Working around sick kids

I am still trying to get over being ticked off at Chris. Mid-morning Thursday Will’s teacher called—he was running a low temp and not eating well, and what did I want to do? Will’s daycare is very good, but they are sometimes fairly traditional, and the calling parents when the kid is sick is the biggest example of this. Even though I work thirty minutes away, when Will gets sick, they call me first, never mind the fact that Chris works five miles down the road. Because the mom takes care of the sick kids.

Then, we have the additional problem of our schedules. Mine is “flexible.” Chris teaches high school and his is not “flexible.” He has to get a sub—but I can just handily cancel class! Right? On Thursdays this semester, as a matter of fact, I don’t have class—so it’s no problem at all for me to leave work and take care of Will when he’s sick! Right? Obviously I don’t have anything more important to do!

Somehow I don’t seem to communicate well that just because my time at work is structured differently, I still regard my time as valuable. Nine times out of ten daycare calls during the day, Chris and I argue, and I end up leaving work. So I spent Saturday working in my office at school making up for Thursday, and then spent Sunday grading all day to catch up for Friday—which I won’t bitch about, because I didn’t feel so hot myself by then and so ended up staying home both with Will and on my own behalf. I had to rearrange my 101 students’ syllabus, but that gives them more time to work on their papers, so it’s not all bad, I guess.

I’m not a workaholic who doesn’t want to take care of my children when they’re sick (or well, for that matter). There is something wonderful about taking a nap with a sick child who sleeps better because his mommy is there. In fact when Chris does stay home with one of our sick kids, I think I bug him because I call pretty often to see how everything’s going—because I want to be there myself, and I know it’s hard to take care of a sick baby who has a Mommy hair fixation when he’s well, much less when he feels bad. And Chris is not an archaic caveman husband. He is wonderful with the kids and does a good share of our shared household duties. So I don’t know. There must be some better solution to these sorts of problems. But what is it?

An email from Laura

My daughter, one of those child geniuses who cannot spell, made Principal’s Honor Roll today! Her teacher let her borrow her email to send me a note.

From: Mrs. H
To: Lisa
Subject: an email from Laura :o)

Dear mom,
gess what. I not giving enough time to ansewer that. I made
priapal honer roll! It toke me about 5 min. to figer out that Mrs.H
called my name. I so happy! Hey can you do me a favor and e-mail dad and
tell him?
Please?Thank you thank you so,so much! I love you!

your daughter- Laura

Finishing poems

My sister-in-law Shari asked me this weekend how I could tell when a poem was finished. This question surprised me on several levels, first because, while Shari reads some of my poems, particularly the ones about our family or Georgetown, she’s not remotely interested in poetry. She ought to know better than to ask a question like that! Fortunately for her, I hadn’t formulated any sort of answer at all, so she got off the hook.

I swear that sometime in the last week or so I remember reading some author saying that her poem sparkles when it’s finished—there’s literally some spark of light and then she knows it’s done. I can’t believe I can’t find it again, because I haven’t had enough time lately to read much new stuff, but I can’t. At any rate, my poems definitely don’t sparkle when they’re done. Thank God.

I supposed that I judge whether a poem is finished based on the words and lines, which sounds most obvious and unhelpful. Are there any wrong words? Extra words? I always seem to have too many ands and thes. Is there at least one wonderful word in the poem? I had stooping, swift, and hurricane in the last poem I finished, all lovely words.

And the lines are often crucial to finishing as well. Sometimes when I just can’t figure out what is wrong with a poem, I will take out all the line breaks, run the poem together into one long paragraph, and break the lines an entirely different way. Then I can see if the words are wrong, or if something is missing or needs to be cut. The last poem I finished I actually have been revisiting for about seven months, but I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it until I finally realized that the poem needed to be in couplets. Now it’s done. That’s typical—a period of new writing, a long time looking, then finally understanding the problem and revising it. It takes quite a long time. Or I’m just slow.

