drawing souls or just discrepancies

On my first date with Charles we argued so vehemently that we ended up sitting on opposite ends of a public bench in Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, seething. Pink cherry blossoms fluttered past as I vowed to never date this man again, ruing the fact that we attended the same parish. Looking back now it is clear that the same dynamic that fueled our anger was also the impetus which brought us together.

Nowadays it goes something like this:

Me: I don't think Isaiah should go out like this, he needs his ears covered.
Charles: It's not that cold, he'll be fine.
Me: Yes, it is cold. And babies get earaches easily.
Charles: You are such a worrier.
Me: Well, the books say that their ears... er, well, I'm just trying to be a good mom.
Charles: Every mother has some thing she obsesses about.
Me: I'm not obsessing! Why do you always disagree with me?

It seems like every conversation is a more or less dramatic version of this, ending in me yelling, "Why don't you just agree with me?" Which is where it gets confusing, because then Charles says he does agree with me. And has all along.

If he did agree with me, though, I imagine a scenario more like this:

Me: I don't think Isaiah should go out like this, he needs his ears covered.
Charles: Oh, of course, it's cold. Where is his hat?

I was thinking about this yesterday in the shower (being the only place where I can think anymore), and when I got out I sat down next to Charles with a pad and colored pens. I said I had a few questions to ask him, and he looked at my pad and markers and said, "oh, no, is this one of those things where we have to draw our souls?"

I rolled my eyes and drew a circle. I said, "How often do you agree or disagree, in general, with what people have to say?" He said it was fifty-fifty. I cut the circle in two and colored the section for agree green and the section for disagree pink (see figure 1 above). Then, "Well, how do you think people perceive your response to what they are saying? What percentage of the time do they think you agree or disagree with what they are saying? Like here, on a pie-chart." Charles figured that only 25% of the time they thought he agreed with them and 75% of the time they thought he disagreed with them (figure 2). Then I asked, "How often do you agree with what I have to say?" "Ninety percent of the time" he said comfortably. I raised my eyebrows, and drew another pink and green pie chart (see figure 1a). Then, drawing the fourth circle, I said, "Well, here is how often I think you agree with me." I drew a small sliver for "agree," indicating that I assume he is agreeing with me only, say, 15% of the time (see figure 2a).

I don't know what conclusion you would draw from this exercise, but I'd say that this neat little discrepancy is why we argue so much.

get my hooky fix

My freshman year in high school two of my friends suggested we skip school to go see Who Framed Roger Rabbit? I had no interest in the movie, but for some reason I agreed, and discovered that--besides the unpleasantness of sneaking on and off campus--skipping school was entirely my cup of tea. Having gotten away with it once, I began to skip school often, justified in my own mind by my good grades. Being a rather risk-adverse teenager, my outings were fairly tame: I rode the light rail to the large downtown library to browse, walked quietly by the homeless punks hanging out in Pioneer Square, sat in on my friends' classes at MLC (Portland's alternative public school where the teachers apparently welcome stray children into their classes). I wasn't a good liar, so I made it a habit to tell my mom when I cut class--setting a stellar example for my younger siblings whose subsequent school skipping activities were more likely to include shop lifting, pot smoking, and train hopping.

Playing hooky has become a life-long vice, or love, depending on how you look at it. I delight in stealing time for myself when I'm supposed to be elsewhere, doing something serious and official and un-fun. Time becomes more precious and satisfying, it's like getting the extra daylight savings hours year round. Of course, skipping as an adult lacks the glamour it had in my young adulthood. It's not really fun to stretch an office lunch hour when going back late just means I'll have to stay even later. And now, as a mostly stay-at-home-mom, I can barely find activities from which to play hooky. But I do manage: for example, there is church.

This past Sunday, as Charles was getting ready for liturgy, I lingered in bed. Charles doesn't like arriving late, and so he had dressed Isaiah and headed out the door with time to spare. I heard him loudly bless our apartment and his journey (a five-minute walk) to church as he left, and I wondered if this was in the hope that his wife would soon follow him. For awhile I entertained thoughts of arriving before communion, but even that was making me feel confined, so I gave up pretensions of going altogether. Instead, I did nothing, mostly. I took a long shower. I sat wrapped in my towel in the streaming sunlight and slowly applied lotion. I thought. I thought a lot. I made coffee. I read a little. I did the dishes and slowly tidied up the apartment. I even made the bed. I felt absolutely wonderful.

When Charles returned with Ike, he suggested that instead of missing church I take Saturday mornings for myself. This seemed to be a good idea, and I agreed. But later I thought it's skipping church that makes the time so delicious. And it's not that I don't like church--I do! I love our little parish, my friends there, not to mention our world-class coffee hour. The draw of missing church is that I'm playing hookey. I remember sitting in the sun outside the chapel at St Vlad's, late for liturgy as usual, talking to Jenny. Jenny, of course, had come out of church because of baby Anna--a completely legitimate excuse. I, on the other hand, just liked missing church. Our conversations were all the sweeter because the church, a few feet from us, was packed with praying people.

But maybe I can find other ways to get my hooky fix. Yesterday I hired a sitter to continue some urgent freelance work. As I was trudging through the snow to my little office, I passed a coffee shop. I felt annoyed that whenever I have a sitter all I do is rush rush rush to work, to the store, and rush rush rush home to feed Ike. I swung around and headed back to the coffee shop. I sat in a window seat for an hour, sipping chai, reading The New Yorker, and leisurely watching the snow fall on my neighborhood. Ah, it's so delicious.

the tale of the (un)hidden housekeeper

Yesterday was one of those unproductive days where I have aspirations to get something done, if only Ike would stop fussing long enough so I could think of what it was that I needed to do. On days like this I've learned to put Ike in the stroller and go for a walk, because while I push I can sometimes remember what I wanted to be doing all along. But more than likely, by the time I've remembered, I've walked myself 15 blocks in the wrong direction.

Yesterday I was out pushing, considering what was to be done about babysitting on Thursday, (which was tomorrow then, and today today). Because today was the day the housekeeper was coming.

The housekeeper. I love her, I adore her, I live for the days she arrives and brings tidiness to my life. Nevertheless, I am deeply embarrassed to have a housekeeper. My dilemma on this particular occasion was this: I needed babysitting as much as I needed housekeeping, as I had freelance work that must be completed. And while my housekeeper is housekeeping she cannot also be babykeeping, so I must find someone else to tend to Ike. The catch is: I'd be dreadfully embarrassed if my babysitter knew I had a housekeeper. The babysitter must never know that I, in fact, do not scrub my bathroom floor myself. Shouldn't I be able to keep my tiny 600 square foot apartment clean all by myself?

My babysitter is a spunky Dominican woman from my parish who is liberal with mothering advice and political prattle. If she met my kindly Dominican housekeeper, think of all the things they could they say to each other in Spanish! Oh me oh my. So yesterday, after pushing Ike for at least 10 blocks, I called the babysitter and arranged for her to come from 9:00 to 11:00, as the housekeeper wasn't to arrive until 11:30--I would just have to get all my work done in those two hours.

This morning I was out the door and working at the office by 9:00, tapping through my emails productively. At 10:30 the babysitter called, and in her strong Dominican accent said, "Amber, there is someone here to clean your house." (Of course, because I get very little cell phone reception in the basement, it took three phone calls to get this information across.) Flummoxed and foiled I stammered, "Well, of course, let her in." Sheesh! Now they're sitting on my couch, parenting Ike together without me, I thought.

Walking home I called Charles, "Can I still be a nice person and have a housekeeper?" I asked. "Yes, and you'll get over your shame. Because you shouldn't have any," he said. And maybe I will, as long as my other babysitter doesn't find out.

ah, to be single again...

I'm not cut out to be a wife or mother. I lose my touch with projects more demanding than watching snow fall or drinking coffee, although I think I could manage drinking coffee while watching snow fall.

This afternoon I fell asleep after buckling Ike into his bouncy chair in front of a Baby Einstein DVD. I had originally thought he might fall asleep on the bed with me, but he seemed more interested in whimpering while attempting to eat my hair. So I decided, despite the dire predictions of Neil Postman, to raise my child in front of the television. At least in front of Baby Einstein, C-SPAN, and the sleazy 1970s crime movies that Charles keeps bringing home.

Ike cooed while purple zebra puppets painted Monet scenes, and I fell asleep thinking worried thoughts about the laundry I'd left in the laundry room. When Ike started crying, I was behind the glass wall of sleep. My limbs were too heavy to move, and besides, I was involved in a dream where my neighbors were rummaging through the sheets in my laundry basket. A xylophone version of Vivaldi's Four Seasons was playing over and over. I don't know how long Ike cried, but I must have finally got up and brought him back to bed with me, because when I woke up an hour later he was there, still crying and tugging on my hair.

The sun had set, my laundry was hogging all the dryers in the laundry room, xylophone Vivaldi trilled from the menu page of the Baby Einstein DVD, and Charles has sent a text message saying he was staying late at the office. Something had to be made for dinner.

I think I was a lot better at being single.

