Fertile Ground, The Zine

Fertile Ground #16

2007-12-11T20:43:00.000-08:00

INSIDE

FROM THE TRENCHES
Soil Chart by Stacey Greenberg
Abraham at Home by Andria Brown

THE REAL DIRT
It’s a Family Affair by Wendy Trenthem
The Adventures of Nature Boy by Stacey Greenberg
Perfection by Stephanie Chockley
The End of Innocence by Kristy Alley
Saying It Loud by Richard J. Alley

FERTILIZER
One Time, At Rock-n-Roll Camp… by Stacey Greenberg
All Roads Lead to Mothersville by Melissa Anderson Sweazy
Build It and They Will Come by Courtney Miller Santo
Meet Colleen Couch-Smith: An Interview by Stacey Greenberg

IN THE FIELD
I’m Not Kidding by Marrit Ingman
People Can Get a Little Testy Before Dinner by Sarah Raymond
Benjamin Franklin Discovers His Own Hands by Leah Browning
In Another Country by Kristy Alley
Play Therapy by Karen Wang

RUTS INTO FURROWS
FICTION: Small Packages by Stacey Greenberg

Soil Chart

2007-12-11T19:48:00.000-08:00

Soil Chart by Stacey Greenberg
Photo by Maggie Louie

We’ve been camping, we’ve been canoeing, we’ve been to the beach, we’ve been busy! When I said I was going semi-annual, I didn’t think I’d be scrambling to get out a second issue in December! I’m going to blame the giant lag time on moving. But even though I haven’t gotten a zine out since February, it doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing. When I’m not blogging, I’m usually working on a story for the Memphis Flyer, Memphis Parent, Health & Fitness, or Edible Memphis. I’m a regular household name around here! Ha! I even tried my hand at fiction for the annual Memphis Magazine Fiction Contest as you’ll see in the Ruts into Furrows section. (I’m afraid I’m the only one who’s ever going to publish my fiction.)

On the home front we’ve been busy decorating and fixing things up to be nice and cozy. Even though we bought a house that didn’t need any work, we’ve had no trouble coming up with projects, both inside and out. The outside is going to break us I’m afraid. We have two giant gum trees that seem to dump something every season—pollen, gumballs, leaves, seeds, etc. If anyone knows a fun craft or recycling project involving gumballs please let me know!

The monkeys are just as crazy as ever. Just after the last zine went out, Jiro broke his leg jumping off of a fence. Like mother, like son, I suppose. Satchel has thankfully remained intact. Speaking of staying in one piece, I made my return to the roller derby track December 1st—something I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to do. After almost a year of coaching and practicing, I finally got my nerve up. Now, I’m excited to get back in the action!

With so much going on, it seems something’s gotta give. Sadly, I think it is this zine. Only time will tell. (A zine-making friend of mine once went five years without putting out an issue.) I do plan on doing a “Best of” issue that will be super fat. It will be mailed free to subscribers and should make up for the cost of the outstanding issues left on the subscription. Also you can request back issues to make up for any outstanding issues on your subscription. Just shoot me an email stacey@fertilegroundzine.com.

Thank you for all of your support these last 5 years. It has really meant a lot to me! And remember, even though Fertile Ground may not show up in your mailbox, it is still online: www.fertilegroundzine.blogspot.com.

Abraham at Home

2007-12-11T19:38:00.000-08:00

Abraham at Home
Essay & Photo by Andria Brown

It was ten days after my estimated due date, almost a month past my personally expected due date, and I’d been in “pre-labor” for over a week.

I went to bed around 11pm, feeling nothing physically stronger than my usual fatigue. But then I woke up about an hour later. And then ten minutes after that. And ten minutes after that. Still not convinced I was breaking out of the pre-labor pattern, I fought to go back to sleep, but then at 1a.m. I got the, "No, seriously" call from my uterus. Contractions were five minutes apart and after another half-hour, I couldn't lie down and be still during them. I got up and watched the clock for another twenty minutes or so and then woke up Jeff at 2a.m.

Next I alerted the midwives. Since she had the furthest distance to drive, I called Andrea first. She answered the phone excitedly and asked, "Is it time?" It was thrilling to be able to finally say yes. She said she'd call Amy and head right over.

Jeff was off to a slightly groggier start than I was. Maybe it was all the false alarms, or perhaps just the 97 minutes of sleep he was running on, but it took several reminders to get a pot of coffee made for the midwives (and him). He was in gear after about ten minutes, though, and we both spent the next hour puttering around, picking up the house, lighting candles, picking out music and contracting every 3-5 minutes (well, that was just me).

When Andrea arrived around 3:15, we were in a very peaceful yet productive mode. I was resting between contractions, rocking back and forth to Julie London, and then up and circling the dining room table when they hit. The repetitive movement was my primary motivation, but it was also an instinctive desire to get away from everyone and into a dark, quiet room. Andrea checked my blood pressure and the baby's heart rate and position and said we looked to be in good shape all around.

Amy rolled up about 4a.m., and she and Andrea set about getting things prepared. It didn't occur to me how much stuff they'd show up with, and it was pretty cool to see how they'd organized a mobile birthing center into a couple of carry-on bags. They both quickly adapted to the mood of the house and, although they did their work and carried on conversations, they moved and spoke smoothly and quietly, never interfering with my own rhythm.

As the morning rolled on, Jeff asked if we should wake my mom (aka Cha Cha) up. I said no, since I didn't see much need for her to sit around and watch me hurt. I also figured it would be better for her to get as much rest as possible before Miss M arose and she had to entertain her for an indefinite period of time, even though I was thinking we wouldn't have all that much longer to go.

Turns out, this was a good call.

Not long after the sun came up, Miss M came stumbling into the living room. At this point, I was making noise during contractions, going from audible exhales to quiet groans. We'd prepared M as best we could for what she might see or hear during labor, and she didn't seem bothered by what was going on. She was very clingy to Jeff, though, so we decided to wake Cha Cha up and turn over child-wrangling duties.

Contractions had been getting more and more intense during this interlude, and I finally hit the point where I could no longer complete my dining room table laps and had to just stand in one place, grab the back of a chair, and moan out my exhales.

When I started doing this, Amy and Andrea started bustling around, clearing space around me and laying out all the waterproof materials. They'd been assessing my dilation to that point based on my circulation and the location of my uterus, so I figured they had a good idea that I was getting close. Looking back, though, I think they just wanted to protect the rug in case my water broke.

I wasn't so much feeling pushy as just ready to be done with those really fierce contractions, and based on my sudden hot flashes and shakiness, I was pretty sure I was in transition. Glad that I'd thought ahead and closed the dining room blinds, I followed my urge to take off all restrictive clothing (i.e, all of it). This cued Miss M to take on one of her pre-assigned tasks, and she ran into her room and got a tiny little fan that she proceeded to use to cool me off. It was pretty damn adorable. For about 15 seconds, anyway. Then she got bored or freaked out or otherwise occupied and quietly went off with Cha Cha.

Saying things are a blur from this point on isn't entirely accurate. They're more dark than blurry, owing to the fact that my eyes were closed 90% of the time. I stayed in the dining room for a short while longer, but I suddenly remembered how soft and comfortable the bed had looked when I passed it on the way to my 319th pee, and I spontaneously decided on a change of venue. The bedroom was clean and light and airy and seemed like the perfect place to be.

I waddled into the bedroom and hoped that I could find a way to rest in between contractions. Problem with that plan, however, was that I couldn't get myself into any position other than standing or kneeling with my body straight up. Lying down just wasn't an option. Neither was being on my hands and knees, which I thought would help with the baby's position. I also became aware that, well beyond the intensity of the contractions, the pain in my back was getting stronger and stronger. Jeff resumed his post from Miss M's delivery, with his fists firmly pressed against the upper points of my pelvis.

They kept checking the baby's heart tones as often as they could manage, and as time went on, just about the only thing encouraging me was hearing that strong, consistent beat. After wandering around the bedroom and trying several positions suggested by the midwives, including sitting backwards on the toilet, I found my most comfortable spot. This involved standing in our teeny bathroom, hands pressed into the wall and arms straight ahead of me, trying to create a straight line of energy between the pushing in my arms and pushing out the baby. The crucial part of this set-up was Jeff, who was stationed behind me with his hands pressing into my back. Because the bathroom is so small, he was up against the opposite wall (or so I thought; he later showed me that he was actually jammed up against the closet doorknob) so there was a lot more counter-pressure.

Amy and Andrea were paying close attention to my energy level, and when I seemed to be wearing out, they were right there to encourage and coach me. When I thought I was about to tip over from hunger, Amy appeared with a spoonful of honey. When my legs started shaking from standing too long, Andrea suggested I try moving back to bed and trying to push from my side or back for awhile. Even though being in bed wasn't as comfortable for me, I actually found myself relaxing (or, more accurately, collapsing) and nearly asleep in between contractions. I also tried to keep focused by talking to myself, muttering words like "open," "release" and "strong."

But my back. Holy hell, my back. There was nothing else going on in my body that rivaled the pain in my back. It was searing, like flaming knives stabbing outward. When I wasn't bellowing incomprehensibly, the only words out of my mouth were, "MY BACK MY BACK OH PLEASE MY BACK!" Jeff did his very best to accommodate my hollered requests, but I felt like I was taking up valuable energy and breath trying to detail where I needed counter-pressure when I should have been spending it on pushing. Andrea did suggest that I try holding in my urge to groan and focusing that effort on pushing instead, which did seem to help make the pushing more effective.

Or so I thought, anyway. After all that work, I couldn't imagine that the baby was very far away. I kept waiting to hear, "He's close! I can feel the head!" but I never did. Every time they checked my dilation, I could tell that the baby was still very high up. Sometimes there was still a lip of cervix, sometimes not. I deliberately didn't look at the clock, but I overheard the midwives discussing the heart checks and Andrea said something about 10:25. When I heard that, I wanted to cry. Three hours. I'd been at this three hours and I wasn't even close. Andrea asked me to lie down so she could get a good check, but it hurt so badly that I flipped over and scurried over the edge of the bed like a startled spider. (You have to clearly envision my giant contracting belly for that to seem as impressive as it was.) I believe it was Amy who then said, "Well she's still got spirit."

At this point, the baby was doing just fine, but I was feeling in distress. I fell to my knees at the side of the bed, in exhaustion and fear and supplication. I prayed. I choked back the urge to sob. The idea of a hospital transport flitted into my head, but I knew I could never make it sitting in a car for 20 minutes. I also knew that I'd be a very likely c-section candidate, especially after I gleefully accepted an epidural and all its back-numbing deliciousness. So some stubborn voice, way way back in my head, told me to just keep going. To trust that we were doing fine and that everything would be okay.

I got back up and into the bathroom, mentally if not physically stronger. I felt a small increase in the effectiveness of my pushing, and with one particularly strong push, I felt the massive sploosh of my water breaking. As did Jeff, who was still stationed right behind me. I was somewhat encouraged by this change, mostly because it meant that something was happening. The midwives also noted that I'd feel a lot less pressure now that the bag of water wasn't trying to get out ahead of the baby. And they were right.

But oh my fothermucking back. Andrea offered to try saline injections to relieve the pain, but having heard nothing but failing reports from other mamas who'd tried the same thing, I decided against it.

I think it was about this time that Jeff pulled out the big guns. A few nights before, we'd watched Borat and, as much as I enjoyed the movie as a whole, there was one part that made me laugh out loud both when I watched it and any time afterwards that I thought about it. It was just one second of the movie, but it cracked me up. And I told Jeff that, when labor got unbearable and I seemed like I wasn't going to make it, that I needed him to duplicate that scene for me. So there in our bathroom, after 11 hours of watching me trying to squeeze out a baby, Jeff took it upon himself to cluck like a surprised chicken in a dropped suitcase. And in the middle of all that pain and frustration, I laughed.

The laughing stopped shortly afterward, though, when Amy came in to check the baby and we all heard something we hadn't heard before. No one said the word "deceleration," but after all those previous checks, it was easy to tell that the baby wasn't doing as well as he had been. His heart rate was noticeably slower. This time, Andrea's recommendation that I lie on my side wasn't a suggestion. And this time, I didn't resist it. I knew my comfort wasn't the most important thing anymore.

I got back in bed and onto my side. Jeff had my back, Amy helped support my leg and Andrea was applying compresses and trying to guide the baby's head. I'd rest for about 20 seconds and then groan, "Okaayyy," which signaled everyone to get into position while I pushed. I was still yelling instructions on where I needed my back pressed while I heard Andrea and Amy calmly encouraging my pushing. I finally felt like I was getting close, like the baby was really coming. This was the part I'd been anticipating for four hours.

I pushed and pushed and pushed. I could feel the fullness of the baby moving down and without anyone telling me it was happening, I knew his head was nearly out. And then it was. The relief was so tremendous that I wanted to stop right there and rest for awhile, but the midwives kept calmly but firmly guiding me to continue pushing. Which surprised me a little, knowing that there’s often a rest period in between the delivery of the head and body, and that their general policy was against coached pushing. But I listened. Within a few more pushes, and with a feeling I can only describe as "blooooop," he was all the way out.

And so, so quiet.

My eyes were still closed. All I could hear was the midwives telling me to talk to my baby, call him by name, talk to him. Jeff's face was against mine, and I could vaguely hear him whispering that everything was fine, that the baby was fine. And we both called to him, "It's okay, Abraham. We're here. Abraham. Abraham. You're okay." I can't pretend I didn't think the worst. I thought what every parent thinks in that time when you're waiting for the crying to start.

After a very long minute, we heard the cries we'd been waiting for, and the midwives placed his still bluish body on my chest. Andrea explained that his umbilical cord had been wrapped around his neck. Twice. I didn't think there was a drop of fluid left in me after sweating for so long, but one heavy tear of joy and relief slipped from my eye.

Amy stepped outside and told Cha Cha and Miss M, who had been out back playing in the inflatable pool, to come in and meet the baby. Damp from the pool and red from the sun, they both tip-toed into the bedroom. I'm not sure whose face was beaming more brightly, although Cha Cha had the reflective power of tears on her side. I'm pretty sure my mother hugged me, and I'm positive she told me how proud she was of me. I wasn't prepared for how much it would mean to share that moment with my own mother, and I was so fiercely grateful that she had the chance to be there.

I held Abraham while the midwives assessed how I was doing. I coughed out the placenta a few minutes later and was feeling pretty good, all things considered. But they were concerned about my bleeding, which mirrored the situation after the three hours it took to push Miss M out of me. They dosed me with arnica, both to help contractions and to deal with the already gruesome bruise blossoming on my lower back.

Again, the timing here is all a bit fuzzy, but I think this is when they checked the baby. They weighed him with the slingy-looking scale (I won the weight pool - 8lbs. even), measured out his little body (21" long, 14.25" head, 13" chest, 13.5" abdomen) and gave him an oral dose of Vitamin K. Because he'd spent so much time swimming around instead of descending, his head was a perfect little ball of a thing. He had a light dusting of dark hair, already threatening to curl. His eyes were blue, but a deep sapphire that seems likely to darken into brown but will be truly stunning if they stay as they are. He had a hint of his dad's chin cleft, just like his big sister. He was, quite simply, beautiful.

During one of her checks on my bleeding, Andrea detailed the stickiness of Abraham's delivery position. He'd been posterior - face-up - but slightly turned to my left side. All he really needed to do was flip a quarter-turn to the right and he'd have been all set. But instead, he kept turning left. And turning, and turning. In what is called a "long arc rotation," he spun a full 360 degrees and ended up almost exactly where he'd started - still posterior. The only thing that keeps me from holding this against him his entire life is the knowledge that, in that big spin, he may have unwrapped one more loop of cord from around his neck. I don't think she was being at all dramatic or anti-hospital when Andrea said that this type of presentation was the most common reason for c-sections. She didn't suggest it, but I wholly believe that if I hadn't had this baby at home, I would have surely ended up in surgery.

After yet another discouraging check on my bleeding, I reminded Andrea that I'd been catheterized after M's birth because I'd been too swollen to pee on my own. I gave her permission to try again (forgetting that I'd had a local anesthetic last time, due to being stitched up). It was not a pleasant minute, but it did the job. With my bladder empty, my uterus could contract and the bleeding slowed way, way down. I could see the relief on both midwives' faces, both because I was going to be okay and, I dare presume, because this meant they could get some rest.

And, finally, that I could, too. With my baby at my breast, I laid in my own bed, with the sounds of my family around me, and went into a deep, bone-tired, blissful sleep.

It's a Family Affair

2007-12-11T19:35:00.000-08:00

It's a Family Affair
Wendy Trenthem

Come February, we will have three children. Although we do tend to overanalyze things, this was not an easy decision to make. Our boys are currently 7 and 9, and we could be well on our way to the 'tween years without any more diapers, nursing, wakeful nights, preschools, and on and on. We tried to convince ourselves that two children are enough. They certainly cost enough. They are healthy and capable and keep us really busy. But our hearts wouldn't hear of it. So here I am, in my third pregnancy 10 years after my first.

When you announce you are pregnant and you have older children, most people immediately ask if it was a surprise. How silly. We know how this works. It's too hard to explain casually that it's been a heart vs. head struggle for years, whether to have three. Family planning is not like vacation planning. It's more like playing God.

My husband and I both grew up one of three kids, so that might explain our tendency toward three. But I also recently read that sometimes women will have just one more baby to put off being alone, or because they are not sure what to pursue career-wise once they are done with the childbearing years. Fortunately my career and family have meshed well even if I'm not raking in the dough. And please don't tease me that we're just doing this again because we're “trying for a girl.” Children are not collectibles. (But don't tell my boys that. They desperately want a sister.)

I see a couple of major advantages to the large spacing. First off, it's far easier to do it now than when I had a one- and three-year-old. Two in diapers was big work. The three-year-old liked to try to pick the baby up by the head. We were exhausted for about three years. The close spacing is great now, as the brothers are friends and playmates. But three right together would have sent me to the funny farm. So, now that they're older, the boys can really be more involved.

This new baby is really a family affair. Phillip and James have already read It's So Amazing, the “facts of life” book by Robie H. Harris and Michael Emberley, so they know where babies come from. But to watch their mom go through pregnancy firsthand is a real lesson in the subtle changes that take place over nine months.

They don't like it when I'm tired and ready for bed before they are. Needless to say, it's a lesson in patience, which thankfully gives us an opportunity for this giant change to sink in. They've been to the midwife with us to hear the heartbeat. And we have decided to find out the gender of this baby via ultrasound, mostly for the big brothers' benefit. At the ages of 7 and 9, they are very matter-of-fact about a lot of the biology. I think only our oldest, Phillip, really gets embarrassed about the idea of mom and dad having had sex. It's a bit more abstract for James, the seven-year-old.

We're planning a home birth after two successful natural births in the hospital, but we're still discussing how near the guys need to be during the actual birth. They will definitely be involved and included, but we don't want them to be bored, worried, or made self-conscious by watching mom give birth. I am happy that they will be able to hold their new sibling right away, in the comfort of home. And it won't hurt if they urge their future wives to have a natural birth at home.

The other practical advantages are obvious. Having only one helpless child, with two rather independent and helpful children will be easier. I don't presume to use my sons to take care of the baby, but clearly they will do more to help than be a burden. And the opportunity to help care for an infant and toddler is a great life experience. Not to mention the interesting life this youngest sibling will have, never knowing a world without Legos, Pokemon, and Nintendo Wii.

All that toy crap notwithstanding, this baby will have two excellent teachers who will show him or her how to approach life with gusto and exuberance. They will read their favorite books to baby, sing him/her songs, and show him/her how to have fun without mom and dad (or even at the expense of mom and dad). They will get in trouble, however, for scaring this youngest with stories of monsters under the bed, the way I did with my younger sister.

Yes, we'll have a kindergartener and a high-schooler. Yes, it will be harder to take the fun trips we'd just started taking to explore other cities like Chicago, St. Louis, and Austin. Yes, we'll need another chair to fit around our table for four (we recently solved the car problem with a six-seatbelt microvan). Yes, the big brothers are going to feel jealous (maybe even resentful and angry) and will have to adjust to lots of changes around the house.

Every day will not be a picnic, but it isn't now. Life is about adjusting, accepting change. I hope that with this new baby, and with most everything we do as a family, we will equip our kids for life and all its changes, its ups and downs.

The Adventures of Nature Boy

2007-12-11T19:31:00.000-08:00

The Adventures of Nature Boy by Stacey Greenberg
Photo by Maggie Louie

In Richard Louv’s book, Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children From Nature-Deficit Disorder, he defines Nature-Deficit Disorder as the cumulative effect of withdrawing nature from children's experiences. He says that it’s not just individual children, “Families too can show the symptoms -- increased feelings of stress, trouble paying attention, feelings of not being rooted in the world.”

I come from a long line of city girls, but when I married a former forest ranger, and later gave birth to Nature Boy, I found myself spending almost every weekend hiking through the Old Forest trails of Overton Park. Frankly, if it weren’t for these weekly communes with nature, here in Midtown, it’s likely our resident forest ranger would have moved us all to Alaska long ago. The Forest Ranger and I are doing our best to combat NDD in our own lives.

On our most recent hike, we were specifically on a hunt for lizards. Nature Boy, now age 5, needed a lizard. Bug box in hand, we set off down one of our favorite trails that opens up near the playground on East Parkway. As we made our way down the path, The Forest Ranger started off with his usual, “Remember when a bee stung you?” speech, reminding us of the time that I ran from a bee that eventually stung Nature Boy on the ear.

“I’m completely over my fear of bees now—I’m in search of lizards!” I say. Before we can even really start looking for a lizard, Nature Boy has found a centipede and The Forest Ranger, who is now working as an Archaeologist, has found a small glass bottle dated 1927. Geronimo, my three-year-old, and I assist with the bug box and “ooh and aah” accordingly.

A few steps later and we have a millipede! The Forest Ranger laughs as we try to get it in the bug box which is full of holes small enough for it to easily climb through. I’m totally over bees, yes, but I’m not so sure about this millipede. “It stings,” The Forest Ranger says coolly. We decide to let the millipede stay put.
Some new trees have fallen since we last visited and the boys waste no time climbing along them to check out the view. Geronimo spots some low hanging vines ahead, and they are quickly off to play Tarzan. (If the vines are hanging just right, The Forest Ranger and I get to play Tarzan, too.)

We pass through to the road running near Rainbow Lake and turn right to circle back towards the Red Playground. Not two seconds later Nature Boy has spotted his lizard.
“Look, Daddy!” he says as he points to a tree trunk.

“Don’t grab it by the tail,” The Forest Ranger warns.

“Why not?” Nature Boy asks.

“Because it will fall off and the lizard will get away.”

“Okay,” he says seriously and expertly grabs the lizard around the middle. “Mommy, I need the bug box!” he exclaims.

I rush over with Geronimo at my side and we both congratulate Nature Boy on his successful capture. He is gleeful. “I did it! I caught a lizard! I’m going to catch flies at home to feed him,” he says happily.

Yes, Nature Boy can catch flies with his bare hands.

“But what will we name him?” I ask.

“Lizzie,” says Nature Boy.

He imagines that Lizzie will live a long, happy life in a box next to Hermie and Crabby, two hermit crabs that we bought at the beach “gift shop” in July. (In truth, we will let Lizzie go the next day.)

Energized by the find, Geronimo is off to the Red Playground and Nature Boy is at his side. The Forest Ranger and I water the dogs and smile big at each other. The Old Forest is our sanctuary.

Perfection

2007-12-11T19:29:00.000-08:00

Perfection
Stephanie Chockley

I am a firm believer that self-esteem is created by learning what you are and are not good at, and understanding how to deal with both of those realities. Self-esteem is not created by telling a kid they are perfect and shielding them from failure, which is a misconception I saw way too often back when I was an elementary school teacher. This philosophy was easy for me to apply to other people's children. Would I be able to practice what I preached once I had kids of my own? Eh. . . sort of.

I am usually able to let my kids try and fail at things, as long as I know they won't get hurt. But I have a hard, hard time withholding praise for praise's sake. Because look at my children! They're perfect and gorgeous and perfect!

I think having a boy first caused me to let my guard down a bit. I have told him he is the most beautiful boy ever to exist pretty much since day one. And that's okay for a boy to hear, because he will inevitably be told he is smart and strong and fast and all the other wonderful things boys hear just because they're boys. As he has grown, I have worked to compliment him on his good qualities and call his attention to areas that need improvement. Since his teachers tell me he's smart and helpful, I have no problem complimenting him on that.

But Chloe—you just can't tell a girl that she's gorgeous every day of her life and not have it come back to bite you in the ass. So when she was a baby, I tried to temper the "beautiful girl!" exclamations with "and so smart and strong!" But really, what does a baby do to show you her strength of character? Not much, really—she just sits there, pooping and drooling and being breathtakingly gorgeous. So eventually I gave up, because I didn't want to lie, and just reverted to the beauty angle.

And boy did I ever screw up.

She's talking now, and I tried to use that as an opportunity to bolster her sense of self, but it might be too late. She's easily frustrated by things she can't do—way more than her brother ever has been—and she seems to rely on the adorableness thing rather than her vocabulary to (successfully) get what she wants out of us.
The nail went in the coffin this morning when, after refusing one pair of shoes in favor of another, she declared, "I cute!"

Her elementary school teachers are going to hate me.

The End of the Innocence

2007-12-11T19:28:00.000-08:00

The End of the Innocence
Kristy Alley

My oldest child is almost ten years old. I feel lucky that he has maintained his childhood innocence and wonder to an age that, if the media is to believed, is practically post-puberty for the average American kid. But I'm afraid this is the beginning of the end for some of that wonder.

A few months ago, he started asking me very earnestly, "Mom, is the tooth fairy real?" I found myself torn between telling him the brutal truth and letting the magic go on just a little bit longer. It's not that the tooth fairy is such a big deal, but if the tooth fairy's a fake, what's next? How far down the path is it to Santa Claus? Yes, Virginia, he still believes in Santa Claus. At least, he did yesterday. All that may have changed by now.

This morning, Calvin came out of his room on his own, before any of the other kids had woken up. He walked up to me grinning and drawing attention to a newly-formed gap in his smile where a loose molar had recently been. "Oh, you pulled your tooth," I said, smiling back. "Yep," he replied, "yesterday."

It took a minute for that to sink in. I'd been duped! I knew this was something he'd been planning to do, based on veiled comments and his recent revelation that his best friend had lost a tooth the day before, but he had waited to tell me. As if I were possibly in cahoots with all the other parents, making clandestine phone calls at the shocking hour of 10:00p.m. to alert them to their children's tooth fairy sting ops.

He didn't seem upset this morning, just satisfied that his plan had worked. He asked me what I did with all the teeth. When I told him not to spoil it for his siblings, he replied, "Well, you better give me a dollar then, because they're going to ask to see it."

A little later, he came into the bathroom where I was doing my makeup and asked, "The next time I lose a tooth, can I put it under my pillow?"

"You should have thought about that before you got in such a rush to figure everything out. Especially since the dentist said you're about to lose a bunch of teeth!" I said. I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him, though. I also couldn't help but wonder where his thoughts would take him over the course of the day. I know my child, and I know that this is going to be a big deal for him. One thought is going to lead to another. And even though I don't remember a single moment when I stopped believing in Santa Claus, and I know I was never upset about it, it kills me to think of him losing that magical idea. He has been one of the last hold-outs in his class, insisting on believing. And now that's probably over for him.

I've always known that growing up is hard to do. I just never knew how hard it was to watch.

Saying It Loud

2007-12-11T19:27:00.000-08:00

Saying It Loud
Richard J. Alley

When I was a kid in school, I recall taking field trips to Chucalissa Indian Village, where the high point of the visit was buying an authentic Indian arrowhead in the gift shop. We also went to the Pink Palace, when it was actually in the house, to see the shrunken heads. And, of course, there was the zoo when all it boasted was a fetid concrete box housing the lions, just a short walk from an island of monkeys.

Today, I chaperoned Calvin’s class at the Rock 'n Soul Museum in the FedEx Forum. We walked there, his school being only a few blocks from this venue, and along the way there were impromptu history lessons given by Dr. Max on the Robert Churches, W.C. Handy and the history of Beale Street.

The museum tour begins with a 15-minute film on the evolution of blues to soul and rock-n-roll and it was great to see the kids' heads, from my vantage point in the back of the theater, bobbing and dancing along with Carl Perkins, Sam and Dave and Elvis. At certain points, too, they broke out and sang along on "Blue Suede Shoes" and "Respect." The tour was self-guided, each child and adult wandering around with headphones and an MP3 player that allowed its user to punch in a three-digit number to hear a narrator discussing a particular display or, most often, to listen to song lists on any number of juke boxes set up throughout the museum. The kids danced and strutted to everyone from Furry Lewis to Al Green, and it was great to hear them singing, with no thought as to their volume, along with "Say It Loud (I'm Black and I'm Proud)," "That's All Right (Mama)" and "Walk The Line."

Music, and the history of Memphis music in particular, is a great catalyst for the discussion of civil rights, its history, and the proper way one human should treat another. The Rock 'n Soul Museum devotes much time in the introductory film to this cause and there is a large display on nothing but the Civil Rights Movement. But as I watched these black and white children, all of whom were born at the turn of this century, dance and sing together while laughing and helping each other with the given assignment, it occurred to me that all of the strife and tension and heartache of the last century is mostly lost on them. And that's a good thing, because it left their hearts and minds wide open to the music in their ears.

One Time, At Rock-n-Roll Camp…

2007-12-11T19:22:00.000-08:00

One Time, At Rock-n-Roll Camp…
Stacey Greenberg

Inspired by the Rock 'n' Roll Camp for Girls in Portland, Oregon, the Southern Girls Rock & Roll Camp (SGRRC) was founded by Kelley Anderson in Murfreesboro, TN in 2003 to encourage more young women to become involved in music. The weeklong camp centers on each girl joining a band composed of fellow campers, then writing and rehearsing a song to play at a showcase for parents and friends on the last day. The camp also features live performances and panel discussions with local musicians and workshops.

Last summer, SGRRC expanded to Memphis. Through the magic of the internet, Kelley asked me to teach the zine-making workshop. Since the camp was being held right across the street from my office, I replied with an enthusiastic yes.

I have to admit that I was pretty nervous the first day, not knowing what to expect. Little boys—no problem. Girls ages 10-17—no clue. I ended up with four really sweet and talented girls and an awesome assistant, Jessi, who is a former camper.

Monday we just sat around and got to know each other and talked about what a zine is. We had a whole stack of sample zines to check out, and I gave everyone a copy of Fertile Ground. Then I tried to explain why a mom might want to make a zine without mentioning words like homebirth, breastfeeding, or circumcision that might freak them out. Luckily, the latest issue was the Memphis issue, and I was able to convince them I was semi-cool with the details of breaking my leg in two places in the roller derby.

Tuesday we busted out the box of art supplies and started making collages. Everyone was a little more relaxed and we had fun discussing what we wanted to put in the zine. I also talked to Chuck, the photography teacher, about getting some pictures of the bands that the girls were forming for the zine.

Wednesday I was a bit panicked about not having any content, so I asked the girls to do some writing before we busted out the art supplies. I talked to Kelley to see if she could get the band names, members names, bios, and lyrics for me to include. No small task! No one could come up with a name for the zine so I shyly asked my group of budding hipsters in Ramones and Go-Go’s shirts if they had ever seen the movie “American Pie.” They nodded. “Remember how that girl was saying, 'One time at band camp'?" They nodded. "Want to call it that?" They looked around at each other and giggled in approval.

"Maybe we could cross out the word 'band' and replace it with 'rock-n-roll'," Halle suggested.

"Yeah, we could cross it out with red lipstick!" Allie said.

Hoping to have a stapling party Friday, I told the girls they'd have to work on a few things at home so we could get everything laid out on Thursday. At lunch it occurred to me that everything we were doing was in color and that when I gave the girls free reign to pick out the style of zine they wanted to do, I never asked Kelley what our budget was for printing!

Thursday I came in to find all of the volunteers looking very sleepy and hungover. Kelley, Jessi, and Nikki are in an old time country band called Those Darlins and they played at Murphy's Wednesday night. Chuck had stayed up late too. But it wasn't too bad--Kelley had most of the band info and Chuck had all of the pictures I needed on his computer. Once we got all of the band info together--there were eight total--we suddenly had lots and lots of content for the zine. And best of all, Halle made an amazing cover collage.

We ran out of time, so Jessi and I ate a quick lunch and then finished the layout ourselves. Even though she is totally laid back and awesome, she agreed with me that we needed a table of contents and page numbers. I was very worried about coming off as totally anal!!

Friday when I showed up for class, long-armed stapler in hand, I found out that the zine was still at the printer's. So much for the stapling party! Jessi had the great idea of making little envelopes and putting fortunes into them to wedge between the staples of the final zine. We had a great time doing this--especially me, the old dog learning a new trick.

I left after lunch with a promise of a phone call by Anna, the director, as soon as the zine was printed. I planned to rush over and get it stapled before graduation later that evening. At about 4:45pm I got a text message that said, "They are all here, they are stapled, and they are all in color!"

On Saturday at the Showcase, Kelley, the founder, actually said to me, "I got a chance to sit down and read the zine last night and it is the best one we've ever had."

As awesome as the zine was, the real highlight of the camp was the Showcase at the end of the week. Inside the Gibson Guitar Factory, the lights were low, the room was packed with parents and friends, and you could feel the buzz in the air. There was no actual backstage, so campers were milling about all dolled up and you could tell that they were PUMPED. And NERVOUS as hell.

