wrecking ball

I heard today, on the radio coming home, a song for two year olds and the adults who act like them.

"I make a fist but not a plan,

I break it just because I can."

Mother Mother, the Vansterdam group to create this jewel sounds like hoe-down with LL Cool J beats from mid '80's and the singers from the Pixies. What's not to like?

money is money and a car is a car

yesterday I thought I left my wallet at school.
Getting home I realized that J left me with no keys.
I had a list of things to do and a stir crazy 3 year old and a rising feeling of dread when I made that annoying to receive but even more annoying to make phone call, "Honey... do you by any chance have 2 sets of keys in your pocket?
My far away husband's solution was - the pleasure van. excuse me, The Pleasure Van.
Our gracious neighbors have given us a set of keys to this 600 sqarefoot, crushed velvet beauty. It sways when you make a turn, rumbles, rattles and just generally draws attention to itself and it's (ironic?) bumperstickers about hippie festivals and ecological consciousness and hybrid cars while belching putrid smoke from it's suspect exhaust system. I've had to make use of it before, but never with S and freezing temperatures and the change jar. excuse me, The Change Jar.
J's solution to the no wallet situation was take the change to the bank. Not a bad idea, right?
So that's how I find myself rolling into TCF with S in the back of the gypsy wagon and a giant jar of change.

Even funnier was when we left the bank with $113.58 and went to sushi. And the sushi was half off. And we went to JoAnn fabulous for 1 spool of silver thread to finish the advent calendar that I was making to avoid reformatting my reference page. And when we went to CVS for some choclates to fill aforementioned advent calendar and ended up walking into Murrays. "MAMA! This is not a chocolate store! It's a greasy car stuff store!" whoops.
Little buddy laughed all the way home about that one.

We did finish the calendar (see photo). and I did finish my paper and J brought the keys home just as I found my wallet in my backpack.

free faling

it's so hard to believe that as of 1 december I'll be done with my thesis project and one lame class away from graduation or matriculation or whatever the hell you want to call it. I am feeling the life returning to my life and actually recognizing myself when I look in the mirror. I could still use a good dose of the sedative J's always promising to formulate for me. We're thinking of calling them "Hermiones" aka shut-yer-big-yapper pills. I am getting to the point now, though where I would probably only need to take them in classes or clinical settings and maybe when meeting new people. This is a significant improvement currently being deeply appreciated by many of those who are, yapping notwithstanding, still -unbelievably- near and dear to my heart.

I have had many occasions to babble senselessly and so much to yap (or not to yap) about lately:

Grandma's deathbed and Union City wake and funeral
MANA conference, incl: hooters, (yes.) recording snafoos, identity crises and crying in a bathroom stall for half an hour while my partner in crime was driving in the dark doing the same thing.
CRF making huge strides in the strategic plan, and getting to use the Depot town Community room.
My last class meeting with my masters cohort
The Election resulting in me actually not wanting to move to Canada for the first time in my adult life,
A great victory/ birthday (mama and Obama according to S) party
Making christmas woodcuts and other artwork with my live-in sister
Bloodletting AND Suturing classes
Grade 4 composition projects a soaring success (kids actually geeked abut writing notation. I know!)

Looking back at this list, I am amused by how I have been enjoying what has seemed like such a slow pace these last few weeks... maybe I need to reevaluate my standard of slow...

I have found though, that I can do several key things that have come to indicate a sustainable level of craziness for me:

1) drink more than half of my cup of coffee before lunch
2) play with S right away when I get home from work and still have enought time to get the house and school stuff done after he goes to bed.
3) wash my face with soap every night
4) stay in the car listening to whatever great song is playing on CBC radio2 when I get to work, all the way to the end of the song.

Speaking of which, I heard John Mayer (don't scoff) singing the Tom Petty song that isn't really a Tom Petty song, that everyone associates with Tom Petty because he did for it what Jimi did for All Along the Watchtower; Free Falling. I know. A suspect song covered by a mainstream hunky crooner, and I -completely in spite of my best efforts not to - loved it. There were some truly lovely moments in which that thing that happens in really great ballads happened. A huge vista opened up in front of my tangled thoughts and everything straightened out ahead of me and I just knew that better things - liscenced direct entry midwifery and fat federal arts grants and more kids and dinner with my friends - lie inevitably, gloriously, ahead.

crone

my grandmother has forgotten how to eat. I guess this is the expected progression of dementia. Soon, they say, her brain will unlearn how to swallow and that, they say, will be that.
Thinking about her tipping out of her wheel chair, or lashing out at her roommates; watching her say a series of unrelated words with the expectant look of someone who's just asked you a question they can't wait to hear the answer to, awakens the same primal impulse that propels me headlong down the stairs, instantly alert, when little S cries out in the night. I want to fold her in my arms and rock her into one last sleep just like the infant she's become.

