giving everything

The other night I wasn't ready to settle into my novel. (War and Peace, can you believe it? Gabriel was born halfway through; nearly six years later, I am trying again). So I casually started flipping through the New Yorker and ended up reading Anthony Lane's profile of Scarlett Johansson.

At first I felt mildly disoriented by the tone, but found I couldn't stop reading, despite a mounting sense of unease and vague moral ick. By reading the profile I was participating in Lane's drooling objectification of someone that I assume has thoughts and feelings of her own. Oh, it was so weird and unsettling. Later Mike told me he'd read a critique in Slate so I guess I wasn't the only one to pick up on his "inappropriate uncle-creepiness."

Anyway. The beginning of the piece described the photographer directing Johansson to "give me nothing...absolutely nothing." As in, wipe the expression from your face. Empty out your eyes. Lane admires her ability to instantly vacate and muses that in giving nothing, she in fact gives everything.

What does that mean? Gives all the power to the viewer, and the viewer's fantasies? Suddenly I began seeing models in magazine ads who had been directed to give nothing all over the place. Parted lips, staring eyes, completely expressionless. 

And I am just about the least sophisticated cultural critic you'll find, and I guess this is old news to you and your dog too, but Lane's version of "giving everything" makes me want to cry. It's violence, it's dehumanizing, and once you start to notice, it's everywhere. Why do we like to look at women with nothing behind their eyes? Don't answer, I know, and it's awful. 

When my children fight I tell them to apologize while looking at each other with love in their hearts. When they aren't ready to make up they can't look at each other at all, because their eyes are, like most people I know, the windows to their souls. 

Their faces register a thousand feelings, and especially with new little Beatrice, when we lock eyes her heart is wide open. Such a penetrating, unguarded stare! She really does give everything, and without a thought one freely gives everything in return.

But I think that is because she is human, and because she is loving and loved. Asking her (or anyone) to affect deadness where there is so much overflowing life would be to make her less human. 

Am I making too much of this? Mike is away this weekend and I am coming off a beautiful warm spring day spent outdoors with my kids, followed by a lovely evening in which I decided to just say yes and let them stay up too late watching a movie (My Neighbor Totoro, we adored every minute). I am finishing this day with a blessed sense of connection and gratitude. So I might be extra sensitive to the cultural forces that work to separate us and encourage us to perceive women as husks, as less-than-human. But at least tonight, I am determined to sheild my daughters (and my son!) from all the pictures of nothing people, at whom you cannot look with love in your heart. 

all of life

When the children got back to the grown-ups, there the picnic was, all spread out on a khaki-colored old army blanket. They had sandwiches, hard eggs, bananas, dill pickles, potato salad, baked beans, baked ham, jelly doughnuts, and homemade chocolate cake. After eating as much as they possibly could Gramma said, "Now, take a little nap."

Naturally the children did not want to take a little nap and miss all of life. 

I think that final sentence is one of the more perfect I have encountered in recent memory. One reads it well into Ginger Pye by Eleanor Estes (well enough that Gramma's ineffectiveness re: inducing naps has long been established), a book so good that Frances could not resist its allure (again) and ended up listening to the last 50 or 60 pages or so with her brother over the weekend.

What is it about that sentence? The use of "naturally," the musical rhythym that stops up short, the feeling of an arrow letting loose and suddenly hitting its mark, and of course, the sentiment. It made me laugh, because that is just how it feels as a child. If you are forced to take a break from the action you will certainly miss out on ALL OF LIFE. The stakes are in fact that high.

It's funny, but it's serious too. There is so much excellent life out there to partake of, to taste and see, and sleeping - voluntarily, no less - smells a little of mortality. At least I think so. (Have you read Goodnight Moon? You see what I mean.)

I am coming off of St. John's spring break, during which I longed for spring, shoveled snow, and managed to achieve one long-standing goal: assembling an album of our wedding pictures. This involved finding the photos - which for years I secretly feared were lost and had been too scared to look for because what if I discovered they actually were lost - deep in our basement, tucked, as it turns out, in a large poorly-labeled cardboard box. I printed some photos I had on a CD, sorted various snapshots, and day by day slowly put the thing together.

