There's No Place Like Home

I sighed as I looked around the room. I had cleaned, to perfection, our itty bitty living space in its tiny entirety, twenty four hours prior and yet it already looked like I should be donning a hazmat suit and braving the trenches of some nuclear disaster. In its defense, it might regularly be classified as such, only referred to by its close friends as my living room. Laundry had, undoubtedly overnight, regrown on the ottoman. From what source, I didn’t know but it was, or so it seemed, oozing off of the sides in a manner that was clearly meant to confuse any onlooker who tried to determine whether the mass was clean or dirty. I could have sworn that a warren of half emptied glasses had been bunched together, plotting and then scattered when I walked into the room. The baby’s toys, carefully arranged on low shelves when I took my leave for the bedroom the night before had marched right back out, clearly undaunted by their set back.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, I thought, bitterly. I was never a card-carrying member of the A Place for Everything and Everything In Its Place Club but I did wonder why at 26 I still couldn’t manage to keep my house, my home, clean for more than five minutes. I just knew that most of America used things like cubbies and shelves and clever Tupperware containers that shrunk down to pocket sized compartments stacked neatly on shelves somewhere out of sight. If I could only get my house to look like Pottery Barn, or at least like Pottery Barn Kids, I might be able to classify myself as a true adult.
As things stood, I had backed myself into the corner by our front door in order to better assess the situation. Upon further surveillance, I groaned and dropped tightly to the floor, my head resting on my knees. My fourteen month old son wandered over to me, looked straight at my buried face, a soggy cheerio stuck to his cheek, grinning. He thrust his hands toward my face and said "uh" which translates roughly to "up".
"No, sweetie, no 'uh'. Mommy is down," I said, making the sign for the reverse of 'uh'.
A fit of giggles and a repeated attempt at "up" followed. I kept my head down, half hoping, half fearing that he'd move on to the next room. When I looked up, the floor was still unrecognizable as a living space, covered in blocks, books, blankets and, I promise, a few things I had never seen before. There was, however, no child. I panicked. I struggled as quickly as possible, up from my funk and tried to remember if I had, at any point made an audible wish for goblins to take Kai away. My Labyrinth fears vanished a second later as my heretofore missing son reappeared brandishing the duster component of the vacuum.
I wasn't sure if I should take it as a sign or irony but I scooped him up, sheathed the duster and started bumbling around the room, picking up the pieces.
Individually, each item I was picking up was harmless. A two-inch tall, cherubic farmer, a cartoonishly green wooden snake, myriad Eric Carle books I now know by heart. I could see why someone only a year and change old would find each assault on my cleanliness so enticing as to drag it across the house and plop it into someone’s lap.
After the majority of the mess had been collected and placed on its very temporary storage places around the house, I ran the previously undustered vacuum cleaner and lay prone in the middle of the now uncluttered floor, eyes closed.
Suddenly my calm and accomplishment were assaulted, not by an exuberant toddler, this time but by the two beings responsible for my daily need to vacuum. Donnie and Teddy, or Shed One and Shed Two, were hovering over me, a combined weight of 90lbs, slobbering in my eyes.
I flailed dramatically until they both backed away cautiously wondering why their cleaning services were rather unceremoniously disbanded. In backing away they backed into Kai who was upended and despite being uninjured was now, no longer giggling. I rolled over onto my side and enveloped the tiny wailing thing into a bad excuse for an embrace. The dogs, deciding that their services were back in demand came to lay on either side of us. As I stared up at the ceiling, flanked by fuzziness, topped by baby, I realized, belatedly but perhaps not too late, that this was home. This was not a page in a catalog; it was better. I may not have sparkling floors or even tidy ones. My dogs may shed and my son my occasionally take up the habit of storing his breakfast on his face rather than in his belly. Certainly, though, none of these things can make my house any less a home. In fact, one might argue, if one is dozing off in the midmorning sunlight, under three of her family members, that it makes it more of a home.

