Hello, friends,
I think this may be my last post. I had a friend ask me last night if I was going to keep this going after Easter. At the moment, I think the answer is no. But I will say that returning after so long to doing some writing, which always requires reflection and centeredness to some degree, has felt very good. Thank you to any and all of you who have been reading. A blog is a funny thing -- you don't know who's out there. But it's the same, really, with any writing and readers, unless you're reading aloud to an audience.
I have not been as disciplined as I'd hoped or intended. But I don't feel too bad about that. It was still a discipline and a practice and an opportunity I chose to take for myself.
Today is the day that Christians remember Jesus's crucifixion. For me, it is such a powerful story that grows in its meanings and dimensions every year. All the characters are all of us and speak to me differently each time I hear the story. In high school my youth group performed the passion each Palm Sunday. It was stylized and stripped down with great live acoustic music and very moving. I played Pontius Pilate a couple of years and Peter a couple of years. If I were to do it today, I would suggest and maybe insist on playing Jesus. Such small-minded casting! ;) Jesus was always a guy, and someone with dark hair, usually a person of color. Anyway.
But I do remember at some point in my youth being taught that the story wasn't supposed to just be one of tragedy and sadness at a good man being killed, but to understand my place in that story, including as one of the people yelling "crucify him!" That is an uneasy role to truly inhabit, but in adulthood, it makes a lot more sense to me, as does Peter's and Judas' betrayals. And the story is so political! That part of it has really expanded for me as I've grown older. This was in no way an individual experience but very, very collective and all about the politics. Last Sunday I heard, seemingly for the first time, that Pilate's wife sent him a note telling him not to sentence Jesus -- she'd had a dream telling her that he was innocent. (Apparently, this detail only shows up in the gospel of Matthew.) But what a very interesting detail! Interesting because of the kind-of supernaturalness of it and it's one of the moments when a female character enters into the story. But one thing I really like about the Bible is that it really seems like just the scaffolding of the stories. Bamboo, pine, aluminum scaffolding that has been wrapped, soldered together, taped, bound, reinforced, braced, and rebuilt hundreds of times through retellings and translations. I know there are a lot of religious people who would disagree with me -- "The Word of God" stuff -- but it just doesn't make sense to me any other way. In the breaking and putting back together, there are just these glimpses of truth or meaning in The Word, whether read or heard, acted or sung, where some kind of sense is made, even if it's nonsense. That beauty compells me to return to it, to love it, to remain in relationship with it.
So I think about Pilate's wife. She certainly did live. And I suspect she had a dream and she told Pilate about it and told him not to condemn Jesus. But all the details are just for us to imagine! What was that dream like? She apparently "suffered much last night because of it", but what was that suffering like? Was it a terrifying nightmare that she couldn't wake up from? Or when she woke she knew it was real and not a dream? Did she do something other than send Pilate a note? Maybe she screamed at him when she was serving him scrambled eggs and toast or when he was looking for the pin for his toga or taking a piss before heading out for the day. Was she powerless to override the political power her husband had, but tried to use her personal power? And what happened that night, and the ensuing nights, after Jesus was crucified? Maybe she was one of the women at the tomb early on Sunday. Maybe she refused to have sex with him ever again. But what was her relationship and interaction with Pilate like? It's clear that Pilate was torn -- he didn't want Jesus crucified and didn't think he was guilty. But he also wasn't willing to stand up the the screaming crowds -- he just washed his hands of it, like a good liberal.
Well, ha ha ha! I just read about Pilate's wife on wikipedia and discovered, hardly to anyone's surprise, that there has been much written about her (Procula/Claudia) and her dream, and they have made their way into about a million pieces of art. :)
So, this is hardly a conclusion to my writing, but it is a little reflection on the day and how I'm responding to it.
I wish you peace, every one of you, and the joy of the Easter season.
Briana
Friday, April 22, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
this morning
This morning I was assigned to serve jury duty at the municipal court. One of the many benefits of living where I do meant that I could easily walk there from my house -- less than 15 minutes. The time I needed to report meant that I could sleep later and also take Mallika to daycare beforehand. Very nice.
It always pays to change your daily routine, the same way that it always pays to change your process or aesthetic as an artist.
It is an incredibly humid day today and one weather report forecasts a high of 98 this afternoon. But the morning is still tolerable and I walked south toward the hub of government, the law, and business. These days, there's not a whole lot of difference between them. I saw a few office workers, a few construction workers, a few homeless people, and a lot of guys in flappy suits making their way in the general direction of the Capitol, and even one with his car key in his mouth as he squinted at the parking meter, the back door of his shiny white SUV open to the sidewalk. I saw what I thought would make a very good photograph -- the hazy hot air with the Charlie's sign with its new pride rainbow in front of the dome of 1st UMC in front of the dome of the Capitol.