First up was Squirrel vs. Ferret who sang an original song called "Frozen Sorrows." Two of my zinesters were on guitar and the lead singer had a great smile on her face the whole time she was up there. I seriously got goosebumps and almost started balling!

The Country Gals featured a zinester on guitar. EVERYONE had been talking about The Country Gals all week. They were the youngest band--each girl is about ten--and they wrote a song called "Daddy Buy Me a Dancing Horse." They all made shirts with horses on them and the girl on vocals, Kierstan, came out in pigtails and said, "Daddy, come here!" before she started the song. She hopped up and down the whole time she sang. At one point she stopped and took three or four big breaths. It was so damn cute it hurt.

Loveless was next, featuring a zinester on keyboards. Their song, "Broken Prince Charming," was great and the lead singer had a really unique voice. Her mom was jumping up and down in the audience screaming, "That's my daughter! That's my daughter!" It was hilarious. I can't wait to do that to Satchel and/or Jiro someday.

Forgotten Blue featured the daughter of some good friends of mine who just happened to be standing next to me. I went back and forth from watching Flannery to watching her mom and tried to imagine the feeling. Flannery looked so grown up and cool. I had seen her throughout the week and did my best to be friendly without embarrassing her.

Jessi's band, the Klassix, did an original song in the style of the Sherrell's. I was really glad that my friend Hope was with me since we went to high school and girl scout camp together. We both just looked at each other, shook our heads, and wondered what our lives would have been like had we had Rock-n-Roll camp!

Ravad 74 ended the show with their very catchy and very well done original song "Unsinkable." (When I'm not singing "Daddy daddy buy me a dancing horse," I'm singing "I'm unsinkable/No one can bring me down/I'm unsinkable/I don't want you around.") Now, these girls really knew how to rock. Granted they were the oldest girls and one of the members, Audra Brown, already has an album out, but damn. If they don't become rock stars, I have no doubt they will at least join the roller derby!

It was a really awesome show and an amazing experience overall. You really just had to be there. I'm so excited about the future of SGRRC and cannot wait until next year. I've got to find a way to take the whole week off so I won't have to miss a minute!

All Roads Lead to Mothersville

2007-12-11T19:19:00.000-08:00

All Roads Lead to Mothersville
Essay & Photo by Melissa Anderson Sweazy

January 2007
The friendly people on bikes and the moms pushing strollers and folks walking dogs past our window? The ones our realtor promised he saw everyday in front of our soon to-be new house at quitting time? Gone. Held hostage by an unusually bitter winter. Unusually bitter for Memphis. Totally in keeping with my rotten, lonely pregnant self. We’ve been in Memphis for six months. The psychic told me that six months would be all I needed to acclimate, but she saw the move in the cards. We were gonna be golden, she insisted. I wonder if she can sense my demanding a refund.

I cry in supermarkets and fake smiles for the cashiers who coo over the bulge sticking out of my winter coat. They congratulate me on getting pregnant at such an ideal time, because, as I am constantly informed, I’m a walking space heater. But I am Californian, my blood thinned from 60 degree winters and pilates and therapy. I shiver at night, wrapped around Bob, my hated, constant body pillow companion. By day I wait for calls from the West Coast, playing the time change game. (My 11 is their 9 – surely they are awake?) I keep company with a pile of baby books that advise not to attempt major stressors while pregnant, like moving across the country from your support and leaving a city of palm trees and outdoor cafes and fabulousness for the loneliest spot on the block. I’ll keep that in mind for the next one.

April 2007
Baby’s here. I’m feeling better. My girl and I watch old movies at 4a.m., chunks of refrigerated cabbage stuffed into my nursing bra to cool my tattered boobs. This is actually no small victory. For a week I was too scared to watch TV in the parlor because I was afraid a stray bullet might pierce the window and my baby’s precious head. How must new mothers in Iraq feel?

I need to get a grip. I need to get out of the house.

Fortunately for me, there is a store just blocks away called Mothersville. The name implies a city of mothers contained in one shop. I’m intrigued. I buy a nursing bra.

The owner is quiet, enigmatic…but ooh looky here. She keeps a blog. She just posted a lovely homily to Vonnegut. A city of mothers and nursing bras and beautiful baby slings and witty scribes posting about one of my favorite authors. I’m doubly intrigued.

June 2007
I’ve been assured the one and under playgroup is really for the moms. And the moms! There’s a mom from Atlanta by way of New York and a mom from Boston by way of Seattle. They have managed to make it out the door fully dressed with children who have not been maimed, or pierced by stray bullets. Amazingly, they even talk about having more children. And staying in Memphis to do so. Craziness.

I keep reading the blog. The owner is selling the store, because she needs a break. Did I mention she is pregnant with her second child? I keep checking the blog. Nobody is commenting. Wheels are turning.

July 2007
In playgroup, I bring up my intense fear of the kitchen floor, how my wicked mom brain shows me images of baby head meeting unforgiving concrete. How quickly my story is trumped – basement stairs, broken necks, a baby trying to nurse on an unconscious body. I am seriously starting to fall in love with these crazy-ass mothers.

Several of us have been keeping the store open while the owner is out on maternity leave. People are stunned when I tell them it is on a volunteer basis. But it’s more than just a store, I tell them. I’m stunned to hear the words come out of my mouth. Something in Memphis has found my devotion. Everyone agrees, it’s more than just a store. It sounds corny, but it’s true. The store is about to be taken away from a city that needs different, away from the mothers that need a place to be crazy and smeared with spit up and still feel safe. We will do what it takes to keep it open.
What it takes?

I want the store to stay open. But I hate retail. I’ve dreamed of running my own business. But there’s that whole being in the store for hours. Selling things. Not writing. But…

A couple comes into the store on my last day to volunteer. They look dazed – I know that look. It’s the two pink lines burned into the retinas combined with an ill-advised first trimester excursion to Babies R Us. I’m thinking they are five weeks pregnant, tops.

They do a loop through the store, touching slings and handling cloth diaper covers with confusion and awe. They leave without buying anything when they suddenly reappear. They are new in town, they explain, and it looks like they are gonna need an ob/gyn. I ask how far along. A few weeks, they wager. They haven’t told anyone, except me. I give several names, and they give me the most beautiful smiles in return.

I officially become a part owner of Mothersville a few weeks later, because it’s more than just a store. It feels like home.

Now about the color scheme…

Build It and They Will Come

2007-12-11T19:17:00.000-08:00

Build It and They Will Come
Courtney Miller Santo

Two years ago, when our little family first moved to Memphis, I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag, let alone to the nearest playground. But every week, I’d pick a new place and venture out a little bit farther and what I discovered was that Memphis has a tremendous number of places, events and activities for families. The problem was that not everyone seemed to know about all of the hidden gems.

And that is why I’ve created Kids in Memphis (www.memkids.com). I’ve just started, but I hope Kids in Memphis will offer two things to families looking to explore their city. I thought a bit about putting everything in a list and photocopying, but then I realized this was the 21st century and it would be a lot more productive to share this information in a blog. Plus it allows me to keep it updated and fresh with reviews.

Kids in Memphis is for urban parents who want know what our city has to offer their families. I want people to know what to expect before they attend an event or plan to spend the day at one of Memphis' many attractions. In addition to lists of places to go, parents can find reviews of those places with insider tips to help them have the most productive outing.

I say, upfront, that I have some biases with the site. I'm not going to spend a lot of time discussing places outside of Memphis and because we live in Midtown, expect a disproportionate amount of reviews of Midtown sites (at least until I can recruit other reviewers). I also know that if I try to make the site all things to all people, it will end up a mess and not useful to anyone. So think of it as sort of the best of the options out there with insider tips.

I'd really like to see Kids in Memphis become a community for parents to share their tips and reviews of places families can go in Memphis. This is really a labor of love for me, I'm not looking to make money or anything – I'll consider it successful if it encourages families to get out and be seen in Memphis.

Help build Kids in Memphis! Contact courtney.santo@gmail.com.

Meet Colleen Couch-Smith

2007-12-11T19:13:00.000-08:00

Meet Colleen Couch-Smith
Interview by Stacey Greenberg

Colleen Couch-Smith, 30, is an artist, restaurateur, mother of three (Brendan-13, Ian-5, and Ayden-2), and newest member of Memphis Roller Derby’s Legion of Zoom. I was really excited to meet her and thought you might be too.

Stacey Greenberg: How long have you been a mama?
Colleen Couch-Smith: I've been a mama for almost 13 years. I had Brendan when I was still in high school. I went to Hernando High in Mississippi. It was a total drag. I had Brendan when I was a senior. Teen moms are real common down there, but I was determined to incorporate my child into my life rather than change my course completely. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

When Ben and I got married, we knew we wanted another kid but wanted to wait until things settled down at the restaurant. Well you just can't wait for stuff like that because IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN! We tried for a whole summer to make a baby. It wasn't until sometime around 9/11 that I got pregnant. All that staying at home watching the news did the trick I guess. After Ian turned into a toddler, I swore I'd never have another child. I finally started to regain my composure as a person. I sent Ian to Montessori school, joined a gym, and was in full swing with Rock, Paper, Scissors. I was really making an effort to become Colleen. Not "Ben's wife" or "Ian & Brendan's mom."

I was feeling incredibly sick and thought it was just unease about the life changes I was making. Then it dawned on me that I might be pregnant. Ben had recently been to the Burning Man festival and I swear he did some sort of sex voodoo while there. Let's just say I was extremely happy to see him when he got back. I can't say that I was happy about the pregnancy at first. It was a horrible time for me to be pregnant. But, I settled into it and ended up seeing a midwife instead of my OB. Brendan's birth was awesome only because I was ignorant about the process. Ian's birth was not a good experience and I knew I would not repeat it.

Ayden's birth was one of the most incredible and happy moments of my life. How is that? She weighed 10 fucking pounds...no drugs. Luckily it was only a 3 hour labor with about 15 minutes of pushing.

SG: Tell me about your work life.
CCS: I’m a bookkeeper at Tsunami, where my husband is the owner/chef. Every day is "Bring Your Kid to Work Day," which is a blessing and a curse. It's great to have them that close. They have amazing relationships with adults and they learn a little bit about being an entrepreneur. On the other hand, it sucks to have to have them that close. What normally takes me 15 minutes will take at least an hour when they are there. I handle a lot of calls for reservations during the day and often have to reassure the guest that the screaming kid in the background will not be here when they come to dinner.

SG: How did you get into illuminated sculpture?
CCS: I got into illuminated sculpture a little by accident. I had loads of papermaking experience in art school. Allison Smith (who eventually became my sister-in-law) was my papermaking teacher at MCA. I majored in sculpture but papermaking became my true love, and through Allison's inspiration I found ways to use paper in sculpture. She made the large hanging lanterns at Tsunami and after a few years of staring at those lights I knew that I could do something like that myself. I've always wanted to return to doing my art.

We opened Tsunami while I was still at MCA. Once I graduated I was working at the restaurant so much I had no time for anything but restaurant work. Poor Brendan! He spent most of his childhood evenings cooped up in the office, climbing on top of the walk-in cooler, getting into the bleach water...I should stop in case Child Services gets a hold of this! Anyway, I made a couple of attempts to "do my own thing" and it just never panned out.

Then Kelly Myers (a.k.a. Kel Diabla, also a derby girl) and I became friends! She was on a similar path of self-discovery, and one night (over several drinks) we decided to start Rock, Paper, Scissors together. It's been a blast ever since. We both needed the kick-in-the-pants that only a partnership can provide. We feed off each other's ideas and work.

Recently I got an offer to apply for "That's Clever" (a show on HGTV about quirky artists). It would have been a great opportunity but they do not accept art duos. Needless to say I didn't respond...my work would be nothing without Kelly!
The other big event that lead to this was a generous gift from my father-in-law, Dolph Smith. Dolph started the papermaking program at MCA and once he retired he moved up to Ripley, TN. He had a full papermaking set-up in his studio. I would often make paper when we would visit. For one of my birthdays he gave a card saying that he would let me keep the papermaking equipment at my studio and he would come to me if he needed to make some. I think it took me six weeks to stop crying about this! Somehow we got it all down here. The beater (the machine that turns materials into pulp) is huge, heavy and damn hard to move. My studio is split. I have one in my garage and Kelly & I share a studio at my brother's garage. He'll probably kick us out sooner or later. We're slobs and he's not.

SG: So tell me a little bit about life in Hernando and what it was like being a teen-aged mom.
CCS: Life in Hernando was boring unless you were the preppy jock-type. I spent most of my weekends in Memphis at Overton Park or the Antenna Club. When I got pregnant I was worried about how much it would change my life. But I faced it head-on and made it a part of the life I was already starting for myself. I was encouraged to drop out of school but saw no reason to. I stayed at the top of my class, kept up with the extra curriculars and headed to art school. Luckily MY family was supportive, otherwise I could not have done it. Brendan's dad was never into it and I saw no reason to force him to. It was his loss and we were better off without him.

SG: How is parenting different (or the same) the third time around?
CCS: Parenting the third time around is definitely different for me because I have a girl. A headstrong assertive one at that! I get more and more careless, which is scary. Maybe inattentive is a better word. It's difficult trying to manage all three, but Brendan is my salvation. He can help with just about anything and is almost old enough to keep Ayden so that I can go to the store or something. He's awesome. Ian just keeps me laughing, and all he has to do is smile and it turns my day into a happy, sunny one.

SG: What's a "usual day" like for you?
CCS: I don't have any usual days. I make my own schedule at work so I can go in whenever it’s convenient for Ben to keep Ayden. Typically I take Brendan to school at 7-ish and then try to go to the gym for rowing or weights. Then I tag team with Ben. He takes Ian to school around 8:30 and then tries to go to the gym. I usually head to work around 9:30 or 10 and Ben will take Ayden when he's done at the gym. Sometimes we meet up for lunch. It sucks going out with Ayden so we usually skip it or get take-out. I plug away at work until it's time to get Ian (Brendan walks home from school and has the afternoon to himself...something every boy should have while going through puberty). I grab Ian and then run errands for the restaurant. I don't get home until 6 or so on good days. Then it’s dinner-homework-bath-bed. It never fails that just when the kids are settled and getting droopy-eyed that Ben comes home! Of course they bolt out of bed to play with him for a "while."

Sometimes I try to herd them back to bed but mostly I just give up and let Ben deal with it. I'm just a bitch that way. It's just one giant juggling act. Somehow, some way I make art. Most of my best work gets done at three in the morning when I can't sleep. Now that I've thrown Derby into the mix, I'm not sure which ball will get dropped first...

SG: Tell me more about combining parenting with being an artist. Do you involve your kids in the process or do anything particularly arty with them?
CCS: My kids are very self-sufficient. Most of the time they are doing their own things. I rarely have to set them up with a project or something to occupy them. Brendan makes his own art. He makes these amazing sculptures and carves his own wands and swords. He is drawing these really unusual flowers at the moment. If he is around when I make paper, he will help me form sheets, press them and store them in plastic wrap. Seems like last Cooper-Young Fest he helped Kelly and I paint some of the finished lanterns and lamp shades.

Ian is interested in painting right now. He typically just likes to roam around the studio when I'm working. If I'm in my studio at my brother's house, the kids will run around with the dog through the bamboo forest in the back yard. It's really nice over there, as long as the weather is nice and the mosquito population is down.

Ayden's not quite there yet. She likes to "draw" on things but doesn't have enough self-control to be let loose with paint or crayons. I usually get a babysitter during studio time if Ben can't watch her.

I don't necessarily lead them towards art but let it happen if they are interested. Ben and I want our kids to figure out their own paths...so long as that path does NOT lead to cooking or being an artist!!! I love to go out to art openings when I can to sort of reconnect with that world. I'm secretly hoping to run into someone who has the perfect art job opening. I do like to take the kids out to these events. It's great when they are into the work. The "Agents of Timbre" show was a HUGE hit for them and they were well-behaved. Other shows really push their limits...and therefore mine. I often have to leave, holding a screaming little girl and dragging a five-year-old who's trying to punch his older brother. It stresses me out but it's nothing that a hot bath, a huge glass of scotch and a "Wiggle's" marathon won't cure.

SG: Are you serious about not wanting them to be chefs or artists?
CCS: We aren't "serious" about it. Of course we want them to bloom into whatever career they chose. We just would hate for them to go through the hard times we have. Doing "your own thing" is challenging and at times heartbreaking. It's parental nature to want to protect your children as much as possible. Chefs get burned and/or cut at least once a week, they get insulted by grumpy food critics, they get complaints from customers, they work at a very fast pace under extreme temperatures. It tears me up to watch Ben go through it. I couldn't bear to see my children follow his footsteps. The art world is not anywhere near as bad as the restaurant world, but it has its ups and downs too.

I'm Not Kidding

2007-12-11T19:12:00.000-08:00

I'm Not Kidding
Marrit Ingman

You know, next time you're at the post office, just send Fisher-Price their shit back. Because seriously, are you going to want to make a special trip later? Wait in the P.O. with a small person or persons to whom you are The World's Biggest Asshole Who Sends Their Toys Away?

Here's the point at which, were I a better activist, I would say fuck you to conglomerate toy motherfuckers with toxic crap built in China with phthalates by people who live like slaves, but my sincere attempts to interest The Boy in tree blocks and silk squares have not been fruitful, so I have no soapbox upon which to stand. And I'm just going to come out and say I don't think the tree blocks really gave me that much to work with. I'm not saying they have to light up or teach French, but I couldn't polish that turd.

As a child of the 1970s—the decade that brought you plastic fabrics and pressurized cheese in a can—I am drawn to Cool Toys Made From Synthetic Substances with Amazing Properties. I used to trip out on Shrinky Dinks. And what the fuck is in Shrinky Dinks? I'd probably have to spend an afternoon Googling before I let my kid look at a picture of Shrinky Dinks.

But even then we kind of knew it couldn't last. That's part of why it was fun. We could not eat miniature sausages in a can forever; we could not loll about in petroleum polymers aplenty for generations to come. Kids were going to have to go back to rolling balls of lint across the floor with wooden spoons. I'm not saying we should start collecting our lint (unless you're into it) but I'm keeping an eye out for right-sized boxes.

In Our Family, People Can Get a Little Testy Before Dinner

2007-12-11T18:09:00.000-08:00

In Our Family, People Can Get a Little Testy Before Dinner
Essay & Illustration by Sarah Raymond

“Can you straighten up the living room?” I ask my six year old. “Then we’ll have dinner.” I’m calm. Least I think I’m calm.

Sam and his friend made a fort from couch cushions. A jagged mass of pillows, strewn on the living room rug, was left behind.

“But Tim made most of the mess. Why doesn’t he have to clean it up?” Sam asks.

“Because Tim went home. Here -- I’ll help you.” I’m still calm.

“But--” (Sam’s voice begins quivering and his sense of injustice mounts.) “This is Tim’s mess too. Why do I have to clean it up?” Tears well and hover behind his eyes as his rage gathers force. “When I go to his house, I have to help clean up.” Sam's voice shakes uncontrollably.

“Every single time you go to Tim’s you clean up,” I clarify. I’m less calm now; snippy in fact. Also hungry.

“Well most of the time I clean up.”

“I’ve only asked you to put away pillows. I’ve offered to help.” I’m losing control -- not of my voice, but of my children and my need for them to be helpful citizens of our home. (And for Christ’s sake, my sister’s kids would have fed and watered and cleaned the stalls of eighty chickens on their farm in the time I’ve taken to beg my child to return cushions to a couch.)

“I don’t think I should have to do it.” Sam draws the line.

Years of training dissolve before me. Our children graduated from Livingroom Tidy Up years ago, and now this.

“Sam,” (if you can talk about injustice well then so can I, Buddy) “Today I washed your clothes and folded them and put them away, and while I was there I made your bed and and now I’m making your dinner. I’m like your personal slave, Sam,” (okay so I’m a little melodramatic) “and all I ask is for you to put the cushions back on the couch--” My muscles are clenched; my voice strains higher from the impossible, horrific plight of a six year old who WON’T EVEN PICK UP THE FRICKIN’ CUSHIONS!

And then Sam senses the height of my rage, surpassing far beyond his, and he snaps. He throws himself on a pillow (still on the floor, of course) and his tears -- reined in long enough -- gush out as he cries, “Mama!!”

What? What now?

“Remember the good times Mama! Remember the papier mache snakes we made together in the summer!” His body is a shuddering, heaving machine.

I drop everything – my need for squared-away cushions, my desire for a respectable living room. Even my body drops. I fall on a cushion next to my son (they’re everywhere, so it’s easy), and I say “Oh Sammy, I do remember the good times. I loved making the snakes and I love you. I just want some help. Don’t cry Sammy Sweetie, please don’t cry. I'm sorry, Sammy.”

We hold each other for a long time. Then, together, Sam and I tuck all the couch cushions back into their respective spaces. We resume normal breathing patterns and prepare for dinner.

Benjamin Franklin Discovers His Own Hands

2007-12-11T18:07:00.000-08:00

Benjamin Franklin Discovers His Own Hands
Leah Browning

It's hard to imagine him this way,
in a yellow terrycloth sleeper with feet
and a duck appliquéd on the pocket.

A chubby baby, minus the gray hair
and glasses, cooing to himself
as he maps out plans for the future:

a clean diaper, a drink of milk,
a warm shoulder to curl up against.
All the good, true things of life.

He, too, discovered light and shadows,
his own hands, the sound of his name;
later birds and trees and stars.

Now here you are, almost three
hundred years later, replicating
his first serious experiment,

one initiated long before he touched
the key to the kite string. Lying in the
cradle, he had a sudden comprehension

of cause and effect, and a desire
to feel again that first electric thrill
of making his mother smile.

In Another Country

2007-12-11T18:06:00.000-08:00

In Another Country
Kristy Alley

Recently, Calvin, my nine-year-old, has been spending a lot of time playing with a kid who lives around the corner. Not around the corner in a house like ours, but in the big house. In the neighborhood for which our street was planned as a convenient abode for the domestic help.

The other day as we were driving home from school, he said to me "I think G's friend who lives two doors down is from another country, because he's always playing that game with the stick that has a net on the end."

"Lacrosse?" I asked.

"Yeah, Lacrosse! That's it!" I tried to keep the laughter out of my voice as I said

"Baby, that's not because he's from another country. It's because he's rich." Calvin thought about that for a minute and then asked tentatively, "Can only rich kids play Lacrosse?"

"No," I replied, beginning to wish I hadn't said anything, "it's just a sport they really only play in private schools." He didn't ask any more questions, and I was left to wonder what he thought about things like money and wealth. Had he not noticed the differences between his friend's house and ours? I know that he must have. But maybe in his mind, those differences were inconsequential, or just proof that they chose to buy a larger house than we did.

When I told this story to Richard, he laughed and said that kid might as well be from another country; the country of money. It was funny, but at the same time I felt a niggling little worry that we were letting bitterness seep in and infect our kids' attitudes about their place in the world. My parents are solidly middle class now, but they both come from poverty and, for good or bad, they passed on some of that poverty mindset to me. Time, experience, and education have remedied most of that, but I'm still aware of how our attitudes about money can spill over into the way we raise our kids.

I would be lying if I said we don't struggle financially. But at the same time, I can honestly say that I believe I live in incredible luxury. If I feel the need to compare what I have to what someone else has, I feel unfairly fortunate. I don't know what it's like to watch my kids go hungry, or to feel helpless when they get sick because I can't get medicine. I don't have to keep them in the house all day because of constant gunfire in the streets. We tuck them into warm beds at night knowing that in the morning we'll send them to a good school where they have every opportunity they need to learn and grow.

All of us are happy and healthy and our house is full of love and laughter and warmth. Bursting at the seams, maybe, but in such a good way. And that's what I want my kids to think about as they figure out how all of that works. We might daydream of things we'd like to have, but I can't really think of a single thing we need.

Play Therapy

2007-12-11T18:02:00.000-08:00

Play Therapy
Karen Wang

I've worn out another perfectly good pair of pants, my last good pair, in fact. The knee ripped open, as it always does, while I was playing on the floor with my five- year-old son. We were driving the cars in his toy parking garage, and he was telling me where his little people were going: to the theater for a concert, to a bookstore, then back home. He was re-enacting things that we had recently done together, transferring his ideas, memories and feelings to his characters. I had never seen him do this before. I was witnessing a developmental leap. All those ruined pairs of pants were paid for in that moment.

I think most adults underestimate what playing with a child, giving a child full attention for short periods throughout the day, can do for the child's health and development. When I explained to my sister that we planned to pursue one-on-one play with our son as his primary therapy, she told other family members that we had chosen to do “nothing” for our autistic son. I'm not sure I would have believed in the benefits myself without seeing them firsthand in my son Malcolm. He was an unusually active, alert baby, often fussy and anxious. I was looking for ways to balance his intense emotions and energy. I knew instinctively that the balance had to begin with our mother-child relationship. I sought out activities that brought peace and joy to us both: long walks, singing, reading, puzzles and balls. But my son was still missing out on something big; at 19 months of age, he was having panic attacks and could not tolerate any length or type of separation from me. To relieve his anxiety, Malcolm needed to learn the most basic social skills from the ground up, and the only people qualified to teach him this were those to whom he was most attached, his parents.

I remember my husband once saying, “Malcolm has work to do. Play is his work.” Play is the most important thing that happens in our house. Everything, and I mean everything, comes after it. We don't cook or do housework unless we can find a way to involve Malcolm playfully...laundry, dishes and vacuuming are all standard “games” around here. I recently started buying cheap cans of shaving cream after becoming annoyed at the filthy bathroom counters. “I want to make a mess,” Malcolm said to me one rainy afternoon. “Yes, we can make a big mess in the bathroom!” I gleefully responded. He helped me put away all the shampoo bottles and toothbrushes first, then I handed him the shaving cream. Because of his fine motor delay, I had to teach him how to press down on the button to release a fluffy cloud of shaving cream – but he was a motivated learner. Within a few minutes the counters, sink and cabinet doors were covered in shaving cream and we were both sporting “Santa Claus beards.” We “painted” each other's arms, traced words on the snowy surfaces and clapped our hands to make the foam fly around in a surreal wintry scene.

There was an academic method to our giddy madness. I had read about using shaving cream to reduce my son's sensory issues; I also wanted to create a new situation to stimulate conversational and emotional exchanges, eye contact and shared attention. My scheme worked: Malcolm was giggly and chatty, and far from fearing the squishy texture of the shaving cream, he explored and fully enjoyed it. He kept looking up into my eyes to share his excitement and happiness, and I felt my heart ready to burst from his sweetness. When the can of shaving cream was finally empty, Malcolm announced that it was time to clean up. We wiped everything down with damp washcloths and watched the thinned-out froth dissolve down the sink. The bathroom sparkled for the cost of 67 cents and a dash of imagination, but all I saw was the spark between us.

All children work out their fears and questions through play, and it can be difficult to find the answer they seek. Sometimes Malcolm gets stuck in a repetitive pattern (often representing his anxiety) that needs to be playfully disrupted. One day he was repeating a story over and over: “Once upon a time Malcolm was crying because the pool was closed.” He turned to me and asked me to re-tell the same story. I held him gently so that our faces were almost touching. I kissed him softly and said, “Once upon a time Mommy ate Malcolm's ear. (nibble) Once upon a time Mommy ate Malcolm's nose. (nibble) Once upon a time Mommy gave Malcolm a raspberry. (big raspberry on the tummy) Once upon a time Malcolm gave Mommy a razzzzzzberry.” Laughing, he collapsed in my arms, comforted at last.

If shaving cream and raspberries are the mortar, then beanbags are the cornerstones of play therapy. My little monkey-boy was bouncing off the walls and climbing the bookcases by the time he was 10 months old, but he always became calm and attentive when his body sank down firmly in his big red bean bag. Every time I saw bean bags chairs and giant pillows on clearance, I bought more. We began making bean bag towers and forts, playing pillow catch and, at the end of the day, sitting back and listening to music together. Before we knew it, the family room was decorated entirely in a “Hot Wheels-Bean Bag” motif, devoid of any other furniture.

Last night, sitting cozily in our bean bags, my husband and I talked about Malcolm's play goals for the week, and my assignment was to work on building block towers with him and to act out certain scenarios with the towers. But when we woke up this morning, the rain had finally stopped and the sun was shining. Malcolm and I snuggled under the covers to read some books, and after breakfast we walked through the wet grass and mud to the park. (I was wearing a pair of pants with a small hole in the right knee.) Before school, my son drew a picture of his best friend and his best friend's little brother, and he asked me to invite them over to play.

When I dropped off Malcolm at preschool, he made me promise that he could ride his bike “around the block the long way” if it wasn't raining after school. At 3:30, the weather was glorious, so Malcolm raced ahead of me on his bike, smiling and pointing out everything that interested him, occasionally pausing to allow me to catch up with him. In my mind I saw the clinical textbooks stating, “The autistic child is unable to co-ordinate eye contact, verbalization and gestures simultaneously; he may speak in a monotone and his face may bear a flat affect.” I laughed aloud at the thought. When my husband came home from work, Malcolm greeted his dad with a hug, gazed into his eyes and said, “Malcolm is happy today.”

Resources for play therapy:

· Playful Parenting by Lawrence Cohen, Ph.D. (www.playfulparenting.com). The author explains how one-on-one play enriches the development of all children.

· The Child with Special Needs or Engaging Autism by Stanley Greenspan, M.D. (www.floortime.org). Dr. Greenspan recommends following a child's interest and lead in play, then gradually introducing new patterns into play. This method is widely practiced for children with developmental disabilities.

· Relationship Development Intervention with Young Children by Steven Gutstein, Ph.D. and Rachelle Sheely, Ph.D. (www.rdiconnect.com). This type of therapy follows the same developmental model as Dr. Greenspan's Floortime, except that the parent leads the child through each playful exercise. Special emphasis is given to the development of “episodic memory,” the integration of emotion, cognition and past experience that allows individuals to adapt to new experiences. All of my bean bag games come from this book.

· The Out-Of-Sync Child Has Fun by Carol Kranowitz. This book is full of messy ideas to help children with extremely high or low sensitivity to texture, taste, smell, sound and light. I found the shaving cream idea here.

· The Joyful Child by Peggy Joy Jenkins. The author writes in a New Agey, hippie style that may grate on some people's nerves, but her point is that joy is tangible and contagious. The first song my son ever sang was “I Am Happy” from this book.

Small Packages

2007-12-11T17:43:00.000-08:00

FICTION: Small Packages by Stacey Greenberg
Photo by Melissa Anderson Sweazy

Catherine was barely pregnant with her third child and hadn’t told her husband Tim yet. The pregnancy was unplanned, and although she was sure he’d be thrilled for number three, she was having trouble saying anything out loud.

After having Phillip and James in close succession, it had taken her over six years to lose her “baby weight” and regain her personal identity. She wasn’t really sure if she could do either again. What if it’s a girl? Where will she sleep? Catherine thought as she rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. They had just moved into a two bedroom house on the east side of Overton Park. Two bedrooms!
Right now, Tim was in the backyard weeding his enormous garden and the boys were alternately riding their bikes and skateboards on the parking pad in back. The phone was ringing and although Catherine generally screened calls to the home number (her friends called her cell), she happened to be standing right next to the receiver.

“Hello?” she barked, assuming it was a telemarketer. Tim hadn’t had a chance to re-register them on the “Do Not Call” list.

“Can I speak to Catherine?” A sexy male voice asked. Catherine hated it when they tried to trick her by only using her first name and sounding extra nice. “This is Catherine,” she said.

“Hi, uh, did you ever live at 1009 Central?” the sexy voice asked.

“Yes,” she answered not knowing where this was leading. “In college.”

“I live there now and today I received a package with your name on it.”

“Really? How strange,” she said.

“It’s from Carnival Country,” he said.

Catherine hesitated to admit that she ordered from them often. She couldn’t understand how the package had gone to a house she lived in so long ago. It would make more sense for it to have accidentally gone to the house she and Tim just moved out of. Then she laughed a little to herself realizing that she had lived in three different houses all within a mile or two of each other for most of her adult life. Had she not spent two years abroad after graduating from college, she might think of herself as boring.

“I’m leaving for my yoga class in a few minutes. I can come by and get it,” she said suddenly feeling quite forward. She quickly added, “You can just leave it on the porch if you want.”

“Sure, no problem,” the sexy voice said warmly and hung up.

Inexplicably, Catherine felt a rush. How nice of him, she thought. He must have looked her up in the phone book or called information. She tried to think of what she would do in a similar situation. She’d probably just cross out the name, send it back, and never give it a second thought. Or, more likely, the kids would get a hold of it and they’d end up keeping whatever was inside by default.

Catherine quickly changed into her yoga pants and matching tank. She brushed her silver streaked hair, checked her teeth in the mirror, and sprayed herself with Vanilla Mist. Tuesday was her day. She did yoga and then went out for late night sushi with some of the women in her class. (They had a very innocent, yet fulfilling, flirtation going on with one of the waiters.) If it weren’t for Tuesdays, Catherine might lose her mind.

Soon I’ll have to switch to pre-natal yoga and non-alcoholic beer, she thought as she opened the back door. But I’m not giving up raw tuna. “Honey, I’m going to yoga,” she called out to Tim. “I’m taking your car.”

“Okay,” he said as he gently unwound bindweed from the Roma tomato plants. “See you later.”

“Be good,” she called out to Phillip and James. They came running over for hugs.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said as she kissed them. The best part of Tuesday Night Out was getting to come home after the boys were already sound asleep.

Catherine had never been able to say no to their pleas for “one more book” or “a few more snuggles.” It was often past ten o’clock before she got any time to herself. She pushed thoughts of a new baby permanently attached to her breast out of her mind and headed towards the car.

