Girl Detective

I used to pass judgment all the time on moms when I wasn’t one. I’ve learned the hard way that I have no place judging someone till I’ve walked in their shoes. If I haven’t done all the things I’ve ever judged other parents for, I’ve at least thought about doing them.

Yet I am currently passing judgment myself, on people who snark at moms. An essay at Chicklit notes that some book reviewers have snarked about the current slew of mom books on the market. Why, the essay writer wonders, do they not instead decry the overabundance of rosy Ronald Reagan biographies or something else more worthy of ‌indictment?

I have yet to meet the mom (oh, wait, maybe I have) who is not overextended, underappreciated–at least by her child(ren)–and plagued with self-doubt and recrimination about how she’s doing as a mom. Since I’ve worked hard not to remain someone who bitched about moms, I have some impatience with people who do so, especially those who are moms themselves.

A few months ago, I attended a meeting of a local mom’s group. I went looking for help and support, because I’ve felt so tapped out and alone. What I found was a poorly organized group and moms that I didn’t seem to have a lot in common with. Previously, I would’ve dismissed the group and the moms in it, and not gone back. Instead, I’ve continued to attend meetings and activities, and even taken on an ongoing event, when the woman who was supposed to lead it fell ill. I joke with my husband that I went to get help, and stayed because I felt sorry for them, but it’s not far from the truth. Other moms aren’t necessarily better off than me, and if I can’t get help, then I might as well try to help somebody else. This approach, rather than judgment, is what I try for, now.

I’ve cut back considerably on my beauty-product purchases, both in quantity and in price, but I will not (yet, at least) forgo moisturizer. There was a time in my life when I did, but my twenties were a while ago.

In efforts to economize, I’m trying to limit my shopping to discount stores. I’ve tried two brands of night cream recently, Dove Sensitive Essentials Night Cream and Olay Age Defying Intensive Nourishing Night Cream.

Of the two products, the Dove is less expensive–about $7 compared to about $10 for the Olay. The Dove night cream is fragrance free, which I appreciated. The cream itself, though, feels watery. The jar is heavy glass–hard to travel with, and had me worried that I’d drop and break it. Overall, the Dove felt like an inexpensive cream in a needlessly expensive-seeming jar.

I like the texture of the Olay cream better; it is thicker and feels more concentrated. But Olay has a strong fragrance that I do not like. It is in a simple, light, plastic container.

Both the Olay and the Dove do an equally adequate job of moisturizing. I do not notice a striking improvement in my skin with either product.

What I’d prefer is the Olay cream in the Olay container, with the Dove lack of fragrance. Instead, I’ll keep looking, and pining after the lovely sample of Darphin Arovita C cream that I once got in a Neiman Marcus beauty gift.

My mother and sister Sydney are big fans of Law & Order. I don’t mind the show, but I don’t go out of my way to watch it. I wondered about this for a while, since it is a good show, well-acted, -plotted and -written. I think my preferences in television are analogous to those in reading. I prefer novels above everything else. Even in comic books, my preference is for graphic novel collections, rather than one shots, or ongoing, meandering series. I like my entertainment fictive; I like it to have good character development and for those characters to have distinct voices.

I find Law & Order more akin to a collection of short stories. There is little continuity, and little character development for the series regulars. Also, it relies so heavily on real-life events that it loses some of the feel of fiction.

My theory about those who love Law & Order is that, as readers, they aren’t novel-centric, as I am. They are more accepting of other forms, like non-fiction, essays, magazines, short stories and one-shots. I read all these things, too. If I had to choose, though, it would be no contest.

A friend of mine, The Big Brain, contends that there are no such thing as bad teen movies–they’re either good, or so bad that they’re good anyway.

In my current TV rotation, I watch several teen shows: Veronica Mars, Life as We Know It, The O.C. and Joan of Arcadia.

Previous beloved teen shows include Freaks and Geeks, Undeclared, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (which I contend should have ended at the end of Season 5), Daria, and the much-lamented, short-lived My So-Called Life. There were other teen shows that I tched for a while, but then gave up when I couldn’t stand them anymore: Roswell, Smallville, and way, long ago, Beverly Hills 90210.

