Invasion of the Body [Parts] Snatchers

It was the first hot and sunny Saturday, and I was a free woman.  The Kiddo and her daddy were off doing something fun, and I headed downtown for tea and a massive slab of gluten free cake with a friend.  And to top it all off, I was wearing my new shorts.  My new, favorite, perfect fit, so comfortable, just the right length shorts.  And my new gray imitation Chucks.  I was feeling free and relaxed and totally put together.  So imagine my shock as I stood waiting for my friend in front of a glass door when I saw someone else's legs attached to my body's reflection.  Yes, that's right, just underneath those super cool khakis were two very familiar legs.  Familiar, yes. Mine? Not so much.  Just below those transplanted legs?  Two similarly recognizable feet.  Also not mine.

You know those spinny things they have on kids' playground and on those expensive wooden toys like they have at doctor's offices?  The ones where you can create a person/animal/monster by turning the pieces to different heads, legs, and torsos?  Mix and match!  It's an alligator head with a flamingo middle, and don't forget the duck feet!  Well, turns out I'm a walking, talking version of one of those toys.  See the amazing woman walking around on her MOTHER'S LEGS AND FEET!

I am not exaggerating.  The face and body looked like me (though, who knows who will appear as the years go by), but the legs were definitely exact replicas of my mom's (well, to be fair, they were significantly smaller, mom has five inches on me).  The way the high arches force the laces wide at the top, that slope that results from wedging an arched foot into a flat shoe.  This was beyond eerie.  What about my poor mother?  How was she getting around without her lower half?  For years, I'd seen those knees and ankles on somebody else, not in my own reflection.

Don't misunderstand me.  There is nothing wrong with my mom's legs. They're lovely.  It was just disconcerting to suddenly find them at the end of my own body.  Which leaves me wondering which body parts will morph next?  Because of a procedure I had done in my teens, my nose will forever be mine, but what about my chin?  My hands (admittedly, already quite a bit like my mom's, though not as exactly the same as the legs)?  Will a grandmother's forehead or grandfather's neck soon appear in the mirror?  I feel like a ticking time bomb of features.  What about Lucy Addison?  I find myself watching her closely, looking for emerging similarities, body parts she will steal in 30+ years, leaving me limbless or worse.

Seriously, though.  It was a strange moment, seeing a part of me looking exactly like I remember my mother looking when I was small, and I walked a bit more carefully as I wandered around downtown, hoping to take care of my mother's feet.

The legs in question.

Guilty as Charged

I like to believe that I went into this whole parenting thing about as open-eyed as an introverted only child can be.  It wasn't something we rushed into.  We dated for two years before we got married and then waited seven more years before having a child.  In that span of time, we settled into marriage, built a house, switched jobs, lost jobs, left jobs, finished a bachelor's degree and started an MFA.  We worked out kinks in communication and developed a comfortable daily shorthand that required little talking.  I was prepared for (or at least knew to expect) sleep loss, chaotic and sporadic housekeeping, new schedules, tantrums, extra laundry.  But there was one thing that nobody prepares you for; nobody even mentions it.  Guilt.  So.  Much.  Guilt.

It starts almost immediately.  Yes, I was the lunatic who decided to get pregnant while completing my MFA.  This meant hours of writing and reading and apart from my (mostly sleeping) newborn.  My husband took a shift in the night feedings so that I could be alert enough to work after the six am feeding.  I was letting my sweet baby down.  I was letting my hard-working husband down.  I was writing really awful stuff.  Talk about jack-of-all trades, master of none.  I was doing exactly nothing well.  But all I had to do was get through the program, and then I would be free to be mother of the year.  Or at least, a guilt-free mom.  Ha.

Then I graduate.  I had a master's of fine arts degree and an online journal to birth and a writing camp to plan.  And while my Little Bit was sleeping through the night, there was still that push/pull of guilt if I'm not writing/working and guilt if I am.  Enter preschool.  After two years, I had finally had enough.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd written, and I felt like I was quickly losing touch with my sense of self or even the ability to have a coherent, cohesive thought.  I told myself that preschool was vital for her social skills (and it was), but there was still that underlying guilt about the relief I felt when I dropped off Kiddo twice a week.

Still I limp along.  Writing and working one week, buried in housework or sickness or appointments the next.  4K meant four mornings a week were my own, which seemed an embarrassment of riches at the beginning of the school year, and nowhere near enough by the end.  My work was sporadic at best and non-existent most days.  Teaching comp at my alma mater is a welcome break from the mommy identity, but mostly it just serves as a reminder of what I'm not doing.