Her old house on Central looked very palatial from the outside, but inside it was broken up into several different apartments in varying stages of disrepair. She shuddered to think of all the damage she personally caused.

In college, Catherine and her roommate Robin had befriended most of their fellow residents and thrown wild parties on a regular basis. It wasn’t uncommon to see people sleeping on the porch or to find random pieces of broken furniture in the front yard. Catherine and Robin had become popular after a party highlighted by Catherine sitting naked on the hood of Robin’s Civic while she drove around the block honking.

Was that really fifteen years ago? Catherine marveled. Sometimes when driving the boys home from school, Catherine would point at the big house and say, “That’s where Mommy used to live before she met Daddy.” Even though she just lived a few blocks away now it was like living in a whole other world.

Catherine was surprised to see that there were no chairs on the porch, as that was where she and Robin spent the majority of their time. Looking around it didn’t seem like there was much furniture in any of the apartments—just a lot of wood scraps and other debris. She peeked through the window to find that most of the rooms had been gutted. There was no package in sight.

She took a deep breath and gently knocked on the door. She heard footsteps and then felt a blast of cold air as the screen door flew open.

“Catherine?” A man in paint-splattered Carhartts and a moist white t-shirt asked. He had a level in one hand and a small, cardboard box in the other.

She smiled and nodded.

“I’m Richard. Here’s your package,” he said as he held it out to her. He had bright blue eyes and dark hair. Despite his obvious prowess, his scruffy beard and wire-rimmed glasses made him seem more bookish than burly. His voice definitely wasn’t the only thing sexy about him.

“Thank you,” she said, staring. “Most people wouldn’t have bothered tracking me down.”

He gave her a good once over and said, “You weren’t very hard to find.”
Catherine turned her head so he wouldn’t see her already rosy cheeks ignite. “So, are you fixing this place up?’ she asked.

“I guess you could say that,” he said modestly.

“To live in or sell?” she asked eagerly. Am I flirting?

“Both—I’ll live here until I can sell it.”

“Wait, do I know you?” she asked, suddenly feeling like she had seen those blue eyes before.

“Maybe,” he said playfully.

Now she was embarrassed. She had a terrible memory for names and had forgotten many acquaintances after learning a new language and culture in Prague. It was like her brain ran out of room. Several years of baby-induced sleep deprivation didn’t help.

“Did we go to school together?” she asked.

“Sort of,” he grinned.

Nice teeth.

Hot and bothered, she said, “Dammit, who are you?”

“I told you, my name is Richard.”

“And…” she prodded.

“I used to hang out with a guy who dated Robin for awhile.”

Catherine wracked her brain. Robin had a lot of boyfriends. “Bill?” “Bingo,” he said.

She stared at him some more and tried to picture him without the beard. “Oh my god, you are the Egg Man!” Catherine now clearly remembered sitting on the kitchen floor doing Tequila shots with Robin, Bill, Richard and some other faceless people. They took turns microwaving eggs until they exploded. “You were fun.” I wonder why we never hooked up, she thought.

Richard reached up and grabbed the door frame to stretch his long arms. Just under his t-shirt sleeve Catherine could see some small tattoos in a row—a heart, a spade, a diamond, and a clover. He saw her staring, and said, “Those are tricks up my sleeve.”

Coming from a long line of bridge players, she laughed and said, “I really like that.”

“Mind if I ask what’s in the package?” Richard asked, grinning.

She looked down and examined the box. “It’s a marshmallow gun,” she blurted out, not feeling embarrassed at all.

“Really?” he asked, curious.

“I bought it for my kids,” she said.

“Kids?” he asked.

“Yep, I have two.”

He looked impressed. “And a husband?”

“Yep, but just one,” she said.

“Anyone I know?” he asked.

“Actually no,” she said. “Tim’s from Oregon. We met in Prague.”

“And you convinced him to move to Memphis?”

“Can you believe that?” she smiled.

“Actually, I can,” he said.

Is he flirting back?

They stood looking at each other for a minute, not quite sure where to go from there. Catherine was torn between thanking Richard, racing to her yoga class, and giggling over drinks with the girls and inviting herself in.

“You know what? I’ve got some marshmallows,” Richard said finally.

“Oh you do, huh?” she smiled, secretly thrilled at this turn of events. Steadying herself against the railing, she asked, “Do you have any beer?”

“Yep,” he grinned.

Feeling like the Catherine who used to live in that big house, she said, “Get the marshmallows and the beer and follow me.” As she climbed into Tim’s Jetta she knew she could never have pulled this off in her minivan.

***

By the time Catherine cruised into Martyr’s Park she was starting to lose her nerve. “Let’s go sit on the bluffs and watch the barges go by,” she said.

“Let’s climb on the bridge and pelt a train with marshmallows,” Richard replied.

She looked up at the bridge. Robin had convinced her to climb it a few times, but it always scared her. She took a deep breath and said, “Okay.”

Catherine tried to appear confident as they approached the chain link fence, but her eyes gave her away. Having one last beer with the Egg Man seemed innocent and fun. Scaling a chain link fence in order to dangle on an old bridge above the Mississippi seemed foolish, if not downright dangerous.

Richard held out his hand, “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

She looked at his strong arms and imagined them around her waist.

“Don’t worry,” he said, still holding out his hand. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Catherine took his hand and was pleasantly surprised by how easy it was to get over the fence. She ran towards the beams, exhilarated.

They walked over to a spot on the narrow pedestrian path on the side of the tracks. Catherine sat down cross-legged and started opening the Carnival Country box while Richard cracked open a couple of Newcastles.

“Here, see if you can figure this out,” she said, handing him the red and blue plastic gun.

He handed her a beer in exchange. “Cheers,” he said with a smile.

“Cheers,” she said, clinking his bottle with hers.

While Richard fiddled with the gun, trying to get it loaded with marshmallows, Catherine started interviewing him.

“So, why aren’t you married?”

He laughed. “I am…for a few more days anyway.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, mortified.

“Don’t be. I’m not,” he said.

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“Let’s just say that I’d much rather be fixing up that old house on Central than trying to put my sham of a marriage back together.”

Catherine suddenly felt very self-conscious. “Look, the train!” she said, now happy to see it coming. “You got that thing loaded yet?” she asked.

Richard nodded, and quickly demonstrated how to pull back the lever and shoot the marshmallows. Catherine took the gun, one hand on the front grip and one hand on the back, and assumed some kind of Rambo stance. When the train came by she started shooting marshmallows in a rapid fire succession.

“Oh no, I’m out of ammo!” she yelled over the sound of the wheels a few seconds later.

Richard grabbed the gun and the marshmallows and quickly reloaded the magazine. He tried to hand the gun back to her, but she screamed, “You try it!” He held the gun up to his shoulder like a rifle and methodically shot a marshmallow in the center of each passing car.

Catherine watched him until he ran out of ammo, then motioned for him to grab the backpack and follow her. The sun hadn’t set all the way but the wind was starting to pick up. Richard walked up next to Catherine and pulled her close to him. The train was making too much noise for them to talk so they just kept walking.

When the train passed, Catherine gave Richard a squeeze and said, “I think I need another beer.” Richard obliged. They stopped walking and sat down near the railing. They swung their feet over the edge, still embracing. Catherine watched the water rushing by.

“You’re even prettier now than you were in school,” Richard said.

Catherine wasn’t good at taking compliments—at least not on her looks. She decided to believe that Richard really meant what he said. She swallowed her beer fast and felt her head spin a little. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, looking up at him.

Richard slipped his hand in her shirt and his tongue in her mouth. Richard’s mouth was soft on hers. His tongue touched the inside of her cheek, then he took the edge of her lip between his teeth. Catherine was breathing fast, leaning into him. She felt Richard’s hand slip inside the cup of her bra; he rolled her nipple gently between his thumb and finger. Catherine made a small, low noise.

“Relax,” Richard whispered and she realized she had been gripping his forearm very tightly, her eyes squeezed closed. She opened them a little, the world coming slightly back into focus.

She was on her back looking up at the edge of the “Welcome to Arkansas, Home of President Bill Clinton” sign hanging above the bridge. I’ve definitely crossed a line.

Catherine thought of the time when Phillip was learning the states in school and very patiently tried to teach them to James. He had his own way of talking and pronounced Arkansas as “arky-saw.” Tennessee was “tennis seat.” The boys would love it up here. Not that I’d let those wild monkeys anywhere near here! she thought. Maybe I should bring Tim...

Richard was kissing her neck now, and it felt good. Even so, Catherine gently pushed him off of her and kissed him on the cheek. She ran her fingers through his hair like she might run them through one of her son’s and smiled.

Richard smiled back as he felt the wind change direction.

“I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “I had the strongest urge to run as far away from my family as I could today, but now they are all I can think about.”

He reached for another beer, and handed her one too. “It’s okay,” he said. “I think I know what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he said, sighing.

“It was fun seeing you again,” she said, hoping to save some face.

“You too. I bet you are a fun mom,” he said graciously.

I am. She looked at the full beer in her hand and remembered what sent her reeling in the first place. “I’m pregnant,” she said, happily, and a little louder than she expected.

Richard looked at her, then at her stomach, and said with a laugh, “Well, that was fast!”

She grinned, thankful that he was being a good sport.

“Let’s get you home,” he said.

***

Catherine had pretty much decided to erase Richard from her mind. She felt a little embarrassed, not to mention guilty, about their encounter and preferred to pretend that it had never happened. She was sure that he thought she was a total tease. Or prude. Or worse.

Friday, when she came home from work, Catherine was somewhat startled when Tim asked, “Who’s Richard Webb?”

She could feel her face go white. “What? Who?” she asked, confused.

“A Carnival Country package came with Richard Webb’s name and our address.”

“Oh,” she said, exhaling. “That’s weird.”

Catherine walked over to the package to see for herself. Was it just a bizarre coincidence? Did Richard want her to look him up? Was someone at Carnival Country playing a trick on her?

“Maybe he used to live here or something. I’ll send it back on Monday,” she said to Tim, who didn’t seem too concerned about the fate of the package.

Catherine couldn’t sleep at all that night. Maybe she would drop the package off at Richard’s house tomorrow—tempt fate: if he was there she’d go inside, kiss him one last time; if he wasn’t home, she’d just leave the package by the door, try to forget about all of it.

When Phillip and James came running in to her room on Saturday morning, she was too tired to get up. “Go turn on one of your shows,” she pleaded with them as she buried her head under her pillow. She and Tim still hadn’t found a curtain for the window over their bed.

Catherine tried to go back to sleep, but Phillip and James’ rumblings kept her awake. She liked to try and imagine what all the noises were. Clearly they had turned on the television and found an episode of “Ben 10” that she DVRed for them. She was pretty sure one of them was attempting to get cereal. When she heard Phillip say “Get the scissors!” to James, she was mildly alarmed. She hoped they wouldn’t cut up anything too important. As she tried to visualize all the things piled on the entry table, she heard the distinct sound of bubble wrap being jumped on. The package!

Catherine bolted out of bed and ran into the living room. She tried to sound stern when she said, “Phillip! James! What are you doing? That’s not ours,” but she was secretly glad to have a reason to look inside the box.

“Look, Mommy!” Phillip said as he held up a pair of goggles. “Bug eyes!”

“Cool!” said James as he dug into the box and pulled out another pair.

“There’s lots of them!” Phillip exclaimed. “Daddy! Come look!”

Tim came padding in to see what all the excitement was about. James had his goggles on and said, “Look, Daddy! I’m a bug!”

“Me too!” said Phillip, now wearing his goggles.

“Everything is multiplied!” James said.

Catherine loved that her five-year-old just said the word multiplied. She put on her glasses and said, “Look, I’m a bug too!”

Tim was laughing now. “Do I get a pair?”

Phillip handed him a pair and they all stood in the kitchen giggling. “Bugs have compound eyes,” Tim said. “They have hundreds of little corneas. Each one provides the bug’s brain with one picture element.”

“Cool,” James said.

“I have a great idea,” said Phillip. “Let’s get dressed and walk over to the trails and wear our bug glasses!”

Overton Park was the main reason they never moved more than a mile away. Every Saturday and Sunday for as long as she could remember, she and Tim had packed up the dogs, and later the kids, to hike along the old forest trails. Spring, summer, fall and winter. Rain or shine. It was their sanctuary.

James picked up the box and turned it upside down to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. A fifth pair of goggles fell out. “Look! Another pair!” he exclaimed.

Phillip picked them up and asked, “Who’s going to wear these?”

Catherine put her hand on her stomach and looked at Tim. He raised his eyebrow and mouthed, “Are you serious?” Catherine blushed. Then she looked at Phillip and James, said “I bet I can get dressed the fastest!” and raced towards her bedroom in her bug goggles.

Fertile Ground #15

2007-03-10T21:25:00.000-08:00

INSIDE

FROM THE TRENCHES
Soil Chart by Stacey Greenberg
An Alternative Birth Story by Stephanie Chockley
My Bonus Baby by Kristy Alley
The Many Faces of C by Elizabeth Alley

THE REAL DIRT
Urf! The Birth of a Blog by Richard J. Alley
The People in Your Cyberhood by Andria Brown
Memphis is Better than Portland by Courtney Miller Santo
Memphis A to Z by Shiloh Barnat
Friday After School by Shannon Dixon
Peeling the Onion by Vanessa Ross

FERTILIZER
Meet Kate Crowder Interview by Stacey Greenberg
Greet Robby Grant Interview by Stacey Greenberg

IN THE FIELD
CODEPINK by Naomi Van Tol
Children are Natural Protestors by Amy Banbury

RUTS INTO FURROWS
Diary of an Injury by Stacey Greenberg

Soil Chart

2007-03-10T19:26:00.000-08:00

Soil Chart
Stacey Greenberg

Despite claiming that I was going to only do the zine every six months in the last issue, I had really planned to have #15 out by December 15th. Then I broke my leg in two places in my inaugural roller derby bout on December 9th and had to have surgery. But thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, I am almost fully recovered. Read my “Diary of an Injury” on page 36. It doesn’t have all that much to do with parenting, but these days I get as many inquiries about roller derby as I do about my monkeys. (Who, by the way, were extremely sweet while I was injured and unable to do much of anything.)

I am happy to bring to you issue #15, the Memphis issue! For the first time ever, all of the contributors are either from or living in Memphis. This is by no means a comprehensive look at our fine city, but I think it gives a taste of what life is like here. As much as I love shipping this zine off to mamas across the country (and on occasion across the globe), one of my goals in starting this zine was to help build a community of like-minded parents in my very own backyard. After almost five years of parenting, I feel very blessed (as we say in Memphis) to know so many awesome parents. Not only do I know them, I get to see them almost everyday—at school, at the grocery store, at the playground, at my house, etc.
Speaking of…we’re moving! Please note the new address on the back and send all of your packing and organizing tips my way! I plan to have #16 out in a few months. In the meantime visit www.fertilegroundzine.blogspot.com.

An Alternative Birth Story

2007-03-10T19:23:00.000-08:00

An Alternative Birth Story
Stephanie Chockley

Some time after the “stuck-at-nine-and-a-half-centimeters-so-you’re-going-to-need-a-C-section” birth of my first child, I retroactively educated myself on the whole process. One night I explained to my husband all of the things that had gone wrong. “. . .and so basically without the pitocin my labor would have progressed more slowly so my body would have had time to dilate properly and I probably wouldn’t have needed the C-section,” I concluded with conviction. “So you will want to try the VBAC next time we do this?” my ever-supportive husband asked. My reply was just as full of certainty as my diatribe, “Of course not!”

It’s fair to say that I do not thrive on uncertainty and spontaneity. I try really hard to go with the flow, but even when it appears I’m doing a good job of it, the inner me is struggling to relax. Waiting on the baby to arrive was pretty hard on me in that regard. It wasn’t about my physical discomfort or the anxiety of what was in store- it was about not having it on the schedule. Not being able to plan my maternity leave to perfectly maximize my paid time off. Not knowing what day relatives would come to my house. Not knowing. So while I’m officially opposed to scheduling unnecessary C-sections just for purposes of planning and keeping order in your life, I was not about to turn down a semi-reasonable excuse to do so when I got pregnant a second time.

Also, I am a total fraidy-cat. I’m scared of everything. During my first labor experience, I had already told my husband that at the first hint that anything might go wrong, I was willing to be cut open. Because what if the baby got stuck? Umbilical cord around its neck? Upside down? Sideways? What if I ripped open to my tailbone and pooped out of my vagina for the rest of my life? Add to those fears the (admittedly small) possibility that the scar tissue from my first C-section might rupture, and I’m knocking on the surgeon’s door before the pee has dried on the EPT. Even though surgery should be infinitely scarier than the amazing, natural act of childbirth, I was willing to give myself over to it in a heartbeat. Probably because it can be planned for. They draw a line where they’re going to cut. They control the pain. They have a better handle on the baby’s condition. The certainty of the decision to plan a repeat C-section wrapped around me and made me feel safe. That was definitely something I needed amid the craziness of pregnancy.

I found myself disappointed, though. Not that I had made this decision - I was relieved and actually happy about that! But why was I willing to settle? I know people who work with midwives or have their baby at home in the bathtub or at the very least don’t get an epidural. I wish I was the kind of person who wanted that experience, but I’m just not. I wondered if maybe I would regret the decision later. “I hear second babies come out pretty fast- maybe if I go into labor before my date, and if I’m pretty far along by the time we get to the hospital, then maybe. . .,” I limply threw out one night over dinner. Chip just looked at me and smiled his knowing smile. “Whatever you want to do,” he replied, knowing better than I did that it wouldn’t happen that way. And it didn’t. And it turns out I’m perfectly fine with that.

My due date was March 22. We scheduled the C-section for the afternoon of Thursday, March 16. The Saturday before, I suddenly had high blood pressure. Since it was the weekend, my doctor’s office was closed and I had to go to the hospital. At one point I heard the nurse talking to the on-call doctor, “. . .since she’s already scheduled for Thursday. . .” “No!” I said to myself, and then to everyone within earshot. I had concert tickets for that night, and stuff to do around the house on Monday after Connor and Chip left for the day. I hadn’t even had a day off work! I didn’t have the cushions on my glider rocker re-covered yet! Many tears later they let me leave, promising to see me Thursday. I stayed home that night sulking while Chip went to the concert without me, but I was glad to be back on schedule. I cleared my to-do list by Tuesday afternoon, and looked forward to relaxing all day Wednesday.

But Tuesday night when I got in bed, I realized I was in labor. I tossed and turned for a few hours, checking the time of my contractions and making sure it was really happening. I had an unreasonable fear that I would cause a lot of commotion getting my mom over to stay with Connor and heading to the hospital, only to be embarrassingly sent home with some Tums. I felt I needed to be sure. Pretty soon I was, but I let Chip sleep awhile. I figured it would be good if one of us did. Around 1:00 a.m. I shook him a little. “It’s time,” I whispered. “Really? You ready?” And I was. I had a fresh mani-pedi (Don’t judge me-it was a gift!), there was a newly upholstered chair in the nursery and clean sheets on the guest bed. We called Mom to come stay with Connor, and she arrived in minutes. I felt bad that I hadn’t been able to warn Connor, but I knew it was best to let him sleep. He knew it was happening this week and he was excited about it. He’d be happy to wake up in a world where he was a big brother.

We arrived at the hospital and I was monitored in all the appropriate ways. The contractions were strong and closer than I had realized, but I hadn’t dilated much at all. We called Mom and Chip’s parents to let them know it was happening. The on-call doctor came to see me. Dr. King! He did my first C-section. “Um, doc? Not to knock your work, but my previous scar is somewhat asymmetrical. Dr. Miller said we could fix that?” No problem. One more thing checked off my list. (My list of neuroses, that is!)

They wheeled me in, alone, to administer the spinal block and get me ready. I concentrated on trying not to move my immovable legs and asked repeatedly, “When can Chip come in?” I found myself more frightened of the surgery than I had been the first time, when it all happened much faster. I narrowly averted a panic attack after giving in to my instincts and trying to move my leg- the nurse talked me down from it and reminded me that it would all be worth it in just a few minutes. In came Chip, and it was on. No, I don’t want to watch. Yes, I know I’ll feel pressure. Just do it! In that moment all you want is to hear that baby cry, no matter how she’s getting out of you. And minutes later, she did. I exhaled and begged them to get her to me. “Hi Chloe! I love you!” I said through my tears. Although I wish I could have nursed her right then, I knew I would be able to soon enough. So, I relaxed a bit and watched them go about the business of welcoming a newborn. Nine pounds four ounces? At 39 weeks? Suddenly I was really glad I hadn’t tried that on my own. It wasn’t long before the three of us were in a room together, watching Chloe gleefully suck the skin right off my nipples. I hadn’t done it in my own living room, but I had done it and I was proud. And it was nothing to be ashamed of.

My Bonus Baby

2007-03-10T19:18:00.000-08:00

My Bonus Baby by Kristy Alley
Photos by Heather Ashley

Saturday morning, the kids and I slept in while Big Daddy got up and went to work. I never thought I would consider 8:45 a.m. "sleeping in," but now it seems absolutely decadent. I heard the boys get up and turn on cartoons as Genevieve rooted around a bit in my bed and then looked up at me with her best "am I not the cutest baby alive?" smile.

The lady Somerset generally does not show her face before 10:00 a.m. on weekends, but this day she came padding into my room and crawled up into bed with the baby and me. The three of us snuggled and chatted for a little while until gradually the boys drifted in asking about breakfast. Sugar is the rule for our Saturday mornings, so Calvin and I made our favorite, chocolate croissants, and we all took them out on the front porch to eat.

The older three soon felt cartoons pulling them back inside, leaving Genevieve and me in relative peace. She likes to alternate between sitting in her exersaucer and rocking with me in the porch glider. While she practiced standing and reaching in the saucer, I gorged on chocolate and The New Yorker, reading a short story, a couple of poems (one good, one bewilderingly not good), an article about Bill Clinton's working post presidency, and a fascinating article about a WWII era sociological movement called Mass Observation. Somewhere in there, Genevieve fell asleep in the crook of my arm and I put her back in bed.

I sat there, rocking and reading and eating with my kids drifting in and out and the baby doing her baby things, and I tried to hold the sweetness of the moment in my mind. There were years when time seemed to be suspended in babyhood, when months seemed like eternities and I thought I would never see the end of diapers and sippy cups and “Blues Clues.” I never had baby fever. I lived for the day each one of them would walk and talk. Babies are sweet, but we had kids because we wanted kids. We became parents with visions of biking with them, going camping and canoeing, not of cribs and mobiles and pushing a stroller. Not that there weren't good things. Babyhood has its moments, but for the most part, I have wanted to kiss the ground as each child turned four, because the journey to that point has just about worn me out. Then one day, I realized I couldn't find clothes to fit Calvin in the toddler section anymore. Joshua was talking clearly and sucking his thumb less. Somerset, who was then our "last baby," potty trained and finally weaned on her third birthday. It felt like the end of an era, and it was bittersweet.

Two weeks later, I got pregnant. I have to confess that I was devastated. There was a time when I wanted a fourth baby, but then I had Somerset only fourteen months after Joshua. We decided that three was enough. We worried that we were pushing our luck. We had three healthy kids, why tempt fate? It was a hard decision for me, but once I decided I was done having babies, I felt good about moving on to the next stage. As it turned out, having babies was not done with me. When it started to dawn on me that I might be pregnant, I responded with strong denial. There was no way. I was so sure that I would never be pregnant again that I couldn't even wrap my mind around the possibility. I've had two miscarriages, so that always feels like it could happen again. I didn't want to miscarry, but I knew it could happen, and if it did, I would know that the whole thing just wasn't meant to be. The thought of starting all over with a newborn was just overwhelming to me. Then one day, I guess about a week (a very looong week) after I figured out what was going on, I saw blood. I walked into my kitchen, leaned back against the counter, and cried. It was crazy, I didn't even want to be pregnant, but at the same time, I felt like I had just lost something very real. I thought in flashes of everything that would never happen for that baby. I felt like I had wished away my chance to know one of my kids.

Happily, the blood turned out to be only a little implantation spotting. The baby was fine. I felt so relieved, but I still worried. I'm not the anxious type, and when irrational thoughts pop up, I usually shut them down immediately. But one day when I was driving the kids around, I looked to my right and saw a woman pushing what looked like a six-month-old baby in a stroller. A thought flashed into my mind with such force and certainty that it was almost as if it had been spoken aloud: "I'll never see this baby like that." I pushed it away, but the feeling that it was true was hard to shake. I never said a word to anyone, but through my whole pregnancy, some part of me was just waiting for the worst to happen. I did not allow myself to think about how it might go down, but I couldn't stop believing that it would. So when I was finally in labor and the nurse noticed that the belt monitor was not picking up the baby's heartbeat, that part of me just sort of detached and said, "So this is how it's going to happen." My incredible nurse, Marta, moved swiftly and expertly as she attached the internal monitor, rolled me on my side, put an oxygen mask on me, and unhooked the bed from the headboard so she could tip me on my head. As she moved, she calmly explained what she was doing and how it would get more oxygen to the baby. It all happened so fast, and I was able to listen to her, but at the same time part of me was thinking that this was how I would lose my baby. I don't know if it was the guilt over not wanting to be pregnant, or just hormonal irrationality, or what, but it felt so real at the time.

Ultimately, my fears were unfounded and Genevieve was fine. She came out looking blue as Vishnu, screaming soundlessly, and when they laid her on my chest I said, "Are you sure she's ok?" They assured me she was fine, but I was still shaken. Then my doctor held up a length of the umbilical cord between her hands and said "Look, a true knot." It was tied in a perfect knot but not pulled tightly enough to cut off the blood supply. Only two weeks later, I would learn that the baby of a friend's acquaintance was stillborn because of a knot in the cord. But my baby lived, and she was beautiful and perfect and she relaxed in my arms the moment the nurses brought her back to me. She rested her head on my chest in a way that said so clearly, "Yes, you are the right one." I could write a million words and never be able to describe what I felt at that moment.

So, finally, with my fourth and definitely last child, I have been able to enjoy having a newborn. When she cries, I feel sympathetic but not like my own emotions are tied up with hers, which is how it always felt with the others. I do not feel like my head is going to explode. Ok, sometimes I do, but that's usually when I'm trying to do something else that seems important at the moment. Most of the time, I just hold her and smell her crazy hair that stands straight up, laugh at her babbling screeching baby sounds, smile at her smiling at me. She is indescribably sweet, and so much sweeter because I know now how fast it goes. I know that I wasn't even expecting her, my bonus baby, and she came to me through sheer luck, and before long she will disappear into the child she's bound to become.

The Many Faces of C

2007-03-10T19:16:00.000-08:00

The Many Faces of C
Elizabeth Alley

Urf! The Birth of a Blog

2007-03-10T19:14:00.000-08:00

Urf! The Birth of a Blog
Richard J. Alley

Why would a person start a blog? Narcissism. At some point a person believes that what he or she has to say is so interesting, so poignant, so goddamn witty that he must share it with others. And that others will necessarily enjoy it. That’s why I began Urf!, because I’m just so witty. That’s not entirely why I started it, of course. As the father of four young kids of varying ages, I am always amused by the silly things they’re saying or doing, or trying to say and do. These stories I would invariably email to my mother or sisters. I decided it would be easier to put them in one place, along with current photographs, for them to visit and to really feel a part of our lives no matter how far away they were.

Urf!, a term my then-three-year-old daughter would use to vent her frustration, was begun on March 31, 2006, with the post What is Urf!? I wrote online for about 10 days before telling anyone, posting almost every day. I needed to make sure it was something that would hold my attention before attempting to hold anyone else’s. I received positive feedback in the form of comments and email once I went public, and the URL was forwarded from family to friends to people I’d never met before. I’m a frustrated writer at heart and having someone read what I’d written – and like it – turned out to be just what I needed, what would propel me to write more, whether online or in my own composition book. It also helped me gain access to a community in Memphis that I wasn’t even aware I wanted access to. My wife owned a parenting store for a couple of years and, through that entity, she became close with a group of women and their families. Kristy’s Friends, that’s who they were to me. I knew of them, but didn’t really know them. Once she told them about Urf!, and they read it, they began to comment and email their thoughts on various posts and topics. Stacey Greenberg and I discussed using a post as an essay in this very zine. Instead of hanging out as individuals with kids, we started getting together as families and have all become close, a sort of extended family.

I consider myself to be a good father, though with room for improvement, but writing about the kids every day changed the way I looked at, and even interacted, with them. I began listening more closely to what they were saying and how they were saying it, always looking for that next hook to build a post around. They had become my muses. Suddenly I saw humor in their stubbornness, questions, eating habits, and even their arguments. I instigated conversations just for the reaction and dragged others out longer than I normally would have just to see where they’d lead. They usually led to one of the kids rolling their eyes at me, and that in itself was worthy of writing about. Urf!, as I’ve said, is a funny term of vexation, and that’s exactly what fatherhood is to me - a series of frustrations punctuated by intense moments of silliness and laughter. Urf! became my place to document and share the good times as well as the not-so-good.

My grandfather was the editorial cartoonist for The Commercial Appeal during the 1940s, 50s and 60s, and during much of this time he also penned a daily comic strip called The Ryatts. In this comic strip, he documented the antics of a family of seven, the parents and their five children, based on his own family. It was brought to my attention recently that that is what I’m doing. I’d never made that connection before, but it’s nice to find this link to the past; to think that, though I don’t have his skills with a nib and ink, I can still paint those pictures, convey that humor, in my own way. Hopefully in a way that will resonate with other parents, other families.

The blog also became a sort of archive or record book for me. My thinking is that when my kids grow and have kids of their own, reading Urf! will be akin to flipping through that old family album we always look through at my grandmother’s house. There will be some actual photos, but most of what is there will be drawn with words, some embellished, some silly, but hopefully with enough truth and feeling that they and their own children can be transported back to this time in their lives. It’s done the same for me. I find that I’m not only interested in writing about my kids’ childhoods, but my own as well, attempting to draw a parallel between our experiences at times and a contrast at others. I’ve written heartfelt entries about my family, knowing full well that they were being read by those people, and that has unexpectedly opened up lines of communication that may not have been there otherwise.

My kids don’t yet know about Urf!. I’ve kept it from the oldest, the only one who can read now, because it’s not time for him to read it. I’m not ready for them to know just how funny they are to me, how parents laugh at their children even when they’re exasperated by them. If that happens, we, as parents, lose our edge and the whole system breaks down. I also fear that if they know they’re being written about, and that people are reading it, then they will begin acting for it and I want them to be as natural as possible. The time will come for them to read it, and I look forward to emailing them the URL wherever they may be. Away at college, on scholarships, hopefully.

The People in Your Cyberhood

2007-03-10T19:13:00.000-08:00

The People in Your Cyberhood
Andria Brown

It’s always a little awkward to admit having met someone online. There’s still a little bit of a stigma, the assumption that the parties involved had such a deep social delay that the only way they could come together was through the safe, flaw-hiding, digitized middle ground.

Even more awkward, then, to admit that pretty much one’s entire social circle stems from an online source, but I’ve slowly come to realize that I owe most of my daily interaction with other parents to the mighty Internet. In fact, I wouldn’t be on this page today if it weren’t for the HipMama message boards.

I met Fertile Ground’s own Stacey (or staleyg, as she was better known to me) while I was pregnant with Miss M. I’d been a fairly active message boarder before then, since I was telecommuting from a home office 600 miles away from my nearest three-dimensional co-worker. So when I got pregnant, I sought an online community that would cater to my personal parenting leanings. The board went through changes and the community wandered from one site to the next, but I kept tabs on staleyg and after nearly a year of virtual communication, we discovered that we lived less than 2 miles away from each other. A chaotic but enjoyable smoothie date between Pregnant Mom and Toddler Mom ensued, and pretty soon we were in regular contact, both in person and online.

One day I got an email from Stacey saying, “Hey, have you seen this store Mothersville? It’s really cool, you should check it out.” And since Stacey was my guide to all things cool in Memphis, I of course went right away. I discovered not only a store, but a community resource offering pre-natal yoga, childbirth classes and a full schedule of groups for new mamas. I immediately signed up for everything, and after slinking in six or eight times, I finally got the nerve to start talking to the owner, Kristy. And talking. And talking. And talking.

Looking back at the end of my pregnancy and my first year of motherhood, my most distinct memories are of sitting on the couch at Mothersville, among Kristy, Stacey and a revolving group of other new moms, talking, joking, advising and dishing about our lives. But even in real life, the virtual was still a factor. Most of the moms had found Mothersville through online research on slings, cloth diapers, or attachment parenting. We set up an outside playgroup and, naturally, emailed each other the meet-up details each week. The Internet was our lifeline in the often isolating world of new parenthood.

As time went on and children grew, trying to coordinate our social lives got even more complex. We outgrew playgroups or our maternity leaves ran out and our regular contact got less and less frequent. Since I was working 2-3 jobs, including the new ownership of Mothersville, I no longer had the free time to devote to the constantly active nature of message boards, and as each month passed, I was drifting even further out of touch with the women who had been my companions on the maternity journey.

And then, like a pixelated miracle dropped from the cyber-sky, my salvation arrived in the form of a blog. Fertile Ground Zine: The Blog, to be precise. Suddenly I had a way to keep up with the almost-daily doings of at least one other mom (guess who?), and thanks to the magic of blog comments, it was even interactive. Maybe I didn’t have the time to send regular emails, but it wasn’t so hard to read a funny post and then blurt back a couple sentences in reply. In fact, reading the comments from other people was half the fun of the blog itself. It’s like Stacey was telling a story and the rest of us were sitting around the table, goofing around and interrupting (like she loves!) and sometimes even agreeing with her. When Stacey expanded her bloggertoire to include Dining with Monkeys, and then opened it up to guest bloggers, the community interaction was even stronger. More local parents joined the blogosphere on their own and we formed a curious little pack: grown folks who rarely actually saw each other but still kept tabs on the regular goings-on of everyone else.

