The Unspoken Christmas Tradition

We’re in the Pacific Northwest for Christmas, staying at Ed’s parents’ house. My folks live about ten minutes away and as our good friends have lent us their car until early next week when we get a rental, we’ve been spending pretty much equal time at both. We are lucky to be able to be with the family for the holidays. I won’t say we’re happy about it, because, 1) Ed’s ass would twitch, and 2) happy is too simple an emotion to express what it feels like to be with family over the holidays. I think that it’s closer to say that we are feeling a kind of euphoria/stress current dramatic syndrome.

Case in point: I just left my mom’s house to drop off our presents and pick up our Christmas Eve presents (pajamas). Jack & I left a bit early because my sister’s youngest child, Daisy, was throwing a fit. Apparently she didn’t want to get out of the bath. She sat up at the top of the stairs, flaying, kicking, crying, and basically being her two-year-old obstinate self. Jack was getting both tired and concerned, so we kissed those in the house not throwing a tantrum and came back to Ed’s folks. Daisy normally saves her tantrums for bedtime, but like all of us it seems, she’s can be set off at a moment’s notice.

For some reason, everyone seems to be on the edge of some kind of emotional tears. I have a hunch that it isn’t just us, but a lot of folks. Is it American? Is it cultural? Are there others fighting the urge to punch their pillow a bit before falling asleep a night? Or, are there those families out there who are calm, grateful, and openly affectionate at Christmastime? If so, what’s your secret?

Christmas Eve morning, Ed went out to buy buns for his family’s Christmas Eve ham sandwich tradition. He had bought the wrong buns (too small, no Kaisers) – and was on the defensive about it. Normally, he would roll (Ha!) back to the store, buy the “right” buns and be done with it. This morning, he got a bit fired up, huffed around and got somewhat excited. That same day, Before giving her girls their bath, my sister, April, sat down on the couch and fought tears. She said she was overwhelmed about everything that had to get done today (Christmas Eve), but then she said she wished that there was no Christmas. Her husband is just about to head home after a year serving in Iraq, and despite the thrill of having her family back together, it is still the first Christmas that her family won’t be together.

I think what April is going through gets at the paradox of the holiday season. We’re bombarded with all of these conflicting emotions: we’re expected to be grateful for all the intangible stuff: love, health, security at the same time we’re bombarded with this idea that we have to buy stuff to bring happiness to others. In other words, the very spirit of Christmas – or what Christmas should be – highlights what it often isn’t. So, here we are, raised to expect tangible gifts under the tree and with them, the intangible sense contentment and love. Let me tell you, those kind of expectations never bring peace to anyone. Somewhere along the way, all of the tangible and intangible gifts get confused and we can’t tell what will make Christmas be like what we want it to be. And, the kinds of gifts we tend to want as adults are the most complicated gifts of all- and somehow the promise of gifts under the tree just gums all of those expectations up. And, because the culture of Christmas – on television, in the news, in movies, in all the books, promises that you will indeed get what you want or need, we get our hopes up. Dangerous? A bit.

I wonder, though, if families, particularly those that live far away from one another, would take the time to think about what they want- as individuals and as a family if we didn’t have the holidays to remind us. I guess some of us do some times. And, that’s really the miracle of Christmas: the ability to be honest about what you want and even if you won’t get it, to know that those around you hear you. You know? Now, that would be something.

All said, we had a lovely Christmas, really. Like every year, we'll go back to our daily lives and remember all the joys of the season: how great it was to watch Jack thrive around so many people who love him, to remember where we came from and the people and places that helped to mold who we are today. We probably won't remember the shadowy side of Christmas: the tension, unspoken expectations, or emotional exhaustion until next year around December 20th. Maybe Christmas is so meaningful because we live through the tension. Without it, the holiday would just be another day.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

Our Christmas Blard

We tried and tried to get a photo where we all looked like ourselves, and this is the closest we came. We meant to send it out like good Christmas folks, but it didn't happen. So, here's our Christmas card. To those of you who read our blog, (thank you), and have a genuinely joyful holiday.

Laura, Ed, & Jack

Merry Christmas 

The Grinch That Stole Christmas Letters

What does it say that I can remember typing a paper out on a manual typewriter when I took my first college class? On Saturday I emailed my professor my last paper of the semester. I'm sometimes blown away by technology. I mean, can you imagine going back in time to 1991 and trying to explain to someone, email, the Internet, or even iPods? Sheez.

Still was nice to click the send button though.

