Thankful

Our beloved doula, Jocelyn, made a post like this a few days ago, sparked by another blogess' post, from another's, etc, and I am following her lead. It seems like an appropriate post pre-Thanksgiving.

The gist is to figure out six unimportant things that make you happy and/or--in light of the approaching holiday--that you are thankful for. The word unimportant is the tricky part here. I have had a hard time coming up with my list, b/c all the first ideas are obviously the things that are important...but here is my attempt:

1. Coffee: I know, I know, what 30-something newish mom doesn't love her coffee? My day begins the moment I get my cup at Colson on my way to school. But coffee also has a lot of memories for me. My dad used to drink coffee (granted, it was instant, but still); it can conjure up nostalgia for my childhood and my dad's breath of coffee and cigarettes. I started my coffee habit senior year in high school when a group of us cool kids would hit Cup-a-Joe on Hillsborough Street in Raleigh and hang out, smoking cigarettes and critiquing music, books,and who knows what. I am a hunter/gatherer of coffee: espresso from a vending machine on campus in France, cafe au lait in iced bottles in Japan, cafe americana across the street from my flat in London, instant Nescafe savored in India. It's more than just a morning buzz for me; it's a narrative of my life.

2. Mascara & various forms of chapstick/lipcare/lipgloss: One day I am really going to learn how to put on a palette of makeup, but all I have managed to gain control over in my 34 years of life is mascara and various lip products. These two lifesavers liberate me. Even if I am covered in toddler vomit, if I put on some good mascara and a light coat of tinted lip gloss, I feel ready to face the world (or at least the video store and the Korean grocery).

3. My new Italian Boots: Confessions of a consumerita: I bought $300 Italian brown boots during the recession. Let me explain! My foot is very unique. I am a 10.5/11 narrow. WTF? It is my crucible in life. It seems shoe companies agree that if your foot is that long you are obviously Andre the Giant and it must be equally as fat. Sigh. Before pregnancy, I was a solid 10. After baby, my feet changed and never went back. I had to get rid of my ENTIRE SHOE COLLECTION (insert trauma here). When I tried on these babies at a new store in my 'hood, I couldn't resist. I belabored the decision, but in the end they went on the credit card and I am putting part of my weekly allowance aside to pay them back. So. Worth. It. They make me so happy and fit perfectly.

4. NPR: I can't even list all the NPR I listen to because I can't keep track. It's sick. It makes me feel connected and smart and like I am around intelligent adults when Alexandra is throwing a tantrum in the other room. Yes, I give money to it, too. But I wish I didn't so that Ira Glass would personally call me to chide me for cheapness. My listening skills have improved hundred-fold since this addiction kicked in. Tonight I listened to a show on the Tibet/China issue. I learned so much. Seriously.

5. Public Transportation: I guess many of you might argue that this is an important thing, and it is, but I know that many folks don't have it and it doesn't bother them. The thing is, it is seen as unimportant and unnecessary in many places which is why it went on this list. I sold my car when I moved to NYC in 1999 and am disgustingly proud to say that I have not and have no plans to ever own another car as long as I am in NY (and I'd like to stay here forever, universe willing). I shun SUV folks, support higher gas prices, rally for tolls/fines to enter Manhattan...I am unabashedly self-righteous when it comes to cars in the city and car overuse everywhere. Call me a Republican of anti-car ideology. I am all about what serves me, and since I don't have a car, I want to tax the hell out of you! But seriously, my zeal really is rooted in the environmental argument behind foreign oil, etc, that I support here. Therefore, public transportation makes me happy. Even when it's stinky, or hot, or crowded, or late, or all four.

6. Blogs: I started reading blogs when I had my miscarriage and they gave me more comfort than almost any real life person. Since then I have become an avid blogger and have found a new and inspired love for writing out my random thoughts--something I normally only do when traveling b/c who has the time to keep a journal amid work, life, school? I read many blogs of wonderful people that, in some strange post-postmodern way, I feel more connected to humanity via this virtual reality. I wish all my friends had blogs so I could know what's on their mind, from the silly to the serious. Start one! It's easy and surprisingly satisfying.

With that, all my bloggers whom I read, try this exercise.

Happy Thanksgiving.

