Aphaeresis

Thinning

2023-12-24T08:03:00.001-05:00

What am I if the words go?

AI; Alzheimer's.

I can't muster myself to elaborate.

For now, I'm here: Christmas Eve morning, the damping of the darkness. The bodies of my children are cargo: the furrows of their ribs, their breath freighting the rooms I've walked out of, through the doors, the hall, down the stairs, stealing through my home. I mean stealing home– the speeding sun, quiet trundling down its track.

Quiet

2022-02-08T12:16:00.002-05:00

I forget how restorative quiet is. Perhaps because I get so little of it that hurts to remember. Thanks to Covid, I've had almost none since late December.

But now, for the first time in aeons, the house has been drained of shrieking and clomping and clacking and whining and running and weeping and incessant organ music and unnecessarily loud telephone conversations and arguments over turning off the organ music and Baby Shark. And what rushes to fill the space is sunlight and dust and– not silence, but the relief of small, discreet, noises.

The HVAC system heaving to life; the ice maker's click; the cat extending one paw. Outside, a bird or two. The snow is beginning to slide off the eaves and I hear, for the first time in a long time, my breath.

It feels like floating. Like swimming in syrup. Like love.

Quarrantine

2022-01-08T08:04:00.002-05:00

We're in it, and I'm flashing back. It is too hard, all this togetherness. I want my yurt.

As My Mind Dulls

2021-09-28T13:59:00.006-04:00

I reflect on what's left.

I can still goof off. I can still eat. I can still walk. The trifecta!

I underrated all of these things early on, but I particularly underrated goofing off. I treasured my smarts; I valued my writing skill and my ability to perceive what's beautiful. I did not ascribe much importance to the fact that, most of the time, I'm ready to laugh.

But honestly, if we can't liven up our trek through the great steppes of existence by cracking a few fart jokes, then what is the point? Surely, laundry is not the point. If I find out, in the afterlife, that I am to be judged on the quantity and quality of my laundering, I am in deep, deep trouble. I do not separate my darks from my lights (spoiler alert: no one has died). I have never cleaned, and do not aspire to clean, my dryer vent (dicier; consider this my suicide note).

We don't know, in the beginning, what to value about ourselves. We prize what we lack, or what others praise us for, or what we are acculturated to want. Especially when you're young, it's difficult to perceive within yourself the outlines of what will sustain you.

Legs. Teeth. Diaphragm.

Six Words

2021-09-17T17:23:00.001-04:00

Summer past its expiration; still breathing

Dog Daze

2021-08-17T14:54:00.006-04:00

I associatie summers with sweat. Not hard-working, out-of-breath, honest-labor sweat, but unearned sweat, windfall sweat, the kind of sweat that appears on a milk glass when you pull it out of the fridge.

You step outside. You stand perfectly still. And you sweat.

Maybe it's not even sweat, just a kind of genera summer effluvium, like dew on morning grass.

Or it's freedom, not sweat, a byproduct of the chemical reaction between your life's routines and warmer weather, the customary gone liquid, wetting the back of your neck and knees, running in rivulets down the small of your back.

I love these sticky days. The cicadas swarm and the crickets chirrup and every hour lasts longer than you think it can.

Powerless

2021-08-16T15:47:00.003-04:00

The power was out for 62 hours. During that time, the full extent of my weakness, my mewling softness, was laid bare. During the day, the sticky heat of the house sapped my will; at night, it stole my sleep. And instead of flowing smoothly, the hours lurched and heaved their way forward like something out of a second-rate zombie film.

Or maybe the something out of a second-rate zombie film was me.

With no refrigeration, no stove, and no microwave, meals were sad: peanut butter sandwiches and takeout. There was no coffee. There was no tea. The dirty dishes multiplied and the mounds of laundry grew. My work- Internet dependent- piled up undone, rendering me both restless and sluggish. There were no movies. There were no crosswords. The only unread book I'd previously downloaded to my Kindle was a turgid legal potboiler of astonishing joylessness.

Yes, my forebears walked sixteen miles in the snow to draw well-water, bearing their chilblains with good grace. Yes, there are worse things than a dearth of reading material. Yes, yes, yes.

But I don't don't want perspective. Let there be light.

In Praise of Weak Ties

2021-07-30T15:20:00.002-04:00

Several cities ago, I would head out the door every morning at 6:15 AM to “run.” Daredevil that I am, I took the same route every day, gallumphing in a loose, clockwise square around the limits of my neighborhood.

