A pop culture education

Most parents will tell you that part of anticipating a child coming into the family is looking forward to sharing one's culture. And pop culture is a lot of that. Noel was shaped by the records in his father's collection; I devoured the classic books on my parents' shelves. We were excited about introducing our children to the things we loved.

That ended up being on a slower timeframe than I think we had imagined. Yes, we shared some classic children's literature when they were young, but it took a while for CG to develop an interest in the television, music, and film that consumes her parents' lives. AA, meanwhile, has always gone his own way and developed his own obsessions; we worried, early on, that he would have nothing to talk about with his peers, but it turns out that Pokemon is a universal language (thankfully).

Another factor, though, is that it turns out the easiest way into popular culture's archival depths (aka the stuff that was meaningful to us when we were younger) is by way of current culture. And those entry points need to have some family appeal. They need to be things that we can watch or listen to with our child. CBS's Supergirl, for example; we made plans early on to include CG in our viewing of it, based on the creative people involved, its empowering messages, and the geek appeal factor. But once we're all hooked, when the show makes references to other parts of the DC universe (or even does a version of a classic story, like its retelling of Alan Moore's "For the Man Who Has Everything"), it's a simple matter to give those ancillary materials to CG and let her expand the connections.

We all treasure the moments when we bond with our children over shared culture. But those moments aren't really the heart and soul of a cultural education. As suggested by those records of Noel's dad and those books of my parents, the most important thing is to leave a lot of culture lying around, and wait for your kids to burrow their way in, by any route they choose. CG uses our Amazon Echo to stream music from our collection while she reads, and sometimes we can suggest other artists she might like. She developed her love of comic strips from the many collections with which we seeded her shelf. But as rich as our libraries might be, they'd be a prison if that's all she ever explored. She made her own way to manga and anime, and together she and Archer have ventured into gaming and design, areas their parents would never have been able to lead them.

And now they teach us, and amaze us. That's the part that we didn't know enough, years ago, to anticipate, and it's the part that now seems most miraculous.

Asbestos hands

I was making toast for my kids this morning. (In the toaster oven. Oven toast is the only way to go.). As I was putting on their plates, I remembered, as I always do, my mother's oft repeated joke about having asbestos hands.

Asbestos hands are something all mothers have. "Careful, that's hot!" you say to them as they pull a cookie sheet out of the oven or carry a casserole to the table. It's okay--they've developed mom callouses from doing that exact thing over and over. They're too busy and too confident to go rummaging for a hot pad. They can stand a few seconds of pain. You with your ordinary notions of temperature and comfort might not be able to imagine it, but all moms understand.

Asbestos hands might seem like a superpower. But it's really just the willingness to suffer a bit to get things done. In that way it is similar to that well-known motherly rule: you get the nice-looking portion, and she'll take to one that fell apart getting it out of the pan, or the one that's smaller, or misshapen, or missing half its frosting. Your plate should look good, your dinner shouldn't be delayed. Mom can take a little inconvenience.

I haven't mastered that last page of the Mom playbook, I admit. It's a good thing Noel's usually the one serving the meals. But I have the ideal, the model, in my head, never to be dislodged throughout my life. That's thanks to my mom, of course. We're all taught our parental roles by our parents. As I lift toast off the pan and transfer it to the kids' plates, enduring the momentary burn, I feel the personal satisfaction of self-sacrifice. For so many of us, that's the principle of motherhood our moms passed down to us. Whenever it serves us well, makes our homes a more welcoming place to be, or just avoids getting another utensil dirty (a principle that I learned from my dad, who takes pride in conserving silverware), they deserve the credit.

Always saying yes

When I was a new parent, I read a lot of blogs and advice and books about how to limit your kids' exposure to bad things and keep them from rotting their brain on worthless activities.  How do you keep them from watching TV nonstop, or getting addicted to the internet?

Limits are important. Balance is important. But I also wanted to think about the importance of things where kids should be encouraged to go overboard. I promised myself that I wouldn't ever refuse to get my children any book they wanted, and that I wouldn't stop them from reading any time they wanted. I feel the same way about their time outside; slather sunscreen on 'em and let 'em stay out as long as they want.

I've always been a binger. When I want to do something, I want to do it hour upon hour, day upon day. As a kid, I binged on books. And I've always been extraordinarily grateful that my parents let me do it. They let me read in church and in the car and at the dinner table. These are things that not every parent would allow. But perhaps they thought that reading was a good enough habit overall that they shouldn't risk squelching it by defining a too-narrow range of times and places when it should be practiced.

