Friday, July 23, 2004
Notifying the Nobel Prize Committee
It's hard not to be all prideful when you're a parent. Every new physical feat, whether it's transferring a toy from one hand to the other or successfully throwing a ball in the right direction (and not backward over his shoulder), is a cause for celebration and a phone call to daddy.
But at the same time I realize the absurdity of lauding my son for successfully sitting down from a standing position. Will he come to expect applause every time he enters a room? When he does something he's proud of, like, say, throwing a lego back into the bin, he looks at me for affirmation. And I'm happy to supply it. I figure that he'll have plenty of naysayers (coaches, teachers, bosses) in his life. I'm going to keep encouraging him -- right after I email Nobel.
It's hard not to be all prideful when you're a parent. Every new physical feat, whether it's transferring a toy from one hand to the other or successfully throwing a ball in the right direction (and not backward over his shoulder), is a cause for celebration and a phone call to daddy.
But at the same time I realize the absurdity of lauding my son for successfully sitting down from a standing position. Will he come to expect applause every time he enters a room? When he does something he's proud of, like, say, throwing a lego back into the bin, he looks at me for affirmation. And I'm happy to supply it. I figure that he'll have plenty of naysayers (coaches, teachers, bosses) in his life. I'm going to keep encouraging him -- right after I email Nobel.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
This is the first assignment from my UCLA Extension class, The Art of Creative Nonfiction. We had to write about something that happened to us before we were 13.
I hated swimming lessons. Hated the dank locker room, with its industrial showers and cold floors. Hated the chlorine smell of the tiled, echoey pool room. Hated how my eyes burned as I made that initial jump into the chemical-laden water. I'm sure I had a cute little ruffled swim suit (which I probably hated).
My greatest disdain, however, was reserved for my swimming teacher. I can't remember her name, but she was a large woman who I've always thought of as Miss Bertha. Miss Bertha's swimsuit had a skirt that billowed up and sat on top of the water.
I was a "guppy." My mother was insistent that my brothers and I take swimming lessons until we became "sharks." I had a lot of levels to go: cod, grouper, octopus, otter, you name it. The list was endless. But first I had to get past Miss Bertha.
She always started the class with bobbing, where you jump up and down, dunking your head underwater each time. Even at five I thought bobbing was pointless. How was this getting me closer to sharkhood?
I hated being underwater. Each class I faced the agonizing decision: goggles or no goggles? Goggles did give me an orange-tinted view of the pebbly pool bottom, my classmates' skinny, wavering legs, and Miss Bertha's lumpy thighs, visible beneath her levitating skirt. But the only way to prevent leaks was to wear them so tight that they adhered to my face like suction cups. Plus the rubber head strap tangled in my long curls, yanking out hairs at the slightest provocation.
Kickboards were the only good part. You could just kick along and keep your face dry. Visibility was compromised, so there was always the possibility of ramming into another guppy, but it was a risk I was comfortable with.
The worst part of class was definitely the end. We'd all line up against the edge of the pool, clutching the wall, trying to keep ourselves submerged for warmth. Then she'd call the first victim. "Erin, swim to me." And I'd push off, grimly determined, trying to remember when to breathe. As I got closer, it would happen: She'd start backing up. Oh, the betrayal! When she finally allowed my hands to touch hers, she expected the gratitude of the rescued. I gave her only the scorn of the superior.
My mother, who always watched from the bleachers, didn't understand my hatred of the water and my instructor. However, in a stroke of amazing luck, she agreed that I had a cough on the day of the swimming test. We went to the pool, but I didn't change into my suit. She said, "Be sure and cough in front of Miss Bertha so she sees that you're sick." And not only did Miss Bertha consent to my illness, she also gave me a pass to the next level!
Years later, I got my shark status. It was not the life-changing event I was hoping for, nor did it make the cute, dark-haired lifeguard remember my name. But at least I was free. Free at least until this summer, when I reluctantly registered my son for swim lessons.
Unfortunately, though, since he's too young to be in the water by himself, I have to suit up and get in with him. Ronan's swim trunks are so long they almost hit his ankles, and the drawstring waist is less than adequate, giving him the look of a fly b-boy. He's a slippery little eel in the water thanks to a liberal coating of sunscreen. He screeches, kicks and splashes, willingly thrusts his face underwater, then comes up gasping and surprised.
