Scary! Scary!

Today was jack o'lantern carving day! Here's how it turned out.





The spiky one is Cady Gray's ...




And the happy one is Archer's.




Everybody say "Halloween!"




I certainly hope these pumpkins can coexist peacefully.




Ahhhh! What have you done with my children?!

On scholarships

My institution developed a generous scholarship policy over the last decade. Now the pipers have to be paid; state law has limited the percentage of tuition revenue that can be spent on scholarships, and in order to comply, the scholarship budget has to be cut by half.

Our administration has repeatedly and publicly said that we don't need to buy students. We have a great university with great programs; students should pay to come here.

In general, I agree. But there are some categories of student that won't pay. If we want them, we will have to pay. That's just a fact. The highest-performing high school students will not come here without scholarships, because they can command quite handsome prices. Why would they sell themselves short? Our regional public university, no matter how wonderful a place, will not be able to attract them at full price or even half price, when there are many institutions in and out of state willing to buy them at the MSRP.

It sounds logical that a university should not have to buy its students. But would you say the same thing about a football program? Would you assert that we have such a wonderful team that potential athletes will gladly pay to be a part of it? The fact is that if you want top athletes, you must pay for them with scholarships. Nobody would argue differently, because it's patently obvious. If you want a marching band, you must pay for it with scholarships. (That may not be widely known, but it is true.) Would you say that you don't have to pay competitive salaries for top faculty because we have such a wonderful university that people should be glad to come here regardless of their compensation?

Quality costs money, because quality is in demand. That goes for top students just as it does for top athletes and employees. The question before my institution is not "do we have to pay for students?" It's "what students are worth paying for?" And if the answer truly is "none," then exactly what does the assertion that we have a wonderful university that's attractive on its own mean? Can you point to a high-quality university that doesn't have any top-tier students? Those students enrich faculty life, which keeps morale high and turnover low. They win top national awards and provide tangible evidence of the desirability of the university's education -- which in turn attracts more high-quality students.

Students worth paying for attract other students who pay their own way. Success breeds success. The rich get richer. And an attempt to have an unquantifiable "quality" on the cheap might end with the institution poorer than it was before it started trying to save money.

Anxiety and nausea

I put it off until today. I knew how difficult it was going to be, and I saw no reason to extend the misery by starting early.

The task was selecting a teaching assistant for next semester. In our freshman team-taught class, each of the seven instructors has an upper-division student working at her side. The program is a way to give our undergraduates teaching roles, to help alleviate the heavy workload of the writing-intensive seminar, and to foster mentorship between the instructor and the assistant.

It's been an amazingly successful program, now entering its fifth year. I've had amazing students at my side, and the course has changed dramatically as a result. Now I see the classroom as a collaborative space, each interaction a chance to hear many voices. Grading has become a conversation with three participants at a minimum. I love what's happened as a result of sharing the classroom with my "pedagogical associate" (or PA for short).

But in order to enjoy those benefits, I have to choose a student each semester to work with during the semester following. And that's getting harder and harder, or at least it feels that way. The selection process involves an extensive application each candidate submits, the rank-ordering of top candidates by each instructor, and then a meeting at which we look at our individual rankings. We choose our own PAs; if the student I ranked first was not ranked first by any other instructor, I get to work with that student. If two or more instructors had the same top choice, we negotiate to determine who goes with their second or third choice.

This semester thirteen students applied for seven slots. I made an initial pass through the applications and came up with eight students I personally could see choosing. The job this morning was to narrow that down to three, and put them in order.

How do you choose? I knew many of the students well, but not all of them. I was impressed by the erudition of some, the writing facility of others, the teaching philosophy of still others. Did I want a strong personality, a charismatic figure who would inspire the freshmen? Did I want a nurturing, behind-the-scenes type? What was more important to me -- the associate's dependability in a job that requires continuous herculean effort; her prowess as a reader, writer, or editor; his mastery of complex interdisciplinary material; her potential as a leader of class discussion?

I can't answer any of those questions ahead of time. What emerges as most important in any given semester does so out of the particular pool of candidates. I imagine them in my classroom, try to feel the dynamic that will arise out of the combination of our personalities. I think about their strengths and wonder about their weaknesses. I feel the desire of some candidates for the position itself, some for the opportunity to work with me in particular. I try to assess my own feelings for the students whom I think deserve this opportunity, would benefit from it, would make the most of it, could have their lives changed by it.

And in the end, I make a short-short list of ... five, actually. But only the top three matter, almost certainly. I order them with a heavy heart. I'm not sure if what I'm being swayed by is the best factor to have as the deciding one. I rationalize my qualms, try to live with it settled. Then at the last moment, seconds before the meeting begins, I change the order. I'm convinced that I can't ignore or downplay a factor I'd been willing to overlook before.

Now the rankings are made available to the group, and glory hallelujah, there are no conflicts! We're done almost before we had a chance to begin. But the meeting's not complete before we talk a little more about the candidates and justify our choices to each other.

It's done. And now it's up to me to write to the candidates who weren't chosen. The nausea sets in. Some of these were people I specifically asked to apply. Some were on my short lists. And I have to tell them (some for the second or third time, some in their last chance) that they didn't get selected. Did I make the right choice? Was my last-second change of heart motivated by the right reasons? I'm feeling the loss of all the classes that could have been -- the different energies and expertises and relationships that won't come into being because I settled on this one instead of that one.

But it's done. I think I did right -- but right has little meaning when you're talking about multiple possibilities for growth and flourishing and creativity. It's just decision, "cutting off," this one rather than that one -- a vision of what could be that you settled on, even though others beckoned with their own unique value. I can't wait to get started. But right now, in the short respite before my new PA responds to the news and we begin forging our partnership, I'm still mourning all the other ways that might have been.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

It's fair -- if not a bit of an understatement -- to say that my university is in transition. Budget woes of our own making have been compounded by revenue shortfalls statewide that have resulted in mid-year reductions in current budgets. An academic culture created by the previous administration is being replaced wholesale, and morale as well as expectations are in flux throughout the institution.

Nothing is certain in such an environment. I'm thankful for tenure, and I'm pretty sure my unit isn't going to vanish or my job be taken away. But what could happen is that the administrative part of my job could disappear. Anyone who's got extra time and duties layered on top of their base faculty position could find themselves back in a regular faculty position at any time, either through replacement in that position or through its elimination.

I thought hard today, for the first time in a while, about what would happen if I were no longer an administrator. And for the first time ever, maybe, I discovered that I really didn't like the idea. I got into administration because I loved being a part of making things happen, and I loved seeing how things tick. Certainly there are downsides to it -- less direct contact with students, becoming a lightning rod for criticism, thankless attention to trivia.

But when I thought about going back to having responsibility primarily for my classes and having more time for my own research projects, I found -- somewhat to my surprise -- that I didn't like the idea. In fact, if I spun out the hypothetical, I thought that I'd probably end up searching for other administrative jobs rather than stay put in a different capacity.

Now I have no desire to search for another job. Quite the opposite; I'm quite attached to staying put. And I have no reason to think that the administrative part of my job is in question or jeopardy. But it shocks me somewhat to find that I identify myself as an administrator rather than as a faculty member or scholar. I have to be grateful for that clarity. Knowing what you want now -- rather than what you envisioned for yourself ten years ago -- is important. Even if I never have to act on that knowledge, it's a sea change in my self-image. And I'm thankful to the crisis for helping me understand who I am in 2009.

The jet set

Next week I'll be headed to Washington, D.C. for the national honors meeting, at which I'm giving two presentations and leading a half-day workshop. The following week I'm going to Montreal for the national religious studies meeting -- no presentations there, but plenty of board of directors duties.

I've been too busy to look forward much to the trips. There's too much preparation, especially for the first meeting, to think about packing or sightseeing. But some of that preparation can't be rushed, either. There's a temptation to just take a couple of hours and grind it out, but you can't grind out ideas or inspiration.

Today was a gorgeous day -- low seventies, brilliant sunshine. After my classes and meetings, I went out to the big fountain that serves as the campus focal point, sat on a bench, and jotted down thoughts for those presentations and workshop sessions. It's all material that I've spoken and presented about dozens of times, and the workshop is based on one that we did three years ago, just with slightly different personnel and emphasis. But you still need a reason to say this rather than that. You need an idea and an organizing principle.

