There has been a lot of attention over the past decade to a phenomena labeled “nature deficit disorder.” It is the idea that children are spending less and less time outdoors, more and more time indoors interacting with electronic devices (hmmm….) and that this has implications for their emotional and physical health.
I tend to agree. I have been one that is attracted to the outdoors. For example, I love to camp. I don’t like not having access to a hot shower for five minutes in the morning, but some of the feelings I get after three days of camping (it takes me that long to “detox”) are purification, peace, connection with my surroundings, and understanding. Maybe one can get that in expensive hotel rooms with a spa, but I can’t afford that. Being in dirt is a great alternative in terms of results.
I used to work with an African-American woman who came to work each day as if dressed for a fashion show. She wore high heals, ornate earrings, and had long nails which she had manicured professionally weekly. She was also overweight, but didn’t seem to mind it. She flaunted her body. Every summer we had a barbecue for clients at the health clinic where we worked. It was held in a city park behind our building. We took turns barbecuing while taking care of needs back at the office. On one occasion where our times overlapped, I remember her looking around at the big trees and commenting, “This is nice.” She didn’t say this in an off-hand way, but like she meant it. Ms. Fashionista was moved and I realized that nature can touch all kinds of people.
More interestingly to me is the phenomena that people are not comfortable being around nature. I remember taking a walk in a park with another friend of mine through some Madrone trees. Madrone trees shed bark and I was pulling off some of them. The bark was very thin, like paper. Pulling on the bark was mildly therapeutic because it made me feel like I was releasing the tree from its harness to reveal more of the soft, beautiful bark underneath.
“Stop it,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
I don’t remember the precise reason she gave, but it made her very uncomfortable that I was interacting with nature in such a way. From my point of view, the tree was shedding bark anyway, so why not help it along? I offered her the bark in my hand, but she didn’t even want to touch it. And she is from Montana! Coming from a city that has more residents than the entire state of Montana, I thought people from big nature states were naturally close to nature. Befriending her made me realize that just because you live in a state that sounds synonymous with nature doesn’t mean you actually interact with it.
It is important to me that Polina grow up not only feeling comfortable around nature, but having her own relationship with it. I consider being in nature to be the absence of cars, people, buildings and electrical poles. It is vital to my soul. The experience of it resides in my imagination and it’s where I seek solace even when I am away from it. However, I am terrible when it comes to naming things in nature. I know a few plants, but I can’t distinguish a Douglas from a Fir tree, and I live in the Pacific Northwest. Naming it hasn’t been as important as feeling it. I live up in the clouds that way.
I know nothing about the soil, except that it needs water, maybe some lime and compost. I’ve never actually grown anything myself, but I have maintained established plants in my home for several years. That is one of the things I am working on as we work on our home. My mother grew tomatoes and lettuce on our balcony in the apartment we lived in. I didn’t take an interest then, preferring to eat the produce instead. But now, in middle age, I do have an interest.
The week before Memorial Day, Polina and I went camping in the same spot we went 20 months earlier. We had our time together and our time side by side, each enjoying nature in our own way. Except for a flip phone and an occasional internet check in at the local library, we were without electronic disturbances. Here are some pictures from the trip, along with some flashbacks.
Ferry Ride to campsite.Beach next to our campsite.Throwing rocks into the water.Carrying water in May 2015.Carrying water in September 2013.Inside our tent in May 2015.Inside our tent in September 2013.Next to our tent in May 2015.Polina next to our tent in September 2013, wearing the same pants.Looking at a heron.
It had been working fine just the day before. “Fine” being relative for a computer that was eight years old, but it was still working. Technically.
My computer was a Macbook from 2007. Not a pro, just a Macbook laptop, the kind high schools in our area used to issue to students for free. I got it as a graduation present for completing graduate school. It worked great when I first got it, but in the last few months, it had slowed down quite a bit, as older computers tend to do. Some websites I couldn’t access any more because they didn’t support my operating system. I was told by an Apple representative about a year ago that at some point the operating software I was using wouldn’t be supported at all by the web and my computer wouldn’t support an operating system upgrade beyond two more upgrades. I was too attached to my computer to even consider buying another one. I decided to limit the damage by upgrading the operating system.
