Wednesday Poem - it's long but sad and gorgeous both

October - Louise Gluck

1.

Is it winter again, is it cold again,
didn’t Frank just slip on the ice,
didn’t he heal, weren’t the spring seeds planted

didn’t the night end,
didn’t the melting ice
flood the narrow gutters

wasn’t my body
rescued, wasn’t it safe

didn’t the scar form, invisible
above the injury

terror and cold,
didn’t they just end, wasn’t the back garden
harrowed and planted–

I remember how the earth felt, red and dense,
in stiff rows, weren’t the seeds planted,
didn’t vines climb the south wall

I can’t hear your voice
for the wind’s cries, whistling over the bare ground

I no longer care
what sound it makes

when I was silenced, when did it first seem
pointless to describe that sound

what it sounds like can’t change what it is–

didn’t the night end, wasn’t the earth
safe when it was planted

didn’t we plant the seeds,
weren’t we necessary to the earth,

the vines, were they harvested?

.
2.

Summer after summer has ended,
balm after violence:
it does me no good
to be good to me now;
violence has changed me.

Daybreak. The low hills shine
ochre and fire, even the fields shine.
I know what I see; sun that could be
the August sun, returning
everything that was taken away –

You hear this voice? This is my mind’s voice;
you can’t touch my body now.
It has changed once, it has hardened,
don’t ask it to respond again.

A day like a day in summer.
Exceptionally still. The long shadows of the maples
nearly mauve on the gravel paths.
And in the evening, warmth. Night like a night in summer.

It does me no good; violence has changed me.
My body has grown cold like the stripped fields;
now there is only my mind, cautious and wary,
with the sense it is being tested.

Once more, the sun rises as it rose in summer;
bounty, balm after violence.
Balm after the leaves have changed, after the fields
have been harvested and turned.

Tell me this is the future,
I won’t believe you.
Tell me I’m living,
I won’t believe you.

.
3.

Snow had fallen. I remember
music from an open window.

Come to me, said the world.
This is not to say
it spoke in exact sentences
but that I perceived beauty in this manner.

Sunrise. A film of moisture
on each living thing. Pools of cold light
formed in the gutters.

I stood
at the doorway,
ridiculous as it now seems.

What others found in art,
I found in nature. What others found
in human love, I found in nature.
Very simple. But there was no voice there.

Winter was over. In the thawed dirt,
bits of green were showing.

Come to me, said the world. I was standing
in my wool coat at a kind of bright portal –
I can finally say
long ago; it gives me considerable pleasure. Beauty
the healer, the teacher –

death cannot harm me
more than you have harmed me,
my beloved life.

.
4.

The light has changed;
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed. –

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.
The light of autumn: you will not be spared.

The songs have changed; the unspeakable
has entered them.

This is the light of autumn, not the light that says
I am reborn.

Not the spring dawn: I strained, I suffered, I was delivered.
This is the present, an allegory of waste.

So much has changed. And still, you are fortunate:
the ideal burns in you like a fever.
Or not like a fever, like a second heart.

The songs have changed, but really they are still quite beautiful.
They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind.
They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.

And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly
in anticipation of silence.
The ear gets used to them.
The eye gets used to disappearances.

You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.

A wind has come and gone, taking apart the mind;
it has left in its wake a strange lucidity.

How priviledged you are, to be passionately
clinging to what you love;
the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.

Maestro, doloroso:

This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us.
Surely it is a privilege to approach the end
still believing in something.

.
5.

It is true that there is not enough beauty in the world.
It is also true that I am not competent to restore it.
Neither is there candor, and here I may be of some use.

I am
at work, though I am silent.

The bland

misery of the world
bounds us on either side, an alley

lined with trees; we are

companions here, not speaking,
each with his own thoughts;

behind the trees, iron
gates of the private houses,
the shuttered rooms

somehow deserted, abandoned,

as though it were the artist’s
duty to create
hope, but out of what? what?

the word itself
false, a device to refute
perception — At the intersection,

ornamental lights of the season.

I was young here. Riding
the subway with my small book
as though to defend myself against

the same world:

you are not alone,
the poem said,
in the dark tunnel.

.
6.

The brightness of the day becomes
the brightness of the night;
the fire becomes the mirror.

My friend the earth is bitter; I think
sunlight has failed her.
Bitter or weary, it is hard to say.

Between herself and the sun,
something has ended.
She wants, now, to be left alone;
I think we must give up
turning to her for affirmation.

Above the fields,
above the roofs of the village houses,
the brilliance that made all life possible
becomes the cold stars.

Lie still and watch:
they give nothing but ask nothing.

