An Ode to My Computer

~ theantelopediaries ~ 2 Comments
Apple Macbook Pro
A beautiful widow.

On May 24, 2015, my computer died.

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.

Mazel Tov.

The Mother’s Day that Almost Wasn’t

~ theantelopediaries

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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
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
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.
Every journey begins with a single step. The start of our trip.
Interacting with nature.
Interacting with nature.

 

Polina preferred walking on rocks.
Polina preferred walking on rocks at every opportunity.
Our family together.
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 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 way back.
The path back.

Why I’ve (Almost) Given Up on Potty Training

~ theantelopediaries
Polina with her selected audience.
Polina with her selected audience.

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.
“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."
“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 only question is when.

When a Mother’s Love Isn’t Enough

~ theantelopediaries

girl-563719_1280

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.

A Spat at the Playground

~ theantelopediaries

goats-173940_1280

When I started the Antelope Diaries, I never envisioned writing about a spat at a playground. I really never even considered it.

But it happened to me today. What it taught me is that when push comes to shove (and, thank God, it didn’t come to that) our animal instincts come out. Two of us behaved like animals today.

Read on.

Today was a beautiful sunny day. In our area that means a lot. When the sun comes out, we bolt for the outdoors. You’d be crazy not to. If we had more sun, this would be a very different place to live. People would be… happier. As it is, we’re a tech hub with the fourth or fifth worst traffic in the country, depending on who you listen to. So a lot of the time we’re stuck in rain and not able to move anywhere even if we wanted to.

A social worker once told me that a high percentage of people who work at a major software company here have Asperger syndrome. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but what I’ve seen in practice from 15 years living here is that people are more comfortable with computers than they are with people. It is very hard to make friends here, unless maybe you “friend” them on facebook. (How did “friend” ever become a verb?) If you go to coffee shops around here, you see more people sitting across from each other engaging with their laptops than they are with people sitting directly across from them. And those so called “smart” phones that people fondle… Ugh.

Anyway, people here are comfortable with a veneer of niceness, like the kind you see in an email. Scratch the surface though, and it may not be that pretty.

I was at a playground in a posh area of the city today. There are three types of swings there. The baby swing, which encloses a child 360 degrees, the traditional “adult” swing, with a rubber strip attached on two ends, and something in between: a plastic chair with straps that swings. (This chair looks like it was made for handicapped kids, but able-bodied kids swing on it as well.)

Polina was in the baby swing when she pointed to let me know she wanted to go to the swing with the plastic chair. There are only two of these in the entire playground. We stood nearby and waited for one to become available.

Now, at other playgrounds I have been to, it is customary, when another child is waiting, to swing for some reasonable amount of time (a couple minutes or so) and then let another child have a turn. The second child swings for a couple minutes, then let’s another child have a turn, and so on.

The two mothers at these two swings kept swinging and swinging with no mention of letting another child have a turn. It was like we weren’t there.

Okay… So we waited patiently. Finally one mother took her child off the swing and it became available. As Polina and I walked the five steps needed to get to this swing, another child got on. It was a child of the mother who was pushing a child on the first swing. She had two children.

At first I thought he got on by mistake.

“Could we use that swing?” I asked the mother politely.

“He wants to swing. He has been waiting too. Longer than you.”

“You have a child on the other swing.”

“Yes, I have two children.”

At other playgrounds I have been to, it is customary for siblings to share a swing (i.e. trade places) if there is a line so other children can have a turn. I’ve never seen a parent occupy the only two types of swings on a playground with both of her children when another child is waiting.

By that logic, if the Duggar family was at a playground, no kid would get on a swing.

I don’t know what got into me, but I told her she should share and she got angry at me. We both had strong personalities and the exchange didn’t look flattering in front of our children.

In short, we behaved like animals.

I was so angry I picked Polina up and carried her to another section of the park. She started howling.

I was so beside myself, I started telling my story to a person sitting next to me. I was so upset, I didn’t know if I was talking to a man or woman. The ego inside of me just had to connect with someone.

The woman, as it turns out, I was talking to said nothing.

“Don’t you have an opinion?  Do you have any children?” I asked when I was finished.

“Yes. It’s not my job to get involved with your affairs.”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m the crazy person talking to strangers that just want to be left alone.

I felt so isolated. I felt like crap.

After a few minutes, the swing we argued over became available. Polina and I walked over. I noticed two black people nearby who witnessed the whole incident staring at me.

“Are you looking at me?” I asked as I pushed Polina on the swing.

They both continued to look at me.

“Are you looking at me?” I asked as I walked over to them, emboldened by the adrenaline already running through my veins.

The woman continued to stare at me with wide eyes.

“Do you speak English?!” I asked standing in front of her.

“Are you talking to me?” she asked in perfect English.

“Yes. Stop looking at me.”

And I walked back to Polina on the swing.

She continued to look, said some things I couldn’t hear to her male friend, but I ignored them.

“It’s not worth it.” I said to myself.

I calmed down.

Why was I so upset?

At this point, I could ask, “If you have/had two kids, would you take up two swings if another child is waiting?” but frankly I don’t care. It wouldn’t matter to me, because I would never do it. If you have five kids, would you take up all five swings if someone was waiting? It just doesn’t make logical sense to me.

I’m not the one to preach here, obviously, given my own issues, but this woman taught her kids not to share and to take what you can get.

I taught my kid an absolutely horrible way to respond to conflict.

My meditation teacher taught me that some people operate on an animal level and through reincarnations become more civilized.

Today, this woman and I behaved like animals. We were after our own interests.

I told my husband what happened during dinner this evening. He approached the entire matter very calmly.

That’s what I need more of. Calmness. Indifference. Detachment.

I need it in this lifetime, because that’s the kind of place I live in: a veneer of niceness.

Many styles of writing portray the author in a favorable light. I took a chance here. Have you ever had a spat at the playground? How did you handle it?