I got to wash pots and pans, while an afternoon pot of coffee got itself ready on the stove just now. It was pretty wonderful.
Both my beloveds are asleep, one in each bedroom, and the dog is still with the sitter for a few more days. So I had the kitchen to myself. And the living room, and the dining room. Just me. A cup of fresh, strong coffee on the window ledge, the NYTimes crossword and a mechnical pencil near my feet, a new Barbara Kingsolver book on my iPhone. I'll do the dishes for that kind of solitary time anytime.
We took a different approach to Christmas this year, which meant a really short trip to North America. And no "getting over" jetlag. A was awake from 2 or 4am through midday most days, which meant so was one of us. The "box of baking soda" item on the fridge list for American goods to bring home remains unchecked. We almost just stayed in Zurich, since we'd had a long trip in fall, and the travel (especially said jet-lag skews about 5 days on either end, usually all for me and the pistachio). But my South American family decided to go for a white Christmas this year, and it was A's first chance to meet them all, and our chance to see them after 5 years. It was hectic, tiring, full of people and laughs and kids and food and great.
And I don't ever want to do such a short trip to North America with a small child again.
But we made it back here in time for New Year' Eve. And had a small party, which was actually the exact right size. Two other couples and 3 other kids. A full house for our apartment. The apartment with the killer view of the valley and the city and the lake, which meant about 100 min. of fireworks in all directions starting at 11:00pm last night. By 10pm, I was starting to worry that I'd oversold the fireworks view to our guests, only a pop or a flash here and there happening. But, no worries. By 11:30pm I'd realized that I'd undersold it. Cars were parking in our neighborhood so people could go up the hill to look over the valley. Fireworks were going off east, west, below us, above us, about 5 per second. By the time the city started its show, I was almost done with beautiful, multi-colored lights. And the kids, the littlest ones, made it the whole way through to 12:40pm. A did not. She fell asleep in her stroller on balcony, covered in down blankets and footie pajamas by 11:15pm.
So here's to a new year. A new chance at practicing slowing down - writing a blog instead of clicking through horrible TV channels, calling an old friend instead of going shopping, doing my back exercises, and noticing the passage of time. Of being aware of moods and their transience. Of practicing not doing too much. Of making my temporary home country a better place with things I bring to the mix, instead of just despairing about what is here already.
And now, 12 hours later, M and A are asleep, and I have the place to
myself. Both the washing machine and the dishwasher are running, sounds
which make me feel even more soothed. I can flip through the earmarked
pages of my physical copy of Bitch magazine, drink my coffee, and sit
down to write a blog post on an old laptop that got resurrected last
night to show kids' videos because none of our new computers have CD
drives anymore. Ahhh, the passage of time.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Catfish
I don't always watch the most, um, highbrow television.
Not that BBC channels we get here aren't trying their hardest to provide me with hours and hours of the History of the Canoe, the History of the British Meat Pie, and the History of the River Cottage Stone Wall.
Sometimes, in fact, when work or life gets too intellectual, and I've just read a bunch of journal articles about goal attribution theory or other such constructs, I need myself an hour or two in front of decidedly sensationalist television. Times like that, even Project Runway can be too refined.
A while ago, I put an MTV show called Catfish on my iTunes favorites list. It is based on a guy who supposedly had an internet romance in which he was severely deceived. The woman he thought he was in love with didn't even exist, and he found himself talking to a woman 15 years his senior, who had pretended to be woman in the Facebook photos. Anyway, he has now embarked on a project to connect others with their online loves, regardless of whether or not the people at the opposite ends of the computer are who they said they were or not.
Spoiler alert: most people are not. At least not the halves of the internet romances who have said they are models, who only send one photo of themselves in the course of a 3 years internet/phone romance, and especially those who say they have no way to Skype. Yeah, definitely suspect those ones.
Why even watch this show?
And yet, this morning as I was working on bills, I had bought an episode and was half watching, as a woman found out her Swiss love was actually born a woman and going through a gender reassignment process. And even though she found out all of this, she was still in love with this person she'd been talking over the phone to for 2 years, never having met. It was such a beautiful ending to a terrifying situation for the transgender individual, fearing being laughed or left, once again. And here was this woman who said, nope, I love you and I'm not going anywhere.
