crooked house

Adventures in a Certain Wallpaper Pattern

 

Some of my legions of readers may remember the wallpaper on the walls of my childhood bedroom. And by some of you I mean my mom, my brother, and my oldest friend from childhood, Sara. And by legions of readers, I mean those three, although Sara doesn't get online much, and maybe two or three others.

I've framed a scrap of that wallpaper and it's there on that shelf by Vivi's bed. Do you see Vivi's sheets? The pattern is very similar -- I found them for a song at a store in town that was going out of business. And that's the quilt from my childhood bedroom. You can see that I am reliving my own childhood through my daughter's bedroom decor, whether she likes it or not.

And now I've started dressing her in the pattern, poor thing.

You can get a good view of the dress from all angles in this impromptu performance. If you can't stand the song about how she is a pink-red rose, fast forward to the rear view, which happens around 34 seconds.

And thus endeth the "let's forcefully relive our own childhoods through our children" post of the day. (It's nice that so far, she still cooperates.)

Not Now, Bernard Or Parents: Do Not Ignore Your Children

I've been feeling very busy and distracted lately and Not Now, Bernard has been on my mind a lot, sort of playing in the background as a warning. It's one of those children's books that seems to be more for the parents than the children, although both my kids get a kick out of this one. (Sylvie is definitely a bit concerned about the monster no one seems to notice, however.)

That's a whole subcategory of children's books, isn't it? Books that pretend they're for children but really they're for the parents. A teacher friend of mine always gets annoyed whenever Love You Forever is mentioned. She insists that it is only of mild interest to children, yet their parents are weeping and swooning away as it's read. I have to agree with her about the effect it has on parents -- it affects me that way -- and she's probably right about its general lack of appeal for kids. I don't think a child would ever pick it as a favourite. Guess How Much I Love You is a bit like that, too. Not that it's always a bad thing, for a picture book to appeal to the parents as much or more than the kids. It's just a bit of a trick. (A trick that often leads to enormous sales, as in the case of both Love You Forever and Guess How Much.) Can you think of any more?

Babies in Literature: Nora Ephron's Heartburn

The late, lamented Nora Ephron's Heartburn is based on the disintergration of her marriage to journalist Carl Berstein, when their eldest son was two years old and she was seven months pregnant with their second son.  In the novel, the main character Rachel discovers her husband is having an affair when she finds a book of children's songs inscribed to her husband Mark by his mistress Thelma:

"My darling Mark," it began, "I wanted to give you something to mark what happened today, which makes our future so much clearer. Now you can sing these songs to Sam [ed: Rachel and Mark's two-ear-old child], and someday we will sing them to him together. I love you. Thelma."

Now I'm sure there aren't any pleasant ways of learning about your husband's new lover but this one strikes me as particularly unpleasant and unsettling. It's as if Thelma has written her a personal note: "I plan to steal your husband first -- and then your child. Just you wait until you pop out the next one." Rachel, distraught, later has the following  telephone conversation about the affect of her despair on little Sam with her great friends Julie and Arthur:

"Where are you?" said Julie.

"In New York," I said. "At my father's."

"Where's Sam?" said Julie.

"With me," I said.

"Does he know what's happening?" said Arthur.

"I don't think so," I said. "I've been crying for eight hours now and he hasn't even noticed."

"I know," said Julie. "When Alexandra was two I cried for eight months and she never noticed."

Sounds like a depressing story but it is actually very funny. Will finish the book tonight and watch the movie tomorrow, perhaps. RIP dear Nora.

(I was amused to discover when reading up on Nora that apparently after her marriage with Bernstein ended in such an upsetting way, she'd happily tell anyone who asked who Deep Throat was. Weird that the media insisted it was such a secret for so long.)

Find of the Century: Sylvie's Tea Party Dress

We found Vivi's Indian tea party dress for ten bucks at Kinder Klozet, a local children's consignment shop. The owner Lyn's good friend is from India and her father sends his granddaughter TEN fancy Indian dresses every Christmas. The tags were still on this one.

