De retour

Well! It's the new year, and we're back from Christmas Visits 2012--which I'm calling Bonaventure's Great Train Adventure. In the course of 12 days, we took a total of 7 trains, including 2 overnights (we got sleeper cars, but the very smallest sleeper cars, and it turns out that these are very small indeed. They certainly put the "ette" in "roomette").

 Bonaventure is now a seasoned traveler; he even brings his own reading material. See:

On train no. 5 

 

 

Our trip out (to my folks' state) was pretty good, even though we left our house at 8:30 am and arrived at my mom's at about 4:30 the following afternoon--a long trip, but with only one (9-hour) layover and a relatively comfortable sleeper car. The intermediate journey (from my folks' to TM's) was fine, too, although we had to push our departure back 6 hours because of snow. (The good news was that this meant not have to wake Bonaventure up at 5 am.) The 29-hour return journey (from TM's home) was a bit more agonizing: three trains, one of which had a midnight departure time. We got home at about 5:00 pm on New Year's Eve, unpacked a bit, ate, put B to bed, showered, and collapsed.

Oh, and the visits themselves? Yeah, they were good. Bonaventure got loads of toys, but he's not really old enough to appreciate a lot of them, so they'll last us for a while. And it was such fun to share him with our families. One thing that I didn't anticipate enjoying so much about having a baby was how pleasurable it is to entertain other people with him. Okay, most likely I overestimate how entertained these other people really are--I am unabashedly and unashamedly in love with my little pudding--but honestly, we have a surprisingly sociable guy on our hands. He loves smiling at people. Both TM and I have noticed recently how, when we're out in public with him, he'll look at every single person who walks by with this hopeful little smile, and if they smile back at him, he just beams--a full-on Muppet smile, his mouth as wide open as it can get. It astonishes me that anyone can resist him.

(Here he is grinning at my dad, who is, in his opinion, the funniest--or funniest-looking?--person on the planet:)

Today has been one of those relaxed, easy, post-holiday days. Bonaventure napped more than usual; I did a load of laundry, washed out an apron that's been dirty for too long, and baked cookies; TM fixed some good meals, played with B, and worked on his manuscript. I feel so happy to be home. As, it turns out, I usually do. Lately I keep thinking about how lucky I am: I have a snug little house that I love, am married to a wonderful partner whose conversation I adore, get to snuggle the sweetest baby in the world whenever I want, and make enough money to pretty much buy what I want (our incomes actually aren't very good, certainly well below average for our disciplines and status, but our needs are modest and we have no big, looming expenses at the moment); everyone in my family is apparently in quite good health; I have a job that I find sufficiently interesting and meaningful (no job is always interesting and meaningful, right?); and my own habits are largely healthy and orderly.

That last one sounds a little weird, yes, but I'm thinking about new year's resolutions here, and there aren't many habitual actions that I think I need to worry about too much--I mean, I'm sure I could refine things here and there, but I eat well (with enough treats thrown in to keep me happy), floss daily, and certainly do not need to resolve to be more organized or neater or anything like that. In fact, lightening up could be a good idea.

But, seeing as it's new year's day and all, I'm thinking about what I'd like to have more of in my life, and it's this: enjoyment, or presence; actually living through all of the beautiful moments in each day. It's a habit of mind, not a habit of body, that I'd like to change. While I have concrete things that I'd like to accomplish this year (including dramatically revising Stupid Article, applying for a research-related course release, getting Bonaventure to sleep in his damned crib, and maybe trying again to find an agent for my novel), my resolution for the year is to ease up on the need to be productive and accomplish stuff all the time.

Maternity leave has been good practice. Certainly one doesn't need to have a baby to realize this, but one of the things that caring for Bonaventure has taught me is the importance of letting go of the need to Get Things Done every moment of the day. There have been times, especially early in my leave, when I was worn out and frustrated by my inability to Accomplish; but by the end of the semester, I was much more comfortable with the idea of lying in bed for two hours with Bonaventure sleeping against my side, idly reading a few pages of a book now and again, dozing or letting my mind wander the rest of the time, and occasionally bending down to kiss his fuzzy head. Or sometimes when I'm playing with him and I start to get bored, I remember that he won't even be a baby anymore by this time next year, and suddenly my attention is drawn right back into the moment and the pleasure of watching him grow.

That's what I want to keep with me. And not just when it comes to Bonaventure, but in my moments with TM, with friends, even with myself--the other night I wrote in my diary for just a little while longer than usual, letting myself not be in a hurry, but taking the time to describe things at greater length, even moving the pen a little more slowly than usual across the page. It felt good. I spend too much time straining for what's next; I want to bring myself back to what's now.

Oh, and I should work out or whatever more often, too, of course.

