New Year's Resolutions

I'm trying something a little different this year. Instead of a long list of resolutions that get forgotten about in a week, I'm assigning each month of 2006 (or most of them) a resolution that I will work on during the course of that month. Hopefully by working on them one at a time, I'll be able to make each one separately into a good habit, instead of being overwhelmed by trying to work on everything at once.

January - time spent on the computer. The goal here is to cut down on time spent mindlessly web-suring when I'm feeling bored and/or stressed, and use my time on the computer to keep in touch, research, and write. (Mostly.)

February - time management. This should follow logically from the computer time change—once I'm wasting less time web-surfing, I'll need to develop some ideas on how to use the time I have wisely.

March - exercise. March in New England is a blah end-of-the-winter month. Hopefully focusing on exercise will help make it less depressing ... and give me a recharge on the exercise after the post-holiday good intentions have faded!

April - writing. Must, must, MUST make more time for writing.

May - er, personal time with the other half. Nuff said.

June - more time spent playing with my kids. I have a tendency to let them play on their own a lot, which is great that they can do it, but I don't want to say 5 years from now, "I wish I had played with them more."

July - diet. Working on eating less prepackaged food (especially snack foods) and more items with some nutritional value (like fruits and especially vegetables).

August - money management. Keeping a rein on the stuff I buy, especially toys and clothes for the kids.

September - eating schedules. Trying to carve out time to eat together as a family, even if it's only once a week or so.

October - keeping in touch. I have let a lot of relationships slide over the past few years. I'd like to find out which ones are still out there, and which ones have the potential to be better than they are with a little effort on my part.

November - less yelling! I figure at this point Veronica will be over a year old, and the temptation to raise my voice to get better obedience out of three small kids will be great.

December - relax! Enjoy the fruits of the year's labors.

This is not to say that I will only work on each of these things in the given month, but I really have hopes that taking things piecemeal will be helpful in promoting long-term change for the better.

book report II

Finished The Rise of Russia from an old Time-Life series, The Great Ages of Man. Pretty interesting, really—it followed Russian history from the early Kievan state through Peter the Great. Fascinating man, Peter the Great. Almost too good to be true, really, from his physical prowess through the number of crafts he taught himself to his insistence on rise through the ranks being based on achievement rather than rank. (This was in the early 18th century—not a common opinion for that time!)

Reading will be slow for a while, it looks like, as I have two journals in and will probably be getting a few more before these are finished. My next bedside reading is Nancy Kress, Beginnings, Middles, and Ends, another work on writing. (Ideally as the New Year is rung in I'll be able to carve out some time and energy for writing, and not just on the blog!)

Narnia!

I'm pretty down on the movie-theater experience these days. I figure, why bother paying through the nose to see something I can enjoy just as easily in comfortable chairs in my own home, with decent food (that I didn't again pay through the nose for), and a remote control with which to pause the movie anytime I want? But occasionally a movie comes along that I think might be worth all that effort. The last one this year was Serenity, and the experience of walking out of the theater sobbing in hurt and disappointment nearly turned me off theater-going altogether.

I finally decided to make an exception for The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The fact that it was filmed in New Zealand kept making me think it would be like the Lord of the Rings movies, which were, of course, awesome. But at the same time, I was incredibly nervous that they would get it wrong. So easy to do—to go for the wrong tone, create the world in an overly CGI manner because they could, miscast, etc. And I spent the first probably two-thirds of the movie waiting for them to screw it up.

In the first minute of the movie, I could tell I was going to like it. In the first 5 minutes, I could tell I was going to love it. And so I was doubly afraid that any minute the spell would be broken and there would be a wrong note to jar me out of that world.

Not one. Not once did anything make me say, "What were they thinking?" Occasionally I noticed an added scene, a dropped line, some missing dialogue, but within seconds of noticing the change I could see exactly why it was necessary.

