Inside Out: The Parents' Heads

The kids and I saw the new Pixar movie Inside Out last night.  It's as good as everyone has been saying, and I agree with a lot that has been written about what an important movie this is for kids.  To have a representation of what it means for memories to be lost or viewed differently as you grow up is complicated fare for children, but it rings true, and may give many a better perspective on those ideas as they grapple with them in their own lives.  Plus, just being a good Pixar movie, it's clever and visually rich and has many jokes aimed squarely at adults that kids will grow to understand later which keeps it entertaining for everyone.  This movie will also provide you with a good cry.  (Only Mona didn't cry, but she almost never cries during movies.  She also roots for the raptors and the snakes over the bunnies, etc., during the nature shows we watch because "they have to eat too," so she's got a realistic streak that keeps her on an even keel when it comes to entertainment.  I cry at everything.)

In any case, without risking any real spoilers, I wanted to share my thoughts on one small segment of the film that I've been pondering since we left the theater: The scenes from inside the parents' heads.

Over and Out (Babble)

The final, last little bits of shutting down the Arnold Klein Gallery finally took place this week.  My poor mom has been working for months at the Sisyphean task of clearing out thousands of books and pieces of art and the countless odds and ends that went into 40 years of running an art gallery.  The big closing day show and party was back on Valentine’s Day, but between the amount of stuff that needed to be organized and moved and my father’s illness it’s taken until now to finally be done.  I’m still not sure how my mom managed it, but my mom is amazing like that.

So as one final tribute to my parents and all their decades of hard work running an art gallery in a city that did not make that easy, here is the short film my brother, Barrett, made that we viewed at the closing party.  My mom is great, and how adorable is my dad?  At the party most of the things my mom said in the film were hard to hear because they usually followed some funny gesture of my dad’s that made everyone laugh.  I love my parents.  And I’m proud of them.  If you have a few minutes this little movie is totally worth your time.


And I have been trying for days to embed this video and it won’t stick to my blog for some reason, so just click this little link and you will be in YouTube land watching which is just as easy as clicking the play button on an embedded video, so don’t miss out just because it’s a link!  Click!  Enjoy!
Arnold Klein Gallery turns 40!

Habits, Observations, and Walking the Dog (Babble)

It’s strange being untethered from the children and my normal responsibilities.  It doesn’t happen often, and when it does it’s like being in a foreign land where I can look at things from a different perspective.  I’m amazed when I talk to people without children what they don’t have to factor into their thoughts or plans.  When you go on an outing–any outing–as an adult in adult company, the concerns are figuring out where and when.  A trip to the museum means thinking about what you will see at the museum.  When you do all your outings with small children it doesn’t matter as much where or when.  "Where" will boil down to car seats and trips to the bathroom, and when is whenever you finally get there.

The last major trip I took to a museum I saw none of the museum.  It wound up making more sense letting the unencumbered adults go off and I stayed in the play area with all the kids.  I hated to miss out, but I know even if I had gotten into the areas with art to see I would have had to keep all my attention on the kids and making sure they didn’t wander off or touch anything. My kids are very good, and we have gone places and done things, but it’s work in a way that unless you’ve done it you don’t understand.

Anyway, before I leave Michigan I feel like jotting down the odds and ends of my thoughts during my time here, because soon I will be back in tot-land and drowning in violin repairs and it will all fade.  And not that most of these thoughts may be interesting to anyone, but they are mine and this blog is mine and what the heck?

First:  Habits.  I am fascinated by the fact that you can resume old habits that you didn’t even know you had when you return to an old place.  Staying in my parents’ house again is so crazy, because in the strangest ways it’s like I never left.  I know which light switches are installed upside down and always reach for them the right way.  I can’t help myself from scratching at the varnish on the upstairs railing.  I still instinctively veer away from the spot in the driveway where there used to be a big dip even though that was filled in years ago.  I know how long I can run the hot water in the upstairs sink before it gets too hot.  I am always nervous I will bump my head going into the basement. 