I sat by the fountain soaking up the sun, knitting, thinking, writing. All the ideas came in the first quarter hour. Then I tried to think about objections, counterexamples, extensions. I watched classes that had managed to persuade their instructors to come outside gather under shade trees and try to ignore loud groups of students taking pictures of each other with the fountain as a backdrop. I gathered my thoughts and plans for the next week, and tried to figure out when I'd get this piece done and that piece done.

The semester is half over, and after I get back from my travels, there won't be much left to the two classes I'm teaching. It will be time to finalize the syllabi for next semester and make holiday plans. These trips are the watershed and the crucible of the season. I'll be as busy and stressed during certain days over the next two weeks as at any time during the year. But it's all in the service of the ideas that come when they come, the ones you can't force but that nevertheless have to arrive before the deadline. The ones you scratch down in a notebook beside a fountain on a perfect fall day, playing hooky from the office.

Nightfall

I have semi-regular evening classes or screenings just about every semester. It's not something I really enjoy, going back to campus after dinner when all I want to do is read to my kids and take a shower and write and watch television.

But the reward comes when the class or the film is over, and I walk out of the building into what's suddenly -- night. There's a cool blast of air when I open the door. As I descend the steps, I can't help but look up into the dark sky. After a moment of acclimation, stars appear.

The academic buildings may be empty, but gaggles of students roam the dormitory areas, the fitness center, the parking lots. Our faculty illusion of ownership over the campus is shattered at night.

I'm glad for the moment to walk in the glow of lamps and security lighting, and to breathe the night air. A settled middle-aged life means, among other things, that you're not out and about much at night. I'm not sure it compensates for hours spent at the office after normal working hours, but it's pretty nice nonetheless.

Snowblind

We turned on football this afternoon, and there were our Tennessee Titans in their Houston Oilers-style throwback uniforms ... slogging around on a snow-covered field in New England.

I've been looking forward to colder weather ever since I finished my Malabrigo coat back in July. And while there are weather extremes in other parts of the country -- too much rain in California, hot in the Southwest, snow up north -- we're having a bracing slide into autumn here, now that all the wet stuff is over. I'm enjoying dressing myself and my children in their new sweaters and jackets, digging out hats and mitts, reminding their dad to bundle them up before taking them to the playground.

But the white stuff flying around on television was a sudden reminder that there's a downside to winter's advent. I have a lot of travel coming up in the next few weeks, and we're planning to visit the family right after Christmas. Snow and ice can really throw a wrench into those schemes.

Ever since summer, our weather has been just about perfect. Leaving aside some flooding rains in the last month, we had an unexpectedly drought-free summer, a July and August virtually bereft of three-digit temperatures, and long stretches of perfect readings in the seventies since school's started. Could it be possible that we'll have a winter without an ice storm, with a couple of half-foot snowfalls only on the weekends that melt before we have to go back to work on Monday? Might we have pleasant weather and on-time flights for our trips, dry highways and flurries on Christmas Eve while we're safe in our beds?

I know it's asking too much. Really, I'll be happy if we make it where we're going and back without losing our luggage or sleeping involuntarily in a layover city. I hope your autumn and winter is everything you dream, too.

But will it preach?

I'm preaching tomorrow at St. Peter's -- come on down if you're in Conway -- and it's a particularly challenging Sunday. The Old Testament text is Job, and it's the start of the church's stewardship drive. Begging for money is no exactly what anyone wants to do from the pulpit.

Luckily that's not my job (although our wonderful vicar Teri give me the green light to mention stewardship if I so desired). And luckily I'm fascinated by the book of Job.

I only occupy the pulpit three or four times a year, and that only because of the kind permission of the vicar. But I have many friends who are both clergy and university faculty. For me, getting a chance to speak out of my faith is a clarifying and refreshing break from my academic pose. Some of my colleagues (especially those who teach in church-affiliated schools) wear both hats every week.

It's gratifying when some of my students come sit in the pews while I'm preaching, but beyond their show of support for me, I'm glad they get to see a public university professor speaking in the arena of faith. There's a stereotype about us academic types out there, and there's another stereotype about people with religious confessions. Professional intellectuals can value their church communities and their prayer lives, and clergy and laypeople can value scholarship and intellectual rigor. Some of my students have never seen those two worlds occupying the same time and space. To them, I say: The doors of St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Conway are always open to you.

Dancin' machine

Tonight we went to Archer and Cady Gray's school for their Fall Festival fundraiser. Hot dogs were eaten, chip & dip recipes from all the grade levels were sampled and evaluated, bingo was played and cakes were walked.

The kindergarten teachers had the most ... aggressive ... dip sales operation. The idea was that you were supposed to sample all the dips and vote with a donation for the one you liked the best. Under a blue awning, the kindergarten teachers wore the local high school's football uniforms and did organized cheers.

Just as we were finishing up our food and getting ready to head out to the carnival games, the kindergarten tent fired up a boom box with a dance tune. I'm sure I had heard it before, but it was a little under my vintage. Something about stepping this way, sliding this way, jumping back and forth, then clapclapclapclapclap.

Cady Gray and Archer dropped everything and started dancing. They jumped in the aisles. They slid and stepped in front of people trying to navigate to tables with plates full of chili. They clapped like their lives depended on it. No matter how many times we tried to herd them out of the traffic lanes, they jumped right back into the open spaces as soon as the amplified voice told them to.

If the Pied Piper needed an updated tune, this would be it. Completely irresistible to our children, I tell you. The beat pounded and the voice commanded, and they were helpless to do anything other than dance.

Overtime

Like everyone else who participating in the A.V. Club's Chicago promotional event for its new book, Noel came down with a vicious cold (or a relatively mild flu) twelve hours later. By the time he got home the next day, he was shaking and hot, had lost his appetite, and wasn't able to do anything but lie motionless on the couch under a blanket.

That had an interesting effect on the reunion in several ways:

1. No hugging. Even though Noel is feeling somewhat better today, the only physical contact I've had with him is feeling his forehead. The kids have had none.
2. Continuation of caretaking. I got up this morning to make the kids breakfast, just like I did for the rest of the week.
3. Takeout diet. I made the kids dinner one night while Noel was gone, and I felt pretty good about that. In normal circumstances his return would mean we're eating home-cooked meals. But because neither of us wanting his germy self preparing food -- and because I'm lame -- we ended up with drive-through food again tonight.

But things are looking up. Noel's fever is down, although his cough is still painful. He slept well last night, worked through the day, and had an appetite for the chicken I brought home. I had a productive day at work and stayed late because Noel was well enough to pick up the kids and supervise them during the afternoon. And tomorrow is Friday; if things continue to improve, we'll have a normal weekend.

Provided none of the rest of us get sick, of course. Here's hoping all that hand-washing, sanitizer, and lack of physical contact keeps us out of harm's way.

Man on the moon

I confess that I arrived at last night's videoconference full of doubt. The plan had been hatched last spring in Montreal at the AAR's board of directors meeting. John O'Keefe, a professor at Creighton University, had bonded with me over the past couple of years; we were fellow technophiles and enthusiastic about taking our pedagogy into the twenty-first century. Over breakfast in Montreal we came up with a way to combine our classes. He would be teaching ecological theology; I would be teaching process theology. His syllabus would have a unit on process thought; mine would have a unit on ecology. If we could just make those units coincide, then we had the perfect opportunity to get our students together.

And so this semester we contacted the appropriate technical people on our campuses to make use of the videoconferencing facilities available to us. It was a lengthy and worrisome process, with personnel out for long periods of time or not as communicative as we might have liked But finally we had confirmation -- the test call had gone fine, and we were set to go.

I showed up last night convinced that something would go wrong. (After all, my babysitter had canceled that morning, and I'd spent the day fretting about just making to to the session.) Fifteen minutes before class was due to start, and I was kicking myself for not calling that day to confirm plans with the IT department. But ten minutes before class was due to start, the technician showed up and opened the door -- and voila, we could already hear chatter through the speakers. The call had already come in and been connected, and all that was left on our end was to turn on the cameras. The technician showed me how to control the cameras and audio, and then left me in charge. I was shocked; far from being a monumental undertaking requiring intensive cooperation and expertise, the whole thing was ... routine.

We enjoyed a spirited hour of conversation -- nine or ten people on their end, a similar number on ours, and a guest speaker to get us started. My students enjoyed answering the Creighton contingent's questions about process theology; I think it surprised and delighted them to be the experts in the discussion. The differences between the two groups became clear in a way that led to much comment, especially in the level of religiosity (my students being all over the map from atheist/materialist to Hindu to evangelical Christian, and O'Keefe's group being mostly Catholics and theology majors).

