Ode to the Library

Ilsley Library, the main library, in downtown Middlebury

I do not want to imagine what our family’s life would be like without the library. The Library. The Library is the North Star of our weekly schedule. We — the three Gong Girls and myself — go there at least once a week, as we’ve done since Fiona was less than a year old. Other activities may come and go with the seasons or stages of life, but The Library is always there.

I have my own fond childhood memories of libraries. Growing up, the library in our town ran a film for children every Saturday morning, and my father always took me to see it. My mother took me to the library weekly while I was growing up, too, and later I went there with friends to work on research projects for school. I still remember the smell of old books and paste, trying not to giggle too loudly in the stacks, and using the card catalogue to look things up. (Remember the card catalogue?? The one with the actual cards???)

In college, the library took on less cozy connotations. I spent hours there, but it was now associated with late-night studying, caffeine headaches, undergraduates holed up in carrels for days on end. Post-college life coincided with the mega-bookstore boom (Barnes & Noble and Border’s) and the advent of Amazon. It was suddenly more convenient to just buy your books. So, it wasn’t until the end of my years in New York City that I finally stepped back into the public library. The New York Public Library, at that.

It was a revelation: all these books! Every book you could possibly want, and you could take them home with you for FREE! Not just books, either, but music and movies. Why didn’t more people KNOW about this?!?

I became re-addicted to the library. And then I had kids, which sealed the deal for good.

I love taking my girls to the library for so many reasons. The Children’s Room in most libraries these days is much more fun than when I was growing up: not only books, but TOYS! Which means that the library is one of the few places where all three of my children, aged 1 through 4.5 years, are happy. The library is (usually) indoors, which means that you can go there in all weather — particularly important in Vermont. Finally, there’s the social aspect; libraries tend to have many children’s programs, which create opportunities for 1) learning and entertainment, 2) children meeting other children, and 3) parents meeting other parents.

Am I forgetting anything? OH, the BOOKS! Obviously. We love going to the library every week because we can check out books: new books, old books, a tote-bag full of books. Our girls love to read. They also have relatively short attention spans and ever-shifting tastes and interests. We have a house full of books, but I often wonder why we bother to own any; the truth is that our girls mostly read the books they check out from the library each week. These are the books they’re excited about, because these are the books they’ve chosen for right now.

There are also (ahem) the videos. We’ve decided not to own a TV, but we are not above using our laptops to watch DVDs. (Back when Fiona was born, I was so good, SO GOOD, about not letting her watch anything on a screen until she was a full 2 years old, as mandated by the American Pediatric Association. And then I was pretty good about making Campbell wait…except that by then Fiona was already watching videos and I was pregnant with Georgia and just exhausted. And Georgia, frankly, doesn’t stand a chance — she’s already sneaking peeks at her sisters’ DVDs). I don’t love the idea of my kids spacing out in front of a video, but sometimes survival trumps ideals. For me, not using the occasional DVD to buy some peaceful time (we allow four 30-minute “video tickets” per week) would be like choosing to forgo indoor plumbing because trudging to the outhouse builds character. I could stick to my principles, and brag about them to the orderlies at the asylum when they slip my meals through a slot.

So, the girls also get to check out DVDs.

(Sorry for the crummy picture -- taken with my phone camera during our first visit to Middlebury.)

Middlebury has two libraries: there’s the Ilsley Library in town, and the Sarah Partridge Library in East Middlebury. The Ilsley is the main library. The entire lower level is dedicated to children and young adults: there’s a train table, a puppet theater, a craft table, a fish tank, and an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub filled with stuffed animals. Sarah and Kathryn are the children’s librarians, and they do an amazing job putting together programs for almost every day of the week. There are two story times per week, a music hour, and a rotating selection of special events. Last summer we lived at this library because, in addition to story time, there was a weekly performance for children and an “Itsy-Bitsy Yoga” class for children and parents.