I'm currently sitting in a room full of undergrads typing this while they take their final for ED 100. Eyes in the back of head my friend, eyes in the back of my head... ED 100 is a class that wanna-be teachers take to study educational philosophy, you know, the big questions in teaching: What is affective teaching? What makes a good teacher? Why aren't teachers paid more? Ok, maybe not the last question, but you get the idea. It's actually a class I hated when I took it. I can see me now: I hate this class, what does this class have to do with teaching history, man, these writers don't know nothin' about teaching, what does Dewey know about teaching nowadays, he's old, I'm young, I know what's good teaching...I suspect I was the type of student I would hate to have now as a teacher.

Turned 33 yesterday, blah. Oh, the day was fine. Laura and Jack were awesome, but I was a little grumpy. I think I have a problem with the whole-time-marches-on thing that birthdays come to represent for us after, the age of 25. It's your birthday. You're one-year older. And. There's. Nothing. You. Can. Do. About. It.

Ah, Christmas. Actually, I don't have a problem with Christmas. Looking forward to it this year. Our present to ourselves this year is a trip back home to see friends and family. We're excited. We thought about doing Christmas cards and then, well, I had papers to finish, Laura had deadlines at work, and Jack, well, he's still too young to dump those responsibilities on him.

One thing you will NOT be receiving from us, ever, is a Christmas letter. You know, what I talking about (and I apologize in advance to those of you who have written them in the past, I'm sure they were fine). Christmas letters are those letters you get from friends explaining to everyone how wonderful their lives have been in the past year.

[to be read in sarcastic mocking-voice]
Oh, Bob got a promotion, and we bought a new house, and our 10-year old looks like a model, our dog had puppies, and we all love one another...blah, blah, blah.

The theme of just about every Christmas letter I read is: We're so happy. People who say they're "so happy" make my ass twitch. People who actually put it in print...well, I just don't know. It can't ALL be good this past year, can it? And yes, you could say, "but Ed, why would want to read about the bad stuff?" And I don't want to read just the bad stuff. It's just that Christmas letters have the feel of old Soviet-run newspapers back in the day. Which is to say, they're a little boring, and well, kind of phony.

Just once I'd like to read the anti-Christmas letter...

Well, this year was, to tell you the truth, hard. Didn't it suck a little at times? It wasn't all bad. But we made it through and we're ready to give 2006 a go.

What do you think, unrealistic? Probably. And I've probably permanently removed us from the Christmas card lists of those of you still thinking, "why does he hate Christmas letters?"

Next post will be from Tacoma!

Why Men Forget to Call Their Mothers

So, last week I agreed to play in Ed's Bowl pool. No, it's not a giant bowl for swimming in; rather, it's this college football bowl game betting thing. Basically, I give him $10 (I told him I'm good for it) and choose which college football teams will win their bowl. Last night I asked Ed if he could give me some information about the teams so I could make a relatively educated guess. Little did I know that there are nearly 30 bowl games - all played between December 20th and January 3rd. Tell me, is there someone out there who actually watches all of them?

Anyway, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Ed started off by giving me the run down on Arkansas State and Southern Miss. I think I remember correctly that this is Arkansas State's first bowl game (I picked them). By the time we got to talking about the Motor City Bowl (about seventh on the list), I was EXHAUSTED. Apparently, Ed took my request for information to the next level. One minute we're hanging out on the couch, channel flipping, Ed pretty exhausted from long days this week finishing papers - and the next, Ed is basically in full Sports Center mode. I got the feeling he wasn't talking to me, but channeling a kind of sports analysis talk show- I don't even think I could find the rhetoric to capture the tone. I heard a lot of words like "momentum," "plagued by injuries," "they've shown a solid consistent bowl performance," etc. He'd often pop up off the couch and run the computer to find the stats on some team's offensive line or their overall bowl results in the last five years. It got to a point that I couldn't take all the info in; I began to catch the bowl fever, wanting to know as much as possible, feeling crazed about NOT knowing enough and at the same time, feeling pressured to guess. It felt a lot like taking a test I wasn't prepared for. And this is fun? I am reminded why I don't like betting.

At a certain point, I thought about choosing teams based on more (for lack of a better word) feminine paradigm. One of Ed's (female) friends is using team colors for one of the deciding factors. Ed was kind enough to include that information at one point. For the Sun Bowl, he stated that UCLA and Northwestern are the "funnest color match up." Gotta love the guy.

I must admit, I do like the idea of watching these games, just to see how my picks are doing. And, if in the process, Ed and I can have some common discussion about college football, well, that'll be a nice perk to the holiday season. Besides, I might also gain some insight into the infamous fantasy gene. (There's a bowl named Insight, too, I picked Arizona State based on MY OWN recollection of Rutgers' predominately hideous football record).