A Sign

As much as I share my reasons for being a teacher, there are many days that I leave school feeling defeated on many levels. There is just too much to deal with: the poverty, the abuse, the neglect, the ignorance...these issues spiral out of control in the classroom. Like two weeks ago when a 6-month pregnant girl jumped another girl in the hall in front of my room. Kids were standing on the radiators cheering them on, and my 11th grade honors class and I got locked in my classroom with four security guards headlock-ing and cuff-ing an out of control 15 year old female. Those things bother me on a deep level. I can call upon child development and social theories and all that graduate school knowledge that I have acquired, but I still have a heavy feeling inside from the sheer impossibility of my job some days.

Friday I had one of those "eff it" days. We went to the Brooklyn Academy of Music on a field trip--my class and another class of seniors, many of whom I don't know. It was a modern dance performance by the Urban Bush Women, a New York-based dance group of women from the African diaspora and Jant-Bi, a company of male dancers from Senegal. It was beautiful. Sometimes I don't get modern dance, but this piece was completely captivating--minus our students who screamed curses the whole time.

Things such as: "What the fuck?" "Speak fuckin' English!" "That bald bitch needs some fuckin' hair!" "She's blowin' him!" "Awww, shit, shorty's got some ass!"

Oh, yes, these comments were said OUT LOUD during moments of SILENCE and we were in the 8th row. It was awful. It was humiliating. I tried to get the kids (who weren't mine) to be quiet, and they then cursed AT ME. "No, YOU fuckin' shhhh." I was about to piss fire after 90 minutes of this. I wanted to hurt those kids. HURT them.

After the trip we were supposed to go to McDonald's, but I dismissed my students, told them to go home because I couldn't stand to be with teenagers anymore that day. I sent them home at 1pm. Screw it. I was literally going to say/do something I'd regret.

And when I got home and checked my email, some kind couple had fully funded my DonorsChoose project and bought me 30 copies of the novel Bodega Dreams for my students. After a day like that, when I just wanted to tell them all to go to H-E-double hockey sticks, I get hundreds of dollars from strangers so that I can teach a book I feel the students will relate to and enjoy.

Sometimes a sign like that is all you need. Thank god it came on that day.

my next life

in between periods at school, i have several students who'll hang out in my room to avoid the horrors of the high school cafeteria. one showed me the new beyonce video below. oh, my my. in my next life i want to be beyonce. i not only want that figure, but i want to be able to shake that figure, too. is that too much to ask? seriously, i'm a good person. if karma exists, i think i have thus far earned at least those legs. i have the rest of my life to earn her torso, face, and those moves. unfortunately, i think my moves in this life more resemble those guys in the saturday night live parody of the music video...

i might be practicing some dance moves to youtube during adam's late work meetings this week...

Veteran's Day & my Grandma

When I was home last September (2007) after having just given birth, my Grandma told me the story of giving birth to her first baby, my mom, three days before D-Day while my Grandpa, who was in the military, was deployed overseas.

My Grandma was alone in the hospital. Estranged from her family and my Grandpa away, she went into the hospital to give birth to my mom by herself. The hospital was incredibly short-staffed because many doctors and nurses had been sent overseas to help tend to the men fighting in the Allied Forces. My Grandma was left alone in a hospital room with a nurse or two who'd check in periodically to see how she was. As my mom crowned, the nurses yelled at my Grandma to "keep the baby in" because the one doctor on staff "was in the middle of surgery and wouldn't be able to deliver the baby now!" So, my poor grandma was asked to do the impossible: hold back that baby that's coming out of you-know-where. Can you imagine?

The doctor arrived, my mom was born, and all was okay (believe it or not), but when I try to envision myself in a similar circumstance I get all twisty and uncomfortable inside. I know that in 1944 a husband would not have been in the delivery room and that natural birth, etc, had yet to have its renaissance, but even after my mom was born, there was my Grandma, alone in the U.S. with her brand new baby.

While the veterans of this country deserve to be celebrated on this day, it's essential to remember that these men and women don't exist as islands in this world. They're connected to families back home, and those families are also "serving" their country in myriad, bizarre ways that we can't even fathom. So today I'm thinking of you, Grandma, and the sacrifices you made for our country by being married to a man who served in the military for a large part of your marriage.

No wonder you're such a tough one!

2008 Election Moments

W-O-W.
I have had the chills off and on all day.
I have never felt this proud to be an American.

On election day, we took baby girl to vote with us en route to work. We got there around 7:20, strong coffee and muffins in hand, and waited. This wait was accompanied by tag team walks to the swings, the playground, the dog run, and many pick up-put down sequences. When we entered the school Alexandra couldn't roam free, and the wrestling match began, replete with multiple trips to the water fountain for entertainment. Finally, at 9am we exited the school building, having voted. Amid all the toddler agony, we're both glad we dragged her along so that she was with each of us as we voted for Obama. Here's my self-portrait from the voting booth:



The day DRAGGED, but soon we were upstairs at our neighbors (our baby video monitor stretches through four floors of brownstone and our house alarm was on) with my Obama cupcakes. Our neighbors Jen and Mary have friends that are exhaustingly funny. My most lucid memory of the pre-Obama mania was critiquing Tim Russert's son's man-bangs, or, as Jen called them, "mangs." Mangs...my new favorite word. Here's a photo of the mangs. Men should not, I repeat, should not, have mangs. Embrace your receding hairline; mangs are not the answer.



I made Obama cupcakes for our gathering, but we had a dozen leftover. In an attempt to keep myself from eating all of them and passing out from a sugar overdose, I brought them to school in my handy-dandy cupcake carrier. As I was exiting the F train, the train conductor (who was leaning out the window to make sure everyone was in before closing the doors) yelled to me, "Are those cupcakes?" I was late for work and walking at full speed (which is damn fast), but I turned and replied in my best June Cleaver voice, "Why, yes, would you like one?" I walked back to his window, set my coffee and cupcake carrier on the platform, opened it, and grabbed a cupcake for him. "Gobama!" he hollered to me, as he saw my tiny photo of Obama running topless in the Hawaii surf atop the cake. "Gobama!" I replied with a smile. He closed the F train doors and it lumbered out of the station. I love that a cupcake stopped the F train during rush hour. Here are the photos of my cupcakes for unity:

So emotional, baby.

Two photos of Alexandra Osa illustrate how I'm feeling right now.


I have such excitement about Obama as a candidate. I haven't felt enthusiastic about a democratic candidate, ever? Clinton? Did I know what I was talking about when 18? I don't think so...With that said, I have no shame in pimping out my toddler in her I heart Obama shirt. Regardless of the race's outcome, what a historical race this has been. I hope she keep this shirt as a relic of the early 21st century and can talk to her kids about it one day. Hopefully positive stories will accompany the little lavender shirt I bought in Union Square for five bucks.


Adam snapped this other photo of her at the Y's gym class on Saturday. She's very into hanging right now. This photo (and her insanely adorable facial expression) is how I feel. I am questioning if I can hang on until this is over. I have the jitters, I feel wired, and I kinda want to go run a million miles or do rabid aerobics and jump on a trampoline or run screaming through the street....I don't know.

Off to vote early tomorrow. And then the waiting begins...

Run for your life!

self-portrait in Gatorade cups

Yes, someone ran 26.2 miles in THIS.

Vaseline anyone?

Sunday we bundled up to go cheer the NYC marathon as the runners passed through our neighborhood. This year approx 40,000 runners ran, and for the first time they implemented a staggered start. When my friend Julia and I ran it in 2002, we spent the first 12ish miles weaving our way through the crowds and trying not to lose each other. This time there was plenty of elbow room for all, a beautiful sunny and cool day, and the race seemed to spread out FOREVER. But the cheerleader in me waits for this one day per year, and Adam and I managed to rally our 16 month old to stay out for almost four hours cheering. Incredible.

Our first position was right after a hydration station (H20 & Gatorade)and a Red Cross Station (volunteers handing out gobs of Vaseline on tongue depressors). This made for quite an interesting morning. First of all, if you have run a marathon, you know that after you drink fluid, you THROW the cup to the side of the road. This resulted in us getting splashed by lots liquid and baby girl desperately trying to pick up and drink the cups of thousands of runners. She was successful on several attempts. We're awaiting the onset of multiple diseases. Glad we vaccinated.

But the best part was the Vaseline. Chaffing is the worst part of running, esp. when you chafe in those regions that are most delicate (yes, THOSE parts). Many employ the use of Body Glide b/c it will wash out of your clothes, but Vaseline does the job, too. We unabashedly watched runners of all ages, both genders, and different sizes remove clothes and shove hands into bodily cracks and crevices loaded up with petroleum goo to prevent that horrid burning sensation when you get in the shower post-race. It was slightly perv-y, but also fascinating.

The crazies we saw: a man dressed as Marilyn Monroe, a fish, the same old Asian guy we see every year that runs with bells on his ankles (it was his 70th marathon!), a juggler, and, last but not least, a guy running in the infamous Borat bathing suit!

The poor Borat man didn't stop for Vaseline. I can't bear to imagine the chaffing of his man parts after 26.2 miles of running in that....ouch!