I didn’t realize how much this phenomenon had affected our social scene until we were at a birthday party at Kristy and Richard’s house (Sassy Molassy and RJA of Urf!, respectively) and Stacey mentioned that, despite standard birthday party conventions that usually just drag mothers to such events, Warren felt comfortable coming because “he felt like he knew everyone through the blog comments.” The feeling was collective as we all sat on the porch and drank beers and joked with each other as if we’d just been talking the day before, even though it may have been a few weeks since we were all in one (actual) spot.

Of course, those multi-week spans very rarely occur anymore, because there’s generally a Dining with Monkeys convergence to attend or an impromptu park date set up thanks to the wonder of cell phone text messaging. We used technology to come together, and now we use it on daily basis to create our own virtual neighborhood. We can’t walk out our front doors and holler hi at each other like our own mothers and their friends, but we’ve still found a way to connect our high-speed lives.

Ten Reasons Why Memphis is Better than Portland

2007-03-10T19:11:00.000-08:00

Ten Reasons Why Memphis is Better than Portland
Courtney Miller Santo

Memphis is a city for passing through. Its history is that of a town of intersections, the site for exchanges, a layover in a cross-country trip, the spot before the final stop. It isn’t a place people stay. Since moving here, this characteristic has colored nearly every moment in Memphis. I can see it on the faces of those who call Memphis home, nearly everyone looks as if they got off at the wrong bus stop and are just waiting for the right moment to leap back aboard and travel to another place – a place of permanence. And because too many people don’t consider Memphis their home, they don’t recognize what this city has to offer – especially to parents.

I moved to the Bluff City from Portland, Oregon with my husband, our four-month-old son and three-year-old daughter in August 2005. I spent the first eighteen years of my life in Portland, and then returned for a four-year tour of duty – during which I became a mother. What I failed to understand while living there is that for many progressive parents, Portland is Mecca. It is the end-all, be-all for those who picture themselves riding their bikes to work, enjoying excellent public transportation and beautiful city parks, or sipping coffee in a child-friendly, environmentally-friendly, locally-owned and operated café. All these things are true, but it doesn’t make the city perfect. While Memphis has an issue with permanence, Portland has an issue with authenticity.

What you see is what you get in Memphis – its nickname (Bluff City) is geographical. There are steep bluffs along the Mississippi River on the Tennessee side, which protect the city from flooding. Portland got its moniker (City of Roses) after the wife of a wealthy newspaper mogul started the Portland Rose Society, which encouraged the city to plant 200 miles of rose-bordered streets in 1905 to draw attention to the centennial of the Lewis and Clark expedition.
With that, I give you my list of ten reasons why Memphis is better than Portland:

1. Cost of Living
A family of four living on the median U.S. income ($43,200) in Memphis, would need an additional $9,669 to maintain the same standard of living in Portland. One big reason it is much easier to make ends meet in Memphis is the cost of a house. According to the National Association of Realtors, the median house price in Memphis is $145,300 vs. $235,000 in Portland for the quarter ending October 30, 2006. For our family to afford a home in Portland, I would have had to keep my sixty-hour a week job in corporate communications. Instead, my husband works full-time, while I am able to work part-time from home.

2. Commuting Time and Congestion
At first glance there is not much difference between the time it takes to get to work in Portland (21.9 minutes) and Memphis (21.4 minutes). But these numbers come from census data, not real-world experience. And let me tell you, Portland is a much more congested city than Memphis. Traffic on all freeways, local highways and busy streets starts to slow down at 7:30 a.m. and again at 3 p.m. (and by slowing down, I mean bumper-to-bumper, less than five miles per hour). In Memphis, even during rush hour, I can usually drive at thirty-five miles per hour. I don’t have to plan errands and doctor appointments around commute times.

3. Memphis Zoo
The Oregon Zoo (located in Portland) is like an ugly stepsister compared to the Memphis Zoo. There are two schools of thoughts with zoos – either they create such animal friendly environments that it is nearly impossible to find the animals or they accept the reality that zoos are for people and embrace visitor friendly exhibits. At the Memphis Zoo my son watched a lion walk up to the barrier and let out an enormous roar. He then spent the rest of the day imitating the lion. There is one exception – the train at the Oregon Zoo (or the Washington Park and Zoo Railway) goes on a four-mile trip through forests to a world-famous rose garden. Which is amazing compared to the five-minute manure smell ride at the Memphis Zoo.

4. Minds Its Own Business
It is possible to walk the streets of Memphis and not collect stacks of leaflets and pamphlets for Greenpeace, the Peace Corps, peace protests, lactation sit-ins, or any number of pet Portland causes. It is possible to drink a caffeinated beverage, while pregnant, and not be lectured by three or four strangers on the dangers of this habit. I can fill the tank on my fifteen-year-old SUV at the local gas station and not be given a pamphlet on the danger of fossil fuel by a woman in head-to-toe Nike exercise clothing driving a brand-new Prius. It isn’t that I have anything against any of these causes, I just enjoy not constantly being lectured on my life choices. The “live and let live” attitude of Memphis is refreshing. And as a parent, it helps my sanity. If there is one topic everyone has an opinion on, it is how you raise your kids, especially in public.

5. Weather
Memphis is miserable from June to September. It is four months of muggy, oppressive, sweat-inducing heat. Those same months in Portland are beautiful, with sunshine and highs in the mid-80s. But what about those other eight months? Portland will be cold, damp and gray, while Memphis is enjoying moderate temperatures and lots of sunshine. When I was about ten, my mother received a circular from Sears for siding, which in big, bold letters said, “THE SUN BEATS DOWN ON YOUR HOUSE ON AVERAGE 68 DAYS PER YEAR.” If you live in Memphis, you get on average 118 sunny days – but you may have to repaint your house more often.

6. Southern Hospitality
It is so strange when a cliché is true. Portland is laid back and casual, even the whitest of white tablecloth restaurants wouldn’t blink if you showed up with socks and sandals, but it isn’t overly friendly. No one really talks about the great hospitality of the Pacific Northwest, but Memphis, well that’s another story. People are always chatting me up, asking me about my children, trying to find a personal connection between us. “Oh, your husband works at Memphis State …. My brother-in-law goes there.” In Portland, people will talk to you, and are happy to give directions, but you have to ask first. And at no point will your neighbors bring over food to welcome you to the neighborhood. They may however make sure that you are well-versed in the various ways you can best adhere to the recycling rules.

7. Diversity
In my high school class of 440, there was one African American, a couple of third or fourth generation Asians and a handful of Hispanics. And this was no uppity-up school – we had one kid (Alan Bond) whose father was a lawyer and we could never get over the fact that he went to school with us (the children of union workers, factory workers, and teachers). It is wonderful to have the opportunity to have my children grow up in a place where integration and diversity are the norm.

8. Downtown
All cities have panhandlers, but at least the panhandlers in Memphis are actually poor. In Portland, be prepared to be accosted by suburban teenagers “getting real” by leaving their parents’ McMansions, bathing in patchouli oil and moving to Portland to live on the streets.

9. Music
Portland’s greatest musical acts include the Kingsmen, Quarterflash, Everclear, and Storm Large (CBS’s Rock Star, season two). Memphis not only lays claim to Elvis Presley, B.B. King, Al Green, Isaac Hayes, Justin Timberlake, Three 6 Mafia, among others, but Sun Studio and Stax Records, and there are more songs about Memphis than I can list.

10. Soul
Memphis is a city with rhythm, deep blues and plenty of gospel. If you take it all together you get soul, you get authenticity. It is a city full of people making their way the only way they know how. It is a place worth putting roots down in, a place that deserves people who want to make it a permanent home.

Memphis A to Z

2007-03-10T19:09:00.000-08:00

Memphis A to Z
Shiloh Barnat

Moving to Memphis from San Francisco means frequently being asked, “WHY?” usually punctuated with “And you’re STILL here?!” Memphis has a poor self-esteem sometimes and underestimates its hipster mystique. Even though, I must admit, I had my trepidations and it’s taken years to make friends here, yes, I am still here and, yes, I’ve grown to sort of like it (for now). Here’s why:

A – Anarchist art in the heart of Amerikkkana. Like the “Resistance is futile…” & “Futility is divine!” graffiti that graced either side of the train underpass gateway to my new neighborhood for so long when I first moved here. Or the Pepto-pink painted TVs scrawled with “We’re watching YOU!” scattered at populous commute junctions.

B – BBQ I’ve learned to love (it’s all about the sauce, ya know!). Even a dedicated vegetarian, as I was when I moved here (or the vegan friends I’ve come to love here) has to marvel at the temples to pig erected each Spring for the sacred secret ritual of the annual world BBQ championship that opens Memphis in May.

C – COGIC (Church of God in Christ) conventions which congregate the most magnificently ostentatious HATS on Earth. The Church Lady ain’t got nothin’ on these ladies of God. And even a die-hard atheist, as I also was upon arrival, has to admit to being moved by The Spirit at Al Green’s All Gospel Tabernacle. I’m sure I felt the Earth move there & they were just about to burn that church down with all that Holy Hollerin!

D – Dirty Delta blues, low-down gritty grooves that shake your soul and your booty. There are no spectators at juke joints like The Blue Worm. But stay away from Beale Street as they don’t know how to treat their musicians properly down there & drunk tourists get obnoxious every night.

E – Elvis paraphernalia, where else can you find such temples to schwagg?! Graceland wasn’t nearly as tacky or interesting as I’d hoped for, but the fried peanut butter-banana sandwiches & gold lame jackets are worth the trip. And you can find a gift shop with affordable hip-swivel Elvis bobble heads or clocks that chime “Thank ya, thank ya very much!” on just about every other street downtown.

F – Fried green tomatoes… and pickles… and turkeys… and bologna… and, well, just about anything. It’s ALL deep fried around here, which I hated at first. But every now & then a little grease to lube up yer insides is not actually a totally bad thing. It sure cuts alcohol quickly. Just try it…

G – Garage bands forever!!! In SF you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a Web Worker. Here you can’t spit without hitting a musician. And the talent that crawls out of the woodwork or converges at street festivals or in late night jam sessions boggles even the most sensitive ears (like my husband’s). Soulsville, USA. Sun Records. The Birthplace of Rock-n-Roll. AND a thriving forward-thinking musical undercurrent that never stops innovating & reinventing.

H – History on every street corner. The first supermarket, Piggly Wiggly, on Poplar. The projects where Elvis lived as a kid. The church where Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his last speech. It’s a living history text with full color illustration.

I – Irony on every street corner. The Target soon to be built around the corner from the first Piggly Wiggly on Poplar. The ultramodern condos going up catty-corner from the projects where Elvis grew up. The parking garage towering over the church where MLK last spoke. An ongoing contradiction in priorities & vision that reflect the conflicts of a mixed up tacky nation.

J – Juke joints where dancing is not optional no matter who you are. I mentioned the Blue Worm (relatively new, but equally genuine), but did I mention Wild Bill’s? They only serve 40oz bottles of beer & I hear you can’t get 5 minutes into the place without a sweaty regular shimmying you onto the dance floor whether you like it or not. I’ve still not been, but vowed to go before I leave this place or it closes (whichever comes first). So, let me know when yer up for the next parents’ night out ‘cause I’m THERE!

K – King, Dr. Martin Luther whose demise here enshrined a legacy of conflict, conspiracy and hope. It took me a good 5 or 6 times through the Civil Rights Museum to not be in tears by departure, but the new wing across the street more dedicated to the conspiracy theories around his death & subsequent continued struggles for justice puts a whole new spin on events. Shakes a nay-sayer to the core & puts us all in our place.

L – Local flavor, lots of it. Hidden gems like the Poor & Hungry (the bar, not the movie named after it – though that’s a MUST SEE to grasp Memphis culture!) or Gus’s Fried Chicken that don’t look like much from the outside but host treasures inside only to be found in Memphis.

M – Memphis Mamas! (Y’all ROCK!!!) I really didn’t even begin to truly make friends here until congregating & commiserating in the uncertain sleep-deprived haze of early postpartum at Mothersville for playgroups & breastfeeding support. How did I miss all these fabulous conscientious women before we became mothers? You are my inspiration, my safety net & one of the biggest reasons I feel at home here.

N – Neighbors & neighborhoods. You definitely get to know the people in your neighborhood here… whether you like it or not. It’s not the anonymous faceless crowd of larger cities, for sure. A small town with Big City resources.

O – Opportunities. Where the culture is lacking, you make your own. And you’ll always find someone to join your party, yet the options are not as overwhelming as in a more-cutting-edge-than-thou place like San Francisco.

P – Porch swings. Especially on a breezy spring evening when the sky is purple & pink & orange. Our daughter calls ours the “break seat.” “I’m just gonna take a little break,” she says swinging away. It’s just such a lovely restful point between home & not quite in the door yet.

Q – Quilting is hip again? An art form lost in faster more urbane locales, quilting is back in favor here. Galleries feature vibrant mixed-material patchwork collages of past & present, not quite the bedspread kind my grandma made but the narrative kind you could lose yourself in for hours.

R – River views, the closest thing to awe-inspiring nature around here. Think Tom Sawyer & try to forget about the sludge the current is carrying through the entire country bound for “Cancer Alley.” It’s deceptively smooth top-currents & mysterious depths can be quite mesmerizing. My favorite view is looking north at night from Tom Lee Park or the Ornamental Metal Museum toward the great “M” bridge lights and the ill-fated pyramid.

S – Seasons, all four of them…. Just when you think the long hot sweaty summer will never end, the trees burst into rainbows. And just when the cold dark winter wilts your soul, the daffodils spring to life. Cycles are good and teach us to appreciate each stage.

T – Thrift stores galore…. I thrift every single week and after seven years am still discovering ones I hadn’t found yet. There are too many for them to all get picked over.

U – Underground railroads. As the gateway from the South to anywhere else, Memphis has facilitated many a secret passageway to freer ground and likely – as a central transportation hub – still does.

V – Vitality. You sense here that you are part of the train behind the Little Engine That Could climbing a hopeful hill to something better rather than fiddling while Rome burns. I’d rather be busy building than decaying, on the way up than down.

W – Watermelon-eating mammy figurine salt-and-pepper shakers. Such items are not at all rare and generally, though not always, passed on with full appreciation for their multiple levels of cultural irony and historical significance. Kitsch is kitsch only because the appreciation afforded in the cruel clear hindsight of progress.

X – Xtreme crossroads, of culture, history, politics. The South meets the Midwest. The true Belly of the Beast. Though the “real” Crossroads where the Devil supposedly bought Robert Johnson’s soul is well worth a pilgrimage to nearby Clarksdale, MS, we all know it’s Memphis where that bartered soul and others sought to leverage the bargain. It’s a point of confluence, the geographic center of the nation, center of the centrifuge. What a vantage point!

Y – Yard Sales. Even better than bountiful thrifting, every Spring brings an endless treasure trove of yard/garage/estate sales where bargaining is welcomed. The best are annual sales encompassing whole neighborhoods, more than even the most dedicated junk-sale aficionado can fully absorb.

Z – Zoo. The new polar bear exhibit is inspiring and the kids never tire of it.

Fridays After School

2007-03-10T19:03:00.000-08:00

Fridays After School
Shannon Dixon

Peeling the Onion

2007-03-10T19:01:00.000-08:00

Peeling the Onion
Vanessa Ross

I lived in Memphis from age one to twenty-five, minus a little over a year in Latin America and a few months in Chicago. As a younger person I felt like Memphis had its priorities all wrong: too much focus on appearances and religion, a definite dislike for those who rock the boat. I knew that not everyone was like this, but conservatism permeated the very air we breathed, so figuring out who I was wasn't easy. I was ready to leave before I graduated high school, but stayed for a scholarship to Rhodes. I finally left for good to go to midwifery school in San Francisco, lived for over 8 years in Northern California, and have now lived for a year in Northampton, Mass., a lovely, progressive college town. I try never to say never, but if I have my way, I’ll never live in Memphis again. So I took this writing assignment in stride, thinking it would be easy to explain why. But I found myself ruminating on the question for weeks, and I realized that my connection with the place in which I was raised is anything but simple. Too many layers of relationships and memories and feelings temper the lens through which I view this place. So I started peeling the onion.

The outermost, papery skin rips off easily, the seemingly small, but not insignificant things, like how I don’t like the layout of the city and how much driving one has to do there; or that I can’t stand being from, much less living in, the same place as Elvis (since he isn’t really dead). And the heat: the sweltering, elongated, one hundred percent humidity summers, requiring ridiculous amounts of energy to be spent on “conditioning” the inside air in most public places down to temperatures suitable for a meat locker. The irony of having to carry a sweater around in the summer to avoid freezing inside one’s workplace or whilst shopping, knowing that all this “cooling” is simply resulting in more global warming is another reason I don’t live in Memphis.

Then there’s the high crime rate that results from centuries of racial and socioeconomic oppression. The last place I lived in Memphis was on the edge of “Sherwood Forest,” off of South Highland. I got tired of being afraid if I had to drive home late at night alone or even if I wanted to walk two blocks to Walgreen’s in broad daylight. And these fears were not the unfounded imaginings of a skinny white girl: over approximately 4 years time and in various Midtown and Downtown locations, I was mugged at gunpoint, had my apartment robbed (luckily I wasn’t home), and my car was broken into three times—once while I was marching in a Martin Luther King Day parade. I was surprised to learn in San Francisco, a much more densely populated city with a huge homeless population, what it means to live in a safer environment; I never got ripped off once there, and now I live in a town where most people don’t lock their doors.

Deeper in I come to the cultural piece. Southern culture is extremely rich in many ways: music, literature, food, even the old “hospitality” still holds its charm for me. But beneath the surface, the South is still plagued with a culture of judgment and denial. In my own family, ignoring or hiding problems like rape, teen pregnancy, alcoholism, mental illness, and homosexuality was preferable to facing them, and still is. Of course religion informs this tendency to a large extent. Memphis might as well be the buckle on the Bible Belt; it is full of those whose religion gives them the right to sit in the judge’s chair. “God’s country,” as my grandfather calls it, is only a safe place to be if you are amongst the godly.

In the South I find magnified the things about this great country of ours that I have a hard time tolerating: consumerism, commercialized Christian holidays, artery-clogging food, guns in over half of our households, a frightening degree of ignorance about life outside the U.S., and an even eerier pride in that insularism. Most of the time I just want to turn-tail and run off to Europe, where they are older and wiser; or Canada, where I guess they are just smarter; or Bhutan, where they are the happiest of all despite (or perhaps because) they don’t have all the technology we do. But so far I stay here because I think how much worse our nation could be, how much more environmental and political destruction Americans would inflict on the rest of the planet, if everyone with a conscience and a brain abandoned ship.

Perhaps I should feel the same way about the South: I grew up there, and I should stay there in solidarity with the strong minority of progressive Southerners who are changing things, among whom I count numerous friends and relations. I don’t feel this affiliation with the South, because the truth is, the South doesn’t want me. I am a married lesbian with a child, and the Southern states have made it clear through their laws and constitutional amendments that my family is not welcome there. I’m sure if I loved the South with all my heart, I would stay and fight to change this situation. But I don’t, and I have other causes I’d rather devote my energy to.

Most importantly, beneath all these layers of reasons why not is the fact that Memphis doesn’t have what I do want. I want to live in a place where I am surrounded by woods and mountains and rivers; where my family is a welcomed part of the community; where people are serious about taking care of the land and fighting for political justice here and everywhere. I want to live in an environment where I can thrive and where my wife and son can thrive too; where Miles is allowed to be himself and never feel afraid or ashamed to find out who he is, not only because we support him in doing that but because our community does. And I think I do.

Meet Kate Crowder

2007-03-10T18:56:00.000-08:00

Meet Kate Crowder by Stacey Greenberg
Photo by Kellen Kjera

At 9:00pm on a Friday, I was busy trying to get my monkeys (Satchel, age 4 and Jiro, age 2) in bed so I could sneak out and interview Kate Crowder, the lead singer of my new favorite band, Two Way Radio (formerly known as Walkie Talkie and briefly as Side Walk Talk). At 9:25pm, I said goodbye to my husband and drove down the street to a local bar where Kate said she’d be hanging out until their 11:00pm show time. As I nervously walked into the nearly empty bar, I saw Kate and she said, “Let’s get a beer.”

“So,” I said in my official reporter’s voice, “Tell me how you got started singing.”

Kate: I’ve been singing with my dad (and my little sisters) for as long as I can remember. When I was twelve people decided that I needed voice lessons like I was going to evolve into this really talented opera singer—but that never happened. I'm lucky for the training though, because the classical foundation ended up paying for my college by way of choral and musical theater scholarships.

Stacey: How did you and (your husband/bandmate) Corey meet?
Kate: I had a boyfriend for a really long time and Corey dated his sister. We both went on a lot of family vacations with them where they would leave us out of what was going on. So we would be left talking and it was awkward for both of us. We all broke up around the same time. Then I ran into him a year later with Andrew (McColgin who plays guitar in the band) and the three of us started hanging out, but there was nothing romantic going on between any of us. I lived in Midtown by myself and I got robbed—like everything I owned. My dad wanted me to move to Collierville, but he and Corey made some arcane deal and I ended up moving in with Corey and Andrew. Eventually I told Andrew that I had a crush on Corey and he said, “I think he might have a crush on you too.” So we started dating seriously within a week and eight months later we were married—and still living with Andrew!

Stacey: So you started the band while you were all living together?
Kate: Corey and Andrew already had a “band,” but the band had no name and no songs. The songs consisted of two notes that went on for ten to twenty minutes. Even though I’m not this great musician, I was like, “We need to establish some structure here. You know, like a song should be verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge…and under three minutes and fifty seconds.” Me joining the band definitely made it more of a band and less of a jamming session. Then we strategically tried to get Joey (Pegram, the band’s drummer) to come over and play with us by offering him free food. It was like, “Andrew, make some hot wings and call Joey!” We didn’t know if he’d want to play with us since none of us had been in a band before and he had been in several. The bass player from the Grifters would come over too and we’d all get nervous. My hands would shake when I played piano.

Stacey: I read in the Memphis Flyer that you got a book and taught yourself to play piano. Is that right?
Kate: I realized I was spending too much time thinking about what other musicians should be doing with their bands or songwriting so I went to the library and checked out a bunch of musical theater scores (for the piano) since I was familiar with how they were supposed to sound, and practiced the heck out of them for a few months.

Stacey: And you do most of the song writing?
Kate: Corey talked me into using some of the songs I had written. On our first album, Residential Llama, I did about 80% and Andrew did about 20%. Corey and Joey each have one song. A lot of times Corey will say, “Your lyrics are awful,” and change them. He’s definitely the poet of the two of us. I’m a little too narrative and literal. Most of the songs are about things I go through at work or other things that really happened. On our next album, the song writing will be much more evenly distributed between all five of us.

Stacey: So you’re pretty young—25—when did you get married and start your family?
Kate: Between being 21 and 22 I got married, graduated from college, had a baby that summer, got my first job, and bought a house. So I was 18 one minute and then I was 35. I was like, “Wait a minute, how did all that happen?” It happened really fast.

Stacey: So were y’all planning on having kids right away or…
Kate: Corey was! We were at El Porton one night—we had been dating for like three weeks—and it was really informal and he just looked at me and said, “Let’s have a baby right now.” I was like, “Wait a minute, we’re not even married yet. Give me two years.” Then eight months later I was pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but it was good!

Stacey: Did Corey always envision himself as a stay-at-home-dad?
Kate: Yeah. His dad was home a lot—he was a painter too. He sort of shies away from any kind of 9 to 5 job. Which is good, because I really wanted to work. Corey is an architect, a painter, and a sculptor all rolled up into one. He’s a really great artist.

Stacey: So how do the two of you balance two kids (Oliver 2, and Polly, eight months), a band, your career, Corey’s art…
Kate: It doesn’t leave a lot of “me time.” I generally wake up at 4:30am and go to work. I usually get home by 3:00pm, which is good. I give Corey an hour to relax when I get home. I know my job (as a World History teacher at a middle school) is stressful, but I know it’s stressful for him too. We switch roles in the summer so I have a really good feel for what it is like to be home with the kids all day. Corey paints at night, or sometimes he works at Huey’s. I never do work at home. I try to spend all my time with the kids. I have a system at work like you wouldn’t believe to get my papers graded. I’m a great teacher. I teach World History but we have fun. I incorporate music and dancing and art and different activities.

Stacey: So is being in Two Way Radio the only thing you and Corey get to do together?
Kate: Um…yes. Corey and I really enjoy playing music together. When we play a show we get a babysitter. We practice once a week—during the day, for babysitting purposes—on Sunday for about 4 hours. The band members’ wives and girlfriends are like an extension of our family. They really help out with the kids. We try and only do gigs once every two weeks—everyone in the band is pretty busy. When the children go to bed, Corey and I practice together. Even when the kids are there, we play music together and write songs. The kids each have a piano and they play along. Oliver loves the drums, and the keyboards, and even the guitar. Polly is the one who likes the piano. She crawls over to it, pull herself up and plays for like ten minutes at a time.

Stacey: Other than playing at Shangri-La and at the Rock-n-Romp, have the kids gotten to see you play?
Kate: I try to book as many daytime shows as possible.

Stacey: I wish there was a Rock-n-Romp every week.
Kate: I do too!

Stacey: How does being a parent help you with the band? Does it ever get in the way?
Kate: The biggest way that parenting helps the band definitely manifests itself in the song writing. As trite as it sounds, there is nothing more inspirational or gut-rippingly emotional than learning how to be a parent. I've got a lot of emotions to write about now.

Another way that being a mom helps... it puts things into perspective. I don't walk around thinking that I have to do all these things before "I settle down and have kids." Now, I really feel like I have all the time in the world to make and enjoy music. It put a stop to that feeling of deadline for all things artistic and youthful. I'm glad to feel responsible and needed, while maintaining a slightly subdued wild side.

It also helps me to prioritize time. Being so busy (parenting, working, marriaging, socializing) makes me really appreciate and want to create time in which I can play or write music.

Of course, though, it definitely gets in the way of scheduling and running the business aspect of the band. That part I definitely hate. People in bands know it’s hard to get four or five people together to tour, to play shows, or to even practice—because everybody has jobs and girlfriends. BUT throw the coordination of two babysitters, wives/in-laws, and the situation only worsens. Corey and I have been so lucky to have family that really want us to play music, and are so helpful with the kids while we are doing it.

Being a mom makes touring really, really difficult. I would have a hard time being away from my kids for more than a couple of days. AND, babies really weren't made for a pauper's road trip. So the verdict is still kind of out on touring.

Stacey: What advice would you give other women who are mothers and musicians?
Kate: I would advise them to live close to their families. Oh, and it doesn't hurt to be married to the bass player.

Two Way Radio’s CD is Residential Llama. Get your copy via http://www.myspace.com/walkietalkieband

Greet Robby Grant

2007-03-10T18:51:00.000-08:00

Greet Robby Grant by Stacey Greenberg
Photo by Bob Bayne

I’ve known Robby Grant since the sixth grade. (We also went to religious school and high school together.) We always ran in the same circles, but didn’t really get to know each other until about a year ago when I cornered him at the Children’s Museum and convinced him to help me get a Rock-n-Romp started. Now Robby and I often call on each other for favors—me more than him—and meet up for lunch downtown when we have the time. I recently sat down with him (tape recorder in hand) at the Majestic to talk about music, parenting, and the intertwining of the two.

Stacey: When did you start playing music?
Robby: I was in 7th grade so age 12, no 13. I had piano lessons when I was really young. I sucked at sports for the most part. Music was always a part of my life. My mom had a lot of great old 45s, a lot of great records. She was a fan of music. I got to choose what I wanted to play. I chose an electric guitar. I bought one with my cousin—we split it, but he never played it.

Stacey: That was a good deal for you.
Robby: Yeah.

Stacey: Why the electric guitar?
Robby: It looked cool. We went in the music store and it was the coolest thing in there. It was an Electra Phoenix with a whammy bar and it cost $100. My dad was a singer and my uncle played drums. My dad passed when I was really young (5). But I saw him sing when I was really little. Once I had the guitar, I immediately formed a band in seventh grade with my friend, Tom Martin. It was just the two of us for the first two albums. I like to learn by doing so I bought a guitar, formed a band, and started recording music.

Stacey: How did you record?
Robby: With a jambox and a tape recorder so I could multi-track. (This was all prior to being able to afford a 4 track.) It sounds a lot fancier than it was. We had skits and songs. We played at my Bar Mitzvah. We tried out for my high school talent show every year. In 10th grade we did Jimi Hendrix’s “Fire.” In eleventh grade we did “Pinball Wizard” by the Who, which probably wasn’t a smart choice since my high school had such a big hearing impaired program. (Don’t mention that.) In twelfth grade I played drums and we played “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

Stacey: Did you ever win?
Robby: No.

Stacey: So how did you go from not winning talent shows to being in the very successful band, Big Ass Truck?
Robby: It was a natural progression. We got a 4 track and did some recording with that. Then in college (The University of Memphis where Robby got a film degree) I got together with some friends (like Steve Selvidge) and started playing in a band called Thrill of Confusion. I spent a lot of time making videos too. TOC disintegrated and morphed into a band called Fester. Our drummer went away to UT (The University of Tennessee) so we never practiced. We got together and just played noise for 45 minutes when we opened up for The Simple Ones and surprisingly Jared (the lead singer) liked it. However, I wasn’t interested in pursuing a noise band at that point. Steve got five friends together to open for the Simple Ones at the Antenna in 1991 and that was basically Big Ass Truck. We had a lot of friends and hung up a lot of flyers. We played frequently—once a month for four or five years. Then did more regional shows. Then we toured the U.S. for four years.

Stacey: Where in all this did you get married and start having kids?
Robby: Rachael and I dated as seniors in high school and have been together ever since. We got married when I was 24, so 1997. I was gone a lot during that time. I was on the road a lot. There was the whole “absence makes the heart grow fonder” thing going on. We had a lot of time to do our own things. I think that contributes to the fact that we are still married almost ten years later. Five was born while I was still touring. I missed the whole first year of his life.

Stacey: What was that like?
Robby: I missed being there—we were really busy—but having never been a father before I didn’t know what I was missing. We were the first ones of our friends to have kids.

Stacey: Was Rachael like, “You suck?”
Robby: Not really. I’d be home for a few weeks at a time. I could never do it now. Five is seven now and he’d have like a million questions I couldn’t answer.

Stacey: So what did you do when Big Ass Truck broke up?
Robby: After Five was born, I started doing side work for Paul Ringger at Every CD and then later for Ringger Interactive. I took a laptop on the road and built websites while I was in the van. I didn’t have to wonder what I was going to do when we broke up. I just started going to work more. I had a desk at Paul’s house. I was always home every couple of weeks—it wasn’t like I was out of sight out of mind for very long. Paul taught me a lot and gave me a lot of books to read. We built a lot of sites together and I just learned that way.

Stacey: So Five is two, you have a day job, how do you express yourself musically at this point?
Robby: Three or four years before Big Ass Truck broke up, I was already doing my own thing—I released two solo records, one under the name Vending Machine. It actually gave me a chance to express myself without the constraints of being in the band. You know worrying about things like are people going to like it? Is there going to be a guitar solo, etc. When it’s just me it’s like, “I like the beat, let’s record it.” I also just wanted to play guitar and not necessarily write songs, so I started playing in Mouserocket with Robert Barnett (from Big Ass Truck).

Stacey: Do you have like a whole in-house recording studio?
Robby: I’ve recorded all my records at home. I wouldn’t call it a recording studio, but I can go up at 5:30am and record what I want. I can’t schedule a whole session with other people—that’s hard to do. I like recording early morning, but no earlier than 5:30am.

Stacey: When do you go to sleep?
Robby: I usually go to bed at 11pm or midnight. I’ve got bags under my eyes.

Stacey: Do you do a lot of jumping up from the dinner table?
Robby: If it hits me I capture it immediately. I literally leave the dinner table. I have a whole catalog of 20-30 second recordings. I save them until I have time to flesh them out.

Stacey: What about including Five in your music?
Robby: The record before this, he’d scream and I’d loop it. On the last one I hit a wall a couple of times when writing a song and I’d play it for Five and say, “What does this sound like to you?” On one of the faster ones, he was like, “It sounds like cobras.” It actually inspired me to name the album King Cobras Do. He even wrote the lyrics to the Saturn National Anthem. He was sort of free associating words. I rearranged them a bit, but they’re his words. We also do a lot of recording where he’ll come up and he’ll play drums or guitar or keyboards and just make some noise on the weekends. We’ll take turns being boss. He’s a hard boss. For the past three years we’ve done a holiday song as a family and sent it out to friends.

Stacey: Is Sadie (Robby’s two-year-old) getting involved?
Robby: She’ll bang on the drums and do her thing. She inspired a new song called “Tell me the truth and I’ll stop Teasing You.”

Stacey: How often do you play shows?
Robby: Once every other month, but since it’s December I’ll probably play every weekend. My other band, The Glitches, has a few gigs.

Stacey: Ok, wait, you are in another band?
Robby: I saw Jared (from the Simple Ones) at a PTA meeting—our kids go to the same school—and the school was like, “We need a band to play at the thing at the end of the year.” We hadn’t had a chance to play together so we formed the Glitches, which is a cover band, and now we’re good friends. We play a lot of the school functions and it’s fun. We’re currently looking to play private parties…you know if anyone is interested?

