I find myself with 30 minutes and no obvious task pressing itself upon me, demanding to get done. Next week is a short one, only three days of classes before a four-day weekend. I'm running (well, jogging) (well, mostly walking) (okay, all walking) a race tonight, so I don't need to squeeze in time at the gym. I glance up at my open tabs and there is my blog, opened when my browser starts like everyday. So here is my 30 minutes.
Like this unscheduled time, I feel the unbearable lightness of waiting. The steps toward my book's publication have been many in the last four months -- some big, like the compiling of the index and the final proofing of the galleys, which I did in late July and early August; and some small, like approving cover copy and answering copy-editor queries. But on October 5 my patient production editor sent the book to the printer. Now I look forward to holding it in my hands. A part of me worries that it will seem small and insignificant when I do, not worth the years I invested (not to mention the unbounded generosity of my interviewees). A part of me defensively shouts that I don't care if nobody reads it. But of course I do. All those steps, large and small, have left me proud of what it's turned out to be -- a pride that makes me vulnerable to what becomes of it.
And meanwhile my husband takes his own career-expanding steps (like his byline in the New York Times) and my children grow (into their choirs and online communities and YouTube channels and artistic endeavors). I think about what comes next after this book. I'm contracted to write a volume in this series, and I'm looking forward to it, but taking the first step is always difficult. I'm having a great semester teaching, and that makes me want to create new classes, but I also know that I should be making what I'm already teaching even better, for next time -- learning by redoing.
I turned 50 last week. It was marvelous; I feel great, I've lost 30 pounds since this time last year, I'm so much happier than I was two years ago. 50 feels like a freeing milestone instead of an ominous one, like the moment when the drive to the trailhead ends and the actual adventure begins. Noel threw a little gathering over Mexican food and fishbowl-sized margaritas, and I thanked my lucky stars that my terrible friendship skills haven't yet driven away my generous and forgiving friends. We're starting our twentieth year of marriage. I find it hard to believe how much we've done of what we always wanted to do, and how close we are to what we always wanted to become.
My time is up, and I'm off to the conclusion of a work week, spent as always with my students listening to some provocative, challenging, informative ideas. Until the next half-hour presents itself ...
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Friday, October 16, 2015
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
It was mumbly-mumble years ago today
For the first several years of my professorial career here, I frequently was mistaken for a student. It didn't hurt that I never wore power suits or other markers of authority, I'm sure. But I also took those occasions as markers of a generally youthful appearance. I treasured them. I can't deny it.
That doesn't happen anymore, even though I wear suits just as infrequently as ever. Only from a distance or without their glasses could anyone fail to notice the stray gray hairs poking coarsely out of my head, or the worry lines that have creased my forehead. I've probably slowed down just a little, too.
But aside from the particular twinges and pains, and an increasing annoyance that manifests every time I am asked to stoop or bend in any say, I don't feel my age. I suppose I'd need a feelie-o-graph of some kind to be sure, some way to keep a record of how I actually felt as opposed to my vague memories that provide little standard for comparison. But whether it's the slowness of the process or just poor recollection, I can't say that I expected to perceive so little difference between 25 and 35, between 37 and 47.
Noel and I are in different boats. He writes about pop culture for a living. It used to be rock music almost exclusively, but he's transitioned out of that beat and into more general cultural criticism, television, and film -- areas where a sense of history is valued, and where the inherent youthful rebelliousness of rock is less likely to be leveled at him as a criticism. At 40 he began thinking about what the next stage of his writing life would be, anticipating that he couldn't keep his hand in the young man's game forever.
I am a college professor, and at least in terms of reputation and authority, age is an enhancement. One isn't really a professor until one meets the stereotype, which includes visible aging, at least halfway. I tend to think that keeping in touch with the generations one is teaching (through participating in their culture) is important, but I know that's not a universal opinion. Many college professors are happy to relinquish the effort to stay current with the world's fast-paced changes, and settle down in the slower timeframes of the discipline and the academy. (Well, in the humanities, anyway.)
When I think about the downsides of getting old, I don't think about my job. I think about my family. Will I be around long enough to see as much of my children's lives as I want to, and will I be healthy and vital enough to enjoy it and participate fully? Some people start thinking about retirement when they get to be my age, but aside from a little light financial planning, I resist having it on my to-do list. Instead, I think about whether I'll be able to keep teaching as long as I'd like, which is as long as they'll have me. And then will Noel and I find meaningful ways to occupy our remaining years?
I probably should use this forty-seventh birthday to reflect on the past or make some resolutions for the future. But I'm so enmeshed in the middle of so many things -- my children growing up, my career continuing to grow and expand, my research projects taking definitive shape, the books underway, the promotions around the corner. I can see a point up ahead, in a couple of years, when the book is done and the promotion is achieved, where I stop, look around, and decide how I want the rest of my teaching life to go, and where I want to spend it. I'm looking forward to that. But for now, I've got too much to do to feel old -- or even to wonder if I should.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Eight years ago today
Earlier today I read this post about how time seems to move more slowly when you are taking in lots of new information. That's why childhood days seem so long, and the years fly by the more routine and less engaging your life becomes.
I'll say one thing for routine, though. If you do the same kinds of things at the same time every year, and a momentous occasion happens to coincide with one of them, you get an annual reminder of that occasion whenever that part of your annual schedule comes up. As long as the momentous occasion is a good thing, it's a wonderful chance to remember.
The routine in which I was engaged eight years ago today is something we call PPP -- Professors, Pizza and Pie. The dozen or so freshmen in my Honors seminar meet in the evening with me and the program's dean for some food and conversation. Over the course of a couple of weeks early in the semester, all the freshman seminars will do this, with the dean and their instructors.