We were going to have her dress as Alice in Wonderland and I had a special blue full tutu skirt made for the occasion, as well as an apron just like Alice's, but Vivi took a dislike to the expanse of the skirt. (The outfit probably cost $100 in total and she preferred the $10 one -- take note, other mothers with Ideas.) I'll try to get a photo of her in it later, when she's up to it. She even has a pair of white gloves to go with it.

Breastfeeding and Birthing Dolls and A Rather Heated Conversation About Vaginas

We seem to be talking about breastfeeding and birthing here all the time lately, weirdly, since we are done with that phase. But the kids are still very interested in the subject and clear information and a healthy attitude about the whole thing will help to prepare them for their own future families. I just happened upon these Mamamor Dolls and I think they are hilarious, adorable, and informative. The babies have little snaps for mouths that attach to nipples, also made out of snaps, on the moms. (The designer should consider using pink, red, and brown snaps instead of silver ones, though.)

Some of the dolls also show how the babies are carried in the moms' bellies and how they come out. Some of the babies come complete with detachable umbilical cords and placentas.

 

There are even VBAC dolls, which also have a slot in the stomach through which the baby can emerge. Which reminds me of a conversation Luke and I had on the weekend. It was the kind of conversation that should have been an exchange of information expressed in a matter-of-fact, healthy manner, but it got away from me.

Steph (witnessing Luke putting shreds of a red balloon that has burst into his mouth): Luke! Never ever ever put pieces of balloon in your mouth! They can get stuck in your stomach and KILL you. And especially not red ones! A surgeon won't be able to find the red pieces in your stomach because they look just like blood and all the other stuff inside you.

Luke: How about if I chew this yellow one? Yellow wouldn't be hard for the surgeon to see...

Steph: Absolutely not! I don't care if yellow is an easier colour for the surgeon to see. It is NEVER a good thing if you have to be cut open.

Luke: All girls have to be cut open when they have their babies.

Steph: No they don't. Just sometimes, when the babies won't come out their vaginas. And it is NOT a good thing.

Luke: Ewww. They come out their vaginas?! Ewww. I came out your VAGINA? (starts laughing)

Steph: No, you did not. You wouldn't come out properly so they had to cut my stomach open and take you out that way.

Luke (still laughing): I came out your vagina! Ewww!

Steph (laughing too, but getting annoying and starting to shout): No! You DID NOT COME OUT MY VAGINA!

David (entering the room, says mildly): Well, now the whole neighbourhood has that clear.

Luke (continuing to snort and giggle): Did you come out of your mother's vagina?

Steph: Yes. Yes, I did. (muttering) Everyone comes out of their mothers' vaginas and it is natural and beautiful. That is what the vagina is for.

Luke: But you just said that I didn't come out of your vagina.

Babies in Literature: Breastfeeding (and Smoking) Toddlers in Pat Barker's The Eye in the Door

Pat Barker's The Eye in the Door is the second novel in her trilogy about British soldiers traumatized by World War I trench warfare. These particular passages, childhood memories of one of those soldiers, working class Billy Prior, struck me as particularly apropos in light of all the fuss last week about the breastfeeding mom on the cover of Time. Since the novel is set in 1918 when Billy is supposed to be twenty-three years old, this first memory would've taken place around 1900.

The bell of the shop rang as he pushed the door open. How old? Four? Five? A smell of cat pee and tarred string from the bundles in the corner. Beattie's cat had never been able to resist marking those bundles. Mrs Thorpe plonked their Alfie on the counter while she paid her bill. Alfie swung his short legs in their sturdy boots, puffing away at a fag end though he was only three. Between drags, he sucked his mother's breast, puffing and sucking alternately, peering round the white curve at Prior, who was a Big Boy and therefore an object of interest and suspicion. It was late in the afternoon. Mrs Thorpe would be far gone. Jugs of best bitter were her favourite, chased down by sips of something medicinal that she kept in a flask fastened to her thigh with a home-made elastic garter. Whiskey for the heart, brandy for the lungs, gin for the bladder. Alfie, guzzling away at his mother's milk, looked contented, and well he might, since it could hardly be less than 70 proof.

