meanwhile...

Home at last.

2011-08-19T19:17:00.002-04:00

Even for me, three months is a long time. And so much has happened! We've returned to our home in Pittsfield where we have been very busy cleaning and painting and unpacking, although we've found time for friends and family and swimming as well.

Our little house is just as I remembered it, with a few updates and despite being in awful shape when we first got here, is looking quite well thanks to the generous help of old friends and family members who rallied round and chipped in over the past few weeks. I've never painted every room in a house before, and despite it being a small house, my painting arm sure did get sore! I'll post some photos of the homecoming and tell you all a bit more about the journey (adventure! fun times!) and how I broke the camera at Niagara Falls because I didn't listen to Steve.

And if I owe you a phone call or a message - I will be in touch soon, I promise.

xxoo

N

Pretty, Pretty, Pretty, Pillow

2011-05-07T19:43:00.000-04:00

Matilda has her final violin recital tomorrow, after which - according to her - she will never play the violin again. In honor of this recital being a once-in-a-lifetime event, she and I went dress shopping last Thursday after school. This is the result:

There were a number of contenders for Best Dress, including several with Spring-ish flowers and bright colors that brought out her eyes, but this one won due to its superior twirling skillz.

Matilda demonstrated the twirling while I attempted to account for the slight lag in shutter speed and snap the photo when she was facing me. Then she got dizzy and called an end to the photo shoot.

After heading back inside, I attempted to take Freya's picture. As a result of the latest if-my-sister-does-it-then-I-do-the-opposite, this was the best shot I could get:

Oh, the Freckles!

2011-05-04T17:51:00.000-04:00

Nine years old and all grown up, well, not quite I suppose. While I was taking this picture, Freya, who is also getting big (but has less teeth than usual lately, a lot less), was reading an American Girl mystery novel before school. She can't put it down! Of course her teacher is still sending home books with about eight words per page, but that's a battle I stopped fighting months ago. Freya refused to let me take a picture of her, but here's one of her tea party with her BFF Maggie a few weeks ago. Not sure if you can see them properly, but those are tiny cheese and olive sandwiches on the little plates.

This weekend Matilda has her final violin recital. And then, she says, she will never play again. This is why I am so proud of her: in spite of being completely done with the violin and never wanting to play it ever again, she still practices half an hour on school nights and an hour each on Saturday and Sunday. I like to think that the lesson being taught here is something more than you-have-to-do-things-you-don't-want-to-even-when-you-think-they-suck, but who knows? I have a feeling this might be one of those things for which the returns are subtle and known only through something else, years from now, if ever. She's thinking about taking up the piano when we move back to the Berkshires, and even if she has learned nothing else, she can now read music.

The weather turned sunny and breezy and warm here today - summer is coming. The girls only have about four weeks left of school and they're counting down the days. At TMR things are winding down for the semester; I wrote two posts for the TMR blog in the last week and you can find them here and here, if you're interested. The second one is about some artwork that Fionn did for the magazine launch party and the first is about how some pieces of writing just need to take longer than others.

I'll leave you with the new image drawn to accompany the online anthology by Sean, who has also agreed to help me with a redesign for this blog - coming soon...

Swing and Other News

2011-04-11T15:37:00.001-04:00

I did not get a single thing on my to-do list done yesterday and yet it was one of the most productive and relaxing Sundays I've had in ages.

After a trip to Home Depot, Steve fashioned this:

(the swing, not the girl; the girl we had already fashioned)

while I planted these:

and then we taught her:

how to ride her bike without training wheels.

I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure that all of these things are good omens for the summer full of changes that is right around the corner.

Fashionista: Matilda for One Year

2011-04-01T07:00:00.012-04:00

Memory in general is flexible, and mine in particular is terrible. I swear if it wasn't for this blog I would have only the sketchiest recollection of my daughters' early childhoods, and even then I can't promise that I didn't "embellish" some of the more exciting adventures of the past few years. (I'm a fiction writer, it's not something I can - or would really want to - control.)

As far as I can remember the evolution of my own fashion sense went something like this:

Phase one, around when I started dressing myself: any and all combinations of patterns - plaids, stripes, polka dots, you name it.
Phase two, most of the rest of my childhood: things get a little vague here, I remember specific articles of clothing rather than any one general "look" - my Chuck E. Cheese t-shirt, striped pajamas, and a matching top and bottom outfit with fuchsia and orange stripes.
Phase three, the early awkward teenage years: plaid shirts, baggy blue jeans, turtlenecks. I remember in ninth grade being aware that the other girls had clothes from Gap and Express, but not really knowing what that meant, and despite a vague desire to be more like them (yes, even the hair-sprayed bangs), not caring enough to investigate further.
Phase four and five, the later teenage years (this one is two phases because more than any other time I feel like one led directly to the next): Manic Panic hair (pick a color, any color) and Converse with tie-dyed shirts, cutoff shorts, jeans with holes in them and possibly a few patches became Manic Panic and Converse with wild patterned tights (argyle, plaid, stars, the crazier the better) and super short mini skirts.
Phase six, the rest: jeans, sweaters, t-shirts, hoodies, black boots, sneakers, lots of black and blue and brown - pretty standard (read boring) stuff. Comfortable. Functional.

Given this unexciting history, including the late start to my teenage experimental phase, imagine my surprise when Matilda began to transform herself into a miniature fashion plate. The girl cares about fashion, and she pretty damn good at it. Every morning she composes her outfit for the day, often including accessories like a thin scarf tied around her neck and a pageboy cap or headband. Everything is color-coordinated in a subtle, but skillful way that would have made my nine-year-old self wrinkle up her nose and say, huh?

My favorite part about Matilda's newfound fashion sense is that it's all her. I mean, sure she lives in the world and has seen a bit of the good the bad and the hideous when it comes to fashion, but, as I'm sure you can tell by my current "look," I don't exactly follow the latest trends. And the best part is she's not pulling her look from the Disney channel or whatever tween magazines the kids are reading these days.

Because I want to remember this properly, Matilda has agreed to work with me on a project. Beginning on her ninth birthday (today!), I will take her picture every morning for a full year. I will post the pictures daily at yearofmatilda.tumblr.com. Since she is only nine, the blog will be password protected, but please email me at nell.meanwhile [at] gmail.com if you'd like to follow Matilda's fashion evolution over the course of the coming year. It should be good one, she's finishing up third grade, gearing up to move back to her native Berkshires for a joyous reunion with her once and always BFF Aurora and start fourth grade at a new/old school in the fall, and who knows what other adventures might be ahead! Follow our blog and find out - it's going to be fun year.

Spring, Birthdays, Babies and Moving Home

2011-03-23T12:03:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting in the living room of my friend Claire's house. It's welcoming here: not too neat, a well-used kitchen, bright baby paraphernalia scattered throughout. Claire's daughter Olive is fast asleep after a walk to the Columbia Public Library (possibly the best library I've ever been lucky enough to live near). The weather has been perfect for the last few days and I'm beginning to feel excited about the next few months and then the move back to the Berkshires at the end of July.

I repainted one bookshelf and a small chest of drawers last weekend and am planning to do the kitchen chairs next. Spring! Projects! Imagining our furniture back in our old house! I remember when we moved into our house the first time how much fun it was to know that I could paint and decorate and change things however I wanted. I'm looking forward to that freedom again, even though I know it comes with having to fix things when they're broken, too.

Matilda is so excited about moving home, although her focus at the moment is on her upcoming birthday and the celebration she's planning with her friends. We're going to throw an indoor beach party with leis and pina coladas, bathing suits and flip flops. Not sure how this is all going to work just yet, but it'll be fun.

snow days are to children as _____ are to zombies

2011-02-01T17:57:00.014-05:00

As predicted, the blizzard has arrived.

It's on some kind of vindictive rampage across Missouri as if to show us just how unprepared Columbia is for, well, any weather at all really. By 2pm we'd already played Barbies, watched TV and gone outside (the girls), packed for DC and made chocolate chip cookies (me) and reached the "now what?" stage of the snowstorm.

The girls and I decided on a photo shoot to pass the time. After I did their makeup (complete with freckles for Freya at her request), they raided my jewelry box and decked themselves out in their best finery while I found working batteries for the camera.

We found a spot in Freya's room that was not too dark and got down to it.

But what began innocently (and sweetly) enough

soon became exceedingly silly,

and then things turned gleefully violent

and eventually ended, naturally enough, in a zombie attack.

once more

2011-01-15T12:25:00.007-05:00

Every time I say I will post more often I make myself a liar. So I won't this time, but I would, if, you know, I hadn't already done it so many times.

We drove from Columbia, Missouri to Lee, Massachusetts and back a couple of weeks ago for Christmas and New Year's. We saw family, and celebrated and relaxed. We took the train to New York City and went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art (and brought Aurora) where we saw a fraction of the things we would have liked to see.

In a little over a week, the project that I've spent months working on for The Missouri Review will go live. Sean has done some amazing artwork for the project and I'm really excited about it.

I'm also starting to get excited about moving us all back to the Berkshires where we belong. I've started viewing all of our belongings with a critical, detached glance - is this chair worth moving halfway across the country? Again? There will be a tag sale of epic proportions this spring. I'm not sure the girls realize just yet quite how epic it will be, but they will.

Yesterday I spent a couple of hours with 4-month-old Olive, the daughter of my friend Claire, who I will be watching a couple of mornings a week this semester. She is adorable and small and not a fan of me, mostly because I am not her mother and she saw no reason why she should have to put up with me when she already has a perfectly nice family without me in it. She made this as clear as possible by screaming as loud and long as her little lungs could manage. She'll get used to me; we'll have adventures.

The novel is still in progress, but there is progress, which feels good. I've started working on it in chunks, out of order, which seems productive.

Even though Columbia still doesn't feel like home, we're making it work and for the next six months or so (yes, I have started a countdown) we'll be here and happy and busy.

Other things of possible interest:

TMR anthology project (will launch January 24)
first and second post on TMR's blog about working on the project
just for fun post about Castle, the TV show and the author

and such

2010-10-06T20:41:00.004-04:00

In a few minutes, I will go and give a friend a ride home because his car's been in the shop for nearly two weeks. Matilda and Freya are downstairs playing dominoes and black jack with Steve. I finally finished matching socks with other socks and putting away an enormous heap of clean laundry. My bed is smooth and brown and clear of undergarments, small and large.

School is going better for Matilda; she's going in early twice a week to meet with a teacher and three other students, getting extra help with her math. She'll be fine this way; this is all she needs. Freya wrote a note this morning with her name, my name, my cell number and email. She gave the note to her friend Maggie so Maggie's mother can call me and they can play on the weekend. When she's not being evil, she's so darn easy. I say this now. The evil is fleeting and I use the term very, very broadly: she was nearly impossible to get out of bed this morning. I carried her downstairs like a dead body, slinging her into her chair at the table and ordering her, in clear, concise words, to pull herself together and eat her breakfast, then march - march - upstairs and do all the other things she needs to do so we can all file out the door by 8:25 and I can drive them all to where they need to be for the day.

I've been indulging lately in some less-than-academic reading: "chick-lit," pulpy mysteries, and such. And I have to say, while I do appreciate exquisitely crafted prose, and a really stunning character piece, this "genre" fiction really is ever so much fun. Also, it's not un-instructive. I mean, the novel I'm working on definitely isn't going to be the next Ulysses, and with that in mind, I do think I'd like it to be fun.

a brief updatey post

2010-09-23T12:09:00.004-04:00

Just thought I ought to write a little something and keep you up on how the McCabe/Root clan are doing way out here in the middle of nowhere (since, sigh, I have to just accept that this is now more or less the main, albeit sporadic, purpose of this site).

We're good. Did you know that there are many, many insects and spiders in Missouri? And furthermore did you know that apparently our last residence was much better at keeping them outside the human living area? Well, it's true. The home that will host Matilda's Year of Living the Suburban Dream, is also host to a host of small critters, most of which are fine, no problem, whatever, but a few of which are no friends of mine. Oh well. So there's that.

We went camping overnight a few weeks ago at Lake of the Ozarks state park. I think my expectations were just too high, because while the Lake of the Ozarks is very nice, it is just that"nice" and anyone who has known me for long enough knows that being "nice" is really not much of an accomplishment in my book. but we did have a pretty good time, even when you count the various ailments of the first day and the emergency underpants trip to Target that became necessary earlier than one might have thought it could. (Any guesses who needed emergency underpants? Yes, you're right.)

I've been feeling a bit inadequate lately for not being in a PhD program (I attribute this mainly to the fact that I spend most of my time surrounded by people who either have, or will shortly have, a PhD), but the year is off to a good start. I am writing (actually working on the novel, not just thinking about working on the novel) and I really love being on staff at The Missouri Review where I am working on a very fun project that I will tell you all about soon.

(Other post coming soon(ish): To PhD or not to PhD...)

Steve is well, cooking for his frat boys and occasionally for us when I manage to persuade (or guilt) him into it. Matilda just started taking violin lessons through the Missouri String Project and is in a very small (3 students!) class twice a week. Freya is adamant that she is planning to be an Olympic gymnast and is going to start taking dance classes on Mondays until she is 6 and can join one of the local gymnastic classes instead. She is still trouble, but most of the time is pretty good. Matilda, on the other hand is so good that she has been selected as one of the two hall monitors for her class. Is it wrong that this makes me more uncomfortable than Freya's often eerily accurate insights into criminal thought?

In any case, things are good, better things are in the works, and I will tell you more soon. Oh! I almost forgot: I recently wrote about rereading From the Mixed Up Tales of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler with the girls on The Missouri Review blog.

Matilda's Year of Living the Suburban American Dream: Part One

2010-08-10T10:59:00.003-04:00

Except for a few hours of sleep each night, this is more or less the first time I have sat down since 7am Saturday morning when we started moving boxes out the door and down the stairs in preparation for the moving truck at 8. Say what you will about mid-Missouri (and believe me, I do), but I have fantastic friends who toiled for hours in 80-90 degree heat to help Steve and the girls and I move all of our worldly possessions across town.

The new place is nice, not from the outside perhaps, where the gray board siding matches the other houses on our little street exactly, but inside we've got three bedrooms, a fireplace, a garage and kitchen with actual counter space. This marks the first time in their young lives that Matilda and Freya have had separate bedrooms. And for Matilda, my 8-going-on-15-year-old, also her own bathroom. Crazy, I know. We didn't even realize that one of the bedrooms had a private bath until we got our keys Friday evening, and we could have taken that room, but the one down the hall was a little bigger and I kind of like having enough room to walk between my desk and my bed without tripping over the chair.

So Matilda has her own room, which she immediately organized and arranged just so, and her own bathroom. Also, we are within safe (no big streets to cross) walking distance from her best friend here in Missouri, and about half a dozen of her other classmates. We are at the end of a short dead end road which is pretty much perfect for riding bikes and if you walk to the end of our road, then take a left, that road deadends at a town park. I have officially declared the year that we will be living here Matilda's Year of Living the Suburban American Dream. I'll keep you posted on all the dreaming developments as they occur. Or, at the rate I've been going, a few weeks after they occur.

First Lost Tooth

2010-07-13T15:21:00.001-04:00

fireworks

2010-07-05T11:04:00.004-04:00

Watching the fireworks from the roof of a parking garage last night with my family:

Me: You know what I want? A bottle of red wine, a loaf of French bread and a big chunk of cheese.

Matilda: Yeah, because you're Nell McCabe.

Does the kid know her mother, or what?

breakfast

2010-07-01T10:08:00.002-04:00

adjusting

2010-06-29T12:44:00.004-04:00

I've been cranky with the girls lately. A lot. I have some theories about this and they involve summer vacation and heat indexes in the low hundreds, but also, mostly, they involve no longer having a thesis to obsess over and freak out about. When you have no choice but to firmly tell yourself that the messy house and unruly children must be carefully blocked out for the sake of the very important work you must do, it's a lot easier to ignore the fact that your house is a perpetual disaster and your children are whining and fighting over the same stupid things every half hour. Or, put another way, a lack of very important work to do leaves me with a lot more time to be irritated with how quickly a formerly-clean apartment becomes messy and how often my children bicker.

Apparently I need structure. You would think years of homeschooling and self-motivated projects of various kinds that sometimes even get finished (both children have quilts, our house had curtains, things have been painted, short stories have been written) would mean that I could structure my own time properly, but it seems not. Or at least I require a period of adjustment. It's not like I don't have things to do. I do. But the weather here has mellowed and I think it's time to find a new balance between working and enjoying the summer with my kiddos, who really don't fight all that often, especially when I take them outside and tire them out before bedtime.

It's the pacing that I need to acclimate myself to, a different rhythm that takes into account messes and fights and lazy summer days as well as the list of things to do that never really stops growing. I want to stop feeling like there's something important I should be doing and that all of this other stuff - living, if you will - is just getting in the way. My goal for this week? Make time. Time for work, time for play, time for reading and writing and thinking. I will portion this time out so that there's room for everything, or at least most things, and so that I don't feel like I should be doing six things when all I want to do is one.