The Sarah Partridge Library is closer to us, but we don’t go there as often because it’s only open three half-days a week. Nonetheless, it’s the girls’ favorite. It was recently adopted as a second branch of the Ilsley Public Library, but it’s served East Middlebury as a library and community house since 1924. It has three small rooms: a community room, a children’s book room, and an adult book room. The book selection is much smaller than over at the Ilsley, but there are even more toys and stuffed animals packed into the children’s room, and usually our girls are the only children there, so they have the run of the place. Mona Rogers is the librarian at Sarah Partridge, but it’s more accurate to say that Mrs. Rogers IS the Sarah Partridge Library. I start sounding like Eloise whenever I talk about her: “Oooooooh, I just LOVE Mrs. Rogers!” Fiona’s preschool walks over to Mrs. Rogers’s weekly story time at the library, and Fiona adores her. Most Thursdays, Mrs. Rogers also brings along her Bassett Hound, Harry, who sits next to her desk.

Sarah Partridge Library, in East Middlebury.

We went to the library every week back in Berkeley, too. Berkeley has a much larger library system — 5 branches throughout the city — so there are always story times and special activities for children. Apart from size and number of programs, the main difference I notice between the Berkeley and Middlebury public libraries is that the Berkeley libraries all have self-check-out computers. The Middlebury libraries do not, but then again, we usually don’t even need our library card to check out here. Often, before I reach her desk, Mrs. Rogers has already pulled up our account on her computer. Life in a small town.

Fiona and her newly-acquired library card.

This will never be a political blog, but regardless of your politics (and, as I’ve spent my entire adult life in New York City, Berkeley, and Vermont, you might be tempted to draw some speedy conclusions about mine), there is much to be distressed about in our country these days. Whenever I start feeling depressed about where things are heading, though, I think of this: wherever you go in the United States, there are public libraries. As long as a country has public libraries, I’m pretty sure that there’s still hope for it.

Keeping it Weird

Our town’s sporting goods store sells t-shirts, which I’ve seen locals wearing, that read “Keep Vermont Weird.”

This message, although cute, has always confused me. Now, bear in mind that I moved here from Berkeley, California — I KNOW WEIRD. When I think about Vermont, “weird” is not the first description that comes to mind. Vermont is pretty much like you’d imagine: red barns, green mountains, lots of good dairy products and maple syrup, plenty of outdoor romping year-round. Bucolic? Sure. A slow pace of life? Definitely. Like living in a Norman Rockwell painting? Often. Weird?!? Gosh, I dunno.

That is, I didn’t know, until we left Vermont.

Erick had a week off from his teaching duties for Spring Break, so we decided to take a 2-day family vacation. This trip was significant because 1) it was the first vacation we’d taken with three children (moving cross-country does NOT count as a vacation), and 2) with the exception of a 24-hour jaunt that Erick and I took to Montreal for our anniversary in July, it was the first time the girls and I had left Vermont since arriving here 10 months ago.

Our destination was the Six Flags Great Escape Lodge and Indoor Waterpark in Queensbury, NY. This is a massive hotel complex near Lake George that is focused on whipping your children into a state of chlorinated hysteria. Attached to the hotel is a 38,000 square foot indoor water park, featuring water slides, a “river” you can float along in inner tubes, and a kiddie pool with fountains and swings. The scene is Dante-esque: hundreds of people in bathing suits, parents clutching enormous drinks, overstimulated children, noise, humidity, tepid chemical-smelling water. As Erick pointed out, “it’s kind of like Las Vegas for kids” — the water park even has that sense of casino timelessness: artificial light and NO clocks anywhere.

It is the sort of place that seems like a GREAT idea by about mid-March, with four months of housebound winter behind you.

Campbell meets the bear in the hotel lobby.

The Gong Girls make themselves at home in our hotel room. (Note that Fiona thought to pack her dress-up clothes).

And really, it was a great idea. The kids had fun, family memories were made, and everyone was successfully exhausted after two days of “vacation.”

How Campbell fell asleep after a day at the water park.

My point here is not to comment on our vacation; my point is that the moment we left Vermont, we could tell.

This was surprising, because we were traveling a mere two hours from our house, to a region of New York State famed for its rustic scenery: the Adirondack Mountains, Lake George, log cabins. And the scenery as we crossed over the New York border was lovely, really no different from the rolling Vermont farmland we’d just left behind. But then we noticed the increased amount of trash along the highway. Not that Vermont highways are trash-free, but until we drove to New York I hadn’t realized how little trash there is blowing along Vermont roads.

