One day, while Jake's dad was explaining the difference between a myocardial infarction (heart attack), and a myocardial infraction (who the hell knows), Jake said: "They say intelligence skips a generation. So if I ever have kids, they'll be fucken geniuses."
(...About ten minutes later, Jake demonstrated a superfluous knowledge of world politics and Star Trek characters -- and used some big impressive words I'd never heard before, so I'm still kind of wondering about the "skipping a generation" part of things...)
Woke up this morning and decided that this baby is going to be a fucking genius.
Well, I sort of decided that. Mostly, I decided that this baby is going to have many, many more opportunities to become a fucking genius, than I had.
...And think about it: kids in the United States, myself included, are being raised listening to shitty music, watching shitty television, and knowing only one language. We're put through fucken PUBLIC SCHOOLS, and all we end up with is crushed self-esteem and the supposition that we're never going to be happy or valuable human beings unless we conform to certain systems. We go through D.A.R.E. programs and end up junkies. We're given religions that question our worth when we question their beliefs. We're given useless pieces of Playskool plastic to help us "expand our imaginations" and so forth, and so while we're fucking around with the useless pieces of plastic, we never really know how "skool" is supposed to be spelled.
This society treats kids like pets. WORSE than pets. At least pets get little treats for going to obediance school.
So a couple of things occurred to me this week...
First of all, it occurred to me a few days ago that, as a pre-mom, I haven't had to... well, grow the hell up. I kick leaves around, I play in rain puddles, I separate Skittles into piles and eat the red ones last. I skip. I hum stupid songs. I crack stupid jokes. I tell the same damned stories about getting spit on by a rockstar, and Louise's first meeting with Aberdeen... I also advise people to go to protests, expound on why public transportation is beautiful and majestic, and shyly ask rockstars to sign my t'shirt. I thought, for most of my life, that motherhood meant you had to grow up, and be mature, and buy into the systems, and shop at Wal-mart, and wear mascara every day. I don't know why I thought that. So very little has really changed. And it occurred to me that I CAN still be a radical. I don't have to start listening to James Taylor and like, Aaron Neville or anything. Hell, I don't even have to stop cursing like a sailor.
It occurred to me that my own mother is a radical, in her own way. She still stomps in rain puddles, and rolls around in autumn leaves. Once, she showed up to ask Norman and I if we wanted to go out clubbing with her and her partner. Yeah, my mom's a badass and a radical.
I can be that too.
So, where does one start out, being a radical, and reinforcing a child's possibilities for being a genius and a generally happy person?
I say it all starts with banana trains.
Uh... it starts with what?
Banana trains. That's when you take a banana and a paring knife, and you slowly cut the banana into bite-sized slices. As you cut each slice, you say, "that's the box car, that's the coal car, that's the oil car..." et cetera. That's a banana train. And the kiddo eats each train car, one by one. I think that's just fucken great. I think every mother should make banana trains for children. Because who on EARTH would think to associate bananas with TRAINS? If you can get a toddler to associate a banana with a form of transporation, you can get him or her to associate anything with anything.
I have all these grand plans, you know? I want my daughter or son to have a bilingual babysitter, so she or he doesn't end up stupidly stumbling through French classes in tenth grade, chanting, "La sauce est presque prêête! La sauce est presque prêête!" over and over, like me.
This morning, we listened to "Carmina Burana" at top volume, to drown out the guy across the hall whose apartment was blaring a combination of Red Hot Chili Peppers and football commentary. I know, I know; the baby doesn't even really have ears yet. But I think somehow that it's important for me to be listening to halfway intelligent music, to be avoiding stupid crap like football and drunk high school boys downtown, to be reading nice things instead of watching stupid sitcoms. Somehow, that seems as important as not smoking, and eating sort of healthy things...
Once, I saw a young mother with a little boy in a stroller, picking blackberries off a bush for the little boy. Somehow, it seemed very off-beat, and very beautiful; much more REAL than buying a kid a jar of Gerber's Brown Mush.
I endeavor to be THAT kind of a mom.
I also endeavor not to let my child watch television. I think it's dangerous. Makes girls think they're fat, and boys think they're aggressive; turns people neurotic and fearful. Makes one wonder about being ugly or unacceptable.
Of course, Jake loves TV. Especially the Sopranos, and Star Trek. I imagine we'll have some words about the whole TV thing...
This is an ugly world to bring a child into. Really, it is.
Right now, if I have anything to say about it, my child will not, at least until the age of 18, take a standardized test or an IQ test. Public school is fucked up, and private school is pretentious and fucked up. Look at the results: Jake thinks he's "dumb" (which he isn't) because he sucked at school, and I came out of it wishing I was dead.
These things are not good. I endeavor not to let my child suffer through the troubles and traumas I endured as a kid: low self-esteem, uninspiring toys and distractions, being beat down by my religion, my school, and prevailing social conventions...
I remember once, when I was six, coming to the understanding that I could never stop being myself. I was always going to be the same person. I was always going to be aware of MY thoughts, and those thoughts would keep blaring at me until death. And I recognized, at the age of six, that the world didn't LIKE me. I recognized that I did things differently. I don't remember WHAT things, but for some reason I understood that I was different. And, at the age of six, I decided to kill myself. I had a crying fit that lasted the rest of the afternoon, because I knew that I was going to spend the rest of my life being this person that society, and the world, and God, and my teachers, did not like -- or I'd have to die. I dug a notebook out from under my mattress and started brainstorming about ways to kill myself. I WAS FUCKEN SIX YEARS OLD.
And I will not let that happen to my child. I want trees for my child instead of Wal-marts. I want LEARNING instead of compulsory education. I want books instead of TV. I want reggae, and jazz, and classical music, and folk rock, and Irish drinking songs, and anything halfway fucken useful, instead of Britney Spears and Eminem. I want poetry instead of "Walker, Texas Ranger." I want the Big Dipper and Casseopoeia instead of anorexia and bulemia. I want my child to dance in rainstorms instead of sullenly playing video games throughout the long, rainy Olympia winters... I want a spirituality that accepts whatever, no matter what -- one that doesn't threaten hell for gay people, or propose that women are inherently sinful. And I want -- as I had -- a family that eats dinner together.
I also want my child to grow up knowing like, six languages.
That might be wishful thinking.
Oh well.
I have come to the conclusion also that it actually does take a village to raise a child. It's a stupid saying, kind of -- I mean, didn't Hilary Clinton adopt it as a campaign slogan or something? But I recognize already that I can't do all of this myself. I also recognize that I HAVE help. I have friends who are very good at making clothes; I have friends who are very good at making music; I have friends who are just fucking PASSIONATE about things; I have friends who are good at just about everything. I have friends who make me smile. And I hope very much that these friends will extend their good will, and talents, and friendship, to my baby. My baby will have a great number of "aunts" and "uncles" and "godparents." It strikes me as a very good preventative measure with regard to suicidal feelings by the age of six.
Admittedly, I have no idea what I'm doing.
And I'm very scared of fucking up.
Went to Seattle this weekend. I needed a break. So I did no homework. I didn't email anybody. I didn't think about appointments, or medical examinations. I didn't even deliberately try to eat things that might make me gain weight. (I'm supposed to gain 25-35 pounds in the next, like, 7 and a half months... That's like, a quarter of my body weight... I feel gross already...) I went to Seattle, on a Greyhound, to visit my friend Brian. Brian became famous this week, via a Seattle Weekly story, so mutual congratulations were in order. We celebrated with Pho -- Vietnamese noodle soup. And with fondue. And with salsa. And with music and photographs. And by going to a concert of one of my very, very, very favorite bands.
Now, I had not actually READ the Seattle Weekly story until I was on the bus; I'd just skimmed the first paragraph or two, and looked at the cute picture. Not only is my friend Brian famous, but Courtney Love allegedly killed her dog with a silicone breast implant (first her cute husband, and then her sweet little doggie... Fucking killer...), AND Low (the band) was playing in Seattle that night!
What a great world it is.