Eight years and ten hours ago, I had just come home from my group's PPP. I immediately put on my pajamas and was helping Archer get ready for bed. And my water broke. Copiously. We called a friend to come stay with Archer, I changed into something that wasn't soaked with amniotic fluid (I'm pretty sure it was a muumuu-like swimsuit coverup), and Noel drove me to the hospital. And just a couple of hours later, Cady Gray was born.
I can't think of a single day since that hasn't been more magical because of her presence. I sound like a typical parent when I say it, but I don't know of any way to get across her all-around wonderfulness. She is brilliant, creative, hilarious, sweeter than honey, and beautiful beyond anything that we could have possible contributed to producing. There's a light in her eyes that illuminates the world.
Yesterday, the day before her birthday, I was jokingly bemoaning the fact that seven-year-old Cady Gray was going to go away forever, and I would always miss her. Cady Gray wrapped her arms around me as she does dozens of times a day. "Seven-year-old Cady Gray will still be here," she said. "It's just that there will be a little bit more."
And I was strangely comforted. Yes, the child I love will always be there, receding perhaps under layers of additional years and experience, but never gone. I'll stay connected to her as long as I'm still having pizza and pie with new students, telling them the story of how the dean almost had to assist in her birth, laughing, remembering, and silently giving thanks.
I'll say one thing for routine, though. If you do the same kinds of things at the same time every year, and a momentous occasion happens to coincide with one of them, you get an annual reminder of that occasion whenever that part of your annual schedule comes up. As long as the momentous occasion is a good thing, it's a wonderful chance to remember.
The routine in which I was engaged eight years ago today is something we call PPP -- Professors, Pizza and Pie. The dozen or so freshmen in my Honors seminar meet in the evening with me and the program's dean for some food and conversation. Over the course of a couple of weeks early in the semester, all the freshman seminars will do this, with the dean and their instructors.
Eight years and ten hours ago, I had just come home from my group's PPP. I immediately put on my pajamas and was helping Archer get ready for bed. And my water broke. Copiously. We called a friend to come stay with Archer, I changed into something that wasn't soaked with amniotic fluid (I'm pretty sure it was a muumuu-like swimsuit coverup), and Noel drove me to the hospital. And just a couple of hours later, Cady Gray was born.
I can't think of a single day since that hasn't been more magical because of her presence. I sound like a typical parent when I say it, but I don't know of any way to get across her all-around wonderfulness. She is brilliant, creative, hilarious, sweeter than honey, and beautiful beyond anything that we could have possible contributed to producing. There's a light in her eyes that illuminates the world.
Yesterday, the day before her birthday, I was jokingly bemoaning the fact that seven-year-old Cady Gray was going to go away forever, and I would always miss her. Cady Gray wrapped her arms around me as she does dozens of times a day. "Seven-year-old Cady Gray will still be here," she said. "It's just that there will be a little bit more."
And I was strangely comforted. Yes, the child I love will always be there, receding perhaps under layers of additional years and experience, but never gone. I'll stay connected to her as long as I'm still having pizza and pie with new students, telling them the story of how the dean almost had to assist in her birth, laughing, remembering, and silently giving thanks.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Eleven years ago today
Eleven years ago yesterday, I had gone into first stage labor with our first child. It was exciting. Noel and I took a walk together, just like we had seen in all the childbirth videos and read about in advice books.
Eleven years ago today, right now, I was recovering from an emergency c-section. My son was put in my arms briefly after I got out of the recovery room.
So much of becoming a parent these days is trying to predict the unpredictable. We read books, we watch shows, we slurp up all the advice we can, and it's all in an effort to peer around the corner and see what's coming, so we can be prepared.
We weren't ready for what happened to Archer. He wouldn't nurse, and after his first-week checkup he was immediately hospitalized for failure to thrive. We were sick with worry. And for my part, I felt angry. I felt lied to. All the preparatory apparatus we had consumed that told us everything was almost always all right -- well, it wasn't.
Strangely enough, I didn't feel that way two and a half years later when Archer was diagnosed with autism. That news didn't come as a blow crumbling some ideal developmental expectation we had to dust. Instead, after the initial shock, it was a relief to have a framework to put around his idiosyncracies, to have some steps to take to help him integrate into a neurotypical world.
When I think back to those days of crippling uncertainty, I'm so grateful to Noel for the way he stood behind me. We had to make some tough decisions. Honey, you know what I'm talking about. You didn't hesitate. You supported me in responding the way I felt was right.
Now, years later, we look at each other on a regular basis and just shake our heads in wonder. How did we end up with these brilliant, delightful, surprising, and incandescent children? Archer makes us see the world differently. When he makes a special effort to join our world temporarily, we're so touched. His challenges are singular, but we learn along with him as he faces them. And there's nothing in the world like watching him trying to contain his happiness when it spills over his emotional reserve. His cheeks distort under the effort to control his smile, his spinning and wandering turn into an exuberant dance.
Happy birthday to my handsome, happy robotboy. Gold star for you.
Eleven years ago today, right now, I was recovering from an emergency c-section. My son was put in my arms briefly after I got out of the recovery room.
So much of becoming a parent these days is trying to predict the unpredictable. We read books, we watch shows, we slurp up all the advice we can, and it's all in an effort to peer around the corner and see what's coming, so we can be prepared.
We weren't ready for what happened to Archer. He wouldn't nurse, and after his first-week checkup he was immediately hospitalized for failure to thrive. We were sick with worry. And for my part, I felt angry. I felt lied to. All the preparatory apparatus we had consumed that told us everything was almost always all right -- well, it wasn't.
Strangely enough, I didn't feel that way two and a half years later when Archer was diagnosed with autism. That news didn't come as a blow crumbling some ideal developmental expectation we had to dust. Instead, after the initial shock, it was a relief to have a framework to put around his idiosyncracies, to have some steps to take to help him integrate into a neurotypical world.