Stacey: So what do you do when you have a late show? Does Rachael come?
Robby: Sadie is experiencing the terrible twos so it’s hard to find a babysitter. Rachel probably comes to every other show. But we practice at the house so she’s very aware of our set.

Stacey: Do the kids ever get to see you play other than at Rock-n-Romp?
Robby: Yeah we did a show at the Shell and the Center for Southern Folklore. I got Sadie some big soundproof headphones so she could listen.

Stacey: So is being in three bands now somehow easier than being in Big Ass Truck was?
Robby: Big Ass Truck was a lifestyle commitment. We practiced two times a week, we had beers after practice, we toured, etc. Now I’m more focused on end goals, like finishing a record. I have a show next week and the band has practiced for the last month so we can do several shows now.

Stacey: Do you go out and hear music very often?
Robby: I don’t go out near as much as I used to. But with the Internet I can keep up with music via Myspace, websites, and various message boards. It’s a pretty good alternative to going out. I can get ten firsthand accounts of any show sitting at my desk.

Stacey: What are your musical ambitions at this point?
Robby: At this point, just to keep making music. Big Ass Truck did some shows with Ben Harper and he was touring with his family. They had a separate camper. I saw him kiss his daughter goodnight before going to a show. I could see us doing that in a few years, but not quite on that scale. Rachael likes to travel. For now, music from my last two albums was featured on “The Real World” and I just released some new songs to “Pimp My Ride.” I’m interested in doing movies. I just scored (our mutual friend) Glenn Hopper’s movie—The Hanged Man.

Do you see yourself having a family band someday?
Robby: Five takes piano lessons. I see music as a way to express myself and I hope Five has something like that. I want him to be happy and to have something that he enjoys doing forever. I might get Sadie to take cello lessons. We need someone in the family to play a classical string instrument.

Robby’s latest album is King Cobras Do. Get your copy at www.chocolateguitars.com.

CODEPINK

2007-03-10T18:49:00.000-08:00

CODEPINK
Naomi Van Tol

As we trudge into the fourth winter of the Iraq War, our soldiers are dying at an average rate of two per day. Our country's human losses now total more than 2,800 dead and 21,000 wounded soldiers. The latest estimates of Iraqi dead range from 50,000 to 600,000 people. We may never know the true death toll because our military command has refused to keep an official count of Arab bodies.

Since early 2003, when George W. Bush declared "Mission Accomplished" two months after the U.S. invasion of Iraq, we have spent $347 billion to plunge a sovereign nation into chaos. Our treasury is hemorrhaging two billion dollars every week to feed the war machine.

Why are we still allowing our government to squander our resources on a fruitless war of aggression that violates international law? I don't know the answer to that question, but I do know that nothing will change if we choose apathy over action. I also know that it's impossible to feel hopeless about the future when you're wearing a fuschia feather boa for CODEPINK.

CODEPINK is a national women-initiated grassroots movement that is working to end the war in Iraq, prevent new wars, and redirect our national resources into education, health care and other life-affirming activities. I first learned about the group while searching for a positive and creative way to speak out for peace.

On November 25, our fledgling Memphis chapter of CODEPINK held its first event. We deployed four large peace banners on a pedestrian bridge over Sam Cooper Boulevard and our group -- eight women, six men and five kids -- got all gussied up in pink clothes and silly hats to wave at traffic for nearly two hours.

We had no idea how people would respond to our message. We were thrilled when cars and trucks started honking their horns as soon as the banners went up. A large majority of motorists waved and honked, and a passing ambulance even gave us a quick siren whoop. It was very inspiring to see (and hear) that so many people in our community want peace.

Our future plans include a "Santas for Peace" event in late December, a Valentine’s Day lovefest in February, and a Mother's Day Picnic for Peace in May. If you want to take action with the Memphis chapter of CODEPINK, contact me at naomi@spiny.com or 901-278-2396. You can learn more about CODEPINK's national and regional work at www.codepinkalert.org.

Children are Natural Protestors

2007-03-10T18:46:00.000-08:00

Children are Natural Protestors
Amy Banbury

Children are natural protestors. They instinctively know to go limp when they are being dragged by an authority figure to an unwanted destination. They have the fantastic ability to loudly repeat the same thing over and over again without tire, and have been known to hunger strike.

I didn’t think twice if I was going to bring my kids to the CODEPINK peace rally or not. They had already been to many marches, parades for peace, political meetings, etc. and were well versed in making fun of George W. Bush. They’d love it! Right?! I told them about it in advance so they could look forward to it and help out if they wanted.

This is a brief summary of the days preceding the rally:

Random day #1—Scour the thrift stores looking for blazing pink apparel for the family. I manage to find my daughter a kickass pair of cords and a cheetah print sweater. Let me repeat, cheetah print. That’s her favorite pattern, other than pink camouflage. “Oh, I’m not wearing THAT- I haaaate pink,” she whines. “No, you don’t understand,” I say. “we’re all going to wear goofy pink stuff to catch people’s attention- but you! You’re going to look like a rock star out there!” This doesn’t work and the conversation quickly melts into a tantrum and a rant on what is appropriate for seven-year-old girls to wear. My son seizes the opportunity to jump into the unexpected chaos and repeatedly remind me that he is not wearing pink no matter how hard I try to make him. Never mind that I never said he had to.

Random day #2—Kade wants to know if he can pee off the pedestrian overpass we’ll be on. Brighid expresses her fear of walking on the overpass. They make sure I understand they still don’t want to wear pink.

Random day #3—The kids are outside drawing on the sidewalk when their dad comes home. I hear them call him over to look at their art. Much laughter ensues and I come out to see what it’s all about. Among their drawings is a figure that is supposed to be George W. Bush, and Kade is especially proud to show that he has drawn him with his peter hanging out of his pants. As I was going to say something about the inappropriateness of it, my husband grabs the chalk and reprimands him himself. “No Kade, that’s wrong. There’s no way the president’s peter is that big.” The kids spend quality time with their father laughing and creating unusable potty talk slogans for the rally until dark.

Random day #4—I am making a banner for the overpass. Since it is rather large, I am in the family room. “Whatcha doin’ mom?” is the question of the evening. I have patiently answered it approximately 54 times, along with saying “Please don’t stand on the banner” and “Please don’t walk on the banner” and “I TOLD you not to let the cats back in!” many, many times. I’m pissed. I try a new tactic. I employ the children in helping me brush the glue on the letters and then roll them with a brayer after I place them. This works for seven minutes before the bickering over who does what and how boring this is starts. We continue this way until Dad comes home. All four of us are working on it now and the kids are telling him how much they like making banners and how hard they’ve been working on this one. What?! Kade is still talking about how he wants to pee off the overpass. Brighid wants to know if she’ll be in the newspaper.

Morning of the peace rally—Of all the days, this is the one my kids sleep in on. I wake them up an hour before it begins. I can get ready in 5 minutes. I, again, forget that kids can’t do that. I quietly lay out Brighid’s hip pink outfit at the foot of her bed. She obviously feels the pinkness radiating up her toes because she is crying and whining about how much she hates pink. She hasn’t even opened her eyes yet. I bribe her with Pop Tarts to wear the pants. I make sure Kade pees before we go, and we rush out the door.

We were the first ones there. I ate most of the snacks I packed for the kids while we waited. They were already (or still) tired and I was the one who had to pee.

Luckily, they did not need to use their usual protesting skills. They had a great time of tallying the honks, finding treasure on the overpass (broken Harry Potter flying key, some bottlecaps, etc.), eating pretzels and Nutella, and laughing at all the burly men waving their pink feather boas. Brighid did get her picture in the paper and Kade managed to control his primal desires.

Diary of an Injury: From Roller-Girl to Robo-Girl

2007-03-10T18:25:00.000-08:00

Diary of an Injury: From Roller-Girl to Robo-Girl
Stacey Greenberg

Saturday, December 9, 2006
It’s the third and last period of my first pre-season bout. My team, the Legion of Zoom, is down by 15 points. Two of our players have been ejected. I’m trying to stay focused on winning despite being exhausted and somewhat demoralized.

As I skate around the bend, I look behind me for the opposing jammer. Out of nowhere someone blocks me hard. Before I can see who it is or even register what has happened, I hear my leg snap. As I fly off the track, I see my ankle and foot swing out from under me at a very unnatural angle. Then I am down.

"FUUUUUUUCK!" I screamed as I pounded my fist on the floor.

A half hour later I am on a stretcher heading out the door. People are standing around applauding even though I am moaning and screaming and grasping my leg, begging the EMT not to bump my foot. I am in total survival mode, like an injured animal, snapping at anyone who tries to touch me.

In the ER, the radiologist comes for me and parks my wheelchair next to the X-Ray table. “Okay,” he says, “we just have to get you up —"

"NOOOOOOOOO!" I wail, still wearing my sparkly silver mini skirt and hot pants, torn blue fishnets, and big bulky knee pads. "Please don't put me on that table. PLEASE."
He looks at his nurse and they start scrambling, trying to figure out a way to X-Ray me without moving my deformed leg.

"Is it broken?" I ask sadly.

"In a couple of places," he replies.

Strangely this makes me happy. I don’t feel like such a wuss anymore. MY LEG IS BROKEN IN TWO PLACES! Not one, but TWO. I imagine getting wheeled into a room, getting a nice little cast, some drugs, and then getting sent home ... or, better yet, to the after-party at the Young Avenue Deli. A cigarette and a beer sound really good.

The doctor informs me that I have a "pretty nasty spiral" break in my tibia and a "pretty normal" break in my fibula and that he’s pretty sure that I will need surgery. On Monday. When an orthopedist will be in.

"We can give you some pain medication and a splint and you can either go home and wait or get a room and wait," he says.

The thought of going home to my very active two-year-old and four-year-old with my broken leg is not appealing. I can’t imagine even getting myself to a toilet. I look at my mom and my husband and say, “Can I stay?”

Sunday, December 10, 2006
I wake up in a narcotic haze and am informed that I might not have to wait until Monday for surgery. Unfortunately, this also means that I can’t eat or drink anything. I haven’t eaten anything since my normal shin-splint-fighting two bananas at 5 p.m. the day before and I haven’t had anything to drink since right before the third period. I realize my only nourishment was going to come from licking off the remains of the 16-hour red lipstick that Robin-n-Stealin had put on me before the bout. (The entire time I was in the ER my mom kept saying, "That lipstick is fabulous. Your teeth look so white!")

At 5:30 p.m. someone brings me a meal tray and informs me that I have been bumped from the O.R. I can eat and drink until midnight.

I take a peek at the Salisbury steak and black-eyed peas under the pink plastic cover and immediately call my mom. I take advantage of her love for me and convince her to swing by Sekisui Pacific Rim on her way to visit me.

Monday, December 11, 2006
I am whisked away to surgery much earlier than expected, which is a nice surprise. A resident comes over to see what happened to me.

"Roller Derby," I say.

"Oh my god," she says. "My dream is to be in the roller derby."

I laugh a little and say, "Well, try-outs start tomorrow."

She thinks it over for a minute — is she looking at my leg? — and says, "I'm not sure I'd have enough time."

Somewhere along the way I fall asleep, get operated on, and then wake up with a start. "Ow!" I scream as my leg bursts into flames. The anesthesiologist rushes over, activates a nerve block, and then I am thankfully — mostly — pain free.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006
I am told that after two physical therapy sessions to learn how to use a walker, I will be sent home.

Yes, a walker.

My brother, a doctor, picks me up and I am enthusiastically greeted on the lawn by the monkeys and Warren. I hobble in to find Jill B. Nimble and Rattleskate, both of the PrissKilla Prezleys, in the dining room with a giant bucket of chicken and two kids’ meals. Derby girls from all four teams have signed up for three weeks of meal deliveries!

Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Sometime in the night, the nerve block that the anesthesiologist gave me officially wears off. I have to wake up every few hours and take some pain meds and deep breaths. When the kids get up for school, I hobble to my station on the couch and try to look happy until they leave. On his way out the door, Satchel kisses me and says, "I missed you when you were in the hospital."

Once I hear them drive off, I call the doctor's office to see if I can double up on the medicine. I spend the day napping, complaining, and watching bad pay-per-view movies. When the kids get home, Satchel asks, "Is a derby girl bringing dinner tonight?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yay! Which one?"

"Duchess de Muertas."

"Is she the one who broke your leg?" he asks.

"Well, technically she did not break my leg, but she is the one who blocked me when I was looking the other way and initiated the fall that resulted in me breaking my leg."

Satchel looks at me funny and says, “Oh.”

The Duchess and Chica Bandita, also of the PrissKilla Prezleys, soon arrive with a huge pan of lasagna, a big bag of salad, a loaf of French bread, and a video of the bout. We make some small talk and then do some reminiscing about the game.

"I've watched the video over and over and over trying to figure out what happened," The Duchess says. "It looks like your skate gets caught on the track and then your toe stop does something weird and that's it."

"Our VCR isn't hooked up, but I'll definitely take a look at it," I say. "The whole bout is kind of a blur."

"It's in the third period, seven minutes and 30 seconds in," she says as she bursts into tears.

"Oh my god, stop," I say. " I'm going to be okay."

"I feel so bad," she says. "I don't know if I can do this anymore. I'm so sorry."

"Duchess, it's roller derby. I don't blame you at all. I plan on getting back out there and you will too."

She wipes her tears and gives me a big hug and leaves looking like she has just lost her best friend. It is terrible.

But the lasagna is delicious.

Thursday, December 14, 2006
I place a few calls and by the end of the day I have a laptop and a free Netflix subscription.

Saturday, December 16, 2006
I hit an all time low. I can’t handle having the monkeys bounce around the room. I haven’t had a proper shower or bowel movement in 10 days. I call my mom in tears. She comes over with laxatives and leaves with the monkeys.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Warren drives me to Collierville to see my doctor. I can’t wait to get the nasty splint off of my leg. I had to resist tearing it off for a week. I imagined that once it was off, I would be good as new. Instead I freak out at the sight of my misshapen leg and end up in tears. A nice nurse takes pity on me, cleans my leg, and properly fits me for my new robo-boot.

When I get home, I discover that the monkeys love the robo-boot. “Cool!” Satchel shouts as I walk in. “Can I wear it?”

Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Our refrigerator and freezer are overflowing with derby daily meal deliveries. If that isn’t enough, Lizzie McFighter, who was first to come to my side after the accident, came by with a $100 restaurant gift card and reminds me that my first words after breaking my leg were: "I can't believe those bitches did this to me!"

Thursday, December 21, 2006
I launch the “Pimp my Walker” contest. Suggestions include rope lights, silver red and blue flames in glitter automotive paint, a boom box that plays the “Zoom, Zoom, Zoom” song, and spinners on the front wheels.

Sunday, December 24, 2006
To top off Christmas Eve at my mom’s house, I watch the video from the bout with my heart pounding. After viewing the fatal blow over and over and over and over, I come to the conclusion that my initial suspicions were correct. While my skate clearly hit the track and caused my foot to spin out at a bizarre angle, it happened after it was already broken.

“Think Santa will bring me some calcium supplements?” I ask Warren.

Saturday, December 30, 2006
We take the monkeys out for pizza and a movie. At the restaurant, a tween in a pink-and-black-striped cast speeds past me on her crutches, prompting Warren to say, "Why can't you go fast like her?" Before I can give him a dirty look, I notice an elderly woman with a walker about to pass me on the left.

Thursday, January 4, 2007
Officially done convalescing, I return to work. As I crutch my way through the parking lot and up to my office, coworkers glance at my robo-boot and casually ask,

“What happened to you?”

“Roller derby,” I say as their eyes grow wide and they wonder if I am actually telling the truth. People at work generally think of me as quiet and shy.

Tuesday, January 11, 2007
I attend the last night of Boot Camp to check out the fresh meat. Seasoned skaters were invited to attend, so about half of the league is there. I enter to cheers and applause. Before I can make it out to the rink to properly greet everyone as they stretch, I am whisked away to be interviewed by a reporter from Memphis Health & Fitness.

I smile and try to make the nice man understand why I am still interested in skating. I give my now almost automated response, "If I would have broken my leg in the championship game then maybe I'd be ready to quit. But I broke it in the pre-season. I haven't gotten the full experience yet."

While this soaks in, ignoring the pain and suffering of the last month I say, "Besides, the health benefits totally outweigh the risks."

Wednesday, January 10, 2007
My doctor says my leg looks great. She tells me to start weaning myself off of the crutches. To top things off, she gives me papers for a temporary handicap decal so I can have my fill of excellent parking spaces while learning to walk unassisted. I never thought that after becoming a derby girl — the epitome of cool — that I would not only become the owner of a walker, but of a handicapped tag!

My follow up visit is February 21st. I plan on walking in to the office, having her take one look at me and say, "Smashimi, it’s time to lace up your skates!"

Fertile Ground #14

2006-09-09T23:35:00.000-07:00

INSIDE

FROM THE TRENCHES
Soil Chart by Stacey Greenberg
A Woman’s Memory is Her Own Worst Enemy by Kristen Chase

THE REAL DIRT
Last Night by Andria Brown
The Perfect Shoes by Suzanne Kamata
Pretty Is as Pretty Does by Stephanie Friedman

IN THE FIELD
A Pony Tale by A.S. Nathan
Gotta be a Girl by Meg Ferrante
Things My Son Has Taken to Bed by Ashley Harper
Candy Land by Ali Sullivan
On the Contrary by Stephanie Chockley

FERTILIZER
Baby Loves Disco Illustrations by Stephanie Smith-Gieg
Baby Loves Disco by Heather Murphy Monteith
Memphis Rock-n-Romp by Stacey Greenberg
Knitterview by Stacey Greenberg
Roller Mama by Stacey Greenberg
Top Ten Reasons Mothers Should Join the Roller Derby by Stacey Greenberg

RUTS INTO FURROWS
Good Morning! by Richard J. Alley
The School Bus Shift by Meagan Francis

Soil Chart

2006-09-09T22:24:00.000-07:00

Soil Chart
Stacey Greenberg

I feel like I say this everytime, but cranking this zine out is getting harder and harder! I’ve basically had it done since late May, but I’ve been so busy with Summer vacations, swimming, roller derby, blogging, and writing a near weekly food feature for the Memphis Flyer (a dream come true!) that I was never able to pin Warren down to do the cover. As I write this it still isn’t done, but I am optimistic that if I actually print this out the cover will appear in the near future. (Worst case scenario I recruit Satchel to help out!) I am considering maybe making this a biannual gig. At least for the next issue or so. Roller Derby season is from November to February and I have a feeling I’ll be in the zone.

In the meantime, really try and enjoy this issue! It’s packed full of good stuff. It starts off a little serious, but gets kind of crafty in the middle and ends with a laugh. Thanks to all of my awesome contributors for helping me keep this baby going! If you start to miss Fertile Ground in the long months between now and #15, just log on to www.fertilegroundzine.com and click on the blog link. I update several times a week and post links to my latest published writing. (On my blog you can get all of the details from our 2500 mile road trip, our weekend in St. Louis, Jiro’s near drowning at the Botanic Gardens, Satchel’s wedding cake vandalism, derby news, and more!)

As always, thanks for reading! Send me a letter, an email or a submission! I love hearing from you guys. Have a great summer!

A Woman’s Memory is Her Own Worst Enemy

2006-09-09T22:01:00.000-07:00

A Woman’s Memory is Her Own Worst Enemy
Kristen Chase

The memory of a woman’s birth experience is powerful. I’ve seen grown women who suffered 40 long weeks of morning sickness, heartburn, and constipation, joyfully exclaim that they want another one almost instantly after popping out their tiny baby. And then I’ve seen practically perfect preggos swear off any form of purposeful reproduction based solely on their labor and delivery.

I distinctly recall the first two thoughts after birthing my daughter - I will never do that again, and epidurals and elective c-sections are highly underrated. The joy of meeting my new daughter was overshadowed by the deep sense of wonder and disbelief I felt when imagining any human choosing to give birth again. Call me cynical, but pain and exhaustion do amazing things to the brain.

As a classic overachiever in every other aspect in my life, I kept true to form by preparing months in advance for my labor experience. I delved full force, dragging my reluctant but supportive husband to Hypnobirthing and Bradley classes. We suffered through 12 two hour classes almost every weekend, watching century old videos chock full of natural childbirth propaganda. We slaved over our birth plan and watched it get carefully placed in a random office junk drawer by our trusty nurse. We recruited two doulas-in-training to provide us with labor support and assistance as we strived to achieve the perfect birth. We laughed, in private, at our pregnant friends who didn’t even know the risks of an epidural or complications associated with Pitocin. We were birth elitists – training like Oprah for our marathon of a lifetime.

When my due-date rolled around, and then got left in the dust with no baby in sight, we didn’t worry. Even one week later, we proudly fended off our intervention-happy doctors who offered a variety of induction options. Topping 200 lbs with only one outfit that didn’t cause me to pull my own eyes out, I politely refused, asking instead for an ultrasound non-stress test. I secretly begged my baby to make his/her entrance (or exit, really), and began a regimen of self-inflicted enemas, blue cohosh, and nipple stimulation. If one more person asked me if I had done the funky dance with my husband, I would have probably lost it; no self-loving 10-month pregnant woman has any desire to have any type of sexual relations, no matter how much people say it works.

My labor finally started just shy of two weeks past my due date. My mother was the only person who was excited that I had gone so long because she was able to make the birth. The polite phone calls and emails asking of any news turned into belligerent demands for information. But, after a long walk on a hot July morning, and several drops of blue cohosh, I finally felt belly-tightenings that came at a consistent rate. My excitement quickly turned to confusion as my labor seemed to progress fairly rapidly. I went from splashing like a seal in my warm tub, to groaning in pain like, well, a laboring woman. I lost my sense of humor, I demanded a heating pad on my back at all times, and I felt the need to push.

Unfortunately, the need to push indicated nothing but more labor for me. Later we realized that my daughter was off-center on my cervix, and therefore allowed me to progress at a medically-acceptable pace, but afforded me visits to “transition” every hour for the last four hours of my labor. The medical staff heeded my every wish, our birth plan emblazoned on their chests, unconcerned with my confusing labor pattern. It wasn’t until my doulas realized that perhaps something might be slowing me down, that they called their midwife for assistance. A few contractions in a contortionist-like position did the trick and I was ready to push within minutes. I had made it without asking for pain medication or an epidural. I had proved all the naysayers wrong.

But then I had to push. Pushing feels good, I remember hearing from my trusty Bradley instructors. I envisioned the relief of a much needed shit.That feels good. Pushing, however, does not. In fact, it is the antithesis of good. Good is a nice book, warm tea, or a relaxing day. You are pushing out an eight pound human from your nether regions. Nothing about that says good. You’re exhausted and frustrated, and a doctor who has just walked into the room for the first time is telling you that yelling will not help you push any better. If she had been there for my whole entire labor, then she would have known that the yelling (although I prefer toning) helped me make it through to this point. The stubborn gal that I am, I yell louder, push harder out my ass, and breathe at the command of my doula. Thankfully, my daughter was low and I didn’t push for very long. There’s a split second where I had the distinct feeling that I was about to rip in half and then out she popped. This beautiful baby girl smiled up and me, and for a moment, all was well with the world. And then I remembered everything that had just happened.

In the immediate moments following my birth experience, I felt little pride for my drugless birth and more concern that I would have to endure that experience again if I wanted another one. I wondered why I had been so adamant about allowing my body to remain untouched during such a difficult labor. And I worried if I would ever be able to bring myself to do all that again.

A few people have told me that your memory of your labor fades as time passes. In some ways, it’s true. My painful labor was overshadowed by my lack of sleep, sore breasts, and general overwhelm. My stitches disappeared but were replaced by various levels of nether region discomfort, sometimes at both ends. But, even through what were, at times, harrowing hours and days of confusion and frustration, I still remember my birth. It’s been almost two years, and I can recount almost every moment of my labor in clear imagery. And now that I know what to expect, I enter the possibility of each new baby journey with a little more trepidation. It's not to say that I wouldn’t go drug-less again; I'm a glutton for punishment and an overachiever tried and true. I can't lie - I do bask in the glory of my drugless pain fest every now and then, and I believe I did the best thing for my daughter and myself.

My hard labor and delivery doesn’t overshadow the beauty and joy of my daughter. It does, however, leave some level of doubt as to my ability to repeat the process with as much stamina and determination. Before having my first child, I envisioned a houseful of children, but after my labor experience, I have changed my definition of houseful to fit what I think my body and mind can handle.

Last Night

2006-09-09T21:58:00.000-07:00

Last Night
Andria Brown

“Mama’s milk is almost gone, honey. Like when we run out of orange juice.”

I’m trying to explain the end of our nursing days in a way my two-and-three-quarters-year-old can understand, but I suspect that her agreeable nodding is just her way of saying, “Okay, mama, stop talking so I can have my bedtime snack in peace.” She seems to know something’s up, though. She’s pretty perceptive when it comes to our moods, lately learning to verbalize emotions like mad, sad and happy. I wonder if she can comprehend more complicated feelings, like relieved-but-guilty.

“Remember when we talked about Mama’s trip to see Aunt Kelly? When I come back, my milk will be all gone, and we won’t have nursies anymore. But we’ll still have lots of special time together.”

It’s dark, so I don’t think she can see the tears in my eyes, but it’s hard to keep my voice from cracking. I’ve been thinking about weaning for months, but now that it’s actually about to happen, my heart hurts in a way I didn’t expect. I try to sing her special good-night song, the modified Celtic lullaby I personalized during those restless nights walking in counter-clockwise circles around the dining room table. The nights before I mastered the side-lying nursing position that saved us both from wee-hour wanderings.

“Oh me, me and my Meredith, sky watch over us both …”

It wasn’t always so peaceful. I remember the night, just before my milk came fully in, when she was nursing so vigorously that my spine froze up and I had to resist the powerful urge to swat her away. Even with a supportive network of family and friends, even with a truckload of knowledge about the benefits, even with the power and satisfaction that came from nurturing my baby, I still heard a voice in my head saying (if not screaming), “Why are you doing this?!” But within hours, my supply and her demand came to a mutual agreement, and within a few weeks, the pain and awkwardness subsided. We found our groove.

“Oh me, me and my Meredith, moon watch over us both …”

The first year passed in an unpredictable mix of slow motion and fast forward. Because we were too tired to get around to reading the pump instructions until well into Meredith’s fourth month, she never bothered to accept a bottle, so it was my body or nobody. We were invisibly locked together, driven by both of our physical needs never to part more than a few hours. At the time, I rarely stopped to consider the true depth of our breastfeeding bond. I was usually too busy trying to figure out the most comfortable nursing spot at the zoo or how I was going to find a Snickers before my post-feed blood sugar drop knocked me on my butt. Nursing was part of our routine, as mindlessly ingrained as diaper changing and far more consistent than napping. It wasn’t generally the soft-focus, linen-draped, dewy-eyed scenario seen on book covers and magazine ads, but what ever is? It was natural and challenging and affirming and frustrating and even occasionally mesmerizing.

“Oh me, me and my Meredith, trees watch over us both …”

Something changed when my nursling began walking and talking, and not just the faces of people in the mall. The relationship became more two-sided, involved more diplomacy and negotiation. The word “wait” entered my vocabulary. Aside from broccoli and string cheese, solid food held little interest for her, and her rapidly developing body demanded even more nutrition from mine. I was always tired, always hungry, and always on the lookout for signs of self-weaning. But as she became more involved in the world around her, nursing was an increasingly important part of our lives. It was the way we reconnected after the anxiety of separation. It was her protection against the exciting new array of germs she encountered on her floor-level explorations. It was her pain relief during the seemingly constant efforts to forge new teeth. Even at my most exhausted, I wasn’t ready to take away this amazing natural tool.

And then I was. Two months before Meredith’s second birthday, I couldn’t cope with waking up whenever she reached a light sleeping cycle. We were nursing four or five times a night, but it wasn’t doing either of us any good. Not enough good, anyway. For three weeks, Jeff attended to her wakings, and ever so slowly, she caught on to the idea that she could get back to sleep without me. From that point, it was easier to talk about when we could and couldn’t nurse, and eventually we were down to naptime, bedtime, and a sunrise snack. When Meredith started pre-school at two and a half and got used to napping on her own at school, daytime feedings disappeared entirely. We held onto the ones that worked, though. Our bedtimes were relatively easy and our wake-ups were pleasant, all because nursing got her to sleep at night and kept her there in the morning. I knew that weaning not only meant an end to this strong bonding period, but would also thrust us into living our lives in the rooster hours. And as a woman with a serious crush on the host of The Late Late Show, I knew that would be no fun. So we waited.

“Oh me, me and my Meredith, earth watch over us both …”

I never set a weaning date in my head, but when I bought the plane ticket to San Diego to attend my sister’s baby shower, I knew I was looking at the official cut-off. Jeff had made it clear, quite reasonably, that he didn’t intend to go through the struggle of comforting our daughter through milk withdrawals more than once, so my first days of freedom were also a bittersweet send-off. I booked a 6am flight so that I could slip out before Meredith woke up. Less than twenty-four hours before, as she was unknowingly dozing through her last morning nursing, all I could do was stare at her ear and think about how much I would miss it. Not that her ear was going anywhere, of course, but my unrestricted access to that tiny little curl of peach-fuzz was coming to an end. She was not a snuggly child. She wanted me around, sure, but not too close. If I reached for her - smoothed her hair, rubbed her back, outlined her cheek - her usual first reaction was to bristle and scoot away. I knew that the end of nursing would mean an end to that easy, relaxed physical closeness.

“Oh me, me and my Meredith, sea watch over us both, sea wash over us both …”

As we lie in her room, the blackout shades blocking all but the edges of twilight, I have a startlingly cinematic flashback to our first days together. I can see her swaddled newborn body snuggled next to me, feel her wrinkly rose petal head tucked perfectly into the IV-bruised curve of my arm. I’m not sure if I’m smelling the neighbor’s barbecue or the burned-dry aroma of hospital sheets. Tears seep out of me as steadily as a Pitocin drip. I realize that I’m not ready to wean, and I never will be. How does a mother ever stop wanting to comfort, protect and nourish her child? The methods may change, but the goals stay the same. As she drifts to sleep with her hand on my heart, I kiss her cheek, tell her I love her, and promise I will always be near.

The Perfect Shoes

2006-09-09T21:54:00.000-07:00

The Perfect Shoes
Suzanne Kamata

When clothing catalogs arrive, my six-year-old daughter Lilia gets out a red pen and circles the things that she likes. Sometimes, she circles pink pants or T-shirts with winsome prints, but usually it’s the footwear: black patent dress shoes with bows, red suede maryjanes, sandals with cut-out hearts.

The thing is, my daughter doesn’t need these kinds of shoes, nor can she wear them. She can’t walk. Due to cerebral palsy incurred around the time of her difficult birth, she flexes her foot when she should be relaxing it. She tends to curl her toes, so in order to get any kind of shoes on her feet, I have to slide my fingers underneath her soles and ease them in, making the cowgirl boots she covets pretty much impossible. Once on, shoes are always falling off.

I am always in search of the perfect shoes for Lilia. Ideally, they are ones that she can put on herself and that won’t fall off. Also, to satisfy my little girl, they need to be cute. I once bought her a pair of pink shoes with glitter and Disney princesses. They stayed in place with Velcro for a few minutes, but the first time she crawled in them, the tops of the shoes scraped across concrete and they were spoiled. The soles, however, are in pristine condition, like the pink bottoms of my daughter’s feet.

The same thing happens to Lilia’s pants. I buy her a new pair, maybe with sequined roses, and before I can catch her, she crawls on some rough surface and, voila, there’s a hole in the knee. It’s hard to keep her in nice clothes, so a lot of times she goes to school with what might be seen as fashionable rips in her jeans. The shoes, though, just look tattered.

For awhile, my mother-in-law had a dog named Max. The dog was a girl, but my son named her after the Grinch’s boy dog. Anyhow, Lilia liked tossing balls and toys to this dog. Once, I grabbed one of Lilia’s old, torn apart shoes and tossed it to Max. Lilia started wailing in protest. I wasn’t sure why she was so upset since the sneaker was in such bad shape, but as we watched Max shake it in her mouth with such ecstasy, Lilia began crying inconsolably.

I have never been that interested in shoes, so I find my daughter’s passion for them a little hard to understand. I think about comfort, and if I find a pair that is versatile and doesn’t make my feet hurt, I wear them into the ground. I like clothes; I’ve been reading Vogue since I was about twelve, but I’m the kind of person who goes around with a five hundred dollar sweater on her back and holes in her socks. Now that I live in Japan, shoes seem to matter even less since they are left at the door. The other day I went to my son’s graduation ceremony in a suit. I wore nice shoes, but I had to change into cheap green vinyl slippers before entering the school.

Yesterday my mother-in-law bought Lilia a new pair of shoes. They are canvas with an elastic strap over the instep and rubber-coated toes – the kind of shoes that Japanese kids wear inside classrooms. I started to say that they wouldn’t stay on Lilia’s feet, that they are the wrong kind of shoes for a kid like her, but then I stopped knowing that Lilia would be delighted with them.

My mother-in-law’s denial runs deep. One night at dinner, she started telling us about some doctor she’d heard of who, through some sort of mysterious massage, had enabled a crippled kid to walk. She thinks we should take Lilia to see this doctor. I sat there, frozen with anger, not saying a word. I am the one who takes Lilia to physical therapy twice a week and cheers her on when all she wants to do is roll around in the pink wheelchair. I am the one who has talked to experts and read books and done late night Internet searches. If this guy is so great, why had I never heard of him? My mother-in-law has never been to a therapy session. She knows nothing about Lilia’s condition, only that it bothers her to see Lilia crawling around. Whenever a guest comes, she says that Lilia will be walking/talking any day now. She’s been saying this for years. Every few months, she buys shoes that fall off Lilia’s feet.