We ran fifteen minues over before I felt like I had to shut things down, and afterwards everyone left our room still talking and arguing. O'Keefe sent me an e-mail to tell me that he and his students had retired to the campus pub (there's another difference right there) and talked theology for ninety minutes.

And it was easy. The equipment was all there waiting to be used; all we had to do was come up with a time that worked for both of us. I'm already scheming ways to connect up my classes with others every semester.

Brightening skies

It's been a strange trip all around. Noel's Chicago jaunt was supposed to be headquartered in the guest room at Chez Head Editor, but then said editor got called out of town on a family emergency. So the bivouac moved to the sofa at Chez Old Friend. A bed of one's own and a big dog was exchanged for a sofa to crash on and a preschooler. A day spent in exhausting meetings at the A.V. Club offices was exchanged for a morning waiting for the cable guys to arrive.

As for me, I woke up to forecasts of heavy rain and the news that my babysitter, who had been secured well in advance for tonight's evening class, was sick and had to cancel. That led to a frantic morning flooding Facebook and Twitter with requests for assistance before a kindly alumnus came through.

Now there remain only two uncertainties -- well, maybe three.

1. I have to skedaddle over to campus at 5:30 in order to be present as the host of the 6 pm videoconference. What form should dinner take for the kids? I'm leaning toward pizza, but it's not quite as easy to go pick it up from the place a few blocks away when there's only one adult in the house. (Delivery, shelivery -- I haven't paid to have a pizza brought to my door in years.)
2. This is the first videoconference I've ever done using the facilities at school. A guest speaker on my end will be addressing members of my class, his class from the school across the tracks, and a class at Creighton University led by a colleague of mine on the AAR board. I don't know how smoothly it should go, but presumably the technician on site both here and in the remote location will be able to make it work. Never having done it before, I have no image in my head of what to expect.
3. After I rush home and relieve my emergency babysitter, it's time to blog the finale of a reality show. Or is it the finale? The previews last week didn't bill it as such. So I'm not sure whether I'll be investing two hours in that endeavor or just one.

In any case, once we get through the night and the kids are safely at school tomorrow, it should be the end of my shift of single parenting. Noel is scheduled to arrive home mid-afternoon -- if there are no delays, he'll be available to pick up the kids. And then Thursday and Friday I'll have quiet days at work with no students and no class. (Some would say I never have any class.) I'm looking forward to a relaxing weekend of me time. And preaching on Sunday. Which will be relaxing if I can get my sermon written on Thursday or Friday.

So good to me

What makes a perfect pumpkin?

It's a question asked in many a fall-themed children's book. And one that comes up anytime a kindergarten class takes a field trip to a pumpkin patch.

There was an article in the local paper today about the difficulties pumpkin-patch operators encounter trying to turn a profit. At this time of year, it's hard to imagine that the pumpkineers aren't raking it in; all you have to do, it seems, is plant a half-acre and then sit back and collect money from the school buses that will start lining up at your gate before they've even sprouted. But I guess there's quite a bit to it -- you need to press some sorghum, map out a hayride, invest in some petting-zoo animals. The article stated that if the crop is bad, as it's been the last couple of years, you have to buy pumpkins wholesale to plump out your patch. That cuts into the margin, I'm sure.

Like most parents, I have some definite pumpkin preferences. I'm not sure what the point of a small pumpkin would be, since I don't like pumpkin to eat and am unlikely to make a pie. The bigger, the better, as far as I'm concerned -- easier to carve, more impressive on the doorstep.

I didn't get to accompany Cady Gray on her pumpkin patch field trip today. What with Noel in Chicago and me with the usual work responsibilities, there was no one who could subtly push her in the direction of jack-o-lantern-sized gourds. So she came home with a perfectly Cady Gray-sized pumpkin, just about exactly the volume of her head. It's gorgeously round, pleasingly proportioned, classically sectioned. I have no idea what to do with it, but sitting on our kitchen table, it's a lovely evocation of the misty, chilly weather that's taken hold, and a signal of the rapidly fleeing year.

... Naturally

Noel took off for Chicago this morning. His colleagues at the A.V. Club have a full two days of brainstorming and planning in store for him, interspersed with cool premieres and book readings.

Luckily, I'm feeling like this week is going to be relatively easy. There are only three days of classes for me -- our fall break is Thursday and Friday. On Tuesday I've canceled my regular class meeting because we're doing an evening videoconference with a class at Creighton, featuring a guest speaker. I have a lot of writing to do (book review, four television write-ups); there's midterm grading happening, and a thousand other administrative tasks that need attention.

But all along I've considered this whole week an extension of my birthday. It might not feel like it until Noel gets home on Wednesday and I'm basking in two days with no students and no classes (and trying, as usual, to get up the motivation to accomplish something under those conditions). Things will really start hopping next week when we're back in class and it's only a few days until the double-whammy of conferences on back-to-back weekend in DC and Montreal (at both of which I have responsibilities, although it's behind the scenes only at the second).

And fortunately the kids are ridiculously easy to handle right now (knock on wood). Cady Gray is thrilled about going to the pumpkin patch tomorrow. As long as I get clothes on their backs and lunches in their hands, my work is done.

So I hope Noel enjoys himself with friends and productive work in Chi-town. I won't be playing all that much, but I also won't be stressed about the solo parenting for the next few days. Now please excuse me while I watch a TV show online ahead of time to avoid a pile up three days hence, then retire to plow through the last 100 pages of the book I'm reviewing tomorrow.

Teach the controversy

I've had a full day at Hendrix College, across the railroad tracks, teaching Reformation theology to part-time lay pastors. It was an especially good class today, to an especially good group -- smaller than most I've had, and maybe therefore more active.

Anybody who watches me in class knows that I love to teach and I love my subject. And almost any period of Christian history gives me a chance to get into what about it I love -- the complexities and relativities of theology in time. We started the day with a vigorous application of existentialism to the kinds of certainty and absolutism displayed by both reformers and Catholic authorities, and we ended with a vigorous defense of Calvin's worldview. No two discussions could be more different, and yet what united them is a delight in wrestling with the ideas that meant everything to people at that time.

Can we think along with people in history? I think we can, and nothing gets me more excited than when I see someone assuming that posture and defending a worldview that is quite different from their own. That's necessary if we are going to be able to assume good faith on the part of those who currently think differently from us. I find it invigorating to think that both the Catholics and the reformers (and the reformers and the spiritualists, and the Inquisitors and their victims, and so on) were trying to defend and promote what they felt to be the essential elements of the tradition they received and the faith that will save. How their commitments then issue into wildly opposed action becomes a study not in right and wrong, but in conflict and compromise.

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:

• 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.

I can hardly think of anything better. Happy birthday to me!

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.

Owowowowow

I woke up this morning after an uncommonly refreshing sleep, turned on the Weather Channel, and vigorously circled my shoulders to work out the kinks.

Bad mistake.

I got an immediate twinge between my shoulder blades, and no amount of stretching or popping would relieve it. As the day went on, the twinge turned into a dull spreading pain; I could isolate it by tilting my head straight back, as though I were looking up at the sky.

My motivation to do any work, or move around much at all, dried up. After a normal productive morning, I spent most of the afternoon almost motionless in my office chair, reading online and doing some light grading. Brisk walks to the library to pick up a book, or to the parking lot to check the mileage on my car so I could renew the registration online -- little errand breaks that normally I would welcome -- I skipped.

When I got home, after a delicious dinner, I went to the front room and sat in an upholstered chair. Leaning my head back was painful at first -- a few seconds of ow, oh, eeyahh -- but once I got in that position, I had no desire to move at all. I believe I could have fallen asleep in that exact position.

The relief of motionlessness convinced me that I could skip my usual half-hour workout. I went straight to the showers. Now I'm sitting on the couch with a microwave heat bag spread across my upper back, helping Cady Gray with a list of rooms in the house and typing slowly.

I don't experience pain or discomfort often, and it always surprises me how pervasive it becomes while it lasts. I feel vaguely chilled, almost like I were coming down with the flu; the hot shower felt like heaven. I feel worn out, as if I could collapse into sleep at any second. The first effect comes from the radiating effect of the pain; the second from the lethargy of motionlessness. But they combine to make me feel not so great, even when the pain's not present.

