Last night I had a meeting with Courtney, the editor of the Cooper-Young newspaper The Lamplighter. Since I've inherited Stacey's monthly "Midtown Mama" column (apparently whether I like it or not), I thought I should find out what it is that I'm supposed to do. Courtney was very nice and we had an enjoyable iced-chai-and-brownie-accompanied chat at Otherlands, which allowed me to escape the house alone on a weeknight for an entire hour. After four days of cleaning up puke and poop in the wake of the evil stomach virus that afflicted us over the weekend, it was almost like a vacation.
Now I just have to think of something to write. That seems to be a theme with me right now. I need to think about things to write in this blog, in my column, and lately, I'm thinking, in a book. Yes, I'm in a "when in the hell am I finally going to write a book" phase. It just seems silly to me that I'm not working on that. Summer is coming and I'll have ten weeks off of work--what better time to start a novel? Sure, I'll have the kids, but couldn't I squeeze in a couple hours a day, at least?
Actually, it's lack of ideas stopping me, not lack of time. Once I know what I want to write about, I know it will happen. I'm just having trouble thinking of a plot and characters--you know, the little things. But I'm thinking, hey, the last Harry Potter book is due out this summer, and then what? People are going to need something new. Why can't I fill that gap? I like to read all this young adult sci-fi/fantasy fic, right? So why can't I write it? Well, because apparently my brain does not want to think up any cool characters with funny names and fantastical habitats. Dammit!.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Girl Trouble
Yesterday when I picked the boys up from school, Calvin was no sooner inside the van than he said "Mom, when we get home, will you call someone for me?" But when I asked him who he needed me to call, he replied crytically "I'll show you when we get home."
It turned out he couldn't wait that long, though. He was the recipient of an anonymous note from a girl, and the note instructed him to call the number written there at a certain time. "I was thinking you could just call and when the person answers you can say 'who is this?'"
I found it thrilling that he would come to me so unabashadly with this request, since my greatest fear at his age was that my parents might suspect that I had any awareness of girl/boy-related things. But at the same time, I wondered if I might need to set him straight a little bit on whose job it was to call girls and ask "Do you like Calvin?"
Not that there was any question about that. There were several little hearts sprinkled throughout and decorating the outside of the note. Apparently all the girls heart Calvin, so there was some question as to the author of this particular missive. "Everyone thinks it's Jessica," he said with complete innocence, "and I think it is but I hope not. But it might not be." His little brother, who has been the recipient of some back seat love advice from Calvin about his unrequited affection for a girl in his class named Ariel, suggested teasingly "I bet it's Mallory. Someone lo-oves Calvin!" "No," he replied cooly, "that's not what her writing looks like."
After explaining that the girl in question had probably been instructed never to tell her name to a stranger on the phone, I suggested that he could call his best friend and have him call the mysterious number. "Yeah!" he said appreciatively, "I'll get John to call!" I drove on with visions of having to get a land-line phone again if Calvin was going to start the phone talking with all his little friends. I know all of those adolescent things have to be coming, and even now, at nine, he is showing signs of the crazy moodiness and misunderstood angst of pre-pubescence. It's not exactly a pleasant prospect, but I'm trying to be optimistic and make sure I respond in a way that assures he will keep coming to me with his girl troubles. At least until the notes start containing things that I'd really rather not know.
It turned out he couldn't wait that long, though. He was the recipient of an anonymous note from a girl, and the note instructed him to call the number written there at a certain time. "I was thinking you could just call and when the person answers you can say 'who is this?'"
I found it thrilling that he would come to me so unabashadly with this request, since my greatest fear at his age was that my parents might suspect that I had any awareness of girl/boy-related things. But at the same time, I wondered if I might need to set him straight a little bit on whose job it was to call girls and ask "Do you like Calvin?"
Not that there was any question about that. There were several little hearts sprinkled throughout and decorating the outside of the note. Apparently all the girls heart Calvin, so there was some question as to the author of this particular missive. "Everyone thinks it's Jessica," he said with complete innocence, "and I think it is but I hope not. But it might not be." His little brother, who has been the recipient of some back seat love advice from Calvin about his unrequited affection for a girl in his class named Ariel, suggested teasingly "I bet it's Mallory. Someone lo-oves Calvin!" "No," he replied cooly, "that's not what her writing looks like."
After explaining that the girl in question had probably been instructed never to tell her name to a stranger on the phone, I suggested that he could call his best friend and have him call the mysterious number. "Yeah!" he said appreciatively, "I'll get John to call!" I drove on with visions of having to get a land-line phone again if Calvin was going to start the phone talking with all his little friends. I know all of those adolescent things have to be coming, and even now, at nine, he is showing signs of the crazy moodiness and misunderstood angst of pre-pubescence. It's not exactly a pleasant prospect, but I'm trying to be optimistic and make sure I respond in a way that assures he will keep coming to me with his girl troubles. At least until the notes start containing things that I'd really rather not know.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Not How It's Going To Go Down
The topic of casual conversation in my classes today has been why thirty people in a classroom would line up against the wall and wait to be shot. News of the Virginia Tech shootings has had its usual effect on me, which is cold terror at the knowledge that I can not protect my children when they are out in the world, and that we still must send our kids out there knowing that anything could happen. I can only imagine what the family and friends of the victims are feeling right now, and they have my deepest sympathies.
I have to say, though, that the general feeling around here is that if someone is going to shoot me, it's going to have to be in the back because I will be running. At least two of my classes have come up with a plan in which we will bumrush our would-be shooter, using desks as shields, knocking him down with the outwardly-turned legs of the desks and then beating the shit out of him. Meanwhile, other students will be throwing our eleven-pound Literature books (literally, they weigh that much) at his head, while still others attempt to break the double-paned, non-opening windows with more desks. In another scenario, should we hear shooting in another part of the building, we will pile all the desks in front of the locked door, then stand against the cinderblock wall in which said door is situated, out of the line of sight or fire, and someone will hold a computer monitor ready to drop on his head should he get through our other defenses. While someone tries to break the double-paned, non-opening windows with a desk. Those windows are a big source of anxiety for my students. Alternatively, someone will lie on the floor in front of the door so that "when dude walks in, he'll trip over me and fall, and then ya'll can spring on him."
These speculations and plans are obviously just a way to make ourselves feel less vulnerable, but they do help. I plan to die at 100, in a hammock on the beach, and anyone who tries to take me sooner is going to get my knife in his eye, or an ink pen in the soft part of the throat, or at least a desk in the face.
I have to say, though, that the general feeling around here is that if someone is going to shoot me, it's going to have to be in the back because I will be running. At least two of my classes have come up with a plan in which we will bumrush our would-be shooter, using desks as shields, knocking him down with the outwardly-turned legs of the desks and then beating the shit out of him. Meanwhile, other students will be throwing our eleven-pound Literature books (literally, they weigh that much) at his head, while still others attempt to break the double-paned, non-opening windows with more desks. In another scenario, should we hear shooting in another part of the building, we will pile all the desks in front of the locked door, then stand against the cinderblock wall in which said door is situated, out of the line of sight or fire, and someone will hold a computer monitor ready to drop on his head should he get through our other defenses. While someone tries to break the double-paned, non-opening windows with a desk. Those windows are a big source of anxiety for my students. Alternatively, someone will lie on the floor in front of the door so that "when dude walks in, he'll trip over me and fall, and then ya'll can spring on him."
These speculations and plans are obviously just a way to make ourselves feel less vulnerable, but they do help. I plan to die at 100, in a hammock on the beach, and anyone who tries to take me sooner is going to get my knife in his eye, or an ink pen in the soft part of the throat, or at least a desk in the face.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater
I'm not a person who easily admits admiration. I loathe the current tendency to throw the word "hero" around, not only because overuse cheapens the word itself, but because I have a problem with the notion of putting people on a pedestal and worshiping them. I can't think of many people I would use the word "heroic" to describe, but if I had to have a hero, Kurt Vonnegut would be it. And now he's gone.
I was thinking just a few weeks ago about the fact that Mr. Vonnegut was getting on in years, and that when he inevitably died, it would be tragic. When I re-read Timequake recently, I was struck once again by the singularity of his genius. I felt comforted by his existence in the world. I feel desolate at his absence.
At the basis of my affinity to Vonnegut lie some common beliefs about life. Before I knew what the word humanist meant, I was reading Vonnegut and thinking "Yes! He knows!" As a teenager who found herself completely at odds with the moral and religious beliefs of almost everyone around me, it was amazing to find a kindred spirit in the novels that helped me to mentally escape. In many ways he was my mentor. When I read the opening of Cat's Cradle, where he says "Anyone unable to understand how a useful religion can be founded on lies will not understand this book either," I had to swallow my pride. I didn't really see how a religion founded on lies could be useful, but I wasn't going to be the one who couldn't understand a Vonnegut novel. That sentence helps me remember to be tolerant of beliefs that are baffling to me. (It also makes me wonder what Vonnegut thought of H.L Mencken. I guess I have some reading to do.) His ability not only to accept, but to find humor in the absurdities of life and the inanity of human nature give me hope, and the fact that millions of people are able to love and appreciate his work makes me feel downright optimistic.
Just now I was flipping through the stack of his books from our shelves, refreshing my memory. I picked up Fates Worse Than Death, which I haven't read completely, and I came across a mass he wrote in response to one by the Pope from the year 1570. He inverts lines from the Papal mass requesting eternal light to shine upon the souls of the dead, asking instead
I was thinking just a few weeks ago about the fact that Mr. Vonnegut was getting on in years, and that when he inevitably died, it would be tragic. When I re-read Timequake recently, I was struck once again by the singularity of his genius. I felt comforted by his existence in the world. I feel desolate at his absence.
At the basis of my affinity to Vonnegut lie some common beliefs about life. Before I knew what the word humanist meant, I was reading Vonnegut and thinking "Yes! He knows!" As a teenager who found herself completely at odds with the moral and religious beliefs of almost everyone around me, it was amazing to find a kindred spirit in the novels that helped me to mentally escape. In many ways he was my mentor. When I read the opening of Cat's Cradle, where he says "Anyone unable to understand how a useful religion can be founded on lies will not understand this book either," I had to swallow my pride. I didn't really see how a religion founded on lies could be useful, but I wasn't going to be the one who couldn't understand a Vonnegut novel. That sentence helps me remember to be tolerant of beliefs that are baffling to me. (It also makes me wonder what Vonnegut thought of H.L Mencken. I guess I have some reading to do.) His ability not only to accept, but to find humor in the absurdities of life and the inanity of human nature give me hope, and the fact that millions of people are able to love and appreciate his work makes me feel downright optimistic.
Just now I was flipping through the stack of his books from our shelves, refreshing my memory. I picked up Fates Worse Than Death, which I haven't read completely, and I came across a mass he wrote in response to one by the Pope from the year 1570. He inverts lines from the Papal mass requesting eternal light to shine upon the souls of the dead, asking instead
Rest eternal grant them, O cosmos,
And let not light perpetual
disturb their harmless sleep.
Rest eternal grant him, O cosmos, and let not light perpetual disturb his harmless sleep.
Toodle-oo
And let not light perpetual
disturb their harmless sleep.
I know that, like me, Mr. Vonnegut dismissed the idea of an afterlife. His published thoughts about what we are doing to the world prove that he knew there would be life after death, just not his life after his death. His words and ideas are what remain, though nothing is left of their brilliant source. I refuse to believe that, like his narrator in Galapagos, he wrote"with air on air," and that nothing will endure. That is the one thought I refuse to entertain. My copies of three of his books are checked out to students as I write this, and I take comfort in knowing that another generation of readers and thinkers will take an interest in his work upon hearing of his passing.
I know that at times he wished for death, and that once he tried and then did his best to be glad he had failed. I know he joked that his ideal death would involve crashing into the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro in an airplane, and that he lamented the slowness and indignity of old age. It pains me especially to know that he died of brain injuries sustained in a fall, not only because that is exactly the kind of age-related thing he dreaded, but because his life was in his mind and I hate to think that in the end he might have been robbed of its functioning properly. When I think of my own inevitable but hopefully far-distant end, I hope for two things: a lucid death, but also, and conversely, that my mind will play some fabulous trick in its final moments to create a comforting illusion, or at least a few moments of senseless beauty. So I hope that in the end, his big brain did him one last favor and created an illusion--maybe that he was on a plane, crashing painlessly and with fascination into Mt. Kilimanjaro, but I imagine he could come up with something better.
I know that at times he wished for death, and that once he tried and then did his best to be glad he had failed. I know he joked that his ideal death would involve crashing into the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro in an airplane, and that he lamented the slowness and indignity of old age. It pains me especially to know that he died of brain injuries sustained in a fall, not only because that is exactly the kind of age-related thing he dreaded, but because his life was in his mind and I hate to think that in the end he might have been robbed of its functioning properly. When I think of my own inevitable but hopefully far-distant end, I hope for two things: a lucid death, but also, and conversely, that my mind will play some fabulous trick in its final moments to create a comforting illusion, or at least a few moments of senseless beauty. So I hope that in the end, his big brain did him one last favor and created an illusion--maybe that he was on a plane, crashing painlessly and with fascination into Mt. Kilimanjaro, but I imagine he could come up with something better.
Rest eternal grant him, O cosmos, and let not light perpetual disturb his harmless sleep.
Toodle-oo
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Math Wiz
I don't remember having a lot of homework in third grade, but homework is definitely part of our daily routine now. Calvin has been bringing home daily homework since first grade, and Joshua has some homework now in kindergarten. I know everyone has an opinion about the merits of homework for children this young, but I have to say that theirs is usually not excessive, and it does seem to be getting Calvin into good study habits that will serve him well later on. It's usually not a big deal unless he has a project that we've known about for two months but put off until the night before. This week, his math homework has been about fractions, and he has needed me to help him.
In case you don't know me that well, let me fill you in on me and math. I hate it. I can't do it. It makes me feel stupid. I can tell you about the plot, setting, and characters of just about any book I've read in the past 25 years, but if you ask me what seven times five is, I'll have to think for a minute. And believe it or not, I want to like math. I think it would be so sexy to understand physics. I'm fascinated by things like String Theory, but a PBS documentary about it is as far as I'm likely to get. My Forest-Gump-like aptitude for math is frustrating to me because I feel like I'm a reasonably intelligent person, and I should be able to do it, but I can't rationalize my way to grasping the skills any more than I can think myself into being able to sing well or paint beautifully. There's just always this feeling that if I tried, and if I had the right teacher, I could do it.
I spent my ninth grade pre-algebra class walking the halls looking for boys my best friend had a crush on. We'd ask for a bathroom pass five minutes into class, and come back for our stuff right before the bell. We had one of those teachers that kids just run right over, and somehow I passed the class for the year. Not so "lucky" in Algebra I, I had the baseball coach, who spent a lot of the class time telling us how AIDS was a big conspiracy, and we could really get it just from being in the same room with someone who had it. Between his ignorance, the big UT-orange bulletin board beside my desk (I loathed the color), and the hated baseball players who hung out in the room, there wasn't a whole lot of math learnin' happening for me. I failed the second semester. Being myself, I went ahead and registered for Geometry the next year. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right? And surprisingly, I rocked the house. Finally, here was math that made sense! It wasn't really about numbers, but about the relationships and logic of angles and shapes. I could do a proof up one side and down the other, and even though my teacher was another coach, he was excellent. Sometime before Christmas, though, the jig was up. I was called into guidance and questioned as to why and how I was taking Geometry when I had not passed Algebra. "You tell me," I replied snarkily, "isn't that your job to keep up with?" When told I would have to repeat the second semester of Algebra I, I flatly refused, pointing out that I had straight A's in Geometry for the semester. Flummoxed by my attitude, especially since I stayed pretty well under the radar and had never been in any trouble before, the counselor made one of those statements to me that helped shape me into the very angry young woman I was becoming: "You're such a pretty girl. I can't believe you're acting like this." Wrong. Answer.
I ended up agreeing that I would repeat the semester in question, but only if she put me with my Geometry teacher. For some reason, she did it, with the result that I now had not one but two math classes a day. I tried very hard and made all A's for the three grading periods left. I felt tremendously proud of myself, and started to think that maybe I was not as bad at math as I had thought. Sadly, I chose not to take Algebra II my senior year. It wasn't required, and I wasn't in the habit of taking gratuitous math classes. Fortunately I went to a small liberal arts college where B.A. students did not technically have to take a math class. Then foolishly, in my senior year, I decided that I would sack up, stop hiding from math, and take a class. The lowest math offered at my "Kudzu League" school was Finite Math. This means ten-page functions that no one does by hand any more. And it was only offered at 8:00 am. I hadn't registered for an eight o'clock class since my first semester freshman year, for reasons I'm sure I need not explain. Here's what I remember about that class: my professor coming in and systematically setting out stacks of books and materials on his table at the front of the room. He wore his wedding ring on his pinky and I always wondered why, since he wasn't especially overweight. He wrote on the board a lot. I did not understand a blessed thing. I asked a friend who was an engineering major at another school to tutor me, and she tried. This mostly resulted in me crying and wondering why I was so stupid. I withdrew failing from the class and took a summer biology class at then-Memphis State in its place. It made me an August graduate. Math had beaten me, and I still hold a grudge.
So when Calvin came to me with his math sheet, frustrated that he wasn't getting it, I felt his pain but I also felt mine. Images of my ten-year-old self sitting at the kitchen table crying while my dad tried to hammer an understanding of long division into my head surfaced with all the queasy frustration I felt then. I became determined that it would not be that way for him. I would show no fear. I would let no hint of frustration or derision enter my voice or demeanor. I talked about breaking chocolate bars into pieces and drew pictures to illustrate how 4/10 was the same as 2/5. When I had exhausted my arsenal of fraction analogies, I looked at him hopefully and asked "Do you get it?' He looked away for a second, then smiled and nodded. I watched him stare at a spot on the wall for a minute, going back over what I'd said to make sure he still understood it, then he picked up the sheet and ran off to finish it.
I felt great.
In case you don't know me that well, let me fill you in on me and math. I hate it. I can't do it. It makes me feel stupid. I can tell you about the plot, setting, and characters of just about any book I've read in the past 25 years, but if you ask me what seven times five is, I'll have to think for a minute. And believe it or not, I want to like math. I think it would be so sexy to understand physics. I'm fascinated by things like String Theory, but a PBS documentary about it is as far as I'm likely to get. My Forest-Gump-like aptitude for math is frustrating to me because I feel like I'm a reasonably intelligent person, and I should be able to do it, but I can't rationalize my way to grasping the skills any more than I can think myself into being able to sing well or paint beautifully. There's just always this feeling that if I tried, and if I had the right teacher, I could do it.
I spent my ninth grade pre-algebra class walking the halls looking for boys my best friend had a crush on. We'd ask for a bathroom pass five minutes into class, and come back for our stuff right before the bell. We had one of those teachers that kids just run right over, and somehow I passed the class for the year. Not so "lucky" in Algebra I, I had the baseball coach, who spent a lot of the class time telling us how AIDS was a big conspiracy, and we could really get it just from being in the same room with someone who had it. Between his ignorance, the big UT-orange bulletin board beside my desk (I loathed the color), and the hated baseball players who hung out in the room, there wasn't a whole lot of math learnin' happening for me. I failed the second semester. Being myself, I went ahead and registered for Geometry the next year. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right? And surprisingly, I rocked the house. Finally, here was math that made sense! It wasn't really about numbers, but about the relationships and logic of angles and shapes. I could do a proof up one side and down the other, and even though my teacher was another coach, he was excellent. Sometime before Christmas, though, the jig was up. I was called into guidance and questioned as to why and how I was taking Geometry when I had not passed Algebra. "You tell me," I replied snarkily, "isn't that your job to keep up with?" When told I would have to repeat the second semester of Algebra I, I flatly refused, pointing out that I had straight A's in Geometry for the semester. Flummoxed by my attitude, especially since I stayed pretty well under the radar and had never been in any trouble before, the counselor made one of those statements to me that helped shape me into the very angry young woman I was becoming: "You're such a pretty girl. I can't believe you're acting like this." Wrong. Answer.
I ended up agreeing that I would repeat the semester in question, but only if she put me with my Geometry teacher. For some reason, she did it, with the result that I now had not one but two math classes a day. I tried very hard and made all A's for the three grading periods left. I felt tremendously proud of myself, and started to think that maybe I was not as bad at math as I had thought. Sadly, I chose not to take Algebra II my senior year. It wasn't required, and I wasn't in the habit of taking gratuitous math classes. Fortunately I went to a small liberal arts college where B.A. students did not technically have to take a math class. Then foolishly, in my senior year, I decided that I would sack up, stop hiding from math, and take a class. The lowest math offered at my "Kudzu League" school was Finite Math. This means ten-page functions that no one does by hand any more. And it was only offered at 8:00 am. I hadn't registered for an eight o'clock class since my first semester freshman year, for reasons I'm sure I need not explain. Here's what I remember about that class: my professor coming in and systematically setting out stacks of books and materials on his table at the front of the room. He wore his wedding ring on his pinky and I always wondered why, since he wasn't especially overweight. He wrote on the board a lot. I did not understand a blessed thing. I asked a friend who was an engineering major at another school to tutor me, and she tried. This mostly resulted in me crying and wondering why I was so stupid. I withdrew failing from the class and took a summer biology class at then-Memphis State in its place. It made me an August graduate. Math had beaten me, and I still hold a grudge.
So when Calvin came to me with his math sheet, frustrated that he wasn't getting it, I felt his pain but I also felt mine. Images of my ten-year-old self sitting at the kitchen table crying while my dad tried to hammer an understanding of long division into my head surfaced with all the queasy frustration I felt then. I became determined that it would not be that way for him. I would show no fear. I would let no hint of frustration or derision enter my voice or demeanor. I talked about breaking chocolate bars into pieces and drew pictures to illustrate how 4/10 was the same as 2/5. When I had exhausted my arsenal of fraction analogies, I looked at him hopefully and asked "Do you get it?' He looked away for a second, then smiled and nodded. I watched him stare at a spot on the wall for a minute, going back over what I'd said to make sure he still understood it, then he picked up the sheet and ran off to finish it.