When my hard drive went caput last year, I took my computer to the Mac Store and spent $250 for a new one. My husband is still in disbelief over how much it cost, considering he uses Linux and can buy an entire computer for that much.
My Macbook was my closest confidant. I wrote my deepest thoughts on that computer, things no one else will ever read because I often deleted it. But the keyboard knew. It knew everything. It knew my rough drafts. My fingerprints were all over them.
The asymmetric round stains on the keyboard where my wrists rested were mine. The glossy shine on the keys I used the most were mine. Those passionate moments when creativity was flowing and I typed fervently, my Macbook and I were one.
The truth is, I probably wouldn’t have purchased another computer if my Mac still worked. I was drawn to the Macbook after having viruses on several PCs that I owned over the years. I was ready, even desperate for a change. I remember the day I finally walked into an Apple store to purchase it. I was excited and nervous at the same time, like someone taking a big step in their lives, which I was at that point. I felt butterflies in my stomach.
“Black,” I said to the store clerk, trying to cover my excitement and the unevenness in my voice. “I’d like a black one.”
I remember holding the bag and my brand new computer inside of it against my chest like a newborn baby. I rode the bus back home, as I didn’t even own a car at that time. My Macbook was my most expensive possession. Every few blocks I compulsively checked the bag to make sure my computer was still inside.
I brought it home to my one-bedroom apartment and gently took it out of the box like a precious artifact. It was beautiful. I didn’t even want to take off the thin layer of foam encasing the computer like a well-fitted glove, the last barrier to actually touching the machine. I was as nervous and excited as a boy taking off the layers of a woman’s dress for the first time. Maybe they call it an “apple” because a new Macbook is as beautiful and tempting as Adam’s apple (the one in the Bible, not the throat.)
Everything about it was pleasant to the senses. It looked, smelled, and felt… luxurious. Several years later, the New York Times would report how Apple contracted with manufacturers in China that callously used child labor and worked their employees to death, literally, to build their devices. It was, of course, awful, and I questioned whether I would ever buy another Mac. Talk about forbidden fruit. Then I wondered whether PCs weren’t produced the same way. It was a dilemma I didn’t want to face.
I decided that the responsibility lay with Apple’s management. I paid full price for my new laptop, a whopping $1500 in 2007, not including tax. If the millionaires in charge decide to allocate the money toward themselves rather than set standards and hold their contractors accountable for fair and safe labor practices, then that is on them. My husband, disgusted by both Apple and Microsoft, uses Linux, but I didn’t want a PC. I was in a relationship with Apple, and I felt comfortable in it.
The past several weeks I felt that my Macbook wasn’t keeping up with modern technology. I couldn’t switch between several open tabs as quickly as I once could and some websites had blank spots where page content should have been. No matter how many times I downloaded Flash Player, it never seemed to work. Videos kept stopping or not loading. The beach ball kept spinning. I was getting more frustrated.
Even though my computer wasn’t responsive, I remained loyal.
I didn’t cheat.
On the Sunday before Memorial Day, my computer died. I had just gotten back from a camping trip with Polina the day before and I was eager to get back to writing.
And then it broke.
My first reaction was grief. Then denial. Denial morphed into acceptance. And then, oddly, relief, because the suffering was over and the decision to buy another computer was made for me. This quickly turned to fear because of the additional expense.
There it was, a broken computer staring me in the face.
Then I had a thought.
How badly do you want this?
What?
How badly do you want this?
Badly.
[Silence]
I had been hearing advertisements for TD Curran on my local radio station the last few months. After looking at other places for used Macs, TD Curran gave me the best deal over the phone. Last Saturday, I strapped Polina in her car seat and drove to their store.
While Polina twirled her pink Princess Sofia umbrella in the spacious store, I looked at two used Macbook Pros before me, a 2010 model for $699 and a late 2011 model for $799. The sales clerk, Kenneth, suggested the late 2011 model because it is very similar to the brand new model and came loaded with the latest operating system from Apple. It was on the edge of what I wanted to spend, but still $300 less than a new computer. Chump change to some, but a respectable hill for me.