The next thing we noticed were the billboards. I’ve lived here less than a year, but I realized that during that time I’d seen no billboards in Vermont. I’m not talking about signs next to the road — we have those — I’m talking HUGE advertising billboards. This got me wondering about Vermont’s zoning ordinances, so when we returned home, I looked it up. Turns out that, yes, Vermont is one of four states (the others being Maine, Alaska, and Hawaii) to have banned billboards entirely. Vermont’s law was the first to be passed, in 1968.

As we drove further west into New York, the landscape became more and more developed. Suddenly we were in the land of strip malls, big box stores, multiplexes, putt-putt golf, roadside hotel chains, and Drive-Thru Starbucks.

It was shocking.

But when in Rome, right? We ate at Panera Bread and Johnny Rockets, we stocked up on diapers and trash bags at Target. These were the types of things I was sure I’d miss when we left California. Instead, we felt like we needed some fresh-veggie transfusions after two days of chain-restaurant food. And Target? As soon as I walked in, grabbed an enormous cart, and inhaled that familiar powdered-butter-popcorn smell, I felt a sense of panic. There was so much to buy! I should’ve made a list! SURELY I needed ALL of these things!

Campbell tries her first Margarita (don't worry, it was virgin), declares "I like it!"

As we pulled out of the shopping mall parking lot with our meager Target plunder in the trunk, it hit me: Vermont is weird! Because, as far as I can tell, these concrete temples of consumerism, this multiplex-entertainment-land, ARE WHAT IS NORMAL IN THIS COUNTRY. It’s where we used to live, it’s exactly what my hometown and my husband’s hometown now look like. In fact, we could have been just about anywhere in the United States at that very moment. There was nothing weird about it, just normal people doing their normal shopping, eating their normal food, having their normal fun.

What’s weird is that somehow Vermont seems to have kept most of these “normal” things out. Because, you see, Vermont doesn’t have a single Target. Or an Ikea. There are 3 Wal-Marts, one Costco, and four Starbucks in the entire state of Vermont, and to get to any of those I’d need to drive at least one hour. Our movie theater in town has two screens; to get to any other movie theater, I’d also have to drive at least one hour. What we saw at the southern end of beautiful Lake George was a summer vacation honky-tonk paradise, including a tiki hotel, a wax museum, and more putt-putt courses than I’ve ever seen in one place. Vermont has lakes, too, but I’ve never seen anything remotely approaching this kind of commercial development along them; usually the most you get is a deli and a bait store.

Which got me wondering some more about Vermont’s zoning laws. How have they kept so much of this commercial development out of the state? Did Vermont enact some sort of “anti-tacky” legislation?

As it happens, in 2006 the Vermont Senate passed Senate Bill 175, which requires any proposed retail store over 75,000 square feet (about half the size of a typical big box store) t0 pay for an economic and community impact analysis. I’m guessing that’s a lot for large corporations to stomach, especially when they’ll have to get it by a local group of Vermonters.

I’m hoping that this doesn’t come across as judgmental and self-righteous. If I were truly righteous, I wouldn’t ever shop at Target, or order things from Amazon, or (sometimes) crave Chipotle burritos and Starbucks lattes. I’m just saying that the difference between Vermont and what I would classify as a pretty normal, mid-sized American town was dramatic.

A cynical explanation might be: Vermont’s economy depends on tourism, so Vermonters have an economic incentive to keep things charming and pristine, the way tourists expect Vermont to look. Big box stores are about economics, too, and I was willing to be forgiving; surely these stores are great job-creators for a region of New York that is booming over the summer but depressed the rest of the year, right? So I looked it up. Unemployment in Glens Falls, NY (where most of these malls were located) was 9.5 for January 2012; statewide unemployment was 8.3. During the same period, Vermont’s unemployment was 5.0.

Huh. So I don’t know. I’m not an economist, but I do live with one and I hear from him that these things are complicated.

I do know that I was SO HAPPY to get home to Vermont; this was the trip that really made Vermont feel like home to me. On the way home, we stopped by the New England Maple Museum in Pittsford, VT. We were the only people there. We took a self-guided tour that probably hasn’t been updated in 25 years, watched a slide show (just like the ones you used to watch in elementary school) on how maple syrup is made, and sampled some maple-y goodies. The girls had just as much fun as they did swimming in a chlorinated pool under fluorescent lights.

