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Lately (i.e. the past year) I’ve been thinking that Mr. G and I watch too much television. We rarely turn it on before 5PM, and when we do watch it we don’t watch for very long (far less than two hours, unless we’re watching a Netflix, but critically-acclaimed movies don’t count as “bad TV” right?). While I’m all for indulging in pure entertainment — I, frankly, wouldn’t dare rob Bump of his precious Sesame Street hour — I do think that when it comes to me and mine the idiot box is just that: generally a waste of time that could be spent on:
a) more reading
b) familial interaction (we both work full-time)
c) physical movement (after two years, I still sometimes use the whole “well, I did just have a baby” excuse)
Before the Internets, the television wasn’t as problematic. But now, thanks to the convenience of things like laptops and wireless technologies, I find my precious intellectual/interaction/active time increasingly sucked into the vortex of television and cyberspace, or The Idiot Box and the Portable Idiot Box.
So a few weeks ago we canceled cable. We still get PBS (Sesame Street) and a few other channels, but we don’t have a very impressive menu of options anymore. At first Mr. G resisted — and I almost caved and called to upgrade — but after less than a week he reported not minding at all. So we’re actually watching less TV. And I’m working out more. And we suddenly have more time to prepare real, non-nuked meals.
Here’s what Adrienne Rich had to say on the matter (excerpt courtesy of very good friend S):
The television screen has throughout the world replaced, or is fast replacing: oral poetry; old wives’ tales; children’s story-acting games and verbal lore; lullabies; “playing the sevens”; political argument; the reading of books too difficult for the reader, yet somehow read; tales of “when-I-was-your-age” told by parents and grandparents to children, linking them to their own past; singing in parts; memorization of poetry; the oral transmitting of skills and remedies; reading aloud; recitation; both community and solitude. People grow up who not only don’t know how to read, a late-acquired skill among the world’s majority; they don’t know how to talk, to tell stories, to sing, to listen and remember, to argue, to pierce an opponent’s argument, to use metaphor and imagery and inspired exaggeration in speech; people are growing up in the slack flicker of a pale light which lacks the concentrated burn of a candle flame or oil wick or the bulb of a gooseneck desk lamp: a pale, wavering, oblong shimmer, emitting incessant noise, which is to real knowledge or discourse what the manic or weepy protestations of a drunk are to responsible speech. Drunks do have a way of holding an audience, though, and so does the shimmery ill-focused oblong screen. (12-13)
–Rich, Adrienne. On Lies, Secrets, and Silence: Selected Prose 1966-1978. New York: W.W. Norton, 1979.
It went to my toddler and my new full time job, that’s where. Hard to believe I haven’t posted since Halloween. But there you have it. Have job, must work. For the fam, though, I must keep up some semblance of domesticity, and so here you go, our Christmas pictures. I really did have hopes of professional family photos for the Holidays, but I’m just not that woman. And those “this is what we did this year” letters that families send out every year? You know, the homemade “newsletters” with clipart and all? No way. I wish I could say I’ve done that — but I didn’t and probably never will. Behold, the closest thing anybody will get to a family photo-card:
Bump, meet Elmo. It’s okay . . . he’s only singing.
Oh, and the pizza he’s carrying? Yeah, he sings too.
At this point I began to wonder what Bump was thinking.
I’m thinking the singing pizza was a bit too much . . .
Overall a subdued and uneventful Christmas morning, somewhat bittersweet because I knew I had to leave for Chicago the next day. In general, though, a perfect day with no surprises. We had left-overs for dinner, watched some NBA, and hung around the house like a bunch of lazy cats. That’s what it’s all about (or should be). While I’ll admit I’m looking forward to Bump discovering the thrill of Christmas, I utterly enjoyed (and certainly don’t take for granted) the sheer simplicity of this phase. Seriously — he was more intrigued by the wrapping paper than the consumer goods inside. Merry, merry Christmas indeed.
