The Wasteland

This past weekend, I was able to get together with a sweet, college friend, and it was lovely!  But it also made me realize how isolated I currently am from what I dearly love.  Specifically,

I miss learning in community. 

I miss talking about English and English-y things. 

I miss reading heavy books, and I miss the presence of such tomes scattered around my house. 

I miss people who know the difference between D. H. Lawrence and e e cummings.

I miss phrases like "What can we infer about the character on page 68?" "Ecriture feminine is inherently non-linear," and "This validates the argument..."

I miss referring to a book as a "text."

I miss debating about whether a text should or should not be considered part of the canon.  

I miss telling other people about what I'm working on or reading and watching their eyes react to what I'm saying.

I miss talking about my research.


I miss sifting through databases.

I miss having Ben proof my writing only for him to say "I don't understand what you're talking about, but it seems like you know what you're saying."

I miss the thrill moments when I feel something percolating into a coherent idea.

I miss being in dialogue with friends who use intelligent, interesting, varying language.

Despite all of the arduous work that goes into formal education, I rather miss it.   

(Props to anyone who caught my literature reference in all of this blather!)

Our blue footed booby

This...

...is a blue footed booby.

This...

...(the one on the left) is our blue footed booby.

Two of my college besties spent the fall semester of my Junior year traveling abroad in Ecuador.  One of my favorite stories from their pirate adventures was hearing about the blue footed boobies.  (And as I'm sure that you're wondering, my other favorite story was about Lonesome George, RIP my tortoise friend.)

What is the point, you ask?  It is this.  Yesterday, Audrey woke up from a lengthy morning nap with BLUE feet.  This was one of the (mercifully) small handful of times since I've begun this parenting experience (which, now that I think about it, is something like a pirate's adventure, too...eh?) where I've had an adrenaline rushing, gasping, WHAT DO I DO?!?! moments.  It's not good to see that your child has two blue feet.  Understatement.

The thing is, just this past week, a teacher friend of mine and his wife began bringing their 16-month old daughter over to our house for a few hours in the afternoons, a couple of times a week.  Her mom had just left, and I had three car-seat-riding children in my house with two car seats.  The odds aren't good on that one.  I couldn't just load up my dynamic duo and scoot on over to the doctor's office.

A couple of calls and an office visit later, all is well.  A blue footed booby no more, Audrey's pudgy peds are pink again.  This mama is still a bit on the worried side, admittedly, so there are lots of piggy checks.  And we're hoping that she discontinues the resemblance to that bird, as cutey and precocious as it looks.   

Pass the carbs, please

Today is a gross day: cold, rainy and gloomy.  Just about my least favorite kind of day.  And by the time I wrangled two girls into their respective rooms for the afternoon, I felt crabby.  And the only thing I wanted was to veg out with food for no other reason than my mood.  I got to thinking about 2 things while I purposefully gave in to my mild craving: days like today make me feel like I'm not mentally engaged in or challenged by anything and what a serious pull food has on our emotions.  Humor me a little while I attempt to satiate a little of both thoughts here and work out some mental food/emotion thoughts.  After downing some unnecessary carbs, my brain could use a workout.  (Actually, all of me could...bleck.)

Food relationships
These are so pivotal and some of the first true relationships that are formed in our lives.  Parents definitively begin how their children engage with and feel about food.  We also have so many studies and reports and articles out there to (theoretically) teach us what to do about how to foster a healthy food relationship in our children as they begin their food adventures.  DO expose your child to a variety of tastes and textures.  DON'T  force your child to eat.  DO wait a couple of days in between introducing new foods.  DON'T worry so much and let your child explore as he wishes.  DO let your child dictate their eating.  DON'T let your child play at the table.  It's bewildering!  And for me, this developmental process has always been more challenging than the dreaded potty training (psshhh...easy peasy). 

