The Toughest Job

My dad turned eighty last month. Eighty! It doesn't seem as old as it once did, especially now that I am half way there. Imagine all the memories and experience you'll have when you reach that age. No wonder he's so forgetful! Since Cameron arrived we've seen a lot more of Dad. He likes the little guy and seems honestly thrilled by all that Cam does. I think he's forgotten how babies develop. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by that; it's been about forty years since he's lived with a baby. Maybe it's just his old age. Or maybe it's just the fact that human life really is miraculous.

I hope I don't sound too maudlin or cliche when I say I understand better what Dad, and Mom, must have gone through while raising my siblings and me. How they did it is still a mystery to me. Being a parent just blows the socks off of any other experience I've had. While I was pregnant I worried about how I would manage the constant buzz of anxiety I was certain I'd feel once the baby arrived. A year later I have to say that the buzz it overwhelmed by exhaustion. If I ever manage to "catch up" on some sleep and become emotionally rested, then I'm sure the anxiety will come back. Until then, I just hope I'm not too tired to miss what's important.

This past week at work I've been discussing "character" with my students. The kids are writing short essays about what a good father is. It's kind of funny, the things they say. This class is mostly 14 year-old boys.

We started the process by using a lesson that asks them to rank fathers based on brief character descriptions. One father was a strict police officer, another was something like Tiger Woods' father and another was a cool dad who took his kid to concerts and never made him do homework. I did the lesson without much preparation but knew intuitively that it would yield some great stuff.

Our discussion began with me asking the kids which father they liked best. Their choice wasn't hard to predict. They liked the cool dad, the one who blamed the school for his kid's bad grades. In turn, they also liked the father of the narrator from Tobias Wolf's short story "Powder." He sneaks his son into a nightclub to see Thelonious Monk and drives in an English sportscar down a mountain road that's closed due to a snowstorm. I suppose their position, their status requires them to initially say, in front of their peers, that the cool dad is best.

"But, really?" I asked.

We reread the descriptions and charted the qualities. Seeing it up on the whiteboard, in front of them, clarified a few things. The cool thing about the cool dad was that he spent time with his kid. He tried to have a relationship. And the good thing about the strict dad was that he was protecting his kid. And the dad who mortgaged his house to support his daughter's athletic talent, he took a risk in an effort to secure her future. They were impressed by those qualities.

I then wondered, were they able to take it to the next step? To see what their fathers really do for them? When it came time to write about their fathers some of them really struggled. One boy said, "my dad never plays catch with me." And another said, "my dad really isn't a good father." Instead of writing about his own dad, one student decided to write about his best friend's father. That father had more positive qualities than his own.

A former colleague believed that teaching coming of age stories to high school students didn't work. He thought because they were in the midst of it, coming of age, that they couldn't really know the significance or importance of what they were going through. That, in part, they didn't have the distance required to reflect on the experience. I always argued that the students could at least connect to the story and relationship. Maybe they couldn't see the larger significance, but to connect to a character is huge.

I'm sure, the fathers of these guys aren't as bad as they think. (I'm still naive enough to hope that anyway.) They'll figure out some things with a little more reflecting and writing. It took my sqawking infant son to make me realize that the important relationships require maintenance. And sometimes, that's damn hard work. But the effort, always has to count for a little something. Doesn't it?

Wicked Hot Guys

Wednesday night I had the opportunity to do yoga while listening to live music. Karen invited Girish, to play for us as we practiced. While he played guitar or harmonium and sang, Karen's husband accompanied him on guitar. It's been awhile since I've seen live music and I was enthralled. There's nothing better than being the presence of people who are doing something that they love. It didn't hurt, of course, that these guys are so easy on the eyes!
I had a hard time focusing on my postures because I wanted to watch them.
I do have a soft spot for musicians; I always have. But creative types, in general, thrill me. I would also add that athletes too elicit a similar response in me. Some of it is envy that I feel.  But mostly I love the beauty of watching someone who enjoys what they do, is good at it, and who creates such positive energy as a result. Love it!