Well, we are officially Crunchyville residents. We moved last Thursday and have spent the past four days unpacking, arranging (and re-arranging) furniture, and playfully arguing over who gets which side of the room/closet/desk.
The move itself was a complete disaster. The movers were 7 hours late and took about 4 hours to make the 1.5 hour drive from our apartment to Crunchyville. I didn’t sign the paperwork until 4:08AM, which meant Mr. G and I got about 1.5 hours of sleep before Bump, who slept through the entire ordeal, woke for his early-AM nursing session.
Mr. Grubby, who has actually worked for a moving company, regrets that we actually hired so-called “professionals.” I understand why: together the two of us could’ve finished the job in half the time. Although we had originally planned on having the movers do everything from pack to load and unload, we ended up doing about 95% of the packing ourselves and did our own share of loading and loading. The good news is Crunchyville U. is covering the expenses. The bad new is they’re not likely to comp two full massages for the Hub and I.
We’re over the fretting, though, because we dig our new digs. Lots of space and windows, an obscenely large yard and, I’m somewhat embarrassed to say it, a two-car garage. For long-time city apartment dwellers, these are luxuries beyond belief. Here are some “before” shots of the place as we slowly, very slowly, settle into home sweet home:
Shot of kitchen and adjacent room. I suppose the latter is supposed to be a formal dining area, but we’re keeping it relatively empty for Bump. The kid needs his space. There’s a kitchen table to the right of the island..”this here is where Ma and Pa chow down” (anyone?)
Living room. Note the odd white couch, which is now in our third bedroom (our eventual office/study). Note too the missing television. Ours broke after the move. Damn.
What you’re looking at are just a few of the book boxes. We have way too many books, friends. Also in the background is our favorite window. In the land of perpetual grayness, windows like this rock.
A few good books and the ever important white wine (it kept us going, and going…)
The original choice for Bump’s room. We’ve decided to give him a smaller room so we can turn this into a study/office. We have a few more years before he’ll even begin to care…so whatever.
The morning after our nightmare move found Bump quite content at his new toddler table. Freakin’ A, he’s a cute one.
I could post something about the obscenely long flight delay that left me, Bump, and Oma (that’s Dutch for grandmother) hanging around the Burbank airport for seven hours. Or something about our eventful trip to California to visit friends and family. Then too I could write about how crazy things are at the moment as The Fam and I prepare for our move to Crunchyville this Thursday. (Yes, this Thursday).
Instead, let me share with you what just happened two nights ago while Bump, Mr. G, and I slept soundly at home: some crackhead stole our stroller from right under our noses. Mind you, we called the stroller our “Bentley” because, people, this thing had serious bling-bling: suspension, alloy wheels, kick-ass maneuverability, off-road extras, and so easy to handle I often used one hand to stroll dear Bump around town. And stroll we did all summer long: I’ve got the tan to prove it. This was our dream stroller, courtesy of Vermont Grams who bought it for us as a “pre-Father’s Day” gift. After taxes, it cost $400.00. Those who know me well know I would never dish out that kind of cash for pretty much anything other than health-related necessities. But in the world of strollers, you definitely get what you pay for.
Though broke, we can eventually replace the stroller (they’re now going for about $100 less), but we’ll never be able to replace the little stuffed giraffe we had attached to it. This was Bump’s absolute favorite companion toy. Actually, it wasn’t a toy: it was a security object. One he loved to tote around with him in the stroller, the car, at home, on my lap, everywhere and all of the time. When I think about what these crackheads did with the giraffe — probably chucked it off the side of the road like a useless piece of nothing — I want to tear them a new one. Seriously. That’s what being a mom is all about, folks. What matters most to your son is what matters most to you. And if I had to choose between the $400.00 stroller and the tattered little giraffe? That’s a no-brainer. The giraffe was priceless to him and to me.
Crushed. Just crushed.
Originally uploaded by softmachine.
saw these love birds on a walk with hip young brother.