Enough with the ratings already! -- a rant

It just dawned on me that it is preposterous to rate the "helpfulness" of other (unknown, probably inexpert) people's ratings of products. How do I know if a rating is "helpful" or not? I won't know if they're right until I read the book/watch the movie/whatever; and, having no idea who wrote the comments, of the value of their opinions, or whether their views are likely to line up with mine, I'm really unqualified to assess their merit. And I was noticing (on Netflix) that each comment was rated helpful by all users who bothered to rate it--e.g., "2 out of 2 members found this comment helpful"; "4 out of 4 members," etc. So, clearly, no one is rating comments "unhelpful"--or almost no one--because why would you? And probably you just say one is "helpful" if it confirms what you wanted to do anyway; on what other basis would you judge it?

Oh, and why do I care how many other members found a comment "helpful," by whatever standard of "helpfulness" they happened to be using?

Where will it all end, anyway? Will we start rating the helpfulness of the helpfulness ratings?

I do believe that we're approaching the ad absurdum limit of the Feedback Era.

The kind of person I am

Do you sometimes have realizations about your own absurdity, which then seem to cast an illuminating light (or something less redundant) upon a whole dimension of your personality?

I can't say that I have, because I just thought of that question as I was typing it and trying to tack some significance onto the little bit of trivia I'm about to give you. But, in the true spirit of Writing to Learn, perhaps I can find something out about myself through the relating of this detail.

Here it is. I am a person who will try to "eat more healthfully" by cutting out orange juice in the mornings, on the grounds that it contains a lot of sugar. (Let's note that my eating habits are, if not exemplary [desserts are frequent], pretty damn good--lots of vegetables, no meat, and nearly every meal is homecooked and balanced.)

TM tried to talk me out of this. For one thing, I like having orange juice in the mornings, so why deny myself? It's full of vitamins. And there are much more effective ways of cutting out sugar (like, for instance, NOT EATING ICE CREAM), but I wasn't interested in any of those.

So I tried to pin it on the expense. Because, you know, a $4 thing of orange juice every few days (TM likes his juice, too) is really killing our budget.

Eventually, I gave in. I drink the juice (a small glass, in deference to my bizarro asceticism) and like it.

But really, what is my deal? Why this arbitrary obstinacy? Is this some kind of purity thing? Virtuous People Deny Themselves Juice? But Not Ice Cream? Is it asceticism for the weak and self-indulgent? That's probably closest, actually. I make little rules to make things just so, but only in ways that either please me (e.g. all of my organizing and straightening foibles) or only inconvenience me just a little.

Sometimes, when I'm hanging Bonaventure's diapers out on the line, I'm tempted to organize them by color. It takes an effort of will to resist this time-wasting, but aesthetically pleasing, measure.

So: there. That's what we learn about me today. I invent arbitrary rules for myself and, if they're not too onerous, enforce them until someone convinces me that they're stupid.*

*Ooh, another example! I used to keep meticulous track of every cent that I spent, color-coding it by category. This was years ago. Finally, after many and valiant efforts, an ex convinced me to try not doing it. I gave it up one month and it was so liberating. Now I limit myself to a balanced checkbook, which I only balance like twice a month. Go me!

Reading list

Wow. Okay. So I just don't really blog much anymore, do I? That's been true for a couple of years, though, so I'm sure it's not a big shock.

What's the news, you ask? Not much. Maternity leave is pretty uneventful--unless constant laundry, diaper changes, and nursing constitute "events." The big news is that Bonaventure is apparently allergic to the protein in cow's milk; this isn't that uncommon, and it ought to clear up when he's about 1, but it means that I can't have cow's milk (or yoghurt, cheese, or butter) until he's 1. Have I mentioned that I'm a vegetarian? This impinges gravely on my diet, indeed. Luckily I can have goat's milk, and we have a friend in town who's milking her goats for me. So there's that. (But butter!! A friend brought us a chocolate cake yesterday. I love chocolate cake. But it has three sticks of butter and half a cup of milk in it, so now it's just in the refrigerator, taunting me. This afternoon's project is the baking of a vegan chocolate cake, simply to retaliate against the forbidden cake.)

Other than that, I read. I have this bookstand (did I mention it?) that I use when I'm nursing, and I tear through books like nobody's business--especially because Bonaventure will now only nap after nursing, so I sit with him sleeping on my lap and read. Here are some (not all) of the books that I've read recently:

• Ian McEwan, Atonement
• Claire Dederer, Poser
• Sir Walter Scott, Waverley
• Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go
• Tennyson, The Idylls of the King
• Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence
• William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair
• Neil Gaiman, American Gods
• Cervantes, Don Quixote (OK, technically I read this before Bonaventure was born. But I'm so pleased with myself for reading this 1000-page sucker that I get to mention it here.)
• Tolstoy, The Life and Death of Ivan Ilych
• Hilary Mantel, Bring up the Bodies
• Graham Greene, The Human Factor
• Elizabeth Strout, Abide with Me
• Currently reading: Rory Stewart, The Places in Between

See a pattern there? No? Well, there isn't one! My project is to Read All The Books--all the books that have been lingering unread on my shelves. Hence Don Quixote, Waverley, and Vanity Fair--sizable tomes all--in the same five-month period. Let's note that it would've taken me about three normal academic years to get through this pile.