I'll let you know how it goes.

The strangest thing just happened...

2010-06-26T23:44:00.002-04:00

This is not at all what I was planning to write about and in fact I am so distracted now that I'm not even sure what that was, but when I tried to load the Blogger page, I was randomly taken to the Wall Street Journal home page instead.

That's weird, right? I have Blogger bookmarked, and have used the link about a million times without incident, and suddenly I'm reading news articles on WSJ. In fact even now, as I type this, the little URL icon thingy is still the blue Wall Street Journal circle and not the orange B logo of Blogger.

Stephen's theory is that Steve Jobs hates all Mozilla related products and is trying to mess with me 'cause I use Firefox (in support of this theory, nothing weird happens when I go to blogger.com in Safari), but that seems a bit far fetched to me. I might have a better theory if The Wall Street Journal Website was on my regular news rotation, but it isn't. Any thoughts on this, oh wise Interwebs? What do you have against me attempting a simple blog post? Should I be reading more WSJ? What? What do you want from me?

So, what happens next?

2010-06-23T10:03:00.005-04:00

Now that the stack of papers on my desk is no longer waiting for me to work on it and is simply languishing quietly, it's almost time to figure out what comes next. Well, we've kind of done that part, but this is when it becomes not just what we'll do later, but what we are doing.

The thesis is finished. It's been printed and distributed to the three members of my thesis committee who are in the process of reading it and thinking of things to ask me at the oral defense scheduled for this Friday at 10. I'm trying to read their minds and prepare for whatever they might ask me, but it's a bit tricky since I'm not them. I feel semi-prepared, which is really all I think I can expect of myself, so I'm not too worried. I've gotten positive feedback on the paper so far and the defense is what it it. It'll happen, I'll do the best I can, and I'm 85% sure that it will be fine.

The immediate future involves revising and editing the seven short stories that will make up my creative portfolio. (I'm looking forward to this; revising creative work that has been sitting for a while is fun, or at least more fun than revising a thesis that I've been agonizing over for months.) Once that's done I'll have a master's degree! Yay! Then it's on to gainful employment. Right? Isn't that how this is supposed to work? Or is there an exception for a degree in something with as much practical usefulness as creative writing?

In any case, I've applied to substitute teach for the Columbia school district, which I think would be fun and a good use of my time, career-wise. I also plan to continue working from home doing tech writing and design work, so that'll keep me busy, too. And there is, of course, the novel. My poor protagonist has been waiting so long for me to return to her and she really does deserve some loving attention.

Steve's been looking into some very promising leads in the future restaurant department. I know I've romanticized the idea to a large extent, but it has gotten to the point where I feel like opening a restaurant is something that we need to do. Like it's our destiny or something equally grand and dramatic. I have not romanticized it to the point where I am ignoring how much work it will be, or how slim the odds of success are in the restaurant industry, but I honestly can't think of a better way for Steve and I to channel our energy and build our family's future.
There are a few other things in the mix as well: I've been continuing to work with The Missouri Review; Matilda and Freya are enjoying their summer, playing and reading and watching Buffy; I am thinking about the possibility of teaching high school once we move back to Massachusetts (which, by the way, is on the agenda), and am looking at some certification programs; we are still figuring out if we'll be able to come east for a week or two this summer and will keep you updated on that; we will move out of this apartment in August and are not sure yet where exactly we will be moving into; and (I saved the best for last) there's been talk of adding a new member to our little family. No, I'm not pregnant. Yet. But the girls have signed off on the idea and the timing seems right. I know it sound crazy - especially given the fact that in the five and half years since Freya was born there has been no mention of the possibility at all - but it feel right. And who doesn't like babies?

So, I feel pretty good about what happens next. I don't know exactly what it will be, but that's part of the fun. While as many of you know, I do love a good Plan, I've also come to feel that too many details spoil the adventure of not-knowing. And where's the fun in that?

Going through the old iPhoto archive and dancing in the rain

2010-06-09T08:34:00.023-04:00

Matilda and I in our apartment in Housatonic.

Freya and something that is probably finely milled spinach.

Gotta hold onto that new baby sister, there's no telling what she might do next.

Matilda and Aurora during Matilda's very short lived ballet career.

Matilda and a garter snake outside Rachel Dworkin's house in Hillsdale, NY.

The girls with Aurora on our back porch in Pittsfield.

Picking flowers in Clapp Park.

Best. Mud puddle. Ever.

Freya and Eden on the Maine coast.

Does this one need a caption? She's a rock star.

Ditto: substituting "diva" for "rock star".

Steve and the girls at Rock Bridge State Park last summer.

Let me introduce you to "the look."

Freya and her Tracey this past Christmas at my mother's apartment in Great Barrington.

This morning, dancing in the rain outside our apartment in Columbia, MO. It was a perfectly lovely thunderstorm and when Matilda wistfully said, "I wish I could play in the rain," I only wished I'd thought of it first.

Two very wet children.

More Freya... the Preschool Graduation/"Prom"

2010-05-21T19:09:00.011-04:00

I'm not sure whose idea it was to have the kids get all dressed up for a "prom" on graduation day, but it was pretty darn adorable.

This is Freya and her friend Rylie:

This is most of Freya's preschool class, with their teacher, Miss Linda, on the right:

A close up of Freya:

Freya and Miss Robin:

Freya and Miss Linda:

Freya and her "prom date," Watson, slow dancing (along with their classmates) to classical music:

Freya and Watson:

Freya - officially graduated from preschool and ready for whatever comes next, especially if it involves getting dressed up all fancy:

Found this today, thought you might like it.

2010-05-19T15:40:00.002-04:00

I missed April entirely, it seems.

2010-05-05T09:06:00.002-04:00

I've been meaning to write an update-y post for a while now, but have been dragging my feet for many reasons, but I'm here now.

I did not get into any of the three schools I applied to. I'm feeling pretty okay about this, and Steve and I have decided to stay in Columbia for one more year while we figure out the next part of the plan. Possible plan elements include: reapplying, opening a restaurant, and... well those are the big ones. In the meantime, I will continue to work for the literary magazine at Mizzou and return to my novel (a work in progress first mentioned on this blog three years ago, but in the works long before that).

Steve and the girls just got back from a trip to Massachusetts for Amanda's wedding (congratulations!) and we're finishing up the school year. Today is my last day of teaching at Mizzou, although hopefully not my last day of teaching ever. (Oh yeah, applying to teach at community colleges is also potentially on the future agenda.)

The chronology of this post should tell you a little about how focused I am right now, but there will be more to come. Sooner than later I should think.

(Un)certainty

2010-03-12T08:15:00.006-05:00

There are times when I am lulled into complacency. I watch Matilda playing with her friends and I think, well, this wouldn't be so bad. Missouri's all right. But then I listen to KOPN, to a show I don't usually catch, because it's on around seven in the evening and I see how wrong I am. KOPN is one of the best things about this town. It's not an NPR station, it's a local, community supported independent station that's been here for 38 years and plays Democracy Now, Radio Australia, and tons of other unusual or local stuff. In the evenings there tend to be local talk shows discussing legislation and news that affect the area. Last night I heard two things that reminded me where I live at the moment: 1. Missouri schools are required by law to teach abstinence only sex-ed; and 2. There's a bill in the state legislature that, if passed, would require doctors to tell women seeking an abortion that it would increase their chance of breast cancer, which is patently false.

We can't stay here.

But we don't know where we're going. Yet. Still no word on programs, but it should be any day now. I'll let you know. Promise.

Last night I dreamed that I had built this huge twisting tree house for the girls, but the platform at the top was very small. Freya and Matilda and I were up there together and seemed, for some reason, unable to get down. Things started to feel unstable. The walls/railings were thin, made of willow branches or something and tied together with flimsy ropes that pulled gently apart to leave huge gaps at the slighted touch.

I was afraid one of us would fall through. I twisted the ropes around my hands and tried to hold on to both of the girls - who seemed unconcerned - as they played and laughed: Matilda leaning against the trunk of the tree in a total teenager posture, clearly thinking my fear irrational, and Freya swinging from a branch in a wheelchair (no idea why that was up there). They didn't see the forty feet between us and the ground as much of a problem, but each time I tried to hold onto something there seemed to be less to hold on to.

Nothing bad happened. I woke up. I don't feel particularly spooked by the dream, but it doesn't take a brilliant shrink to see that I feel like things are a little out of control at the moment. Most of the time I keep this feeling (in my conscious mind, anyway) at bay with lists and carefully ranked priorities. Apparently my subconscious mind has yet to learn the value of lists.

Perhaps if I'd made a nice clear pro and con list before building such a flimsy tree house in the first place, things wouldn't have gotten so far out of hand. Perhaps if I knew where we were going so I could start on some lists, I wouldn't have had this dream.

connections, transitions, strategies, etc.

2010-02-06T11:00:00.007-05:00

In class the other day we talked about the parts of an essay - all the things it's supposed to do, all the parts it's supposed to have and what those parts should be doing, how they should connect to the other parts and work together to create a harmonious whole. By the time we collectively listed on the white board all of the parts we could think of I found myself staring at a shell shocked room of college freshmen. How the hell were they supposed to write one short essay that did all that stuff? I could tell they were thinking I was crazy for believing it was even possible.

The thing is, in essay form I can make things happen. It's when I start to think of the interconnecting parts of an essay as a metaphor for life that I begin to echo their blank looks of horror. So, bear with me for a minute. An essay has all these parts, right? Intro, body paragraphs, thesis, transitions, etc. And life does, too: bills, paperwork, friendships, food, health, children. The parts are not neatly ordered, and probably shouldn't be, but in some way that still have to come together and make sense. If one of them isn't working, the whole thing can fall apart, and the thing is, I'm not very good at some of the parts.

We still don't know what's going to happen this spring. So far the possible scenarios - which won't be decided on until rejection/acceptance letters arrive in March - are doing a PhD program for the next five years, moving back to the Berkshires and opening a restaurant, or staying here for one more year and then moving back to the Berkshires and opening a restaurant.

Writing an essay requires some forethought, some planning, theoretically some strategy. The thing about writing is that I feel like I can do it in any order that makes sense: sometimes the outline will come first, but other times it's the drafting, then the rearranging, then the outline in reverse that makes the most sense. But you can't do that with life; it just doesn't work. You can't just live it and then go back and pay bills retroactively. You can't go somewhere and then figure out where you're going later. I mean, maybe some people can, but I can't.

Probably this is all coming from a place of uncertainty, of not knowing what's going to happen, because of all the things I'm not so good at not-knowing is up there. I think I create anxiety for myself. I'm feeling pretty okay with the not-knowing this time, but then I worry about that: what does it mean? Silly, I know, but when I'm not worrying about the things I'm not doing and should be doing, I'm worrying about the things I don't need to do at all.

I try not to feel overwhelmed. I try to focus on what needs to be done and just do it, one thing at a time. I need a haircut.

Christmas Pictures, Etcetera

2010-01-07T12:25:00.005-05:00

We had a great trip to the Berkshires and were there for almost two weeks, with +/-20 hours of driving on either side. The girls did as well as could be expected in the car, perhaps a little better, and in any case we made it there and back.

It was so great to see everyone and Matilda and Aurora spent as much time together as possible. It has become clear (at least to me) that a return to the Berkshires must be somewhere in our future. Not sure when, but it has to be incorporated into The Plan. Also the food, my god, Berkshire County has the best food in the world, I'm sure. I don't even need to try other food. For example, I ate this. It was awesome. Columbia may well have things going for it, but great food isn't one of them.

I'm still applying to Ph.D. programs, but we're also gathering information about starting a restaurant, so, we'll see. I'll try to keep you posted, although as the last 16 months has proven, posts may be few and far between. I'll try to get the important stuff up. Eventually.

I shouldn't do that.

2009-11-25T10:59:00.007-05:00

That thing where I say I'm going to post soon. I know you all know it's a lie anyway. It's not that I mean to be gone for such long periods, it's just... you know. Here are some pictures from a recent road trip to Hermann, Missouri. My friend Meagan and I decided we needed to get out of Columbia and see a bit of the countryside, so we did.

Perhaps I Should Have Said, "Soon-ish"

2009-10-01T23:50:00.002-04:00

I know, I know, I'm lame. I promise blog posts and don't deliver. Guilty as charged, but I'm here now, aren't I?

Freya is now officially settled in at her new preschool. And despite the fact that it's costing us an arm and a leg (that's right, I'm a double amputee now) I'm pretty happy with it. Her teacher is from NYC, which warms my Yankee heart, and she doesn't let them get away with anything, which is awesome - not to mention perfect for Freya, who, as we all know, is inclined towards evil. (I'm not laying blame here, it's just who she is and we love her for it.)

The first few weeks Freya had a hard time making friends. She mostly hung out with her teachers and worked on her "homework." (A workbook I bought her in response to her complaint that "I'm not learning anything!") but now she has a long list of all of her friends and I've seen them on the playground. It's almost terrifyingly cute: five super-blond, very small, very smart little girls. They match: it's freaky. But totally awesome. She doesn't talk about them a lot; I think she still misses the one-on-one time with Matilda - after all, they had all summer together - but she also doesn't complain about not having any friends anymore, and even better, she doesn't feel the need to list the few friends that she does have; they're just par for the course now, and that's the way it should be.

Matilda is doing fine in second grade: she's adaptable. But so far the issues with her teacher are still unresolved. She did finally respond to my note by saying that she'd call when she had a chance, but so far nothing. I'll call next week if she doesn't call me first. We're getting into dangerous territory though. I don't know if you know this (okay, Mom, Dad, I know you know this) but I almost flunked out of third grade 'cause the homework was stupid. Last night Matilda's homework - while not quite as stupid as I remember the 100 problems I had to do 23 years ago - included one problem with two possible answers. Who writes this crap? I wrote a note. I had to! Come on, you're trying to teach a seven-year-old how to multiply and divide by two, right, and you're also teaching them - implicitly, granted - that each question has only ONE correct answer; and then you go and throw in a question that, if the directions are followed to the letter, has TWO correct answers? Not cool!

Just to be clear, I'm all for teaching kids that most questions worth asking have more than one possible answer, but let's be clear, too: that's not the take-away lesson in Matilda's second grade classroom, at least not from what I've seen so far.

I'll keep you updated, but the one thing I'm not willing to do, and have never been willing to do, is sit passively by and send my daughter(s) to public school without keeping an eye on what all they teach them up in there. It's apt to be, you know, crazy mainstream shit or something. The saga will continue...

Listen, Lady, Let Me Tell You the Moral of This Story

2009-09-15T22:01:00.003-04:00

Last week there was a combo welcome-back/PTA meeting at Matilda's elementary school. I hadn't realized it, but because of their emphasis on arts integration in the curriculum, Lee is a magnet school, which is one of the reasons turnout was so high. I went with one of our neighbors and listened to the head of the PTA for a few minutes (who I decided right then and there I could never work with - she managed to pull off a tone that was both patronizing and insipid), before we split up to go to each child's classroom.

Matilda's new teacher has been working with first and second graders for longer than I've been alive. I'm all for experience, but I can't help being wary of someone so embedded in an institution. She seemed very nice, very competent: she's got a system worked out for just about everything and I'm sure it helps the days go much more smoothly when she can keep her little ducks in a row. She showed the parents who were there the math materials and explained the reading schedule. She went over what the children are expected to do when they have questions and how discipline is handled in the classroom. I left that night with a pretty good idea of what Matilda's days will look like this year, and while she’s in no danger of thinking outside of any boxes while she’s there, I felt okay about how second grade was shaping up.

You can tell there's a "but" coming, can't you? Yeah, you know Steve and I too well to believe for a second that we could hand our children over to a ~~conformity factory~~ government-run institution without almost instantly making ourselves a pain in their ass. It's true. It's natural. It's right.

Matilda's teacher sends home a hand-written note every two weeks detailing Til's progress, or areas she's having trouble with. Which is great, and believe me, having just started teaching myself I am more than a little in awe of this woman's ability to remain committed to each individual student after teaching for 38 years.

This week she wrote about Til's reading assessment and how, although she read very well, and was able to summarize the story with plenty of detail, she missed the "moral or lesson" of the story. I don't know exactly which story she read, but according to the note, the moral was that "a small animal can help a big one, or that size doesn't matter." And apparently, when Matilda relayed what had happened in the story, she said it was about one character helping another character.

And yet, she "missed the point."

I wrote a note back. I had to; I couldn't help myself. I needed to know what the point of the retelling was, really. Was it to understand that size doesn't matter? Because if that was the point, then didn't Matilda's reading suggest a pre-existing, internalized understanding of the "moral" of the story? Is it really necessary to remind her that most of the time size does matter, simply to point out that the story is saying it doesn't? WTF? On the other hand, if the purpose of exploring the "moral" of a story is to develop analysis skills, then I'm all for it: make sure she sees all of the social and cultural elements that went into the writing of the story, think about who the author is and why they might have chosen to write such a story, explore things that might have been left out, encourage her to examine each characters motivation.