It was exactly the kind of thing I needed to see after all the news this week.
Not that BBC channels we get here aren't trying their hardest to provide me with hours and hours of the History of the Canoe, the History of the British Meat Pie, and the History of the River Cottage Stone Wall.
Sometimes, in fact, when work or life gets too intellectual, and I've just read a bunch of journal articles about goal attribution theory or other such constructs, I need myself an hour or two in front of decidedly sensationalist television. Times like that, even Project Runway can be too refined.
A while ago, I put an MTV show called Catfish on my iTunes favorites list. It is based on a guy who supposedly had an internet romance in which he was severely deceived. The woman he thought he was in love with didn't even exist, and he found himself talking to a woman 15 years his senior, who had pretended to be woman in the Facebook photos. Anyway, he has now embarked on a project to connect others with their online loves, regardless of whether or not the people at the opposite ends of the computer are who they said they were or not.
Spoiler alert: most people are not. At least not the halves of the internet romances who have said they are models, who only send one photo of themselves in the course of a 3 years internet/phone romance, and especially those who say they have no way to Skype. Yeah, definitely suspect those ones.
Why even watch this show?
And yet, this morning as I was working on bills, I had bought an episode and was half watching, as a woman found out her Swiss love was actually born a woman and going through a gender reassignment process. And even though she found out all of this, she was still in love with this person she'd been talking over the phone to for 2 years, never having met. It was such a beautiful ending to a terrifying situation for the transgender individual, fearing being laughed or left, once again. And here was this woman who said, nope, I love you and I'm not going anywhere.
It was exactly the kind of thing I needed to see after all the news this week.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Sometimes it isn't about actually sending out the cards
 |
| There was just enough time, on a sick day at home, to try my hand at a linocut. |
 |
| There they are. I had time to make 'em, but not really much time to find addresses or get to a post office. |
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| Consider yourself greeted. |
Sunday, December 16, 2012
The pain of too much tenderness...
That is an extract from a reading we had at our wedding. It was about loving to the fullest meaning that you laugh all your laughter, but also cry all your tears. I'm not crying, but as I was laying in a dark bedroom, trying to nap after A had already decided she wasn't tired, it came to mind. She had rolled around for some 20 minutes next to me, in our room, where for the first time she decided she wanted to try to nap.
And she had been very proactive about a nap, too. I don't suppose it had anything to do with the new pacifier I gave her last night to replace the one that is already falling apart. I may not want my kid to use the pacifier this long, but as she gets closer to not using it anymore, I sure don't want her choking on a loose piece of it in the middle of the night.
So she was off to play LEGOs, in the living room, and I was half resting, half listening for sounds of desctruction, and she came back in, popped the pacifier back in her mouth and snuggled in.
And then she said, "Mama, I need to go pee pee and kaki." She put her pacifier by my bed, and as I said "Ok, little one...", she trotted off, little bare feet and all, to the bathroom. I didn't ask if she needed my help, and she seemed totally okay with and capable of going by herself. Something which, weeks ago, I didn't think was going to happen until she was, like, 20 years old. Just giving her time and space, and trying my best not to freak out when she wanted help or a diaper or whatever, and suddenly, I heard the faucet running.
Pitter pat back to my bed. She had even washed her hands. Although I hadn't heard a flush. But I decided not to say anything, because a solo trip to the bathroom is a huge thing!
Which is when I felt all warm and fuzzy inside. And then, pop up again without a word, back to the bathroom.
Flush.
And a bathroom moment suddenly makes mama almost teary-eyed from feeling so much tenderness. I'm hoping I keep learning to give her her space, so she has time to do the wonderful things, and show she is growing, without my getting in the way.
And she had been very proactive about a nap, too. I don't suppose it had anything to do with the new pacifier I gave her last night to replace the one that is already falling apart. I may not want my kid to use the pacifier this long, but as she gets closer to not using it anymore, I sure don't want her choking on a loose piece of it in the middle of the night.
So she was off to play LEGOs, in the living room, and I was half resting, half listening for sounds of desctruction, and she came back in, popped the pacifier back in her mouth and snuggled in.
