My Metamorphosis

As my time with Luke draws to an end, I have come to realize the enormity of my utter transformation. I don't mean into anything quite as grotesque as a monstrous vermin, but there is no doubt that I have changed. I have suffered a metamorphosis into a blubbering, cooing, baby-talking, stroller-pushing Nana. I have completely earned my grandma card.

For the last two mornings, I have cried over the most inane stories on The Today Show. I, who had previously never watched day-time television, sobbed over the human interest report of the woman whose face had been reconstructed after an unfortunate encounter with a chimp. Tears rolled down my face as I watched the reports of disabled children. I find myself recounting the statistics of mothers with infants: did you know that over 50% of young mothers would rather have a full night's sleep than sex? I know the inside jokes of Kathy Lee and Hoda (Winsday has never been so fun); Al Roker should have never let Morales put him through that boot camp thing.

Yesterday, I edited a former student's personal statement as part of an application to Teach For America. Part of his response was how he would measure success. How have I measured success for the past four weeks? I take personal pride in eliciting a deep belly-burp. I've worked hard on that technique. I'm pleased beyond measure when Luke takes 5 - 6 ounces instead of his usual 4. I have bragging rights that Luke is now wearing 3 month sized-onesies, at only 2 1/2 months! Success for me is in Luke's sweet grins in response to the most inane language on my part.

Luke in his 3 month onesie - with almost a smile

Another alarming transformation on my part regards music. I, who have sung polyphonic chant and Rachmaninoff with my church choir now sing "bath-time, bath-time: everybody takes a bath!" with Max. This jolly tune also works with "pick-up, pick-up: everybody picks up toys!" Max and I dance to the insipid tunes which emanate from Scout, his lime-green digital dog. We madly wag our tails or do the rhumba. Late at night, "Me and My Friend" loops through my head - a terrible tune for an ear worm. Maybe even worse is how often I've listened to classical tunes on Baby Einstein. The tinny version of "Fur Elise" with chirping birds may drive me to distraction. Carmen on a night-time cd - really?? 

While this time with my adorable grandsons has been immeasurably pleasurable, soon I'll need to wear another hat.  In less than a week, I'll be instructing seniors in high school on composition and literature. I only pray that I don't slip and say words I've become accustomed to use lately: "poopie," "potty," and "where's that burp?" among them. I am trusting that this upcoming metamorphosis will be less all-encompassing than my Nana transformation. 

"It Is a Sugar-coated Satan Sandwich": Confessions of a Word Prig

I have been thrilled a number of times since I first heard Rep. Emmanuel Cleaver state that the budget compromise was a "sugar-coated Satan sandwich." I love colorful colloquialisms, and I plan to work that juicy, unfamiliar saying into my comments in class as often as possible. After all, I've also been known to say that doing something remiss is the "moist kiss of Death." Certainly, I am a self-confessed word prig, a phrase coined by the great wordsmith, Dick Cavett. I delight in language and love both the purity and flexibility of English. I consider myself both a "lexophile" and a "verbivore," While I appreciate good grammar with the best of English teachers, I also rejoice in euphemisms, colloquialisms, and current slang.

In my classroom, I take pride in being articulate and clear. Sometimes, though, to my dismay, students tell me they don't understand me, and that I use words that are too big. In the past I've also had administrators ask me to translate what I've just said; thank goodness I have been blessed with administrators lately that are intelligent and intelligible. I tell my students to consider my class a "full immersion" one; just as in a foreign language, with constant usage, the listener will eventually come to understand my diction. In fact, one of my favorite lessons to teach is on word choice, levels of diction, and specificity (yes, that's a word). I try to make clear the difference between colloquial level of language, slang, and popular - that level at which college essays are written. I enjoy teaching about trite diction, deadwood, and cliches. While I may use colloquialisms in class, I would not in a formal essay. But, I will in this blog!  I also delight in current slang, and take a perverse pride in knowing the proper spelling of "thug lyf" (sometimes "lyfe") much to my daughter Alexa's chagrin. I love the nuances of  language.

I also love the development of language. Spending time with my baby grandsons has reaffirmed how important beginning language is for communication. That's why it's so wonderful that babies are learning simple sign language for concepts such as "more" and "down" and "thank you." Max is articulate at those words, and also at "Mama," "Dada," and - I think - "Nana." When Max goes to sleep at night, it is to a cd of music; I adore hearing him sing along in short, consonant-driven syllables that mean something only to him. Luke at two months is limited to cooing, but that's as powerful a language as one could ever hope.

