Big Smoke Country

I just returned from a long vacation in my beloved home state of Michigan. My husband complained the whole time we were gone about the lack of mountains; he whined continuously about being able to see the horizon. "It's soooooo flat heeeeerrrreee," he moaned day after day. "You can see forever."

Yes, well, now we're back and you can't see three blocks down the street because the forest fire smoke is so thick, we might as well be living at the very edge of the world.

Besides the thick blanket of smoke that covers our town, it is also oppressively hot. And this is not a word I throw around on this blog very often but I'm going to use it to really get my point across -- Not only is it hot, it is FUCKING hot. Like fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk hot. All I have been capable of doing since returning is sitting around in my underwear eating popsicles and then taking up residence in the kiddie pool in the backyard.

I wish I could say this heat and smoke is an anamoly, but it is not. In fact, I remembered writing about what a God-forsaken wasteland Montana is in the summer last year and thought I'd share those thoughts with you again since I have nothing more to add, except maybe a bit more whining and complaining and wishing that I could find a job in Michigan and someone who would sell their giant house on Lake Michigan to me for $100,000. Any takers?

Originally Posted July 16, 2006
Warning: Rantings of a Sweaty Pregnant Woman Follow

I am about to admit something here that will likely result in hordes of fire and pitchfork-wielding villagers banging on my door, demanding my expulsion from Montana. But here goes...

I LOATHE the summers in Montana.

Montanans always refer to "Montana summers" as if Montana has the corner market on summer fun. Granted, after enduring the months of cold weather we suffer through here, it does make sense that one should revel in the few days a year we have that get above 40 degrees. But if Montanans actually ever travelled out of state, they might realize that summer is about 1,000 times better in any number of wide-ranging places.

I moved to Montana after never having actually visited here before, which was definitely my first mistake. My second mistake was assuming that because we endure temperatures that can hover in the 40 to 50 BELOW zero range for weeks at a time in the winter, that the summers would be cool and breezy.

Not so, as evidenced by the weather we have been having as of late. We are in the midst of a stretch of 95+ degree days. Whenever I complain about this obscenely hot weather to a Montanan, they typically respond (and rather too cheerfully, I might add) "Well, at least it's a dry heat."

Fine. It's a dry heat. But it's still almost ONE HUNDRED DEGREES outisde. And here's what I think about your nearly 100 degree dry heat: you can stick it where the sun don't shine, as the saying goes.

Which brings me to another problem with Montana. The sun ALWAYS shines.

Several years ago, a friend of mine was contemplating a move to San Diego. "It's always sunny and 80 degrees there!" he announced as if this was a selling point.

Sunny and 80 degrees sounds like my definition of hell. Sunny and nearly one hundred degrees sounds like living in hell while having to endure nothing but chain-restaurant food for the rest of eternity.

I grew up in a place that has so many grey days the weatherman keeps a tally of how long it has been since the sun has shone in the winter months. "It has been 97 days since the sun last poked out of the clouds!" is music to my ears.

A few days ago, after enduring another hot, crappy, sunny day, this incredible storm moved in. There was thunder and lightning, high winds and rain that came down in sheets. I was ecstatic. My son could barely contain himself. While it had been years since I'd seen a storm like that, my son had never before witnessed such a glorious event.

"Further evidence we need to relocate to a more hospitable climate," I told my husband as my son danced around naked on the porch being pelted by ice cold rain drops.

"You mean someplace where it doesn't rain like this?" he asked.

"No. Someplace where it rains like this often enough that it's not a small miracle," I said. "Look at him -- the poor boy has never even SEEN a thunderstorm. What kind of a childhood is that?"

But the problems with Montana summers don't end with the weather. Let's move right along to geography.

Because Montana is a treeless desert. My husband is always pointing out all of the trees on the sides of the mountains, trying to prove me wrong. But in my opinion, a scrubby pine tree rooted in a quarter inch of soil does not a shade tree make. Give me maples with their incredible branches, thick with leaves; give me towering oaks one hundred feet high. But scrubby pine? It makes for good kindling.

There's also a very definite dearth of water in which to recreate in Montana.

This is where all of those pitchfork and fire-wielding villagers get really angry and start shouting for my immediate expulsion from this fair state.

I can hear it all now. "The Clark Fork! Canyon Ferry Reservoir! Holter Lake! The Misouri!"Yes, yes, dear villagers. But your recreational water has issues. Let me list them for you here.
1) The majority of your lakes are not lakes. They are dammed-up rivers.
2) Your "lakes" and streams and rivers are fueled by runoff from the mountains, which makes all of the water in this state obscenely cold. Like goosebumps and blue lips and only able to stay in the water for a couple of minutes cold. And that's not any fun.
3) Have you ever walked or played or slept on a sandy beach? Probably not, because the "beaches" here are composed of rock. I had never even heard of such an inane invention as a "water shoe" prior to moving to Montana, but now I don't leave home without these rubber-soled treasures.

Here's the deal. I love Montana -- from October through mid-June. It is magnificent, and I often find myself thinking, as I barrel through mountain passes, that I will never leave.