When Lilia was three, we had braces made for her. They are made of strips of leather that support her up to her knees. I let her pick out the color. The first time, she chose hot pink. Recently, when she outgrew them, we had another pair made. This time, she chose deep red. She wears these shoes at school all day and sometimes she even seems to like them, but they are not the shoes of her dreams.

Every now and then, I have to confer with Lilia’s teachers about her future. They ask me to tell them what I want for my daughter. I say that I want for her to be able to read and that I want her to make friends. I say that I hope she will learn to say “mama” and go to college. I say that I hope she will one day be able to live independently, or at least in a group home. But right now, all I want is for my daughter to be able to wear the shoes that she circles in the catalogs that come in the mail.

Pretty Is as Pretty Does

2006-09-09T21:50:00.000-07:00

Pretty Is as Pretty Does
Stephanie Friedman

I was in the park with my daughter, enabling her baby swing addiction. An older woman was doing the same for what I assume was her grandchild. I could see her watching my daughter with a soft smile, tilted head, and tender gaze. I knew what was coming.

“What a beautiful little girl,” she said.

“Thank you,” I replied, as I do in these situations. I don’t feel I should take credit for the genetic lotto drawing that produced my daughter’s looks, but I don’t really know what else to say, and this seems to be the most socially acceptable option.

Then she said, “Her father must be a very good-looking man.”

I could have replied, “I’ve never laid eyes on Donor 506, so I couldn’t say.” I could have pointed out the facial features that my daughter and I share. I could have commented on our culture’s suspect beauty standards and its desire to value girls according to their appearance. Instead, I just shrugged, said she looks like herself, and let the conversation die of neglect.

Even if I had launched into a lesbian feminist tirade about heterosexism or lookism or both, I would have been harder on her but easier on myself. The whole situation is far more complicated than a simple swingside response could capture, and I am as implicated as anybody else.

* * *

I have a beautiful child. I say this not just as a biased parent, but as someone who hears this opinion stated every day, multiple times a day, from just about everyone who lays eyes on her, strangers, friends, and family alike.

Am I bragging to tell you this? Yes, I suppose. You should know, however, that I feel as uncomfortable as I feel pleased, usually even more so, when people exclaim over my daughter’s good looks. I don’t want her typecast as a “princess,” as my mother likes to call her, and as it says on the black velour hoodie given to her by our comrades in lesbian motherhood, a soft butch couple who like to tell their own daughter that she is “smart and pretty and strong.” I don’t want her to grow up thinking that she can and should get by on her looks. I don’t want anyone to define her by her looks, and I don’t want her to define herself by them.

Beneath these acceptably feminist sentiments, however, seethes a murk of conflicting and confused concerns that makes me cringe when I peer into it. What I see is not just what I dislike in our culture, but what I dislike in myself, and in my past. Issues that I had shoved aside force their way back into my consciousness, demanding that I address them, for my daughter’s sake and for my own.

* * *

Being a mother means you worry, as the saying goes. I worry about things I never thought I would. I worry about things I know I shouldn’t, from a rational or an ideological standpoint, but the worries come bubbling up anyway, unbidden and undeniable.

I worry when people notice my daughter’s physical attractiveness. I worry because I think she’s getting used to them noticing, and she expects and likes it. I worry because I think I’m getting used to people noticing, and I expect and like it.

I worry that people will resent her for being pretty. I worry that she will scorn people who aren’t. I worry that someday I will be embarrassed by her sense of entitlement. I worry that someday she will be embarrassed by my appearance.

I worry that she is growing up in a country hellbent on turning itself into Margaret Atwood’s Gideon, in which the politics of appearance are only the tip of the misogynist iceberg. I worry that I will not be able to protect her well enough, to teach her how to resist well enough. I worry that she will reject the notion that she needs to resist, because as a pretty, blonde, blue-eyed girl, a gilded cage is already being built for her, and she may welcome the chance to sit in it, because it will look and feel like power. And it will be, of a sort.

I worry that I sound ridiculous, worrying about having a beautiful and therefore privileged child. I worry that my concerns mark me as the middle-class white woman I am. I worry that I am not looking into the implications of the situation in which I find myself, in which my daughter finds herself, deeply and stringently enough.

* * *

When I saw the pictures of the rallies of well-adjusted teens holding signs saying things like, “Columbine will survive,” I was reminded of the pep rallies I was forced to attend in high school in order to celebrate a place I hated and to cheer on people who ignored me at best and reviled me at worst. I was reminded of how I spent years of my life trying to succeed without drawing too much attention to myself, for to be noticed was to draw the worst possible kind of attention. I looked at the pictures of healthy teenage boys, the kind who even have muscular necks, and saw the boys who sneered at me, told me I was an ugly bitch, and made walking to class feel like running a gauntlet. I saw well-dressed girls with perfect blonde ponytails held by white scrunchies, standing in clusters with their arms around each other, like the girls who would insult my weight, my clothes, my hair, and then titter and turn as one, sauntering off in little victory.

I looked at the pictures of these children, comforting each other after living through a horror I could not imagine, and – God help me – I hated them.

I am not looking for pity. I did not want it then, and I do not want it now. I am merely trying to be honest about a situation which no amount of teen flicks and well-meaning articles on bullying have addressed to my satisfaction. I have found that many people believe on some level that children who are social outcasts have done something to provoke it, or at least did not do enough to stop it. Even my very dear friend, the World’s Most Sensitive Straight Guy, could not understand why I was so frustrated that Todd Solondz’s Welcome to the Dollhouse descended into farce rather than reveal the complex truths illustrated by a life like Dawn’s. The film gestured toward an exploration of gender enforcement, early adolescent sexuality, and adult collusion in adolescent social power, but it never really got there. Even though Solondz had wanted to call the film Retards and Fags, and had resented the fact that reviewers referred to the actor who played his heroine as ugly, he still couldn’t resist making the film a joke and Dawn the butt of it. To my disappointment, my feminist friend kept insisting, “Why didn’t someone just fix her? I mean, couldn’t someone at least tell her not to walk around with her mouth open all the time?” His disgust was palpable. I could not get him to appreciate fully the political implications of Dawn’s story.

I do not blame the “mean girls,” as the bestselling book called them. They are reflecting the culture of which they are a part, and pointing a finger at them is like blaming the pustule for causing the pox. They are the symptom, not the agent.

Despite my own rational understanding of where the blame lies, however, whenever I have to wade through a gaggle of teenyboppers, flexing their power by feeding off each other and what they can accomplish when no adults are attempting to control them, yelling, posing, outsized in all but body, my initial, visceral response is to hope that I can slip by unnoticed. I hope that I can pass along the edge of the group without inspiring any comments, giggles, or glances. I reassure myself that I am an adult now, invisible to them except as “ma’am” or “lady,” and press on. Stop being ridiculous, I tell myself as I suppress the prickles of fear.

* * *

Pregnancy makes one’s thoughts run to what ifs, both good and bad. One night (assisted perhaps by hormonal shifts), I imagined the future of my outcast offspring – with me as the parent, how could it be otherwise? – and I wept, knowing that I had no answers, no advice to give, no solutions that would work. I couldn’t offer up the worthless platitudes I was told:

“They’re just jealous.” (Of what?)

“Wait until college. Then you’ll meet people more like you.” (So what do I do in the meantime?)

“Maybe if you wore a little blusher and fixed your hair…” (Fuck you.)

How could I forget that God loves irony? Just to teach me a lesson, I got a beauty. Not the oppressed, but a potential oppressor.

* * *

Of course, my child does not exist to teach me a lesson. She exists for herself, for her own dreams and destiny. I try to give her room to become who she will be, but, at the same time, I give in to the temptation to project onto her my own fear and fury. The same knowledge and experience that inspire me to protect her from the oppressive elements of our culture can engender strains of thought that are more about me than her.

I look for myself in my daughter’s face, particularly in photographs. The occasional picture echoes one of my own childhood photos, in the expression around the eyes and mouth, or in the tilt of the head and the set of the shoulders. These glimpsed reflections give me both pleasure and dread.

If my beauty looks like me, then I am reassured. Those are my genes, my chin and cheekbones. I was right when I would look in the mirror all those years ago, searching for what it was that others called ugly, and would decide that I couldn’t find it, and that I really was okay-looking. My child is proof. Something outside of me was fucked up, not me.

If my beauty looks like me, then I am warned to be on my guard. Perhaps one day my swan will turn into an ugly duckling, as awkward an adolescent as her mother. As my cousin once said to me when we were looking at pictures of our toddler selves as teens, “You were such a cute little kid. What happened?” I live in fear that blood will tell, or, at the very least, that my inability to do hair and understand fashion will damage the goods.

* * *

I have never been the sort to get up at 5 am to do my hair and makeup. I would rather sleep until 6:45 and then throw some clothes on. I hope my daughter will make similar choices, even though I know they come at a cost that can seem very high when you are a teenager and the adolescent world is all you know.

In this culture, girlhood is a battleground. To be smart or not, pretty or not, pleasing or not, determines not if but how you will get slapped around, pushed and pulled by cultural demands. I worry, and the situation is complicated, and I am as implicated as anyone else.

A Pony Tale

2006-09-09T21:47:00.000-07:00

A Pony Tale
A. S. Nathan

As my daughter floats in and out of childhood and flirts with pre-adolescence I am constantly reminded that my position as end-all-be-all is in serious jeopardy.
While yesterday I was able to miraculously make kitchen ingredients into playdough, cut peanut butter sandwiches into butterflies, paint fingernails alternating colors and wear my shimmering mama crown proudly, today I am simply incapable of making a ponytail.

It was...

too loose
too tight
too low
too high
too bumpy
and of course
off to the side.

Luckily I enlisted the help of a 14 year old neighbor who was able to pile my daughter's "thickest hair I've ever seen" (as told by veteran hairdressers) into the perfect...

not too loose
not too tight
not too low
not too high
not too bumpy
and of course
perfectly centered ponytail

in a matter of seconds.

Of course it looked exactly like the ponytails I'd fashioned for my daughter many times, but the fact was it was better because I didn't do it.

My daughter, nonplussed by the whole experience, kissed me and went on her merry way, ponytail swinging back and forth in the unseasonably warm mid-March morning breeze.

And I went to the kitchen to make peanut butter sandwiches, and polish my tarnishing crown.

Gotta be a Girl

2006-09-09T21:43:00.000-07:00

Gotta be a Girl
Meg Ferrante

My oldest son is going through a kid’s catalog and among the art kits, rocket ships, musical instruments and geography globes, he’s picked out a favorite item: a sewing machine.

I know plenty of moms are probably jealous of this. I know some of my friends (the crunchy ones who ban Kool-Aid except to dye their wool, who shun Barbie and Power Rangers for sticks and sand) would give their left Birkenstock to have their boys be thus enlightened. I can almost hear the rousing feminist cheer. A year ago I would have said I was proud to be raising a boy without borders, with an interest in the world instead of just transportation machinery. Lately, I’m less certain. These days, a passing notice of pro football just might be a welcome relief.

He's giggling, dancing, twirling and I swear his eyes are twinkling. Like in those cleaning product ads when the floor shines a fake little sparkle… DING!

“Why are you so cute?” I say.

“It's because,” he says and he grins huge, “I'm wearing a headband.”

The headband goes to bed with him.

I tell him how thankful I am he's in my life.

“You mean you're thankful for Savannah the Girl Jet Plane, Mom."

He’s just back from a basketball game with Dad and I’m soon to mark this down as The Night it All Began.

“What did you think?” I ask him.

“Great, Mom!”

“What was your favorite part?”

No hesitation, “The Trick Girls!”

Trick Girls? Without mention of basketball, players or scoring, I get to hear over the next hour how the ‘Trick Girls’ came on at breaks and halftime – in a fairly limited amount of clothing – and did splits and jumps and backflips and all sorts of tumbly things. I get to see every day over the next several months how a Trick Girl walks, talks and well, does her tricks. I watch my son attempt to adapt his little boy clothing into a tight fitting, short-short Trick Girl suit. The closest he comes is a very small, snap-crotch romper left over from his early 3T days. He complains endlessly that he just doesn’t have the right outfit.

And so it goes. We play girl firefighter, girl dog, girl waiter. After seeing a local production of Peter Pan, we aren’t Peter (who wears tights for cripes sake, why not Peter?) but rather ‘Wendy the Girl in the Dress.’ A book from the library about Jane Goodall’s chimpanzees? Why of course – it’s Glitta the Girl Monkey.

“Tell Lucca his sister is hiding over here,” he shouts from behind the green chaise.

I don’t know who is more confused -- him, the “sister’s” little brother or me.

We thought the 2004 Summer Olympics might open his eyes to both sexes in action in many various amateur achievements. But he was all about girls’ gymnastics and cried when they got the silver. Sigh. Well, at least he’s not just “The Girl Gymnast.” He has assumed the name Courtney Kupets instead.

The Mortifying Restaurant Incident took the cake.

We were climbing into a booth, Robby sliding in quickly ahead of me, when the table leg stopped him short.

“Ouch!” he yelled.

“What is it?” I said, looking over to the next table where four set of older adult eyes had swung our direction at the sound of the shout. Oh, where is a time machine when you need one? Where is the FCC with that bleep button that drowns out callers cursing on the radio? If only I’d coughed loudly during the fateful statement that followed.

“I just bumped my vagina!”

I’m a mom who doesn’t even wear makeup, let alone hair bows and girl clothes. The only nail polish I own is 12 years old, clear-colored and used to stop runs in the one pair of panty hose I wear to Christmas Eve midnight Mass once a year. Where, I cry, is this girly girl stuff coming from?

“It’s a stage,” says my mother.

“It’s only bothering you because it’s repetitive,” says my friend Katy. “Anything repetitive is annoying.”

“He's learned it's good to be a girl and that's okay,” says my mother-in-law.

Why am I not as calm as all these people? Then again, have their four-year-olds taken to wearing leotards and using feminine monikers? For the record, even hubby is calmer about this than me. His only concern is that if it keeps up, Robby’s going to be in for one heck of a walloping from the first bully he meets.

I step back and try to take a pragmatic look at the whole situation. Pre-baby, my husband and I discussed the possibility of raising a tomboy. We both said that if we ever had a girl, she'd be out camping with us, hunting and fishing and going to ballgames with Dad. You know, it never once came up how if we had a boy he would love to watch chick flicks and comb the thrift stores with me.

I hold back for as long as I can humanly muster, but finally ask Robby why pretending to be a girl is so important to him. “Because,” he says, in immediate and perfect response, “I just really want to have a baby some day.”

Now how beautiful is that? So what the hell is wrong with my son being a Trick Girl? Do I worry about his adulthood – that he might be gay or transsexual? Haven’t I always said that would never matter to me, only his happiness would?

Why is it fine for girls to be more boy-like… but not for boys to want to pretend they’re a girl? I have stood up for my right to be who I want ever since my seventh-grade ERA project. So where does that leave me now? And how ashamed am I that this is bugging me? Still. I can’t help but toss up a silent prayer for my deepest wish -- that this whole girl phase will soon pass.

Today he’s wearing a backpack. Filled with outdoor supplies – a pair of binoculars, a compass, a small bug net. A plastic golf club is tucked in his waist band. I feel buoyant. At last we’re exploring a gender-neutral adventure.

“Are you going on a hike?” I ask, gesturing to the club that I assume is a walking stick.

“No, Mom…”

It turns out he’s dressed not for camping, but for combat.

“I’m a soldier,” he says, “and I’m going to kill some people.”

Sigh. And sigh again. The ubiquitous motherly sigh.

Careful what you wish for.

Things My Son Has Taken to Bed

2006-09-09T21:42:00.000-07:00

Things My Son Has Taken to Bed
Ashley Harper

Maybe all this stuff will make me not so scared

A Playmobil hook and ladder firetruck
Loose change
Swords
A helium balloon
28 Pokemon taps
Magnets
Swords
A remote control car
A remote control
A crown
Party hats
Swords
A piggy bank
Plastic balls
A wooden spoon
Action figures
Action figures that talk
Action figures with pointy weaponry
Swords
Sticks
Rocks, crystals
A metal kitchen steamer
Books
A sock monkey
Swords
Yugi-oh cards
Yugi-oh carry-case, open with action figures posed
Silly putty
Pencil, notebook

Candy Land

2006-09-09T21:40:00.000-07:00

Candy Land
Ali Sullivan

One hundred thirty-four colored squares separate the blonde white children from King Kandy and his Candy Castle. You choose a color. You wait for your turn. You hop along and stay put. You might get stuck in a lollipop forest. You might choose a card with Plumpy and go backwards more than you want. You might get the card with bosomy Queen Frostine and spend time with her and her Ice Cream Sea.

These are the lures of Candy Land. This is what I see as the mom. I already know how to play, or I did some time ago. It’s not hard to remember or understand. For me.

For the three-year-old who received it, it was more like a lesson on the disappointments of life than sweet fun. There’s no actual candy inside. Just poor illustrations of all temptation. You have to wait for things. Your mom tells you what to do. She moves your piece for you if you don‘t do it quickly enough. Why am I trying to get to King Kandy anyway? I don’t care if I have to go backwards because I don’t know which way is forwards. I like this Princess Lolly a lot. She has suckers in her hair. How many cards can I hold at once?

He wants to just hold the cards and move his green gingerbread guy around. This kid has no motivation to win. No drive for competition. What will happen to him in America? He’ll be gobbled up. Toughen him. Teach him that it feels bad to lose, to be last. Teach him that to win is the only way to feel good. He’ll get A’s, good SAT scores, and a beautiful wife. Don’t you want to win, son?

Let me hold the cards and look at the colors. I can find some that match. I can let my green guy slide all over because that’s what I’d do if I could be plastic and tiny. I really like the pink cards with the pictures of the weird people. Gramma Nutty? Look! Her house is made of peanut butter, Momma! Too many cards. They like to fall on the floor. Watch them go! What happens if a bunch go at once?

He’s throwing the cards on the floor! No, not throwing, but pushing them over the edge with his fingertips and down they go. What a mess. He’ll be cleaning that up himself. Ugh, here comes the baby. In go the cards. Everything in the mouth, kid? Okay, that’s the end of the game. Let’s put it away.

Clean up? But I’m in the middle of this physics experiment, Mom. Ever hear of gravity? Let me just do this a little longer? I’ll scream. I’ll cry and say no. Don’t ask me because I’ll tell you the truth. It is not okay to clean up now. I don’t care if the baby eats the cards on the floor. They fell and they serve no purpose to me now. You really want to clean up? I’ll just throw them all now. There they go, and now I’m going to run away. See ya.

Good, he’s gone and I can put it away in peace. Four dollar piece of crap. The box is broken already and I know I’ll never see the Gloppy card again. Eat me, King Kandy.

On the Contrary

2006-09-09T21:38:00.000-07:00

On the Contrary
Stephanie Chockley

6:30 am:
Me: Here's some chocolate milk.
C: I don't LIKE chocolate milk!

7:45 am:
Me: Thanks for getting right in the car! You're such a good boy!
C: No I'm NOT a good boy!

8:00 am:
Me: Who should we take first, Connor or Chloe?
C: Connor!
8:05 am: (As we drive past Chloe's school)
C:Why aren't we taking Chloe to school??!!!

8:10 am:
Me: Let's look both ways before we cross the street.
C: There's a car!
Me: It's moving away from us.
C: NO! It's coming for us!

5: 15 pm:
Me: Did anyone bring anything cool for show and tell?
C: Max brought an airplane!
Me: That sounds really cool!
C: It's NOT COOL!

5:35 pm: (At Chloe's school)
Me: There's my sweet girl!
C: She's not a sweet girl! She's a GOOD girl!

5:45 pm:
Me: There's a Honda Civic, just like Grammy's!
C: That's not a Honda Civic! That's a HONDA!
Me: (For the 847th time) Right, a Civic is a kind of Honda, like an apple is a kind of fruit.
C: An apple is not fruit!

6:15 pm:
C: What's that on Chloe's leg?
Me: Those are just sock marks.
C: They're not sock marks! They're sockie morks!
Me: (Sigh)

6:20 pm:
C: What are you fixing?
Me: A salad for me and Daddy.
C: I don't want a salad! (side note-Duh) I want chicken nuggets and applesauce and cheese.

6:25 pm: (presented with chicken nuggets, applesause, and cheese)
C: I don't want APPLESAUCE!
Me: (exasperated) You are just disagreeing with me for the sport of it! You're driving me CRAZY!
C: NO I'M NOT!

Baby Loves Disco Illustrations

2006-09-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

Baby Loves Disco Illustrations by Stephanie Smith-Gieg

Baby Loves Disco

2006-09-09T21:30:00.000-07:00

Baby Loves Disco
Heather Murphy Monteith

Baby Disco created itself in November 2004, when my son, Max, was a toddler. It was the sum of all of my parts (mom, modern dancer, choreographer, & caterer) all swirled together in one place and time.

As a new mom, I was shocked by the amount of organized, commercial crap made "just for kids." The Zoo was a nice place to visit but it was hard to find anything very healthy to eat amidst the plethora of blue frozen drinks and junk food machines. The commercialism just seemed gross with the "Tastycake" and "Dodge-Chrysler" displays and gift shops that were so well-placed and eye-catching that our visits often ended with me saying "No" about 50 times in my many mama-voices. The Children's Museum, though wonderful to Max, left me feeling a bit out of the loop (with experiences that had very little adult resonance). It too, had its own junk food machines and gift shop to avoid. I was really surprised at my own disappointment, as I thought for certain that we would be "regulars" at these family-oriented places.

I started thinking about my own ideas of family fun, and began threatening my mama group with a dance party in my living room. I envisioned healthy treats, good music and no dumbed-down kid junk. I wanted a real opportunity to have fun dancing together without skimping on the big people. It took me a while to really do it and by the time I was ready I realized that my living room would be too small. I approached my (then) boss at the restaurant I worked in a couple evenings per week about throwing a baby dance party in his upstairs club on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. It was a bit of an "off" question, but he agreed as long as I could cover the costs of staffing, etc.

I bought egg shakers, play scarves, pillows and a bubble machine. I stocked a "chill-out space" with books and simple toys and bought a bunch of low-sugar and healthy snacks for a kid buffet. I got an actor/friend/DJ (DJ K-Tell) to bring his amazing stock of disco and rare 80's records to spin at the party. I bought some balloons, made a diaper changing station and opened the club at 2pm on a cold Saturday in November. I prayed that 35 people would show-up, and in the end, over 100 turned-out. "Baby Disco" was born!

After a month or two to think and organize, Baby Disco was launched as a monthly party at Fluid Nightclub in Philadelphia. The owner, Tony Schiro, embraced the concept wholly by having the club triple-cleaned and supplying adult munchies from his restaurant, the Latest Dish. He even went so far as to replace the carpeting in the club to make it nicer for the little ones. Tony took me shopping for goods at the restaurant supply store and offered to picked-up the balloons every month in his SUV.

A year later, I met Andy Hurwitz at a Baby Disco party and after a 45 minute conversation we agreed to partner-up, re-name the event "Baby Loves Disco" and take it to New York City. We launched there in the fall of 2005. Baby Loves Disco has sold-out at the Manhattan location every month in 2006, so far. Folks e-mail us with lots of positive and appreciative feedback and those who hear about the event through the grapevine ask when we will bring it to a city near them. Baby Loves Disco is currently a coast-to-coast event with locations in Philadelphia, New York, Chicago, Boulder, San Francisco and LA. We are expanding as quickly as two people can and we are working very hard to maintain our signature vibe and aesthetic while also trying out new ideas and creating relationships with agreeable sponsors.

Baby Loves Disco is an urban experiment and experience that challenges many norms. We have all kinds of families who participate. Baby Loves Disco serves as a meeting ground for parents, friends, family and caregivers of young children. It is a place to chat and be social while dancing with the little ones. It is a place to read a book to a toddler in the "chill-out space." It is a place that embraces public nursing. My favorite feedback/comment so far has been one mother telling me that event was a "complete release" for the whole family.

Baby Loves Disco serves the priorities of the family by refusing to accept that parenting is an isolated experience. Baby Loves Disco strives to create a resonant experience for all in the sprit of sharing music and dance. As humans we are only a sum of our experiences and memories. Baby Loves Disco embraces an urban culture of parenting that remembers and celebrates our histories as people and shares them with our children in a safe and fun way.

The decibel level is around 80 dbl and the music played is mostly classic disco and lots of more contemporary, yet clean, favorites. The bubble machine is a crowd favorite as are the egg shakers and scarves. The fare for parents and children is a plethora of gourmet and mostly organic snacks, thanks to the sponsorship by local stores such as Whole Foods, Fresh Direct and Wild Oats.

I believe that Baby Loves Disco is so successful because it was started by parents, for parents and that the event seeks to be a grassroots, back to basics, family event that also has a lot of hip appeal. The combination of "clean" and "cool" is a difficult balance to strike but very desirable to younger parents who don't quite buy the old fashioned notion of trading in your old life once parenthood hits.

We’ve started a real business. Andy and I are both excited that we have created stay at home jobs that we can manage in our own way and time. I have been able to quit my part-time restaurant job and take a comfortable maternity leave from my performance life. I have created a job that my kid can come to and have fun with, and that my husband finds exciting. We are psyched to employ moms as our "hostesses" at our events and we are currently creating a "giving plan" to donate a percentage of our income to children with terminal illnesses. Andy is excited to start working on a CD of original Baby Loves Disco tracks, spun by some of the best, A-list DJs. I'm dreaming about how to weave the presence of child dancers-to-be and DJs-to-be into our live event experience, as positive peer- influence and fun-makers.

Andy is the music man—the mover and shaker of our efforts with his many "industry" talents trickling down from his other lives as partner in
"Ropeadope Records" and creator of "Baby Loves Everything.” I'm the dancer who does the follow-up, interviews, bookkeeping, and emailing while making sure all of the venues are supplied with egg shakers and bubbles. We really love working and collaborating together (and comparing notes on our kids!). We strike an amazing balance of similarities and differences in energy and approach—a bit of yin and yang at its creative best.

I remember sitting in front of the computer with Max nursing in my arms as I researched cloth diapering options and I laughed at all of the advertisements claiming that mothers could "start your own, stay-at-home business" not believing it could be a possible option for myself. And now, I sit in front of my computer, doing my work and just marvel at what this small idea has become. I have more work than I can handle, another baby due in August and I can only wonder what child # 2 will inspire.

Memphis Rock-n-Romp

2006-09-09T21:22:00.000-07:00

Memphis Rock-n-Romp
Stacey Greenberg

In 1992 I was in front of the stage in a now defunct bar rocking out as hard as I could to my favorite local band, Neighborhood Texture Jam (NTJ). Joe Lapsley, the lead singer, had filled an inflatable mannequin with canned dog food and ripped her to shreds on stage with a chainsaw while he sang NTJ’s anthem “Don’t Get Loud With Me Bitch.” I was making eyes at the drummer, Paul Buchignani, who was sweaty and topless like most of the band. As I banged my head back and forth, I felt the greasy brown mush splatter on my face and coat my hair. It was totally disgusting and I knew Paul would never love me, but I didn’t care. I scooped a glob of dog food out of my hair and lobbed it right back on stage, just missing Joe’s big mouth.

Ah, the good ol’ days.

I don’t get too many chances to go to see live music anymore. I’m usually fast asleep by midnight when most bands are just getting started. The idea of staying up late and hanging around smoky bars just isn’t appealing now that I’ve got a two-year-old, a four-year-old, and a full-time job.

But I still like to rock, and so do my kids. My youngest is already the self-appointed family DJ. Before I can get him into his car seat, he hurls himself into the front and grabs my CD holder with his chubby little hands. With amazing agility, he crams the Ramones’ mix into the tiny slot and flings his body back into his seat before I’ve even formed the words, “Honey, get back in your seat.”

After three years of driving down Cooper to and from my kids’ school and wondering who the bands were advertised on the posters plastered all over poles that line the street, I finally said, “That’s enough!”

I had heard of a family-friendly concert series in Washington, DC showcasing local musicians and bands called Rock-n-Romp and decided that despite being completely out of touch with the local music scene, I was going to bring Rock-n-Romp to Memphis. In 2005, I started talking the idea up at the Peabody Park playground, the Children’s Museum, and other places throughout midtown to parents who I used to see in bars and clubs before we were parents.

Since Rock-n-Romp shows are held during the day in a relaxed, kid-safe environment and give parents who miss their social life a chance to get out, enjoy some music that might be new to them, and expose their kids to great bands, the concept really wasn’t a hard sell. I kept a mental checklist of the people who seemed really interested in the idea and asked them to meet me for lunch at Alice’s Urban Market in January. Not surprisingly, everybody pretty much knew everyone else from one place or another, and thankfully I had chosen people who had musical connections and big backyards. By the time we finished our sandwiches, we had a list of potential bands to solicit and plans to host three Rock-n-Romps over the next six months.

The inaugural Rock-n-Romp was held on a Saturday afternoon in Dan Harper’s backyard and featured Amy Lavere & the Tramps, Noise Choir, and DJ Colin Butler. It was 75 degrees outside and sunny. A keg of Sierra Nevada was surrounded by ice. Sixty parents mingled, danced, and spread blankets on the grass. Sixty kids in face paint and multiple tattoos ran through the yard with various musical instruments. They rocked. They romped. There wasn't a cooler place to be on April 1st.

There were lots of instruments lying around for the kids to play with. Each of the bands included the kids in their sets. Amy Lavere asked everyone to come up and moo while she sang a song about a cow and Noise Choir set up a three-foot high live microphone for kids to join in whenever they felt the urge. When the live music ended, Noise Choir left their equipment set up and gave the kids an opportunity to put on their own show. Throughout the afternoon, DJ Colin Butler played an awesome array of songs that made it nearly impossible to sit still.

I truly believe most people left wishing there could be a Rock-n-Romp every weekend. I know I did.

After the show, J.B. Horrell, the lead guitarist and master face contortionist for Noise Choir, gave me a copy of their “Sings Out” CD. My two-year-old swiped it from me and immediately started tearing the plastic wrap off as he walked towards our car’s stereo. As we drove home, I caught a glimpse of him banging his head to “Muscular Pony” in the rearview mirror. I smiled to myself and thought, “Mission accomplished.”

Knitterview

2006-09-09T21:18:00.000-07:00

Knitterview
Stacey Greenberg

AKrylik and PolyCotN, two busy moms who couldn't find the time to finish their knitting projects came up with a crazy, organic solution. They started Knitta, a knitting graffiti crew, to tag their neighborhood with small, easy projects like antenna covers and beer cozies. I recently interviewed AKrylik for Hipmama.com to see how sometimes in balancing motherhood, work, and art we have to listen to ourselves and be brave and know when it's time to change and refocus our energies. I found that if we can just learn to do that, we may wind up with something even more amazing that what we'd started out with.

Stacey Greenberg: Tell me a little bit about Knitta:
AKrylik: We are a group of 11 Houstonians, 10 female (PolyCotN, AKrylik, WoolFool, LoopDogg, Knotorious N.I.T., Purl Nekklas 14kt, SonOfaStitch, P-Knitty, GrannySQ and Knitiot) and 1 male (MascuKnitity), ages ranging from 22 to (possibly) 95 (actually, I'm only guessing at GrannySQ's age, so we're not entirely sure where the range ends). Four of us are moms. I have one little person. She's 10. PolyCotN has three, ages 3, 9 and 12. WoolFool has two, 9 and 5. Some of us have full time jobs out of the house. Some of us have full time jobs inside of the house (that definitely includes our one full-time mom). Some of us are students. Some of us own our own businesses. NONE of us knit full time. In fact, though we all like (are even obsessed with to a point) knitting, I think what brought us together was our creativity levels and the combined need to make this hobby a tad more edgy and stimulating. This is an interesting little side project for all of us that has developed into something really unbelievable. We only thought that we were embarking on some crazy, humorous adventure that the folks in the neighborhood would get a kick out of. Never in our wildest dreams did we guess that it would get this huge.

SG: How do you choose your targets?
AKrylik: Sometimes we tag randomly (car antennas, door handles, stop sign poles, park benches) and sometimes we choose larger, more specific targets. The random tag nights are usually "come if you can", while we knit with a purpose for the larger targets. For one large project we did (24' scarves on two statues in Houston), we all knit piecemeal, then crocheted all the pieces together to form the giant scarves. Those were nice.

Occasionally, our targets come to us. We get requests every now and then. We'll still bomb those requested targets under cover of night, in order to retain some sense of anonymity though. Every once in a while, we knit and knit and knit for a trip out of town to spread Knitta out a little. This coming weekend, for instance, four of us went to New York City for 4 days of crazy tagging. We had an extra suitcase full of pieces that will grace the streets of New York (for at least a week or two, we hope). MascuKnitity just got back from a 3-week trip to China, where he was able to leave a little Knitta presence on the Great Wall. We still haven't figured out how we're going to top that one.

SG: What has the response been locally? Do people like getting tagged?
AKrylik: I would say that the response to this has been overwhelmingly positive. The pieces don't stay up that long and, with the exception of a couple of items, it doesn't seem like they're being taken down and thrown away. We have folks contact us just to tell us that they took one or more to keep. It’s crazy.

SG: So how HUGE is Knitta? How many projects do you do in a week/month/whatever?
AKrylik: As for quantity of projects, I really can't say how many tags we've thrown since we started this. Probably hundreds of antenna cozies. We covered lamp posts on three local highway bridges with 6 foot, hot pink wraps the night before New Year's Eve. We laid 24 foot scarves at the end of January. We had a big night of tagging on Valentine's and again for St. Patrick's Day. While we were in New York last weekend, some of the others tagged a portion of the Rice University campus for their annual KTRU Outdoor Show. We have plans for a big event here in mid May, then another in June. I can't even count how many times we've been out, casually distributing car antenna wraps and beer bottle cozies in the neighborhood pubs. My hands are cramped most of the time from knitting.

