haircuts

E. got his first professional haircut this week. I can't believe he's starting first grade next week. He was assigned a teacher who's been in the district since Dan and I were students here. Kind of weird.

Speaking of which, Dan is colleagues now with some of our former middle school teachers.

Our seventh grade science teacher said she remembered both of us perfectly, and to prove it, showed him her grade books from 1988! (We both got A's.)

Ju also got a much needed trim.

So cute. How can you not want to grab those cheeks?

substitute me

While I was in Florida, I read a great new novel called Substitute Me. (Full disclosure: the author, Lori Tharps, is a friend of mine.) Still, it's worth mentioning here for several reasons, one of which is that it is almost compulsively readable. On the plane, I kept passing Ju into my husband lap, and feeding the older boys crackers, so that I could finish it before we landed.

But Substitute Me is not only an engaging, pleasurable read. It tackles questions of race and class in fascinating ways, and also addresses the nanny question, one that is, as my readers know, near and dear to my own heart.

The novel is about a thirty-year old black woman from an upper-middle class upbringing who takes a job as a nanny for a white family. The story is told in alternating points of view, by Zora, the nanny, and her employer, Kate.

Both are portrayed as complex, nuanced characters, likable but flawed. Yet I found myself sympathizing more with Zora. It made me ask myself why. Maybe it has to do with the choices I've made in my own life that made me wince at the extra hours Kate put in, and how she justified them to herself.

But most interesting are the open-ended, unanswerable questions this book raises: is it possible, as a mother, to hire someone to care for your kids without major sacrifice (especially grievous, in the Kate's case)? Is it possible to transcend one's socioeconomic origins? Is Park Slope the new Mount Airy? Or is Mount Airy the new Park Slope?

(As a former Mount Airy-ite myself, I also appreciated the book's playful jabs at the Philadelphia neighborhood's hokey, endearing Berkeley-wanna-be vibe).

Overall, it's a great read, smart and entertaining. Highly recommended!

raising bilingual kids

I guess I'm trendier than I would have thought.

Just the day before I saw this article, I'd sent emails to the international departments of nearby colleges, asking about Brazilian exchange students who might be interested in a babysitting job, and would be able to help my kids keep up with their Portuguese.

Turns out looking for a babysitter who can speak a foreign language is the latest among wealthy New York parents who want to give their kids a leg up in life.

The article dismisses the idea that being bilingual makes a kid smarter. Which may or may not be true (or quantifiable), but is beside the point, anyway.

I think it's undeniable that being able to speak more than one language gives one access to experiences they just wouldn't have otherwise, especially as a kid.

I've seen it increase my kids' confidence and ability to communicate with people they otherwise wouldn't. It is really incredible to witness.

We're still speaking Portuguese with them, but I can see their language skills fading. I'm not sure what else we can do.

And unfortunately, my babysitter plan, which seemed like kind of a long shot anyway, was foiled when I was reminded that students here on F-1 visas aren't allowed to work.

Any other suggestions?

florida

It's been a little longer than usual since I posted last. We just got back from a few days in Florida visiting my grandparents. It was great to see them, and I'm pretty sure they loved seeing the boys.

It really doesn't seem that long ago that we were driving up to visit them on Long Island, and I was no older than E. is now.

Time flies, doesn't it?

Speaking of which, is the summer really almost over? Dan starts work again on Monday. How did that happen?

And, on an unrelated note, why is R. licking Ju's head in this picture?

dance party

immodest demands

Well, that didn't take too long. We've been back in our house all of one week, and already the doubts are swarming, like the ants in Brazil, which move in minutes after you slice a papaya on the counter. Voracious. Relentless.

And what are these doubts saying?

Summer's almost over. And what do you have to show for it? (Aside from having moved into your house, and the daily accomplishment of keeping three small children fed, clothed, and relatively happy.)

OK, so that sounds kind of ridiculous, but this is how the doubts work. Do they respond to logic? Can you simply talk to them as they crawl out of the woodwork in their glossy black military formation? Of course not.

What they're saying is, you have no job. No publications. Just a pile of pages you've written that amount to nothing more than a slightly sick feeling in your stomach.

Maybe it's because I came back and most of my friends who were home with kids now have jobs, and there is the nagging feeling that, even though I don't want a job now, when I am ready for one, what the hell will it be?

This part was so much easier in Brazil, when childcare was excellent and affordable, and a real job, one that I mostly liked, had suddenly fallen into my lap.

Of course, that's just the Brazil in my mind.

In the real Brazil, I had to wake up at 5:30 every morning and leave Ju by seven to nod while the principal berated me. We lived in a narrow house with uncomfortable furniture, and no soundproofing at all (another reason why everyone woke up at 5:30). And while I loved Dete, and appreciated not having to cook dinner every day or clean the bathrooms, I missed feeling like I was living in my own house, in my own life.

I have to remind myself that one of the main reasons we decided to come home was that I didn't want to work full time with a one-year old, which I would have had to do if we'd stayed.

Yesterday, when I was mulling this over, some words came into my head: your immodest demands for a different world, / and a better life, and complete comprehension / of both at last, and immediately...

I had to wrack my brains for a minute to think where they were from.

Then I remembered. It's Elizabeth Bishop, from her poem "Arrival at Santos." (Santos is the port outside of São Paulo; Bishop herself lived in Brazil for fifteen years.)

How appropriate.

At least it let me take a deep breath, and remind myself that there's no rush, and this tendency of mine to require everything to be perfect, at once (at last, and immediately), is probably not realistic. And that it's OK.