From within the earth’s
bitter disgrace, coldness and barrenness

my friend the moon rises:
she is beautiful tonight, but when is she not beautiful?

harm reduction parenting chez moi

What kind of parent are you?  An attachment parent (Read: Clingy)? Authoritarian (read: hard-ass)? Authoritative? (Yup, those are different). Permissive? (Read: wishy-washy). Laissez-faire (read: francophone permissive)? Detached (read: emotionally unavailable)? Hands-on? Hands-off? Democratic? (Democratic?  People let their children have a vote?!)... the list goes on.  I am probably none of those (and possibly all of those at times, as well).

I believe (yes, with the rising popularity of attachment parenting in popular culture) that we've all been encouraged to go a bit off of the deep end, analyzing and re-analyzing (and then talking about in therapy), the consequences of our parenting choices and philosophies with our children.  I do it, too.  I'm not saying that I'm immune.  But I also wonder about a culture that encourages self-doubt (sometimes to the point of immobilization) about one's choices in parenting.

So - if I had to choose a term for what "kind" of parent I am, I'd say that I'm a harm reduction parent.  By this I mean, I do the best I can, with what I've got, in order to make choices to do the least amount of harm to them AND to me.

Okay, yep - cutesy little moniker, that.  But what does harm reduction parenting mean?  Here are some concrete examples.

1. If I'm exhausted, and have no groceries - I will take my kids through the drive-through and buy them formaldehyde laden chicken nuggets rather than take their tired cranky asses (and my tired cranky ass) through the grocery store (which would result in tantrums and dragging their bodies through the aisles whilst enduring the disapproving stares of better parents than I.)  Feeding children formaldehyde, in this instance, reduces everyone's harm.  And yes, I do it.  Sometimes often, sometimes less so.

2. When I do things that are harmful, I say I'm sorry.  I *do* do things that are harmful. I'm not unrepentant about that and I'm not overly invested in my children preserving the notion that I'm all good at life and shit.  Life is tricky.  It is for me, and it is for them.  Making them think I'm some kind of expert (at anything) seems like a wayyyyy bigger lie than Santa.  So - when I yell too much, when I say something that might hurt their feelings, when I have an "oh-fuck-there's-one-for-the-I'm-not-proud-of-that-parenting-book" (which is already longer and more varied than a Norton Anthology), I sit them down and tell them I fucked up.  And that I'm sorry if that hurt their feelings.  And then we all try to do our best to regroup.

3. I can't afford organic produce. (I know, right?!  GASP!)  So I wash the veggies.  When I remember.  (Whaaaat?  They're eating veggies....).

4. Sometimes - I don't make my kid do his homework.  He's tired.  I'm tired.  A cuddle feels more beneficial.

5.  There are some things I"m just not willing to fight with them over.  Don't wanna eat dinner?  Ok.  Don't wanna have a bath?  Ok. (Within reason, people.  But kids can go a day or two - or three! -without bathing.).  Fighting over this stuff is an epic waste of energy for everyone. They aren't going to die if they don't eat dinner, and I have to make a bedtime snack anyways.  Whatevs.  They have a little extra dirt behind the ears?  Maybe it'll help them fight off those daycare germs.  The truth of it is, I don't actually care that much.  They'll eat when they're hungry.  They won't actually get scurvy if they dine on PB&J three nights in a row, and if they go to school with dirt behind the ears, they worst that will happen is that I'll get 'the look' again.  Which I'll likely get anyways.

6.  I try to let them make their own decisions. But this here ain't no democracy, friends.  Sometimes, my needs and the needs of the household have to come first.  Partially, this is more of an issue in a one-parent household.  Sometimes, shit needs to get done and so they need to come along for the ride.  End of story.  And sometimes, it's because I'm a selfish prick.  True story.  I know that as a mama, I'm not supposed to recognize 'em, but I have needs that also need to be met.  I try to balance out our all of our (sometimes competing) needs whenever possible.  But you know what they say: 'If mama ain't happy, nobody's happy.'  True story.

7.  Bribery.  Ahhhhhhh.  My friend bribery.  It works.  It really works.  And so I use a liberal sprinkling of it.  And a big Pooh! to all those books that say children should do things just because their parents tell them to, out of respect,  and a desire to please blah blah blah.  If my children turn out anything like me, they will not be lacking in a desire to please others.  And it hasn't always worked out spectacularly for me.  So maybe teaching them to be a little selfish will actually work in their favour.

8.  I try to balance the fun stuff with the shit stuff.  But sometimes I have a deadline and they get/have to watch a lotta tv.  Life goes on.  It actually does. Their little addled brains will survive it.  And truth be told, they spend all day being 'activitied' at school and daycare.  I don't feel the need to provide programming, and moreover, I actually feel like sometimes the poor little dudes just need to chill.

There are other harm-reduction-y things I do.  But that's a glimpse into what I mean.   Trying to remember that while of course they are little people, I'm a person too.  Balancing needs with needs and veggies with pesticides.  Rolling with the punches, and throwing a few bribes around when necessary.