I have a feeling that as soon as my note hits her desk it'll go right into a file labeled Problem Parents. My feelings about public education and its benefits and limitations are complicated enough without having to deal with teachers so entrenched in the system that they see no problem asking a question with only one right answer. I don't know yet what the moral of this story will be, but I'll keep you posted, and let's just all keep our fingers crossed that the moral isn't sit down and shut up, cause that won’t end well for anyone.

Coming Soon...

2009-09-10T22:36:00.002-04:00

If I write it in the title of a blog post it must be true! I, Nell H. McCabe, do solemnly swear to post very, very soon about the following:

Freya's demand for hardcore academics in her preschool classroom
My own classroom, in which I have been given young minds to warp, I mean mold, I mean teach
Matilda's second grade teacher who has been teaching small people for longer then I've been alive
Steve's crazy-ass, but kind of awesome, new job
our new car (!!!)
various neighborhood exploits
etc.

Until then: you're awesome, I love you.

-N

the BIG question(s)

2009-08-09T12:39:00.004-04:00

I'm having a lot of trouble being productive this summer: I haven't written much, haven't read enough (although what is enough? really?), haven't completed the work for the PhD applications I've been thinking about. On the plus side, our apartment has never been cleaner and the closets have never been more organized.

What I have been doing is thinking, and talking, and thinking some more. I'm feeling torn between the academic track and the life track. Here's the thing, I want to write the novel that I've had in progress for way too long now, and I just can't seem to do that while I'm in school. I need the mental space of not devoting my creative energy to academic projects in order to get back to the place where I can really work on it, really pull it apart and put it back together and move it forward. I know some people can do both, but it may be time to accept that I am not one of them.

Steve argues that if I don't at least apply to programs, I'll regret it. He might be right. In which case it would make sense to postpone decisions until March or so when I've gathered the latest batch of acceptance and rejection letters and have several options instead of just two. But on the other hand, applying to schools means polishing an academic writing sample that I feel lukewarm about, writing a personal statement that convinces not only admissions committees but also myself that this is what I want to do, and paying out hundreds of dollars in application fees. Is it worth going through all that (not to mention the months of waiting, waiting, waiting, a subject to which I have devoted more than one post on the blog in the past and which, for those of you who do not remember, I am not very good at) just to postpone my decision for a few months?

It seems to me that the question I need to be asking myself is this: if school X accepts me, do I want to spend five+ years there writing academic papers, submitting articles, attending conferences, reading for comps, writing a dissertation and still struggling to find the time to write the fiction that I want to write?

The answer is still I don't know, but I feel myself leaning towards no. It's not that I don't like academia, or that I think I'd be unhappy, or too stressed out (although I'm sure all of those things would apply intermittently); it's more that I just don't think I want to. And of course this isn't just about me. There are lots of other things to take into account, including the fact that uprooting my family again for another program and then a third time when (if) I get a job after graduation is a big deal. Moving across the country wasn't easy for any of us, but Matilda still talks about moving back to Massachusetts despite the fact that we've been here for a full year and she's made friends and loves her school.

I could use some advice here: should I apply to programs knowing that I might decide not to go, or should I figure out what exactly I want to be doing first and then take whatever steps are necessary? Some kind of list is probably in order here...

In unrelated news, here's a picture of Matilda with our neighbor Amelia:

Ferd's Been Taking Some Risks Lately

2009-07-23T14:52:00.003-04:00

Freya's been very supportive, but it's taking its toll.

First we caught her bungee jumping on the playground.

Her explanation was pretty weak: the cool kids?

Come on; heard it.

When she came home with her make-up all askew we confronted her.

She said she just wanted the Barbies to like her.

We said we understood.

Lately she's been keeping to herself a lot, just going outside, swinging.

We got her into a support group, but she stopped going after a week.

She's been sleeping a lot.

I suppose we should have known there was a problem two years ago in Maine.

She told us she had it under control.

Who are you going to believe?

Your seven-year-old photographer, or her plastic babydoll?

blurry

2009-07-23T14:50:00.000-04:00

It's All Good

2009-07-18T09:54:00.004-04:00

So it turns out that one of the things that happens when you don't get married is you also don't have wedding anniversaries (who knew?). It's actually pretty convenient; there's nothing to remember or forget, no disappointed partner moping around, waiting for you to remember that you forgot, and also, if you decide you want one, you can just have one whenever you want!

Yesterday was our anniversary.

We drank some wine and hung out and had a really relaxing evening. The weather here has been just perfect - we might not adore the state of Missouri, but it sure knows how to do summer - and the balcony off our bedroom is lovely in the evening.

The best part is that we talked, like really talked, about big stuff that we've been ignoring for a while now - my guilt over making everyone move to Missouri, what he wants to do with the future, where we might end up, or not end up - and it was good. I still feel a little guilty for dragging my family halfway across the country, but better, definitely better, and it's not forever; we might not end up home just yet, but it seems less and less likely that we'll be staying here.

In any case, I highly recommend anniversaries as excuses for just about anything and think that I like the flex-i-versary kind the best, because I (or he) can decide when they are, and that way they can come on just the right day.

Taking Shape

2009-07-16T11:48:00.006-04:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about moving, mostly since we'll probably have to do it again next year, and also because of the wedding last weekend. There are all these factors, things that don't really feel like they go together, but they do; they fit at awkward angles, jutting out, like a puzzle with no edges. So that's how this post will be too, a series of pieces with only a tenuous thread of recent thoughts and occurrences holding them together.

I moved a lot as a kid, always for different reasons: jobs, schools, neighborhoods, family. Maybe this has made me restless, I don't know. It's one of those facts of the past that is neither here nor there, one of those things that made you who you are and that you couldn't change even if you wanted to so there's just nothing to be done. I remember liking the new houses, exploring the best hide-outs and reading spots. I remember how moving made my Powell House friends that much more important to me, even though my parents had to drive me hours to visit them.

The ceremony this past weekend was held in the backyard of Elizabeth's parent's house. It was beautiful, everything done up just right - simple, elegant - for the wedding. A few of us stayed down the street at Tanya's parent's house. Both families have been in those two homes for longer than I've known them: since Liz and Tanya were babies, before that even. What would that be like - to have a place you can go that is overflowing with memories, a place in which you are more fully yourself than anywhere else in the world?

Of course I am fully capable of romanticizing the opposite, moving from place to place, never getting tied down, bringing the family you love with you wherever you go.

If I move again, for more school, we'll have to move again after that, too. In a field as competitive as academia, that's just what you do. And when you have these other people, these awesome kids, this great partner, who will just go with you - the partner because he's supportive and generous, the children because they have no choice - is both freeing and impossible. How can I ask myself what I want when the answer will affect so many lives?

There are people, some of whom I adore, who have a kind of knowing, a self-assured certainty about the way things could and should be. They seem to operate with this projected ideal in mind and in so doing they create for themselves a world in which the imagined reality becomes the actual reality. Of course it's more complicated, I know that, but I can't help wondering what it would be like to just know: to know what I wanted, to know who I wanted, to know where I wanted to be, or to end up, or any of that. I don't.

I move forward because I can't make time stop. My children grow older, more beautiful, smarter every day. My relationship shifts, changes, falters and strengthens, depending. My home remains miles away, waiting for me, and still I move forward: I fill out forms and send submissions; I write academic papers that I almost believe in; I read novels and love them; or I read novels and wonder why anyone ever thought they were worth publishing; I make lists and plans and diagrams; I think and talk and write down the future, I sketch it, I dream it. I think that soon - I hope soon - the jumble of pieces will begin to separate, I think that soon I will be able to see how they fit, and then, when I can see them all, when I've collected them all, I will put them in an order, in a shape that forms a path.

and Back Again

2009-07-15T09:30:00.001-04:00

My recent trip to the East coast has left me feeling more things than I can fit in a single blog post: my dear friend Elizabeth's (see Liz, I'm trying) wedding was absolutely beautiful; I saw family and friends who make me feel like I belong somewhere; I thought and talked about what I (we) want to do next; and didn't stop moving for more than 15 minutes during the entire week-long trip. It might be weeks before I can process all of this stuff.

I tend to feel isolated in Columbia; sure, I've made friends, but in Berkshire County, that's where my people are, you know? I don't know where we'll end up next, and probably won't for a while yet, but I do know that I am determined not to let the people I love slip out of my life. I need them (you) more than even I realize most of the time.

Why we're in trouble, and so forth.

2009-05-27T08:59:00.003-04:00

She's only seven, and yet...

This hair was stage two in a three part process - braids, kinks, and then cut. I'll post more pictures of stage three soon. Freya's hair is short again, too.

Matilda has only three days left of being a first grader, and then summer looms before us in all it's beautiful swimming pool glory. It really does promise to be a good one; I'll keep you posted.

N

How Graduate School Ruined Reading

2009-05-20T11:01:00.003-04:00

So I am now officially done with my first year of graduate school. Woo-hoo! The last of the papers is in and I can chill for a day or two. Yes, a day or two. Because soon the real work begins. Not only do I have a backlog of paid work to finish, but I have to polish a paper and gather the rest of my PhD application materials this summer so that in the fall, when I'm taking three classes, teaching two and doing an internship, I don't also have to go through the tedious process of applying to PhD programs.

But the summer here is looking beautiful and the girls and I are looking forward to hanging out outside and swimming and resting and playing as well, they'll be time for everything, right?

I have one brief East coast trip planned near the beginning of July so that I can attend my dear friend Liz's wedding. Part of my wishes I could bring the girls with me, but I'm not, and I have to say, I am pretty excited about having a week to myself.

The thing that I am most excited for this summer is reading. This sounds crazy, I know. You're an English major, don't you read, like, all the time? Well, yes, but not for pleasure. Luckily the last paper I wrote reminded me how much I really do love to read. I was writing about Richard Russo's Empire Falls (which I highly recommend) and as I was skimming through looking for passages that supported my various arguments, I kept getting sucked in. The language was so beautiful, the characters so compelling, the events so interesting... Multiple times I forgot I was writing anything at all and sat for long periods of time rereading scenes that I had forgotten all about, letting myself sink into the novel as if I didn't have a looming deadline.

So yesterday, first thing, I went and bought myself a new novel - something completely unrelated to school or the list of books I've been compiling to read this summer (a list designed to fill in the many gaps in my reading that I've discovered over the course of the past year). Today - right now - I will take my book outside, lie on a blanket in the shade, and read.

Again with the planning, always with the planning.

2009-02-20T08:44:00.002-05:00

I had thought I'd stay here to do the PhD, but now that we're here I'm not sure this is the place for us. The East coast calls to me and I don't think we should stay gone for so long.

The problem is that there really aren't any Creative Writing PhDs on the East coast and so if I want a PhD I'm going to have to get one in Literature, which isn't the worst thing I could do, I would just have to be careful not to let the creative writer part of me get lost along the way. I'd like to say it wouldn't, that it's strong enough, but I know that's not true, it'd be all too easy to let things slide.

The best would be if I could manage to get into Cornell University's MFA/PhD program, and even though I know that my odds are slim, I'm determined to do everything I can to be the best applicant I can. My list of things to do before next fall now look a little overwhelming, and that's why I'm going to put it here and then ignore it for a little while (but not too long):

retake GRE and GRE Subject Test (ugh)
write an excellent critical writing sample (in a class that I'm taking now)
publish my creative work (more than one story if possible)
write the best personal statement ever (this might be the hardest part)
review the work of Cornell faculty
find at least five other programs I'd like to be in

That's it for now.

In other news Matilda seems to have completely settled in to her new school now. She sold the most girl scout cookies of anyone in her group and loves loves loves her first grade teacher who told me yesterday that she was worried about living up to the high standards set by Matilda's kindergarten teacher but knew she had arrived when, about three months into the school year, Matilda hugged her and said, "You're as good as Mrs. Campbell." I don't know how long our great luck with teachers can hold out, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

I know all kids say crazy stuff, but...

2009-01-31T17:44:00.001-05:00

"Oh sister, why are you so sad? Let's go see the Great Vagina."

Until tomorrow

2009-01-12T16:52:00.002-05:00

I was reminded today why I'm here. It was timely. In trying to figure out the next step, I've been doubting everything lately, wondering what I'm doing here: alternately pushing myself to get things done, then resigning myself to defeat when I fail.

But after exhausting all avenues of distraction today - playing scrabble on facebook, chatting with friends, driving around aimlessly for a while - I actually wrote. A lot. A new story that's about a lot of things - maybe too many - that has (at least for this afternoon) made me remember why I'm here and why it is the right place for me. At least for now.

My New Job at Burger King

2009-01-09T11:40:00.001-05:00

This post was written back when I had about three readers. This is different from today how? you ask. Now I have three different readers. So I'm reposting. Enjoy. Original post date: 6/8/07.

I have decided to go look for a job at Burger King, because at least then I would receive adequate training. They probably even have corporate training videos that I could watch in the manager's cave-like office that smells of greased pickles.

I'm not sure who to complain to about this, but my children did not come with instructional videos and I really don't feel like washing dishes that seem to breed every time I turn my back and that I sure as hell am not getting paid to wash.

At Burger King I would be trained to serve people crappy food, but damn, would I be trained well. The manager, let's call him Ronnie, would be in his late-thirties. He's wanted to be the manager of this particular Burger King since he was just a kid, so he takes his job really seriously. It actually hurts him deeply if an employee feels that he did not train them properly, and he's not afraid to make them feel guilty for upsetting him.

But Ronnie and I will get along great. I'm not like all those high school kids who think that this is just a place to make a few bucks on the way to the rest of their lives, oh no. Of course I can't bring the same kind of enthusiasm to my work as Ronnie, but I have a deep appreciation of the important work we all do here.

Of course the thorough employee training is a huge attraction, but there are other benefits as well. For one thing, no one breaks two glasses in a single day at Burger King because they have cleverly eliminated glasses all together. Brilliant.

No one knocks over the lamps at Burger King and then pretends they have no idea what happened, this is because the lamps are tied to the ceiling. I am thinking of stealing this idea for my home actually. Don't tell Ronnie, he might feel it was his duty to report me to corporate headquarters.

Also (and I'm guessing here because I don't have the statistics handy) I'd be willing to bet that children and kittens don't regularly pee and poop on the floor at Burger King. Oh sure, there might be the occasional accident, but I can smile sympathetically at the poor mother of the unfortunate toddler as I clean the floor with my over sized mop because, hey, it wasn't my toddler. Besides, I will be getting paid to clean that shit up.

I can offer the same exact smile for the following: screaming children, crying children, unfuckingbelieveably whiny children, and children who are served food and then refuse to eat it. My calm and sympathetic demeanor will be absolutely zen. Ronnie will probably want to promote me to assistant manager, but unfortunately he already promised the position to eighteen-year-old girlfriend Veronica.

But this too is okay, because I don't want to be a manager, in fact, part of the attraction of my new job is the total lack of responsibility. I know Ronnie tells me I have an obligation to make our customers happy, but I don't have to balance the books, keep the fridges in the back stocked with an assortment of meals and snacks, wash every one's uniforms, or clean the whole place all by myself without so much as a thank-you. Ronnie will always say thank-you.

Maybe if my children had come with a few of the benefits that my new job includes I might feel differently. But as it is I think that everyone will be happier if I am happier, and so I have decided to leave my family and work 12-18 hours a day at Burger King. I think I will be a more relaxed and balanced individual and I'm pretty sure that if I am relaxed and happy, I will be a better mother as well.

Settling Back In, Making Goals

2009-01-07T16:48:00.003-05:00

Every few hours I stop and sigh. The trip east to the Berkshires was lovely, relaxing in some ways, stressful in others. It felt odd to be wanting to come home - home being Missouri - having wanted for months to go home - home being the Berkshires.

I've started thinking about The Future. There's this whole progression of grad school stuff that creeps backward from admission into a PhD program to now, meaning that even though I could probably put off thinking about stuff until the summer, I sort of forced to start now: choose an advisor, based on what my thesis will be about; choose a thesis topic, based on what kind of PhD program I want; choose a PhD program, based on?

There are so many questions. Some - many - of them without answers. East Coast, West Coast or middle? Creative Writing or Literature? PhD, MFA or both?

Last year at this time I was waiting. Waiting, and planning my cross country trip with Fionn and Matilda to check out the places I'd decided on. I had decided on them. I thought I knew, and I did: what I wanted was set, the wheels were in motion, I was waiting, that's all.

Now, again, I have to choose. I have to sit down with Steve, mull over the many options - how close is too close to family? How far is too far away? Where will be best for us? For the girls? It's not like we're starting from scratch, as now have the experience of living here for a few months to balance out our thinking. Since we can't really ever know what the future will hold, that will just have to be enough. For now.

