Constants

Earlier this summer I had dinner with an old friend. I'm not talking about and old friend as in we went to undergrad together, or even high school--this was a friend who had lived across the street from me from age 9 to age 12 and we literally hadn't spoken since. But, due to the advent of facebook we had reconnected. He is an consultant and has been coming to Brooklyn for work weekly. We finally made plans and got dinner.

Before our dinner date, I was nervous. I wondered, "What will we talk about? What if this is agony? Why haven't we spoken in 26 years--was I a total bitch to him and I've blocked it out?" I made a list of things I could ramble on about if need be. I had an excuse to get myself home quickly. All of this was totally unnecessary.

Ian Heiman, whom I knew for about four years of my life long ago, came over, met my family, and then we walked to my new favorite pizza place. We talked for HOURS, easily. We walked to get ice cream, still talking. We walked up to the park and ate our cones, still talking. I think our conversation could have lasted longer if it hadn't been edging towards 11pm. After all these years, we had so much in common--our relationships past and present, our kids, our beliefs on faith, our families...It was truly astounding. And heartwarming. After I walked Ian to the subway, I was in awe at how lucky I am to have people like that in my life, folks I can reconnect with--after a looooong time away--and we just click.

I just drove down to North Carolina to see my family with a pit stop in Virginia to stay with my friend Kimmie (a friend from middle school). Our friend Amy (friend from high school) drove 17ish hours from Chicago to Virginia with her four kids just to see me. Now that's love. We ate pizza, drank beer and wine, and caught up as our kids age 14 to 2 swirled around us. In NC and got brunch with my friend Sarah (friend from college) and her lovely architect husband David; they bought, rennovated, and live in my favorite apartment from undergrad on Mulberry Street. I hadn't seen Sarah since my friend Andrea's wedding in 2001, but our reconnection was seamless. I went to the Museum of Life and Science in Durham with my friend Abigail (friend from Americorps/Public Allies/Center for Documentary Studies) and her daughter Liberty, and our kids played in the mist exhibit, saw a black bear, and sweat in the August heat as Abigail and I shared stories and questions about jobs and location and life. Lastly, I had a lovely lunch, antique, and Target date with my dear friend, Erin (high school in NC). We have as much fun together at 38 as we did at 18.

This montage of friends and places and dates made me feel so lucky to have such good people from all chapters of my life. Friends I can pick up with after many years without a smidge of awkwardness. These relationships ground me in a way that's hard to explain in words--they are akin to a compass, or an anchor, or mirror, or all of the above, but having people who have known you through many versions of yourself whom you can hang out with and still feel that connection...well, that, my friends, is what this journey is all about.

You guys are my constants. You make this whole experience of life richer and more worthwhile. Thank you for that.

Regift Boomerang

For those who know me well, you might know that I am an avid regifter. It's shameful, I know. Not one of my best attributes at all. But, if I am given something and I don't like it, I am not the type of girl to hold onto it and wear/hang/put it out in obligatory fashion when the giver comes over. I usually stash it in a drawer and then give it to someone else. Sometimes as a present, but more often as a simple offering because I like them and I think they would like my unwanted gift. Maybe they do....Or maybe they regift it to someone else. I don't know.

I do have a shred of sentimentality in me. If the gift truly means something or is symbolic in some way and I don't like it, I still hold onto it. I'm talking more about the regifting of common everyday gifts here, so let me make the disclaimer that I'm not completely heartless.

But, for example, I have received a proliferation of items that depict my first tattoo--Picasso's hands holding flowers drawing--throughout my life. I got this tattoo when I was 18 years old, and while I don't loathe it now, it no longer feels like me. However, the stuff keeps pouring in: erasers, pencils, coffee mugs, notepads, posters, stationary. Most of it is from my mom (bless her heart), but sometimes it'll come from someone else. I smile when I receive it and stash it in a drawer to regift it.

This past weekend we attended Adam's Aunt's funeral. Aunt Marilyn was the best recipient of my regifts. She accepted all gifts with pure joy and thankfulness--an earnest joy and thankfulness. She was a very simple woman who appreciated simple things; she was also single her whole life, and I feel that when gifts came to her she truly felt part of a family and loved. I cannot begin to explain the large number of gifts that were given to me by my family that were recycled to Aunt Marilyn, and she loved each and every one. In fact, at the luncheon after the funeral and burial, Grandma Watson (Marilyn's mother) explained to me how much Marilyn loved a throw blanket that Adam and I had given her years ago for Christmas. Well, that was actually a gift my mom and stepdad had given us, but in a small apartment that already had three throw blankets, we didn't need another and regifted it to Aunt Marilyn. Grandma said how once Marilyn was wheelchair bound, that throw blanket was on her lap 24/7.