I’ve been so busy lately I’ve written almost nothing new, which I hate, but at least I’ve been reading a good bit of poetry lately and have revised several things to completion. Or nearly so—I guess we’ll see in a few months. This morning I should be grading papers, but I’m going to send poems out instead. Time for a new round of rejections.

The author’s brother

Reading old email again… I found something I’d forgotten from last time I sent a new publication out to my family (since they’re the only people in American who will read it). Evidently my author bio was unsatisfactory.

From: Matt
To: Lisa
Sent: 7/21/2004 11:17:40 AM
Subject: show off :)

How come you don’t mention your only brother in the author’s
information? husband... kids... no brother...

How troubled I am,
one that shares my blood
forgets that bond
in her accolades...

Forgive her I will
as the bond runs deeper than blood
or even the ocean’s depths
she is my sister

Hey that’s pretty good huh? I’m a poet and didn’t know it...

Matt

Irony in the real world

I have been trying to read this one book since November. I’ve stopped buying everything I want to read since we were moving rapidly towards bankruptcy this way, but now I’m at the mercy of my local public library. I think I have more books than they do. When it’s work books, I get them through the school library, and the staff there is a marvel of efficiency and speed, but the school pays for my interlibrary loans, so if it’s personal reading, I try to get it through the public library.

Back in November I put a hold on this book, which had been featured in Newsweek, so a bunch of folks were before me on the hold list. Finally the week before Christmas they sent me a letter saying it was ready for me, but they closed for Christmas the next day, and when I finally got back, the book had already been passed on the next person. I put another hold on it, and in late January was returning books and inquired about when I might get it—I didn’t have a hold, they said. No record of it. I put a third hold on it and waited again. Last Friday Laura’s books were due, but we were out of town, so I got online and renewed them until I could get home and return them, and my record said they were holding an item for me! Saturday morning I went to the library to pick it up—and they’ve put it in transit to the next patron with the hold on it. They called, they said, and the hold time elapsed when I didn’t come pick it up. Not very patiently—and perhaps even rudely—I explained that since I’d been waiting almost four months for the book, I was pretty sure I’d have come immediately to pick it up, if in fact they had called, which they hadn’t. We had the customary “perhaps we have your phone number wrong?” conversation before the woman began to try to convince me that yes, indeed, they did call, and I just didn’t come. Finally the manager came over—he thinks it’s in transit by mistake and he can pull it out and flag it for me, so I don’t have to wait through the next person’s hold again.

The book is called In Praise of Slowness. What are the odds?

Tax refunds, wedding rings, and a talent show

Once again my brother is cringing about our lack of financial expertise, as always at tax time. We have way more taken out off our paychecks for taxes than we need to—although initially it didn’t start out that way, it’s just that we never really changed how we were having things withheld back when we didn’t have any money. We always had the maximum withheld because we couldn’t have paid a tax bill for love nor money back in the grad school days. We still do it now because we get a nice big refund every February or March. Matt every year fusses at me for not investing that money during the year—but I don’t get paid in the summer when I’m not teaching, so I need to have some cash on hand. And it’s easy for him to be an investment whiz, since he probably makes as much as Chris and I combined by himself, not to mention his wife’s salary.

As it is, we plug along foolishly giving the government an interest-free loan in exchange for a chunk of money once a year. We got our refund this week and so far I’ve bought Laura’s new glasses and paid off Chris’s student loans (which we’d have paid off this year anyhow, but I wanted them gone), and we’re going today to buy a new washing machine to replace the one that’s been leaking oil on the floor for several years. I just kept slipping a new piece of cardboard under there every so often.