The best I can with whatever I've got in the tank.

(And if it turns out that I've managed to do an exceptionally crap job of things, I'll be happy to help with the therapy costs later on...)

powerful post from feministing

Ok - I know I've been reposting a fair bit of late.  I'm working on some school stuff, and percolating a few blogs, too.  But this one, about how a woman stood her ground and told a train-full of pro-choice Washington marchers and their chaperones about her abortion story - is hella powerful.  Read on, MacDuff.


http://feministing.com/2013/01/29/pro-choice-on-amtrak-i-told-a-group-of-anti-choice-teenagers-about-my-abortion/

A Reblog from 2010: Bossy Know-It-Alls

bossy know-it-alls

Today I have been blessed by the presence of people who clearly know more about child rearing than me, and really wanted to share their wisdom, which I in turn would like to share with all of you.  Here are a few of the special tidbits I have learned.  I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

1.  My son's reading comprehension and abilities are clearly delayed. 
We were picking up some photos at London Drugs, and Boy-o was asking me what different signs say around the store because that's his thing right now.  I read a lot of signs.  A lot.  It's amazing I haven't had a car accident from reading all the signs we pass.  But I digress.  The photo lady pipes in to this conversation and tells Boy-o that he "needs to get on the computer and learn his ABCs."  Then she turns to me and says "You really should teach him to read on the computer."  I tell her, somewhat distractly as Boy-o is practically flinging himself in various directions past breakable things, and I am trying to juggle a 21 pound baby in my arms, along with keys, a wallet, and now a year's worth of baby photographs.   "Yeah - he's only 3 and he does know his ABCs.  He's just not reading yet."   And still she persists: " But my grandson learned to read when he was 2.  On my lap.  On the computer."   Um that's great lady.  I'm not really sure where this pressure to make kids learn to read while practically still in the womb comes from.  He's 3.   I didn't figure he needed to know how to read The Iliad yet, or signs in line ups at London Drugs for that matter.  I thought we'd leave something for him to learn at school so he isn't appallingly bored there.  But apparently Boy-o is dreadfully behind in his learning curve.  So much for those college scholarships we were counting on.


2.  My daughter's learning is also sadly delayed.  
After London Drugs, we head to the doctor for Girlio's one year check ups.  We are late because there is no parking to be found within a ten block radius.  Consequently, we (that would be me) are also sweaty and grumpy when we arrive.  We see the nurse first for our pre-check up check-up.  The nurse goes through a variety of developmental milestone kind of questions and I'm all like, yes, yes blah blah.  Then the nurse asks me:  "Can she understand simple commands: Like go get your shoes?"  And I'm kinda surprised at this one, having never really considered asking the baby that can't walk or talk to go and get her shoes (or fetch me anything else for that matter- and am I the only one that thinks it's weird to ask your baby to fetch her shoes? Anyhoo...).  "I don't know..."   I go for the truthful answer.  The nurse looks at me with a very concerned look on her face: "Oh, well she really should!"  This time I go for the full out lie route and I assure her as earnestly as I can manage that we will get right on the shoe fetching business when we return home.

3.  Fat people must not know about healthy eating and exercise habits for their children, since they obviously have taken such poor care of their own slovenly selves. 
The nurse seemed to really want to impress upon me the importance of eating properly and exercising for the baby (who again, can't walk so probably isn't ready for jazzercize just yet).  Anyways - nursey, after already confirming with me that we do in fact feed the baby appropriate and nutritious foods, felt the need to quiz me on the types of food we feed our child (who is, by the way in the 50th percentile for both height and weight!).  "Do you feed her whole grains?"  Yes.  "All four food groups?"  (SHIT - THERE ARE FOUR?!)  Yes.  Then she actually proceeds to list the food groups for me, in case I am a total idiot.  "Meats and alternatives?"  Yes.  "Dairy?"  Yes.  "Fruits?"  "Vegetables?"  Yes.  Yes.  Breads and Cereals?  Yup.  Check.  Wow.  There really are 4 food groups.

Next, she impresses upon me the importance of physical fitness for children.  I try to make a joke of it and let her know that Boy-o never, ever stops moving and Girlio is fast following in his footsteps.  However. You should know.  Exercise for children is NOT a trifling matter (and again, I suspect doubly so because their mom's a fatty, but whatever).  "Here is a booklet on exercise and healthy eating for kids.  Do you need it?"  Here again, I mistakenly go for honesty.  "No thanks, I think we're good."  (And my recycle box is full).  This is met with total disapproval (and I didn't even say the recycling part out loud!)   This was not the correct answer.  "Oh, well you really should!"  And she proceeds to take me through several of the pages to convince me.  I take the booklet, which is currently sitting in my recycling bin.