Aunt Marilyn had been in an assisted living facility for the past eight years. There wasn't much to clean out of her room, but Adam's mom, Marcia, came up to me on Saturday and handed me a mug of Picasso's hands holding flowers and said, "This was in Marilyn's room and we thought you should have it." Marcia didn't know that I had given the mug to Marilyn (or if she did, she didn't say), and she definitely didn't know that the mug came from my mother about nine years ago at Christmas. But now the mug is back in my hands, and, since it is a relic of Aunt Marilyn and symbolizes the hilarity of my regifting boomeranging back in my face, the mug is now safely situated in our cabinet where it will stay.

I guess when I regift comes back at you, it's the universe's way of saying you're meant to keep it.

Rest in Peace, Aunt Marilyn. I'll drink my coffee and tea from my mug, which was your mug, which is now again my mug and think of you.

*Hopefully* Back

I have missed my blog.

I don't know how and/or why life suddenly got too busy, crazy, chaotic to jot down my thoughts in this space, but between finishing my dissertation, graduating, job hunting, staying at home with two kids all of July & August, taking one job, quitting it to take another job, leaving the Department of Education, joining the faculty of the City University of New York system I have just not had the mental space or energy to put my thoughts down in this space.

But I have had thoughts.

And it sounds almost tragic, but sometimes when I don't get my small and large realizations down in my blog it's like they don't happen. Or, they lose some sense of tangibility, even if I have told them to friends, Adam, and any Joe at the grocery store who will listen over the cachophony of my wailing whining children.

But I am hoping and praying to the universe that all will settle down now. It's September. There's a new normal about to happen here: Alexandra is going to pre-Kindergarten at a new school, Nico is starting a new daycare, and I'm starting a new job as Assistant Professor of Developmental English for the New Community College, a branch of the City University of New York system. Now that all has been thrown up in the air and has resettled, I want to come back to here. I have missed it.

Photographer Magic

My good friend Julia has a part-time business of photographing families, pregnant ladies, and weddings when she's not a full-time photo editor at Backpacker Magazine or mama. I have been watching her take photos of others for years, and I have always been amazed at how beautiful she makes everyone look. What I find amazing about her work is that everyone in her images just looks so lovely--and I don't mean, "Man, those are some attractive people!" (although they are), but it seems that she's able to get their spirits to shine through in the photos and you can see who they truly are. And, of course, since my friend Julia is an amazing person she just attracts more awesome people.

I have been wanting her to photograph us for years, and a couple of weeks ago she came to NYC and my wish came true. Of course, I was nervous. Would I look old, fat, tired, icky? I must admit, my husband--as much as I love him more than anything--takes the absolute WORST photos of me. Don't know what it is, but each time he captures me in a photo I look g-r-o-s-s. I faced Julia's photo shoot with some trepidation. Then I tried the whole get-over-yourself approach and thought that my kids would look adorable, so who cares about me.

Well, I must say, she's got some photographer magic.

I don't even remember the last time I liked photos of myself, and I love these. LOVE. I look at the family in the photos and am like, "Who is that wonderful family? Oh my god, that's us!"

Thanks, Hools. You truly have an amazing talent. Love you.
For her edited view of our session, please go to her blog here.

And, for those of you in NYC, hopefully she'll come back annually and get a base of folks here to shoot. Interested? Lemme know and I'll make a list of us.

(Btw, my kids just plain don't smile for pictures--such surly New Yorkers!)

Freudian Smell

The other day while curriculum mapping some of my co-English teachers and I got on the discussion of smell, who has what kind of smell, if we find those smells attractive, strong, correct for that individual, and so forth. I was told I smell "spicy." I'm okay with that.

But the conversation was somewhat serendipitious in timing as the night before Adam had gone to bed before me. He closed the bedroom doors and when I opened them to go to bed a couple of hours later the room was filled with the smell of my DAD. Adam, when in a contained space, emits a smell that is uncannily like my father's smell. Now my dad has been dead since I was 22 years old, and I don't really know his smell nor could I really describe it in words, but when Adam sleeps in a closed room his body makes my dad's smell.

How Freudian is that?

One liners

Today was a day of pure frustration. TMI here, but I once again have a series of chronic UTIs. When I get a UTI, they seem to come in bouts of 5-6. I got one last week, did 5 days of antibiotics, took my last antibiotic yesterday morning and by last night had the raging symptoms all over again, but worse. For anyone who has had one you know--NOT fun.

So, I spent the morning trying to get in to a dr. My doctor closed. My midwife at a birth and not returning calls. The midwives in the neighborhood closed. Seriously, wtf to all the doctors' offices closed on Wednesday? Walk in clinic stopped taking patients at 11 and I got there at 11:15, so I rushed to work to teach two of my four classes so I wouldn't be marked absent for the day. Ugh.

After I taught my class, a student of mine from the morning class I missed came in and said, "Miss, where were you? I missed you a little bit." This girl is a HARD nut to crack. She's mean, and every time I ask her to do anything she sucks her teeth at me and rolls her eyes and says something nasty under her breath. I tried calling the mom about her sass, but no luck. Her and her mom are BFFs--she has her mom's name tattooed on her wrist and she's 16 years old! So, I have been chipping away at her mean girl facade and today's one liner was evidence that I. have. won. Woot! I told her that her comment made coming to work today worthwhile and she paused. "Really?" she asked. "Yep," I said, "It's not everyday you say something nice." Tender teaching moment.