Organic was unknown to me when I was a kid.  I didn't ask if I was allowed to eat a cookie (I just did, a lot!) when I was a kid.  "Turkey roll combination" was my favorite lunch meat when I was a kid.  And meat at every lunch and dinner was expected when I was a kid.  Dare I say, I grew up in a pretty typical middle-class American household as far as food expectations are concerned.  Genetics aside, I didn't have to be as chubby, so to speak, as I was.  Now, I've maintained my own eating schedule for over a decade, and I continue to fall back to childhood habits.  Still!  And my margarined toast was exactly what I wanted this afternoon, probably because it's exactly what I used to eat 15 years ago when I was bored, lonely, cold, moody, etc.

As a parent, I believe that this is the second most important way that I have and will mold my daughters.  What will their food habits and pitfalls be when they are 30?  I'm hoping that their mindsets will be something like "Ugh, another cold, rainy day...I need a clementine!"  But I also acknowledge that I can only lead them to the water; that being said, it's my job to ensure that the water is good.

Food and Mood

I felt like reading up on it a bit, so a quick Google search later, I came across this article from the renowned Mayo Clinic.  Even the term "comfort food" gives me warm fuzzies.  But in the back of my mind, I also have this niggling thought that keeps surfacing.  What if I grew up scrambling for food every day as a part of existing?  What if the term "comfort food" meant nothing to me because it was non-existent?  How does this skew the food-mood correlation?  Isn't it definitively a luxury?  And then ultimately, how do rationalize the gluttonous amount of comfort food to which I willingly fall victim? 

I try to maintain a standard of if-I'm-eating-dessert-than-you-can-have-dessert with Abby, and eventually Audrey, I'm sure.  But inevitably, that means that I sneak chocolate or what-have-you on the side.  After wallowing in the holiday sweet fest, I'm ready to work towards a healthier semblance of satiety and balance.  Unfortunately, the need is pressing now, at the height of comfort food season when I'm ever so convinced that some carbs and a little sugar will do the trick to sooth my crabby soul that feels deprived of sunshine.

Yesterday, I had a little bit of time by myself to fun a few errands and ended the trip with french fries and a big ol' piece of chocolate cake (oh, free goodies for my birthday...you ensnare me!).  And that accidentally ended up being my lunch.  What an imbalanced food-mood relationship that illustrates.  Oh.  My.  Goodness.     

The Pledge

This post has been running through my mind in various permutations for something close to a month now.  And I very much want to write it for the sake of some mental catharsis, though it's uber-unpleasant for me.

I resigned from my job.  

I've never missed so much sleep over something.  I've never had so many imaginary conversations about something.  I've never felt so personally crummy about anything.

I asked for maternity leave without being at my job for a full year.  I asked to extend my leave when it became inherently obvious that I needed to.  I taught one night class as an adjunct while on leave.  And all of that together supposedly suggested that I was not committed to my job and would not want to return.  It was rough having my character called into question in the same breath where I was explicitly told that I haven't broken any laws or violated my contract.  It was ROUGH. 

And ultimately, I decided that I needed to not be committed to a job that I wholeheartedly believe repeatedly violated something that I signed when I graduated with my undergrad degree: the Manchester Graduation Pledge, which states that


I pledge to explore and take into account the social and environmental consequences of any job I consider and will try to improve these aspects of any organizations for which I work.
    Things did change because I worked there.  People were willing to step up and fight for me throughout what has been a year long ordeal.  Language has been changed.  And no one should go through what I did while there again. 

BUT...the blessings are many that come from being forced into this decision.  And I do not mean this to be in any way complaining or whining about what I think was getting the seriously short end of the stick.  I'm at peace with what has happened because I have also never experienced something where I have received so many clear signs affirming my choice.  And it continues still, a few weeks after this whole debacle came out.  Songs, people, and words surround me whenever I find myself mentally teetering.  Advice is readily available, support has been tremendous, and I have the time to lick the bitterness out of my mental wounds.

Manchester trained me for this job, and it also trained me why I shouldn't hold it any longer.  

