bearing blog

bearing blog


bear – ing n 1  the manner in which one comports oneself;  2  the act, power, or time of bringing forth offspring or fruit; 3 a machine part in which another part turns [a journal ~];  4  pl comprehension of one’s position, environment, or situation;   5  the act of moving while supporting the weight of something [the ~ of the cross].

  • How to stop navel gazing.

    Every once in a while I have to step outside myself and take a critical look at how I’m feeling about this stay-at-home-mom thing.   It’s a checkup, an "Are you still okay with this?  Haven’t snapped yet?"   So far the answer is "Fine, thanks, no regrets, can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing."  I keep checking because intellectually I still find it a bit hard to believe that I can really be content in this life — two dozen years of jobs = exciting, motherhood = stifling conditioning dies hard.   When I first found myself at home, which happened before my PhD diploma even arrived in the mail, I must have asked myself every day or two.  The need to peek is getting less and less frequent as the months and now years (a bit more than 3) go by.  Maybe every two or three months now.  I guess I’m very slowly getting over myself.

    One part of this examination is the question — Why am I content?  This is an interesting question because the answer keeps changing.  It seemed at first to be because I was getting a badly needed break from working so damn hard, like I was on vacation with my kids.  After a few months of that, the answer seemed to change; now I was content because I recognized that my chosen field didn’t suit me, nor I it; it was good to be at home, where I could get my head together and figure out what I was really going to do with my life.   A few more years in and it is finally sinking in that this is what I am doing with my life.  Whether it’s what I should be doing is kind of irrelevant; every morning I wake up and I do a certain set of things, and what they make me is a parent at home, a homemaker, a homeschooler.

    Not someone on vacation (though many days still feel that way) and not someone taking time off from real life.  This is my real life.  Sometimes I like to imagine that I can go back in time and find myself when I was a senior in high school and tell her what lies in store.  I have some bad news and some good news.  Well, actually, most of it is really good news, but it’s not going to sound good from where you’re sitting, Little Miss Excellent SAT Scores.  Heh.

    So I guess the question why am I content is even more interesting than before, to me anyway, because the answer used to be because this bizarre situation I find myself in is not really my real life, and since then I’ve realized that I was wrong, it’s a permanent condition.  I don’t have to answer it, it’s wonderful enough that I am content, but I still keep holding this curiosity that is Erin-at-home-at-peace up to the light and squinting at it, looking for the flaw. 

    I don’t do it for very long, though, and each time less.  Eventually some perspective intrudes.  I should be embarrassed to be so self-absorbed.  The world is full of people who have dull, or difficult, or physically exhausting, or hateful, or painful, or treacherous jobs because they have to.  My "job" (whatever some may think) is not any of those things, at least no more than life must be once in a while.  All I need to remember:  How it would be to want to stay home with my kids and be unable to.   It’s a swift kick in the butt that makes me especially thankful I’m where I am.

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    1 comment on How to stop navel gazing.

  • Grumble.

    Week seven of the school year hit me like a brick wall.

    Everything was humming along fine, tightly scheduled and well oiled.  All the plates stayed in the air, you might say.  And then Mary Jane got an ear infection and I got Combo #7 (sore throat/stuffed sinuses/fatigue) and all the plates fell down.

    Oh, it wasn’t too bad.  We still finished school each day, and I still made it to pick up the dairy order on time, and we still had dinner on the table, MJ got to the pediatrician’s to have her ear treated before it got dangerously bad, and we still made it to our friends’ houses (although I forgot to bring tea snack one of the days).   Here is what didn’t happen:  I didn’t blog, I didn’t write up my school plan, I didn’t keep up any school records that week, and I didn’t do any housework.  The schoolroom became a pile of loose crumpled papers, the children ran out of clean clothes, MJ had to wear disposable diapers, and every night I fell asleep early and Mark got stuck cleaning up the dishes, counters, and floors.  I forgot my daily prayer, too, which perhaps had something to do with why I felt so rotten.

