Hungarian rhapsody

It's been so long since I've posted that my readership may have given up.

Entirely reasonable.

Hugo, now 2 and 1/4, weaned, chatty, and strong-willed, is ambivalent about daycare. He likes it, he hates me not being there. So he walks smiling towards the door, steps in, starts crying. Cries for hours.

No more daycare. Our collective hearts can't take it.

Instead we've hired our Mary Poppins, the world's loveliest, smiliest, sweetest nanny. She's Hungarian, and on the first visit to Hugo she said, "Hugo, do you like kisses?" To which he nodded and leaned in for a smooch. She plays with him. She reads to him. They giggle a lot.

She's a live-out nanny, which means a regular and highly paid babysitter. Which means nearly half my wage goes to her. Worth every penny.

And work is cool. Next term, in Readings in the narrative, we're reading Frankenstein, Monkey Beach, Chiwid and Seed Catalogue. By "we" I mean me and the keeners: I hope all three classes will be 100% keeners.

Or at least scared of my piercing pedagogical gaze. Pierce! Pierce! Read the books! Pierce!

Ah, epistemological violence. So 1980s.

Ok, I haven't posted in 2 months. Um.

I'm teaching 2 courses, which is great.

I like teaching. Teaching makes me anxious and happy, like all good things in my life.

Hugo learned how to talk this summer.

Sample sentences:

How about Mummy's shoes? (while putting on my maryjanes)

Mummy, come read truck book now! (truck book thumping my leg)

Mummy, ice cream? (and variations, such as : cookie? water? backyard? cartoons? traintracks?)

Mummy, kiss, now?

Are you OK Mummy? I'm OK. (more like one sentence)

MumDad go park play now please?

Mummy, nursing now please?

And he tells jokes.

Main joke involves pointing at anything (that is not an airplane), looking at me, and saying "Airplane!" He usually laughs between "air" and "plane," before my half of the joke, which is acting surprised and then giggling. I love the airplane joke.

My heart is breaking.

Vita's good, we are both good. He's so handsome. Um, and working hard and applying for a Master's in Counselling next year.

And we built a cedar backyard fence!!!! I like to sit outside and look at it. I smile at it.

Ciao. I am wayyy to busy. Papers to write, assignments to grade, lessons to plan, laundry to toss around. etc.

And Hugo is in gymnastics. He's into the balance beam, the climbing wall, and the trampoline. Yikes!

Natural Disaster

Hey, I started to play guitar again.

Hugo even asks me too : I have trained him well.

A good reason to procreate, for certain : manufacturing fans.

I mean FAN. As in singular.

Today has been odd : Natural Disaster Pants.

Um, Kelowna is all smoky and firy and burney and stuff.

Dangit.

We are the Emergency Prepared Family : we are prepared for H1N1, fire, earthquake, and the tedious torture of the movie version of Anne Michael's sad novel.

Um, I might need to flee Kelowna. With my child. And my husband.

And my computer.

Le sigh.

Natural Disasters.

blame the penguins

For those suffering MJ sorrow,

for those suffering parental guilt and grief,

for those wondering whether it is worth $420 annually to cover up grey hair,

for those cursing institutionalized family structures,

for those wishing they weren't so mushy about the Wilco album,

for those who love kittens but hate cats,

for those who drop apples moist side down,

for those swallowed a cherry pit yesterday,

I advise this blog:

http://www.fupenguin.com/

xoxo

n

Moooo

We went to Victoria. 

I love that city.

But the colonial FORCE is overhwhelming. V and I sat in our hotel room, feeling striated by the statues, the cops, the brick, the "history."

V took a beautiful photo of a field of blue flowers in Beacon Hill park. Then today I was reading about how the Lekwungen, the First Nations people who live

d there, cultivated those fields as a staple food source. The flowers are camas.

The English got there and said (I'm not kidding): God is super amazing, because right here, in this wild wild place with all these hunters and gatherers, there are these great 

fields of plants that our cows love to eat. It's like we were meant to show up. With our cows.

The Lekwungen liked the cows too. Especially after they shot and ate a few. 

You can imagine the fallout.

Hugo rocked Victoria, as per this victorious photo. Take THAT, cow-lonialis

ts!

if i had a bell hooks

Hugo loves hammers.

Also wheels, sirens, trains, dora and babies.

Oh, and breasts. Mostly mine, but if you are holding him and your t-shirt is on the loose side, he might just slide a pudgy hand down, looking into your eyes with a curious thirst.

Life with a toddler is hilarious, and we're getting happier, the three of us.

Although today I felt like shite for about three hours, I remedied it by taking Hugo to the downtown library, romping on the ladybug pillows, and picking out some MS and Adbuster's magazines to borrow. Which, because I owe 23$ (of which I only needed to pay 3 to get books out) and had $2.40 on me and the library doesn't take plastic, I snottily left on the library counter.