Shocking, isn't it? But it's the smoking and the drinking that are so shocking, not the breastfeeding. In Mrs Thorpe's defence, the dangers of smoking and alcohol to developing children weren't understood at the time -- and breastfeeding was just the way mothers fed their kids, for as long as they could. After all, she wouldn't have had to pay for that milk.

This next passage is about a brief encounter with Mrs Thorpe and another woman Billy has when he goes back to his own village in 1918.

Before the war, women used to sit on their steps in the warm evenings after dark, postponing the moment when the raging bedbug must be faced, and taking pleasure in the only social contact they could enjoy without fear of condemnation. A woman seen chatting to her neighbours during the day quickly felt the weight of public disapproval. 'Eeh, look at that Mrs Thorpe. Eleven kids. You'd think she could find herself summat to do, wouldn't you?' Now, looking up and down the street. Prior saw deserted doorsteps. Women were out and about, but walking purposefully, as if they had somewhere to go.

He supposed it was Mrs Thorpe's name that came particularly to mind because she'd been one of the worst offenders, with her lard-white breasts the size of footballs, and Georgie or Alfie or Bobby worrying away at them, breaking off now and then for a drag on a tab end. Or perhaps, subconsciously, he'd already identified her, for there she was, coming towards him, divested of the clogs and shawl he'd always seen her in and wearing not merely a coat and hat but flesh-coloured stockings and shoes. It was scarcely possible the attractive woman with her should be Mrs Riley, but he didn't know who else it could be.

They greeted him with cries of delight, hugging, kissing, standing back, flashing their incredible smiles. There was a saying round here: for every child born a tooth lost, and certainly, before the war, Mrs Thorpe and Mrs Riley had advertised their fecundity every time they opened their mouths. Now, in place of gaps and blackened stumps was this even, flashing whiteness. 'What white teeth you have, Grandma,' he said.

'All the better to eat you with,' said Mrs Riley. 'And who are you calling Grandma?'

Mrs Thorpe asked, 'How long have you got, love?' And then, before he had time to answer, 'Eeh, aren't we awful, always asking that?'

'Two days.'

'Well, make the most of it. Don't do anything we wouldn't do, mind.'

He smiled. 'How much scope does that give me?'

'Fair bit, these days,' said Mrs Riley.

He remembered, suddenly, that he'd sucked the breasts of both these women. His mother had been very ill for two months after his birth, and he'd been fed on tins of condensed milk from the corner shop, the same milk adults used in their tea. Babies in these streets were regularly fed on it. Babies fed on it regularly died. Then Mrs Thorpe and Mrs Riley had appeared, at that time, he supposed, lively young girls each with her own first baby at her breast. They had taken it in turns to feed him and, in doing so, had probably saved his life.

Are You My Mother? Maud Interviews Alison Bechdel

Can't wait to get my hands on a copy of Are You My Mother?: A Comic Drama, Alison Bechdel's graphic memoir (is that a thing?) about her relationship with her mother. Maud Newton talks to her about it in this really intriguing interview.

AB: One of my earliest, most powerful memories of my mother is playing this game where I would be a crippled child like the kids I would see at the orthopedic wing of the hospital when I would go to get my fallen arches checked up on. I was just fascinated with these children, with their external signs of disability, their crutches and braces and big shoes. There was something about that that I needed to reenact, and my mother entered into that imaginary space so willingly with me and in such an encouraging way. Even though I knew there was something weird about having this fantasy about disabled children, she didn't sensor it. She encouraged me to go with it, and I feel like she probably did that with me in lots of imaginary games as a kid but for some reason this is the one that I remember the most vividly. And I speculate in the book that it's because it was a fantasy that she shared to a certain extent as well.

 

BNR: And when your OCD was making it really difficult to keep the diary, your mom would write down your entries. I remember that from Fun Home, too, and both times it gave me chills. The devotion implicit in it.

 

AB: Oh my God, that was another pivotal moment. She would sit there and write down everything I said. It was amazing. It also becomes weirdly this template for my relationship later with therapists, other women who would sit there and take down notes on what I was saying.

