The Meaning of Art

The bathroom was scented in soothing lavender, until she flicked on the light. Chipped tiles in pale pink, a plastic cushion on the toilet seat that let out a hiss when sat on, and too many tabloids in the rack beside the toilet cheapened the scent. When she inhaled this time, all she smelled was the alcohol base. Rummaging quickly, she found a pair a tweezers and rejoined the group in the living room.

The group was hunched over in a circle examining a foot. It was a regular foot, toes possibly a little stubby, with too many prominent veins, but a most ordinary foot by most accounts, except for the wooden stake thrust through it. The girl handed over the tweezers to an awaiting hand,

“You really think getting rid of residual splinters will help the foot heal, and take to the stake?” she asked, leaning in too closely.

“You’re blocking my light,” was the terse response. The girl frowned, gave her shoulders a slight shrug and backed off, retreating to a tartan couch in the corner. She looked around the room, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. The walls had been whitewashed some years ago, but even white fades, and the edges had a grey crumbly tinge. The rose linoleum floor was curling up and dying in the corner, and the Coach bag on the table was a lousy knockoff – the pattern didn’t even match up seamlessly.

Her legs crossed and uncrossed, then shifted weight to the other hip. This place was supposed to be cool, artsy really. Blow her mind – creatively he had told her. All she has seen was a lot of blood and some idiot volunteering to put a stake through his foot and let it become a part of his being. The point was to be one with the earth, and to take what you give, at least that’s what she understood. She wasn’t sure though, because they were using a lot of big words like trancendalize, and everyone else seemed to be in awe. So maybe it wasn’t that, because, that idea is stupid and art is not.

Moans and heavy breathing, gave pace to the movement, as well as moist air of sweat.  Dirty gauze pads, and empty tubes of triple antibiotic littered the floor.

“Who was the idiot that didn’t sand down the stake?” Someone asked. There was an awkward silence, everyone considering turning on each other, when the serene voice of Sarah, occupant of the apartment and resident artist said,

“Be one, take what you give. Do you think lumberjacks sharpen their blades to ease blow to the tree? No, it’s a hack job. As is this, metaphorically or course. Sanding down the stake would diminish the integrity of our work”

Sitting on the couch, the girl frowned again. So she had understood what they were talking about, and this was it. This is what is meant to be an artist, this is what the starving artist’s life was – being an idiot and coming up with a stupid reason to rationalize it – make it seem almost intelligent and worthy? It was like being a teenager all over again, the only difference being the sequence of event: teens do stupid things then come up with a reason why they should have done it; artist think of rationales and then due stupid things to prove it.

“Where you going?” He asked, as started to make her exit.

“Home.” Was her one word response. She had time to be a purposeful idiot when she grew up, no reason to be one now when she could still get away with it all, protected under the teenage bracket.

To Dr. Doomstein, 20 Years Later, You Still Lose

I have a bunch of earwigs driving me loo loo. They’re all from the same source, and suppose I should be thankful that at least I know most of the lyrics. Not like when you get an earwig, and you only know one word in the chorus and you mumbo jumbo the rest until that spot and you mentally belt out that “Help… mumblemumble…Help” (Beatles ‘Help’ anyone? Actually I know all the lyrics to that one, so never mind, but you get my drift) It goes on in a loop, all day and if you’re lucky you can infect someone else, just by humming a bar or two; make them just as miserable as you.

I have the Marvelous Middos Machine on repeat – in my home, and still in my head once my kid is sleeping and I can turn it off. Seder V’nikyon, Kaas, Guy’va, Tzar Bar L’chaim. C’mon you can all sing along with me,

“You gotta be neat, you gotta be clean, let Mommy take a break from the washing machine”

“…Like a big volcano that’s gonna blow its stack. Just stay calm and cool”

“Hey there Mr. Guy’va you think you’re really great…”

And the classic

“I’m a hippopotamus, from my top to my bottomus…”

They don’t make ‘em like they used to. I grew up on these tapes (now mp3 files on my ipod), and my kids are going to too (along with Shmuel Kunda’s “The Last Pesach”, “Talking Coins” and “Magic Yalmulke” to name a few). 20 years, and they haven’t made a better product, today’s kids are singing the same songs we did. Pretty dumbfounding, no?

With recording equipment, sound effects, computers, and people with the technical know-how in greater excess and accessibility, they haven’t been able to produce anything on the creative caliber as the original “Jewish Children’s Tapes”.

Of course a few of the oldies have regretfully disappeared – I’d love to get my hands on “The Amazing Torah Bike” “Bike, bike, Torah Rider, put us in your bubbleizer –anyone?” and “Torah Island”.

What do you think, are the originals way better, or am I being overly nostalgic?

And Many Miles to Go Before I Sleep

My mother tells me it’s time for a new blog post. She’s bored of visiting my blog, disappointed when she sees nothing new. I told her to set up a Google reader account to save her the agmas nefesh. Forget about setting it up being too difficult for her, she didn’t really understand its function when I tried explaining it. But never mind that.

I agree with my mother, it is time for a new blog post. And I have a lot to say – I’m just too busy doing nothing to say it. Nothing is relative of course. I spend most of my day tending to my adorable, but perpetually cranky baby. Or I’m in bed sleeping. Some old adages are right and smart – Sleep when the baby sleeps.
So the adage works with your first kid, but when you have a kid running around it’s not so easy to say,

“Ooh yay, the baby shtunker is finally sleeping – I’ll pop in for a nap – if that’s ok with you E – don’t break my china teacups like you almost did yesterday, k?”

Well, I suppose it’s easy to say, not to do.

So…I’m a little homebound and going out of my mind. I went to the park in my complex a few days this week. The other women looked at me in wonderment – what was I doing outside?!! And I was thinking, Oh G-d I can’t believe it took me this long to get outside. Seriously, I don’t think I was outdoors for a week after I had the baby. And besides cranky babies magically shut up outside – nature’s best.

It’s only three weeks, and it feels like months (well, when your night turn into days, and days nights and there’s a point where you can’t differentiate between the two because you’re too busy pacing your hallways, arms jiggling, trying to calm a baby, time seems to pass Reeeeeeeally slowly.) I don’t even remember what it feels like to be pregnant – yes, I did just write that. I don’t remember, there’s too much overriding it.

I taught Macbeth this year; I didn’t think I could ever relate to him, but I do now: Act II Scene II

“Macbeth: Methought I heard a voice cry ‘Sleep no more!”

So bear with me, while I bear with my baby.

My Kid?….Never

The longer I am a mother I find myself becoming less judgmental against my will.

The first time I ever really paid attention to kids was when I was young and pregnant. I made a lot of keen observation and said brilliant things like,

“Runny noses on kids are disgusting – my kid will never be seen with one”

“If you give your kid junk, of course they’ll never want real food. No garbage food in my house.”

“Palm trees on little boys, or little girls, look retarded, not cute. My kid will never have one, proper pinning will do.”

“Leave your kid at home if he’s going to have a tantrum when you’re shopping. And if you have to bring him along, set up boundaries before so he’s not shrieking and scaring all the women to resume birth control. Besides, only spoiled kids have tantrums.”
Suffice it to say, I don’t judge mothers in the above predicaments anymore.

• I’d prefer a happy child with a runny nose than one wiped raw, and crying.
• I beg my child every morning to please drink chocolate milk – he needs the calcium and calories!
• As for palm trees, they’re still ugly as sin, but now my kid can see. And bobby pins, or sort of clip of elastic holder short of the tiny rubber ones, are untimely ripped from my kid’s hair – courtesy of my kid of course.

And the last – well I’ve only learned the opposing side of this one two days ago.

I brought my son to Wal-Mart to pick up a few odds and ends, and his Afikomin presents. He’s only 20 months, and he wanted everything. When we tried gently lead him away he started shrieking, in his high pitched voice.

“I WANNIE! I WANNIE!! I WANNIE!!!”

And he wailed, and cried, his voice went raw; I thought he was being tortured. This was my son. I never knew he was capable of this. Pathetically, I stood there, not making any eye contact, keeping my voice ultra-smooth. But seriously, he had lost it, thrashing his arms, gnashing his teeth, all the clichés.

I tried picking him up, when of course he picked his hands up and made his shoulders loose, so a proper grip was difficult. I tried again, wrapping my arms around his waist, his mantra then changed to,

I NO WANNIE, I NO WANNIE, I NO WANNIE!!!”

After about 5 minutes I was able to successfully distract him, but now I was mess.

My kid? A freakin tantrum? In Wal-Mart?

For those mothers out there, you know – It happens.

For those of you still saying “My kid will never” statements – enjoy your naiveté.

 

The Academic versus The Ego

The entire class was huddled together on the itchy patch of commercial carpet in the kindergarten classroom. Our heads craned upward, captivated, watching our teaching tell us all about the wonderful, stupendous, and incomparable letter “C”.

“Ka,” she enunciated the hard sound. “Can anyone think a word that starts with this sound?” All around me, girls raised their hands quickly.

“Candy.”

“Coat.”

I didn’t have any word, or was really sure as to the letter “c”, but they got approving smiles, along with a “Good Job”, and “Excellent”.

I just wanted attention and approval. I raised my hand high, and “oohed” the loudest.

She called on me.

I was so happy. A deep breath, wild and frantic thought for a word, any word, and I said,

“Pizza!”

She said the right thing,

“Good try, Esther, but that’s a ‘p’, not a ‘c’” and she moved onto the next kid.

But her face.

Her face, of course, told me otherwise. With lips twisted in a hidden smirk, right brow slightly raised, it plainly said,

“Seriously? A ‘p’ for a ‘c’? Moron.”

The teacher’s comment on my end-of-the-year report card read.

Esther is very withdrawn in class, it has not impacted her academic performance, but it is of concern, relative to her social interactions with her peers. We will be noting it, and keeping an eye on her progress.

I know “Lo habeishan lomed” (the bashful does not learn), but for me, I think Fiero of “Wicked” had it right when he sang, “Those who don’t try, never look foolish”.

The Value of Words

My kid tries to copy words that I say.

He can’t however say a word that ends in a consonant; he drops it.

So Bad, becomes “Ba” as well as Bat, Best, and Bent.

Vowels he’s ok with, so when I realized this, I quickly tried to think of a word that ended with a vowel sound.

“E –say money.”

“munee!”

There’s something wrong with me.

I Will “Love You Forever”

Cover of Love You Forever

Back when I was young and impressionable, I fell in love – with a book, Robert Munsch’s “Love You Forever”. I didn’t know back then that it was award-winning and famous, it was my book, and I felt special about it. I took it out from the library very often, and hid it; it was for me, alone.

Introduced to it, not as a little child, but more of an angsty tween, I think it helped abate a little of my anger and frustration. I understood from the book that my mother did love me, despite whatever went down during the day. And at night, while I lay sleeping I could envision my mother singing to me,

“I’ll love you forever.

I’ll like you for always,

As long as I’m living

My baby you’ll be”

I bought myself the book when I found out I was pregnant with my son. I had visions of reading it to him, and possibly singing my own song to him. Of course, if you know anything about children, that dream not materializing is not a shocker, but I relate to the book more and more each day.

“Bun, no cookies”

Cookie!

“Uch, put that in the garbage!”

Garbi!

“Stop pulling my shaitel”

Ha ha ha!

“I just cleaned that up”

Hee Hee Hee

“Please eat something!”

Cookie!

I look forward to naptimes, and bedtime. I look forward to breathing, doing something other than being his mommy, and a clean house.

Something happens though, every time, just moments after putting him down.

I miss him.

I love him.

And I just want to sit there and watch him sleep – forget about whatever I need to do in these few moments spaced too far and wide.

No matter what he does, no matter how much I kvetch, in my heart I’ll always be singing,

“I’ll love you forever.

I’ll like you for always,

As long as I’m living

My baby you’ll be”

Boy Crazy

 

Image via Wikipedia

“Did you hear?” she asked her husband as he walked through the door.

“What?” he answered shaking snow off his shoes.

She held her phone to his face for him to see the text,

“She had a girl! Four girls now! In a row!”

He nodded, sarcastic smile playing on his lips,

“I heard. He text me,” And he held out his phone, indicating for her to read the text:

I had another girl…

Burning Memories

The front door had been boarded up, so I approached the back entrance, with the patio. The lock worked no longer, and the door gave way by my slight push. A whoosh of fresh air intermingled with the stale ashes, and I sneezed as they collided. Sun shone through the cardboard covered windows, clouds of dust and sun particles swirled and danced enchantingly, beckoning me forward.

