2010
BlogHer: Parts of a Whole
BlogHer. Blah. Grr.
People, there’s no wrong way to do it (unless you’re being a total douchewhore, in which case, knock it off).
If you’re having a panic attack about your wardrobe, don’t be ashamed. If you’re not having a panic attack about your wardrobe, that’s cool too. If you believe that she who collects the most swag wins, good luck with that, but be nice about it, eh? If you want to brag about your party invites, I hope you find a bragging tribe that will listen and give a crap. In the wise words of the former Cat Stevens: If you want to dress up, dress up; if you want to attend the Voices of the Year Gala in your p.j.s, by golly, do it. BlogHer is what you make it, but remember that this is true for everyone else there (or even not there) as well.
So please, have your feelings about it, but don’t begrudge anyone else her right to feel her own feelings–good, bad, or holier-than-thou indifferent–and to even share those feelings on her blog (of all unlikely places!). No matter what happens at the conference, some people will want to bitch and moan and some will want to show off and some will want to talk smack and some will want to monetize their brands and some will want to pretend they’re above it all, but hey, who cares, right? People will have different expectations and experiences of the same event, and THAT’S OKAY.
(And if you want to post or tweet about how annoyed you are with everyone else’s BlogHer posts or tweets, fine, whatever, but check yourself to make sure you’re not being a dick about it.)
Me? I like BlogHer. I like sitting with my friends. I like swag. I like visiting big cities and staying in nice hotels. I take notes at panels on things I care about. I feel a rush when I share an elevator with someone “famous.” I worry about my old, frumpy shoes when I’m packing but then I forget about them once they’re on my feet so long as they’re comfy. And when it’s all over? I like to report back here and share my thoughts, from my perspective, with anyone who’s interested. I don’t thrive on drama, so I rarely attract or even notice it. I generally enjoy the conference sessions and the food and the accomodations and the company, and if not, I don’t react as if some personal injustice has befallen me during what was supposed to be My Special Perfect Bloggy Trip. That doesn’t mean I’m softheaded; I’m just prioritizing the things worth getting riled about. If I pass one of the organizers in the hall, I don’t complain about the snack sponsors or the demographically inappropriate room drop; I tell her thank you. When I get to the front of the long-ass registration line, I smile before I speak. I tip the cleaning lady even if she left a spot on the bathroom mirror. I don’t go looking for things to complain about.
Likewise, if you don’t like the pre- and post-BlogHer chatter, don’t read it. If you don’t like swag, don’t take it. If you didn’t get invited to a cool party, it’s okay to feel bad about it, really, but try not to let it ruin your weekend. And don’t let anyone else ruin your weekend by telling you that feeling X, Y, or Z about 1, 2, or 3 is “wrong.” If I’m feeling anxious about something, the least helpful advice is “You’re dumb to feel anxious about that.” Reassurance is one thing (“Don’t worry! You’ll be fine!”), but dismissal is another. And this goes for the positive emotions too; if I’m excited about the conference/swag/parties/people, I’m not going to let someone shame me into silence.
(I’m trying to be zen about the whole thing, but it’s probably obvious that this post is inspired by having entertained bad feelings in past years when I see people dismissing things–wardrobe angst, sitting-alone angst, party angst, even the basic need to discuss the weekend in general–that were very much a valid part of my experience, for better or for worse. It’s one thing to say “Don’t worry about your shoes! You’ll look fine and people will like you regardless!” but it’s another to say, “If you’re worried about your shoes, you’re a shallow fame whore who doesn’t understand the true spirit of blogging.” And if I have an “OMG, I sat at a table with so-and-so and so-and-so” moment? I’d like to be able to share that with people who will get a kick out of it and without the fear of someone stomping on it as immature. Can we all just take a deep breath and keep our judgements to ourselves? (“Judgements” being distinct from “opinions” and “reactions” and “feelings,” of course.))
I truly think as long as you’re being respectful and authentic (in the original sense of the word, not in the “performance authenticity” style that’s become so popular in some circles), that’s all you need. In that way, it’s almost like BlogHer is real life! Imagine that!