      Losing one week of school records isn’t all that important.   Skipping the half hour filling out my planning sheet was downright idiotic, because it would have helped me navigate the week’s potholes much more smoothly. 

    I don’t feel guilty about abandoning my share of the housework (maybe a little bit about sticking Mark with it though).  Of all my priorities it is the lowest.  Still, there’s a certain minimum that I wish I had made time for, only because there are certain tasks that, if they are not done, bother me.  I hate to have the breakfast dishes all over the counter until it’s time to make dinner, for example.  Our house has an open plan so I have to look at them all day if they are still there.  Maybe I would have felt less crazy if I’d at least kept the dishwasher moving and the counters more or less clear.

    And then there’s the prayer thing.  You know the  bubbly Catholic mama blogger script.  She explains how even if the dishwasher’s broken and the children are filthy and she’s six weeks behind on school and the bills aren’t, she always makes time for the Lord and knows deep down that it doesn’t really take time away from all her other duties because it Gives Her Strength To Go On and anyway she owes it to Him, etc. etc. etc.  This is a lesson and an attitude I have never been able to assimilate.  I admire it, but it’s kind of like admiring the Great Pyramids or some other superhuman work that I’ve read of but never actually seen or experienced in real life.

    Because when I have a bad week, the first thing to go kaput is my daily devotions.

    And it’s not like I picked difficult daily devotions.  After some years of trying different things, I settled on the Liturgy of the Hours, which given my personality is probably the easiest one to stick with.   I try to pray at least one office every day.  But I fail, a lot.

    Perhaps I should switch to trying every day to pray at least one office.

    Anyway, maybe I’ve got the cause and effect switched.  Maybe when my daily devotions go kaput the first thing that happens is I have a bad week.  Not that procrastinating away my appointment with the breviary (a bad euphemism for procrastinating away my appointment with a Person) causes sore throats and ruptured eardrums, but that I really have failed to ask for something that if asked would be given and that if given would ease the bumps of the week.  I know from my own experience that I have better days afterwards.  It’s kind of like a 6 AM bike ride in that way.  The hardest part is getting out the door; a few minutes into it, it feels great.

    And that’s not even counting the fact that prayer’s a duty as well as a pleasure. 

    Nothing to do but resolve to do better, eh?

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    3 comments on Grumble.

  • Caller ID.

    Neal at Literal-Minded tackles a subject that’s been on my mind:   the state of etiquette in a world of evolving communications technology.  Or, what’s the right way to deal with Caller ID?  Along the way he explains the linguistic concept of "common ground" or "CG." 

    Caller ID complicates the act of judging the contents of the CG. Let’s say I call a friend. His phone rings; he picks it up and says, “Hi!” Not the “Hello?” that you say in answering a call when you don’t know who’s calling, but the “Hi!” that means “Hey, it’s good to hear from you!” and would typically follow me saying, “Hi, this is Neal.” My friend must know it’s me calling. Not only that, he must expect me to know that he knows. Or at least, he judges the proposition that he knows it’s me calling to be unremarkable enough that I can accommodate it into the CG. Under what circumstances could he expect me to find this normal and not be freaked out over his previously unsuspected psychic abilities? He would have such an expectation if he believed the CG to contain the proposition that caller ID is common enough that most people will expect that most people have it. To sum up, just from his greeting, I can conclude that he believes our CG contains the propositions that: caller ID is very common; he has caller ID; he knows that it’s me calling him. Therefore, I can accommodate and proceed as if those propositions had indeed been part of our CG. In practical terms, this means I can skip the “This is Neal” part and go right to “How are you doing?”

    That case was the easiest one to resolve, since I can take my cue from how the person I call begins the conversation. But when I’m the one who has to start it, it’s more difficult. Suppose the phone rings and I see it’s some other friend calling me. Does he know I have caller ID? Maybe. I could just skip the Hello and go to the post-identification hi, and then, assuming that the caller isn’t taken aback wondering if I really know who called or am just being strange, the proposition that I have caller ID would definitely be part of our CG. But do I want that? It could lead to complications later on. I’d better just play it safe with the first-round hello, let my friend identify himself, and then fake a tone of pleasant surprise in the follow-up oh, hi! And hope my friend doesn’t say, “Oh, come on, Neal, I know you knew it was me. I saw you screening your calls with caller ID the last time I was at your house, remember?”

    I am a generally socially awkward person (probably somewhere on the Asperger’s spectrum, but I’m afraid to ask anyone knowledgeable about it), and I can testify that subconscious worry that I might get "caught" in situations like this has driven me to avoid the phone and email everyone about everything all the time.  At least when I can get away with it.

    (A bonus about Neal’s post:  There’s a link in the comments to a nifty logic puzzle that was new to me, too.  Have fun.)

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  • Spicy.

    The other day I was interrupted in Oscar’s schooling by a retching noise coming from the bathroom.  "Excuse me," I said to Hannah, who was working with Ben on the other side of the table, and leaned back in my chair until I could see down the hall.  Milo was standing feet wide apart, bent at the waist, fists on his hips, throwing up on the floor.  "Stay there!  Lean over the toilet!"  I called.  "I’ll be there in a minute."  I went the long way round, to grab paper towels and cleaner on my way, and headed for the bathroom, wrinkling my nose against the telltale sour smell as I started to ask Milo if he was okay. 

    Except there wasn’t a sour smell.  Instead, the bathroom was downright… fragrant.  Redolent of homemade apple pie, perhaps.   And … I’m sorry if this is too much information… the sad little puddle on the floor was suspiciously brown and powdery. 

    I turned to Milo.  "Did you just eat a whole lot of cinnamon?"

    "No, no, no," he told me, wide-eyed, as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, leaving a brown smear.

    I thought for a minute and changed my frown to a sympathetic expression.  "Milo, did you eat only one spoon of cinnamon?"

    He grinned and nodded vigorously.  "Only one spoon."

    I scolded him gently, cleaned it up, gave him some Pepto-Bismol, cleaned it up again a few minutes later, and he skipped off to play.  Later I found a tablespoon in the open jar of cinnamon.  It must’ve really been irritating.  I can’t think how he choked it down in the first place.

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  • Imitrex report.

    Since receiving a prescription last month, I’ve now had the "opportunity" to take Imitrex for two migraines.  One struck while I was on vacation; I’d packed a single tablet, just in case.  The  most recent struck yesterday evening — unusual timing for my migraines, which usually hit me mid-morning and not generally during a menstrual period.

    Verdict?  I think it helped.  Both times I was able to swallow the tablet within five minutes of the onset of symptoms, i.e., as soon as I realized that the speck-sized blind spot was more than just dazzle from reflected sunlight.   The blind spot didn’t go away.   Just like every other one, it grew into a crescent, expanded to fill half my visual field, and swiftly passed beyond the periphery, lasting a bit more than an hour.  But it wasn’t followed by intense sinus pressure, crushing fatigue, and debilitating nausea.  The only symptoms that remained were a significant, but non-crushing, tiredness (I needed a nap) and a residual craving for carbohydrates (a butter-and-cheese sandwich did the trick). 

    In other words, each time I still suffered a migraine, but one that was similar to the mildest of all the migraines I have suffered previously.  It still would have prevented me from driving or operating heavy machinery, but it might have been mild enough that I wouldn’t have had to call Mark to come home from work and take over the children while I huddled in bed with the drapes drawn.

    So I think I’m going to keep it around.

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  • “Tell me more about how you simplified your dinner menu please?”

    That was the question in response to this post (or rather, to an identical post to an email list) describing our bedtime routine.  That’s what I get for tossing off an ending like "I have to say that this all got a lot easier after I radically simplified the weeknight dinner menu." 