It wasn’t my Macbook. For one, it was silver with black keys. The mousepad didn’t have right and left clicks. The part of the keyboard where my wrists touched felt slippery, owing to the aluminum material. The connector was a different shape, though still the same size.
But it also had some positives. Aluminum doesn’t absorb body oils like the plastic on my old computer and the keyboard therefore looked brand new. The keyboard was backlit, which I always found attractive. It was also fast, very fast.
The stress of making a new commitment led me to default to my compulsive, nervous state. I told Kenneth I would get my laptop case from my car to see whether the Macbook Pro would fit. A casual introduction , so to speak, but I also needed to get out of the store and think outside the box.
My pink nylon laptop case that I bought the same day as my original Macbook had never had another computer inside of it. The soft black corduroy inside the case had kept my old Macbook safe for eight years. As I carried the now empty case under my arm back to the store, the other arm holding Polina’s hand, I felt excited and melancholy about sharing this private space with another computer. Polina was impervious to my dilemma, contently playing with her umbrella.
Maybe buying a new computer sounds thrilling to some, but that’s not how I felt. I didn’t find this enjoyable one bit. My defenses were up and I was tense.
I went inside the air conditioned store, grateful to be out of the heat, and lay the 2011 model on top of my case. It fit.
Kenneth walked back to me from his computer.
“I’ll give it to you for $699.”
What?! He had offered $100 off the machine, or the same price as the 2010 model. Gratitude filled my torso.
“I looked at the prices for this model online. You could buy it off eBay for $650, but ours comes with a 90 day guarantee.”
Buying from an individual buyer was out of the question for me. I didn’t want to risk getting a virus (I’m not that easy) or have someone else’s baggage affect the computer’s performance. I wanted a warranty and I wanted a technician to make sure the computer was scrubbed and as clean as possible.
“Thank you,” I whispered with my hands clasped to my chest, like an adoring fan.
I played on the computer to make sure everything was working. I watched two videos simultaneously without problems. It was beautiful, just like my old machine. I was sold as much as I could have been under the circumstances.
Kenneth ran my card and I signed on the dotted line. I came back two hours later to a scrubbed and newly loaded machine, ready for my imprints.
I carried my new computer back in the pink case I had purchased for my old Macbook eight years ago.
In some traditions a man marries his brother’s widow to support her and her children. That’s how I feel about this new Macbook. My previous Macbook died and I bought another family member. I didn’t want to, but that’s what I did to keep doing what I’m doing.
Our Sunday began as any ordinary day. My daughter woke me up at 7:45 am. I gave her a bath and we went through our normal routine to get ready for the day. I made breakfast, washed the dishes, and did three loads of laundry. At 11 am, my friend from Russia skyped me. The previous day was May 9, “Den Pobedy” or Victory Day, which is a huge holiday over there. I congratulated him on the defeat of Hitler.
“We couldn’t have won the war without you,” I said.
Because there is no Mother’s Day holiday in Russia, I didn’t receive any recognition. At that moment, I had a thought: “what is more important, the defeat of Hitler or Mother’s Day?” I sided with Hitler’s defeat, and it made me feel slightly better.
While I was doing my chores, Peter worked on his car. We had planned to take a trip to Big Four Mountain. He changed the oil, cleaned the air filter, replaced the brake and power steering fluids and added transmission fluid. Frankly, he did stuff I don’t know how to do, so I’m grateful that one of us knows how to do these things. He thanked me for the breakfast, and when he saw me skyping with my friend, asked if we could skype with his mother.
“Aha,” I thought. “He is going to mention Mother’s Day.”
Once we connected, he took my laptop to the backyard to show her our blooming rhododendrons.
I decided to take a shower. How could he remember his own mother and not wish me a Happy Mother’s Day?