In conclusion: This is your conference, and what happens to you there is–good or bad–no one’s responsibility/fault but your own. Even if you want to feel jealous or angry or offended by something, don’t feel shy posting those thoughts so long as you’re coming from an honest place (she says as if she were the blogging world’s moral compass even though she’s very aware that she isn’t).
There are going to be 2,400 people at the conference. Twenty-four hundred people. Twenty-four hundred egos and spirits and hearts, each fragile in its own way and each perfectly entitled to its own opinions, experiences, and insecurities. That’s 2,399 chances someone will see things differently than you. We all call it by the same name, but it’s not One Big BlogHer, it’s 2,400 little BlogHers. Let people have their own experiences. Let me have mine.
2010
It’s a Jungle
Wombat has been away from daycare since Monday afternoon, and thanks, Universe, but I really didn’t need this little reminder to make me appreciate how very wonderful it is to have the resources and opportunity to send my child out all day to a place where people actually know what to do with him for hours on end. As for me, it seems I’ve forgotten how to entertain a toddler when it doesn’t involve running all over town to see! and do! things–and with the help of a second parent–but unfortunately that’s not quite feasible when said toddler is maybe actually a little bit sick (wouldn’t want him to infect a playground or bookstore) and said second parent has escaped to work for what feels like forever and there’s no way I’m going to make things worse by attempting something public on my own.
Nevertheless, I’m trying to look at these past few days (and counting) as not the challenge to my sanity it has felt like but as a kind and gentle (however UNNECESSARY) reminder of how lovely things are when they’re going how they’re supposed to go. I love daycare and I love having time to myself for work, and Wombat loves daycare and he also seems to love me more when I’ve had time to myself for work because it means I’m less likely to be impatient and grouchy and desperate instead of fun and engaged. Also, I don’t know if he’s whiny and clingy because he’s not feeling well or if he’s just bored out of his gourd, but, my lands, he’s testing my limits. Admittedly, he does have a sounds-worse-than-it-probably-is cough, and depending on the time of day, he might also have a little tiny bit of a fever, but aside from that I think he’s just antsy and lonely for his friends, not to mention fed up with his dumb mom, who runs to Google every time he opens his mouth and emits something that sounds vaguely word-like. (Note to self: Sometimes it’s just toddler babble, not Japanese.) (But sometimes it IS Japanese!)
It’s not so bad, though. I’d rather be home with a not-very-sick kid than with one who’s spouting vom like a certain Icelandic volcano that shall remain nameless, mostly because I can’t spell it. Above all else, I guess I’m just frustrated because if any parent is suited to be permanently on-call for things like this, it’s not me. Simon thrives on spontaneity and can think up a Plan B, C, and D in a matter of minutes, whereas I flounder and frown and look for someone to blame, and then I try my damnedest to execute Plan A regardless of how impossible it is to effectively copyedit a manuscript with a miniature person hanging by his fingers from my belt loops screaming for cheese.
I need to just buck up and get over it, though. I can’t keep getting mad or feeling put-upon every time this happens. It’s going to keep happening–and probably a lot–and I just need to find some way to embrace the fact that I’m the default stayer-homer. Maybe a good smack upside the head will bump the issue from my brain’s Con column into its Pro one. I’m going to smile today if it kills me.
***
And now it’s seven hours later and the small boy is in bed and the big boy is waiting for me to come watch SYTYCD and I can’t remember how I was going to cleverly transition from writing about my stay-at-home woes to recapping our weekend, so instead here are some captioned photographs of what we did. (I’m recapping the weekend and it’s almost Friday. This is how my week has been. Pity me?)
(But first, if you haven’t entered to win $100 on my review blog, time’s running out. Go do it, and I’ll put in a good word for you with the random number generator.)
On Saturday , w went to the Alameda Art and Wine Festival. There was a Tom Petty cover band and all the usual hippycraft booths and smoky food and I had to walk a thousand miles with a wriggly kid strapped to my back and my pants were falling down and I was not wearing supportive shoes. There was also a petting cage, which sounds hot but it’s not what you’re thinking.
There were pigs and goats and sheep and ducks and chickens and one fat white rabbit. There was also an entrance fee. Simon and I wouldn’t normally pay to get inside a gate whose contents you can see perfectly fine from outside, but then mamabrain struck and before I knew what was happening, I found myself twirling rapidly down a parental guilt spiral that ended with the question, “Are you really going to deny your son this valuable life experience because you don’t want to spend four measly dollars? What if ‘vist a petting zoo’ is on his life list?” And so I asked Simon for four dollars and that, my dears, was the end of that.