And all The Stranger had was Dan Savage's column. *sigh*
Low played a couple of my favorites. And a cover of one of my favorites by somebody else. A lot of people at the show fell asleep, or sort of got very quiet and stare-y. They're a very lulling band. But it was a lovely show. And, oddly, seeing them live didn't change a THING I'd thought about them before. AND, the guitarist signed my t'shirt. He's a rockstar, see. And I've had this goal, for like, the past four years, of meeting a rockstar who neither lived in my town, nor offered to drive me home from the show 'cause he or she lived that way too... Finally -- ooohhhh, FINALLY! -- my goal is realized! Now I can give up all my juvenile fantasies about famous people, and wear my t'shirt as a symbol of dumb dreams come true.
Alan Sparhawk, the guitarist and one of the vocalists from Low, said to me: "I'll sign it right here on the shoulder, so I can be like that little voice on your shoulder..." He smiled at me. He kind of has crossed eyes, sort of. Maybe they're just very close together. It's hard to tell. He wrote: A. Sparhawk: "DON'T DO IT!" I liked that. He's a cute, shy, geeky sort of guy; the kind of guy who says things like, "when I was your age..." even though he's probably not even forty. I met a rockstar. An immensely talented one, too, by the way.
I don't even care that nobody else knows who Low is...
*smile*
That's what Audiogalaxy is for... That's your assignment for this entry: download a Low song (I recommend "July" or "See-Through" or "Lullaby" -- or, if you can find it, their cover of Pink Floyd's "Fearless") and listen to it until you just have to go buy all of their eight million albums that are all pretty much the same: slow, melancholy, beautiful music, with bizarre, yet wholesome, lyrics, and the most haunting vocals you'll ever hear in your entire life...
Fuck, I love that band...
If you see my daughter
Don't tell her I'm scared
Forty days without water
Feel my hands on her head...
And I fear...
I fear...
--Low, "Fear."
(See -- bizarre, yet wholesome...)
It has come to my attention that pre-moms, and moms, are not sexy people. It is absolutely unthinkable to date, love, or have sex with a pregnant woman, presumably unless you are the father of the baby.
Not that I've been actively seeking dates, love, or sex from anybody -- I can't FATHOM doing any such thing right now. Not only because of Jake (whom I still cannot correspond with, and for all I fucking know, he's forgotten all about me except for my being "the alleged victim" as they keep calling me...), but because CRIPES, between work, school, procuring and ingesting food (which I've never actually cared about very much...), and going to various appointments, I don't have time to breathe, much less date, love, or have sex with people. These things take time, you know? Even if I was IN the mood for any of the above, I would barely have time to say, "come here often?"
Besides... I'm waiting until I'm allowed to talk with Jake. Maybe he hates me for calling the police. Maybe by the time he sees me again, I'll be fat and he'll find me distinctly unsexy. Maybe he's forgotten all about me and is banging the chick next door. Maybe he, like everybody else, will look at me and see a pre-mom, instead of a human female who's kind of sexy and sometimes quite horny. But I really don't know. And I won't know for awhile. I suspect that Jake's mom forgot she wasn't supposed to tell him I'm pregnant; last time I talked to her, she was kind of bubbling about it, and I cannot imagine that she managed to keep it quiet. But I haven't heard from Jake -- and I don't WANT to, until there's no risk of him getting in trouble for it. And until I can talk with him, I'm waiting. It isn't hard at all, really, what with having no time, and little extra energy.
I don't think about Jake very often -- I mean, I do, but I try not to. When I do think about him, I find that my apartment is very, very big, and very, very lonely. It's funny; I got very, very used to Jake being around. And I liked that very, very much. It's a good thing I involuntarily pass out around 8:00 PM, or I'd lie awake thinking about how big and lonely my bed is without him.
Anyway, a number of my male friends (seriously, quite a few!!!) have said things to the effect of, "well, now that you're pregnant, you're not available anymore."
Having a BOYFRIEND still makes a woman available, but having a BABY makes a woman off-limits. Is this like: it's sort of okay to have a crush on a single person with a significant other, but it's definitively less acceptable to have a crush on a married person? Whaddup with being completely unsexy, and completely unavailable, and completely isolated from the world of flirting, based on being pregnant? This is an absolutely bizarre concept to me. If anybody can explain this to me, I'd welcome an answer...
I have to go do homework. I've neglected it all weekend.
Love,
~Helena*