On the negative side, whatever progress I’ve made about being mindful of what I eat at home, the minute I’m in Detroit it goes out the window.  I just don’t care and I don’t know how to make myself care.  I want to eat at the favorite Chinese restaurant of my childhood and not stress about it.  I want to go out to breakfast with my mom and enjoy bacon and say yes to whipped cream.  I want to eat my mom’s cookies and have thick slices of bread with cherry preserves and share sandwiches and pastries with my dad and indulge in middle eastern food the likes of which I can’t find outside of Detroit.  I will recommit to better health habits when I get home, but frankly food/stress issues are just too much for me when I’m here.  Oh well.

Second:  Observations.  I never ever noticed until this year that the house across the street from my parents didn’t used to have a garage.  There was a gravel driveway on the right side, and I remember people parking in it all the time, but I just assumed it kept going behind the house and there was a garage there somewhere.  Nope.  The latest owners put in a new driveway and built a two car garage on the left side. 

But how did I walk past that house a gazillion times my whole life and never notice the absence of a garage?  I’m not saying the garage itself matters, I’m saying I think of myself as somewhat observant, and I missed that.  The neighborhood I grew up in is filled with interesting and elegant houses from the 1920’s and 30’s, prior to a time when a garage would have been included as a standard item, so that’s not insane at all.  But if you had asked me I would have told you every house in Pleasant Ridge, Michigan had a garage.

And I would have been very wrong!  There are two houses on just this one street that still don’t have garages.  Once I started looking I was amazed at how many houses there are that only have a little drive along the side of the house and that’s it.  My dad thinks I’m being silly with my new garage obsession, but I’m mostly intrigued with seeing what I thought I knew in a different way.  Also, on the two longest streets to the west of us, I used to have a paper route, and I still only tend to look at the houses I delivered to.  I spent so many years only focusing on the houses where I had customers that it’s hard for me to see the houses between.  I made myself look at each house on this trip just to really see them.  (And I still remember every house that gave me grief or didn’t pay me.  What kind of person rips off a 13 year old paper girl?)

Lastly:  Walking the dog.  Specifically this dog:

I love this dog.  Which surprises me because I’m not really much of a dog person.  I like them, but I as an adult I’ve never wanted one.  Too much work, too much hair, too much mess, too much poop, too much added responsibility.  No thanks.  But Barrett and Kristie left their dog Inari behind while they went to Washington D.C. for the week, and I’ve been walking her.  I like to get out and walk but don’t do it often because at home it lacks purpose.  When I can I walk to work, but for me just walking without a destination feels like a waste of time. 

But walking a dog has purpose, and it’s fun.  I’ve liked having an excuse to go out every day regardless of the weather.  I don’t mind a walk in the rain, but wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to.  Walking the dog is great.  I also just love having the dog around.  She’s curled up in my bed as I’m typing which is very sweet.  (I think she’s planning to spend the night at my side which is rather flattering.)  She is thrilled when I come in the door, she is beside herself when I offer to take her out, and she makes the house feel welcoming.  She is cute and quiet and gentle.  If I could find a dog with as endearing a disposition that didn’t make my husband sneeze I might get one.  I can’t believe I’m even considering that, but my children will be thrilled if it happens.  That is the power of a truly adorable dog.  I think when my kids stop greeting me at the door with wild enthusiasm I may start scoping out canines at the humane society.

And how is my dad doing?  Okay.  Remarkable, actually, considering that anyone recovering from a broken arm and gastro-intestinal surgery would probably still be feeling the effects even if they weren’t in their 80’s.  The worst part of chemo so far was having to listen to The Price is Right blaring in the background, but I read a book aloud to my dad and we were able to block out the TV. 

My dad has stage 4 colon cancer and chemo is his only option, assuming he can tolerate it.  We are facing a lot of uncertainty, but for now we have a course of action to follow and we have hope.  It’s been a lot of work getting dad to all his appointments and dealing with so many medical issues, but we’ve also had time to play Scrabble, talk about the world, and laugh.  It’s a week I won’t forget and I am lucky to have been here.  My brother, Barrett, told me before he left at the beginning of the week that the past month and a half that he’s been here caring for dad he wouldn’t trade for anything.  I know how he feels.  It’s a strange transition to go from dependent child to feeling protective and responsible for your own parent.  I hope my own children know nothing of that for themselves for a long, long time.