Our relationship has always been incredibly basic on the surface, and complex in my head. My first fumbling attempt at a short story (during the Flannery O'Connor obsession) was begun on the way home from visiting her in the late autumn after my Grandpa died, when my mom, my sisters and I traveled to her house in rural west michigan to put up the storm windows, rake the leaves and winterize the car. I recalled our most memorable interactions; the good ones where we made stuff together, and the other ones where she criticized and questioned anything I did that wasn't the way she had always done. The relentless, insistent offering of turkey every at every holiday meal in seven vegetarian years. "But it's delicious! Your mother cooked it perfectly! Not dry at all!" When my Grandmother would go home after staying with us for the weekend, I heard the resigned and rueful tone in my own mother's voice as she told us how Gram had pleaded with her as a kid, when my great grandmother would leave from a visit, "If I ever start to act like that, you have to set me straight." Of course, my mother never did. Despite our assurances to her that she was "in a different universe" than Gram, and that we'd never let her become so out of touch, she'd just smile and shake her head. Even at 14, I could tell that, even more than she wanted us to say those things, she wanted to believe that they were true.

Observing Gram's steep decline, I am unsettled by the rush of warmth I feel toward this woman I know I have only poorly understood. I wish that I had tried harder to see her for who she really is. Instead, I was so afraid that I would find my self suddenly at 60, unable or unwilling to do anything beyond decorate a parlor or comment authoritatively on the proper preparation of Salisbury steak that I couldn't - or wouldn't. Over the years since my Grandpa's death, stubbornness and a little bit of a disconnect have gradually given way to confusion and the relentless, painful, regression of dementia . And now she's forgotten how to eat.

So, why have I been such a lousy/ conflicted granddaughter? Why have I always been so afraid of being close to my own Grandmother? What's happening now? Do I finally feel a sense of compassion and the ability to really love her because the archetype has lost it's power as her autonomy is eroded by disease? Have I seen my self and my own mother grow and change enough as adults to finally believe that a worldview isn't necessarily hereditary, and we aren't fated irrevocably to become our parents? Am I finally able let go of my angsty, self-obsessed, figuring-out-who-I-want-to-be, long enough to just be, and just care for this woman as she is, at the end of her life?

I know that I should, and will, look back to the many lovely moments; surround her in my mind with the sun filtering through the trees onto her clothesline, the dusty smell of her mysterious stone basement, the perfect, perfect starched white curtains shifting in the breeze through the window of the little attic room where she sewed and I spent overnights. I suppose I could try to write another dumb short story. Probably I'll just drive out to be with her before it gets too cold.

back in the saddle

3 weeks into the school year and I'm finally feeling like I have a handle on what's going on.
It's crazy how I can be simultaneously shocked to find myself a teacher again after almost forgetting over those blissful ten weeks, and so - SO - familiar with the setting and demands that I feel like I never left. As much as I feel (you'll never guess...) a little overwhelmed by this semester's workload, I am still feeling really good about the curriculum project.
I set up a Moodle class (online) for myself and a few brave colleagues to share lessons and pilot this curriculum mapping project I was crazy enough to initiate last year. It has been great! I knew that teaching was isolating, but I had no idea it had gotten so bad! I feel so connected by the semi-lame weekly updates and exchanges! It makes this job seem so much more manageable

P M #%&^ing S

ingredients:

Desperate need to consume salty, greasy food
Inexplicable fatigue
Claustrophobia
Teeth grinding
Everyone else is suddenly insanely annoying
Inability to focus on one task long enough to finish it
Absolutely no ability to control what comes out of my mouth (speech-wise, you sicko!)

dear reader,
if you have any suggestions for addressing my torpor, please advise.
I'm sure I'll find your comments extremely helpful when I return to my right mind and can have a conversation without making myself and everyone else feel awful!

thank god a'mighty I'm free at last

We got into town around 2pm yesterday after a long 5 days in Denver.
Walking to Sidetrack for some tiny burgers, J says,"it was more like a working vacation."
"Yeah." I reply, "Except for the vacation part."
J's dad opened a bookstore in Golden, which is lovely. He lives in a condo in BelMar which is also lovely, but a little like living in an art gallery. Nothing at all wrong with that... unless you're three! or - more to the point - the Mama of someone who's three. I felt like I spent the whole trip alternating between keeping S from killing himself in traffic on the shimmering streets of the desert of BelMar (the manufactured nightmare of what may eventually be an uber-hip planned community jammed with yuppies on the rise and second homers on vaca, but is now just a little bit too pricey and a little bit too empty and a little bit too cement-y for the likes of me and my little three. Perhaps the park are on their way, but we sure couldn't find any) and keeping him from destroying the lovely glass pieces or 1st editions around grandpa's house.
In order to avoid the guilt the comes from both paying for, and NOT paying for dinner out, I hit the ho foo (of course the only grocery in walking distance, and the size of my entire block!) and cooked great food all week. Yeah. all week. I also cleaned up, did laundry, and read books to little buddy. I went three days without talking to any women. That will fuck you up. I had no idea it was getting to me until we finally went to see a friend who's studying at Naropa. She was great and saw right away what needed to happen, and took us up to Boulder falls where we climbed and played in the cold cold water. It was stunningly beautiful and SO sanity-restoring. What was I thinking to not plan to get into the mountins everyday? Oh! I was thinking about renovating my kitchen. I put the last coat of tung oil on the counter at 5 am on Tuesday morning, right before we left to get on the plane. I swear by all that is holy, I will never NEVER go on another trip without asking myself, "what do YOU want to do do while your there?" I had prepared clean clothes for everyone, and 3oz bottles of everything, and a shopping list, and cash, and the phone charger, and plane snacks, and diapers, and books, and J's work stuff and S's play stuff and had not given one thought to what I would do or want to do beyond taking care of everyone else. Therefore I take complete blame for the fact that I was pretty miserable by day 2. I also plan nver to let it happen again!
After the falls, we spent the afternoon in a cute coffee shop with TOYS! Real puzzles, animals, trains and a kitchen set! I have never been so happy to see Fischer Price anything in my life! Stu couldn't believe his luck. The evening we hung out at the store enjoying the company of many lovely townies who are elated to have the bookstore; listening to live, acoustic, and completely charming bluegrass played by 5 old dudes who you know spend hours and hours practicing but are afraid to get gigs. The "crowd" loved them and they just about broke their faces smiling listening to everyone gush at the end of the night. Craig was so proud of himself - as he should be - and clearly very happy to show off his precocious grandson. To bad we had to wait till the last day to be social and adventurous, but 1 for 4 beats 0 for 4!
So - to wrap things up NPR style with a witty quip and a lesson learned... nothing's coming. I guess I'm just really happy to be back in my crazy house in my dusty kitchen with a saw in my hand and a mile long to-do list, within walking distance of a cluttered little food co-op and tiny sidetrack burgers and lots and lots of girls; and to be armed with the determination to - as my Mom says - "ask for what you want!"

bare necessity

my head is naked.
i had the washtenaw ave furniture store impulse... everything must go!

s says, "mama, you feel like a puppy!"
I can drive with the windows down and take off my shirt without getting tangled in anything. I no longer have the giant hank of matted hair at the base of my sweaty neck after a day in the garden.

I feel a little exposed and I'm still not used to the reactions of people who see me for the first time, shorn. I keep mistaking their gasps for horror, and looking around for pools of blood or unfolded laundry or something.

not to seem over-drawn, but, y'know that michaelangelo qoute about how he didn't put david into the block of marble, but just chipped away all the marble that wasn't him? I kind of feel like I just shed a lot of excess baggage. almost like my long hair was a long-term costume.
silly? probably. but an incredibly liberating silly either way.

sprinkle

so the soiree on sunday was a success - getting the girls together first proved a stroke of genius. our boys showed up with food and beer at just the right moment, and it had all the best elements of crazy community co-op functions without the culty undertones. I was so happy to be able to take a minute to celebrate B. I see her as being so brave... not just in this situation, but in general. She really doesn't hesitate for a moment to do whatever she sees as right. Listening to the girls, I'd say I'm not the only one who thinks so.