The cinematography was spectacular. The care taken with the important props (the Witch's dagger, the wardrobe itself) impressed me several times. The CGI was damn near seamless—if I didn't know fauns don't exist and beavers don't talk, I would have believed they were real. I held my breath for the first appearance of Aslan, afraid that the casting of Liam Neeson as his voice would ruin the illusion—and even there, no disappointment. Neeson's voice was barely recognizable. It was Aslan speaking, and not a Hollywood actor.

Which leads me to the film's crowning achievements—casting and characterization. Of course, the most important parts, really. What I loved was that not only were the characters true to the books, they exceeded the books. Lewis's characters tend to be on the nursery side—while they are good book characters, it's hard to imagine meeting them in the real world. The makers of LWW managed the nearly impossible feat of maintaining faith with Lewis's characters while also making them into real people.

And the casting. The White Witch was glorious. Perfectly in harmony with the description of Jadis given in The Magician's Nephew, she was in no way a typical theatrical witch. She was cold but not emotionless, clever and witty, restrained from theatricality in quiet scenes and still not over the top in more exciting ones. Just a beautifully acted role.

I was pleased to see that the four Pevensies were all played by children of the right age. Lucy even still had those rounded childish cheeks! Susan was given more of a character than Lewis really lavished on her, although not a huge amount of arc. Edmund did an excellent job as both the greedy, sulky boy and the redeemed and repentant traitor, although the transformation was a bit rushed. Lucy was a delight—fresh, both childlike and wise beyond her years, one minute a trusting child and the next a valiant queen-to-be. And Peter. At the beginning of the movie, he was a soft-looking nerdy type teenager, and I caught myself wondering how they were ever going to turn him into the High King. That was the last time I would wonder. His journey from boy to king was both subtle and obvious in all the right places, and completely believable.

Overall, just an unbelievably good movie. It's absolutely the best movie I've seen in 10 years, and I still haven't completely come down from the high of how much I loved it.

okay, second thing

The thing is, I'm unhappy with my blood relatives on the paternal side. All two of them. Whether my being unhappy with them is entirely fair ... well, I don't know. I can see both sides, I think, and see where I may not have held up my end of the communication with either party. But I have tried. Certainly, I make an effort to write my aunt emails asking about the events of her life whenever I hear from her (to which she never responds). I wrote her a long letter (sent snail mail, even) a month or so ago. (Granted, it had been quite a while since I'd done that, even though I know that's the format she's most comfortable with.) But the thing is this. Even given my shortcomings of communication, I don't feel that either one of them is willing to meet me halfway. I am sad about the loss of relationship with my aunt, as she was one of the people in my life whose respect I most wanted to earn.

The situation with my father is more complicated, both because of my distaste for the life he's chosen and because of his distaste for mine! I felt sad for him as he described the state of the house he'd come home to. I can imagine it readily, and the contrast between the mess and confrontation he must be surrounded by and the color and twinkling lights and warmth I am is pitiful. What makes it worse is that he chose the surroundings he's in. He could have had a part in mine, but he refused to accept my choices, to get to know my husband, to appreciate our children. Instead, he chose to keep his child in the home of a deteriorating alcoholic. Again.

My biggest surprise of the evening came really in how little I care. I feel sympathy for my father. I feel annoyance and dread that Nina has found my phone number. But mostly, I just want everything to go back to the way it was 6 hours ago when they had their lives, I had mine, and the twain met only in emailed photos.

joy to the freaking world

Phone rings. I'm expecting a call from a friend, so I answer cheerily. And on the other end of the phone is my second worst nightmare. My worst nightmare? My mother, calling me from beyond the grave. Second worst? My step-mother, her doppelganger. And yes, of course she had been drinking.

So we stumble through the conversation, while I make sure she isn't calling to tell me something important happened to someone. Turns out the theories of persecution and abandonment are running rampant and I'm in trouble because I'm "distant" and they don't think I want to hear from them. Know why that's so funny? Because they moved. A year ago. And never bothered to tell me. But I'm the one who needs to keep in better touch. Ha ha.

Ten minutes later, she calls again, to let me know that she's emailed me all their new information. Yay.

