last day of class comes
thirty five papers to grade
one more spring to go
30 April 2008
28 April 2008
Bithdays are the Best Days
The grandparents came. The grandparents came. The grandparents had fairly inappropriate conversations about, well, poo. But that's another story entirely. And these are some birthday highlights:
One of the many reasons why I love The Cake Artist's Studio. And the best part? It tastes even better than it looks.
Little Man got a lot of presents. A lot. So many that the slide I bought him wasn't even interesting enough to open. He wasn't complaining. My personal favorite, though, were the little tiny tap shoes.
We had the singing lady come over for a little entertainment. Even the easily-spooked-toddler warmed up. Who wouldn't with a parachute and a bunch of flying balls??
Sometimes there's just too much party to keep your hat on straight.
One of the many reasons why I love The Cake Artist's Studio. And the best part? It tastes even better than it looks.
Little Man got a lot of presents. A lot. So many that the slide I bought him wasn't even interesting enough to open. He wasn't complaining. My personal favorite, though, were the little tiny tap shoes.
We had the singing lady come over for a little entertainment. Even the easily-spooked-toddler warmed up. Who wouldn't with a parachute and a bunch of flying balls??
Sometimes there's just too much party to keep your hat on straight.24 April 2008
Happy Birthday
Dear Little Man,
I was reading my old journal the other day, and I realized that I sold my Camaro exactly a year before you were born. I still remember having a minor panic attack as I watched someone drive away in my baby for the last time. I loved that car. Loved it. It wasn't anything special as far as sports cars or even muscle cars go, but it was mine. I bought it when I was 19-a sophomore in college. I went to look at a used Buick and fell in love with a shiny red Chevy instead. It wasn't the kind of car I ever imagined that my 19-year-old self could own at 19. But it was beautiful. The day after I brought it home, I tried looking out a window--you know, just to make sure it was real--but somehow lost my balance and gave myself a black eye. I didn't care- I owned a Camaro. Not my parents, not someone else- me.
I loved driving that car. I loved people looking twice to see who was in it. I loved the way you rode only 6 inches or so from the ground, your legs far out in front of you, as though you were lounging in some sort of souped up La-z-boy. Boys were always impressed with it. Most girls drove around little Cavilers or Toyotas--not me. I would get out of class, exhausted, but my face would light up when I saw her there in the parking lot. And on beautiful spring days, I would roll the window down and turn up my music as I drove from campus to work. I remember one day, in particular-- I was curving down the road that led into campus, the sun was shining (a rarity in Ohio), the sky was blue blue blue, and suddenly Metallica's cover of "Whiskey in the Jar" came on. Perfection.
I always told people that I would keep the car forever. For. Ever. I would shove car seats in the back. I would rent a storage unit to just keep it, so I never had to let it go. I never let anyone else
drive it-- until I let your papa drive it. (It was one of the ways I knew he was different- I was that comfortable with him).
On the day we got married I drove myself around all morning, because I wanted to be in my car. It relaxed me to drive it. People thought I was crazy that I wanted to pick them up to go get our hair done, but being in the Camaro made me calm. We drove away in it that night, my skirt fluffed up to my chin in the tiny bucket seats-- I remember that more vividly than the antique limo we paid to have drive us around all day.
When we decided to have a baby, I knew that my Camaro really had to go. I was excited, because I wanted a baby so badly, but I was so sad every time I looked at the For Sale sign we put in its window.
I never expected it to sell so quickly. I thought I would have a month or so left, but then one evening some guy came and took it away. And as I watched him drive off in what was still car, I could hardly breath. Literally. I'm not exaggerating when I say this--I had an unbelievably visceral reaction to saying goodbye to that machine--to that part of myself.
I bought a Toyta.
I couldn't possibly have known that it would be one year to the day that you would come into my life. You could have been born before midnight. Lord knows I was in labor all day--there was really no reason to wait. But you did wait. At 1:15 in the morning you came into this world. On the 25th of April. One year later. It was like you were telling me that something new and better had come along.
When I read that journal entry the other night, I couldn't help but to smile. It's like you knew that you were supposed to be born that day--three weeks ahead of schedule. (Thank you, for that, by the way.)
Part of the pain of letting go of that car was the pain inherent in letting go of a part of yourself--a time in your life. Looking back, that pain doesn't seem misplaced or even overdone. It seems very, very appropriate. And yet, reading over the journal entry, I couldn't help but smile back at my 25 year old self. Because she thought she knew, but couldn't possibly really know that giving up that car meant getting something infinitely, infinitely better.
