Balanced Parenting

My husband watches We Love the 80s on VH1 with my daughter. I've known about it for a while and I've made my peace with it. I expose her to Bach, he exposes her to Flock of Seagulls. I feed her chicken with leeks in wine sauce, he feeds her hotdogs. I take her to the children's musem, he teaches her to throw balls at people. We call this balanced parenting and pretend that it's healthy. Until the other night, that is. That's when I walked in on a We Love the 80s viewing session and discovered with abject horror that Claire was "dancing." I do not object to dancing. I absolutely object to the sort of spastic jumping and arm-waving that was masquearading as dancing in my living room. Can't he at least teach her some 80s dance moves to go along with the 80s music? The side to side step with arm sway and finger snap? The alternate jumpy toe-point with windmill arms? Or at the very, very least, he could teach her the Wham! leg wiggle with stationary feet.

Little Cheesemaker on the Prairie

I recently had a conversation with my son about cheese. He wanted to know how it was made, so I explained the process to him in as fine a detail as I could muster. I put together steps from the Little House on the Prairie books, scenes from The Sopranos, and some strange uncited memory from a cookbook. (I really wish my memories would keep their proper citations. It's such an inconvenience to have these uncited memories floating around.) Jacob's response, naturally, was to ask if we could make cheese. I stalled. "Maybe someday." Earlier today, I was (lovingly) accused of being very Little House on the Prairie. I find that hilarious because it's true. Then I realized, if I were truly very Little House on the Prairie, I would make cheese. I'm now thinking that maybe someday might be this weekend. This doesn't really look any harder than making bread. Now I just need to find my sun bonnet.

Names

I was treated to a conversation last night, a conversation that I've been waiting a few years to have. I had the pleasure of telling my son the meaning of his name, how that meaning is twined into and around the meaning that he is to me. He's only five (and a HALF, Mom), so I'm sure we'll be discussing it again. Still, it was a unique pleasure to reveal this little secret of mine. My name has little significance. It just means that I'm a Christian, which I am, and that's meaningful enough I suppose. But I always yearned for a name that meant something, that was a blessing from my parents to my infant self. Instead I got a name that my mother thought "sounded nice." So when I bought my niece a CD of lullabies so long ago and heard the song "Jacob's Dream," I immediately decided to name my future son Jacob. There's a line in the song, "Could you not be a man like he, so wily and beguiling?" that absolutely captured my wish for my children. I did want beguiling, charming children. I wanted crafty kids who were tricky and dreamy and curried favor among all. Then I found out that the literal meaning of Jacob is "One who supplants." How lame, I thought. But I shushed it aside and convinced myself that the character of Jacob was the meaning of the name. And that's what we named our son, with my secret hope that my Jacob would be like the Jacob - that I had so blessed him with this name. It was only after his birth that I discovered the literal meaning had been a secret blessing to me. Last night, I was brushing Jake's teeth and I mentioned how special he was to me. And I told him that the name meant "one who supplants." He replied with a look of utter confusion, naturally. I chuckled and explained what "supplant" means. I recounted how he had changed my life, changed my experience, stolen what I thought my life would be like and replaced it with something better. He stole who I thought I was and replaced my self-image with something better. Jacob is most definitely wily and beguiling. Thank God. And now, I'm just atwitter with anticipation about telling Claire what her name means. I cannot wait.