My current dilemma

Walking the couple blocks to the bus stop with The Boy on my shoulders to meet Mommy on her way home from work the other day, it occurred to me that we'd be crazy to leave here.

The sun has started poking its head out on a regular basis, and so too have the neighbors. I can't walk ten feet without having a conversation starting with, "Oh, it's good to see you again!" As if we've all been away, when in fact we've just been inside. The sidewalks are festooned with elaborate chalk drawings, some of which direct your attention to - I kid you not - lemonade stands. Every tree and shrub and bulb-strewn patch of dirt is awake with blooms, and I too feel like I've waken from a long winter's nap. I didn't remember we had so many friendly faces in the neighborhood. I had forgotten about all these flowers.

A new family moved in two doors down from us, and now The Boy now has three little buddies his own age to play with on his own street. That doesn't count the kids who live down the block and around the corner. There are countless parks for us to ride our bikes to, trails to hike, museums to visit, great restaurants we have yet to try. There are the mountains and the beaches, art festivals, farmers markets, outdoor concerts. What's missing?

Well, for one thing, a good job opportunity for me.

There's work here for me. I'm still hoping to get more teaching gigs, and I'm looking into doing some wedding photography, and I've been talking to the newspaper about doing contract work for them. I can keep busy and earn some cash. But the kind of job I'm looking for - the kind of job I left behind in North Carolina and have since realized is probably what I'm best suited for and suits me best - does not exist here.

There is opportunity for me elsewhere, most notably on the East Coast, which also happens to be closer to my folks. But say we moved to New York, where I could feel fulfilled professionally. I could see family and old friends more easily, but every other part of our life would be more difficult. There would be traffic (no more commuting on bikes) and long hours (goodbye Northwest work ethic) and everything would be more expensive.

My problem is that I feel the need for professional accomplishment to justify my existence. If a magical elf appeared on my shelf and said he could get me the job I want at The New York Times or grant me contentment with the life I have right now, I'm not sure which I would chose.

Perhaps it would depend on whether or not the sun was shining.

Missing the gasoline-soaked point

Not to get all political on you, but the debate over gas prices is driving me slowly insane. Shouldn't our esteemed leaders be talking about ways we can reduce our dependency on oil rather than finding ways to make it cheaper? Perhaps I'm being especially dense here but, um, aren't they just perpetuating the problem?

I know it's easy to say this given that I make a decent amount of money and live in a city with wonderful mass transit, but maybe gas should be expensive. Sort of like a pack of cigarettes. You want to drive an SUV? OK. Pay for it. Cheap oil is not a birthright, unless you were born in Saudi Arabia.

Alpha males in training

The Boy has entered a delightful new phase: he must be first at everything. It seemed like a good thing for a while, as we were able to use it to our advantage to get him to eat (I bet you can't finish your peas before I finish mine) or clean up (I bet you can't put all the legos away before I clean up these puzzles) or just about anything (I bet you can't get up, get dressed, get in the car and fasten your seat belt before I do.)

With his friends, however, this behavior is less than desirable, as he has a tendency to whine when one of his little buddies runs ahead of him or climbs up the slide first or gets to the water fountain before he can. Yesterday, he was actually bawling over the fact that he had to chase after one of his friends. He yelled for his friend to stop - so that he could get ahead, making his friend chase after him - and was furious when his friend did not comply.

Alas! The world is so unfair.

Today at the playground, he ran into another little boy, about the same age, who was going through the same phase. But this kid, instead of crying about not being first, made the other kids cry by pushing them out of the way so he could get ahead. Well, that's even worse I thought. As a parent, I'd rather have a kid who's crying because he didn't get his way than an aggressive kid who knocks down others to be first.

I think.

It's hard to say, really, that either one is preferable. If I raise my kid to stoically accept that you can't always get what you want, am I condemning him to the unhappy life of a capitulator? Should I instead be egging him on to get what he can?

Or maybe it's just a phase.

We wuz robbed

Last night, I biked home to a scene of absolute Portland perfection. Judybat was working in the garden. TheBoy was playing catch -- poorly, but then he's only 3 -- with a neighbor. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and it was a pleasant 68 degrees. It felt so perfect and carefree and safe that I didn't even bother to bring my bike inside.

Dumbass. This morning, to absolutely no one's surprise but my own, the bike was gone. The thief left my water bottle -- perhaps it wasn't up to their usual quality of plastic? I'm not the only naive idiot in the family: Judybat left the door to the Big Blue Car unlocked, and our assailant rifled through that, too. Apparently he/she didn't appreciate Frank Sinatra or Kasey Chambers, because all of our CDs were piled in the front seat.