It went really well!
How would you feel if a sheep taller than you were stuck his mangy snout in your face?
Okay, this part was cute.
Little did he know that this was only the beginning of the weekend’s animal encounters. On Sunday we went to the Oakland Zoo for the first time and saw an array of fierce and frightening things, like three slowly retreating elephants, the back half of a lioness, and the enclosure where bears are supposed to be. Thrilling!
Had we not shown up around closing it might’ve been a better experience, but even then it was worth it in the end (especially considering we got in for free), as we were able to ride the train into “Australia” (sadly, no wombats) and we got to see the bats.
Bats! Bats are cute! With their wittle triangular cat heads and their flappy wings! And they’re like “wombat” but without the “wom.” Nice! But these weren’t that kind of bat. These were fruit bats, aka “flying foxes” aka Megabats. MEGABATS. I’ve never seen these in a zoo before, and they haven’t shown up in any of Wombat’s animal books, and, come to think of it, I’d never heard the term “megabat” (MEGABAT!) before Sunday, and, you know, I think it’s perhaps because the government is trying to keep them a secret. They have five-foot wingspans (hold out your arms!) and they crawl around upside-down like giant spiders, and when light shines on them from behind you can see their skeletons dark and spindly inside their skin casing. It was so gross I couldn’t look away. (I don’t have any photos of them, since taking photos of animals at the zoo makes as much sense to me as taking photos of art at a museum; I don’t really understand it in theory, and I also think the pictures turn out uniformly crappy, and besides, who wants to look at those photos after the fact? Not me.) (See, I do have standards. If you’re bored by my photos, be grateful that at least I’m only showing you the good ones!) (Wait, that doesn’t sound right.) (Anyway, if you want to see what a MEGABAT looks like and how it moves, click the link. IF YOU DAAAARE.)
Right before a wallaroo parked itself on the track.
View of Oakland and the bay from the train.
Communing with his purple-tongued brethren.
Communing with his stubble-cheeked progenitor. (We did not fork over the $1.25 for the carousel ride. You’ve been on one merry-go-round, you’ve been on them all? Extra points if you were wearing a dinosaur suit?)
We were at the zoo (and we got in for free) because we were attending a neighbor’s first birthday party. (Do I need to hyphenate “first” and “birthday” to clarify that the guest of honor is one year old, not a former Jehovah’s Witness? Okay, good.) Tip of the day: If you can make friends with a couple who is one part Chinese and one part Mormon Korean, DO IT because food will be good, homemade, and plentiful. I’m totally going to their house for the apocalypse.
I have never so much regretted the bad crab cake I had fifteen years ago that spoiled crab for me forever. I was robbed.
It was a pirate party, which, yes, I know, soooo 2003, but the kid was turning ONE and there was an inflatable pirate ship filled with ice and drinks and also? Is this not the most knee-slapping adorable thing you have ever seen?
I’d grab a concertina and pump out a chanty but I’m too busy peeing my pants from laughing so hard.
“You lookin’ at me?”
GodDAMN, I love that kid, sick days and all.
2010
Joy to the World
Usually when I pick up Wombat from daycare, I find myself doing the adult equivalent of pulling on Daycare Lady’s dress hem and saying, “Look at me. Look at me. Look. Look! LOOK! Look at me! Look what I can do!” Only I don’t want her to look at me but at Wombat because, even though she’s just spent the whole day with him, I want to impress her with all the things he can say and do when someone prompts him in the right language. These days I barely have to prompt him anymore–he strolls around singing letters and numbers, and if he knows the word for something, he’ll shout it out–but I still feel this urge to make sure everyone in the vicinity is paying very close attention to every little magical trick he pulls out of his size-small hat.