I felt great.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
How Can This Be?
My students have just informed me that not only have most of them never played Trivial Pursuit, they've never even HEARD of it!
I'm really old.
I'm really old.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Ok, I'll talk
Everyone in our circle of friends seems to be blogging about why Memphis is still a good place to live even though it's not. Or even though three of us have been victims of crimes in the past month, to be more specific. It seems I have been cast in the role of hater in this little love-for-our-home fest, so I thought I would talk about why I want to leave.
Yes, Memphis has been my home for all but about two years of my life. Yes, my parents and friends are here, and leaving them would be sad and difficult. But it's not like moving a few hours away means we'd never see or hear from any of you again. I know that we would miss the weekend hangouts and watching our kids grow up together, and yes, I'm tearing up as I write that. Still, I have to believe that in another city we could not replace, but add to our circle of friends, and make a life for ourselves just like we've done here. Just with less crime and prettier scenery.
The crime is bad but it's not the main problem for me. Ok yes, yesterday the librarian here at school mentioned that she had seen my address on some paperwork and realized we are neighbors on the same block. In the course of the conversation, she told me that last year she came home and surprised a robber, who kept her in the house for two hours, lying face-down on the floor, while he went through her stuff and took what he could find. When I said I had heard about that from another neighbor but thought it happened in a nearby cove, she replied in a low voice "No, that was the rape. That was terrible." And we live in a pretty good area, in what we jokingly call the servants' quarters of one of the city's oldest and most expensive neighborhoods. Why don't the crack heads steal from the rich people in the million-dollar mansions and leave us alone? I have to ask if I'm just biding my time until I come home with my kids one day to see the door kicked in, or how I will help them recover from the fear after we all get carjacked. We are just, today, two full months into the year and there have been 23 murders in Memphis so far. The big story in the local news is that the bloated monopoly of a utility has been giving certain political figures a free ride on utility bills registering in the several thousands, for who knows how long, under the guise of a program designed to protect the elderly and disabled poor from unexpected cut-offs. The separate-but-not-equal dual school systems are still zoning for overcrowded schools along racial lines and still trying to say they are not doing any such thing. I won't even get into the disgustingly inept and corrupt city council, mayor, et al. It's too depressing.
I feel like it's time for a serious risk/benefits analysis. When I spend time thinking about whether it is better to try to talk an armed attacker into letting me live, or saying nothing so I won't anger him, I think it's time to go. I realize there is no utopia, and that every community has crime and problems. I just can't believe there isn't a better place than this in which to raise my family. I can't help but think what a big world this is, and what a short life, and that I could live someplace beautiful, but instead I live here. Consistency is always easiest, but I'm not afraid to leave my comfort zone. And even though I do love and thrive on change, I'm not advocating change for its own sake. There are just so many reasons to leave, and just too few to stay.
Yes, Memphis has been my home for all but about two years of my life. Yes, my parents and friends are here, and leaving them would be sad and difficult. But it's not like moving a few hours away means we'd never see or hear from any of you again. I know that we would miss the weekend hangouts and watching our kids grow up together, and yes, I'm tearing up as I write that. Still, I have to believe that in another city we could not replace, but add to our circle of friends, and make a life for ourselves just like we've done here. Just with less crime and prettier scenery.
The crime is bad but it's not the main problem for me. Ok yes, yesterday the librarian here at school mentioned that she had seen my address on some paperwork and realized we are neighbors on the same block. In the course of the conversation, she told me that last year she came home and surprised a robber, who kept her in the house for two hours, lying face-down on the floor, while he went through her stuff and took what he could find. When I said I had heard about that from another neighbor but thought it happened in a nearby cove, she replied in a low voice "No, that was the rape. That was terrible." And we live in a pretty good area, in what we jokingly call the servants' quarters of one of the city's oldest and most expensive neighborhoods. Why don't the crack heads steal from the rich people in the million-dollar mansions and leave us alone? I have to ask if I'm just biding my time until I come home with my kids one day to see the door kicked in, or how I will help them recover from the fear after we all get carjacked. We are just, today, two full months into the year and there have been 23 murders in Memphis so far. The big story in the local news is that the bloated monopoly of a utility has been giving certain political figures a free ride on utility bills registering in the several thousands, for who knows how long, under the guise of a program designed to protect the elderly and disabled poor from unexpected cut-offs. The separate-but-not-equal dual school systems are still zoning for overcrowded schools along racial lines and still trying to say they are not doing any such thing. I won't even get into the disgustingly inept and corrupt city council, mayor, et al. It's too depressing.
I feel like it's time for a serious risk/benefits analysis. When I spend time thinking about whether it is better to try to talk an armed attacker into letting me live, or saying nothing so I won't anger him, I think it's time to go. I realize there is no utopia, and that every community has crime and problems. I just can't believe there isn't a better place than this in which to raise my family. I can't help but think what a big world this is, and what a short life, and that I could live someplace beautiful, but instead I live here. Consistency is always easiest, but I'm not afraid to leave my comfort zone. And even though I do love and thrive on change, I'm not advocating change for its own sake. There are just so many reasons to leave, and just too few to stay.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Hey look, I have a blog!
I know, I know, I never post, and yet it's boring for me to talk about how I never post. So I won't.
What has been going on with me? (I always want to steal Stacey's "Updatey Like" phrase.) Maybe a list is in order:
1. I'm teaching Othello right now. Yesterday we had a pep rally in the middle of the day (because that's how we roll, apparently), so I was ready to blow off class for the day, and one of my weakest students honest-to-goodness begged me to let them read the play. I am not lying. They got on the board and assigned parts and read them reader's theater style the way we have been. It was great. They hate Iago with a fiery passion.
2. Genevieve is crawling. And by crawling, I mean she scoots around on her butt in a semi-upright position with her left leg held static in the lotus position while she uses her right foot kick-n-go style to propel her into every corner of the house. It is so cute it makes my heart hurt.
3. Joshua read me half a book the other day. Ah Joshua, my middlest middle child. About 90% of my maternal guilt centers on Joshua. Why is that? I had a realization yesterday that I have less physical contact with him than any of the other three, even Calvin (who is nine but still will try to fit his whole self into my lap given the slightest opportunity). So I am making a conscious effort to hug and kiss on him more. He just doesn't seek it out like his siblings, I think, so I will have to do it.
4. I have lost seven pounds. (!) I feel like I'm doing pretty well with staying motivated. I even find myself enjoying exercising. I tend to fall off a bit on the eating on the weekends, but I think it's working for me to be good during the week, then indulge a bit on the weekends. As long as I keep losing about two pounds a week, I'm happy. I've found a lot of helpful resources on sparkpeople.com, if anyone is interested. It's free.
5. I'm reading Fury by Salman Rushdie right now. Since I am hosting book club this month, I just chose this book since I was already reading it. Quite a departure from The Secret Life of Bees, but people said they would read it, so we'll see. It was a little slow starting, but now I'm really enjoying it.
6. I survived Super Bowl Sunday with little trauma, even though we went to a small Super Bowl party. And I didn't even drink.
What has been going on with me? (I always want to steal Stacey's "Updatey Like" phrase.) Maybe a list is in order:
1. I'm teaching Othello right now. Yesterday we had a pep rally in the middle of the day (because that's how we roll, apparently), so I was ready to blow off class for the day, and one of my weakest students honest-to-goodness begged me to let them read the play. I am not lying. They got on the board and assigned parts and read them reader's theater style the way we have been. It was great. They hate Iago with a fiery passion.
2. Genevieve is crawling. And by crawling, I mean she scoots around on her butt in a semi-upright position with her left leg held static in the lotus position while she uses her right foot kick-n-go style to propel her into every corner of the house. It is so cute it makes my heart hurt.
3. Joshua read me half a book the other day. Ah Joshua, my middlest middle child. About 90% of my maternal guilt centers on Joshua. Why is that? I had a realization yesterday that I have less physical contact with him than any of the other three, even Calvin (who is nine but still will try to fit his whole self into my lap given the slightest opportunity). So I am making a conscious effort to hug and kiss on him more. He just doesn't seek it out like his siblings, I think, so I will have to do it.
4. I have lost seven pounds. (!) I feel like I'm doing pretty well with staying motivated. I even find myself enjoying exercising. I tend to fall off a bit on the eating on the weekends, but I think it's working for me to be good during the week, then indulge a bit on the weekends. As long as I keep losing about two pounds a week, I'm happy. I've found a lot of helpful resources on sparkpeople.com, if anyone is interested. It's free.
5. I'm reading Fury by Salman Rushdie right now. Since I am hosting book club this month, I just chose this book since I was already reading it. Quite a departure from The Secret Life of Bees, but people said they would read it, so we'll see. It was a little slow starting, but now I'm really enjoying it.
6. I survived Super Bowl Sunday with little trauma, even though we went to a small Super Bowl party. And I didn't even drink.
Friday, January 26, 2007
A Girl Like Me
I just saw Kiri Davis's eight-minute documentary, and I am stunned. The moment when the little girl is asked to pick the doll that looks like her is one of the most heartbreaking things I think I have ever seen. I showed the film to several of my students, and they were genuinely surprised. I wonder if region and community demographics make a difference.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Except for the bit with the wire hangers
There are days when I stay home with all four kids and think about how lucky I am to have a job that lets me be home when they're home. And then there are days when I am there with all four kids and I think how unlucky they are to have a Mom who is home when they are. Usually this line of thinking is precipitated by the waking of one baby by her three older siblings. Such was the unfortunate sequence of events this past Saturday, which started with my silly need for a shower and ended with me losing it.
As a rule, my children have not been good sleepers. I blame their father, who is a terrible sleeper. (I, on the other hand, fall asleep the minute my head hits the pillow and always have. It's the least disturbing way in which I am like my mother.) He likes to blame me because I'm too lazy and soft-hearted to "sleep train" my children and prefer to use the magical boob for this and most other tasks involving the care of infants. Anyway, Genevieve is not terrible, but she is partial to the super-refreshing ten-minute nap, so once I get her to sleep I can be a little aggressive about trying to keep her that way. On days when we're home, the main two things I try to do while she's asleep are eat and shower. The main two things my three older children like to do while she's asleep are yell and hurl their bodies off anything they can climb, including each other, in order to land on the wood floors with the loudest possible thud.
On the day in question, I got the baby to sleep in my room, shut the door, and then hissed my customary command of "Ok, be quiet. DO NOT wake the baby!" followed by the variant "I'm going to get in the shower. PLEASE be quiet and DO NOT wake the baby!" And then I went into the bathroom and shut the door, full of the certaintly that they would, in fact, wake the baby. Not long after stepping under the water, I heard sounds of bodies hitting the floor and Somerset screaming her shrill four-year-old scream. "Somerset!" I called her into the bathroom. She cracked the door and showed her impish little face. "Stop all that yelling. Y'all need to be quiet, you're going to wake the baby!" She grinned and nodded in a way that assured me she was going right out to resume the yelling and climbing and thudding. Sure enough, the noise not only resumed, but increased about thirty seconds after she shut the door. Take me seriously when I say that the only thing that kept me from bursting from the bathroom naked and dripping to snatch up children amid a barrage of profanities was the absolute certainty that my nine-year-old son would one day sit on a therapist's couch and explain how his fear and loathing of the female body could be traced to that very incident. I washed and rinsed as quickly as possible while wondering aloud what the hell they can they be DOING out there, until said nine year old came to the door to say meekly "Uh, mom..."