When I think back to those days of crippling uncertainty, I'm so grateful to Noel for the way he stood behind me. We had to make some tough decisions. Honey, you know what I'm talking about. You didn't hesitate. You supported me in responding the way I felt was right.
Now, years later, we look at each other on a regular basis and just shake our heads in wonder. How did we end up with these brilliant, delightful, surprising, and incandescent children? Archer makes us see the world differently. When he makes a special effort to join our world temporarily, we're so touched. His challenges are singular, but we learn along with him as he faces them. And there's nothing in the world like watching him trying to contain his happiness when it spills over his emotional reserve. His cheeks distort under the effort to control his smile, his spinning and wandering turn into an exuberant dance.
Happy birthday to my handsome, happy robotboy. Gold star for you.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Nothing but a number
When I was a kid, like any good middle child I measured my birthdays and age against that of my two brothers. Specifically against my older brother, who was born three and a half years before me. When his March 30 birthday rolled around, I know I had six months ahead where he would be four years older than me, in terms of the round yearly number we all use post-toddlerhood. Then in October, I would catch back up, and enjoy six months of being only three years his junior.
Yesterday my brother turned 50. That's a big one, and I've known it was headed my way for some time. The fact that Dwayne has hit it brings the reality of its approach home again. Right now he's four years older than me; in October, I'll close the gap again.
Another way to look at age is in terms of career. I got started pretty late, as many academics do, having taken my time wending my way through grad school. I landed my first and only university job in 1999, and I'm currently completing my thirteenth year of teaching. I'll be eligible to apply for full professor status after next year (my first couple of years of teaching were non-tenure track, so I lost a couple of rungs on the ladder). And then I'll be started the next phase of my career, probably looking around to see if my administrative experience might make me useful elsewhere, probably putting myself in position to succeed my current boss when he retires in a few years.
I've got maybe twenty years left in this business. More than I've got behind me. That's kind of the opposite of the age number staring me in the face.
This morning I ran my second 5K of 2012. I hope there will be a handful more before the year ends. When I say "ran," it's even more of an exaggeration than usual; not only was it my usual 12-minute-mile slow jog, but I also walked a lot more than I usually would find acceptable. You see, on Thursday afternoon I came down with the most sudden, violent fever I can remember. I was knitting with my students one minute, and the next I was feeling like crap and trying to get home before the shakes started in earnest. I shivered for an hour, ached for another, then took Motrin. And it was over. I waited for the next twenty-four hours for the other shoe to drop, for the gastrointestinal part of the virus to take hold or whatever, and it never did.
So I took it easy today, still cautious after that strange interlude. And I remember that even though this is the first time in my life that I've ever attempted to run 5Ks, meaning I'm about as healthy as I've ever been, I'm not getting any younger. I don't know how 50 is supposed to feel, and I'm pretty sure I don't feel it anyway, but I wonder how long I'll be able to ignore my age. No use asking Dwayne; he's a lifelong distance runner and still looks and acts like my default image of him, the athletic collegian.
What really makes me feel young is that I keep changing, I keep learning, and I keep reinventing myself. In that respect I really look forward to becoming a full professor and being liberated to look around and see what opportunities are out there for me. It's the kind of new stage in life that gets me energized. Sometimes the years you put into a career are better than a time machine that could take you back to the beginning.
Yesterday my brother turned 50. That's a big one, and I've known it was headed my way for some time. The fact that Dwayne has hit it brings the reality of its approach home again. Right now he's four years older than me; in October, I'll close the gap again.
Another way to look at age is in terms of career. I got started pretty late, as many academics do, having taken my time wending my way through grad school. I landed my first and only university job in 1999, and I'm currently completing my thirteenth year of teaching. I'll be eligible to apply for full professor status after next year (my first couple of years of teaching were non-tenure track, so I lost a couple of rungs on the ladder). And then I'll be started the next phase of my career, probably looking around to see if my administrative experience might make me useful elsewhere, probably putting myself in position to succeed my current boss when he retires in a few years.
I've got maybe twenty years left in this business. More than I've got behind me. That's kind of the opposite of the age number staring me in the face.
This morning I ran my second 5K of 2012. I hope there will be a handful more before the year ends. When I say "ran," it's even more of an exaggeration than usual; not only was it my usual 12-minute-mile slow jog, but I also walked a lot more than I usually would find acceptable. You see, on Thursday afternoon I came down with the most sudden, violent fever I can remember. I was knitting with my students one minute, and the next I was feeling like crap and trying to get home before the shakes started in earnest. I shivered for an hour, ached for another, then took Motrin. And it was over. I waited for the next twenty-four hours for the other shoe to drop, for the gastrointestinal part of the virus to take hold or whatever, and it never did.
So I took it easy today, still cautious after that strange interlude. And I remember that even though this is the first time in my life that I've ever attempted to run 5Ks, meaning I'm about as healthy as I've ever been, I'm not getting any younger. I don't know how 50 is supposed to feel, and I'm pretty sure I don't feel it anyway, but I wonder how long I'll be able to ignore my age. No use asking Dwayne; he's a lifelong distance runner and still looks and acts like my default image of him, the athletic collegian.
What really makes me feel young is that I keep changing, I keep learning, and I keep reinventing myself. In that respect I really look forward to becoming a full professor and being liberated to look around and see what opportunities are out there for me. It's the kind of new stage in life that gets me energized. Sometimes the years you put into a career are better than a time machine that could take you back to the beginning.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Forty six
Forty-six full years upon this earth. What do I have to show for it?
Students who teach me more than they'll ever learn from me, whose gratitude humbles me.