Yesterday when I went to pick him up, he shouted “Hi!” at me from across the yard and then ran to the EXIT sign and started saying “A! B! D! F!” which is his standard shorthand for “I know these are letters, but I’m not going to bother figuring out which ones they are right now because I’m too excited because letters! LETTERS!” Usually I have to tear him away from all the things he wants to show me, but yesterday Daycare Lady had something to show me. His latest Japanese vocabulary acquisition–after “ear,” “nose,” “hand,” “downstairs,” “dirty,” “elephant,” and “peek-a-boo”–was “ashi (foot),” and when she said it he lifted up his right one and giggled. She kept saying it and he kept lifting, and even though it wasn’t that great compared to some of his other skills, I was still so busting with pride that I almost puffed up too much and ripped my shirt Hulk-style.
It wasn’t until I got home and watched the video from that day’s “school” session that I realized why she’d wanted to show me his newest trick:
I can’t for the life of me figure out what he found so uproariously hilarious about “nose, nose, nose, nose, foot!” but he’s done this before–gotten fixated on a word and had a hearty chuckle over it. When Moose came over for drinks a few weeks ago, he got equally and randomly stuck in a giggle loop over a line in Where the Wild Things Are that he’d heard a hundred times before, and sure, maybe he’s a little weird, but there’s really nothing to do in these situations but encourage him, as Daycare Lady has so recently demonstrated.
At daycare they have fun all day long, but it’s not very…spontaneous(?) fun, so I was surprised to see her indulging Wombat the way she did. She runs a tight ship, and although there’s a lot of playing, there’s not a lot of silliness, so seeing his sense of humor shine through like that–subverting the dominant paradigm with contagious laughter–is really wonderful. “He has a lot of energy,” said Daycare Assistant to me yesterday as we watched him squeal “Wheeeee!” while riding a rockinghorse so hard I thought it might flip a vertical 360. Yes, he has a lot of energy, but he also has a lot of joy.
Here he is during judo class (on the far right in the second part of the video). The shrieking tells you he’s having ten times the fun of everyone else. But then? Then? Everyone else starts shrieking too.
When we first left him at daycare two months ago (has it only been two months?), I worried a lot about him being liked, both by his peers and by the adults. He already stood out as the White Kid, and I didn’t want him to suffer for also being the Loud Kid, the Headstrong Kid, or the Kid Who Doesn’t Understand the Rules. He still kind of is the loud, headstrong kid who doesn’t understand the rules (or chooses not to follow them), but I’m getting the impression that because he is all those things–because he is who he is–his presence is also a breath of fresh air.
Confession: I’m finding it hard not to obsess over his intellectual development (although Twitter has assured me I’m not alone in keeping a list of all the words he can say), and it’s not because I think it even matters so much at this age but just because I’ve always been obsessed with my own intellectual development. (I used to beg my mom to make up math problems for me and to emcee my one-woman spelling bees. Summer school would have been a treat.) With Wombat, I’m constantly reminding myself that smart is good but it’s not the end-all-be-all and we also need to make sure he is caring and polite and confident and secure and emotionally well-adjusted and all of the other things that make up a good human being and citizen of the world. Being liked (or at least likeable) is a part of that (though also not an end-all-be-all), and I sigh with relief to see him playing with his friends and amusing the adults.
I put him in daycare so he could be socialized, and I hoped he’d quickly find his place there, either as a leader or a follower, a clown or a nerd, a teacher and a student, pretty much anything but a bully or a victim. I thought a lot about what daycare would do for him socially, mentally, and emotionally, but I didn’t think about what he might do for daycare. I knew letting him out into the world was giving him the gift of opportunity, but I never considered that sharing him with the world would also be a gift to everyone else. As a wise man once said, “Ask not what daycare can do for you but what you can do for daycare.” (Or instead of “daycare” substitute “the world.” Or ” your country.” Whatever.) The bottom line is that none of us is the center of the universe, and what we put out is equally if not more important than what we take in during this life.
This morning when I dropped Wombat off, Daycare Lady and I talked a little about how funny the “ashi” thing was, and just as I started to run off at the mouth again about how clever and brilliant he is, she stopped me dead in my jabbertracks with one of the biggest compliments I’ve ever gotten as a mother:
“He makes everyone here happy,” she said. Now, I’ve heard people say he’s cute and smart and funny and all of that before, but of this–he makes everyone happy!–of this I’m proudest of all.
Besides, maybe I shouldn’t be so proud of his brains when he manages to get his ashi into fixes like this:
