Essay #28: Piano

Clara's been asking for weeks to learn piano. I've been hesitant, mostly because it went so poorly when I tried to teach Amelia a few years ago. We carried along for several months, but she became frustrated once the pieces got slightly challenging, and soon our lessons turned into her screaming and refusing to play. Now she remembers only one song, the plodding "Cowboy Joe," which she plays at far-too-regular intervals.

I've taught seven of the neighborhood kids, so I'm reasonably confident in my ability to teach (even if none of my former students still play). I played for most of my childhood and also taught younger students when I was a senior in high school. Still, my own relationship with the piano has been uneven. I started playing young, but I hated the teacher I had through elementary school, and I became lazy, refusing to improve with the excuse of disliking him. I quit for a few years and then picked it up in high school, but my new teacher had reasonably high expectations that I wasn't prepared to meet. My former teacher hadn't held me to account on accurately playing the beat, and so I'd mostly ignore it. I eventually quit on my new teacher too, but I restarted with my boyfriend's teacher during my senior year of high school. She was honestly a good fit--not too exacting, but not too lenient, and I eventually taught some of her youngest students--but my graduation was the end of my piano career.

Soon it became embarrassing to tell other people that I had played piano for most of my childhood. I wasn't any good, particularly given the number of years I had devoted. I couldn't name any great composers or pianists. I could sight-read basic music, but I didn't even know how to count out the beat for more complex pieces.

Once we moved to Cincinnati, my parents had my childhood piano sent down, and it resides in my office. I still have vague memories of choosing the piano at the store alongside one of my first piano teachers. I've thought about trying to learn again as an adult, and I find some pleasure in picking out a song, but I don't think I'll ever really return.

Nonetheless, I hope both girls will play. So, today, I reluctantly agreed to give Clara her first lesson. She was eager and attentive, listening carefully to my instructions. By the end of the thirty minutes, she could play "In the Jungle," an easy three-finger piece. 

I don't know if her enthusiasm will last. Maybe she'll end up in the same place as Amelia within a few weeks. But it was a good thirty minutes. I got to appreciate my thirty-year-old piano again. I got to appreciate Clara, who can wear me down with her "Mommy, will you...", again. 

Essay #27: Grocery Store

We got back from my mother-in-law's mid-afternoon today. We'll be leaving again on the 26th to visit my parents, but we have the next two and a half days at home and no food. So what does that mean? Family grocery trip.

During the pandemic, we switched to doing pick-up grocery orders, and a little over a year ago we switched to Kroger delivery. We never seemed able to make time to grocery shop anyway, and I hated the crowds. Now, I stop by only occasionally to grab a missing item.

Jeremy or I could have gone alone without the kids, but since we'll be doing Christmas Eve and Christmas here at our home for the first time, it seemed appropriate to let them get involved. I braced myself for chaos, but Kroger wasn't nearly as bad as I might have feared for a Saturday two days before Christmas. They were completely out of non-green bell peppers, but Amelia managed to find two orange ones hidden atop the bin. They were out of cream cheese too, but I pulled out a shipping box and ripped out a block. No green beans, so we subbed broccoli. We will have to settle for grating our own mozzarella--no more shredded to be found. We ran into Clara's Girl Scout troop leader. We doubled back for hamburger buns and chopped pecans. We decided my dad definitely needed a local brewery's IPA with fir tips added. We bought expensive nuts and fancy cheeses for a Christmas day charcuterie board.

All the hunting and discovery made it feel a little like an adventure. The girls were in great moods. Amelia pushed the cart with Clara hanging off the side and didn't even run into anyone. Now, our pantry and refrigerator are full, and Jeremy's cooking dinner in the kitchen with our haul. It might just feel more satisfying than a delivery person knocking on the door. 

Essay #26: Nap Trap

There's a cartoon that resonated with me completely when I was a new mom. It's of a mother nursing her baby, but her cell phone is just out of reach on the bed. The mom looks at the phone desperately, but it's impossible. She's trapped, and she doesn't even have the dull escape of endless scrolling to console her. 

I was never one of those mothers who swooned about the baby stage. I didn't understand women who cooed over "baby snuggles" and "baby smell." Sure, I agreed that babies were cute, but they were so boring. The first months with each of my girls felt like a continuum of nothingness. I knew it was necessary nothingness to ensure they reached the real person stage, but I wasn't keen to stretch it out. I was thrilled when the girls started crawling, then walking, and then talking. I shed no tears over the end of breastfeeding. We potty-trained early. We shifted out of cribs early. 

Some women told me that I'd miss the sweet baby days once they had passed, but I honestly don't. I'm glad my daughters can go to the bathroom alone, and buckle their own seatbelts, and sleep through the night.

