February 12, 2007

hip to be square

I find this whole “hipster parents” thing very confusing, and also a little vexing. On the one hand, I can confidently assert that I am most certainly NOT a hipster parent: I wear capri pants and Keds, not skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors, my kids listen to Sandra Boynton, not the Beatles, and my husband drives his Lexus to work in a tie every day. My children not only go to private school but to schools where they are learning to have a personal relationship with Jesus. We’re thinking about joining a COUNTRY CLUB, for god’s sake. Total squaresville.

But . . . but.

When I rent Scooby Doo videos for the boys, I get the classic episodes, from my childhood, not the Cartoon Network versions. We listen to XM radio in the car, and both boys will ask politely for me to “find some rock and roll.” Henry likes Green Day, and Charlie is partial to old REM; at home, we dance to the Grosse Pointe Blank soundtrack. I wear leopard print flats with my capris. I self-identify as a liberal in a state when even the Democrats proudly proclaim their conservatism. I get my news from the New York Times and Slate and Salon.com. I listen to NPR all day.

When people ask what I do, I say, “I’m a freelance writer.”

Does that make me hip?

When I graduated from college, the marketing demographic I fell into was Generation X (yes, I’m THAT old). We were slackers who refused to grow up, environmentally minded but aimless, smart but unmotivated. I hated the media representation of my “generation” because it didn’t apply to me. And I hated it because it did.

I think I feel the same way about hipster parents. I like the idea that having children doesn’t mean sacrificing your cool, but I can’t stand the commodification of that cool. I’m also tired of the way the hipster label is being used to criticize parents who aren’t all about cool, parents who are good with Elmo and The Wiggles and letting kids be kids.

Parents like me.

Anna Nicole Smith update: still dead!

Over the weekend, I was regaling Wade with all the theories about who the father of the late Anna Nicole Smith’s baby daughter might be. “How do you KNOW all this?” he finally asked me.

It’s hard to miss, really.

I am surprisingly sad about Anna Nicole’s death, particularly, I think, because she leaves behind a tiny baby, a child who will have to live with the legacy of her mother’s unconventional life. The whole story is incredibly tragic.

But the All Anna Nicole media frenzy has left me craving some more positive, or at least more useful, stories about women. Too bad there’s nothing like that in the news this week. OH WAIT, THERE IS.

On Sunday, Drew Gilpin Faust was appointed President of Harvard University. And before you say, so what, big deal, oh come on HARVARD are you kidding me–Dr. Gilpin is the university’s first woman president (although she wants people to stop talking about her as a “woman” and just talk about her as the president, which makes me like her even more). Gilpin is a fascinating woman (the article is worth reading) but of course what the Times latches on to in it’s headline is her description of herself as a “rebellious daughter.” See! She’s just a girl after all!

Sheesh.

Also in the New York Times (the paper we love to hate!) Lisa Belkin analyzes the arrival of helicopter parents in the workplace, telling the story of a mom who called her ADULT daughter’s boss to ask for his help arranging a birthday party for the daughter. And THEN called her ADULT son’s boss to ask why he was working on Thanksgiving day. But before you get swept up in the crazy that is the helicopter parent, keep this in mind: Lisa Belkin is the writer who popularized the “opt-out” rhetoric, in a piece she wrote for the Times Sunday Magazine perhaps three or four years ago about women leaving work to stay home with kids. The moral of that particular article? Women aren’t advancing because they are choosing not to.

Hmmm.

What I learned from both these articles is this: kids do better when they buck their parents’ expectations; parents do better when they stop worrying about every damn thing. That, and the ideal playgroup seems to consist of three cocktail mommies and one helicopter mommy. That way, the cocktail mommies can have a drink guilt-free while the helicopter mommy hovers over the children and makes sure nothing goes awry.

Now back to Anna Nicole.

February 11, 2007

why, what did you THINK I did all weekend?

WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?
Thursday night, when he was obviously breeding an ear infection, Henry cried on and off from about 5:00 until nearly 11:30. I climbed in bed with him at about 10:00 and eventually he stopped crying and coughing and we both fell asleep. I woke up in the morning to the sound of someone coughing, but the coughing was coming from another room. Dammit, I thought, now CHARLIE is coughing, too.

Then I realized that no, it was HENRY coughing. In his room. And I was in our room, in our bed. Later, Wade said, “What time did you come back to bed?” and I had to admit that I had no idea.

SO MAYBE THE UNIVERSE DOESN’T HATE ME
On Saturday morning, I called the pediatrician’s office, to make an appointment to bring Henry–who woke up covered in blood and goop, from the pink eye and a bloody nose–in to see the doctor. I was still in my pajamas when I made the call and had only barely sipped my first cup of coffee, but when the nurse said, “Can you be here at 9:00?” I said yes, of course! and then realized that it was 8:40. Henry and I threw on our sweats and headed to the office, and when we were finished with the doctor I said, “Let’s get some coffee!”

Henry said, “And a pumpkin scone!”