(Minor UPDATE:  The dog did sleep next to me all night.  Maybe she sensed I needed a close up snuggle.  If I didn’t love my brother and his girlfriend so much I would steal this dog.)

Long Distance Snuggles (Babble)

I’m back in Michigan this week.  It’s my third trip here this year, which considering it’s only March I think is a new record for me.  My brother, who has been here taking remarkable care of my dad for the past month and a half, was invited to speak at the Smithsonian about cultural entomology and his research about sleep and bees.  He was concerned about going because my dad was starting chemo and needs somebody here.  I cleared my schedule and told him not to worry about it.  (I hope his talks go well!)

In the meantime, it was hard to say goodbye to my husband and kids again, but I’m glad to be able to help my parents.  Helping my dad means keeping track of his constantly misplaced cane, reading to him during chemo, and driving him to and from various appointments at the hospital and physical therapy.  Helping my mom means pulling up episodes of Project Runway to watch together while we drink peach-ginger tea.

It’s very easy to focus on the person with the illness when doling out care, but there are moments when the ‘sick-adjacent’ need help too.  I think mothers in particular can relate to how easy it is to take on responsibilities to another to the detriment of their own needs at times.  My mom may not be going through chemo herself, but it still has a direct impact on her own life.  She’s been through a lot lately, and she has such an overwhelming amount of work to do closing down her business that I worry for her.  There is only so much I can do to help, but I’m making sure we get a little time to hang out and do nothing more taxing than cheer on Tim Gunn as he tells people to make it work.  It’s nice.

My children are being pretty understanding about my absence this week.  At home Mona has developed a recent habit of crawling into bed with me for a cuddle before going off to her own bed to sleep.  She calls it “midnight snuggle” and she’s very serious about it.  I’m not sure what was its inspiration, but it has quickly become one of my favorite parts of the day.  We talk about projects she’s working on and things she’s interested in while we lie with our arms around each other and she gives me intermittent Eskimo kisses.  (The only problem is it’s such a nice time that Quinn wants in on it, and announces he’s there for midnight snuggle, too, which really gets on his sister’s nevers.)

Mona was concerned that my being in Detroit would doom the midnight snuggle, but we’ve been doing it over the phone.  She sits on my bed back in Milwaukee and we chat and hug the receivers.  I can hear her hugs because her footie pajamas make a scrunchy rustling noise when she holds the phone close.  Then she takes the phone around to Aden and Quinn and has them say goodnight too before hanging up.

It’s complicated to be needed in more than one place, but it’s nice to feel needed at all.  I keep thinking about how hard it was for my grandma when she began to really seem old to not be able to help with things.  She was used to being the person who cared for others, and having someone else make the meals or prepare the beds or clean the counters just never sat with her right.  She enjoyed those things because they made her feel useful.  I think I’m at the most responsible, most needed, most useful point in my life so far and much of the time I feel stretched too thin, but I’d rather feel a bit overtaxed and making a difference than bored and unproductive.  Which is good, because it doesn’t look like I’m in danger of getting a break anytime soon.

So I will take my midnight snuggles over the phone for a little longer while being useful in Detroit, but I’m looking forward to the real thing.  (I even kind of miss the claustrophobia inducing ‘pile on’ my kids do when they find me in bed some mornings.  One of them shouts, “Pile on Mama!” and then there is a weighty heap of kids on me and a lot of giggling.  My parents are fun but they don’t do that.)

Goodnight Gallery (Babble)

I remember years ago telling my friend, Linda, how much I enjoyed reading Goodnight Moon to Aden from the same copy that was read to me.  Linda’s children are much older than my own, and she smiled as I talked, and then she said, “Oh, Goodnight Moon.  You never know while it’s happening when you are reading it for the last time.” 