Cliff at Big Four Mountain
The ride to Big Four Mountain was uneventful. There was no mention of Mother’s Day. We passed some landmarks that reminded me of a time several years ago when Pete and I rode in on his motorcycle. We got off at a spot and Pete insisted I ride his motorcycle by myself on a portion of the road leading to the park. I didn’t even have a license to ride a motorcycle, nor was I comfortable with the weight of his bike. He was so insistent, I caved in, and I hated him for it the whole time. I was never so happy to reach the halfway point and turn around. I was happy I pulled back into the parking lot alive.
We were getting closer to the park entrance and there was still no mention of Mother’s Day.
Pete had been talking about visiting Big Four Mountain for several weeks now. Our weekends have been busy, but I decided to accommodate his wishes.
He never even asked me what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day.
Big Four Mountain range
By the time we got to the park, the thoughts in my head put me into a bad mood. The plan was to have a picnic together before walking to the ice caves. When he opened my side of the door, I told him I wanted to rest in the car.
He responded, “I need your help carrying the supplies.”
He only needs me to carry the supplies.
Pete took Polina to have a picnic.
Great, they’re having a picnic without me on Mother’s Day. Just my luck.
When Pete came back and asked again what was wrong, this time, I told him directly. To my surprise, he apologized, said he has been self-absorbed recently, and wished me a Happy Mother’s Day. He said he had intended to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day at the picnic.
And just like that, the weight was lifted. The day was salvaged and we had one of the best days of our lives this year. Since we got a later start, there were fewer people at the ice caves, and we had the entire picnic area to ourselves on the way back. (He told me he just hung out with Polina and that they hadn’t eaten without me.) We watched a robin look for worms, some small black birds (sparrows? starlings?) zig zag in the air looking for insects, and on the way out of the park, several deer jump across the road. It was a lovely evening.
We still have some challenges ahead of us and are by no means out of the woods, but I am so grateful we were able to have a nice day and spend quality time together as a family.
Here are some pictures from our trip.
Every journey begins with a single step. The start of our trip.Interacting with nature.
Polina preferred walking on rocks at every opportunity.Our family together.The ice cave. There used to be several but this is the only one left on the trail. The ice cave used to be closer to the rock we are sitting on.The path back.
Potty training is one of those rites of passages everyone must master.
While some rites of passages can be questionable, the only question for this one is when.
When was the last time we really chose where to go to the bathroom?
People can survive with maladaptive patterns of behavior in a lot of areas except where to go to the bathroom. That one is a given. A must. A requirement for humans… and dogs and cats.
I began so-called “potty training” when Polina was a newborn. I used cloth diapers every day except when we went camping or stayed with my mother-in-law. Since we lived in an apartment with shared washers and dryers, I made a conscious decision not to subject my neighbors to my daughter’s bodily fluids. So we paid $100 month for a diaper delivery service.
I used cloth not only because babies in cloth diapers tend to potty train earlier than those in disposables, but because I read that the chemicals in disposables may interfere with a baby’s, particularly a girl’s, reproductive organs. I didn’t want to risk adding any disadvantage that the world already planned up its sleeve. That and the environmental impact of plastic whose half-life estimate is into the thousands of years made the decision really clear for me.
I practiced elimination communication. I made the “psss psss psss” sound when I changed her diaper to encourage her to pee and to associate that sound with peeing. I made the “ugh ugh ugh” sound to signify number 2. The few times my sounds coincided with her actions, I was ecstatic.
At 10 months, I put Polina on a real potty and made those sounds. When she went on “command,” so to speak, I was very happy.
In fact, my first sign that Polina could hear me happened on the toilet, when I said “Ugh ugh ugh” and she said “ugh ugh” back.
It was a bonding moment. In my mind we were on our way to having Polina fully potty trained by 2 years.
I remember being in a park and listening to a young boy’s observations and inquiring about how things work. It was summertime, and I noticed he was wearing diapers.
“Ha!” I scoffed to my husband later that evening. “That little boy is so intelligent, and he is still wearing diapers. If he’s capable of making intelligent conversation, he’s capable of saying when he needs to go to the bathroom.”