One liner #2: Go back to walk in clinic at 2:30 and get seen at 4:30. Thank god for a good book from a coworker in my bag. As the doctor and I chatted about my chronic UTIs, he said, and I quote, "In a woman YOUR AGE...." What? A woman MY AGE? Lord, he made me sound like an artifact or something. I don't think I have ever heard that expression before, but I'm sure I'll hear it again.

Oy.

Firework

I had about five students tell me this week that I look like the woman giving birth in the new Katy Perry "Firework" video, so tonight, since Adam's in CT and I have ample time to procrastinate on my own, I found it and just watched it about five times. And yes, I do kinda look like her in that we're both White women with brown hair, bangs, and a decent-sized nose, so I'm kinda flattered that they actually thought of me. I love getting my pop culture references from them.



But something about this song really moved me. The video just seemed so powerful. And yes, before you crucify me as a pop music addict and refuse to take me seriously--watch it.

First, I don't think there's really a more perfect comparison to giving birth than to feeling like a firework is exploding out of you in the most amazing and terrifying feeling that that might bring. So, the woman giving birth--my doppelganger--really spoke to me. Especially since I birthed both my babies on my back and probably had a similar look of terror/exhaustion on my face as my firework babies emerged. Doesn't every woman? Really impressive metaphor there.

Secondly, the little girl with cancer just ripped me apart. Yes, because she was a little girl with cancer and if that doesn't just make you fall to pieces you are obviously not human, but also because of a story I heard on NPR probably 13 or so years ago. The story went over creative ways to celebrate the end of life, and one way was to get cremated and use your ashes in the creation of some fireworks and then to set them off in your honor. I LOVE that idea. No lie. I want to be a firework when I die. Every time Adam and I have seen fireworks together I point out the colors and shapes and sounds I like for future reference. So, when I saw that little girl my mind traipsed over the the death zone and I got all emotional.

And lastly, I freakin' love this vein of pop songs that celebrates being DIFFERENT and, as an educator, I can't say enough what a desperately needed mantra that is for youth today. I could make a whole post on that, but I'll save that for another day. Pink's "Raise A Glass" is another song like this that came out recently.



Maybe I am just a pop music aficionado, but watch the video. Am I wrong? It's spectacular.

Thankful for Slips

The past two Thanksgivings I have blogged about the small, random things I am thankful for (those posts are here and here). These small things are the items that make life more sane for me. Of course I am thankful for my health, my beautiful family, and my amazing friends. I am honestly thankful for them everyday. But it's the small things that go unnoticed in the daily grind of work, daycare pick up, my dissertation, & life. I don't have the brain power to think of six things this year, so here's the one thing that has rocked my world recently:

SLIPS!

Oh my god, where have slips been all my life? I haven't worn once since my First Communion (and I still have that slip & dress!), but this fall brought out the rebirth of the slip in my life. I ordered this tshirt a-line dress and when I went to put it on there was just too much VPL for my liking (that's Visible Panty Line for those of you not in the know). I mean, I teach high school kids all day long, and they'll notice your panty line and comment on it to their friends loud enough for you to hear--the joys of my job. So, I tried with dress with a thong. Well, you could TELL I was wearing a thong. That's NO better with the 16-18 crowd. I was at a total loss when I found this old half slip that I have had since the beginning of time and slipped it on (haha) and it was m-a-g-i-c! Not only did it disguise the VPL, but it smoothed down some unwanted baby love that has taken up residence on my ass.

I rocked my little half slip and few times and then I upgraded and got a full body slip. OMG. It's pure poetry. It smooths down the belly flab that's hanging out since the birth of our two kids and the advent of this academic year which has prohibited me from setting foot in a gym. I'm sold.

But I warn you: I got a Spanx slip (just getting a little overzealous on the magic a slip might be able to do for me) and it sucked. It rode up and didn't really pull anything in that drastically. And it was too expensive. So, don't go there. Stick with the old school version.

I am currently obsessed with the new HBO show Boardwalk Empire during which many fancy and pretty slips are featured. That has definitely helped fuel my new love. And, isn't "slip" a great word? It just slides off the tongue. So pretty.

Advice to all of all you mamas out there with evidence of your childbearing years lingering in your lovehandles, you belly, your derriere, or your extended derriere I highly recommend a good slip. They're not your grandmother's underwear anymore.

(Above image is a "Freudian slip"--couldn't resist.)

Apocalypse Now

Last Monday was an evening of note. Besides the fact that I exercised for the first time since the school year began, we had a CRAZY hail storm. It had been lightening throughout my 45 minute spin class and when I came outside the ground was wet, so I figured the storm had passed. But then, out of nowhere (just like the Brooklyn tornado of 2010 a month ago) it was torrentially raining, thundering like death was upon us, and quarter-sized hail started pouring out of the sky.

Adam and I went to the front window to get a better view of the circumstances against the streetlights and it was pure madness. It looked like a river was running down our street and I worried that it would overflow the curb height and seep into our ground floor apt. The ground was pure white with hail. The rain was sideways. Right as we questioned as to if it was tornado #2 and if we should grab the kids and get into the cellar, Alexandra stumbled into the room, woken by the booming thunder. She quickly became fascinated with the hail and Adam opened the window and grabbed her a few pieces. She cross-referenced the hail storm the next morning in her Eyewitness book on weather. Smart girl.

But the hail storm brought me back to my childhood and the time we had a crazy hail storm in Sterling, Virginia and my religious mother thought it was the beginning of the apocalypse. She was on our mustard yellow phone that matched our kitchen appliances, staring out into the backyard with her free arm waving in the air praising Christ and speaking in tongues, praying with a fellow born-again Christian over the phone lines. Christ didn't appear on a cloud that day to whisk them off to heaven and the end of ages did not start, but the hail storm (it was golfball-sized hail and quite impressive) did dent the aluminum siding on all the houses in our suburban subdivision and everyone got vinyl siding after that. Our house went from green to yellow.

I hadn't thought of that hail storm of my childhood and my mother's constant insistence that the Christ was coming back *NOW* lately. Since I lost my religion around the age of 18 most conversations regarding the apocalypse revolve around how I'm going to endure the seven years of trial and tribulation since I no longer believe in Christ as my personal Lord and savior. My last conversation with my mom on this topic was when I was home several years ago and she told me the combination to the garage and where she stashes her mad money and jewelry. She also mentioned that Jim (my step-dad's) grandfather clock was worth a few thousand dollars in case I had to barter with Satan for my life at any point. She was not kidding.

My mom still lives in that state of constant waiting; she fully believes that Christ will come back and she hopes that it will be in her lifetime. I, on the other hand, just enjoy a good display of extreme weather. But, in case the next hail storm is accompanied by a surprise disappearance of all Christian peoples from the planet Earth, someone give me a ring. I have a stash of cash and diamonds awaiting us in NC, along with a badass grandfather clock that I'm sure Satan has his eye on.

Our Big Fat Gay Wedding

We attended our first gay wedding this weekend. This was Alexandra's second wedding this summer, and she looked forward to both Jen & Mary's and Sam & Maddy's with great anticipation. She was excited to wear a dress, to dance, to eat cake, and to go on "vacation" with us and have adventures. All week leading up to the wedding she kept asking, "Are we going to the wedding today?" and making statements like "Jen & Mary are going to be so so so pretty in their dresses!" Never once did it even occur to her that Jen & Mary's desire to marry each other was anything to bat an eyelash about.

There is something so amazing about that innocence and her lack of understanding that many folks do not think that Jen & Mary should have the rights and benefits that come with the legalization of their union. To Alexandra, the fact that our neighbors and friends were in love and wanted to get married was no different than mommy or daddy getting married or from the wedding she attended in August. She just wanted details on the car we were renting to get there, what type of cake there would be, and the color of Jen's dress and Mary's suit (after I explained to her that I had never seen Mary in a dress and that some girls didn't like/want to wear dresses, she easily accepted that Mary would wear a suit). The fact that Jen & Mary are both girls? No big deal.

The wedding was beautiful and, no surprise here, just like every union of two wonderful people that we have ever attended. I cried during their vows, got chills during their super cute choreographed first dance, and saw so many parts of their wedding that I wish we had done (great idea: a big picture frame hung between trees as a "photo booth" for all the guests to go pose in as wedding documentation--brilliant!). We danced until Alexandra started to fade (Nico had passed out in the Ergo despite my booty shaking), and we slowly traipsed back to our hotel room looking at the stars that elude us here in Brooklyn.

We didn't bring any books in from the car, so I told Alexandra a story as she fell asleep. I told her that one day, she'd have a wedding and we would all come. That we would eat cake and dance all night and be happy with all her friends and our friends. I told her that she could marry whomever she wanted and we would support her choices and love her (I decided to save the "as long as s/he isn't a total douche" addendum for later), and that she'd always be our baby girl. As she looked at me with her dark chocolate eyes, I don't think she realized the layers of meaning in my story of her future, but it would be just lovely if some of it would sink in and, in her mind, she would never feel the need to question the validity of Jen & Mary's wedding versus anyone else's.

Brooklyn Tornado

In addition to the total stress of returning to work at a school with a new principal and a new job title for myself, there was a freakin' tornado the first week of work. Yes, you read that correctly--a TORNADO here in Brooklyn. Yep.

It was Thursday, September 9th. I decided to pick the kids up early b/c I had finished at work and was missing them big time. I walked to Alexandra's daycare, got her, and we noticed that the sky was getting stormy looking, but just gray, moving clouds and a breeze. We walked the 12 blocks to Nico's daycare, got a snack along the way, picked up Nico, and headed up our street. We stopped and chatted with Miss Gertrude, the old lady who lives on our block who loves Alexandra and Nico. After catching up for a bit, it started to thunder and lighting right on top of us. Thunder, then lightening, one after the other really fast. I said to Alexandra, "Let's run home so we don't get wet!" and we ran up the street. Me wearing Nico and my backpack, Alexandra and her backpack.