I'm more glad than ever, these days, that we decided to stay here in dear old Ypsi. And to think! in a few more days I'll actually BE in Ypsi. All day! I feel like the school year is whirling to a close, and after all of my yearning for it to be done, I'm overwhelmed with how fast the last week is rushing by. I never saw myself finishing five years in the classroom, but I can say that I feel pretty damn good about making it, intact, to this point without getting divorced, committed, or duct taping anyone to their chair!

row row row your (leader)ship

I am really tired of people telling me how great of a leader Gandhi was and what style of a leader Martin Luther King Jr. was and selling me books about being successful when their success is predicated on my buying the damn book. I do not for a minute think that Gandhi was great because he had a Franklin Covey Planner or that MLK gave moments of his time to analyzing whether he was an affiliative or visionary or democratic leader. They were just guys with a lot of charisma and integrity who worked really, really hard at following what they believed in - and got followed as a result.
What is wrong with trusting introspection? Why can't we believe that the source of efficacy or efficiency lies within everyone and a little quiet time would reveal what we need to do what must be done? Why must everything be codified and analyzed and preached about and assessed and dissertated on? (is that a word?) Why am I spending moments that could be for real reflection and centering on reading this stupid over-drawn crap and financing the lifestyle of some narcissistic leader-of-leaders, flying around the world talking about his "Big-Picture?" Why do I never fit into any of the categories they describe? Perhaps because there's no book about getting your shit together that involves learning about yourself and what's important by reading like a maniac, working your teen-age ass off on a cultfarm, facing your demons in the guise of 800 mini musicians a year, and watching and watching and waiting and waiting in labor and labor and more more labor, and learning and learning again and again, that you can't lead and you can't teach, and you can't tell. You can only shut the hell up and think and pray and act and listen and when you do have to be in charge, ask really, really good questions. Then shut UP SHUT UP! and listen to the answers and think and pray about what they mean and act and think and listen some more.
Maybe I just think this because the end of the year is (as usual) making me hate the sound of my own voice. I can hardly finish this because I'm actually to the point where I don't even like the sound of my own type! I made my friend feel terrible yesterday because I took the most innocent comment completely the wrong way. I actually said to him, "oh. You didn't mean to be hurtful? ok. I'll just go ahead and feel better then." What is happening? Where is the sleep promised to the pure of heart? Maybe it's not "no rest for the wicked," but "no rest makes the wicked."
Oy Veh!

So the good thing of today was little S singing playground chants he learned from my students.
He looks right up at me as I buckle him into his car seat:

"Little Sally Walker, walkin' down th street.
Di'n't know what to do, so she stops in front of me, singin'
Hey, girl, do your thing, do your thing, do your thing
Hey, girl, do your thing, do your thing, now STOP!"

Finally, a refreshing thought from Lucille Clifton, whose poetry I recently re-encountered to my great delight and benefit. I've even been making some small paintings to accompany transcriptions. (see above)

female

there is an amazon in us
she is the secret we do not
need to learn.
the strength that opens us
beyond ourselves
birth is our birthright
we smile our mysterious smile.

inch by inch, row by row

we have been spending a lot of time in the garden.
Some friends who were going to community-plot it this summer, decided to bring their poo to my yard instead. And so it is that I have the miraculous help my mum assured me I would get if only I asked for it.
Mary Lu loaned me her gigantic truck for a compost run and my garden is looking as fertile as my many motherly friends. (I have - SO BAD - the baby itch)

Inspired by the lush greenery, I want to edge the beds. I've always liked the look of cobbles for edging, and the Thompson block has two brimming dumpsters begging for a midnight raid. The bricks are calling my name but, fortunately for J, I have developed -in my old age- another voice. It's singing a counter melody to the tune of "If you start this project will you kill yourself finishing it?" Unfortunately, it's the voice of Nick Drake and "Do it! Do it!" is Mahalia Jackson.

forgiveness

In honor of the Dalai Lama'a visit to our fair county, the wonderful protesters of the Chinese crackdown on Tibet following the torch; a film about forgiveness that really gets at the heart of a major issue of contemporary American society. The Power of Forgiveness is surprisingly engaging and moving. I'm thinking about organizing a screening for all of my sorely abused family and friends when I finally finish grad school... too heavy handed?

funny little grad student sittin' on a fence, tryin' to make a paper out of 49 cent(ence)s; or:bumbling through another day

The Contents of my Brain: A brief overview.