So then I pretty much enacted the scene of dread that I had imagined Calvin relating to his therapist, except that I did manage to grab a towel and stay mostly covered with it while ranting uselessly about how all I wanted to do was take a shower, and didn't I tell them not to wake the baby up, and what in god's name could they have possibly been doing?! "We were just playing" Calvin replied meekly before bursting into tears. And I wish I could say that at that point, the sight of my sensitive son crying pitifully under my wrath was enough to make me get a grip, but it wasn't. I continued to yell for a few more minutes about how I did not know what was wrong with them that they couldn't even do a simple thing like be quiet for ten minutes, and so on. My mind was telling me to shut up, but my mouth kept yelling. Finally I brought it to a close by demanding that they clean up their rooms before storming off to cuddle and coo at the baby and feel guilty but helpless.
After a few minutes, I called a halt to the "cleaning" and told them all to put their shoes on for the previously planned outing to grandma's. And in the car, I apologized for yelling and did a fair job of restraining myself from adding phrases starting with "but." I guess I just need to resign myself to the fact that this baby is never going to get a decent nap while her siblings are around, and I'm never going to get a shower.
As a rule, my children have not been good sleepers. I blame their father, who is a terrible sleeper. (I, on the other hand, fall asleep the minute my head hits the pillow and always have. It's the least disturbing way in which I am like my mother.) He likes to blame me because I'm too lazy and soft-hearted to "sleep train" my children and prefer to use the magical boob for this and most other tasks involving the care of infants. Anyway, Genevieve is not terrible, but she is partial to the super-refreshing ten-minute nap, so once I get her to sleep I can be a little aggressive about trying to keep her that way. On days when we're home, the main two things I try to do while she's asleep are eat and shower. The main two things my three older children like to do while she's asleep are yell and hurl their bodies off anything they can climb, including each other, in order to land on the wood floors with the loudest possible thud.
On the day in question, I got the baby to sleep in my room, shut the door, and then hissed my customary command of "Ok, be quiet. DO NOT wake the baby!" followed by the variant "I'm going to get in the shower. PLEASE be quiet and DO NOT wake the baby!" And then I went into the bathroom and shut the door, full of the certaintly that they would, in fact, wake the baby. Not long after stepping under the water, I heard sounds of bodies hitting the floor and Somerset screaming her shrill four-year-old scream. "Somerset!" I called her into the bathroom. She cracked the door and showed her impish little face. "Stop all that yelling. Y'all need to be quiet, you're going to wake the baby!" She grinned and nodded in a way that assured me she was going right out to resume the yelling and climbing and thudding. Sure enough, the noise not only resumed, but increased about thirty seconds after she shut the door. Take me seriously when I say that the only thing that kept me from bursting from the bathroom naked and dripping to snatch up children amid a barrage of profanities was the absolute certainty that my nine-year-old son would one day sit on a therapist's couch and explain how his fear and loathing of the female body could be traced to that very incident. I washed and rinsed as quickly as possible while wondering aloud what the hell they can they be DOING out there, until said nine year old came to the door to say meekly "Uh, mom..."
So then I pretty much enacted the scene of dread that I had imagined Calvin relating to his therapist, except that I did manage to grab a towel and stay mostly covered with it while ranting uselessly about how all I wanted to do was take a shower, and didn't I tell them not to wake the baby up, and what in god's name could they have possibly been doing?! "We were just playing" Calvin replied meekly before bursting into tears. And I wish I could say that at that point, the sight of my sensitive son crying pitifully under my wrath was enough to make me get a grip, but it wasn't. I continued to yell for a few more minutes about how I did not know what was wrong with them that they couldn't even do a simple thing like be quiet for ten minutes, and so on. My mind was telling me to shut up, but my mouth kept yelling. Finally I brought it to a close by demanding that they clean up their rooms before storming off to cuddle and coo at the baby and feel guilty but helpless.
After a few minutes, I called a halt to the "cleaning" and told them all to put their shoes on for the previously planned outing to grandma's. And in the car, I apologized for yelling and did a fair job of restraining myself from adding phrases starting with "but." I guess I just need to resign myself to the fact that this baby is never going to get a decent nap while her siblings are around, and I'm never going to get a shower.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Happy You Near
Clearly I did not find time during the holidays to post much. We had a beautiful break from school and work, spent lots of time with family and friends, and generally made what I consider to be good use of the holiday season.
We also celibrated Calvin's 9th birthday on January 5. It's hard to believe the crying, uneasy little bundle who made me into a mother is now this smart, funny kid with some of his permanent teeth already. Nine is half way to eighteen...think about that!
Genevieve seemed to grow up so much over the break. I loved every minute of being able to just hang out with her and watch her doing all this new stuff. She is about to crawl any minute now, and she loves to laugh at any little thing. Watching me take a drink of water from a cup is like the circus as far as she's concerned. It strikes me at those moments how easy it is to make her completely happy, and how short the time is when I have the power to do that for her so absolutely.
Now that the new year is here and we're diving back into the normal routine, I'm trying to get a grip on some things that have gone too long without being dealt with. I know that weight and finances are not new or interesting issues for me to be grappling with at this time, so I'll spare you, but it all really comes down to my astonishing ability to avoid thinking about almost anything that I don't want to deal with, and how I have to stop that, so that's my goal (ok resolution, whatever) for now.
We also celibrated Calvin's 9th birthday on January 5. It's hard to believe the crying, uneasy little bundle who made me into a mother is now this smart, funny kid with some of his permanent teeth already. Nine is half way to eighteen...think about that!
Genevieve seemed to grow up so much over the break. I loved every minute of being able to just hang out with her and watch her doing all this new stuff. She is about to crawl any minute now, and she loves to laugh at any little thing. Watching me take a drink of water from a cup is like the circus as far as she's concerned. It strikes me at those moments how easy it is to make her completely happy, and how short the time is when I have the power to do that for her so absolutely.
Now that the new year is here and we're diving back into the normal routine, I'm trying to get a grip on some things that have gone too long without being dealt with. I know that weight and finances are not new or interesting issues for me to be grappling with at this time, so I'll spare you, but it all really comes down to my astonishing ability to avoid thinking about almost anything that I don't want to deal with, and how I have to stop that, so that's my goal (ok resolution, whatever) for now.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Sassy Molassy and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
If I had read my horoscope for today, I bet it would have said "Stay home! Better yet, stay in bed!"
It was not really that bad, in between major catastrophes. The kids and I slept until 9:00 or so, got up and did the normal morning things, and Genevieve went down for her usual morning nap. About twenty minutes later Genevieve woke up from her morning nap and refused to go back to sleep. Ok, not a big deal, I just wouldn't be able to set her down until she went to sleep again. Somewhere around 12:30, I gave up on believing that she would ever do such a thing, and decided to yield to the older kids' requests to be taken to Bookstar to use the $20 gift cards we got them for Christmas. I somehow managed to put on clothes, wash my face, put on a little makeup, and do something with my Roseanna-Roseanna-Danna 'do with one hand while holding a baby in the other, and we all piled into the van.
As soon as we pulled out of the driveway, I remembered I was about out of gas. I usually try to get gas when the kids aren't with me, but since we're all still on winter break, they're always with me. Kroger is right there in the shopping plaza with the book store, so I foolishly thought I could fill up there without too much of an ordeal. As I turned into the parking lot by the gas island, I must have turned a second too early, because I went over the curb. I pulled up to the pump thinking everything was ok, and started the intricate process of scanning my Kroger card for the loyalty discount, pushing the correct buttons, scanning my debit card, and being told to "see cashier." Dammit. I tried again, hitting "credit" instead of "debit" since this sometimes helps when the computer is being irksome. No such luck this time. I went to the cashier, who told me to just hit the "pay cashier" button, which I did. So I had just started pumping my gas when the teenage boy next to me informed me that my right front tire was flat. Shit! I thought for a minute, realized I didn't even know where my spare was stored and that we never renewed our AAA membership, and reached into my purse for my phone to call Big Daddy at work. No phone. Are you f*#&ing kidding me? It was humiliating enough to have to call my man to rescue me from a stupid flat tire, but now I had to borrow the cashier's phone to do it and then explain that I had somehow left my phone at home.
I called him and explained the situation, feeling rushed and embarrassed on the cashier's personal cell phone, and he said he would either leave work and come himself or see if he could get my dad, who works nights and would be home and awake at that time of day, and help would be there soon. Right after this, the cashier told me my debit card was declined, even though I thought there should be plenty of money in the account. "Well," I sighed, "I'm not going anywhere. I'll have to pay you when he gets here." I flashed back to a moment earlier this morning, when I found my only other valid card in the dryer, told myself I should go put it in my purse, and then set it on the windowsill next to the dryer. Beautiful. At least she was nice about it.
At this point, Genevieve was screaming because she had seen me through the window and hates to be in the car when it's not moving. I put her, still in her car seat carrier, on the little seatless stroller cart deally and pushed her back and forth as I got out the jack and tire iron and tried to figure out where the spare might be. Once I established that it was not under any kind of panel in the way back of the van, I remembered the owner's manual in its special black zippered case in its own little holder under the front passenger seat. Sure enough, it revealed the bizarre location of the spare tire and the steps that would be necessary to remove it. At least that was something. There was a time, in college, when I went through so many tires on my little Chrysler LeBaron that I was once able to change a tire during the 15 minute break in the middle of an hour-and-a-half Tuesday/Thursday class and make it back in time to impress my classmates with my blackened palms. I found it humiliating not to be able to handle this situation myself. I can guarantee that if I hadn't had the kids with me, I would have at least tried.
About the time I figured out where the spare was and how to get it, my brother-in-law came walking up. "Are you my knight in shining armor?" I asked. He expressed disgust that "no sorry son of a bitch" had offered to help me, then got to work jacking up the van. I continued to feel worthless, but tried to focus on corralling the kids and restraining myself from saying "I'm sorry" every three seconds. And since my brother-in-law is anti-cell phone, I couldn't borrow his phone to call B.D. and tell him to transfer money into checking, so he had to buy my gas on top of rescuing my sorry non-tire-changing butt. I know he was glad to do it, but it's the principal of the thing. To say that I don't like to ask for help is an understatement, but I guess sometimes even I just have no choice. So thanks Uncle T. for rescuing us, and for thinking to put air in the spare tire once it was on, which I would never have thought of. I owe you one.
That crisis resolved, I went ahead and took the kids to the book store since we were already right there in the plaza. They picked out books and I got one for myself with a gift card I received from one of my students, and then we made our way home carefully but uneventfully.
The second bad thing that happened was later in the afternoon. After another brief yet unrefreshing twenty-minute nap, Genevieve was in her usual perch on my back in the mei tai while I unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher and got a chicken ready to roast in the oven for dinner when I heard a huge crash in the livingroom, complete with the distinctive sound of breaking glass. I ran (the three steps) into the livingroom to see Somerset standing horrified in the middle of the room with her hands up by her head. "What happened??" I asked, scanning the room for the damage. "I don't know!" she cried. Then I saw what had happened. Attempting to hide in one of her usual spots during a game of hide-and-seek with her brothers, she had moved one of the doors of the corner T.V. cabinet, dislodging the lighted Christmas garland that was draped across it, which took a large-ish snow globe down with it when it fell. The glass and ceramic snow globe I bought for Calvin's first Christmas. It had shattered on the floor beneath the small table where the kids sit to eat and play. Water, glitter, fake snow, and tiny shards of glass were everywhere. At least I didn't have to worry about the baby getting into it. Then as I set about cleaning up the mess, I realized the small basket of baby toys at the end of the couch was in the path of destruction. Sure enough, when I looked into it I saw a piece of glass right there on top. Big Daddy arrived home from work as I was sweeping, so he helped me clean it all up while I took the baby toys into the kitchen and went over each toy looking for glass. The basket must have been just at the edge of the spray when the globe burst, because my careful inspection only turned up two slightly-water-splashed toys and one more piece of glass at the bottom of the basket. I shook the basket out, checked it again, and re-checked each toy as I put it back in, then went over the floor again with the rag mop to pick up any small glass splinters. I think we got it all. I hope so.
After that, B.D. volunteered to take the older kids with him to buy some much-needed jeans with some of his Christmas money, leaving Genevieve and me in relative peace. I was nearly ready for a stiff drink, but settled for half a roasted chicken and three episodes of The Sopranos on DVD.
It was not really that bad, in between major catastrophes. The kids and I slept until 9:00 or so, got up and did the normal morning things, and Genevieve went down for her usual morning nap. About twenty minutes later Genevieve woke up from her morning nap and refused to go back to sleep. Ok, not a big deal, I just wouldn't be able to set her down until she went to sleep again. Somewhere around 12:30, I gave up on believing that she would ever do such a thing, and decided to yield to the older kids' requests to be taken to Bookstar to use the $20 gift cards we got them for Christmas. I somehow managed to put on clothes, wash my face, put on a little makeup, and do something with my Roseanna-Roseanna-Danna 'do with one hand while holding a baby in the other, and we all piled into the van.
As soon as we pulled out of the driveway, I remembered I was about out of gas. I usually try to get gas when the kids aren't with me, but since we're all still on winter break, they're always with me. Kroger is right there in the shopping plaza with the book store, so I foolishly thought I could fill up there without too much of an ordeal. As I turned into the parking lot by the gas island, I must have turned a second too early, because I went over the curb. I pulled up to the pump thinking everything was ok, and started the intricate process of scanning my Kroger card for the loyalty discount, pushing the correct buttons, scanning my debit card, and being told to "see cashier." Dammit. I tried again, hitting "credit" instead of "debit" since this sometimes helps when the computer is being irksome. No such luck this time. I went to the cashier, who told me to just hit the "pay cashier" button, which I did. So I had just started pumping my gas when the teenage boy next to me informed me that my right front tire was flat. Shit! I thought for a minute, realized I didn't even know where my spare was stored and that we never renewed our AAA membership, and reached into my purse for my phone to call Big Daddy at work. No phone. Are you f*#&ing kidding me? It was humiliating enough to have to call my man to rescue me from a stupid flat tire, but now I had to borrow the cashier's phone to do it and then explain that I had somehow left my phone at home.
I called him and explained the situation, feeling rushed and embarrassed on the cashier's personal cell phone, and he said he would either leave work and come himself or see if he could get my dad, who works nights and would be home and awake at that time of day, and help would be there soon. Right after this, the cashier told me my debit card was declined, even though I thought there should be plenty of money in the account. "Well," I sighed, "I'm not going anywhere. I'll have to pay you when he gets here." I flashed back to a moment earlier this morning, when I found my only other valid card in the dryer, told myself I should go put it in my purse, and then set it on the windowsill next to the dryer. Beautiful. At least she was nice about it.
At this point, Genevieve was screaming because she had seen me through the window and hates to be in the car when it's not moving. I put her, still in her car seat carrier, on the little seatless stroller cart deally and pushed her back and forth as I got out the jack and tire iron and tried to figure out where the spare might be. Once I established that it was not under any kind of panel in the way back of the van, I remembered the owner's manual in its special black zippered case in its own little holder under the front passenger seat. Sure enough, it revealed the bizarre location of the spare tire and the steps that would be necessary to remove it. At least that was something. There was a time, in college, when I went through so many tires on my little Chrysler LeBaron that I was once able to change a tire during the 15 minute break in the middle of an hour-and-a-half Tuesday/Thursday class and make it back in time to impress my classmates with my blackened palms. I found it humiliating not to be able to handle this situation myself. I can guarantee that if I hadn't had the kids with me, I would have at least tried.
About the time I figured out where the spare was and how to get it, my brother-in-law came walking up. "Are you my knight in shining armor?" I asked. He expressed disgust that "no sorry son of a bitch" had offered to help me, then got to work jacking up the van. I continued to feel worthless, but tried to focus on corralling the kids and restraining myself from saying "I'm sorry" every three seconds. And since my brother-in-law is anti-cell phone, I couldn't borrow his phone to call B.D. and tell him to transfer money into checking, so he had to buy my gas on top of rescuing my sorry non-tire-changing butt. I know he was glad to do it, but it's the principal of the thing. To say that I don't like to ask for help is an understatement, but I guess sometimes even I just have no choice. So thanks Uncle T. for rescuing us, and for thinking to put air in the spare tire once it was on, which I would never have thought of. I owe you one.
That crisis resolved, I went ahead and took the kids to the book store since we were already right there in the plaza. They picked out books and I got one for myself with a gift card I received from one of my students, and then we made our way home carefully but uneventfully.
The second bad thing that happened was later in the afternoon. After another brief yet unrefreshing twenty-minute nap, Genevieve was in her usual perch on my back in the mei tai while I unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher and got a chicken ready to roast in the oven for dinner when I heard a huge crash in the livingroom, complete with the distinctive sound of breaking glass. I ran (the three steps) into the livingroom to see Somerset standing horrified in the middle of the room with her hands up by her head. "What happened??" I asked, scanning the room for the damage. "I don't know!" she cried. Then I saw what had happened. Attempting to hide in one of her usual spots during a game of hide-and-seek with her brothers, she had moved one of the doors of the corner T.V. cabinet, dislodging the lighted Christmas garland that was draped across it, which took a large-ish snow globe down with it when it fell. The glass and ceramic snow globe I bought for Calvin's first Christmas. It had shattered on the floor beneath the small table where the kids sit to eat and play. Water, glitter, fake snow, and tiny shards of glass were everywhere. At least I didn't have to worry about the baby getting into it. Then as I set about cleaning up the mess, I realized the small basket of baby toys at the end of the couch was in the path of destruction. Sure enough, when I looked into it I saw a piece of glass right there on top. Big Daddy arrived home from work as I was sweeping, so he helped me clean it all up while I took the baby toys into the kitchen and went over each toy looking for glass. The basket must have been just at the edge of the spray when the globe burst, because my careful inspection only turned up two slightly-water-splashed toys and one more piece of glass at the bottom of the basket. I shook the basket out, checked it again, and re-checked each toy as I put it back in, then went over the floor again with the rag mop to pick up any small glass splinters. I think we got it all. I hope so.
After that, B.D. volunteered to take the older kids with him to buy some much-needed jeans with some of his Christmas money, leaving Genevieve and me in relative peace. I was nearly ready for a stiff drink, but settled for half a roasted chicken and three episodes of The Sopranos on DVD.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Does this make me a grown up?
I find myself in a strange situation. My parents, who have traditionally been all-things-new suburb dwellers, in contrast to my steadfast midtowniness and love of old houses and independently-owned businesses, have flipped the script on me. It's partially my own doing, too. To make a long story short, after selling their house recently, instead of immediately buying a new one, they moved into the guest house behind a pilot friend's "big house" and are living rent, utility, cable, and phone-bill-free for one year in exchange for my mom babysitting five overnights a month. My parents are now living my college life, but without (let's hope!) some (or, ok, any) of the more sordid details. It was college after all.
One of the strange outcomes of this arrangement is that my maternal family's big Christmas Eve dinner and gift exchange was held at my house this year, for the first time ever. I enjoyed being able to host, especially since I wasn't responsible for the whole dinner, and it rained all day so there was the added bonus of knowing I was not dragging four kids in and out of the minivan all day or listening to Big Daddy bitch about having to drive Way Out To East Jerusalem in the nasty weather. In my 1240 square foot, one-bathroom house, we had my parents, maternal grandmother, aunt and her husband, brother, sister-in-law, and nephew, plus our
brood, and it really worked out just fine.
Even though I know that next year my parents will have bought another roomy suburban house and will, in all likelihood, insist on hosting the holiday themselves, I feel like this was a rite of passage. Somehow I never feel quite like an adult in my parents' eyes. I think it's because so many of my lifestyle choices just don't jibe with their idea of adulthood. It's as if they are still hanging on to the hope that I will decide to move to the burbs, start going to church, express regret over my two (very banal) tattoos, get a "perky" haircut, and buy some bejeweled holiday sweaters and tops to be worn in the appropriate seasons. As I approach my mid-thirties, I think they are close to giving up. I hope so. Nevertheless, they seemed cheerful at our gathering, and my Dad even had a few glasses of pinot noir to help the holiday cheer along. I almost felt like I was being a bad influence!
One of the strange outcomes of this arrangement is that my maternal family's big Christmas Eve dinner and gift exchange was held at my house this year, for the first time ever. I enjoyed being able to host, especially since I wasn't responsible for the whole dinner, and it rained all day so there was the added bonus of knowing I was not dragging four kids in and out of the minivan all day or listening to Big Daddy bitch about having to drive Way Out To East Jerusalem in the nasty weather. In my 1240 square foot, one-bathroom house, we had my parents, maternal grandmother, aunt and her husband, brother, sister-in-law, and nephew, plus our
brood, and it really worked out just fine.Even though I know that next year my parents will have bought another roomy suburban house and will, in all likelihood, insist on hosting the holiday themselves, I feel like this was a rite of passage. Somehow I never feel quite like an adult in my parents' eyes. I think it's because so many of my lifestyle choices just don't jibe with their idea of adulthood. It's as if they are still hanging on to the hope that I will decide to move to the burbs, start going to church, express regret over my two (very banal) tattoos, get a "perky" haircut, and buy some bejeweled holiday sweaters and tops to be worn in the appropriate seasons. As I approach my mid-thirties, I think they are close to giving up. I hope so. Nevertheless, they seemed cheerful at our gathering, and my Dad even had a few glasses of pinot noir to help the holiday cheer along. I almost felt like I was being a bad influence!