I softened my crabbiness with what I hoped was a beleaguered smile. And felt better for having expelled  my doominess.

Librarians are, generally, really GOOD people. I mean, have you ever heard of a post-feminist librarian?

Speaking of post-feminism, I'm looking for texts for English 100. Pretty much, they suck. I found one I kind of like, called Word and Worlds. It has "controversial" essays. About capitalism, terrorism, consumerism. And "feminism:" in scare quotes because the excerpts are firmly post-feminist libertarian. 

One is actually from REAL Women, the evil anti-woman group from Alberta.

And another is an excerpt from "The Rules."

What the hell???

I kind of think the author expects that readers would be appalled, which would make for good class debate. But I fear (with, I think, reason) that students would nod along with the readings, deciding that they too are "beyond" the need for feminism.

So I think I'll do another course pack. And also bell hooks' Feminism is For Everybody. 

The class has to be non-fiction.

Our house is messy. My wardrobe is inadequate for a seasonal change and my endomorphing maternal body. My attempts to jog regularly are interrupted by exhaustion due to working late at night until my eyes close over student essays, and then waking to Hugo jumping on my gut saying, "hand hand hand hammer hammer hammer baby babeeeeeeeeee."

It's all good.

Ph.D. ABD and in mid-air!!!!

So if you image-google "Ph.D. ABd," this is one of the awesome super awesome pictures you get.

Umm, the other images are stunningly unflattering head shots of professors languishing in part-time, no-benefits, temporary college teaching positions until they write their dissertations.

But this guy, the dude in the middle, in THE AIR FLYING, yeah, oh yeah, he too is PhD ABD.

In ninja awesomeness.

That's right folks.

I sat in a little room while five very smart people pummeled me with smart and tricky questions.

I sweated. I shook. I gave stupid, rambling, answers that let everyone know that I  don't know what "close reading," "new criticism," or "deciduous" really mean. Which makes me a moron.

And I gave pithy examples of rhizomatic methodology. Which were cool.

Then those five asked me to leave the room while they discussed my work and my pass/fail grade. Then, after 15 minutes (during which time stopped and the stars began to implode), they asked me back in.

And then they said, "Congratulations! You passed!"

Which makes me able to jump up, kick, fly around, and be Ph.D. ABD ninja ready.

(I still have to write a 200 page dissertation.)

flashes of rhizomes of lines of flight!

So Hugo and I flew to Edmonton.

It was cold and the wind was blowy and I bought The Watchmen there.

And I read it in between exams.

Exams were hard. My brain started to feel foggy. It was clanking, groaning.

Although at times I lit on points of creation : of ideas and words flashing together in synaptic rhizomes, maps of study-time.

And I passed.

Thank EFF.

In two weeks I go back for the Oral Examination. Sounds gross, hey?

Five profs sit around me (in a semicircle? as a linear panel? holding hands?) and ask me questions about what I wrote in my exams.

I'm not too worried.

As long as I'm rested and the brain stays clear.

I am much happier than I've been in a long time. Even today, whilst grumpily shopping at SuperStore, I was fairly happy. Even when BOTH my classes revealed that they hadn't done any of the VERY EASY and VERY SHORT reading assigned for today, I was happy.

Fun Iran?

OK, so about three capfuls of snow melted this week.

When this winter ends I'll get naked in the sun!

Well, maybe not. But I'll go for some sunny-soaking walks with my kid and maybe even the H-dot if I can wheedle him into it.

I read The Burma Chronicles.

Interesting, but lacking any kind of urgency. I mean, I know memoirs don't have any kind of plot necessarily. But some of the little stories are ridiculously mundane. 

And exoticism : hmm? Any thoughts?

Against my desire to not buy more stuff not necessary to living, eating, breathing, I bought:

-2 Azar Nafisi books

-both persepolis books

I don't even have time to read them.  Which means I'll read them and feel guilty about it.

I'm supposed to be reading about the history of environmentalism in BC. And about mean cracker settlers in northern BC. (I chose that adjective carefully : some settlers were better than others, but they all stole land and contributed to starving, jailing and decimating First Nations populations).

Iran seems funner to read about. 

is thanking you and is a tad overwhelmed

Thanks for all the love and phone calls.

Having friends I can call and ask for love and help in tough times makes tough times liveable.

Really, I wasn't doing as well as I'd hoped I would in there.

Hospitals can be icky. And seeing my baby scared and unhappy was terrifying.

We are still shaken ffrom it.

Actually, I'm more anxious and sad. I can't shake the sadness. I need winter to end.

Pettmans : look carefulllllly into your mailbox this coming week! 

I'm IN for the reading club.

Persepolis will be good because it has pictures.

Other than what I read for work and school, I only read very short  books right now. Or books with pictures. 

I'm studying for exams until March. After that, I'll have passed or failed my exams.

Either way, I'm taking a month break from reading anything without pictures in April.

Sometimes I narrate my life as if it were a series of Facebook statuses. (statii?)