I said good morning to everyone I passed and noted their responses. I saw the sandwich shop already lining up their shredded lettuce, veggies, sauces, meats and cheeses for the office lunch rush. I saw the country store that's been boarded up forever and the big graffiti on the inside wall. I noticed that the TX State Teachers' Association and AFL-CIO offices are right in the middle of all the government buildings for the county and state and the lawyers' offices and bail bondsmen's shops. People in suits come out of the swinging doors of the AFL-CIO building; one of them is wearing a cowboy hat.
I turn to go west toward the criminal justice center and recall the various times I'd been at the county commissions' court when I was an organizer -- public forums and scheduled meetings, lots of citizen pressure being put on those elected officials, sometimes with success. Jobs, water, prison, law enforcement, immigration -- those were the primary issues. The county is an interesting governmental entity, simultaneously high-falutin' in that old-timey Texan kind of way and also very very lowbrow. The lighting was always bad in there and the main conference room always had boxes stacked up in it.
The criminal justice center reminds me of the night spent out on the sidewalk after the big march to protest the start of the Iraq war, though I admit that I really am beginning to lose track of which war is which and which war is supposedly not a war anymore. Friends and acquaintances were locked up for civil disobedience and we were waiting and keeping watch. What I remember best from that night was the verbal and emotional choque between Mohan and an irritated, angry white guy who was walking along the sidewalk. I don't remember the words exchanged, but I felt how things could turn on a dime -- a blow, a punch, a kick.
This morning as I approached the courthouse entrance, I heard someone outside practicing the piano and knew it was one of the ones that's been put around the city by an arts collective in town. When I left, I stopped by. I think it was the same guy practicing.
In the lobby hallway of the courts, a lot of white people waited, a lot of young men -- mostly Latino and Black -- talked to flappy, floppy lawyers. or, rather, listened to them, and looked over a lot of printed material. People went in and out of doors a whole lot.
When we were finally called into the court room, the judge, a white woman, sat up on the dias. Every last potential juror was white. Every last person already in the courtroom to our right was a person of color.
We sat down and the judge greeted us as if we were at an amusement park ride. She commented that she knew a lot of us, and then informed us that she had already made it through her relatively short docket and our services were not needed. She thanked us for our service and we all got up and left. I walked home.
It always pays to change your daily routine, the same way that it always pays to change your process or aesthetic as an artist.
It is an incredibly humid day today and one weather report forecasts a high of 98 this afternoon. But the morning is still tolerable and I walked south toward the hub of government, the law, and business. These days, there's not a whole lot of difference between them. I saw a few office workers, a few construction workers, a few homeless people, and a lot of guys in flappy suits making their way in the general direction of the Capitol, and even one with his car key in his mouth as he squinted at the parking meter, the back door of his shiny white SUV open to the sidewalk. I saw what I thought would make a very good photograph -- the hazy hot air with the Charlie's sign with its new pride rainbow in front of the dome of 1st UMC in front of the dome of the Capitol.
I said good morning to everyone I passed and noted their responses. I saw the sandwich shop already lining up their shredded lettuce, veggies, sauces, meats and cheeses for the office lunch rush. I saw the country store that's been boarded up forever and the big graffiti on the inside wall. I noticed that the TX State Teachers' Association and AFL-CIO offices are right in the middle of all the government buildings for the county and state and the lawyers' offices and bail bondsmen's shops. People in suits come out of the swinging doors of the AFL-CIO building; one of them is wearing a cowboy hat.
I turn to go west toward the criminal justice center and recall the various times I'd been at the county commissions' court when I was an organizer -- public forums and scheduled meetings, lots of citizen pressure being put on those elected officials, sometimes with success. Jobs, water, prison, law enforcement, immigration -- those were the primary issues. The county is an interesting governmental entity, simultaneously high-falutin' in that old-timey Texan kind of way and also very very lowbrow. The lighting was always bad in there and the main conference room always had boxes stacked up in it.
The criminal justice center reminds me of the night spent out on the sidewalk after the big march to protest the start of the Iraq war, though I admit that I really am beginning to lose track of which war is which and which war is supposedly not a war anymore. Friends and acquaintances were locked up for civil disobedience and we were waiting and keeping watch. What I remember best from that night was the verbal and emotional choque between Mohan and an irritated, angry white guy who was walking along the sidewalk. I don't remember the words exchanged, but I felt how things could turn on a dime -- a blow, a punch, a kick.