H. G. Wells. v. eBook

We were, once upon a time, forewarned that technological advancement would be our downfall; that by letting machines become our lives we would, in essence, lose our lives. I have long been a proponent of such a theory, even if only in rebellion against my computer obsessed family. I am a child of Thoreau not Jobs and prefer bad pickup lines in a bar to the failures of match.com. I believe every word of those silly Hulu commercials (despite Balwdin involvement, although, it does further prove my previous suspicions regarding the entire family) confessing to television's mind-melting agenda.

However, the advent of the iPhone's e-book application rising up to compete with Amazon's Kindle made me stop to consider. In the words of the great George W. Bush: Is our children learning?

We have, for so long, put such an emphasis on Wells' idea of decay by digital that we may have done ourselves a complete disservice. Sure, Wikipedia is a far cry from cold hard fact but we have long been subjected to, as students, lies our teachers told us. At the risk of sounding completely radical, a history book taught in course is nothing but a subjectivity worse than the internet as it is expected to be taken for face value.

The iGeneration (NOT to be confused with the ME-generation, no they're old news) write fanfiction, blog about philosophy and ethics on their own free watch, read books in the palm of their hands, outlap their parents and even older siblings on technology that even their professors don't understand.

Over all, 2009 and the impending twenty-teens, look to be marching steadily into the age of information not away from it. I fear that my carefully collected bookshelves of novels will soon be dubbed "terribly wasteful and un-green" by my more enlightened, Kindle and/or e-book toting children. With an unending wealth of information and more importantly, laissez-faire opinion sharing, our newest crop of technology indulgent offspring seem to be far enough away from The Time Machine's horrific ending to laugh at it, or at least type out an LOL.

To Read or Not To Read?

My favorite living writer, Umberto Eco (of The Name of the Rose and Foucault's Pendulum), was once asked why he thought the Harry Potter books had done "so well". The question was framed in a snide manner, implying that we had somehow reached Wells' Time Machine end and we'd all become too stupid to function, hence, adults reading children's books.
Without blinking, he answered that, like Homer and like the Brothers Grim, Harry Potter served an eternal function in our society as fantasy has done for countless societies the world over. The upstart student, appropriately shut up for the remainder of the lecture, made me question my own prejudices. Many of my friends and relatives thrive on, what I think of as, "young adult" or "teen lit" books which I have often turned up my nose at.
With the advent of the sixth Harry Potter movie arriving in theaters this summer, I thought I'd take Eco's cue and pick up the series. Under the guise that I was reading them to Kai for a bedtime story, I allowed myself to fully enjoy them without embarrassment. Now on to the third book, after a week of reading, it is clear that I am reading far past my son closing his eyes.
Far from intricate, the prose is straightforward and simple, but runs along at a clip that would make any of my "normal" reading dizzy. There is merit to reading Pynchon and Sartre, of course, and they should be encouraged in schools far more often than they are, but we often downplay the significance of purely imaginative, playful make believe in the education of our children and ourselves.
Am I simply defending my recent foray into the dark arts and flying broomsticks by constructing a more palatable place for them in literature? Perhaps. I'd like to think, though, that children and adults alike, ate up Homer and Shakespeare's tales of sirens and donkey head, respectively of course, as much as they latch on now to Harry Potter and, yes, I'll admit, Edward Cullen.
For the moment, I'm content with my conclusion. Fantasy is literature in its own right. what do you think? Yes? No? Maybe? Is reading anything better than reading nothing at all?

Could I have been anyone other than me?