We made it into our apartment just as the rain started. I took Nico out of the Ergo carrier, got our shoes off and we were in the apartment when it really started looking strange out. Thing is, our windows were closed b/c our landlords were having work done on their deck and there had been a lot of dirt/dust blowing into our apt, so I couldn't hear the raging storm outside. But when I looked out the kitchen window upon entering our apartment from the hallway it was pitch black. I said to Alexandra, "Wow, it's really dark out there, let's go see!" (I love a good thunderstorm and so does she) and I picked Nico back up, we ran to her window which faces our backyard, she climbed her radiator to see outside better, and I stood there in shock by what I saw.

Outside was now a pea green color. I couldn't see the apartment building behind us (it's only 60 feet away). Everything was going SIDEWAYS and there were branches, leaves, and dirt just twisting around so fast you couldn't tell what was what. After looking at it transfixed for about half a second, my brain registered a huge "What the f*ck is that?!" and I grabbed Alexandra off the radiator, told her to go to the hallway, grabbed our transistor radio, and shut us out of our apartment into our windowless hallway. Alexandra said, "Mommy, I'm a little scary...."

I tuned the radio to 1010 Wins (the local news radio)--nothing. I tuned to NPR--nothing. WTH? I was pretty sure there was a tornado raging outside my window but nobody was saying anything. I felt like a crazy person. I kept waiting for someone to say something--nothing. After about 5 minutes the doors to the hallway stopped rattling and we ventured back into the apartment. Only then did the radio announce a tornado warning for Brooklyn and Queens. Duh. Thanks for the heads up.

I called my next door neighbor and coworker Jess and she confirmed that she thought it was a tornado. It wasn't until a day later that official weather folks declared, based on their data, that there had been two separate tornados--one in Brooklyn, one in Queens. Brooklyn winds around 95 mph, Queens around 115.

We went for a walk after dinner to see the destroyed neighborhood. Huge beautiful trees (why I love Park Slope) laid all over like corpses. Branches had been ripped off and thrown 30 feet from the tree. Cars smashed. Store windows blown out. One block from our house a Saab was left in the middle of the road after a tree fell both behind it and in front of it--abandoned by the terrified driver. It was like a movie set here.

But the strange thing is that the tornado didn't really touch the ground. Heavy pots still stood on stoops, our yard toys got pushed around by the wind but weren't hanging from the trees. The tornado seemed to dance over the rooftops and treetops, ripping trees and roofs off, but thankfully leaving the ground fairly unscathed all things considered.

While I have a more than shaky relationship with my belief in God, I'm so thankful that for some unknown reason I decided to grab my kids early that day. We walked in the door less than 5 minutes before the tornado hit. Stuff like that just gets you thinking...

Done

Since March of 2006, I have either been pregnant or nursing with a three month break between pregnancy #1 (miscarriage) and Alexandra's pregnancy and a three month break between weaning Alexandra and getting pregnant with Nico.

As of this week, two major things have happened:

1. Nico is fully weaned (although my boobs are still readjusting)
2. Adam had a vasectomy yesterday (although he's still going to be shooting swimmers for about 20 more shots, according to the doctor)

These are monumental steps in my life. Not only am I physically done with childbearing and nursing, but we have also taken a serious step to ensure that we won't have any more kids. There is a teeny, tiny part of me that mourns this. Yesterday I was super emotional about it all. Although the logical me knows the million and one reasons we are stopping at two kids, the emotional side of me is feeling sad, a sick maternal longing for another baby in my belly, the flutters of first feeling it move, the massive kicks that make your skin undulate, the power of giving birth, those first precious moments of meeting your baby, the sweet sucking sounds a newborn makes on your breast....the list goes on.

But we are done. And, once the emotional side of me calms down (I'm also PMS-ing which is no help. God, having your period again SUCKS after being menstruation-free for 20 months), I'm sure I'll find immeasurable relief in knowing that we no longer have to worry about another* surprise pregnancy.

(* Two of our three pregnancies were surprises. We are not model condom users, that's for sure)

(Photo of my last day of pumping breastmilk in the gross teacher's lounge bathroom. I WON'T miss that.)

R.I.P. Miriam Perez

While I loathe all the teaching metaphors that relate to war (the trenches, the battleground, educational ground zero, the troops, etc.), there is something about teaching together that makes people close. The emotional job of teaching is exhausting. We literally raise these students while trying to get them to learn to read, write, and become life long learners; we encourage them to say please/thank you, not to scream "F*ck you" whenever they feel like it, and to have positive and respectful relationships with one another. Anyone who is a parent knows how difficult these goals are with your own children. Now multiply that by 150, subtract the fact that you do have some parental power & unconditional love with your own children, and that equals teaching.

