 |
 |
| Make a Smilebox photobook |
May 11, 2008
Apr 17, 2008
New Beginnings
Spring is coming. I can tell because the days are getting longer; it is brighter earlier in the morning, and the birds outside act as my pseudo-alarm clock. It is not easy making it through a Chicago winter, even if I live in the suburbs now. Winters in Chicago are cold and nasty. The snow drifts (sidewalk-icebergs of various shades of gray) don't start melting until late April.
I should be feeling great, but I don't just now.
More bad news from my sister. It seems that just when things were looking up, the reality of stage 4 colon cancer comes up and knocks your feet out from under you. My brother-in-law, ex-roommate, and friend of over thirteen years has been fighting this battle since January 24th, 2007. Over a year of physical torture, chemo treatments, surgery -- and things were really getting better. His low was this summer when we visited them. He could barely walk because of pain, and when he did go anywhere, it wasn't long before he had to run to the bathroom. He was embarrassed, depressed, and beaten-down. He lost about fifty pounds, weighing in at 122. He looked skeletal and hollow. Since then, he fought his way back. New hope was regained when he finished chemo treatments and underwent cyber-knife surgery late in 2007. The doctor's professed that every patient that undergoes this surgery has had a successful outcome. Jim looks like his old self. He gained back all the weight he lost, and is feeling well. He signed up to run in the Chicago Marathon for 2008, something he had to miss last year and started to run again. We were all optimistic.
Unfortunately, the definition of "successful outcome" is yet to be determined. The latest scan shows the lesions are still on his liver, yet has not been read by the specialists to determine if they are smaller. Also, an "active" lymph node is now attached to a major artery and cannot be surgically removed.
Jim has to start chemo again.
When he asked his doctors their estimate on how long he would have if he didn't do anymore chemo the answer was shocking -- 8 months. He is only 43 years old. He is my sister's husband, the father of two boys (8 and 7) and a little girl (3). How is this possible?
So, as Spring approaches here, I want to appreciate everything I have. I am healthy. I have a healthy husband. We are happy. Our daughter is perfect and beautiful. She thrives on life every day. I want to remain optimistic that my brother-in-law will be able to beat this. I will be thinking positively about this. I believe in the power of thought. Surrounding myself in negativity will only attract negative outcomes. Life is so precious. It is a miracle.
I should be feeling great, but I don't just now.
More bad news from my sister. It seems that just when things were looking up, the reality of stage 4 colon cancer comes up and knocks your feet out from under you. My brother-in-law, ex-roommate, and friend of over thirteen years has been fighting this battle since January 24th, 2007. Over a year of physical torture, chemo treatments, surgery -- and things were really getting better. His low was this summer when we visited them. He could barely walk because of pain, and when he did go anywhere, it wasn't long before he had to run to the bathroom. He was embarrassed, depressed, and beaten-down. He lost about fifty pounds, weighing in at 122. He looked skeletal and hollow. Since then, he fought his way back. New hope was regained when he finished chemo treatments and underwent cyber-knife surgery late in 2007. The doctor's professed that every patient that undergoes this surgery has had a successful outcome. Jim looks like his old self. He gained back all the weight he lost, and is feeling well. He signed up to run in the Chicago Marathon for 2008, something he had to miss last year and started to run again. We were all optimistic.
Unfortunately, the definition of "successful outcome" is yet to be determined. The latest scan shows the lesions are still on his liver, yet has not been read by the specialists to determine if they are smaller. Also, an "active" lymph node is now attached to a major artery and cannot be surgically removed.
Jim has to start chemo again.
When he asked his doctors their estimate on how long he would have if he didn't do anymore chemo the answer was shocking -- 8 months. He is only 43 years old. He is my sister's husband, the father of two boys (8 and 7) and a little girl (3). How is this possible?
So, as Spring approaches here, I want to appreciate everything I have. I am healthy. I have a healthy husband. We are happy. Our daughter is perfect and beautiful. She thrives on life every day. I want to remain optimistic that my brother-in-law will be able to beat this. I will be thinking positively about this. I believe in the power of thought. Surrounding myself in negativity will only attract negative outcomes. Life is so precious. It is a miracle.
Apr 12, 2008
These are the days...
I love my job -- I swear I do. BUT some days are just more challenging than others.
Friday, April 11th, 2008 would qualify as one of those days.
Everything was going along swimmingly, until my 7th period American literature class. A group of high-spirited, talkative students faced me on this second day we were discussing the master-work The Great Gatsby. Since it was obvious that only about one-third of the students even knew who the narrator was the previous day, I devised a five-question pop quiz. "This will get 'em" I thought to myself on the way into the room and wrote "5 ? Pop Quiz" on the whiteboard as the first item on the day's agenda. Of course I received the usual moans and groans, and the "I wasn't here yesterday because I was on a field trip" complaints. I, ever so coolly, replied with my sarcastic "Ouch! That's a shame" and "Unless you are oozing bodily fluids out of every orifice, you had a reading schedule and were capable of reading."
On with the quiz! I devised easy questions for it on the spot (sometimes you are required to think fast) to simply gauge whether the students made an attempt to read. Before reading my questions aloud, Miss X asks to run to the bathroom. The very same Miss X that I agonizingly decided to give an A- to for the quarter, even though she fell .01 percentage points below the cut-off for the grade. I figured she was a smart student and liked learning, despite the fact that she consistently shows up late to my class with a pass from a mysterious teacher. I asked her if this was an emergency -- she answered no, but she would be much more comfortable during the rest of class if I let her go. I asked her why she didn't take care of this before class and her response was enough to make my jaw hit the floor. She was eating sushi and didn't have time; however it was quite delicious (no joke, exact words, WTF?????). Where have those passes been coming from -- an Asian fusion restaurant???? I gave myself a mental tongue lashing for even contemplating, let alone, giving this student the benefit of the doubt earlier in the week when grades were due -- then I explained to her that I had to go to the bathroom too, but I'm not leaving during class, so she will just have to wait.
End of class nears and I seriously did have to go. Ahhh...the bell rings and I head out of the room to quickly pee before my next group of degenerates enters the room and breaks everything in sight with their super-trendy (in the teenage world) bouncy balls that I take away every day. Miss X decides to follow me out of the room asking if the novel is ever going to get better. I forgot to mention that Miss X also wanted me to recommend her for Advanced Placement English next year. With a comment like that sweetie -- NO WAY. Walking down the hall sideways, I tell her that it would get better if she changed her perspective toward it, give it a chance, set aside negative judgment regarding the novel. She laughed at me and said, "How am I supposed to do that?" Good question...very relevant to the situation. I do it every day honey, just not with novels.
A quick bathroom trip and a thorough washing of my hands and I am back on! Ahhh...these are my AP seniors. This will be easier. After all, student groups are giving 20 minute presentations on assigned poems. These are fun! This will be fun!
Wrong!
Class starts with the bouncy balls. I hate these damn things. I see them everywhere. Can I burn things in school and not get fired? A frantic student brings up a scholarship contest entry to me asking me to review it. It must be post-marked by Tuesday, I need to mail it for her, and it is only half-done. Could she email it to me over the weekend to look at? I would have to print cover letters for her on letterhead, get it assembled, and run to the post office to get this done for her. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
First group finally finishes a presentation from yesterday. It went smoothly, although they totally bashed Sylvia Plath's "Metaphors" and said it was negative in tone. I tried to get them to see the light, but to no avail. The next group up read Emily Dickinson's "These are the Days the Birds Come Back" and began to break it down. The usual suspects in this class complain that it is a Dickinson poem. They hate her work because it is just too abstract for them. They refuse to put in the work it takes to find the meaning of it. The use her personal life as ammunition and call her a freak. I have to ask them to sit back and listen to what the group is going to tell them. After all, they could be faced with a Dickinson poem on the AP test and would need to work to explicate it. It was going well until I heard an annoying noise behind me. It sounded like a dripping faucet. I immediately turned around to the student I knew was doing it and asked him to stop. As I turn back around, I heard it again. My blood is boiling. Two straight periods of insanity and I am ready to quit. Just to push me over the top -- in the middle of the presentation Miss Y (the one who never brings her book, is smart and knows it, is snarky and just draws in her notebook or reads another novel in class) asks me to go to the bathroom. Two periods in a row -- are you kidding me??? I tell her that unless it is an emergency she can't, and that it is rude to get up in the middle of someone's presentation to go to the bathroom. She gives me attitude. She pleads her case to others in the room saying, "She won't let me go to the bathroom...hahaha!" Ummm...how about "shut up?"
After the presentation was over, I asked if there were any questions. You will never believe what I heard. The student that so desperately needs me to look over a last-minute essay for a scholarship, take time out of my weekend to do this and run around to mail it for her, asks to go to the bathroom! Is there something going on in the bathroom that I am missing? I was just there...it was the same stinky, disgusting, dingy place to me.
I took a few deep breaths and proceeded to explain to the class that I was extremely disappointed in them for being so rude. The noise-maker outed himself (exactly who I thought it was) and the girls rolled their eyes. Maybe something sunk in though?
As I said, I do love my job. It is just hard. It is hard dealing with young adults that are growing up in a society of immediacy. They are isolated, careless, and ignorant in many ways. In other ways they are humorous, light-hearted, and alive. When everything is in balance, I leave my job feeling great about what I do. It's just those days when things get out of balance that sting.
Thank God it was a Friday :)
Friday, April 11th, 2008 would qualify as one of those days.
Everything was going along swimmingly, until my 7th period American literature class. A group of high-spirited, talkative students faced me on this second day we were discussing the master-work The Great Gatsby. Since it was obvious that only about one-third of the students even knew who the narrator was the previous day, I devised a five-question pop quiz. "This will get 'em" I thought to myself on the way into the room and wrote "5 ? Pop Quiz" on the whiteboard as the first item on the day's agenda. Of course I received the usual moans and groans, and the "I wasn't here yesterday because I was on a field trip" complaints. I, ever so coolly, replied with my sarcastic "Ouch! That's a shame" and "Unless you are oozing bodily fluids out of every orifice, you had a reading schedule and were capable of reading."
On with the quiz! I devised easy questions for it on the spot (sometimes you are required to think fast) to simply gauge whether the students made an attempt to read. Before reading my questions aloud, Miss X asks to run to the bathroom. The very same Miss X that I agonizingly decided to give an A- to for the quarter, even though she fell .01 percentage points below the cut-off for the grade. I figured she was a smart student and liked learning, despite the fact that she consistently shows up late to my class with a pass from a mysterious teacher. I asked her if this was an emergency -- she answered no, but she would be much more comfortable during the rest of class if I let her go. I asked her why she didn't take care of this before class and her response was enough to make my jaw hit the floor. She was eating sushi and didn't have time; however it was quite delicious (no joke, exact words, WTF?????). Where have those passes been coming from -- an Asian fusion restaurant???? I gave myself a mental tongue lashing for even contemplating, let alone, giving this student the benefit of the doubt earlier in the week when grades were due -- then I explained to her that I had to go to the bathroom too, but I'm not leaving during class, so she will just have to wait.
End of class nears and I seriously did have to go. Ahhh...the bell rings and I head out of the room to quickly pee before my next group of degenerates enters the room and breaks everything in sight with their super-trendy (in the teenage world) bouncy balls that I take away every day. Miss X decides to follow me out of the room asking if the novel is ever going to get better. I forgot to mention that Miss X also wanted me to recommend her for Advanced Placement English next year. With a comment like that sweetie -- NO WAY. Walking down the hall sideways, I tell her that it would get better if she changed her perspective toward it, give it a chance, set aside negative judgment regarding the novel. She laughed at me and said, "How am I supposed to do that?" Good question...very relevant to the situation. I do it every day honey, just not with novels.
A quick bathroom trip and a thorough washing of my hands and I am back on! Ahhh...these are my AP seniors. This will be easier. After all, student groups are giving 20 minute presentations on assigned poems. These are fun! This will be fun!
Wrong!
Class starts with the bouncy balls. I hate these damn things. I see them everywhere. Can I burn things in school and not get fired? A frantic student brings up a scholarship contest entry to me asking me to review it. It must be post-marked by Tuesday, I need to mail it for her, and it is only half-done. Could she email it to me over the weekend to look at? I would have to print cover letters for her on letterhead, get it assembled, and run to the post office to get this done for her. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
First group finally finishes a presentation from yesterday. It went smoothly, although they totally bashed Sylvia Plath's "Metaphors" and said it was negative in tone. I tried to get them to see the light, but to no avail. The next group up read Emily Dickinson's "These are the Days the Birds Come Back" and began to break it down. The usual suspects in this class complain that it is a Dickinson poem. They hate her work because it is just too abstract for them. They refuse to put in the work it takes to find the meaning of it. The use her personal life as ammunition and call her a freak. I have to ask them to sit back and listen to what the group is going to tell them. After all, they could be faced with a Dickinson poem on the AP test and would need to work to explicate it. It was going well until I heard an annoying noise behind me. It sounded like a dripping faucet. I immediately turned around to the student I knew was doing it and asked him to stop. As I turn back around, I heard it again. My blood is boiling. Two straight periods of insanity and I am ready to quit. Just to push me over the top -- in the middle of the presentation Miss Y (the one who never brings her book, is smart and knows it, is snarky and just draws in her notebook or reads another novel in class) asks me to go to the bathroom. Two periods in a row -- are you kidding me??? I tell her that unless it is an emergency she can't, and that it is rude to get up in the middle of someone's presentation to go to the bathroom. She gives me attitude. She pleads her case to others in the room saying, "She won't let me go to the bathroom...hahaha!" Ummm...how about "shut up?"
After the presentation was over, I asked if there were any questions. You will never believe what I heard. The student that so desperately needs me to look over a last-minute essay for a scholarship, take time out of my weekend to do this and run around to mail it for her, asks to go to the bathroom! Is there something going on in the bathroom that I am missing? I was just there...it was the same stinky, disgusting, dingy place to me.
I took a few deep breaths and proceeded to explain to the class that I was extremely disappointed in them for being so rude. The noise-maker outed himself (exactly who I thought it was) and the girls rolled their eyes. Maybe something sunk in though?
As I said, I do love my job. It is just hard. It is hard dealing with young adults that are growing up in a society of immediacy. They are isolated, careless, and ignorant in many ways. In other ways they are humorous, light-hearted, and alive. When everything is in balance, I leave my job feeling great about what I do. It's just those days when things get out of balance that sting.
Thank God it was a Friday :)
Mar 27, 2008
Procrasti-what?
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!
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 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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