1. Songs about mud written by second graders
2. Likely causes and potential effects of hypertension in labor for a woman who is consistently hypotensive
3. How the hell do I make a rubric for a 30 second improvisation by a first grader in the first month of school and why is my prof making me? why am I letting him make me? why am I submitting to this patriarchal, hierarchical, money-grab anyway?
4. The outline of a k-5 curriculum map that aligns the essential questions in music with the art curriculum and classroom curricula and allows for unified assessments by music teachers and how I'm going to present it to my boss on Thursday and my colleagues after that in a way that everybody feels like it was their idea and is motivated to go make it work.
5. Why is there not a midwifery class offered in Washtenaw county? Everybody is talking about these distance learning things... we have so many resources here! Why is someone not teaching it?
[I would so do it if I didn't need to learn everything first! In fact, I've been realizing lately that I'm reading my text books like a teacher (imagine that!). i.e. I try to see each topic in context and make the kind of connections I would need in order to explain it to someone else. In fact, as embarrassing as it is to admit, I usually fall asleep at night doing something vaguely like lecturing myself on whatever wisdom Anne Frye has just imparted via the big purple book.]
6. The application of Critical Pedagogy to Music Education, or why a Brazilian radical named Paulo and his thoughts about cultural reproduction and social hegemony are profoundly relevant to a guitar slinging ypsilantian midwife wannabe and her kids and their songs about mud.

Today was my first day of prenatals at "the office." I didn't feel any more awkward or inadequate than I anticipated (which was plenty). I think the main point sometimes, is to just do things so that they're done. It really is hard for me to believe that It's almost three years since I was the pregnant person struggling to get up from the broken blue chairs, and I was anxious about being on the other side of the room.
I did, however, have a sweet little conversation with the German high school exchange student who was there to observe the midwives. She was talking about how different maternity care is here in the US, and I told her how I was hoping - for everyone's sake - that some change was on its way. She replied with earnest, wide eyed, 11th grade confidence, "Oh, but it is! And you are a part of it." And, awkward and inadequate and overwhelmed as I felt (feel), I believed her.

my boys

It is 8:00 am Friday morning, I am home and hooking S up with the Backyardigans (or "backyard begins," as he calls them) so I can shower. J is still in bed trying to recover from the EMU cd marathon combined with 5 gigs in one week and finishing up his first session of after-school songwriting at Willow Run.

The cartoon starts (begins) and S says, "I don't really like the dancing."
"Really?" I ask, "I think it's kind of cute."
"No," he says, shaking his head, "but, " (waving his hand dismissively in the air around his right ear) "whatever."
WHATEVER? Holy Mother of God. I've just been whatever-ed by my two-year-old.

Secretly, I was proud to see that he could tell it was a dumb argument and was willing to drop it even though I didn't say he was right. Also, I think it shows that he knows it's pointless to try to get me to change my mind. Also, this may be an indication that he's more like his Dad, and won't follow any stupid line of thought relentlessly to its ultimate, usually pointless, conclusion.

So I showered, we watched the rest of the show - which is actually hilarious and charming, with surprisingly good music - played pirates, ate sandwiches, got dressed, and began to wonder about Papa. S took his flashlight (which, incidentally, is now his constant companion. This can be especially frustrating at 6 am, when he comes hulking up the stairs with a hoodie over one arm and the giant flashlight in the other, like some kind of midget Dragnet guy, to rip me brutally from sleep by jumping on me and shining it directly in my eyes. "Why are you hiding Mama? That hurt you heart?" No, buddy, just my eyes.) upstairs to interrogate my, still-sleeping, partner in crime.

"Why you sleeping, Papa?"
"Mrghphnmrr."
"What you said? You are awake now? Let's go paint."
"I can't."
"Why? What happened to you? Are you stuck?"
"I did the hokey-pokey and I put my whole self in. Now I can't get it out."

giggles

"I can help you, Papa. I'm really brave and strong."

over and done

finally sent my research paper off last night,
several pots of coffee and a tin of rescue remedy later,
and in my triumphal haze I am realizing that I was - as usual - obsessing a bit too much.