It's such a minor thing, but it has such a cumulative affect on my mood and on what I can talk myself into doing. Check in with me tomorrow to see whether I've bounced back -- or possibly sunk deeper.

Me from TV

The new TV season is upon us, and a lot of my favorite shows are firing on all cylinders. Here's what I'm enjoying these days:

• How I Met Your Mother. I write about this show for the TV Club. It's a traditional sitcom -- laugh track and all -- but with an energetic tweak. And the performers have developed into quite the ensemble.
• Actually, there's a lot of CBS comedy that I love: The Big Bang Theory, The New Adventures of Old Christine. Is this a sign that I'm getting old?
• On the "heck no, I'm not old yet" front, nothing delivers the laughs like It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia.
• New network sitcoms with promise: Modern Family, Community, and yes, Cougartown.
  
• I look forward to the cream of the reality competition crop every week: Top Chef, Project Runway, Survivor, The Amazing Race.
• Perhaps because my attention span is decreasing, I don't watch the hour-long dramas like I used to. Noel writes about Fringe and Lie To Me, but they're not appointment television for me (well, Fringe is pretty awesome).

I'm not ashamed to admit that I love television. What's on your season pass list?

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.

In the bleak

Today was the first day in five or six months that I have worn long sleeves. I've flirted with three-quarter sleeves several times in the last few weeks. But today, the sleeves came all the way to my wrists. I suppose that means that the weather has started to turn.

If only the turn had been in the direction of those brisk, smoky autumn days that make the world stand out in sharp relief. But no -- it was because of a cold drizzling mist that occasionally condensed into outright rain showers. The sun made no appearance, and the temperature stayed in the fifties. That's no time to pretend that you're in between seasons. It's the moment when layers begin to seem like a good idea.

I've been enjoying the cool mornings lately -- gives me a chance to break out the woolly accessories and plan sweater knitting. But this wasn't the kind of day that makes you want to swath yourself in cozy knitwear and stroll through autumn's glory. It was the kind of day that chases you inside no matter what you're wearing.

After returning from church at lunchtime, all I wanted to do was curl up on the couch and make progress on a scarf or a vest. Instead I started and ripped, started and ripped, dissatisfied with size or fabric. I headed out midafternoon and pinballed from office to drive-through to church and back again, struggling with umbrellas and feeling both rushed and chilled. It's an apt start for what promises to be a wet and crowded week whose routine threatens to be crowded out by deadlines and special events.

If I can make it through to Friday, though, I'll be rewarded with two days of birthday bliss ... before Noel leaves town. It's not just the start of colder, grayer weather. It's midterm. One word signifying simply that your time is not your own.

Block party weekend

Today's post about gifts you can't bear to give away is at Toxophily.

Today was Family Day at my university. Do you think the kids had fun with the activities provided before the football game?



Giant inflatable slide: check.




Make that double-check.




Snowcone: check.




Hello Kitty facepainting: check.




An iTunes playlist to examine: check.




Pony ride: check.






Fun in the sun: check and mate.

NaNoWriMo

No, I'm not participating. Well do I remember my last attempt at writing fiction. It was the eighth grade, and it was horrific. Really, you have no idea. Imagine if the function of every character was to state the opinions of the author. Imagine what would happen to the basics of fiction -- plot, for example. That was my eighth-grade stab at fiction, enough to cure me of ever believing I could write it again.

But after today's Soapbox (voluntary student Friday afternoon presentation) on National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo veteran Sarah asked the assembled 25 students or so how many would be trying the exercise. More than half raised their hands. "I love you so much right now," Sarah declared, and I can only second the emotion.

It's hard for some people to wrap their minds around the concept of doing something not because the end product is expected to be intrinsically valuable, but because the process of doing it will make you a better person. That's NaNoWriMo. The novels written because of the exercise will never see the light of day, in almost every case. But writing them has taught the authors something. It's shown them that they have far more resources than they imagined -- that they are capable of doing something they never thought they could do. At the end they believe themselves to be more capable than they did when they started. It's an accomplishment than can never be bought; it must be earned. Yet moving from here to there takes only a month, and can be done along with thousands of like-minded people.

It was Sarah's commitment to NaNoWriMo that led me to knit my first sweater, as part of NaKniSweMo. And like the writers, my sweater knitting was a quantum leap. It took me from "I don't know how people ever do that" to "I did that," in one fell swoop.

I'll be starting another sweater for NaKniSweMo, there's no doubt; I have dozens planned, so it's just a matter of picking the right one. Sounds like a good project for October, while my novel-writing students begin planning their plots and characters.

Rocktober

It's my favorite month of the year at last. Among the many great features of October: (1) Autumn, my favorite season; (2) My birthday; (3) Our anniversary.

I'd add Halloween to that -- I really enjoy doing Halloween with the kids -- but I won't be here for it this year. I'll be in Washington, D.C. at the National Collegiate Honors Council annual meeting.

All day I've been joking with the staff that it's too bad October is here, because now I have to do all the things I put off until October. And there's some truth to that. I've committed to doing a lot of things in October -- this weekend I'm teaching an Inquirers Class at church, next weekend I'm teaching Methodist pastors all day again, the following weekend I'm preaching. Noel is taking a brief trip to Chicago in a couple of weeks. At that DC meeting I'm doing a presentation and co-leading a workshop. Reports are due, memos await writing, and that's on top of the weekly round of teaching and writing.

It doesn't seem as overwhelming as September did. There's a mini-vacation in the middle of October. None of these little extra tasks will consume more than a couple of days of my time. At the end of the month, though, is a two-and-a-half week black hole. I'll be in DC for half a week, then three days after returning I go to Montreal for five days. The second trip, especially, should be therapeutic. I'll see lots of friends and colleagues, important work will be done, there will be time to immerse myself in my field and enjoy the city.

Every semester, one way or another, lurches from one crisis to the next. So right now I'm enjoying the relative normalcy of my days and trying not to anticipate the stress of what's coming until it actually hits.

It's my disguise

Today's post about little luxuries for the general head region is at Toxophily.

This week we've been dealing with plumbing and with Archer's memory. With regard to the former, a failing pipe meant we were looking at a week's worth of torn-up floor. With regard to the latter, we were trying various strategies to help him remember the increasingly complex responsibilities of third grade (returning library books, bringing home homework). Today, suddenly, both situations resolved for the moment: the plumbers took a less invasive approach and were done in a day, and Archer came home with a completed checksheet and all his materials. Right now, life is sweet.

Today I am a ham

Yesterday in a fit of whimsey -- or a fit of having an unscheduled hour toward the end of the day -- I decided the moment was right for the buying of boots.

Longtime readers will know that I have a Boot Problem. I know that I need to to ask boots to come into my life. I know that boots will be just what I need. But boots are alien to my lifestyle. I don't know how to shop for them. The boxes are so big, and the prices are so daunting. Every time I looked at boots, I ended up confused and bootless.

But it was clear to me for the first time this weekend that fall was really coming. Monday was cool -- so much so that I was hesitant sending the kids off to walk to school without jackets. I had told myself during the two weeks of rain that just ended that I wasn't going to get complacent about sunshine again. No more wishing I had bought boots before I needed them, then suffering without them because I didn't prepare.

So I left work with a new determination. It felt like Boot Time. And at the big shoe mall (slogan: "It's an anomaly!"), there were boots everywhere when I walked in. I fondled the suede Uggs, but I knew that suede wouldn't give me the weather resistance I needed. These weren't fashion boots. These were work boots.

Two or three aisles later, I was back at a familiar spot for me -- the Born section. Seems like most shoes I buy are Borns. They have a chunky aesthetic. They're made for walking, not standing around looking pretty. The leather is durable and rustic.

A few minutes later, these boots were on my feet. The heel is low -- walkability. The material is soft and matte finish -- functional, not fashionable. Comfort was the clear watchword, but with my calves encased in leather for the first time in decades, I felt unaccountably daring.

Thanks to my frequent-customer card, almost one-third was knocked off the price. Glowing with boot success, I took my savings and cleaned out Tuesday Morning's bin of Patons SWS ($1.99 a ball) and Elizabeth Austen Antuco ($3.99 a skein).

When I woke up this morning, the weather station said that it was 54 degrees outside. A real cool fall morning. If I were to walk to class, my options would be pants and my Born clogs, or a skirt and ... my Born boots. Yes, I broke them in today -- walking to work and back and all over campus. I felt like a superheroine -- a very comfortable, ready-for-anything superheroine. I have converted. I am a boot person.