SG: What did you knit in NY?
AKrylik: Oh, wow...what didn't we knit in New York! We hit Union Square Park, a couple of spots in Brooklyn, a few subway platforms, Louie Armstrong's house in Corona, Queens, Times Square, Central Park, a subway headed North into Harlem, a lamp post near the Queensborough Bridge, multiple spots around the Lower East Side, Soho, China Town and Little Italy, St. Marks Place, The Williamsburg Bridge... I really can't remember more than that. It was crazy. And it completely paid off! We were mentioned on the Weekend Update on Saturday Night Live this past weekend! It just doesn't get any better than that.

SG: On the website it says you got tired of unfinished projects so you knit a door knob cozy and that's when the idea for Knitta came to you. I want more details. Like how did you even think to do a doorknob cozy? Do you have past experience with graffiti?
AKrylik: We were bored with the usual knitting projects and get-togethers. Personally, I get tired of a project that takes more than 2 o r 3 days to complete. I call it crafting ADHD. I had plenty-o-unfinished projects laying around my house that I'd simply become bored working on. Those projects, along with artistic tendencies and a pristine door handle on a local boutique that begged to be covered, led us to begin tagging with knitted pieces. I don't have any past experience with graffiti, myself, except for being incredibly awed by much of it. I can't speak for everyone in the group though. I think I can say, with a certain amount of confidence, that none of us have ever been full-time graffiti artists or taggers.

SG: How did you pick your crew and what is the overall dynamic like?
AKrylik: Poly and I started this together. Initially, we though that this would only be local humor. Still, we knew that we'd need another knitter or two to help cover the area that we had envisioned. So, we just began asking a few of our closest pals that we knew were also knitters. A couple of family members joined in. We gained another member through the journalist covering us for a story last October. Now we're at 11. With what's coming up for us this summer, we may just need to find a few more members to keep us afloat!

The group dynamic is fabulous. With an age range from 22 to (possibly) 95, the ideas and reactions keep everyone constantly on their toes... and constantly laughing.

SG: Do your kids know what you're up to with Knitta? Are they involved at all?
AKrylik: All of the Knitta offspring are aware of our ridiculous new "jobs." GrannySQ's grandson is even standing in for her in her "Crew" photo on the website. He came up with his own tag name (Cartoon Knitwork) and is learning to knit. My chica has been pondering a Knitta name for herself and claims she's ready to go through Round 2 of "How to Knit" with moms. It didn't really take the first time around. I'm not the world's greatest teacher. They just roll their eyes at us a lot. All we've said about it is that they shouldn't talk about it at school or with anyone who doesn't already know. They've been pretty good with that so far.

SG: How has Knitta affected you personally? As an artist? A woman? A mother?
AKrylik: Personally? Its opened up a great, creative outlet for me that I didn't have before. Sure, I knitted for friends, family and craft markets. That can be satisfying, but in a different sense. You do things for friends and family to make others happy. You use your creativity in a craft market or bazaar setting, not only to make what you enjoy, but for financial satisfaction. This is just for me. This makes ME happy. It’s personal.

SG: What advice would you give to someone who is home with a newborn and thinks she doesn't have time to do anything creative?
AKrylik: If you're staying home with the newborn, then all the little pesky chores that still have to be done around the house move right onto Dad's list of things to do, dammit! While he's washing dishes and doing last week's laundry, you're knitting.

You're supposed to sleep when they sleep, right? Yeah, right! I remember that I could NEVER seem to drift off when I should have. So throw in that movie that you've been meaning to watch for 2 weeks now and grab some yarn and a crochet hook. Get to work, man!

Instead of shopping for a blanket or crib gear, get that sewing machine down and make good use of all of the maternity clothes that you want to throw out because you're sick of looking at them! Make a "This is what I was forced to wear for 10 months" throw for the crib! You'll look back on it and be glad you put those panel pants to good use!

SG: What advice would you give to a mom with older kids?
AKrylik: Start a knitting graffiti crew, teach your kids to knit, then let them make up their own "tag" names and hit the town with you. PolyCotN's kiddo (also GrannySQ’s grandson) decided he wanted to be involved, so he learned to knit, made up his Knitta identity (Cartoon Knitwork), and proceeded to "blanket" the neighborhood with us.

SG: How can other mamas/knittas join the movement?
AKrylik: Knitta is only the 11 here. We started this as a play on graffiti. So, just like there are graffiti crews and artists everywhere, knitted graffiti crews should follow suit. We are Knitta, or Knitta, please! If you want to start your own knit graffiti crew, go for it. Make up your own crew name, your own tag names, and hit the streets. If you want, send us your crew information and some photos of your tags and we'll add you to what will be a "Other Knit Graffiti Crews" page on our website. (When I find the time to add another page!) We didn't invent knitting and we didn't invent graffiti. We probably weren't even the first people to wrap something in public. We just started a new little movement and gave it a category. Our name helped a little too, I think. We think it would be amazing to see crews pop up all over - just make up your own names, please. The Knittas are from the Montrose (area in Houston, where most of us live).

Rollermama

2006-09-09T20:48:00.000-07:00

Rollermama
Stacey Greenberg

I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. And surprisingly my two and four-year-old aren’t to blame.

I’ve been lying in bed thinking of taglines for the Memphis Roller Derby logo, rink names for some of my new skater friends, and drills to try out at our next practice. Sometimes I just lie there and imagine myself jamming through a row of blockers while the announcer screams, “Smashimi scores again!”

A few short months ago, I didn’t even know what roller derby was. My husband called me from his dig in Missouri and said, “Hey check out ‘Rollergirls’ on A&E.” “Rollergirls” is a reality show that follows the Texas Lonestar Rollergirls throughout their bouting season. The Lonestar Rollergirls play the game in short skirts and striped socks, focusing more on athleticism than staged drama. (Although there is a lot of drama in the show.) Warren and his fellow archaeologists had been watching it in their motel room and he (rightly) thought I might like it.

I basically grew up at the roller rink. I had no idea that grown women could skate AND make it look cool. After watching one episode, I called Warren back and said,

“We have to move to Austin immediately!”

“Uh, okay,” he said, unsurely. He had been trying (in vain) to get me out of Memphis for years. “Why don’t we just take the kids skating this weekend?” Warren very pragmatically suggested.

Skating is a lot like riding a bike. Once I laced up my Skateland rentals (something my inner hood was mortified by), I was speeding around the rink just like I did in the eighties (but for much shorter periods of time with much more perspiration). My four-year-old cheered as I whizzed past him. He was impressed with my skating abilities and was determined to keep up with me. My two-year-old wasn’t so interested, but agreed to wear skates as long as he could hang out by the video games and concession stand. Warren and I raced each other and even spun ourselves around in circles until we felt like puking. I told everyone I knew how much fun we had skating, and before I knew it, we had pretty much populated the rink with friends and family.

I had an insatiable desire to skate as much as possible. I decided to get some outdoor skates and try skating on my own a few times a week to see if that would keep me satisfied. I started thinking like a teenage boy with a skateboard—I was eyeing parking lots and pathways all over town. (The Zoo parking lot and the Harbor Town riverwalk are my top picks.) Before the UPS man could deliver my skates, I found out that three other women in Memphis had gotten together and decided to start a roller derby! I was thrilled.

The first informational roller derby meeting was on a Sunday afternoon at the same time that I usually took the boys skating. Already I was conflicted. Sunday afternoons at Summer Skateland with my family had become the highlight of my week, and I didn’t want anything—not even the roller derby—to mess that up. I emailed the derby organizers and told them I was interested, but that I wouldn’t be able to attend meeting.

On the Sunday of the meeting, we went skating as usual. I was a little mad at myself for skipping the meeting. I knew that I was letting my shyness get the best of me, and that I was using my kids as an excuse to mask my fear of change. While I helped my four-year-old around the rink, Warren noticed two women come in to talk to Skateland’s owner. He skated over to me and said, “Hey look, I bet those women are with the derby.”

They weren’t in short skirts or striped tights, but they definitely looked the part.

“I bet you’re right,” I said, as I took a deep breath and skated over to them.

“Are you with the roller derby?” I asked the taller woman with dyed red streaks in her hair.

“Yeah, I’m Elle Tempered,” she said.

“I wanted to come to the meeting today, but I always bring my kids skating on Sundays,” I said.

“That’s cool,” she said. “I’m a mom, too. You can sign this sheet. Our first practice is in two weeks.”

A mom! I cheered in my head as I added my name to the long list of names—several of which were familiar to me. Suddenly, all of my earlier hesitation was gone and I knew that I was meant to be a rollermama.

Since joining the derby in February, I’ve been amazed by all of the cool women I’ve met, a lot of whom are also mothers. We often joke about what things will be like once “we start beating each other up in November,” but as the weeks pass and I get to really know the other skaters through practices, committee & league meetings, and at social events, I know that competing in bouts will only make our friendships stronger.

When I became a mom, I met and became friends with a lot of other mothers by default at the playground or at school. I knew them as “Lucian’s mommy” or “A mama from Mothersville” before ever knowing their real names. In derby, I’m getting to know women by their rink names before ever discovering they have kids. Instead of talking about poop or sleep schedules, we discuss marketing strategies for the league, the best place to buy kneepads, or how to get affordable medical coverage. It’s a whole new world—one where I meet women with similar interests rather than just meeting women with kids of similar ages. Not only that, the derby allows me to involve my kids in my interests instead of vice versa.

Now each week, when we have practice, I have an evening all to myself. I get to exercise, hang out with cool women, and learn a fascinating new sport. On other days, I get to take my kids with me to derby meetings and special events. I feel strong and happy. And when mama’s happy, everybody’s happy.

Top Ten Reasons Mothers Should Join the Roller Derby

2006-09-09T20:43:00.000-07:00

Top Ten Reasons Mothers Should Join the Roller Derby
Stacey Greenberg

10. Mothers have quick reflexes. Catching a toddler from falling off of the playground ladder is just one degree away from suddenly jumping over a downed rollergirl in front of you.

9. Mothers get on-the-job-training. Toddlers con-stantly demonstrate proper hair pulling, smacking, biting, wrestling, and eye-poking techniques.

8. Mothers deserve to have an appropriate time and place for their own temper tantrums.

7. Mothers have good balance. Skating on eight wheels is a hell of a lot easier than carrying a baby on your back, a toddler on your hip, three sacks of groceries and a bulging diaper bag in your left hand and a smoothie in your right.

6. Mothers have high pain thresholds. Bruises, strawberries, and abrasions just don’t compare to labor and delivery.

5. Mothers are used to getting yelled at. “Smashimi scores again!” is a welcome change from “I.Said.I.Want.A.Juicebox.NOW!”

4. Mothers were born to multitask. Checking email while doing laundry and talking on the phone is basic training for doing crossovers while looking over your shoulder and plotting your next tactical move.

3. Mothers are expert negotiators. If you can convince your toddler to eat broccoli without alternating bites of ice cream, you can convince your team to kick ass.

2. Mothers like to play dress up too. Short skirts and striped tights are a welcome change to spit-up covered velour sweatsuits.

1. Mothers know how to stick to a schedule. If you can get your kid to sleep through the night and know exactly what s/he ate in the last 24 hours as well as what it looked like coming out, you’ll have no problem fitting 2 practices and a committee meeting into your life each week

Good Morning!

2006-09-09T20:40:00.000-07:00

Good Morning! by Richard Alley
Photo by Erica Carter

I’m going to give some of you the cold hard facts of raising kids and, to fully grasp it, you must first understand this: small children are not morning people. Shocked? It’s true. And I don’t know what all the baby raising books say about morning time with your little tow-headed jewel, but I imagine it has something to do with setting schedules and being repetitive and speaking in a soothing voice to reassure little Jimmy that it’s a new day full of rainbows and grand adventures. Something like waking up to golden flapjacks in the Hundred Acre Wood instead of urine-soaked sheets in your very own bed.

Since C was ready for his first day at day care it has been my job to get him – and then his siblings as they came along – dressed, fed and out the door for their day, and I’m going to tell you now how that gets done. If you have a weak stomach then you may want to stop reading now because this isn’t Baby Einstein and I’m not going to recommend leading your spawn out the door with black and white triangles and rhombi. I did it all with fart jokes. And conversations centering around who will stink the most if they’re the last to eat or to get dressed. Humor has been the essence of efficiency when it comes to getting non-morning little people to obey commands – if I can fool them into thinking they want to do something because it’s fun, then it just may get done without my head exploding. Humor and competition. I encourage The Trio to race each other to see who can get dressed first and who can get into the car first like I’m some sort of Roman impresario putting on a gladiator match for the emperor. I have looked the other way as teeth and hair were ignored. They’ve worn socks with holes and possibly underwear that was past its prime. And I have raised my voice, very likely awakening the neighbors.

Lately the humor angle has taken an ugly turn and it’s one I fear could have some longer lasting repercussions. The Trio, for the most part, aren’t a belligerent group. They’re not hateful or playground bullies (Again, for the most part. The jury is still in deliberation regarding S). However, there is considerable fun being made in the a.m. at the expense of a little cartoon 4-year-old named Caillou and his giant, bald head. Kristy and I find this cartoon particularly irritating because the character of Caillou consistently whines to get his way and this behavior tends to be rewarded by his cartoon parents. But then there is still his head, his beachball of a head, that my kids find hilarious. So hilarious, in fact, that S has begun waking up earlier than she ever has to see his gleaming melon. And she laughs at it. And they all laugh at it.

Thankfully I haven’t seen any kids at their schools with a head as disproportionately large as Caillou’s, because I’m afraid they might make the connection. We are constantly reinforcing that they should be nice to other children, all other children, no matter how different they are from themselves. But this is just a cartoon, right? A freakish, globe-headed cartoon. My other problem with Caillou is that they put him on in place of Sesame Street, which is a show I grew up on. There are a lot of freaks on Sesame Street, too, but they’re supposed to be monsters and giant birds and hairy elephant creatures, and not 4-year-old little boys with a bowling ball for a head. Besides, Sesame Street had grown-up guest stars like James Gandolfini, Robert Deniro, R.E.M., and one episode with a hoarse-voiced Natalie Portman dancing around in an elephant costume that made me feel a little conflicted.

So I don’t know if any of the child raising books say it or not, but I’ll say it – throw this book out! Nothing is cut and dry. Nothing but that silly, expensive mobile you got at the shower is black and white and there are no wrong answers. If oatmeal and Grover don’t work, then try farts and boogers. Make them laugh. Make them run. Whatever it takes to get them out that door.

The School Bus Shift

2006-09-09T20:37:00.000-07:00

The School Bus Shift
Meagan Francis

Every morning when the alarm goes off, my husband and I begin a quiet battle. One of us has to get up right away to get the two oldest kids off to school, while the other gets to sleep for another half-hour or so, and we’ll do anything in our limited early-morning power to avoid being the one who gets up. His weapon in the war against early rising is usually just ignoring the alarm entirely—snoring right through it, in fact—while I hit snooze the customary four times. Then, when I try to nudge him awake, he only snorts in response. About half the time his strategy works and I just resign myself to what I think of as The School Bus Shift.

It’s not so much the earlier rising that kills me, though I am no morning person. It’s more that trying to get my kids out the door in the morning is a little like trying to herd turtles on psychedelic drugs: not only do they move at a crawling pace, but they seem to find the most ordinary objects so mesmerizing that they must stop and stare at everything, wasting precious getting-ready moments.

Instead of washing themselves in the bath, they swirl the water around with a limp hand and stare at the wall. Instead of getting dressed, they gaze at their pile of clothes as though they see little dancing gnomes in them. Instead of eating their oatmeal, they dip the spoon repeatedly into the bowl and watch the dents fill back in with milk. This morning, I sent my eight-year-old son from the table to the bathroom with the instructions to brush his teeth. When I checked on him a minute later, he was stalled in front of the closed door, looking confused. Apparently he’d forgotten how to use doorknobs during the night. Later, I found him staring intently at the stripe of toothpaste on his toothbrush, transfixed. By that point I was ready to just hold him down and brush his teeth myself the way I did when he was a toddler.

Forget the dinner rush or the half-hour before bed: when it comes to sheer pressure, mornings are a mother’s most stressful time. The scene for the kids’ entire day is set: If their clothes are rumpled, if their socks are holey, if I let them get jacked up on Lucky Charms instead eating a sensible breakfast, if their packed lunch isn’t balanced, if they forget their homework—all of it reflects poorly on me, even if I’m not the one actually getting them ready that morning. Somehow my husband never experiences the same level of AM angst: he’ll do a sloppy job of the school bus shuffle without stressing out about it, while I’ll worry the whole day about whether the boys went to school with bed head.

This morning’s rush turned out to be one of those rare golden occasions where I managed, through careful planning (clothes laid out the night before, lunches and snacks ready to go), micromanaging everything from shoe-tying to breakfast BPM (that’s bites per minute. Oatmeal, requiring little chewing, allows for a particularly efficient BPM), and barking out a constant stream of phrases like “What are you doing!?” and “Move it!” and “So help me, if you miss the bus, I don’t know what I’ll do!”, I managed to get the kids dressed, scrubbed, fed, brushed, and buffed to a glossy shine—three minutes before the bus was supposed to arrive. Satisfied and proud, I sent them outside to wait.

And wait. And wait. The bus didn’t come. Had we missed it after all? Unable to give up on the dream, I kept calling out the front door to the kids: “It’ll be any minute now!” They looked skeptical as sleet bounced off their heads and froze to the cement.

Finally, twenty minutes later, I sent Jacob across the street to ask the neighbor if we’d missed the bus. He came running back with a whoop.

“Mom! It’s a snow day!” he yelled.

I guess I’ve got one more thing to add to my morning to-do list: next time, check the news. Oh well, at least their lunches are already packed and ready for tomorrow.

Fertile Ground #13

2006-04-04T21:48:00.000-07:00

INSIDE

FROM THE TRENCHES
Soil Chart by Stacey Greenberg
The Conception Diaries by Mariah Boone
Violet Speaks by Stephanie Smith-Gieg
The Pregnancy Co-op by Andria Brown
And Then There Were Three by Abigail Dotson

THE REAL DIRT
Death of a Diaper Bag by Joanna Djos-Tobin
Nap Flap by Lucinda Ferrara
In Search of a Babysitter by Stacey Greenberg

FERTILIZER
A Banging Wall by Amanda Soule
The Art of Thrifting with a Toddler by Shiloh Barnat
Eat Your Seaweed by Stacey Greenberg

IN THE FIELD
You are What Your Kids Eat by Stacey Greenberg
Roseate Spoonbills by Hilary Flower
A Mind of His Own by Cindy Heffron
Off With Her Head by Suzy Helme
Mommy Brain Is Good for You by Marrit Ingman

RUTS INTO FURROWS
Mardi Gras by Coleen Murphy

Soil Chart

2006-04-04T19:55:00.000-07:00

Soil Chart
Stacey Greenberg

Sorry this issue is a little late, but as usual, things are busy around here! I decided going to Journalism school was a little nuts. I was going to have to go for four years, summers included, one or two nights a week. Considering Warren just finished another eight week dig, I’m not sure how I would have even managed my first semester. So I did something that makes a lot more sense—Roller Derby! You’ll probably be hearing all about it in #14 along with the recap from the first ever Memphis Rock-n-Romp!

Enough about #14, let’s talk about #13! This issue has lots of new faces—my longtime Internet friend, Mariah Boone, has shared her conception diary with us and my new online friend, Stephanie Smith-Gieg was kind enough to share some entries from her sketchblog. I’ve also convinced Amanda Soule, creator of the craftiest blog ever, Soulemama, to tell us how to make a banging wall! Something all of your neighbors will surely want to thank me for. In other how-to news, Shiloh Barnat, thrifter extraordinaire, tells us all of her secrets. And that’s just the beginning! By the time you are done reading this issue, you’ll have your kids eating seaweed, you’ll feel smarter (thanks to Marrit Ingman), and you’ll have been to Mardi Gras (thanks to Coleen Murphy). Not bad, huh?

As always, tell your friends about Fertile Ground, send me love letters, submissions, and read my blog www.fertilegroundzine.blogspot.com. If you are a Memphian, check out my new column in Cooper-Young’s newsletter, The Lamplighter. If you’re not a Memphian, check out my essay in the upcoming Off Our Backs Motherhood issue. See you in June (or July)!

The Conception Diaries

2006-04-04T19:48:00.000-07:00

The Conception Diaries
Mariah Boone

Day One: Blood! Well, it’s about bloody time I had my period. My first getting-to-know-my-cycle-and-cervical-mucous cycle was 31 days long and the second was 30 days long and I seemed, according to the mucous, to be ovulating on the 17th or 18th day. Then this last cycle seemed the same mucous-wise but lasted 37 days! I no longer have any idea when I ovulate. Ah, well.

Day Two: Blood, blood, blood.

Day Three: Lots of blood. Very heavy period for me.

Day Four: No more blood. Time to start having lots of sex! Just a little more caffeine. No way I ovulate this early anyways.

Day Five: Lots more sex. They say not to skip days if you want a girl so we’re not going to skip days. I am still on the caffeine, though.

Day Six: Love all the sex. Last day of caffeine; then it’s cold turkey!

Day Seven: Tired. Head hurts. Want caffeine. We can skip one day of sex. Then it will be serious business!

Day Eight: Head is going to explode. Really. I may die. My staff is running when they see me. I am not enjoying the sex, either.

Day Nine: Day three of caffeine-detoxification. I am cheating for the first time. Day one wasn't so bad. Moderate headache and irritable, but I could distract myself from it. Yesterday I felt like my head would explode ALL DAY LONG. TODAY, too. Decided the cold turkey thing was for the birds. Am savoring just one cold coffee drink from the convenience store down the street at my desk. Mmmmmm. Headache's already getting better, though it is still pretty bad. Books say not to have more than two or three coffees PER DAY when pregnant (not that I'd go that far) and here I am killing myself with cold turkey...and I'm not even pregnant yet unless I had one extremely short cycle! Think I may let myself have ONE every other day if it is bad until the withdrawal is over. If the withdrawal stays this bad for more than another day and a half, that is. I have decided to let Mimosa watch cartoons all day tomorrow while I sleep. Geez, I think heroin withdrawal only lasts for a couple of days. It can't continue much longer, can it? Can it? Just one gorgeous sip left...

Day Ten: Headache is better, not good, but better. Very tired.

Day Eleven: Headache is gone! I am tired but the withdrawal is over. Heavens be praised! Spent a lovely afternoon playing at being pregnant at the health food store. Got pregnancy tea and organic yogurt and all sorts of goodies. Haven’t spent much time there since Mimosa was a toddler because our neighborhood grocery started carrying more vegetarian stuff. Feel like I’m renewing my relationship with the place. I’m daydreaming about organic baby food and all sorts of silly stuff…feels very pampering.

Day Twelve: Sex, sex, sex.

Day Thirteen: Starting to feel like this sex is rather dutiful and not so fun. Spicing things up a bit even if they do say the missionary position and no female orgasm is better for a girl.

Day Fourteen: Could be the important day but I don’t think so.

Day Fifteen: Starting to think my husband is tired of sex. Never thought I’d see the day. Feel a little wet but can’t really find any cervical mucous to see.

Day Sixteen: Feel wet but can’t find mucous. If I do ovulate on the 17th or 18th day, I shouldn’t be having sex this close to ovulation if I want a girl. Last cycle made me so unsure, though, that I’m not going to stop. Come what may.

Day Seventeen: Wet. Still don’t see any.

Day Eighteen: Wet. Still don’t see any. Ever so tired of sex.

Day Nineteen: Feel bloated and had three little on-the-side cramps. Worried me but then I thought: maybe ovulation! Not that I think I can tell anymore. Am daydreaming about a little girl with red-gold braids.

Day Twenty: Nervous about having fallen asleep and skipped yesterday. Convinced husband to put out.

Day Twenty-One: Got tired. Skipped the sex. Should be plenty of sperm swimming around in there already.

Day Twenty-Two: Skipped it. I only see white tacky stuff when I probe for mucous anyway.

Day Twenty-Three: Skipped it and worried about skipping it. More white, tacky stuff.

Day Twenty-Four: Sex seemed better again. Started having pregnancy test fantasies.
Had one test in the linen closet and bought three more today. Wasted the one from the linen closet. Knew it was too early to test. It would only barely be time with a sensitive test if I had ovulated on the Day Fourteen and I don’t think I did. I couldn’t resist, though. Can I make myself wait until 10 days after Day Nineteen of my cycle before I test again? I doubt it.

Day Twenty-Five: Up too late last night. Too tired for sex or anything.

Day Twenty-Six: Pretty decent sex.

Day Twenty-Seven: Felt slightly nauseated today but pregnancy nausea is not possible this early. Feel very protective of my middle and want to bite daughter when she goes careening wildly about anywhere near me. Wasted another test. Got very antsy. Went online to search for test with earliest results. Most I had never heard of but bought two of the earliest one I could find. Very embarrassing things to be carrying around at the grocery store; makes me feel like everyone is staring at me. May be what men feel like when we send them to the store for feminine hygiene products but why? Should at least wait until tomorrow to test again with the more sensitive test. Might…

Day Twenty-Eight: Didn’t. Now I have to make myself wait until tomorrow to try again.

Day Twenty-Nine: It’s getting a little close to the right time to detect things for me to be entirely comfortable that the sensitive test is still not detecting anything. And I feel all icky and bloated. Am worried. Very worried.

Day Thirty: One would think it is mighty close to time to find out one way or another. Not feeling abdominally fabulous which makes me worry about…I can’t even name the syndrome but you know what I mean. Got a couple more of the “sensitive” tests in the hope of using one tomorrow…and then I found real-for-sure egg white mucous! The most obviously egg white mucous I have ever found. On Day Thirty?! How confusing is that? Obviously, the sex train cannot safely stop chugging along yet, just in case, but…well…we’ll just have to see.

Day Thirty-One: Still not showing positive. Still no period.

Day Thirty-Two: Still no period.

Day Thirty-Three: Wasted another test. No positive result. No period.

Day Thirty-Four: Bought another sensitive test to go with the two normal ones in the closet in the bathroom. May take it tomorrow.

Day Thirty-Five: Took it. Really thought it would be the day. Felt absolutely queasy, but still not positive. Still no period. Bought another two.

Day Thirty-Six: Took One. Still negative. Still no period. Bought two more and tried the dipping-it-in-a-cup-of-pee method: still negative. Feel so queasy whenever my stomach starts to get empty that I think there must be something wrong with me if I’m not.

Day Thirty-Seven: Nothing.

Day Thirty-Eight: Nothing.

Day Thirty-Nine: My birthday. Would have been a nice day to get that positive result. I didn’t, though.

Day Forty: Still negative and still no period. I am not testing again (for real this time) until Day Forty-Four. That would be the day for results if that egg-white mucous on Day Thirty meant anything.

Day Forty-One: No period.

Day Forty-Two: No period.

Day Forty-Three: No period.

Day Forty-Four: Positive! I was worried I might have taken too long to read it (although I knew I hadn’t) so I drove to H-E-B at 6am and bought another and took it home and took it. Positive! It is! It is worth the wait. I left the test on the counter for my husband to find and made my way happily to work. So happily.

Violet Speaks

2006-04-04T19:45:00.000-07:00

Violet Speaks
Stephanie Smith-Gieg

The Pregnancy Co-op

2006-04-04T19:42:00.000-07:00

The Pregnancy Co-op
Andria Brown

We’re having a baby!

By “we,” I of course mean my sister, my best friend, their respective husbands and I. And by “having” I of course mean that they’re handling the pregnancy, birth and child-rearing and I’m sitting on the sidelines, 3000 miles away, trying to find the line between helpful observer and meddling busybody.

Blame it on over-education. When I was pregnant, lo these many months ago, I quickly realized that the standard tomes of pregnancy information were not all that useful to me. Having been exposed to some non-mainstream parenting concepts through online groups and real-life clusters of progressive mamas, I delved deeper on my own and discovered a number of facts that made my already sensitive stomach turn. From skyrocketing C-section rates to the U.S.’s abysmal infant mortality, it seemed obvious to me that “the way things are done” wasn’t necessarily the best way to do things.

In the process of discovery, I’m sure I bored anyone who would sit still with lengthy lectures about epidurals, circumcision and other topics inappropriate for the dinner table. But to me, it was all fascinating and more than a little bit disconcerting. If I hadn’t been really motivated to seek this information, I never would have come across it. I would have gone along believing that I had to gain exactly 30 pounds, go into labor at exactly 40 weeks, and willingly submit to every hospital procedure in the book.

Just when I thought I was filled to the cerebral brim with baby info, I took on ownership of a parenting store. Every day brought new stories, new shared experiences and new reasons to stay current on emerging research. While being the mother of one young child didn’t make me feel like a parenting expert, being around a constant stream of babies did boost my confidence on the subject.

So with all of my knowledge, paired with deep affection for my friend Leah and my sister Kelly, I knew I would be facing nine challenging months of self-restraint. I’d already noticed that many alterna-moms, myself included, often fell victim to Convert’s Zeal. Armed with newfound information that we feel is so vitally important, we have a tendency to inflate the positive aspects of our decisions and criticize those who disagree with us. A somewhat justifiable reaction, I think, to the many negative opinions hailed down on mothers who choose to breastfeed, birth naturally, co-sleep or deviate from the norm in any other fashion. Sometimes you need a little overconfidence to shake off Aunt Libby’s pointed questions about solid foods or the stink-eye from the lady in the mall who clearly has nothing better to do than try to catch a glimpse of someone else’s nipple.

I was somewhat released from the burden or parental proselytizing, however, by a very astute essay in Andrea Buchanan’s book Mother Shock. In it, Buchanan theorizes that unsolicited advice is often a very thinly veiled confession of self-doubt. With that in mind, I started to hear my own diatribes as personal pleas for validation. I wasn’t providing a public service so much as I was desperately trying to convince myself and anyone around me that my decisions were not going to screw up my kid.

Needing a little support is no crime, of course, but there are risks to being a mamavangelist. In proclaiming our own path, we disregard and often devalue mothers who’ve made other choices. A recent New Yorker article about educational programs for impoverished parents noted that infant-development strategies are “fetishized in places where babies are fundamentally secure and likely to prosper.” (The New Yorker, Feb. 6, 2006) As an avid infant development fetishist, I have to admit that whether a baby is birthed at home or hospital, fed breastmilk or formula, the most important factor in her well-being is a safe, loving home. And knocking down the confidence of another mom is not going to help achieve that.

So with the overeager, insecure mommy voice echoing in my head, I’ve done my best to leave Kelly and Leah to their own instincts. Well, other than the time Leah mentioned Baby Wise and I nearly choked on my own tongue trying to think of a diplomatic way to discredit it (I thought I avoided using the word “evil,” but witnesses disagree). Still, I’m trying to be supportive rather than subversive. Granted, it helps that they both live in California, where breast pump bags are common fashion accessories and even the Naval hospital has a midwife clinic. It’s easier not to worry about new moms whose own good sense is supplemented by unlimited resources and cultural support.

I like to think I had a small positive influence on Leah, who is dedicated to breastfeeding and maintaining a rational work schedule even after she returns to her extremely fancy corporate job. Perhaps some of my hippie ways have even rubbed off on my big sister, who has just put a co-sleeper on her baby registry and is still arguing against circumcision with her husband even though they know they’re expecting a girl. But I give more credit to the fact that they’ve done their research and learned, as I did, that mothering is a highly personal endeavor. No one will ever love their babies more than they do, and no one can tell them how to do it better. Not even me.

And Then There Were Three

2006-04-04T19:38:00.000-07:00

And Then There Were Three (A Letter to My Firstborn)
Abigail Dotson

Dear Ruby,

I thought I would write this letter so long ago, before you smiled and stood and learned to look up and utter “mama”; before you took off running, or at least fast-walking; before you pointed at kitties and picked up sticks to shove in the neighbor’s dog’s mouth, hoping for a game of fetch. This was a story I held in my thoughts before you ever found your sense of humor and learned to joke with me, playing peek-a-boo behind the telephone pole at the park or draping necklaces around my nipples then laughing at your own silliness; before I heard your boisterous “HA-HA” or coy “tee-hee,” your foreboding “Hot. Hot,” or your sing-songy “Hereeeee, Kitty,” (pronounced “heeeeeeeehhhh, kllllthsscchhhheeeee”). I thought I would tell you this story while you were still a jellybean in my arms, poking your nose into my breast as if to say “mama, I wanna nipple.” It is a story of an evening that faded into night, and then a night that dawned to a day that so many people will never forget. It is the story of how you came into my arms.

You were due to arrive on a Saturday. Six days later I was still waiting. It was a Friday morning, your father had gone off to work and I was madly baking cookies and trying not to think about how much I wanted this belly full of baby to turn into an armful of baby. Around 11am your daddy called to see how everything was going. I’m not sure what it was, but something in the waiting and the wanting broke me, and as I burst into tears I told him that I just couldn’t do it anymore. I wept my exhaustion on the phone, felt desperate with wonting and a mile past ready. He heard my cries and decided to leave work, come home and be with us. And as I hung up the phone I had a thought: in birthing class, I learned that when a woman finally says “I can’t do this anymore,” during her labor, she usually doesn’t have to. It is at that very point, when her body has stretched itself to the absolute maximum limits, beyond anything she ever thought possible, that it reels itself back in and the baby begins to emerge. And upon remembering this, I thought that maybe this was it. Maybe just when I became so desperate I honestly felt I could no longer carry this load, the load would magically be lifted.