With this in mind, teaching brings people together. I have cried, laughed, listened, talked, whined, worried, and gotten pissed (as in mad and drunk!)with my coworkers. We laugh when our principal says we're family, but we are. I have worked there for NINE years. My coworkers have guided me through engagement, marriage, miscarriage, masters work, doctorate work, the pregnancies and births of my two children, the death of a very close friend, marital conflicts, family issues, and many an existential crisis. I love them dearly--they truly are my family on so many levels.


(my coworkers: (L to R) Causha Vann-Innis, Miriam Perez, Mr. Cuthbert our principal, Akua Henderson-Brown--all these ladies are kick ass English teachers at Cobble Hill)

Which is why I couldn't catch my breath when Thai (whom I have worked with since she was a wee student teacher at our school) called me yesterday afternoon to tell me of the passing of Miriam Perez. Literally. My heart was racing--it was as if my brain could not process the information. I stood in front of Nico's daycare stunned.

Miriam and I have worked together for a long time; I can't remember my life at school without her. She had a dazzling smile, a love for poetry and poetry slams, documentary films (and made awesome Brooklyn tshirts!) and a hearty laugh that could warm a room. Over the years we had gotten closer and my gregarious self began to understand Miriam's more reserved personality. We began to laugh together, share stories of kids and our students, and be friends. I'll miss her presence in 212, our Humanities Teacher's Lounge. I can picture her there so clearly: at the end of the table, eating her healthy lunch and wearing her copper hoop earrings, maybe with her ipod on, trying to catch a moment of peace before teaching again.

I'll never forget the first time I saw Miriam outside of school--eight years ago?--at Prospect Park with a beautiful little girl at her side. Being me, I ran up to them and introduced myself and met her daughter, Afiya. She must have been 8 or 9 years old. She was lanky, had big, curious eyes, and a shy smile. Afiya has come to school many days with Miriam, and we have all be lucky to watch her grow into an amazing, grounded, confident, and intelligent similar-but-of-course-unique version of Miriam. I know Miriam's greatest love and focus in life was Afiya. I can't stop thinking of her and aching for her.

One of the things that has been touching about Miriam's passing is the response from her old students on Facebook. Teaching is such a thankless job; you never really know how the students feel about you until maybe--years later--you get a random email or friend request from a student who tells you how much you changed their lives. Those moments are rare and beautiful. Reading the students' comments about Miriam this morning demonstrated the love they had for her and the importance of her role as their teacher. Some have changed their profile pictures to her face. They are spreading the word and they, too, are shocked, sad, and aching.

Miriam--we all loved you at Cobble Hill, students and teachers alike. Thank you for staying at the school, year after year, amid many upheavals of teachers and administration; thank you for being so constant and consistent in your demeanor amid the craziness of our building; and thank you for being our friend and part of our family. We will all miss you deeply.

(my lovely coworkers at another coworker's wedding: (L to R) my Assistant Principal; Causha Vann-Innis, the bride; Miriam Perez; Katika Moore (we're still waiting for you to come back, Tika!); Thai Sanders; Akua Henderson-Brown. I was 2 weeks post-partum from Alexandra and not sadly there, but I got many texts from all of them during it!)

Happy?

I love both the simplicity and the message of this poster.
Food for thought today!

Sam & Maddy

I have got to post about our vacation before my mind decomposes into all dissertation and work talk.

Our vacation! It was lovely! I was in shock that we did it, made it, and enjoyed it after our first attempt at a vacation in early July, but it worked and restored my faith that we CAN do things with two kids and actually have a good time. In fact, while the idea of vacation has totally changed, in some ways it was even more wonderful to experience all these things with Alexandra, who remembers so much and has a constant running dialogue about all we do. I'm going to start at the end of our vacation and move backwards:

Our last leg of vacation was in New Paltz, New York. I had never been there, but it was gorgeous. Soft mountains, green lush surroundings, the smells....yum. We had an epic 11 hour car ride from Cape Cod to New Paltz which was a challenge, and we arrived in New Paltz in the dark, me driving like a grandma on the windy mountain roads to our rented cabin, but we made it. We walked into the red cabin, got the kids in bed, and I immediately passed out. It was chilly! You can't imagine how wonderful it felt to be a little cold at night.

We were in New Paltz for Sam & Maddy's wedding celebration. Well, they didn't officially get married, but it was a joining of the souls in ways that I found touching, genuine, and simply beautiful in its intentions. They had transformed a retreat center into a wedding venue; it was nestled in the mountainous terrain, fields and woods around it. So beautiful. I never realize how much I am practically starving for nature due to our urban existence until I am plopped in the middle of it.

They officiated their own ceremony with help from their families. The love they had for each other and that their families demonstrated for them was moving. The evening was full of group gatherings--the ceremony, a blessing before dinner, eating, dancing--all orchestrated by Sam & Maddy to bring together everyone they loved. Unlike any wedding I had ever attended, but perfect.