This morning as I approached the courthouse entrance, I heard someone outside practicing the piano and knew it was one of the ones that's been put around the city by an arts collective in town. When I left, I stopped by. I think it was the same guy practicing.
In the lobby hallway of the courts, a lot of white people waited, a lot of young men -- mostly Latino and Black -- talked to flappy, floppy lawyers. or, rather, listened to them, and looked over a lot of printed material. People went in and out of doors a whole lot.
When we were finally called into the court room, the judge, a white woman, sat up on the dias. Every last potential juror was white. Every last person already in the courtroom to our right was a person of color.
We sat down and the judge greeted us as if we were at an amusement park ride. She commented that she knew a lot of us, and then informed us that she had already made it through her relatively short docket and our services were not needed. She thanked us for our service and we all got up and left. I walked home.
Monday, April 18, 2011
holy week begins
Mallika and I went to Palm Sunday Mass this weekend to start Holy Week off right. We even managed to arrive only five minutes late in spite of a temper tantrum in response to Mallika's papa not allowing her to watch another elmo youtube video.
Much later in the afternoon, however, we had her most major tantrum to date. Oooo wee. Talk about a tornado, a tsunami and a volcano all rolled into a 23-pound frame and a couple of lungs. I think we were all still recovering late last night, especially the adults.
What happened was that Mallika had fallen asleep in the car at the end of an afternoon outing and woke up as I tried to put her down to continue her nap. She most often naps with her papa on the "big bed" (i.e. not her toddler bed) and it's crucial to close the bedroom door to contain what can sometimes be a very physically circuitous route to getting prone on top of the mattress. So I was in the living room, Mohan and Mallika were in the bedroom settling in, but then Mallika decided she wanted to leave the room. Then she decided she wanted me. Then she realized she wanted me to hold her. And THEN she realized neither of the big people were going to open the door for her. Crying ensued, as did scraping at and under the door, letting us know what a pitiful captive she was. None of that is unusual, really, but it typically lasts just a few minutes. Not the case with yesterday.
The storm just built and built and built to the point where I took the cell phone, stepped out into the corridor, and called Mohan on the land line in order to consult. Should we open the door? Should I try to lie down with her? Were we being cruel? Was my heart going to shatter listening to her cry, "Amma, hold you!" (meaning "hold me") a million times in a row? We concluded we should stick with it, mainly because Mallika has developed the habit in recent weeks of throwing a tantrum whenever she doesn't get what she wants how she wants it when she wants it and we really feel it needs to change. So I was silent and Mohan stayed with her in the room, talking calmly and quietly. "Mallika, it's OK. I can tell you're really really upset and angry. Come lie here with me. Try to take a deep breath. You're really upset, huh?" etc etc. He was great and just kept at it even when the crying became screaming and the screaming became non-breathing. He told me later her little fists were going and eyes were rolling around -- it was just terrible to see. It really seemed like it was going to go on forever.
Finally Mohan started on a track of asking her, "Mallika, does your body feel good? Does it? Does it feel good?" She finally started answering, "NO!!!!" And then he started asking her what her body needed and she managed to regain words instead of screams: "Amma! Hold you!" By just asking her over and over if her body felt good, and what she needed, and then encouraging her to let her body relax, she gradually, gradually came back off the ledge. She even laid down on the bed next to Mohan. And then the magic thing -- he opened the door, I came in, we both lay on either side of her and I stroked her back and told her how much I love her and that she'd had such a hard time and it was time to rest. She nodded and sucked her fingers and fell asleep.
Mohan and I were ready for some stiff drinks.
And, like all parents, we've asked ourselves and each other 100 times already if we did the right thing or not. Yesterday evening and today, Mallika has been a beautifully happy, loving, warm, laughing girl, but who knows? Man, parenting is something else. In so many other contexts, making the wrong choice may have high prices to pay, but only with parenting do you see how much power you have over this person you love so much and you so want only what best and right for them.
Peace,
Briana
Much later in the afternoon, however, we had her most major tantrum to date. Oooo wee. Talk about a tornado, a tsunami and a volcano all rolled into a 23-pound frame and a couple of lungs. I think we were all still recovering late last night, especially the adults.
What happened was that Mallika had fallen asleep in the car at the end of an afternoon outing and woke up as I tried to put her down to continue her nap. She most often naps with her papa on the "big bed" (i.e. not her toddler bed) and it's crucial to close the bedroom door to contain what can sometimes be a very physically circuitous route to getting prone on top of the mattress. So I was in the living room, Mohan and Mallika were in the bedroom settling in, but then Mallika decided she wanted to leave the room. Then she decided she wanted me. Then she realized she wanted me to hold her. And THEN she realized neither of the big people were going to open the door for her. Crying ensued, as did scraping at and under the door, letting us know what a pitiful captive she was. None of that is unusual, really, but it typically lasts just a few minutes. Not the case with yesterday.
