Minkgirl Muses

DRAMA

1) Picture This...

a Woman, a Boy, and a Baby get off a bus and go into a shop. The Woman doesn’t normally take the Boy into shops. She knows about his penchant for hiding in stockrooms, stripping cans and packets off shelves, and performing various other inventive acts of mischief. She knows that he does things in shops he does nowhere else - embarrassing things, things that make other parents roll their eyes and shake their heads, things that make store-keepers tremble. The Boy seems to believe that because the Woman has engaged in the careless and cruel act of taking the Boy shopping in the first place, all terms of the Mother-Son contract are temporarily invalid, those terms being chiefly that given appropriate levels of glaring, squeezing, and scolding, the Son will more or less conform to accepted standards of moderately annoying behavior (such as, but not limited to, whining, poking, fidgeting, and suggestions for sugar-based bribery.)

Not this Boy. This Boy waits until the 4 or 5 critical foodstuffs have been deposited on the counter (via an elaborate and laborious “Can you find Mama the eggs? What a helpful Boy!” game), and the Woman has just handed over her credit card to the Clerk, and then he suddenly dashes out of the shop and runs up the street at a dead-sprint. “Has he gone far?” the Woman asks the Clerk, who has a better vantage point through the plate glass window. “Oh yeah. He’s going for it,” the Clerk replies. The Woman snatches her card and her foodstuffs (sans sack) and runs higgledy-piggeldy after the Boy, eggs clutched between elbow and Baby Bjorn, milk jug dangling precariously from one finger, trying desperately to keep her eyes trained on the Boy (who is now a good 100 yards ahead of her) without dropping anything or knocking anyone over on the crowded side-walk.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, the Boy veers sharply to the left and ducks into a Chinese Restaurant. “Perfect!” thinks the Woman. “He’s cornered and at least not going to run into traffic.” She decides that she’ll play it cool, saunter right by the restaurant (which also has a plate-glass window), and let him see that she’s continuing on her way, unruffled by his absence. But as she passes the window, she sees a Cook with his hand on the Boy’s shoulder, clearly quizzing him about his solo status, and the Boy smugly pointing out the window at her. The Cook brings the Boy out onto the street with a “Be careful! Stay close to your Mama!” and returns to the restaurant. The Boy waits until the door has closed and then turns around and takes off at a run again – this time in the opposite direction.

“I’m going home!” the Woman shouts at the Boy’s retreating back. “See ya later!” And making good on her bluff, she turns her back on the Boy and begins to walk in the direction of home. Curious, he follows, eventually catching up with her and giving her that “Are you mad yet?” side-ways smile he’s perfected so well in recent weeks. The Woman walks in silence for a moment, and then offers (with utter calm) “You won’t be watching any television when we get home.” The Boy blanches. What?! No wind-down pre-dinner television hour? “No way!” shouts the Boy. “I’m sorry,” explains the Woman with polite magnaminity, “but you know you are not allowed to run away from me in stores. That’s very dangerous for you and very scary for me. You could get lost and I wouldn’t know where you were.” “But what about my warning?” asks the Boy, referring to the standard practice of offering a “If you do that again, then I’m going to…” before meting out punishments. “Nope,” replies the Woman blithely, “No TV. You know you aren’t allowed to hide from me. No TV will help you remember that next time.”

And cue….Hysteria…on the 12 minute walk home, the Boy gushes an ocean of crocodile tears, complete with melodramatic sobbing. His performance is so over-the-top, the Woman is just dying to run into a friend on the road or meet someone come out of their house to see what all the fuss is about, so she can share the joke. It is all the Woman can do to make it back to her house without completely splitting a gut and laughing in the Boy’s face. He keeps up his dramatic tantrum all the way up to the door of their 3rd floor flat, through the process of removing coat and shoes, and into the living room, whereupon he spots an abandoned sheet of bubble-wrap and immediately drops his act like a cheap clown-nose in favor of popping bubbles. Television is not referred to again for the rest of the evening, and the Boy and the Woman spend a pleasant hour before dinner playing with toy cars on the carpet.

Score one for Mama!


2) On Wednesday morning at 9am...

I had just climbed back into my cozy bed to nurse Miss V (after making oatmeal, dressing Mr. G, dispensing vitamins, enforcing peeing and toothbrushing, packing the spare “just-in-case” clothes and the after-school snack into the back-pack, and putting on his shoes and coat), when Lord Limescale asked me “Where’s the scooter?”