I still hate swim lessons. But luckily, he loves them.
I hated swimming lessons. Hated the dank locker room, with its industrial showers and cold floors. Hated the chlorine smell of the tiled, echoey pool room. Hated how my eyes burned as I made that initial jump into the chemical-laden water. I'm sure I had a cute little ruffled swim suit (which I probably hated).
My greatest disdain, however, was reserved for my swimming teacher. I can't remember her name, but she was a large woman who I've always thought of as Miss Bertha. Miss Bertha's swimsuit had a skirt that billowed up and sat on top of the water.
I was a "guppy." My mother was insistent that my brothers and I take swimming lessons until we became "sharks." I had a lot of levels to go: cod, grouper, octopus, otter, you name it. The list was endless. But first I had to get past Miss Bertha.
She always started the class with bobbing, where you jump up and down, dunking your head underwater each time. Even at five I thought bobbing was pointless. How was this getting me closer to sharkhood?
I hated being underwater. Each class I faced the agonizing decision: goggles or no goggles? Goggles did give me an orange-tinted view of the pebbly pool bottom, my classmates' skinny, wavering legs, and Miss Bertha's lumpy thighs, visible beneath her levitating skirt. But the only way to prevent leaks was to wear them so tight that they adhered to my face like suction cups. Plus the rubber head strap tangled in my long curls, yanking out hairs at the slightest provocation.
Kickboards were the only good part. You could just kick along and keep your face dry. Visibility was compromised, so there was always the possibility of ramming into another guppy, but it was a risk I was comfortable with.
The worst part of class was definitely the end. We'd all line up against the edge of the pool, clutching the wall, trying to keep ourselves submerged for warmth. Then she'd call the first victim. "Erin, swim to me." And I'd push off, grimly determined, trying to remember when to breathe. As I got closer, it would happen: She'd start backing up. Oh, the betrayal! When she finally allowed my hands to touch hers, she expected the gratitude of the rescued. I gave her only the scorn of the superior.
My mother, who always watched from the bleachers, didn't understand my hatred of the water and my instructor. However, in a stroke of amazing luck, she agreed that I had a cough on the day of the swimming test. We went to the pool, but I didn't change into my suit. She said, "Be sure and cough in front of Miss Bertha so she sees that you're sick." And not only did Miss Bertha consent to my illness, she also gave me a pass to the next level!
Years later, I got my shark status. It was not the life-changing event I was hoping for, nor did it make the cute, dark-haired lifeguard remember my name. But at least I was free. Free at least until this summer, when I reluctantly registered my son for swim lessons.
Unfortunately, though, since he's too young to be in the water by himself, I have to suit up and get in with him. Ronan's swim trunks are so long they almost hit his ankles, and the drawstring waist is less than adequate, giving him the look of a fly b-boy. He's a slippery little eel in the water thanks to a liberal coating of sunscreen. He screeches, kicks and splashes, willingly thrusts his face underwater, then comes up gasping and surprised.
I still hate swim lessons. But luckily, he loves them.
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Nothing is mine. In Ronan's world, everything is "ours." Laptop, cell phone, spatula -- they're all objects of desire to a ten-month old. And I'm fine with that, within reason. His job is to explore his world; feel, taste, bang and sort things, building his brain's library from scratch.
The only issue I'm having is with food. I've always been a little protective of my food. If you didn't order fries, too bad, because I'm not sharing. But I'm having trouble explaining this to Ronan. And I guess I didn't expect him to be such an adventurous little foodie. Homemade bran muffins -- yum! He mowed through almost a whole one by himself. Grapefruit juice warranted a sour face, but he still reached for the glass again and again.
So I'm working on widening my circle of sharing to include food. But only for Ronan.
The only issue I'm having is with food. I've always been a little protective of my food. If you didn't order fries, too bad, because I'm not sharing. But I'm having trouble explaining this to Ronan. And I guess I didn't expect him to be such an adventurous little foodie. Homemade bran muffins -- yum! He mowed through almost a whole one by himself. Grapefruit juice warranted a sour face, but he still reached for the glass again and again.
So I'm working on widening my circle of sharing to include food. But only for Ronan.