Often we’ll splurge on something this time of year—last year we got Chris’s kayak, and sometimes we’ll buy a piece of art. This year I got a new wedding ring. Nobody in my family will like it or understand why I want it. It’s hard to describe—it’s a wide sterling silver band with a tree engraved on it, and I think it’s beautiful, but it’s certainly not a traditional wedding ring. When Chris and I got engaged, our families couldn’t believe we didn’t get an engagement ring. Well, we were broke and couldn’t have afforded anything really nice, and I didn’t much want one, to tell you the truth. But we finally ended up buying a quarter of a carat solitaire because people were just so upset about it—I worked at a jewelry store then so we got a good discount, but my ring was the smallest solitaire you could really get that was still a diamond, although we did buy the nicer quality stone instead of the cheapest one. And we had these tiny wedding bands, the ones you buy when you’re getting married but you’re so broke you don’t even have a colander.

Well, things have changed since then. We’re not exactly broke anymore—although we still have to watch the grocery budget at the end of the month. And we know better now what we want and like and enjoy—and I don’t think either of us knew that then. We had the kind of wedding we had because we didn’t know what else you could do. The only thing I remember choosing for our wedding that was unusual at all was my bouquet, which was white orchids and very expensive—and people were trying to talk me out of that into something a little more inexpensive-small-town-wedding. Every time we had to choose something for the wedding, all I understood was that I didn’t want what was there in the wedding shops. Our cake topper for instance—they had dozens of those awful plastic bride and grooms, and I wouldn’t have had one of those on the cake if you’d paid me. But I was literally so young and stupid it didn’t occur to me not to have one, maybe to just have flowers instead—or nothing. I ended up buying a ceramic bride and groom that were nicer, but still something like those awful Precious Moments figurines—a little girl and boy, not the image of a married couple I had. I painted the groom’s blond hair black, and after the wedding stuffed them into a box.

So now we do things so often that nobody around us seems to understand—but I think we’re finally about to the point we don’t care. The other night at the Oakdale Elementary Talent Show, Chris declared himself the proudest he’d ever been because our daughter—after a night of watching dozens of kids sing either the latest popular music or old church spirituals—stood up on the stage and told a ghost story about the boo hag, who steals your spirit and possesses your body. Laura did do a great job telling the story, by the way—she was so composed, and the audience was huge (the teachers billed the show by promising that the principal would dance in a tutu and leotard, which he faithfully did—what a good sport). She was pacing back and forth on the stage a little quickly—but she spoke clearly and loudly (most of the kids didn’t) and her boo hag was quite convincing. She got a good moan of disgust at one point. Will loved watching her up there, and Chris is the proudest dad ever (and I’m pretty proud too!). And I was proud watching them all.

Somehow, despite our financial stupidity and poor handling of taxes, we paid off our first big debt ever and have money left over for summer. We have two beautiful weird smart children, different from the kids around them, but kids who aren’t worried about that like we were. And I got my new wedding ring. It’s not classic. I may not want to wear it forever. And I don’t care. If I get tired of it, I’ll get a new one—and for right now, I love it, and the fact that our marriage has so far survived graduate school, being dirt poor, having two children, and my getting tenure. The rings may not last, but what they stand for will.

Swirling vortex of adulthood

I had a portfolio conference with Laura in her class the other day—this was a first. Instead of having an appointment with the teacher, I met with Laura, who explained her writing portfolio to me. She had a pile of stuff in there—vocabulary quizzes, adverb exercises and the like, but the most fun stuff were her essays and poems. I’d seen most of the poems before, but she had a couple of essays I hadn’t seen, and one was a hoot.

The prompt for the writing assignment was “What would happen if you woke up and were a grown up?” I hope to get a copy of her essay later, and if I do, I’ll post it here, but for now, a quick summary. Laura discovered she was grown up when she woke up that morning and found all her stuffed animals were missing from her bed—when she looked for them in her cubbies in the closet, all her toys had turned into files! She called the doctor who came over, scanned her DNA, declared her officially grown, and advised her to get a job so she could pay her taxes (and she wrote this back in September or October, well before I started moaning about filing income taxes). So she found a job at Best Buy working in the cd section (her dream job?), but fortunately got up the next morning to find a swirling vortex in her closet, that when she walked through it, restored her to childhood and brought back her toys.