We went to Starbucks, which was eerily dark and quiet, but filled with people. The power was out, but I was in such a fog that I said, “IS THERE COFFEE? JUST PLAIN DRIP COFFEE? PLEASE???” The barista scraped together a grande drip for me, from the dregs of all the existing pots, and got Henry some pumpkin loaf (no scone, sadly) and then cheerfully said, “It’s on us!” because of course the cash register didn’t work. I think I put $12.00 in the tip jar, I was so happy to have coffee, even if it was an odd mix of Sumatra, Breakfast Blend, and something decaf.

I’M NOT THE ONLY FASHIONISTA IN THIS FAMILY
On Friday night, I suckered Wade into watching What Not to Wear with me. The woman being made over was a realtor from Seattle who was showing million-dollar homes in her yoga pants and fleece pullovers. Wade pointed out that she looked like Kirsten Dunst in Spiderman (which may have been why he stuck with the show as long as he did, now that I think about it).

Clinton and Stacy took away the woman’s fleece, which offended Wade (him: “What’s wrong with FLEECE?” me: “Nothing, but unless you’re a forest ranger or a mountain climber you don’t need fifteen fleece pullovers.” him: “That’s true.”) but what really got him was the umbrella they tried to include in one of her outfits. “Only tourists carry umbrellas in Seattle,” he scoffed. Moments later, the young Kirsten Dunst said the EXACT SAME THING. “See?” Wade said to the TV.

Then he added, “I don’t like that blouse, either. With that bow thing at the neck. It’s not working for me.”

YOU, SIR, ARE NO CLINTON KELLY
On Saturday afternoon, Wade and Charlie went outside, and for some reason wound up playing with the hose. Since it was only in the mid-30s, they came in wet and cold. Charlie got in the bath and Wade changed into dry clothes, specifically this: a navy blue fleece pullover, grey athletic shorts, and black wool socks, pulled ALL the way up.

“You’re stylin’,” I told him.

“THIS is the LOOK,” he said, and did a little dance.

February 10, 2007

diagram of an ear ache

Last night, during dinner, Henry started kneading the side of his face with his fist. Because he has an ear infection. Of course. And pink eye. OF COURSE.

When I started to explain how the ear infection and the eye infection might be related, he held up his hand to stop me and said, “May I leave the table to make something? To show you how my infection works?”

How could I say no to that?

He came back a few minutes later with this:

Kid may grow up to be a doctor after all.

February 9, 2007

my first week of working from home looked like this

Tired tired boy.

Years ago, my brother left his office job and went out on his own as a consultant. A few weeks in, I called him and said, “How do you like your new job?”

“Well,” he said, “I go to work in my underwear. It’s pretty much the PERFECT JOB.”

I haven’t actually worked in my underwear this week (although as I write this I am still in my pajamas) but I have had a sick kid home with me virtually every day. Yesterday, both boys went to school; last night, when Henry was overtired and coughing and hysterical, we realized that he totally should have stayed home.

Oops.

This morning, I read to Henry for an hour and then turned Sesame Street on and stripped the beds and started more laundry and cleared the breakfast dishes and grabbed some coffee and sat down to read my e-mail and realized that I was supposed to meet Christa for our standing Friday coffee date. At 8:30. It was NINE THIRTY when I remembered. I called her and said, “NOT COMING! LAUNDRY! DIRTY DISHES! SICK KIDS!”

She laughed. Thank goodness.

Henry has watched a LOT of TV this week. Yesterday, I was IMing with Chris, who mentioned that one of her boys was TIVOing Scooby Doo on the Cartoon Network. “HENRY!” I yelled, “DO YOU WANT TO WATCH SCOOBY DOO?”

Then I thanked Chris for buying me an extra half hour of work time.

And now Sesame Street is over and the dishwasher is finished running and I really could use a shower. And some more coffee. The end.

February 8, 2007

why he will never leave

Wade and I are always joking about our next marriage, you know, things like MY NEXT HUSBAND WILL DANCE or MY NEXT WIFE WILL COOK. Because there’s not a lot of either going on here right now. We’re also that couple who says things like, “I see your boyfriend” and “Boob job, five o’clock.” I’m not going to tell you who says what, though. I’ll leave that to your imagination.

We crack ourselves up regularly with this: Wade will pull the car into the driveway and let me get out there, instead of having to squeeze out between the car and the wall inside the garage. He’ll say, “Do you want out?” and I’ll say, “OH IF YOU ONLY KNEW HOW MUCH I WANT OUT. Wait, were you talking about the car or this whole marriage and kids thing?” And we laugh. Every time. Because we’re like that.

I like to believe that joking about having the number of a good divorce lawyer programmed into my cell phone’s speed dial is a sign that I’m not thinking about leaving my husband. But it’s also nice to have moments of proof that we are truly meant to be together.

Twice in the last twenty four hours, Wade has taken his glasses off, set them down, and walked away. And then he has wandered around our house looking for his glasses and getting progressively more irritated.

Twice in the last twenty four hours, I have walked directly to where he left his glasses, on the first try. The first time, they were on the dresser in Charlie’s room; the second time, on a random end table in our living room. Wade had looked in both of those rooms without any luck. I went right to the glasses, both times.

Last night, I told Wade, “This is why you can never leave me. Because I’m the only one who can find your glasses.”