I used to look longingly at every red camaro that crossed my path. Wondering if that was my car. I don't anymore. Sometime around 1:15 on April 25, 2006 something changed. You changed it.
So I hop into my little black Toyota--the one with only a 4 cylinder engine. And I actually love it- because your car seat is in the back. Because there are wipes in the cup holders and cheerios in the backseat. Because there are little jackets and still the residue from yerps that I can't quite get rid of. Because it's your car--the one that took me to the hospital on the 24th and brought you home on the 26th.
So Happy Birthday Sweet Boy. I knew that having you would change everything. I just don't think I could have ever imagined that they could have been this much better.
I was reading my old journal the other day, and I realized that I sold my Camaro exactly a year before you were born. I still remember having a minor panic attack as I watched someone drive away in my baby for the last time. I loved that car. Loved it. It wasn't anything special as far as sports cars or even muscle cars go, but it was mine. I bought it when I was 19-a sophomore in college. I went to look at a used Buick and fell in love with a shiny red Chevy instead. It wasn't the kind of car I ever imagined that my 19-year-old self could own at 19. But it was beautiful. The day after I brought it home, I tried looking out a window--you know, just to make sure it was real--but somehow lost my balance and gave myself a black eye. I didn't care- I owned a Camaro. Not my parents, not someone else- me.
I loved driving that car. I loved people looking twice to see who was in it. I loved the way you rode only 6 inches or so from the ground, your legs far out in front of you, as though you were lounging in some sort of souped up La-z-boy. Boys were always impressed with it. Most girls drove around little Cavilers or Toyotas--not me. I would get out of class, exhausted, but my face would light up when I saw her there in the parking lot. And on beautiful spring days, I would roll the window down and turn up my music as I drove from campus to work. I remember one day, in particular-- I was curving down the road that led into campus, the sun was shining (a rarity in Ohio), the sky was blue blue blue, and suddenly Metallica's cover of "Whiskey in the Jar" came on. Perfection.
I always told people that I would keep the car forever. For. Ever. I would shove car seats in the back. I would rent a storage unit to just keep it, so I never had to let it go. I never let anyone else
drive it-- until I let your papa drive it. (It was one of the ways I knew he was different- I was that comfortable with him).On the day we got married I drove myself around all morning, because I wanted to be in my car. It relaxed me to drive it. People thought I was crazy that I wanted to pick them up to go get our hair done, but being in the Camaro made me calm. We drove away in it that night, my skirt fluffed up to my chin in the tiny bucket seats-- I remember that more vividly than the antique limo we paid to have drive us around all day.
When we decided to have a baby, I knew that my Camaro really had to go. I was excited, because I wanted a baby so badly, but I was so sad every time I looked at the For Sale sign we put in its window.
I never expected it to sell so quickly. I thought I would have a month or so left, but then one evening some guy came and took it away. And as I watched him drive off in what was still car, I could hardly breath. Literally. I'm not exaggerating when I say this--I had an unbelievably visceral reaction to saying goodbye to that machine--to that part of myself.
I bought a Toyta.
I couldn't possibly have known that it would be one year to the day that you would come into my life. You could have been born before midnight. Lord knows I was in labor all day--there was really no reason to wait. But you did wait. At 1:15 in the morning you came into this world. On the 25th of April. One year later. It was like you were telling me that something new and better had come along.
When I read that journal entry the other night, I couldn't help but to smile. It's like you knew that you were supposed to be born that day--three weeks ahead of schedule. (Thank you, for that, by the way.)Part of the pain of letting go of that car was the pain inherent in letting go of a part of yourself--a time in your life. Looking back, that pain doesn't seem misplaced or even overdone. It seems very, very appropriate. And yet, reading over the journal entry, I couldn't help but smile back at my 25 year old self. Because she thought she knew, but couldn't possibly really know that giving up that car meant getting something infinitely, infinitely better.
You.
I used to look longingly at every red camaro that crossed my path. Wondering if that was my car. I don't anymore. Sometime around 1:15 on April 25, 2006 something changed. You changed it.
So I hop into my little black Toyota--the one with only a 4 cylinder engine. And I actually love it- because your car seat is in the back. Because there are wipes in the cup holders and cheerios in the backseat. Because there are little jackets and still the residue from yerps that I can't quite get rid of. Because it's your car--the one that took me to the hospital on the 24th and brought you home on the 26th.
So Happy Birthday Sweet Boy. I knew that having you would change everything. I just don't think I could have ever imagined that they could have been this much better.
Even better than a 19-year old feels with a shiny red Camaro.