The dairy farmer mannequin that greets you at the New England Maple Museum.

That’s pretty weird, right? Vermont is weird. I think I may have to pick up one of those t-shirts.

Love the One You’re With

Some of my thoughts are published over at On the Willows today, as part of their “April Fools” series. WARNING: If you tune in to this blog primarily for cute pictures or stories of the Gong Girls, this post includes none of those. It’s also one of my more “faith-y” pieces: I quote Jesus. But I also quote Al Franken.

Consider yourself warned. Click here to read it.

As compensation, here’s an Easter morning photo of the girls:

And Georgia walking!

If I can get a break from chasing the baby, a lighthearted Pickle Patch update will be coming in the very near future.

Letting Go

If you know Campbell, then you know the Sweeties.

The Sweeties are two little blankie animals (I believe they’re often called “lovies”) that Campbell carries with her EVERYWHERE. Looking through our photos, I was actually shocked at how seldom the Sweeties appear — I must do a better job editing than I thought — because Campbell seldom allows them to be more than arms-reach away. The two Sweeties are differentiated as “Pink Sweetie” and “White Sweetie” based on their original colors, although by now they’re both just a dull grey.

Here is Campbell holding Pink Sweetie:

And here she is with White Sweetie:

The Sweeties were originally given to Fiona when she was born. But her level of attachment never even approached Campbell’s; shortly after Campbell’s birth, Fiona decided it was time to pass along the Sweeties to her new baby sister, so she put them in Campbell’s crib. The rest, as they say, is history. (This is actually interesting, because if you asked the people who know our daughters which one would be most likely to form a strong attachment to a security object, they probably wouldn’t guess Campbell. Campbell is louder, more secure in who she is, and throws her body around a little more than Fiona, so people tend to assume she’s the tough one. In fact, it’s not that simple. Campbell is afraid of random things like automatic hand dryers, she’s the one who wakes up with nightmares… and the Sweeties are her equivalent of Samson’s hair. Which just goes to show that people are complicated).

What Campbell likes to do with the Sweeties is: bury her face in the silky material on their undersides. Or, more accurately, she inhales them. Because they come with us everywhere, I see the Sweeties as a convenient form of immunotherapy — and Campbell is the healthiest of our girls. (Check it out: science via NPR validates my dirty kids!) Erick, on the other hand, is always looking for opportunities to steal the Sweeties and throw them in the wash. So he’s not Campbell’s favorite parent.

Of course, there are some boundaries imposed on Campbell’s relationship with the Sweeties. She may bring them along in the car, but — assuming our destination is Sweetie-friendly — she’s only allowed to bring ONE Sweetie out of the car with her. The winner in this daily Sophie’s Choice is always: Pink Sweetie.

So it was a pretty big deal the day she left Pink Sweetie at home.

Here’s how it happened: I was taking Campbell and Georgia to the weekly playgroup that the Addison County Parent Child Center hosts at our church. In addition to the Sweeties, Campbell had collected a couple of stuffed animals that she also wanted to bring in the van. She had such an armful that, somehow, Pink Sweetie slipped through the cracks. We drove happily all the way into town, parked the van, and as I was unbuckling Campbell from her carseat we both realized that Pink Sweetie was missing!

I can’t think of any fitting metaphor to capture the magnitude of Campbell’s trauma at this realization. Imagine the most dramatic movie scene in which two lovers are being torn apart — something from Titanic, say — and that’ll just about do it. She was completely prostrate, screaming unintelligible words punctuated by “NOOOOO!” I tried reason: You still have White Sweetie, if we go all the way back home we’ll miss playgroup, I need to get Georgia out of the car. Nothing worked. I did one of those quick parental cost-benefit analyses in my head, and then said: “We’re going in. You don’t need Pink Sweetie to have fun. You’re going to be okay.”

And I repeated that over and over while I dragged my screaming child the longest 25 feet of both of our lives towards the door. Do you ever have a moment when you think: “Someone is going to assume I’m abducting my own child and call the police on me?” This was one of those moments.

