Just walked past a cafe table where both parents had their phones out & were intent on… something, something elsewhere. Meantime the year-old child they had produced in an offline moment gazed at one and then at the other, seeing their faces round the back of a screen. When I next passed the mother was rootling in her mum’s bag for something for the kid and Dad was holding both phones, like a smoker with two cigarettes.
Tag: parenting
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bullying
On the bridge I pass two young women pushing prams walking with a guy chugging beer. They have their responsibilities, he has his beer. He is much larger than his baby mama, and in order that he can burp, twice, deliberately, right in her face, he has to crouch. Her head is down, she keeps pushing, and that is what makes me want to learn how to say in German: “You are in an abusive relationship.”
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the littlest love
I lost a baby last year, after a long time trying to conceive. It died inside me early without my knowing about it, so I carried the tiny corpse in my womb a few days, and was its grave. We had chosen our names, for a boy, for a girl. Every child is a girl at this stage. The doctor made his seven-week scan. I strained over his head, trying to see on the dark screen the tiny bean-shaped body for the first time. There was no heartbeat, only my own. The doctor pulled out his dildo-shaped scanner and wiped the condom off it with one movement. The condom he flung over his shoulder into the trash. “I’m afraid you’re not going to be taking home a baby this time,” he said.
Later in his office, when I was dressed, he said airily, “Oh yes – one in two pregnancies ends in miscarriage. Didn’t you know?” I didn’t know. It occurs to me now this is just another way we brush aside the sorrows which affect women. We don’t talk about the griefs women carry. Miscarry. Give stillbirth to. Find dead in the cot. Incest, rape, infertility, assault.
We were so excited going in for the scan. The first glimpse of the most important person in our adult lives; her first communication with us, through the tiny pounding of her heart. I had been watching the daily progress of this infinite darling in the form of diagrams showing the little heart finding its way, the spine beginning to form. These drawings seemed to me the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen on paper. On the screen I could not see anything, however tiny; I looked and looked. My partner held my hand. A sickened feeling of confusion very faintly took hold. The gynaecologist put out both his hands to pull me upright, as though I were an invalid. In such ways do insensitive people convey their empathy. This doctor liked to tell salacious jokes during intimate examination: we were already looking for another doctor, a better doctor, a woman. Earlier he had said, as he reefed the condom over his scanner, “I’m a mountain man. I like mountain women.” I had only just worked out, with a dull, sick feeling, that this was a pun, when he thrust the machine inside me and the scan started and the quiet unmoving bad news came in to rest. It has thus rested ever since. We are still not parents and our child is still unborn. I had not known before this how many of my friends had also suffered miscarriage and the loss of a child. How many still grieved. I had even felt intolerant, judgmental of the seeming sentimentality of these remembrances when they did appear, the candles, the flowers, the bears. Now I found myself applying this same non-compassion to my own grief. This piercing loneliness seared me from the first: after all I am hollow, I am alone in here. Oh how can you mourn something so early, barely a child. With its whole life ahead of it, just growing spine. Meanwhile the little cardboard box with its clot of bloodied fragments that I knelt over on the floor of the shower and howled, that I scooped up and wrapped in tissue paper then could not bring myself to bury, all alone in the cold dark ground, sits on my desk untouched, more than a year later. I have not been ready to let go.
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rainy childs
Berlin children are adorable when it rains. I came upon a flock of them, holding hands in pairs and stopped dead at a cobbled intersection wearing bright and varied rainslicks and little hoods. In the winter one sees them bundled in snowsuits, a hundred cossetted little snowmen. Their mamas and papas dress them in primary colours, bold patterns, polka dots. I drew myself and my wet bicycle relictantly away from the tiny plastic-coated crowd and found on the next street a tiny boy doused in yellow mackintosh and giant green boots, wheeling very carefully his wooden walk-bike through every single puddle.
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through Glass, darkly
Philip Glass: a man who halfway through his own memoir, written by himself about his own life, can start a paragraph with: “But look at it from my point of view…” The innocent jostle of his ego crowds every page. He takes up plumbing as a day job in order to support his children, whose appearance in his life occupies one small paragraph out of 396 pages. He and his friend simply walk into the local plumbing emporium whenever they hit a snag and ask “for supplies and advice.” He recounts the time and energy spent by these professionals in training him and his friend and then says, “We taught ourselves basic bathroom plumbing this way.” Having reframed their teaching as his own auto-didact determination he then further undermines it with, “We weren’t that good at first, but it wasn’t that complicated, either.”
Eventually Glass gets work under a proper licensed plumber, an older man who presumably has taken the time and trouble to earn his own certification. Everything works out smoothly for about three years, until one day an artist friend of Glass’s offers him more interesting work at the same price. He immediately dumps the plumber who has spent three years training him: “That was fine with me and I began practically the next day.” Audiences in Europe who didn’t like his music are described as “a bunch of yokels there who didn’t know anything about world music or even new music” – “They didn’t know anything.” How I wish there were a stronger alignment between good work and great character.
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from here to paternity
Brother has a new baby and is taking paternity leave. In the struggle over dinner to translate the concept it came out wrong & I pounced. Eternity leave! That’s when you just walk out and you’re never going back. ‘You can take this job & shove it, I’m going home to my family.’