New passions with each passing decade. More worthwhile skills waiting to be learned than I have time left to acquire.
Two brilliant, beautiful children whose spirited existences are far beyond what any mother deserves.
A husband whose talent and work ethic earn him the approbation of people who know what they're talking about, whose dedication to our family is a quiet miracle.
Work that has meaning. Opportunities to travel and meet remarkable people. Positions of service that make a difference to folks I'll never meet.
A world that seems new and marvelous every day I venture out into it. A future that demands optimism.
Chances to be proud of myself and to be appreciated by others.
More love and friendship than I could ever reciprocate, from more people than ought to care about me.
And as should be clear from the above list, grace beyond measure.
Students who teach me more than they'll ever learn from me, whose gratitude humbles me.
New passions with each passing decade. More worthwhile skills waiting to be learned than I have time left to acquire.
Two brilliant, beautiful children whose spirited existences are far beyond what any mother deserves.
A husband whose talent and work ethic earn him the approbation of people who know what they're talking about, whose dedication to our family is a quiet miracle.
Work that has meaning. Opportunities to travel and meet remarkable people. Positions of service that make a difference to folks I'll never meet.
A world that seems new and marvelous every day I venture out into it. A future that demands optimism.
Chances to be proud of myself and to be appreciated by others.
More love and friendship than I could ever reciprocate, from more people than ought to care about me.
And as should be clear from the above list, grace beyond measure.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Weekend of me!
My birthday is Sunday, and as has become customary among my students and friends, I'm extending the celebration over more than just the actual day. On Facebook I read about people taking whole birthday weeks. I couldn't manage that -- way too much to do this week, and I am proud that I took care of business for so much of it -- but I can reserve the weekend for all things Donna, and so I have.
Well, I would have, if the publicity machine at a certain network whose prestige program I recap weekly had sent me a screener so I could watch it and write about it during the week. Since that didn't happen, I am having to watch it and write about it this weekend, which will cut into the Weekend of Me for at least three or four hours. Still, it's the season finale, which means I won't have to worry about this again until next year, so I don't begrudge the intrusion of work too much.
What's the agenda for the Weekend of Me? I'm ready to start a new knitting project, which is always an exciting and rewarding moment. I've got a stack of comics to read, including some graphic novels that Noel has been recommending highly. I'm going out to dinner with my husband, and I would like to play video games with my son and knit with my daughter. It's nothing too different from a regular weekend, except that I'll be taking a special birthday satisfaction in it all.
I invite you to celebrate the Weekend of Me with me! Except that for you, it will be the weekend of Donna. An apt time to think about how I have made your life better, and honor me with appropriate leisure activities. Enjoy!
Well, I would have, if the publicity machine at a certain network whose prestige program I recap weekly had sent me a screener so I could watch it and write about it during the week. Since that didn't happen, I am having to watch it and write about it this weekend, which will cut into the Weekend of Me for at least three or four hours. Still, it's the season finale, which means I won't have to worry about this again until next year, so I don't begrudge the intrusion of work too much.
What's the agenda for the Weekend of Me? I'm ready to start a new knitting project, which is always an exciting and rewarding moment. I've got a stack of comics to read, including some graphic novels that Noel has been recommending highly. I'm going out to dinner with my husband, and I would like to play video games with my son and knit with my daughter. It's nothing too different from a regular weekend, except that I'll be taking a special birthday satisfaction in it all.
I invite you to celebrate the Weekend of Me with me! Except that for you, it will be the weekend of Donna. An apt time to think about how I have made your life better, and honor me with appropriate leisure activities. Enjoy!
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Seven years ago
Cady Gray is very excited about turning seven years old tomorrow. It's not about getting presents -- between the shared birthday party last weekend and the gifts that have been arriving from grandparents, she's already opened everything but a few books we've held back for her. It's not about cake or ice cream or fancy clothes.
Apparently she's just excited to be growing up. I try to think back to that age and remember what it was like to know I was a child, but that something other than childhood was coming. I remember specific times when it irked me that I wasn't old enough to do something I wanted to do, and I remember the generalized looking forward to having more privileges and freedoms. But I don't remember the sense of my own powers increasing, the sense that more and more things would be possible for me, the sense that growing older meant growing better -- this sense that seems to infuse Cady Gray with an incandescent glow.
For parents as lucky as we have been to have smart, happy, healthy kids, it can be almost embarrassing how life with them just gets more interesting and rewarding by the year. My daughter is the gift I never deserved, and best of all, she gives that gift to herself as avidly as she does to everyone around her. Happy birthday, sweetie. Thank you for your boundless potential, which I borrow regularly to fuel my continued optimism for the future.
Apparently she's just excited to be growing up. I try to think back to that age and remember what it was like to know I was a child, but that something other than childhood was coming. I remember specific times when it irked me that I wasn't old enough to do something I wanted to do, and I remember the generalized looking forward to having more privileges and freedoms. But I don't remember the sense of my own powers increasing, the sense that more and more things would be possible for me, the sense that growing older meant growing better -- this sense that seems to infuse Cady Gray with an incandescent glow.
For parents as lucky as we have been to have smart, happy, healthy kids, it can be almost embarrassing how life with them just gets more interesting and rewarding by the year. My daughter is the gift I never deserved, and best of all, she gives that gift to herself as avidly as she does to everyone around her. Happy birthday, sweetie. Thank you for your boundless potential, which I borrow regularly to fuel my continued optimism for the future.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Gotta catch the cake!
In a successful effort to make my birthday-party-throwing experience as low-stress as possible, Noel ordered the cake. As you can see, he did a great job. This is a chocolate cake with whipped frosting from Ed's Custom Bakery, a local outfit that has been providing our kids with birthday cakes since they were born.