Preschool ends.  There is an adorable program and celebration and new bike with training wheels and a flashy helmet.  A week into summer break, and I'm already losing my mind.  So many words, and none of them on my MacBook.  My five year old does not believe in unexpressed thoughts.  I can barely manage to wade through the deep torrent of words that obliterate even the memory of quiet.  Week Two is just as bad.  I want/need to escape.  Trapped doesn't begin to explain my feelings.  I know I need do something or I'm going to lose my mind.  And making all of this worse?  The deep-seated guilt that washes over me every time I look longingly at the clock or calendar and wish for school to start or at least a weekend.

In case, you didn't already know, I like writer, Sarah Bessey.  A lot.  She has so many wise and beautiful things to say about God and family and life.  This post in particular has stuck with me lately, reminding me of the importance of doing good work, of allowing our children to see us doing said work.  Sure, I am Kiddo's mom, but I am also a writer, a teacher, a reader, and a whole lot of other things outside of Chief Maid, Cook, and Entertainer.  As I clack away on my laptop today (and have been doing nearly daily for the past two weeks), I am nowhere near guilt-free.  Kiddo still comes in my office and pleads for me to play with her every few minutes, and when that doesn't work, she gets crazy-inventive with excuses to poke her funny face in my door.  I tell myself that this time every morning won't kill her, might even be good for her.  I remind myself of the resentment I feel when I'm not able to work and counter-productive feelings of frustration and guilt that follow.  And I keep typing.  Or try to.

I finished another draft (#5) of my most recent story today.  Even as I typed the final words, part of me was feeling guilty that it took so long to get it done.  See?  The guilt is everywhere.  Even the dog likes to lay it on thick when I'm chained to my desk.

Sad dog looks sad.

Unfortunately, guilt isn't limited to the self-inflicted kind either.  Every day as I scroll through my Facebook feed, I am awash in articles reminding me (and all parents) that time is short, kids grow alarmingly quickly, and everything must be homemade, amazing, and entirely kid-focused.  (And organic.)  Because we can't feel bad about our parenting skills all on our own.  Needless to say, I skip right over those internet gems now.

And that was Kiddo Hug Attempt #543.  That's her lowest blow, I think.  I'm just interrupting you for the thousandth time because I wanted to give you a hug.  Who am I kidding?  While no one may have warned me about parental guilt, Kiddo definitely got the memo.  I am so screwed.

What I'm Reading

When people know you are a writer who also reads voraciously (is there another kind?), you gets lots of requests for recommendations.  This can be challenging when you don't know the person or their tastes or can't remember which books you've read lately that might be a good fit.  Enter the reading diary:

It's mostly just a list of books, authors, and start/finish dates (though there are occasional notes on especially good favorites), but it's something that never occurred to me to do until the beginning of 2014 (year of the #readwomen2014 movement).  I found that I loved keeping a list of what/who I read, and because I read acquisitionally (yes, that is a made-up word -- I read a book to absorb its powers and move on to the next), it's a great way to track the number of titles read in a year/month.  So here are a few of my recent reads:

How to Build a Girl, Caitlin Moran

This is not a book I would recommend to everyone.  I really enjoyed it.  I mean, really couldn't put it down.  The voice of the main character is funny and smart and a complete idiot, all the things we are as adolescents and young adults.  The subject matter is not a good fit for more conservative readers, however.  There is sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll, but mostly sex and drugs.  Great feminist read.

Raised Right, Alisa Harris

This memoir is written by a woman who is -- as she freely admits -- awfully young to be writing a memoir.  Her exploration of finding her way through her transition from conservative to progressive politics is heartfelt and true, if not particularly broad or innovative.  It was still worth reading, especially if you're a young person still sorting out your own personal beliefs.

The Yiddish Policemen's Union, Michael Chabon

I am a HUGE fan of Chabon.  I liked Wonder Boys and Telegraph Avenue, and I LOVED The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay (one of my all time favorites.)  And this was another of his titles that had been recommended to me in the past.  The concept behind this story is so so interesting.  I love the alternate world where the book is set.  The main characters are wonderfully flawed and intriguing.  My only real problem with this book is that parts of it seemed really slow.  Still I finished it, and it had a satisfying ending.

Gilead, Marilynne Robinson

This is the most beautiful book I ever didn't enjoy.  I feel really bad that I didn't love this more.  The writing and story are so lovely, and I think part of the problem for me was that I just wasn't in the mood for this kind of book at the time.  So chalk this one up as something I was able to appreciate but wouldn't recommend unless you're in the mood for a meandering meditation on God, religion, and rural life.