That thought has stayed with me more powerfully than almost any quote I’ve ever come across.  It encapsulates so much of what it means to raise children.  There is so much joy and chaos and repetition and change, and just as you think some routine or quirk or circumstance will continue indefinitely, it ends, usually without fanfare or notice.  One day the baby is sucking his fingers incessantly, and the next he stops, and eventually it’s hard to remember it was ever a concern.  Despite thousands of digital photographs and home videos much of what is ending goes undocumented.  We often don’t get the benefit of acknowledging certain endings, because it just happens that one day you stop pulling Goodnight Moon off the shelf.

But some goodbyes are very clear and planned for.  This Valentine’s Day was one such ending for our family.  My parents owned and operated their own art gallery in a suburb of Detroit for nearly all of my life.  The Arnold Klein Gallery opened on Valentine’s Day in 1971, and 40 years to the day it officially closed its doors.  It was time, because my mom is ready to move on to other projects, and both my parents deserve more freedom in their schedules after so many years of running their own business, but their contribution to the area will be missed.

What the Arnold Klein Gallery managed to do was special, and a great inspiration to me and how I run my own store.  My parents were not good business people in the sense that they generated wealth.  Money is important and you need enough to support yourself and your family, but beyond that I don’t think it is the measure of success in a business.  My parents struggled along with everyone else in Detroit as fluctuations in the auto industry dragged all commerce up and down.  That my mom and dad kept an art gallery viable for 40 years is amazing. 

But what is more amazing is that they stayed in business that long while being honest and compassionate in a field that often isn’t.  My parents love art.  They care about conserving things that are beautiful and encouraging fellow artists to create.  Those ideals always meant more than money.  The Arnold Klein Gallery was a place where you could get trustworthy appraisals, a perfect archival framing job, and see some of the finest work currently being produced in the area alongside stunning prints from the past.  It was a place that cared about art and artists in a way I’ve never seen anyplace else.  It was unique, just like my parents.

All the preparations for the final show were a great deal of fun.  For a bittersweet occasion I have to say we laughed a lot.  Both my brothers and their families were there, along with my family and a couple of cousins and an aunt and uncle and the world’s cutest dog.  Everyone helped to hang things from the walls and ceiling and make decorations.

It looked great.  It was fun without being too silly.

This was the wall of gallery memorabilia, complete with announcements from past shows, photos, articles, and portraits of my parents done by Donella Vogel:

The final show of art was interesting.  My dad had in mind back when he first opened the gallery that one day when they closed he wanted to have a show of canceled prints and lithographs.  Back in the 1800’s when most of the etchings he had on display were made, artists would finish an edition by crossing it out and producing one more (usually unsigned) to prove it was concluded and to prevent others in the future from possibly trying to print additional copies and pass them off as part of the original set.  In my dad’s words he saw it as a show of, “Canceled etchings, canceled prints, canceled gallery.”

And then there was the big wall of Valentines.  There were hundreds of handmade Valentines so that anyone who wanted to could simply take one home with them to remember the gallery by.

The party on Valentine’s Day was a big success.  We couldn’t have asked for a nicer send off.  The place was packed with people there to say goodbye to the gallery and wish my parents well.  It was funny talking to so many people who still remember me at my children’s ages.  I played viola for background music.  My brother, Barrett, showed a 16 minute movie he made of interviews with my parents about their 40 years in business that was touching and funny.  My sister-in-law, Deepanjana, graciously served the wine all night.  The kids wove in and out through the crowds to help themselves to cookies and crackers.  The food was fabulous.  My mom baked cookies, but I couldn’t believe how many friends brought dishes to share.

In the end what makes things important is people.  I love that my parents worked in the gallery together.  I enjoyed playing in the gallery with my brothers growing up.  Watching my own children and their cousin running around that same space was extremely moving to me.  There was a lot of love and affection in the Arnold Klein Gallery.  Valentine’s Day could not have been a more perfect occasion to associate with it.  Here are some of the people I love best in the world who helped make the closing night of the Arnold Klein Gallery one I will always remember fondly:

 
 

Driving away the day after Valentine’s Day knowing I’d never step foot in the gallery again was surreal.  There is still a lot of hard work for my mom and my brother to do getting it closed down and cleared out, but for me it’s over.  The next time I go to Michigan the gallery won’t be there to visit.  From the moment I drove away it began an existence of pure memories.  And they are good ones.