As a freshman and sophomre in undergrad, I was a music therapy student. My prof was on the certification reveiw board, and a founding editor of one of the major US journals in the feild. He expected all of us to write like we were going to be published. Today. One paper every day (plus rewrites) in APA. He was a facist dictator disguised as a professor and I still hear his voice as I'm trying to organize my thoughts into compatibility with the requirements of the 6th edition.

Having sent the paper, I can now look back and see that I was writing it as though the authors of the articles I was reveiwing were going to read and critique my work, rather than an over-worked professor who has probably not a clue about music education to begin with.

Oh well. I faced down my demons and overcame the urge to move away or shave my head or drink myself silly; and I got it done.
Now I can go be ridiculous...

visions of ypsi

The consultants have spoken. Ypsilanti is less of a shit hole than it used to be!
We're still raggedy enough to be identified as an at-risk city by the generous state govt, but now we can call it "interesting, real, and edgy!" (Check out Mark Maynard for more info on the visioning meeting).

I never thought I'd come back to Ypsi after undergrad, but here we are, 2 degrees, 7 jobs, a mortgage, and a baby later; singing her praises to anyone who will listen, walking to the co-op, going to visioning meetings, and feeling pretty damn good about how far we've come.

Yep, we. When Peter asked about J's plans for finding a space for CR, I heard my self tell him that J is determined to find one, and we're not moving, so "it's just going to have to be in town!" and I realized that I really feel attached to a place as a home for the first time in my life. I know store owners and community organizers and at least half the population of the corner brew on any given night. When I drive through still-sleeping depot town with my cafe-au-lait ala Bombadill's, the scene (and the caffeine) makes me so happy I almost don't mind going to work.

I think things really are getting better. Ypsi people are actually seeing themselves as capable of advocating for positive change. Perhaps it is a blessing that the pavers on the corner of Michigan and Washington are messed up by truck traffic, and Water Street is stalled, and the Vu is not, and EMU doesn't pay taxes and we're all just struggling a little bit to keep it all together; maybe it's just that that keeps us from becoming self-satisfied and complacent and ignorant of the needs of others in our community. So the parking lots need to be resurfaced, and we could use some better signs. We have great music and art and vegetables and beer, lots of lesbians, the most phallic building in the world, and one happy music teacher avoiding a research paper by baking chocolate chip cookies for the recording engineers of the first full length Community Records studio album. Things are looking up.

cozy me up

Back to work after a great string of births (not that they aren't work too!) I am hurting. I can say absolutely and without hesitation that I categorically hate APA. I spent a few years as an undergraduate music therapy student beleaguered by a nasty, controlling prof and a paper a day in APA (plus rewrites). Now, weighty with my diploma, tenure, and sundry other meaningless evidences of my ability to comply successfully with systems I detest, I feel completely confident that I was right all along; just like your home's previous owner's faux-Victorian wallpaper, APA is a tool of the devil to make us doubt the risen Christ.

I keep trying to perk up, but it's FEBRUARY! This is seriously the most godforsaken month. My plates expire, everything is frozen, all the kids have cabin fever, and the giant puddles on the playground will ensure at least another week of indoor recess. I have a shit-ton of work to do and everyone else is in a bad mood too.

That said, I'd like to dedicate this post to my favorite phrase, a balm against all the worlds ills. Use it freely, it's powers are vast!

CO.ZY .ME. .UP. /ko-ze me uhp/ imperative
- Phrase commonly uttered by frozen-footed grad students, occupying chronically underheated houses, upon clambering frantically into bed with their friendly, furry, toasty husbands after a crazy long day of unthinkable torture at the hands of maniacal primary students. "Hug me until I stop shaking and start smiling. Administer chocolate as necessary. I really like you"

One of the things I like the very best about helping at a home birth is the sense of satisfaction I get leaving a brand-new, exhausted, and somewhat shell-shocked family in a sorted house, laundry and dishes running; everybody stitched-up, cleaned-up, well-fed, and tucked-in to a fresh bed for a long rest. All cozied up

and this is why we can't have nice things

I have this problem that when I decide to do something, I just do it. I'm talking about projects here. You know, ripping up the bathroom tile, repainting the kitchen, making a new woodcut or a pair of pants... The main issue with this is that I usually get to this kind of stuff at 8:30 on a week night; dinner's over, little man's in bed, I'm still wearing whatever raggedy-ass excuse for a teacher outfit I put on in the morning, and I NEVER! stop to change my clothes.

