A Letter to my Almost-two-year-old Son

Dear Almost-two-year-old,
   
     Everyone warned me that the terrible twos would start around this age, and they have. Lord, have they. I don't think they should be called "terrible", though, because I understand.
     I understand that, when you wake up screaming bloody murder at 4:30 am after I managed to trick you into sleeping in your own bed for a few measly hours, and you are furious at being duped, it's because you like the Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and pillows and plushies and comforters that we bought you to try to cajole you into your own bed, you just don't like like them.
     And when you crawl into bed with dad and me, I understand that you try to push my head away from you with all your might while clinging to my body like a genetically enhanced leech because you need the warmth and comfort of my body, just without the meddlesome presence of my face.
    I get that, when you are crying and begging for something that you are already holding in your hand, it is because you need me to hide it behind my back for three seconds to fifteen minutes before presenting it to you in order to restore your sense of wonder.
     I understand that, when you are lying on the floor, kicking and screaming simply, "Again! Agaaaaain!" it is because you want to have or see something you have had or seen before in your lifetime, and you are too distraught to specify what exactly that might be.
     I get that the absence of trains is unacceptable.
     I know that sometimes you like to pull the dogs' tails for no reason because it just feels good be a straight-up jerk from time to time.
     More than anything, I understand that you are completely overwhelmed by the grown-up emotions you are sprouting.

   I think the terrible twos should be called the "question-why-you-wanted-to-be-a-parent-in-the-first-place twos." Trust me, I have, but I have an answer; I can see past the towering mountain of "TWO", to the slightly less-craggy peak of "three", all the way to the sloping foothills of "four", and beyond. And I know that you will come out on the other side a real, functioning little person, and I will feel privileged to have loved you all along; mind, body, and face.

Love,
Mommy



If you enjoyed this, you might enjoy my slightly-more-serious Letter to the Grown Up Version of My One Year Old Son
   
   

How I am Blessed

There is a tiny head resting in the center of my chest, breathing sweet milky mists in gurgles and sighs. And every day is brimming with joy. So much that the laughter, if strung together, would stretch for days and weeks. Maybe months, until it became foggy and faint, and we wouldn't know what it was for anymore, nor care. Deep, tickly breaths on the back of my neck at night; the kind that feel like they could have and should have been there every night since forever. And a sense that every day, simply waking up amounts to one step a little bit further into Happily Ever After.

Blaming the Economy for the Failure of Marriage, and Why I Do So

I have been thinking today about the institution of Marriage and its state of crisis in America. I have also been thinking about "I Love Lucy" and Robert B. Reich's new book, Aftershock: The Next Economy and America's Future. This convergence of cognition has led me to believe that there may be some blame to place on the economy when trying to determine what happened to the sacred institution of marriage in this great nation.

First, let me say that I think an argument based purely on a supposed "decline of values" for why so many marriages fail is cheap, easy, and aimed by older people at the youth. It is, in a word, bullshit. Family structures have changed so much since our grandparents were married that to even make a comparison between their marriages and ours is frankly ridiculous. This is where "I Love Lucy" comes in.

There is an episode of "Lucy" where Ricky and Fred accuse Lucy and Ethel of essentially sitting around all day and spending all of the boys' hard earned money. The women, of course, respond that making a living isn't much compared to trying to run a household. The four agree to trade places, with the women getting jobs at a candy factory and the men staying home and doing household chores and cooking. Predictably, the women cannot cut it in the workplace and the men are possibly even more hopeless in the home. Hilarity ensues.

"I Love Lucy" was, of course, a comedy, but it was based very strongly in truth. In the fifties, men were not taught to cook or clean or take care of themselves. Women seldom ventured into the workplace, at least not with the goal of developing a career. At this point in American history, the institution of marriage was vitally important to the survival of adults. Men made money to support women, and women made sure that men ate and had clean clothing to wear to work.