Of course, children at all ages have their own challenges, and I feel every one of those challenges today, as we celebrate Christmas (three days early) at Jeremy's mom's house. There are twelve people--six adults and six children. For me, six children in one house feels like a lot, and high emotions over presents and who got the best toys meant plenty of drama. I felt myself growing tense and grouchy as the morning dragged on and presents, boxes, and ribbons extended their reach over the entirety of the first floor. An afternoon walk and park visit helped reinvigorate me a bit, but soon we were back inside the crowded house for dinner.

Jeremy's mom had been holding Benjamin, who, at nine months old, is the youngest of the cousins. I claimed my nephew so that Marian could eat, and his pathetic cries made it clear he was sleepy. I bounced him back and forth in my arms, shifting my weight from one leg to another. I shushed him quietly, mimicking the sound of a hair dryer. Soon, he was asleep in my arms. I walked over to a kitchen chair and sat down. I knew I'd be sitting there until he awoke. I was nap trapped.

Part of me said to embrace the moment. Benjamin was warm and heavy against my chest. His face was at total peace. It was a sweet moment. But my arm ached, my lower back hurt, and that all-consuming nature of new motherhood passed over me. 

Even years removed from the newborn days of my own children, I felt the ambivalence over the sacrifice required for new mothers. After all, I had made all the sacrifices of a "good mom," but I hadn't feel warm and satisfied at the time.

Benjamin didn't nap all that long--maybe twenty or thirty minutes. Once he was awake, he got passed back to his mom for feeding. I was freed again, to snuggle my own, much larger children as we watched Elf on the couch. They, too, are warm and heavy against my chest. But I don't feel nearly so trapped.

[This essay also finished a day later than the published date, but only because my laptop ran out of battery, and I'd forgotten to bring my charger to Jeremy's mom's house.]

Essay #25: Directed Drawing

In an attempt to be more environmentally friendly, I've avoided using wrapping paper for the last several years. I save all the gift bags from birthdays, Christmas, and other special events to reuse, which serves us adequately. However, I know that there is something satisfying about unwrapping a present, a feeling that pulling tissue paper out of a bag can't quite match. For that reason, I've taken to wrapping some of the girls' Christmas presents with reused material: saved brown paper grocery bags, leftover wallpaper samples, brown packing paper from Amazon packages.

I still want this "upcycled" wrapping to look festive, so I draw cute Christmas pictures on them. Since I have no natural (or learned) artistic skill, I use YouTube directed drawings, primarily from the Art for Kids Hub, where an enthusiastic dad guides the drawing alongside one of his children. In the videos, the dad walks the audience through the drawing, step by step--draw a long, straight line here; add a curve there. At the end, he encourages the audience to color it in however they want, though he shows his fully-colored image too. The final drawings are cartoons, with thick black Sharpie lines and exaggerated features.

Last night I used the channel's videos to decorate Amelia's and Clara's packages with the following: a penguin in winter clothes; hugging snowmen in a snow globe; a smiling cup of hot chocolate with smiling marshmallows; and a svelte arctic fox. I'm particularly proud of the fox, which has some light-blue shading and looks like a Pokémon. 

Directed drawings are incredibly popular now--both of my girls regularly do them in school--but they obviously didn't exist in the pre-YouTube era of my elementary school days. There were some "how to" books, but for the most part, you could either draw, or you couldn't. Today, anyone can complete a "skiing squirrel" or "jellybean Santa." No doubt directed drawing has its critics. It's not real art--the wide-eyed, cutesy characters look a lot alike--or reflective of real talent. It puts its users into a connect-the-dots box, rather than encouraging creativity and discovery. Still, discovering that I can complete something worthy with five minutes guidance on the computer perhaps works to challenge the binary of artist/not-artist I've had most of my life. It makes me a little more confident that I'm capable of learning.

Essay #24: Solo Movies

The first time I saw a movie alone in a theater, it was the summer of 2004, and I was interning at the Feminist Majority Foundation in Washington, D.C. Though I enjoyed the graphic design work and research into Title IX, my roommate and I had taken an instant dislike of one another, and I struggled to make friends with the other FMF interns. One week, depressed by the thought of a Friday evening in my rented room, I decided to buy myself Quiznos and see a movie: M Night Shyamalan's The Village. 

This was in the days before smartphones, so when I arrived at the theater a little early, I could only sit and stare ahead, feeling intensely awkward. I tried to look expectant, like my cool boyfriend would be showing up any moment. I visited the restroom--maybe more than once. I imagined what the other patrons would be thinking. "Look at that twenty-year-old woman. What's so wrong with her that she has to go alone to a movie?" 

Still, once the movie started, I relaxed. I liked Bryce Howard, though now I wonder how well she really played a blind woman. The film wasn't as good as The Sixth Sense, but I still fell for the "twist" ending.

It would be a long time before I'd visit the theater alone again, but it's become something of a habit recently. I've become more interested in film, and post-pandemic it feels important to see movies in the theater, not just on my TV. However, I hate spending money on a babysitter just so Jeremy and I can see movie, and if I'm going out with a friend, I want to chat, not sit silently. That means solo trips, usually when Jeremy and the girls are gone or I have an unexpected day off work.

