Sunday, April 28, 2013

When one person wins, you both lose

Just another usual Sunday. Waking up with all sorts of hope that some scrap of sitting iwth a coffee and reading the NYTimes might happen, only to end up with a kid in her room in time-out because she was kicking me after I took her away from the table after she shoved her cup and plate across it, after I told her she had to mix juice with water if she wanted any juice.

One of those golden moments in parenting that never seem to make it onto any mother's brag list the next week. Sheesh, how did we get here again?

Time out (two of them actually) over, in the living room now, and this time it is M coming up with 10 reasons I shouldn't start building the IKEA shoe cabinets until I know 100% for sure which ones have to be returned (two of the three I bought have a slightly - 2cm - different height listed on the box, probably due to some phasing in of a new design under the same barcode), after telling me earlier this week that the thing he hates most are the moving boxes we are currently using for shoe storage in the hallway. Now I'm on the receiving end of the lose, and it is clear to me why this tactic sucks. At least, being on the receiving end. And that is where A was this morning. I was winning and so we were both losing.

Winning an argument through logic often leads to alienating the person you "won" against, and that isn't the end of goal of most relationships. Not an easy lesson, especially for an academic (either me or M) who keeps seeing logic held in the highest esteem in daily life. Academics can really suck at cooperation and giving in. Turns out, we bring it all too easily home to the breakfast table, too. And then the living room, the bathroom and a handful of other places where it is the last thing we should be emphasizing.

Given how I felt after M won and I put the pieces of the dresser I'd chosen to build back in the box, no wonder A was kicking me earlier this morning.

Friday, April 19, 2013

Mama, I want a baby in our house

Out of the mouths of little ones.

Being a kid is so many things - confusing, emotional, frustrating, and also joyous and full of big dreams and ideas. And an ability to ask for what they want, at the moment they think about it. Without all that adult baggage we develop, of what it means to want, if it is okay, should we say it, should we even want it.

And so, at breakfast this rainy morning, towards the end of eating a kiwi, A said "Mama, I want a baby. In our house. Like you had when you had me when I was a baby." She has a best friend who is a big sister to a 1 year old baby, and babies are all the rage at daycare right now (more in an accessories, I want to be the one who holds her/him, kind of way).

By the time we had talked about which babies she was basing this on, and it was my turn to respond, I started choking up a bit. Saying "I want one, too" without breaking into tears was rough. But I managed it.

That we might all have moments again like that where we can just say so easily what we want at a certain moment.

I want one, too, little one. I want one, too.

Monday, April 8, 2013

Having to ask for every dance

Two calls of "maaaama" at 3am just got me out of bed and out of one of those disturbing dreams where you can't find your way out of somewhere you don't want to be (this time, a hospital, a really big one with suffering people all around, but in a science fiction film, less human, more focusing on the fear of the diseases sort of way). And I had just been trying to drop off an ex at his bicycle before I headed back to my time machine. It just went all wrong and I never got back to my time machine.

Aaaanyway, my daughter called my name twice and then went silent. Must have found her pacifier. And now I'm up, in part trying to drain off the disturbing, lingering emotional state-of-mind from that dream.

As I was laying in the dark, trying to fall back asleep at the same time as not remember the dream, a striking similarity between two parts of my life struck me for the first time ever. My current employment, in which I am constantly needing to hustle, to cold call other researchers, people who work at the university, or anyone who I think might help me think through some of what I think through in academia without a research group to call my own (either above or below me), feels like being at a huge swing dance night, in a new city (yet again), in a scene I know no one in, and having to ask for every, single, dance.

No wonder I find work so disheartening sometimes. Because let me tell you how many car rides I've been a part of where a bunch of us women were coming home from a dance that just made us mostly feel like crap. Where no one asked us to dance, and since we weren't there to hook up (on that particular night or in general, say), and didn't know anyone, we had to ask for dances or just sit there. Yeah, I know, women and liberation, blah blah blah. Having to ask for every dance is painful, no matter who you are - guys, don't think women don't know what that feels like when someone who accepted a dance acts like it is a big favor they are doing you.

And it can just drain your enthusiasm for the activity, no matter how great the band or the venue was. So much hope and excitement goes down the drain. Self-esteem tried its best to do that, too.

