Seeds

The Microwave

rebeccawalker — Fri, 16 May 2008 00:58:29 GMT

Until I had a child, I thought microwaves were little nuclear reactors, just waiting to explode. My goodness, I thought. Who needs to heat food without heating the plate? Why would anyone want to make dinner in three minutes and forty-five seconds? When my friends said I should get one just for popcorn I waved a Jiffy-Pop popcorn popper in the air.

Alas, I now have a boy who needs to eat regularly and my career demands I work at least as often, which means I use a microwave almost every day. My guy brought it into the house--he's old school and makes Lipton tea with it--and even though I make disparaging remarks about it and scream at unlucky passersby to MOVE AWAY FROM THE MICROWAVE when it's on, I've adapted.

But I'm still wary of radiation, and blame the microwave for making the work day longer and family time shorter, and for contributing to the decline of the domestic goddess. My co-blogger, the fantastic Veronica Chambers, for example, is a great inspiration, and I don't think she uses a microwave to whip up her signature dishes.

It's a matter of class, of course, there are those who can afford to spend time shopping for ingredients and cooking them to perfection, and those who cannot. But it's also a matter of habit. Most of us can cook something healthy, affordable and delicious in thirty minutes or less, but once you can whip up something just as good in thirty seconds, well, you know, a mom can lose her motivation.

This morning I was thinking about going green and doing my part to save the planet, and my thoughts turned to the boxy black gizmo on the counter. I tend to be skeptical of the scientific model, all things non-organic,and devices marketed to women as the answer to all their domestic woes. Perhaps my views about microwaves were more ideological than factual, I thought to myself. Perhaps I should give the thing a chance.

Feeling like Carrie on SATC, I sat at my laptop and typed: Are microwaves really that bad?

After consulting my friend the Internet, I discovered microwaves are indeed anti-thetical to the Slow Food Movement, and do play a part in extending the workday. But they're not the devil either.

In fact, microwaves happen to be one of the most energy-efficient electric cooking devices available. A microwave uses a fraction of the energy of a conventional oven, making it a veritable eco-friendly product. And in terms of cancer, the microwave emits less radiation than the cell phones we keep pressed against our heads for hours at a time.

Studies also show that vegetables cooked in microwaves retain more of their nutrients than those cooked stovetop. Spinach, for instance, appears to retain more folate when cooked in the microwave.

Okay, I know I sound like I've got a microwave to sell you, and clearly microwaves have risks, but so does the computer I'm writing on. And the food we put into the microwave may be processed into something unrecognizable, but at least we're not making it worse.

Now all we have to do is use it and other radiation-prone devices judiciously and make sure we keep the talking, gathering and family love flowing at mealtime.

And can someone please do a redesign? Mine really needs a makeover. I'd like to see a Design Within Reach version. Or maybe Martha Stewart can do one for K-Mart. Or Whole Foods.

I want to hear your microwave stories. Have you kept them out of your kitchen? Tossed them out with the television? Have one hidden in the back of the pantry for popcorn? Or do you love yours, see it as a godsend, a modern miracle? Truly, I want to hear about how you've made peace with the microwave.

King Lear and a Parent's Love

rebeccawalker — Wed, 07 May 2008 16:25:46 GMT

Last night I saw King Lear at the Globe, Shakespeare's theater on the bank of the Thames. I've seen the play before, but now that I'm a parent I was especially struck by the idea of love and loyalty between parent and child gone terribly wrong.

King Lear's daughter Cordelia doesn't shower adoration--empty flattery, as she sees it--upon her royal father, and he banishes her from his kingdom forever. In the B story, a greedy, disgruntled son born out of wedlock destroys the relationship between his father, the Earl of Gloucester, and his favorite, "legitimate" son by causing Gloucester to doubt the wifely born son's loyalty.

It all seemed so true, sitting there on my rented cushion. As parents, we want our children to declare their love hugely, to repay us for all we've done for them with an unblemished appraisal of our doings. As children, we want our parents to love us unconditionally, to see through to the true depths of our love no matter what we do. And then there are the machinations of others which can so easily come between parent and child, if we allow them to do so.

Earlier in the day I had called home only to find my son completely absorbed in a bag of white balloons. His piggy was playing with them, they were on his moon rocket, they were filled with water and going splat on the asphalt of the driveway. He sounded deliriously happy, and...deliriously independent. My heart soared--my happy child! My heart broke--my child so perfectly fine without me!

After a few almost incomprehensible reports about the balloons, he told me he had to go back to playing. My goodness, I thought. Where is my adoration! Where are my son's ecstatic expressions of love and missing. But this is the lesson, isn't it? To make our children perform for us, to hold on when we should let go with love, is to teach them that following their own path is a betrayal. This cripples the children we so want to thrive.

I found myself thinking too of other people coming between parent and child, too. My search for a pre-school is, on the surface, about finding a place where my son will be happy, learn cool stuff, and try to stay lice-free. Beneath the surface it's about making sure other people don't undermine my bond with my son with their ideas.