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
In a totally unoriginal move
Since I seem to be posting impaired, I thought I'd steal take inspiration from Andria's idea and post a list of 100 things about me. Except I seriously doubt I can make it to 100. We'll see. I'm guessing my list is going to be organized-like into loose categories, because that's the way my thought process works (scary!). Ok:
1. One of my students got accepted into M.I.T. today.
2. In an ironic twist of fate, the captain of our football team pretends to have a crush on me.
3. I wonder daily if my principal likes me or thinks I'm a freak or what.
4. Brevity is not my strong suit (have you noticed?).
5. I am extremely self-conscious about the fact that I talk too much and am sometimes powerless to stop it.
6. I often leave meetings and gatherings fearing that I have just been obnoxious.
7. I used to be obsessed with the book Lolita.
8. I have read at least five books five times or more.
9. I am finally reading Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses and am finding it very British.
10. I own a signed first edition of my favorite book.
11. I finally read Pride and Prejudice and thought it sucked.
12. I also thought the movie "Lost in Translation" sucked.
13. I hate everything about winter except the holidays.
14. I am nursing a baby and typing this one-handed. (that only lasted a few minutes)
15. I wear black almost every day, and I see nothing wrong with that.
16. I think shopping is torturous.
17. I would kill to be tall.
18. I'm pretty sure I could kill someone who tried to hurt me or my family and have spent time thinking about how I could do it with my bare hands or household objects, and I would never feel bad about it.
19. I still sometimes feel shocked that I have four kids, and that one of them is almost 9.
20. In my last pregnancy, my hair turned curly.
21. In my last pregnancy, I had euphoric fantasies about eating sand.
22. I wish I were at the beach every single day of my life.
23. I love to travel but have barely traveled at all.
24. I am already struggling to think of things to put on this list.
25. I have issues with food.
26. I can't think of any food more foul than cole slaw. Except maybe tuna salad.
27. I wish I liked any kind of Asian food, but I just don't.
28. Chicken Tikka Masala makes me hum with joy when I eat it.
29. I would like to take an Indian cooking class.
30. I would one day like to go back to school for a Masters in urban planning, but realistically I'm more likely to go back for an MFA in writing.
31. I won the Allen Tate Poetry Award my senior year at Rhodes College.
32. I have no idea who Allen Tate is or was.
33. I am least likely to like people who see themselves as weak or helpless, but I feel kind of bad about that.
34. I have never been in therapy but that's probably a mistake.
35. I am a poor judge of character when it comes to first impressions.
36. I trust people easily, but I suspect this is because I have low expectations.
37. I have mixed feelings about nihilism as a personal philosophy.
38. I once took meditation lessons from a Buddhist monk who spoke only Vietnamese.
39. As a child I went to a Seventh day Adventist church with my grandmother.
40. I was raised Baptist.
41. I have been baptized twice.
42. I have a deep-seated aversion to religion and churches.
43. I can quote the Bible chapter and verse.
44. I will probably take my kids to a Unitarian church when they get older. I guess.
45. My husband and I were married by a judge but had an outdoor wedding.
46. I got married two weeks after graduating from college, and in the same location.
47. I married my high school sweetheart.
48. I married the only man in the world I could ever, ever be married to.
49. My husband and I dream of living on a boat after our kids leave home.
50. I left home at 17 and have never had to move back in with my parents (knock wood).
I just decided to make this a list of 50 things about me, instead of 100.
But, I like those actor's studio questions, so I will answer those, too:
1. What is your favorite word?
ephemeral
2. What is your least favorite word?
slacks
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
being out in nature, especially near any kind of water
4. What turns you off?
the phrase "turns you on"
5. What is your favorite curse word?
Oh, they're all so good!
6. What sound or noise do you love?
ocean sounds
7. What sound or noise do you hate?
my baby crying
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
urban planning
9. What profession would you not like to do?
car sales
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"Remember when you said 'If there is a God who made me, and knows me, and loves me, then I'm pretty sure that God is not going to punish me eternally for a little thing like being wrong about his/her/its existence. I'm willing to bet that the religious authority figures who have emphasized belief over actions throughout history have done so because they were not doing good things and did not want to be questioned.'? That was so right on!"
1. One of my students got accepted into M.I.T. today.
2. In an ironic twist of fate, the captain of our football team pretends to have a crush on me.
3. I wonder daily if my principal likes me or thinks I'm a freak or what.
4. Brevity is not my strong suit (have you noticed?).
5. I am extremely self-conscious about the fact that I talk too much and am sometimes powerless to stop it.
6. I often leave meetings and gatherings fearing that I have just been obnoxious.
7. I used to be obsessed with the book Lolita.
8. I have read at least five books five times or more.
9. I am finally reading Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses and am finding it very British.
10. I own a signed first edition of my favorite book.
11. I finally read Pride and Prejudice and thought it sucked.
12. I also thought the movie "Lost in Translation" sucked.
13. I hate everything about winter except the holidays.
14. I am nursing a baby and typing this one-handed. (that only lasted a few minutes)
15. I wear black almost every day, and I see nothing wrong with that.
16. I think shopping is torturous.
17. I would kill to be tall.
18. I'm pretty sure I could kill someone who tried to hurt me or my family and have spent time thinking about how I could do it with my bare hands or household objects, and I would never feel bad about it.
19. I still sometimes feel shocked that I have four kids, and that one of them is almost 9.
20. In my last pregnancy, my hair turned curly.
21. In my last pregnancy, I had euphoric fantasies about eating sand.
22. I wish I were at the beach every single day of my life.
23. I love to travel but have barely traveled at all.
24. I am already struggling to think of things to put on this list.
25. I have issues with food.
26. I can't think of any food more foul than cole slaw. Except maybe tuna salad.
27. I wish I liked any kind of Asian food, but I just don't.
28. Chicken Tikka Masala makes me hum with joy when I eat it.
29. I would like to take an Indian cooking class.
30. I would one day like to go back to school for a Masters in urban planning, but realistically I'm more likely to go back for an MFA in writing.
31. I won the Allen Tate Poetry Award my senior year at Rhodes College.
32. I have no idea who Allen Tate is or was.
33. I am least likely to like people who see themselves as weak or helpless, but I feel kind of bad about that.
34. I have never been in therapy but that's probably a mistake.
35. I am a poor judge of character when it comes to first impressions.
36. I trust people easily, but I suspect this is because I have low expectations.
37. I have mixed feelings about nihilism as a personal philosophy.
38. I once took meditation lessons from a Buddhist monk who spoke only Vietnamese.
39. As a child I went to a Seventh day Adventist church with my grandmother.
40. I was raised Baptist.
41. I have been baptized twice.
42. I have a deep-seated aversion to religion and churches.
43. I can quote the Bible chapter and verse.
44. I will probably take my kids to a Unitarian church when they get older. I guess.
45. My husband and I were married by a judge but had an outdoor wedding.
46. I got married two weeks after graduating from college, and in the same location.
47. I married my high school sweetheart.
48. I married the only man in the world I could ever, ever be married to.
49. My husband and I dream of living on a boat after our kids leave home.
50. I left home at 17 and have never had to move back in with my parents (knock wood).
I just decided to make this a list of 50 things about me, instead of 100.
But, I like those actor's studio questions, so I will answer those, too:
1. What is your favorite word?
ephemeral
2. What is your least favorite word?
slacks
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
being out in nature, especially near any kind of water
4. What turns you off?
the phrase "turns you on"
5. What is your favorite curse word?
Oh, they're all so good!
6. What sound or noise do you love?
ocean sounds
7. What sound or noise do you hate?
my baby crying
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
urban planning
9. What profession would you not like to do?
car sales
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"Remember when you said 'If there is a God who made me, and knows me, and loves me, then I'm pretty sure that God is not going to punish me eternally for a little thing like being wrong about his/her/its existence. I'm willing to bet that the religious authority figures who have emphasized belief over actions throughout history have done so because they were not doing good things and did not want to be questioned.'? That was so right on!"
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Hissy Fit
The two hours between four and six p.m. are the trickiest part of my day. I have it easy in the mornings, since Big Daddy is the one who has to get the kids up and ready and to their respective schools and sitter. All I have to do is nurse Genevieve and pray she stays asleep while I shower, dress, make lunches, and scoot out the door by 7:00 a.m. Sometimes she does, but I still manage to be a few minutes late almost every day. The workday itself is generally pleasant, since I like my school and my students this year. I don't even mind the after-school dash to Mud Island to pick up Genevieve and then to the school for the other three. But once we get home, I am looking at two to two and a half hours of clothing changes ("Daddy wants you to change out of your uniform when you get home, you know that. Because you will spill stuff on it. Come on Somerset, give it to me. Fine, leave it on then, I don't even care..."), snack facilitating, homework coaching, squabble refereeing, and attempts to get the baby down for a nap so I can clean up a little and start dinner, which will almost inevitably end in screeching from the living room waking her up so that I end up cooking and cleaning with a sleepy baby tied to my back. All I really want to do is sit down and read or watch Oprah, but I can't and for the most part I've accepted that. Most days I do fine, biding my time until B.D. makes it home to at least keep me company in munchkin land and take his turn being the one to beg, plead, and threaten Somerset into pretended compliance with our meager rules.
But some days there are surprises, and that's where I fall. I've always prided myself on being a go-with-the-flow kind of person, able to think on my feet and take problems in stride. For some reason, those abilities seem to take a nap in the after-school hours. When that happens, various personalities step in to take Calm Mama's place. Sometimes it's Mommy Dearest, who causes a steady stream of nagging and bitching to come out of my mouth about the ungodly state of the kids' rooms, the mindboggling presence of so much of their crap in the living room, their arguing, their forgetting of things at school, and so on. Other times, like yesterday, it's The Big Baby. She throws tantrums. It is not pretty.