The party was Pokemon-themed, and this cake, featuring Charizard, Turtwig, and Piplup, was a huge hit. As I brought slided pieces out of the kitchen and gave them to the attendees, I heard excited conversation: "You got a water piece! I hope I get a fire piece! Ooh, that one is mostly grass with some water!"
The cake itself is exactly what all adults attending kids' birthday parties hope for: light as air, delicate chocolate flavor, with a melt-in-your-mouth frosting that's the polar opposite of the heavy, sugary mortar that gets slathered onto grocery-store cakes.
I love how the edging frosting color changes with the grass, water, and fire stripes, and how those colors flow down the sides of the cake. Having wonderful local businesses that do great work and make you feel like you've gotten special treatment -- what a bonus for a party into which we put the minimum of effort, really. Thanks, Ed's!
Friday, August 19, 2011
Double digits
Archer turns ten years old today. What a journey he's taken us on during the last decade. We have learned so much from him and about him. It's no exaggeration to say that we would not be the same people, or the same parents, if Archer had not been our first-born. And I think we're better people and parents -- more compassionate, more patient, more excited by the wonder of our children and the possibilities for the future -- because of him.
For a boy who often doesn't seem to care whether he gets any affection or not, he has earned the love of so many people. The teachers and administrators at his previous school went out of their way to give him opportunities and encouragement. His sister adores him, and we're constantly surprised by what a celebrity he is among his peers.
I think all parents are just waiting for things to go south. We have been conditioned to believe that childhood is a golden age from which the fall is inevitable, and happens sometime around the time "teen" gets appended to their age. That may be; time will tell. But so far, Archer just gets more incredible.
Just now he popped into the room and volunteered, "I've got an idea for the party tomorrow. Maybe the guests could play Wii with us." We (who had already planned this, but hadn't told Archer about it) agreed with him that it was a wonderful idea. "OK!" he enthused, spinning and jumping as he does when really excited. And as he left to go back to his room, he paused halfway into the hall. "I'm glad you accepted my idea," he said.
When every instance of purposeful communication -- initiative, thinking about audience, expressing emotion, responding spontaneously -- is something special, you have the opportunity to be delighted by your child every day. That's life with Archer, and it's beyond our wildest dreams. Happy birthday, sweet boy.
For a boy who often doesn't seem to care whether he gets any affection or not, he has earned the love of so many people. The teachers and administrators at his previous school went out of their way to give him opportunities and encouragement. His sister adores him, and we're constantly surprised by what a celebrity he is among his peers.
I think all parents are just waiting for things to go south. We have been conditioned to believe that childhood is a golden age from which the fall is inevitable, and happens sometime around the time "teen" gets appended to their age. That may be; time will tell. But so far, Archer just gets more incredible.
Just now he popped into the room and volunteered, "I've got an idea for the party tomorrow. Maybe the guests could play Wii with us." We (who had already planned this, but hadn't told Archer about it) agreed with him that it was a wonderful idea. "OK!" he enthused, spinning and jumping as he does when really excited. And as he left to go back to his room, he paused halfway into the hall. "I'm glad you accepted my idea," he said.
When every instance of purposeful communication -- initiative, thinking about audience, expressing emotion, responding spontaneously -- is something special, you have the opportunity to be delighted by your child every day. That's life with Archer, and it's beyond our wildest dreams. Happy birthday, sweet boy.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Shared celebration
I admit that I procrastinated on this year's dual birthday party. The kids have so far shared the spotlight on their birthdays, having their party together, usually during the six days that separate the two dates. Because we took our family vacation in the first week of August, and because school started so early this year, I found it hard to commit to a date until we were less than two weeks away from Archer's birthday on the 19th. Finally I agreed that this weekend was the best time, as long as the party was a slacker special with a minimum of organized activities and a maximum of kids dragging toys out of the closet and amusing themselves.
It's a challenge to make each child feel special on his or her own day when the celebration doesn't fall on either. After we agreed that Archer could open a couple of presents after school, I asked Noel whether he could have some kind of special breakfast tomorrow to start his day off. He looked at me blankly; neither of us had any idea what would constitute that kind of treat. In a way we've conditioned our children to low expectations. When we do give them something special, they know it's an unusual occurrence, and often get inordinately excited about something that other children probably expect as a matter of course.
I'm glad I don't have to do a lot of prep for the party on Saturday. Send Noel off to pick up balloons and a cake, throw a couple of colorful tablecloths over flat surfaces, toss sidewalk chalk onto the driveway, haul a few building sets into the living room, fire up the Wii. On the other hand, you get a finite number -- and a distressingly small one, at that -- of chances to throw birthday parties for your kids. I feel bad about missing an opportunity to make a memory that will really last. Is there still time to arrange for a lifesize Pikachu to make an appearance?
It's a challenge to make each child feel special on his or her own day when the celebration doesn't fall on either. After we agreed that Archer could open a couple of presents after school, I asked Noel whether he could have some kind of special breakfast tomorrow to start his day off. He looked at me blankly; neither of us had any idea what would constitute that kind of treat. In a way we've conditioned our children to low expectations. When we do give them something special, they know it's an unusual occurrence, and often get inordinately excited about something that other children probably expect as a matter of course.
I'm glad I don't have to do a lot of prep for the party on Saturday. Send Noel off to pick up balloons and a cake, throw a couple of colorful tablecloths over flat surfaces, toss sidewalk chalk onto the driveway, haul a few building sets into the living room, fire up the Wii. On the other hand, you get a finite number -- and a distressingly small one, at that -- of chances to throw birthday parties for your kids. I feel bad about missing an opportunity to make a memory that will really last. Is there still time to arrange for a lifesize Pikachu to make an appearance?