The storm just built and built and built to the point where I took the cell phone, stepped out into the corridor, and called Mohan on the land line in order to consult. Should we open the door? Should I try to lie down with her? Were we being cruel? Was my heart going to shatter listening to her cry, "Amma, hold you!" (meaning "hold me") a million times in a row? We concluded we should stick with it, mainly because Mallika has developed the habit in recent weeks of throwing a tantrum whenever she doesn't get what she wants how she wants it when she wants it and we really feel it needs to change. So I was silent and Mohan stayed with her in the room, talking calmly and quietly. "Mallika, it's OK. I can tell you're really really upset and angry. Come lie here with me. Try to take a deep breath. You're really upset, huh?" etc etc. He was great and just kept at it even when the crying became screaming and the screaming became non-breathing. He told me later her little fists were going and eyes were rolling around -- it was just terrible to see. It really seemed like it was going to go on forever.
Finally Mohan started on a track of asking her, "Mallika, does your body feel good? Does it? Does it feel good?" She finally started answering, "NO!!!!" And then he started asking her what her body needed and she managed to regain words instead of screams: "Amma! Hold you!" By just asking her over and over if her body felt good, and what she needed, and then encouraging her to let her body relax, she gradually, gradually came back off the ledge. She even laid down on the bed next to Mohan. And then the magic thing -- he opened the door, I came in, we both lay on either side of her and I stroked her back and told her how much I love her and that she'd had such a hard time and it was time to rest. She nodded and sucked her fingers and fell asleep.
Mohan and I were ready for some stiff drinks.
And, like all parents, we've asked ourselves and each other 100 times already if we did the right thing or not. Yesterday evening and today, Mallika has been a beautifully happy, loving, warm, laughing girl, but who knows? Man, parenting is something else. In so many other contexts, making the wrong choice may have high prices to pay, but only with parenting do you see how much power you have over this person you love so much and you so want only what best and right for them.
Peace,
Briana
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
no one loves a genius child
No one loves a genius child. Free him, and let his soul run wild.
I just finished watching a documentary about Jean-Michel Basquiat on PBS that ended with this quote. Not sure where it comes from. It got my attention, not least of all because of the film's subject. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not saying my own daughter is a genius child. But I'm also not saying she's not. Genius is a damning adjective. It means someone with power has noticed you, assigned you value, and publicized the value they have assigned to you. Very dangerous, because then they can take it away.
Being a parent really colors everything I think about. I think about being Jean-Michel's mother. I think about being the mother of one of his friends. I think about being his friend and trying to help him stay alive in spite of it all. I wonder what his experience really was of Andy Warhol and how Andy looked after him.
The thing about genius is... what is it? I really don't think that anyone with integrity thinks of themselves as a genius. They may feel and think passionately, obsessively, in ways they know others are not feeling or thinking. But having this experience doesn't make someone feel themselves to be a genius. I think they just think and feel and struggle to find ways to express that and share it with others.
I guess all this reflection is already captured by saying no one loves a genius child. And, above all, children need to be loved. The title of genius can rob them of that, as people just become mercenary. Like the film observed, if you were Jean-Michel, you'd go to a party and people wanted to do drugs with you, get laid by you, just because you were the hot thing.
Watching the film also made me more aware of something that's been percolating more and more for me. In the brief moments of reflection I steal, in which I am aware of what feels like the strange loss of my former self, mainly in terms of what I "do" (art, politics, parties, travel, New Things, etc) or rather, mainly in terms of what I no longer "do", I've started to understand a different importance to what I used to "do". OK -- that was a totally confusing and crap sentence, but here is what I mean. For example, as a teenager, I spent many, many hours on the phone with a very small handful of friends. We did homework over the phone, we quizzed each other for tests, we discussed essay questions and research papers, and also lots about our parents and other friends and classmates. Sometimes music, often literature, who knows what else. What it seems like now is those conversations, and many other childhood/teenagehood experiences and relationships, really did lay the basis for adulthood. Much of it seemed petty, but it became the rock that my adulthood is built upon. That metaphor isn't really right. It's like sedimentary rock for the wild jungle that has grown on top of it.
