

One of my favorite family stories concerns some sophisticated praying my sister Jessica did as a young girl. When my mom was pregnant with her fifth child (Jessica was 9), Jess really wanted the baby to be a girl. So she prayed really hard that my mom have a girl. Instead, my brother Mike was born (and yes, she—and I—love him anyway). But when my mom got pregnant again four years later, an older, wiser, Jessica decided that it was time to try some reverse psychology on God. So she prayed that my mom have a boy. And sure enough, Anna came out female. Triumph!

I couldn’t help thinking about that story in my recent attempts to beat the universe at its own game. You, see, I have really bad luck. Not the ”my-life-sucks-everything-always-goes-wrong-and-no-one-loves me” kind of bad luck, just the “I’ve-played-this-game-1,000 times-how-come-I-haven’t-won-yet?” variety.  What makes it stranger is that many, many, times when I play things I really think I’m going to win. Really. I even envision scenarios in my head where people ask me and I have to admit to just having had this sense that this was my lucky day. Only it never is. But that hasn’t stopped me. I’ve entered HGTVs sweepstakes, Parenting.com’s daily giveaway, May Fair Peg Boards—you name it. But nada, scattah, zilch.

That is, until this summer. My husband, you see, has quite good luck. He won a raffle at our church last summer and this summer he won a prize basket at a work event.  Our local pool has been doing a number of new fundraising initiatives this summer and decided to raffle off a number of prize baskets. Simple enough: you buy your tickets and put them in the jar of whichever prizes you’re interested in winning. Easy.  Except that I kept looking at them all and mentally calculating the relationship of my interest in the basket to my likelihood of winning. Spa package—good stuff, but too many people. Free photography session—not so many people but possible hidden costs…So it took considerably longer than trying to decide what to have for dinner at a brand new restaurant on my anniversary. That is, quite a long time. But as I was (finally) filling out my tickets, I had a revelation regarding the self evident truths already established. I’ll call it Corollary A: I have bad luck. My husband has good luck. What if I took this principle and utilized it to my advantage?

So I tested the universe. I filled out half of the tickets with my name and cell number. I filled the other half out with my husband’s name and our home number.  And lo and behold, Colin won, confirmed by a call to our house the next day. And it was a prize basket tailor-made for him—no random toys for the kids or manicures for me. A discounted pool membership and a couple of free swimming lessons.

You may call it luck. I call it working the psychological angle on the universe.  I’ll take it over my bad luck any day.

One Thing I Do Know—Lessons from Joe Paterno’s Statue (and Its Removal)

Years ago, when my husband and I were still living in NY, we went down some familiar highway only to discover it had been renamed for some local politician. I remember my husband asking why we would rename a highway for someone still living. I’ve had reason to come back to that question many times, but lately it’s as clear as day that it’s a bad idea.

Living where I do, the Penn State-Sandusky affair has been especially big news.  Over the course of this year, Joe Paterno has gone from a figure embodying the Penn State Football Powerhouse and fatherly fun to a man representing the triumph of an Old Boys Network over the welfare of children. Earlier this week, the newspapers were ablaze with reactions to the removal of JoePa’s statue from the campus, out of apparent concern that it was an overly divisive symbol (and cynical speculation that it was done to appease the anticipated NCAA sanctions. If the latter, it was a miserable failure).  

I don’t know what I think of Joe Paterno overall, though I’m inclined to think he was a great man, with some serious flaws. But I do know what I think of putting up a statue while a man is still living. It’s a not a good thing to do—for many reasons. First of all—since we usually have the decency to wait until someone is dead-- it makes it seem like the person has already passed.  So a living person gets to pass in front of his statue regularly. Weird.  But more importantly, it tends to make him see himself as larger than life. A famous man, who feels loved by everyone can be easily tempted to arrogance. If we want to keep our leaders great, we need to keep them humble. And putting up statues while they’re alive is temptation to arrogance if ever there was.  If we love our great men—and I hope we do—let’s help them stay that way. Finally, putting up a statue is a testament to a person’s legacy. Presenting that legacy before that person’s death is jumping the gun. We know not to build structures on ‘projected’ inheritances—the market can deliver nasty surprises and so we wait for the real thing.  To do otherwise is presumptuous—and always a bad call.  

Why I Don't Get Manicures (Very Often Anyway...)

So I finally decided to go get a manicure/pedicure last weekend. That might seem like a simple enough thing, but when you’re me, it’s not. The appointment for the mani-pedi (as those who get them often call them) was precipitated by the fact that I had a gift certificate for a salon that’s 5 minutes from my house (on a bad day, with traffic). 