Clearly I'm under the influence of the Bard, but these old tales, told in the open air in the seat of western civilization have an impact. Beyond the modern critique, you see the human struggle to keep the archetypal parent/child relationship in proper alignment.

Have you ever doubted your child's love? Has anyone ever come between you and your parents?

Other Cities, Other Lands, and a Few Pertinent Questions

rebeccawalker — Sat, 03 May 2008 07:44:26 GMT

No matter how great home is, new places totally rock my world and make me want to move. In Sweden it was excellent, affordable childcare; in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico it was the incredible light and loads of artists roaming the streets. Last week I was in San Francisco and despite the increased gang activity and SWAT team outside my window, I found myself fantasizing about the wonderful life my family could have in one of the most eco-conscious and disability-sensitive cities in the world.

Today in London I'm especially digging the diversity--Africans, South Asians, Arabs, intense-looking white folks. There's anonymity, lots of theater (Yasmina Reza's new play is up, as is Vanessa Redgrave in Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking). Stonehenge is a Tube ride away, and the journalists reviewing my book all seem to have read and genuinely connected with the work. Of course there's loads of problems, but as a tourist and working artist, it's all good.

But I still have a few questions:

Why is it Nancy Pelosi and Newt Gingrich are doing PSAs about the necessity of coming together across party lines to save the environment, but George Bush can't bring himself to do a PSA with Al Sharpton about joining forces to end racism and sexism?

And why is it everywhere I go people love Obama and see his Presidency as one of the best things possible for the reconstitution of global integrity, but he's still being ground to bits? The people I talked to in San Francisco are furious with Hillary for going negative and want Obama to fight back--hard.

Even the relatively conservative folks here in London feel Hillary is part of the political system responsible for the mess we're in. They feel Hillary's gender holds no guarantee of a progressive agenda (Margaret Thatcher, anyone?). They've read Obama's first book and think he's a profound human being and artist a la Vaclav Havel who can bring soul back to politics. They want Obama to eat. They want him to sleep. They want to get on with it already.

And another thing: Why is the appropriation of the ideas and art of people of color still okay? Let's consider the contributions of women of color to Feminism, for example. We've been calling for inclusion for decades and now, now, at this moment, Marie Wilson calls for "the gender speech" and for everyone, including men and women of color to write it?

Am I wrong or is the ascent of a man of color being undermined by Feminists beating the drum of the resurgence of sexism and misogyny? Regardless of whether or not people are asking Hillary to iron their shirts, is now really the time to focus on that? Now? Years after welfare reform, NAFTA, and dozens of other policies impoverishing women of all colors? Tragically, I can't help but think of suffragist Elizabeth Cady Stanton's statement that we'd better consider whether we want Sambo walking into the Kingdom of civil rights before white women.

The thing is, and I learned this the hard way, women are not the benevolent, essentially good creatures they're made out to be and men are not the Neanderthals they are made out to be, either. Women can be undermining, power hungry, psychologically and physically abusive, viciously competitive, corrupt, and a whole host of other unsavories. All human beings have these tendencies. Every human being has to wage a personal war to ensure the good wins out.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this the message of most great art?

To borrow an Obama-ism, today I'm feeling a bit, well, bitter. The world as it's configured is unsustainable, period. Adapt or die. Change or implode. Give credit where credit is due, and pass over the resulting resources. Stop hoarding. Stop silencing. Stop rejecting. Stop it. Just stop it.

Today I'm going to meditate on being peaceful. I know anger isn't the way to solve these problems. I send love to everyone, even the folks I'm upset with. I know we're all doing the best we can, but we have to do better.

The time is now. Keep hope alive.

For the children.

San Francisco, Sean Bell, and Me

rebeccawalker — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 04:05:28 GMT

So I'm sitting on the floor in the hallway of a friend's house in San Francisco's Noe Valley, en route to the UK. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and I'm happy to be back in my city. The only thing is there's a swarm of police officers outside and they've got huge guns, the biggest I've ever seen, trained on the house next door.

At first I think it's a drug raid, but really have no idea. All I know is I was answering emails and heard people outside yelling. I walked to the window, pulled back the curtain and found myself looking at six or seven police officers in full gear, each with a semi-automatic weapon pointed at the window. I backed away slowly, afraid any sudden move could turn the guns my way.

I heard the door to the flat at the back of the house open and ran to tell the woman who lives there with her husband and three-month old baby girl not to go outside. She wasn't fazed. It's a couple down the street, she said. A messed-up husband, messed-up wife, and messed-up teenage son. There's gang stuff that goes on, too, she said. But today it's probably the family.

I inched back to the window in time to hear a neighbor ask the police if they had finally found Bin Laden. Three white guys strolled down the street. Some guys with dreadlocks texted on their cells. A guy who looked Samoan took video with his phone. An African-American woman watched from her steps without so much as a flinch.

I felt I was in some kind of alternate universe. Was I watching successful community policing, or a troubling acceptance of a militarized environment? I mean really, was I the only one who wanted to go hide on the bathroom floor?