Like this:

-is yearning for lost youth.

-is unseemly and tired.

- is nervous about teaching First Nations literature.

-cannot figure out whether "aboriginal" or "First Nations" is more appropriate.

- feels guilty.

- shuns her guilt.

- embraces her guilt.

- wants chocolate.

- has taken too many ibuprofen to digest properly.

- wants to sleep for a month.

- wants her youthful complexion back.

- is nostalgic, which she finds pathetic.

- does not know how she would survive without the geographically scattered and loving and reliable good friends she has.

xoxo

nb

more later but for now just a vague note must do

ok, so this past week was pretty bad.

at this point i don't want to to write the details.

sometimes, well, i think most of the time, writing makes things real. and i still need to repress this last week.

i'm not ready to think about what happened. and what could have happened.

i'll say this much : we are all OK, now. there are still four baskets of laundry to go. we collectively lost about 15 pounds.

we love our baby. we love our baby. we love our baby.

thanks to my friends who helped me through it.

pill

1.I cut my finger on our decrepit fridge as the plastic crisper shattered in my hand. 

2. I therefore cannot type very well.

3. I am on mastitis number 14. 

4. I have now swallowed thousands of these little orange apo-cephalex anti-biotic pills for mastitis.

5. There seems to be no explanation for why I get it so often.

6. Because of the recession, my babysitter is in Saskatchewan.

6. I am watching the 11th Hour tonight. Better not be boring.

7. I ate a bag of Rip.L. Chips. Old Dutch.

8. I want to read Obama's book but am too cheap to buy it. 

9. I love my job.

10. Hugo says "hug" and hugs himself.

11. I've had a paper called "To Become Beavers of Sorts" accepted for a peer-reviewed book.

12. Beavers. Heh heh.

loneliest, bestest, worstest job

Parenting, surprisingly, is lonely work.

Nobody knows your kid and your family like you do.

Yourself, you're so far in it that you can barely see your way out of it.

So for all the books and workshops and friendly neighbours and "helpful" relatives and actually helpful relatives, it's still you and that plasticine-like newish person at 3 am, looking into each other's tired and similar eyes. Trying to love and care and be apart and be together.

I don't want Hugo to be like me. I want Hugo to be better than me.

I want Hugo to be happier, more peaceful, more resolute, less fearful, richer, and taller than me.

I want Hugo to find love more easily, to give love more easily.

I want Hugo, most of all, to be safe.

I'm thinking of the Admiral and BG, and especially the Admiral's last post.

There's not much anyone can really say to help - I mean, you know your family. I don't, really.

Parenting is so damn scary. And great. 

PS. I love your kids.

badd speling, great life

The first week of teaching is behind me.

I'm not sure I'm ready to let it slide by.

It was my one chance to convince the students that I am their comrade, their leader, their silent (and loud) guidance.

It was my one chance to facilitate an atmosphere of caring, determined co-operation (did I?)

It was my one chance to spell correctly on the chalkboard (I didn't).

Whether or not the first week meant anything, it was a rush. I like my job. I have a job!

Hugo is adjusting, I  guess. I mean, I know he wishes I was with him every minute of every day. 

And I don't just want Hugo to "turn out fine."

I want Hugo to be happy and excited and loving and loved every minute of the way. 

As if turning into someone were all that mattered. I still don't know how I'll turn out.

We still co-sleep and Hugo still nurses. We are close. I still sing him to sleep and snuggle him awake. We still read stories and he still sits on my lap when he watches Dora (ps - he's scared of Swiper the Fox. should I cut out/back on Dora?). He still names my nose, eyes, ears, hair, and milk jugs a few times a day. Hugo is still my baby. And my darling, beautiful, chatty toddler.

no one knows

I'm glad the year is changing.

Eight is a strange number.  I know it is a chess number, and I like chess, but I am not really all that good at chess.

Still, anyone reading this who would like to play chess with me : I will be good enough to make you think. For a minute or two. Until you win. :)

This year, I've got a few goals.

1. Write my comprehensive exams. 

2. Write my comprehensive exams without throwing up before, during, or after.

3. Pay off consumer debt.

4. Pay off consumer debt and not accumulate scads more.

Hugo is grand, and requires no goals on my part. He is all perfection, all dimples and chattiness and smiles and love. Even his farts are perfect. Even his tantrums are endearing.

And I'm starting a part-time job teaching first year English at the college. Perhaps the anticipation of talking with adults, sharing my research, and having colleagues, is all so pleasing that parenting seems, well, easier. Being at home 24/7 with a toddler, even if the toddler is a gem, makes me batty. 

And speaking of batty: children's television. Hellbats. Wonderpets? Miffy the Bunny? 

I'll end this little note with a quotation from one of my favourite thinkers, Mark Halsey, an environmental criminologist:

"No one knows ahead of time what will happen" (Halsey, 2006, 70).