It was nearly twelve years ago! We were so young, and so much had yet to happen. Graduate school was waiting, the children were tiny twinkles, and I had not even crossed paths with so many people who would become important to me. And yet, strangely, it doesn't seem like a long time ago at all.

We watched Enough Said over the weekend. The cast was charming, and I mostly floated through the movie being pleasantly entertained with the exception of one scene that I can only describe as brutal, during which parents say an achingly real goodbye to their college-bound daughter at the airport.

My stars. I cried like a baby. Mike turned to me and said, "We only have 10 years left."

It will happen, and we will wonder where all the time went. I was ready to throttle Frances today (snow day #732 will do it to any parent) but oh, oh, I really don't want to walk those airport corridors with Mike one day and feel like I squandered it. Like I was too short-tempered, too impatient, too distracted to really appreciate her complicated, annoying, glorious eight year old self.

And Beatrice...! Having a big kid and a baby at the same time leaves you with no illusions. She will be rolling her eyes at me and slamming the door any minute now.

And Gabriel...! He wanted to read aloud to me tonight. And he did. And his two front teeth are about to fall right out of his head.

Well. Naturally I don't want to take a nap and miss all of life. So here I am, back on the blog, the place where I reach out for those ephemeral moments and colors that are shifting into something new even as I write.

(Blame the season for my rather grown up boggled-by-time vibe tonight. I am approaching the anniversary of my dad's death (this year it makes as many years without him as I had with him, a strange thought) and always feel extra vulnerable to the exquisite beauty of the changing world at this time of year, right on the cusp of spring.)

baby uno

Today is the first day of my spring break at St. John's. I've been looking forward to this interlude for a long time, imagining organizing, hanging pictures, embarking on teeny-tiny home improvements, writing, reading, and soaking in lots of one-on-one Beatrice time while the big kids are in school during the day.

Except, as it turns out, they will never go to school again. Snow days have fallen upon us like a plague this winter and there is no end in sight.

After Beatrice's morning nap I sat down with her at the table to give her a snack, and Frances and Gabriel joined me with a deck of Uno cards in hand. The competitive spirit was fierce from round one, albeit a little wild and loony (imagine Frances singing 'I'm not your friend anymore!' in faux opera style everytime a draw four wild was pointed in her direction). I was distracted by the mess Bea was making with hummus, and the kids could not keep straight whose turn it was, what with all those reverses. Snippiness was brewing.

When Beatrice was finished snacking, she was desperate to get out of her seat and into my lap, so I complied. She immediately began grabbing aggressively at cards and trying to participate in the game. Everytime she snagged one she'd look at it with big eyes, make a noise, then earnestly pass it to Frances or Gabriel, nodding her head encouragingly. Here, take it, you'll need this.

It was cute for a minute, but then she drove them crazy with her unreason and absurdity. They were both trying to win after all. Mama! they whined. Make her stop!!!

That's when I suggested we play Baby Uno instead. We took all the cards onto the floor, and basically gave in to the spirit of the day, throwing them in the air, "dealing" handfuls of cards at each other, shouting Uno! at random, and letting Beatrice go absolutely nutso with joy spreading them all over the place. 

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

a conversation

While Gabriel was climbing into bed, I stood by his dresser and picked up a piece of black construction paper folded over itself many times and sealed with copious amounts of scotch tape. There was something heavy and hard inside.

I said Gabriel, what is this?

-It's paper, folded around a rock.

Oh. ...Do you need it? Can I throw it away?

-Well, it's actually a rock I found a long time ago, in 2012. It's the oldest rock I have. So I'd really like to keep it.

Okay.

-Mama, I found it in the middle of 2012. So that is more than a year and a half ago! Which is pretty old for a rock.

Yes.

-And actually - actually - I found it outside, so it's probably a lot older than that even.

You're probably right.

-I should definitely keep it. ... Mama, doesn't it seem weird that it will be two thousand and twenty one day?

Yes! It seems very weird.

-And I'll probably be like, ten. Or maybe eleven.

You will be eleven.

Then I showed him how to add five, the age he is now, to six on his fingers. Then he told me that thirty plus thirty is sixty, because three plus three is six. And also fifty plus fifty is one hundred! After a few more exciting math revelations, he told me a little about sharks, and then I told him it was time to have his routine and go to sleep.