Girl Detective

“Hear that hum?” my husband G. Grod asked before he left for work. “That’s the sump pump. It’s running continuously. I think it’s blocked. Probably not good.” He paused to shoulder his messenger bag. “Thanks for letting me vent my anxiety about that. I’m off to work.”

I picked up that anxiety right where he left it, as the hum droned on. I went outside to check the outtake pipe. Sure enough, the end of the pipe was frozen solid after yesterday’s thaw and last night’s freeze. I got a shovel, poured boiling water and salt on it, and managed to get the end clear. But the pump hummed on, trying so hard to get water out of our basement. I knew if something didn’t happen, the motor would give, or our basement would flood.

I checked the internet. I called my dad. Turns out the freeze probably went up a ways into the pipe, which was about eight feet long. One suggestion was to hook a hose to my hot water heater, put it out the window, and up the pipe, and move it up as the water melted. This worked, so I set about trying to warm the pipe in other ways, in and out of the house, donning and doffing my muddy boots, and braving the above-freezing but grey, windy and snizzling day. I heated water to boiling, but could only pour it on the pipe at either end–the middle was buried in dirt and ice. I tried a hair dryer on an extension cord, but that made hardly any difference in the wind. I chipped away at the mulch, dirt and ice first with a rake, then with a hand tool, then with a shovel, then with the edging tool. I made little progress through the layer of ice beneath. I also turned off the pump, to save the motor. I’d periodically plug it back in to see if things were clear.

After EIGHT HOURS of in and out, shoveling, ice chipping, water boiling, etc, the sump pumped, and then stopped. That silence was perhaps the happiest moment of my day.

At Salon, Rebecca Traister examines some recent women’s confessional articles in “Girlie Gross Out”, and wonders if it’s liberating or too much information:

Oversharing is in. And for a lot of people who are doing the sharing, or experiencing it, it’s not so much “too much information” as it is the next, necessary step in personal-is-political, enlightened honesty about the female body.

Traister doesn’t draw a conclusion, and I’m not sure there is one. I had an experience very similar to one of the several described in the article. I talked about it at the time, but rarely do anymore. It scared people, and that didn’t seem kind to do.

I’m reminded of the hubbub over breastfeeding photos on Facebook. I breastfed both my kids until they were at least a year old, often in public. But I always tried to be in a quiet place, and be discreet. It was something between my kid and me; I didn’t and don’t think it’s anyone else’s business. Yes, I fully support and encourage women to breastfeed in general, and their right to do so in public. Yet while I see how photographs of this support that right, they also bug me–they _are_ too much information. Mommy friends of mine breastfeed their kids around me all the time; that’s great. But they don’t deliberately solicit my attention to it, as do public photos, and the type of articles described at Salon.

My own conclusion then, if there is one, can be only about me. I try not to overshare about the messy bits, except to my OB/GYN. If somebody else does it, I appreciate that there are positive aspects, but part of me would also be fine if I didn’t know that. I support someone else’s desire and right to do it, but also my own right to be ambivalent, bothered by it, or avoid it.

Link from The Morning News.

At Men’s Health, “The 20 Worst Foods of 2009” (link from The Morning News.) What simultaneously entertained and horrified me was the comparisons in the commentary for each selection, like the appetizer that has as many calories as THIRTEEN Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

Is it me, or does all the internet hubbub over Pride and prejudice and Zombies (a few of the many links: Galleycat, The Times, and The Guardian, ) reminiscent of Snakes on a Plane–something that people thought was hilarious in theory, but avoided in real life?

My husband G. Grod is an Eagles fan. He was in a bad mood for most of the early football season, and a risingly good one towards the end. Each year, Drake and Guppy (now 5 and almost-3yo, respectively) are able to watch a little more of the game. Drake, ever oppositional, learned this year that it annoyed G. to cheer for the Eagles’ opponent. A low point for G. was when Drake cried after a spectacular Brian Westbrook touchdown.

Strange consequences of football watching have developed though, some more concerning than others. Two seasons ago, Drake was terrified of a rock-em, sock-em robot commercial, which I think was for some brand of truck. He would shriek, throw himself to the ground in a tantrum, and take a long time to calm. This season, it’s amusing how Drake re-enacts things that happen to him in slow motion. I’m not sure if it’s amusing when he insists that Bud Light is a good beer, or wants me to look up Ford F150 trucks and iPods at amazon to put on his wish list.

I just hope he doesn’t start talking about erectile dysfunction.

This week’s creative mess from the kids came when I went outside to shovel snow. I was hopeful that they’d play together. Instead, I returned to find Drake nervously smiling. He told me to look in our pantry. I steeled myself for an avalanche of flour or cereal, but what I found was much worse. He’d found the baking oil spray can, and sprayed everything he could reach with it–all the cereal, fruit, cans, flatware, cabinets, and little brother 2yo Guppy. I yelled. And yelled. Then managed to get him to help clean up.

