actions speak louder than words

Sometimes I wish Gracie could talk to me--to tell me when she's hungry, tired, in pain, or otherwise afflicted. Sometimes I wish she could tell me when I've done a good job--when I gave her a cheerio at the precise moment she needed a snack, put her in her crib just when she was feeling ready to snooze, quelled a fear, or made a funny. However, any frustration I feel by the lack of communication is assuaged when I walk into the house after a long day at work, Daddy puts her down on the floor, and she crawls toward me at break-neck pace. When she reaches me--while I'm still at the door kicking off my shoes and hanging my coat--she inevitably begins to climb up my legs, squealing, with a grin on her face. I pick her up, and she lets me kiss her cheeks as many times as I want. In that moment, I don't need Grace to talk to me. There's nothing left to say.

Contemplating the ethics of underlining in borrowed books

A freshman highlights the points he understands,
The mundane, the insignificant.
Exclaimation points riddle the margins
and I attempt to figure out what he was so excited about.
His lines terminate halfway through chapter two...
of a ten chapter book.

This is the person who scribbled
amy whinehouse in the front cover...
of a book tending to a Freirian critique of the construction of whiteness.

A graduate student's excitement is easy to spot
in the messy stars,
lines shaky, meandering,
etched from the passenger seat
of a speeding Ford Focus
on the way to Philadelphia...
for a Phish concert.

An assistant professor quickly scribbles
gray carbon astericks in the corners of important pages
that detail dense theory
giving her new perspectives on her own research.
She'll come back to these pages tomorrow. It's midnight...
and she's still in her office high atop the ivory tower.

In search of my own place beside her,
I carefully underline
lightly enough not to disturb others as they skim these words
after June 1st when my lease is up.
I envision space for these words in my own dissertation
and how they will dance with the others,
the squatters in my literature review who've claimed it their home.
My baby cries in the background,
the sound of basketball blaring on the TV downstairs.

My lines mingle with yours and theirs,
this story becomes our story.
We've all been there,
all headed somewhere new,
alone and together.

sweet rewards

I went on a long run today, a necessary evil if I am to achieve my goal of completing a half-marathon in May. Part of what kept me going the entire 50 minutes were my thoughts of how I’d reward myself when I returned home. Thoughts of a warm shower and a hug from Gracie kept me moving through the cold March mist over the hills of Middle Road. And I got thinking about the ways that we reward ourselves for our accomplishments…

As many of you who are reading this know, in 2001 Michael and I spent three weeks traveling around Italy. One day in the midst of our adventures we found ourselves in a supermarket where a 1983 bottle of Dom Perignon at a reasonable price found my brother. Anyone who knows Michael knows that he can’t resist an impulse if his life depended on it, especially not on a great deal on a great bottle of champagne that would be a great souvenir from a great trip to Italy. He bought the champagne and we spent much of the rest of our day deciding on what would be the perfect occasion for him to crack that bottle. He was hoping for the perfect milestone. I was just hoping I’d be there to drink some too! Okay, that was selfish of me.

Shortly after our trip Michael got engaged, then married. He moved to Massachusetts and became Dean of Students at a prestigious boys high school. Then he got a job as an assistant principal in a public school, and then became a principal at another public high school. He met his true love, Dani (after a divorce), got engaged and got married. Then he continued to move up the ladder in his career. He became essentially an assistant superintendent in another school district. Finally, last week, he became a superintendent of schools, a feat that I know he’s dreamed of since starting out on the school administration path. Eight years and just as many milestones (probably even more than that), and every time he reached a new goal I heard my brother say, “Maybe I’ll open that bottle of Dom now.” But he never has. Instead, he decides that he will open it the next time he moves up another rung on the ladder. And he keeps moving up. But that bottle just continues to sit there.

Part of me fears that when Michael finally does open that bottle the champagne inside is going to taste like shit because he waited too damn long to open it! Part of me feels like he should have opened it and drank it right away because with all that he’s achieved, the happy events he’s encountered, and the money he’s made since the purchase of that bottle, he could have bought a new one every time! Part of me thinks he shouldn’t hold onto it for too long because, you know what they say, “You can’t take it with you.”

But then again, maybe he shouldn’t open it. In as much as the thought of a hot shower keeps me running in the cold, that stupid bottle of fizzy fermented grape juice has become a symbol for all that Michael aspires to achieve and all that he already has. It stands for the idea that there’s more to come no matter how far he’s come and keeps him moving forward, moving ahead, and moving up.

