Aisle Six

Thoughts on Three

Today is Jake’s third birthday. On Friday, July 13, 2001, Isaac Jacob Quigley was born at High Point Regional Hospital. At 7:58 pm, he rushed into the world at 8 pounds, 9 ounces. He cried like all babies do, then peed on his father twice. He’s not a particularly fussy child…but he hasn’t stopped peeing since.

It’s difficult for me to wrap my mind around the fact that we have made it three years. A good friend had a son two weeks ago. When we talked last Sunday, she asked me, “What advice do you have to get me through the first month?” Wow. What could I possibly say? I have no idea what I did say, but let’s imagine that she’d phrased her question differently.

“Becky, you’ve been a parent for three years now. What advice do you have to get my new son and I happily through the next three years?”

Well. Here’s what I would say. First of all, your suffering at the beginning will end and when you look back on it, it will seem vague and actually pretty funny. You’ll chuckle a little at your friends when they experience the first four months of no sleep and runny poop and sore boobs. While you think that first trial period will last forever, it really really won’t. And when you get through that time, life suddenly speeds up. I know you don’t believe it, but it’s true. Someday your son will sleep through the night. Someday he will go to the potty all by himself. Someday he’ll run around the house (quite possibly naked), giving equal time to fighting the Green Goblin and balrogs. Someday he’ll tell you quite clearly, “I love you Mommy. You’re my best friend.”

Were I asked to give my oh-so-sage advice, I’d also say this: It’s okay to not be perfect. Babies and young children are challenging. The words, “No!” and later, “I don’t care. I do it anyway,” are difficult to hear over and over. My best friend once put it like this, “No one wants to be hit again and again all day long. It’s human nature to get frustrated.” That is most certainly true, and I remind myself of this…oh, I don’t know, some days it’s an hourly mantra. When I feel like I’m the worst mother in the world (and yes, that’s also sometimes an hourly thought), I’ve discovered this beautiful solution. The phone. Call someone who loves you and will listen. Don’t call that perfect mother you know whose children always have stainless clothes and multi-grain bread. Call the ones who will understand, who will get it. And keep in touch with those who knew you before you were a mother. Sometimes you’ll forget what it’s like to be your own person. Call the people who remember you as you.

And more advice? Laugh and play. Jake and I have these moments that I call “Good Mommy Moments.” We play in his pool together and I think, “Yeah, this is right.” We pack a picnic and go to the park to hear music and I remember, “This is what I wanted Motherhood to be like.” We paint together, go walking together, do yoga together, drink tea together, nap together, read together. These moments mean so much more than the tough times. I see in these times the boy he has become and I am amazed.

Oh, that’s good advice in itself: be amazed. Jake’s strong personality has shown through in this last year, and I am continually impressed with his…independent self. His thoughts are his own and his interests are his own. He is a super-extrovert, talking to anyone and everyone who will respond (or not, it doesn’t matter). We’ve made friends in the oddest places. I was a very shy child and tend toward shyness now. I’d rather just walk on by, thanks, without speaking. I had no idea my son would be so different. And I am so grateful to see his ease in conversation. May it always last.

Jake’s birthday party will be this coming Sunday. We’re doing a pirate theme, to match his latest obsession. The cake will be shaped like a treasure chest and each child will find his/her party favors at the end of a treasure map. If we could, we’d rent a pirate ship for the day and sail it to the Caribbean…

Just before Jake’s first birthday, I cried a lot. I couldn’t believe a year was gone so soon. I look back on that first year and think, “Thank God that’s over.” Just before Jake’s second birthday, I was excited and eager. If age one was so much fun, two must be that much better. I was right about that. Now I look ahead to our year of threedom and wonder. How much better can it possibly get? But then I know. Over the next year, Jake will discover new thrills, new ideas, new adventures, and new friends. He will learn more and teach me more. He will become more independent and yet still need me. He will probably remember things from this next year into his adult life. He will become more himself and less me.

I’m ready for three. Bring it on.

Villa Incognito, Tom Robbins

I could live without Tom Robbins, I suppose. His writing does not change my life. But I guess I can’t think of a good reason to live without him. I have the most fun with his novels, like that good friend everyone has: the one you only see once a year or so, but when you do, you think, wow, I like this person. When I read Robbins, I might put his book down again and again to start something else, but I always come back to him and remember why I enjoy him. Who couldn’t enjoy a guy with fun phrases like “…and someone flung a loaf of Wonder Bread across the room and bounced it off his penis.”

He’s odd, but Villa Incognito, like his other novels, has a quirky wisdom to it. When I read something that I find profound, I’m immediately embarrassed. It’s as if Robbins adds these ideas to his book just to make fun of anyone who might find them profound. “You big dummy,” I think to myself, “he’s making fun of you.” Despite knowing that he’s fucking with me, I still found some ideas in Villa Incognito that made me think.

Here’s one: “The true believer can believe in a political system, in a religious doctrine, or in some social movement that contains elements of the two, but the true believer cannot truly believe in life…any expression of beauty, and any recognition of genius or individual excellence…has been severely condemned and even outlawed by one cadre of true believers or another in modern times.” I agree. When one subscribes to a doctrine or system completely, one chooses to disregard the colorful choices in life. Black and white is probably an easier way to live, but you’ll never reach excellence without color.

Here’s another: “She merely learned once and for all that while sex without love could have its thrills and satisfactions, sex without soul was like salad without dressing—a bowl of roughage fit for cattle and goats.” Huh, no, that one wasn’t profound, but I think I could’ve used that lesson ten years ago…

One element to this book that was unusual for me. This is the first book I’ve read that refers to the events of September 11, 2001, without actually focusing on those events. It was odd, really. Anytime something is written about that day, the entire article or story is about the day. But with this book, the day itself is a side note. Robbins is not disrespectful of the importance of September 11 (although my first impression was that he would be), and his characters are affected by the tragedies, but it’s not the point of the novel. Or even the point of that particular part of the novel.

If you like Robbins, you’ll like this book. If you don’t like him, then it won’t change your mind. If you’ve never read him, I think I’d start with Still Life With Woodpecker. It was my first Robbins novel and I think it got me off on the right foot with him.

The Floating Book: A Novel of Venice

Like many avid readers I know, I’m slightly compulsive in a library. From my first experiences in the Ellijay, GA public library, I can remember thinking that with the right approach, I’d have all the books read in a few short years. Actually, in that small town library (at that time, which would have been the late 70s and early 80s. I cannot speak for the quality of Ellijay’s library now), my goal would have been attainable had we not moved to Chapel Hill when I was 8. Somewhere between Ellijay and Chapel Hill, I discovered Encyclopedia Brown. Aside from the excitement of solving mysteries, I was always most fascinated with the fact that he started at one end of his town library and read each and every book until he read them all. This kid had obviously found the approach I’d sought.

Until college, each time I went to the public library, I checked out 10 books. I read the first chapter in each book, then the second, then the third, and so on, until one of the books sucked me in more strongly than the others. Now that I take Jake to the library regularly, he and I pick out ten books for his bedtime stories. I love the local branch of our library because it’s small enough that I can pick out my own book while still watching him in the children’s section.

Which brings me to the book review I sat down to write.

Last week I browsed through the new arrivals, looking for something unusual. I found The Floating Book: A Novel of Venice , by Michelle Lovric. This book first appealed to me because of Venice on the cover. Ike and I talk occasionally (as do my mom and I) about visiting Italy or even living in Italy. I’ve never been to the country and am a poor excuse for a speaker of the language (I think I can still remember the alphabet from the tapes we listened to on a road trip), but I’m fascinated with anything to do with the country. Much of the fascination comes from this book .

Back to the review. The Floating Book is Lovric’s first novel, though she has edited anthologies in the past. Lovric herself sounds like the kind of person I could develop a crush on; just listen to her bio on the jacket of the book. She’s a “student of European literature, and Venetian culture in particular…” and “divides her time between London and Venice, where she lives in a palazzo on the Grand Canal…” Nice.

It took me a few chapters to acclimate to Lovric’s style. I can’t say why, exactly, because by the time I finished the novel, I wanted to devour every word she’d ever written. The book is amazing in its historic detail and descriptions of Venice. The story’s focus is fifteenth century Venice, when the first printers move from Germany into the city. The uproar caused by the printed word (as opposed to the scribes) is fascinating. Lovric delves into the various classes and their responses to books. From church condemnation to elicit manuscripts. She writes of courtesans, nuns, witches (and a few characters who are more than one of those). There’s a beautiful love story thrown in as well. But the best thing about this book for me was the love affair with books. And paper. And printing. Wow.

I would recommend this book to anyone who loves the feel and smell of a book almost as much as they love the words inside. To anyone who goes into a used bookstore and immediately feels that they’re visiting close friends. And to anyone who can’t get out of a library without at least ten books…