On a separate note, I should apologize to Ed's mom. Yesterday was her birthday and I am pretty sure that Ed's exhaustion, coupled with his sudden focus on college football, caused him to forget to call despite his self-reminders all day. Last night I woke up to a 1:30 a.m. "(insert G** here) Damnit" when he did remember.

Wish me luck. If I win the pool, I plan on using my winnings to buy something really girly.

The Bliss (?!) of it *ALL*

So, the whole point of a blog is to post everyday. My God, how do people do it? Basically, that's been my question lately. How do YOU ALL do it? "You All" refers to those folks out there who are in shape, attentive loving parent and spouse, successful financially, and emotionally/spiritually satisfied. Of course, nobody feels like they are "doing it all" right? For those of you that are, I don't want to hear from you.

It's 11:30 on a Saturday night and after a long day with Jack - great to spend time with him, but the kid didn't nap (just plain didn't sleep!), I had to grade SAT essays online later than I had planned. I've been offered the job of writing (yes, WRITING, not just editing: YEAH!) the teacher edition of one of the reading workshops in an eighth grade textbook and that's due Wednesday, plus I've got some new math work coming up this week. As usual, I've got all the good stress I could ask for. And despite any hint at an irritated tone, I'm genuinely thankful for (all) the work.

I'm just trying to figure out how to balance *it all*.

Of course, I could start by dealing with my DVD addictions. By addiction, I mean anytime we rent a television series on DVD, I have to watch ALL of episodes in one or two nights. That meant that when the third disc for Scrubs first season came in the mail, I kept Ed up until 11:00 with me Thursday and Friday to watch all eight episodes. Let me tell you, it was worth it. If you haven't checked out the show, I highly recommend it. The next season starts January 3rd. Dramatic and hilarious, wry and sensitive, with the occasional dancing and singing, Scrubs reminds its audience that even though we strive for it all, the success is, well, as you may have guessed, in how we strive for "it all." I always forget about that. Ed also narrowed in on another reason we love the show so much: the writers have a knack for showing how life really works: in extremes. One minute we're on top of the world, and then something happens, and the next moment we feel like shit. This is my life. Forever I've been trying to find some equilibrium, to be more emotionally consistent and avoid the extremes. Maybe it's better to roll with ALL of the reactions, emotions, and face them head on. Who knows.

I'm going to bed now and focus on what did get accomplished today (I had some good laughs with Jack, Ed finished a major paper for school, I got a few hours of SAT grading in) and not what isn't being accomplished (the usual: sleep, and the ability to comfortably fit into my jeans that fit so well when I was walking up and down California Avenue everyday).

The Empathy Factor

When I was about four or five, I went and watched Disney's Pinnochio on the big screen. When the whale swallowed the wooden boy and his friends, I threw up all over my dad and his (now ruined) leather jacket. When I was in high school, I went and saw Edward Scissorhands with my sister. Towards the end, when Johnny Scissorhands Depp was flaying on the ground, trying to help someone or other, but couldn't because of his, well, scissor hands, I got up, went to the bathroom and blew chunks of resses pieces. I haven't had that candy since- you can ask April (my sister). She'll confirm. About five or six years ago, Ed & I went to see The Sixth Sense at the theater. A little over one-fourth of the way into the movie, Ed leaned over to me and (stop reading if you are one of the five people left who've never seen this movie) and said, "I think he's dead and doesn't know it." I promptly got up, ran to the bathroom, and hurled my dinner. We left, and I didn't see the rest of the movie until about two years ago.

Granted, I had a terrible day at work the night we went to see The Sixth Sense, but I'm not sure that would have made a difference. I've come to realize that I have a profound dose of empathy in my temperment. This may sound like I'm bragging- that I'm some really caring, thoughtful person. Honestly, I'm not any more loving than the average person who cares deeply for their family and friends (most days, the evidence is hard to find). My emphathetic nature gets me into more trouble than it is worth; it is the major contributor in my pessmistic mind set. I will usually imagine the worst case scenario and then when thinks work out better than that, everything is fine. I was sure I end up in labor for 72 hours and leave the hospital with a C-section scar; I was preparing for bankruptcy the month after we moved to Boston; and recently, I've been picturing Ed frozen on the side of the road.

You see, whenever there's the potential for "bad" things to occur, I ALWAYS put myself in the shoes of the people that I don't want those things to happen to - and that's mostly Ed & Jack. The problem is, I imagine that they feel much more worse than they probably would. For example, for the last three weeks, I've been *dreading* the inevitable New England Winter. I've purchased about six pairs of gloves and mittens for Jack, bought him a space-snow suit, and told Ed to get whatever he needed to stay warm. The idea of either of them being cold for a second makes me want to turn the basement into a bunker with enough supplies to last the winter as a hermit. I HATE being cold, and so, in a twisted self-centered way, I imagine that my boys hate it just as much - and their misery, like my misery, is something I just don't want to tolerate.

