The More Things Change...

Like so many people, I hate this time of year. So many cold dark days of winter left. I’d rather be hibernating.

I drove through my old neighborhood yesterday because I was taking my car to the mechanic there. (I can’t bear to find a new one when I like my mechanic so much, so we still take all our cars there.) Anyway, it was odd to me how small everything in the neighborhood was. I guess it’s because I grew up hanging out on those streets, and my child perspective saw everything as larger than it really was. It’s weird to have a place seem so deeply familiar and yet so different at the same time. Every bend in the road, every tree that curves thickly over the sidewalks, even the way the light filters through the streets is so familiar, and yet some of the houses are strange colors and the stores have changed a little and the traffic patterns are just a tiny bit different.

Driving through there revived my anxiety about the squeaker growing up without a neighborhood. I just remember the feeling that the whole area was MY territory – all the little streets and parks and neighborhood stores. How can the squeaker get that same sense from a bunch of cornfields and church parking lots?

Maybe he will have a sense of community that is less about physical space and more about connections with people. That could be a good thing I suppose.

Anyway, that’s about all that’s on my mind these days. The squeaker has been squeaky and clingy lately. I don’t know what’s up with that. The husband practically lives in the basement, sanding and wallboarding and installing windows. But as he points out, it’ll never get done unless he actually does it, so the squeaker and I spend the evenings by ourselves.

He told me the other day that he wanted a “mock.”

“Mat?” I asked.

“No, a mock,” he said. “Like the pig in the Best Word Book Ever. The pig who is painting.”

Then I got it – a smock, so that he can paint.

F*cking Fire!

We have this great woodstove in our living room. We used it a little at first this fall, and then we got two propane bills for $400 each within 3 weeks. (We use propane for heat.) So we decided it was time to get serious about using the woodstove.

So on Friday, the squeaker and I are home alone. We go outside together and gather twigs and sticks. We build a nice little fire. But after a while, I notice that the fire seems to be burning out, and the logs I had put in were merely smouldering, and not really burning. I wonder if the new load of wood we'd gotten was adequately seasoned.

We have a little bit of our old wood left, so I get a log and stick it in. But it is a tad too long, and so I can't close the woodstove door. The log begins to burn a little, but since the fire isn't really hot, it is mostly just producing yucky smoke. For a while, I struggle with it, trying to get the log in and trying to close the woodstove door to get the smoke to stop pouring out of the stove and into the house. The log is burning enough that I don't feel comfortable pulling it out, and yet I can't get it into the stove. The more I struggle and inhale large quantities of smoke, the more frustrated I get. Plus, the fire seems to be fading away.

Finally, I yell, "Just get in there, you stupid f*cking log! All this work to build a stupid f*cking fire and it doesn't even work!" (Does saying this in front of my two-year old make me the WORST MOTHER EVER or what?!?)

The squeaker, who is watching the whole catastrophe intently and with increasing anxiety, thinks this is great. "The f*cking fire! The f*cking fire!" he yells.

And then: "F*cking fire starts with 'F'! F F F!"

My dismayed amusement at his word choice was dwarfed by my delight and pride in his knowledge of his letters. So if I wasn't the worst mother ever for losing it in such a colorful way over the too-long log, I certainly qualified in my response to his little chant. I gently told him that mama had used a word that isn't a nice one, and that some people get really upset when you use words like that.

BUT, I also told him how clever he was, and that he was right about the letter "F."

Lost

I’ve now had the experience of losing my kid in a public place. It was a surprisingly scary couple of moments. Maybe the scariness shouldn’t have been surprising, but I guess that real disaster seemed absurd even at the time, and thus I would have thought I would have stayed cooler.

The squeaker and I took his uncle T to REI, Inc., a store that sells sporting equipment and outdoor gear. We’d just come from the bank, where the squeaker had charmed the tellers into giving him a large sticky lollipop. By the time we actually got inside REI, the squeaker was a sticky mess, so I took him to the restroom to clean him off. On the way, we passed a young male employee, who smiled at the squeaker. Then I cleaned him up, and we went on our way.