I wonder if you can determine a baby's character from his or her first words? Alexa's first words were not until she was 18 months old. That plus the fact that she was not yet walking at 18 months did cause us concern. But her first word came shortly after the CAT scan, when she also started walking. Her first word was "duck" which says a great deal about Bill's covert hobbies when we were living in the town of Liberty. After "duck" came an entire language unique to Alexa: her blanket was "babadi," Sesame Street was "dagadi" and she called herself "Ayucca." Natalie's first word was "no." That also says a great deal about our second-born, as well as the fact that a barrage of language soon followed.

Remembering that rhetoric is the art and study of language's persuasive power, I advocate both the music of well-chosen and well-crafted language as well as its levels of meaning. I build my lexicon by following writers such as Susan Orleans on Twitter. I supplant my slang by following Andy Borowitz. I also subscribe to various word-of-the-day sites. I look forward to new words and phrases in our evolving tongue. I abhor jingoism, but am interested in jargon. I anticipate with eagerness and joy what the new week will bring in the colorful world of language:
Words that Shaped Last Week

What's in a Name?

The title of this entry is both predictable and self-evident, but lately I have had my grandmother name on my mind. Actually, what my grandsons will one day call me has been on my mind ever since I first learned about my becoming a grandmother 22 months ago. I am very sensitive about names. I chose my daughters' names very carefully, with my husband's help - of course. I intensely dislike it when my name is misspelled or when acquaintances call me "Vic." I loathe that nickname, and only my beloved father and maybe a couple of siblings can get away calling me "Vic." I don't stand on ceremony, and I don't mind if my students call me "Jones" or "Jonesie" but, as I tell them at the beginning of each school year, NEVER "Big Vic." Therefore, to me, a grandmother name must be deliberate and accurate. Unfortunately, I am still on the quest for the perfect grandmother name for me.

Nana with Max

When we were considering names for our daughters, I deliberated at length for something distinctive and memorable, one that would offset the mundanity of the last name "Jones." Alexa was a perfect name by which to call our first-born: the heart of her name was "lex" meaning "word," and the symmetry of the two A's was appealing to this English teacher. Of course, she began to call herself "Ayucca" thus rendering my efforts futile. Later, when Alexa was in third grade, she came home from school and announced that she wanted to be called "Crystal." Never let a ten-year old choose her own name.

Likewise, we had many reasons for naming our second-born daughter "Natalie." She was born in the Christmas season; Natalie Woods had just died tragically the previous summer, thus that name was often in the news; and, an elderly baba at church, Natalia, had also just passed away. Yet again, the beautiful name of Natalie was reduced to "Nanny" and sometimes even "Nanny-goat." Or, we substituted "Bratalie" reflecting her temperament, at times.

In trying to practice what I preach by conducting some prewriting, I came across a website devoted entirely to grandmother names: http://grandparents.about.com/od/advicefornewgrandparents/a/grannynames.htm But, even the name of this site appalls me. One name I DO not want is "granny." I recoil from that name as much as I recoil from being called "Vic." I have considered names from other countries. I like the Italian name of "nonna" and the German "oma." But, I am only a fraction Germanic and have no Italian heritage. In fact, my German grandmother had us call her "grossmutter," trying to err on the side of propriety, I guess. However, we secretly called her "Godzilla," a variation on her given name of "Gisella" and a commentary on her temperament. Many at my church are "babas," most recently my friend, Baba Connie. But, I'm not remotely Russian. The same problem exists with the charming "yaya" from Greek. I'm intrigued with the Yiddish "Bubbe," but I'll discard without trying on for size the Spanish "Abuela."

Natalie, the mother of my two grandsons, insists that the child should choose the grandparents' names, but I prefer to be more proactive. I've been trying "Nana" on for size with Max. "Nana" seems comfortable yet a bit sophisticated, just exactly the type of grandmother I hope to be. But, whenever I try my mad teaching skills of reinforcement: "Hi, Max! It's Nana," Natalie interjects with "Wino." I am not amused. I shudder to think about my grandsons calling me "Wino." In public. Yes, I enjoy a glass of wine as much as the next person (as much as my parents do), but a wino? I don't think so. Ben, my son-in-law, suggested "V-lo" which is his nickname for me after my obsessive wedding planning efforts. I'm still sticking by "Nana." I know from experience that a "V" sound is very difficult for non-English speakers and babies; I was called "Wicki" for a month in Turkey when I was in college. Not funny.

I fully realize, though, that at some point my inventive and gifted (of course) grandchildren will alter a traditional name into something unique only to our family. After all, Alexa, the first grandchild, has the distinction of the grandparent names for my own parents: Mum and Bop. Alexa did have her own language for her first two or three years, so consider the source. But, we speculate that "Mum" is a variation of my calling her "Mom." It's particularly fitting, since she is rather a Queen Mum in demeanor. We figure that Alexa started calling my father "Bop" when she was watching him play tennis. Dad has a mean left-handed serve, and whenever he would drive one home, he'd yell out "Bop." I like the name because Dad is a be-bop sort of jazzer. So, I can only hope that Bill and I will have names as fun and fitting.