And then she said, "Mama, I need to go pee pee and kaki." She put her pacifier by my bed, and as I said "Ok, little one...", she trotted off, little bare feet and all, to the bathroom. I didn't ask if she needed my help, and she seemed totally okay with and capable of going by herself. Something which, weeks ago, I didn't think was going to happen until she was, like, 20 years old. Just giving her time and space, and trying my best not to freak out when she wanted help or a diaper or whatever, and suddenly, I heard the faucet running.
Pitter pat back to my bed. She had even washed her hands. Although I hadn't heard a flush. But I decided not to say anything, because a solo trip to the bathroom is a huge thing!
Which is when I felt all warm and fuzzy inside. And then, pop up again without a word, back to the bathroom.
Flush.
And a bathroom moment suddenly makes mama almost teary-eyed from feeling so much tenderness. I'm hoping I keep learning to give her her space, so she has time to do the wonderful things, and show she is growing, without my getting in the way.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Who let the dogs out?
Actually, the neighbor kid took the dog out last night. So, while I let her out of the door, he let her out of the building.
I was all ready to write something here about how thoughtful I've been able to be in the last week or so with A. How I am trying to slow down, take more time with her, and we are getting along better. I play more and rush less. And it helps.
And I realize how much her world is filled with rules and "don't" and "no, not yet" and "okay, but only one before dinner"....which is why it hasn't phased me as much that she is doing a lot of ordering us around lately. "No, Mama, you no brush teeth in my bathroom!" and "No Papa, you took too much of my bread" (actually that one sounded more like "RRRRARGHHH! Crash! Kick! Cry! Hit!", but it meant the same in toddler talk). So even if the behavior is more extreme, I get it.
And then the babysitter came in with A yesterday afternoon from school pickup and almost quit. Now, our babysitter is one of the cornerstones of our life working here. If this woman is not longer around for babysitting, we'd best just move back to the US. Forget my job, not feeling integrated in the community, etc., etc. This babysitter and the daycare teachers are the lynchpin.
Turns out, A is finally releasing some of this new found frustration on the babysitter, too. To me, it just means she is part of our family in A's eyes. But it was the first time she wasn't sure what to think of A's behavior at pick up. And, although beloved, our daycare teachers don't usually see kids doing much tantrumming. (One "m"? Two? Hmmm). Kids all get dressed by themselves by age 2, they get diapers off and underpants on after naps, by themselves, calmly, etc. If you are looking for empathy about how hard it is getting a kid dressed in the morning, it isn't going to come from daycare stories. And if you take a kid's daycare behavior as something to compare your home life to, you're in for a world of doubt, hurt, anger and resentment. Our babysitter had just not encountered that before, poor woman. A has been easily charmed by her calm, her patience, and all of her loving energy to play for hours, until now. And for just a second, after the fear of her actually quitting subsided by me saying a million and one things about how this happens to us all the time at daycare pick-up, I felt a little pang of....what?
It was good. It wasn't, perhaps, mature of me, but it was the feeling that the super-ninja-childcarer in our midst was also thrown for a loop by that behavior, and that, for once, I was the one doing the comforting of the adult confused by the child's behavior. I was old hat at not taking it personally. At least not the getting dressed at daycare part. Let's be honest, I find more than enough other things to take personally that aren't personal.
Anyway, I felt...skilled. Experienced. More like a rock than a leaf blowing on choppy seas. And it felt good.
And dinner went well, with just me and A. And we were getting ready for bed and...BLAMMO! Not so fast, like-a-rock-mama. Screaming, hitting fit over too much toothpaste. We both did some screaming (I'll give myself a bonus that actually I was just loud and not screaming or crying), and I did no hitting. I did a lot of getting hit and then leaving the room. And breathing. And just trying to figure out how to land this flight in the middle of a hurricane.
I finally sat in the hallway near where I put A to sit. She ran away to her room. I sat some more. She finally came out of her room and into my arms. We sat quiet for a bit. I could see this as one of our rockier moments in the last week for the raised voices and hands, but I choose to see it as an okay moment. That we ended connecting again. I take it as a win-win.