Yet really, who can I blame but me? I wanted to shovel the snow before dark. I took a risk, and Drake acted according to his curious, mischievous 5yo nature. Coulda been worse. It wiped up and cleaned off fairly easily. I ran the flatware through the dishwasher, and the boys through the bath. The squash still look a little shiny, and the cereal boxes speckled, but otherwise, we’re OK. Next time, though, I’m not leaving them inside, alone. They’re coming outside with me, subzero temperatures be damned.

Growing up, my sisters and I had an LP of Captain Kangaroo Introduces You to the Nutcracker Suite.

From Wikipedia:

A narrated adaptation of the Nutcracker Suite was released as “Captain Kangaroo (Bob Keeshan) Introduces You To The Nutcracker Suite”; it is believed that this was produced some time in the 1960s although a copyright date is not available. This work is remarkable for the lyrics that were created as an integral part of the narration.

It was a particular favorite of my sister Ruthie. We listened to it over and over. The lyrics became ingrained in my head. So it was with surprise that, as an adult, I learned that there were no words to The Nutcracker Suite. Captain Kangaroo and team had made up lyrics to tell the story. So now, whenever I hear the strains of one of the most popular holiday arrangements ever, I hear the lyrics from the Overture in my head:

He’s so handsome,
Funny and clever.
I will keep him,
Keep him forever.

Stop! Don’t you
Dare go near him
You will hurt him
Fred . . . for that
Nut you’ve got will
Never fit
Inside his head.

This is NOT a cherished holiday memory for me.

2yo Guppy, crying. I wake, and stumble into his room.

Guppy wails, “I can’t see anything!”

I respond, “That’s ’cause it’s night time, honey. Night is dark.”

He pleaded for a dimmed light; I didn’t feel up to protesting.

I hate parenting books. The last thing I want to do after an exhausting day parenting my energetic, needy boys is read about parenting. I want a break! Television, movies and reading for pleasure suit that need much better.

Yet I am far from a perfect parent to 5yo Drake and 2yo Guppy, so I feel guilty about not reading the books. I know I’ve got much to learn, but I rebel against the books, whose advice I find hard to follow and not always applicable. At a recent playdate, a friend noticed my boys’ oppositional behavior, and suggested Supernanny. Why not, I thought, worn down by the boys and their frequent fighting, both with me and with each other. I got the book from the library. Three weeks went by. I renewed it. Another three weeks went by. I renewed it again. Finally I read it.

It’s easy to read, with pictures, big type size and a truly useful set of sections on typical problem areas like eating, playing with others, and bedtime. It is basic, and perhaps more focused on parent guidance than on child nurturing. But I am taking away a few pieces of advice, so it was time well spent.

On the futility of reasoning with toddlers:

Reasoning, pleading, bargaining, threatening–none of these work with [toddlers]. For these strategies to work, your child would need mental powers she just does not yet have. (p.32)

It’s okay to offer a toddler a choice between two acceptable alternatives. But offering a toddler lots of choices tells him that you don’t know what you’re doing–otherwise, why are you asking?–and that therefore he’s the boss. (p. 50)

Small children will always win [in these situations] because they don’t really understand what a bargain or a promise is all about. What you’re dangling in front of them in the form of a treat is just too tempting, and they will try their utmost to get it right now. And what you see as a trade-off, she sees as a rule that keeps changing–which, as everyone knows, is a rule that isn’t really a rule at all and doesn’t have to be followed. (p. 71)

On involving kids with daily tasks:

Small children need attention. When they don’t get it, they act up. The trouble is that there simply aren’t enough hours in the day for you to give your toddler the attention he wants and deal with everything else as well. When you have two or more kids, short of cloning yourself, you have to think of ways around the problem. (p. 77)

And some helpful advice I’m going to try, like earlier mealtimes for the kids, who tend to be hungry at 10:30 and 4:30, not noon and 6:30. And staggered bedtimes, so each boy can have a little one on one time before bed–kids aren’t the only ones who can use “divide and conquer” to their advantage. Heh, heh.

I went to the bookstore yesterday for a title my psychologist recommended. I knew the author and the area the book would be in. I checked the shelves, but didn’t find it. I continued checking in related areas, but didn’t find it. Then I asked for help. A kind bookseller led me directly to the book. It was in the area I’d been looking, sitting face out, prominently on the shelf in its own special section.

The book? Driven to Distraction by Hallowell and Ratey. The section? ADD.

*Sigh* I do not think my difficulty finding the book and its topic are unrelated.