In the end? She was fine. By the time we made it through the door, she’d settled down. When she saw all the children and toys at playgroup, she hesitated for a minute and then jumped right in as usual. When we returned home, Pink Sweetie was waiting on the Mud Room stairs.

At dinner that night, I told Erick how proud I was of Campbell. Campbell’s version: “I cried. I stopped crying. Happy!”

It was a good moment, and I was hoping she’d hold a little more loosely to Pink Sweetie afterward, figuratively speaking. And so far, she has — literally speaking. The next day we took some visiting friends (Manny, Zoe, and daughter Sofia from Maine — click here to read Zoe’s generous account on her own blog) to the Salisbury Fish Hatchery, which produces trout to stock Vermont water bodies. Pink Sweetie came along, and right at the very end, as Campbell leaned over one of the pools of trout — the one with a “No Hands in Water” sign right above it — she held Pink Sweetie so loosely that Pink Sweetie fell into the water. Guess who had to fish Pink Sweetie out? So between my hands and the germs on Pink Sweetie, if the Vermont trout population dips steeply this year, you’ll know why.

Campbell holding Pink Sweetie and feeding the trout, before the Fall.

I was wondering whether I have a “Pink Sweetie” in my own life. I think it’s probably coffee.

Panic at the A & W

Fiona's impression of "panic" -- with a mouthful of chocolate doughnut.

Hello, my name is Faith, and I’m a perfectionist.

Actually, I’m a recovering perfectionist. I expect to be in recovery for the rest of my life.

This is not intended as a cute, “Boo hoo, I’m soooo perfect!” quasi-lament. On the contrary, I consider perfectionism to be equally as addictive as controlled substances, and potentially as damaging.

It sounds so positive, so socially acceptable: PERFECTIONISM. Like you’re packaging an admirable quality as an -ism so that it doesn’t come across as bragging. Saying “I’m such a perfectionist” is in the same league as, “Gosh, I wish I could put on weight!” or “Really, celebrity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

But don’t be fooled: if you truly desire perfection, you have put yourself in an untenable position. NOTHING in life is perfect — or if it is, it doesn’t stay that way for long. So, by proclaiming yourself a perfectionist, you are placing yourself in opposition to the universe. And if that isn’t a recipe for bitterness, disappointment, and strained relationships, I don’t know what is.

Just as there are a variety of substances available for addiction, there are a variety of outlets for perfectionism. You may be a perfectionist when it comes to your work, your food and coffee (that was a big one when we lived in the Bay Area), your appearance. I am a (recovering) social perfectionist, which means that I care too much about what other people think of me in social situations. I believe this is the perfectionism equivalent of crack cocaine: you can’t win.

One thing that my perfectionism sometimes leads me into is a little game I call “Script the Social Interaction.” In this game, before I head into a social situation, I script it out in my head beforehand. I think about how I want to come across, and I plan what I’ll say to the various people who will be there. Then, during the social interaction, I will actually give myself direction (“Nod less, smile more. NO, don’t talk about your kids!”). And of course, afterwards the critics weigh in (“Idiot! NEVER ask an economist about their research!!”). It’s like having the entire motion picture industry inside my head: crowded and exhausting.

(And please tell me that some of you do this, too. Even if you’re telling me very slowly and hoping that I don’t notice you dialing 911 behind your back).

ANYWAY, my point is that sometimes I do this, but I’m trying to stop as part of my perfectionism recovery. Because if you can’t be real and open with people, it’s impossible to have genuine relationships. If I’m only concerned with maintaining a perfect front during social interactions, what’s the fun in being my friend? I’ll bring nothing interesting to the relationship, and will only make you feel bad that you’re not as perfect as I appear to be. If, on the other hand, I’m able to relax and be myself and share imperfections like (theoretically): “Sometimes I yell at my kids and feel like a horrible mom,” or “Sometimes when my husband is talking about his day, I’m really wondering whether he’ll make us popcorn after dinner,” — well, you still may not want to be my friend, but at least you won’t feel inadequate by comparison.

And you know what’s really helping me get over this perfectionism? KIDS.