I guess I was thinking about this because it was so painful to get a glimpse of how much Jean-Michel needed his father's love, support, and approval. And to see how well he handled the fucked-up racism that came with his fame. And it just made me think about all of our beginnings and how they both help and hurt us. I recognized so many of my creative, free friends in Basquiat's story and I can imagine my own daughter growing up to find that she is in some way a "genius child". I hope I can stop that in its tracks, for her sake and for other children's too. Because when you say one child is a genius, you are saying others are not, and that starts the whole cycle of valuing some people over others, and that is no good for anyone.
Peace,
Briana
I just finished watching a documentary about Jean-Michel Basquiat on PBS that ended with this quote. Not sure where it comes from. It got my attention, not least of all because of the film's subject. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not saying my own daughter is a genius child. But I'm also not saying she's not. Genius is a damning adjective. It means someone with power has noticed you, assigned you value, and publicized the value they have assigned to you. Very dangerous, because then they can take it away.
Being a parent really colors everything I think about. I think about being Jean-Michel's mother. I think about being the mother of one of his friends. I think about being his friend and trying to help him stay alive in spite of it all. I wonder what his experience really was of Andy Warhol and how Andy looked after him.
The thing about genius is... what is it? I really don't think that anyone with integrity thinks of themselves as a genius. They may feel and think passionately, obsessively, in ways they know others are not feeling or thinking. But having this experience doesn't make someone feel themselves to be a genius. I think they just think and feel and struggle to find ways to express that and share it with others.
I guess all this reflection is already captured by saying no one loves a genius child. And, above all, children need to be loved. The title of genius can rob them of that, as people just become mercenary. Like the film observed, if you were Jean-Michel, you'd go to a party and people wanted to do drugs with you, get laid by you, just because you were the hot thing.
Watching the film also made me more aware of something that's been percolating more and more for me. In the brief moments of reflection I steal, in which I am aware of what feels like the strange loss of my former self, mainly in terms of what I "do" (art, politics, parties, travel, New Things, etc) or rather, mainly in terms of what I no longer "do", I've started to understand a different importance to what I used to "do". OK -- that was a totally confusing and crap sentence, but here is what I mean. For example, as a teenager, I spent many, many hours on the phone with a very small handful of friends. We did homework over the phone, we quizzed each other for tests, we discussed essay questions and research papers, and also lots about our parents and other friends and classmates. Sometimes music, often literature, who knows what else. What it seems like now is those conversations, and many other childhood/teenagehood experiences and relationships, really did lay the basis for adulthood. Much of it seemed petty, but it became the rock that my adulthood is built upon. That metaphor isn't really right. It's like sedimentary rock for the wild jungle that has grown on top of it.
I guess I was thinking about this because it was so painful to get a glimpse of how much Jean-Michel needed his father's love, support, and approval. And to see how well he handled the fucked-up racism that came with his fame. And it just made me think about all of our beginnings and how they both help and hurt us. I recognized so many of my creative, free friends in Basquiat's story and I can imagine my own daughter growing up to find that she is in some way a "genius child". I hope I can stop that in its tracks, for her sake and for other children's too. Because when you say one child is a genius, you are saying others are not, and that starts the whole cycle of valuing some people over others, and that is no good for anyone.
Peace,
Briana
Monday, April 11, 2011
Amma, what happened?
Hi, friends,
I notice that as Lent progresses and work gets crazier, I miss more and more days of writing. I'm inviting myself back to the practice and the peace of discipline.
Mallika's verbal abilities are expanding like crazy these days. It's one of the coolest things ever to get to observe. One of the things I notice is that she can repeat absolutely 100% the same thing over and over again and it is SO CLEAR. It's just sometimes unintelligible to my adult ears. It helps to try to repeat it back to her, as sometimes trying to make the sounds she's making helps to figure it out. When I'm wrong, the girl has the patience of a saint. "No" and then she tries again. She occassionally gets frustrated, but never impatient. Amazing.
One of her more recent and more common questions is, "Amma, what happened?" Or, "Papa, what happened?" What is really striking is the variety of things that prompt this question. Sometimes it's a verbal exclamation from one of us. (And no, never including four letter words, not us! More like eight or twelve or sixteen letter words that you get when you put a whole string of four letter words together. Don't worry -- my mom never fails to mention that we're going to need to clean up our language any day now.) Sometimes it's something she sees or more often something she hears, loud or quiet, near or far, for which she wants an explanation.
But leave it to the little tyke to ask most often when she notices a reaction from one of us, no matter how small or subtle or private. A sigh, a catching of the breath, a quiet groan, a sucking of teeth, you name it. All those under-the-breath things we adults do and almost stop noticing that we do them. For every one, Mallika asks, "Amma, what happened?" It's a bell like no other. It stops my thinking, brings me back to myself, and requires attention and honesty to be able to answer her. And also makes me think way more profoundly than I usually do. What DID just happen?