I always wonder why everyone else's clothes seem so nice.
Hmmm, maybe the don't change tires in them.
Or re-caulk the upstairs shower.
Or, like tonight for example, fix the dryer.

Yep.

When's the last time you pulled out your dryer? Thought so. Imagine 2 inches of lint covering the only square of basement floor that never got painted when we moved in because, who wants to move the dryer? Now imagine that you've borrowed your parents' crazy catholic family van to bring an old, rusty, but free!, gas dryer to your house; only to realize - after you've moved the dryer into the basement - that your dryer is electric. Now imagine the two useless dryers sitting side by side, chatting it up with the totally functional washer full of mildewing clothes that you can't even dry outside because it's not just cold, it's raining. Now, if you're still with me, imagine the deep sense of satisfaction you'd feel buying a 2 year old electric dryer from the reuse center for 25 bucks, and the belt to fix it for $16.

Dinner's over, boy's in bed, DRYER TIME!

I rushed down stairs, introduced non-functional dryer number 3 to the other appliances and proceeded to take it apart. Thanks to some very brief directions (in French) and the subtle help of my very calm husband, I got the thing working on the second try. HALLELUJAH! As I was closing it up, I dropped the last screw down inside and had to take the front back off (of course!) Amidst much mumbled cursing and unladylike grunting, closing it up, I looked down at my clothes and realized I was wearing a floor length, wrap around, dry clean only, lint magnet. What idiot fixes a dryer in Banana Republic wool everything?
Oh. That'd be me.
But here's the thing. I'm so proud of my cheap self for getting and fixing a cast-off appliance, that my home-repair related euphoria profoundly overshadows any kind of fashion remorse, and any kind of guilt over my clothes just doesn't ever really stick. Besides, since I fixed the dryer, I can just wash some Target jeans and a concert t-shirt - tomorrow's Friday anyway!

one down

Monday, we finally had a client give birth at home - the first one since the start of my apprenticeship this summer. It was beautiful and the 5-6 hour pushing stage was only moderately scary and, except for shaking so hard that I dropped the bulb syringe 3 times right after the head was born, I managed to not radically screw anything up.

The mama was amazing. Like I said, pushing was crazy long and she never once lost faith in her ability to do what needed to be done. She was even really mellow about being stiched up - something that really pisses alot of people off, and rightly so!

My favorite moment was during the posrpartum bath -

Imagine everyone crowded into the tiny bathroom, standing around the tub as Mama cradles her teensy boy in the fragrant water.

She asks, "Was I ever really out of it?"

Papa: "Well, once when you were pushing, A told you to make your self into the letter C. You pushed through the next contraction then asked foggily, 'What letter am I again?'"

Mama smiles, totally exhausted and blissed out, looking down at her boy;

she sighs, "Brought to you by the letter C."

working hard

its amazing to me how much can fit into one day.
J says our life is like waking up by being shot out of a cannon
and going to sleep when we hit the ground again.
earlier this year I thought everything was going great with parenting and grad school and teaching and midwifey stuff and then I got crazy sick. for like 10 weeks.
back from a nice long rest, I am committed to not doing that again. I have my sense of self and sense of humor back and I am determined not to loose it.
(professors be damned)
at least not untill the end of the semester.

I was spending a lot of energy bemoaning how much time I'm at work and focused on just the basics of getting shit done. I want to be more political and more generous and more interesting and spend hours and hours studying and playing music for fun and talking to my husband and planning nice things to do for other people and....
I have given up. I have an end date for school (december 2008) and until then I have decided to not feel guilty shopping at trader joe's, recycling lessons, mopping with swiffers, not getting pregnant, or reading to little man till 8:30 or 9 every night. we need to hang out more than he needs to be in bed by 7:30, and he'll be fine as a four years older brother.

The other thing I won't do is continually justify my choices to the people around me - whether or not they give two beans about them - so, hang on to yr ass, this blog should get more interesting again really soon!