Geography Lesson

El Paso is the toejam of the Rockies.

Kankakee is the armpit of Illinois.

Franklin is the jeweled navel of Tennessee.

The Diaper Wars

To those of you with young children, you might hope that this blog entry will discuss the pros and cons of various diaper brands. To those of you without children, you might think that I am about to chronicle the dastardly deeds of disposable diaper companies vying to outcompete one another.

But the subject is far more complicated. Actually, it is almost like working magic.

How to Keep a Diaper on a Toddler Who Doesn't Want to Wear One

Now maybe I should consider this dilemma in a positive light. Could this be a sign that the days of potty training are drawing nigh? Should I join the "non-diaper" movement, since the girl is obviously more comfortable going commando? I ask myself these questions on a frequent basis. However, it's more likely that Claire is following in the lofty footsteps of her older brother, and father as well, who seem to be obsessed with malodorous bodily functions.

I speak of that wonderful time of day (if you are lucky) and at night when you say to yourself: "This child is cranky. Perhaps I should put her to bed." The crankiness is a means to an end--quiet "me" time, but putting a baby down for sleep, and "sleep," are not always synonymous.

Claire takes a peculiar interest in her diaper during these moments of what is supposed to be gathering stillness. Even though the door is closed, I can hear the velcro tabs slowly pull free. Then a rhythmic "uh" sound, as she awaits her mother's entrance and pretends to know not what has occurred. She lays under her blanket, the usually dry diaper crumpled and tossed in the corner of the crib, socks balled up neatly underneath, pants strewn amongst the stuffed animals. Once, out of kind consideration, Claire neatly hung her jeans over the crib rail as if to keep them unwrinkled for later use. At times I would look at the clock and realize that it had been a half hour since I laid her down, still hearing her talk to herself, and wonder what on earth she was doing in there. Deep in my mind I knew that the diaper was off, but I was in a state of denial about the truth. Sure enough, the clothes were in their usual positions, and the sheets, and sometimes the blanket, the floor, and the spare box of diapers beneath the crib were wet.

"Uh uh," she muttered.

"Sweetie, your diaper needs to stay on."

"Uh."

I won't lie and say that I am the most patient mother, but this mysterious occurrence went on for several months without any physical intervention. I finally surmised that no matter how many times she smiles sweetly and nods her head in agreement, logic and reasoning do not work with a 22-month-old.

"We should duct tape the diaper on," my husband jokingly suggested.

"That's a little extreme, don't you think?" I countered.

But I kept the idea in the back of my mind, through several more bed strippings and washings.

Then came the final straw--a diaper removed twice in one nap session and two successive linen changes. I was beside myself. How was this kid ever going to sleep if all she did was pee in her bed? I thought of the duct tape idea, but I was afraid that I'd be unable to remove it without traumatizing the baby. Anyways, putting something silver on top of the diaper would only give her more reason to stay up and play with it.

I searched the house for something, anything, to use. I remembered those large yellow duck pins that secured cloth diapers on my first baby, but they were currently living in a storage space 45 minutes away. Plastic pants? Super glue?

Then suddenly, there it was--the solution to my dilemma. Scotch 2-inch-wide clear packaging tape. I tested it out, wrapping the tape around the tabs and supporting it with another piece across the back of the diaper. It held, and she fell asleep.

However, the child is clever. Later in the week, with the bedroom door closed, I once again heard the sounds of diaper removal, only this time a louder version. I had only placed one piece across the front in a conservation effort, and she managed to pull it off.

But in the past few weeks our relationship has evolved. While Claire still likes to sleep as her father did in the early days of our relationship, she understands the necessity behind diaper use at bedtime. I can say this with certainty because it is her routine to search for the tape and point to the tabs. When I ask "Should I put the tape on?" she lets out an agreeable "Uh."

While this new innovation may not win the "Parenting Invention of the Year" award, it could still garner some applause from the environmentalist movement for saving water from extra laundry loads. I know, disposable diapers take a million years or so to decompose. But Al Gore is driving a hybrid SUV that gets something like 22 m.p.g., and he won a Nobel Peace Prize.

Bluegrass Jam at the Station Inn

A local college student approaches the circle of musicians, and for a long second lifts his eyes to the crowd with a look of both apprehension and excitement. His banjo hangs loosely from the strap around his neck. He pulls it in close to his body as he makes his way to an open chair.

There is another banjo player directly across from him, a man with smoked spectacles who has stopped playing to take a sip of soda with the help of the woman who sits by his side. The newcomer introduces himself. There is no need--his presence has already been announced as he tunes his instrument.