I don’t know if I’ll be there if and when he ever cracks that bottle…I’m just glad I was there when it all started in that supermarket in Rome.

Happy Happy Half Birthday Grace

Better late than never.

Of February 3rd, Grace is 6 months old. Apparently, this is "the BEST age." Everyone says it. I can't help but think though that every age Grace has been was the BEST. Every day she does something new, and though there are more (recognizable) milestones at 6 months, it doesn't make any of the others any less notable. Like the first time she looked into my eyes and recognized that I am her mother. Or the first time she smiled, laughed, rolled over, tracked my movements with her eyes, picked up a toy... Six months is bringing much more advancement and progress--sitting, crawling, "talking;" and though these milestones are a bit more drama-laden ("GASP--Did you SEE what she just DID?!) than some barely perceptible eye-movements, I do not want to lose sight of how momentous those small milestones were. She's amazing now. But she was amazing then too.

So to celebrate the so-called birthdy of milestones, Grace and I took a trip to our local library. Foolishly, I didn't take any pictures. But I suppose this was more of a milestone for me than for Grace as I began to indoctrinate her with a love of borrowed books--the way the feel in their smooth dustcovers, the way they look all lined up on shelves upon shelves, even the way they smell. We toured the library under the librarian's watchful (yet smiling) gaze, looked up some books on the electronic catalog (a computer with a prominent sign reading: NO CHAT ROOMS--AND MYSPACE.COM IS A CHATROOM! Really?! I guess some forms of literacy are more valued than others. That's another blog for another day.) Then we sat on the floor in the children's corner and began reading. I can't remember exactly what we read. I believe one of the book's was Delores's Birthday, a Little Nutbrown Hare book about colors, and we began an Amelia Bedilia book but Grace bored of that quickly.

Grace spent some time crawling around on the floor and I wondered if a baby had ever crawled on the floor there before? It was probably dirty, but I didn't mind. Six-month-old Grace is an explorer. She seemed more intrigued by the pattern in the carpet than by all the books, I'm not going to lie. Maybe she was thinking, "Hey Mama, did you see this carpet!? The books are great, but Ma, There's a whole city down here!"

Six-month old Grace reminds us not to miss the trees for the forest (or the pattern in the carpet for the big stone building)--to pay attention to the little things. Big milestones are great, but we can't forget to pay attention to the barely perceptible ones--it's in these quiet moments of exploration that Grace is learning. And if we pay really close attention, we might just learn something too.

a historical day for america...just another day for grace

Dear Grace,

What a big week in American history! Barack Obama was elected President of the United States. To you, this may not seem like a very big deal…just another new president. And, in a way, I am very glad that you see it that way. That means that to you, it’s completely normal and natural for a Black man to be president. It means that you don’t see skin color as something that can help or hinder one’s position in life. It means that to you, we are all the same. I pray that this is always the way that the world will appear to you. Even more importantly, I hope that this is becoming true in our country so that you may live in a world without racism, prejudice, hate and intolerance. But don’t be naïve, Gracie. There will always be people who are not as open-minded and accepting as you are. There will always be people who judge others on superficial characteristics such as their skin color, gender, sexuality, even weight or height. I hope that you will be a woman—a girl, even—who stands up and demands respect for both yourself and others. Don’t accept ignorance from people. If Barack Obama accepted the fact that some people view him negatively because of his skin color, he could never have become president.



While I want you to change the world for the better, I also want you to accept yourself for who you are. I was horrified this morning as I watched the Today Show while I was waiting for you to wake up. There was a segment about Human Growth Hormone, an injection that parents are giving to their children who are “too short.” So that their kids won’t get picked on in school for being short, some parents give their children injections every day so that they will grow taller. I couldn’t help but think that these parents could save themselves a lot of money and their kids a lot of physical discomfort if instead of giving them growth shots they teach their kids that they are children of God, perfect the way that they are, and that they should be proud of who they are instead of trying to change the way that God made them! (Trust me, being short isn’t so bad!).