But in the summer, take me back to Michigan -- with more sandy coastline than the state of Florida -- to Michigan's cool lake waters, to its majestic forests, to its Northern Lights and its raging thunderstorms, to its fudge shops, to its cloudy days, and best of all, to my parents' house, which has central air set at a balmy 64 degrees.

Ready Or Not, Here We Come

“Why, then, the world's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open."

The Merry Wives of Windsor; Act II; Scene II
William Shakespeare


I registered Mike for pre-school yesterday. This is something I had planned on doing for months, but, as with most parenting issues, I didn’t realize the amount of pre-planning that is involved.

Luckily, I am friends with some other mothers who are far more ahead of the game than I am and it is only because of them that Mike will not spend the next two years before he starts kindergarten pretending to blow stuff out of his nose when he sneezes. Or, at least he will do so under the supervision of a certified pre-school teacher.

First of all, who knew that pre-school teachers could be certified in pre-school education or that a master’s degree could be offered in such a subject? I suppose I don’t have much room to talk with an MFA in poetry, but what is it that pre-schoolers need to learn to compete?

Apparently they need to know more than how to blow silly string out of their nose while pretending to sneeze.

I had done some preliminary research on pre-schools, mostly by asking friends who have older kids where their kids had gone and by having my social worker husband run searches on various pre-school facilities for any child abuse/neglect violations they may have. But other mothers I knew were out there pounding the pavement, making phone calls, and interviewing various pre-schools, asking about curriculum, teacher qualifications, immunization requirements, and the like. It made my one question I had planned to ask, “How much does it cost?” look pretty silly. And as if I didn’t have the best interest of my child in mind.

I want the best for Mike, but for us, cost is often the deciding factor with almost everything. When I called what is considered the “best” preschool in town and they told me it would cost approximately $300 a month for my son to attend their facility for a few hours every week, I was almost delighted to hear that there was a waiting list.

But it made me wonder: What’s the difference between a preschool that charges $300 a month and one that charges $50 – for nearly the same amount of time? What exactly does $250 extra a month buy a three-year old?

On paper, each school looks remarkably similar. Each school has a teacher that is certified in pre-school education and has a master’s degree in an early education-related issue. Each school has a curriculum that is based on developing social skills, motor skills, and early literacy skills. Each school requires immunization records of attendees, takes field trips, has parties, and works to make sure that kids learn, while simultaneously having fun, during what is often their first organized educational activity.

Is the difference the children? Are those who attend the $300 school more well-to-do and affluent than those who attend the $50 preschool? Do they wear more expensive clothes? Do they use bigger words? Do these rich kids not blow stuff out of their noses while pretending to sneeze?

Admittedly, I don’t know any kids who have attended the expensive school, but I know lots of kids who have attended the $50 one. They’re all great kids from great families. Their parents are artists, librarians, teachers, and social workers – all people who work hard to make ends meet and all people who want the very best that their very limited incomes can buy for their kids.

It seems that the real difference might be in location and outside help. The $50 option is held at a church, but it is not church-affiliated. The $300 option is held in its own building. The $50 option is a parent co-op, meaning that parents volunteer one morning a month, plan parties, and provide nutritious snacks for the whole group. I suppose that is all included in the $300 option.

For us, whether or not we get Mike into the “right” preschool does not signal the beginning of the end of his education. Luckily, we live in a place with decent public schools; we don’t even have to consider private schools to ensure that he will learn all that he needs to know in order to make his way in the world someday.

But the pre-school cost issue gave me pause. This $50 option seems to be the only reasonably-priced preschool in town. What if it didn’t exist? Would Mike be confined to home for the next few years and then end up lagging behind his peers, especially when it comes to social skills?

I am sure that the $50 option will provide everything Mike needs in order to learn age-appropriate skills. But comparing costs of preschools is kind of like looking at two very similar vehicles – only one is $5,000 cheaper. It makes you wonder what the difference really is and if you buy the cheaper model, will you get a lemon?

Intellectually, I know otherwise, but still – what if the $50 option, which is our only option, doesn’t give Mike the leg up that he needs? What if all that he learns over the next year is how to simultaneously belch while singing the alphabet (which is also a skill he can learn at home from his mother)? What if the $300 school really does present more options and learning experiences and my son, who a friend recently described as being able to kick some MENSA ass, isn’t appropriately challenged?

For us, it doesn’t matter. Fifty bucks is what we can afford and so that is where Mike will go. Fortunately, the $50 option comes with a long list of recommendations from people I know and trust. I don’t necessarily want Mike reading and deconstructing James Joyce in preschool. My goals for him are to learn how to navigate in different social situations and how to make his way among his peers a little better.

But I am also learning lessons from preschool – even before it starts. Like any mother, I want my boys to have the best of the best – regardless of cost. I wish I could tell them both, “Go for it! The world is your oyster!” And often times, through hard work and dedication on their part, that will be true. But I would be a fool to think, or to teach my boys, that money doesn’t give you a leg up in life. So perhaps the real lesson for all of us is that sometimes their oyster might not open as easily or be quite as shiny as the other kids’, but that is all that we can afford.