A lot of people would argue that this gender inequality made life unhappy and unfair for women, which is probably true. Women were incapable of fending for themselves should their marriage go wrong, and many became trapped in bad, abusive, or unhappy situations. However, I would argue that the 1950's marriage arrangement bred a kind of love between married men and women that we do not see as much these days. The recognition that one cannot survive without another person fosters unconditional love; that is why children inherently love their parents. In Lucy and Ricky's marriage, Lucy played mother to Ricky and Ricky brought home the bacon and issued scoldings like a father does. And they loved each other unquestioningly for it.

Rob B. Reich's short book, Aftershock: The Future Economy and America's Future is a brief, poignant discussion of the current economic situation in the West, and what America can do to improve while moving forward. His main point, briefly, is that the American middle and working classes are being squeezed too hard economically and are unable to buy things and stimulate the economy. He argues that for decades, the median wage for working men has not risen in order to keep up with inflation. As a result, more and more women have been forced into the workplace in order to support families. In addition, both men and women have begun having to work overtime in order to get by. As a result, families suffer.

I'm not arguing that women should not have careers. Women who want careers should go out and grab them with both hands. I am arguing that women who are forced into the workplace in order to support their families with limited skills tend to be unhappy women. I would also argue that men are happier coming home to warm dinners than coming home to wives drained and bitchy from their terrible jobs. (Not to mention the fact that it is probably nice for children to see their parents from time to time.)

Reich says that in order to heal the American economy, we need to make sure the middle class is provided with opportunities to earn and keep the money they need to purchase things and invest in the economy. I say we need to do the same things in order to heal the American institution of Marriage. We need to have a system that allows for Lucys and Rickys, especially when young children are involved. If not, we need to stop putting so much pressure on the idea of marriage to begin with. It is quite possible that it is outdated, not because of my generation's (and my parents generation's) abominable value systems, but because traditional gender roles that made marriage necessary and reciprocal aren't allowed to exist anymore.

But that's a conversation for another time.

Hurricane Season and Rational Fears

So, is anyone else really bummed out about hurricane season? This year, for the first time, I've been having momentary panic attacks about the possibility of evacuation, or worse, relocation.

I tend to be a pretty roll-with-the-punches kind of chick, and I don't have any all-important ties to New Orleans i.e. a house, a good job, etc. So, I've never gotten that upset over the idea of picking up my life, collecting my possessions and hopefully my loved ones, and moving elsewhere indefinitely. I actually get a little bit itchy when I stay in the same place for too long, so an extended hurrication, if not a new home altogether, would be exciting for me.

This year, though, everything is different. The idea of shoving my swollen ass into a car and driving for days on end, in traffic, with limited pee stops, is horrifying. The idea of searching for a new Ob/Gyn and working out a whole new prenatal care situation is repulsive. Even the thought of trying to move all the baby crap we are slowly collecting as time goes on makes my head hurt.

Beyond that, and even more importantly, New Orleans feels more like home than ever right now. This is where I am beginning my family, and where my partner in that process has his roots. We have ties here: familial; friendly; and hell, gastronomical. This is where we find all of our favorite restaurants, the places we frequented when we first started dating, the movie theater where we saw our first movie together... (Jackass 2, if you're wondering.)

I may talk sometimes about getting out of New Orleans, or Louisiana, or even the South before it's too late, but I'll be damned if it's because of some hurricane. Even worse than the idea of leaving this place on Mother Nature's terms is the thought that it may not be the same or even BE, for that matter, if and when we want to return. What if we can't go to Mandina's for lunch, or have some beers at Cooter Browns? What if the people we are close with decide not to return? What if the whole city sinks underwater and becomes the second Atlantis; the subject of fairy tales for our children?

Right now, I feel like all of these fears are completely rational, and they often occupy the forefront of my mind. I try to drive them away by telling myself that the chance of even having to evacuate is quite slim, but the worry is always there. I just hope that hurricane season takes it easy this year, because I am hormonal, rapidly expanding, and somewhat irrational. Combine those factors with the summer heat; a long, slow evacuation; and a whole lot of uncertainty, and I'm not sure how we would survive.