Wherewithal

Hiatus

I'm recalibrating. See you in a few weeks. I need a vacation.

Christ Almighty

Now it is unsafe to feed my family soy. Or, more specifically, soy sold here in this country.

Back to carniverousness, my little ones. Not like you were innocents from the little cows and sheep and pigs and chickens, but now, you will be free and clear of the insidious little beans. Dumb U.S. manufacturers.

Padding is Good

A strange thing has happened to my body since I've had two kids.

I've gotten thinner.

I'm not going to apologize for it, since it's not gross thinner, but just a little thinner. And I didn't do it consciously in some vain attempt to recapture my before-ness, and I'm not going to brag about it, because, frankly, now that I've recognized it, some fifteen months after my second child arrived, I am disconcerted by it, particularly when I've realized that all my old clothes don't quite fit because they're all a little loose. It's just not comforting.

I am 5'9'' and about 126 pounds now. I was 133 before I got pregnant with Kane. I didn't shed pounds by doing anything spectacular. I exercise, but I am by no means manic (case in point: Today, I had a 30-minute window to run on the treadmill downstairs, and I wrastled with the idea of it for about a minute before I grabbed a handful of M&Ms and settled down with a new [to me] book - thanks, EB). My "regimen," if you will, is a combination of sleep deprivation, child-rearing two lively toddlers still in diapers, and trying to eat more than one full meal (plus several light meals) a day (which is not as easy as it seems, me being a very lazy, bored-by-it cook who nevertheless finds yummy, nutritious things for my kids to scarf down - things I would rather not eat, really, because it looks less appealing after I have cut it up into toddler-sized squares.). My goal is to gain about five pounds. Hopefully. I've already gained one in two weeks.

Okay, now bridge to the real story:

Kane, after a deceptively tranquil cycle of sleeptime, has once again been prone to creeping to my side of the bed at 3, 4 and 5 a.m. (usually all three times) to gently wake me with his buzz-buzz of: "Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?"

This tug-of-war, which ultimately results in me waking from some REM cycle and scooping him up to place him back in bed, has left both of us tired beyond our years the past week. The first two days, it was all right, but lo, the last three or so have been shite, in terms of either of us having patience or energy.

One perk is that his state of mind (delirious) makes him especially cuddly, particularly right around bed time. We three have a routine where we mellow out and prepare for bed by them taking a bath, us reading books, running around, if warranted, and then settling on mommy and daddy's bed for a little nighttime drama a la Pingu or Bob the Builder or Thomas (damn you!!!) or Blue's Clues.

Last night, Carly had full reign over my torso, having placed her head on my chest and nestled in the crook of my arm. Kane, wanting a little of the mommy love, told me he was makng a nest with his blanket between my legs. He then proceeded to plop his head down, and I thought he was aiming for my upper thigh, which would have made a nice human pillow, for sure, but he slammed straight down on my pubic bone. With his temple.

Yeah, I know now what it's like to be a guy and have your nuts kicked.

I yelped like a - well, like a guy who got kicked in the nuts - and Kane looked up at me with such abject despair, his binkie (comically) askew in his mouth, his tired, red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears as he crawled up my body and said, over and over: "I'm sorry, Mommy, I'm sorry" while he looked for a kiss and a cuddle to ease his throbbing skull.

So we both have bruises today, and I have theorized to Phil that, if Kane develops a penchant for plump women later in life, we will know the subconscious root of it all.

Yangguizi

Yesterday, I went into San Francisco to visit my friend, Elizabeth, for a beer and some nibblies at the gourmet foodie haven that is the Ferry Building (go figure).

For many reasons, I dig on this girl, not the least of which was her suggestion that we hook up at the Book Passage store (an offshoot of the Marin County icon) tucked inside the Ferry Building near a Japanese deli and a coffee shop (it might have been the soulless Starbucks, but who cares).

