Why, oh why, do I put off what can be done today until tomorrow? Since tucking my little dollbaby in bed, I have had the night to myself. I have, at minimum, 40 papers that must be graded by the time my head hits the pillow on Sunday night (that is only three nights after this one), yet I ignored them. What did I do, you may ask? Well...let's see. I made myself an Alka-seltzer because I have had terrible indigestion, then I had a Skinny Cow fudge pop -- sooo good and only about 80 calories. Hmmm...and I wonder why I get indigestion. I checked my email and uploaded Charlotte's 1 year pictures to flickr. I made a few phone calls, scrambling to find a sitter for Saturday night, then watched Iron Chef America...battle ginger, which featured Japanese cuisine (my favorite). I am now in the process of watching a killer episode of House Hunters (well, I was but I have it dvr'd, so I can always rewind and catch up when I finish this). Yes, I sat on my ass for the evening. So what, right? I mean, I worked hard all day. Yesterday was a bitch. Can't I veg out for a while?
Future plans for the evening do NOT include those damn papers either. I want to get a chapter of The Pillars of the Earth under my belt before drifting off to slumber. [I will finish this book sometime within the year 2008]
I developed a theory about my personality when I was finishing up my undergrad degree. I would always procrastinate on papers, projects, etc. The way I see it is, my gut instinct knows exactly how much time it takes to accomplish whatever task is set before me. I will get it done, and it will be quality. Yes, I might carry a little more anxiety and stress around because I put it off, but what if tomorrow never comes? Those essays wouldn't mean shit.
Good night and happy procrastinating!
Mar 27, 2008
Mar 24, 2008
Tonight's Thoughts (upon grading stupid essays)
I always should be doing
something else.
At the time, I don't quite feel it.
I always want something
more;
there is enough room for two?
I cut my nails, but damn
a snag.
My hands are brittle, cracked
but loved.
They clean bottoms and write comments
to be tossed.
There is more here than is seen
beneath your newly emerging curls,
baby hands and breath.
I should be doing something else.
I should be doing
more.
something else.
At the time, I don't quite feel it.
I always want something
more;
there is enough room for two?
I cut my nails, but damn
a snag.
My hands are brittle, cracked
but loved.
They clean bottoms and write comments
to be tossed.
There is more here than is seen
beneath your newly emerging curls,
baby hands and breath.
I should be doing something else.
I should be doing
more.
Mar 15, 2008
I have been meaning to write about some of the emotions of motherhood I have been experiencing lately. I don't know if these are common, or if I am in the minority here. Either way, every once in a while I feel such a strong pull at my heart it makes me stop and wonder if my mother felt this way too.
When Charlotte was a tiny baby I would get sad just looking at her. It is hard to explain, but I saw so much innocence and vulnerability in her sleepy face, wrinkled hands, round belly, and sweaty little feet. I just knew that this would dissapear one day and I would be left with only memories. Now as she is older and is starting to become very social, I feel a new pang of sadness. She wants to separate herself from me, but at the same time I am her favorite playmate. While watching her interact with other kids, I can't help but wonder how she will fare in school socially. When I started school, I was sensitive and it showed like a huge bullseye on my back. The other sensitive kids were drawn to me, while the kids who wanted to dominate saw me as another springboard to acceptance. I have many painful memories of childhood along with many wonderful memories. As a mother, I want my daughter to have more of the latter because those painful memories burn far hotter than the good ones. But how can I do this? I can't, and this is hard for me to accept.
My goal is to help her develop a positive sense of self. As I watch her interact with other kids, she boldly displays her innocence and wonder of the world around her. Holding her arms out wide to accept another child without fear of judgment or ridicule makes me smile. I know that these moments, just like earlier moments in her life, will be short-lived.
When Charlotte was a tiny baby I would get sad just looking at her. It is hard to explain, but I saw so much innocence and vulnerability in her sleepy face, wrinkled hands, round belly, and sweaty little feet. I just knew that this would dissapear one day and I would be left with only memories. Now as she is older and is starting to become very social, I feel a new pang of sadness. She wants to separate herself from me, but at the same time I am her favorite playmate. While watching her interact with other kids, I can't help but wonder how she will fare in school socially. When I started school, I was sensitive and it showed like a huge bullseye on my back. The other sensitive kids were drawn to me, while the kids who wanted to dominate saw me as another springboard to acceptance. I have many painful memories of childhood along with many wonderful memories. As a mother, I want my daughter to have more of the latter because those painful memories burn far hotter than the good ones. But how can I do this? I can't, and this is hard for me to accept.
My goal is to help her develop a positive sense of self. As I watch her interact with other kids, she boldly displays her innocence and wonder of the world around her. Holding her arms out wide to accept another child without fear of judgment or ridicule makes me smile. I know that these moments, just like earlier moments in her life, will be short-lived.