And as for the middle-of-the-night screaming when asked to move over for mama to get into bed, and screaming louder when mama say she's going back to her own room? Well, perhaps we are just going to settle our boundary disputes a little more loudly than in other families. And that can be okay, too. It is about working with what you've got - if I get upset more quickly, I may not always be the calm parent. But I, my friends, am the ninja of "I'm sorry." I can say it soon after an outburst, I can say it sincerely, and I can say it first. That is one of the biggest gifts my own mother (with a temper of her own) gave me. It doesn't mean I don't also need to work on the temper itself, but it is a hell of a start.
I was all ready to write something here about how thoughtful I've been able to be in the last week or so with A. How I am trying to slow down, take more time with her, and we are getting along better. I play more and rush less. And it helps.
And I realize how much her world is filled with rules and "don't" and "no, not yet" and "okay, but only one before dinner"....which is why it hasn't phased me as much that she is doing a lot of ordering us around lately. "No, Mama, you no brush teeth in my bathroom!" and "No Papa, you took too much of my bread" (actually that one sounded more like "RRRRARGHHH! Crash! Kick! Cry! Hit!", but it meant the same in toddler talk). So even if the behavior is more extreme, I get it.
And then the babysitter came in with A yesterday afternoon from school pickup and almost quit. Now, our babysitter is one of the cornerstones of our life working here. If this woman is not longer around for babysitting, we'd best just move back to the US. Forget my job, not feeling integrated in the community, etc., etc. This babysitter and the daycare teachers are the lynchpin.
Turns out, A is finally releasing some of this new found frustration on the babysitter, too. To me, it just means she is part of our family in A's eyes. But it was the first time she wasn't sure what to think of A's behavior at pick up. And, although beloved, our daycare teachers don't usually see kids doing much tantrumming. (One "m"? Two? Hmmm). Kids all get dressed by themselves by age 2, they get diapers off and underpants on after naps, by themselves, calmly, etc. If you are looking for empathy about how hard it is getting a kid dressed in the morning, it isn't going to come from daycare stories. And if you take a kid's daycare behavior as something to compare your home life to, you're in for a world of doubt, hurt, anger and resentment. Our babysitter had just not encountered that before, poor woman. A has been easily charmed by her calm, her patience, and all of her loving energy to play for hours, until now. And for just a second, after the fear of her actually quitting subsided by me saying a million and one things about how this happens to us all the time at daycare pick-up, I felt a little pang of....what?
It was good. It wasn't, perhaps, mature of me, but it was the feeling that the super-ninja-childcarer in our midst was also thrown for a loop by that behavior, and that, for once, I was the one doing the comforting of the adult confused by the child's behavior. I was old hat at not taking it personally. At least not the getting dressed at daycare part. Let's be honest, I find more than enough other things to take personally that aren't personal.
Anyway, I felt...skilled. Experienced. More like a rock than a leaf blowing on choppy seas. And it felt good.
And dinner went well, with just me and A. And we were getting ready for bed and...BLAMMO! Not so fast, like-a-rock-mama. Screaming, hitting fit over too much toothpaste. We both did some screaming (I'll give myself a bonus that actually I was just loud and not screaming or crying), and I did no hitting. I did a lot of getting hit and then leaving the room. And breathing. And just trying to figure out how to land this flight in the middle of a hurricane.
I finally sat in the hallway near where I put A to sit. She ran away to her room. I sat some more. She finally came out of her room and into my arms. We sat quiet for a bit. I could see this as one of our rockier moments in the last week for the raised voices and hands, but I choose to see it as an okay moment. That we ended connecting again. I take it as a win-win.
And as for the middle-of-the-night screaming when asked to move over for mama to get into bed, and screaming louder when mama say she's going back to her own room? Well, perhaps we are just going to settle our boundary disputes a little more loudly than in other families. And that can be okay, too. It is about working with what you've got - if I get upset more quickly, I may not always be the calm parent. But I, my friends, am the ninja of "I'm sorry." I can say it soon after an outburst, I can say it sincerely, and I can say it first. That is one of the biggest gifts my own mother (with a temper of her own) gave me. It doesn't mean I don't also need to work on the temper itself, but it is a hell of a start.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
What is wrong in graduate education?
I spend a lot of time these days trying to find a way to talk about this. What is going on in physical sciences that gets in the way of learning, at the highest levels of academia?