As you can see, I’ve long been a fan of the genre. I’m also a fan of young adult literature, and the novels I’m writing are YA. It’s easy to figure out why I’m drawn to teen shows, at least the well-written ones. Being a teen felt complicated, but it wasn’t, compared to parenthood and mortgages and jobs, etc. So it’s a lovely escape to watch people who think their lives are complicated, when they’re not. Also, being a teen was confusing and largely sucky. Good teen shows capture some of that confusion and suckiness, but edit out all the truly awful parts as well as the mind-numbing boredom as well. So viewers can empathize and laugh at the moderately tough stuff, sub-consciously be glad that they’re not seeing the really brutal stuff, and not have to endure the dull stuff, all the while living vicariously in a skillfully written and edited much simpler time.

I gave this show a miss when it premiered because several reviewers who wanted to like it just didn’t: Entertainment Weekly, TV Guide, and TeeVee.org. I wanted to like it too, since the creators spoke homage to My So-Called Life and had worked on the excellent Freaks and Geeks.

Weeks passed, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake in skipping it. Then my friend The Big Brain said that it had only been OK, but then got really good. I tuned in to a few reruns on MTV, where teen shows go to garner support, and was unimpressed. Unimpressed, that is, till I saw one of the more recent episodes, and was dragged right in. It took a few weeks, but they’ve got the character development simmering nicely along with plot complexity. So if you, like me, gave it a miss because of early bad reviews, check it out this week

and I lived deliberately for less than 48 hours. And used an outhouse. And made good progress in editing novel #1. And nearly finished reading Emma. And walked in the woods. But did not test the ice. And did physical therapy exercises for my problem wrist, back and hip.

I stayed at a retreat recommended by a friend, in a single cabin that had heat and electricity but no running water. I picked up meals at the lodge. The cook told me what was in the basket each time. My first meal, lunch yesterday, was a veggie curry over brown rice, a salad with hard-boiled eggs and cheddar cheese with a honey mustard dressing, and sugared almond slivers. I took it back to the cabin, and burt into tears, overwhelmed by the peace and quiet, with a nice meal given to me that I could enjoy at my leisure.

And I did. Throughout the time I was there, I only did one thing at a time. What a luxury that was. When I ate, I ate. When I walked, I walked. When I read, I read.

Unfortunately, my high hopes of two nights of blissful, uninterrupted sleep did not materialize. Both nights I was anxious about being alone in a cabin in the woods. The first night I had the cabin too hot, and the second night I undercompensated and had it too cold. Also, I fear that I may have lost the ability to sleep deep, uninterrupted sleep, even if I didn’t have to contend with lurid imaginations of killers with hooks for hands, and widely variant room temperatures.

At the end of my time, I felt rather like I’d visited a MASH unit for my internal self. They patched me up, treated me nice, and sent me back to the front.

My husband G. Grod was watching Drake. He fixed himself a beverage, put it on a table out of Drake’s reach, then made a phone call.

While he had his back turned for a moment, Drake managed to drag the drink off the table, spilling it everywhere. G. Grod ended his call quickly to clean up the mess. While he was doing so, Drake found the phone, turned it on, started pressing buttons and began babbling into it.

Whenever I ask my mother how she managed, she always says, “You were a very good baby. Not like Drake.”

Drake has refused to eat vegetables for some time now. For a while, I continued to buy the jarred purees, but eventually he even refused those. Twice a day we put veggies in front of him, and twice a day he refuses to even put them in his mouth.

Yesterday at the coffee shop, though, he put a crayon in his mouth, made a yuck face, took it out, looked at it, and then put it in and started eating it again.

Drake has said his first word. It was neither mama or daddy. While he makes those sounds a lot, he doesn’t use them consistently. Tonight, when I came in the house, Drake shouted Da! at me over and over again.

His first word?

Touchdown.

And though it sounds barely more distinct than “duh-daaaahhh”, we are now certain for two reasons.

The first is that he does it right after we say it.

The second is that he throws both his arms up in the air when he does.