Shouting over a high-powered vocalist, the fellow banjo player is welcomed by the elder musician. His response is muted by dualing mandolins. The conversation ends, the cup is placed carefully on the floor, the college student with the Belmont sweatshirt begins plucking at the strings with fixed intent. There are only seven patrons in the bar. They are soon forgotten, becoming wallpaper to the music.

Next to the group the stage sits empty, with scattered microphones like decorations to fill the vacancy. It is only eight p.m., and even though the jam is not scheduled to begin until nine, the musicians play with full fervor. The youngest of the group fiddles behind the bassist, the dobro player sits with his back to the meager audience, an elderly man with a steel-string guitar is perched on a bar stool. The youngest comes forward with a suggestion for a song, not with a name, but with a verse and "do you know this?," and hums a line from the chorus. Instruments are adjusted, and the jam members stir up individual notes into another melody borne in the mountains.

These sounds--unrehearsed, raw, traditional bluegrass--are best sampled live on a Sunday night at the Station Inn. At the heart of this genre is unpretentiousness, humanity, clay and dirt. The daily life of the common man is what it celebrates.

Smoky Mountain January

I am November in Tennessee

I just returned from spending the Thanksgiving holiday in Illinois. I could not wait to drive south, counting the hours. Tennessee is becoming my home.

November is an ambivalent month here. Not sure whether to hang onto the last throes of the summer, or to let it all go in hopes for what is waiting in the turn of the year.

Many of the fall colors are still bright, and an abundance of green remains below the tree line amongst the shrubs. Tennessee does not want to relinquish itself to the chill of winter, resisting fiercely as the night temperatures fall into the 20's and 30's, still pulling itself up by the bootstraps into the 50's when the sun is high.

Chicago, however, has given herself over to the voice of the wind whistling through a field of corn cut down to its roots. She lets out a dignified sigh as the leafblowers and fires hum and burn the last signs of summer away. There is no turning back now. She can only move forward, braving the months ahead, closing her eyes until the moss periscopes rise up in the spring.

I am November in Tennessee. Taking each day slowly, cautiously, wincingly, timidly. Searching frantically for the green that will inevitably take its leave. Planting flowers in the cold, yet still separable, soil.

I envy Illinois for her courage to ride with the wind and keep it at her back.

November in Franklin

Burgundy maples
Lemon oaks
Hills of confetti
Pansies alone and blooming--will they make it through the winter?
Temperature fluctuations--51-->79-->autumn monsoon-->40-->65-->23 and frost
Good thing that the "going out in the cold with wet hair causes pneumonia" warning is a myth
My winter coat remains in a box in storage. It is having an identity crisis.

Gathering things

In Illinois, I marked the beginning of fall as the goldenrod heads turned mustard yellow and the cornstalks brown. Here, in Tennessee, the order is backwards, with the corn showing not a streak of green anymore and the goldenrods still imitating flowerless weeds as they grow above the rest of the flora. Summer is not priceless here. It is simply too long, and I find myself wishing it away.

I am living in that window of time where the present and the past coincide, and every moment of everything that will soon be gone forever is imprinting itself permanently into my mind. The swirls on my living room ceiling, the way the air conditioning sounds when the motor first hums, the red velvety flowers growing in minimal abundance by the river behind my house because I threw the seeds down last year, the spiders in my garage defending their laborously-made egg sacs, the hostas I planted 3 years ago that have finally filled in around the tree.

It is easiest to recognize happiness when one is sad. Black that is blended with brown results in a hue that is barely changed from its progenitors. But mix some white into the concoction and the contrast becomes clear. Once a solution is oversaturated with a substance, the remainder precipitates out and cannot be used to its full potential. A lamp in a dark room is noticed before a lamp in a room filled with sunlight.

And so goes my disclaimer about this blog: that it will not always be fun, but sometimes just a container to hold my humble confessions. I will forgive anyone who chooses to pass it by.

106 degrees

In all my life (short or long, depending on which end of the spectrum you're viewing 35 years from), I have never been engulfed by such heat while ambulatory. I say "ambulatory" because I have experienced 106 degrees or more during a 15 minute jaunt in the sauna, and while lying recumbent in the covered bed of a truck. But those were both enjoyable activities. The soft breeze was burning my eyeballs.

The Weather Channel people slapped an orange "HOT" right in the middle of Tennessee on the U.S. map. They're from Florida, so something must be really wrong. As I was leaving work today I noticed that the air smelled like BBQ. While this type of cuisine is highly sought after in the South, I was nowhere near a restaurant. I told my husband that it must be the skin of the construction workers frying off. He laughed, safe in an air conditioned building.