You take a bunch of well-intentioned (this is my personal opinion, and I think the only place from which I want to study a group of people, otherwise I wind up on a witch-hunt for meanies), well-educated, motivated individuals, who graduate schools may be competing to admit to their programs, and by the end of 4, or 6 or 8 years, maybe half of them have graduated. What happened? Are we really going to stick to the story of "Oh, well, only those who had the fire in the belly made it, and those others weren't meant to be continue on"?
I was talking with a figure skating coach the other day - yeah, when is the last time you heard that sentence?! - picking her brain for how coaching works in skating. I have the sense that at least half the structures of graduate education (the weed out courses, and the fact that they are called that, the willingness to not do a self-check when lots of you most qualified candidates wind up leaving the field during your own grad program; the absence of a scientific writing and speaking course in the core of any graduate curriculum) comes from the belief that the most prominent scientists are born and not made. It gives the graduate program an excuse to not intentionally, carefully and fully mentor their students. And then the other half of the practices (saying students should be working 80-100 hours a week; saying that only the toughest survive) point to the belief that hard work makes a top scientist. In fact, it kind of follows the lines of which example is being given - when professors quote from their own lives and experiences, that impostor-syndrome argument for hard-work-and-luck comes out more. When the examples of others comes us, it is more of a "yeah, well she was clearly made to do this and didn't need to be trained in most of it" gets more airtime.
Regardless, there are a lot of very motivated, top-of-the-game students being accepted to grad schools and then many of them do not finish. Or do very well giving talks or writing papers. And a lot of things are not consistently, explicitly taught. You know what would happen to a coach who didn't teach his skaters how to do spins and only concentrated on jumps?
None of his skaters would win anything. The judges just wouldn't be able to award full points.
But perhaps that is part of the problem in academia - that we don't have an explicit enough scoring sheet for graduate students. What is it they will be judged on? Sure, sure, publication record. But what are departments actually looking for? How do hiring committees make their decisions? If a strong letter of support from a faculty member that knows the student is a big deal, then no wonder grad students are scared of sounding stupid in their home departments. Any verbal performance that impacts a letter writer's opinion of that student (especially about whether he or she is smart enough for the field) is a high stakes situation. All the more so if the professors writing these letters don't really know how to judge intelligence or potential any better than "if I knew that, it must be simple, so I can't believe that student didn't know it."
You take a bunch of well-intentioned (this is my personal opinion, and I think the only place from which I want to study a group of people, otherwise I wind up on a witch-hunt for meanies), well-educated, motivated individuals, who graduate schools may be competing to admit to their programs, and by the end of 4, or 6 or 8 years, maybe half of them have graduated. What happened? Are we really going to stick to the story of "Oh, well, only those who had the fire in the belly made it, and those others weren't meant to be continue on"?
I was talking with a figure skating coach the other day - yeah, when is the last time you heard that sentence?! - picking her brain for how coaching works in skating. I have the sense that at least half the structures of graduate education (the weed out courses, and the fact that they are called that, the willingness to not do a self-check when lots of you most qualified candidates wind up leaving the field during your own grad program; the absence of a scientific writing and speaking course in the core of any graduate curriculum) comes from the belief that the most prominent scientists are born and not made. It gives the graduate program an excuse to not intentionally, carefully and fully mentor their students. And then the other half of the practices (saying students should be working 80-100 hours a week; saying that only the toughest survive) point to the belief that hard work makes a top scientist. In fact, it kind of follows the lines of which example is being given - when professors quote from their own lives and experiences, that impostor-syndrome argument for hard-work-and-luck comes out more. When the examples of others comes us, it is more of a "yeah, well she was clearly made to do this and didn't need to be trained in most of it" gets more airtime.
Regardless, there are a lot of very motivated, top-of-the-game students being accepted to grad schools and then many of them do not finish. Or do very well giving talks or writing papers. And a lot of things are not consistently, explicitly taught. You know what would happen to a coach who didn't teach his skaters how to do spins and only concentrated on jumps?
None of his skaters would win anything. The judges just wouldn't be able to award full points.