Yesterday afternoon, Calvin told me all about how the Santa Claus we know, in the red and white suit, is just an image that was thought up in the 1950's by Coca Cola, and how he always wore green before that, and how he isn't really fat but used to be skinny. I understood that he learned this in school, and was able to casually ask him where he learned about that. His student teacher. Of course. I did a good job of hiding, but this information just crawled right up my ass and made me furious. Calvin still believes in Santa Claus, and I realize this is probably the last year that will be true. At this point, he chooses to believe, even in the face of naysayers and some evidence to the contrary. Luckily, he seems to have taken this fascinating revelation about how Santa is just a cheap marketing ploy, which his tweny-one year old student teacher is so proud to have discovered all by herself on the amazing internet, and incorporated it into whatever logical process he has going on about Santa in that beautiful brain of his. But I was still pissed, and as soon as Big Daddy got home, I lunged for his laptop and fired off an email to Calvin's very lovely real teacher asking her to please tell her student teacher that some of us try hard to give our children an actual childhood, and could she please not kill Santa for them just yet. I felt somewhat better after that, until I went to move Somerset's lunchbox off the counter and noticed it felt heavy. I opened it to see that her entire sandwich and most of her chips were still in there, meaning all she had eaten all day was a banana. When I asked her why she hadn't eaten her sandwich, she looked upset and said it was time to go back to her room (from CLUE class back to the YMCA room) and she didn't have time to eat. There have been other times when she told me she did not have lunch on CLUE days, but it usually turned out that she was just confused because she ate in the CLUE room and thought it was "snack" time. This time, though, the food was still there so I knew she hadn't eaten, and this just flew all over me and reignited my fury over the Santa debacle. I decided to write a note to the Y teacher about how they need to get their shit together and make sure my poor baby gets to eat her lunch at the same time and place every day, but I couldn't find a pen. That was it. The Big Baby decided to throw a hissy fit about the impossibility of finding a pen in this disorganized pit, and how could it be that we don't even have a #$*&%$ pen in this house?? In fact there were probably more expletives than respectable words coming out of my mouth, but I'll spare you. B.D. tried to give me a fine-point sharpie, which I threw back in the basket, shouting "That is not a pen it is a #*&%ing Sharpie!" and then ranted about how I was going to throw all of those Sharpies away because the kids keep drawing with them and there was a mark on the table now from one. To his credit, B.D. did not tell me to pull my shit together, instead choosing to stop folding laundry to go and find me a pen. This left me standing alone in the kitchen, feeling stupid, and noticing for the first time that the Rosemary Clooney Christmas CD he had just bought me to replace a long-lost tape was playing on the kitchen stereo. It's my favorite Christmas album, and he bought it for me, and he put it on to play so we could listen to it while I cooked and he folded, and instead I had drowned out the wistful, melancholy version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" that always makes me cry and that is the reason I love that album so much with the sounds of my temper tantrum. I felt like a complete ass. I thought about how irritated I get when he acts moody, knowing that in his worst fit of grumpiness he has never come anywhere close to throwing a fit like I just did. So I pulled it together. He brought me the pen and I wrote the note, and I mumbled an apology, and in a little while we were both able to act like nothing had happened.
But some days there are surprises, and that's where I fall. I've always prided myself on being a go-with-the-flow kind of person, able to think on my feet and take problems in stride. For some reason, those abilities seem to take a nap in the after-school hours. When that happens, various personalities step in to take Calm Mama's place. Sometimes it's Mommy Dearest, who causes a steady stream of nagging and bitching to come out of my mouth about the ungodly state of the kids' rooms, the mindboggling presence of so much of their crap in the living room, their arguing, their forgetting of things at school, and so on. Other times, like yesterday, it's The Big Baby. She throws tantrums. It is not pretty.
Yesterday afternoon, Calvin told me all about how the Santa Claus we know, in the red and white suit, is just an image that was thought up in the 1950's by Coca Cola, and how he always wore green before that, and how he isn't really fat but used to be skinny. I understood that he learned this in school, and was able to casually ask him where he learned about that. His student teacher. Of course. I did a good job of hiding, but this information just crawled right up my ass and made me furious. Calvin still believes in Santa Claus, and I realize this is probably the last year that will be true. At this point, he chooses to believe, even in the face of naysayers and some evidence to the contrary. Luckily, he seems to have taken this fascinating revelation about how Santa is just a cheap marketing ploy, which his tweny-one year old student teacher is so proud to have discovered all by herself on the amazing internet, and incorporated it into whatever logical process he has going on about Santa in that beautiful brain of his. But I was still pissed, and as soon as Big Daddy got home, I lunged for his laptop and fired off an email to Calvin's very lovely real teacher asking her to please tell her student teacher that some of us try hard to give our children an actual childhood, and could she please not kill Santa for them just yet. I felt somewhat better after that, until I went to move Somerset's lunchbox off the counter and noticed it felt heavy. I opened it to see that her entire sandwich and most of her chips were still in there, meaning all she had eaten all day was a banana. When I asked her why she hadn't eaten her sandwich, she looked upset and said it was time to go back to her room (from CLUE class back to the YMCA room) and she didn't have time to eat. There have been other times when she told me she did not have lunch on CLUE days, but it usually turned out that she was just confused because she ate in the CLUE room and thought it was "snack" time. This time, though, the food was still there so I knew she hadn't eaten, and this just flew all over me and reignited my fury over the Santa debacle. I decided to write a note to the Y teacher about how they need to get their shit together and make sure my poor baby gets to eat her lunch at the same time and place every day, but I couldn't find a pen. That was it. The Big Baby decided to throw a hissy fit about the impossibility of finding a pen in this disorganized pit, and how could it be that we don't even have a #$*&%$ pen in this house?? In fact there were probably more expletives than respectable words coming out of my mouth, but I'll spare you. B.D. tried to give me a fine-point sharpie, which I threw back in the basket, shouting "That is not a pen it is a #*&%ing Sharpie!" and then ranted about how I was going to throw all of those Sharpies away because the kids keep drawing with them and there was a mark on the table now from one. To his credit, B.D. did not tell me to pull my shit together, instead choosing to stop folding laundry to go and find me a pen. This left me standing alone in the kitchen, feeling stupid, and noticing for the first time that the Rosemary Clooney Christmas CD he had just bought me to replace a long-lost tape was playing on the kitchen stereo. It's my favorite Christmas album, and he bought it for me, and he put it on to play so we could listen to it while I cooked and he folded, and instead I had drowned out the wistful, melancholy version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" that always makes me cry and that is the reason I love that album so much with the sounds of my temper tantrum. I felt like a complete ass. I thought about how irritated I get when he acts moody, knowing that in his worst fit of grumpiness he has never come anywhere close to throwing a fit like I just did. So I pulled it together. He brought me the pen and I wrote the note, and I mumbled an apology, and in a little while we were both able to act like nothing had happened.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
In Which I Realize How Closely I Resemble White Trash
We just returned home from a Thanksgiving trip to Georgia, where we spent the holiday with Big Daddy's grandparents, mother, stepfather, his two sisters and their husbands, and one of his two younger brothers. We had a great time and that's not the white trash part (What, just because we were in Georgia and have a big family? Don't you judge me!). It was the trip down that caused my aha moment.
First of all, Somerset was sick and puked at intervals of about one hour the whole way down, which took about eight and a half hours total. My solution to this was to tuck a plastic grocery bag into the harness of her car seat, creating a kind of plastic-bag-bib (marketable? Hmm...), so she had it right there if she had the sudden need to vomit. She actually seemed to feel fine in between regurgitative episodes, and she had nothing but crackers and water in her pitiful little belly after the first time anyway. Until we went to McDonalds. Because there's nothing like amalgamated chicken parts boiled in oil to settle a sick stomach, right?
We make this trip just about every year at this time, and it's our habit to make the first stop about halfway, either on this side of Birmingham or the other, depending on who is asleep/crying/needing-to-pee/puking. This time we only made it to Jasper, Alabama, for obvious reasons, but found a McDonald's with a playland so the kids could stretch their legs. I should mention that Joshua was on the tail end of a coughing sickness that involves night-time fever, which he has since passed on to the baby. I estimate that with all the holiday travel coming through that McDonalds in Jasper, which was considerable, my children probably spread disease over a five-state area with a single pass down the curvy purple tube slide. Sorry everyone!
Sitting there at a table in the playland of McDonald's in Jasper, Alabama, which smelled like an ash tray in spite of the "Ronald's Playplace is a smoke-free environment" sign hanging above my table, I had a moment of unpleasant clarity. It looked something like this: I have on a pair of baggy, faded, stretched out Old Navy jeans, a worn fleece that zips up the front over a tank top that is not visible so it looks like I'm not wearing a shirt underneath (with some kind of schmutz on the left shoulder), unshowered, frizzy-haired, mascara smudged, etc. My four-year-old daughter, who may or may not have vomit in her stringy ash blond hair, is wearing hot pink sweat pants with a faded hand-me-down navy blue Buzz Lightyear sweatshirt that was hastily thrown on in place of the vomit-spattered pink sweatshirt (later the pink pants will be thrown in a gas station trash can after she projectiles her chicken nuggets over the top of the plastic-bag-bib). All the vomiting has given her face a dark-circled, pinched, Appalachian look. My five-year-old son has on red sweat pants that are about three inches too short (and have been officially passed down to his sister, except Big Daddy has problems knowing whose clothes are whose when he puts laundry away) with a too-large gray sweatshirt that is probably Calvin's. Both boys need haircuts. The baby has on pink terry footie pajamas that have seen better days. If I look around that McDonald's in Jasper, Alabama, and divide the parents there into two groups: citified travelers just passing through the likes of Jasper, and local yokels who either live here or someplace just like it, I would have to say I look more like the latter even though I am ostensibly part of the former. Depressing.
I sometimes joke that I am just one generation out of the trailer park. That's not exactly accurate, but not too far from the mark, either. And my mom did have a friend when I was a kid who not only lived in a trailer park with her several kids, but had an old toilet in the yard with flowers planted in it. I thought that was the coolest thing ever! Maybe not folk art's finest hour, but creative nonetheless.
Epiphanies like the one I had in Jasper are probably good for me, because truth be told, I have a tendency to judge people based on appearance. Yes, I know that makes me a "bad person." Whatever, you know you do it too. At least I realize that I am possibly the worst judge of character to ever live. My first impressions of people almost always prove to be completely wrong. So yeah, seeing myself through the eyes of those cute young moms in their comfortable-yet-not-dumpy traveling ensembles and realizing that I look like I just came down off the mountain was humbling. Luckily, I had a chance to recover on the way home, when we stopped at the slightly nicer McDonald's near Birmingham and crashed a birthday party in the playland. "Who still has birthday parties at McDonald's?" I asked Big Daddy haughtily. "Where else are you going to have it around here?" he replied as we sped away toward Memphis, where all the cool kids have parties that involve inflatables and all the cool moms show up looking like not white trash.
First of all, Somerset was sick and puked at intervals of about one hour the whole way down, which took about eight and a half hours total. My solution to this was to tuck a plastic grocery bag into the harness of her car seat, creating a kind of plastic-bag-bib (marketable? Hmm...), so she had it right there if she had the sudden need to vomit. She actually seemed to feel fine in between regurgitative episodes, and she had nothing but crackers and water in her pitiful little belly after the first time anyway. Until we went to McDonalds. Because there's nothing like amalgamated chicken parts boiled in oil to settle a sick stomach, right?
We make this trip just about every year at this time, and it's our habit to make the first stop about halfway, either on this side of Birmingham or the other, depending on who is asleep/crying/needing-to-pee/puking. This time we only made it to Jasper, Alabama, for obvious reasons, but found a McDonald's with a playland so the kids could stretch their legs. I should mention that Joshua was on the tail end of a coughing sickness that involves night-time fever, which he has since passed on to the baby. I estimate that with all the holiday travel coming through that McDonalds in Jasper, which was considerable, my children probably spread disease over a five-state area with a single pass down the curvy purple tube slide. Sorry everyone!