Uncle T was waiting for us in the front of the store, where the climbing gear was displayed, and the restrooms were in the back. Upon leaving the restroom, we walked through the shoe area. I saw a boot displayed on the far wall that I liked, so I walked over to look at it. Meanwhile, the squeaker found a large fake rock (presumably for testing out any hiking boots that an eager customer might try on?), and was crawling around on it and growling. He told me he was a mountain lion. While I was looking at the shoe, he said he wanted to find uncle T. I looked up at him and said hang on. I turned my back to place the shoe on the shelf, and when I turned back, he was gone.

Without alarm, I started looking for him in the immediate area. I looked under the tablecloths draped on some nearby tables. I looked between the displays. And I was surprised that he wasn’t immediately obvious. Beginning to feel a little anxious, I called his name, softly at first, and then more loudly. Still no sign of him. By now, I had checked most of that corner of the store, and I couldn’t believe he wasn’t right there. I remember thinking that the likelihood of a child abductor lurking around REI at any time, and especially at that particular moment, was very, very, very small. Abduction is just something I don’t worry about because it is so incredibly rare. But I still didn’t like not knowing where he was, and even in looking for him, I couldn’t let go of the distracting thought that his quick disappearance made no sense. He always hovered right next to me in stores. I just couldn’t imagine where he would have gone.

I saw the young employee who had smiled at the squeaker earlier and told him anxiously that I’d lost my kid. He started searching. Then I passed an older man in the next section who saw me peering between displays and asked if I was looking for a little blond guy. When I said yes, the man told me he’d blown through there “like a tumbleweed,” heading for the front of the store. I headed that way, and the next instant, I saw him.

The squeaker was in the bike section, perched on a small bike with training wheels. Another employee was kneeling down next to him, helping him balance on the bike, and apparently discussing the merits of the bike with him. Uncle T was nearby, trying on shoes, but was unaware that the squeaker was there or that he was unattended. I sternly told the squeaker that he was NOT to run off like that (which was intended as much for the employees’ ears as his ears, as I didn’t want people to think I typically allowed my two-year old to roam around stores unsupervised). But the squeaker was unfazed. He’d found uncle T and shopped for a bike, all on his own.

Singing the Blues

Lawyers have this citation manual called the Bluebook. In my old job, I could mostly ignore it. But now I have to use it – sometimes everyday! – to ensure that the legal citations are correct. It’s a shiny blue book with a spiral binding.

I had forgotten how very evil the Bluebook is. And every time I use it, I get this feeling that it’s some kind of joke perpetuated by people who really hate lawyers. The book makes no sense. It tries to provide citation formats for everything from case law to the Bible, but its organization defies common sense. You may need to consult four or five different sections to sort out how to write one citation. One rule rarely provides you with all the information you need, but you can’t tell that fact from the rule. It’s as if the information has been broken into little bits and then scattered throughout the book based on some arbitrary and mysterious organizational rules.

Here’s an example of its stupidity: say that you want to cite a play by Christopher Marlowe. You look in the index for “play” or “drama” and find nothing. That’s because there is no general rule on citing plays. (If you’re wondering why a lawyer would want to cite a play, remember that many lawyers fancy themselves experts on the use of language, which means that they love to incorporate literary references, and also that the Bluebook applies not only to court documents, but to legal journals.)

But if it just so happens that the play you want to cite is written by Shakespeare, you’re in luck! Rule 15.8(c)(iv) explains how a “Shakespearean play” may be cited. Of course, if you’d only looked up “plays” to find out how to cite a Shakespeare play, you’d assume that there was no relevant rule. Certainly Shakespeare is a giant among playwrights, and I’d agree that in the relatively small universe of legal citations to plays, the Bard is likely to be the most common source. But the Bluebook isn’t supposed to list examples of the most likely sources; it’s supposed to provide comprehensive rules for citation – general principles for writing clear citations. How hard would it be to provide a general rule for citing plays, with a nice listing in the index under “plays”? It’s as if the authors of the Bluebook can’t decide exactly how broad the rules are supposed to be. This kind of sloppiness pervades the book, rendering it useless in my view.

And yet lawyers and law schools insist on using it as their citation manual. Sometimes I think it stays around because lawyers figure that if THEY suffered through it in law school, today’s law students ought to suffer the same fate. My colleagues will come to my office, brow furrowed and Bluebook in hand, as if there must be some way for us to make sense of it together. I feel kind of guilty that I don’t believe in the Bluebook – and that I have a hard time taking something so nonsensical seriously. But many lawyers are VERY serious about it, so I have to be cautious about proclaiming its stupidity. I say vague things like, “The Bluebook’s a little tricky, isn’t it?” until I know where that person stands. Usually, it becomes obvious that the person hates the Bluebook as much as I do. I always invite them to come out of the closet as a Bluebook hater. And then we both feel better.