Give me one reason

In two weeks, the A.V. Club's second book will go on sale. It's called Inventory, and if you're an A.V. Club reader, you not only are familiar with the feature therein celebrated, but you're also sick of seeing the book promoted on the site already.

Like most projects like this, I have only vague memories of spending most of 2008 composing brief blurbs for crazy lists that had been proposed for the book. (It's mostly new material, with a smattering of greatest pre-existing hits. And looking through it now -- our copy arrived today -- I find it very hard to remember what I wrote and what I should have written but somehow managed to foist off on someone else.

And by "looking through it," I mean "finding myself fifteen minutes later still standing in the bedroom with a child's discarded clothing in my hand which I was on my way to put in the laundry before I decided to pick up the book for a quick looksee." I'll sound like a shill for saying it, but this is the kind of book that'd I'd get sucked into even if I didn't have a small hand in writing a small part of it.

If you're one of those people -- the kind who can't resist a good list, obscure and eclectic popular culture, disputable but persuasive opinions, and the obsessive ordering of all of existence into incredibly narrow categories -- you just might like it, too. Warning: contains far more swears than necessary. Makes a perfect gift. I don't get royalties. On sale October 13.

The towel with the big E on it

Today's post about races and elephants is at Toxophily.

It's been a beautiful weekend of carousels and smiles. I could be wrong, but I think the upcoming week will be less jam-packed than last. Next weekend we'll have movies to see. The following weekend it's my birthday (send yarn and gift certificates) and our anniversary. I'm relaxed and ready to enjoy myself. Hope your fall is emerging just as gracefully.

Late September

The skies have finally cleared after nearly two straight weeks of rain. Although the temperatures are reaching eighty degrees, a vigorous breeze keeps the air dry and refreshing.

Out at the fairgrounds, shaved ice seems like the best of all possible treats -- watermelon flavor for her, cherry for him. Tasting the cherry syrup, the parents are startled by its intensity. Memory has watered down the mouth-filling flavor, but it all comes back in a rush.

Because of the wet weather, leaves have started falling early, even though the chlorophyll has yet to leach out of them. But the ginko on the corner and that one maple a couple of blocks away have begun to turn yellow, emerging from the larger trees around them like the one party-goer who came in fancy dress.

The football team is having its first home game, and the parked cars are inching down the street towards our driveway. Kids in purple jerseys race around their yards, throwing and catching with their dads or brothers while their mothers gather supplies for the walk to the stadium. Soon the crowd's roar will be washing over our house and fading away again, a faint but powerful tide.

It will be another month before the weather is reliably cool and the trees put on their full show. But there's no doubt that the season has officially arrived.

Spelling sentences, third grade version

I haven't had much creative work to post from Archer's third grade classroom so far this year. From what we hear, it's mostly been about multiplication tables and U.S. presidents. But finally yesterday Archer brought home a sheet of sentences he wrote with his spelling words. (His teacher wrote "Good use of creativity!" encouragingly at the top.)

chew: "Chew your food."
flew: Devin has flew 'fore. [The "be" in the last word is erased and replaced with an apostrophe; the teacher circled it and wrote a question mark.]
grew: The plant's roots are growing.
shoot: Will you shoot a basket or not?
noon: We eat lunch at noon, and that's true.
new: The opposite of old is new (that's easy!) [Teacher's note: Good!]
loose: Is the cat loose?
dune: There is a dune that's uniquely shaped in the desert.
choose: Do you choose coins or Stars?

Notes from the fairgrounds

The country fair opened in town this week, and Cady Gray's class went to see the livestock barns on Wednesday. Before she went off to school that morning, I asked her what animals she wanted to see. She said that she was looking forward to seeing the pigs with their curly tails.

"Will there be horses, do you think?" I asked. She allowed as to how there might be. "Remember to tell me if there are horses at the fair," I requested.

"If we have centers today, I'll choose the writing center and stamp a note for you," she promised.

When she got home, she told me that the fair didn't have horses, but that she also didn't have centers. "I'll stamp a note for you tomorrow," she pledged.

Today she brought home this note:



"There were no horses. Love, Cady Gray."

Evidence of activity

Lately it seems that all I've been doing is pinballing from one time-sensitive assignment to the other. Writing deadlines, committee deadlines, class preparation ... as soon as one is complete, the next one pops into place.

The premiere example occurred last night. After a day spent (a) preparing for class; (b) teaching class; (c) going to another campus to appear as a guest in another class; (c) watching a TV show online; and finally (d) writing a review of the TV show -- that takes us up to about 4 pm -- I went home, had dinner, helped get the kids to bed, worked out, and then settled down to watch another TV I had agreed to write up. No big deal -- it was reality TV, and I can usually write those up while watching them and post the write-up immediately after they end. Except that unbeknownst to me, the show had a double episode last night. Instead of one hour spent watching and writing, it was two hours. When it was over and the write-up was posted, it was time to make the kids' lunches and go to bed. Day over with just about every spare moment spent on the job.

But I think that tonight marks the start of a slowdown in deadline volume and frequency. Not that there's not still plenty to do -- all the reports and projects I've been putting off while dealing with deadlines, for starters -- but maybe it'll be a bit less hectic

Whew

I'm new to the performance anxiety commonly felt by parents. So far the evaluations of my children's prowess have been fairly low stakes. Sure, we let out a gentle sigh of relief when the report card shows excellent all the way across, but we expect no less from our academically talented and mostly well-behaved children.

Starting in third grade, though, the "everybody gets a trophy day" egalitarianism practiced by the elementary school in regard to the Gifted & Talented program (GT) comes to an abrupt end, and students are tested to see whether or not they qualify for this special training in problem-solving and creativity. We received a notice a few weeks ago that if we wished, we could nominate Archer for the program; this nomination would trigger standardized testing using the SAT-10. In most cases, only students scoring in the highest percentile on the test would be accepted to participate in GT.

Archer's been focused on GT since viewing the PowerPoint presentations created by its students during the last school year; you may remember that he came right home and made his own version. We knew that he wanted to go, but couldn't help feeling the odd sensation of almost not wanting to mention it to him in case ... in case he didn't make it. In the end our conviction that he would benefit from GT overcame our worries about this first possible instance of disappointment or failure, and we nominated him and gave permission for the testing. Then came the anxious quizzing after the testing happened about how he thought he did.

Today we got the letter informing us that he'd been accepted. And my relief and happiness surprised me. When I was a kid, I took all these advanced programs as my natural due, and I imagined that my parents did, too. But I really didn't know if Archer's deficits might interfere with the testing, and therefore if he would make the grade. Holding the notice of his acceptance, I felt not only proud but also ... unclenched. There, he made it over that first hurdle; the next one might be easier, I thought.

I suppose I need to accept that parenting is going to be a long series of these tests and evaluations and gateways, open and closed, for the foreseeable future. I think my reaction means that I need to guard against over-emphasizing their significance, for me and for my kids.

Big fan

We've got a bunch of Jeopardy! episodes saved up on the TiVo, for viewing during dinnertime. The rapidly changing dollar totals in the contestants' podiums never fail to absorb Archer.

Lately -- at least lately in our DVR-delayed viewing -- the show's been celebrating its 30th anniversary by showing historic episode. And tonight was the first one we've seen featuring all-time champion (and Noel's secret best friend) Ken Jennings.

Archer knows about Jennings from his Guinness Book Of World Records, as well as from Noel telling him all about the millions of dollars he won and the length of his championship run. So when he spotted Ken Jennings in the contestant list, he was transfixed. A delighted smile crept across his face. Periodically he would update us on Jenning's score. Then, when his over two million dollar total winnings were announced at the time, Archer made sure we all knew the extent of the fortune: "His 75-day cash total is two million three hundred thiry-five thousand six hundred twenty!" (Or whatever it was. Archer's signature move is the rapid-fire recitation of specific numbers with a bunch of digits, and when he gets started, you can't interrupt him until he gets the whole number out.)

It's a trip to see him all starry-eyed at this giant of accumulating scores and setting records. I know that he has no greater ambition than to have a lot of money (because that's how you keep score in the game of life) and be a winner. If only there were some way to start feeding him trivia so that he could follow in Ken Jenning's path.