Grace, it is true, sometimes we need to work to change ourselves. Accepting yourself for who you are doesn’t mean never making any efforts toward change for the better. However, you also need to be happy with who you are, know that we love you because you’re you, and most importantly: Love Yourself! You are a beautiful, happy, sweet child and it doesn’t matter if you’re short or tall, thick or thin, purple or green. All that matters is that you live your life in a way that makes you happy and that you’re kind enough to think about the happiness of others as well!

Gracie my love, you are the center of Mama’s world. When you’re sleeping, I can’t wait for you to wake up. When I’m out without you, I can’t wait to come home and give you kisses. You are the most precious treasure in my life. For the most part your life will be full of joy and happy adventures. Unfortunately, sometimes life will be hard, painful, and confusing. That’s just the way it is. But you will get through it with God’s Grace, the love of your family and friends and your own inner strength. No matter what, through the good and through the bad, Mommy loves you more than anything in the world. You are my Gracie Girl.

I love you,
Mama

206 patrick place...a special place in our hearts

We are preparing to embark on yet another new chapter in our lives: moving into a new home--a really new home. One that we built together. Part of me can't wait to move in, to have more space, and for Grace to have a real bedroom (not an office with a Pack 'n Play in it!) As with all big life transitions though, every new begninning means saying goodbye to some other part of our lives. We're moving out of our apartment. Wait, we're moving out of our apartment. The first place we ever lived in together, the place where we planned our wedding, our future, the place where we brought our first child home.

There was a huge red wine stain on the carpet that I removed today (at the risk of not getting our security deposit back!), and as I sprayed and scrubbed I thought about some of our best times. Where the stain was was in the same spot on the floor that Jeff and I slept on our first night in this apartment, before our bed was moved in. The carpets were slightly damp from having just been shampooed. That night I stared above me, pleased that our livingroom had vaulted cielings. Vaulted cielings. I had arrived. Wow--what does it mean that our new bedroom has a vaulted cieling!? Even Grace's room has one. She's ahead of the game.

I thought about other spills--a goldfish cracker I once threw at Jeff's head that lived under the couch for months, Cheerios that can never seem to stay in my bowl as I have breakfast in front of the TV, chocolate cake from birthday parties, cracker crumbs from Jeff's nighttime snacks, popcorn he can never seem to get into his mouth on the first try...then later, formula drips from a bottle that has tipped over, spit-up from a laughing baby.

We've made many marks on this apartment. Nail holes where our wedding picture once hung, dents in the carpet from Gracie's swing. Not all the marks are so tangible though. Some of the marks are in my mind as wonderful memories. I remember where we all sat playing Cranium at our Halloween Dinner Party where Bryan brought a cake he baked (and decorated!) himself. I remember our Wii parties where we bowled until the wee hours of the night. I remember laying on a heating pad to relieve my pregnancy backaches and getting my feet massaged at the same time. I remember drinking a very expensive bottle of Caymus...with pizza and chicken wings! I remember carving pumpkins on the kitchen floor. The list goes on...and on.

Gracie is going to love her new home where she will have room to run around and go hiking in the woods, swim in the pond (well, maybe!), and play basketball with her daddy. But this is where she began...this is where our family began. And I can't wait to drive past, point to the apartment complex across from the hospital and say, "That's where we lived when you were born!"

there are no bad apples

In our refrigerator is a drawer that only ever houses a bag of apples, usually McIntosh, sometimes Cortland, but always grown in New York. Every evening when Jeff packs his lunch, he reaches into the bag inside the drawer and pulls out an apple to put into his lunch bag. If he happens to pull an apple from the bag with even the slightest bruise, he places it in the drawer outside of the bag and reaches for another apple. Only the best apples make Jeff's lunch while the rejects sit idly, waiting for someone to cut off their bad spots and enjoy them despite their flaws.

This morning I decided I would have an apple for breakfast. When I opened the drawer in the refrigerator this is what I saw: A drawer full of bruised apples amidst a clear plastic bag containing only a few apples--some unmarred by bruises or softspots, others maybe flawed yet undetected by Jeff's critical eye. My point is that there were far more imperfect stragglers than there were pristine red orbs suitable for Jeff's lunch. In a way, I felt sorry for the lonely bruised apples. In a way, I identified with them.

We strive for perfection. We all want the best, to do well, to be successful, to create perfect masterpieces, but I wonder--at what cost? Do we make others into bruised apples cast aside as we endeavor toward perfection?

Lately, I have been feeling like a bad apple.