And every morning at 6:25, I waved to the dude who ran counterclockwise.

I never did learn his name. Counterclockwise guy was probably in his late fifties, with the businesslike gait of someone who had spent time in the military or a college-level sports team. He ran faster than I did but not a lot faster, and he favored light-colored tee-shirts. That’s about all I knew about him.

Yet we greeted each other day in and day out, exchanging pointless but satisfying commentary about the sun or the heat or the wind. I noticed when he went on vacation. He figured I’d had my baby when I disappeared for six weeks. When I left town, I’m sure he wondered where I’d gone. And I wonder about him every now and again– if he’s still running. If he ever reversed course.

Sociologists call this kind of bond a “weak tie.” It’s an interaction with another human that is glancing and brief, the nod to your neighbor or greeting your bank teller by name. Weak ties are relationships that are, by definition, shallow.

Along with many other things, Covid has shredded weak ties. It’s hard to maintain anything but the most essential relationships when you’re stuck at home. And worrying that your fellow humans might kill you if they breathe on you tends to put a damper on casual conversation.

It might not seem that way at first blush, but that’s a deep loss.

For me, the loss is both societal and personal. Although I’ve been informed that, as an introvert, I spurn casual interaction in favor of intimate, meaningful communion, the truth is that I’m a weak tie junkie. I would be delighted to discuss last night’s storm with you, or the agonizing pace of the DMV line, or the vagaries of middle seats. Do you want to vent about yesterday’s game? I am here for you! Care to kvetch about the coffee maker? Hit me up!

I truly value these fleeting, freight-free moments of connection. And you should, too, because, stitched together, they make up the fabric of civilization.

I don’t think this is hyperbole. When you raise your hand to wave at your neighbor, when you stop to chat with the receptionist, when you exchange eye rolls at yet another gate change, when you joke with your waiter, you are saying I see you. You are a human being. We are here together.

Acknowledging another person’s humanity, even if– especially if– you don’t know that person particularly well, is powerful. It is profoundly healing. It allows us to be more than a swarm clans competing for resources. And, sadly, it is out of fashion.

Covid might have dealt them the coup de grace, but weak ties were beginning to fray before the pandemic. The Internet is many things, but a raveler of human souls it is not. And 2016 both capitalized on and turbocharged the unraveling.

Whatever the reason, we’ve entered an era in which, to more and more of us more of the time, other people’s humanity is contingent. It is something others earn rather than something they are. In order to be worthy, you must be right.

And that is a very, very dangerous world in which to live.

Have you ever walked into a grade school classroom? I’ve walked into more than I can count, and I can tell you that there will always, always, be children who choose to do the wrong thing. Ineffective teachers view these children as problems or obstacles or pains in the ass. Effective teachers view these children as human beings. They acknowledge and connect with each and every child every day, regardless of what that child did or said. Effective teachers set and enforce boundaries, but they never treat any child as less than fully human. It is an immensely difficult thing to do– and it is transformative.

Human beings are often wrong. We are often, to varying degrees at various times, petty and small-minded and gullible and mean. But we are all, every single one of us, worth saying hello to on the street.

How’s it going? It’s a hot one today.

Rest

2021-07-23T14:45:00.001-04:00

I went for a walk today, near noon, in a park just beyond the city's ring road. It was spectacular.

Putting one foot in front of the other always is, to start. Ambulation is pretty startlingly terrific. As babies, we crave it as soon as we see it, and immediately throw all our small selves into the act of getting from one place to another. Both of my children dragged themselves across the floor on their bellies for swathes of their infancy. Movement by any means necessary. I was sympathetic. And though I often forget that every strike of my soles against the dirt is its own firework, I shouldn't.

But also the time: an hour before the apex of the day. A weekday no less, most people shuttling through the Rube Goldberg of the American work routine. And it was hot– high summer in Missouri is not for the faint of heart. Sweat under my ears and down the back of my neck, dripping across my collarbone, collecting in the creases of my elbows and knees. Cicadas hummed in the oaks. A meek breeze teased the smells of pollen and horse manure, loam and and blacktop.