Sadly, perhaps unfairly, when I see police officers I usually think of Rodney King, Michael Steward, Amadou Diallo. I think about female inmates brutally raped by prison guards. I think about Michelle Obama telling CNN Barack could get shot going to the gas station.

I think about what I'm going to tell my son about the police when he's old enough for it to matter.

I will have to tell him the truth: he should expect and demand the police protect him. He should know they may not. I will tell him the history of police brutality in our country, and of the increasingly likelihood of an even more militarized state. I will talk to him about countries where guns are illegal. He will have a passport.

I will do my best to preserve my son's sense of hope and wonderment about the world, his sense of safety. I will tell him he must always, always, obey the law. I will tell him there are and have always been lawyers who fight for those who have endured police brutality.

I will tell him he must be especially cautious of being in the wrong place at the wrong time; it can cost him his life. I will repeat this at different times in his life, moments when I think he may be able to hear it, and moments when I know he cannot. I will love him as hard and fiercely as I can so he will know the difference between healthy affection and dangerous liaisons.

I will teach him to step away from the window.

What do you think about when you see police officers, and what will you teach your kids?

The Preschool, Part 2

rebeccawalker — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 08:13:37 GMT

Today I toured a Waldorf school. It was lovely. The kids ran around smiling and saying hello to our small group. The first graders jumped rope and sang songs. The seventh graders did a languid movement developed by the school's founder Rudolf Steiner called "Eurythmy." Seventh graders did a native Hawaiian chant on a field beside the kids' organic garden.

It all looked great, except that I had done some research and found several sites on the internet claiming Waldorf is a racist, anti-Semitic cult or at best, a deeply religious school masquerading as secular and progressive.

So when the head-of-school leading the tour asked what we knew about Waldorf and what we hoped to find out, I told him I knew Waldorf was arts-based, and my concern was that it was, in fact, a deeply ideological and religious school.

He didn't miss a beat. Waldorf is not religious, he said, but the founder was a Christian mystic. Waldorf definitely recognizes the spiritual growth of children.

As the tour progressed, I raised questions about everything that could be construed as religious. There was the issue of the Madonna and child. One parent thought it was a Boticelli, and a warm pre-school teacher said it wasn't religious, just a simple representation of maternal love. Then there was the daily blessing that included references to "God," the curriculum that included the Old Testament, the winged angel paintings that hung over the chalkboard in some classes.

The children are read stories everyday, the head-of-school said. These stories help them develop their imagination. Waldorf advises parents to reduce or eliminate exposure to television and all forms of media. They want the children to develop their own images, and not have any imposed upon them in the formative stage of developing their imagination.

What are the stories, I wanted to know. Norse myths he said. Greek plays. Arthurian legends. All stories that explore human archetypes. I began to understand the golden-haired maidens glowing out from every wall, included in six out of every ten of the children's own drawings. She is Idun, the maiden the Norse gods seek for her apples of eternal youth.

But, as the head of school pointed out, there is also a whole room dedicated to Hawaiana studies, a "learning block" that includes texts based on the Vedas, and Tibetan prayer flags made by the children as gifts to the Dalai Lama.

I left the campus with mixed feelings. Would I have been happy at Waldorf? Maybe. Or I might have been one of the kids of color wishing I had blond hair; the African and Jewish girl surrounded by a culture that devalued and denigrated both.

Would Tenzin be happy there? I think he would love the play, the singing, the dance. Do I want these things to come encased in the culture of maidens, Norse gods and German folk-tales? Probably not.

Would you send your children to a Waldorf school?

The Preschool

rebeccawalker — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 06:13:24 GMT

Yesterday I went for the student observation part of the Montessori school admissions process. The other parents were nice and laid back. One nursed her three year-old as we all sat at the little kids' table in the classroom. Tenzin flitted from the butterflies to the fish, talked louder than everyone else, and threw himself into the teacher's arms when it was time to go. "Thank you for inviting me to your school," he said to her, wrapping his little arms around her waist.

Tomorrow I go for the adult tour, and then I find out if he actually gets in. Then I have to decide a. if I think it is obscene and/or remotely feasible to spend 9k for preschool; b. if he has to go at all-- he's just a baby!; and c. am I ready to get sick every week from his exposure to all the other kids? I mean really, we were there for an hour and a half and by nightfall I had a sore throat.

And then there are all of the ideas people have about preschool:

Kids who go to preschool do better than kids who don't. Mothers who send their kids to preschool are happier than mothers who don't. Kids shouldn't ever go to preschool--spoken by my neighbor who "unschools" and lets her kids help her in the garden and follow their bliss. Kids should go only for a few hours a few times a week; kids should go somewhere close to home; kids shouldn't get involved in a scientific, highly structured Montessori environment because it robs them of their childhood; kids shouldn't go to Waldorf because it doesn't have enough structure (I'd love to hear about Waldorf's Anthroposophy from Kenneth Chennault).

Then there are the people who think that you're spoiled to even have this discussion and you should send your child to whatever is available and get over it already.

Good gracious.