Heh, heh.

His father is so proud.

Up until this week, Drake has never liked to hold hands. He either has wanted two-handed support, or none at all. In the past couple days, though, he sticks out his hand and looks at me expectantly, so I can help guide him as we walk over bumpy sidewalk on the way to the park.

He still has no words, though he sometimes sounds like he’s imitating us when we say “Touchdown!” It sounds suspiciously like “uh-oh” though, so I’m not convinced.

Also, he is able to make the “ah-ah” sound in imitation of ha-ha–sounds like Nelson Muntz, from the Simpsons.

When he first did the “ah-ah,” I aspirated the H trying to get him to put the sounds together, “heh, heh”. So he huffed out “heh, heh” but did not combine for “ha, ha.”

Tonight at dinner, I was signing to him, asking if he wanted more banana. I felt proud of myself that I knew both signs.

He threw up both his arms.

Touchdown!

As I have noted before, the purpose of jeans is to make your ass look good.

For many women, including myself, the way to do this is to make the ass look smaller. One of the most effective ways to make an ass look smaller is to reduce its surface area, and the most effective means for this is the low-rise jean. Less jean on the ass looks like less ass, period.

The problem, however, is that not everyone should wear low-rise jeans. Like the stirrup pant, that fashion staple of bygone days, low-rise jeans are a privilege, not a right.

(If anyone reading this still has a pair of stirrup pants in your wardrobe, please stop reading, RIGHT NOW, go get them and put them in your Goodwill pile.)

While covering less ass is a good strategy for making one’s ass look less large, it also uncovers more ass. For many of us, this is a problem. How big a problem? It depends. It can range from annoyance at having to wear low-rise underwear to full-blown anxiety at how much ass-crack you’re flashing when you bend over.

Additionally, if you have a wiseass, active toddler like my son Drake, then you may also have to guard against small, cold hands being pressed into the small of your back when there’s a gap showing. Yowza, that’s a shock.

Today, I decided that full-coverage was more important than ass-minimizing. In one quick, half-hour trip to Old Navy, I not only found a pair of jeans that fit and that sat at the waist, but that didn’t cost a bundle. I sit, secure in the knowledge that my ass may look large, but it’s completely covered. Today, that is the lesser of the two evils.

I started watching Joan of Arcadia midway through last year’s season, its first. I did so after reading good things about it by Lisa Schmeiser at City Pages. I found the writing good, all the characters complex and that the show had a good sense for where the line of schmaltz was, though it did flirt awfully close with it at times. Plus it has some nice echoes of one of the best teen shows ever, My So-Called Life.

Joan, then, is one of only three non-new-this-season shows that I watch. (The others are Scrubs and The O.C.) I thought last year’s season ender was good, and admired how they brought those issues into the new season. And in the first couple shows of the season, I liked the new character they introduced that Joan had met over the summer at “crazy camp”, Judith Montgomery. We got a little more information about Judith in each episode. She, like the others, was complex, interesting and likeable. I was especially impressed with the writing, when, early in the season they had her drinking at a party till she was sick, but they didn’t kill her off. Oh, I thought, that was nice. She wasn’t just the person brought in for an episode or two so that they can kill her off and give faux trauma to the characters.

So imagine my extreme displeasure, several episodes later, when the writers killed Judith. They made no effort to hide what was coming in the episode. Still I watched in disbelief, incredulous that they would have almost done so early on, then not done so, waited till all the viewers liked her and thought she was sticking around, and then killed her. I wept. And wept. And over the next few days, every time I thought of the show, I thought of Judith, and I teared up. I’m still upset about it. I curse them for snaring me so effectively, even while I admire the skill it took to do so.