Your papa came home and we went to the movies. We saw “A Beautiful Mind.” The whole time you kicked and danced inside me. We came home and soon after I fell asleep.

I heard your papa collapse into bed at around 1:30 in the morning. I heard him because a pain in my stomach had woken me up. After about half an hour of feeling them every so often, too strong to close me eyes anymore and yet not strong enough to be convinced, I decided to open my eyes and time them by the alarm clock on the nightstand next to the bed. The nightstand was a hand-me-down from the home where your Grandpa John, for whom you are named, grew up in. They were coming every 10 minutes or so. And while they were nothing I couldn’t handle, they certainly had a new air of strength to them. At 2am I woke your papa up. He hadn’t really been to sleep yet, and in his utter exhaustion he rolled over, eyes still closed, and told me to try to get some sleep. Clearly, he had never been in labor before. Neither had all those folks in our getting-ready-for-baby class who suggested this as a rational possibility in early labor. Realizing that it was he who was actually the delirious one with that comment, I collected myself and with a deep breath woke him once again in the sweetest “about-to-go-through-the-most-painful-experience-of-my-life” voice and told him it was time. And then he was up.

We counted through contractions, timed the spaces in-between and wondered if this was it. An hour later we decided that indeed it was, and prepared ourselves for what we expected to be a grueling day or two. Not too long later I began bleeding; this prompted a call to our midwife, Alice, who confirmed that labor had begun, told us we were in for a long haul and gave me permission to soak in the bathtub. I hobbled into our little bathroom and watched the water fill the tub, then as gingerly as one 9 ½ months pregnant could possibly be, I stepped in and was lost to hot water. Your father sat on the edge of the tub with a stopwatch and waited for my signal each time a contraction began. We struggled through a meager attempt at breathing exercises, for it wasn’t until I was comfortably (?) situated in the bathtub and well into active labor that we chose to learn the techniques. So I sat with a belly full of baby and he sat perched on the edge of a very small tub in a very small bathroom and, when my uterus relaxed, read aloud from a book about how to breathe. He would pant, quickly or slowly depending on what the book suggested, and I would open my mouth, stick out my tongue and copy him. It wasn’t the most opportune time to decide to be a student, though, and we quickly abandoned the idea and relied on instinct. Which seemed to work just fine, by the way.

The contractions came harder and closer together, and I wriggled and waggled between the porcelain walls of my container. It was a tight squeeze, but each attempt at waterless positions failed miserably and always I ended up back where I started. It was around this time that your father realized he probably should have read the directions on how to erect the birthing tub we had sitting in pieces on our bedroom floor.

My memory becomes a little fuzzy at this point, but imagine this: I am naked and immersed in water (at least all of me that fits). The labor has progressed considerably, and your father is running between the living room and the bathroom frantically attempting to piece together a small Jacuzzi sized tub in a room not much bigger than a Jacuzzi and listening for me to calmly yell “Riiiiichhhh” thus signaling the beginning of the next contraction. With each one he comes running back to sit with me through it, then anxious not to waste another second, runs out until he hears my call.

I am surprisingly calm through the entire ordeal thus far. The night is quickly becoming morning, and as the weekend dawns something significant changes. I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is, but it is more than just a harder, longer moan from within my body. Your song had hit a high note, and the music we were making suddenly was making us. In the hustle and bustle of the next few hours I can only tell you that your uncles arrived to hold together the water that I so needed, your daddy held my balance, your bubi held me in her stare and Alice held down the house. And at 11:03 in the morning, I held you, wrapped in the flannel of your Grandpa John’s favorite shirt.

I had done all the things laboring women do; I huffed and I puffed and as I lie nearly naked in a tub full of warm water I felt you move in me. Through my body like a tidal wave and though there must have been a part so sad to see you leave, the pieces obliged and let you through. I felt my own construction change and it wasn’t until the earthquake moved me that I even recognized where each piece was to begin with. A little over eight hours after I first woke up your daddy, lying on my back against him in a pool of warm water magically constructed in our very little living room, you slithered out from between my legs and into your bubi’s waiting arms. And in a room where I am sure there were a thousand voices laughing and crying at the wonder which was you, I can only remember your wet body on my breast as my nose pressed into your little bald head and smelled you for the very first time. In that moment, there was only me and you.

That was a night that woke up to a whole new world. We did good work, you and I. I moaned and I groaned and I sang out a baby; you danced a harmony and together we led the choir around us into the most beautiful crescendo. I am so happy you are here.

Death of a Diaper Bag

2006-04-04T19:35:00.000-07:00

Death of a Diaper Bag
Joanna Djos-Tobin

I am the owner of the diaper bag that you stole last night. I assume you took it from my vehicle while I was sleeping. My 14-month-old daughter was screaming and I, in a frenzied mess, became distracted and accidentally left it on my front seat. I woke up to discover it missing.

This naturally caused a lot of distress.

Let me tell you the story of my diaper bag. It was a gift given to me by my husband. It was the strangest bag I had ever laid eyes on. It was red and blue leather and had an adjustable strap. I named it my “man bag”. It was obviously a bag not designed for my gender but I very much enjoyed its uniqueness and grew to love my manbag. It was a perfect size to carry a couple of diapers, a sippy cup and my wallet. I think about my manbag, lonely in some corner of an unfamiliar room like a kidnap victim awaiting duct tape, or thrown on the backseat of a strange car, or perhaps my manbag is in a dumpster, awaiting burial in a landfill. I never got to say goodbye.

I can only imagine the sheer disappointment you must’ve experienced at realizing that all of my credit cards were maxed out. I was hoping you might cut me some slack, seeing the two car seats in my vehicle and the obvious lack of cash in my wallet. But no, crime, like nature is indifferent. The fact that I am a mother holds no significance. I wonder about your own mother. Does she know you stole from the mom of two small children?

Maybe you are a mother yourself, or someone’s beautiful son or daughter. I have a strange fascination with who you are. Using my debit card, you managed to drain my last forty dollars from my bank account. This was the last forty dollars that I was counting on to get us through until payday. In my head I had budgeted up my last forty dollars as follows: fifteen for gas, twenty-five for groceries. It would be tight but it would be just enough for three days. That is how we live. You see, we’re a creative sort and make our living from the arts. I’m not an accountant, or brain surgeon or car salesman-just a stay at home mom and lowly part time barista by night. We live paycheck to paycheck. We do not own the car you broke into, or the driveway or the house our car was parked next to. We owe the bank for the car and are renters. Hell, you probably have more cash on hand than we do. But all this was not taken into account. Instead, you took my forty dollars and gassed up your car, rented a movie and treated yourself to a meal at McDonald’s.

In my bag was my wallet containing my driver’s license, social security card, my maxed out credit cards, my food workers permit, medical insurance card and various library cards and supermarket discount cards. I must admit I feel rather naked without any identification. I cannot write a check, or legally drive a car or purchase alcohol. I cannot conduct business at my bank or vote. I am in essence, without any verification of my existence. It must be documented and carried on my person, should a bus hit me, so that the proper authorities can notify my loved ones so they can dispose of my remains appropriately.

At this moment I sit, waiting for my number to be called at the DMV while herding two very bored, hungry, tired children. I hold a tattered number slip in my hand. There are twenty people ahead of us. It was difficult to verify my identity without a driver’s license or social security card; I needed the appropriate supporting documentation according to the DMV policies and procedures. This was necessary for security measures, especially with the ongoing terror threat. After submitting a pile of tax forms, my marriage license, school records, immunization records, birth certificate, pap smear results and other appropriate documents the DMV clerk finally took a gamble on assuming my identity, after consulting with his co-worker and finally retrieving my original drivers license picture on their computer systems. On the wall is a sign with the words “IN GOD WE TRUST,” an eagle and American flag billowing patriotically in the background. I wonder if this would apply if God needed a driver’s license or identification card. What type of documentation they would require from a supreme being? Perhaps there would be an exemption with a supervisor’s approval.

It will take time but eventually I will heal from the loss of my diaper bag. I have since acquired a spacious daypack to cart around my children’s diapers and graham crackers. Perhaps one day we will pass each other on the street and I will not know you and you will not know me. But you certainly have created an impact on my life, a series of inconveniences and annoyances, hurdles and paperwork, headaches and long hold times with customer services representatives. I hope the cheeseburger was worth it.

Nap Flap

2006-04-04T19:32:00.000-07:00

Nap Flap
Lucinda Ferrara

For most stay-at-home moms, naptime is the most anticipated time of the day.

During this hopefully-fingers-crossed-pray-to-God-at-least-two-hour time period, a mother is free to do whatever she wants, so long as she's quiet. She can read In Touch magazine, for example, or indulge in some long division. She can knit or blog or revise her treatise on achieving world peace. It is the only time of day in which said mom removes the shackles of motherhood and has a few quiet minutes to herself.

So when the sanctity of naptime is violated and precious baby is woken by Infernal Noise after only a few minutes of sleep, the resulting frustration is enough to make even the sanest mom run screaming into the cul-de-sacs of her subdivision without looking first for oncoming minivans.

I rarely question my own sanity (not counting my impulsive purchase of a Von Dutch trucker's hat two years ago, which I wore, redfaced, all of one time), but when I put Baby down for a nap, I swear I become a raving lunatic.

For one thing, I creep around the house like an unemployed mime, flinching at every noise I hear. My husband and stepdaughters have grown all too familiar with my mincing steps, pained expression, and elaborate, "Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh... The baby's sleeping!"

I'm actually shocked that they're so good natured about the fact that I've become a Naptime Nag. Because Naptime Nags can be very unpleasant to have around.

Just ask the workmen next door who were doing a little termite repair carpentry in my neighbor's driveway a few days ago. As they laughed and hammered alongside Baby's window, I lifted the window in the next room an inch and put my lips up to the screen.

"Hey wiseguys, could you shut up!" I stage whispered.

"Wha???" one of them said, looking around.

"Over here," I said quietly, waiting until they located my mouth through the crack in the window sill.

"I've got a baby in here trying to sleep and you're not helping things."

"Hey look, lady, we gotta work," one of them said. I quickly realized I was going to have to up the ante.

"A... a sick baby," I clarified, feeling a little guilty about my whopper. No, wait, I, I mean Baby, needed complete quiet, dammit!

"Yeah, she's sick with a really bad cold. And she hasn't slept in three days."

"Three days?" the other guy said uncertainly.

"Four days!" I whispered frantically. "Maybe a week! It's hard to say. I just need quiet!"

The men exchanged worried glances.

"Maybe we'll just come back in a few hours, huh?" One of them finally said.

"Good. Great. Bye," I smirked, shutting the window.

Mission accomplished.

But I'm not always this successful. And that's when the, um, crap hits the fan.

For example, our neighborhood trash men always choose naptime to visit my street.
What's worse, the driver generally parks his garbage truck right in front of Baby's room before hitting the compactor button and prompting a five-minute grinding that could only be compared with the sound Godzilla made as he lay dying after a particularly gruesome battle with King Kong.

Within 30 seconds of this aural monstrosity, Baby is awake and crying.

One day, I'd finally had enough. Grabbing Baby, I angrily stormed out the front door and into my front yard.

"Look what you've done!" I fumed as Baby wailed in my arms.

Glancing over at me, the driver turned off his compactor.

"Whadja say?" he shouted.

"You nincompoops!" I shouted. "You've woken up my baby for the 3rd time in a month!! What is wrong with you?!"

The driver turned and fumbled in his passenger seat before leaning out the window and handing me a business card.

"You Naptime Nags are all alike," he said, shaking his head before putting his truck in gear and driving away.

Scowling, I read the card.

"PDC Waste Removal cannot be held responsible for waking babies during naptime. We thank you for your patronage," it read.

Clearly, I wasn't the first case of mommy rage these guys had encountered.

All right, all right. I can feel your disbelief radiating off the page right now. I admit, I made the whole thing up. At least the parts involving strangers.

But you have to understand that this is what makes me a true naptime lunatic. Because even though I don't actually have these stand-offs, I fantasize about them all the time.

In my head, I've marched outside and sledgehammered lawnmowers. I've given Noisy Man across the street a piece of my mind ("Are you under house arrest or something?! Why can't you leave your freakin’ yard when you want to talk to someone?!") I've muzzled dogs. I've established a no-fly zone over my house. All in the name of a little peace and quiet. I'm sick. I know. But I'm not alone... am I?

In Search of a Babysitter

2006-04-04T19:26:00.000-07:00

In Search of a Babysitter
Stacey Greenberg

One of my new year’s resolutions was to find a babysitter. This was going to be no small task as my mom has been doing a bang up job for several years now, and is a hard act to follow.

Several people suggested I join the Midtown Babysitting Coop, and I liked the idea of that, but all of my calls to the president remained unreturned. Next, I emailed several friends in the area to see if anyone knew anyone good, but I got nothing. A friend suggested calling the Rhodes Career Center’s babysitters’ list. It seems like I would have thought of this myself since I actually used to be on the list as a Rhodes student.

I called as instructed, but the recording clearly said that the list of babysitters was for occasional gigs only and that if I wanted a regular babysitter I should fax or email a “job description.” So I did.

Dear Babysitting Coordinator,

I live on Court Avenue not far from campus. I have two young boys--ages (almost) 2 and (almost) 4. I am looking for someone who can come on a semi-regular basis on weekends so my husband and I can go to dinner and a movie. (i.e. every other Saturday night from 6-10pm). My husband will be out of town for several weeks (but not weekends) and I may have to make presentations for work on weeknights. In that case I would need someone on pretty short notice to come for a 2 hour block. There is also a possibility of morning or afternoon babysitting on weekends depending on our schedules.

I am looking for someone (male or female) who has experience with high energy toddlers and likes to play legos & trains, build forts, wrestle, etc. While we are out, I would expect the babysitter to serve the kids dinner (it would be pre-cooked), play with them, give them a bath, and possibly get them to sleep. The four year old is potty trained and the two year old is working on it (i.e. a diaper change may or may not be required).

Before officially babysitting I would like to speak with the person on the phone and then have them come meet and play with the children for a half hour to an hour while my husband and I are home.

I don't know what the going rate is. I'd like to pay $10 an hour, but if that isn't realistic I am happy to negotiate.

Thank you,
Stacey Greenberg (Class of 1994)

And then I waited for the calls to start flooding in. For weeks, I got nothing.

I started to obsessively reread my job description. Should I have left off the “high-energy” part? The diaper changing? Was $10 hopelessly low? Was the pre-sitting interview too much?

I called the Career Center to see what was up. “We put everything in a binder,” the student worker informed me, “and it is up to the students to flip through it.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound patient and kind.

There was a long silence.

“I’d really like to find someone soon,” I added in my best I am a nice person voice.

More silence.

Then finally, “I can move your job description to the front if you want. Then more people might notice it,” she said.

“Really?” I asked excitedly. I was envisioning a very large binder.

“Sure,” she said, seeming happy that she had made me so happy. “I actually have a friend who’s been wanting to babysit, I can give her your number too if you want,” she added.

“Great!” I said. “Thank you so much.” You are the best student worker ever!

A couple hours later I got a message from a nice girl named Linda. Linda was available on Saturday and willing to come on Friday to meet the boys. I immediately called Warren to tell him the good news.

“Did you check her references?” he asked.

Uh, no.

“Does she have any experience with young kids?”

I don’t know.

“So a complete stranger is coming to watch our kids?

Not exactly.

When I was a babysitter at Rhodes, no one ever pre-interviewed me or asked for references. I was welcomed into large homes throughout the city solely based on my status as a Rhodes student. It was a Memphis thing that Warren didn’t understand.
Next, I attempted to share my excitement with my internet friends.

I wouldn’t have her bathe the kids, they advised. Too much danger of drowning.

How do you think they will react to a new person changing their clothes? they asked.

Having a babysitter was beginning to seem scary. I decided that if we liked her on Friday, we’d have her come just for an hour or two on Saturday while we went to dinner. We’d feed the kids before we left and we’d bathe them when we got home. Linda would just be there to play and keep them from hurting each other, or themselves.

Thursday night I started cleaning up and thinking of things to ask Linda. Satchel and Jiro were jumping up and down in the living room and I heard a big THUD. “What was that?” I asked Satchel. He gave me a blank look. They both seemed fine so I went about my business. Fifteen minutes later I went in and realized a framed photograph had fallen off of the wall and landed behind the bookcase. As I moved the bookcase to retrieve it, my hand brushed against the baby monitor plug which was extremely hot. I pulled it out of the wall and the entire outlet was black! If I had waited a few minutes longer, we might have had ourselves a full blown electrical fire.

Moments like this really make me wish Warren was home during the week.

I decided we needed to call it a night and gave the five minute bath warning. As I was loading the dishwasher, Jiro came into the kitchen and started messing with the oven dials. “No, no,” I said as I continued to scrub grime off of a knife. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him trying to open the oven door. Before I could put the knife down, Jiro was laying on the oven door. As I went the three feet to grab him, I saw the entire oven come crashing forward. He saw it too and started frantically trying to scoot himself out. I grabbed him just as the oven hit the floor with a resounding boom. He was fine, amused even, but I felt my heart attempting to pound its way out of my chest.

There’s no way I can leave these two with a babysitter! I thought.

All night I worried about the house burning down, but fortunately it never did. I woke up calmer and decided to go ahead with the pre-interview. Warren could ask her anything he wanted, she could meet the boys, I could point out safety hazards…everything would be okay.

Linda showed up right on time and appeared to be very nice and not scary at all. Satchel immediately bounded over to her and started showing her his toys. Jiro seemed equally excited to see a new person. “Thanks for coming,” I said. “This won’t take long.”

“No problem,” she said, “The opera doesn’t start for an hour and a half.”

The opera! I took this as a good sign.

“Oh, Don Giovanni?” I asked, trying to sound smart. I listen to public radio.
She smiled.

I went through a string of questions and determined that Linda was from Alabama, she was a sophomore, and a history major. She had babysat for several families in Memphis, but didn’t have too much experience with young kids. “I asked my mom about younger kids and she said that I should just focus on playing with them and keeping them safe,” she said.

Linda had just scored major points. “That’s about right,” I said light-heartedly. “I don’t care if the walls are painted and they are covered in chocolate as long as they are happy and in one piece when we get back.”

Linda seemed a little apprehensive on the diaper changing front so I assured her that it would only be an issue if Jiro pooped, otherwise his diaper would easily last the two hours we planned to be gone.

The whole time we were talking, both Satchel and Jiro were romping around happily. I asked Warren if he wanted to ask Linda any question and he said no. “No?” I verified. Mr. Twenty Questions has no questions? Mr. ‘She’s going to kidnap our babies’ has no questions?

I think he felt obligated to say something so he said, “Hey Satchel, Linda is going to come stay with you tomorrow night while Mommy and Daddy go out to dinner.”
Satchel stopped romping around and stared at Warren, then me. His face completely dropped. He clearly did not like the idea of being left.

Before he could go into a full-blown pout/tantrum, I said, “Ok Linda, I guess you better get going to the opera, we’ll see you tomorrow at 6:30!” and rushed her out the door.

“I don’t want to stay with Linda!” Satchel cried.

“It’ll just be for a little while,” I said. “You can show her all of your toys and play with her and it will be fun!”

“NO!” he said.

Good job, Warren.

I took a deep breath and changed the subject.

On Saturday afternoon, Satchel and I had the following conversation:

“I don’t like Linda’s face,” he said. “She has a funny face.”

I looked at him unsure as to what to say.

“She doesn’t have a cool face like you do, Mommy.”

A cool face? How cute is that? “Well, I bet once you get to know Linda, you will like her and her face,” I said.

He gave me a look that said he didn’t believe me, but he’d take my word for it. For now.

By the time Linda showed up, I had fed the boys dinner and given them a popsicle. All of their art supplies were out on the dining room table next to a stack of new coloring books. I even put out the play-doh. I had both TVs on with pre-approved shows and had hidden all of the remotes and extra DVDs so Jiro wouldn’t drive Linda insane with his desire to have a new movie on every five minutes. I left a list of snack ideas and our cell phone numbers. I made sure Satchel peed and I changed Jiro’s diaper.

As Warren and I made our way out the door, Satchel and Jiro were both engrossed in coloring and barely looked up. Linda sat down and started coloring with them. It was a far cry from the dramatic exit I had feared.

After two hours of drinks, dinner, dessert, and adult conversation Warren and I happily returned home. Satchel, Jiro, and Linda were all sitting at the kitchen table playing with the play-doh. There was a cushion fort built in the living room, a bowl of half-eaten popcorn on the counter, and discarded socks and shoes strewn about the dining room. Satchel barely looked up from what he was doing to say hello. Jiro gave us a big smile and pointed enthusiastically at his play-doh creation.
Mission accomplished!

I thanked Linda and said, “I hope this was easy money.”

“Oh it was,” she said. “I look forward to coming back in two weeks.”

Once she was gone, Satchel said, “Mommy! Mommy! You were right. I got to know Linda and she does have a cool face!”

A Banging Wall

2006-04-04T19:21:00.000-07:00

A Banging Wall
Amanda Soule

As I’m sure is true at your house too, we all love banging on pots and pans around here – the adults are no exception. So when we saw a Wall of Sound in the children’s area at the Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association annual Common Ground Fair, we knew we needed something like it for ourselves. Fun, easy and inexpensive to create, it’s the best kind of toy for the whole family.

Your “Banging Wall” (as ours has come to be known) can be anywhere – in a yard, the side of a house, or even in a basement (for the very patient or at least earplug-equipped family). We wanted ours to be freestanding, and outside. We have a fairly wooded area around our home, so we used small fallen tree logs to create a basic A frame shape (we made two A’s with the logs, and then a log on top to connect the two, and logs across the side as well). Use what you’ve got—plywood, logs, whatever. I’d recommend making it big enough so that several children can be using it at once without getting a stick in the eye.

Once you’ve got a sturdy shape, the fun of collecting the sound makers begins. We dug around our kitchen for items that were no longer in use, and then hit Grammie and Grampie up for their discards too. We also took a trip to our local thrift shop to pick up some extras. Anything works: pots and pans, lids, trays, baking sheets, cake molds, graters, metal bowls, big plastic water jugs (my favorite sound), or whatever else you come across that sounds good (just avoid glass and sharp objects). Attach these objects to your frame. Some of our pieces are nailed to the logs, some are screwed in, and some are hanging from rope.

The last things you’ll need are ‘drumsticks’. We went back into the woods to find ours in the form of fallen tree branches and sticks, but you can also use wooden spoons. We keep a big bowl of these at the ready, attached to the base of the Banging Wall. Then, you’re ready to make some music!

We built our banging wall three years ago now, and it’s still as much of a hit as it was on the first day. It’s a huge draw for visitors – both children and adults, which is part of its beauty. It brings out the drummer in all of us! It’s so amazing to create music together, without worry of something sounding “right” – it all sounds cool on the Banging Wall. And each year, we’ve added a few extra things to it – new instruments, or found wood for aesthetics. It’s a mix of musical instrument, toy, and recycled art for your yard.

The Art of Thrifting with a Toddler

2006-04-04T19:16:00.000-07:00

The Art of Thrifting with a Toddler
Shiloh Barnat

Lately I’ve been wondering just what my baby girl learns during our weekly thrifting excursions. She’s getting quite good at it. She brings me things saying, “Look, mama – it’s cute! Can we buy it?” And I bring her things and she says, “Nah, put it back!” She throws fewer fits and knows our shopping pattern (quick pass through toys, then slower through clothes and other big people things, over to books / videos / music and back to toys before checkout). And she stays close by me and seldom grabs for breakable or dangerous things (well, except that time she took a liking to a used chainsaw).

There are bad days when she bolts for the toys, grabs the biggest, ugliest, dirtiest, ookiest babydoll in sight and refuses to budge or let go, then throws a hell-raising doosy of a fit when we leave buying nothing. Luckily the good days outnumber the bad.

Thrifting is an addiction for me. Within 5 miles of any thrift store, a magnetic field beckons me closer while I repeat my “I will not thrift today; I have other things to do and we have too much stuff already” mantra. An inner bargain compass guides me to new Salvation Armies in new cities without maps or directions. And, even though I’m quite near-sighted, I can spot a Goodwill sign from several miles away.

The obsession extends to yard sales, dollar stores (less so) and eBay (with extreme caution), but not to antique or vintage stores (which are really just over-priced thrift stores with attitude). And we struggle perpetually against pack-rat clutter in our house. We have to host several yard sales each year and drop off truckloads of donations to keep the deck clear for the next haul.

It’s not so much about having stuff as it is about the hunt. When I enter a junk store or approach a yard sale, my heart skips a beat, my tummy flutters and my palms sweat with anticipation of finding a golden score. My favorite scores used to be (and occasionally still are) from the ladies department – those brand new $5 hiking boots, that $3 oh-so-soft suede jacket that fits just right, and my Nancy Sinatra record collection. But lately they’re more from the kiddie aisles – that $6 wooden train table, $5 full Brio train set, 50-cent Melissa & Doug latch puzzle, jumbo sealed box of toddler sized Legos or those brand new size 6 yellow hand-painted clogs from Amsterdam.

Many mamas have marveled at our house full of funky finds, so I offer the following tips on how to thrift with a toddler in tow:

Frequency: We thrift every week and hit our favorites at least every other week. Most thrift stores rotate their inventory, or at least bring out a few new things, weekly. If you go right after rotation day, you’re more likely to catch the best new stuff before anyone else does – first come, first serve! And the more often you visit a thrift store, the faster you can make it through ‘cause you know the layout and you can pass by all the items you’ve already seen before. Also, watch for sales and discounts. Most stores have a discount system – green tags half price, everything half price on Sundays, spend $20 and get 50% off next time, etc. And don’t worry if you leave with nothing—there’s always another day.

Sanitation: Be prepared to get dirty! Thrifting is messy business. You can’t be a germaphobe. Stock up on antibacterial soap gel to wash your hands and your tot’s periodically and nontoxic citrus wipes for quick wash of the items they’ll inevitably want to hold on the ride home before you can disinfect them properly. Always wash everything! If you can’t wash it, don’t buy it.

Temptation: Sling your little one as long as you’re able or they’re willing ‘cause those grabby paws are much easier to train that way (mine won’t tolerate sling shopping anymore ‘cause she’s just as excited as I am to look through stuff). Never go when tot is tired, hungry or otherwise out of sorts. Establish the ground-rules early and repeat them often – stay where you can see mommy, no touching breakables, no mouthing, no trying on clothes (especially hats) ‘cause we have to wash them first. Delay spending much time in the toy section as long as you can ‘cause it can be the reward for being agreeable while you look through adult stuff first. But do pass quickly through to pick out a pacifier / busy toy to occupy them while you’re browsing. Establish a “Maybe Shelf” where you can set aside the many items your tot requests, or you are considering yourself, and decide on just one or a couple of them when you’re ready to go.

Creativity: Be open-minded. Look for multi-purpose things like newborn clothes for dolly-wear or Halloween costumes for the dress-up box or random cheap art supplies (that box of pipe cleaners for a quarter). Buy off-season (when it’s cheaper) and a size up (they’ll grow into it). Save things for holidays, birthdays and re-gifting. Just because you go home with a trunk full of new toys doesn’t mean they all have to go into rotation immediately.

Discernment: Look for cotton and wood rather than plastic or poly-anything. Watch for things with resale value – new, still in the original box, with the original tag, of reliable brands. Know what things cost new and don’t pay more than half of that for it used (i.e. would I be willing to pay twice this much if it were new?). Don’t judge anything by its cover. Look inside before you buy. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve bought videos or cassettes without looking inside, then got home to find I’d bought something else entirely (a Ginsu knife demo inside a Schoolhouse Rocks cover, a Tiffany CD inside a Raffi case, etc.). And it really sucks when the climax pages of your new bedtime story are torn out or covered in scribbles. But sometimes a crinkled cover holds contents in otherwise perfect condition. Beware of defects (there must be some reason someone got rid of this thing, though maybe they were just done with it) and know your DIY/fix-it threshold.

I’m willing to apply a little glue or replace a missing wheel, but I do not sew! Set yourself a budget before you walk in. Just like casino gambling, allow yourself to spend a specific amount and then get out before you break the bank. Right before checkout, weed through your cart and only keep the gems. Remember, don’t worry if you leave with nothing—there’s always another day.

And for local readers, here are a few of our favorite haunts:

MIFA(Memphis Interfaith Association): We don’t expect a miraculous score here, but we love to support MIFA because of the fabulous work they do in the local community. When we donate stuff, we always give it to MIFA. Plus their store is clean, their prices are dirt cheap and they are really nice. (Vance at Danny Thomas)

Park Avenue Thrift: We go here a lot ‘cause they entice us back with their vicious cycle of discounts (spend $30, get 50% that Sunday, etc.). It’s grimy, but they often have decent kids books or clothes and occasionally have a really cheap deal on a good something cool in the toy area (but usually their toys are just junk). Oh, and they have a maternity section! (Park at Getwell, behind RiteAid)

Goodwill: The one near the University of Memphis (574 S Highland) often has quality toys and books. Their clothes are organized by color and are all half price on Sundays. And you’ll be hard-pressed NOT to find SOMEthing at the ginormous warehouse Goodwill megastore out in Cordova (1790 N Germantown Pkwy) which is worth the drive just for the sheer enormity. They even sell cars there! I go for the great toddler clothes.

Salvation Army: We like the dingy little store tucked away near downtown near the medical complex (130 N Danny Thomas Blvd) just ‘cause it’s out of the way and thus less picked over. There’s also a new megastore where they seem to take all the good stuff way out east, but the prices are not as good. Beware, Salvation Army stores are not open on Sundays; it’s a religious thing.

AmVets (American Veterans): The huge store out by Graceland (Elvis Presley Blvd, just before Disfunction Junction) used to be a favorite of a lot of people but they’ve gotten lax about rotating inventory and done away with their half price days. The one out by Winchester is better (3680 S. Mendenhall). Even though it’s smaller, it’s seldom picked over. Look in their household aisles rather than the toy cage for the better quality toys though.

Summer Thrift Alley: We don’t do this area much any more ‘cause it’s so crowded, but there are about a million and one thrift stores all grouped together in a three block radius on Summer Street (at Graham to Highland), so this is an ideal place to start if you’re just getting your feet wet.

Eat Your Seaweed

2006-04-04T19:13:00.000-07:00

Eat Your Seaweed
Stacey Greenberg

I have a magic trick that I like to do when people come over to my house. I call my three-year-old and my one-year-old into the kitchen and ask, “What do you guys want to eat for snack today?”

They jump up and down and squeal, “Seaweed! Seaweed!” Then I grab a package of nori, hand it to them, and enjoy the look of amazement on the faces of my visitors as Satchel and Jiro gobble it up like most kids gobble up potato chips.

When I first showed my mom, she simply could not believe her eyes. “At that age you were trying to convince me that anything green made you throw up,” she said.

Even my Japanese mother-in-law, who really deserves the credit for my trick, seemed stunned when I showed her. Stunned and pleased, I should say. (To be fair, I think her astonishment came more from the fact that we could actually purchase seaweed in Memphis.)

I didn’t develop a taste for seaweed until I discovered sushi in my mid twenties, but my husband grew up eating it and made sure it was among our children’s first foods. Next to breastmilk, I think it is the most nutritious food I have ever given them.

Seaweed is one of the most ancient life forms on earth as well as one of the richest sources of minerals in the vegetable kingdom. It contains high amounts of calcium and phosphorous and is extremely high in magnesium, iron, iodine and sodium. It can be eaten fresh, but is most often granulated or dried and reconstituted while cooking other foods.

I really believe that if I can get my kids to eat seaweed, then anyone can. The first thing to do is to find a good Asian market. It doesn't have to be a Japanese market per se. We can usually find a variety of seaweed and miso products at Vietnamese, Chinese, and Korean markets in Memphis. If there is not an Asian market nearby, some basic seaweed products are usually available at natural foods stores. (However, they do tend to be more expensive there.) There are also Asian grocers on the Internet.

Start introducing the taste of seaweed on foods that your children already eat. There are a variety of chips and crackers with seaweed flavoring available. My favorite is Lundberg’s organic tamari and seaweed rice cakes. You could also sprinkle kelp on food instead of salt.

We started off sprinkling furikake, a mixture of seaweed, sesame seeds, and other dried vegetable flakes on our rice. Furikake comes in many flavors and can include lots of different ingredients. (Be sure you read the label, because some varieties have MSG.) We also use furikake to make rice balls, which are a great snack. Jiro would sprinkle the whole jar of furikake in his mouth if we let him.

Once your kids get a taste for seaweed, try introducing nori. Nori is the seaweed used for sushi rolls and is most commonly packaged in 6’ square sheets. However, it comes in a smaller snack size and can be purchased in big bulk containers or smaller packages that are perfect for lunch boxes. Satchel and Jiro can eat nori in extremely large quantities and prefer it straight out of the wrapper, but they also eat it draped around rice balls and in sushi rolls.

When your children are seaweed aficionados, break out the wakame. Wakame looks and tastes like spinach and is perfect in miso soup. Once you cook it, it becomes leafy and expands to ten times its original size. You'd be surprised at just how long a bag of wakame can last.

Once you get an idea of what your children like you can expand your repertoire with kombu, hijiki, and other varieties of seaweed. You may even find some other uses for seaweed. Last winter while visiting my in-laws in California, the boys went to the beach for the first time. Satchel spent a good hour playing with the long strands of seaweed along the surf and Jiro helped Warren and I pick out dried seaweed pods that we later used for doppelgangers.