Today I went into a shop. A mom was working with her two four-year olds by her side. Tenzin picked up some crayons and they started to play while the mom and I talked pre-school. Montessori has a three year waiting list, A'nuenue is five hundred dollars a week, and she's got twins. I told her my saga and we sat commiserating. I told her that I thought her kids looked perfectly happy being with her and she with them and how great that she can bring them to work. She understood my issues with the costs and pressures of Montessori, and especially about getting sick every week.

Not a lot of judgment. Just moms, getting together and talking about how we're making do with the options available--and how we wish we could do more to make them better. We didn't mention that we hope Obama or Hillary will draw on their experiences in a two-career family to usher in excellent, affordable child care (like they have in Sweden ), but I sure as heck was thinking about it.

But my point is, when people offer themselves up and take the risk to be open; when they are struggling with how to manage in this crazy world, we could just support their choices rather than wish they had as much of a grip as we think they should. I think there is a difference between explaining why we make the decisions we do and judging people for making different ones.

That said, so many of you gave me such great feedback about food a few posts ago (Tenzin is eating everything just fine now--I think it was a first-time mom confidence thing). What do you think about pre-school?

I'd love to hear your experiences--good, bad, other.

The Name

rebeccawalker — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 21:15:51 GMT

My son is named after the Dalai Lama-- a fact I feel compelled to announce up front. The thought of people thinking "Tenzin" is a pseudo-African name is a problem for me. I know many fabulous people have made-up, African-esque monikers, and that names only skim the surface of our humanity. But I want my son to have an answer when someone asks what his name means. I want to give him an intelligible compass.

It took forever for me to find the right name. I started with "Jackson," the city where I was born, but Andrew Jackson owned slaves, and all I could think when I heard that is "Confederacy." I had a brief flirtation with “Tallulah," after my (black) grandmother, but my guy killed it with a Mammy reference I still don't get.

An artist friend with Southern decorum and a New York state of mind suggested "Claire" over dinner at a Lower East Side eatery. “Claire Walker,” we mused. He loved it. I thought it was a little too Talented Tenth. My father pushed for “Chaim,” Hebrew for “life.” He said that no matter what I named the baby he would call him Chaim. I told him he would not be calling the baby Chaim.

I was worried I would have to call my son “the child formerly known as embryo” until I attended the Dalai Lama's teaching on World Peace through Inner Peace. As ever, I was inspired by the Dalai Lama’s message that calming down can lead to a calmer world. Even when faced with the genocide of his people, this "simple monk" embodies the possibility of standing on behalf of all human beings, not just the ones we call our own.

I’ve been a student of Buddhism since college, but as I sat surrounded by thousands of others, my belly so big I could have rested a glass of soymilk on it, I had an epiphany. The Dalai Lama, I thought.

Tenzin!

“Tenzin” means "Holder of the teachings." The teachings being, at a minimum, compassion for others, skillful selflessness, and a commitment to refrain from causing harm to oneself or others. It's a lot to put on a child, but I can't think of a better set of principles to send him into the future.

The name also reminds me that Tenzin is both my son and my greatest teacher. This comes in handy when he is refusing to put on his pants or eat his food without running up and down the stairs at the same time.

But really, he's taught me so much about myself. If I can help him grow up the way he's helped me grow up, I will have done my job.

What did you name your child and why?

The Sick Day

rebeccawalker — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 12:05:39 GMT

As a mom, I knew getting sick was a big deal when I woke up one morning so dizzy I coudn't get out of bed. Tenzin was six months old. I lay there obsessed with what would happen if I couldn't take care of him. If I became incapacitated for a week, a month, a year.

If I died.

I made a pact to be there for him as long as he needs me, I thought to myself. I have to hold up my part of the bargain.

I felt a twinge of the bug yesterday, but brushed it off. I was tired. I had been in the sun. I was working too hard. I had eaten some questionable lasagna. But then I woke up this morning unable to think clearly. Dreading writing the simplest emails.

As my head pounded, I initiated an argument (I mean discussion) with my guy about the leap of faith black women have to take to support both Obama, and Clinton too. He cited Cointelpro and I cited Soul on Ice. He cited the way the white power structure has cleaved the relationship between black men and women. I cited the way black men who don't critique their own sexism have cleaved the relationship between black men and women.

It's a conversation we've had a thousand times in a thousand different ways. We usually navigate it well and come out stronger, convinced our partnership is part of the solution. I said I was going to vote for Hillary because if my own partner can't articulate a critique of sexism in the civil rights movement, how is Obama going to do better?

It was the worst way possible to start the day.

Then I read an article in the Times about bloggers dropping dead from blogging too much. Then another about people stocking food and water for six weeks in anticipation of civil unrest. Then I happened upon a feminist law professor's blog, where one disgruntled poster wrote that she "has tried hard not to loathe Rebecca Walker." Apparently without success.

It was the worst possible way to continue the day.

I began to ruminate on what I would do if we were hit with an act of bio-terrorism. A Chinese invasion. The collapse of the economy. I have no hydroponic kit to grow food. The six-pack of Evian in the trunk of my car probably won't do the trick.