I saw two criticisms of “mommy blogs” recently, and the remarks gave me pause. Both were written by bloggers whose sites I regularly visit, and whose opinions interest me. Some of my response was to feel defensive. I am a mom who blogs and I blog about my experience with motherhood. In some ways, then, I resemble those remarks. I, as part of a larger group, got zinged by two women who are smart, good writers and mothers themselves. And that’s fair. I agree with some of the critiques of the mommy blogs, and know I’m deserving of those critiques myself: self-indulgent, overly prone to complaining, veering between the sentimental and the insane. All of these might not make for riveting reading by others. But there are zillions of blogs out there that I don’t read, for many reasons. What seems unfair is the singling out of the mommies for special criticism. I’ve said it before, I’ll write it again: moms need help, not judgment, ESPECIALLY from other other moms.

I blog about motherhood as a way to get through it. It is so much harder and confusing than I had expected. I read books, I talked to friends, I took the birth class and still I felt bitch-slapped by labor, delivery and life with a newborn. I write about my experiences because there was so much I didn’t know, that people just don’t mention, that’s not in the books, that other people–doctors, midwives, other moms–sometimes don’t even know. I write about the happy stuff because I need to remind myself of it, and not fall into the easy trap of focusing overmuch on the negative. I know it can be precious and twee. I know that every baby does the same things and so charting the milestones is pedestrian. I know all these things and still I write, and still I defend the mommies who blog.

Yes, their blogs and mine may be all the things I’ve mentioned. But we’re all just trying to get through. If you’re a mom who is in such a better, more solid place, then that’s great. But, as your mom probably said to you, if you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all. Or at least go aim your disdain at someone who is more deserving of your vitriol than tired, frazzled moms. That’s kicking us when we’re down, and that is, among other things, simply unkind.

Lost continues to be one of the shows that I feel good about watching. It’s interesting and mostly well-written and plotted. The danger, of couse, is that what makes it intriguing is its mysteries. While good secrets can elevate good shows, bad ones can sink them.

But the writing on last week’s episode of Lost impressed me greatly. Not only was the pregnant character given a plausible reason for flying so late in her pregnancy, but when she started to have contractions, HER WATER DIDN’T BREAK.

Did you know that the water breaks at the onset of labor for only 10% of women? Water isn’t supposed to break at the onset. But you’d never know it by watching TV or movies.

Until last week’s episode of Lost. Great job, folks. Keep it up.

I’ve been tired for a long time–in fact, since well before I had a baby. I didn’t sleep well during the pregnancy, and every time someone said, “Sleep now, while you can!” I wanted to punch them. Now, of course, I say the same thing to pregnant women I know. I wasn’t sleeping well, but I didn’t yet know the soul-crushing nature of ongoing sleep deprivation.

During the past two years, I have often opted for easier choices for my free time, sometimes with books, and especially with movies. “I don’t want something challenging,” I’d say, then I’d watch something like Shanghai Knights or The Italian Job. These weren’t exactly bad movies, but they most definitely weren’t good ones. I came away minus my free time, and somewhat entertained but with a less than fulfilling interior life.

As Drake’s sleeping habits have improved over the past several months, I have felt the fog lifting. I’ve stopped reading books that I didn’t find well-written. I’ve avoided movies that have mixed reviews, especially ones whose reviews read something like, “The movie is just OK, but the performance of person X is outstanding.”

Don’t get me wrong. There is a time and place for good bad movies, books, etc. The other night when we finished watching television, we saw that Galaxy Quest was on, and watched several minutes of it with enjoyment and no guilt. Galaxy Quest is a good example of a movie whose execution was above average. It’s not high art, but it’s well-done and entertaining. But there are far too many truly mediocre movies out there in comparison to the few that manage to rise above the pack.

There was a period in my life during which I actively shunned self-development. I wanted to have fun and not work at anything very hard. It is humbling to note that this behavior is not just part of my past, but something that crops up in times of fatigue and stress. In my lucid moments, though, of which I am having more and more, I know that I want better for myself. I want to read good books, watch good movies and television, eat healthful food that is well-prepared, exercise and seek out things that are both good and in some way good for me. Doing these is more challenging, as the more conscientious choices nearly always are. But they’re worth it, because I’m worth it. I sometimes forget that.

Our toddler, Drake, is not a very biddable guy. Now that we live in a house that has three levels, getting from one to another can be difficult. I’ve got a bum wrist with a ganglion cyst, so I’m trying to limit lugging his heavy self up and down the steps.