How great it was to be driving home in a car full of people who experienced the same thing and to laugh, swear and, by the end of the hour, have some of the hope back and think "maybe I'll try dancing there one more time." And how lonely and disheartening it is not to have the same kind of support group right now as I ask for every dance academically these last few years.

I just went to a local swing night, in fact, and it was kind of the same - I knew no one, most people came in pairs or groups, all first contact was going on in German (my language skills do not include the subtleties of asking for a dance), there were many more followers than leads, and being 40 years old isn't exactly the quality one desires to have to get more dances. It was a pretty bleak night, emotionally. M had even insisted since I was going alone that I leave my wedding ring at home in hopes of playing the flirting angle. Sweet husband. Let's just say I might have been better served giving off "I'm married, just here for the dancing, don't worry, I won't follow you after this dance" signals at 40 than "I might be a cougar" signals.

And the band wasn't all that great, either.

Tampons and maxi-pads

Why do I even worry about typing in that title?

Why does it even warrant a second thought, as if those are swear words?

A few weeks ago, on the morning of my 40th birthday, I broke out in a rash. Well, I may have broken out in that rash in the middle of the night. Not sure. But by morning, I was fully broken.

The doctor told me she thought it was an allergic reaction and we went through possible culprits I may have engaged with recently: nuts (check), shellfish (check), new body wash (check - even if you ARE a bar soap person, how can you not start using the bodywash in your new, not-for-sale-in-Europe shampoo and soap dispenser?), new creams (check - or at least ones not used in a while). Well, hell. So now I might be allergic to nuts and Body Shop products?

Dang.

We even decided together to chuck the menstrual cramp meds I started taking the day before I broke out. Oops. I did it again. This time I wrote the word "menstrual." Seriously, why is that such a problem? Have we all forgotten that women's periods are the reason any of us exist?

Well, the anti-histamines worked. My skin calmed down. I have since eaten nuts and shellfish. And used some of those creams. No problem.

And then I pulled out the one other, new thing I hadn't remembered I'd bought. Maxi-pads. With some horrible "scented, anti-smell" pearl "technology." Because, what, showering isn't an option when you have your period? You have only one pad for the the whole week of....ok, sorry, if you're not a woman that may have been just a bit too much for your delicate sensibilities. I apologize. Please, try to forget that imagery, and continue playing Grand Theft Auto. Anyway, I have decided the culprit was the perfumy pads. They have been since banished from the house. The rash was worse on my stomach and thighs, and that is evidence enough. (Well, thanks to my cousin L, I was reminded that I didn't have to go do the scientific thing and actually try them out on myself again.).

I threw them out and then looked for other pads. Single ones, loose in the house in various handbags and pockets. And it made me wonder why I have to be so embarrassed to pull one out of a bag while searching for something else. I don't turn shades of red when I unpack a pack of unused tissues (because that's what we're talking about here, unused, people). I once worked with a guy, back in college so he must have been mid 20s, who told me that a box of tampons in a woman's bathroom was as good as an international border. He couldn't even bear to reach his had over one. We're talking international border, airspace included.

It would be nice if people weren't so squeamish about this stuff. Which, as usual, means I need to also start acting more normal about it. But this is just me thinking. There will likely be no action taken. I'm not now going to go out and find a maxi-pad shaped iPhone holder or anything. But can you imagine pulling that out of your pocket and answering it?

Can't be a manager and a mentor to the same person.

A while ago I wrote a post about this dilemma in academia - that professors are supposed to be both managers (getting projects done on time, papers published, grant proposals submitted, fitting postdoc candidates recruited) at the same time as being mentors (encouraging a person to really think about what they want to do with their career, and academia may not be it) to the same people. Which I think is a huge problem.

And I'm not the only one. So many graduate students and postdocs run into trouble with this - the judge and the cheerleader are wrapped up in one person, so of course there will be problems. There is no way for the judge to stay home when she or he goes to be the cheerleader at a student presentation. There may well come a time when that professor has to write recommendation letters for two people from her or his group, for the same position, and will be asked to compare them. How can you possibly be this person, the letter writer, and say "no one is judging you" to a student giving a talk in a journal club or seminar? It isn't possible to not form an opinion. Of course that talk impact how that student will be evaluated some day.