Breathe in

It's time for another week to start, the first "normal" one in a while. Everybody's home, school is in session, work proceeds apace. Yet once again I feel cheated out of my full weekend's due of leisure; I fussed over my lecture today, created a powerpoint, wrote a post for this week's Wrapped Up In Books discussion, and tonight I'll be participating in the Emmy liveblog with other A.V. Club staffers. Sunday didn't hold a candle to Saturday, relaxation-wise.

And it's shaping up to be a busy week. In addition to the lecture and attendant stress, I'll be a guest in a class at the college across the railroad tracks on Tuesday, and I'll chair a tenure committee meeting on Wednesday. The TV premieres are beginning to come thick and fast, so more evenings than normal will involve an hour or two of writing. On Friday, freshman papers will be turned in, and although I've arranged with my teaching assistant to take one day off from grading next weekend, one day will still be on.

I've got no basis for complaint. Some people in this house work practically every second they're awake, and I've had a long summer where pretty much every evening and weekend was my own to command. But I'm terribly jealous of my leisure time. The one thing that didn't happen this weekend that I might have hoped for was an extended time alone in the house to play with yarn. Because of the rainy, humid outdoors, and because of a daddy-daughter date this afternoon, there just wasn't a chance to shoo the three of them out and enjoy some productivity on my own terms. Ah well -- there's always next weekend. I'm already looking forward to it.

Completely relaxed

Today's post about lace, warmth, and style is at Toxophily.

And my Saturday of rest is now over. I knit, I made t-shirt yarn, I spent time with my daughter, I had dinner with my husband and saw a movie. Tomorrow I've got to finish Monday's lecture, write a piece for the A.V. Club's Wrapped Up In Books feature, and live-blog the Emmys. Hey, it's one more day of leisure than I had last week, so things are looking up.

All new

When I first started teaching, I was regularly called upon to give presentations that I had never given before. I had models to draw from -- the lectures of my teachers -- but the circumstances of the classes meant that I had to synthesize the material in a new way.

Over the years, some of those presentation turned out to be one-shots, but some became recurring features of recurring classes. Gradually the inherited material leeched out of those lectures, to be replaced by some more personal understanding of the issues at stake. And over the years, the necessity of creating brand new lectures came up less and less. That's because I only lecture in the team-taught freshman seminar, and then only once or twice a semester.

But every once in a while, even in these attenuated circumstances, I have to create a new lecture. It is exactly this situation in which I find myself. The freshman curriculum was revamped last year, and some new content was added. So here I am with a brand new presentation to give on Monday, on the topic of Augustine, Aquinas, and the medieval self.

And that wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary if the stakes weren't so high. Remember, this is one of two lectures I will give in this entire semester -- perhaps this entire year. The audience is one hundred of the best students in the state, along with six of my colleagues and seven upper-class teaching assistants. A tradition of dynamic, challenging presentations has arisen in the last several years. If the students don't leave in a state of existential crisis, you haven't done your job.

So I've been slaving away on this lecture all week, adding material a few bullet points at a time. I'm at the end, still looking for a big finish, and I'll be spending part of the day on Sunday putting together a slideshow of period images. On Monday morning I'll be too nervous to read student work before class, and afterwards I'll feel like I deserve the rest of the day off. It's a good thing this doesn't come along more than once a year, because it's probably the hardest work I do.

At last

Noel is home! And normal life can resume. To celebrate, here's an assignment that Archer brought home earlier in the week. He told me that the assignment was to write about why he loves his mother and why she is special.

I love you because you call me when you go on trips. You are so very special because you let us have meals 1 hour earlier than most people do.

From Archer
To Mom ♥

It makes me anxious

Today started out with some stress, became remarkably relaxed midday, and then hit the panic button again toward the end.

Stress Up: When I woke up this morning, after a night of heavy rain, I peeped out the front window to find that our street was starting to flood. Worried that it would be difficult to leave the driveway if the water continued to rise, I alerted the kids that we would leave early; the rain slackened and gave me pause, then started coming down cats and dogs again. When we pulled out about 20 minutes before our normal departure time, the depth at our driveway was around mid-hubcap. I killed time getting a drive-thru breakfast and depositing a check before taking the kids around to their school. The rain would almost stop, then come down in torrents, over and over, and the black skies didn't offer any hope it would be ending soon.

Stress Down: At work I watched the weather radar and got reassurance that the southern edge of the system would indeed move past us eventually. I got cracking and did my class prep. Then I found out that our panicky meeting about budget yesterday was a bit too panicky: (a) some expenses had been double-counted, and (b) we could staff courses for the spring without having to hire four more part-timers. Suddenly one of the dark clouds hanging over me for the next two weeks -- namely, how to find people to teach the classes we needed covered -- was unexpectedly lifted.

Stress Back Up: I got a call around 2:30 pm from Noel. "I need your help," he said. "I've lost my wallet." After I picked my stomach off the floor -- what could be worse than losing your wallet in a foreign country? -- I got to work thinking about how to deal. Get Noel the bank phone number so he can have them cancel the debit card. Research online to see if the two checks in the wallet can be pre-emptively stopped, preventing the need to close the account. (Yes, and stopped checks are actually free with the account we have.) Think about if there's anything else potentially damaging in the wallet. (Just a driver's license, but luckily because of the whole crossing-the-border thing, Noel's got a passport with him; he'll have no trouble flying back, although the drive back from the airport will be of questionable legality. Noel doesn't keep cash in his wallet, and he has about 50 CAD left, so with a loan of American cash from his friends up there, he should be able to pay the parking fee and make it home.)

The whole thing is less scary than it first sounded; the major upshot will be the need to replace the driver's license upon his return, and naturally there were a lot of minor cards that will have to be accumulated again -- private club memberships for the liquor-license restaurants here in town, library card, etc. But the danger of identity theft or bank-account draining seems low. It's too bad this annoying and frightening loss happened now and put a pall on Noel's last day at what had been shaping up as a highly successful and enjoyable festival. But it could be worse. Reflecting on that helps me take the stress back down a notch.

The more you know

When you hang out with your kids a bit more than usual, you get odd glimpses of their life at school that you'd never think to ask about. For instance, Archer volunteered this morning that independent reading time started at 10:15 am. I asked him what he reads, and he said he reads books from his book box. Examples? I queried. The Best of Times, he reported, and The Hershey's Kisses Addition Book. I should have known.

My mom and dad left around midday, flying back home to St. Simons Island. Now we three are left here to wait until Noel's return on Thursday. We occupy our time with thirty-minute sessions on the Wii, with bead crafts and knitting, with computer games and homework and buildings made of blocks and tiles.

Just now Cady Gray came into the room where I'm working and asked to see the weather in Georgia. We checked it together, and Cady Gray sat beside me and rattled off all the statistics on the Weather Channel page: 80 degrees and mostly cloudy, UV index 0/Low, visibility 10.0 miles, dew point 75 degrees ("if it's 75 degrees, it will be foggy in here," she explained to me in an aside). She's talking non-stop about visiting her grandparents in December, when we have an after-Christmas trip planned.

But she also said that her dad gets back on Thursday, "and then everything's back to normal." I'm ready for that, too, sweetie.

Cloistered

I had an unusual day at work today. Usually Monday is all about interruptions -- ideas my boss wants to run by me, students and staff with questions, sudden projects that have to be done right away. But today I spent long stretches working alone on a book review, then on the student work that I didn't do on time because I was writing the book review. Both got done. I wouldn't have laid odds on that when I walked in the office.

By the evidence in their backpacks and their scattered reports, things seem to be a bit unusual at the kids' school, too. Archer didn't bring home his assignment planner, and when I pointed that out he told me that his teacher had to take car duty because the regular car duty teacher was sick, so they didn't do their assignment planners.

But some things are quite organized. Today Cady Gray turned in a large human-shaped cutout decorated as what she'd like to be when she grows up -- a teacher decked out in a fabric-strip outfit with button eyes and yarn hair, holding chalk and worksheets and sporting an identity badge on a lanyard -- thanks to the help of her grandmother in completing it over the weekend while I was gone. And I got a robocall from the principal inviting me to PTO open house two nights this week.

My parents leave tomorrow; Noel gets back on Thursday. There's nothing unusual about the few days in between -- drop off the kids, go to work, teach class, attend meetings, pick up kids, supervise playtime, have dinner, get them to bed, write and knit. No problems on the horizon except the usual ones of being on point, the ones from which my parents have been insulating me since their arrival last Wednesday. Cheer me down the homestretch, and Noel back into the locker room.

Where did the weekend go?

