thoughts floating like dandelion fluff

I am finding it harder and harder to reign in my brain (honestly, I did not want internal rhyme there, but it just happened, so hard to stop) lately. I'm trying to settle into something that makes sense: what I want out of my life. I think standing at the precipice was supposed to already happen. After all, I went to graduate school in order to teach, which is what I'm doing, and all of a sudden I still feel like I'm trying to make a choice.

So I'm going to let myself be random; often, if we allow ourselves these urges, we might come out the other end in one piece. (And some are thinking: How is the randomness any different from your normal self? To which I say: True enough. K often will say to me, "Do you want to pet my puppy?" This is a reference to what some might consider a tasteless joke about ADD/ADHD, which is a very real problem for many of my students [and for others, I think, a crutch]. But the joke goes as such: Q: How many people with ADD does it take to screw in a light bulb? A: Want to pet my puppy? This so accurately describes my sudden shift in conversation that it has become K's teasing reminder that I have once again forgotten he does not reside in my brain and sometimes does not understand what I've just begun blathering on about. He should live in my brain though. It's warm and maybe he could explain what is going on. Lord knows I don't know!)

My drive to and from work has been eased, once again, by books on CD. I keep thinking I'll experience the classics on audio, but I'm often too tired to follow archaic language shifts. Instead, I listen to mysteries (shamefully) and recently, We Need to Talk About Kevin "Mommy." There promises to be some kind of twist in the story, and I have a sneaky feeling what it is, but I will keep silent as some might want to read this compelling novel, an by Lionel Shriver. It's a surprising tale to listen to at this time when I feel I have had a case of the "Mommies," but I think it's good for me too--it reminds me of the frustrating side of things, that not all of motherhood is about warm cuddling and the soft furze of a baby's scalp. There are tears and moments of misunderstanding, and not everyone is built to be someone'sepistolary novel about a son turned school shooter. Of course, the mother is hardly painted as a sympathetic character; I often feel repelled from her, and I think that we are supposed to feel complexity when considering her. I think, "How selfish!" when I hear her complain about Italian pumps covered in India Ink--or maybe more like, "How stupid!" when I think of her vast mansion and how she thinks she can keep it all pristine with a four year old with a water gun. I'm a little sad that I won't have the chance to listen to so many stories on my drives to work (memories of my father telling me bathtime stories of wise Solomon and Romeo & Juliet), but I'd happily trade the driving for reading the same stories lazily reading in bed. And, of course, there is always the gym. You know, if I went often enough.

And Boston. So many little things to remember. The anticipation of flight, the indulgence of slippery magazines and overpriced sodas, the anxiety of long lines and the scent of damp socks as we shuffle through security. K's first airplane beer, a box of snacks, including crumbling applesauce cookies, a jolting landing. The shock of the Hilton, pillars of fresh lilies, Crabtree and Evelyn in the bathroom, soft sheets, brushed steel and red cherry cabinets. Bed rolls. Paisley. And sleeping in. The next day, family gathering in a hotel room, knowing even though I am not yet official in the K clan, I feel a part of it. James sleeping in a crib, Megan and Sean beneath a blanket, ready to go out in a stroller and walk on the cobblestone streets, peering in the open air markets. Clam chowder and oysters. Figures in metals, a Holocaust memorial, the shape of tulips, pigeons, and violets dotting the landscape. A pub, K and Sean having a beer just before noon, corned beef, sun slanting in on the wooden stools. My new favorite shoes, a harried taxi ride, holding K's hand against the sticky leather, watching another bride become a wife. The tears of the bride's mother, the Boston accent of the priest, the good humor of the newlyweds. After, a reception under candlelight, cake and vegetables melting on our tongues. Dancing, wine, pints of beer. Teary eyed father of the groom speech, the clink of glasses, tables with laminated pictures of fond vacations. Sleepy, we stumble back into bed, some still partying at a nearby pub. The next day, exploring: going to the swan boats where my parents had an early date, a fundraiser for the homeless in the park, blankets by the trees where those hungry had slept, more pigeons, and now: ducks, a Canada goose guarding her eggs against the row boat seeking a pink plastic infant shoe. And the flight home. Driving to K's work. My new vow of patience: I might have gotten annoyed at the extra hour of sleep lost by going in to St Paul, but this time, instead, I realized this would save K an hour sleep, and this made me happy instead--and I looked at the way the light caught in the trees as he ran in for portfolio and business cards and was so happy to see him as he walked back outside, wanting to curl against him in sleep.

Which I did. That night.

And our weekend, so much to show, and so much speaks for itself. I am holding back a series of pictures of James, my soon-to-be nephew because there are so many and all snapshots in a row that I thought I would perhaps save them for another soon-post:


Friday, 4 May 2007












Saturday, 5 May 2007





































Sunday, 6 May 2007: