Mom in the Swamp

In the wake of our son's 3rd birthday, Halloween and with my own mother's visit imminent, my mind turns to thoughts of motherhood.  I want to emphasize that this is not a mommy blog.  I don't deny that there is ever more to say on the subject of being a mother (it's difficult but rewarding; lonely but joyful; thankless but enriching .. etc.)  I respect the authors of those blogs and honour the information therein.  Without denying the relative weight of the subject of parenting, ayearintheswamp is conveniently (to me) and generously (once again, to me) devoted to all things swampy. Perhaps I don't have the constitution (or the writing chops) to take on such an intense subject full blog-on. In any event, this will be the only post which could be called 'parenting centred'. So, if you don't have kids or you do and are rolling your eyes at the thought of another list of suggestions on how to hide vegetables in your kid's ice cream sundae,  be assured this is a one time effort and there will be no talk of craft time.

I came to realize that here in this moist place by the sea, just as anywhere else in the world, the relationship between the health of social justice and the health of children is as clear as the beach is sandy.  Food, for instance, is an intensely social issue even if we don't immediately see it that way.  Feeding our children is that much more intense.  In Ontario we fight for food education and funded, healthy food options in schools and for access to healthy food for all regardless of economic circumstances.  Here, a fight for surprisingly much more basic rights is fought by a shockingly small group.  I became aware of quite a strong nut free sentiment in the schools and parks of Toronto (having been blacklisted from a couple of playgroups after a few incidents of recklessly allowing an almond granola bar into circle time.  OK, it only happened once but news of nut delinquency travels fast on the cashew vine).  The anti-dairy movement replacing the nut thing here as the chosen nutrition embargo prompted me to do a little research.
 Why nuts there and milk here?  If anything it should be the other way around.  The U.S. has the highest reported incidence of food allergies in children (about 8% vs. Canada's 6%) and the most allergenic foods are nuts.

  Much of the manipulation done to food by agri-business to increase profitability of crops has been rejected by most other governments internationally yet accepted here in the U.S.  The decision of many parents here to live without dairy, it appears, is merely a decision to have their children survive and live life rash, hive and indigestion free. The basic right to food that is not genetically modified and not poisonous eludes the people of the American community.  Take, for example, the whole speech pathology issue: I don't exaggerate when I say that one of every three kids I meet here is in some sort of speech therapy.  In many cases the problem ends up being more about hearing than about speaking.   Most ear infections are erroneously attributed to organic bacteria which means more antibiotics are prescribed to treat them. How awesome! Further excavation of the carefully robed issues unearths that, in fact the real cause is allergy and sensitivity to milk-thought to be aggravated if not actually caused  by the antibiotics that policy shapers in the US have decided is OK to keep putting in the food! So as folks get wise they stop putting tubes in their kids' ears, cool it on the speech therapy and simply eliminate milk until such time as it can be legislated to be, well,  less toxic.  So what appears, on the surface, to headline, 'Florida Kids Talk Late' is really not about the kids at all but about the poor cows being poisoned.  As for why milk trumps nuts: a paltry 2% difference in cross-border incidence of allergy is not newsworthy in light of the fact that nut allergies over in China are almost non-existent.  Apparently, the Western palate prefers a roasted peanut to the Chinese penchant for the boiled peanut.  Research is suggesting that that process of roasting may be encouraging the growth of the fungus on the nut that is the allergen.  So, do we all start boiling our ballpark snacks and steaming the stuff of our PB & Js? Do we begin to systematically tear down these pillars of cultural context? It's easier just not to talk about it.

The other parent-centred thing that hit me over the head was the issue of education in Florida.  The number of parents I have met who home-school their children is astounding!  There is absolutely no faith in the school system.  Here in the US, there are even charter schools. These schools operate like private schools insofar as they determine their own curricula through a parent-driven process. Listen to this though: these charter schools are funded not by the families of children who attend; not by scholarships and bursaries donated by wealthy advocates of education but by local government and foundations.  A private school you don't pay for.  Wow. This is ostensibly the golden ticket of education as one presumes that the independence charter schools have in determining programming and staffing would mean a high academic standard.  Not so here in Florida.  Apparently it's hit and miss with the charter schools and it's miss and miss with the public system.  So, parents would rather throw out the back-pack and hunker down with the books at home.  Of course, the prevalence of home schooled children indicates a corresponding prevalence of at least one stay-at-home parent in many households.  In this country visibly victimized by the current economic disorder in the world, that is hopeful, indeed.  That parents do have the financial resources to eschew the public system and take it on themselves is encouraging.  It does suggest the emergence of a cottage industry which is less hopeful, however. The whole thing scares me and not because it provides further proof of the deterioration of the social fabric of America.  I don't know where my family will be by the time Luca starts school but what if we're here? Home schooling?  I can barely manage an hour of storytime!  I'll continue but know that, as I write, I tremble in fear of the moment we will inevitably have to install a blackboard in whatever wall space we have left in this walk-in closet of an apartment!

There are some  universal paradigms in parenting - constructs that I am sure exist from the rainforest to the desert. For example, isn't it true that as a mother an entire half hour before departure from home to anywhere has to be devoted to packing up stuff which totals in weight more than the weight of the child that said stuff is meant to support?  Isn't it true also that after we pack the stuff, we are the ones who cart the stuff around.  The stuff may be diapers, wipes and bottles or - later - snacks, sippy cups and extra clothes or - even later - backpacks full of crayons and other distractions intended to stave off tantrums? I know I always feel like I am loaded down and that each foray out of the house starts with a multi-leg journey to the car interrupted with several stops to shift the stuff from one hand to the other or move a strap onto my shoulder as Luca walks joyfully a few steps ahead blissfully unconcerned about the scoliosis that will surely plague his mother in the years to come.  I know: all this is our own fault. None of the stuff we carry around is really essential in the business of child rearing.  We are simply materialistic and use all this as a crutch and a measure of control over the whole process.....and possibly to control our offspring's childhood itself.  Well that may be so. And it is true that among the Yanomami in the rainforests of South America, there is surely no talk of which stroller folds up most easily to fit in the car or of any stuff.  But you can't deny that the weight of the actual Yanomami child must be borne on the back or on the breast of - you guessed it - mom (Yanomommy, in fact).  And here I was thinking that leaving the North and its necessary wooly, lined and waterproofed winter accessories, that I would simply toss a lightweight towel in the back of the car in case of an impromptu swim (LMAO at impromptu anything).  But no, there is never the shedding of the stuff.  I traded the ski jacket and boots for swim floaties and sunscreen.  It is then an inevitable rite of motherhood that is transcendent of geography; that mothers probably end up doubling as sherpas and definitely getting stiffed in tips!

And finally, there are those lessons we keep re-learning.  One we half see and half hear and fully ignore before we are parents; lessons that belabour with trite signs written in calligraphy meant for the entrance way of a suburban semi-detached 'If you love something, set it free...' to classic Sweet Honey in the Rock harmonizing about how our kids 'come through you, but they are not from you'  and one I began to intellectualize from the moment I became pregnant: Our children do not come to us to be created in our own image. One knows conceptually that we are to give our kids the tools to make sound choices and to live rich, emotional lives.  We know that even though we love the arts that he may never be 'dancing' nor 'with the stars'.  We know that long line of analytical brains we inherited through three generations may end with this one.  Heck,  with often casino calibre odds of the genetics game, our kids may not even look like us.  So, if we are after little likenesses of ourselves sprinkled over the earth, we are on the wrong channel. Yet, even though we know this, it's still bittersweet, learning this lesson again.  Because despite how a puppy's wagging tail and 'chase me' games and unconditional love shown through licks and sniffs, make me smile and feel warm all over, that love of dogs did not get passed on.  Yes, I lived this lesson again when the moment came I could avoid the truth no more: my son is - gasp - a cat person.

I want to close by thanking all who have endured this post and to ask that those who are not parents or who turn to the web to get a break from kids to stick with me.  This is the first and last of the ruminations of a stay-at-home (in the swamp) mom.  Next stop: Captain Gav is back.  Stay tuned as I revisit Gavin's journey to helicopter stardom...or at least to a living wage!

The Outside World

I haven't been recently.  To the outside world.  But it has come to see me in the form of my friend, Dana.

Being at home with your child can often feel more like being in a home with your child. Within four walls (that sometimes seem like they should be white and padded!) it's just you, the kid and one of the animated Bobs (the British construction dude or the one of geometric trousers). If your home is in a new place where you don't know many people, some days from the time of first stirrings in the morning, the only sound you hear is of your own throat clearing making way for words that might not  be spoken for hours.  So, it really can feel like you are not part of the exterior landscape. Moreover,  since the summer arrived here and brought with it a procession of mosquitoes and convectional squalls, the outdoors have become truly deserted coaxing one further inside. Since Gavin's (the fancy pilot's) schedule has changed to include intense flying all weekend - and I mean from 7am on Saturdays (or even Fridays) to 9pm on Sundays - I do feel a bit lonely and purposeless.  As far as entertaining my son,  I am left feeling a little like a birthday party clown who keeps bumping into the same kids on the party circuit and has run out of tricks.  There are only so many stimulating pre-schooler activities I can pull out of my tired, budget conscious a$$.....

One can see, then, that a visit from a friend is more than a pleasant opportunity to 'catch up'. Under these circumstances, a visit from a friend can be regenerative and can make you feel finally and once again part of the outside world.  But, as if in grand tribute to life imitating art,  a parade of slapstick style mishaps began almost as soon as we began to discuss Dana making a short trip down.  First of all, the doable range of dates for her visit were rendered laughably narrow, something that happens when you consider multiple families' commitments, thousands of miles to travel and everyone's perpetual quest for cheap airfare.
Eventually, the only way it would work was for Dana to arrive here at 1am and travel back three days later at 5am!   The idea that became Dana's visit was incongruous in its objectives:  Her aim was to briefly escape the mania that is her busy life.  My aim was to brush up against that mania just for a second - to feel the rush of juggling two activities, nay, a conversation AND and opinion at the same time just for a few days.  So, really the theme for the visit is one of irony, of incompatibility between the circumstances and its ultimate ends, of square pegs in round holes.  But we were desperate to realize this now monolith of a goal.

To travel through Toronto (or any other major city that could also qualify for the euphemistic 'big smoke' nickname) rush hour -and that western portion of the 401 that is perpetually and ironically 'rushing' at a standstill- to  reach the long line at the check in counter and to inch forward in that line for 45 minutes shuffling one's carry-on across the airport floor (because you didn't want to bring a rolling suitcase because you didn't want to have to check it and waste time unnecessarily!) have become expected parts of the experience of air travel.  Missing any of those steps would cause one to suspect the karmic coordinates, or the legislative engines of Murphy to be somehow out of whack.  But what is not expected is to be told - once you have shuffled yourself to finally be mere inches away from that flight check-in agent (ah - so close)- that your flight is canceled, not to be rescheduled for that day and that the reason is that they could not find a pilot.  Not that they couldn't find the pilot.  They couldn't find a pilot!  I know, right? 

She did get here in the end - a full nine hours later and after a dusk to dawn spent to-ing and fro-ing on aforementioned gauntlet of the 401. So, it became all the more important to savour our time together and get everything seen, every discussion theme plyed, every cell of her epidermis tan in whistlestop fashion. 

You see Dana, like myself,  spent her youth coming to this area - about 20 miles of where we are  - regularly.  Well into our teenage years, our parents - well meaning -  were dragging us on various modes of transport to spend vacations here in Florida.  Although she and I were in high school together, this never came up until recently.  With both of us being so familiar with the area, I had to pull out some stops and discard the regular itinerary of rote sites of interest in favour of one befitting my friend's well worn Florida lens.  A few torrential thunderstorms later and a requisite sojourn at the outlet mall and we began our quest for the unsung sites of the gulf-coast to have as backdrops for our planned dense and gratifying conversations.
 
 Parts of the Gulf Coast of Florida follow lines on a Sacred Energy Grid. Sometimes, this is called Gaia's sacred sites map or the crystalline earth grid.  So, like any good diamagnetic gravity vortex, it needs a housing, a place people can go to soak in this energy.  This area has one such Eco-Spiritual Center and I had been a few times before. We went there together hoping to attract, in a few short minutes, the serenity promised by a full session of meditation.  Given the telescoped nature of our tour of the area, we were trying to fit in a nice sophisticated dinner à  la girls night out after our eco-spiritual-yogic-karma mini-journey.  So, a muddy PWYC kayak ride or a sitting in the sweat lodge was out of the question.  They would have really ruined our hair.  And so we settled for an express-meditation (an oxymoron if I ever did hear one) a walk on the deliciously rickety suspension bridge (built in a true community effort by residents donating boards one by one - each engraved with a few words beseeching peace or love or both) and went on our way - fancy clothes and constitution unscathed despite our quick retreat into the rainforest.

 Dining out in Florida or other franchise-heavy destinations is an altogether different experience from
eating a meal in a restaurant in a big city or in a rural area.  The scene here is homogenous.  Whereas in a big city, there are hip 'up and coming' chefs, traditional kitchy diners and earthy, fun food trucks all crowded together on the same city block, this restaurant landscape is a bit one-note.  And that note is moderately-priced, semi-casual, mid-level, cross-section of cuisines.  Yes, this is the land of the infamous mid-meal.  And it is fitting as many of the residents whether seasonal, or year round transplants, are from the mid-west of the U.S. where food is not particularly marked as an adventure or a medium of art.  So, even though places may be disguised as unique and quirky, they get their homey thatchkes from the Sysco of decorators - standardized and mass produced.  But, I say unto you: You can't judge a menu by it's giant plastic cover.  Because....you are not likely to find any other kind. Wonderfully,  there are plenty of good eats to be found if you shift your expectations a hair.  Dana and I - both of us hopelessly uberconscious of food, how it is prepared, where it comes from, with whom it is shared, and all those other considerations that so many of my other friends find boring and pointless - ended up at an upscale version of a mid-place(!)
 Yes, the menu is giant with lots of specials and combos but the food was very tasty.  This particular restaurant was one of those chains disguised as a California style bistro.  They got it right though.  The shrimp appetizer is prepared consistently to the point that an 'A' list celeb is currently promoting it and the restaurant on funny radio spots nestled comfortably between reassuring ads for anti-depressants and rousing entreaties from local personal injury lawyers.

Of course, Dana also accompanied me to my daily grind equivalents: my ESL classes full of amazing and ebullient - mostly female- students, the fitness classes I teach a few times a week to keep limber and prepared for  whatever osteo-situation awaits me.  And I accompanied her on vacation-type activities: dips in the sea, shopping, lolling on the beach.  Because although I have emphasized quite dramatically the isolation I sometimes feel - even here in paradise - the truth is friendship is therapy.  It casts a startling new colour on whatever it is in your life you are gazing at sometimes for too long under the same light.  So, the splash of colour she added for me was the perspective to see the small rewards in my routines, the serenity of the sea so close by and the pleasure of not needing much more than a pair of flip-flops and a bathing suit.  I will be bold and suggest that my paint brush stroke left for her a reassurance that you can step away for a moment - not even that far away - from the noise and simply take a quick swim.

There is no doubt that social connection is essentially about communicating with frequency, quality and  vibrancy.  It boils down to dialogue.  So, to Dana I will pay one of the most meaningful compliments I have to proffer:  Thank you, my friend, for the conversation.