Gman has one of the Mini-Micro scooters (the toddler version of the Razer) that are ubiquitous on the cheery streets of Chiswick. You really never meet a child over 2-1/2 in the outdoor world anymore who isn’t attached to one of these 3-wheeled wonders. They stream-line and fun-ify the process of getting from here to there for kids who are post-stroller but not quite up to walking long distances. The scooter was the “big present” of birthday #3, and it is one of Gman’s prize possessions.

So Lord Limescale’s question elicited an instant jolt of adrenaline, because I had absolutely no idea where the scooter was. My mind was a total blank. I remembered leaving school with it the day before, and then…and then…had I left it on the bus?! The sidewalk?! In a shop?! Where was the @%&! scooter? I wracked my brains for several minutes until I remembered that Gman had led me on a merry chase out of a shop and up the high street the day before, and I realized that I must have abandoned the scooter somewhere along the way in order to pursue him.

And cue…Cursing…I jumped out of bed and proceeded to speed through the morning routine so I could drag my butt (and Miss V’s) back up to the high street in search of the scooter. I found the damn thing (thank my lucky stars). But despite my successful recovery mission, I was left with an uneasy feeling for the rest of the day. Because this memory lapse is not my first. Lately I have been simply unable to retain data in the normal way. People phone at an inconvenient moment, and I say I’ll phone right back. I usually remember to do this 3 or 4 days later. I find myself entering rooms and wondering what I’ve come for, leaving, only to remember, and then returning, only to forget again. I’ve missed doctor’s appointments, stood up friends for coffee, failed to pay really overdue bills, and left key items such as “milk and bread” off the shopping list.

I know what my problem is. It’s simple. I’m feeding another human being, and my brain has shut down all non-essential decks (ala Star Trek) in order to conserve energy for the supremely important task of feeding Miss V’s chub (you should see her thighs, they’re really getting Sumo-like). But because I don’t have the kind of sleep deprivation I did the first time around, I keep forgetting that I can’t function like a normal person. During the first few months of Gman’s life, I felt like crap all the time, so I wasn’t surprised when I screwed up ordinary tasks. But I feel pretty okay this time around, so I keep being caught-off guard by my swiss-cheese brain. I think I should make my own warning label:



3) After nearly a year...

of stressing and strategizing, wishing and worrying, and then finally giving up, I’m back in the saddle again – I’m directing a play. It’s a one-act with one actor to be performed for one night only at the theatre at the end of my road, but nonetheless, it is a bonafide piece of art and I’m gonna make it. I had auditions this week (in my living room with a baby in my lap), and it was lovely to be in a room with actors again. Yes, I know that I bad-mouthed actors in one of my recent posts, but actually I kind of like them. They care so much. They try so hard. They really want to be good.

Like most other things, directing is like riding a bicycle. You think you'll forget how to do it, but you don't. Like a few things, not doing it for awhile actually makes you better at it. At least I think it does. We'll see what I think when rehearsals start and the drama in my life is taking place in a theatre rather than in the small bodies around me.

Be well.

Labels: Creative Process, Directing, Drama, Mamahood

SHABBY CHIC

Last week on the District Line, I saw my fantasy family - a family that oozed harmony and creativity - a family that seemed to be living more vibrantly and more joyfully than everyone else around them.

There were 4 adults and 6 children, representing (I think) 3 different families. But so relaxed and seamless were the parent-kid interactions, it felt like one big family. Also, they were dressed alike. Not in the "creepy cult" sense, but rather in the "birds of a feather flock together" sense. You know how you always see pairs or trios of friends walking down the street wearing the same kind of outfit? Either they shopped for them together, or they recognized each other as kindred spirits via their fashion choices.

This family I saw on the tube was the epitome of "shabby chic." Everyone was wearing vintage and/or handmade clothing. There was a ton of color, lots of layers of different kinds of patterns, crocheted hats, chenille coats with applique - you get the picture - the kind of clothes you might see on any stylish thrift-store maven in San Francisco. Also, they were all a little unkempt - in the "I've been too busy painting murals or writing my novel to get a proper haircut" sense. The 6-year old was wearing summer shoes with no socks. The 10-year old was dressed entirely in orange. The Dad was dispensing snacks from a small backpack which the kids shared with democratic fervor, and I got the sense that the parents expected the kids to mostly to take care of themselves and each other without too much parental intervention. The adults weren't about to get bent out of shape over a failure to wear socks or eat nothing but shrimp-flavored crisps all day. In fact, it seemed as though eating and dressing might be considered creative acts by this clan - opportunities for the kids to practice creative self-expression. These parents were clearly in it for the joy, not for the nag, and the children seemed incredibly happy, well-adjusted and open to the world.