One of the greatest things about children is that they force you to be real. I can script out social interactions all I want, but it’s hard to maintain a slick front when a little person is pulling at my sleeve yelling, “Mommy, I need to pee! RIGHT NOW!”

I’ve found that the power of kids to cut through my social perfectionism is exponentially stronger in a small town. Since we moved to Vermont, we see the same people EVERYWHERE we go: the park, the library, the playgroup, the pizza place. So when Campbell pitches a massive tantrum at the library (not that this happened just last week or anything), we likely know every single witness. Not only that, but we’ll see them all again the next day, and the day after that, until forever. The lovely thing about this is that when this tantrum happened (okay, it was last week), I had several moms offering to help push our stroller out. The drawback is that I worry that I’ll always be known around here as “That poor gal from California who’s in over her head with those three crazy kids!”

A perfect example of this happened last summer at the A & W. This is a classic drive-in restaurant with simple, greasy food. It’s only open during the warm weather months. (The A & W is Campbell’s favorite place; she calls it “The ABC,” and all summer long, whenever we’d drive past it, she’d scream: “Look! The ABC!!”) You can either eat right in your car, or at picnic tables in a large grassy field next to the parking lot. The Gong Girls prefer the picnic tables, because there’s a big bucket of plastic outdoor toys (balls, bats, frisbees, etc) nearby. The Gong adults prefer the picnic tables, too, because WHY would we be having 3 kids eat in our car if we could have them running around in a grassy field instead?!?

One evening in late summer, we met the girls’ friend Ruth and her parents for dinner there. It was a magical summer night: golden sunset, pleasant adult conversation, the girls running through the grass pretending they were being chased by aliens. It was when all three girls were happily dancing on top of an unused picnic table that we heard it: “Mommy, Mommy, I’m POOPING!” Turns out Fiona had been having so much fun that she’d neglected to tell us she had to use the bathroom. So there she was: holding up her dress, laying one right on top of the picnic table in full view of Rte. 7 and the other A & W diners. (This was one of those moments when my entire parenting life flashed before my eyes. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be horrified, so I sort of did both).

This being a small town, the A & W diners were: us, Ruth’s parents, and another family that we know from church. So the good news was that everybody there knew us…aaaand the bad news was that everybody there knew us.

So, if you’re ever in Middlebury and you’re not sure where to find us, just ask anybody for “That mom whose kid pooped on top of the picnic table at the A & W” and they’ll point you the right way.

And yes, we will be telling this story at Fiona’s wedding.

Dead Mom Walking

Bonus post! I have a piece published over at On The Willows today — a little reflection on Fiona’s birth in particular and maternal health in general. Click here to read it.

Irrational Behavior?

It might be just me, but sometimes my children behave irrationally.

When this happens, my first instinct — usually indulged — is to return the child in question to whatever passes for “normal” behavior, as quickly as possible.

My second instinct, increasingly, is to reflect upon whether this irrational behavior might — just possibly — be something that I myself display, albeit in a more “mature” form.

It’s not really news that if you stand back and compare the behavior of children and adults, you’ll probably find more similarities than differences. For all the living and learning that we do, I think we mostly just add protective layers on top of our childlike instincts. We’re kind of like those Russian nesting dolls; we may look all grown up on the outside, but at our deepest core is a tiny little person. A tiny little person full of basic wonder, love, anger, fear, and who often screams, “It’s not fair!”

For instance:

-When each of our daughters started sitting in a high chair and eating solid foods, they did so quite messily. So, at the end of each meal, we would wipe their hands and faces with a wet washcloth to prevent them from looking like human sculptures of mashed sweet potatoes. Remember, now, we did this following every single meal, three meals a day, for at least a year. We applied gentle pressure as we wiped, and the washcloth was pleasingly warm. In a spa setting, you’d pay good money for this kind of service. But every single one of our daughters would SCREAM like we were taking a Brillo pad to them, every single time we wiped them down. Now that it’s Georgia’s turn for the thrice-daily screamfest, I again find myself wondering, “WHY is this such a traumatic surprise to you? Isn’t this the exact same thing I did after your LAST meal? Not to mention EVERY meal?!?”

Don't even THINK about coming near me with that washcloth!