Sunday, June 12, 2011
A year on
Our kids are turning seven and ten this August. I guess they all feel like big ones, but these are huge, surely, by any stretch of the imagination. One goes from an age that people associate with kindergarten to the middle years of childhood -- on her way to tween-dom. The other is heading to double digits, with adolescence in his sights.
It's going to be big in another way, too. Cady Gray has learned to ride a two-wheeler on a beat-up freecycled bike, and now that she's getting independent with it, she needs a real bike of her own. So that's on the list for August. I'd like to get Archer a bigger Snap Circuits set. Cady Gray is ready for Narnia books and maybe even Harry Potter. I've already got a couple of new chess books in the closet for her brother's bookshelf.
What else should mark these momentous birthdays? Do you have gifts that have gone over well with kids like mine, or at similar ages? I'd love to get even more ideas.
It's going to be big in another way, too. Cady Gray has learned to ride a two-wheeler on a beat-up freecycled bike, and now that she's getting independent with it, she needs a real bike of her own. So that's on the list for August. I'd like to get Archer a bigger Snap Circuits set. Cady Gray is ready for Narnia books and maybe even Harry Potter. I've already got a couple of new chess books in the closet for her brother's bookshelf.
What else should mark these momentous birthdays? Do you have gifts that have gone over well with kids like mine, or at similar ages? I'd love to get even more ideas.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Happy birthday to me
Not only does my husband cook my favorite foods and get me amazing, thoughtful gifts on my birthday, but he always makes sure the kids have a chance to make me cards. Today I woke up to the oversized cards they made with markers and art paper after their early breakfast.
Here's Cady Gray's card. I could tell she lavished attention on the poetic cover ...
... then ran out of time for the inside.
Archer, on the other hand, takes delight in addressing me by my first name ...
... then praises me for occasionally acting like a mom (that's my office room number and a Wii remote in the pictures) ...
... and gave me a math-themed birthday cake! Look at that elegant candle!
I love my kids, and they loved me back all day long. Best birthday ever!
Here's Cady Gray's card. I could tell she lavished attention on the poetic cover ...
... then ran out of time for the inside.
Archer, on the other hand, takes delight in addressing me by my first name ...
... then praises me for occasionally acting like a mom (that's my office room number and a Wii remote in the pictures) ...
... and gave me a math-themed birthday cake! Look at that elegant candle!
I love my kids, and they loved me back all day long. Best birthday ever!
Friday, October 8, 2010
Next stage
Every ten years, I feel like my life is beginning anew.
At fifteen I was beginning to ask the questions about authority, tradition and religion that would set me on my life's quest.
At twenty-five I was starting the graduate program that would provide me with the first glimmers of an answer that could enable me to move forward.
At thirty-five I was starting a new job and about to embark on the adventure of motherhood.
And at forty-five, the milestone I reach tomorrow, I feel like I'm starting something yet again. I'm learning a new way of teaching that has the potential to realize some of my deepest values as an educator. I'm in the first stages of a research project that I hope will define my next decade. I have a new administrative title and a new urgency about learning how to manage people and processes well.
There are gray hairs on my head, I learned earlier this year when I went in for a trim. For awhile I didn't know how to feel about that. Now I think it's a sign of another turning point in my life. Not the onset of decline, but the start of yet another identity that builds on the one before.
Here's to the next decade. I hope you'll still be reading when it comes time for me to muse about what is beginning at age fifty-five.
At fifteen I was beginning to ask the questions about authority, tradition and religion that would set me on my life's quest.
At twenty-five I was starting the graduate program that would provide me with the first glimmers of an answer that could enable me to move forward.
At thirty-five I was starting a new job and about to embark on the adventure of motherhood.
And at forty-five, the milestone I reach tomorrow, I feel like I'm starting something yet again. I'm learning a new way of teaching that has the potential to realize some of my deepest values as an educator. I'm in the first stages of a research project that I hope will define my next decade. I have a new administrative title and a new urgency about learning how to manage people and processes well.
There are gray hairs on my head, I learned earlier this year when I went in for a trim. For awhile I didn't know how to feel about that. Now I think it's a sign of another turning point in my life. Not the onset of decline, but the start of yet another identity that builds on the one before.
Here's to the next decade. I hope you'll still be reading when it comes time for me to muse about what is beginning at age fifty-five.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Life unexpected
When I was a child, I never felt comfortable in a girly-girl role. I idolized my older brother and wanted to play his games. My Barbie and Skipper dolls were never my favorites, despite the outfits my grandmother sewed them to match the ones she made for me. I couldn't fix my hair -- or my friends' hair -- in fancy braids or up-dos. Partly from lack of confidence and partly from obstinate preference, I thought of myself as a tomboy, and took a perverse pride in hanging more comfortably in male circles than female ones.
So when I found out that my second child was a girl, I felt ill-prepared in a way that wasn't the case with my son. What would I do when she wanted complicated hair arrangements or flipped over pink and purple unicorns? Could I relate to her desires and obsessions, if she turned out to be more culturally typical than I thought I had been?
Six years later, those worries sound silly, despite how real they were at the time. My girl is a real girl, but not a girly-girl. She loves an eclectic variety of artifacts and activities, from Pokemon to comics to architecture to knitting. She likes to look pretty, but she thinks that just about any way we dress her or do her hair is fantastic. She's enthusiastic about almost everything that takes place around her, embracing the world with an enormous appetite for joy. The heap of things I thought I was too inexpert to lead her through, is dwarfed into insignificance by the enticing mountain of new adventures we face side by side.
In some ways, my gender-based trepidation prevented me from other eventualities that might have daunted me, had I thought of them. How to cope with intellectual brilliance. How to respond to blinding love. How to treasure astounding creativity.
We all want to raise happy, healthy kids. Sometimes, though, I think it's not up to us. Happiness and health is bestowed upon them, a grace so transformative that we tremble at the thought of it fading to merely normal luminescence. Every day I am roused to respond to Cady Gray's ebullient happiness with happiness of my own, reinforcing and reflecting back to her a world of delight and wonder. And so I am raised by her, happier, healthier, more welcoming to life, less in the grip of fear the less I want her to see fear in me.
Happy birthday, girl of sweetness. And thank you.
So when I found out that my second child was a girl, I felt ill-prepared in a way that wasn't the case with my son. What would I do when she wanted complicated hair arrangements or flipped over pink and purple unicorns? Could I relate to her desires and obsessions, if she turned out to be more culturally typical than I thought I had been?
Six years later, those worries sound silly, despite how real they were at the time. My girl is a real girl, but not a girly-girl. She loves an eclectic variety of artifacts and activities, from Pokemon to comics to architecture to knitting. She likes to look pretty, but she thinks that just about any way we dress her or do her hair is fantastic. She's enthusiastic about almost everything that takes place around her, embracing the world with an enormous appetite for joy. The heap of things I thought I was too inexpert to lead her through, is dwarfed into insignificance by the enticing mountain of new adventures we face side by side.
In some ways, my gender-based trepidation prevented me from other eventualities that might have daunted me, had I thought of them. How to cope with intellectual brilliance. How to respond to blinding love. How to treasure astounding creativity.
We all want to raise happy, healthy kids. Sometimes, though, I think it's not up to us. Happiness and health is bestowed upon them, a grace so transformative that we tremble at the thought of it fading to merely normal luminescence. Every day I am roused to respond to Cady Gray's ebullient happiness with happiness of my own, reinforcing and reflecting back to her a world of delight and wonder. And so I am raised by her, happier, healthier, more welcoming to life, less in the grip of fear the less I want her to see fear in me.
Happy birthday, girl of sweetness. And thank you.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Many happy returns
It's Archer's ninth birthday today -- but I feel like I got all the presents. Great news arrived in our offices about the scholarships we can offer to our recruits. My co-editor sent me an e-mail letting me know that our book on theology and energy got rave reader reviews, and that Fordham University Press had accepted it for publication. I spent the day having imaginative, stimulating discussions about the future with my fellow administrators.
And the two smartest, sweetest, happiest kids in the world went off to school arm in arm. What more could anyone ask?
And the two smartest, sweetest, happiest kids in the world went off to school arm in arm. What more could anyone ask?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Ready as I'll ever be
While waiting for summer commencement to begin last Saturday, two of the undergraduates receiving degrees struck up a conversation in the procession line. I happened to be standing nearby in preparation for leading the march, so I couldn't help but overhear. One young lady was talking about how she and her fiancee thought they wanted kids, but weren't sure when; the other was making sympathetic noises. All the contingencies about jobs, homes, graduate school, and so forth were brought up in more or less detail.
Oh, girls, I thought to myself. Don't you know that it's no use trying to figure out when you'll be ready to have children? You'll never be ready enough, and so in a sense, you'll always be as ready as necessary.
Nine years ago tonight, Noel drove me to the hospital. Nine years ago tomorrow, Archer was born. I was 35 years old, Noel was 30. We had been married almost six years. I had a good job, and Noel was building his freelance career. We were homeowners. Were we ready? Not by a long shot -- not for what happened. Not for a baby who spent a couple of days in the intensive care unit after birth, then returned to the hospital less than a week later for failure to thrive. Not for a boy who screamed at the incessant blood draws until, by the time an IV had to be inserted into a vein in his scalp, he couldn't even produce any more noise. Not for a son whose odd habits of spinning toys and lack of language led to a diagnosis of autism at two and a half.
We weren't ready for mixing supplements into breast milk, for speech therapy, for IEPs. Nor for a child fixated on a calculator or a magnadoodle. A boy obsessed with numbers, then chess, then maps. A mathematical prodigy who struggles to understand human motivation and emotion. An alien in our house whose creative perspective on the world stops us short and fills us with wonder every day.
No one could ever be ready for the decision we had to make shortly after the autism diagnosis about whether we wanted to have another child. And we weren't ready when our daughter was born to have two children, not any more than we were ready to have one when our family grew for the first time, three years earlier.
There is no perfect moment. But then, afterwards, there are so many perfect moments that you feel embarrassed at how much you are blessed. Forge forward boldly. Wait for the circumstances to be advantageous, but don't wait until you are ready. Unless you want to wait forever.
Oh, girls, I thought to myself. Don't you know that it's no use trying to figure out when you'll be ready to have children? You'll never be ready enough, and so in a sense, you'll always be as ready as necessary.
Nine years ago tonight, Noel drove me to the hospital. Nine years ago tomorrow, Archer was born. I was 35 years old, Noel was 30. We had been married almost six years. I had a good job, and Noel was building his freelance career. We were homeowners. Were we ready? Not by a long shot -- not for what happened. Not for a baby who spent a couple of days in the intensive care unit after birth, then returned to the hospital less than a week later for failure to thrive. Not for a boy who screamed at the incessant blood draws until, by the time an IV had to be inserted into a vein in his scalp, he couldn't even produce any more noise. Not for a son whose odd habits of spinning toys and lack of language led to a diagnosis of autism at two and a half.
We weren't ready for mixing supplements into breast milk, for speech therapy, for IEPs. Nor for a child fixated on a calculator or a magnadoodle. A boy obsessed with numbers, then chess, then maps. A mathematical prodigy who struggles to understand human motivation and emotion. An alien in our house whose creative perspective on the world stops us short and fills us with wonder every day.
No one could ever be ready for the decision we had to make shortly after the autism diagnosis about whether we wanted to have another child. And we weren't ready when our daughter was born to have two children, not any more than we were ready to have one when our family grew for the first time, three years earlier.