(That's my color, "Beau", third  from left--I think, anyway)

The gift certificate was a Christmas gift, as in, I received it for Christmas last year, but it’s not that simple, see? I used to get my hair done at that salon but it was just too expensive for me and so (much as I liked my stylist), I decided I need to search out cheaper pastures. So I had specifically requested a gift certificate for that salon on my Christmas giftwish list (more on that later…) but I hadn’t specified the extremely exorbitant amount it would have to be lest my family gape in disgust and amazement at what I was asking them to pony up for. So when I got the $60 gift card I thought, Hmmmm….I will have to put on my thinking cap and figure out what to do. Which was followed by months of deliberation, most of which follows the my basic internal debate of whether to pay for goods or experiences, especially when it comes to being “pampered”. A massage sounds awesome. How relaxing. But what do you have to show for it when you get home? So maybe a massage isn’t the way to go. Well then, should I just get a standard, “boring” mani-pedi with this and not spend more (except for the tip)? Or should I get a massage and spend more money? Should I scrimp and save and BEG so I can get my hair done there again and spend even more money? That massage sounds great. Should I get one now while I’m pregnant or wait? A post-partum one?...Which was followed by several emails to family and friends until I finally determined (with my insanely patient and understanding friend Maria) that I would indeed, get a mani-pedi but instead of a regular manicure I’d get a New Improved Gel Manicure.

The excitement of the Gel Manicure will make more sense if you understand that one of the traditional problems I have with manicures is that my annual manicure simply doesn’t last. I *know* that a year is a long time, but it barely even lasts three days most of the time. Some of this I can—and will—blame on the Evil Sick people who make nail polish (much like the Evil People who make women’s stocking deliberately so they will snag on a pew or a desk or even a toilet seat just as you are making your way toward your Big Event).  But I must acknowledge my own part in the matter. To wit: I simply do not know how to be careful with my hands. I mean, they’re my hands! I need to use them! Gloves make me claustrophobic—really! And life is full of challenges—like opening drawers, and scraping those label residues off of things and chopping onions etc. ETC.— I simply cannot be bothered to slow down. So *why* can’t they make a nail polish that is scratch and chip resistant?  Enter the Gel Manicure—a manicure that lasts!

Now, those of you who know nails know that the gel manicure isn’t exactly brand new news. But for people like me who get manicures about once a year, it’s Hot of the Presses. So I got all psyched up for this manicure like no other, especially since I was going to a party later that day and wanted to show off my beautiful nails for once. I arrived at my appointment on time and was greeted by Jee, my assistant. Making the pleasant small talk that is the bane of my salon experience (and analysts would probably tell me was the underlying motivation for my salon-avoidance behavior) , Jee started work on my feet and asked me if I’d been there before. Uh Yes, I said, though not for nails (perhaps it was obvious?). Continuing the small talk, Jee asked me if I had children. Uh Yes, I said, actually I had five. Laughing nervously and anticipating painful conversation for the next hour,  I explained that might have something to do with why I hadn’t been there before. “Five children!” she said. “I know someone with four children, but no one with five. You Catholic?” “Ha ha, yes, I said.” I didn’t think that telling her about the many people I know with MANY MORE children would really help broaden her horizons, just prove to her beyond a shadow of a doubt that a Really Weird Woman had come into her orbit.

The conversation was better than average, but then, I have very low standards. My toenails look great, but of course I managed to bang my hand shortly after the manicure and two days later I cut part of my nail with a knife. I can’t decide if I want them to wear off in a week (5 days and counting as I type) so I can prove my point or whether I really should still hold out hope that I have found the Font of Nail Life and Hope. My sister-- who has 7 kids and an extremely busy schedule—tells me that gel manicures last 2-3 weeks and then “for people like us” they just peel off (for normal people, apparently, getting the gel off is a Big Issue). Which made me wonder--where does my sister find the time to get a gel manicure? Somehow  I imagine the lack of emailing everyone she loves and pestering the bejeezus out of them trying to decide what to do helps her in the time category. I’ll have to text her and ask….

Parenting à la française (per Schwartz)

I’ve been on a French kick recently —and it seems like I’m in good company. I recently finished Karen LeBillon’s French Kids Eat Everything and now I’m reading Bringing Up Bébé. LeBillon’s book has definitely made me think about both my own parenting-food habits and those of our nation at large (i.e. why must we snack all the time?). But the public response to these books (both of which had article-length versions of their contents in major newspapers) has made me think about bigger issues as well. To wit: why are we American parents so interested in different “national” approaches? Last year, the Tiger Mom and “Chinese-style” parenting, this year French-style—pour quoi? 

Coming back to Schwartz’s choice paradoxes (as I so often do!), I think one big reasons is that American parents feel overwhelmed  by the number of choices that confront them as parents. As if having a newborn child weren’t already dramatic enough—we have added all kinds of extra questions about how to approach things. Which I get—heck, I think it’s kind of fun exploring approaches! But it can also be too much. Way, way, too much. And what happens (coming back to Schwartz) when people are overwhelmed by choice? They either a) don’t make choices or b) make bad choices based on easy-to-assess categories and  c) we make choices that we later regret at disproportionate rates) .  When it comes to dealing with your kids, option A isn’t really much of a choice. After all, you have to feed them something, somehow. But in the absence of a really clear underlying approach, most of us end up parenting on the fly. Which would be fine if that meant we were parenting from our hearts and minds. But often, it ends up being by instinct. Child hungry+tired parent=easily obtainable, child-pleasing food choice (i.e. low quality snack food).

In searching for a simple parenting philosophy, we know that our own country offers too many options— enter the foreign approach. It’s simple! It’s clear! Everyone in the [superior nation of your choice] does it! It works! American pragmatism meets our cultural inferiority complex and simplifies the choices in the process. What’s interesting to me is that we realize that we need a more authoritative way to approach our children—we sense that being their friends isn’t going to cut it—for us or them. But we’re not quite sure how to do that yet. So all these books aren’t a simple solution to our national parenting ills. But –I hope—they’re making us think about finding simple approaches to raising healthy, happy, and (dare I say it?) good kids—as well as “above average” ones.  I just hope we avoid the Scylla and Charibdis temptations that there’s either a) a magic bullet out there when it comes to raising perfect kids or b) it doesn’t really matter what you do.  In the meantime, vive la différence!

The [Sigh] Burdens of Motherhood: A Late Mother’s Day Reflection

Last night, while my daughter was setting the table I started to lose it. It’s her job to set the table this month, but that didn’t stop her from sighing as she did it. Every time she put something out or down, she sighed. Setting the whole, entire table was just too burdensome, apparently-- I would have laughed if it weren’t so irritating (and disturbingly familiar).  A few weeks ago, I visited with an old guy friend (I’ll call him John). We had some serious conversations, including extensive discussion of his family life, parents, and, particularly, his mother. I know his family well, and I was somewhat surprised to learn how unhappy he was with his mother (I don’t think all his siblings feel that way). But John clearly feels abandoned by his mom in some critical sense, and in explaining his deep resentment, he told me that whenever he calls his mom to ask her for or about something, she always lets him know how inconvenient, burdensome, or difficult she finds the task or request he’s put to her. She does what he asks (I guess, anyway!) but she lets him know she doesn’t want to. I felt bad for both John and his mother, because I imagine she really does love him but doesn’t realize how she hurts him by doing this. She’s a good woman who doesn’t realize what she’s doing to him.

My friend’s comments on his mom have really made me think about the way I treat my kids. When John told me how mother acts, I felt a little….accused. I know John’s mother loves him; I know I love my children. But kids are also a lot of work. So they ask me to do things when I’m doing something else or when I’m trying to be attentive to something or someone else who needs me. And it’s easy—at least for me—to let them know that their requests are a drag. But ever since that conversation with John I’ve tried to be careful; a little more attentive to how and what I say. So if I can go outside and play for 5 minutes and then come back to finish dinner, I go outside first, when they ask me. If I can’t do something they want (which happens with extreme frequency), I am trying to just tell them that, rather than sighing and explaining how I can’t possibly do what they ask because it’s far too difficult blah blah blah. I’ll give them a reason (I’m helping your sister with her homework, for example), but I’m trying to avoid unnecessary commentary (adult whining you might call it). Hopefully my kids will see the difference.

You might say I’m trying to (just) say yes when I mean yes, and (just) say no when I mean no. Harder than it sounds!

(Light Take Thursday) French Man’s Behavior in Eastern Europe Confirms Suspicions: (At Least Some) French Men Do Not Eat Everything

Eat that?  Non, non, et NON!

While recent parenting articles and blogs have extensively documented the advantages of continental children in regards to their eating habits, our European correspondent was recently able to validate concerns that their adult counterparts are not as reliable. While on vacation with his family in his wife’s native country, Didier P* brought along a week’s supply of chicken thighs, rice, and produce. During their stay in Eastern Europe, he refused to eat any of the native food. Speaking in a combination of broken English and his native dialect, Didier explained, [local expletives deleted] “Who know what they put in zee food? I prefer not take risks—so I bring wif me.” His wife and sister in law confirmed that he paid little to no regard to standard European conventions of hospitality. “He refused to eat any of the food people cooked for him,” his wife confirmed, “Back at home, he eats a pretty wide variety of things, but he was very suspicious of the food here and would not even try anything that was offered to him. His behavior was very alienating to my grandmother and other family that he was meeting for the first time. But there was really nothing I could do. He’s a grown man—you know?”  Many people have suggested that Didier might benefit from a return to the womb and a short stay in Paris where, presumably, the purer version of French culinary upbringing is practiced in the hope that he might (re) learn to eat everything the way that French children do.

*Based on a true story. The man’s name has been changed to protect his family from embarrassment and him from excessive numbers of American parents who might try to seek validation by trying to  friend him on Facebook.