Gimme a T?

So, yeah, about this whole thing:

You might say that I've been having a bit of a professional crisis. And it's not because, like, TESOL blows or anything, or even because I've completely ruled it out as a viable career choice. It's just that, like always, I can't commit to anything, and--oh, yeah, this probably bears mentioning--tuition at my TESOL institution of choice is WAY above my means right now. So. So. What this all boils down to, and not for the first time, is that I'm left wide-awake a lot of nights, pondering my future. So until I get this shit all figured out, you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to write every single goddamn day, because that's what I love to do. And, in an effort to keep me serious, I've signed on to this NaBloPoMo business, which you can read all about over there in the sidebar.

The upshot, then: look forward to a whole lot of letters next month. And who knows? Maybe I'll even write one to you. Which would be ironic, really, since it's rare that I send actual letters to anyone. But tomorrow is a new day and the start of a new month. So, in a nod to the Marvelettes, "the sooner the better" and all of that.

Hope that you'll all be my Dears tomorrow!

About a Sunday

When we get home from the zoo, the kids are both asleep. The husband, who has not gone with us, toils in the yard, while I carry, one at a time, the children. The Boy is quiet as I bring him in, but The Girl, very softly, very sleepily, whispers, "Mama." There's a sadness to her whisper, a loneliness, a dial tone from another planet. Being five is hard, sometimes, even when it's springtime, and you're clutching your new stuffed monkey, and your mama is holding you in her arms.

Cheese and Crackers

The poet, the boy with the cactus tattoo, calls to see if I want to come over. He knows that I have a boyfriend, knows that I have been naughty already, having just yesterday passed him my number, hopes that I'll be naughty again. Dave. Dave is strong arms and black motorcycle, eyes the color of breath mints, of sin. All semester I've wanted him, have leaned with him against door frames and columns, talking about the Pixies and Garcia Marquez. And now he's here, on my phone, all serious and sexy, waiting for me to say I will.

We talk for ages. About bullshit, at first, and then about the boyfriend, about his temper tantrums and inability to drive. The more Dave says, the more I want him, and yet something dark, something almost acidic, is building with every flicker of my heart. Is it the boyfriend, the familiarity of the lazy, temperamental boyfriend, that makes me want to slip away? Is it fear or guilt or self-consciousness that makes me tell him, completely out of nowhere, that I need to get off and have a snack? I don't know. But it's what he says next--"Oh, for fuck's sake, you're not going to starve"--that stuns me, that makes me wonder what the hell I've been up to, that makes me feel more dirty and lost and conflicted than if I'd just gone over and slept with him. There's a horrible gash of silence before at last I stammer that I'll talk to him later. And then I hang up. And when the phone rings ten minutes later, and it's the boyfriend, I assure myself that I'm not disappointed, that I'm only hungry, and so I finally go down and have my snack.

Yum

An Almost Aubade

I fall asleep in her bed again. This time in my coat and shoes, as if I'm preparing for a fire. When I awake at two, delirious and uncomfortable, I accidentally wake her with me. She asks for water, follows me downstairs, claims she has a tummyache. I pick her up. In the low, creamsicle light of the living room, we pet the cats. Her head, warm and heavy, against my neck. The mystery and beauty of the middle of the night.

The Ears Have It

The Boy still isn't all-the-way-well--in fact, as it turns out, he has a double ear infection--but he was well enough, dammit, to leave the house. Though we didn't make it down to the vacuum store (I'm saving that trip for a special occasion), we did drop off the dry cleaning, which--as you can imagine--was pretty exciting. And then, because I know how to have a good time, we stopped off for two slices of cheap, ancient pizza, at a carry-out joint along the ugliest stretch of York Road. We admired the establishment's many murals, including one of a basket of discolored french fries, and talked about Vivi and gumball machines. The Boy was a little crusty and cranky, but still he nuzzled my head and pretended--to the delight, I'm sure, of other diners--that he had peed his pants. Convinced that he had peed his pants, I prepared to whisk him off to the toilets. But he was only kidding, the little prankster. His pants, though stiff with pizza sauce and mucous, were completely dry. What a goofball!

You go ahead and take a little nap, if you want to. I know; I can see that heaviness in your eyes.

Infectious

So The Boy is still sick. Sick enough to keep me from venturing to the vacuum store, which is a real shame, honestly, because I was looking forward to going to the vacuum store. I really was. Which gives you some insight, I think, into what this last week has been like.

Probably, given the depths of my boredom, it was a mistake to bake those brownies. Probably, too, it was a mistake to turn on the computer, because I can see how easily I could be sucked in. But The Boy wants to play choos-choos, and The Girl wants me to help her practice her writing. The vacuum store, springtime, and the rest of you will simply have to wait.

Flood Watch!

The Boy has a fever, and it's raining and raining, and the stream is white and rushy, and my father is on his way over, and The Girl is bitching, and I'm feeling the urge to kick her, and we're completely out of apples, and I could seriously go for some apples, but I can't go for some apples, because if I go for some apples, The Girl will ask to go along for some apples, and I DO NOT WANT HER TO GO ALONG FOR SOME APPLES, and The Giant always plays Coldplay, I mean, they always, always play Coldplay, to the point where I'm constantly asking myself while shopping, "What? Are you kidding? More fucking Coldplay?", and Thom's watching weather, well, sort of watching weather, because it's hard to watch weather when the children are screaming, and Motrin is miraculous!, Like honest-to-god miraculous, because you'd never know, what with the screaming, that The Boy has a fever, even though, like, two hours ago, he really had a fever, and now Thom is wondering where I am, probably because the kids are driving him crazy, so, you know, I'm going to go.

A Vindication of Multiparity (Or Why It's Rad to Have More Than One Kid)

At 3:40 a.m., terrified by the wail of the siren, he runs to her bed and not to ours. Hours later, she reads him a book about choos-choos, snuggled beneath the floral blanket. Sure, they fight, and sure, they call each other stupid. But you know it's love when he asks her to wipe him, when she tears up as the barber takes a razor to the back of his neck.

We Had a Party

We had a party, and friends from all around came and brought children, as well as booze and snacks and anecdotes. The children, in some cases barefoot, played in the stream, while their parents drank and told stories. When the party was over, there were pretzels in my pillow and Candy Land pieces all over the place. But what did it matter? Having fun at your own party--and hopefully not at the expense of your guests' enjoyment (Was there enough beer? Enough food? Enough light in the living room?)--is a treasure; thank you, friends and family, for a thoroughly awesome Saturday.