Love Always,
Mama
Mama
22 April 2008
My Life in Six Words
I'm long overdue to finish a Meme from academama, but it's taken me a while to come up with one. I actually really love this meme- it's from a story that Hemingway once wrote a six-word short story: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." So here's mine-
"I'm still figuring it all out."
See, I always thought I knew what I was doing. I was going to be a lawyer, get married in my late twenties, finish the PhD in 5 years, want more than one child. And then life happens. And continues to happen. I decided law wasn't for me, got married years younger than I ever thought I would, have taken far more than 5 years finishing this PhD, and waffle about having any more kids. In the next year, I have huge changes to navigate. I'll be done with my degree and may or may not have a job. We'll have to decide where to move, where to settle, which jobs to pursue, if and when we want number 2. I have a lot of figuring to do. The thing is, I have finally reached the point where I understand that the changes aren't going to stop--that there's no finish line to cross that signals my life is as it should be. And I love that.
I don't feel like tagging anyone in particular, but if you want to play along- here are the rules:
"I'm still figuring it all out."
See, I always thought I knew what I was doing. I was going to be a lawyer, get married in my late twenties, finish the PhD in 5 years, want more than one child. And then life happens. And continues to happen. I decided law wasn't for me, got married years younger than I ever thought I would, have taken far more than 5 years finishing this PhD, and waffle about having any more kids. In the next year, I have huge changes to navigate. I'll be done with my degree and may or may not have a job. We'll have to decide where to move, where to settle, which jobs to pursue, if and when we want number 2. I have a lot of figuring to do. The thing is, I have finally reached the point where I understand that the changes aren't going to stop--that there's no finish line to cross that signals my life is as it should be. And I love that.
I don't feel like tagging anyone in particular, but if you want to play along- here are the rules:
1. Write your own six-word memoir
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you like
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere
4. Tag five more blogs with links
5. Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play along
20 April 2008
Something About Elephants
Little Man has a favorite animal- baby elephants. It doesn't matter whether the elephant in question is a mama, papa, or an actual baby-- they are all baby elephants in his book. And he loves them. Every. Single. One of them.I don't know why he likes them better than cats or monkeys or crocodiles. I don't know what makes his little face light up differently when he spots a picture of one somewhere.
I do know, however, that they bring him pure joy.
It's one of my favorite parts about being a mom--that pure, unfiltered joy. When his face lights up and his entire being seems to jump into life because something has unexpectedly pleased him like he never expected, my whole world is right.
We saw lots of elephants this weekend. When the circus comes to town, the elephants camp out in the local university's parking lot. So we went to take a look at them on Friday. And then today,
we saw them perform with their circus friends.Did I mention that Little Man loves his baby elephants?
I know we didn't need to go to the circus again. (we just saw it in NYC less than a month ago.) I know I didn't need to take him over to the elephant area last Friday--he probably could have gotten his fill of them today. But I love seeing his face light up.
He goes all quiet, and grabs my hand tight, and then he realizes just how exciting it all is. And I melt. Absolutely melt. His entire being is suddenly aware that he is in the presence of a real live baby elephant. And really folks, what could possibly be better than that? What could you possibly buy that could give you that much joy? What could you possibly get that might give you even a twinkling of what his little 29-pound frame feels when he gets to see an elephant?
It's the same joy he radiates when he yells, "Watch 'is mama!" and then leaps off a step. (A new trick-- Papa is not amused.) It's the same joy that engulfs his little body when he sees that we've pulled into the park and the playground comes into view, or when he yells for me to swing him higher and then suddenly, giddily exclaims, "weeeeeeeeeeeeee!" To be honest, I didn't know that people really said "weeee" when they did something fun or exciting. And yet, he does it right on cue, without the tiniest bit of forethought or irony.It's the spontaneity that makes his joy so wonderful. And it's his wonder at so many things that makes his joy so palpable. When I watch him, I can almost remember what it was like to feel that spontaneously joyful. I can almost remember what it was like when everything seemed taller and wider and the whole world seemed like an adventure waiting to happen. And then, I realize, I don't have to remember. It's still like that--and the same joy he gets from baby elephants, I get from him.
16 April 2008
Mean and Stupid Comments
I've never really gotten a mean comment before. (Not that many people really read this thing.) So when I got one today, I did what any sane person would do-- I deleted it.
And then I immediately regretted deleting it, because now it's gone and no one else will ever see it. No one else can respond to its stupidity and anger.* All because, in my last post, I suggested that the pope not act quite so happy to meet one of the "worst" leaders in the world.