There is a soft hum of energy swirling around my body, separate from the music emanating from the twenty foot speakers in front of me. My eye lids closed, softly, are acting as skin-thin shields against dancing blotches and streaks of blue-purple-green. The energy seems to simultaneously envelope the entire amphitheater and, yet, only me as sweet saxaphone melts and and mingles with the chocolate of bass.
I am momentarily aware of my mind being occupied by two twin but divergent thoughts.
The first is an ongoing reminder: that my maternal grandfather, along with a good collection of modern scientists, believed that music held mind altering properties. The second is a snapshot: My mother and I, standing in our old livingroom, Dave Matthews on the stereo. She asked if should could turn it off as it was "good" but made her mind "slightly fuzzy", making it hard to concentrate, she said.
My 14 month old son is strapped to my chest in his baby carrier and I am bouncing to the rhythm of the band's jam session, not so much dancing as being moved by the beat, with the excuse of keeping the baby pacified for the other concert goers.
My mind is now clear, although, the answer to an important question, sits in existence albeit silent in my mind. Earlier in the week, Kai's attendance at the concert had been brought into question by several acquaintances. Perhaps others' fears, concerns, ideals had weighed more heavily than my own hopes but in the end, I had won out, as, here we stood.
The question of identity, that amorphous blob of human sought telos has become the bane of my existence. The idea that we are to find that which ultimately "defines" us, that we may EVER truly be satisfied for any length of our lives with a stationary, pedantic, sedentary item, nugget of "truth" can't even find a home to congeal n my head. I somehow can not jive with the idea that we can or will "find ourselves". Many friends and, more likely foes, have presented this dilemma of finding one's self as the root of the division between mother and child. Like polytheists, the idea that we must have a circle, a collection of "selves" all ruled over by the one true "self" is key, here, I believe. A self which acts as parent. A self which acts as student. A self which goes to bars, another that drinks tea in the afternoons. Above all, though, and separately from any of these identities, must be the "true self".
"I lost myself somewhere in my teens," says an older man as he shakes his head, "but I found it again in my late forties in South Korea".
"I was such a wild woman in my twenties," admits a woman, proudly. Then a cloud of regret moves over her face as she shakes her head and mutters,"and then I had two children and I can't seem to shake the 'mommies'".
Perhaps I am so far gone, ruined beyond repair, from this alleged "true self" that these folks and their advice are, indeed on to something I can't see. Perhaps I am doing myself a disservice, listening to my favorite band in recent or ancient history, with my son. The 20lb burden dampening my mood, my resident succubus, eating away at my identity.
My tiny succubus lifts his head as Warehouse launches from the familiar constrains of radio ready march to the famous, breathtaking, life making riff of beauty that is an unplanned Dave Matthews "jam". He opens his eyes, looks at me, smiles and plops his head back down.
there is no place on earth I would rather be. My son in my arms, soaking in beauty of sight, sound and mind. Two thirds of our family, minus the beloved Papa, away on business. We are happy. This is bliss. Perhaps we haven't found our true "selves" but we have found ourselves in complete harmony with the universe and this is where we are supposed to be.

This is us and this is now.

Puppy love.

In all of my rooting around for attachment information regarding human development, I have come to a conclusion about my dogs.

I would like to think that our two four-legged sons reflect our parenting but I know tat nurture doesn't always hold up to an argument against nature.

Our first dog, Teddy, was a year old when we found him at a local shelter. Quiet and withdrawn, he spent most of his time curled up on a dog cot watching the other mid-sized dogs bumbling around into each other. He seemed calm and cute enough to take home so he moved into our apartment with us the day after we signed the lease. We have never known life in Atlanta as adults without Teddy. Teddy, however, knew life before us. We're not sure if we can blame abusive or neglectful parents for Teddy's neurotic, antisocial, malephobic, dog aggressive behavior but we like to. We might also blame it on Teddy's specific brain chemistry or his breed. Neither Whippets nor Basenjis are terribly social or team players and both are dog aggressive.