Area X (The Southern Reach Trilogy), Jeff Vandermeer

This is actually three books: Annihilation, Authority, and Acceptance re-released in one volume.  I am presently about halfway through the second section (Authority).  So far, I am absolutely loving this book.  It's sci-fi.  It's dystopian (a particular weakness of mine).  It's written as well as any literary fiction you find on the New Releases shelf at your local bookstore.  So much creepiness and mystery and character study.  I find myself not wanting to put this book down, but also trying to pace myself so it doesn't end too quickly.  A must read for nerdy types who like good writing.

Write Harder

I'm trying this again.  My last attempt to write an entry ended in unpublishable ramblings that managed to capture exactly nothing of interest.  My fiction writing tonight could probably be classified similarly, but at least I wrote -- something I've seriously struggled with lately.  Struggled with to the point of despair.  Like maybe I've been kidding myself all along.  Like I just don't have enough drive to do this.  Like I still feel the physical need to write, still suffer near physical pain when I don't, but lack the discipline to actually put ass-in-chair and do it.

It's all so weird, really.  I've always been the queen of discipline and order.  Procrastination, fear me!  Even my mind lacks the order it once had, drifting along incoherently, unable to focus on longer projects, unable to comprehend relatively simple concepts without intense effort.  Much of this loss seems to coincide with the addition of a child to our family.  Pregnancy plays havoc with brain cells, and part of me has never fully returned to my original level of mental quickness and acuity.  Chronic illness may also play a part.  I just don't know.

Here's what I do know:

I crave solitude in a way I never did before.  Don't get me wrong.  I've always been a loner who avoids large (or even small) groups and noise.  But this characteristic has intensified into an deep need, a necessity.  Quiet has become an intrinsic requirement.  My resentment toward interruption is all out of proportion.

My ability to think/write creatively has taken a major hit.  Yeah, I know.  If you don't use a muscle, it atrophies.  But it seems that when I put pen to paper these days, each thought is more inane than the last.  Originality?  An unreachable goal.

My time is not my own.  Even when it is.  Once you become a mother, you are always a mother.  It doesn't matter that your child is sleeping peacefully in another room.  Your brain has been rewired, and part of it will always be present with that other little (or not so little) person, wherever they are.

While I still love to read, there is guilt for reading when I could be writing.  I tell myself that reading is vital to developing my writing, but lying to myself is hard.  A lot of writing has been avoided by reading that book by that author that is just so necessary.

My mom identity does daily battle with my writer/teacher identity.  I have no idea why these two won't co-exist peacefully.

I have become the Queen of Excuses.  My writing sucks because I don't write, and I don't write because of, well, So. Many. Reasons.

I'm seeking accountability.  I have avoided many events and connections lately because of my non-writing status.  There's an overwhelming feeling of fraudulence that I just can't shake.  And apparently, the accountability of seeing fellow writers is something I need to make myself try to overcome everything and focus.  I'm tired of drowning in fuzzy, crowded thoughts.  I'm tired of the lack of mental clarity that medication leaves behind.  I'm tired of interruptions and noise and sickness and excuses.  I'm tired.  And still I must write.

Mommy's Little Girl Friday

Kiddo desperately wanted to help me today with my all my work.  Unfortunately, it was all school stuff on my MacBook, so helping wasn't really an option.  So I told her she could make a picture, and I would post it on my blog.  This turned out to actually be quite a help since I decided not to post today's really long blog entry (it got a little too personal and requires some distance.)  So without further ado, I present, Kiddo's ART:

Top Ten Lessons from Teaching Freshman Comp

My pants are too big, and I'm praying they don't drop to my ankles in front of sixteen 18-20 year olds.  No more than five of these bored-looking women actually have their required texts, and I have an urge to start asking made-up questions from the "reading" to send them into a Legally Blonde style panic.  "I wasn't aware there was an assignment, Professor Gray."  Only these women were little bitty girls when that movie came out.  (What?!?)  I realize that I'm old enough to be the mother of every girl in the room.  This doesn't help focus my thoughts.  We go through my carefully constructed syllabus, and I swear I can hear brains detaching from skulls and drifting into the ether.  There will be countless questions about this syllabus in the weeks to follow, questions answered clearly in the pages of requirements, grade info, and calendar.  But I expect this.  This adolescent inability to pay attention, to focus on guidelines for more than fifteen seconds at a time.  I'm not prepared for everything, though.  I learned plenty from my first full semester of teaching Comp 101.  Here's a quick primer for anyone about to stare down a bunch of semi-colon abusing, adverb loving teenagers:

1.  Nothing is ever simple.  Ever.  It doesn't matter how well you break down the semester in your work-of-art syllabus.  They will be confused.  It is a willful state.  Take no pity.