Do What You Love!

Eternity
by William Blake

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise




I've not posted in over a month. Lost the nerve, lost the time. Who knows. But here I am, again! 

I'm in the midst of a "do what you love" kick. Last week I injured my back. I spent most of Sunday lying on a heating pad on the floor. Then, on Monday, I walked around all day hunched over like an old crone. How classic, how typical that it took being hurt to remind me that I need to take care of myself, both body and mind. Maybe, finally, the years I've spent surrounding myself with people who do just that is starting to wear onto me.

Yesterday I interviewed for a Fulbright Teaching Exchange. The process obviously didn't just begin. The application was due in October. What I applied for is a semester exchange at another high school in either India or the UK. I couldn't convince Doug to quit his job so we could go for a whole year, but I think a semester would be great. I'm ready to make a move as far as my career is concerned. This could be a chance to leave my job without really leaving. If it doesn't work out, maybe I'll just apply for Julie's position after all!

I've been quiet about the whole thing because I'm nervous and may be embarassed if I'm not selected. I think the interview went okay. As long as the committee felt I would be an excellent candidate, the decision now rests in the Fulbright folks' hands. We'll know later this winter. Any positive thoughts you could send would be appreciated. 

I took that leap and today I leapt back into the author's chair. I'm going to put up a couple of pieces I did work on last month but didn't post. I thought they weren't finished or some such b.s. When thinking about writing this morning I realized there are a lot of people who put themselves out here all the time. If they do it, why not me?

The same could be said for applying for the Fulbright. Why not me? And I realized the same while I was working out this morning. Who cares if I'm officially middle aged and I have a toddler and a husband and house and job and dust bunnies under the beds...Why not me?

This is what makes me feel good: Putting my feet on the yoga mat.  Putting words on the page. Celebrating how doing those two things makes the rest of my life even better.

What about you?

Eyes

Here's a little something I'm working on to share with my ninth graders. Can you guess who we've been reading and trying to write like? I hope the corny similes don't give it away!

My baby is just fifteen months and already he’s experienced many changes. My husband and I were firmly convinced from day one that he was the most beautiful thing either of us had ever seen. And now, when we look back at pictures, from just a year ago, we think, “Who was that funny looking creature?!” He really is so much cuter now. Really. Even if he hasn’t got much hair.

It seems that people who know me best say Cam looks like me. People who know Doug best think Cam looks like him. But some people, who know both of us fairly well, think Cam is a perfect combination of us. I have to admit that I only see Doug’s resemblance while Cam is sleeping. I suppose that will change. 

Three features really stand out on Cam-his teeth, his blond hair and his brown eyes. It’s a bit of a shock all the teeth and the blonde hair. He’s a regular overachiever in the dental department. I guess that’s good. Neither Doug nor I are blonde. Doug did have blonde hair as a small child.  The same is true for his sisters and my sisters. But not me, I’ve had dark hair my whole life. It’s always been this color, as brown as the night is black. So dark, in fact, it’s caused people to ask me if I ever color my hair. I’m most happy to report I’ve never had to. I’m also happy to share this fact with people who are much younger than me and have been coloring their hair for years. Haven’t had to do it yet. Although, I think I did see a grey hair or two last week.

But my baby, he’s blonde. With brown, brown eyes. Meatball eyes, I sometimes call them. Heavenly brown, like a perfect piece of milk chocolate.  A brown so perfect I could stare at it forever. Even when he squints and scrunches up his nose and starts some mischief. That’s when I love it best!

His eyes are my mother’s eyes. I have them too. My nephews share the shape as does my brother. There’s a picture of my mom when she was a child, maybe five or six. She’s smiling brightly, as big a smile as any toothless kid can make. If I were to take that picture and insert Cam’s eyes there would be no difference. A squint. A spark. Silliness.