Sitting there at a table in the playland of McDonald's in Jasper, Alabama, which smelled like an ash tray in spite of the "Ronald's Playplace is a smoke-free environment" sign hanging above my table, I had a moment of unpleasant clarity. It looked something like this: I have on a pair of baggy, faded, stretched out Old Navy jeans, a worn fleece that zips up the front over a tank top that is not visible so it looks like I'm not wearing a shirt underneath (with some kind of schmutz on the left shoulder), unshowered, frizzy-haired, mascara smudged, etc. My four-year-old daughter, who may or may not have vomit in her stringy ash blond hair, is wearing hot pink sweat pants with a faded hand-me-down navy blue Buzz Lightyear sweatshirt that was hastily thrown on in place of the vomit-spattered pink sweatshirt (later the pink pants will be thrown in a gas station trash can after she projectiles her chicken nuggets over the top of the plastic-bag-bib). All the vomiting has given her face a dark-circled, pinched, Appalachian look. My five-year-old son has on red sweat pants that are about three inches too short (and have been officially passed down to his sister, except Big Daddy has problems knowing whose clothes are whose when he puts laundry away) with a too-large gray sweatshirt that is probably Calvin's. Both boys need haircuts. The baby has on pink terry footie pajamas that have seen better days. If I look around that McDonald's in Jasper, Alabama, and divide the parents there into two groups: citified travelers just passing through the likes of Jasper, and local yokels who either live here or someplace just like it, I would have to say I look more like the latter even though I am ostensibly part of the former. Depressing.
I sometimes joke that I am just one generation out of the trailer park. That's not exactly accurate, but not too far from the mark, either. And my mom did have a friend when I was a kid who not only lived in a trailer park with her several kids, but had an old toilet in the yard with flowers planted in it. I thought that was the coolest thing ever! Maybe not folk art's finest hour, but creative nonetheless.
Epiphanies like the one I had in Jasper are probably good for me, because truth be told, I have a tendency to judge people based on appearance. Yes, I know that makes me a "bad person." Whatever, you know you do it too. At least I realize that I am possibly the worst judge of character to ever live. My first impressions of people almost always prove to be completely wrong. So yeah, seeing myself through the eyes of those cute young moms in their comfortable-yet-not-dumpy traveling ensembles and realizing that I look like I just came down off the mountain was humbling. Luckily, I had a chance to recover on the way home, when we stopped at the slightly nicer McDonald's near Birmingham and crashed a birthday party in the playland. "Who still has birthday parties at McDonald's?" I asked Big Daddy haughtily. "Where else are you going to have it around here?" he replied as we sped away toward Memphis, where all the cool kids have parties that involve inflatables and all the cool moms show up looking like not white trash.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
No hablo pomo
I am supposed to be writing a post a day for NaBloPoMo. As you can see, I'm already one post shy. Can we redo November first, please? No? Well, ok.
The fact is that we are coming up to the end of the grading period at school, and as usual I am very behind on grading. It would help if I could get some of the work done at home, but let's face it--that's just not happening. I may actually stay home from work to grade on Tuesday, because I foolishly assigned a major paper to be turned in on Monday, and now I have to grade said paper, for 140 students. And grades are due Wednesday. And I still have a huge stack of answers to chapter questions on Grendel, which I foolishly insisted must be answered with full paragraphs and references to the text. Because yes, I am that teacher. I think John Gardner deserves full paragraphs, in spite of his dying foolishly in a stupid motorcycle wreck (why John? WHY???), thus needlessly depriving the world of his genius.
I don't have time to talk to you people right now. I have papers to grade!
The fact is that we are coming up to the end of the grading period at school, and as usual I am very behind on grading. It would help if I could get some of the work done at home, but let's face it--that's just not happening. I may actually stay home from work to grade on Tuesday, because I foolishly assigned a major paper to be turned in on Monday, and now I have to grade said paper, for 140 students. And grades are due Wednesday. And I still have a huge stack of answers to chapter questions on Grendel, which I foolishly insisted must be answered with full paragraphs and references to the text. Because yes, I am that teacher. I think John Gardner deserves full paragraphs, in spite of his dying foolishly in a stupid motorcycle wreck (why John? WHY???), thus needlessly depriving the world of his genius.
I don't have time to talk to you people right now. I have papers to grade!
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
I'm still here
Just insanely busy. I have signed up to post daily in November, so that should be interesting considering the difficulty I have just posting every week. Let's see, what has been going on? last night, Richard took the older kids to the playground and met up with Stacey and Andria and their offspring. I knew Stacey's husband was out of town, so I told him to invite her over for dinner since I was making spaghetti and I tend to cook enough for an army even though my kids don't eat my cooking. He called from the park to say that the female 2/3 of Andria's family would also be coming. Since she's pregnant, I'm going to count her as two guests. So let me just brag for a second and claim that I cooked dinner for 12 people on a school night with a baby on my hip for the last half of the cooking (ok, subtract the fetus and the boob baby and that's still more people than you cooked dinner for last night). I am a badass! If I do say so myself.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Just call me Winky
In the bathroom this morning soon after getting to work, I noticed that something about my reflection looked a little off. I had my hair in a ponytail because I got out of bed too late to wash it, so at first I thought it was just the effect of the Ugly Betty Bangs that I was seeing. Upon closer inspection, however, I saw that I had put mascara on my right eye but not my left. Lovely! I tried to figure out how I had managed to do this, and then remembered that Calvin came in as I was applying my makeup and asked me to help him find a picture of our dog. He needed it for CLUE class and of course, it had not occured to him to look for it before 6:53 this morning. So I guess I set the mascara down intending to come back, but then I never did. When I got home this afternoon, it was still sitting there partially open on the sink, right next to the necklace I picked up but forgot to put on. Luckily I did manage to get eyeliner onto both eyes, so the Lisa Left-Eye look was somewhat mitigated. And then, I teach teenagers who by definition don't realize that anyone over 30 has an actual face, so it wasn't really a big deal.
What's more disturbing is the thought that this is just one example in a greater trend of forgetfulness. Yesterday morning, as I was making the multiple PB&J sandwiches that I make for the kids' and my lunches every morning, I realized that I had put jelly on too many pieces of bread. No big deal, I thought, I'll just go ahead and make an extra sandwhich for Joshua's breakfast (yes, he eats one for breakfast and lunch most days, and often for dinner as well, because he is a freak like that). Then I realized I was one slice short in the bread department, meaning I took out an extra one in the first place. Ok, got out another slice, no big deal. But later when I bit into my sandwich at lunch, I tasted grape jelly instead of the sour raspberry that I prefer, which meant that someone else got the raspberry jelly and probably didn't like it. I could only hope it was Somerset and not Joshua, because she's a much more adventurous eater, and because the last thing we need is for Joshua to decide that he doesn't like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That would narrow his diet down to chocolate chip Pop Tarts and cheese pizza with the occasional granola bar thrown in for variety. Oh, and popcorn, let's not forget that. And bacon. Anyway, when we got home that afternoon, lo and behold, there was the breakfast sandwich sitting on the counter with only one bite taken out of it because it was, of course, the raspberry jelly. I explained to Joshua why it had tased funny, and there seems to be no damage done to his tender love affair with that important 1/5 of his diet. I wish I could say the same for my mental capacity!
Why do I keep spacing out like this? I hate to blame it on placenta brain. And really, I've felt so un-placenta-brained lately. My classes are great this year and I feel stimulated by what I'm teaching, which I think has gone a long way toward keeping me more focused and less flaky than I expected to be (and have sometimes been) at four months post partum. But these morning slip-ups have me worried. What if I've been lulled into a false sense of security, only to be hit with the dread disease now, when I least expect it? Tomorrow will I get to work and realize I have on two different shoes, or that my underwear are on the outside of my pants like a superhero costume? It will be like that dream where you're at school wearing nothing but big white granny panties and everyone is looking at you! This is what I get for not buying more prenatal vitamins when I ran out two months ago. Or maybe it's the cumulative effect of the massive amounts of caffiene and sugar I've been ingesting in the form of sweet tea (more on that later). Whatever it is, I've got to be vigilant, and you can help. If you happen to see me out in public with my nursing bra inside out over my shirt, make sure I've at least remembered to hook the cups back up, ok?
What's more disturbing is the thought that this is just one example in a greater trend of forgetfulness. Yesterday morning, as I was making the multiple PB&J sandwiches that I make for the kids' and my lunches every morning, I realized that I had put jelly on too many pieces of bread. No big deal, I thought, I'll just go ahead and make an extra sandwhich for Joshua's breakfast (yes, he eats one for breakfast and lunch most days, and often for dinner as well, because he is a freak like that). Then I realized I was one slice short in the bread department, meaning I took out an extra one in the first place. Ok, got out another slice, no big deal. But later when I bit into my sandwich at lunch, I tasted grape jelly instead of the sour raspberry that I prefer, which meant that someone else got the raspberry jelly and probably didn't like it. I could only hope it was Somerset and not Joshua, because she's a much more adventurous eater, and because the last thing we need is for Joshua to decide that he doesn't like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That would narrow his diet down to chocolate chip Pop Tarts and cheese pizza with the occasional granola bar thrown in for variety. Oh, and popcorn, let's not forget that. And bacon. Anyway, when we got home that afternoon, lo and behold, there was the breakfast sandwich sitting on the counter with only one bite taken out of it because it was, of course, the raspberry jelly. I explained to Joshua why it had tased funny, and there seems to be no damage done to his tender love affair with that important 1/5 of his diet. I wish I could say the same for my mental capacity!
Why do I keep spacing out like this? I hate to blame it on placenta brain. And really, I've felt so un-placenta-brained lately. My classes are great this year and I feel stimulated by what I'm teaching, which I think has gone a long way toward keeping me more focused and less flaky than I expected to be (and have sometimes been) at four months post partum. But these morning slip-ups have me worried. What if I've been lulled into a false sense of security, only to be hit with the dread disease now, when I least expect it? Tomorrow will I get to work and realize I have on two different shoes, or that my underwear are on the outside of my pants like a superhero costume? It will be like that dream where you're at school wearing nothing but big white granny panties and everyone is looking at you! This is what I get for not buying more prenatal vitamins when I ran out two months ago. Or maybe it's the cumulative effect of the massive amounts of caffiene and sugar I've been ingesting in the form of sweet tea (more on that later). Whatever it is, I've got to be vigilant, and you can help. If you happen to see me out in public with my nursing bra inside out over my shirt, make sure I've at least remembered to hook the cups back up, ok?
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Southern festival of Books
This weekend is the Southern Festival of Books, which is hosted by Memphis and Nashville in alternate years. This year it's our turn, and it's killing me that Big Daddy and I don't have more time to spend down there. I feel like a crackhead who can't get to the Crack Festival. Well, except I did get to go yesterday and hear Lee Smith, author of my favorite book, read from her new book On Agate Hill. She was funny and charming as always, and she signed my freshly bought copy of the new book as well as my old, well-loved copy of Saving Grace. The last time she was here, at Burke's Books, I bought their first edition copy of Fair and Tender Ladies and got her to sign that. Now I have three! I can't explain why this makes me so happy.
Joshua's kindergarten class walked down to the children's stage yesterday to a party for Curious George. This also makes me happy. Hopefully we'll all get to spend some more time down there this weekend. I'll let you know how it goes.
Joshua's kindergarten class walked down to the children's stage yesterday to a party for Curious George. This also makes me happy. Hopefully we'll all get to spend some more time down there this weekend. I'll let you know how it goes.
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