It is, I guess, a good reminder to us that as pretty and perfect as our neighborhood seems, we're not exactly living in Pleasantville. The one piece of good news: Our thief left behind TheBoy's bike. So we don't quite have to have the "some people just suck," conversation with him yet.

Sigh. Pardon me while I go catch the bus.

He could have danced all night

This weekend, Judybat and I on what is likely the beginning of the rest of our life: Watching small children sing/dance/perform badly.

TheBoy had, for lack of a better term, a dance recital. Here's how the program explained it: "Dance is a natural way for children to learn about their world and express their ideas, thoughts and feelings. Through dance, young children may develop a greater awareness of and control over different ways of moving and use actions expressively to convey a special meaning."

That sounds great. Of course, what actually happened look a lot more like young children developing a greater awareness of their own ability to cause absolute chaos.

It was adorable, and I laughed so hard, I cried.

A few highlights:

What the program told us: "3. Wenna's group will dance for all of us the song 'Ilary lary eh.' This song is from Brazil and it was very popular among young children during 1988-1989."
What actually happened: Six two-year-olds toddled out on stage, holding pom-poms. Three immediately began shrieking and sobbing. One ran off to play. One stood absolutely still. One stomped up and down to the music with wild abandon. It's amazing that even this early, you can tell who the natural performers are.

What the program told us: "4. The girls from Uzi's and Eliette's group will dance 'Come fly with me.'"
What actually happened: A group of five-year-old girls scampered out in cute princess dresses and fake wings. They proceeded to run in circles around the stage, flapping their arms -- none in time with the music or each other. Awesome.

What the program said: "'Spiderman' song is only danced by the boys from Uzi's and Eliette's group."
What actually happened: Eight boys, ages 5 and 6, ran out in various versions of a Spiderman costume. (My favorite was the little boy in a dress shirt and tie -- and a Spiderman mask.) They proceeded to breakdance their way through the Spiderman theme song. Imagine a small child in a Spiderman suit doing the robot. I kid you not.

What the program said: "'I Like to Move It' is a song all our children seem to enjoy."
What actually happened: Mass confusion as every child in the place who wasn't traumatized by the experience to the point of uncontrollable weeping (so, say, maybe half) came out on stage to dance. They all danced different moves, to seemingly different music. As a sidenote, I have to say that I now have that song burned into my brain, and for some reason I keep having middle school flashbacks. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it. Move it!

You're probably wondering how TheBoy did when his turn came. Thankfully, he found a nice middle ground. He didn't immediately break into tears. Nor did he actually do anything resembling dancing. Rather, there was a lot of standing around, with the occasional break to go chat with Judybat. She would nudge him back on stage, and he would reluctantly trudge back out, only to stand there some more.

I have seen my future, and it comes with a really lousy soundtrack. But it makes for great home videos.

So rude, yet so polite

TheBoy does not like me. He informed of this fact the other night, after I told him it was time to get his little pink butt downstairs to bed: "Mommy, I don't like you." He even stamped his foot and pointed at me. Serious stuff.

I thought that was the end of it. Instead, my son suddenly morphed into a 13-year-old girl. When I tried to read him his bedtime stories, he insisted that Judybat do it instead. When I tried to kiss him goodnight, he wiped it off. The next morning, he refused to let me put his clothes on.

"Mommy, go away."

"Don't talk to me like that."

"Mommy, go away please."

I went away. He said please, after all. I'm trying not to take all this personally -- after all, my mantra continues to be that no 3-year-old is going to hurt my feelings. I'm an adult. He's a child. I know that this is just some weird phase he's going through and that he'll soon move on to something else. Of course, my feelings are hurt. I can't help it.

Just like falling off a bike - I mean riding a bike

I shot an assignment today. I slung my camera over my shoulder and went to the dedication ceremony of a cob oven on the PSU campus to take some pictures for a book a friend of mine is writing about outdoor cooking. It's been about six years since I've worked as a photographer, and I'm happy to report that I fell right back into my old rhythm, even though I had completely forgotten about it.

Here's how it goes for me:

First I can't find the place. I curse the writer's lousy directions, worry that I'm going to miss the event, leave a somewhat frantic message on the writer's voice mail asking for clarification, manage to find the place before the writer calls back, then tell her sheepishly that it was right where she said it was when she does call back.

Next comes the hardest part: getting out of the car. I'm nervous that I'm going to screw things up. Why am I doing this? Is it really worth the hassle?