Everyone knows the phrase “terrible twos.” As with much of parenting, though, it didn’t become clear what it meant until I was in the midst of it.

Two is when kids start to push back. Previously biddable kids suddenly take to “No!” like it’s the only word in the world. I find it’s the concrete examples, though, that really show the terribleness:

It’s time to change Guppy’s diaper. I pull one from the stack. He says no, he doesn’t want the green dog. I show him purple cat, magenta dog, blue dog with pencil and blue dog with wrenches ; we’re out of blue dog painting, since he’s been demanding those. Irony is that he can’t even see the diaper design once it’s on. He throws a fit, and is big and fast enough to run away, twist away, kick at me and take the green dog diaper off. I’ve zigged, he’s zagged, finally I have to zog. What if we put on the diaper after a book? Suddenly, he’s reasonable again. “I yuv you, mom,” he says, hugging me.

Guppy wants yogurt for breakfast. I take out the yogurt, a bowl and a spoon, and start to put the yogurt in the bowl. Guppy screams; he wanted to do it. I offer it to him. He refuses and continues to tantrum. It’s already begun; I’ve ruined it. I rinse out the bowl. He cries that the bowl is wet. I dry it. He spoons up the yogurt, then cries because the spoon is dirty. I rinse it off. He cries because it’s wet. I dry it off, and he finally begins to eat, about ten minutes after this all started.

Terrible? Insane is more like it. And as everyone knows, three is worse. Can’t wait.

In the New Yorker, Joan Acocella summarizes concerns about over-parenting from several books, many of them not new. As I read the five-page article, my annoyance grew. Who _isn’t_ against overparenting, except those who are too oblivious to realize they’re doing it? And isn’t this truly a small number, hardly the epidemic that articles like this about books like these imply?

A final question that one has to ask is whether the overparenting trend is truly the emergency that these authors say it is. In the manner of popular books on psychology, the commentators tend to forget that they are talking, for the most part, about a minority.

Further, my experience says it’s a no-win situation. I’ve been criticized for over-parenting, and I’ve been criticized for under-parenting. In the end, I quietly remind myself that I’m the one who spends almost all day every day with my kids. Mother knows best, and is doing her best. I do not need a book, or an article, to scare me to the other side of the parenting continuum, thank you. These books aren’t there to help parents. On the contrary, they seem more likely to result in an increased culture of judgment against parents. Not helpful. (Link from Blog of a Bookslut)

For a few weeks now, my husband G. Grod and I have made the same joke when the boys, 5yo Drake and 2yo Guppy, are being especially difficult.

“I wonder how far it is to Nebraska?”

It’s in bad taste, but it helps break the tension. Turns out, though, it’s not much of a joke. Nebraska recently instated a safe-haven law; it allows infants to be dropped off at hospitals without prosecution of the dropper off, usually a teen or single parent. The law in Nebraska did not include an age limit, though. This loophole was made apparent when a man dropped off nine children, aged one to seventeen. Since its inception, thirty four children have been dropped off, none of them infants.

Like G. and I have noticed, the law is an easy target for the jokes. But the reason people are dropping off kids is sad, not funny. Raising kids is hard, and in the USA’s increasingly independent and me-focused culture, there’s not much help to be had. Like many, G and I live far from family; we’re lucky to have a community of friends for help.

So next time you see a kid melting down, and a tired or cranky-looking parent, offer help, not judgment. Politely looking away isn’t helpful, either. Empathy, though, is a wonderful thing–take it from this tired, cranky parent.

Hooray for the United States. We did it; we elected Barack Obama to the presidency. Virginia and North Carolina went blue? An historic day, indeed.

Election night had some bitter with the sweet, though. California is close to a ban of gay marriage. Alaska elected a convicted felon. Here in Minnesota, Michelle Bachmann was re-elected, and the Al Franken/Norm Coleman race is too close to call, and headed into recount. And the Comedy Central special was wildly uneven; what’s up when a Harvard law prof out-funnies Colbert and Stewart?

Big changes are imminent, but we’ve still got a lot of work to do.

Edited to Add: G and I decided to let 5yo Drake and 2yo Guppy stay up late to watch election returns. We had a lovely vision of cuddling on the couch as a family, munching popcorn, as we watched history being made. As with much of parenting and life, it didn’t unfold that way. The kids were completely uninterested in election tv, though it got them wound up and running around. Instead, they set up their bowling game, which devolved into throwing the pins (foam at least, for which I was thankful) at one another and at G. and me. And so, to bed for them. Where they didn’t stay, because they were so wound up, so G and I had to keep pausing the coverage to go shoo them back to bed. So much for making memories, eh?

Example umpteen gazillion for those mothers who coo about motherhood.