First Post, First Line

"What's so hard about the first sentence is that you are stuck with it." Joan Didion

The garbage truck is coming up the street. If I can't get this post done by lunch, when the truck heads back down, then I'll quit. I've spent the better part of the morning here. The list of things I could be doing grows by my feet on the floor.

Meantime, my reason for this? A place, a home, a chez to hang out and share some ideas with friends.

My inspiration? Language, people.

My two favorite people are the two boys who live with me. My son is 13 months and my husband is 476 months.  I'm also inspired by my family.  And my friends, especially those who have blogs-Rachel (Teacher Mom), Lisa (Gorgeous for God), Karen (Bad Yogi) and Nate (Big Blog). In fact, it is with Nate in mind that I share with you a story from our recent vacation at my in-law's camp in Maine.

"Pull my finger."
My nephew, shoved his dirty index finger in my face last week when we were at camp. I looked up from my reading. Was he serious? Next to me his sister ignored him. She and I were crowded into the big leather chair. We were analyzing their father's copy of the latest People magazine. "Why is that man covered in shaving cream?" She asked me.

"Pull my finger." My nephew said again.

 "Why is the man covered in shaving cream?"

There I was, crammed into a chair between four kids (their friends perched on its arms) stuck with a decision. Encourage my nephew's attempt at adolescent humor or explain the homoerotic Old Spice ad to his younger sister. Their parents sat in the kitchen eating with friends who'd arrived a few hours before. I wasn't certain the gin and tonics had sufficiently mellowed them. What's a girl to do?

I've been around boys enough to know that burping and farting occupy much of their time. I've not figured why that is. I do know, now that I have a child, that bms are the main topic of covnersation in our house. And mostly they are a laughing matter. Details aren't necessary, but I'm not certain you can really appreciate the discussion until you've lived with a baby for some time. I didn't realize that gas and poop would make me laugh or cry so much. Diapering is not one of my strengths. My mother finds it especially funny when I'm changing Cameron and he decides to crawl away from me mid-wipe. This often happens on her beige carpet. She watches me struggling and laughs. Laughs while he is wiggling his dirty bum on her wall-to-wall. At that moment not only do I panic because Cameron might pee, but I worry that Mom will be annoyed that he's soiled the carpet. When I try to wipe both baby and rug, she says, "Don't worry about it. We'll get it later." And she giggles. She then laughs so hard that she toots. That makes me laugh.

I've been warned that the diapers only become nastier as babies become toddlers. That doesn't worry me much.  What I'm afraid will make me crazier is the incessant joking about farting and pooping that seems to be hardwired into boys. They find it hilarious. At any age. Am I right?

Eron, a friend, took her son and two nephews camping by herself. I thought that was brave. The going alone part, I mean. She went up north and tent-camped for five days with them. "Oh, I was brave all right." She said to me. "You don't know how gross it is getting into the tent when it's hot and they've been farting in there for a half hour. They're gross, René. Boys are disgusting. It was a long week." She said.

I sympathized with her. My husband has spent the better part of this summer farting.  He'll put his arms around me as if he wants to kiss and he'll fart. He climbs into bed, rolls over and farts. He walks up the stairs... Each time he does this he laughs. Sometimes it's a giggle. Sometimes I think he's going to lose control and not just wet himself. He hasn't always been so blatant about farting. In fact, when we were dating my Uncle André commented on Doug's manners. He was personable and neat. He appeared "clean." I understood that to mean he wouldn't do something like fart on demand.

But now he does. Back at camp, I said to my nephew, "That's gross." It was then that his sister, and their two friends looked away from the Old Spice ad. "What's gross?" They asked in unison. There was a lull in their parents conversation. What was I to explain?

"Pull my finger." My nephew asked again. I did and he burped. Everyone laughed.

When the adult conversation started again I said, "Hey kid, pull MY finger."