    My correspondent went on:  "I have a 13yr old, a 5 yr old and an 18 month old – and a hubby who gets home at 6.30 (after the kids have eaten… they get so hungry!)"

    So… two separate problems.  One, the children are hungry before dinnertime; two, dinnertime is too complicated.   

    Hungry children:  Tea-time.

    The first thing I suggested: try having a small sit-down meal or substantial snack ready around 3:30, if your kids are homeschooled like mine, or right after your bigger ones get home from school
    if they’re not.  We call ours "tea time."  I got this idea (indirectly) from homeschooling writer Elizabeth Foss, and thought I was too busy for it, but finally got around to trying it this school year and now I wonder how I ever got by without it.  How did I find the time?  I just moved a block of "story time" from morning to afternoon, and tea is during stories.

    I make tea or coffee for myself and pour milk for the kids, and I set the table with small plates and set out a snack.  We have never been a processed food family, but for this meal (because of limited time) I usually use better-quality packaged foods like wholegrain cookies or frozen organic pizza pockets or something else that I am certain everyone will be happy to see on their plates.   I don’t usually eat the snack (I don’t need it!) but I sip my tea and read stories aloud while they eat, for about half an hour. When they finish, we clear the table, and right after that is when I start dinner.

    It’s not meant to fill the kids up, just to tide them over till dinner at 5:30 or 6; so each child gets, oh, four cookies.  I’m also hoping to use this to teach "It’s a nice thing to have just a little bit of a treat —
    we don’t have to eat the whole bag of cookies."  If your kids are hungry before dinner, this is the way to go.

    We sit all together for our tea time, but if you have school kids and they come home at different times, I think it could also be nice to prepare a snack for them when they each come home, and have tea with them individually while they have their snack.  A good way to connect and "collect" at the end of the day.

    Crazy evenings:  Simplified meal-planning.

    I used to cook pretty elaborate stuff, because I like to cook.  I had to give up elaborateness in the last couple of years, except maybe on weekends, and now I try to achieve lovely simplicity instead. 

    I have always been a meal planner and have always sat down once a week the day before the grocery trip, decided on the menu each day for the coming week, and made the list at the same time.  It’s a habit from my elaborate-cooking single days that has continued to serve me well, three children into my family   But there was still room for one big change.

    I used to select meals based solely on what I felt like making or eating that week.  Now my first thought is "What’s going on that day?  What kind of meal preparation will fit best in?"  So, for
    example, this week:

    • Monday I am running errands most of the day, so it’s a perfect day to put something in a slow cooker and have cold cut-up vegetables on the side.
    • On Tuesday I was spending all day at a friend’s house, meeting dh at the gym and handing over the kids, and then rushing to a meeting.  The answer for that day was "No cooking at all!" so I planned sandwiches and fruit.
    • Wednesday I knew I would be home all day, so I could plan something that would take me about an hour from start to finish; I planned thin pork chops cooked in the skillet plus a roasted veg plus a steamed veg. 
    • Friday I expect dh will be home early and so I will have him pick up some fish on the way home to put on the barbecue grill.

    So now I no longer think about meals in categories like

    • "beef"
    • "vegetarian"
    • "pork"
    • "fish."   

    I think of them in categories like

    • "slow cooker in my house all day"
    • "takes one hour and requires attention"
    • "takes 3 hours of occasional checking"
    • "takes 10 minutes on the stove top if the prep is done in advance"
    • "can be made in the morning and sit on the counter all day"
    • "need to take the slow cooker with me to my friend’s house so I can add something half way"

    and things like that.   I have written about my meal-planning algorithm before in more detail.

    I don’t plan ahead my breakfasts and lunches and teatimes much, although you may.    Our family eats only a few kinds of simple breakfasts and a few kinds of sandwichy lunches, and packaged stuff
    for tea, and I just try to have the stuff on hand so I can make one or the other in ten minutes.  Dh takes leftovers for lunch.  If you do plan breakfasts and lunches (and teatimes) at the start of the week, I recommend thinking of your "days" as beginning with dinner and ending with lunch (or
    teatime) on the following day, which helps for planning things like "roast chicken on Monday night dinner, chicken salad for Tuesday lunch." 

    (Tonight:  Minestrone soup.  The beef stock is already going in the crock-pot; I started it Friday night, so it should be nice and rich by this evening.)

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  • What started with “Why do they hate us?” became “Why does He love us?”

    Just one line in one 9/11 comment  — a line that resonated with me more than I expected.

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  • A dubious distinction for my alma mater.

    Ohio State has adopted a speech code that bars students in the dormitory from joking about "differences related to race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, gender, ability, socioeconomic background, etc.”

    According to FIRE, which awards it the "speech code of the month" designation, this is the first "do not joke" university speech code. 

    "Threatening" to inflict "emotional harm" — whatever that means — is also prohibited.   

    Do the administrators who come up with these even know about the First Amendment?

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  • Bedtime routine, condensed.

    A member of an email list I belong to feels frantic in the evenings.  She has one toddler.  She asked, What are your bedtime routines like?

    Let me think back to when I had one toddler (I now have a homeschooled 7yo, a nearly 4yo, and a 1-yo)… My evenings were extra manic because I was in graduate school part time while dh worked part time, and I often left in the evening and came home for a late supper.  Well, here’s what we did then on evenings when I wasn’t leaving to work…

    – By that time (I think) we had gotten rid of our TV.  We lived in a small apartment, not hard to keep clean, at the time.
    – I was in charge of dinner; I tended to start cooking it after dh got home around 5:15 pm, while he held/played with the baby.  But I might have it ready when he got home.  We had dinner together with ds.
    – At the time, b/c we both "worked," we shared housework in the evenings, I did very little during the day, and so cleaning up was part of the routine.  We did this more or less together and I guess you could say that was our time to talk to each other about our day and reconnect.
    – If we had time we might go to friends’ houses in the evening for tea and dessert.  These were CC-type friends with children, so we’d bring ds along. 
    – We went to bed as a family.  At that time my husband and I did not even TRY to get *cough* quality time in the evening (although if ds happened to fall asleep early we’d enjoy it).  Ds slept deeply in the morning so that was more a morning thing with us.  I always liked having a leisurely quiet breakfast and coffee with just dh and me.

    Now I have three children, including a toddler, and the evening routine is quite different.   I no longer work or study outside the home.  I strive to have dinner ready when dh gets home or soon after, unless for some reason he’s cooking.  We have a more leisurely dinner, and the older two have specific jobs related to dinner cleanup.  Some nights we’re going to a friends’ house for tea still, some nights are "family gym night" when we all go to the Y, some nights we catch up on housework together, some nights we relax.  We always end with a hearty bedtime snack at 8:30 — dh is in charge of that — and stories. 

    When my oldest started "formal" schooling he began to have a 9 pm bedtime.  He is allowed to read in his room as long as he wants after that and chooses when to go to sleep.  My middle child needs "veg time" to go to sleep.  Right now — please don’t laugh — we are using National Geographic shows on the video iPod for that!  We set him up with headphones/iPod on the couch while dh and I tidy the first floor (and have some more of the same kind of quality time/housework we’ve settled for since we had our first!).  Usually he is asleep in 20 minutes and we carry him up to bed.  Either the baby goes to bed with dh and I, or if she’s very tired I take her up when my oldest goes to bed and nurse her to sleep, then come down to help dh finish the housework.   The last thing I do before bed is gather things I need first thing in the morning, e.g. pack the diaper bag, make sure I have the schoolwork materials ready to go, etc.

    I have to say that this all got a lot easier after I radically simplified the weeknight dinner menu.

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  • “How the Sumerians made Tablets and How They Made Them”, a narration by Oscar, age 7.