The park wasn't empty- deep in suburbia, this particular park never is. But there were only a few humans straggling along the trails, trailing dogs or children or both. And so I felt that particular freedom I always feel when I manage to slip the boundaries of routine, as if I've punched a hole in the sky, only to realize it's made of paper. I feel lucky. And clever. But mostly just lucky.

I am.

Solstice

2021-06-21T07:01:00.005-04:00

I want to live here; I can't. I bore myself.

My Brother Got Married!

2021-06-20T16:58:00.003-04:00

Miscellany:

1) COVID makes weddings even more awkward.

2) My brother is an adult. I'm not quite sure I can get my brain around that. And his wife is an adult, too. I envy them their earnestness, and their prowess at home maintenance.

3) I have now brought a potty to a wedding. Bucket list? Literally?

4) No one can hear your heartfelt sentiments unless you project.

5) Swings are fun for kids. A lot of fun. Like, I wish something were that fun for me.

6) There's only so much time you can spend cheerfully outdoors in the middle of summer.

7) Wedding cake is never as good as it should be.

Wednesday Update

2021-06-16T18:17:00.005-04:00

I am here to report that the slightly nicer cookie sheets are, in fact, slightly nicer. One of the things have been slowly learning in adulthood is that you don't always have to stop at what sort of works. I mean, sometimes you know, but it doesn't have to be your default. It is possible, and permissible, to shoot for something more than minimal function.

This is a tough one for me. My parents' bookshelves were literally made of bricks and two-by-fours well into their forties. For a long time, their mattress was on the floor. They bought used cars, always.

If it functioned, it would do. Some lessons begin so early, and are so implicit, that you don't even realize you're learning them.

They are thicker, the slightly nicer cookie sheets. They bake a bit more evenly. There's no rust.

2021

2021-06-07T16:12:00.003-04:00

It's already past the halfway mark of 2021 and I haven't written a word. I believe this to be a symptom of how words are beginning to slink away from me. Which is sad, but the kind of sad for which there is no recourse. Stage Four sad, metastasized.

Meanwhile I am balanced on the knife's edge of happy.

By which I mean, I have much to be grateful for, and am able to experience that gratitude without flinching My work is engaging, and I am very good at it. I control my own schedule. My kids are ferociously alive. I bought the slightly nicer cookie sheets.

But there is always a drop, and it is always only a few atoms away. We are none of us allotted unalloyed joy.

2020 in BOOKS!

2020-12-23T18:01:00.001-05:00

“And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?”
― Dylan Thomas, A Child's Christmas in Wales

As Dylan Thomas's incisive Miss Prothero understands, the thing to do, in the face of disaster, is read.

And so I did. As the global pandemic pricked, then burst, such former quotidian pleasures as conversation, embracing loved ones, Zumba, and the communal coffee pot, I buried my nose in one book after another, leapfrogging my reading totals from previous years.

As a result, I read a lot of really excellent books- which made winnowing this year's list unusually harrowing. I also fell into the clutches of some very, very bad books, from which I feel it is incumbent upon me, as someone who is otherwise fairly useless in a global pandemic, to save you.

So here goes!

2020 HALL OF SHAME:

Where the Crawdads Sing: Your grandmother made a quilt from discarded Justin Bieber posters, and then she put it out in the rain until it began to mildew, and now you have to eat the whole thing.

In Five Years: One long series of product placements! Plus cancer!

The Rent Collectors: White, male, Utah-based author pens the heartwarming story of a young Cambodian mother who transcends her life of grinding poverty thanks to the gift of literacy. (No need for snark here; the truth is enough.)

2020 HALL OF FAME:

Best Book For Wringing You Out Like A Wet Washcloth: Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, Lori Gottlieb

Do you know how many tears fit inside your body? Prepare to find out! Lori Gottleib's Maybe You Should Talk To Someone sounds boring (a therapist talking about therapy....I'll just lie down for a minute on this couch, shall I?). But it is utterly engrossing, a searing meditation on what it means to be alive.

Best Book About Reincarnation: Life after Life, Kate Atkinson

Reincarnation is right up there with "...and it was all a dream" in the pantheon of Very Bad Literary Ideas. But, stupefyingly, Atkinson makes it work.

Best Book About Spontaneous Combustion: Nothing to See Here, Kevin Wilson.

This one stuck with me. Possibly because it is full of people catching on fire.

Best Book Set in Kamchatka: The Disappearing Earth, Julia Phillips

Have you ever read a book set in Kamchatka? I had not. This series of interlinked short stories felt ever so slightly debut-y, but the writing was clear and elegant, the setting was fascinating, and the plot had wheels.