Donnie, our flower child, came into our lives almost two years later at the age of three months. His mother had been picked up by a rescue agency before birth and he and his litter mates were born into a foster family's warm house and cared for by children and adults. He came home to live with us, bullied slightly by his older brother but raised, for all intents and purposes, as the worlds largest lap dog. He is hyperactive but easy going and has rarely met a person or dog that he hasn't cared for. Again, while pitbulls lean on the side of being slightly dog aggressive, they are often social with the ones they grew up with. As far as people are concerned, unless specifically trained otherwise, most bully breeds would literally walk through fire for their people and generally make terrible watch dogs unless the intent is to lick the stranger to death.

As I sat reading Jonathan Haidt's discourse on different attachment types, I thought, my goodness, Teddy is terribly maladjusted! He has terrible separation anxiety but will run to the far ends of the earth as soon as we get to a dog park, ignoring other dogs and people, preferring to spend his time alone. He will, though, push his way into any situation in which Donnie appears to be receiving love. In many ways, he fits into the stereotype of children (and then adults with RAD (reactive attachment disorder) and because of that, Kellen and I have been inclined to associate his bizarreness with his prior life.

In our version of attachment, more love is better, as in the case of Donnie whose only discomfort in the past two years has been revoked bed privileges after his fourth destroyed puppy bed. He has, now, though, earned back a bed which has remained (knock on wood) intact for three weeks, now.

Our Life Is The Creation Of Our Mind

I try not to make theism a habit, just as a general rule, but every now and then, the moment moves me to contemplate the possibility of "something more". As I sat in the dark, yesterday morning, lights off of my own accord, water turned off via the county of Dekalb, I listened to the rain gently hitting the roof and walk outside.
Due to a mix up in the mail, our water had been turned off, the day before and The Bureaucracy had informed us that "someone" would come out between now and the end of the week. It was Tuesday. I panicked, at first, dropped my phone (which I then had to run out and fix in the middle of the water fiasco), yelled and screamed. After ten deep breaths and a few additional words and phrases muttered on the Bureaucracy's behalf, Kellen and I brainstormed and we bought several gallons of water at the store for flushing the toilet with.
I'm not sure how I thought toilets worked but after hearing, time and time again, the old "if it's yellow let it mellow; if it's brown flush it down" advice, I ought to have seen this coming. I was, though, completely shocked to learn that our toilet takes 1.7 GALLONS of water for every flush! We immediately instated the Mellow Yellow rule and tried to use what we had sparingly.
So it was, with great pleasure, that I awoke to the sound of rain the next morning. It didn't take me very long to evaluate the points of greatest collection. Our fabulous porch canopy provided six drop spots which I quickly harnessed with buckets.
Two hours later, I was cold, wet, sore and elated. I had gathered almost ten gallons! The dogs and baby watched, most likely confused but slightly amused, as I gathered my buckets and contained them in the gallon jugs we had already emptied from the day before. Around eleven, I ran out of jugs to contain the water so I settled in to simply fill up buckets because w would probably need that water, whatever the containment method. Suddenly, the skies cleared. Then, the water came on.
At first I was crushed because, what would I do with all of that water? Then, Kellen showed me how to work a toilet (I suppose, that is his redemption for the bit about Gloria Steinem) which I had only a basic understanding of prior to this event. It turns out, the water can be used even when we're getting water from the county. We'll show them! Our water bill ought to be about $30 less, next month.
Back to god. Do I really think that I needed a lesson in conservation? Perhaps. Do i think that God lost my water check in the mail, bribed county to wait exactly 24 hours, and made it rain, putting the idea of water collection into my head, only to turn off the rain and turn off the water just to push me in the direction of Bill Nye and Al Gore? No. Would I just naturally accept that the former sequence of events was, indeed, god's plan, if theism were a daily practice? Perhaps.
In my newest journey into positive and calm psychology, I will take a more Buddhist approach and agree that nothing is good; nothing is bad. We make our own happiness and sadness with whatever is presented to us. in the words of Marcus Aurelius: the whole universe is change and life itself is what you deem it.

wordless wednesday: water collection