The Referendum

My insightful and lovely adviser at Teachers College posted this link on Facebook the other day, an editorial pinpointing the endless job of comparison with others, particularly as we enter into a time in our lives when we have done enough to look back and question our decisions, perhaps mourning the roads not taken, perhaps celebrating some paths chosen, but also comparing our choices to those of our peers--close friends, co-workers, acquaintances, family members, etc.

I found this piece super insightful. And as much as I have comparison issues that I constantly strive to make peace with, I found that upon reflecting I am pretty content with my life and my choices. So, of course, I made a list of the questionable and the sure things:

QUESTIONABLE:
*My doctorate work--Worth the fact that I now can't buy an apartment until 2017 when my debt is paid off? Don't think so. I have heard that it'll open doors, blah blah blah, but right now I'd just like to stop renting thank you very much.
*Living in NYC. God, I adore this city, but at times I'd like a nice little house in Carrboro, NC, with a yard and proximity to biscuits and Southern accents and kudzu.
*Teaching as a career path. So rewarding, so underpaid. Will my years of feeling satisfied personally outweigh my floundering bank account? God, I hope so. Why didn't I go into a more lucrative profession? Why do I give a shit about others? Dammit!

NEVER DOUBT:
*Marrying Adam. He's the best guy out there for me. No doubt. Never doubt getting married, either. I think all folks should be able to get married if they want to. It does mean something, although I'm not sure I can pinpoint what that is.
*Having kids--was never not an option. Even glad Nico--our little surprise--brought himself into the world when he did. Being a mother has made me a better person.
*Waiting to have kids until my 30s--I traveled all over, took classes, and made myself as good as I could be before having these two babes who will hopefully reap the benefits of my time cultivating myself.
*Moving to NYC--undoubtedly the best move I ever made. Found my career, my partner, and the woman I needed to become. This city defines me in many ways, and I like that.

That's my list for now...Just thinking out loud to cyberspace on a rainy day...

Anatomy Gone Awry

When we were shown the penis at Nico's 12 week ultrasound, we began to explore the wonderful world of anatomy explanation to Alexandra. The pending arrival and welcoming of Nico and his boy parts was simultaneous to Alexandra's potty training beginnings, therefore we have had lots of discussions of boy's having penises and girl's having poo-cats. In the past couple of months, I have said the four P words more times than I wish to admit: pee pee, poo poo, penis, & poo-cat.

But Alexandra has taken this anatomy lesson to whole new levels with her vocabulary that expands by the day. And it's beginning to get uncomfortable. Here's a conversation from yesterday regarding Kevin, the music teacher who comes to her daycare whom she adores (she has a thing for boys who play the acoustic guitar, just like her mama). We were listening to Kevin's CD (which is decent for kid's music), and she announces:

Alexandra: Kevin has a penis.

Mommy: Yes, Kevin has a penis because he's a boy.

Alexandra: Kevin is a big boy.

Mommy: Yes, Kevin is a big boy like Daddy.

(can you see where this is going?)

Alexandra: Kevin has a big penis! (big smile on her face = terrifying)

Mommy: (Looks at husband with a WTH do I say to that? Trying not to laugh...)

Obviously, my silence and stunned face gave the signal to my oh-so-observant 2 year old daughter that she had said something golden, therefore for about 1/2 hour she ran around the house, dancing to Kevin's CD, screaming, "Kevin has a big penis!"

I REALLY hope she doesn't remember this association she made come Wednesday during music class. Can you get kicked out of daycare for that?

Halloween

I have never, once trick-or-treated. Sad, but true.

My mom, the born again who speaks in tongues Catholic, thought Halloween was Satan's holiday. For years, she would keep us out of school so that we could not partake in any Halloween parties. She kept me out of the advanced reading group in second grade because on the reading list was "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" and she didn't want me to read anything with a witch in it. On Halloween night, we'd lock ourselves in our house, turn out all the lights as a signal to the candy-hunters that we were not giving out the goods, and hide in the back rooms and watch TV. If she were feeling generous that year, my mom would get us some candy of our own, but that didn't always happen. She was a pretty big health food freak, too.


Needless to say, when I went to school the next day all the kids would be like, "Why was your house all dark?" "What's wrong with you?" "Your family sucks!" Blah, blah, blah. And I would have to decide if I wanted to reveal that my mom was a religious zealot or lie and say that I had a terrible stomach virus for 24 hours. Usually the latter won out. Yes, I have years of psychological scarring from this.

In college and my 20's I loved to whore it up for Halloween as an excuse to make out with boys; it was a very successful mission and worked most years. But, of course, those years are long gone.

But now I have kids and I can embark on a new and previously uncharted part of Hallowen: I can trick-or-treat! And now that Alexandra can walk and talk this is year one. Last year we managed to score some loot as I drove her around in our stroller dressed as a chicken and Adam and I as wolves in sheep's clothing. She had her first Blow Pop and her first Kit Kat, and it's been a downward candy spiral since then. But this year we are doing it--door to door, pounding the pavement trick-or-treating.