  

Goodnight gallery.

Influence (Babble)

I have a BA in music with distinction in Music Cognition.  I’ve been playing violin since third grade and viola since high school.  I’m employed at a conservatory, play with Festival City Symphony, and founded my own string quartet that was awarded ‘best in weddings’ for our region by the magazine The Knot two years in a row. 

I am not bragging because I know how much practice I sorely need to become the musician I aspire to be, and in the music world pecking order I rank very very very low.  Yeah, now think even lower.  No, I mention all of this just to stack some weight on my side in order to salvage a bit of my ego when I say–with all seriousness–that the greatest musical influence on my children has been my husband.  Ian.  The guy with the engineering and economic geography degrees.  It’s ridiculous.

Not that you have to have degrees in music to have your opinions or preferences on it be meaningful.  That’s insane.  Musicians strive to make music that is appreciated by a world primarily populated by non-musicians.  Without an audience the final step of what we are trying to do is obliterated.  I spend a lot of time telling non-musicians that their opinions count and not to be intimidated by snobs.

What I am trying to say, is that music is such an important component of my life that I made the (apparently crazy) assumption that when I had children, I would be the one to introduce them to the wonders of it.  I would have an impact on their preferences and could lead them down a musical path that I was familiar with.  Ha.



Turns out I can’t compete with my husband.  Ian could have been a jingle writer.  He comes up with catchy/annoying little tunes that stick in your head he and used them for reminding the kids to do things.  He made up one for telling the kids to brush their teeth, and one for washing hands, and one for eating corn….  He used to organize little dance-a-thons before bedtime to wear the kids out so they would sleep better, and he would drag out his Art of Noise records and play them songs by the Cranberries on his computer.  They knew all sorts of music he liked by heart.  During his stinits as stay-at-home dad the kids were introduced to all sorts of songs I didn’t even know.  It was silly to let it bug me, but there where days it did.  You can’t always control what rubs you the wrong way, even when you know better.

I’ve been thinking about this more than usual lately while we prepare for my husband to return home.  I will admit I have taken advantage of his absence to commandeer the CD and record players.  I can’t be accused of forcing too much of the stuff I like on my kids, especially since in the car I try to let them pick the music, and more often than not we find a middle ground between what they will enjoy and what I don’t mind listening to again and again and again.  We listen to a lot of They Might Be Giants, particularly ‘No’ and ‘Here Comes Science,’ but they can also sing along to quite a few Barenaked Ladies tunes now.  My kids know a lot more music from the 1980’s than is probably normal, but that’s because they like to run the record player themselves and that was the last time I bought any records.  (When Aden has friends over the ‘Ghostbusters’ soundtrack often ends up on the turntable.)

It’s been so long since Ian was a part of any routine here that all the little tunes he sang have faded from the kids’ memories.  Aden might remember a few of them if she heard them, but I don’t think Mona or Quinn would.  (It’s amazing what kids forget.  Mona used to have all of Mary Poppins memorized–every bit of dialogue, every song, every gesture–and when we ran across it in the video store recently it was completely new to her just a few years later.)  It will be good to have all the little songs back, and probably new annoying ones to get stuck in our heads when Ian is a real live present member of our family again and not just some kind of ghost who calls us on a satellite phone from time to time.

Between choir and TV, school and their friends, I don’t kid myself that I will have much influence on my kids’ musical lives in the grand scheme of things, but I’m trying to decide if there are a few more tunes I can worm into their little heads before their dad comes home and his influence becomes dominant in that area again.  I may be able to play along with them as they practice Bach and occasionally sneak some old Paul Simon tune onto the CD player on the ride to school, but I know where their true source of musical inspiration usually lies.  I can’t fight the tooth brushing song.  And at this point, I don’t even want to try.