B-

So maybe I get a B- with a gold star for encouragement (see previous post). Just call me Diva Queen of Laundry! But I should get SOME points for staying up and scouring the Horn Book online for books that four year olds might like. Interested? All rated four or five stars on Amazon, check these out:

The Crayon Box That Talked, by Shane Derolf
Baby Says, by John Steptoe
The Key to My Heart, by Nirah Harel
Roller Coaster, by Marla Frazee
Otto Goes to the Beach, by Todd Parr
David Gets in Trouble, by David Shannon

Okay. Now, at 1:11am, enough procrastination. With Starbucks in my system, I turn to my chapter. Mommy gets a B+, I think.

It's the Attorney's Wife for Me

Did you always know you were going to be married to a hair stylist? An entrepreneur? A teacher? I don't know if I imagined I'd be living life as an attorney'’s wife. Among other things.

Of course, his profession--or mine--does not matter as much as the kind of people we are, which will undoubtedly influence the kind of person that our daughter has the potential to become. This may not be the most profound thought I'’ve ever thunk, but it is pretty impressive in terms of its potential for inducing massive parental guilt. Attempting to reach deep into the bowels of my soul, I ponder the question: Does writing in my blog count for setting any kind of helpful example? Pro: I'’m documenting the minutiae of my life while fulfilling a basic passion to write. Con: I am using the blog as a tool of procrastination. In other words, I should be:
a) finishing the draft of the Chapter
b) working on determining how to pay eight bills with negative money
c) folding the clothes I'’m using to prop myself up
d) All of the above
Accomplishing any one of the above, plus writing in my blog would probably qualify for a B- in Parental Example Setting. Any two of the above? Definite B+.

Grades will be issued in the morning. Fortunately, I believe that No Parent Should Be Left Behind. With hard work, determination, remediation and a little affirmative action, I feel that I can produce at least occasional flashes of maternal brilliance...

Transplant Rejection?

You're in a new place and this place is now your home. Do you take a deep breath and keep on steppin'...or do you retreat into your shell like a hermit crab, peeking your eye stalks out every now and then to scope out your surroundings?

For the past nine months, I've told myself "this is a transition phase. Soon I will know what it's like for this Midwestern biracial mama to be living in the Hot-as-H-E double toothpick Bible belt." But of course, all of this is a lie, and not your garden variety white lie (Mkay, why do the little cute lies get to be WHITE?...oh, sorry--channeling my inner Black Panther there for a moment).

Let's get back to that lie, shall we? I found clues to my self-deception in little things. The way my daughter's twang and slang (Momma, whater you fixin' to do?) makes me grit my teeth. My urge to overindulge a bohemian streak (I've never owned so many tunics in my life). A struggle to keep pork from invading my home.

So am I becoming a Southerner? Don't know. I mean, without completely essentializing myself and/or everyone in this Small Southern City, what makes a Southerner? Who knows. But I live in the South. My husband is from the South and my daughter will grow up knowing the South as her home. In the face of these facts, do I attempt to make a fortress, an enclave of Buddhism, massive soy product consumption and recycling? Are there such things as Southern-fried hippy chicks?

I sure hope so. Otherwise I'm liable to go bonkers and become that trite image of the wizened old lady sipping mint juleps that are mostly 100 proof rum...

Post Its--The Other White Meat

Meme Question from a few days ago: “Has there ever been time when your body and your mind were at odds with one another? How did you resolve the problem?” Okay, how about EVERY DAY? I have to say, I am obsessed with baked goods. No matter how hard I try, it seems I can’t get this sweet toothed monkey off my back. I’ve just spent an hour trying to negotiate whether I should have a Kellogg’s Special K bar (90 calories) or a toaster strudel (200 calories). It’s unnatural. And then again, so is getting my mother’s day photo from A: a picture of she and me, with me looking like a linebacker for (name of your favorite NFL Team). How is that possible? I thought the camera added ten pounds…not FIFTY. Holy Hostess Twinkies, Batman.