I wasn't thinking of doing anything other than meeting her there and steering her directly to the cafe with outdoor tables, where we could shoot the breeze ... um, in the breeze. But I casually mentioned I was looking for something new to read in my brief respite between Mandarin classes - something light-ish, but intriguing. Maybe something with a little Chinese culture thrown in, since I am studying the language, and am fascinated by the mystery of China (perpetuated by a willfully ignorant American media that refuses to delve really deeply into anything other than the well-worn mantra that China is kicking our arses, industrially, and that it is growing in leaps and bounds, the likes of which the world hasn't seen, since, well, our Industrial Revolution).

So E directed me toward Alison Krauss (just for light-ish, but intriguing and well-written), and I carelessly skimmed some of the Chinese authors on the wall before picking this book up, mainly because of its seductive cover design, and because of the promise of letting me in on how today's young, increasingly affluent Chinese deal with the hyperdrive changes in their country.

It reads like a so-so Carrie Bradshaw series of columns, which would be terrifcally boring and predictable, if it were another chick lit wanna-be typing in out here in the U.S. (Because, really, after the Samantha character mellows out with one guy, who wants to watch/read anymore?) But the women in this book seem fascinating to me, because they carry with them a whole rack of baggage that I don't think any woman here in the U.S. really worries about, and it is infused with ALL the baggage women carry around.

As it is, I can hardly put it down. I am only stopping now, because I want to write about it before I finish it and feel cheated that there isn't more.

Is it because it's about China? Duh, of course. Are the vain trappings of these women made more fascinating because they are playing out their pedestrian woes (lost loves, beauty ideals in the West and East, keeping up with fashions, class status, label status, struggling to be happy with independence while secretly hoping for someone to share it with) in Beijing? Well, yes and no. These women have a whole other kettle of fish other than what I just wrote, because they are struggling with the changes they see around them (the protagonist, like the author, is a late-twenties woman who was born in the U.S., moved to Beijing when she was five, then got her college degree at U of Missouri and her Master's in journalism at Berkeley) from just a few years ago. They are struggling to define themselves in a country they don't recognize much anymore. They are also struggling with the argument of whether the West is to blame with the recent trend among old and young people of placing material wealth and class status above the ancient Chinese virtues of humility, hard work and ethics, as well as "huigen," or wisdom roots, pertaining to an affinity to Buddhism. The protagonist also argues with Chinese "new leftists" who accuse her of being a liberal who is pro-U.S. because she isn't very quick to demonize everything American (though she takes some well-deserved stabs). What's interesting is that she observes that many of the new leftists are U.S.-educated people who get visas from the U.S., then bad-mouth the country as being the source of all superficiality pervading modern Chinese culture. When she brings the paradox up to the people, they say: Hey, the pedigree from the U.S. is valued here, so I need to get it.

Now, I am not a one to raise a flag to the U.S. infallibility, though, for all its faults (one being its delusion that it is infallible), I happen to like this country very much. And, for all the glib talk she uses to gloss up her book, she makes some very interesting observations, like this one here. It's interesting to me that countries that find us repulsive still yearn for certain things from us. Our problem, as a country, is that we refuse to admit we need certain things from others. We ignore the fact that so many of our household, automotive, technological and othersuch items bear the stamp "Made in China" (unless you are a union member or happen to have been squeezed out of a company that moved its operations overseas; then you're part of a groundswell of folks who like making money in a capitalist system, but hate being labeled obsolete by it. And so, maybe, you are paying a bit more attention than the general populace). According to this author, the Chinese, too, ignore the fact that there are U.S. items they want (not really need). There are several chapters on women in China who search for a foreign (U.S. or European) man to seduce and marry so they can get out of China and maybe give birth to a baby who will be given a U.S. or EU passport. But then, many of them want to come back to China to basically brag about it and also to laugh about how they hoodwinked this guy or that.

I wonder what it would be like if both countries just admitted they needed one another for certain things, and had done with it, rather than pretend that the other country matters nothing to them?