I usually change his diaper upstairs. I have found that if I wrap up the diaper tightly, I can pitch it down the stairs to the first landing. Drake will shimmy after it, then I’ll kick it to the next landing, he’ll follow it down, then I’ll nudge it to the floor, where he’ll pick it up. I’ll then ask him to throw it away for me, and he’ll toddle through the first floor to the garbage can and toss it right in.

This is very cute, and it gets him downstairs, but the hazard I’ve found is that he doesn’t yet understand that we only put things INTO the garbage can; it’s not a two-way relationship.

One of Drake’s new things is to stick his finger up his nose. This drives his father, G. Grod, crazy.

Funny, because it doesn’t bother me that much. But the nuclear screams of death, and flinging food on the floor? Those work my every last nerve.

[By the way, during one scream in the coffee shop the other day, a woman put her hands to her ears. Today, during our childhood ed class--more about this later--after letting one loose other moms looked pained. I figure if other moms think it's bad, then this is not just run-of-the-mill screeching.]

The other day during lunch, Drake shoved his finger up his nose, waited a bit, took it out, then pointed at me insistently with it, grunting “Unh, unh, unh!”

I responded simply, “That’s great, sweetie. Thanks so much for sharing.”

This new address is a little disorienting. I figure most of you have followed me from one of the old Blogger addresses at Girl Detective, or Mama Duck, but in any case, I feel the need to do a recap.

I’m Girl Detective. Previous a middle manager in a marketing department, now a stay at home mom. Reader, writer, sometime yogini.

When I was pregnant, I started a blog called Mama Duck, because instead of the usual metaphor of “bun in the oven” the one that popped into my head was that I had “a duck in the soup”. Thus I began to refer to the eventual baby as the duck. Now that he is fifteen plus months of actual, rather than imminent, I will now call him Drake.

I’m married to G. Grod, the father of Drake. He recently got laid off from his job. He’s an IT geek, and all tech matters related to this site are managed by him.

Me? I’m a winner at Nanowrimo. I wrote a novel. Or, more accurately, over fifty thousand words of raw material for a novel.

I do have one concern. My novel didn’t end. I passed 50K, but I still am not sure where the novel was going. Without my artificial, arbitrary deadline, I’m not sure I’ll ever find out. Because writing 50K in a month is not a healthy way to live.

Here’s how I did it. I woke up at 6 a.m., my husband made me coffee and I did small writing things, like journalling and catching up on the past year of thank you notes for baby gifts, until the baby woke around 7:30 a.m. I made sure to eat lunch while the baby did, so that when he went to sleep for his nap, around noon, I could sit down as soon as possible at the laptop and work on the Nanowrimo novel. Sometimes I checked email, or blogged, to my detriment. The baby’s nap is usually an hour fifteen, so anything other than power novelling meant that very little novelling got done. Occasionally, on very wonderful days, I would finish my goal of 1700 words per day during his nap. Usually, I did not, so after he went to sleep at night, around 7:30 p.m., I would sit down and write till I hit the goal. The later I novelled, the harder it was. The worst days were the ones in which I had to start after he went to bed for the night.

But I did it. And now I’m glad that it’s over. I’m going to go do laundry. Or bathe. Or read my book. Or watch TV. Or a movie. Or any other of the zillion things I put off last month, saying, “I’ll get to it in December. Right now, I gotta novel.”

A sleeping baby is a little bit like an ex-boyfriend. He’s easier to love. Sleep, like time, erases some of the hard edges, the bitter exchanges, his screaming, my anger. I can look at him and feel only the fondness, not the frustration. I remember the good times we had together, not the meltdowns. It’s so much easier to feel connected in retrospect than it is in the middle of it all. Ex-boyfriends, though, get the eliding benefit of absence. They don’t wake, twice a day, cranky and hungry and screaming their displeasure at me. Real relationships are hard to slog through, sometimes. There is fun and playtime, but also tedium, unpleasantness and work. Babies, however, have something critical that ex-boyfriends do not–the ability, in real time, to offer compensating joys for the drudgery.