The really funny part was the end: “PS. Thank goodness I didn’t have a husband.” Chris felt rather affronted by this part of the story when I relayed it. Anyhow, I guess this just goes to show the value of watching Star Trek to encourage the imagination.

Things Will said

I wish when Laura had been a little person I had kept better track of the interesting and unusual things she said—my favorite of all these is what she used to call hydrogen peroxide, which we used on her anytime she had splinters (boy she thought that was rough—imagine what would have happened if we’d used alcohol): “Not the rotten peroxide, not the rotten peroxide!” But I don’t remember many more of them anymore (although my favorite parenting line is “Don’t lick the boat!”).

Maybe I can reform for William. His class is studying astronauts this week—apparently they’ve been most curious about why we would send monkeys into space. I walked into his class the other day and they were all lined up sitting in a row of their lunch chairs with milk carton helmets on with the lights out and a disco ball projecting “stars” as they rode in their rocket. Sometimes I just love that daycare so much. So yesterday morning on the way to school, he said to me—out of the blue—“I would like to be an astronaut like on Star Trek.” I love how suddenly his always complete baby sentences have now become these more complex structures (this morning he told me “You stay right there. I’m going to get my ball, and I’ll be right back for you.”). Later in the car that same morning we were playing the guess who Mommy loves game (for some reason, the correct answer is William and Josie, my brother’s dog); I asked the question, and Will said “Will Hammond Astronaut.”

My favorite thing lately is when I asked him “How did you get to be so cute?” Usually he says “By myself,” which is his response to how did he do anything. Last time I asked him, he said “Because you smiled at me.” Awwww.

Happy math

Laura finally found a math she loves: geometry. Although we had to sit through a lecture last night at dinner (the whole of dinner) about congruent angles, I'm just delighted she's finally found something in the field of mathematics that she doesn't feel actively tortured by. I don't know why she can memorize obtuse and congruent angles and not simple times tables—although she finally has gotten those down and is making the Math Magician list at school now (answer 20 grade-appropriate questions correctly in 1 minute and make the Math Hall of Fame).

Finally, happy math. Hallelujah.

Scary movies

After many inappropriate movies for a kid almost three, William finally found a movie he’s scared of. He’s watched the dementors in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban without a twitch. He’s watched the spectacular failure of the three laws in I Robot. He likes Beauty and the Beast only because it has a monster. And so on. But he was digging through the drawer of practically vintage Disney videos yesterday and found Snow White. When the Queen transforms herself into the old hag and gives Snow White that apple—“Hold me, Mama.” He was watching it this morning again and came running into the bathroom where I was drying my hair, locked the door and grabbed my leg. I guess that means that The Wizard of Oz is out anytime soon.

Superbowl Sunday

We’re having a restful and quiet, if somewhat disappointing Superbowl Sunday. Usually we have dinner with Todd and Nancy—it’s always just their family and us and Fran and her folks. This year Todd and Nancy are doing something with their house, which means they’re in some state of disarray, and while I think they were still willing to have the party, Fran and her new boyfriend might have made some plans for the Superbowl since they didn’t hear anything from Todd, and weasel this and weasel that until I finally said let’s just do something later this semester. So I’m making Chex mix and little Smokies and clam dip and chili just for us. I wanted to see if Chris’s brother and their family could come over, but Chris said he’d rather not since, and I quote, “we finally got the house mostly cleaned up.” Evidently we have no friends who can be trusted not to trash our house, so we’re partying alone now.

I’m wondering if he just really wants to watch the game. When we were talking about Brad coming over, he said he wouldn’t be able to with all the kids; I said we never do watch the game, so what’s the big deal and got a dirty look, so maybe it’s all about the football. It is so not about the football for me. I like the food and hanging out with friends and the commercials of course are part of my professional study of American life and rhetoric. Two out of three. The really depressing thing is that I guess I’ll grade papers while I’m watching—no point wasting all that boring time when football’s on. Chris is back from the grocery store, I hear. I ran out of Worcestershire sauce, of all things. Back to work.