Day goes on, I calm myself down. Then the phone rings ... and there she freaking is AGAIN! This time she's really drunk and hard to understand. As I'm processing my shock and trying to figure out how best to get off the phone, my father comes in at their house and she hands the phone off to him. So we talk, awkwardly. He gets my daughter's name wrong twice. Claims to have sent me his new email address twice. (For the record, he either sent it to the wrong address, or something else went wrong, because I never got them.)

Here's the thing. Actually, there are two things. The first one is that I am DONE with drunk women. I did that. Many, many times. I will not do it again. He wants to know why we don't have a relationship? Because I will not be on the other end of another drunk's maudlin phone calls. I did that with his first wife, and he left me to deal with her on my own. She is, mercifully, gone now to where hopefully she is finally happy, and so am I. I have earned the right not to have to deal with that anymore.

More on the second thing in a bit. Bedtime for little boys is coming up fast!

in charge vs. in control

So a quick post (while madly cleaning) before my ILs arrive for the holidays.

I noticed while first my aunt and then my MIL were here after Veronica was born that I was insanely detail-oriented. It seemed unusually so ... or I had always been like that and only just noticed, which I'm afraid is the actual case. I'd go out and immediately on coming back would see six or eight things that weren't "right" in my book. Every little thing out of place irritated me. And the fact that small things got to me so badly made me nervous, because I don't want to be one of those people who is so set in her ways that no one can do anything. It's not healthy for me, not constructive for the people around me, and not a good way to raise the kids.

I think the problem is the difference between being "in charge" of my home and being "in control" of it. Obviously, I run the house. But I think during the time after Veronica was born (and, not surprisingly, in general where my MIL is concerned), I was feeling in some way threatened in my basic autonomy.

So the key for me in the upcoming days (because Christmas as a chaotic holiday filled with activity, excitement, and general amounts of mess lends itself to some serious control issues anyway) is to remember that I don't have to be on top of every single detail, and it doesn't all have to be done my way, in order for me to retain my identity as the person "in charge" in my home. Wish me luck!

book report

Just went through a round of fiction: Elizabeth Peters, Night Train to Memphis and Erle Stanley Gardner, The Case of the Howling Dog and The Case of the Velvet Claws.

I read an article about Elizabeth Peters a while back, and her work sounded intriguing (she writes mysteries, and I was looking for a new series), so I picked one up. Made the mistake, however, of choosing the book by the title rather than the jacket description. So I got a book from a series set in the modern world, instead of one from the Victorian series. And I was not all that impressed. As a matter of fact, I was unimpressed enough that I didn't bother to finish it. Her main character seemed very plastic and the plot just didn't grab me. Very superficial, it seemed like, and a little too fast—not that the plot moved that fast, but the main character's voice (it was written in first person) made you wish she'd stop for a breath at some point.

Moving on to Gardner. I've reached the point in my attempt to reread my entire library that I can start on a really fun project—reading the works of prolific authors in the order in which the books were written. (I absolutely cannot wait to start on Agatha Christie that way. I'm saving her for last because I look forward to it so much!) I just finished reading my rather limited collection of Zane Grey in chronological order. I didn't find a lot of difference in his works over time, actually. He remained fairly consistent—but also highly formulaic.

So next up to reread in order, Gardner's Perry Mason mysteries. (They're my car books now, and will be for a while. Gardner wrote a lot!) So I read The Case of the Velvet Claws. And you could really tell it was an early one. Lots of description that's left up to the reader's imagination in the later books, and he clearly didn't have a handle on the sort of dry, factual, just short of hard-boiled style with a California tinge that he would develop later on. What was interesting, however, was The Case of the Howling Dog. I hadn't read that one before, and it was written just a year later than Velvet Claws. Later works don't have to describe Mason's style of lawyering, since the reader knows what to expect, but these early ones really do hit the note of what a different kind of lawyer he's supposed to be over and over. In both books, most of the scenes with Mason and Della Street, and even the ones with Mason and Paul Drake, really consisted of Mason trying to explain to his co-workers what his style is like. I have to say, I prefer the later ones, when he just does it and doesn't talk about it so much!

loss and healing

A dear friend's heart-breaking loss has me thinking about our lost baby. And the changes that have occurred since he was with us.