Suffice to say, my little girl is an angel. I wonder, what happened to bring her into my life?
Peace,
Briana
I notice that as Lent progresses and work gets crazier, I miss more and more days of writing. I'm inviting myself back to the practice and the peace of discipline.
Mallika's verbal abilities are expanding like crazy these days. It's one of the coolest things ever to get to observe. One of the things I notice is that she can repeat absolutely 100% the same thing over and over again and it is SO CLEAR. It's just sometimes unintelligible to my adult ears. It helps to try to repeat it back to her, as sometimes trying to make the sounds she's making helps to figure it out. When I'm wrong, the girl has the patience of a saint. "No" and then she tries again. She occassionally gets frustrated, but never impatient. Amazing.
One of her more recent and more common questions is, "Amma, what happened?" Or, "Papa, what happened?" What is really striking is the variety of things that prompt this question. Sometimes it's a verbal exclamation from one of us. (And no, never including four letter words, not us! More like eight or twelve or sixteen letter words that you get when you put a whole string of four letter words together. Don't worry -- my mom never fails to mention that we're going to need to clean up our language any day now.) Sometimes it's something she sees or more often something she hears, loud or quiet, near or far, for which she wants an explanation.
But leave it to the little tyke to ask most often when she notices a reaction from one of us, no matter how small or subtle or private. A sigh, a catching of the breath, a quiet groan, a sucking of teeth, you name it. All those under-the-breath things we adults do and almost stop noticing that we do them. For every one, Mallika asks, "Amma, what happened?" It's a bell like no other. It stops my thinking, brings me back to myself, and requires attention and honesty to be able to answer her. And also makes me think way more profoundly than I usually do. What DID just happen?
Suffice to say, my little girl is an angel. I wonder, what happened to bring her into my life?
Peace,
Briana
Thursday, April 7, 2011
boiling
Hi, friends,
As nice as it is to steal some humanity from the capitalist enterprise termed work, it is also very nice to write from home where, for a short moment, I'm the only one here! This really almost never happens, and it is such a particular pleasure. Hummus, crackers, wine (it's horrible, but still wine), jeans, and quiet solitude for writing!
Earlier today, I got so angry, I felt like steam wasn't only coming out of my ears, but from under my skin. I really felt like I was boiling! I'd called Mallika's pediatrician to ask for a Saturday morning appointment. Mallika's eating in the last couple of days has been nearly non-existent, she says her stomach hurts, and she also had a rash on her back yesterday. I typically play the role of the "it'll all be fine" parent, but I decided to change my behavior and call up for an appointment. Tomorrow is really actually impossible -- we have car repairs scheduled, a friend having surgery, another important doctor appointment, non-negotiable work commitments and, well, general craziness. So I asked for a Saturday morning appointment.
After some phone tag, the Lady On The Line at the office told me who would be in on Saturday, I told her my preferred doctor (not Mallika's regular pediatrician) and Mallika's ailments, agreed to the first appointment of the morning (which is how they schedule on weekends), in spite of the stress and difficulty of getting to the office at such an early hour esp on my day off. And then was told I needed to wait. When she came back on the line, she told me that this kind of appointment was more a "consultation" and therefore needed to happen on a weekday. I was like, "What?" I'd never heard of such a thing. But she made it clear she'd been talking to the doctor and the doctor was pushing back, so what was I supposed to do? I was like, look, she needs to see a doctor and I cannot bring her tomorrow. And she kept insisting this was a consultation and needed to be scheduled on a weekday. I just hung up. No point. But when I went on line to look at their site to educate myself about their appointment policies, it really seemed like their official policy -- "we see sick kids on weekends" -- applied to Mallika. So I called back to argue. Was it that I'd listed too many ailments? If so, I'd be happy to let the doctor just examine her stomach and ignore the rash. (When I said this, the steam already started -- what totally fucked up medicine to not consider all the presenting symptoms.) Lady On The Line told me that was part of it. Another part of it was Dr. X, which I took to mean this particular doctor she'd been talking to, also didn't want to drag her ass out of bed early on a Saturday to examine my daughter's ailments, even if she only had to look at her stomach and not her back. When I offered that Mallika's regular doctor had seen her repeatedly for food-related issues, but now we were hearing about a stomachache and very little food intake, that was the final nail in the coffin. Seems that if there's an on-going ailment, that DEFINITELY means it's a Consultation which means it can only happen On A Weekday.
I scheduled a Monday morning appointment and put down the phone.