And I am more excited than she is.

snuggle bunnies

Parenting a newborn and a two year old is nothing less than a roller coaster ride. And I don't mean one of those smooth-moving sleek new 21st century roller coasters, I'm talkin' about the Cyclone at Coney Island, a ricky, wooden, neck-jerking up and down ride on a wooden great-grandma that's simultaneously exhilarating and life-threatening.

And let me preface this by saying that I have two good kids (knock on wood). Alexandra has always been such a good girl and Nico, swear to god, has yet to cry ONCE in the night, even last night as he sniffed, coughed, sneezed, and wheezed with this cold he's contracted from Alexandra and her daycare of germs. But they still work me.

Last night Alexandra was in full force two year old mode. She spit her chewed up dinner on the floor, was doing circus acrobatics in her Stokke high chair, had a full-blown meltdown after she threw a Play-Dough toy at me and I promptly removed it, her meltdown caused Nico to cry...She threw all the refrigerator magnets on the floor, pretty much screamed all though dinner (when not spitting food)...It was a shitstorm of two year old behavior. By the time Adam came home I was about to turn to heavy drinking.

Then she woke this morning at 5am. As selfish as I am, I laid in bed and let Adam deal, because he's on morning duty with her b/c I was nursing Nico (btw, Adam is the best dad and husband ever). I could hear him taming the wild beast (since our apt is only 800 square feet) and I turned on the white noise machine to ignore them. Then Alexandra burst into our bedroom yelling,

"Mommy, I want tickies!"

She climbed into the bed, snuggled down in the covers, and I tickied her arms. I could tell she was tired, so I thankfully remembered a random pacifier in Nico's cosleeper. I popped it into her mouth, and we all woke up over an hour later when Adam nudged us to say that it was time for her to go to daycare. I was snuggled between my two babies, and it was glorious.

I haven't snuggled/napped with Alexandra since I don't know when. It was pure bliss and made me love her even more than I already do. I needed that reminder.

Now I'm recharged for another afternoon of insanity.

Why I Teach, #5

In my two weeks of teaching my freshmen before giving birth, this happened:

In the middle of my lesson, a student called me over: "Excuse me, Miss?" and since she sat in the front of the room and I was going over something at the Smartboard, I walked over to her desk as the students copied something into their notebooks. She turned a piece of looseleaf around and I read it. It was the above piece of looseleaf.

Teaching is a continuously humbling experience. I misspell words on the board and am corrected by my students, I receive comments such as, "Ms. Vann had a baby after you and she's already skinny!" or "Miss, you have a LOT of gray hair" or "This sucks." And, I am constantly reminded that I am your Grade A prototypical White girl.

Not that other races don't overuse "like" in their dialogue--god knows my biracial niece Annika sounds just like Alicia Silverstone in the movie "Clueless"--but I never realized that I, too, sound like that "Clueless" heroine much more than I'd like. This was brought to my attention many times in my first years of teaching when students would mimic my voice perfectly and I, in denial, said, "I don't sound like that!" Then I had to make a teaching video to get permanently certified by NY State, and OMG, that was ridiculous because I realized that I do, indeed, sound like that.

In a lot of ways, I think it's good to be continuously reminded of how I appear to others...It no longer bothers me at all. In fact, when the student showed me this paper, I said, "I have to..like...have that!" and she happily gave it to me. I try to defy a lot of the stereotypes about White folks, but some I just can't shake.

Regression, example B

This is what a 35 lb, 37" two-year old looks like on an infant playmat:

Tarantula

Alexandra is in daycare right now where she produces massive amounts of art projects, letter and number coloring worksheets, and just coloring overall. This is one that was sent home.

I look at all her work, but when I saw this one I had a moment in which I was like, "WTF?" Tarantula? What kind of coloring book is this? And who's this dude with a tarantula on his shoulder? He looks like some child-toucher who should be driving a van with a circle-shaped window in the back. CREEPY!

And then I remembered one the pets of my very first childhood friends, Chris Buddie. He lived across the street from me in Fox Lee, and he had a cornucopia of little boy animals (alive and dead) at his house such as a turtle who lived in a built wooden box in his backyard, fish, a ton of frogs and snakes in jars (like a science lab)on shelves in his room, and most frightening of all, a pet tarantula. I remember going over to his house to play and being terrified of that tarantula. Once it got out and I was convinced it was strolling across the cul de sac to get me.

I had a nightmare of that same childhood tarantula a few weeks ago, and when Alexandra brought this home from daycare it caused me to recall that dream. Then I realized that I have been dreaming, repeatedly, of that same tarantula for my whole friggin' life! I have ALWAYS had a recurring tarantula nightmare as long as I can remember, and the only reason why goes right back to Chris Buddie.

Chris Buddie grew up to be one of the nicest guys you'll ever know, and he now has a son. I wonder if they'll have a pet tarantula? And if that tarantula will psychologically scar one of his son's first friends for life? Keep me posted, Chris. I might be on to something here...