Peter - 6 Months

Dear Peter,

I’ve been meaning to write this for the last several months, and I actually started writing when you were two months and four months but then what was there to say? You weren’t a lot of fun those first few months – you cried a lot (actually shrieking is a more accurate description), you didn’t like to eat, and let’s just say that sleeping was not exactly your forte.

Everyone told us that the second baby is the easy one and it sure seemed that way at first. But then you got your sea legs underneath you and the screaming began. Your dad and I actually talked about how we resented you because you were so much work and there wasn’t a lot of reward involved. That’s not to say that we didn’t love you from the second you arrived. We just had such a great routine down with your older brother, and he had finally gotten to an age where we could do a lot of fun stuff together. And then you arrived, and as one of my favorite lines in “Curious George and The Dump Truck” goes, “And then the fun was gone.”

But when you turned six months old, it was like someone flipped a switch. Suddenly, you were a happy, gregarious little guy who spent a lot more time babbling, smiling, and laughing than you did screaming. I felt a lot less like locking you in a soundproof box in the basement and a lot more like playing with you and taking you places. One word: Hallelujah!

So where to start? You are, of course, beautiful with your tuft of white blonde hair, giant blue eyes and now ever-present toothless grin (complete with dimples). And, of course, you are one of the smartest babies ever born; you’re doing everything you should be doing WAY ahead of other babies. Quite frankly, I will not be surprised if you are a child model and a Nobel Prize winner by the time you are three.

But while beauty and brains will take you everywhere you could ever want to go in life, there’s a lot more to you than that. By the time you were seven weeks old, you could already appreciate a good joke, laughing if someone took your pacifier from your mouth and put it in theirs. Granted, you didn’t fully appreciate my funny story about one of my graduate school professors and the drowning of Percy Bysshe Shelly, but you do find it wildly entertaining when I make farting noises under my armpit or when I belch the alphabet. Yes, you are my child prodigy.

You also seem to have inherited your mother’s build. Your dad may be tall, but before he met me, he was just a nearly 7-foot tall guy who looked as if the most athletic thing he’d ever done was to recline, very slowly, on a couch. And even though your dad has well over a foot on me in height, my hands are as big as his and it is entirely possible that my shoulders are broader as they have been used to cast shoulder pads for the NFL.

Like your mother, no one will ever accuse you of being “delicate.” In fact, the first thing the nurses said about you after you were born was “Look at the size of this kids’ hands!” When your brother was a baby, I remember marveling at his tiny little hands and feet – his fingers and toes were so small, they seemed almost translucent. But for you, hands is a bit of a misnomer because you have meathooks hanging off the ends of your pudgy arms. And you use those meathooks to grab anything in reach – toys, magazines, plates, tree branches, and most specifically, my hair, earrings, and glasses. From your hands, these items go straight to your mouth. I am afraid to see an x-ray of your stomach because I am fairly certain that you have ingested the better part of a small city already at this stage of your life.

You’re the kid who will be nicknamed Moose in high school, and much to your dad’s joy and happiness, will grow up to be a defensive tackle in the NFL. I am already waiting for the day that your big brother, who is of a more willowy build, takes a toy away from you and you pound him into oblivion. Just please be sure to use your size for good in the world – like beating up smaller kids on the playground for their M&Ms.

Already your size and strength are something to be reckoned with because you are not exactly a gentle child. You are the titty (and nose and cheek and finger and ear)-twister king, nearly ripping off any fleshy item on another person’s body you grab hold of. Our cat, Mr. T, runs when he sees you coming because while you love him so, I have personally witnessed you almost tearing off his ears, tail, and whiskers and picking him up by a fistful of hair on his back. But it brings everyone great joy to chase Mr. T around the house – including you – and so the chase is on.

But that death grip of yours doesn’t limit itself to body parts. I handed you a board book the other day, which are typically not easy to destroy. Within two minutes, you had shredded the cover and were getting started on the interior of the book by gumming it to death. When we switched you to sleeping in a crib, you ripped up your crib bumper, again something that is built to withstand both babies and multiple washings on the heavy duty cycle, within a couple of days.

While you’re probably going to be a big, burly guy who doesn’t quite know his own strength, the signs are already pointing to you being one of those sensitive types. When your brother cries, you cry right along with him. When my post-partum hormones were raging and I sniffled at any baby commercial I saw, you seemed to sense it and would bury your face into my neck and let out the greatest satisfied little sigh.

Your presence has brought so much to our family. I thought we were complete before, but now I really feel like we’ve got all the pieces. When you’re being impossible about something, your dad likes to say that you and your brother are cut from the same cloth. You are, but already there are so many differences that are wildly evident. I can’t wait to see more and more of your personality shine through.

So, Peter, already we’re more than halfway through your first year. What work you are! What joy you bring. There are few things that make me happier than your giant, toothless, dimply grin that you flash when you see me walk in the door from work. Giving you your twice-daily bath is an exercise in love, as I wash your roly-poly little body from head to toe and you do your best to try to swallow the washcloth whole. And I love holding you while you sleep and rubbing your perfectly round, fuzzy little head. It’s amazing to think that just a few months ago, you were still growing inside of me and I was wondering what you’d be like. Because now, I can’t imagine a day without you.

Love,
Mama