My favorite parts of the night were when Maddy's cousins toasted them and explained how Maddy was the type of person who constantly encouraged you to have a "critical pedagogy." So perfectly on spot! And Maddy's sister then did an interpretative dance/performance toast which was hilarious and heart-warming. I want to marry into Maddy's family!

Alexandra asked about a dozen times, "When are we going to dance?" We have been practicing our dancing each night after dinner for the two weddings we're attending this year. When the band came on she went BONKERS. Too cute. And she loved watching the old hippies (the parent generation) get down in the dance floor. Sometimes she'd stop dancing and just stare. I don't think she'd ever seen adults dance or seen men and women dance closely...You could see her mind taking it all in.

We stayed in colorful little cabins with some friends and the kids ran around wild, eating cherry tomatoes, visiting the two llamas the cabin owners used to mow the grass, and hiking on woodsy trails. Had me wishing we lived in a cabin commune where the kids could just run free and the parents could pop over to each others' houses at will.

We snuck back into the city before the Sunday traffic hit. It was great to get home, mainly for all the baby accoutrements that we enjoy in our apartment, but for about a week I found myself thinking Brooklyn was gross and craving a quieter, greener environment. But now I'm back into my city grind and happy. Although my mind is curious about life outside of New York...Maybe one day.

Congrats and love to you, Sam & Maddy. We look forward to sharing all the next phases of partnership with you both! Bring on those babies (wink, wink)!

(ps: Adam wore an ironic moustache to the wedding in cahoots with Brian. That's why, if you click on the kissing both photo, he looks like a child molester.)

Teenage Dream

My high school boyfriend, Trey, used to make fun of my propensity to determine a successful pop song. Give me any newly released album and I'll inevitably be drawn to the most unoriginal, peppy song that will be loved by the masses. It was true then, and I still love me a good pop song.

Which was why I wasn't surprised but still kinda embarassed when I caught Katy Perry's new song "Teenage Dream" and the video while watching VH1 on the elliptical machine yesterday morning. I watched the video longingly, like it was my past life (Ha--I wish!), but there is something about it that draws me back to my younger years that I tend to over-romanticize in my head.

Maybe it's just me trying to ignore the fact that I have spent another summer mostly staring at my computer (3rd in a row), writing a dissertation, wearing my underwear inside out half the time, and am currently wearing two different flip flops b/c I am too lazy to find the mate to either one. Wishful dreaming of a mythical youth long past...Don't know. But I felt justified when New York Magazine's Approval Matrix (I freakin' love the Approval Matrix) referenced the Katy Perry video as "nostalgic, oddly moving." See! I'm not alone here.

Can't embed the video, so click here to watch it.

Vacation?

In July we went to Black Point, the beach on the Long Island Sound that Adam grew up going to, with Adam's parents. It was a far cry from a vacation.

Alexandra threw about three tantrums a day. The beach was way too hot to go down to during any regular human being hours, there was NO shade, and it was 100 degrees even at the water. The beach house had no AC. Nico would wake at 5am and we couldn't let him cry until 6am b/c it would have woken up the whole house, so we were up at 5am. We had to eat out every night b/c it was too hot to cook, and, for any of you with a tantrum-y toddler and a 10 month old with ninja arms, you know that eating out isn't really much fun. As much as my in-laws were overly gracious, it just was not a good time.

We were thrown. Was THAT a vacation? We called our daycare to see if the kids could come back early, drove home during the night to sleep in our ACed apt, and eagerly tossed them in daycare the next morning. Then we went to brunch, came home and napped, and looked at each other with that, "What the eff have we done to our lives?!" look of parental desperation. Never again, we vowed.

And then our dear friends Brian and Susannah invited us to join them at the Cape this coming week. We honestly thought we'd just say no and staycation: keep the kids in daycare, hit some museums, nap, make out, drink beer with lunch, etc. But then we got sucked back into the idea of leaving town, a geographical shift from the melting city streets, and next thing you know we're going.

Our whirlwind vacation starts in CT, onto Cape Cod, and finishes with a wedding in New Paltz. Wish us luck. I must admit, my expectations aren't too high. If I can have a drink with Susla each night and shoot the sh*t for an hour before we all pass out at 10 (b/c Nico will inevitably wake at 5am, esp w/o his darkening shades) I'm going to call it a good trip.

Back August 15th. I'm sure I'll have much to write about.
(Photo of Alexandra & I at the Cape, 2008)

Pushing Art

The lovely old school Brooklyn Jewish lady who was our principal's secretary informed me that when you push a baby out of your vag that your husband then has to get you a pushing present. She showed me every piece of jewelry on her hands/wrists/neck and said, "This was baby #1, this was baby #2, this was baby #3" and so on. I wasn't too sure about that, but then I pushed out Alexandra and her 10lbs of huge baby body out and said, "Hell, yeah. Get me a pushing present."

For Alexandra I got pearls (stud earrings and single strand necklace). You can't imagine the jokes that Adam made for weeks about giving me a pearl necklace (get it?), but he finally got over his hilarity and got the goods. I hope to pass the pearls down to Alexandra one day. But with Nico, I have been at a loss. And then I decided: I want a piece of art that Nico can have one day.