I think I should just go with A’s solution (above). In case you didn’t notice, we’re having Post Its for dinner. As a matter of fact, this would solve several of my current problems. I could just write the name of what I would have liked to cook for dinner on a post it and serve that to my family. Well anyway…remember that birthday story I told A on the day we had to cancel her party? Here it is.

THE BIRTHDAY STORY

Once upon a time there was a little girl named A…who was very smart, and very nice, and very beautiful. It was May 9th, and A had been looking forward to this day for a whole year. She was turning FOUR. She could hardly keep from bouncing up and down when her mother picked her up from preschool. They rushed home, where A changed into her birthday skirt and her birthday shirt, and her yellow galoshes with the bumblebees on them—because it had started to rain. It was time to go to her party! A and her mother stepped outside. The rain began to come down faster. They took a step. The rain came down harder. Suddenly, A started to feel all wiggly and tickly inside. She looked down at her hand and-Oh my gosh! She was turning into a RAIN DROP. She looked at her mommy and—Oh my gosh! Her mommy was turning into a rain drop!

This was certainly very strange. And things got even stranger because when A looked down, she saw that her feet were not touching the ground, and neither were her mommy’s. They held hands, as they started to rise higher and higher into the sky. Off in the distance, they say something floating toward them. It was daddy, and he was a raindrop too! They held hands as the floated up toward the clouds, wondering what would happen next. As soon as they broke through the clouds they saw that the sun was shining ever so brightly. And you know what happens when the sun and raindrops come together…It makes a rainbow. Up in the sky, mommy, and daddy, and A made a rainbow as the sun shined through their raindrop bodies. And there were other raindrop people up there too—a little girl named Susan and a little boy named Marquis were standing next to A. Susan and Marquis were with their parents, who were also raindrops. Marquis turned to A and said “Hi! How are you? Did you know that today was my birthday?” A gasped. “It’s my birthday too!” she told Marquis. Susan said “Hey! It’s MY birthday too!” All of the boys and girls who turned four on May 9th were floating up in the clouds, making a rainbow with their mommies and daddies.

It was a rainbow people party! A and the rest of the children started to smile and laugh, and when they did, they heard something strange—it was disco music—coming from the sun! ALL of the people started to dance and the sun turned into a big disco ball. Then little cupcakes started to sprout from the clouds—and each cupcake said “Happy Birthday” on them.

A and her mommy and her daddy and all the other raindrop-rainbow people laughed and danced and ate cupcakes until they were sleepy. As each person started to yawn, they slowly drifted back down to earth, turning back into regular people the closer they got to the ground. A held hands with her mommy and daddy, and they all went into the house and brushed their teeth and fell asleep.

It was the best birthday party ever.

Cheap Chapter Philosophizing

Three days after the most recent and probably final due date for this chapter. I'm torn between feeling completely inadequate, wondering what the editors think of me (that I'm a flake?) and other things. Like, when a professor retires and they are written about as having "written over 100 article, chapters and essays..." do they think back to each one as their baby...their carefully nurtured and pruned bonsai tree? Do they think about the hours that each took, the time away from families that its completion exacted? Do they perhaps wonder if what they wrote will ever be read by anyone for whom it will really matter or is it enough to know that they themselves wrote about it and at the time, it mattered to them?

Or maybe it's just me. Maybe other academics don't think about the human cost and value of what they've written at all--maybe they just DO IT, figuring that any sense to be made about the work, any ruminations about the signficance of it all will be something to save for those days in the nursing home when they're staring out the window into the black beaded eye of a bright red cardinal perched on a branch. Perhaps at that moment all they will think is "what a pretty bird." Or, if they're lucky/unlucky, just "bird."

Perhaps I should get to work on this chapter, as if my family's medical insurance depended on it.

Mayday

I feel so sad that I didn't take the time to write about last week's festivities (A's 4th birthday) until now. This blog would not exist as it does without her. And I'm now at that point where reconstructing the events simply does not have that just-popped-the-top fizz.