When I get to the actual location, I start introducing myself and find my contact. The people are friendly and interesting. They're glad I'm here to capture this event. I start seeing things and taking tons of pictures. I know what I'm doing. I'm having fun.

I realize my exposure is off and nothing is in focus.

I take some more pictures, trying out different angles. I get down low. I get up high. I'm not getting anything.

Nothing is happening. I wish these people would stop talking and do something already.

I get some close ups and some wide shots to cover my bases. I think I probably have something useable. The event is over. I'm going to go now. Here I am on the way out the door. I am leaving. Here I go.

Something happens that was better than anything going on during the actual event. I'm there to get it and I walk away feeling like a good photographer.

I drive home, getting only a little bit lost, but that's just because of the #$%*ing one-way streets. Life is good.

I look at the pictures on my computer. Stuff I thought definitely worked when I shot it definitely does not. I suck.

I edit the pictures and look through the selects. Something will work. I do not suck.

The results are in

I received my student evaluation results from the photo class I taught. I'm taking solace in the words of Student # 7: "She has had to supply nearly all the motivation and has been patient, understanding, + composed with a challenging environment."

On the whole, the criticism the students gave me was helpful. I need to be more specific with them, spelling out exactly what I'm looking for on each assignment, and I need to show more examples of the type of work I'm talking about in class.

But there's not much I can do with some of the other stuff they wrote. For example, in response to the question, "What do you believe your instructor has done especially well in teaching this course?" Student #2 wrote, "Not a whole lot, she is confusing and doesn't explain herslf well at all." (sic)

Here's my problem with that: I know I have a tendency to ramble on at times and lose my train of thought, and so I always tried to explain technical things in a couple of different ways, stopping every now and then to ask if everyone was following me and were there any questions. Invariably, I was answered with blank stares. So I would say, "Does this make sense to you?" and one or two people would nod or say yes and I would move on. In addition, I was always available before and after class to talk to students one-on-one about any problems they were having. Two or three students approached me with questions on a regular basis. I'm betting Student # 2 was not one of them.

A couple of people also said I should have done a better job teaching the camera basics, this being a Basic Camera class. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a disconnect between the way the class was described in the course catalogue and the way it was described to me by the department chair. This was a 20-hour basic level course in the fine art department. I was told that many non-majors would be taking this class, and it might be the only exposure to art education they'd be getting, so I needed to teach them the basics of good composition and design as well as the language they would need to discuss it. On top of that, most of my students were using digital point-and-shoot cameras with no manual capabilities, so I didn't spend a whole lot of time talking about aperture and shutter speed. For me, it was an odd way to teach a photography class, but by the end at least a couple students had learned to see the world with a more artistic eye, and that, I think, was worthwhile.

I did get a good review from the department chair, who gave me high marks all around after sitting in on one of my classes. Still, I can't help feeling the true measure comes from the students; it's them I'm there for, right? I was looking forward to teaching the class again this quarter. Knowing I'd have the opportunity to correct my mistakes made me feel better about everything. Unfortunately, enrollment was low and a real professor had to take over my section because his didn't fill. Alas. Maybe I'll have another shot at it in the fall.

Something about the moon, Part 2

Clearly, TheBoy found his penguin friend again. A few hours after Judybat's conversation with the kid about his missing friend, I woke up to TheBoy whining in his bed. When I went in, he popped up and began whimpering at me.

"Where did the little penguin go? He was in the tree."

Having not been briefed on the whole full moon/freaky tree/3-year-old boy learning to articulate what's in his head thing, I was confused. First I asked if there was a penguin in the tree outside. He looked at me like I was insane. Reasonable, right? After a few more similarly doltish questions, I figured out what was going on. But then I had another problem: How do you explain dreams to a small child? Or rather, how can you explain dreams to a small child that doesn't make you sound like you have a drug problem?

My version went like this: Dreams are stories you tell yourself in your sleep. Why? Because you get bored. Why? Because you don't get to play in your sleep. Why? Because you're asleep. Why? Because you're tired. Why? Because you had a long day. Why?

In a completely unrelated event, soon after this conversation, I developed a particularly nasty case of insomnia.

Something about the moon

I had some WEIRD dreams, last night. I wish I could tell you what they were, but the weirder my dreams are, the less able I am to remember them. I always seem to have weird dreams on nights of a full moon, and I don't think I'm the only one. At about 5:30 this morning, I heard a small, plaintive wail coming from The Boy's room. I went to see what was up, he told me, "The crash, wasn't funny, Ima." I tucked him back in, and with a kiss on the head he fell right back asleep. Until half an hour later, when he summoned me again to tell me that he couldn't find the baby penguin. I told him to go back to sleep and look for it in his dreams.

