Nesting

Looks inviting, no?

I remember being pregnant, and reading everything I could get my hands on about that glorious/nauseous time of life. The hugely popular What to Expect When You’re Expecting had just been published, and I may have been one of the first readers. I recall learning about the “nesting instinct,” which kicks in during the last month or two. Like other female members of the animal kingdom, moms-to-be have a compulsion to scurry around, making the “nest” ready for the little one to come. I read about meticulously organized baby clothes, painted nurseries, pre-addressed thank you notes, stockpiled Gerber strained beets. When would MY nesting instinct kick in? At nine months along, I was still wildly disorganized, with my baby shower gifts still in boxes and my baby food cupboard bare (had to have room for all those craving cookies, right?)

I’ve since heard of other preggos who didn’t really “nest,” so I’m feeling a bit better. But it did get me thinking about the concept of nesting. Truth be told, what actually got me thinking was the sudden appearance of grass and straw under my A/C unit in my home office, accompanied by wild chirping sounds. Yep, a mother bird was setting up housekeeping on my windowsill. What to do? Steve and I pried open the window, and kind of cleared away the existing nest materials, in hopes of discouraging her (much as landlords stop repairing things so that the tenants will leave and they can raise the rent). Alas!! Mother B is not easily dissuaded from this prime bit of real estate. This morning I noticed another tell-tale trail of greenery emerging. 

 

I’m tempted to just let things be, especially since we leave for six weeks at the beach soon. What’s the worst that can happen? A huge batch of baby finches flying around my desk upon my return? Yeah. That would be pretty bad.

Then there are those clever Russian nesting dolls, of which we have several sets. These lovely painted dolls always fascinated the kids. For about five minutes. Then they’d lose the tinier pieces, and lose interest in the rest. “Hey, let’s play with the nesting dolls!” never once escaped their lips. I’d find myself putting them back together and then away, which was harder than it sounds, because I’d always end up with one less or one extra doll. 

 

The only reliable nests I make, are the ones in my heart. Friends old and new, tiny additions to our family, even cherished books and pieces of music, all have their cozy spots deep inside. The problem is, when the nests empty, they don’t disappear. So, I’m left with gaping holes--when the kids move out, when the friendships die, when the books are forgotten and the music goes out of tune. There’s no replacing what's lost. 

My kiddos, once upon a time

But there’s beauty in the bounty, the record of love in my empty nests. I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

 

Hey! Maybe the windowsill birds can move in!

Casting Spells

 

I recently wrote an essay for Next Avenue magazine, about the decline of cursive handwriting. There’s no denying that it’s used much less often than it was in days of yore, especially since the advent of the personal computer. My piece makes an argument to continue teaching it, and encouraging children and youth to practice using script. If we let this skill disappear, we may someday be unable to read vital parts of our handwritten past, a terrible loss.

 

And how about spelling? With spellcheck, autocorrect and other electronic aids, our errors are instantly remedied--although who among us has not had autocorrect insist that we’re trying to write “mustache” instead of “mistake”? Add in all the acronyms (ROFL! TMI! LMK! NVM!); why, it’s a wonder anyone bothers spelling anything anymore. 

 

Are spelling bees still popular? I know the Scripps National Bee finals are televised every year, so some kids somewhere are spelling up a storm. What I always loved about the bees was that I could tap into my inner wildly aggressive competitor, and be rewarded for it. Not for me the athletic fields of play, where soccer or softball or hockey stars fought their prodigious battles! The spelling bees were my sole opportunities to engage in combat, in front of an appreciative audience, no less. There was no heart-stopping thrill like being in the final two, just me and Rosie Gaffney, when the words would buzz rapidly back and forth until one of us messed up. With a smirk of triumph, I would nail “arrhythmic,” and be lavishly rewarded with yet another Miraculous Medal to add to my collection. 

 

My spellbound youth came rushing back to me on Saturday, when I saw the great Tony award winning musical The 25^th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. The familiar characters were there (exaggerated for humorous effect): the arrogant whiz kid, the reluctant contestant pushed by ambitious parents, the kid whose folks didn’t show up at all, the underachiever who surprisingly did very well. To make the show even more enjoyable, audience members who were interested were selected to join the cast onstage as fellow “spellers” during the play. The gag was that these folks got the easy words (“Your word is cow.” “Use it in a sentence, please?” “All right. Your---word---is---cow.”) while the performers got the multisyllabic nightmares. The overarching message of the show (we have our challenges, but, in our own unique ways, when we care for each other, we’re all winners) was very satisfying. 

 

Maybe spelling, like cursive, is a dying art. Perhaps the dictionary will eventually go the way of the dinosaur. But I worry about us humans relinquishing so much control to machines. Spelling builds brainpower, and helps us make sense of language. Why give that up?

 

For me, I’ll remember that it’s I before E except (usually) after C. This knowledge has served me well.

 

And I’ll never quit spelling, as long as there’s enough breath in my body to tackle “antidisestablishmentarianism.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's Ulterior!

He gets the brownie just because he's cute!

“There are always two reasons for doing a thing: One is a good reason, and the other is the real reason.”  --Mrs. Walter Helm, quoted in “Ulterior Motives” by Dr. Iskra Fileva in Psychology Today

 

Ah, would that it were a black and white world, with pure, singular motivations for doing what we do!! It’d be so simple to know that Dr. Evil is always up to no good, right? And Paula Perfect eternally acts in others’ best interests just because she cares?

 

But alas, this is reality, guys. And, more often than not, we humans operate on several levels, in our thoughts and our actions too. Of course I offer my sweet-toothed grandson Peter the last brownie, ONLY because I want him to be happy! It has NOTHING to do with the fact that I want to get that chocolatey temptation off my own plate! 

See what I mean? 

 

The same goes for my writing career. Do I write for the money? Yes, and no. I will say that it is not my primary motivator. I write a decent amount for little to no compensation, especially when it’s in service to a cause I believe in. Indeed, if it were just all about the Benjamins, I’d be a neurosurgeon instead! Or a barista! 

 

Do we dress up for a special date in a four-star restaurant because we are eager to flaunt our fancy outfit? Or do we do it because we want to show our appreciation for the treat? Both? Do we help that little old lady across the street because, as my Mom would say, “we’ll get our crown in Heaven”? Is it because we realize that our fate is to BE that little old lady someday, and we hope some kind younger soul will guide US across Roosevelt Boulevard in the future? Or is it that she’s walking so darned slowly in front of you that you’re going to be late for work if you don’t speed her along?

 

It's complicated.

 

The French phrase for ulterior motive, arrière pensée, can be literally translated as “behind thought.” Like many French phrases, using the literal translation in English makes you sound weird. “Avoir le cafard” means “being down in the dumps”, but you’re really saying you’re “having the cockroach.” 

 

I digress.

 

Having hidden intentions, ulterior motives, is normal, and not necessarily nefarious. I would argue that very few of us are always, and solely, acting from a rarefied place of total selflessness and loving kindness. Deeeeep down, we are often asking “What’s in it for me?” This is why the Nature Conservancy sends us sheets of address labels with pretty bluebirds on them, absolutely free. Yes, they’re a fabulous organization, but they also hope we’ll use one of those snazzy labels to mail them a hefty donation!  

 

I want to believe you’re reading my blog right now because you love my writing, NOT because you’re procrastinating about emptying the dishwasher. I know better—but hey! I’ll take it! 

Photo Ivan Bertolazzi on Pexels

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tradwife-ing

There she is, Mrs. America!
(Photo ArtsyBee on Pixabay)

As I sometimes feel an obligation to be informative here on the blog, today’s post is educational. It deals with the “tradwife” (traditional wife) movement, and I am guessing most of my readers are as ignorant as I was (until just the other day) about it. We can fix that! Let’s dig in, shall we? 

Many young people are rebelling against their own upbringing, when they watched their working moms exhaustedly try to juggle full time employment with full time caregiving and home management. They’re looking back to the halcyon days of yore, the 1950s to be precise, when everything was…just…you know…better. We’ve seen the “Leave it to Beaver” reruns! Who among us women hasn’t dreamed of vacuuming in our high heels and pearls, right?

 

So, of course, the incubator for the tradwife fad has been: TikTok. There, one can find many videos of Barbie-fied young women wearing vintage dresses and frilly aprons, cooking from-scratch meals, and singing the praises of being stay-at-home wifeys and moms. These gals don’t want to bother their pretty little heads with the pesky concerns of careers and finance. They defer in all things to their husbands, which is clearly what God intended. Btw, God also clearly intended for men to wear fedoras every day, and to don slippers to read the evening paper while awaiting dinner. God must be so disappointed in us!! The evening paper isn’t even published anymore!!

 

While it isn’t quite as ridiculous as a yearning to return to, say, the Great Depression would be, wannabe tradwives should keep in mind the dark underbelly of the Fabulous Fifties. It wasn’t all hair appointments and bridge clubs! It was also a time before civil rights, and many women’s rights too. Father Knows Best was a given, even if “father” was a real jerk. Far too many women were stuck, forever, in miserable marriages. Good luck striking out on your own, girls, with no credit card, checking account, or access to a well-paying job! 

 

Like all fads, I predict the tradwife will eventually go the way of the Twist and Pet Rocks. While there is a tiny grain of truth underpinning the movement (today’s women ARE expected to do it all, and it can be really soul-sucking), I don’t think the answer is to surrender our hard-won agency at the door. I for one have no intention of asking Steve for an allowance, or permission to buy that cute frock in the window of Bailey’s Dress Shoppe. I’m proud that my daughters earn good money working in challenging careers. I cannot imagine them wearing frilly aprons, except ironically. 

 

The grass is always greener when we look at the past through the lens of nostalgia. And some of our modern world is problematic for sure (don’t get me started on AI !!) But let’s be careful when we try to revive the “good old days.” Bringing back family meals and board games? Sure! TV dinners (especially that yucky Salisbury steak) and oppression? No thank you!!

My NYC career women out on the town