And yet, don’t we all miss the patterns and react with shock and outrage when we find ourselves repeating the same scenario over and over?

-At least 37 times a day, Campbell comes to me complaining (loudly): “Mommy, Sister won’t give me the doll/toy/marker/book.” I’ve learned that my first question should be, “Well, Campbell, did you ASK her for it?” Because over half the time, the answer is “No.” And once Campbell goes back to Fiona and simply asks for whatever it is she wants, chances are good that she’ll get it. (Or at least, she’ll get it after Fiona’s “done with it,” which often requires persistent requests every few seconds).

And yet, don’t we all angrily assume that something’s being withheld from us, when maybe all we had to do was ask?

-Our two oldest daughters sometimes lose control of themselves, in which case the best solution is for them to have a little “time out” alone in a quiet room where they can cool down. Recently, Fiona has started shouting, “FINE! I’m NEVER coming out!” from behind the door that we’ve just closed on her. As if, all along, this has been her idea; she’s the one in control, AND she’s punishing us. Because, you see, she’s NEVER coming out.

And yet, oh my gosh, don’t we all do this? We get so tangled up in our need to appear in control that we turn things around and punish other people without even realizing that we’re really the ones being punished.

-Finally, FAIRNESS. Ah, fairness! Four-year-old Fiona has just latched on to the concept of fair/unfair, so we’re all living with the refrain of “It’s NOT FAIR!” these days.

She says the words, because she’s four, but don’t adults — all of us — still feel it so painfully in our hearts? It’s NOT fair that other people live in Manhattan townhouses, that some people’s children sleep until 9 AM, that Erick gets to leave the house all day. WAAAAAH!

Of course, the appropriate response, to both Fiona and myself, is: “Life’s not fair.” That’s certainly true, but it’s trite and hopeless and a bit too Archie Bunker-ish for me.

So I’ve come up with my own little saying for our whole family: Never expect fairness for yourself; never accept unfairness for others. This is how I express my desire to quit whining about my own circumstances, and to start thinking instead about how I could help people who REALLY live in unfairness.

Here’s an example of this in action:

Two weeks ago, Fiona raised the “It’s NOT FAIR!” cry in the car, because (I’m not kidding) Campbell had frost on her window, while there were only “boring” water droplets on Fiona’s window. Armed with my nifty new slogan, I said: “At some point, Fiona, you will have frost on your window, so this is not really a question of fairness. But you know what’s not fair? Some children don’t have parents. Some children don’t have three meals a day. Some children don’t have nice soft beds to sleep in and roomfuls of toys to play with. Life ISN’T fair, but in the scheme of things, kiddo, you’re on the blessed side of the fairness seesaw. So, what are you going to do about it? Never expect fairness for yourself, but never accept unfairness for others!”

She hasn’t claimed unfairness again this week.

And that, my friends, is why my children will run away from home to become investment bankers.

Wait a minute, is her cookie bigger than mine?

Oops! Sorry!

We were out of town all weekend, and apparently my computer felt neglected.

So, when we returned this afternoon and I sat down to start work on a little post about our trip, my computer decided to get passive-aggressive on me. I typed out the title, “Keeping it Weird,” and my computer froze up. I pressed a couple of keys in an attempt to get things started again, and instead got a message congratulating me on publishing my 50th post.

“NOOOO!” I cried, and frantically tried to bury the evidence. I thought I’d succeeded, but WordPress is fast. Very fast.

It was my parents who let me know, of course. Apparently those of you who subscribe to receive updates from The Pickle Patch all got messages saying that a new post, “Keeping it Weird,” was up. But when you visited the site, there was no such thing. This was not an early April Fool’s joke (wish I’d thought of it!) — there just was no post to see.

I assure you that there WILL be an actual “Keeping it Weird” post to read in the near future, and it will be worth the wait. I apologize for any confusion.

The good news is that there will also be an actual new post for you to read tomorrow. It discusses our children’s irrational behavior. Stay tuned.

Like Lambs to the Potty

A woman from our church who lives on a small farm told me this story the other day:

She recently purchased two tiny new lambs, whom she’s been keeping in the house until they grow big enough to transfer to the barn. (Aside: the lambs are named “Goodness” and “Mercy.” Plans are to add a “Shirley” soon. As in: “Shirley, Goodness, and Mercy will follow me all the days of my life.” Get it?!? – nudge, nudge – Psalm 23?)