No wonder students don't speak up at journal clubs. More on that later. A lot later. Like, "I'm looking into it research-wise" later.

But the same holds for parents, I think. And I finally made that connection this weekend.

Because, see, we have one child. And that may be where it ends, like it or not. I may never have another. And part of coming to terms with an only child is my confusion about how to teach her to share and play with others. I often find myself stuck between letting her win, take many turns in a row, draw on my drawing, take my food, etc., and asking her to be considerate, holding out until I get a turn, too, etc. And although I think at some level a parent can be both mostly the giver but also ask for consideration, I realized this weekend that I can't be both her sibling/friend and her parent.

I am the parent. That will never change. She'll have to learn more about sharing toys and turns from friends who get grumpy when she doesn't. I can't play that role for her because it will start edging into my parental role - which is also nurturer.

Now, I don't mean to say that I'm not going to get grumpy myself when she keeps kicking me in the ribs when I've asked her not to. And I've already decided that I may not be able to stop the boogie-licking, but I don't have to stay in the room watching it like some horror film I didn't mean to buy tickets so. But I do mean that when we play, I don't have to push so much for equality. I'm not her equal, I'm her parent. I have significant power over her emotional landscape, and that needs to be taken into account when I play with her.

So, I'll let her draw on my drawing, and eat all the last bites of my dessert. She still has to ask about looking in my purse, but if she want to build a puzzle halfway and then chuck that badboy across the floor, I'm not going to stop playing with her. Probably not even when she does it to my puzzle.

I may just not play as long. Because, after all, I'm also an only child, and we don't stand for that kind of thing.

Sandpig, sandpig.

Just as I was thinking that Zurich winter was going to be the end of me this year, our Easter trip happened. We'd been through a bunch of ideas for getting back to North America for some sun, and they just had not panned out. Too long of a flight (27 hours?!) or too high of a price ($6000 for the three of us) for the Easter week. And then the memories of the jetlag that would not be conquered at Christmas time. So, we decided to learn from our Yuletide mistake and stay local. Swiss Airlines has a great feature which lets you dial in a price (which is a pretty good tracker for flight time) and, get this, a TEMPERATURE RANGE. I dialed in between 70 F and 90 F, and we wound up booking direct flights to Palma. It was the warmest place we could manage, while still being aware of State Department concerns and assuring non-stop travel.

We nailed this one. A small, family friendly hotel (Hotel Migjorn, near Campos) run by British expats, full of kids' amenities and in the countryside; a brand new rental car big enough for just our stuff, and 4 days of almost no clouds and about 72 F. Four beaches of silky white sand, many meals that were memorable (including the most gorgeous plate of tapas I've ever met at Perla Negra in Es Llombards), and three (or was it four?) trips to the island's best gelato shop (in Cala Sant Jordi) for a whole loving boatload of gelato in cones dipped in chocolate.

The water was still really cold, but nothing else was. The people, the food, the weather.





Now, I do have to say that our return to Zurich started promptly upon boarding the flight. Before we even got near the snow-covered Alps, we were surrounded by the surliest-looking, sun-burned people I think I've ever seen. No party atmosphere on that flight out of Palma. 

Best thing I learned on the trip - mostly a reminder, that we have to keep taking vacations, that are not about doing almost anything. Sure, I bought a few pairs of linen pants that I hope to someday wear to a very casual part of Zurich, and M saved me from buying a flowy, white shirt that would have never made it out of my closet. But mostly, we were looking for a beach to visit each day, to play in the sand, and as long as we got that and some food at regular intervals, we were great. No checking the phone, no texting or Facebook, and no trying to visit with others. Family trips, those to visit family, are rarely about taking things slowly. And although they are also vital, as A is growing up, and so we stay connected, they have about as much in common with vacations as mentoring graduate students has with managing them (which, really, given that professors are supposed to do both, should probably be reviewed by someone in charge somewhere at some point).

Best thing we did on the trip? Hard to pick, but the recurrent building of a sandpig sculpture on each beach kept things pretty coherent for the three of us.

Final thoughts - a bit more thought on the inflight programming that everyone has to see. Tom & Jerry and a chicken that shoots upwards of 1000 eggs out of its....egg-producing-organ? Not so bad for toddlers. The Best of Mr. Bean? Not so good for toddlers.