My man, hunkered down in his office working on a project about Cambodia, reminded me that things always look bleak when I'm sick. He took the baby. I took myself back to bed. I read a little bit. Took a nap. Ate some almonds. Drank some juice. Made a short list of the countries we could live in if it comes to that.

I started to feel better. I remembered I'm not alone. We have friends, each other, a spiritual practice. I remembered that I'm alive today and believe in tomorrow. I remembered there's room in the basement for gas masks and canned goods.

But mostly I remembered the pact I made to show up for my child. That was the magic bullet that got me back on track, at least mentally.

Whatever happens, I know one thing: I'll be holding up my end of the mama bargain.

How do you get through your sick days?

The Spring of Hope--40 Years Later

rebeccawalker — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 04:10:24 GMT

The day Dr. King was assassinated, 2008.

I've been thinking about the challenges of talking about race in our country. As someone who believes that all human beings are suffering in one way or another, how to honor the specific wound caused by racism?

I don't know how else to speak to it other than to say that I love people. The ones hurting today, the ones hurting tomorrow. My hope is that each person can find the means to release their anguish and find hope in the moment, and the will to believe that healing is within their grasp.

Samantha Power, the human rights strategist who stepped down from the Obama campaign after making unfortunate remarks about HIllary Clinton, spoke to the cruelty of this time, pointing to an era in which a sobbing child begs a man wielding a machete not to kill him by saying, "I swear, I will never be Tsutsi again."

At times it seems healing is impossible. That to try to heal is to embark upon a journey of futility. But that is the time to remember all of those who suffered before and were not turned back by feelings of doubt. We can remember those who met the blade and even then believed that another could have a change of heart.

This belief is stolen from us in the midst of the carnage. But it is exactly what we have to hold on to when the odds appear to be overwhelming, and the anger and disregard for humanity seem to have an almost supernatural power.

If we can continue to touch the place in ourselves that is always there, buried beneath the rubble of hurts, ideas, and misconceptions, our species will thrive. If not, we will continue to cause unnecessary suffering wherever we go.

Today, forty years later, is a good day to remember. A good day to show our children how to move from the spring of hope rather than the confusion of fear.

The Racial Identity

rebeccawalker — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 11:53:34 GMT

So I'm, like, omni-racial. My mother is African-American, Native American, and Irish. My father is Ukrainian by way of Brooklyn.

In my late twenties I wrote a memoir about being mixed race, and what it was like to move between so many worlds and feel allegiances to everyone and no one at the same time. The book was an attempt to piece together my then fragmented Self. It became the symbolic embodiment of a splintered Me that congealed --and healed-- through its rendering in literary form.

It was a deep situation.

Luckily it didn't kill me, and I've lived to see a black, mixed race candidate with some vision stand up and talk mess about race and changing the world all day long. It's great.

Maybe it means that my son won't grow up having to figure out the answer to "What are you?" like I had to every day. Maybe his sanity and sense of Self won't be bound up in a national discourse of black versus white, healthy versus tragic.

I'm hoping.

Tenzin is everything I am, plus his Dad is from Trinidad, with roots in South America and Scotland.

At the moment, Tenzin has no idea that race, as a concept or construct, exists. In an attempt to foster love and understanding, whenever he asks about a stranger, I tell him, "That's a human being, honey." "A human being?" "Yes, a human being, just like you."

(Which works really well until he turns to someone and says, "Human being? Can I tell you something about my friend, Elephant?" and said human being looks at me strangely.)

Tenzin is oblivious because he's three and we live in Hawaii, where he looks like he could be related to, well, almost everyone. Also, he's not around a lot of people, white, black or other, who are so identified with their idea of racial identity that they project it all over him and demand he relate to them based on it.

And he's oblivious because both of his parents are the same color, and while we can talk all night long about race, racism and the travesty of Reconstruction, we are surprisingly more likely to "genderize" Tenzin than "racialize him." Daddy bought him a football for example, which gave me pause. And even though I thought Tenzin could pull off a pink tee-shirt just fine, his Dad didn't agree.

What would it mean, at this age, to racialize him similarly? Would we feed him rice and peas? Collard greens and black eyes peas (which I ate in nursery school every day)? Would he be wearing Kente cloth onesies? Shearling booties from Kiev? Would we put his toddler bed in a tipi? Would we read him books about being biracial, "Tenzin Has A Thousand Ancestors"? Would we dress him in a lot of green clothes? Feed him cheese blintzes?

I'm serious.

At the moment, we don't ask Tenzin to perform a racial identity. We think in terms of how he may, in the future, be asked to perform a racial identity by others, and we strategize like hell about it. We talk about the qualities we want him to have, the situations, racial and otherwise, we want him to be able to navigate. We discuss the history we want him to know, and the human truths found in every culture, including his own, that we aspire to live and pass on.

The rest will be up to him.

How do you negotiate racial identity with your kids?