And took a little walk, hoping no one would try to talk to me.
Now, God and all Her angels know I deal with insane, maddening bureaucracy every day. After all, I live in the United States and work at the University of Texas. What was it about this that set me past my boiling point?
I think it was that I was consciously trying to change my approach to the way I care for my daughter. There have been a couple of occasions at least where Mohan wanted to take her to the doctor and I didn't think it was necessary and I was wrong. I wanted to try to right those wrongs. And I want to take care of my baby who I know is losing weight and not eating. Something is wrong and I don't know what. And I want to do what is necessary to find the answer. That's a major and very important internal change for me. When I'm really scared or scared of being scared, I typically ignore/smooth things down/get distracted/wait for things to resolve themselves. So it really seemed like a slap in the face to be told No at that particular moment.
And how will I feel about this if Mallika doesn't eat for the whole weekend?
At this moment, I am so thankful to share the parenting experience with Mohan. I'll talk it over with him when he gets here and we'll decide together.
Peace,
Briana
As nice as it is to steal some humanity from the capitalist enterprise termed work, it is also very nice to write from home where, for a short moment, I'm the only one here! This really almost never happens, and it is such a particular pleasure. Hummus, crackers, wine (it's horrible, but still wine), jeans, and quiet solitude for writing!
Earlier today, I got so angry, I felt like steam wasn't only coming out of my ears, but from under my skin. I really felt like I was boiling! I'd called Mallika's pediatrician to ask for a Saturday morning appointment. Mallika's eating in the last couple of days has been nearly non-existent, she says her stomach hurts, and she also had a rash on her back yesterday. I typically play the role of the "it'll all be fine" parent, but I decided to change my behavior and call up for an appointment. Tomorrow is really actually impossible -- we have car repairs scheduled, a friend having surgery, another important doctor appointment, non-negotiable work commitments and, well, general craziness. So I asked for a Saturday morning appointment.
After some phone tag, the Lady On The Line at the office told me who would be in on Saturday, I told her my preferred doctor (not Mallika's regular pediatrician) and Mallika's ailments, agreed to the first appointment of the morning (which is how they schedule on weekends), in spite of the stress and difficulty of getting to the office at such an early hour esp on my day off. And then was told I needed to wait. When she came back on the line, she told me that this kind of appointment was more a "consultation" and therefore needed to happen on a weekday. I was like, "What?" I'd never heard of such a thing. But she made it clear she'd been talking to the doctor and the doctor was pushing back, so what was I supposed to do? I was like, look, she needs to see a doctor and I cannot bring her tomorrow. And she kept insisting this was a consultation and needed to be scheduled on a weekday. I just hung up. No point. But when I went on line to look at their site to educate myself about their appointment policies, it really seemed like their official policy -- "we see sick kids on weekends" -- applied to Mallika. So I called back to argue. Was it that I'd listed too many ailments? If so, I'd be happy to let the doctor just examine her stomach and ignore the rash. (When I said this, the steam already started -- what totally fucked up medicine to not consider all the presenting symptoms.) Lady On The Line told me that was part of it. Another part of it was Dr. X, which I took to mean this particular doctor she'd been talking to, also didn't want to drag her ass out of bed early on a Saturday to examine my daughter's ailments, even if she only had to look at her stomach and not her back. When I offered that Mallika's regular doctor had seen her repeatedly for food-related issues, but now we were hearing about a stomachache and very little food intake, that was the final nail in the coffin. Seems that if there's an on-going ailment, that DEFINITELY means it's a Consultation which means it can only happen On A Weekday.
I scheduled a Monday morning appointment and put down the phone.
And took a little walk, hoping no one would try to talk to me.
Now, God and all Her angels know I deal with insane, maddening bureaucracy every day. After all, I live in the United States and work at the University of Texas. What was it about this that set me past my boiling point?
I think it was that I was consciously trying to change my approach to the way I care for my daughter. There have been a couple of occasions at least where Mohan wanted to take her to the doctor and I didn't think it was necessary and I was wrong. I wanted to try to right those wrongs. And I want to take care of my baby who I know is losing weight and not eating. Something is wrong and I don't know what. And I want to do what is necessary to find the answer. That's a major and very important internal change for me. When I'm really scared or scared of being scared, I typically ignore/smooth things down/get distracted/wait for things to resolve themselves. So it really seemed like a slap in the face to be told No at that particular moment.
And how will I feel about this if Mallika doesn't eat for the whole weekend?
At this moment, I am so thankful to share the parenting experience with Mohan. I'll talk it over with him when he gets here and we'll decide together.