But perhaps that is part of the problem in academia - that we don't have an explicit enough scoring sheet for graduate students. What is it they will be judged on? Sure, sure, publication record. But what are departments actually looking for? How do hiring committees make their decisions? If a strong letter of support from a faculty member that knows the student is a big deal, then no wonder grad students are scared of sounding stupid in their home departments. Any verbal performance that impacts a letter writer's opinion of that student (especially about whether he or she is smart enough for the field) is a high stakes situation. All the more so if the professors writing these letters don't really know how to judge intelligence or potential any better than "if I knew that, it must be simple, so I can't believe that student didn't know it."
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Awake at 5am...again
With the Christmas shopping, visiting, packing, toilet-unclogging (see previous post), glasses-returning (see post before that one), and cold season in full swing, life changes multiple times before I even have time to consider posting. So here I am, awake again at 5am, posting a second time today. Because I might have had a sinus infection and an alien abduction before I can make it back here for another post.
It is beginning to dawn on me how erratic my body is. For the last few weeks, I can no longer nap, and I sleep for a maximum of 8 hours a night. This for an individual used to 9-10 hours, minimum. I still get tired, although not exhausted. And I'm working on week two of a sinus cold. Seriously, what up?
I'm not sure how others experience daily life, but I'm never sure if I'll wake up feeling dead, 9 hours after going to sleep, or at 5am, feeling sort of awake. And where the day will go after that? Will I wake up feeling a slight undercurrent of dread, that will carry with me the whole day, for no apparent reason, or will I feel at home in the world (one of each happened in Paris last weekend)? Why am I still awake, and why can't I nap? Is this a feature of my system, or an indicator of some change? Will I be perfectly capable of handling the homestead while M is away on a few overnights for work, or will my cough mess up my back and will I be asking him to cut another trip short because I can't lift my kid? Will I have endless patience with A's process, and see all the "No! Nein! Don't talk! No!" as part of her working out her place in our family and her voice in this world, or will I lose it, cry and be angry and just storm out of the room 3 times in one afternoon?
M often wants me to give him my 5-year plan, and honestly, I can't even give you my 5-day one with more than 50% certainty. My life changes on monumental (can/can't lift my wallet, much less my child; can/can't sleep enough from hormones or coughing fits; connected/unconnected to the greater world) scales, every day it seems. Some weeks are not like this - those ones that passed more slowly, perhaps. But this wintery, snowy, Christmas season is giving me quite the work-up. I mostly take it in stride, in a kind of resigned-to-it way, but it does make for an uncertain living situation.
Not a thing I can plan for - stability or instability.
Except that it is always a good idea to buy refundable, or rescheduleable tickets. For anything.
It is beginning to dawn on me how erratic my body is. For the last few weeks, I can no longer nap, and I sleep for a maximum of 8 hours a night. This for an individual used to 9-10 hours, minimum. I still get tired, although not exhausted. And I'm working on week two of a sinus cold. Seriously, what up?
I'm not sure how others experience daily life, but I'm never sure if I'll wake up feeling dead, 9 hours after going to sleep, or at 5am, feeling sort of awake. And where the day will go after that? Will I wake up feeling a slight undercurrent of dread, that will carry with me the whole day, for no apparent reason, or will I feel at home in the world (one of each happened in Paris last weekend)? Why am I still awake, and why can't I nap? Is this a feature of my system, or an indicator of some change? Will I be perfectly capable of handling the homestead while M is away on a few overnights for work, or will my cough mess up my back and will I be asking him to cut another trip short because I can't lift my kid? Will I have endless patience with A's process, and see all the "No! Nein! Don't talk! No!" as part of her working out her place in our family and her voice in this world, or will I lose it, cry and be angry and just storm out of the room 3 times in one afternoon?
M often wants me to give him my 5-year plan, and honestly, I can't even give you my 5-day one with more than 50% certainty. My life changes on monumental (can/can't lift my wallet, much less my child; can/can't sleep enough from hormones or coughing fits; connected/unconnected to the greater world) scales, every day it seems. Some weeks are not like this - those ones that passed more slowly, perhaps. But this wintery, snowy, Christmas season is giving me quite the work-up. I mostly take it in stride, in a kind of resigned-to-it way, but it does make for an uncertain living situation.
Not a thing I can plan for - stability or instability.
Except that it is always a good idea to buy refundable, or rescheduleable tickets. For anything.
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