This morning, as part of our potty-learning program, 2.5yo Guppy deposited the contents of his diaper in the toilet. I told him to flush. He coughed, a marble flew out of his mouth and into the toilet. I was momentarily speechless.

“Get it out!” I reprimand. No dummy, he shakes his head. I direct my fierce, frowning-mommy face at him. “How do you think I feel about that marble being in your mouth, and in the toilet?”

“I don’ know,” he says looking down with a coy smile to accompany the disingenuous upspeak of his sentence.

“ANG-REE!” 5yo Drake calls from the hall, keeping his distance. Also happy that, this time, he’s not on the receiving end of my glare of displeasure.

I wonder. Will the marble hurt the plumbing? Don’t know. Do we have marbles to spare? No, because they keep disappearing. I assumed they were under the couch, but maybe they’re in Guppy’s belly.

I take a deep breath, reach in, stifle a shudder of revulsion, then grab the marble and hustle it and my hands to a thorough washing with lots of soap and hot water.

I’m off to hide the rest of the marbles.

Tomorrow, at long last, is election day here in the US. While the boys watched Sesame Street this morning, I researched candidates and issues.

I found the Strib MyVote feature very helpful. It lists all the races in your area, and has links to each of the candidates.

I found a helpful reminder from the Minnesota Women Lawyers that the best judge candidates are non-partisan and strive to be fair and impartial, which is also apolitical. (Inasmuch as that is possible.)

Judges should be selected based on the depth and quality of their legal experience, their temperament, their good character and their willingness to follow the law. They should not be selected based on politics.

I found two sites, MNBlue and The Ballot, that had extensively researched the races and candidates. I still had to do some extra study in a few races but I have my sample ballot filled out.

A brief reminder to everyone: our current election system allows, but does not really support, third party candidates. Until run-off balloting or other major change is instituted, third parties will almost always skew an election. Here in MN, Jesse Ventura was one of the most successful third party candidates. His exception proves the rule that helped elect Tim Pawlenty and Norm Coleman. Please vote carefully. Consider the most likely result. A vote for a third party may well elect your last, not your first, or second, choice. The race between Al Franken and Norm Coleman is very close, and there’s an Independent candidate. Please, either vote for Al, or vote against Norm by voting for Al. Voting for the Independent candidate will likely result in a re-election for Norm, and if you’re considering voting for a third party candidate, I don’t think that’s what you want.

Sadie at Jezebel takes issue with the media’s habit of wondering what Jane Austen would do with modern problems:

This is not to disparage the scope or appeal of Austen’s work, which obviously owes a good measure of its brilliance to the natural universality inherent to all good writing, and all honest portrayal of emotion…but simply to question the weird “Austen is always applicable” notion that seems to have crept into our culture.

Apparently it’s turning into Austen week here at Girl Detective. More to come, I hope.

From Jane Austen’s Persuasion:

Anne to her sister Mary: You have had your little boys with you?

Mary: Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable that they do me more harm than good. Little Charles does not mind a word I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad.

Substitute 5yo Drake for Charles, and 2yo Guppy for Walter, and you have a typical day in my house. I grew up with sisters. I did not foresee the noise, opposition, and chaos of boys.

One of my favorite scenes in Persuasion is when Anne is rescued from a disagreeable situation by Captain Wentworth:

[2yo Walter] began to fasten himself upon [Anne], as she knelt, in such a way that…she could not shake him off. She spoke to him, ordered, entreated, and insisted in vain. Once she did contrive to push him away, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon her back again directly.

‘Walter,’ said she, ‘get down this moment. You are extremely troublesome. I am very angry with you.’…

In another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being released from him; someone was taking him from her, though he had bent down her head so much, that his little sturdy hands were unfastened from around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she knew that Captain Wentworth had done it. (Chapter 9)

This scene follows the motif of a knight rescuing a princess from a villain, who in this case is a toddler. I suspect Austen didn’t much like the noise and mess of little boys, either.

I’ve been wondering (OK, maybe fantasizing is more precise) what it would be like to spend $150K at Sak’s, Barney’s or Neiman’s since the Sarah Palin shopping story broke. Over at Slate, Nina Shen Rastogi does it for me.

Link from The Morning News.

From Bedtime for Frances, by Russell Hoban:

Frances stood by Father’s side of the bed very quietly, right near his head. She was so quiet that she was the quietest thing in the room. She was so quiet that Father woke up all of a sudden, with his eyes wide open. He said, “Umph!”

Replace Frances with 2.5yo Guppy, and Father with me, and you have the scene by my bed at 2:20 this morning. Like Frances, Guppy asked if he could sleep with us. Like Father, I refused and sent him back to bed.