Seeing Purple

Many of the people in my office are wearing purple today. Purple hats, purple shirts, purple jerseys. They keep speaking in excited tones about The Game.

Color me puzzled, but I just don't get football. Sports in general are a (dull) mystery to me, but I really don't get football. It just seems like a bunch of overpaid, inarticulate guys with egos the size of Texas playing a boring and repetitive game before a bunch of hooting, beer-sloshed fans who've emptied their wallets to worship at the altar of Football. I know I'm stereotyping. I'm sure there are smart and educated players, and a few sober fans, but the players seem to be in the news as much for their law-breaking as they are for their achievements on the field, and the fans really look like the fanatics that "fan" is derived from.

My impulse to wear anything but purple today can perhaps be attributed to this resistance I have to "joining" anything. I have just never been a joiner. I've spent my life avoiding honor societies, sororities, and clubs (though admittedly, they haven't exactly been knocking down my door). I've never yearned to be a part of these organizations, or to link myself with others based on some shared obsession -- good grades, a social life, whatever.

That's not to say that I don't enjoy that feeling of "clicking" with others, or that magical moment when you realize that you and another person unexpectedly share a passion for something -- a favorite book, a great film, a particular city. I relish connecting with my fellow human beings in meaningful ways, though it is hard for me; I have a natural tendency to seek time alone and to keep my distance, and I find it difficult and awkward to get to know people -- and to let people get to know me. But I can certainly understand that desire to belong by connecting with people.

But football? It just seems so stupid. It's like some kind of bizarre regionalism expressed through fanatical support for a purely commercial entity with no real connection to the region that rallies to its cause. The fans just look so used to me -- used by the players who make millions, by the team owners who make even more, by the advertisers who love an opportunity to push their products to a pliable and overeager audience.

I guess the fans get a chance to have a party, blow off some steam, and spend a few hours focusing on something trivial, instead of worrying about the world's weightier problems. No one can carry the weight of the world all the time. Everyone needs a little escapism. I love movies and books, myself, but I can understand that my more social brethren like that communal feeling of rooting for something in a big, loud group. I just wish it didn't enrich so many undeserving people, and that it didn't intersect with consumerism and materialism in such a sickening way.

Not Really Here

The squeaker wants to know if we can get some cages.

Why?

For the monsters.

What monsters?

The ones in our bedroom.

The kid co-sleeps snuggled between his parents every night, and he’s STILL afraid of the dark. He worries that the monsters and the hyenas (!) will get him. Terror of the dark must be in our genes.

In any case, I’ve been a quiet blogger lately. This is not because the drama in my life has overwhelmed my creative spirit, but because my life has been decidedly un-dramatic. Plus, I’ve been feeling kind of introspective. I had my first miscarriage a year ago, and yet life goes on. Still no baby. Still no baby on the way. It’s hard not to calculate how old my baby would be now.

I’m not giving up, but I am trying to adjust to the idea that my one little boy may be it for me. And I know that’s one more than some couples who want children have, so I am glad to have my boy.

And he’s certainly as entertaining as a whole gaggle of children. He crawls around meowing and telling me he is a “weet kitty.” (That’s “sweet kitty” to those of us who can handle the letter “s.”) He thinks it’s funny when the objects in his books talk. (One book has the four winds talking, and he just thinks it’s hilarious. Arnold Lobel knew how to write for kids, that’s for sure.) He won’t mix the pieces of his magnetic dinosaurs, even though that’s what they’re made to do – and he gets annoyed if I mix them up (“No, that’s a triceratops -- make it right!!”). He tried to climb onto the water table at the Science Center, though all the other kids were content to stand at the edge and play with the toy boats and fish. Luckily, his papa caught him before he could pull himself onto the table.

I wonder what life will be like in five years. I wonder who I will be. I wonder if we’ll still be living in the same house (I think so) and what the rolling hills of farmland around us will look like.

I wonder what my family will look like. I wonder what my boy will be like.

So you can see why I’ve been a quiet blogger. My mind is wandering around somewhere – somewhere that is not today. It’s searching the hazy future.