At my local gym, I didn’t understand why children who spoke in complete sentences still wore diapers. Polina, who followed directions but didn’t speak much, was almost fully potty trained.
At her one year check up, I confidently told my doctor Polina would be potty trained by two.
And she was.
In July 2014, one month before her second birthday, Polina began wearing underwear full-time. For the most part, it was beautiful.
“Ugh Ugh,” she would say when she needed to go potty. It happened in restaurants, in parks, at home, with company, without company. The only inconvenience was having to stop what you were doing and having to use a public bathroom. She even woke up dry in the mornings more than half the time.
I was really proud of her.
During that summer, we were planning to buy our first home. This required me to meet with real estate agents, go “house hunting” with my husband after work, interview potential bankers, and review paperwork, among other things. It was a very stressful time for me because of this added responsibility. The few times she peed in the car seat I dismissed as my fault for spending too much time in meetings and forgetting to take her to the bathroom. She had been doing so well I took her potty training for granted.
Gradually, the accidents became more frequent. I began carrying an extra pair of pants in the car. Eventually, I put her in disposables to avoid having an accident while I was in meetings. The quantity of pee increased and cloth diapers couldn’t hold the smell anymore. As much as I dislike, borderline hate disposables, they were my best option at that point.
“This is temporary,” I told myself and my husband. “When we move into the house, she is going back to wearing underwear.”
“I’m lonely.”
The move into the house would have to wait. We bought the house in August but didn’t move in until October because of the repairs that needed to be made. I was at the house at 6 am some mornings working until my husband came by with Polina four hours later on his way to work. It was the only way I could get work done.
Someone broke into our home in October. He/She/They took some of our tools, our mudding supplies, our ladder.
We began sleeping there that night and officially moved in not long thereafter. We had no cabinets so storing food was an issue. There were boxes everywhere that needed to be unpacked. After we moved in, it was stressful time part 2.
By that time, Polina had been wearing diapers for four months.
Finally, in December, five months after she started having accidents, I began potty training her again.
Polina would have nothing to do with the potty. She screamed as if I was putting her in an electric chair. She flailed when I even took her into the room that contained the potty.
I tried reading to her, something she enjoyed doing before on the potty. No dice, she continued to scream. I sat beside her, held her hand, gave words of encouragement. She continued to scream and gave me the “finished” sign by rubbing her hands back and forth. I tried stickers as a reward, the potty dance… nothing. Sitting on the adult toilet with a child adapter didn’t work either.
“So am I.”
This potty training is harder than anything I experienced when she was a baby. Her screams pierced my heart. I began to dislike going to the potty as much as she did.
Then came a “relief” period where she would take her stuffed animals with her to the bathroom and put them next to her. It would of course take time to collect her animals. Then when she finally sat on her potty, there was nothing.
There were times when we read several books on the potty together and still nothing.
I took off the diaper and put her in pants, thinking that feeling the wetness would get her to change. That didn’t work either. We went through 4-5 pants per day and I ended up doing her laundry every other day just to keep up. I went back to using cloth diapers inside the home.
This past week, I put her on the potty, to no avail. Five minutes later, before I had a chance to put a diaper back on, she ran to me saying, “messy.” She pointed to a puddle on the kitchen floor.
“Polina!” I screamed.
Polina laughed.
“It’s not funny!”
“Not funny,” she repeated, smiling..
Fortunately, she doesn’t like the feel of poop in her diaper, so she always tells us when she has to go to the bathroom if she has to go #2.
Otherwise, when I ask her if she wants to go to the bathroom, the answer is always an immediate no.
“No pot pot,” she says insistently if I ask again.
What makes it more frustrating is that cognitively, she knows what she needs to do.
“Where does pee go?” I ask.
Polina points to the potty or the closest bathroom.
“Does pee go in your pants?”
“Noooo,” she responds.
She has been saying all of this for months yet continues to pee herself.
“No pee!” she announces when we pass her peed clothes in the dishpan I set aside in the bathroom for that purpose.
Ironically, she says the same thing after she has peed herself.