I drove back from Petitjean Mountain today in a rain that varied from misty to moderate, listening to an invigorating iPod shuffle -- Marah, Beastie Boys, Daft Punk. Skipping lunch because a bunch of biscuits, sausage, scrambled eggs, fruit, and scones fell onto my plate at breakfast, I got home just in time to see the kids sitting down to their peanut butter sandwiches.

By all accounts, they were little angels while I was gone, and when their dad called a couple of hours later, they considerately filled him in on the important aspects of their Friday and Saturday (Sorry scores, behavior records, Wii games played, etc.). With no obvious parenting to do upon my return, I was left at loose ends until their rest time ended and I could take them to JumpZone for some movement on this drippy day. We played a little Mario Kart Wii upon my return -- I was woefully out of practice, but Archer had unlocked the option to use Miis as characters, delighting Cady Gray to no end -- and then I took the whole family out to eat.

It's back to work in the morning; the usual round of course prep, teaching, meetings, and administrative work awaits me. That's a little bit of a shock after spending all day yesterday working. But I'm sure that when Noel returns -- and after this weekend, it feels like the home stretch although it's four days away -- he'll give me plenty of time for whatever leisure activities I desire. In between now and then, I'll try to maintain the routine, meet my deadlines, and put a little effort into the projects that will be coming due shortly after normal life resumes.

Long after sunset

It's been a lengthy day -- socializing and teaching students of all ages, driving back down then back up the mountain, holding my breath to see if our rather elaborate evening program came off, then relaxing with some live music. I'm pretty much beat.

This day has been hanging over me for several weeks. I always see these kind of crazy full days as cliffs in my schedule. I can't see what's down below until after I've jumped off and hit bottom, so there's no use in trying to look past them to what's coming up. I just have to put everything else aside until they're done.

The downside of this strategy is that eventually you're at the bottom of the cliff, and you have to pick up those post-cliff projects. Now that my two-places-at-once weekend is nearly over, it's time to remember childcare responsibilities, lectures that need scripts and slideshows, schedules to be constructed, deadlines I decided I could worry about later.

On the other hand, it means that we're halfway through Single Motherhood Week, and that Noel will be home before you know it, and then it will be the weekend again. And I miss my kids and there's probably something good on the TiVo. Life seems to stop, or at least you decide to put it on hold, and then when it goes on, there's some comfort in that.

Up the mountain

It was surprisingly difficult to leave town today. My plan was to leave directly from work mid-afternoon in time to arrive at the conference center on Petitjean Mountain before the students arrived on their chartered buses.

Yet after my class ended at 1 pm and all the e-mails were answered, I kept stalling. Part of the reason was that my unit had just been hit with another budget-shattering mortar shell, just when we thought the enemy was surely out of rounds and no more buildings remained upright to be demolished. I heard about it from the staff, and I was in no hurry to come face to face with my boss who'd just climbed out of his debilitating depression from the last crippling blow. Part of it was that I was leaving my kids behind, stretching the bonds of family another fifty miles when they were already pulled taut from Noel's flight out of the country.

And part of it was that it felt just a bit pointless to be driving out of town for the night, only to return less than twenty-four hours later, then to do it all again after a brief three-hour sojourn in the city where I live. I have responsibilities up here -- it would seriously inconvenience my colleagues if I didn't show up for tomorrow morning's session -- but all the back and forth wasn't something I could relish, given the stressors mentioned in the previous paragraph.

But I have to admit that something in me wanted to escape. Not the kids, not the grandparents, not the basement-dwelling morale in my office, but just in general. I've always both feared and been exhilerated by driving alone. It's a potent symbol of freedom that I'm both drawn to and profoundly spooked by. Out on the highway, listening to Fountains of Wayne and rolling farther from home and closer to some distant destination, I usually have to face with some greater degree of honesty what my conflicted feelings mean. I didn't want to leave, but I knew that I had wanted to leave, had been looking forward to leaving, all week. What does it mean to be caught between that yearning for flight and some combination of safety and responsibility?

Once I arrived and the students began pouring in, I became giddy with the energy of it all. Once I sat and talked with my boss and his wife, venting our frustrations and trying out existential responses to the increasing intolerability of our position, I was glad that I didn't have to bear those burdens alone -- that there is some solidarity even in our marginal state. Tomorrow will be too busy to think much, except in those couple of hours of driving, betwixt and between, feeling with gut-level urgency what I am approaching and on what I have turned my back.

Unexpectedly complex

You know how something seems really simple to you because you do it every day, but then when you describe it to someone, it starts to seem so complicated that you despair of their ever being able to do it themselves?

I'll bet all the parents out there know what I mean, because they've had to describe the pickup or dropoff procedures at their school to grandparents or other surrogates at some point. In my case, it involves driving on the wrong side of the road temporarily so that you don't get sucked into the line of cars going to middle school, and judging when you are safely "in the zone" so your kids can get out of the car but not too far back so you're keeping other cars from getting "in the zone."

Everything went smoothly, except that Cady Gray somehow ended up at the school office at pickup time instead of in the cafeteria where she was supposed to be. Mom was convinced that was because she can't find her way around the school yet, but I believe that the note I wrote, in an excess of caution, informing the teacher that her grandparents would be picking her up somehow was interpreted to meant that she shouldn't go where she normally does. No indication that this caused any upset on Archer's part, though, which is always my main concern when the routine breaks down.

When I got home at 4 pm, Archer was playing Uno with his grandpa and Cady Gray was insulating herself from losing by keeping score. Granny Lou fixed us a terrific meal of tilapia (which Cady Gray loved and Archer sampled with relative enthusiasm), asparagus (ditto and ditto), and squash casserole (yep and yep).

Archer brought home no homework to do, but a big stack of Scholastic Books that truly delighted him (especially Greater Estimations, the sequel to one of the library books he requests over and over). And he reports that he got a prize for getting the most books in the book order -- a prize that I feel is rightfully mine.

With apologies to readers outside the immediate family

This blog is going to go into kid news mode until Noel returns from Toronto. So here's the update:

• Archer seems perfectly healthy after a few days of mild fever earlier this week.
• A smart cookie of a practice teaching student gave Archer his choice of pocket calculators for his behavior prize today instead of the promised "pencil with dogs on it, including Ms. Bennett's dog."
• Cady Gray brought home a three-quarter scale outline of herself that we are supposed to decorate to represent what she wants to be when she grows up. Deadline: next Monday. Sounds like a project for Granny Lou and Papa!
• Apparently Archer didn't get to see the President's speech despite our signing a piece of paper saying he could.
  
• The kids' assessment of their school days? "Perfect."

Survival mode

I always get a perverse kind of enjoyment out of the September week when Noel goes to Toronto. Having sole responsibility for kids, parents, and family in general tends to focus the mind admirably. Suddenly everything that can fall away or be put aside, does and is. Yes, I pay for it after his return, when I'm a week behind on long-term projects that gave way during the crisis. But for a brief time, it's clarifying to understand what has to wait and what must be done.

My personal schedule is unusually hectic during this particular trip, given my double-booking on Saturday that will have me trying to be at Hendrix College and on Petitjean Mountain simultaneously. And I will be scrambling far too much the following week if I don't make some headway on two items: the spring course schedule and a new lecture I have to prepare for September 21. But if I can get just a little ways into those responsibilities -- they don't have to be completed while Noel is gone, just started -- then all I have to do otherwise is prepare for each class period as it arrives on the calendar, be present when the meetings happen, make sure the kids get picked up on time and have their lunchboxes full when they're dropped off in the morning, and show up where I'm supposed to be with the right set of notes.

I'll be really glad when Noel returns and I can relax back into normal mode -- the state where labor is divided and I don't have to worry about being responsible for everything. But to the extent that his return will coincide with the expansion of my vision to include those items I was able to put aside, I know I'll also miss the clear priorities of survival mode.

One day shall ye rest

It was a slightly tense day today as our plans were beset by illness. The chili supper we'd been looking forward to at a friend's house was canceled because said friend was feeling under the weather. And Archer was running a fever of 102 this morning, even though he claimed to feel reasonably well. We dosed him with Tylenol before his sister and I set off for our morning at Mom's school.

The Tylenol did its thing and Archer was nearly his old self again for the rest of the day. His running commentary on Mario Party 8, the U.S. Open, and facts about the human body's waste elimination system (learned from a book in his room during naptime) continued as usual with barely a break. If it weren't for the very occasional sniffles, sneezes, and coughs, and if it weren't for his preference for lying curled up on the couch rather than spinning autistically around the room, you'd never know he was sick.

At school, Archer's been collecting play-money coins for good behavior. (Bad behavior has been "taxed," he tells us, although he seems to have escaped taxation thus far.) Wednesday is the day the money is to be counted and a reward bestowed on the coin champion. Nothing motivates Archer like accumulating money, so he's been looking forward to the culmination of the coin program ever since it began. I hope his condition improves from here rather than worsening; I know it would be terribly disappointing to him if he were kept home from school on such a big day.

From all our labors

This long weekend is a chance for us to catch a deep breath before the busiest two weeks of the semester.

On Wednesday, Noel leaves on his annual trip to the Toronto International Film Festival. My parents will fly in that night. Friday I'm driving up to Petitjean Mountain with a hundred and twenty freshmen, faculty, and assorted student helpers for our annual fall retreat. Saturday morning I'll be one of the leaders of a writing workshop up on the mountain. Then as soon as we break for lunch I'll be sprinting down the mountain and back into town to lead half a day's worth of class on Reformation theology for part-time Methodist pastors (I have a former student covering the morning session, when I'll be tied up with the writing workshop.) As soon as that's over I reverse course back up the mountain to participate in the retreat's evening academic session. Sunday at noon I'll be back home to relieve my parents of kid duty before the school week starts Monday morning. Noel will be back on Thursday.

That's a couple more activities than we usually try to cram into the week of Noel's Toronto excursion. Usually he's back the same day I head up the mountain. And usually I'm not teaching a Saturday class that same week. And usually I'm not supposed to be in Santa Barbara at the same time for an executive committee meeting (that's the one thing that had to give way in this triple-booked weekend).

At a certain point you just set your jaw and figure that no matter what goes wrong, time will pass and it will all be over eventually. Then today Archer started showing signs of getting the flu -- lethargy, aches, fever. If we all come down with H1N1 this week, all bets will be off. But I've already let go. Whatever will be, will be. Bring it on, September 9-17.

Fishy in the sea

We just returned from seeing Ponyo, after it unexpectedly opened in town. And I can't wipe the smile off my face.

Thanks to Disney, John Lasseter and other champions, Hayao Miyazaki has received plenty of exposure in the United States. Yet it's still difficult to describe what makes his films so special.

For me it's the combination of precisely observed behavior -- especially child behavior -- with an unhurried pace, a total lack of concern for cinematic economy that leads to a richness of detail, and the impression that the filmmakers somehow translated images that bubbled up in imagination or dreams directly onto the screen with no intervening technical steps. The idle thought that a goldfish looks something like a little girl in a red dress becomes an exuberant sequence of transformation. Yet just as much delight comes from watching the fleeting yet all-consuming emotions passing across a child's face as he waits for his noodles to cook.

Miyazaki wears his heart on his sleeve, and the mythological and ecological fantasy of Ponyo might be too big a leap for some viewers. But its utter sincerity and wild invention is of a piece with the empathy the film shows for a little boy who walks barefoot over the crest of a hill wiping tears from his eyes and looking for his mother. I watched every moment of the movie with delight, as much in the evidence of freedom found in the drawing style and pacing from moment to moment, as in the overwhelming joy expressed by the children's wide, simple smiles.

Velocity

Today's post about taking control -- and letting go -- is at Toxophily.

This Labor Day weekend will be a much-needed chance to recharge. I plan to spend plenty of time with my kids riding bikes and doing crafts, plenty of time with my husband talking about work and life, plenty of time socializing with friends, plenty of time by myself knitting and reading. It won't fix everything that's chaotic in my professional life. But I hope that it will put some of it in perspective. Here's wishing you a restful and refreshing holiday as well.

Combinations

A couple of days ago, Cady Gray brought home a piece of kindergarten "homework." It was a game where we took turns pulling two cut-out pictures out of a paper bag; if we got a pair of pictures that rhymed, we got to keep the match.

Archer was really interested in this game, and kept playing long after Cady Gray had moved on to something else. I idly asked him how many different combinations of two cards we could draw from the sixteen cards in the bag. "If it mattered which order they were in, the answer would be sixteen factorial," I said, "but I don't know how to figure out the answer when the order doesn't matter."

That night I was packing lunches for the kids, and as always, I wrote notes to accompany them. Since this summer I've been writing little quizzes or questions for Archer, and packing a pencil in the box so he can answer them. Because I was still wondering what he would do to figure out the answer, I wrote: "If there are eight pairs of rhyming cards in the sack, and the order doesn't matter, what are the chances you will pull out matching cards? Total # of possible combos: ___ Chance of a match: ____"

When I got home yesterday afternoon, I immediately opened his lunchbox to see what he'd written. In the first blank, he'd penciled in "120." In the second, "8 in 120."

Now I had to try to figure out what the right answer was. I Googled around until I found a description of how to figure out problems with the form "16 choose 2" using Pascal's triangle. Then I Googled around some more until I found an image of Pascal's triangle with enough rows to get down to 16. I read over to the second place and ...

120. He was right.

But how did he know? I asked him today, and he explained that he added 1+2+3+4 and so on, up to 15. When I asked him how he knew how to do this, he just said that if he kept going farther, he would draw one of the combinations that had already been used. Noel asked him if he read about how to do this in a book, and he said that he hadn't.

I'm at a loss to understand what numerical logic would lead him to this method. Any mathematicians out there want to explain it to me in plain English?

The password dilemma

Like many people, I have a few standard passwords, which I alter mostly by attaching various numbers to them. I've sat through the usual lectures on password security, but most of my passwords are for sites that I consider fairly low-stakes. It was probably a horrible mistake, but I never worried about it too much, other than for my bank's website.

A few weeks ago, I got a new computer at work. As I set up my browsers -- I use Google Chrome and Firefox about equally -- I wanted to find some way to take all my stored passwords and transfer them to the new system. I found a program that claimed to decrypt Chrome's storage files, and decided to try it.

It didn't work. But then I started to worry. Maybe it did work, and all my passwords had just been transmitted to some nefarious entity. Uh oh. Time to start worrying about password security all of a sudden.

While running a spybot check on my machine, I started to change the most sensitive of my passwords -- my Google account. See, I mail usernames and passwords to myself, using my Gmail as an easily-searchable credential retrieval system. So if you have my e-mail password, you have all my important passwords.

Then I started changing more, working my way down the sensitivity list -- bank, PayPal, etc. How to keep track of all these passwords, though? I wasn't willing to use Gmail anymore, seeing its vulnerability so suddenly.

I researched password storage programs, and the open-source KeePass system seemed to be the consensus winner. A brand new master password later, I was storing my refreshingly diverse passwords in the program. I installed one version at work, one version at home, and a similar app on my iPhone.

It's unsettling to think that I won't necessarily have access to my passwords if I'm away from my computer. Sure, you only need them when you're online, but what if you're working on another terminal -- at the hotel courtesy boarding pass printing station, or at the internet cafe in a foreign land? There are a few key passwords that I'm going to have to carry in my head, the ones I use every day. I wish there were a web application that I could trust with my passwords -- then I'd know they were there no matter where I was, like they used to be in my Gmail.

How do you keep track of your passwords? Are you a password slacker, or have you seen the light?

Oh, and the postscript... I figured out how to transfer the key Chrome files to the other computer. My stored passwords aren't there, but a lot of autofill information (including usernames) is. So at least I didn't have to start completely from scratch.

Shrinkage

Today the Arkansas Democrat Gazette shrunk by half a column in width. That's not necessarily surprising, in these days of economic woe for the industry. Many other papers have taken the same measure recently; some took it some years ago; others have been forced to more drastic cuts.

What's strange is that the paper itself seems to contain no notification of the change. Not on the front page, not on the op-ed pages, not in the local news section, not in business. The result is that readers all over the state unfolded their papers, wrinkled their brows, and said to their spouses, "Does this look smaller to you?"

And it happened to be the day that the managing editor publishes his weekly column. Seems like that would be a natural place to talk about the decision and explain the rationale. Instead, it's a discussion of how the Dem-Gaz and other newspapers handled the late-breaking news of Ted Kennedy's death. Interesting, but strangely removed from the fact of the skinnier newspaper one is holding in order to read the column.

I hope there will be ample coverage of the paper's finances and business decisions in the days to come. It would have been nice to have seen such coverage coincide with the tangible evidence of its contracting fortunes.