There is no perfect moment. But then, afterwards, there are so many perfect moments that you feel embarrassed at how much you are blessed. Forge forward boldly. Wait for the circumstances to be advantageous, but don't wait until you are ready. Unless you want to wait forever.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Hammerin'
I went to work. I graded papers. I went to class. I went to meetings. I graded more papers. I attended a conference call.
It was a normal day -- maybe even a bit busier than usual. But it was still an outstanding forty-fourth birthday for me. Here's what made it special:
It was a normal day -- maybe even a bit busier than usual. But it was still an outstanding forty-fourth birthday for me. Here's what made it special:
- When I walked into the living room first thing in the morning, Cady Gray greeted me with a beaming, "Happy birthday, Mom!"
- Students, colleagues, readers, and general well-wishers flooded my Facebook page, Twitter feed, and HCOL thread with birthday congratulations.
- My freshmen decorated a pumpkin with all their names and gave it to me in class.
- One of my freshmen, who just learned to knit a few weeks ago, gave me a beautiful fringed coaster she had made and thanked me for everything I'd done to help her.
- Noel not only told me to take my time getting home, but met with me cookies and my birthday present on arrival.
- That birthday present? These beauties. Oh, yes.
- There's a half-dozen comedies on the TiVo for tonight.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The beat goes on
Tomorrow is my birthday. I've already got the Facebook messages and the card from the university president to prove it.
But there's no rest this weekend. Tonight and tomorrow we're supposed to get torrential rain, and I get anxious about heavy rain because our street and yard flood so easily. I won't be able to relax fully until the heaviest rain has passed by tomorrow. Saturday I'm teaching the Methodist pastors all day. Saturday night I'm going out for a birthday dinner with Noel. And then Sunday he's leaving for Chicago. I'll be in charge of the kids until Wednesday.
The real relaxation won't come until a week from now; our two-day fall break starts next Thursday. Until then, birthday or no birthday, I'll be in one-day-at-a-time mode. But I'm still looking forward to being forty-four. As Noel pointed out today, that's the Hank Aaron age. And I'm determined to knock it out of the park during the year to come.
But there's no rest this weekend. Tonight and tomorrow we're supposed to get torrential rain, and I get anxious about heavy rain because our street and yard flood so easily. I won't be able to relax fully until the heaviest rain has passed by tomorrow. Saturday I'm teaching the Methodist pastors all day. Saturday night I'm going out for a birthday dinner with Noel. And then Sunday he's leaving for Chicago. I'll be in charge of the kids until Wednesday.
The real relaxation won't come until a week from now; our two-day fall break starts next Thursday. Until then, birthday or no birthday, I'll be in one-day-at-a-time mode. But I'm still looking forward to being forty-four. As Noel pointed out today, that's the Hank Aaron age. And I'm determined to knock it out of the park during the year to come.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Counting up
On Friday I'll be forty-four years old. Written out like that, it takes me aback just a little. That's a patently adult number. And outwardly at least, I may look like an adult. I have a mortgage, kids, cars, a job, positions of responsibility.
On the other hand, I didn't start my career until ten years ago. So I still feel quite junior in that respect. I'm still on my first home while many of my younger friends have traded up one or two times. I neglect important matters of health and money and preparing for the future all the time, matters that I tend to think more adult people take care of routinely.
The dirty little secret of being decidedly middle-aged, unable to be plausibly mistaken for young anymore, is that you don't feel as old as you look. Oh, maybe the eyes don't see small print anymore like they used to; maybe there are aches and twinges. But you remember what you used think separated the oldsters from the youngsters: the former claimed to know what they were doing.
At least in those terms, I still feel like a bumbling kid. But I also feel young in a more accomplished and positive way -- I'm still learning new things, and I'm excited about developing my skills in new directions. Working with college students helps; being a technophile helps; teaching in an academic unit that values initiative and innovation definitely helps. Becoming a knitter in my forties, gaining the ability to cloth and adorn myself and those I love and care for, makes me feel brand new in the world.
At times I know that I'm in the middle of my life, and heading towards the shorter end. Those are the times when I feel like my time is filling up and running out, when I see moments as precious and few rather than copious and abundant. But there are parts of my life with plans that keep burgeoning instead of fading into the distance. I may be solidly ensconced in my forties, but in some ways, I'm still climbing upwards and seeing more and more as I rise.
On the other hand, I didn't start my career until ten years ago. So I still feel quite junior in that respect. I'm still on my first home while many of my younger friends have traded up one or two times. I neglect important matters of health and money and preparing for the future all the time, matters that I tend to think more adult people take care of routinely.
The dirty little secret of being decidedly middle-aged, unable to be plausibly mistaken for young anymore, is that you don't feel as old as you look. Oh, maybe the eyes don't see small print anymore like they used to; maybe there are aches and twinges. But you remember what you used think separated the oldsters from the youngsters: the former claimed to know what they were doing.
At least in those terms, I still feel like a bumbling kid. But I also feel young in a more accomplished and positive way -- I'm still learning new things, and I'm excited about developing my skills in new directions. Working with college students helps; being a technophile helps; teaching in an academic unit that values initiative and innovation definitely helps. Becoming a knitter in my forties, gaining the ability to cloth and adorn myself and those I love and care for, makes me feel brand new in the world.
At times I know that I'm in the middle of my life, and heading towards the shorter end. Those are the times when I feel like my time is filling up and running out, when I see moments as precious and few rather than copious and abundant. But there are parts of my life with plans that keep burgeoning instead of fading into the distance. I may be solidly ensconced in my forties, but in some ways, I'm still climbing upwards and seeing more and more as I rise.
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