After racking my brain, I cyber-stalked an old college friend Casey Burns who made the most amazing rock concert posters for the Cat's Cradle (Chapel Hill's musical epicenter, for those not in the know), and I was thrown to find him still making posters and fully employed by his work. Amazing! He beyond talented, and his stuff is beautiful but kinda macho, too. It reminds me of loud music, and sweaty packed concerts, and hot bass players, and beer breath, and all that testosterone-y stuff that I like about men and loved about undergrad concert going.

And, if I can get a print/poster for my sweet Nico, maybe one day he will grow up and be a rock star or a bad ass artist (or both!) all b/c a Casey Burns print hung over his crib. That'd be pretty cool.

(Spoon poster of of Casey's off his website. Gorgeous, no?)

I'm 36--A Photo Essay

This Thursday, July 8th, I turned 36. Birthdays always give me pause in many ways. This year I felt this crazy sense of accomplishment in that I feel I'm done having kids. I look at my life and am more than often astonished that I have created a family. When the kids go to sleep, I sit around and stare at pictures of them on the fridge and am shocked that in the next room are two living, breathing little babes who came out of my body, were made from Adam and myself, and who are our children. I wonder if I'll be in awe of this my entire life.

I am also aware that I am getting older. The second kid really took a toll on my pre-baby body in many ways. One crazy way is that my hair is totally different. It's a different color (very brown with an increasing amount of gray) and it has gotten wavy, frizzy, kinda curly. Look that this photo I snapped on my birthday of a hair I pulled out of my head! Me--the girl who had pin straight hair her whole life. Crazy.

But I try to embrace aging. As said in the most recent Margaret Atwood book (one of my fave authors)--if you're not aging, you're dead. Amen sista. Bring on the wrinkles, and let me live to be a healthy, spry, sassy Betty White.

Here are a few pics of the kids. They were unbearably horrid that evening (both crying inconsolably all through daycare pickup) until Alexandra put on Michael Jackson's Greatest Hits album and her and Nico both starting dancing (Nico in the high chair) and we all got happy, ate cake, and put them promptly to bed.


Is he not the cutest thing? Kills me.



Alexandra sang to me. Tried to sing, "Are you 1? Are you 2?" but I had her skip and start at 30 instead. Or else we'd still be singing.



Lovely lemon cake. Ate half of it the next day during a dissertation anxiety attack. It was only a 4" cake, but still...

My New Horror Movie Genre

When I was a kid, I LOVED horror movies. My mom wouldn't let me watch them, but my dad was sick a lot and my sister and I stayed at Dawn Amaismeier's house many weekends while my mom was at the hospital. Louise, Dawn's mom, would take us to Erol's Video and we would rent two movies: a horror movie and a funny movie. We would watch the horror one first, get scared to death, and then watch a Mr. Bill movie or a comedy of sorts to mellow us out before bed. That was elementary school.

In middle school, my friend Jen Osborne and I watched the "Nightmare of Elm Street" movies repeatedly. We would then hang a Freddy Kreugar poster over her bed and go to sleep under it, scared to death and giggling singing "One, two, Freddy's coming for you." Why? No idea. What is it in us that loves to be scared?

Then something happened: Right around the time that I had Alexandra I stopped being able to watch horror movies. I can't do it. I get too freaked out. Maybe it has something to do with being a mother, having these two little lives to protect, and all that, but I cannot for the life of me watch a horror movie. But I can and do read/watch dystopic/apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic books/movies. In fact, I'm pretty addicted to them.

Name a dystopic novel and I have read it--most likely twice: all Margaret Atwood books (The Handmaid's Take, Oryx and Crake, The Year of the Flood), George Orwell's 1984, Huxley's Brave New World, Cormac McCarthy's The Road...the list goes on. And movies? Fuggetaboutit. I watch them all: The Day After Tomorrow, 2012, any stupid thing about a meteor hitting planet earth and we're all swallowed up by a tsunami and I'm on it like white on rice.

And then I go bonkers with fear. I strategize on how to save my kids from the Cloverfield monster, lament that I have no survival skills (can't shoot a gun, find clean water, start a fire), and think of starting a canned food/bottled water secret stash in case of a pandemic that we just happen to survive. I am not exaggerating when I say that I lay in bed at night thinking of how to get my kids, who sleep on opposite ends of our 800 sq foot apartment, to safety if there were an earthquake.

So, although I have given up the original genre of horror flicks, I feel I have transplanted myself into a much scarier and more realistic genre of dyspotic/apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic film and fiction. And as much as Freddy Kruegar scared the bejesus out of me in 7th grade, the possibility of a the waterless flood that will wipe out humanity scares me even more.

Maybe I need some anti-anxiety meds, or is this just motherhood making me crazy?

(On my list of things to learn in case the world implodes and I survive with my kids: build a fire, skin and eat small animals, forage for non-poisonous foods, shoot multiple types of guns, find clean water, self-defense...Any other suggestions?)