So, when I'm exhausted from the numerous night feedings, frustrated at my inability to get anything done, and filled with self-pity over the denial of all things milk- and butter-related, I try to remember how much good reading I'm doing.

What am I doing?

I don't mean that in an existential sense. I mean, What am I doing blogging right now? As in, What am I going to write about? See, that's about the least existential spin on that question. And that's more or less where I am, mentally, at the moment.

Maternity leave is partly rockin'. It's great that my baby can spend his first seven months being cared for exclusively by his parents, and that I can breastfeed on demand for that length of time (no, really! It's almost entirely great that I can do that! Because TM bought me this great book-stand, and I keep a novel clipped in its pages at the spot on the couch where I normally nurse him, and I am flying through books that I've had for years but never read! I've read Waverley! And Graham Greene! And am currently reading Neil Gaiman! Plus, the baby is cute when he nurses). Not teaching is pretty sweet. It's just a real privilege (which perhaps ought to be a right) to be able to do this and not sacrifice half our income for the semester.

But here's the thing:

I'm losing confidence in my ability to speak in a not-baby voice. I talk about diapers way too much. I am preoccupied with insanely minute details of my child's development ("I think that that was a new 'ah' sound! His B's are getting better! He can turn his head to the left much more smoothly now!"). I pick over his little body as though I were a chimpanzee (sooo satisfying to get the wax out of his ears [the upper cartilage parts; don't worry]). Running through my head all day are the little dorky nonsense songs I make up for Bonaventure, oh, all the time. In short, my world has become pretty small.

And this brings me back to my original question: What am I going to write about here? I mean, right now, not in a "Future-of-the-blog" kind of way.

And is it telling that all I'm able to do is write about questions I'm not asking? I feel that it is, but I'm not sure what it's telling. Of what it's telling. Whatever.

Sigh.

I should go to bed. Last night was a little rough.

An amusing thing about my baby

My baby is fascinating, isn't he? Don't you want to hear about nothing else? So here's a little bit about Bonaventure:

Lately, when he's upset, he says "Ni!" Actually, it's more like, "Mmmmmmmnnni!" It renders what could be exasperating and frustrating (his sleepy-induced crankiness, which is the most difficult crankiness to remedy) into something kind of cute. Yet it remains roughly as fearsome as its more famous counterpart:

Truth be told, though--and I hesitate to write this for fear that it'll jinx it (this is me, knocking wood) (seriously, I just rapped on my desk)--he doesn't fuss much, and lately he falls asleep beautifully at night, if not quite so beautifully in the afternoon. He's quite an agreeable little guy.

 

See?

Sorting Nonsense

I like to organize stuff. And I have grand plans for maternity leave (although I'm less than a week into the semester and already realizing what a joke my "grand plans" are. Mostly I nurse the baby, change the baby, change the baby's clothes when he gets bodily fluids on them, change the baby again, nurse the baby, play with the baby, try to get the baby to sleep, and THEN spend half an hour doing all the things that I haven't been able to do earlier, like get dressed or brush my teeth. Don't get me wrong--maternity leave is an awesome thing, and I do love taking care of Bonaventure, who is endlessly delightful. But it's not like I'm lounging around all day. Well, except for when I'm lounging around nursing the baby, but even then I'm occupied).

Let me start again.

I like to organize stuff. But for years, I've had this very disorganized folder-box-thing full of letters, cards, notes, and other mementos. I recently found a big accordion folder in my office and thought that, at last, I could organize those things--possibly along the lines of Flavia's letter-sorting system (I'm not going to look for the link, sorry). After all, I am sort of the family archivist; I bound all of our wedding cards together in a Coptic-bound book, I put together photo albums, and I even scanned a bunch of my grandfather's adolescent poetry.

This afternoon, when Bonaventure finally went down for a long and much-needed nap, I settled myself on the bed with my accordion file and my collection, eager to go through it and get it all straightened out.

But along what scheme? It's such a hodgepodge miscellany: a torn-off bit of paper with a nice note from my dad, birthday cards from twenty years ago, a collection of letters from a friend living in Spain, wedding invitations, cute pictures of my friends' kids. I found myself making (I kid you not) the following piles: (1) cards with pictures of cats on them (wow I have a lot of these); (2) items from 2004; (3) letters from Andrew; (4) things on 8.5 x 11 sheets of paper.

And then I noticed what fun I was having finding all of these things in no particular order.

So I've changed my approach. Instead of cleaning it up, I'll embrace the disorder as part of the collection's point. I have put it into the accordion file (which will keep it much more tidily and with less damage to the pages), and I couldn't resist a little bit of organizing (group 4, for some reason, remained intact), but I'm keeping it messy--a strangely liberating sensation.