How embrassing

I'm the odd one out amongst my siblings, who are both guys' guys, up to date on all things modern, all-American beer & pizza as they come.  Fancy words they are not.  I chose sushi for my birthday dinner; if they knew, I would get made fun of.  I'd rather use money given to me as a gift for something like chocolate or ice cream; if they knew, I'd get made fun of.  I vote differently pretty regularly than they do; if they knew, I'd get made fun of.  In other words, I get made fun of a lot, at least that's the way it seems to me.  And to be totally fair, it's pretty universal through my family.  Ben and I generally have a different mindset and focus than others.  They're just generally nice to Ben and don't skewer him for it. 

This time, however, I downright deserved it.  I have a certain personality rather assigned to me, mostly by my siblings & dad: the stickler-English-teacher-bookworm-nerdy-nerd persona.  This means that anything written has to be double & triple checked for mistakes otherwise, let the lambasting begin.  It's a good thing I did that when I created Christmas cards online this year and mailed them without actually seeing them in person first.  It would definitely be a bad thing if there were glaring errors in them. 

How embrassing.  Next year, I knoew that I'll be more careful.  Blergh. 

Anyone want to join in?

Odd...I haven't heard much at all about New Year's Resolutions these past 4 days.  Either no one that I know is making them this year or else no one seems to be publishing them.  And in this hyper-tell-all to-everyone world that we are part of right now, it seems to me that I would have heard of a few by this point. 

Let it be known, I have a resolution this year.  Also let it be known, I totally blew mine last year (which had nothing to do with losing weight mind you...good thing too since I gained about 20 pounds in the first 5 months).  So here it is: each month perform a unique service project as a family.  We might bring some cookies to a local nursing home or volunteer making buddy bags at the local outreach center.  I don't know yet, but we'll decide each month together what we will do.  And I, for one, am looking forward to it!

30?!?

Here comes my honest-to-goodness confession.  I'm turning 30 soon (like counting-down-the-hours-soon), I don't know how to feel about that.  It just still seems weird.  I'm pretty comfortable being in my twenties, and there's a new level of social expectations that I have to assume once that number is attached to my name.  And there's another reason why it makes me a little apprehensive, but that is going to be another post for another day.  Probably January 9th (assuming naps happen and I have a moment to write).

But then again, I'm pretty much made to be in my thirties.  We have certain expectations about behavior for people in their thirties--wanting to be committed, wanting to stay at home, wanting a family, settling down.  I'm all over all of that.  I wasn't a social butterfly in high school or college or my twenties, and I'm certainly not wanting to change that now.  I just really like being warm and snuggly at home rather than cold and pretend somewhere else.  And of course, this isn't to say that I never do anything, but, seriously...that's my preference.  I also dislike the babysitting coordination.  Kids provide me a lovely excuse to not try.  That also sounds like another post for another day. 

Writing of kids...love them.  Audrey is amazing.  She helps me tolerate the snarky three-year old.  Her gummy smiles are ear-to-ear and 100% honest.  I was watching her interact with Abby yesterday and I realized that one of my absolute favorite things about young people are their transparent expressions.  There's no guile at her age.  When she smiles at you, she means it.  But then again, when she pokes out her little bottom lip and starts the tears, she means it as well.  Why do we stress about knowing what a baby means?  Often, they are so easy.  

As we have been shifting the house around for decorating and then re-shifting it back, I'm packing things up with a specific purpose now: packing away certain baby things.  And I'm never going to (have to) use them again.  I am thrilled.  Finally, something in my life is certain.  It doesn't matter where we live, what my job is, whether Abby goes to this school or that, whether I'm done with grad school or not...it doesn't matter.  We're done producing Cox babies, and we couldn't be more certain.  Even better, I feel even more joyful about each individual stage of Audrey's development during this time that can be stressful.  Her first few months were not long & arduous simply because there seemed to be a recurring chant in her wailing--the last time! the last time! the last time!  Now, I'm no longer storing a baby tub, a Bumbo, and a baby swing.  My house will slowly revert to being our house rather than a storage unit for the time when or if we would have another baby.  It's a glorious feeling for me and deliciously refreshing. 

Now that I'm at the end of what I wanted to write, I realized something: bring on 30; it's already more decided than my twenties ever were.