House cleaning and family history

We found a 1938 diary of Nana’s in with all the baby cards too. It’s not especially interesting—she didn’t write much in it, even when she was writing a note in it daily, and that didn’t last until early February—the fate of so many diaries, I imagine. One passage of note from February:

Tuesday, February 8, 1938
Washed hair –
dinner –
Francis (Cook) here –
Went to W.M.U with Mrs. Stone – enjoyed it very much – they came in to see Jackie.
Mobley decided to give me an allowance to budget.

This is pretty typical of many of the entries, except for the news about the allowance. Nana spent a lot of time cleaning house and washing baby clothes—my uncle Jack was about six months old when it started. She doesn’t write much about him—one day he was “perfect” and another time she “discovered” his first tooth, but she evidently bathed him often. The New Year’s Day entry, her first, seemed sad, assuming “He” is her husband:

Saturday, January 1, 1938
Dear little book – my little friend. He hasn’t time – so I’ll have to converse with you.
Dear 1938 – bring me Luck and happiness – Poise, dignity, vivaciousness – alert – wakeful – energy – tireless –
Dear God, My God – grant me 3 wishes – “wisdom” – “knowledge” – “ability” – I Pray!

Towards the end she used it a lot to keep up with her budget—August and September evidently she got rather preoccupied with money, listing grocery costs, baby expenses, all kinds of things. Diapers back then were 1.98, rubber pants .35, and “Similax,” .98. A dress cost .97. Milk was .15 and bread .08. Beer for .13. Her weekly household budget:

rent       5.25
lt.           1.85
sto.        1.00
refrid.   1.19
cook      2.00
grs.       5.00
ldy         1.10
Inc.       1.50
tithe      1.63
             20.52

This list of weekly expenses, written into the last couple of pages at the end of the diary, is pretty interesting. I can’t quite even figure out all these items. I know she bought an electric stove earlier in the year, so I think the 1.00 for the sto. must be a payment on that, which might mean they bought a refrigerator too? Rent’s easy enough. I think ldy must be laundry, and grs groceries, but Inc? Another budget lists lh & wat, so maybe lt is the utility bill?

Just for reference—in 1938, my grandmother budgeted $5.00 for a week’s worth of groceries for a four-person family. Last month, according to Microsoft Money, we spent $453.60 on groceries (well, and eating out too, which Nana didn’t seem to do often)—an average of $113 a week. The washing baby clothes and cleaning house hasn’t changed a whole lot, but boy, expenses have risen!

A bag of old baby cards

My parents have evidently been cleaning out the deepest darkest holes of their house, because last time I saw my mother, she brought along a bag of cards from when my father was born. I had this vision of my children’s future (or maybe my grandchildren’s?)—Mama and Shari and I sat there sorting through these 1940s baby cards, little cherubs every one—while I kept thinking about the bag of cards I saved from when both Will and Laura were born up in a box in the attic. Lord. Mama said Daddy wanted to clean it out of the house, but I don’t think any of us could stand the idea of throwing it away—but what on earth can you do with it either? It would’ve been interesting if we’d had it when our babies were born. Maybe I’ll save it and make some kind of collage for Matt and Shari if they have a baby.

I’d always heard this family story that my grandmother really really really wanted a girl when Daddy was born—he was their third son. In fact she and my grandfather had four boys, and never had a girl, but the story goes that she used to dress Daddy like one to make up for it. I always thought this was some sort of rumor, that surely it wasn’t true, but then we found a mock-up of a birth announcement for Esther Gay that Nana had written saved in the same bag along with all the congratulations cards for their newest boy:



I asked Mama if that was why I was named Gay, but she says not, that she’d never heard of this, and in fact she hadn’t seen this particular scrap of paper until we dug it out. Poor Daddy. Maybe that was a true story.