    I made a cylinder seal by taking some clay, rolling it up into a cylinder, and then carving my initials in it with a toothpick. We made a hole in the middle of the cylinder: we put a wire through the clay when it was not baked, and then we wiggled it around. And then we put it in the oven.

    And when it was done, we took some clay; we made it into a square; and then we rolled the cylinder seal on it to make a tablet. Then we put it into the oven to bake, and when it was done we took pictures of it. And we made the cylinder seal into a necklace.

    We did a cylinder seal for us to learn about the Sumerians and what they did to make tablets. They used clay tablets to make writing on; like, if you were going to make a message to your friend, and you were with the Sumerians a long time ago, that’s how you would send messages and things. They would make them out of mud, mud-clay, not our clay. They would do the same thing as we did, only it was different because they carved the letters out with a reed stem.

    The Sumerians lived between two rivers called the Tigris and the Euphrates. They liked living in the middle of two rivers because then they could float down the rivers to go other places.

    Cylinder_seal_004   Cylinder_seal_002

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  • The hidden cost of fashion.

    Pam at HMS Blog doesn’t think a handbag ought to cost $52,000.  Of course, this only reveals the naivete of someone who doesn’t understand the complexities of the handbag industry.  Like so many others she seems to think that the price of the handbag ought only to reflect the incremental cost of rolling one specimen off the production line, or perhaps the value of the components (in this case scraps of recycled Louis Vuitton bags) plus production labor. But what about all the other costs that the average consumer does not stop to consider?

    For example, there’s advertising. It was expensive enough back when the handbag companies were only allowed to advertise meaningfully to wardrobe consultants and other professionals. Sure, the ads in the industry journals weren’t cheap, and all those ball point pens, key chains, and sticky-note pads emblazoned with the LV logos and handed out at the big fashion conventions, those could really add up. But now that advertising directly to the consumer is possible, every handbag designer has to put a full-page ad in every publication from Ladies Home Journal to Fine Homebuilding to American Quilter even to think of competing. And that’s not even counting the cost of advertising at major sporting events. If Gianni Q. Public isn’t thinking about buying a new Coach wallet when he’s pulling out a tenner for a beer at the NASCAR race, the marketers have already failed. And that means they have failed the American people.

    And then, of course, one must pay the lawyers. When some poor elderly woman on a fixed income gets lead poisoning from licking the grommets on that "handbag" she bought off the street while she was taking that bus trip to Canada, the handbag companies have to shell out a lot of dough to defend themselves, protect their brand, and keep the public believing in the integrity of their products.

    But the real cost of handbag design, of course, is already spent long before the first model slings the first sample of a new product over her bony shoulder and slouches out into the glare of the runway lights. I’m talking, of course, about research and development. The R and D investment in a new handbag design can far outweigh the cost of actually producing and selling the handbag, and the price structure really has to reflect this. Imagine the field researchers carefully isolating new materials from samples of ecologically-harvested rainforest species, hoping against hope that one of them will turn out to produce a previously impossible style. Think of the pearly-eggshell-coated textile scientists, toiling away with their fabric swatches and test tubes, combining toiles with leathers to see which ones produce a reaction. Think of the elite-educated grommet engineers, slowly going deaf from the low-frequency whine of the servohydraulic fatigue analysis system as they clamp yet another buckle design into the impact tester. Think of the human factors engineers with their computerized test dummies, measuring clavicular stress day in and day out. Consider the focus groups. 

    I bet you have never considered the focus groups. 

    It’s especially enlightening to consider how revenue from those handbags that actually have a sizable market are used in effect to subsidize the production of handbags that coordinate only with the rarest of outfits. The sufferers from VRWMs (very rare wardrobe malfunctions) are, thank the Lord, few in number and concentrated in only a tiny fraction of the world’s population centers, but by gum, even if the market for those products will never be large enough on its own to economically justify their production, those people deserve handbags that relieve their conditions as much as you and I do.

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  • Put ’em to work as soon as they can walk.

    September_kids_004 September_kids_005

    September_kids_002

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