Spring has sprung

We've had barely one week of extra daylight, and everyone in our neighborhood seems to be out to enjoy it. The Boy, for one, now insists we go for a bike ride after his nap. "Because it's not dark yet," he says. In addition to a profusion of blooms, half of whose names I do not know, here's what I saw yesterday evening while walking him around just one block:

A neighbor walking his bike-riding kid around the block

A girl in flip flops sitting on her porch

An old lady on her porch tending to some flowers

Two boys comparing their bicycles on the sidewalk

A girl practicing hoops in front of her house

A dad helping his son with his homework on their front stoop

A recently-abandoned jump rope (pink and purple)

Three teenagers playing basketball in the street

A boy on a tree-hung rope swing, calling to his mom that he'd come inside in a minute.

The Boy stopping every ten feet to get off his bike and pick a dandelion

Actually...

... I had a veggie burger, which I knew they would have, since this is Portland. In fact, they had two you could chose from: Original Gardenburger or Spicy Black Bean Gardenburger.

And just to be clear - it wasn't the flatulence that prompted the household fast food ban, but the fact that the industrialization of the cattle industry, necessitated by fast food's demand for cheap beef, has flooded our environment with increasingly ineffective antibiotics. Nasty!

But Burgerville is COOL, my friends. Balloons and veggie burgers aside, this is a fast food chain whose motto is "Fresh, Local, Sustainable." Nice!

Also, I was looking at their web site and noticed that not only are they hiring, but I actually meet their qualifications, which are the ability to read and write and do simple math. I ask you: what is not to like about this place?

Cheeseburger in paradise

The weirdest thing happened the other day. (OK, the second weirdest after getting in the car tonight, turning on the radio and hearing a guy singing the theme to the Golden Girls. The Golden Girls!)

Ahem. Digression over. The weird thing: I found myself in a fast food restaurant. With Judybat. And The Boy.

To understand the momentousness of this experience, you have to know JB. She's a vegetarian for one thing. She hates corporate America for another. And, ever since reading a story in the New York Times Magazine a few years ago about how cows go from not-really happily grazing to not-very healthy Big Macs, she's made me promise never to eat fast food. Never. Upon penalty of death, or detention, or banishment from the bed because McDonalds tends to give me a particularly nasty form of flatulence. (TMI! TMI! But seriously, people: The GOLDEN GIRLS.)

All that changed, however, when JB discovered Burgerville. This is a Pacific Northwest company that specializes in grass-fed beef and local ingredients and the best smoothies in the world. So on Sunday afternoon, as we were finishing a lovely hike on a butte (they have those here) just outside town, she made a radical proposition: Let's go to Burgerville. She had fish. I had chicken. The Boy had a strawberry smoothie and a fistful of french fries and the cheddar shavings from atop our salad. Plus, a yellow balloon.

Yes, at Burgerville, the kids get free balloons. We're going back if only for that reason.

Attitude adjustment

I registered on monster.com the other day so I could look for jobs in my area. It was a fairly humiliating. There doesn't seem to be a whole lot of call for multimedia producers here, so I'm out of luck if I want the kind of job I'm good at, have exerience in and enjoy. That leaves a bunch of other jobs I may or may not enjoy, be good at, and couldn't even get if I tried because I'm not qualified.

The good news is the Navy wants me, and they have a lot of exciting career opportunities. But my mom told me once that they have this thing in the armed forces called discipline. I didn't know what she was talking about, so she explained that it means when someone tells you to do something, you have to do it. So I don't think I'll be joining the Navy, even though I like their hats.

I think my problem is not the job situation, but my attitude. I live in a great house in a great city with my great family, and I don't have to worry about money. I have a great life, and I remind myself every day how lucky I am. But to quote a friend quoting Reese Witherspoon quoting June Carter Cash: I'm just trying to matter. How much can I matter, really, when my words of wisdom come third hand?

Seriously, I need to go back to my New Year's resolution and figure out how to be comfortable with myself regardless of what I'm doing. Or not doing. Unfortunately, neurotic New Yorker that I am, I find that easier said than done. I think pot would help, but that might not be the responsible choice for a mom, it being illegal and all.

But wait a minute - maybe pot is the answer! Clearly what I have to do is sign up with the good folks at NORML and devote my time and energy to reforming marijuana laws. There's nothing like a little political activism to give someone a sense of purpose and self worth. And when I'm done I can get baked.