I woke up with Jack this morning at 7:00 a.m. Outside the snow had begun to fall (it's not like in the Northwest when the weather men say they'll be snow and you're lucky to get a trace that might melt away in a few hours- here when they say snow, they mean it. It's like predicting rain in Washington state). It's now noon and the snow is still falling. Immediately, my mind started thinking about how we'd get Ed to school Monday since he usually rides his bike. We could take him to the T-stop in the morning, but Jack's in bed by the time he'd be back in town. And, what about daycare and me getting to work? Just how many days can you call in sick (disguising your fear of driving in the weather) before they yank your latest freelancing gig?

Ed, giddy with snow fever, thought he should go grocery shopping to stock up (we're supposed to get a handful of inches through Tuesday). He really just wanted an excuse to be out in the weather. We are complete opposites when it comes to snow. He came home not five minutes before I realized I needed some more vicks rub to put on the radiator to help Jack breath through layers of his current snot festival. And, because I'd rather crash in the snow and walk 2 miles before letting Jack have an uncomfortable sleep (again, because I hate that and imagine he does, too, because if I hate something, doesn't everyone?), I drove out in the Boston snow after to get it. And guess what? It ain't that bad. By 10:00 a.m. (on a Sunday!), the sand had already been scattered on the back roads. AND - I think they do something to the roads, maybe a built in heater or something, because all the main roads (and not-so-main roads) were mearly wet, no slick or snowy at all. Suddenly giddy myself at NOT sliding and crashing into a Massachussets native ready to pound me for my "out-of-town driving" skills, I treated myself to my first Egg Nog latte of the season. Yum.

So, ONCE AGAIN I've been shown one of two things: one, that things are NEVER as bad as the seem or, they are never bad ONLY IF you devote a chunk of your thoughts imagining just how bad they could be - thus, reality by comparison, rocks. Whatever works, I guess.

Hole Mole

Ed & I went out on an actual date (read: Jack free) the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I've been trying to find a reputable babysitter on Craigs List the last few months and we've finally found 2. And, while we did return home to this first babysitter watching a Lizzy McGuire movie (oh my), she seems like she'll keep Jack entertained and safe.

Anxious to tour this city we've been living in for three months (!!) now, Ed suggested we go to a trendy Mexican restaurant near Newbury Street (thanks Rachael Ray). For those of you who don't know Newbury street (and why would you?), it's consumer heaven. Well, heaven if you have quite a bit of spending cash. There's an Armani store, the Gap, quite a few independent outfits, plus a dizzy array of ultra hip boutiques. Because we didn't leave the house until around 7:45, most of the shops were closed - which is probably good since dinner and a babysitter is roughly the cost of a cashmere sweater.

Ed parked on Commonweath Ave near Back Bay, not sure how far the walk was to the restaurant. As we strolled along in the frigid Boston night air, I commented that if this was a first date, points would be lost at how far we were walking. When, after about 15 minutes, the snow flakes began to hit my nose, I thought that complaining might make me a bad date (I still complained). The walk was lovely, though, despite the cold. On our left trees hanging onto their last leaves graced the median; and on our right, gorgeous apartment buildings and old three-story town house homes took our thoughts away from our cold hands (note to self: always bring gloves with me until next Spring). I love the rot iron fences and window flower boxes. I adore the elaborate entry ways, with real plants, benches, framed art, and elegant area rugs. I kept imagining what the people were doing inside the rooms with the lights on, knowing they were feeling warm because of their historic homes and the contrasting cold oustide. Somehow, walking that sidewalk and soaking in the atmosphere warmed me up. Ed, too, I think. By the time we got to Casa Romero, the winter weather was more festive than miserable.

Good thing, too, they asked if we had reservations (which we didn't) and so we were put on a list and told to come back in 30 minutes. So, we walked Newbury Street, visited a Nike store (it was open) and updated Ed's sweatpant collection.

Casa Romera is located in the basement of a building; the entrance is off an alley (called "public alley" - which is good, I guess, because "scarry, dark alley" might be too intimidating). After checking our coats (first time for this South Tacoma native), we snuggled into a table next to a (locked) wine cabinet and listened to the specials. Authentically Mexican, the waiter delivered the specials in thick Spanish accent, of which I heard "sea bass" and "capers." I just wanted Mole sauce. Ed, too. He went more exotic, ordering chicken stuffed with cactus, cheese and mole. I chose the chicken enchiladas with mole, in part, because the entrees were so pricey. The enchiladas cost $14.00! They were good, but not that much better than the $7 mole enchildas at Guadalajara Hacienda in West Seattle. Apparently, Boston is limited in its Mexican dining experience, so they can jack up the prices. My $8 margarita complimented the meal perfectly. There's really nothing like a leisure dinner with drinks and conversation with your spouse when you haven't been "out" in nearly four months.