Day of the Fiscal Rollercoaster

2008-12-24T16:16:00.003-05:00

So it turns out that being a grad student means you are poor.

This morning, while looking for a bag to bring with me on our trip, I found a one hundred dollar bill. For real! It doesn't get any better than that, right? And it was timely, man was it timely. So the girls and I dropped Steve off at work, deposited half the money in the bank and took the other half to the evil empire (aka WalMart) where we bought some coloring books for the plane and a few last minute Christmas items.

Then we went across the street to the grocery store where we picked up a few things for Christmas morning and snacks for the trip.

Oops! Card declined.

We tried it twice. The cashier was super nice about it, but we had to leave our food and go back to the bank to find out what had happened to the fifty dollars I had just put in our account.

Oops again. They closed at noon today. Damn. That meant that the money was unavailable, for whatever reason, until after Christmas, which meant not enough cash left to put gas in the car in order to get to the airport tomorrow afternoon. Damn. I checked my balance at the ATM: 84 cents. Damn, where was my fifty bucks?

Swearing at the bank under my breath, we turned around and drove back to the evil empire, where I returned everything I had just bought and got my money back. Just how I wanted to spend Christmas eve. The return process was actually fairly simple, for which I was grateful. I don't like being grateful to the evil empire, but hey, it was a grudging kind of gratefulness. Back across the street to the grocery store I scaled down our purchases to the bare essentials and then filled the car with gas. Heading home all I could do was hope that nothing else would come up that required money in the next day and a half.

In the mailbox was a letter from the bank. Our account had been overdrawn by $49.87. The letter did not offer any further explanation.

Sigh. No money. Oh well, I'm pretty much used to it. Shopping this Christmas has been an exercise in frugality, and to tell you the truth, I think I'm getting pretty good at strategic gift buying.

At home the girls and I ate leftover macaroni and cheese and I sat down at the computer to check my email and the weather. Again. Not thinking there would be anything there, I checked the other bank account, just to see. And guess what? We have money! Not a lot, but my assistantship check went through, so we're not totally broke, yay!

As relieved as I feel, I am also exhausted. When Steve gets home from work I am going to the store and I am going to buy us a nice bottle of wine, and we'll drink wine and eat cheese while we relax by the Christmas tree... okay, fine, while we wrap presents from Santa and steal his cookies.

I need at least a few hours before tomorrow's Day of Traveling Alone with Two Small Children.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

And since the rate at which I have been posting really is that slow:

Happy New Year!

Doesn't every party need one of these?

2008-12-20T13:29:00.003-05:00

Me: Hey girls, let's finish cleaning and make tonight really special for Daddy, we'll make the house all nice and serve hors devours and everything!

Matilda: I want to be the girl who is the waitress!

Freya: I want to be the girl who tells people what they want!

Tonight's Conversation with the Small One

2008-12-05T09:03:00.002-05:00

Freya has adopted the official position that there are exactly three reasons why people might not eat all or part of their dinner.

1. They have a tummy ache.

2. They are full.

3. They are not hungry.

(After listing these off for us a few nights ago she then firmly announced, "and I do not have a tummy ache.")

Sometimes, when she's not eating her food (which seems to be more about power and control than any of the above reasons) she will perform magic tricks, illusions, if you will, during which Steve and I must close our eyes and wait for her signal. When we open our eyes - get this - the bite in question has disappeared!

Tonight was not a magic show night, however, so I decided - after telling her in no uncertain terms that her three ultimate reasons were not going to cut it - to try to explain why her body needs different kinds of foods to grow and be healthy.

"I am four," she says, holding up two fingers on each hand "and on my next birthday I will be five," she adds a finger, "that is how I grow."

"That's how you get older," I say, "but to grow and be healthy your body needs all different kinds of vitamins and nutrients."

"People get bigger because they grow, soooooo.... and I am up to here," she puts a hand just below her eyes, "on my sister and soon I will be up to here." The hand moves up about an inch: right in front of her eyes.

I agree that she is getting big, but insist that this is not a valid argument for avoiding her vegetables.

"Okay, Mom, okay," she says, holding up her hands, "how about this. You close your eyes and dream that I am eating kale and spinach and lettuce and..." she pauses to consider her options, "carrots... and apples-"

"-and oranges," Matilda adds helpfully.

"Matilda! I couldn't eat that much! Okay, Mom, you can just dream that I am eating all of those things, okay?" She settles back in her chair, apparently confident that she's wrapped up this particular argument quite nicely.

"Uh, Frey? Do the things that we dream really happen?" I ask, clearly with a right answer in mind.

She give me an exasperated sigh, "Just use your imagination!"

I didn't have a rebuttal for that one and resorted to the tried and true (and often inadequate), "Just eat your greens, Freya."

"Okay," she says, "I will, but first can we keep talking about this for a little longer?"

I think that in the process of choosing a preschool program we might want to find out which ones has a debate team.

And Then She Was Four

2008-11-26T10:38:00.010-05:00

Freya is four today. Of course she woke up early and, having slept in her dress, she was ready to open birthday presents. First though, she let Matilda read her the cards.

Then she got down to work.

It's a pigeon!

And she loved her puzzle.

Even though it took a long time to put together since she had to try every piece in every spot regardless of color or shape.

It was still good.

And so it goes: I have no more babies to call my own, which is fine with me since our new neighbors (who will be joining us later for make-your-own pizza night) have a very cute one that I can borrow and big girls are way more fun than babies anyway. Especially when they play for hours with their Barbies, fairies, pigeons and Transformers in a game that involves cross-dressing, evil stepmothers, pirates and clowns.

Happy Birthday, Freya!

Late Friday Night

2008-11-19T09:02:00.001-05:00

In the wee hours of the morning, the apartment complex is cloaked in a weak darkness, its rectangular buildings glowing across the hillside, illuminated by automatic lights outside every door, streetlights along every section of the curving drive. In one apartment someone wakes, frightened, to hear a rattle at the door: someone is trying to get in. They call the police.

Steve and I are asleep: Steve on the couch, me alone in our bed, still recovering from the cold that has been hanging on for a week. The girls are sleeping too, each in her own bunk. None of us hear our own apartment door open and shut again. We don't hear someone bump into the wall and take off his shoes, and whether he falls to the floor, or eases himself down, we don't hear that either. Even Steve, only a few feet away from the stranger, is still sleeping soundly.

Until six police officers also let themselves in. They are alert, their guns are drawn and they survey the living room, assessing the situation. They don't know who is supposed to be here; maybe the man asleep on the floor belongs, and the one of the couch does not. Suddenly Steve is awake. Six guns are aimed at him.

In the bedroom I begin to wake more slowly, I think I hear something happening in the living room: people's voices.

"Stay where you are!" Someone says, and I get up quickly and walk out to the living room. The police have decided that Steve is the one who belongs here, and that the man on the floor is the stranger.

"Is there anyone else in the apartment?" one of them asks me.

"Just the children," I say, and then, less sure, "I think."

They check the rest of the apartment, peering into our bedroom and the children's room where the girls are still fast asleep, two lumps under their covers, barely visible as the beam of the officer's flashlight dances across them. I watch, try to will the officer to be quiet, the girls to stay asleep. When he's done I close the girls' door behind him and we walk back to the living room to join the others. And the stranger.

A woman officer ask me if I know him, but the rest of the police are standing in a huddle around the man, putting him in handcuffs and trying to wake him up.

"I can't see him," I say, and step over his legs to where I can look at his face. He is white, he has brown hair, and he is out cold. He is in his twenties maybe, wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt. His hands are bound behind his back by the handcuffs and his right elbow is bloody, scraped on something before he got here, I guess. I look at him carefully. No. I don't know him, I tell them. One of the police has taken the man's wallet out of his pocket and reads me his name. I shake my head, I don't know him.

I glance at Steve who is still over by the couch. We lock eyes and for a moment are both just thinking how weird this all is. I almost smile, but then one of the officer's says, "He's not wearing any shoes," and with insight that must only come from a rigorous training regimen continues, "but his socks are clean, he must have worn shoes to get here."

All eyes fall on a pair of men's sneakers tossed one on top of the other near the back of the couch. They ask if the shoes belong to us - to Steve - and we say they don't, they must be his.

The stranger on the floor still hasn't moved. I begin to feel sorry for him, the poor guy is so drunk he doesn't even know he's handcuffed and sleeping in someone else's living room. On the floor. Two of the officer's reach down and grab the man under his arms, hauling him to his feet. He looks around, obviously confused, but says nothing as they maneuver him, stumbling, around the corner and out the door. They don't put his shoes on for him.

The next few minutes are full of explanations on both sides, Steve and I give our personal information to separate officers who each write it down in separate spiral notebooks. The officer's explain that our neighbors called the police when they heard someone breaking into their apartment and that when the police arrived the followed the drunk as he made his way through the parking lot and up the two flights of stairs to let himself into our place. Unsure if he belonged, they had followed him in, just in case. They said they were planning to charge him with two counts of burglary: one for trying to get into the locked apartment, and one for falling asleep on our floor.

When they had gotten everything they needed and made sure we had no more questions they left and Steve and I sit down on the couch to say things like, "dude," and "wow," for a while.

"Guess we should start locking the door at night," I say.

"I usually do," says Steve.

We agree that if the police need us to press charges we shouldn't do it. Burglary? The poor guy just wanted to go to sleep. He was too drunk to know where he was, probably thought he was passed out on his own living room floor. He even took his shoes off at the door.

Having been woken at gun point, Steve needs more time then I do to come down from the adrenaline high, so I return to bed alone to try to sleep. I lie awake feeling sorry for the stranger and thinking of all the what-ifs that come so easily after something like this. What if he'd stumbled all the way into the bedroom and climbed into bed with me? All the officers had seemed so young, what if it was all some elaborate hazing thing, a prank? What if he had been someone more sinister than a passed out drunk who takes his shoes off at the door? What if he had spent the might on our floor and the girls woke first to find him there in the morning? I imagine waking him, asking if there's someone we should call...

In the morning I wake feeling I had lived a dream. Sure, the business card one of the officers gave me is on the fridge, but were they really here? I think about the stranger all day as I read and research and revise a paper for class.

That afternoon the sun has warmed things up a bit and the girls and I put on our shoes and coats to go outside and play. As we leave the apartment I notice for the first time a dark red smudge on the wall near the door and realize that the stranger's bloody elbow must have grazed as he came in the night before. I hurry the children outside and close the door behind us. I haven't told them about the stranger; they don't need to play the what-if game like I do.

Motherhood: Three Hours in Line for This?

2008-10-31T13:59:00.004-04:00

Last night Matilda and I went to a rally for Barack Obama at my university. Coming from the decidedly non-swing state of Massachusetts, I was excited by the prospect of being a part of the political process in that way and of letting Tilly feel like she's a part of it too.

All day people were talking about whether there would be enough room for everyone and some students actually started lining up eight hours before the event. By the time Til and I were able to join the line at 5:45, it was already 6 blocks long and still growing fast. We waited with a few of my fellow students and ate pizza and stood around. Tilly drew in her notebook that she brought and played tic-tac-toe and hangman with people.

She was so excited to be going. We've talked about Obama before and although she's not exactly well-versed on the finer points of his campaign, nor is she really aware of McCain as a possible alternative, she knows that war kills people and that her parents think war is wrong and that George Bush has made a lot of lousy choices that damaged our country and that Obama wants to change all that and make our country a better place. To tell you the truth I'm not sure I could tell you exactly what she was thinking or why she wanted to go, but she did.

Of course the reality of standing in a line for three hours wasn't quite what she had imagined us doing. Still, she was a good sport, and even though there were a few times when I didn't think she was going to make it, she always pulled through.

We passed the protesters, all ten of them, ("I'm NRA and I'm not voting Obama," "Obama roots for Kansas" - which apparently is a football reference, that's a serious game out here) and the counter protesters, all three of them, ("I'm not with stupid --> I'm voting Obama"). We went through the metal detectors and walked around among the university students and local people who had turned out to support Obama.

Til was really excited at first, jumping around and wanting me to push through the crowd with her so she could see better (she settled for being on my shoulders). But Obama wasn't scheduled to start speaking until 9:30, and she was already tired. Each time she complained I asked her to hold out a little bit longer, reminded her how excited she had been to see him and how long we had waited in line.

But by 9:15 she'd had it. She was done, bursting into tears before I could even try to convince her to stay. "I'm just too tired," she said, "I just want to go to bed."

I couldn't refuse, and really, as a mother bringing my young daughter to a late evening rally, I'd known this was a possibility. So we said our goodbyes and headed home. In spite of how tired she was, I could tell she was torn. She did really want to see him.

"Come on," I told her, "let's run and we can be home in time to watch him on TV."

And we did. And even though we didn't actually get to see Obama in person, and even though it could safely be argued that we stood in line for three hours for exactly nothing, I'm still glad I brought her. She got to see how many people around us want things to change, and to be a part of it, and I think that's worth three hours of playing tic-tac-toe and eating pizza on the side of the road.

E Sitting Instructions

2008-10-17T08:40:00.002-04:00

e will stay here with you today.

ok

if she gets hungry, you can feed her. she eats snake food.

snake food?

yes, it's under my bed.

Gearing up for the most funnest debate of all time and how I've been totally neglecting you people in the meantime

2008-10-02T10:58:00.004-04:00

So, hi! I feel this impulse to start this post the way I started every letter I ever wrote as a child:

Dear Reader,

How are you? I am fine.

But you deserve better, don't you? I know I've been shamefully absent lately, and honestly the most I can hope at the moment is that I have not been shamefully absent in the rest of my life as well. Have I? I don't know.

The point is this: thing are going well. Each of my classes is teaching me new and sometimes unexpected things (well, with one exception - the "intro to grad studies" is the biggest waste of my time, evah!) and I've even started cultivating a social life, and here's where the politics comes in: watching the debates with smart, literate people who drink beer and yell at the TV? Awesome.

Camp Grad School is fun. I have made new friends.

So besides watching the debate (and all of the Katie Couric interviews I can find online) what have I been up to? I'm working on a new story, reading lots of fiction, rediscovering the hilarity of Vladimir Nabokov, navigating departmental politics, figuring out what rhetoric actually is, making connections, tutoring in the writing lab, reading for a literary journal, thinking about teaching next year, exploring, and trying to find time for my family.

Steve and the girls are fine, too. We're keeping busy.

One of the things that has thrown me into rethinking just about everything is the scope of this whole grad school/career in academia thing. I'm not much of a planner. I realize this may sound odd to some of you know who know that I almost always have a plan, but what I mean is that this thing that I've undertaken now involves a kind of long term plan, a looking ahead, that I've never been particularly good at or inclined towards. It seems to involve a kind of shaping of my life that is both a retrospective analysis and a projection into the future. It's made me realize that in the past when I've "had a plan" what I really had was the beginning of a plan, the first steps. The plans I made never had an end, or even a middle, and they certainly never extended more than a year or two into the future. More like a direction than a plan, per se.

Whatever happens next, it will be an adventure!

I don't know where all of this planning and thinking will lead me, and I have a feeling it will all come full circle and I will realize that I'm doing what I want to be doing and I should probably just stop over-thinking and get on with it already.

Meanwhile there are plots and counterplots, politics and fluff, school work and family, elitism and absurdism, hell in a hand basket and whatever the alternative to that is. (Is there an alternative to that?) It's much easier to focus on how Sarah Palin apparently reads everything and somehow knows nothing and how funny that is, than to take anything seriously.

How about this crazy election, huh?

And I'm afraid after all that, all I have to end with is:

I will write soon. (Which I think we all know is a lie.)

and:

I miss you. (Which is true.)

Love, Nell.

I Like You: Here's Why.

2008-09-10T21:58:00.003-04:00

Freya and I took a bath together tonight. Well, it was my bath originally, which is not important except that I like to put oil in my baths, so it was slippery and also very, very hot.

Freya was standing, holding the bar on the side of the tub and sliding down into a split, over and over and over...

Idly, I held her other hand and read aloud to her from a short story by Jorge Luis Borges - with feeling! - "...theological and metaphysical arguments, all clearly stated, coherent, without any apparent dogmatic intention or parodic undertones. The eleventh volume of which I speak refers--"

One of her splits turned unexpectedly into a pirouette.

"Careful, Frey," I said, "I don't want you to die, I like you."

"I love you, too," she said, intent on returning to sliding splits.

"I didn't say I love you," I corrected, "I said I like you. I mean, I love you too, but, it's different. Do you know what the difference between liking someone and loving someone is?"

Blank look - well deserved.

"Well," I persisted, "what does it meant to like someone?"

"People are not stupid," she offered.

"Debatable, but not the point. What does it mean when you love someone?"

She looked thoughtful for a minute, "You don't call them stupid or idiot."

"Well, yeah, you're nice to them, right? Because you care about them. So what does it mean if you like someone?"

"You give them stuff," she paused, "stuff you don't want anymore."