The Perfect Everything

rebeccawalker — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 19:48:16 GMT

Since before Tenzin was born, I've had an obsession with getting him The Perfect Everything. I wanted every item in his environment to be stimulating! Beautifully designed! Made of eco-sensitive hard woods! Developmentally appropriate! Even though I grew up with--and loved--everything Fisher Price, I suddenly found the Fisher Price collection garish, made of plastic petroleum products, and constructed, perhaps even painted, in China.

There would be no vibrating Ocean Wonders Aquarium Bouncers in my house, no ordinary co-sleeper. I wanted the Oeuf Baby Lounger, the Nettocollection Finnish Bassinet. I wanted, and, I'm ashamed to admit, bought the Bugaboo stroller (I sold it on Ebay when I realized it was as practical as an inflatable car).

For many months, being a baby and all, Tenzin didn't notice. He banged happily on his Svan highchair, and tolerated my search for the perfect baby sling (after returning six of them, I gave up--he hated the whole idea). He gamely wore the hip baby t-shirts emblazoned with 718 (the Brooklyn area code), the Red Cross sign, the minimalist choo-choo train. He lay quietly dozing as I became an expert on the cool baby sites: Modern Tots, KidO, Modernseed, nonchalantmom and a bunch of others that happily indulged my quest for The Perfect Everything.

Flash forward a couple of years, and at least a dozen Perfect Toys. Tenzin has had the Montessori object constancy toy, the Makie animal set, the wooden ambulance and buses, the Bilibo, and several others on the widely accepted Perfect Toy list. And I've watched, thankfully with a sense of humor, as he's lost interest in all of them in a matter of minutes, and given untold hours of his attention to the Fisher Price school bus given by a friend, the plastic ride-on bulldozer his Dad bought him, and the Matchbox metal truck given to him by a little boy outside of Outback Steakhouse.

Talk about an education.

But it goes on.

In the last year, I've turned my attention to more basic toys, like the ones included in the fabulous list of top thirteen all-time favorite toys on WonderTime. But I've also found that Tenzin's actual favorite toys are cardboard boxes, bags of sand dumped on the dirt in the backyard, your basic set of Crayolas, and this tube thing that pops open when you untie the fasteners that transform it from a simple ring into a magical tunnel.

Lately I've seen him play for hours with a twig with a piece of string tied to the end (his fishing rod), and a rubber straw-like thing that shoots water. Dime store bubble kits are a big fave (with new formula cooked up with dishwashing detergent when the store bought has run out). He's also pretty keen on brushing his teeth--he could do that all day and night, and taking showers and washing with "his" soap. But the piece de resistance is, drum roll please: The Car Wash. If Tenzin could live inside the car wash, I'm pretty sure I'd win Mom of the Year.

And so I am compiling the Top Twenty All Time Favorite Toys that Cost Nothing (or very little), and are totally counterintuitive. It's the list that would be great for a pregnant friend, or the frustrated mom of a two year-old. I know you smart mommas and poppas have seen some remarkable expressions of little people ingenuity.

Share, please.

The Food Thing

rebeccawalker — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 18:46:08 GMT

I give myself a C plus on re-entry, but until I have more to say about that, I have other pressing questions, like:

Can somebody help me with the food thing? I can't be the only one stumped by what to feed my three year-old.

So here's the deal. Way back when I had dreads to my waist and thought meat-eaters were murderous, heartless human beings, I was perpetually on the hunt for beans and dark leafy greens. "Um, I'm a vegetarian, do you have any other options?" was my restaurant mantra. The whole concept of chicken or a hamburger made me want to heave. Eggs and cow milk? Forget it.

Then I did this project where all the food was donated by McDonald's (very long story), and I couldn't eat anything else for twenty-one days. I started eating some chicken and a little beef. A little ice cream.

Then I got pregnant and within a few months realized a voracious omnivore had taken up residence in my belly. At three am I woke up desperately hungry. Must have steak, a whole chicken, loaves of cheese. Unable to resist these tremendous forces, after a few weeks, I succumbed. He won. I ate.

When my son was born, I produced more breastmilk than anyone the nurses in the ICU --where Tenzin spent the first weeks of his life-- had ever seen. I had so many bottles from pumping they said they needed a whole refrigerator just for my milk. I tried to explain that Tenzin had required copious amounts of food even in utero.

They looked at me like I had just landed from a planet called Land of Crazy Mothers. I sighed, and went off to fill yet another bottle of milk.

Long story short, today my mornings go like this.

Me: Fast asleep. Enjoying it.

Tenzin: Climbs on top of me. Puts his hand on his chin and stares at me until I have no choice but to wake up.

Me: Yes, honey?

Tenzin: I'm hungry Mommy.

Me: Okay you have to wait a few minutes.

Tenzin: But I'm hungry Mommy.

This goes on until I get up to get him some food.

But here's the thing.

When I get upstairs to make him some food, no matter what we have in the cupboard (do people still use that word?), it takes me a good ten minutes to figure out what to give him.

My instinct is brown rice, a little broccoli, some carrots. Or maybe some grown-up oatmeal. Whole wheat toast and sliced tomato and cheese.

These are all things I would like to eat. They are all things I think he should eat. They are all things I ate when he was in my stomach.