9 hours 12 minutes: begrudgingly receiving

Almost a year ago I wrote a post entitled "you make me feel like an incompetent woman" about the guilt I felt when Charles does things for me. Nearly a year later, navigating NYC with an infant in tow, I find that I must ask help from people all the time.

Recently, on the trip back from Honolulu to New York, I needed help, and knowing that made me all shades of irritated and resentful. When the crew called for those with children to board first, I guiltily passed the waiting crowds, worried they'd all be thinking "oh no, a baby!" I'd been assigned a seat at the bulk head, which I'd read was good for mothers with babies, but why was beyond me as there was no place to store my diaper bag at arms length. A middle-aged Asian lady sitting across the aisle from me offered to stow it in the overhead compartment, and I thanked her, feeling guilty for being a burden and annoyed that the diapers, wet-wipes, and my reading material was now out of reach. The seat next to me was empty and the man on the other side of it looked over at Ike and said, "well, you've got your hands full! I'll get the bag down for you later if you need it." I nodded nervously, smiling, assuming he was thinking "oh, crap, I wonder if I can get a different seat." I turned away and began to nurse Ike, hoping no one else would take notice of me and that oh God, pretty please the seat next to me would stay empty.

Much of the time I prefer that people take no notice of me. And asking for help is bringing attention directly to myself, like saying, "hey, come here and chat!" to perfect strangers. I worry: How can I repay them? Will they think I'm rude because I won't want to talk? What's the point of talking to someone I'll never see again? Or more poignantly, the self-criticism: Why don't I just relax and enjoy talking to strangers? I dread being drawn into conversation with some horribly well-meaning person who'll yap my ear off. I suspect I'll be sitting there and thinking all sorts of snippy retorts in my head while saying with contrived politeness, "hmm, yes, I see." Although, for the record, this rarely happens. My fears are generally unfounded, and are based on an unbecoming social squeamishness.

I felt God must have heard my plea when the plane filled up with passengers while the seat next to me remained empty. I had just begun to gloat when the stewardess announced they were selling the remaining seats to stand-by fliers. Within minutes a tall, thin, and well-tanned woman in her mid-30s sat down next to me. She smiled vacantly when she saw Ike and crooned, "ooooh, is that your baby?" I paused and tentatively said "yes..." thinking, but not saying, "no, I stole him from a couple in the airport." What the hell? Just the kind of communication I hate. This 9 hour 12 minute flight was going to be awful. She was probably returning from vacationing on Maui with her college sorority sisters. Ugh. Serves her right to sit next to a baby.

Me and my evil thoughts. I don't feel nice thinking them, which adds to my general bad mood. When the stewardess came by to offer drinks, I was slinking lower into my seat, Ike asleep on my lap, my eyes glued to the monitor announcing 8 hours 24 minutes left on the flight. But maybe God heard my prayer after all. "Do you want a bassinet?" she asked. "Sure," I said, "if it's no problem." When she returned, my well-tanned neighbor helped attach it to the wall directly in front of her seat and offered to switch seats with me if I liked.

I didn't get but a few hours sleep on the plane, but the baby slept well in his little carriage. When I drifted off to sleep the man two seats over watched Ike, even putting his pacifier back in when he became fussy. He commended me for breast-feeding, and told me about his own children. The Asian woman offered to hold Ike so I could go to the bathroom, and helped me change Ike's diaper as well. Ike was as good as could be expected, and no one seemed terribly put-out by his presence. Ms Well-Tanned slept most of the trip, and my heart softened toward her when I noticed how unhappy she looked asleep. The same friendly man who watched over Ike struck up a conversation with her, and I overheard her say she had gone to Maui to get some space after a painful breakup with her boyfriend. Sigh. I'm so quick to judge the well-tanned, successful-looking people of the world.

All said, it was a fairly good 9 hour flight, primarily because of the help of strangers and Ike's good temperament. What kind of example do I set for my son if I slink down to determinedly do everything myself instead of accepting what God so freely gives me through those around me? I know this is one of the challenges of my personality: to learn how to graciously respond to strangers without allowing my suspicious nature and fragile ego to get in the way. I can ask for help when I need it, and enjoy receiving it, and not to take myself and everyone else so seriously. The words of St Philaret ring true, "in unforeseen events let me not forget that all are sent by you."

the blog resumes: with or without a working vocabulary

Well. Maybe I will do this again. In stops and starts. 5 minutes here. For the last year my journal entries, months apart, usually consist of two and a half sentences virtually identical to each other in exhausted pathos. It takes more than three sentences to write yourself into hope.