Mar 1, 2008
One Year and One Month
(yes...it is amazing that I am actually utilizing this outlet of communication)
I have been thinking a lot about my life's changes over the last year, and I instinctively want to write about my thoughts but never do. During my teens and twenties, I wrote constantly. I had volumes of journals, which I conicidentally destroyed in preparation for Charlotte. I wish I hadn't, but I can't go back. I did keep my poetry though and need to work on it more. There was a time in my life when I wanted to be a professional writer, but I chickened out and became a teacher. I hate that saying "those that can't do, teach," but apparently it is somewhat true.
So, yes...I have been reflecting a lot on my life. Then, due to my department's wonderful tribute to writers over the past week, I was introduced to the poet Beth Ann Fennelly. The 40 minutes I listened to her read poems and stories of motherhood entranced me. It was way over my students' heads, but I loved it. I even borrowed a couple bucks from one of my students so that I could purchase Tender Hooks for her to sign.
Tonight, while cleaning out papers that have apparently been stacked under our office desk for over a year, I came across my hospital discharge papers from Charlotte's birth. I smoothed them out, read through the guides to breastfeeding and caring for a newborn, found a chart that Dan and I kept to track her feedings and dirty diapers, and was brought to tears. It seems like I was there with her tiny little body yesterday, but now it is March 1st, 2008 and her small frame seems to have doubled. Her face has changed but I still catch that same expression at times, her personality is more than I ever imagined it could be, and my love for her is painfully sweet.
The following is part IV of Beth Ann Fennelly's poem "Latching On, Falling Off" and seems to suit my mood quite well right now:
IV. It Was a Strange Country
where I lived with my daughter while I fed her
from my body. It was a small country, an island for two,
and there were things we couldn't bring with us,
like her father. He watched from the far shore,
well meaning, useless. Sometimes I asked
for a glass of water, so he had something to give.
The weather there was overcast, volatile.
We were tied to the tides of whimper and milk,
the flotsam of spit-up, warm and clotted,
on my neck, my thigh. Strange: I rarely minded,
I liked the yogurt smell trapped beneath her chinfolds.
How soon her breath bloomed sweet again.
She napped, my ducts refilled
like veins of gold that throb though lodged in rock.
When she woke, we adjusted our body language.
How many hours did she kiss one breast or the other?
I told her things. She tugged my bottom lip,
like sounds were coins beneath my fascinating tounge.
We didn't get many tourists, much news --
behind the closed curtains, rocking in the chair,
the world was a rumor all summer. All autumn.
All winter, in which she sickened, sucked for comfort,
a cord of snot between her nose, my breast.
Her small pillows of breath. We slept there, single-bodied.
Then came spring and her milk teeth and her bones
longer in my lap, her feet dangling, and, rapt,
she watched me eat, scholar of sandwiches and water.
Well, I knew the signs. I held her tight, I waded out,
I swam us away from that country, swam us back
to my husband pacing the shore, yelling and waving.
in his man fists, baby spoons that flashed, cupping suns.
It was a strange country that we returned to, separately --
strange, but not for long. Soon, the milk stops
simmering and the child forgets the mother's taste,
so the motherland recedes on the horizon,
a kindness -- we return to it only at death.
The next time I write, I hope to have something of my own to share.
I have been thinking a lot about my life's changes over the last year, and I instinctively want to write about my thoughts but never do. During my teens and twenties, I wrote constantly. I had volumes of journals, which I conicidentally destroyed in preparation for Charlotte. I wish I hadn't, but I can't go back. I did keep my poetry though and need to work on it more. There was a time in my life when I wanted to be a professional writer, but I chickened out and became a teacher. I hate that saying "those that can't do, teach," but apparently it is somewhat true.
So, yes...I have been reflecting a lot on my life. Then, due to my department's wonderful tribute to writers over the past week, I was introduced to the poet Beth Ann Fennelly. The 40 minutes I listened to her read poems and stories of motherhood entranced me. It was way over my students' heads, but I loved it. I even borrowed a couple bucks from one of my students so that I could purchase Tender Hooks for her to sign.
Tonight, while cleaning out papers that have apparently been stacked under our office desk for over a year, I came across my hospital discharge papers from Charlotte's birth. I smoothed them out, read through the guides to breastfeeding and caring for a newborn, found a chart that Dan and I kept to track her feedings and dirty diapers, and was brought to tears. It seems like I was there with her tiny little body yesterday, but now it is March 1st, 2008 and her small frame seems to have doubled. Her face has changed but I still catch that same expression at times, her personality is more than I ever imagined it could be, and my love for her is painfully sweet.
The following is part IV of Beth Ann Fennelly's poem "Latching On, Falling Off" and seems to suit my mood quite well right now:
IV. It Was a Strange Country
where I lived with my daughter while I fed her
from my body. It was a small country, an island for two,
and there were things we couldn't bring with us,
like her father. He watched from the far shore,
well meaning, useless. Sometimes I asked
for a glass of water, so he had something to give.
The weather there was overcast, volatile.
We were tied to the tides of whimper and milk,
the flotsam of spit-up, warm and clotted,
on my neck, my thigh. Strange: I rarely minded,
I liked the yogurt smell trapped beneath her chinfolds.
How soon her breath bloomed sweet again.
She napped, my ducts refilled
like veins of gold that throb though lodged in rock.
When she woke, we adjusted our body language.
How many hours did she kiss one breast or the other?
I told her things. She tugged my bottom lip,
like sounds were coins beneath my fascinating tounge.
We didn't get many tourists, much news --
behind the closed curtains, rocking in the chair,
the world was a rumor all summer. All autumn.
All winter, in which she sickened, sucked for comfort,
a cord of snot between her nose, my breast.
Her small pillows of breath. We slept there, single-bodied.
Then came spring and her milk teeth and her bones
longer in my lap, her feet dangling, and, rapt,
she watched me eat, scholar of sandwiches and water.
Well, I knew the signs. I held her tight, I waded out,
I swam us away from that country, swam us back
to my husband pacing the shore, yelling and waving.
in his man fists, baby spoons that flashed, cupping suns.
It was a strange country that we returned to, separately --
strange, but not for long. Soon, the milk stops
simmering and the child forgets the mother's taste,
so the motherland recedes on the horizon,
a kindness -- we return to it only at death.
The next time I write, I hope to have something of my own to share.
Sep 30, 2006
Queen Bee
Time to think pink, but really I am thinking orange (I like that color better). Little baby girl Fudala is coming this spring. Wow...a daughter. I am going to have my hands full. She is looking cute and kicking up a storm when I am trying to chill.
Aug 10, 2006
3 1/2 Months
What an amazing experience...at six weeks we saw a little heart beating and it just seemed unreal. Now at 14 weeks we actually heard his/her heart beating...so fast (168 beats per minute), it seemed like a little bird beating its wings. It is still a very surreal experience. Soon enough I will be able to feel this being moving. I wonder what its personality will be like...hopefully content and peaceful, maybe fiery and passionate. Both? Is that possible...
In a month and a half we are going to find out if it is a little girl or a little boy. Last night I dreampt it was a boy...we shall see. This whole experience is definitely a test of patience.
(Alright...I have taken a break from my final exam...must get back to it)
In a month and a half we are going to find out if it is a little girl or a little boy. Last night I dreampt it was a boy...we shall see. This whole experience is definitely a test of patience.
(Alright...I have taken a break from my final exam...must get back to it)
Jul 26, 2006
baby booties
I have been busy this summer. Took three grad classes and have nurtured and grown a three month old fetus all at the same time! So much for summer vacation. Yes, I am going to have a baby. Consider this an announcement to the world (all 8 of you who have viewed this page in the last month I should say). Pretty crazy to think that come February I will be looking into the eyes of a little face that is a combination of myself and Dan. It is exciting and weird.
More later...
More later...
Mar 6, 2006
happy birthday?
Remember when 16 seemed old? 21 seemed like it would take an eternity to get to? You would never be 25, right? All the great rock stars died at 27...better to burn out than fade away.
31 just seems...eh...boring.
One too many vodka gimlets the night before made it boring and painful too (belvedere with olives please).
31 just seems...eh...boring.
One too many vodka gimlets the night before made it boring and painful too (belvedere with olives please).
Feb 2, 2006
those are fightin words
First fist fight in class today...totally awesome! It's gonna be a long semester!
Jan 19, 2006
literally bananas
Eeeeeeew...I don't like them. However, I do like banana bread. It just so happens that I have a bit baking in the oven.
Should be hot and fresh in time for A.I. -- that is American Idol to all you fools that aren't reality television/celebreality/trash television addicts like myself.
Yes...I have all of my semester exams graded. No...I don't officially have to have my grades turned in for five days. I want to sit on my ass for a while and pretend my own reality does not exist. Is that so bad?
Even though I am feeling a tad lazy, part of me acknowledges the need to do something fantastic. I want to write, read a new novel, knit a baby sweater -- something for chrissake -- but instead I think I will just opt for the easy way out tonight.
Afterall...I am baking banana bread.
Should be hot and fresh in time for A.I. -- that is American Idol to all you fools that aren't reality television/celebreality/trash television addicts like myself.
Yes...I have all of my semester exams graded. No...I don't officially have to have my grades turned in for five days. I want to sit on my ass for a while and pretend my own reality does not exist. Is that so bad?
Even though I am feeling a tad lazy, part of me acknowledges the need to do something fantastic. I want to write, read a new novel, knit a baby sweater -- something for chrissake -- but instead I think I will just opt for the easy way out tonight.
Afterall...I am baking banana bread.
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