Back from the Brink (Otherwise Known as Being Buried in Work)

The Picket Fence Post family has not fallen off of the face of the earth, nor has it been swept away in the winds of the hurricane.

We've been here, in the Picket Fence Post domicile in the suburbs of Boston, with our three middle schoolers who've been busy doing their adolescent things (including busting a cell phone, overdoing it with the noxious and likely toxic Axe body spray and testing their, uh, independence). We've been here with our freshly emboldened canine thief who aggressively dives at any unattended food with surprising swiftness given his stout build (like that slice of apple pie Max stole from my plate the other night the second I got up from the sofa). We've gone to soccer games, hockey games, band rehearsals, basketball tryouts, and I broke my left ring-finger (I think it was broken but I didn't go to the doctor to confirm because I'm an idiot) while "helping" the kids prep for said basketball tryouts.

We shelled out a healthy fistful of greenbacks for a hideously stupid-looking orange bodysuit (see above), also known as our 11-year-old's Halloween costume. We mourned the horrific conclusion of a Red Sox season which, sadly, resembled the kinds of seasons I used to experience when I was but a young Sox fan in my Sox jacket decorated with my Dwight Evans button, never imagining I'd have to wait until I was the mother of three to see a Boston World Series victory.

Together, the five of us in the Picket Fence Post family have shared laughs during the new episodes of Modern Family (loved the bit about Luke besting Phil at magic) and The Middle. The Eldest Boy and I are still catching up on the new season of The Mentalist, a show we like to watch together.

But I haven't been doing any writing. For weeks. And it's been driving me crazy. It's like trying to hold your breath for too long. It's unnatural and not at all good for you, at least it's not good for me.

Likewise, I haven't done a few other things that I normally do at this time of the year, like take the family apple picking, visit a pumpkin patch where we pay too much for giant gourds, carve said gourds and leave them to rot in a moldly heap on our front doorstep until Thanksgiving, or go to the Big E, the New England fair held in western Massachusetts and indulge in overly caloric, fried grub that would make Michael Bloomberg woozy.

Why? Why have I been off of my writing game and missed my celebrate-my-favorite-season-of-autumn-activities? I've become a full-time assistant professor teaching writing and journalism at a local institution of higher learning. In short order, I needed to craft not just a syllabus for the writing course, but create a new course about online and social media. In addition to teaching/grading and researching/designing a class, I've been helping to advise the staff of the student newspaper two nights a week.

The other big thing that has rendered me exhausted to the point where I don't think mere flavored coffee alone is potent enough to keep me awake over the long-term (I may have to look into those Turbo shot thingies at Dunkin' Donuts) is a non-fiction book project I've been researching for months. I'm in the process of conducting dozens of interviews as well as observing an educational process (can't give you the details now) three mornings a week. We're talking EARLY in the morning. Six o'clock hour early. The if-I-don't-get-caffeine-into-my-system-NOW-somebody's-gonna-get-hurt early.

However, despite sleep deprivation, autumnal celebration deprivation and coping with pediatric complaints about my new gig (one of the kids accused me of ruining this individual's life by taking a full-time job because, you know, I have nothing better to do than to concoct ways in which I can wreck his life, right?), I'm hopeful that things are becoming somewhat manageable right now, or maybe it's just the sleep deprivation talking.

Image credit: SuperFanSuits.com and Jordin Althaus/ABC.

Is Modern Motherhood a 'Prison?'

According to one writer in the Wall Street Journal it is.

I must say that I gained some major validation from reading Erica Jong's essay, "The Madness of Modern Motherhood" in the Journal about how motherhood has become so all encompassing and complicated with its current mandatory maternal martyrdom:

"Attachment parenting, especially when combined with environmental correctness, has encouraged female victimization. Women feel not only that they must be ever-present for their children but also that they must breast-feed, make their own baby food and eschew disposable diapers. It's a prison for mothers

When a celebrity mother like the supermodel Gisele Bündchen declares that all women should be required to breast-feed, she is echoing green-parenting propaganda, perhaps unknowingly. Mothers are guilty enough without more rules about mothering . . .