What's more--it wasn't as if I hadn't been planning this for MONTHS. Since Christmas, I had been squirreling away spare change and the five dollar checks I get from answering product surveys on the internet every now and then (I'm probably about to lose that "job" since I've been way too busy to spend the time checking "almost always" and "never" after looking at products we all know we need).

I had saved up almost a hundred bucks. I'd scouted out Walmart and Target, picked up Dora party hats, Dora napkins, Dora plates and cups. My plan: to have a small celebration at the preschool. Then a week before the party, S.O. casually suggests that we have it at McDonalds. Unbeknownst to him--this is no casual affair. Said party involves (1) a 60 dollar upfront fee to reserve cheeseburgers, drinks, ice cream and cake and most importantly, the (trumpet salute) BIRTHDAY Table in the play area. I'm thinking that S.O. imagined that we'd just saunter in, plunk ourselves down at the BIRTHDAY table, sing happy birthday, and yell, "a round of happy meals for everrrybody!!"

Unbeknownst to me, the McDonald's party also includes goody bags. Yes, ladies and gentlemen--that key birthday party ingredient that separates the haves from the have nots, the delinquent mothers from the PTA queens. One simply must have goody bags for all of the munchkins. Sooo...I spent HOURS finding little goodies for little Dora goody bags. Plastic slinkys. Styrofoam gliders in separate plastic envelopes. Fruit-scented bubbles (don't ask). Whistles in the shape of baseballs, footballs and soccer balls. Toy cars and plastic farm animals. And of course, stickers.

Alas, I spent even more hours figuring out complicated logic problems: If there are 18 kids coming to the party and I only have 16 goody bags, and I have 10 styrofoam gliders and 12 bubbles, and 15 whistles (one was broken dammit) how many more goodies will I have to purchase in order to make sure that every kid has the same number of goodies--but no duplicates? Trust me, diagrams and charts were involved here.

I finally solved this equation, gotten A's outfit laid out and everything situated in the car. Cue the Thunderclouds of Death. A torrential downpour of biblical proportions erupts from the sky. A is crushed--but magically, no tears!

Thankfully, the power is out at McDonalds, so we get to reschedule for Thursday. Some crazy parents did show up, but I have enough neuroses in my own life to deal with. Later, we have KFC and empanadas. I put Asia to bed. Before I do, I sing Happy Birthday and tell her a special birthday story. I'll save that one for my next post.

Now back to the chapter that was due Monday. I mean, April 10th. No, no, I remember-- it was February 28th, yeah. Now I remember. *Sigh.*

Future Memories

I confess that I'm absolutely fascinated with narratives. The way that the future and the past bleed together in our present understandings of ourselves and the world around us.

It's 11:09pm now. Laptop perched on the kitchen counter, I'm emptying the dishwasher and thinking of so many things. How thankful I am that my husband called to tell me that he was sleepy and was going to take a nap in the Walmart parking lot an hour away...there've been many times he'd have not called. Thankful just to be living and to have a sense, however imperfect, of the way that we are all just here, living.

Oprah had Terri Hatcher on tv today, talking about her new book and the sexual abuse she suffered as a child. Oprah. What a pro. Sometimes she feels like nothing more than Jerry Springer dressed up in self-righteousness, spirituality and high heeled shoes. And then there are other moments when something genuine (genuinely what I'm not sure) shines through.

Anyway. Hatcher was talking about a segment of the book in which she went off on her daughter for spilling some couscous as they were making dinner together. Don't know what others watching took from it, but I just imagined her there in her kitchen, a divorced mom, stripped of all the sequins and hair extensions and airbrushing, working it out with her daughter and working out for herself what it means to try to do right by her child. I hope I’m doing right by my own daughter.

A. will turn four a week from today. She's so different than the girl of three I knew just a couple of months ago. Older (of course). Less trusting, I think. Or perhaps just more knowledgeable about the world. When she looks at me, the person behind her eyes is different, her brain working at increasingly sophisticated levels. But who is this new A.? I’m sure this is a question I’ll be asking myself over and over again as we create our narratives of mother and daughter. One thing is for sure—tivo or not—we're needing to watch less tv. She has a voracious appetite for Backyardigans--I think she can watch the same episode 50 times and still want to see it again. Perhaps this is what I was like with Scooby Doo?

And, a professional dilemma. I am on the verge of working to secure a grant from the government; six figures over three years. Even writing these words freaks me out incredibly. I've never done anything this major before and I keep wondering--is this feeling in my heart a fear that I might actualize my potential...or the realization that I'm biting off more than I can chew, again? I mean, I have about five writing projects waiting to be completed—one of those a final grant report for the 10,000 project I did two years ago. I keep asking myself…Is this right? Is doing this thing right? It feels right…but is it right? Perhaps this is the wrong question, but it is the one that remains on heavy rotation in my brain.

If there ever was something professional to give concentrated thought to, this is definitely something that bears prayer/meditation.

It's Quiet...Too Quiet

So I’m sitting here in my living room. It’s quiet, except for the distant booming buzz of some high school students’ woofer, and the sound of cars intermittently whizzing past. I still can’t get used to working from home. My husband and child are here, yet they are not here. I feel as if S.O. is hunched over the laptop at the rectangular folding table we call a desk. I see where A. has lined up her chairs in the middle of the floor like seats in a movie theater, her cd player and strawberry shaped cd case laying in wait on the kid-size folding table she uses for meals, “projects” (these mainly involve lots and lots of sparkly glue) and putting together puzzles. It seems like she’s just upstairs napping.

But they are not here. S.O. is in the southern part of this Southern state sitting in on a deposition of a man dying of cancer. A. is at school, at this moment probably right in the midst of a blissful nap.

She’s been having trouble sleeping the past couple of nights, ever since I took her with me to the emergency room, where her local Grandma was being treated for a poisonous spider bite (thank God for spell check—I first wrote that “grandma was being treated for a poisonous spider butt”).

A. turned her head away while the nurses struggled to get an IV started for Grandma’s antibiotics, but then asked if she could look. I told her that she could if she wanted to—so she did, asking me questions and me answering the best I could. Later, S.O. told me that he disagreed with what I’d done, saying that I shouldn’t have had her looking at that (needles and blood on gauze, etc.). My thought at the time is that we should try to make this as non-weird as possible (who knows what could happen in the future, and she may have to come back to a hospital)…but now I’m second guessing. The night before last, as she was laying in bed, she asked me to tell her about the time when daddy was bit by a spider and had to go to the hospital—she’d gotten confused (I’d told her that daddy had to come to the hospital to have his belly button [hernia] fixed). Then last night she told me she was afraid that she would have bad dreams and we thought about all the good dreams she might have. She told me about one that involved monkeys jumping around in an inflatable trampoline-thingy. But then her story dream got weird and the monkeys fell out and bumped their heads and there was a lot of blood. I told her I thought her dream of being at her other Grandma’s beach with all of her friends was much nicer, and that she should try to dream of that.

There’s no way I’m telling S.O. that maybe he was right. But maybe he was.

In the meantime, I’m still trying to slog through this governmental work I should have had done two weeks ago. The way it's going, I MAY have it done by the end of the week.

As for today? With the time I have left before picking A. up, I must (1) rub my turkey legs (the OTHER turkey legs) with spices and put them in the oven, (2) start the field peas and snaps cookin’ (3) put a payment in the mail for one of the only bills we have managed to consistently pay on time (4) put clothes in the dryer and (5) email people I should have mailed three weeks ago—in addition to the people I should have emailed two weeks ago. I'll put off the one-week overdue emails for another week.

And for some reason, I can’t get picahn pie out of my mind…I keep thinking: It won’t be as good as you think it will. It won’t be as good as you think it will. It won’t be as good as you think it will. Mouth: I command you to cease watering, right now...

Ahh, the perennial battle between a woman and her sweet tooth. ...Second only to the battle between procrastination and perfectionism.