At this point we were interrupted, which is almost definitely to the good. When we returned to the question I took a more concrete approach: "Who do you love?"

"Um, Aurora, and Oscar and Kehr," she paused, "and Riva. I love you and Daddy and Matilda, too, but not as much as Riva. She took me to a museum."

Not sure where to go from here, I made an executive decision and ended the conversation.

Clearly Freya is not quite ready philosophical conversations about the nature of love and while I wait, I should maybe take her to some museums.

What Kind of Frame?

2008-09-02T19:59:00.006-04:00

Today I downloaded the Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog soundtrack and was listening to the second song, which is the one where he meets Penny in the laundromat (and really, if you haven't watched it yet, please, just go do that and then come back, I mean otherwise we won't even be on the same page, let alone in the same frame, which is important, you'll see why in a minute) and Matilda walked into my room and stopped for a second.

She looked at me, and put her head to one side, wrinkled up her freckled nose and said, "Is this Dr. Horrible?"

My heart swelled with pride and then I had a vision of her ten years from now:

Matilda is sixteen. She has a streak of pink in her hair (okay, so there's a lot of me in her, accept it, that's how this vision works) and she's lying on her bed, her polished toes dipping back and forth behind her. Her two best friends are there, strewn about the room in a carelessly choreographed fashion.

Some as-yet-unimagined music/noise is playing on an invisible pod that plugs into her bed frame. The three of them are applying mood sensitive nail polish and talking about boys and the latest internet shows. One of the lyrics in the song goes 'it's better the second time' and suddenly Matilda says, "Hey, you guys remember Dr. Horrible?"

Her friends give her that exaggerated - as only 16-year-olds can truly exaggerate - look that says, what the fuck are you talking about?

She elaborates: "You know, that internet TV thing that came out when we were kids. The one with the evil super villain who falls for the red-headed social worker? Captain Hammer? 'These are not the hammer'? Come on... you know, Dr. Horrible."

Still she is met with blank stares. She stops. Assesses the situation.

"Um, you guys want some popcorn?"

Here's my fear: I am creating a girl whose childhood will be full of references that none of her friends get. (She also watches Free to Be You and Me. And episodes of Sesame Street that haven't aired since 1979.)

So is this bad? Should I be making some kind of effort to ensure that my children are capable of discussing the things that I spent my early adolescence not being able to discuss (in my case 90210, I still have never seen a single episode, but I did manage to smile and nod my way semi-convincingly (I think) though most of ninth grade)? Am I over thinking this? I do have a tendency to do that.

Or, alternatively, will she roll her eyes whenever I ask - incessantly perhaps - if she remembers Dr. Horrible.

"Mom, you asked me that last night, God!" Roll of the eyes, sympathy from her friend waiting in the wings. The two of them disappear into her bedroom with their popcorn and close the door.

I take my glass of wine into my room and find the Dr. Horrible soundtrack in my iTunes (now totally archaic) and listen to it, singing along, maybe even dancing, arms over my head, not caring that I'm so ten years ago.

A Semblance of Something

2008-08-23T11:21:00.004-04:00

(This might be a little long, feel free to skim, but don't miss the Freya story at the end, it's a good one.)

in General

Outside the cicadas buzz, inside the carpet needs to be vacuumed, laundry needs to be done, dishes fill the sink. But after a week (a summer?) of noise, I finally feel as though things are settling down - and that's a good thing.

Classes begin on Monday, and at least for the weekend we have a car (that story in a minute). Steve's headed out this afternoon to find himself some gainful employment, but since everything's so cheap here, I'm still working and my school is paying me to learn, he's in the rather enviable position of not having to rush, and not having to take work he doesn't want. If only I could keep him on as a househusband, he's much better at it than I ever was...

Missouri

So far so good. Columbia is a smallish city of about 95,000 people, most of them related in one way or another to the University. The campus takes up a huge portion of the downtown, and then spills out into shops and restaurants, very few of which I have tried, but many of which I intend to.

Our apartment is nice, not too big, but not too small, with a wide open space for living/dining/etc which feels a little empty since we gave our couch to Tracey before the move. It's on the list, but it's beneath the washer and dryer, so we may be couchless for a few more weeks/months. The girl's bunkbed is all set up and even though there's no room for their toys, that's not a bad thing.

The complex where the apartment is has a pool (which we haven't checked out yet) and two slightly dilapidated jungle gyms. It is about one to two miles from everything, which means that once the car disappears, we'll still be able to get where we need to go most of the time.

School(s)

Matilda started first grade on Thursday (much earlier than she would have in MA) and so far she seems to really like it. The school is called Lee Expressive Arts Elementary, and when she heard she was going to art school she more or less flipped. Her class seems nice, her teacher young and energetic, just right for a first grade teacher I think. And on Tuesdays they will all walk downtown and take a yoga class, how cool is that?

My school hasn't quite gotten started yet, but all this week I was in training for working in the writing center, which I think will be great. The director of the center is relaxed, focused and very supportive, she knows exactly what she wants the center to be and seems to have a clear idea of how to make that happen, which is great.

I can't find an exact number, but the total enrollment at the University of Missouri-Columbia is somewhere between 28,000 and 30,000 students, about 25% of which are graduate students. It's huge. But the total number of new English MA students? 6. A much more manageable number, and since we'll all be working in the writing center, we actually got to spend a little bit of time together this week which was nice, and then last night there were two English Department welcome parties, one with faculty, one without, at which I met a lot of people whose names I don't remember, but who were all lovely.

I'm very excited for classes to start and will let you all know how that goes when it does.

what Happened With The Car

So we had planned to drive from Pittsfield to Columbia in our lovely little blue car which I loved. And then, about five days before we were going to leave, we were heading down to Barrington for a goodbye party when this dumb kid in a Volvo stopped at his stop sign and then drove right into the side of our car.

We were all going pretty slow, and no one was hurt, but the poor car was totaled and of course we had to deal with all of the insurance crap and not having a car for our last week in Pittsfield and then buying plane tickets and more or less completely revamping our travel plans. Stupid kid. His insurance paid for a rental car once the girls and I got to the airport in St. Louis which was great and it's been good to have this week, but it has to go back Monday and then we'll see what happens. It was just such bad timing, you know? Ugh.

the Freya Story

So the other night after a long day of going to Walmart (did I mention that there are no less than three Walmarts and not much else in the way of Places to Buy Stuff We Need?) we arrived home and heated up some leftover spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. Freya is not a fan of spaghetti sauce, but she'll sometimes try it. But not immediately after waking up from what was apparently the least restful nap ever - judging by her extraordinary level of crankiness.

She threw a fit, saying she couldn't eat it and so on, until finally everyone else was done and she settled down enough to eat a few noodles with the least amount of sauce contamination.

But they were not clean. She got sauce on the middle finger of her left hand. This could have been a catastrophe, but Freya handled the situation calmly and with authority. She held up her middle finger to Steve and simply said, "Daddy, suck it."

Of course he lost it, there was just no way he could help her while rolling on the floor laughing so he sent her to me and she flipped me off and told me to suck it, too.

Then neither of us could help her and I think she eventually had to just suck it herself.

one More Thing

Now that I have managed to lose all of my readers by not posting for weeks and weeks and then posting lame shit when I finally managed to drag myself onto blogger and type something, I'm ready to start actually blogging again. My unplanned break has been good, and I'm ready to be back.

There is one thing though, I am totally terrified of the mere idea of looking at my Google Reader, and I think the only way I can manage it might be to go in real quick-like and hit the "Mark All As Read" button with my eyes squeezed shut. I'm sorry to do this to you all, but I can't see another way. If I wait until I have time to read all of the things I've been neglecting, I'll never make it back to blogging at all. The point is, if I missed something huge, or amazing, or really funny, please tell me, okay? Cause I have missed you all, and I'm glad to be back.

Almost There and Then I'll Be Back, Promise

2008-08-15T09:34:00.004-04:00

Dear Internets,

I've missed you. And boy, do I have some things to tell you! Things like how some dumb kid crashed into our car last Friday when we were all on our way to a party (everyone's fine), and how tomorrow the girls and I will fly from Hartford, CT, to St. Louis, MO, and then make our way to our new home in Columbia, Missouri. Like how Steve just called me from Missouri, and the fabulous apartment might not be so fabulous after all. Or maybe it is... There will be pictures.

Things like how this summer has been a whirlwind of chaos and adventure. Things like how I finally got one (just one) of my long awaited rejection letters.

Things like how I can't wait to start writing once I get to Missouri and I can't wait to meet other writers and I can't wait for things to start happening that are completely new and different and somehow familiar? I'm hoping.

Also things that might be random. We'll see.

And Here's Why

2008-07-21T18:11:00.002-04:00

Today was something of a roller coaster. First Steve took the girls down with him to work, where they had a sitter in the morning, and were then going to spend the afternoon at my parents'. I had a lovely and childless and productive day all planned.

But Tilly threw up in the car. So plans changed.

As Steve brought them back here I tried to do all of my going-out errands, but failed. Tilly was fine for the rest of the day, no idea why there was puke, but glad there has been no more. Then I went online to reserve a moving truck, a process that should have taken five minutes but in fact took upwards of two frustrating hours.

By the time 2pm rolled around I was cranky and pissed off. I was hating everyone and everything. Stupid sick kids, stupid freaking truck that's too big, stupid stuck at home, stupid everything.

But then two good things happened, Steve decided to take the rest of the afternoon off and brought me coffee ice cream bars, and I found a coupon code online to save 25% off a truck rental which totally made everything better. I love the internets. And I love Steve. Also I love coffee ice cream bars.

I then finished my errands at a leisurely pace, making sure to take my time strolling though Target's beautiful aisles and breathing slowly and calmly. I returned home to dinner being cooked, folded laundry and beer, what could be better?

Well, then I looked up the books for my courses (which begin in just over a month - yay!) and I love them all. I am taking a writing workshop, which has no required texts, an experimental fiction course, for which I already own three of the ten texts, and a course on rhetorics and poetics, which thankfully has only five required texts, none of which I have and which are all probably over 500 pages, but still, there are only five, and for that I am grateful. I am so ready to go back to school. It's going to be great. Hard work? Yes, but fucking brilliant.

I am now trying very hard not to think about all of the things that didn't get done today. Such as work. Which must now be squeezed into tomorrow. Oh well, soon I will immerse myself in academia and be happy, for now I can tread water and try to keep on packing.

Reparations?

2008-07-17T14:32:00.002-04:00

I'm sorry I haven't posted in so long, but you all really must click on the picture below and go check this out right now.

You won't regret it.

And I'll post something soon, nothing as good as Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, but something nonetheless.

Really, go. Go now.

Gooooo, Jungle Barbie!

2008-07-08T20:51:00.003-04:00

Life's not easy when you're a hot blonde with eight inch legs, I get all stressed out. I mean, a girl's got a right to party, don't she? Sometimes I gotta just take me a day, you know?

That's why me and my jug of bootleg got busy yesterday.

What? It was after noon.

Then my homegirl Gabriella dropped by and we hung for a while.

She's cool, a little uptight, can't stop talking about fucking Troy Bolton, but girl's got a wild side if you know what I mean.

And no, that's not why my makeup's all smeared!

Well, okay, maybe a little...

What? That skirt was really short...

Anyway, then she left and I was all alone. Well yeah, my jug was still there, but you know what I mean.

So I took a dip and then I felt a little better, but when I climbed out of the jug I slid right down the side! Oh my God! Who knew that shit was so slippery, right?

I'm okay, I'm okay.

Just tired is all.

You can find your own way out, right?

I'm just gonna rest my eyes for a second.

____________________________________________

Note: Matilda made all the outfits, and took all the pictures.
The narrative? Yeah, that was me. Hard to resist given such good raw material. Besides, the girls and I, we have a history with the Barbies.

That baby should have a hat!

2008-07-03T09:10:00.004-04:00

The girls and I spent the morning at a local playground yesterday with my friend Sheela and her beautiful babies. We stayed for almost three hours and had a lovely morning; I got to hold four-month-old Fiona, who is so small and beautiful, and I didn't think about work or the move or anything.
Towards the end of the morning Sheela and I were chatting with another mom (whose daughter attended Freya's preschool, but on a different schedule than Freya, in fact they shared the same cubby) and talk turned to nosy and/or snotty strangers who try to tell you how to raise your children. While I am a relatively young parent, this other mother is a bit older and said she never had to deal with many strangers telling her what to do when her children were babies. I on the other hand was approached by multiple random strangers (all women) when Matilda was a baby, who would say charming things like, "How old are you? You don't look old enough to have a baby." Total strangers!

And then I heard one of the best stories I've heard in a long time and so I'm going to share it with you now. The other mom had a friend who was white, married to an African-American man and they had several children. She had brought her children to the park one day and was sitting, holding the baby and chatting.

Another mom turned to her and said, "Your baby is beautiful. What country is he from?"

Stunned, the woman said the only thing she could think of, "Um, my uterus."

"Oh," replied the other mom, "where is that?"

The best part? She was serious. I mean, come on. Really?

Liar Liar Pants on Fire, Oh Wait, You're Not Wearing Pants, Are You?

2008-07-01T07:24:00.000-04:00

Like most parents trying their best to do a good job, we've attempted to instill a sense of honesty in our children, a Truth is Always the Best Policy foundation. (They'll get to the subtleties soon enough, and while I'm not one to over-simplify for my children, this is the one exception.)

Freya, however, has become an acomplished liar at the tender age of three. She's very convincing, and she never changes her story. Here's an example:

"Ok, Freya, it's time to go, are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Are you wearing underpants?" (The fact that I have to ask this question each and every time we leave the house is the subject of another, much funnier, post.)

"Yes."

"Show me."

"I'll be right back."

Brief silence.

"Where are you going?"

"Upstairs."

"Why?"

"I have to get something."

She NEVER BREAKS! It's scary how focused she is, how she can pick her story and stick with it. I didn't master that until I was at least ten or eleven.

So Much

2008-06-26T10:49:00.002-04:00

I haven't been writing. Not only have I not been writing here, on my poor neglected blog, but I haven't been writing elsewhere either.

I attribute this lack of production to two things, one is simply that there's no time. Between the girls and the two jobs and the house and the bills and the groceries and the whatever the fuck else, there's just no time. And even if there were, it would be mentally cluttered time, which when it comes to writing things worth reading, is hard to work with.

The fact that in about eight weeks I will be writing fiction with a regular, weekly deadline, reading and writing about literature and immersing myself in academia is the thing I remember when I feel like I want to write but can't. It helps.

The other thing is a fullness. I might not be writing, but I am gathering. Everywhere I go I see people who inspire me, or disturb me, or delight me. All the while I am thinking, I am mentally cataloging and analyzing, my life, the lives around me, speculating on possible futures. I think this is a side-effect of the impending move - this feeling of simultaneous empowerment and uncertainty. I am on the brink of something. I am anticipating the leap, soaking up the view and immersing myself in the sensation of standing on the edge.

In a network of lines that enlace*

2008-06-25T07:04:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about the patterns people create for themselves. And while I dislike passing judgment as to whether those patterns are good, bad or indifferent, it's hard not to see some of them as self-destructive.

In my people watching these days it just seems like people make so many choices that keep them stuck where they are, for better or for worse. Like the teenager that really wants to do something good with her life but just can't seem to keep from sabotaging herself at every step. Or the married mother of four whose husband is so controlling that I wonder how she can function like that.

Maybe my awareness is heightened, maybe I see more in the lives of those I will leave behind because there are so many things in my own future that I can't see. I just know, moving forward, that the patterns that develop over time are the ones that I want to fight against. I want to always be ready to make new mistakes, not the same ones over and over again.

-----

Side note: Dear bloggy friends, I know I said this before, and I also know that I try to blog guilt-free, but I just want to let you know that if it's been forever since you've heard from me (and for most of you, it has) I have not forgotten you. My Google Reader is ridiculously full but I am determined to get through it one blogger at a time, so please, be patient. Thanks! Love, Nell.

* With apologies to Italo Calvino.

Still no rejection letters

2008-06-20T09:40:00.003-04:00

Almost three months ago I sent a short story out into the world. I've done it before, but it doesn't seem to get less scary with practice. This time I approached it the same way I approached applying to grad schools. Instead of sending the story just to the one literary journal I really wanted to be published in, I sent it to a whole gang of them.

The envelopes slipped through the mail slot at the post office, full with their crisp white stories, SASEs, and painstakingly written cover letters. (Why are those darn things so much harder to write than anything else?) Letting them go was like carefully placing a tiny boat in a stream that I knew would end in an ocean full of more tiny boats just like mine only different. But it felt good. My story deserved to end up in that heap of other boats. It deserved not to whither and die in the stack on my shelf.

Yet here I am, three months and no word, she doesn't call, she doesn't write...

For a month or so afterward I tried to forget that they were out there at all, those stories of mine. Then I started looking, checking the mail every day: "I'm expecting some rejection letters," I'd say casually, to anyone who would listen. But they didn't come.