Everything was where it had been abandoned. Aside from a fine accumulation of dust, and the acute smell of smoke, the home stood, waiting. The glass top table with little fingerprints on its underside where the kids played beneath it, the pantry door with the broken child safety lock hung ajar. The rug by the sink, the mat by the door, both needed a good beating. Plastic cups from late nigh thirst quenches lay waiting to be disposed. I opened one cabinet, all the dishes were there, stacked uniformly, waiting.

I couldn’t do it anymore, my hands refused to open a closet. These things were no longer mine; my feet retraced their steps. They no longer had my smell, my touch, my familiarity, or my trust. All these things I betrayed, they are no longer a part of me, a definition of me. I am no phoenix, I will plant my seeds elsewhere.

Outside he looked at me eagerly.

“Take whatever you want,” I said. “Insurance is covering everything anyway.”

His lips parted, and there was a moment before he found his voice,

“You sure? Anything? Don’t you want some memories?”

I shook my head, no I don’t want any memories.

Raising an Individual

Image by liquene via Flickr

I was in one of those ponderous moods, the ones where you start to think about life’s deep questions that don’t really make much of a difference whether you have answer or not, or even if you have an answer, nothing’s changing, if it’s accurate or not.

So my question was, at what point is my son no longer an extension of me, but rather his own individual being. When can I no longer say, that he is I, but rather, just, he’s mine. I’d like to think that my kid would always be an extension of me; I love him so much, more than me, really. Him becoming an individual, well, part of me feels almost like it’s a betrayal to my love – aren’t I good enough?

Well, I came up a vague answer, something like, when he exhibits his own will. But I wasn’t really buying it, because babies exhibit their own will and desires from day one, and we, the adults submit to them.

And then I thought, when he does something that shows he’s an individual. Eh, to that too, not really quantifiable.

But it was ok that no definitive answer was reached, the mood passed, and I was on to more pressing matters, like how to remove pen ink from the toilet seat cover.

The next day, while playing with my son, I put out my arms for him to come to me. He looked my square in the face, and then shrugged is shoulder. I didn’t read the gesture at first, and reaffirmed my outstretched arms, and he shrugged again. This time I noticed. Where’d he pick that up?

And then the next day, I handed him a book, and instead of coming to sit on my lap, as he usually would, he raised the book over his head, and said,

“Un, doo, doo” and threw the book to the floor. I was puzzled, not really getting what he just did. But before I could question too much, he proceeded to pick the book up, raise it above his head again, repeat “Un doo doo,” and he threw it to the floor – again. A moment’s thought and I realized he was counting presumably to three, and throwing the book. How odd a behavior, where did he think to do that?

And then finally on the next next day, I asked my son, like all mothers do, in a high pitched rhetorical question voice, “E, right you love Mommy, right you love Mommy?!” And instead of looking at me dumbfounded, or possibly giggling, he responded,

“Nu- uh.” I ashamedly retorted with a mature “Yu-huh” before I even recognized the exchange.

First a shrug, then counting (and violence), and now a premature teenager doubting his mother’s love with a nu-uh? My kid was learning stuff, and it wasn’t from me. The obvious answer was, (cue ominous music) –the babysitter. The next day (which is the day after the next next day for those keeping track), I confirmed my suspicions with the babysitter.

“Do the kids shrug here? Do they count to three and throw stuff, do they say nu-uh” I demanded more than asked, in an indignant accusatory tone. She laughed – quite heartily, I’d say.

“Yes, they do, and your son, he likes to play with the big boys, so he’s always copying them, and learning from them, adorable, no?” she answered in her jovial Israeli accent.

And I then had an “Aha” moment. My son was no longer me. He was no longer me, because I was no longer his sole source of influence. But don’t I teach him enough, I protested to myself, don’t I teach him everything he needs to know, why am I not enough.

My son presses every nose he can lay his hands on (mine, the doll’s, the stuffed dog’s, the neighbor’s newborn) and says “Beep Beep.” I taught him that. Score one for Mommy influences, and I was feeling better

But then he went down the slide headfirst in the park the other day –It was so freakin’ cute, but I definitely didn’t teach him that, though maybe I should have, and maybe it’s a good thing there’s someone else who did.

It takes a village to raise a child, no?