That's it. That's what I want for me and my family. I want us always dressed in a riot of color. I want to have a wall in our house that we repaint 100 times a year, whenever the mood strikes us, with fabulous murals and pithy sayings. I want the word "Mama" to conjure up images of surprise, adventure, pleasure and fun, rather than duty and organization and rules. I want "No!", "Don't!", "Stop!", and "Be careful!" to be replaced by "Why not?", "Check it out!", "Let's do it!" and "What do you think?" I want to laugh more than I worry, and play more than I work.

But I think I might need a tutor. I was never the bold one in either my fashion choices or my ability to buck the system and my ideas about what I "should" be doing. I had a friend in junior high school who had a cool Flock of Seagulls haircut (long on one side, short on the other), and pure United Colors of Benetton style. She would layer a purple spotted short-sleeve top over an orange and green striped long-sleeve top paired with a rainbow knitted scarf and a jaunty little hat. She was cool. Meanwhile, I was wearing tailored lavender courdoroys with a matching wool sweater that my grandmother picked out. I was not cool. And 25 years later, I still haven't gained much purchase on the fashion front. It doesn't occur to me to "mix 'n match" and I'm generally too obsessed with being tidy to let myself (or my kids) have as much fun as we could.

So here's a prayer to the gods of color, composition, and chaos:

Please spring me from my middle-class suburban strait-jacket and embolden me to unleash the creative mama within. Give me the courage to let my children make messes - even when they aren't going to come out of the carpet. Keep sending me signs that the world needs us to express ourselves more than it needs tidy sock drawers and clean kitchen counters. And send me back to the land of thrift store magic and multi-cultural magnificence, where I might have a fighting chance of making these dreams reality.

Be well.

Labels: Creative Process, Mamahood

OATMEAL

I’m sitting in front of my favorite window this morning, enjoying the play of winter sunlight on the whitewashed house across the street and eating a bowl of oatmeal. Oatmeal is the breakfast of choice for British women (of course, they call it porridge, a word I’ve never been able to embrace, because it conjures up creepy images of soot-smudged Dickensian orphans for me.) Oatmeal is quick and easy to make for the kids and mums like to eat it too, mainly because it satisfies the four F’s: it’s filling, full of fiber, not fattening, and free! Okay, it’s not actually free, but a box of Quaker oats costs about £1.09 here – the equivalent of $2.25 – and you can get about 20 bowls of oatmeal out of it for an average cost of 10 cents a bowl. I usually doctor mine with some raisins, brown sugar and chopped apple, so throw in another 75 cents for the fancy extras, and you’ve still got a meal that comes in under a buck. But I think mainly women eat it because it helps them lose weight – all the mums I know do anyway. With a glop of oatmeal in your belly, you can go hours and hours without eating again, plus eating something that looks as yucky as oatmeal makes you feel gastronomically virtuous – it’s essentially the opposite of a chocolate bar.

Women’s bodies are such tricky things. It seems that we’re always trying to grow and shrink them according to various alchemical formulas in order to turn ourselves into pure gold. Like Rapunzel, we wake up each day full of hope that we can accomplish this obscenely impossible task, if we’re just a little more diligent, a little more faithful, a little more willing to believe that the perfect body will bring us perfect happiness.

My body has never been more imperfect, but I’ve never been more satisfied with it. First of all, I am THRILLED not to be pregnant anymore. Lord Limescale asked me recently if I feel kind of smug when I pass pregnant women on the street. The answer is “Absolutely!” I want to dance a nasty little jig in front of them while yodeling “Haha chubbo! My baby’s out and I can see my toes again!” And G-d willing, that’s it for me now – any future belly I grow will be of my own and not Nature’s making.

But I think the main source of my satisfaction is that I feel immensely PROUD of my body for what it has accomplished. It grew, carried and birthed a really healthy (and really heavy) baby for a very long time. It produced all the hormones, natural painkillers and other metabolic wonder drugs I needed to make it through these radical transformations, and it now creates and dispenses the perfect food to nourish and grow this baby into a stronger and more capable human. My body did all of this despite the fact that I regularly ate crisps, occasionally drank wine, and often forgot to take my prenatal vitamins during my pregnancy. It did all of this whether or not I got exercise or enough sleep, whether or not I was feeling upbeat and positive or exhausted and depressed. It did all of this because that’s what bodies do, that’s what they’re made for – not modeling Minolo shoes or looking good on elliptical machines. They’re made for life – living it, creating it, enjoying it.