It's Tuesday now and we're back in the swing of things- returning to a relatively carb-free lifestyle after our carbolicous weekend, balancing work, school, Jack, and details like paying parking tickets (damn meters). The babysitter is coming back this weekend - I can't wait. It's funny how just getting out to play becomes so crucial and yet so low on the priority list. It's nearly December, and well, we've "made it" so to speak. Back in August, I wasn't sure what things would be like in Boston, but I knew that whatever they were, we'd have adjusted into some sort of routine. That we have :)

Gobble Gobble

Thanksgiving, part two. Yesterday (for the "real" thanksgiving), we went upstairs to have dinner with our landlord and the family. Lovely- so nice not to have to drive anywhere. Today, we did it our way- incorporating Kingston family Paxo tradition (stuffing seasoning) and our own homemade gravy tradition. Jack loves the stuffing (yeah, he's our son), and oh! he loves Yams, too - so, yeah's he's definitely my son. So many blessings. Can't count. Giving thanks as we digest....

Hello, My Name is Laura....

My fingers bleed on occasion. Well, at least once a day. The skin around my nails is in a constant process of healing- fresh red pus, a new scab, or a faint scar. I don’t think I’m in the minority of people who bite their nails (or, more precisely, the cuticle and skin around the nails). My sister does it, as does a good friend of mine. We talk about it now and then, laughing away the silly habit. Like eating too much chocolate in one day, we are nonchalant about this nervous skill. The truth is, I’ve been biting, chewing, spitting, and swallowing the skin around my nails for longer than I can remember- at least since middle school. At 31, I think it’s time to face reality and admit this habit is out of control.

Back when I was still living under the impression that biting my nails was more of an eccentric action (rather than plainly destructive), I was actually somewhat proud of the damage I could do. It’s not too far from hearing alcholics or drug addicts talk about how much Vodka they could down in a few hours or how many lines of coke they could snort and still function. Even when they may have admitted the problem and endured rehab, there would still be some distant pride in surviving the self-inflicted ordeal. The greater the damage, the stronger the spirit must have been to survive. My fingers must feel that way. I can hear them now, “Back in 1996, right after a spectacular day kayaking in the Puget Sound, mouth went to town on us, biting each side of each cuticle for at least a half an hour, working the skin just before the bleeding, trying to savor the calluses left over from last week’s binge, prolonging the inevitable need for Band Aids. Oh, but we are still here. Typing away.”

Okay, so when I think about it, I am fairly ashamed of my actions. Maybe the drug and alcohol abusers are, too, when they have to recount the details of their actions. But, I do remember the day when Ed, who had only recently married me, engaged the morbid fascination of my biting (now it’s just a nuisance for him, like any repeated action you live with for nearly a decade). He asked me to bite his nails like I bite mine to better understand my process. Unabashedly, I bit the skin on the side of his cuticle, just like I do mine, hard and precise. His hand recoiled. Shocked at the realization that I actually bite the skin, and not the nail, like “normal” people, we never really addressed the issue again.

For the last two weeks, I’ve taken a page from the AA handbook and decided to take my nail biting day by day. I wake up most days, and say to myself, “I won’t bite today. I might bite tomorrow, but I will just focus on today.” Unfortunately, I’ve yet to get through an entire day without biting. I don’t even know my record. Four, maybe six hours, tops, I would guess. The trouble is, I don’t even know I’m doing it. It’s not like I have to call a dealer (“got any fresh skin?”) or pour a drink. I just have to zone out working, thinking, watching t.v., and my teeth crave their pacifier. I’m still trying, though. I’m thinking about putting picture of beautifully manicured hands from jewelry advertisements in all the places I’m prone to nibble.

Damn, It's Getting Cold

This morning on the news the nice Boston weather man said that tonight's low would be 16 degrees. I promptly turned to Ed and told him that I was "out" - pack my bags, I'm heading back to the balmy northwest.

Yes, I am a weather wuss. You see, I've grown up in Tacoma, Washington- where we really don't have seasons, where it stays around 50 degrees for nine months out of the year. Yes, I can take the 40+ days of rain and the rare glimpses of sun. And, yes, while I do greatly appreciate the gorgeous fall colors, I just looked up yesterday and discovered that winter is indeed HERE. And, I can assure you, I have no idea what WINTER means - not yet anyway. The trees are bare. I miss my evergreens. I miss wearing the same coat from September to April.

Tomorrow we are going shopping for winter coats and such. I've already spent nearly $40 on hair products to keep my hair from turning into the straw the cold, dry weather (and radiator heat) is turning it into.

Cheers to everyone out there who endures and survives the seasons. I'm planning on spending much of my time viewing it all from inside the house- working those extra hours to pay for our gas bill.

Tomorrow is promised to no one

I had just walked in the door from the grocery store and put the bags on the counter.

"You're Dad just called," said Laura in the tone that signals Bad News is coming.

A dear family friend had died. She was a close friend of my Mom's and the mother of a high school buddy of mine.

How is it that Bad News always seems to cut through the "everydayness" of a busy day? One minute you're consumed by thoughts like, "damnit, the car carpets are really dirty," and the next you're reminded of how fleeting, this, really is. After 9/11 I told myself I should tell those I care about how much I appreciate them. Put some thought into it too. Of course, Life slogged on. School and work started up and I was right back to focusing on the "car carpets" of my daily life.

I will say a prayer for the family. I'll call my Mom to check in. And today, I'm going to keep my mind off the carpets and on those things that really matter.

Reflective Shopping

Not that I need a reason- but because I spend the majority of last week cooped up with a sick child and was fighting off my very own cold - I decided to take a holiday Saturday afternoon. People were coming over to watch Notre Dame defeat Tennessee - and, as with most football games, my emotions were tied only to how the outcome affects Ed's mood. In other words, I had absolutely no interest in watching football, especially IN THE HOUSE, which is where I've been for the last week.

I've had a Macy's gift card- given to me by my students from EDCC last spring- that I have been meaning to spend. I heard that there was an actual mall in Boston- more than one, but hadn't ever actually been to any of them. I've always prided myself on preferring the smaller, independent shops- maybe that's the organic Seattle snob/idealist in me, but lately I'd been craving some good, old fashioned consumer indulgence. Like my love for cable, I am what I am - a channel flipping consumer. So, I headed to the South Shore Plaza without a care in the world, ready to browse my brains out and, if something caught my eye- perhaps even purchase.

While roaming Pottery Barn and Crate & Barrel looking for ideas to spruce up our home, I realized that it hasn't been since before I went to WWU that I actually had the time to do something that I chose to do. For the last five years, if I needed to take a break from studying, writing papers, grading papers, planning class, having a baby and nursing him, I had to MAKE the time - which usually meant foregoing some crucial task (you know, like pumping milk so my breasts wouldn't explode or sleep). I gotta say, it was NICE to cruise around a mall, try on perfumes, wander into stores that I would never go into unless they were on my list of needed "stuff," and basically just hang out.

I stopped at the Gap to buy jeans (seems all that "moving adjustment" adrenaline that kept me in my wonderful post-nursing weight has calmed down, that plus my recent ravaging of all the leftover halloween candy is making my current jeans a bit snug). I know that I'm old because I don't like buying jeans anymore- not because I don't like trying them on (that's bad enough), but because it's nearly impossible to find any jean that doesn't leave your ass crack hanging out anytime you're not standing up straight. Trying to figure out if "regular" meant regular, or 1/2 inch crack as opposed to "full crack," I asked a gap gal which jeans were the ones with the lower waist. Assuming I was looking for the more "trendy" (ass cracking) jeans, she pointed to the "low" section saying "oh, these are the ones you want," hinting that anyone who wanted anything else was next in line at the PTA meeting. I clarified that I wanted the ones that came up higher on the waist, she recovered as only an experienced retail salesgal could and pointed me in the right direction. I got my jeans, didn't (and don't) care about the fact that the sit only an inch or so below my belly button and wonder if I'm being "classic" or "out dated" in my fashion selections.

Oh, well. The afternoon was lovely. And Jack survived the five hours without mommy (of course). I came home replenished. I don't think it was that I needed time to shop - but just some TIME. I don't know how I would have made it out here teaching. It seems like the last five years in grad school and teaching (oh, and becoming a parent) have completely overrun personal time. I started to become a bit proud (read: martyr) about how much I devoted myself to two distinct roles: mommy, instructor. Wife, friend, sister, woman came in a very distant second, if at all. Is it in our culture to champion such inbalance? Whatever, I'm so glad that I decided to not teach, even if it meant I was in job limbo for a while- I was DONE. It wasn't until my little Saturday siesta that I understood just how "done" I was with that life.

I worked at a UCC church during grad school. One of the pastors there said that there are no coincidences. I'm inclined to agree. In all the change and turmoil of the last five years, I continue to move forward. I still can't reconcile why things work out for us - because I know there are millions if not more folks out there for which things DON'T work out. That's something to ponder and write about in my next five hour break.

-Laura

Little Things

The volume on my alarm clock was somehow set to its highest setting this morning. Needless to say, Laura and I were jolted from our sleep this morning. Who changed the setting? We have a suspect. We'll be questioning him later today.

The ride in to school was unusually pretty today. The leaves are techinically past their peak foilage (is that the right term?) but it didn't matter. I ride along several parks where the backdrop was a mix of bright yellows, dark reds and oranges. Coming from the Evergreen State, I forgot the smell of leaves in the fall.

Locked the bike up and took the T the rest of the way into school. Decided to walk a different route to school. I love it when I have the time and energy to just try a different way to a destination. Maybe could save me some time, maybe it couldn't. Walked along Beacon, sun coming up over downtown, Fenway Park in the sunlight, the Pike (I-90) busy below me. Cut through an alley way and came out on Comm Ave across from the School of Ed. Perfect.

Non-Rhetoric Coffee, please

The coffee place I go to near school was closed today. Something wrong with the pipes said the sign on the door. No water. I went to Starbucks.

Actually, I don't why I go to this coffee shop in the first place. It's staffed by the type of smug, snooty undergrads that act bothered by you even being there. I was told they don't recognize terms like "short", "tall", "grande" because, and I quote, "It's bad enough Starbucks is taking over the world." Sure. Fine. Whatever. I'll have a medium, non-fat mocha. It's still ok to call it a mocha, isn' it? Or did The Man invent that term too? In that case I'll have a medium-calorie-challenged-people's-chocolate-coffee drink please.

Damn if they don't have good pastries and bagels though. [gritted teeth] So I put up with them.

Not My Fantasy

I got a call Sunday night from a friend in Seattle. I asked him how his newborn (2nd child) was doing, particularly his wife. I got some details, but when pressed for more was reminded that he couldn't focus on anything other than the task at hand: draft night.

For those of you blessed enough not to know about it, fantasy basketball (and football, baseball, probably hockey, soccer and diving) is what all the men are doing (or thinking about) these days (it hasn't trumped sex... yet). Matt had called for Ed's conference call with the other fantasy basketball mangers? coaches? for this year's draft. Ed had printed out his list of names, was studying them at the coffee table (despite the last few days panic about *all* the work he had to), distinctly agitated that the draft was starting an hour earlier than established.

Fantasy sports irriate me. I'm not sure why. I know some of my irritation comes from a guarantee of more sporting television hours. I used to enjoy college football season because it meant I'd get a break from the predominance of sport on television when the season was over- and Ed doesn't watch that much, really. Fantasy basketball annoys me in a special way. First of all, the basketball season is at least as long as a school year (I swear), so from now until NEXT JUNE, Ed will be checking out BB highlights (he never used to be so diligent- something I miss). And not just ONE team - rather a bevy of teams for which ALL of his fantasy team plays on. My own special torture. Last year, up half the night with Jack, exhausted from being new parents, Ed would STILL find time to check his team - I think he even woke up a few minutes early to see how "his" guys were doing. What the hell?

I've talked with other women about this (and just so you know, I don't know any women who play fantasy sports with the vim and vigor that our male counterparts invest- or any women who play for that matter) and we don't have an equivalent to fantasy sports playing. I think this is why I get so annoyned. You know, we don't have a daily "thing" that we're equally invested in(other than a freaking phenomenal wife/mother/woman/domestic balancing act), thoughtful about, and, frankly, something that can make or break a good or bad mood. I know the $ aspect helps, but for 7+ months of checking scores, trading players, reading/researching new players- I don't think it's the $100 prize (or whatever it is) that's inspiring these guys. I think I'm jealous. I want to be so intrinsically inspired and devoted.

Anyway, tonight, Ed was flipping through the channels as I was setting out some pages to edit. Bothered by the color and chatting jolting, I asked for the remote and finished watching an episode of Law & Order - just to maintain some order while I got organized myself. When the show was over, I stood up, engaged in a discussion about the death penalty with Ed (spurred by the show)- how I am definately against it because if there ever was a CHANCE that a mistake could be made, we should take it off the table since death is (duh) irreversible. He asked how I felt about abortion (we both assume that life is life from the get-go-micro cell). Still unsure about that, but my argument leaning towards having it allowed - which, yes seems hypocritical - but, hey - the government needs to stay out of our bodies- to either NOT allow someone to be killed or ALLOW someone to be killed.

Near the end of our light early evening chat, I noticed that Charles Barkely was talking from a podium desk- the kind sports analyses spews from. WHAT? You're already watching BB highlights? I went off for about 30 seconds before Ed gently (read: smugly) reminded me that I had taken the remote and that this was the show that came on after L&O - that, in fact, I had in a sense, allowed this show to be watched.

I promptly walked away to vent on our blog.

-Laura

Snow for Halloween?

It snowed 2 inches on Saturday and today it's 67 degrees and sunny. Go figure. I was sad for a millisecond Saturday night when the snow started to melt. I say a "millisecond" because I remembered right away the calander still read October. I mentioned this to our neighbor, a Boston native, and he looked at me with a mix of disgust and bewilderment.

"ya haven't seen much snow in yor time, have ya?"

School is at that point in the semester where I'm not quite sure how everything's going to get done. I went through this in grad school at Western. I'd reach a point where I'd think, "damn, I got a lot of crap to get done....how's it going to happen?" Of course, December (or June, if it was Spring) would come and everything would be done and I could finally exhale. It's just that right now December seems really far away.

Not that I'm complaining about school. Or "exhaling", as Laura might tell you, it's not like I DON'T find the time for a game on the PS 2 or some quality time with my helmets.

So school is busy: papers, projects, presentations, the usual. My internship with the soccer team is winding down as the season comes to a close. Winds down for now, because college sports are year-round basically, and my sport psych work really picks up during the off-season. The coaches have liked my stuff so far, and in sport psychology consulting, that's half the battle. The Very-Cool part of it is I really enjoy the work I do with the team.

My fellowship is going well too. It's for a Intro to Teaching class for underclassmen. On Mondays I lead a discussion section and on Wednesdays I supervise some of them at an elementary school in town. "University Supervisor" sounds official, but really I sit in the teachers lounge and finish my homework for the week.

I'm still riding my bike to school at the start of every week. It's gotten easier and the traffic doesn't scare me as much. The weather is still pretty good, so I'll probably keep riding until it gets really cold and snowy.

When will I ever use Algebra when I grow up?

There are plenty of questions from experience we spend our whole lives trying to answer:

Why am I here?
What's the meaning of life?
Why do we drive on parkways and park on driveways?

Why do we do our math homework in junior high?

Tonight the answer to that last question came to me: It's because one day your wife will come home from work and ask if you want to make a couple thousand dollars by checking the answers in a junior high school student math book she's helping to edit.

Scratch that question off my list.

Oh, so Giddy

Okay, in two days we are getting digital cable. THANK GOD. I have realized these last few months that not having cable DOESN'T necessarily mean that I watch television any less (the "less" part came with juggling work and Jack) - what it means it that I watch more BAD television. Case in point: I was actually interested in the preview for this week's Martha Stewart's Apprentice. Yes, the show I watched last Wednesday night instead of grading SAT's online. Not that I wish I would have worked that night- I just I would have had a better television excuse to crash and avoid work.

I'm so genuinely giddy about guilty pleasure television (like Gilmore Girls and all those evening syndicate shows like Sex and the City). I am excited about getting HBO "free" for a month so that I can watch all the hit shows that everyone talks about - the ones that I never watch. Like, Sex and the City- in the last year I spent oodles of $5.00 bills renting all the episodes, hating that I missed them when everyone saw them the first time. I am also pleased as punch to return to food tv (Rachael Ray, Bobby Flay) - as is Ed (who is still on his quest for that holy bbq experience) No doubt Jack will squeal with delight now that we can watch a FULL episode of Blue's Clues (not that he will) as opposed to the jerky snipits online - which, by the way will also change now that we are taking down DSL and its poor performance and replacing it with the magic cable line as well.

Friends are coming over Saturday to watch Notre Dame- Ed is THRILLED. He told me the other night that he hasn't been this excited to watch the Irish play since before we were together (that's over a decade, folks). He would have missed this game since it is not on one of our four current (bad mainstream) channels.

Cheers to the opiate of the masses.

Not Such a Big Deal

I'm no longer upset about missing the DM concert. I think I was just tired and craving my alter-ego's life - the one where me and Ed travel to big cities and tour the east coast with all the money we've saved by not going to school all the time.

What sealed the deal (my "no big deal" about not going to the concert) was that we heard the new album last night. Ed played bits of the songs. Only one good one. Seriously. The other stuff is quite dark and somewhat robotic (the music).

So, for all you folks who were feeling bad about my missing the experience of a lifetime, I think moving to Boston will fill that void for now. For those of you who might be/are attending Depeche Mode's concert in the coming months, don't tell me about it.