. . . [W]e have devised a new torture for mothers—a set of expectations that makes them feel inadequate no matter how passionately they attend to their children."

I thought I was the only one who was grumbling about how hard it is to feel good about my parenting when youth sports for my three children is collectively commandeering gobs of our waking hours, when the schools expect that parents should listen to their fourth graders read aloud passages and then grade their fluency homework four nights out of five (never mind sign detailed reading logs, indicate that we've seen math homework/tests and that we're aware that a child has a book report coming up), when it's expected that parents volunteer for every organization in which they've enrolled their children, when there's pressure to make all these healthy meals at home fresh each night, never mind withstand the griping of my kids telling me that "all the other moms" drive "all the other kids" around town so they can hang out with one another. Sure, we can fit in having me host a bunch of kids at our house or drive my kids around to socialize in between school and hockey and soccer and basketball and baseball and band and school newspaper and the library youth book club and church and, oh, Mommy's work, Daddy's too.

There's a lot to ponder in Jong's piece. And when I read her line, "American mothers and fathers run themselves ragged trying to mold exceptional children" believe me, I was nodding vigorously.

Summer Shorts: 'Caring' Too Much, 'Despicable Me,' Sabbath Family Dinners Feed the Soul?

During a recent trip to the public library with the Picket Fence Post kids, The Eldest Boy saw the book, Parents Who Care Too Much, displayed atop a book case. “You should read that,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes.

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We were on our way to go see Despicable Me, our trip timed so that we’d miss the coming attractions because we’ve had some bad experiences with violent/inappropriate trailers for films freakin’ my kids out in the past. The way I calculated it, we’d make it into the theater approximately 15 minutes after the listed start time so I figured we’d be sitting down just as the feature presentation began. (Before Toy Story 3 began on opening weekend, the trailers went on for 20+ minutes.)

Until I heard this from The Youngest boy when we were a third of the way there: “Oh no! I forgot my shoes!”

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Speaking of Despicable Me . . . I really liked the movie (as did the kids), particularly its amusing reference to The Bank of Evil, “formerly known as Lehman Brothers.” I was similarly amused to see the villain/adopted dad Gru having trouble balancing working from home with caring for his three adopted daughters, particularly when he was on a “work call” and doing a presentation that was messed up by the kiddos, causing embarrassment and leading to Gru’s colleagues questioning his dedication to his craft of supreme, treacherous villainy.

At least I’m not the only work-from-home parent who feels torn between work and cute-by-intrusive kiddos every 10 minutes.

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Read an intriguing piece in the New York Times yesterday about a mini-trend (if indeed it’s actually a trend, because sometimes I'm skeptical when I see "trend" stories): Restoring the observance of a Sabbath, not necessarily to worship or pray, but as a way to connect with others.

The article discussed Jewish folks who were trying to cut back on Saturday activities, avoiding engaging in “commerce,” scaling back on the use of technology, etc. and instead spending time with one another’s family, friends and community by sharing a weekly meal together, maybe getting outside more often. There were some Christians who were also quoted who are trying to do the same thing only on Sundays.

A former priest/author provided this fascinating quote about observing a “Sabbath” weekend day which includes a family meal: “Its roots are religious. As Christians, we have completely lost the sense of the origins of the Mass, which is the Eucharist, which is a meal. If Jesus were to visit us, it would have the Sunday dinner he would have insisted on being a part of, not the worship service at church.” Was he saying that the Sabbath/Sunday family meal is as sacred as the Eucharist, that it feeds the soul?

‘Twas an interesting concept which I tried in vain to discuss with The Spouse over the breakfast table, musing about whether we should commit to our own dinner ritual on Sunday afternoons (when Patriots' games could be DVRed in the fall and we’d be done with dinner in time for The Spouse to make his men’s basketball league games on Sunday evenings, RIGHT in the middle of the dinner hour). However The Spouse was too consumed with playing the game of Life with The Youngest Boy and The Girl to have a real discussion about it. Or perhaps he was simply avoiding getting sucked into one of my new crusades which would mean we’d have to spend part of Sundays afternoons cooking. Hmm.