Now lucky for me, I happen to LIKE oatmeal. I didn’t always, but somehow I’ve come around to the pleasure of a warm bowl of organic oats infused with honey, pecans and sultanas (golden raisins) eaten on a cold morning. I eat it because it tastes good to me and it makes me feel good – happily it will also keep my insides healthy and maybe make me a little svelter. As I eat my oatmeal this morning, I salute British women everywhere who are forgoing rashers of streaky bacon (the national food I think) in favor of bowls of steaming porridge. I salute women whose bodies are the very bricks and mortar of the civilization thriving around us – women who wake up each day prepared to give themselves completely to whatever task lies ahead, whether it involves poop or politics – women whose belly skin sags and shifts into mystical formations of wrinkles as they burp and cuddle their babies, women who are packing extra pounds from eating comfort food after a day spent delivering comfort to others, women whose feet are sore from kicking ass in the corporate jungle. I salute you and wish you all the kind of cozy pleasure my oatmeal has brought me this morning.

Be well.

Labels: Community Muses, Mamahood, My Favorite Things

OH OBAMA!

I've never been a particularly well-informed citizen. While I adored my Government class in 10th grade, it's kind of all been down-hill since then. I think my political cynicism set in at about 18, long before it was fashionable in my set - I just don't believe anything that ever comes out of a politician's mouth - maybe it's my director's ears and eyes, but I can hear the subtext of lies and the misrepresentations underneath everything they say, and I can see the light of greedy self-interest flashing behind their eyes. I think people become politicians for much the same reason people become actors - because they like to hear themselves talk and they enjoy having people look at them. It's a rare rare day when you meet someone who does one of these things because they actually believe it can transform the world.

So, I was prepared to believe what I read in the papers about Barak Obama - that he's a nice guy, charismatic, but too inexperienced to survive in Washington, too optimistic to actually get anything practical done. But I ain't singin' that sad media-driven tune any longer. I have seen Obama's marketing material, and I am hooked. He is speaking the message my soul longs to hear - that we are one country, that we are not divided, that our world is not fixed and fatally rocketing toward the doom time, that we can change ourselves, our national identity and our impact on the rest of the world for the better. And here's the thing...he's already won. Whether or not he becomes the next president of the United States, in a short time, he has already transformed our national dialogue. I know there are people who will say that it will all be forgotten in a few short months, but I don't think so. I think the fact that he is gathering so much support so quickly shows that people everyone are hungry to be having this conversation about change. We are starving in fact, for something positive to feed our innate desire to be good and do good in the world. The hope I feel is enough to make me get off my ass and actually do something, like help register people to vote, or walk down the street and talk to my neighbors about the things we care about.

My friend Yosha (can't really come up with a pseudonym for someone with such a cool name) emailed this morning about his support for Obama, and his willingness to temporarily suspend his mistrust of the whole political marketing machine. He invited me to check out this new Obama music-video on YouTube. It's pretty cool. I invite you to view it too. And he shared some of his thoughts about why we need Obama as our next president that I am completely in agreement with:

"Okay, I'm just going to say it: it is way past time, way past time we had a president who isn't white. There are a whole lot of ethnicities in this place, and I'm just sayin'. Sayin' that if we claim to do more than pay lip service to this whole created-equal thing, it's mighty odd there hasn't been the slightest shift in presidential skin tone. That was cute of Toni Morrison and all, but sorry, Bill Clinton was not and never will be black.

Mike Tyson is black, though, and I wouldn't vote for him -- probably because he'd kill me and eat me before I could cast my vote. Ethnicity is a concern, but it is certainly not the only one; rationality also plays a big role. That and scruples. Obama has them. Iowa and South Carolina think he's electable, and I do too. Listen to what he says. It's okay if you're skeptical about rah-rah patriotic American bullshit. You should be, if you're any kind of American worth having. Still, I'm going to vote, and I'll vote for Obama."

Me too. And may God send him an army of angels to clear the path and whisper sense into everyone's ears.

Be well.

Image sourced from www.6seconds.org

Labels: Community Muses