SO, the thing about these lambs is that they trained themselves to use pee pads to go to the bathroom. (Pee pads are those absorbent pads that you lay on the floor, usually for dogs who are left in the house during the day). Here’s how: the pee pads were already laying around the house, because this family happens to have a cat who won’t use the litter box. (Sub-theme to this story: animals are strange). Shortly after the lambs moved in, one of them walked over to a pee pad, sniffed at it, and deduced that this was the place where he should pee. Somehow, the lamb communicated this to his brother, and the two of them have been doing their business on the pee pads ever since.

In my opinion, the funny part of this story isn’t the fact that these lambs are housebroken. The hilarious part is imagining the conversation between the two lambs that resulted in their mutual decision to use the pee pads:

LAMB #1: “Psst! Hey, get a whiff of this! Kinda strange, but I guess in this house you’re supposed to pee on these funny pad thingies.”

LAMB #2: “Weird! Well, okay, if that’s how they do it here….” (shrugs)

This story is my way of telling you that Fiona is potty-training Campbell, and it’s pretty darn cute. I’ve heard about this older sibling-training-younger sibling dynamic, but it’s something else to see it happening under our own roof.

Despite the fact that I write about them in this blog, I am pretty serious about our girls’ privacy. So you will not be seeing any potty pictures, or reading any potty details. Suffice it to say that Fiona is embracing her BIG SISTER status. She gets Campbell set up, grabs a book to read to her little sister, kicks me out (“Mommy, GO! I can do this!”), and they spend inordinate amounts of time in the bathroom (which I thought wouldn’t start for another 10 years or so).

After one such successful bathroom foray, I congratulated Campbell: “Great job, Campbell!”

To which she raised her arms in victory and shouted: “Now I can go to preschool with Sister!”

Spring (blog) Cleaning

This was the winter I fell in love with writing again.

I have always, always loved to write — and my mom will be happy to tell you about my elementary school librarian who once predicted that I’d be a writer. The thing is, whenever I get a little time on my hands, I end up writing. The last time this happened was when Erick and I were living in New York City; he’d just been accepted into the PhD program at UC Berkeley, I had just finished a master’s program in photography. Our days in New York were numbered, so I was tutoring and doing freelance photography to fill the remaining time. Except I mostly ended up writing.

Well, now I have a little bit of time again. That may sound counter-intuitive, because I’m a busy mama. But I have two good nappers (and one horrible napper who goes to preschool 3 days a week), the kids are in bed before 8 every night, my husband is busy, and I’m not working. Enter writing, stage right.

I just wanted to explain why you’re now getting an average of 2 posts a week from me, when I promised only that I would post a minimum of once a month when I started this blog 9 months ago (In case you’ve been thinking, “Good God, WHY won’t she stop!?!”). Back then, I didn’t realize how much this blog would feed that part of me that needs to think things through in writing, I didn’t realize that it would become an outlet for the adult conversations that I’m not able to have during this season of life, and I didn’t realize how well writing would fit with my current life. (Also, some people have said nice things about my writing, which of course only encourages me to write more. So really, it’s your own fault.)

Inspired by this new outlook, I decided to do a little spring cleaning on the blog. You may have noticed some minor tweaks to the format. For instance, it now has categories. And a snappy new tagline: “Life. Motherhood. Vermont. (Not necessarily in that order).” But I also figured that I needed a new icon to represent The Pickle Patch, not just a snapshot of our family.

So recently, when the girls were napping — and clearly it was a LOOOOONG nap — I started thinking about an icon that would represent everything The Pickle Patch stands for. I looked down at the creeping kids’ stuff all over the Sun Room floor. Conveniently, all of the play food had migrated down from the Rec Room and was spread out across the carpet. Inspiration struck, and here is the new Pickle Patch icon, which is probably visible as a thumbnail somewhere on your page:

What do you think? Too much?

(Postscript: I should have made a “making of the icon” video, but didn’t think of that until it was too late. Instead, you’ll just have to picture me Scotch-taping a toy pickle to our Sun Room window).