They are all things he has trouble digesting. All things that end up with a not so great poop and stomach issues.

Daddy tells me I need to keep on with the organic baby food, mix in some fruit, some shredded chicken, some cheese or pasta, some mashed up carrots and broccoli. The baby oatmeal. Never brown rice. Nothing too acidic, like the black olives I love. No feta cheese.

But he's not a baby, I think to myself, wondering silently, guiltily, if he's got some kind of strange, mommy-created issue.

But I fed him all of that when he was a year old, I say. And that was great, Daddy says. He has a diverse palate and is open to new foods, but maybe it was too soon, he says. But I want him to eat healthily, i.e. like I did when, after I was a dreadlocked vegetarian, I was all into Aryuvedic medicine and treated every illness known to creation by eating (and serving) asparagus and shiitake mushrooms sauteed in ghee.

Whatever the reason, Daddy says, he's not ready for all that.

But the books say he should be able to eat anything.

Well the books don't know this child.

I decide to take Tenzin to the doctor, who tells me the same thing.

And then, every morning it starts all over again. Like I've never had these discussions. Like I have an uncontrollable urge to feed him, in that same way I did when he was inside of me. But now the urges come from me. Instead of him dictating to me, I want to dictate to him.

I think I'm in denial. My boy is already growing up, growing away. He has his own desires, his own separate needs.

He's outside the womb, but now more than ever, I have to learn to listen.

The Re-Entry

rebeccawalker — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 23:58:17 GMT

I’m on the plane listening to Gil Scot Heron’s Save the Children on noise reduction headphones.Two more hours until we land, and I can’t wait to see that little boy of mine at the airport. He’ll look at me as if I left yesterday and we haven’t been video-phoning every night.

He’ll say, “Hi Mommy.” And then, when he’s sure I’m actually in the car and he’s not imagining the whole thing, he’ll say, “But I missed you Mommy.”

And I will have to do everything in my power not to turn into a complete,over-the-top mom who hasn’t had her baby fix in ten days. I will want to take him out of his car seat and hug him and rub my cheek against his and tell him how terrible it was to be away from him.

Of course, this is not advisable. Leaving home is tough, but returning isn’t easy,either. I have to consider, for example, how to best honor the routines he and his Dad have developed in my absence. How to integrate myself slowly, and not force a dramatic upset to what has been a smooth running ship. How can I re-enter in a way that allows for the intimacy of our mother-son bond without rendering Daddy invisible, or worse, unappreciated?

Because in addition to the mommy-fest that could go on, there’s also my borderline OCD about cleanliness and order that can get flared. I’m sure that once I get home, sheets will need to be washed, toys put away, crayons returned to the art box. For the first forty-eight hours I will have to force myself from turning into a whirling dervish of spotlessness—a box of Ecover surface cleaner on every counter.

After all, Daddy’s been holding it down for ten days, and I spend a great deal of my time on the road speaking about how men are problematized in the narrative offemale empowerment. The work they do, especially when it isn't traditionally defined as "men's work," often goes unappreciated or at worst, ridiculed.

So I kind of have to get my mind together, quick.

As Harry Belafonte and Miriam Makeba sing Malaika, I plan my re-entry. I think about how I will try to be calm, cool and collected when I see Tenzin. I will kiss him, and tell him I’m happy to see him, but I will also slip into the car rather quietly. I will give him space to open up if he wants. I will not overwhelm him with my emotions.

I will exercise this restraint in the car and once we get home, where I will not focus on all the things that aren't perfectly in order, because I know if I do,every leave-taking and homecoming from now until forever will be hysterical events full of angst and drama. If I don’t integrate these moments of transition into a larger narrative of rational peace, I think, I will set all of us up for many, many episodes of pain and suffering.

John Legend croons Each Day Gets Better and I fantasize about how, in the coming days, Tenzin and I will share many small, quiet moments.

He will say, “But Mommy, I really missed you.” And I will say, “I know sweet boy, I missed you too. But you had a good time with Daddy, didn't you?" And he'll remember all of that time, too, and say "Mmmhmm, we went to see the fish and we went to the restaurant and we read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom."

And I'll say, "Yep. It's fun hanging with Daddy." And then we’ll keep going until the next moment when he turns to me and says, “Mommy, I have one more point.” “Yes, Tenzin?” "I'm glad you're here, Mommy.” And I will laugh and kiss him and finally, finally, feel that I’m home.

How do you handle re-entry?

The Swimming Pool, Part 2

rebeccawalker — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 07:03:45 GMT

I decided to get in the pool.

I took my book and my little bag of beauty products, determined not to let any negative thoughts about race or class get to me. Come hell or high water, into the pool I would go.

It was all transpiring according to plan until I got to the gate of the pool area. I couldn't figure out how to open it. I tried putting my door key in the slot, jiggling the handle, pushing the gate: no entry. Various people sat on the other side of the gate watching me do this.

I realized there was another gate and walked toward it. I decided that maybe the people who watched me struggling to get in--all white--didn't feel comfortable opening the gate for someone they couldn't verify as a hotel guest. Or heck, maybe they just didn't see me.