Dreams of Riches

Grampa: Steph, how does it feel to be rich?

Steph (puzzled): What do you mean?

Grampa (laughing): Last night I dreamed you won the lottery.

Steph: Oh wow, I hope your dream comes true. Wouldn't that be nice, Sylvie, if we were all rich?

Sylvie: Grampa have bad dream? Like my dream treasure cat?

Steph: No, honey, Grampa had a good dream. Not a nightmare, like your bad dream about the Cheshire cat [from Alice in Wonderland]. He dreamed we were rich!

Sylvie: That bad dream.

Steph: No, it's a good dream! I was rich and Daddy was rich and Lukie was rich and Vivi was rich!

Sylvie (looks appalled and insulted, screeches at the top of her lungs): I NOT A WITCH! (bursts into tears.)

This Life is In Your Hands. And A Spoiler Alert.

 This Life Is in Your Hands: One Dream, Sixty Acres, and a Family Undone is a memoir by Melissa Coleman that got a lot of attention last year when it first came out. Coleman's parents, Eliot and Sue, were among the first back-to-the-landers of the late 60s and 70s. They moved to a plot of land in rural Maine that adjoined the farm of Helen and Scott Nearing, the couple who wrote Living the Good Life: How to Live Sanely and Simply in a Troubled World, which is the book credited with inspiring the movement. Eliot and Sue built their own home, grew their own food, and Sue gave birth to two little girls while they did it. It sounds Edenic, particularly for children, and partly, it was.  (This NYT review of the book does a good job of describing the basic events of This Life is In Your Hands and also the sort of see-sawing the book does between the poetry of the family's life, rooted as it was in nature, and an increasing sense of ominousness.)

It's easy for people who have never attempted to be self-sufficient through farming to romanticize the idea (witness the current resurgence of what Emily Matchar calls the New Domesticity, which admittedly doesn't seem as hard-core a movement) but the fact is that it makes for a very hard life. (I am guilty of romanticizing it myself -- in  high school I gave a speech on my version of "the good life" in which I would retreat with my little family to a cabin in the woods, where I would homeschool my children and we would all survive, I guess, on nuts and berries.) Coleman, who is now a nationally recognized expert on organic gardening, actually had a thyroid disorder, largely untreated, that spurred him on to ceaseless physical labour. And if I were going to try to accomplish what he did, I think I'd want one, too. From Melissa Coleman's descriptions of her mother, Sue, it seems to me that she  suffered terribly from post-partum depression and that this was horribly compounded by the relentless, back-breaking work that homesteading actually entailed, not to mention possible malnutrition.

Now here is where the spoiler comes in. Consider yourself warned. One day, busy preparing a feast for some visitors (as if she doesn't have enough to do), Sue shoos Melissa's little sister Heidi, who is around three at the time I think, out of the cabin, telling her to go float her toy boat on the pond. Heidi actually comes back once or twice, begging for attention, and Sue turns her away. You can guess what happened to Heidi down at the pond. She drowned.

Melissa Coleman doesn't blame her mother for this in the book, but she doesn't exactly absolve her, either. After reading it I was left feeling absolutely bereft for the poor woman, whom I was unable to track down via google, hoping to learn she has found some sort of peace. And I must admit I was also left feeling a bit pissed off about Eliot Coleman's (and the Nearings') subsequent success as  folk heroes.

Now of course children die. They die in car accidents in suburbia and of childhood cancers and all kinds of things. But all it takes is a short stroll through a pioneer-era graveyard to see how many children died when there was no choice for anyone but a  "lifestyle" of relentless physical labour in order to put food on the table. A lot of those deaths were from childhood diseases we can now vaccinate against (if we aren't against vaccinating) but many of them were from accidents that happened when parents didn't have the time and the energy to hover over their kids.

Impossible Pie and Cheeseburger Cupcakes

I made Impossible Pie -- have you ever heard of it? -- on the weekend and wrote about it for The Awl. I also made cheeseburger cupcakes, which excited Vivi no end. We had to have a mock birthday party for her with them.