And it's summer, so maybe, even though they were sent within the prescribed time limits, the journal offices are empty, the graduate student volunteers who will decide which boats end up in the trash are out skinny dipping and taking hikes.

Still, it's starting to feel heavy, the lack of rejection letters presses in on me, where are they? I need them. I need to know that I've really started, that this dropping the envelopes in the mailbox is the beginning of something and not the end. I need to know that they made safe passage, even if when they got there, they turned out to be the wrong kind of boat.

skadoosh and other awesomeness

2008-06-16T08:08:00.005-04:00

Things are good here at casa de root-mccabe. The house is clean for the first time in weeks, the lawn no longer looks like a tick sanctuary, and last night we went to see Kung-Fu Panda, which was totally awesome. If you have kids, take them to see it, and if you don't, just go already.

It was nice to have a day of familiness, because as great as the Cape was, there's still nothing quite like just hanging out at home, doing house stuff, making food together, not thinking so much about tomorrow or next month, just doing what needs to be done now. Steve didn't get the spoiling he deserved for father's day, but I'll make it up to him (I promise, honey).

Speaking of tomorrow, I registered for classes last week, all except for one which I need instructor permission for. I'll get it, I'm not worried, but you need a little code to enter online and that I do not have. I will be taking an 18th century British literature course, a writing workshop, and a course on experimental fiction about which I am more than a little excited (we'll be reading Barthelme! Barthelme!). We also heard from the graduate housing people so we now know for sure that we will have a place to sleep when we get there. We still might not be able to afford to move all of our crap, but at least we'll have a floor to sleep on with ~~textbooks~~ backpacks as our pillows.

The adventure is moving forward. It's still abstract. It still feels far away. But slowly, slowly, I can feel the wheels beginning to turn.

Olfactory Hallucinations?

2008-06-12T10:16:00.002-04:00

Maybe that's all it is, because right now I keep smelling vomit and I'm pretty sure there hasn't been any of that around here in months, but yesterday Steve smelled like cigarettes for some reason. So I told him so.

"You smell like cigarettes."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do."

"Fine, you smell like crack rocks."

Insert feigned indignation. "I do not. What do crack rocks even smell like? Do they have a smell? I do not!"

In the kitchen. "Girls, Daddy says I smell like crack rocks."

Freya, deadpan. "You do smell like crack rocks."

And she knows this how?

Back from the Beach

2008-06-09T11:10:00.002-04:00

The bay side of the Cape was breezy and beautiful, the weather perfect, the sea life abundant.

Steve caught a squid. The girls named him Squirty. He was not happy about being captured (repeatedly, since he escaped often) but he was really cool to look at, and he kept spitting water at Steve.

There were also crabs, horseshoe crabs, and hermit crabs, most of them small, a few of them big. We caught as many as possible and Steve only got pinched once.

The girls had a wonderful time, and really only got sunburned right before we had to come home.

Matilda was magical on the beach, confident and at home. The weekend was just what we all needed, the only problem was that it just wasn't quite long enough.

Except I did miss the internet.

More pictures are at my flickr stream. (You have to be a friend to see most of them, email me if you're not already my flickr friend and we'll hook you up.)

Absentee Blogger

2008-06-02T12:09:00.002-04:00

You may have noticed that I've been scarce in the blogosphere lately. That's because I am. (Also I get the feeling I'm not the only one.) I have not given up on blogging, but my time is increasingly being spent IRL (that's for you, Steve) as opposed to here, in the lovely and paradoxical world of intimate exposure, shocking banality and publicly revealed private melodrama.

I just wanted to take a moment out of my busy schedule to say that I love all of you, I miss you, I will be here when I can and I hope you understand that at present, I mostly cannot.

In other news, Freya "graduated" from preschool last Friday [pictures], I love my new waitressing gig, Steve grilled the best ribs ever last night, and we're heading to the Cape this weekend for a rare non-camping family vacation, where hopefully I will not need to mentally remind myself to breathe regularly.

When your life is an over-stuffed suitcase, it's hard to find your pen.

2008-05-27T07:00:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago a blogger I read regularly disclosed casually that before she became a stay-at-home mom, she had been making six figures at her job. It wasn't something I had given any thought to, when I read people's blogs I tend to accept that I am reading about only a small part of their lives, and - unless our correspondence deepens - I rarely give much thought to those elements not represented on the blog. What's the point? They could be anyone, I could be anyone, the internet's illusion of anonymity is a big part of its appeal.

Still, when something like a person's income, or religion, or political conviction is revealed suddenly I can't help being a little startled. I can't help but wonder how different everything would be if I wasn't working two jobs, raising a family and anticipating adding grad school to the mix this fall. What would my life look like if I had finished school first, started a career and then had children? I can barely conceive of this unfulfilled potential future/past, the elements congeal, but the substance of such a life remains out of focus.

The first thing I imagine was that I would have much more time for adventures if I wasn't busy making ends meet all day, and that my blog would be ever so much more exciting. Then I remembered that I only find the blogger who revealed this information about herself mildly amusing half of the time.

I do think that if I wasn't so busy I'd have more insights for you, for me, more time to reflect on my surroundings: on the primary, on the delightful insanity that is restaurant work (I will tell you more soon, I promise, it's really great fun), and on the ways in which I finally feel like this town is becoming my home, just as I am about to leave.

At the only really good coffee shop in town yesterday morning I sat for a few minutes and tried to write. I was alone, and while there were not too many distractions, the solitude itself was disarming. I watched a young family settling in, finding a place for their over-sized stroller between the tables, people heading off to work, or sitting to chat, listened to the bubbly enthusiasm of the barista as she served all of her regular customers their daily joe. I tried to bring my mind back to what I wanted to focus on, the shape of the story I want so badly to tell, but what I wanted and what I needed were too different, and people watching won the day.

Finding time for introspection isn't easy, but it has become necessary. Six-figure salary be damned, the time to simply be might be considered a luxury, but it's one that I deserve, and if I intend to continue calling myself a writer, it's one that I need to cultivate.

The Golden Comp-Ass

2008-05-24T11:09:00.006-04:00

(Warning: Spoilers ahead.)

I have not yet offered any movies reviews here, for the simple reasons that not only do I rarely go out to the movies, but also I'm not that picky. I'd much rather relax and enjoy a movie than watch it critically, although I know that can be fun, too.

The problem arises when a film just won't let you relax and enjoy it. Sometimes, this is only partly the film's fault, like when I read the book first and had a solid point of comparision, knew the backstory and could not understand why things that only needed one little tiny line of exposition were left hanging.

I understand that transforming a novel into a screenplay is tricky business, after all the two mediums could not be more different from a writer's perspective, and it takes a skilled hand to concisely capture the inner lives of a novel's characters or condense lengthy exposition in a screenplay.

Still, The Golden Compass did one thing which I simply cannot excuse or explain away. An unforgivable error of judgment and since I don't know who made the call, I'll just blame everyone. They completely neutered the story.

The ending of the novel was powerful and bleak, leaving Lyra feeling that everything she thought she knew and understood was gone, but also more determined than ever to continue her journey. The ending gave the book it's true power, redefining the meaning of things that had come before, and leaving the reader eager to see what would happen next.

But it wasn't Hollywood enough apparently, so the film's solution was simply to fade to black before the bad stuff happens. There was no alternate ending, the film simply stopped. The screen went dark. It was terrible. Unforgivable.

And apparently Phillip Pullman was cool with it, something that I find hard to believe given his elitist opinions on most topics relating to the purity of his craft.

Repeating the words will make them true.

2008-05-22T09:42:00.000-04:00

Thank you all so much, both for your kind words of encouragement and for all of the helpful suggestions for preparing the house for renters. I have a tendency (as you may have noticed) to feel like I have to do everything and do it all perfectly and in five minutes. I try to stop and breathe, but sometimes I forget.

It's going to be fine.

I got an email from TurboTax letting me know that since I had them deduct their fees from my refund, my ill-gotten rebate check will be here six weeks later than it would have if I had paid them upfront. Why? They didn't say. Also, when saving money for a move, it would have been nice to start from the good side of zero.

It's going to be fine.

Last night (while Steve was stuck in NYC eating an amazing free meal at this restaurant) my youngest brother and his girlfriend, Bonnie, hung out with the girls. The best part? Bonnie is going to come twice a week and watch the girls during the gap between when I have to leave for work and when Steve gets home. And she rocks! They made pizza, played duck-duck-goose and freeze tag, and when I got home they were fast asleep. Who could ask for anything more?

Everything's going to be fine.

This is what happens, things pile on until the top of the stack is waving in the breeze above my head. I can see it - I want to reach up, steady it, steady myself, but the wind pulls my hand away.

My attention is drawn now to something else, to the world all around me and I want everything to stop, just for a second, just so I can reorganize my pile - moving some of the heavy things to the bottom would help I think - but of course it doesn't.

And when the pieces begin to fall I can only hope that they - and I - kind of sort of know what we're doing and that they will fall in the right places, at the right time, and that I will not fall while I am holding my pile of things.

Everything's going to be fine.

I have a question.

2008-05-20T14:42:00.003-04:00

Actually I have a lot of questions, but there's one that I could use your help with. If our house doesn't sell in time - and it's looking like it won't - how perfect should our house be if we're going to rent it out?

The house isn't in bad shape, and obviously we'd make sure all of the functional parts were in good working order, but I'm wondering about things like the trim in the bathroom, re-painting the living room, repainting the white wood floors. If I was renting I'd appreciate the ability to put pictures on the walls, but should we give the whole thing a fresh coat of paint? How much is too much? How little is not enough?

Additional info:

Rentals in our area range from cheap crack houses ($550ish) to really nice vacation homes ($2000+). Our house is somewhere in the middle. It's walking distance to a lot of stuff, but tucked away and private, with a good sized yard, and it's a house, not an apartment.

What do you think?

How am I? I don't know.

2008-05-19T13:03:00.005-04:00

Family obligations, multiple jobs, having a house on the market, and preparing to move my family halfway across the country in a little over two months, not to mention the usual daily details have left me little time for introspection lately, and even though part of the reason I keep this blog is to record the day-to-day - both for my future self, and for long-distance family and friends - I have a hard time sitting down to write when I feel I have nothing to say.

It's not so much that I have nothing say, that's not true, it's just that I don't know what I have to say because I haven't had time to think about it, and yet... here I am.

The end of the school year is approaching, our house is not selling, and I can feel a black panic creeping up behind me, like flood waters rising at an imperceptible pace. They weren't there the last time I looked, but now I'm ankle deep!

The what ifs are beginning to feel imminent: what if we can't sell the house or find a renter? what if we can't afford the moving truck? what if we don't actually get into the graduate housing? what if Steve can't find a job? what if we can't find childcare for Freya? And they're not all that rational: what if the people at the University change their minds and decide I'm not actually good enough to be in the program after all? what if all of the people I owe money to decide they want to collect tomorrow or force me into indentured servitude?

I try not to think about them. I shut them out, I'm pretty good at that, but they're still there and I know that holding the panic at bay involves a careful balance of not thinking, and thinking critically. I'm trying to do that, I'm trying.

It's just that from this perspective, from the angle I'm standing at right now today, it's hard to tell if I'm doing a good job. I alternate regularly - often eighteen or nineteen times a day - between marveling at how much I do, and seeing clearly what a hopeless failure I am at being a grown-up.

For Spring

2008-05-13T11:19:00.001-04:00

...a new haircut.

Transitory Employment

2008-05-09T14:17:00.006-04:00

I start a new job today, at this place. I'm pretty excited, aside from some extra cash - which we need to move our junk halfway across the country - I kind of like waiting tables, never mind that I swore I was done with it forever! There's nothing like the draw of a few extra hundred bucks a week to suck me right back in.

But. It's the opposite of the work that I do from home: it gets me out of the house for one thing, alone, and it's social, I get to talk to people, and be funny and engaging, which, even when I do it at home (which I totally do all the time, right honey?) it's not the same. Also, I get to dress nice, which is kind of fun since all I usually wear is jeans and t-shirts.

Another perk? It's only for three months, which means I won't have time to get totally bored and fed up with all the tourists who think they're better than me.

Can you tell I have mixed feelings about the whole enterprise? Wish me luck, I'll let you know how it goes.

Freya Goes Boldly Where Most Children Dare Not Tread (and with good reason)

2008-05-05T21:31:00.005-04:00

Prologue
I have issues with immunizations. Yes, I'm one of those freaks, I'm just going to put it out there before I tell this story because, well, because it's a big part of it. Matilda had a tetanus shot when she was three, and the rest of her shots when she was five, leading into kindergarten. Freya hadn't had any yet (until today). I'm not totally opposed to them, I know that immunizations have saved thousands of lives, I'm not unaware of the risks of choosing not to immunize my children, it's just that the idea that something could go wrong freaked me out.

Specifically that something could go wrong when they were so little I'd never be sure what caused it - I mean, they want to give every baby a Hep B shot 12 hours after birth, hello, my kid's not using the hard drugs yet, it just got here! What if my child was diagnosed as autistic at age two and had been getting shots since she was born? How would I ever be able to know if autism was just part of who she was, or if it was caused by something I gave her?

It wasn't something I took lightly, I did a lot of reading, but Steve and I both agreed that the way to go was just to hold off - we'll immunize, we said, just not yet. Give them a chance to become strong first, then we'll shoot 'em up.

Cut to Today
Matilda's been complaining that her ear hurts off and on for about five days. Neither of my children have ever had an ear infection, but after five days of complaining, I decided it was time to drag her to the doctor's office. I gave her the day off of school and she and Freya and I drove over to the doctor after lunch.

In the car Freya said, "I want to get a shot."

This is something she has been saying for a while now. I've been thinking the same thing, so I assured her that I'd see what I could do.

In the waiting room the girls busied themselves with Barbie books until Matilda's name was called.

Matilda looked at me, not wanting to go in, but closed her book and stood.

Meanwhile, Freya dropped what she was doing and ran up to the nurse. In a loud, clear voice she said, "I want a shot."

Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at us. The receptionist practically vaulted over her desk to get a look at my crazy kid. "Did she really just say that?" she exclaimed, "That's definitely a first!"

As we followed the nurse down the hall - Matilda reluctantly, Freya with eager anticipation - I could hear them already telling the story of the little girl who wanted a shot, to whoever had missed it.

In the patient room we waited, read more books, waited. Then the doctor arrived.

"I want a shot," Freya said firmly.

The doctor looked a little taken aback, "Well," she said, "I think I should just take a look at your ear first."

I explained that there was nothing wrong with her, that actually her sister was the reason we were there, and after she looked at Til and told me what to do for her, we moved on to Freya.

Freya was very clear about what she wanted. "I want a shot." She wanted a shot. And since I had been thinking about getting her started, we decided there was really no reason to wait.

The nurse came in and she sat on my lap, still completely convinced that this was what she wanted.

I don't know what she expected (after all, she had come with Matilda for plenty of her shots) but whatever it was, the reality of getting shots was all wrong.

Man, was she pissed! She screamed and writhed like a little hell beast!

And who can blame her? All that anticipation for something most people grit their teeth and bear. Poor kid. She'll know better next time, and so will I. It's one thing when she decides she wants to do something, it's quite another when she then decides she never wants to do something again. Ever.

Epilogue
With chocolate ice cream, and a mini stuffed dalmatian puppy that matches one Matilda already has, I am pleased to announce that Freya made a full recovery.

What's that? Matilda was the one who was sick? Oh yeah. She'll be fine too, after all, she's the wise older sister who offered to hold Freya's hand, and shrugged knowingly when she was turned down.

Reasons why Freya can't clean up her playroom.

2008-04-29T12:07:00.003-04:00

Recited in list form as follows:

One, I'm really so tired and hungry.

Two, it's really too hard for me.

Three, I don't even know why I'm so tired.

Six, I do not understand this and I am very, very, very tired.

Seven, I am so, so, so hungry, and

nine, I just don't think I can handle it.

Long Weekend

2008-04-28T09:02:00.006-04:00

The weekend was lovely - it's amazing how being completely away from my life somehow allows me to not think about all of the things I'm not doing all the time, a feat which has become all but impossible closer to home.

I even worked on the short story that has been haunting me for the last few weeks. The cottage is a writer's dream - quiet, airy and light, totally isolated and peaceful. It was only after I started that I discovered the flaw in the whole set up. Without the internet to turn to for idle entertainment every fifteen minutes, it was completely impossible to concentrate! And so the following notes were born:

Friday - 4:21 pm
I am so used to working with interruptions that I'm not sure I can work any other way. I have to stop and do something else, but I can't because there's nothing else to do. It's making me tired. I'm not much of a napper, but I'm thinking of taking it up, just for the weekend.

5:06 pm
The lack of distractions is killing me! I need the internet! Also I think I need more practice at just writing. If I had more time to just write, maybe this wouldn't be such an issue. Half an hour and then I'll stop. I can do this. Focus.