My house received 2 offers on Monday, and the closing may be at the end of this month. So I get to go back home to Illinois for the weekend, moving as unprofessionally as possible by pulling the boxes down from the top of the garage that were placed up there when we originally moved in. Only now the boxes have warped from the heat and will need to be stacked by matching crooked oblong sides rather than neat rectangle piles.

Maybe I should pack jeans and a sweatshirt--it's only going to be 90 degrees! I never thought I'd be thankful for the gift of a 90-degree relief from the heat, but my whole internal thermometer has reset itself in the 2 months I've lived here. If only that were so easy for other things, like my heavy foot on the gas pedal and my tolerance (or lack thereof) for country music.

Just like in Chicago, this heat wave will most certainly produce a number of deaths, but the morticians here are all over it. On my way to work this morning (when it was only in the high 80's) I passed a rather large hearse (or to be politically correct, a "funeral coach"). It was a black pick-up truck with a cover adorned by the typical decorative landau bars. Pretty classy for Nashville. Two for the price of one, and as a bonus, environmentally friendly. After all, you know how those Ozone Alert days can be killers.

Dental Accessories Assembled During Lunch

Back to the cardiac lecture I go, but first a detour to the restroom for breath control.

Pizza is a risky venture when you haven't brought a toothbrush to work.

Dried sauce caked around the corners of the mouth. Dough crammed into the spaces between each tooth to make them appear conjoined, like those candy wax molds I used to goof off with when I was a kid. And then, the dreaded basil sprig wedged splat in the middle of the front teeth.

A couple of swishes of water may serve to loosen up that little bugger.

Maybe if I position the holdout particle between my front teeth it will look like a small space--a clean vacancy showcasing a display of ivory.

It's not working! Basil is still recognizable as a foreign object in my mouth. What the hell?! I have to get back to class. By now they've probably already started, but I can't go in like this. I'll forget about it in the drone of the lecture and end up smiling in a false display of fascination, and then it will make its unwanted appearance.

I have nothing to work with here. Maybe this paper towel will do. Just roll it into a tiny point, jam it in there forcefully, and joila! Okay, let's try that one more time. Roll, jam...come on already, get the hell outta there!

Ah, perfectly positioned. After my braces came off my wisdom teeth pushed my perfect smile askance. This is a good look for me now. Maybe I'll carry around a small container of dried chopped basil instead of gum. Parsley would also do the trick, but it wouldn't give that fresh herbal scent to my breath.

Finally, freedom from the mirror. As I pass through the classroom door and greet my coworkers, I notice a piece of toilet paper hanging off the back of my shoe.

High School

My eldest daughter has attended private schools her entire life. Not the expensive, how-to-manage-your-hired-help situated on 120 acres with horseback riding lessons type, but simply run-of-the-mill suburban parochial institutions. This will be her first year in a public system.

She was very worried about fitting in, as if public school students are an alien species. I researched the school districts in Middle Tennessee until my computer iced over, and finally decided upon one that made the U.S. News and World Report top 1000 in the country.

Out came my old yearbooks with an enthusiastic fervor, in hopes that I could demonstrate to Aubrey the essence of public school. I lovingly flipped to the back page, and in a fit of nostalgia read the autographs from old friends out loud.

"Until we bomb the Middle East..." (this was in 1990)
"Lucifer lives..."
"The Sly will provide..."

"I thought you said that public school kids were normal," Aubrey responded glibly.

"Uh, let's look at something else."

I was part of the "independent thinking" group (of which my group despised the assumption that we were actually a group). And yet, still a choir geek...

"How about this choir program from my junior year? Look, there I am dancing to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." Groans are heard from the sidelines.

I wonder if I am doing my children a disservice by moving to this place, where you can be passed by three or four BMW's and surrounded by Lexi on 3 sides while driving a 1-mile stretch of road. Will they understand life, know that humanity, nature and God are the basis of all things--that "things" are not the basis of anything but burgeoning superficiality, and ignore the blatant fact that 1/4 of the senior class drives brand new Mustangs? Will they still like to bargain hunt with their mom, or will I be an embarrassment to their Brentwood-raised way of life?

Today begins the weekend frenzy of sales tax-free shopping for school supplies and clothes. Brentwood is one of the wealthiest towns in Tennessee, and she knows it. I think that we will stop at the Goodwill store before hitting the mall this time.