Peace,
Briana
Monday, April 4, 2011
routines
Hi friends,
Each weekday during lunch, I walk from my office to Mallika's daycare, pick her up, and take her home to spend the afternoon in her papa's loving care. I have 90 minutes to make a somewhat hectic (ok, sometimes very hectic) round-trip trek on foot while also making it a point to actually eat something and also at least say hello to my spouse. However, it's always good to get out of the office, move the bod, experience the weather, etc etc.
The routine is about to change, though, and I suddenly don't feel ready for it. Most days, starting tomorrow, Mallika's grandpa -- my dear old dad -- will pick her up at lunchtime and take her to my parents' house till the end of the workday. This is primarily to allow Mohan to wrap up all the final details for filing his dissertation and graduation in May. And it's also an opportunity for my parents and Mallika to spend more time together. I am very grateful and very pleased that they've taken on this daily responsibility. But, oh my, I haven't quite been prepared for the heavy, heavy weight in my chest that comes with realizing I won't see my baby in the middle of the day. Oh my. You never miss the water till the well runs dry.
I can't count the number of times seeing Mallika has saved me, saved my sanity, saved my spirit, because I got to see her, hear her shrieking dance of delight when she saw me in her classroom door, scoop her up in my arms, ask her how her day was, negotiate the very lengthy routine of leaving her school. This routine was usually: say bye to the class, visit the babies across the hall, drink two times from the water fountain, make sure I get some water too, say bye to the director, visit the pre-K class where they have a fish tank, a super nice teacher, totally fun toys, a doll house, a baby carriage, a kitchen, and magnetic marbles, then climb the stairs, get the stroller, touch all the nametags, sit on the window ledges outside the door, push the stroller (BY HERSELF, AMMA) down the alley, point out the funny wires protruding from a pipe, check another broken pipe for running water, and finally climb into the stroller for conversation, singing, and direction-giving on the walk home.
We have had lots of conversations on the walk home, and I'm often serenaded by quiet, lively toddler tunes. My favorite stretch of our walk is beneath the huge live oaks between the Ransom Center and Guadalupe. They are entirely gorgeous, no matter what time of year, one of the last few really beautiful things at UT. There are so many wonderful things we see to comment on, and we run into friends and acquaintances with great regularity.
I am so deeply going to miss this routine with Mallika. She makes my whole day worthwhile.
Peace,
Briana
Each weekday during lunch, I walk from my office to Mallika's daycare, pick her up, and take her home to spend the afternoon in her papa's loving care. I have 90 minutes to make a somewhat hectic (ok, sometimes very hectic) round-trip trek on foot while also making it a point to actually eat something and also at least say hello to my spouse. However, it's always good to get out of the office, move the bod, experience the weather, etc etc.
The routine is about to change, though, and I suddenly don't feel ready for it. Most days, starting tomorrow, Mallika's grandpa -- my dear old dad -- will pick her up at lunchtime and take her to my parents' house till the end of the workday. This is primarily to allow Mohan to wrap up all the final details for filing his dissertation and graduation in May. And it's also an opportunity for my parents and Mallika to spend more time together. I am very grateful and very pleased that they've taken on this daily responsibility. But, oh my, I haven't quite been prepared for the heavy, heavy weight in my chest that comes with realizing I won't see my baby in the middle of the day. Oh my. You never miss the water till the well runs dry.
I can't count the number of times seeing Mallika has saved me, saved my sanity, saved my spirit, because I got to see her, hear her shrieking dance of delight when she saw me in her classroom door, scoop her up in my arms, ask her how her day was, negotiate the very lengthy routine of leaving her school. This routine was usually: say bye to the class, visit the babies across the hall, drink two times from the water fountain, make sure I get some water too, say bye to the director, visit the pre-K class where they have a fish tank, a super nice teacher, totally fun toys, a doll house, a baby carriage, a kitchen, and magnetic marbles, then climb the stairs, get the stroller, touch all the nametags, sit on the window ledges outside the door, push the stroller (BY HERSELF, AMMA) down the alley, point out the funny wires protruding from a pipe, check another broken pipe for running water, and finally climb into the stroller for conversation, singing, and direction-giving on the walk home.
We have had lots of conversations on the walk home, and I'm often serenaded by quiet, lively toddler tunes. My favorite stretch of our walk is beneath the huge live oaks between the Ransom Center and Guadalupe. They are entirely gorgeous, no matter what time of year, one of the last few really beautiful things at UT. There are so many wonderful things we see to comment on, and we run into friends and acquaintances with great regularity.
I am so deeply going to miss this routine with Mallika. She makes my whole day worthwhile.
Peace,
Briana
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