Prior to this happening, we bought four boxes of diapers in 2.5 years, mostly when we traveled and for nighttime (which we reused when she woke up dry). This past week, my husband went to buy another box. He came home with a size 5.
“27lbs +” it says on the box. There isn’t even a maximum weight anymore. After this, what’s next? Depends undergarments? .
For the first time in our 2.75 year relationship, I am disappointed in her, in a way I can only imagine with older children. I am disappointed that she has not return to her previous potty trained behavior. I was so emotionally vested in this one area. It has been a battle of the wills, and she is winning.
Maybe it’s a lesson for me, not her.
I remembered a comment my sister-in-law made, that we cannot control whether a child eats, sleeps, or goes to the bathroom. That’s when I threw my hands in the air and gave up on potty training. I began putting on diapers as a routine.
Yesterday afternoon, my meditation teacher, Valya, said her daughter went through similar troubles when she had a bladder infection and couldn’t feel herself pee.
“It’s not her fault,” she said.
Oh my goodness. I had gotten so angry at times, and if this wasn’t her fault….! My plan was to read up on that.
Later that evening, when Polina sat on the potty before bedtime (to no avail), I was in the bathroom cleaning the sink when suddenly, she ran back in, lifted her dress from behind and sat down on her potty.
She got up and I saw she peed where she was supposed to go.
I hope this story ends with her being fully potty trained.
The last week or so Polina has been having a hard time emotionally. A really hard time. She starts screaming at the slightest annoyance. It could be something as simple as me putting a toy in a place she does not want or my husband correcting her placement of a puzzle piece. Sometimes I don’t even know why she’s screaming. It has been really irritating, to say the least.
Today, when I returned from a training in time to put her to bed, she was very happy to see me. Then when it was time to get ready for bed, another side came out. She screamed because I took off her Hello Kitty shirt to put on a warmer shirt. (We are still sleeping in layers and using electric blankets out here in April.) I kept telling her that she can wear her Hello Kitty shirt over the warmer shirt, but either she didn’t understand or she didn’t believe me. (This is a shirt Polina fell in love with at my neighbor’s garage sale last week and which she did not take off for the next four days. I hid it in the laundry basket and finally washed it today. As soon as it came out of the dryer, Polina put it on.)
Polina was inconsolable. She kicked. She screamed. She reached for her desired Hello Kitty shirt and tried to pull it over her head. She refused me putting on a sweat shirt. She is one strong, willful, determined kid.
Perhaps I would have acquiesced to her demands if she didn’t already have a runny nose the past two weeks, probably from me acquiescing to her demands to run barefoot around the house. I don’t know how other people are affected by a child’s screaming, but Polina’s screams tear at my insides. It is difficult to bear. My mother would have left her alone to cry it out. Peter’s mother would have spanked her a long time ago. Neither one of these is appealing to me.
It occurred to me that there is a third way, and that is to surround her with love until she calms down.
I tried to do that. She pushed me away. She kept screaming. I was at my wit’s end. Love and irritability are not compatible.
“Please stop,” I said.
She gave me the sign for “owie,” tapping her head with her fist.
“Where is the owie?” I asked. She pointed to me. I was giving her an owie because I took off her Hello Kitty shirt. Or maybe it was because I was telling her to stop.
This was ridiculous. My child has a runny nose and I wasn’t going to let her sleep in a short sleeved shirt. I finally got her other arm into the warmer shirt, pulled out the Hello Kitty shirt and put it on.
And just like that, she stopped crying.
She got what she wanted.
“Night night,” she said calmly. If it wasn’t for her red face and the beads of tears under her eyes you wouldn’t have known that she just had a fit.
I lay down next to her as she fell asleep.
“I love you,” I said.
Polina pointed to the ceiling and said something in her own language.
“I love you,” I said again, and kissed her head three times, a nightly ritual, and put her hand in mine.
A few minutes later, she fell asleep. I don’t know how much love it takes to quiet someone. In the end it was the Hello Kitty shirt that quieted her down. But I hope one day, she’ll know, and it will be enough.