5:24 pm
Not even 20 minutes yet.

5:29 pm
Alright, close enough.

There you have it, proof of my terrible addiction to the internet. Sigh. I did actually get quite a bit of writing done, in spite of my inability to focus.

The beach and ocean were beautiful. The cottage is on the bay side, and at low tide there is nothing but sand bars and shallow ocean pools for miles. That and horseshoe crabs getting it on.

If I can barely handle this kind of thing when she's only six, how the hell am I expected to make it through the REAL teenage years?

2008-04-24T08:46:00.009-04:00

Last night Aurora slept over and we had a girlie night of watching Hairspray and doing make-up, nails and hair. There was popcorn, and lemonade and Swedish fish. Even Steve had his nails done and I let the girls do my make-up, which may not ever happen again, we'll see.

This morning, after at least nine different interruptions during my morning bathroom routine that included cramps and attempting to wash my hair, I demanded that the girls scrub their faces.

You'd have thought I'd asked them to hack off a few toes. The wails that greeted my demand were piercing - just what I needed.

"The washcloth in the bathroom is clean. Use warm water. Scrub." I was hard and cold as a frozen stone. No sympathy here, ladies, keep on walkin'.

Five milliseconds later:

"Ugh! This washcloth smells nasty!"

"I think I'm gonna throw up!"

"Yuck! Your mom wants us to use this on our faces?"

They reentered the kitchen, where I was doing a fairly good job of ignoring them completely and making myself a cup of coffee, mmm coffee, my love...

Ignoring the small, loud people completely I turned to Steve, "Could you please go in the bathroom, small the washcloth and tell them that it's clean?"

"I'll tell them the truth," he said and I glared at him for displaying such shocking disloyalty.

Then from the bathroom:

"It smells like a washcloth. A clean washcloth." Ah, sweet vindication!

The whining continued until I gave them a new clean washcloth, which I have no doubt smelled exactly like the first clean washcloth.

They scrubbed, the make-up was removed (mostly), and then they left both washcloths in a wet little balls in the sink, arranged the towel on the floor just so, and set off to start the rest of their day.

* * *

A side note: I am leaving this evening for a long weekend on the Cape with my dear friend, Annie. And guess what? There will be no children there! At all! I mean, I'm pretty sure Annie put out a cease and desist order to anyone who might possibly be thinking of bringing any children at all into my immediate vicinity over the next three days. You did, didn't you, Annie?

The View From My Parking Space Outside

2008-04-23T09:03:00.002-04:00

As you know, I've been thinking a lot about Matilda lately as she enters her sixth year; her jealousy of her sister, all of the amazing new things she's doing - like reading and obsessing about possible outcomes of thing that haven't happened yet - the insecurity that developed about halfway through kindergarten (and was never there before), about my own responsibilities when it comes to making sure she gets the love and support that she needs. All of that. And then I read this (and the kajillion responses to it) - a story about a mother who let her nine-year-old son find his own way home in New York City.

The point - made by someone else - that stuck with me the most, was that for many kids, this wouldn't even be a big deal; kids whose parents don't have the luxury of being able to follow their little darlings to and from school and down to the corner store for a snack since they are busy working two jobs just to pay the bills.

The other thing that was mentioned, both by the author of the article and by others, was how disproportionate the ratio of parental fear to actual danger really is. This is not a surprise to me, our media just loves to sensationalize the few cases of true tragedy that occur in this country (and around the western world), this I know. Still, it's easy to become a part of the world of fear when you're living in it.

But it has become one more thing to think about in relation to Matilda and her burgeoning independence coupled with a need for reassurance and affection. I want her to feel comfortable doing things on her own, but I'm never sure if she'll want to or not.

So today, at the end of a too-long shopping trip, we stopped at the fabric store to get Freya a little $1.00 coloring kit. (This was prearranged.) I suggested that in the interest of time (and a trunk full of frozen groceries) that maybe Matilda should just run in and grab it. She knew where it was, she had paid for her own just an hour or so earlier, but I wasn't sure she'd go for it.

She did. She didn't even miss a beat, she thought it was a great idea. So we pulled into a space right in front of the store and she hopped out, and Freya and I waited in the car (wondering how long was too long to just wait for her) until she came back, coloring kit and receipt in hand. All. By. Herself.

I told her I was so proud of her and she kind of shrugged as she buckled her seatbelt and said, "My outside was scared, but inside I wasn't scared at all."

Regardless of how careful I might need to be when it comes to making sure that each of my daughters is getting the love that they need from me, she has showed me, once again, that I'm crazy for doubting her. Maybe there never was any contradiction between the toddler who never even had the time of day for me, and this new creature that my daughter had become, only a phase in the evolution of a beautiful, confident woman, who bravely takes risks when she is ready, even when she is kind of scared.

Contemplating Suburbia et al.

2008-04-21T11:13:00.008-04:00

The Cul-de-sac
Across from the one-runway airport in our town, down the hill, there is a street with only ten houses. Nice houses, the kind you see in TV sitcoms, the kind people who have 2.5 kids and a dog live in. It ends in a loop, with a little grass and a young tree at the center.

Matilda's friend lives in one of these houses with her family. They have a beautifully landscaped yard, and what seemed to me to be an impossibly clean, almost staged house (where are the crayon marks on the floor, stacks of unread magazine, the mis-matched curtains and children's artwork?). The house wasn't devoid of life, rather it was full of perfectly ordered life, something that fills me with a sense of inadequacy and unreality: how does this sort of life happen? Does it happen?

There is of course, something to be said for living on a street down which toddlers can safely pedal their Radio Flyer tricycles, and having a sun-filled breakfast nook. The idea that if I lived that life, my children would be born with an innate knowledge that crayons are for paper, and that dinner is served at six-o-clock sharp is dreamily fantastic.

The Farm
When I was little I had a pet goat. Her name was Thistle and my dad built her a little goat house in the back yard. She was a sweet goat, and she had come to us from a farmer who lived nearby. This farmer's house was the kind of place where a kid could get lost for hours, full of treasures and junk and more treasures, it was always dark and cool inside. Some of the rooms were so full of lamps and tables and knick-knacks that it was hard to imagine anyone living in them.

Every square inch of space was used - things were hung from the ceiling and walls, brightly colored glass bottles lined the window-sills, and the space beneath tables and chairs was stacked with boxes and papers.

My memory of this farmhouse has undoubtedly been merged over the years with others like it - artists' studios, loft apartments, rambling country houses with secret rooms and full attics; all wonderlands of color and fantasy, an adventure waiting around every corner, the kinds of places where children are equally likely to be invited to help paint a mural in the bathroom, to muck out stalls in the barn, or to be left alone for hours to entertain themselves.

The Way We Live
Our home is lived-in. It has not been carved from a two-dimensional television set, it doesn't invoke fantasies of the American dream. Neither is it crammed full of the treasures of a lifetime: light can reach the interior of the house, and so can a gentle breeze when the weather is as it has been. The painted wood floor is full of scratches and the linoleum in the kitchen is lifting up at the corners. The posters of our own youth have been replaced with the paintings, sculptures and Barbie art dioramas of our children.

Our lives are lived-in and even though I experience suburbia-lust and then a quick flash of shame, followed by a straightening of my shoulders and a lifting of my chin when I am confronted by picturesque three-bedrooms on charming little cul-de-sacs, and even though the disorder of my life frustrates me and turns me into a screaming banshee more often than I care to admit, I hope that when I am an old lady I have the kind of home where children can get lost for hours exploring my collections of books and shells and bottles, and then help me paint a mural in my bathroom.

Jealousy and Love

2008-04-16T08:06:00.003-04:00

Lately Matilda has been jealous of any attention I give to Freya. Steve says she doesn't do it with him, just me. Therefore I know I'm doing something to provoke it. I know this because I babysat for many children before I had my own and as an outsider I could always see why a child behaved differently with me, or with their mother or father. It was all so clear when I wasn't in it.

But now that I am, I don't know what to do. I try to reassure her, but as I tuck Freya into her bed and kiss her forehead, and let her pull me down into a hug, I feel Tilly watching us. Sure enough, when I look up, she is wearing a very long face.

"You give Freya more love than you give me," and then, because they've been working on identifying feelings at school, "I feel jealous."

I find myself sitting beside her on her bed, partly wanting to hold her and reassure her, and partly wanting to shake her out of it.

I try to step back and see if maybe I really am giving Freya more attention, more love.

I do treat them differently, after all, Matilda is six, my girl, very smart, very willful, and very loving, and Freya is three, the youngest, my baby, willful, tricksy, and snuggly. They're not the same, and so I don't treat them the same. Oh sure, with some things it's much simpler to treat them the same, they are not so different in age that they must have different bedtimes, or eat different foods. But for the most part I try to treat them as individuals, and I thought this was the right thing to do...

As a toddler - before Freya was born, and when she was still very tiny - Matilda was confident and independent. She would run down sidewalks, say hi to strangers and do as she pleased. She was in control of her world, and it showed. But with the arrival of kindergarten, a new school, a sister who no longer passively takes orders, all that has changed.

There are a million reasons why she could be going through this right now, not the least of which is the impending move to Missouri, about which she is not happy, but really, I don't need to know why it's happening to her now, only what my role in it is, and how to fix her. I want my confident, independent girl back, she was so much more fun, and okay, I'll admit it, much easier to handle.

Matilda also seems to believe that love is a weapon, distributed or withheld as circumstances demand. Here is a poem she wrote when she was supposed to be cleaning her bedroom this past weekend:

I have no Dream
that love begins
when there is love-

and love began
when there was

love is heart, when star comes,
you will be a star
love you

I have no choice
when you are mean
so no love.

Apparently it's a song, but I've never heard it put to music, so I can't tell you the tune. I have edited only for spelling, the rest is all her. It's not her fault she has no love, she has no choice, it's on me. I am so mean.

So for now I will rub her back, go out of my way to hug her after school, tuck her in at night. And above all I will try to be patient. I am not a very patient person, and I do have a tendency to have high expectations for Matilda. I will try to keep them, but without sacrificing kindness, or patience for the sake of expediency.

If getting all of my news from NPR's "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me" is wrong, I don't want to be right.

2008-04-14T17:07:00.000-04:00

Lately it seems like I just don't have time for anything other than cleaning the house and, if I'm very lucky, getting some work done. I know I'm not the first person to be driven to the brink of insanity by putting a house on the market in which two small people live lives dedicated to a unique brand of destructive creationism, but at times like this, does it really matter that someone else has done it all before?

The time I used to set aside for blogging, or reading, or even watching TV, (never mind paying attention to what's happening in the outside world) has been usurped by an onslaught of walls to be painted, PTOs to run, fundraisers to organize, meetings, messes to be picked up (for the fifteenth time), more meetings, and a never-ending pile of laundry. Add to that the fact that my partner in crime has been ridiculously busy working at his understaffed non-profit job, and well, time for relaxation becomes not just a luxury I can no longer afford, but a long lost idea that I usually don't even have time to remember.

Yet amid the chaos, I am satisfied. I find a certain rhythm and I settle into it, as if it was all I had been waiting for.

Every now and then I'll be driving, or staring into space, and in those bubbles of stillness that seem like a rare gift (or the glimpse of a migrating bird en route), I see for a minute all of the things I am not doing, all of the things I am missing. But only for a moment and then I'm back, transporting the children to school, or the doctor's office, and mentally catapulting myself onward into an uncertain future.

What is balance anyway?

2008-04-09T07:48:00.000-04:00

It's not that I want my life to be boring because that would be, well, boring. But here's the thing, if anything else happens that requires my attention I will either need to acquire a personal assistant or have a mental break down and commit myself to a psych ward for some quality down time.

I write this in part as an explanation for my increasingly length blog absences and also as an apology to those of you who had gotten used to me hanging around your places in the blogosphere. I still love you, and I still read you, I swear, I just haven't had as much time to sit and comment as I used to. I'm still lurking around, I promise - maybe not every day, but I'm there.

More soon, and by soon I mean in a day or two, not sometime next week. Hopefully.

Six Years Old Today

2008-04-01T20:10:00.003-04:00

In the Car

2008-03-31T19:47:00.003-04:00

Freya: Mom, you remember how Felicity's grandad died in that movie we saw?

Me: Yeah

Freya: I think I know why.

Me: Oh yeah?

Freya: Maybe all his bones fell out.

Me: Um, I think that's unlikely.

Freya: But then how come he died?

Me: Well, he was old and his heart was very sick.

Freya: But don't you need your bones to live?

Me: Well yes, but that's not why he died.

Freya: Oh. Well, when I get really old probably all my bones will fall out and I'll die.

Me: You think?

Freya: Yeah probably.

Me: I don't think that's something that usually happens to people. That would be pretty weird.

Freya: Can I get a lolly pop at the bank?

Still Waiting for My Smackdown

2008-03-29T08:30:00.002-04:00

I made the girls some apples with cinnamon sugar today. They were in a bickering mood, about anything, or nothing, whichever presents itself.

Matilda: Mom, you didn't make our apples the same.

Freya: Yeah, they're not the same.

Me: Well, you better report me to the Higher Authority then. That's a serious offense.

Matilda: What Higher Authority?

Me: God. Just say the word, I'm sure He'll pop right down here to give me a smackdown for not making your plates of apples look exactly identical.

There is a slight pause.

Freya: God.

She looks very pleased with herself.

Freya: I said it.

Today was...

2008-03-26T21:07:00.003-04:00

Today was not cohesive. It was not linear. It was, however, both streamlined and chaotic.

Last night my friend who convinced us to sell the house called to ask if she could show it the following day. I said yes, leaving myself less than 24 hours to transform our lived-in family home to something I could try and sell a stranger.

Here's what happened:

Shopping at Target - plastic containers, curtain rods, sofa slipcover, drapes for closet - and Home Depot - Spackle and a paint brush

Then home:

cleared out our entire closet (which was so bad it was getting hard even to walk near it, let alone access anything inside)
removed all clutter from our house (including, but not limited to, my entire desk, the random things stored under my desk, everything from Steve's desk, most of the kids' toys, all child-created and child-hung artwork)
folded some laundry, shoved the rest in my car
touched up paint in living room
spackled spots in bathroom to give the illusion of a well-planned renovation
strategically placed furniture in playroom to cover "wall art"
cleaned all the crap off the glassed-in front porch
moved it to the garage
organized garage
installed curtain rod and drapes for bedroom closet
mounted curtains onto rods in windows
desperately called Kehr to request immediate back-up at T minus 150 minutes

Back up arrived. Thank God, or more accurately, Kehr, whom I absolutely adore and simply can not say enough good things about. You know you've got a great friend when she'll drag her kids over to your house after school and vacuum and mop until dinner time. I owe her a bottle of wine this weekend, that's for sure.

And it goes on: dishes, vacuum, sweep front porch, shove all odds and ends into drawers where I'm pretty sure even the nosiest prospective homebuyers will fear to tread, check and double check the floors, pick up invisible specks of dirt, strap the children in the car and leave them there (without even turning on the radio) while I check again and cram as much random crap as possible into its new temporary home in the trunk of my car.

Then we went to Matilda's award ceremony, which was pretty boring, and very nearly too long, but worth it to watch her go up on the stage and accept a certificate for her essay about her teacher. Steve and I were so proud of her, and she was proud of herself too, which was really the best part to watch. Freya would have been proud too, I'm sure, but she passed out ten minutes in.

I don't know how this first trial-run showing went, and I'm dying to call my friend, but all I can find is her work number. Argh! I'll have to wait 'til tomorrow. But if you'll excuse me, there's a glass of wine and an old episode of Ugly Betty waiting for me in my (now pristine) bedroom. I might fall asleep half way through, I might not, I won't know until I try. Good night, my friends, see you in the morning.

This House

2008-03-24T07:26:00.002-04:00

One of the things we need to figure out what to do with is our house.

I love our house. Sure it's small (912 sq ft) but it fits us just right, with enough room that we can be together or apart as much as we need.

We bought it just under two years ago, when the market was high, not quite peak, but close, and now that the market is plummeting, we're not sure what to do next.

Of course there are advantages and disadvantages to selling and also to renting. If we sold it we wouldn't have to worry about it, but if we rented it we would have it to come back to. If we sold it we would be able to buy something bigger in Missouri, but if we rented, well, we'd like to sell it, we just don't know if we can. I think if the damn media would just shut up about the economy for five minutes we'd be fine, or at least better.

Every time I think about the amount of work involved in selling my heart drops to the pit of my stomach for a second, but then I set my jaw and swallow. I will do what has to be done. My mother has done this nearly a dozen times, preparing a home for sale, often with her brood of children undoing her work as she did it. (Sorry, Mom.) I can do it too. I will just make the children play outside all day, and then chain them to the television when the weather's bad. Nothing wrong with that, right?