He Runs on Cold Hard Cash (And the Tears of Small Children)

While Kane looks askance at Phil, Carly contemplates escape by jumping down.

And this was one of the happier moments of the day.

I think, that if I were one of those mommies that felt like she needed to find a "cause" in order to feel valid as an adult human being, I would crusade against any corporate, trademarked character-inspired event for small children. Disneyland, of course, would be the first to go, as it does nothing more than lay the foundation for millions of children to participate in a consumer-driven society. Ditto, to any scheduled mall appearance by any syndicated character. In fact, I would go so far as to ban character-stamped balloons, plates, party favors. Maybe I am going too far, but I think not...

That being said, I, too, am guilty of fostering the same type of inane logo-driven cupidity with that infernal English engine. Thomas, if I ever meet your creators in a dark alley, I will be the only one coming out, I assure you.

Which brings me to Saturday, the Day of The Dollar. It was supposed to be A Day Out With Thomas, at the Roaring Camp Railroad in Felton, about six miles north of Santa Cruz.

You're thinking: That's sweet; a day in the Santa Cruz mountains, surrounded by redwood trees and hundreds of laughing children rushing up with glee to meet their icon (never mind that he is a fussy little freaky engine with a FACE who plays tricks on his so-called friends, who never seems to remember how to act properly, but who, it is inferred, is repeatedly redeemed by simply apologizing for his atrocious behaviour. Don't get me started - I would never have condoned such a bad example as a beloved toddler role model, had I known the real gist of him and his fleet before my child got hooked. As it is, I am stuck.)

Well, Felton is an hour-and-a-half away, and our scheduled ride with Thomas ($26 per person for a 25-minute ride - should have tipped me off right there) wasn't until 4 p.m. That meant we were in the car around 1 p.m., right around the time of Carly's nap. Kane should be taking a nap, and is a nightmare around 4 p.m. because he refuses such a respite, but I was hoping he would get some down time in the car that would pass as rest.

As we got out of Los Gatos and started climbing the mountains, Kane started getting fussy, asking where the party was (we had told him we were going to a "special surprise," which he took to mean we were going to someone's birthday party), saying he wanted to "get out, please, Mommy?" every three seconds. There was a little whimpering, some wailing. Carly fell asleep somewhere around San Jose, so she would at least have an hour nap - not nearly enough, but something.

We finally pulled into the campground at 3 p.m., and lo, the chaos loomed. The dust of a thousand SUVs kicked up to create a parking lot haze in the 80-degree heat, with cars circling like vultures looking for the carrion of a family leaving their parking space. The camp fields, which centered around a cluster of frontier-style wooden stores and "homes" meant to convey an an old-timey feel, were draped with banners of the main Thomas characters. There were clots of people limply pushing their way around the property, knocking strollers about, shoving through with nary an insincere "excuse me," tripping small children and laughing... nearly.

We finally parked in the middle of one lot and got the kids out of the car. They were a little overdressed (pants and short-sleeved shirts), and got overheated right away, which might not have been such a big deal, had there not been all these people walking in every direction (there was no real organization to the event - you were just expected to travel through all the fields to experience a little of everything - the lego Thomas display, a puppet show with clowns (clowns?! For little kids who are overexcited? Are they on crack?!?), an inflatable bouncing castle, an inflatable Thomas (who looked pretty freaking scary, with all the balloon seams in his face), a HUGE retail center filled with everything Thomas in the main old-timey log cabin (placed right in front of the entrance, which proved the people running this show know EXACTLY what they are doing - it was the only thing Kane could relate to, because it was the only space where all his beloved characters were placed on display in a neat and orderly (sort of) fashion), concession stands of bad food, a train station, and, yes, the train itself.)

Kane ran forward and then stopped short. He didn't know what to do with himself. He wandered tentatively toward the lego structure, then looked around, wandered a little toward the bouncing castle thing, then just stood still with a little frown on his face. When he discovered the retail space, he got a smile on his face, but we bustled him out of there before he could really figure out he could purchase the items in there.

Sir Topham Hatt, the dude in charge of this fictitious railroad, was supposedly roaming around somewhere (his paper mache head and mitten hands freaking out toddlers everywhere), but he was hard to find, probably because he was busy behind some shed rolling obscenely in all the dough. Otherwise, there were no real characters to be found on the premises.

Only after 40 minutes or so of us trying to figure out what to do, did we spot - gasp! - Thomas!

What a letdown, man. He was hooked up to the front of the train, where you had to wait in a ridiculously long line just to take a picture in front of him (and there was no sense of order there - there was someone with a bullhorn saying to get in line, but once you were in it, you had to wait for the people who were up front to take their entire roll of pictures, then shuffle one more step ahead, wait for someone else to do the same, et cetera, ad nauseum).

We eschewed the Thomas picture opportunity, because, for God's sake, he was the size of my Prius, and there was no way he was going to pull the monsterous train that he was coupled to. Besides, we had about five minutes before boarding, by then. We shuffled into our line, onto a family-style kind of car, which basically meant we paid $26 each to sit on a bench with fifty other people in one of ten cars that were filled with about the same number of people each. What a racket. Carly was red-cheeked, a sure sign of over-tiredness, and only wanted to be held. Kane kept crying that the car was too big for him (he was out of his mind with sleep deprivation, over-stimulation, and the cruel taunt of a hundred other kids his age who had scored at the retail center and were carrying shiny new plastic Thomas-style things with them. Kane, in his confusion, tried a couple of times to reach out and touch a couple of the toys, and was soundly smacked by the pint-sized people) and that the train was 'not for me.'

When we finally got moving, it was clear that the diesel engine at the back of the train was the one pulling everybody (which, if you know anything about Thomas, is an affront to the very core of the show's plotline, which maintains that little steam engines are capable of being Very Useful Indeed, despite the "Dirty Diesels" telling them that they are the superior ones), but the ride itself was gorgeous, winding through the redwoods along a cliff overlooking a river. The kids were all right throughout the train ride (which was five times quicker than the ride coming to the railroad), but as soon as the train stopped, the wailing and gnashing of teeth began afresh, largely because we had promised he could pick out one toy on the way out of this infernal circle of hell (not that we called it that. Out loud.) * Note * Yes, yes, yes, I KNOW it is assinine of me to go on about the damned logo-crazy consumerism, and then perpetuate it, but a) My aversion to the world of Thomas doesn't stop my son from loving it or from learning something from it (thankfully, he hasn't learned how to be a little jerk and then get away with it by offering a pat "sorry," but he has learned to use his imagination and tell stories from memorizing their stories, and that's pretty kick arse, if I do say so.), and b) I felt like it was the least I could do, this being a total bust of an experience for the two people Phil and I had wanted to impress. It would have been different if we had set out to impress, and our kids had been little turds about it by demanding trinkets or throwing tantrums.

But the truth was, we were all overwhelmed by the proclivity of baggy jean shorts and beer bellies and plump mommies in belly tops and mohawks (Moms and kids, unite! Yowza.) and snappish, vacant-eyed parents and whining, tired children and the absence of any organization, warmth or ritual that the kids have come to expect by watching and reading Thomas stories.

So, Kane got a Percy train. He fell asleep on the way home and then got himself wound up by 8 p.m. or so. When he finally fell asleep at 9:30 p.m., I tried to sit down and write what I experienced, but I couldn't focus, so complete was the brainwash and the general sense of feeling hoodwinked and vacuumed.

If you want to see the pictures we managed to take, click here.

My only solice is that my son and daughter have recently seemed to take an obsessive liking to Blue's Clues, which, frankly, is a whole other can of logo-obsessed worms, but at least teaches children shapes, colors, time, letters, numbers, music appreciation and confidence boosting by solving mysteries through observation.

So take that, you effing engine, and stick it in your firebox. May you run off the rails and into the North Sea.