After Matthew died, I didn't believe I would ever hold my own living baby in my arms. And now I have three of them making my life chaotic, driving me crazy, and filling my home with laughter.

I thought I would feel guilty forever. I thought I should have been able to do something to save him, to take care of him, to keep him safe. I was his mother; that was my job. But over time I have stopped blaming myself, and I truly believe I did everything I could. It was never in my hands to begin with.

I have learned to say—and to believe—that everything happened the best way that it could have. We never had to watch him suffer, but we had him long enough to be able to look into his face. And if ever a person's personality was printed on his face, it was on his.

Writers on Writing

The other bedtime book I finished last night was Writers on Writing: Collected Essays from The New York Times. This was a gift from Lou, and when he initially gave it to me I was apprehensive. Most books "on writing" leave me feeling frustrated, inadequate, depressed, and generally irritable. Mostly because of the fundamental issue—no matter how many different opinions I read about how to write, I still don't have the a) time, b) discipline, c) guts (circle one) to actually sit down and do it. (Also, I'm not very good at taking directions!)

So I opened the book not expecting much. First few essays didn't grab me. But the farther I got into the book, the more delighted I became with what I found. First off, it's not a writer's guide. It's a collection of essays by writers on whatever facet of writing they found interesting at the time. An author named Mary Gordon discussed in great detail her love affair with the pens and paper she uses for writing. David Mamet wrote, essentially, a love letter to Patrick O'Brian. Barbara Kingsolver wrote about the difficulty of writing about sex. It was a glimpse into what occupied their minds, written as though they were writing to an equal, so I left the essays feeling that I had some insight into the writing life, rather than feeling (as often with books on writing) that I had been patronized and talked down to by someone who never thought I would actually cut it.

Some of what spoke to me:

"Never bother to say you'll sleep on anything. In the first place, you won't sleep; and in the second place, you've already agreed in your heart to do whatever you were supposed to sleep on." - Gail Godwin

"There is never enough time for writing; it is a parallel universe where the days, inconveniently, are also twenty-four hours long. Every moment spent in one's real life is a moment missed in one's writing life, and vice versa." - Gish Jen

"Writing novels bears some modest (very modest) comparison to grinding on the higher slopes of the PGA tour, magical afternoons bunkered by afternoons of routine or appalling play and reminding yourself every minute to trust your swing." - Ward Just

"The purpose of literature is to Delight." - David Mamet

"How can I create when I have to go to work, cook my dinner, remember what I did wrong to the people who have stopped calling? ... The answer is, always is, every day." - Walter Mosley

"How do you write? You write, man, you write, that's how, and you do it the way the old English walnut tree puts forth leaf and fruit every year by the thousands." - William Saroyan

and finally, from Susan Sontag, in an essay about the importance of reading to a writer that spoke to me from first to last:

"Is there a greater privilege than to have a consciousness expanded by, filled with, pointed to literature?"

W. H. Auden

I just finished Collected Shorter Poems, 1927-1957, and these are the quotes that caught my attention:

from "1929":

Happy only to find a home, a place
Where no tax is levied for being there.

from "First Things First":

Woken, I lay in the arms of my own warmth and listened
To a storm enjoying its storminess in the winter dark

and from "A Permanent Way":

And what could be greater fun,
Once one has chosen and paid,
Than the inexpensive delight
Of a choice one might have made?

(Finished both my bedtime books last night—I was so thrilled! Next up in poetry, for a little light bedtime reading, Coleridge. Look later for a review of Writers on Writing, which was a delightful surprise.)

give 'em an inch ...