If my kids want to write, build, draw, create, read, exercise, play, cook, invent, puzzle, knit, design, laugh,  figure, sing, dance, race, compete, imagine, color, cartoon, perform, film, photograph, decorate, or pretend -- I'm not going to be the one to tell them to quit.

Comfort and unease

A few minutes ago I had the bizarre experience of losing my children.  Noel was going on his evening walk, and the kids dashed outside to play in the front yard.  "I'll go sit in the front yard and keep an eye on them," I told Noel.  I settled down on the couch and glanced out the window.  They must be on the other side of the garage; they'll come back into view in a moment.  I kept glancing for the next minute or two.  No sign of them.

Now, I admit that I'm a little paranoid about having my kids play in the front yard.  I want to visually or aurally verify that they're still there every couple of minutes.  People driving on our street don't always slow down enough for the residential setting, and they don't always obey the stop sign right by our house.  And with construction on the main road paralleling ours for the last several months, a lot more cars are coming by, in a lot bigger hurry, as they seek to bypass the construction zone or follow the posted detours when the road is closed.

I went outside and looked everywhere, front and back.  I yelled.  I went inside and checked everywhere in case they'd snuck back in somehow.  I yelled.  They were gone.

What had happened was that they tagged along with their dad on his walk.  Noel tried to wave at me as they walked off, but I didn't see him.  Ted minutes after I first started panicking, they walked up the street all together, safe and sound.

No, that's not quite right.  I didn't panic.  I called the police because, if they had been snatched somehow, I didn't want to waste a second.  But I couldn't quite believe that anything like that had happened.  I wasn't as upset as I felt like I needed to be, not knowing where my kids were.  I was certain, somewhere underneath the uncertainty, that it wasn't the emergency it seemed to be.  And I was right, but it wasn't intuition.  It was just the lack of ability to push myself mentally into the situation that, by all indications, I was in.  I've put myself in that role in my imagination many times; all parents have, surely.  How would we react?  Would we be able to function?  But when it seemed to be coming true, I stayed in what my kids would call "what the ...?" mode.  It was more befuddling than terrifying.

It's been an unseasonably warm winter here so far, as it has in most of the country.  This bothers me.  I stubbornly put on a coat even when I don't need one, and I resist turning the dials from heat to A/C, as if my unwillingness to acknowledge the weird weather will somehow fix it.  I'm comforted by routine, and disturbed when the world refuses to follow its own established habits.  Every day I scan the long-range forecast in the hopes that the cold will return to its rightful place.  Every night I walk by my kids' bedroom doors and briefly think about peeking in to be sure they're actually there.  It's not fear, exactly.  It's just the need for reassurance that the things that are supposed to make sense, continue to do so.

Every little thing

It's the last full day of my annual TIFF widowhood.  Noel will be back tomorrow evening after nine days away attending the Toronto Film Festival.  For him, it's a busman's holiday; he worked long, hard hours seeing films, tweeting reactions, and writing up several capsules a night before getting up early the next day and doing it again.

I can't pretend his absence has been a crushing burden on my shoulders.  After all, his mother was here to take over during the two days I spent at a mountaintop retreat.  The kids don't require round-the-clock care anymore.  The major changes I experienced were a shortened work day due to the need to pick them up in the afternoon from school, being in sole charge of meals, and that sinking feeling that when a kid has lost something precious in the clutter of their rooms, there's no one else to call for help in finding it.

But it's true that I'm tired as Noel's trip nears its finish line.  And I realize with new forcefulness that when the responsibility of family provider and facilitator falls solely on your shoulders, any tiny bit of unexpected good fortune or the kindness of others feels like a huge gift of grace.  For instance, I'm looking forward to next week when I can stay late at work for some meetings and events because I know Noel will be able to stay on kid duty.

Today I was arranging the teaching schedule of our departmental faculty for next semester, and one colleague e-mailed me back to say that a mid-afternoon slot wasn't preferable because of the need to be available to pick up his kids if the arrangements he'd made with others to do so fell through.  I was able to make some swaps to position his teaching earlier in the day, and his gratitude felt quite familiar to me after these nine days alone.  Every little bit helps -- and helps so much that it sometimes changes everything.

In the club

When you first contemplate having children, you tend to spend a lot of time imagining the typical childhood interests and activities in which they might partake. When Archer came, he turned out to be different from anything we had imagined -- anything but typical. That's been a source of pleasure, as he surprises, befuddles, and often delights us.

With our expectations so thoroughly upset by Archer, I think in large part we just neglected to remember to imagine anything typical for Cady Gray. So now when she does something appropriate to her stage of development, something we should have seen coming miles away, it is equally as stunning as her brother's more oblique stylings.

Today as we drove to the library for our usual Saturday visit, Cady Gray told us that she and her school friends invented a club: the Lunchbox Club. "The members are me, Charlotte, Jaden, and Regan," she informed us. "If you have a tray lunch, you aren't in the club."

"What do you do?" I wanted to know.

"We talk about what we have in our lunchboxes," she answered. "We meet every day but Friday, because we don't want to talk during the movie on Friday."

Clubs invented out of whole cloth, for little reason; bonds cemented among friends; the world subdivided and named in ways that give a five-year-old life structure and meaning. There's nothing more ordinary. But I never thought to imagine it.

Two weeks notice

Noel and I are starting to get prepared for his eight-day trip to the Sundance Film Festival, starting this Thursday. There are material preparations (Noel laid in a stock of prepared foods to help me with meals over the week), and there are mental preparations. I'm doing mostly the latter, and I imagine some of that work falls to Noel as well.

For the first time since kids came into my life, I'm completely serene about the prospect of temporary single parenthood. Our children are increasingly self-sufficient; they dress themselves, amuse themselves and each other, and generally make taking care of them a job that affords many extended breaks. In the past I've begged one set of grandparents or another to come help out, but now I don't see the need. Yes, I'll be solely responsible for rummaging up food for them, getting them to and from school, and keeping clean togs available, but taking over the other percentage of those tasks from what I normally cover doesn't seem like that tall a hurdle.

I know I'll be glad when Noel returns to give me some physical and psychological relief from being the only parent on call. And there are a few instances of tough scheduling arrangements in my workday, including a night class (which is being covered by another instructor this week) and a Friday evening obligation (for which I still need to secure babysitting). But it's nice not to have to steel myself for a marathon of mothering in the next couple of weeks. I hope it will also help Noel relax and settle into his work at the festival. Who knows? Maybe someday the load on me will lift enough that I can accompany him to one of these big parties. A girl can dream.

Survival mode

I always get a perverse kind of enjoyment out of the September week when Noel goes to Toronto. Having sole responsibility for kids, parents, and family in general tends to focus the mind admirably. Suddenly everything that can fall away or be put aside, does and is. Yes, I pay for it after his return, when I'm a week behind on long-term projects that gave way during the crisis. But for a brief time, it's clarifying to understand what has to wait and what must be done.

My personal schedule is unusually hectic during this particular trip, given my double-booking on Saturday that will have me trying to be at Hendrix College and on Petitjean Mountain simultaneously. And I will be scrambling far too much the following week if I don't make some headway on two items: the spring course schedule and a new lecture I have to prepare for September 21. But if I can get just a little ways into those responsibilities -- they don't have to be completed while Noel is gone, just started -- then all I have to do otherwise is prepare for each class period as it arrives on the calendar, be present when the meetings happen, make sure the kids get picked up on time and have their lunchboxes full when they're dropped off in the morning, and show up where I'm supposed to be with the right set of notes.

I'll be really glad when Noel returns and I can relax back into normal mode -- the state where labor is divided and I don't have to worry about being responsible for everything. But to the extent that his return will coincide with the expansion of my vision to include those items I was able to put aside, I know I'll also miss the clear priorities of survival mode.

How we still live, apparently

When I came home this afternoon and asked Cady Gray about her day, she told me that she made a new friend at Burger King. "But his dad was very mean," she concluded sadly.

Later Noel told me the whole story, and I have to say, "very mean" is a mild description.

The child in question was a boy younger than Cady Gray, probably about three years old. At Burger King there is a large maze structure that kids can climb up and slide down. The boy's older brother was negotiating it well, but the three-year-old was too scared and too little to hoist himself through the holes and up the stacked platforms to reach the top. The father commenced a series of shocking attempts to shame him into a better effort.

"Come on! Iron Man would be able to do it," he encouraged the boy. "Can I wear my Iron Man costume when I get home?" his son asked. "I don't know, because right now you're acting like a little wimp," the father replied.

Cady Gray, being her usual friendly self, decided to help him. But the father wanted the boy to do it himself. "Look, a girl is doing better than you," he told him. "She's gonna kick your butt at school someday."

And the crowning touch: After the boy failed to follow his brother into the play structure, Dad called out, "I didn't know you were retarded."

Our own parenting style is probably more sweetness-and-light and far less negative reinforcement than the happy medium most people would consider reasonable. Still, it's not just the contrast between what we would tell Archer or Cady Gray at that age (and I was just as afraid of them getting too far beyond their comfort zone in those mazes as that they wouldn't go at all) that makes the father's methods disturbing. Perhaps I'm sheltered, but I'm surprised and distressed that the code of manliness is still so unquestioned in some quarters that a father would think such "encouragement" was appropriate right out in public.