Dear Blue Fish,

2008-03-20T18:52:00.004-04:00

How I have missed you. Your rubbed off keys, unreadable except by me (and expert secretaries) - the e, the a, the s and t and c.

Your small screen, with the spacing that reminds me why I've always preferred college ruled notebooks, so much more refined than the large type screens of other computers. You don't need to be loud, or bold; you are smooth and confident.

I know you, I know your bookmarks and your quirky ways, your Mac-only applications, your familiar icons and document titles: np12.pdf, mornings.doc, set3.gif.

How I missed your little red elephant sticker next to the mouse pad and the places where Freya drew on your back with a Sharpie. But most of all I missed your weight on my legs, the ability to work in my bed, papers spread to my left, a glass of water on the table to my right, and you on my lap where you belong.

Blue Fish, I'm glad you're back.

Love, Nell.

writing notes - 3/16/08, 7:10 AM

2008-03-16T07:10:00.002-04:00

Once again I am feeling like I don’t know where to go from here, but the fact remains that I must go somewhere. Kelly’s relationship with her father feels less important with the current outline than it did before with him giving her the case, then taking it away.

Maybe I’m ready to go for it again, but take it chapter by chapter this time, as if I had something to lose, shape each piece separately, carefully, craftily.

I want to keep the prologue more or less as-is, and the first chapter can retain a similar shape as well. With the exception that I no longer want Kelly to be a first person narrator. The first person bits should be only Alana’s journal as Kelly reads and should not begin until several chapters into the book.

Structure is something to think about. The story will be mostly linear, with the exception of the excerpts from Alana’s journal, pages, sections, scribbles.

Today I will take a look at the first few chapters of what I have and see what needs to be done to them in relation to the outline. I will sketch out the first few chapters as I want them to evolve and begin work on them tomorrow morning, or maybe sooner since sitting down to a blank computer page first thing in the morning might just be a terrible idea.

I Didn't Mean to Leave You Out, It Just Snuck Up on Me, That's All

2008-03-15T08:40:00.001-04:00

I know I promised you analytical posts in which the pros and cons of each school are carefully, thoughtfully and articulately weighed, but the decision has been made. As scary as it seemed, it had to happen sooner or later and really, sooner is better.

This summer we will move to Columbia, Missouri and in the fall I will start work on my Master's degree in English and the University of Missouri-Columbia.

For the past few weeks I've been saying, "probably Missouri," or, "it's looking like Missouri," but now I have to switch that to, "we're moving to Missouri." Even though I've kind of known for a while, making the mental/linguistic shift was harder than I thought. The commitment is huge, but Steve and I have talked about it and all signs point to Missouri.

(Except for Matilda's signs. Matilda's signs point to Let's Stay Right Here, but more on that later.)

I did start my pros and cons list, the pros and cons are all smooshed together, but I think you'll be able to tell how they break down, and how Missouri came out on top.

University of Missouri-Columbia

Master's Degree Program
full tuition waiver
Teaching Assistantship
Additional Fellowship (including health care)
Three authors whose work I really like
Faculty and students who have gone out of their way to answer my questions
low cost of living
great public schools including Pre-K for Freya

University of Nebraska-Lincoln

Doctoral Program
No financial assistance AT ALL
Two authors who I really like
Bigger city (which is not really what I want)

Ohio University

Master's Program
Teaching Assistantship
Authors whose work did not grab me
Closer to home (10 hour drive)

Breaking News

2008-03-12T12:48:00.003-04:00

The results are in: I've been accepted into the program at Nebraska-Lincoln. But they didn't offer me any kind of financial support.

Theoretically this could make the decision a lot easier, but we're not quite there yet. I'll keep you posted.

My Little Prodigy

2008-03-12T10:31:00.005-04:00

When I was eight years old, I entered a 350 word short story into a contest in Cricket Magazine. The story I had written (now long lost) was longer than 350 words. I remember trying to edit it down so that I could send it in, but instead of doing an overall edit, I squashed the last paragraph down into two lines. Not the best method perhaps, but hey, I was only eight.

A couple of weeks later I got a letter from the magazine: I had won an honorable mention! I was thrilled. It wasn't until many years later that I realized that everyone who entered got an honorable mention.

On Monday, we got a letter from the local newspaper The Women's Times. Matilda won an essay contest! She didn't just get an honorable mention, she actually won! And she's only five. Is it wrong to be a little bit jealous? I think I'm more excited than she is.

I haven't read the essay yet, it was part of a school project, sent in to the Berkshire County "Real Women" Essay Contest by her kindergarten teacher. The essays were then selected (a few from each grade) from all the ones sent in throughout the county.

What I Want: Part Two

2008-03-11T09:47:00.000-04:00

Steve and I had a Talk the other night, about the many Big Decisions to be made and the many Things That Need to Get Done, both before and after the Big Decisions get made.

I've been worried about him lately, not wanting my continuing education to create some kind of divide between us. I mean what if he feels used? After all, there's no way I'd be able to do this without him. My future in reliant on his willingness to support the girls and I financially and emotionally while I go running full steam ahead after my educational dreams.

I want him to be happy. I want him to want to do this with me. And above all, I want to do everything in my power to prevent us from growing apart. As painful as it may be to imagine, it's not actually difficult. But knowledge is power! Right? I can prevent it from happening if I arm myself with the naked truth and face it head on! I have willpower in spades, stupid future, I can force its hand!

So we had this Talk. And here I should clarify that by we I mean I mostly talked and Steve mostly listened. That's just the way it is. I talk, I can't help it.

But part way in, just as I was picking up steam, really getting going, Steve pointed out that I was probably just feeling guilty. Guilty for being the one who's moving forward, guilty for not being the one offering unconditional support and devotion, guilty for asking my family to make huge changes just for me, guilty for expecting that they'll do it without making much of a fuss. Guilty.

Not only was he right, but he was so right, and it suddenly seemed so obvious, so clear. I stopped talking. The Talk was done, that was it. He had cut through all my bullshit about how I want him to see if there are classes he's interested in, groups to join, people he can meet...

It wasn't the kind of Talk that ends with a winner and a loser, but man, I felt like an idiot. How did I not see that? You know people always say love is blind, but I seriously had no idea that the same principle applied to guilt.

Learning to be Sneaky

2008-03-10T12:49:00.003-04:00

She's trying, but Freya just doesn't have the hang of it yet.

Exhibit A

I'm working at the computer in the living room, Freya's watching a Sesame Street DVD (the old school episodes from the late 70s, they are so cool) in the bedroom. She finishes and come and stands next to me, silent.

Me: What's up? Is your movie over?

Freya: You didn't put the top on my juice tight enough.

On my bed, a dark oval stains the comforter, soaked all the way down to the mattress. Way to offer an excuse before the crime was discovered, kid.

Exhibit B

Upon returning home from Boston yesterday I went to clean out the books, papers and crayons strewn about the backseat of the car. There on the floor I discovered roughly twenty brown elastic hair bands identical to the ones our Boston host, Riva, had in her bathroom.

I confront the culprit.

Me: Freya, did you take these from Riva's apartment?

Freya: No, I only needed one.

Exhibit C

Freya has just used the toilet. I wash my hands and start to leave the bathroom. Freya steps up to the sink.

Freya: I have to wash my hands.

Me: Okay.

I stay in the bathroom, I know better than to leave her there. She gives me a pointed look.

Freya: I need some privacy.

Me: So you can use too much soap?

Freya: Yes.

Maybe We're All Crazy

2008-03-07T07:19:00.000-05:00

As a new - and soon to be ex - member of the PTO at Matilda's school, I was never expecting to be dragged into the middle of a drama-in-progress. Since Monday both the President and Vice-President have resigned and are not even going to finish the work they started on two events scheduled for later this month.

The two of them were definitely the most active members of the group and the President was one of those people who just seems to have her finger on the pulse and is always the one people go to for information.

And she liked it that way. The conflict was primarily one of personality differences, but since our March meeting on Monday night there have been a series of nasty emails exchanged between the two women, then forwarded to another member, who forwarded them to me, and one woman even took her rival's emails to the principal.

If that's not immature, I don't know what is. You're mean, I'm telling the principal on you!

The remaining PTO, which is myself, the Secretary, and one other new member have been left to pick up the pieces. It has become clear to us that the President is hoping things will disintegrate in her absence so that we will beg her to return as our fearless leader.

To be fair, she is also dealing with a family crisis at the moment, her husband began Chemotherapy a couple of weeks ago, but since then she has consistently pushed away everyone who was once close to her and refused every offer of help. If her recent bad behavior were isolated, I have no doubt that everyone on the PTO would be willing to let her be a little bitchy given the circumstances, but it's nothing new. The conflict between her and the Vice-President has been growing since last summer.

Partly I understand that she feels like she needs to keep control over some aspect of her life, as another aspect falls apart, but I really don't get the way she handled this latest drama. What is it that makes people so petty, so self-involved that they feel completely justified in complaining about a grown woman to another grown woman in the same way that a child seeks a parent? Or completely abandoning all responsibilities to others who really don't know what's going on?

When we asked for her help she snapped at us that she was "done with that, you're on your own."

Yet even as I am annoyed with her for behaving so irresponsibly, the writer in me is fascinated: who is this woman? Why does she behave this way? I study her. I watch her facial expressions and her body language. I am detached and impartial, she is my subject, my specimen, and for that I adore her.

What I Want: Part One

2008-03-03T16:55:00.003-05:00

The problem is that in fact this decision is not just about what I want, but about what will be best for all four of us.

The other problem is that the list of Things Which Must Be Given Careful Consideration seems to grow longer every day.

Also this is a long term decision, one that will affect our lives well into the future, beyond anything I have dared to imagine so far.

I hope that you will all bear with me over the next couple of weeks as I hash out the pros and cons of Ohio, Missouri and Nebraska with you. I would be most appreciative of any suggestions, comments or questions that might help me/us figure this out. For each thing that I weigh and balance, I am sure I must be forgetting six others.

I've been dragging my feet, not wanting to write about all of this Decision Making Stuff because I still haven't heard from Nebraska yet - I might be accepted, I might not; they might offer me money, they might not.

Here's why that might be important: Both Ohio and Missouri required that I apply to the Master's program, but Nebraska allowed me to apply directly for to the PhD. If I'm moving my whole family halfway across the country, a PhD sounds like a better reason than an MA, especially since it's eventually what I want.

But of course that's not the only Thing That Matters.

There are...

the public schools
cost of living
availability of housing
jobs for Steve
other opportunities for Steve
strength of the program academically
strength of the program artistically

(each of which includes its own subset of Things That Matter)

general atmosphere
compatibility between my writing and the writing of the professors in the department
graduation requirements
financial aid packages
assistantship terms (teaching, tutoring, etc.)

I know there are more, but the girls are arguing upstairs and I can't hear myself think. I need to go through each of these things and figure out what each of them means. Until I hear from Nebraska, it feels like I might have to do it all over again, but I'm done waiting.

Let's get this thing started.

Poor Little Loved Child

2008-02-29T08:00:00.003-05:00

Standing in line at the supermarket checkout line yesterday I saw this:

NO TV or Happy Meals!

NO medicines, just herbs!

Scientology play dates & MORE!

INSIDE SURI'S STRANGE WORLD!

What? She doesn't watch TV? They don't let her have Happy Meals? God forbid anyone try holistic methods instead of Western medicine! And can you imagine letting your child have play dates with people who practice the same religion as you do? Gasp!

This poor, poor little rich girl. I feel for her, I really do. What is it like inside her strange world? How does she live without the nutritional joy that is a Happy Meal? Without the magical picture box known as "TV"?

Sadly, I will never know.

But I do like reading about the shocking lives of other parents in supermarket checkout lines. I know now that since I let my kids eat Happy Meals and Tylenol in front of the TV every day, I'm doing a great job as a parent. Thanks, Star Magazine!

3:38 - 5:37

2008-02-28T05:42:00.002-05:00

Matilda and Freya both came down at 3:38 this morning.

"What happened?"

"I had a scary dream."

"What about Freya?"

"She had one too."

It is now 5:37 and the last two hours have been filled with dreams of the two of them – coming down, then being taken back to their room which is of course a completely different room from the one in which they actually sleep. Once, Freya was there, sleeping, then awake, another time the bed – a blanket spread across the floor – was covered with legos, tiny, tiny legos that more closely resembled dirt than toys. Another time I went up there to sleep myself, and my mother was there, didn’t understand why I wouldn’t just sleep with the children, or let them be awake. Also there was a part in which I had somehow gotten pregnant and everyone knew it but me.

I did not sleep much, or well. I get crowded when they come into the bed and my sleep is restless. Of course I was also nearly falling off the bed for two hours. I like sleeping on the outside edge, but when the bed is full of children Steve’s side next to the wall has some advantages.

On the other hand, I have been getting up early to write before the house is full of demands and responsibilities, so 5:37 isn't really too bad. At least this way I can be guaranteed at least another hour of silence and solitude.

Home - but not at rest.

2008-02-26T08:03:00.004-05:00

Okay, with one day of semi-normalcy under my belt, I am ready to write again.

The trip was, overall, a success. It certainly did what it was intended to do, which was to allow me to get a feel for some of the schools I am considering. This was important because, having lived in the Northeast my entire life, I have the unfortunate tendency (as do many Northeasterners) to believe that the United States of America drops off somewhere around Ohio and picks up again in California. What's in the middle? Um, nothing, so far as I know. (This is not an intentional slight against the lovely states of the Midwest, more of a lack of conscious thought about them at all.)

But now I know better, I know that there are interstates and strip malls and lots and lots of farmland. Also, there are Ohio University and the University of Missouri. I'm told the University of Nebraska also exists, but we didn't make it quite that far so I can't personally vouch for it.

We did get to do many fun and exciting things, like meet two of my favorite bloggers and go to the Pro-Football Hall of Fame (man, is that place a trip), the Great Lakes Science Center in Cleveland (which was amazing), the Terre Haute Children's Museum (one room with a bunch of dirty toys), and the Children's Museum of Indianapolis (amazing: floors and floors of great stuff) (I would have called you Casey, but it was last minute on the way back through, and I didn't have your number), and of course, the reason for the trip: Ohio University and the University of Missouri.

Poor Fionn caught the plague on our third day and spent a good 24 hours feeling totally awful, but he insisted we go on, pointing out that he'd have to spend time in the car either way. He was a great companion, Matilda loved having him along. I think being around him and his art inspires her.

Now that I'm home I find myself facing one of the biggest decisions of my life. Lucky for me, I don't have to face it alone, but unlucky for me, the family does tend to make the decision a bit more complicated.

There are so many things to consider, and some of the things that I thought would have the biggest impact on my decision are turning out not to matter so much after all. I'm still organizing my thoughts on this, and will post about it soon, but for now, here's a high quality photograph of the three of us at the Football Hall of Fame. I was really bad about taking pictures on the trip, so this is actually the only photo of the three of us, which really makes it that much better, if you ask me.

Impending decisions and lousy weather

2008-02-21T20:25:00.002-05:00

So we made it to both schools and are now stuck just east of St. Louis, waiting out a nasty belt of ice and snow. We'll see what happens in the morning, it's no fun being stuck, but of course would be less fun to have something worse happen due to the weather.

I will write more about this when I am not using a "Guest Courtesy Computer" in the lobby of a Quality Inn (it does have a pool, which Matilda would never have left if I didn't make her), but I am now feeling very torn in terms of which school is a better fit for me and for my family. The program at the University of Missouri is very strong, but Athens, Ohio felt more like home.

I have a few strategies for figuring it out, which I will share as I go, but for now I am safe and warm and uncertain, my mind racing as I try to puzzle it all out, trying not to miss any of the possible angles.

Oh, and of course lunch last week with my dear blogging friends was wonderful; unfortunately the Moosh was at preschool, but Jennifer's children are even more adorable than they appear on her blog and we all had a great time hanging out, even though it was too short.

More soon, I promise!

Updates and Last Minute News

2008-02-16T19:04:00.003-05:00

Okay, so first of all, there will be no Cornell. I got the letter today and was surprised to feel almost nothing after reading it. Maybe later, but best I can tell I never really thought I'd get in anyway and am too excited about my other prospects to be disappointed. In any case, I've no time to linger on that now.

Tomorrow we leave, Fionn and Matilda and I, barely recovered from this most recent case of the plague that swept over us all this past week like a steamroller from hell.

First stop Ohio University to meet with important people and explore Athens a bit.

Then lunch! with her! and her! and I just know it will be so much fun! (Andi - I'll make it all the way up to Canada someday, I swear.)

Then on to Missouri where they're begging me to join their program (well, okay, not begging exactly) and more meetings and a poetry reading.

I'm going to skip Nebraska this time, due to time and money and this awful plague, but I have not forgotten it. We'll see what happens.

I'll try to post pictures and/or updates as I go, but I expect access to the interwebs to be spotty at best. In the meantime, avoid the terrible plague and have a wonderful time while I'm gone, I'll be back soon!