And they poop in it. I let Greyson and Charles have some freedom to run around and play after they went up for naps, since Charles had fallen asleep earlier in the morning and I figured they might not be quite sleepy yet. And it turns out that while I thought they were settling down and finally falling asleep, Charles was removing his diaper and pooping all over the room. So my reward for not being evil Mommy and yelling at them every time I heard them out of their beds for an hour and a half was getting to hose poop off Charles and scrub it off their bedroom floor on my hands and knees. Blah.

weird ...

(Shalaa!)

I saw my father yesterday. ... In the pages of the alumni magazine for our mutual alma mater. It was extremely strange. I had read most of the way through, skipping through the pictures for Reunion 2005 except for the ones from the '90s, before it processed that a) his graduation year ended in 0, and b) I knew he'd been at his reunion.

I'm not feeling particularly sad or sorry for myself that the only time I've seen my father in over a year and a half has been in a picture ... but it was definitely strange!

figures ...

My daughter's best color - is pink.

let it snow!

Some parts of your childhood never leave you—like the feeling you get when you wake up in the morning and that particular shade of white light meets your eyes. The shade of light that makes your heart leap up and your brain say delightedly, "SNOW DAY!" It's nearly impossible to keep from rolling over and going back to sleep, toasty warm and feeling like you've been wrapped in cotton wool. (In a good way!)

Today is the first major snowstorm of the year. And it was so beautiful and perfect this morning: the nice light snowfall, everything covered in an even layer of white, and the world so quiet and still. Now it's more like a blizzard. The sky is dark grey, the snow is coming down hard and blowing hard ... and in the middle of the snowstorm is thunder and lightning. A moment ago there was a blinding flash of lightning and the longest roll of thunder I think I've ever heard. (There may be a power outage any minute. It has that feel.) And it's particularly awesome to be here watching the snow in a warm toasty house ... knowing that I don't have to go anywhere!

SNOW DAY!! :)

entertainment reviews III

Let's see if I can remember what I've finished reading. Ah, yes—

William C. Davis's A Taste for War was well worth the anticipation. I have seen him interviewed on a number of History Channel shows, and he definitely gives a good interview, so I was optimistic about his writing style. And it did not disappoint. Eminently readable, nice narrative flow, but still well researched and information-packed. Definitely up there with Ivor Noel Hume and David McCullough as my favorite historical writers thus far. A Taste for War also came equipped with a section of Civil War-era recipes, specified for the way the soldiers would have cooked, for pretty much everything you could think of, making it a fantastic resource for future writers. (It's replacement in bedtime reading has been a book of essays on writing, from a series that ran in the New York Times.)

Also read The Last Days of M*A*S*H, a photo-essay put out by Arlene and Alan Alda of the taping of the last episode of the series. I love M*A*S*H, think it's pretty much the best TV show ever, and enjoyed getting a glimpse into those days. (I saw Alan Alda interviewed on Conan O'Brien a week or so ago, and was a little startled—I watch a lot of reruns, and I'm used to seeing him looking in his 30s and 40s. He now looks quite a bit older than that! Still the same persona, though.)

And I watched Ninotchka, with Greta Garbo. (I'd seen a clip from it during a game of Scene It, and thought I'd watch the rest.) Unfortunately, the clip I saw was pretty much the best part. It was a watchable movie, definitely not a waste of time, but the chemistry between Garbo and Melvyn Douglas that brightened up the early part of the movie kind of faded as Garbo's character softened. (Also, said character became a lot less interesting as it softened.) The subject matter was quite a bit dated, as well. All in all, I can see it having been a good movie, but it doesn't hold up that well.

time management

I've toyed with all sorts of things. For a while, I had a sheet with assigned activities to assigned hours ... but life with three kids didn't really meld with assigned time-frames, kwim? Bottom line, I have no idea where the time goes or what I do with it half the time! I have my first post-three-kids journal in, so I'm trying to work that in. What I find works best for me is to make a list (I am definitely a list-maker!) and then do one thing, or part of one thing, from it every hour. So, 8:00, choose "Dining room" from the list, clean off the piano. 9:00, dining room table. 10:00, stuff off the floor, and so on. I feel like I let my kids entertain themselves (or make them entertain themselves?) most of the time, and I don't know how to work that in. The other stuff seems easier. The kids are unsurprisingly resistant to being put on a list and done when their number comes up!