 Mum and Bop with baby Max, Father's Day 2010

For all of my grandmother friends out there, how did you come by your name? And, out of curiosity, what is your grandmother name - the one in practice, not the one you had hoped for. After all, there is a story behind every name. But for now, you can call me "Nana."

Nana Vicki with Luke

Baby Boot Camp: Week Two; Day Two

As I begun this adventure in blogging, I stated yesterday that I needed to practice what I preach. Yet, I wrote yesterday's entry without prewriting or revision. Bad Nana Vicki! I chastise my students for that sort of sloppiness. In my haste to get this venture started, I didn't even proofread!

So, today I will try to be more centered, more conscientious about my writing, and more focused on a thesis. Today's topic for consideration, a topic which has been on my mind quite a bit during this boot camp experience, a topic to which all can relate - whether interested in babies or not - is simply... sleep. Ah, sleep, that elusive necessity. Sleep, according to the sleep-deprived, maniacal Macbeth, "the innocent sleep/ Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care." The bloodiest of kings goes on to say that sleep is "balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,/Chief nourisher in life's feast." I have become obsessed of late by sleep, naps and resting.

As I create today's musings, I am lulled into a near-slumber state by the background noise of Luke's sleep sheep.  I am seriously considering purchasing one for my elderly mother who is having sleep issues. She sleeps better at night if she takes a Tylenol PM, but she often will not because she's afraid of becoming addicted. This from the lady who calls me at 5:00 every night so I can hear her clinking wine glasses with my father at "wine time." But, how did we parents of a previous generation ever exist without a sleep sheep? Yesterday, Luke and I napped while the sound of the ocean wafted over us in the background. Sleep sheep has an amazingly soporific effect. Unfortunately, Luke slept for over three hours, which transformed him into a night owl - up at 3:00 AM, when Natalie most needed her sleep.


So, what does "sleeping like a baby" really mean? Here's what one baby website has to say: "Believe it or not, you don't really want to sleep like a baby. Why? Babies' sleep, especially in the early months, is typically full of interruptions. Their sleep cycles are much shorter than an adult's, and it takes time for those cycles to get longer and for your baby to learn how to fall back to sleep on his own if he wakes up in the middle of the night." And, when I most need a nap, because of trying to keep Luke awake last night, so that he'd sleep uninterrupted for several hours, I need to go and hold my little tyrant since he's not napping right now, but wailing at the top of his lungs. Ah, sleep - how I covet you. Ah, Morpheus, how I long for you (the god, not the drug). There's always tonight.

Baby Boot Camp: Week Two

My students have repeatedly suggested that I create a blog. I feel compelled often to share my views on traveling, books, movies, and restaurants - my current passions. But most recently, a former student suggested I blog on my adventures in Babyville. For four weeks this summer, I am stepping outside of my comfort zone. I am adopting a Mary Poppinsesque persona - I am being a nanny for my two-month old grandson, Luke.

Of course, taking care of an infant for nine hours a day can in and of itself be mind numbing. However, in my quest to keep my sanity intact, reading and writing are in order. I have recently begun using a Kindle, and I have plenty of books in my queue. But, the idea of writing a little each day, or rather often, delights me. I'll practice what I preach to my students!! I'll leave a legacy for my grandson!! I'll keep from becoming an addict of some sort.

At the end of Week One of Baby Boot Camp, I called my mother and asked her how on earth she avoided becoming an alcoholic or a drug addict. I think that may have taken her aback, but she was a stay-at-home mom in the 50's, raising four children born within six years of one another. Did she read the back of Betty Crocker cake boxes? Did she have neighbors over for coffee and cake? Or did she sneak a G & T on the sly? I may never know the truth.

Observations about being a nanny at the end of Week One:

• Doing laundry can be a fine diversion.
• Pacing oneself between meals is a necessity.
• The Today Show is fairly entertaining, especially when Cee Lo is on. 
• The NCIS marathon is rather thrilling (since it was the first time I'd watched the show).
• Baby Luke sleeps best when he's being cuddled, but one can hold a Kindle and a sleeping baby simultaneously. 
• Babies have way cooler stuff now than when i raised my girls in the 80's: sleep sheep, my little lamb cradle and swing,  baby gym pads, etc. 

Why do I call it "Baby Boot Camp"? I don't have a car seat so I cannot escape the home front easily. I have stocked up on Weight Watcher appropriate foods so I can treat this time out of time as a spa complete with healthy food and exercise. I walk Luke in the morning after his mother and brother go out the door, and pushing a stroller for two + miles suffices for daily exercise - especially in this heat. Most of all, I'm learning to care for babies all over again - by trial and error. As I must right now - Luke is perfecting his ear-splitting howl.