2.  Nineteen-year olds have the same tells as my five year old.  It's almost cute when they think you believe their story about having emailed the paper to you last night and I-don't-know-why-it-didn't-go-through.

3.  Freshmen are masters of the minimum.  It was mind-blowing the lengths they will go to in order to do nothing.  It's an art, really.  Color me impressed.

4.  Don't let them write persuasive essays on abortion, marijuana legalization, or capital punishment.  Ever.  Ah, the hubris of youth.  They're the ones who are going to make the definitive, game-changing argument, all without ever using a comma correctly.  Not even accidentally.

5.  No dead grandparent essays.  Okay, this one sounds harsh.  I'll admit it.  I never claimed to be nice.  But let's be real here.  We've all got dead grandparents.  It's sad.  It's terrible, in fact.  But unless your granddad was killed by a falling meteor, or you have some more interesting take than My-grandparent-changed-my-life-and-their-death-made-me-appreciate-the-little-things-and-taught-me-to love-those-around-me-before-they're-gone, I just can't read any more.

6.  Proper semi-colon use can't be taught; it must be inborn knowledge.  Nineteen year olds love semi-colons.  None of them knows how to use them.  They never let that stop them.

7.  Freshmen love to use, "In conclusion," in essays.  Go ahead and cross out the phrase, but you're just wasting good ink.

8.  Like children and dogs, freshmen can smell fear/weakness.  Never forget this.  Be bold and badass even if you secretly suspect you're wrong.  Especially if you suspect you're wrong.  They must never know.

9.  They have all mastered that hurt, my-high-school-teacher-said-the-complete-opposite-of-what-you're-saying look.  (See rule #8 above.)

10.  I had untapped procrastination skills I might never have found had I not had to grade freshman comp essays.  You know it's bad when you start contemplating the laundry and how much you wish you were folding clothes instead of reading an essay about defunct grandparents.

So, there you have it folks.  I survived the semester and am looking forward to the next.  I shudder to think what I'll learn next year, but I'm sure that whatever it is, there will be copious adverbs, semi-colons, and giant page-filling fonts involved.

Update, or Back From the Dead

So I'm not dead...though a few days I considered it.  More sickness, well, my eyes are sick anyway.  Went to the dermatologist for a recurring rash around my eyes.  Following his advice, and now I look like I'm somewhere between a bender, pink eye, and leprosy.  And have for a month.  Because it's not enough to be perpetually sick, losing my hair, and taking more pills in a day than most people take in a month.  I have to also have red, flaking lizard skin around my eyes.  That hurt.  A lot.

In between frightening small children and strangers with a glance and applying moisturizer by the quart, I've also been finishing up my first full semester of teaching.  It's been such a great experience (glitches and resistant freshmen notwithstanding), and it feels so so good to have all of those essays graded.  And the most exciting news (and that's saying something because having seventy five essays graded and done is pretty exciting) is that I get to teach Intro to Creative Writing in the fall! This is such a great opportunity, and I have to confess that I had trouble sleeping the night after I found out because I couldn't stop planning my syllabus.  I'll be teaching another section of Comp as well, so that'll keep me busy during my first school year with Kiddo gone full time.

Yep, I said full-time.  Kiddo is starting Kindergarten in the fall.  We went to the orientation at her school, and she is so excited (in between her bouts of mourning for her preschool teacher and friends.)  I too am very excited about all the alone time I will gain the fall, but I'm not going to lie: That school seemed so big, which made Kiddo seem that much smaller.  I have to keep reminding myself who we're talking about here.  Kiddo is unstoppable.  A school full of kids twice her size won't daunt her.  

Today is her last day of preschool, and I'm trying to crank out some work at BN before the summer of together begins.  Kiddo will be going to day camp a bit over the summer, but mostly she'll be home with me.  I'm not teaching over the summer, so I'm determined to get lots of writing done and stop being such a slack ass.  I've even given up teaching the kiddos at church on Wednesday nights in hopes of limiting my exposure to germs.  Let this be the summer of writing and writing some more and NOT GETTING SICK!