I don't know. Right now I feel like my whole life is a self-improvement project. Greater efficiency, development of exercise regimen, healthier diet for us and the kids, better parenting, more patience, more and better quality time spent with the kids, cleaner house, more time for writing ... you get the picture! It's tiring just to think of it, and kind of makes me feel like a failure that there's so much of my life I seem to need so much improvement on. I'd try and tackle one thing at a time, but all of it needs to be worked on in equal levels of importance ... and I'm afraid if I put anything off, it will end up always on the "I'll work on it next year" list. Like writing has been for about 7 years now!

I guess the bottom line is I'm just not sure how to manage time with three kids and not feel guilty that something isn't your top priority. It was definitely better when there were just two - after Charles reached about 18 months. So I figure in about 16 months from now, I'll have a better handle on it! Also ... taking ideas for how to manage time and work on all those improvements in the meantime!

Christmas memories

Continuing with the theme: Christmas is pretty much the only time of year that I actively miss having a family of my own. Both in the general definition of the term, and the specific people, as well. Which is not a reflection on Lou's family—they are (in almost all cases) respectful of our autonomy, enjoy the whole mounds of presents and lots of good food aspect of the holidays (and provide many and much of both!), and just generally do Christmas well. But there's no getting around the fact that they aren't my folks.

So here goes: I miss ... my father's cooking. The roast beef, the mashed potatoes and his fantastic gravy, yum! The Tom & Jerrys and old-fashioned Christmas music with the living room covered in boxes of ornaments as we trimmed the tree. The big Christmas eggnog party with so many different types of people coming to visit. The twinkle in my mother's eyes when she had something under the tree for me that she was particularly enthusiastic about. The house I grew up in (I'm sure there will be more on that someday!). Going to pick out the Christmas tree with my dad—we were both drawn to "Charlie Brown" trees. I remember the one we got that had a nearly right-angle bend in its trunk in two locations. It was a fantastic tree! I still have pictures somewhere of every Christmas tree we ever had in that house.

Now, I grant you, most of those things didn't happen every year. And many of them happen just fine in their own way in our holidays today. And I really love the holidays with my husband and my kids and our own house, etc. But there is that indefinable something—a quality of the light, a set of remembered smells, a certain feel in the air, even—that lives in my head and says Harkey Christmas to me. And I am saddened that I will never have that again ... except in my memories.

Santa Claus

I love the holidays. The snow, the carolers, the food, the presents, shopping for the presents ... from the snowy bucolic bliss of the Dickensian vision to the bustle and chaos of the modern shopping mall and the flurry of wasted paper that fills the living room after presents. I just love the whole thing!

I've discovered that my favorite part—and one of my favorite hats to wear as a mom—is playing Santa! I got to match wits agains the retailers this year, when a toy I had set my heart on getting for the boys turned out to be sold out by December 1st, leading to a late-night journey hunting for it. (Found a crumpled version buried in the toy section at Walmart, then three pristine versions stuck on a ceiling-high overstock shelf back in the boys' clothes section. Felt a glow of accomplishment!)

A couple of years ago, I read a debate on Babycenter about Santa and what to tell your kids, and was completely startled by the concept of Santa Claus as a "lie". There are people who actually think that in teaching your child to believe in Santa, you're lying! I just can't imagine being that literal-minded. I mean, all fiction, all fantasy, all mythology ... it's all lies, if you must look at it that way. But without it, where are we? And Santa particularly is a magical part of a magical time of year. He's not all about the presents—he's about the snow, and the reindeer, and the silvery sound of bells on a moonlit night. I absolutely believe in Santa Claus, even more so now that I am one of the legions of Santas out there! And I can't wait until my kids are old enough to feel the same breathless anticipation and joy at the holiday season—and his imminent arrival—that I do!