In the last year or so, I've seen Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris, The Banshees of Inisherin, The Fabelmans, Oppenheimer, Killers of the Flower Moon, and last night, Godzilla Minus One. 

Godzilla wouldn't have been my first choice, but the prestige movies of the season haven't opened in Ohio yet, and the film had such an unusually high score on the Letterboxd app (4.2!) that I was curious. The movie was fun, with an enormous pot-bellied Godzilla that made me chuckle appreciatively every time it appeared. It had a sweet message about family and the value of human life that, I'll confess, made me tear up a few times. An evening well-spent. 

Jeremy has a phrase he sometimes says to Amelia when she worries about others' perception: "Literally, no one cares." It sounds mean, but it's said humorously, an acknowledgement that it's reassuring to know we're only a quick blip on most people's radars. I find it reassuring too. Twenty years after I first saw The Village, I'm far less self-conscious about how I spend my time. I can spend my Wednesday night reading subtitles of Japanese in a suburban AMC alone. No one cares. 

[I've broken my essay streak! It wasn't intentional. I had planned to write this essay yesterday after seeing the movie, even musing over the topic in the car, and then, by the time I got home, I'd forgotten. But I'm writing it the next morning and pre-dating it for yesterday because I can do what I want.]

Essay #23: Deer

The white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus) is ubiquitous in Ohio. Over 200,000 were "harvested" during the last hunting season, and yet our state still has a population of approximately 750,000 deer. When Jeremy and I were backpacking in Yellowstone, our guide stopped to excitedly point out a group of white-tailed deer in the distance. Dude, we did not come to Wyoming to see deer.

Because our home backs up to woods, we regularly spot deer in our front and backyard or walking down our neighbors' driveway. Once, the girls were playing outside and discovered a fawn nestled just next to our deck, left there while its mother foraged. Another time, I startled a family of deer in our neighbors' yard. The adults jumped the fence, but the baby was left inside, unable to find the exit. My neighbor eventually had to chase it out.

Not surprisingly, I also encounter deer a lot when I hike, particularly on days when the parks are mostly empty. I startled a group of four hiking in East Fork on Sunday, and I came upon two while at California Woods Nature Preserve today.

Even though I see deer regularly, I stop each time we meet. Partially it's because they're Ohio's largest mammal, and I have to respect something that weighs as much as I do. Partially it's because even though deer are firmly ensconced in the suburbs, sighting them still makes parks feel a little more wild.

Plus, the only other wild mammal I spot with any frequency is squirrels. Squirrels don't evoke much because they run away as soon as they see me. Deer, on the other hand, bolt--and then stop. Every time.

Take the deer today, which bounded across the trail as I headed uphill. It continued several more yards, down a hill, and then turned to consider me. Stock still, it faced me pensively, its black eyes locking with mine. There's no way I could just keep walking; it would be like ignoring the cardigan-wrapped old lady waving as I walked down the street. Instead, I also stopped, then finally called out "hi." (I'd called "Merry Christmas!" to one at East Fork.)

I'm not usually given to talking to animals or talking to myself when I hike. It's really just the deer. After a few seconds of eye-contact, the deer leaped off again.

I know deer are nuisances, resulting in car accidents and destroying home landscapes (a pesky deer ate the sunflower Clara had nurtured all last summer), but even worse, they eat important native plants like baby oaks. Even though I'm vegetarian, I don't have issue with deer hunting, which I know is necessary to control the population.

Still, encountering a deer, like unseasonably warm days, feels like a "gift." Yes, I'm anthropomorphizing, but I choose to believe that the deer takes notice of me, that I exist, that I'm someone. It regards me with something that feels like understanding.

Essay #22: Snow

There's plenty of Ohio jokes in the fact that yesterday I wrote about "unseasonably warm days," and today I'm writing about snow. The first snow of the season! It began mid-morning and continued, off and on, throughout the day, heavy enough during the beginning of 7th period that everything looked blurry, and I suggested the students hold off on driving home if it continued. 

In general, I don't like snow. It makes hiking difficult, and it's warm enough in Cincinnati that most snow quickly turns to dirty slush. I greeted the snowfall out my classroom window with a resigned sigh.

The girls are already off school for Winter Break, and they each had a playdate scheduled. While I sighed at the snow, I received a text from the father of one of Clara's friends. He'd sent a video of Clara and her friend on their driveway, dancing and giggling as the snow fell in thick flakes around them. He included a photo of Clara too, a smear of ketchup from lunch still on her cheek. Her eyes are closed, her mouth is wide open, and her tongue is all the way out, just waiting for the snowflake to land.

I still don't love snow. But I love that Clara loved it. 

It's in the 30's today, but the ground is still warm, so little of the snow stuck. By now, as I write from home, all that remains is a dusting on our deck furniture.