Lotta learning for one day.  Tomorrow we'll be sure to do better.  Reading, (possibly some simple algebra so we don't lag too far behind), fetching and all four of those new fangled food groups.  Mama's honour.

Repost: "Butch Please" from Autostraddle

Another fabulous and swoon-worthy post from Butch Please over at Autostraddle...

http://www.autostraddle.com/butch-please-butch-and-her-boys-154621/

Bloggity announcement of the general variety:

Until the very last (*and I do mean the very last) abused, neglected, homeless, starving and/or otherwise badly cared for or, more properly, uncared for child currently living on this planet is otherwise, I will not entertain with anyone a discussion about fetal rights superceding a woman's right to bodily autonomy and integrity.  (This being the first in a very long, long list of reasons why.)

'Cause I'm all rabid feminist like that.

Cheerio and happy Friday.

Mama T

Cruel and Clumsy: a song for the January/February doldrums

Lines uttered this morning that my littles will never appreciate the pop-cultural value of:

1. To Boy-o, upon telling me I was not his mother because I made him put on his boots to go to school:

"You are right.  I'm not your mother.  I'm a dementor, sent to suck all of the joy and sunshine out of your life."

2.  To Girlio, whilst sitting in the snow screaming at me to carry her while I juggle two sets of schoolbags, snow pants and one stuffed animal:

"I do not negotiate with terrorists."


I'm either a total disaster as a parent, or simply spectacular.

Sometimes, it's hard to tell the difference.

* parenting tidbits brought to you with the aid of Harry Potter, Donald Rumsfeld, and a healthy sprinkling of sarcasm.

An awesome and less-rantish post from Suzanne Barston of Fearless Formula Feeder

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/suzanne-barston/breastfeeding-is-worth-it_b_2121696.html?utm_hp_ref=parents&ir=Parents&ncid=edlinkusaolp00000009

a brief rant (on maternal breasts)

I have no use for parenting dogma.  At best, I find it rather irritating. It assumes a sort of moral superiority that begs to be taken apart at the seams. We're all just slogging through the trenches, doing the best we can with what we've got. This shit, as I've been known to point out, is difficult. At worst, I find it harmful. And here's an example of how and why I find it thus...

Doing a search on Dr. Google for some unrelated issues, I've recently stumbled across some particularly yucky statements about breastfeeding.  Uttered by self-professed feminists.  Statements that included gems such as "Everyone should breastfeed," "There is no excuse to use formula," and my personal favourite, "formula should be taxed" (I could write a whole separate rant about the class-based violence of this particular statement, but it shall have to wait for another blog). 

And for the record, I breastfed both my babies for a total of three years. I breastfed through excruciating pain, bleeding nipples and three, count 'em three violent bouts of mastitis.  Never once did my care-providers suggest that bottle-feeding might be an alternative.  Though I likely would not have taken up this option, it would've been kind if they had).  I'm not saying I don't believe in the value of breastfeeding.  I do.  I believe.  I'm a believer. I believe the world should be a breast-feeding friendlier place and I have whipped my boobs out in every imaginable corner of this city and along several highways to boot (and heck, if asked especially nicely, I still might!)

I don't, and here I mean emphatically do not, however, believe that pushing us baby-carriers (What? What's that you say? You mean those are actual people?!) to do things that, for whatever reason, cause stress or emotional discomfort, makes any kind of good sense.  In fact, I find it ridiculous and all kinds of offensive. 

The aforementioned statements about the moral superiority of breastfeeding blow my bleeping mind.  Blow it right out my ears.  I've said it once, I've said it twice, and I will keep saying it until I'm blue in the face. Mothers are people. Folk. Women-people-folk. Women-people-folk who need to be able to make autonomous choices about what they do and do not do with their bodies. Arguing that women should *have* to breastfeed because it is better for babies, helps with attachment, its more child-centred, blah, blah, blah is really not all that different than saying women should have to bear the babies resulting from unintended zygote-making bc it's more child-centred. Or that women should have to stay home with their children because studies have shown this results in healthier offspring.  Seriously. Maybe breastfeeding is better for children.  Maybe it does help with attachment. (Though, for the record, there are many, many ways of building attachment, breastfeeding being just one of them.  Just ask my children's other mother, who did not breastfeed our children. Trust me when I say that they are all mightily attached).  As feminists, it behooves us to be equally concerned about the welfare of those whose bodies might undertake the work (yes, work) of breastfeeding.  Anything less than this is profoundly anti-choice, anti-woman, and anti-feminist.

Bodily autonomy is bodily autonomy. Pro-choice is pro-choice. Our bodies do NOT belong to our children, past, present or future.  My body did not belong to my children when they inhabited it and neither does it now. Breast feeding is a choice. Formula feeding is a choice. Anything in-between, yes, also a choice. We need to trust women to make the best choices they can for themselves, depending on their resources and the life circumstances they find themselves in.  

And you know what? 

They will.