As I sit at my computer, my 4-month old son Ike, sleeps. Because he doesn't nap for long I won't be able to finish this post. Not now. While he sleeps I may have time to tidy our small apartment, take a short shower, or chop carrots for beef stew. Or, less usefully, play Word Twist and update my facebook status. Blogging requires a working vocabulary, linear thought, and a sense of humor. Which is a little much to ask of me lately.

I dread putting words to this transition: the new wife and mother roles haven't congealed and much of the time I feel like I'm play-acting at being myself. I imagined I'd step into a new life like putting on a velvety bathrobe, but so far it's been more like getting dressed in junior high. In the last year I've gotten pregnant, gotten married four times over, moved twice, bought my first condo, gave birth, and left the publishing job where I've been employed for the last nine years. As if transitioning to caring for an infant, with all the sleep depravation entailed, wasn't work enough. I just don't have time to think, which sort of rules out processing all these changes.

I've spent the last two weeks in Holualoa, Hawaii with Fr John and Jenny Schroedel. And although I can't honestly say that I had much time to think while here (the Schroedel's youngest daughter Natalie is a little two-year-old tornado), I've at least had time to think about not thinking. Which led to this blog post on my last night in Hawaii.

Their cavernous house is quiet now, the kids are all asleep, and the sound of crickets fills the cool night air. Ike and I fly back to New York tomorrow, to Charles and our tiny green-walled apartment in wintry South Harlem. Maybe I can begin processing this mother-wife thing online, in stops and starts, with or without glamorous graphics and linear thought. As Amber Schley Iragui. No more Lucy.

you make me feel like an incompetent woman

Last week when I came home Charles was sitting at his computer. This is usually what Charles is doing when I come home, and his screen is usually covered with inscrutable columns of numbers or puzzling line graphs. He never seems to brood over these pages, but flips through them as if they were Italian shoes he was considering purchasing on zappos. He greeted me and cheerfully asked me if I had my 2006 tax forms. I think I just looked at him blankly for awhile--no one I know asks after tax forms cheerfully. But when I unearthed the fat 2006 envelope from H&R Block, Charles immediately set to work on our joint 2007 taxes, occasionally asking me to clarify this or that.

Watching him, I felt guilty in that neurotic married way I've suddenly rediscovered. Guilty because someone is doing something for me that I imagine is burdening them. Guilty because I am not doing it myself and thus must be incompetent and in need of a great deal of help. I finally said, "you don't have to do that, you know." Charles stopped and looked at me with puzzled expression, "I'm confused," he said, "do you not want me to do our taxes?" I paused and considered. "Well," I said, "If you want to do them, if you don't mind doing them, it's great, really great." Charles turned back to the computer and continued to plug away at our taxes without the slightest trace of resentment.

I'm just not used to this. Not used to being married to such an amazingly capable and cheerful man who actually seems to enjoy doing things for me. It's not that I mind exactly, it's that I feel awkward about it. I'm used to being the one who does things for other people. I'm used to feeling, well, very competent. It's sick, I know: because my "competence" calculated against another person's "incompetence" isn't the most healthy self-esteem measurement system. It isn't very nice--or fair--for either party. But I felt it worked for me in the past.

It worked for me with my ex-husband, for example. Now, for the record, I have a great deal of respect and affection for my ex-husband, but it isn't stretching things to say that he wasn't exactly a pillar of practicality. The everyday workings of life often seemed to elude him, and I was more than happy to sort it all out on his behalf. I considered his absentmindedness mostly endearing. Looking back, though, I must admit that he bolstered my fragile self-image--I was necessary for his survival, a superwoman with forms and paperwork. It all seems rather pathetic now: without him as a foil I'm just mediocre with paperwork, and with practicality in general.

Charles and I went to work-out that evening, and when we returned he sat down at his computer and resumed work on our taxes, sweaty gym clothes notwithstanding. This baffled me just as much as his wanting to do the taxes in the first place. I can't imagine prolonging financial paperwork late into the evening donned in damp exercise gear. I added this to the top of my list of odd behavior proving Charles is nuts, or a robot, or an alien. In a short while he announced he'd finished and that we'd receive a nice tax return from the IRS. I probably just grunted; it all seemed like science-fiction.

The next day at work I gratefully pondered my enormously efficient husband, how incredibly fortunate I am to have his help and love. When I went to get my mail, I found a letter from the Department of Revenue addressed to my ex-husband, stating that he owed money and that his license could be revoked as a consequence.

I think I'm coming out on the side of feeling incompetent, if only temporarily. It's healthy to work toward a more reasonable measurement of self-worth, just as it's healthy to let others help and support me without feeling guilty. And, really, I don't want to do the taxes ever again.