Apparently it's the "worst" claim that got someone's proverbial panties up in a bunch. Because he only waterboarded three people. Because there are so many worse leaders, like Ahmadinejad. Apparently, the commenter thinks I'm a kool-aid drinking idiot for believing all the hype about Bush.
But honey, I've read the Parade magazine top ten most horriblest dictators article (congrats Mugabe, you're up 4 points!) I realize that compared to say, melagomanic psychopathic dictators Bushy is a walk in the park. Duh. But that doesn't make anything this administration has done in the way of crushing human rights, well, right. Only three waterboardings is three too many.* We're supposed to be better than that.
And damn straight I'm irritated at the pope. The priest abuse scandal was unequivocally unconscionable. Period. And the Church sat on its hands and protected those who abused rather than protecting those who were abused. I am a Catholic, albeit not the best Catholic around, so I have a stake in this whole mess. Every time I don't say, "I used to be Catholic," I reaffirm my stake in this mess. The Bush administration started a war that the last pope condemned. It is for capital punishment, something that the Church supposedly condemns. The social injustice that the Church just recently condemned as a new breed of sin is what this administration feeds on. Tax cuts for the wealthiest, anyone? Can you say Katrina? All I'm asking is that the pope at least address these things. He's the friggin' pope for goodness sake! You know, God's right hand man. He doesn't need to be polite. Lord knows he's not when it comes to certain other issues.
Give me a break. If I want to say that Bush is one of the worst leaders in the world it doesn't make me a brainless lemming. I'm not just following some bleeding-heart crowd without thinking through these things myself. I don't care if killing ten kittens is worse than killing one. The one is enough for me.
uf.
*but darn it, if I wanted to have people say nasty things about my politics I'd go talk to my family, the good conservative republicans that they mostly are.
And then I immediately regretted deleting it, because now it's gone and no one else will ever see it. No one else can respond to its stupidity and anger.* All because, in my last post, I suggested that the pope not act quite so happy to meet one of the "worst" leaders in the world.
Apparently it's the "worst" claim that got someone's proverbial panties up in a bunch. Because he only waterboarded three people. Because there are so many worse leaders, like Ahmadinejad. Apparently, the commenter thinks I'm a kool-aid drinking idiot for believing all the hype about Bush.
But honey, I've read the Parade magazine top ten most horriblest dictators article (congrats Mugabe, you're up 4 points!) I realize that compared to say, melagomanic psychopathic dictators Bushy is a walk in the park. Duh. But that doesn't make anything this administration has done in the way of crushing human rights, well, right. Only three waterboardings is three too many.* We're supposed to be better than that.
And damn straight I'm irritated at the pope. The priest abuse scandal was unequivocally unconscionable. Period. And the Church sat on its hands and protected those who abused rather than protecting those who were abused. I am a Catholic, albeit not the best Catholic around, so I have a stake in this whole mess. Every time I don't say, "I used to be Catholic," I reaffirm my stake in this mess. The Bush administration started a war that the last pope condemned. It is for capital punishment, something that the Church supposedly condemns. The social injustice that the Church just recently condemned as a new breed of sin is what this administration feeds on. Tax cuts for the wealthiest, anyone? Can you say Katrina? All I'm asking is that the pope at least address these things. He's the friggin' pope for goodness sake! You know, God's right hand man. He doesn't need to be polite. Lord knows he's not when it comes to certain other issues.
Give me a break. If I want to say that Bush is one of the worst leaders in the world it doesn't make me a brainless lemming. I'm not just following some bleeding-heart crowd without thinking through these things myself. I don't care if killing ten kittens is worse than killing one. The one is enough for me.
uf.
*but darn it, if I wanted to have people say nasty things about my politics I'd go talk to my family, the good conservative republicans that they mostly are.
15 April 2008
Ummmm
So the pope landed and expressed "shame" over the priest abuse scandal. Um...that was, like, oh years and years and years ago. I was still living at home, and I haven't called mom and dad's house home for at least 7 years.
So it's really no wonder that he seemed happy to meet the Shrub
As the guide of millions of Catholics around the world, I think maybe he could have tempered his enthusiasm to meet one of worst of the world leaders. I mean, waterboarding, torture, killing thousands of people, slaughtering the English language. Maybe he should be doing a little more "tsk, tsk" wagging of the finger instead of trying to get the wave going.
So it's really no wonder that he seemed happy to meet the Shrub
As the guide of millions of Catholics around the world, I think maybe he could have tempered his enthusiasm to meet one of worst of the world leaders. I mean, waterboarding, torture, killing thousands of people, slaughtering the English language. Maybe he should be doing a little more "tsk, tsk" wagging of the finger instead of trying to get the wave going.
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