I found the other gate, strode through it with purpose, picked up a couple of towels and set myself up on a chaise in the middle of the action. Kids running around, mothers and daughters chatting over tea, college guys with beers on their side tables, the whole nine. I thought okay, I'm just going to be totally open and see what happens. I asked the woman next to me if the water was cold, and she asked her daughter to swim over to us to report. "It's nice," shesaid.

That seemed good.

I sat for a few more minutes, counting the number of people in the pool. Well, I counted, not wanting to miss anyone, there are two kids, six adult men and three young women. All white. This is going to be fine, I thought. This is not Mississippi 1972. Stop having flashbacks, I told myself, have some faith. That could be your (white) father in that pool, or your (white) brother. That could be your (white) sister lounging on the rocks, the one who, in fact, has a black boyfriend.

So I got up, walked to edge of the pool, teetered for a moment, and then dove in. It was heavenly. Cool and refreshing. Sparkling clear. The light, the water, the sky, all of it was fantastic. I started swimming from one end to the other, slowly, enjoying a few moments of freedom from writing and trying to have a coherent conversation with my three-year-old on Skype.

After a few strokes, I noticed that two of the guys headed toward the edge and lifted themselves out. Then as I reached the other side, another few got out, and then one of the young women. By the time I had done two laps, I kid you not, all of the adults and one of the two kids had GOTTEN OUT OF THE POOL.

I kept swimming, telling myself it had nothing to do with me. It's lunchtime. They've been swimming for a while. They're all going to eat, yes, AT THE SAME TIME.

I got out and slathered on some oil, imagining what I would write in my post today. I was fairly sad about the state of affairs. I wanted to believe the best about all involved, but I didn’t want to be an idiot, either. I considered asking the woman next to me if everyone just got out of the pool because I'm not white, but as I was formulating my approach, she got up and left.

It was a very disconcerting few minutes.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman in a red-striped bikini, reading a book. I strained to see the cover: Negroes with Guns. I almost fell over. As seen on Amazon: "First published in 1962, Negroes with Guns is the story of a southern black community's struggle to arm itself in self defense against theKu Klux Klan and other racist groups."

Good, I thought. That's a sign that this is not a monolithic white community, there is variety here, ideological shades of gray, just like in an all-black environment. That made me feel a bit better.

When I got home this evening, I Googled Arizona swimming pools, segregated, and came up with this interesting interview with a man who remembers when Mexicans were only allowed to swim in the public pool one day a week—the day before it was drained and cleaned. I looked up civil rights activists in Phoenix, and found this scholar and his work tracking the civil rights struggles in the state.

As a poster pointed out on my The Swimming Pool, Part 1, I'm no historian, just a biracial working mom out here trying to tell it like it is in my blog on parenting, so that my son doesn't inadvertently walk into someplace he shouldn't.

But I'm also all about moving forward, on his (and my own) behalf. I wish the white woman sitting next to me at the pool had stayed a few more minutes.

We might have had a good talk.

The Swimming Pool

rebeccawalker — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 00:15:55 GMT

I'm still on the business trip, but between engagements I decided to take a little "r and r" in my hotel pool. I'm in Arizona, one of the two last states to declare Dr. King's birthday as a holiday. A terminal at the Phoenix airport is named after Barry Goldwater, the father of modern conservatism. There must be a ton of middle class Mexican families here, but so far I've only seen two Mexican women, and they've come to clean my room.

The pool, which I expect to be fairly empty because I forget that there are people who, in this economy, can pack up the kids and take them to a high end resort just because, is packed full of white kids and their parents. A few business singles like myself take up residence on the periphery, under green umbrellas alongside the fake boulders.

I ponder shedding my shift to do some laps, but wonder what will happen. I'm the only black person and swimming pools are notorious racial battlegrounds. If I get in will all of the other people get out? I scoff at my own paranoia. Of course not I think, this is 2008. It's sunny. I'm sure these people are perfectly decent.

I lay on the chaise considering my options. Out of the corner of my eye I watch the parents interact with their children. That will tell me something, I think, about what kind of people my pool mates are. One child sneezes and his father appropriately tells him to cover his mouth. A mom congratulates her children on playing quietly in the pool. Not bad, I think to myself.

Three blond children shriek with laughter as they take turns diving for goggles, and I imagine how much fun Tenzin would have here, romping in the pool, getting comfortable in the water with Mommy by his side. I envision him running around on the smooth concrete, vulnerable and free. Oblivious to any other cultural dynamic than the line for the water slide.

I look at the white kids, I wonder about the Mexican kids, and I worry for my own kid. I want him to have the joy of life with none of the heartbreak. I want him to dive into this big world without being the odd one out. I want to give him the strength to make a place for himself in any circumstance.

I never want him to wonder if everyone will get out of the pool when he gets in.

I decide to swim later tonight in the smaller, more private pool on the other side of the property. Shaking my head at the absurdity of the enduring racial injury in America, I gather my book and Blackberry and head back to my room.

How can we teach our children to believe in themselves no matter what?