Just Really *xZjxg*Good: The Dutch House, Ann Patchett

Is Ann Patchett a genius? Does she have a cadre of sentient monkeys chained to typewriters in her attic? Who cares; you should read this. It's big, chewy, oddly old-fashioned novel, nominally about a house, but really constituting the compassionate, painstaking dissection of a family organism. It's fantastic.

Best Book For These Sad, Distracted Times: Olive Again, Elizabeth Strout

Strout writes (has always written) exquisitely, but exquisite writers are not so rare. What's more unusual is Strout's generosity: She's one of the few writers these days who accepts, and even rejoices, in the full human panoply. We are many things, we humans: petty and loving, cruel and ridiculous and kind, and in Strout's fiction those qualities are tightly and beautifully braided. In 2020, a time in which we are encouraged to doubt the humanity of those who think differently, to cut out "toxic" people and excommunicate those who misstep, Strout's message is redemptive. To paraphrase the very wise Bryan Stevenson, we are all more than the worst of ourselves.

2020 HALL OF OTHER THINGS I READ THAT WERE GOOD BUT THAT I AM TOO LAZY TO EXPLICATE:

Hidden Valley Road: Inside the Mind of an American Family; All Adults Here; No Visible Bruises: What We Don't Know About Domestic Violence Can Kill Us; Normal People; Redhead by the Side of the Road; Writers and Lovers; 28 Summers; Miracle Creek; Troubled Blood; The Vanishing Half; Peace Like a River; Red at the Bone; Play It As It Lays; The Last Flight; The Night Watchman; The Cracks In Our Armor

40

2020-11-30T11:19:00.001-05:00

I have been very lucky, but I have wasted much of was given to me. I have squandered my yard. have made mistakes I regret, and regret, and regret. I hurt people; I have been hurt. I am loved insufficiently; I love insufficiently. All the usual human failings- we are nothing if not predictable.

I lack the energy, and courage, to muster a crisis, but midlife consumes me anyway. I am not sure what to make of where I am, but I am here.

Thanksgiving 2020

2020-11-26T15:37:00.003-05:00

It's a weird one.

I woke up grateful, so it's only natural that it went downhill from there. My oldest is furious about something (anything?) and spent the better part of 1.5 hours screaming and crying, some of it whilst perambulating around the neighborhood so as to better maximize public humiliation. My youngest has decided not to nap. And my husband is the world's worst kitchen parter, nitpicking, complaining, asking passive-aggressive questions, and generally getting in the way, all while contributing nothing of actual utility (I've known this for a long time, and it is why we cook separately; unfortunately the kitchen doors do not lock).

Everyone is "napping" right now, which means that no one is sleeping, but we have all retreated to our separate corners. Everyone will probably be more civil when we come back together, plus by then it will be a couple of hours closer to bedtime.

But even in the midst of this domestic bliss, there is much to be grateful for. The obligatory: we are healthy, we are solvent, there is pie. And the bonuses: My daughter sings in her crib. My son loves to make his sister laugh. I am making a decent living at a vocation I believe in and enjoy. I grew up with love, and I am passing love on.

This particular COVID Thanksgiving, when I must keep my distance from everyone outside of my immediate family, I'm also finding myself reflecting on those moments in which people outside of my household -strangers, friends, and acquaintances- have given me something charged and precious, some vision or warning or advice that inflected my life, showed me how to be or what to do.

K, telling me her vision of me, blazing and brave. H picking me up in the rain. Professor B, taking me out to lunch and telling me I didn't want to be a musicologist (I didn't). N showing me how crouch calmly under the table when the SWAT team began to roll past the coffee shop. My student E gripping my hands the weekend I was waiting on my son's muscular dystrophy test, telling me things would be different, but OK. C, one of my first students at my very first workshop, who told me I was a wonderful teacher.

We change the direction of one another's lives glancingly, unconsciously. We hit and run, hustling past our impacts, never entirely perceiving what we are to one another. We are molecules, drifting and jostling; we are nothing much. We are everything.

Almost November

2020-10-31T08:05:00.004-04:00

I'm getting both numb and maudlin; the combination is strange and not particularly appealing, like milk and orange juice swirled together in one glass. (Yes- I have tried that. Haven't you? How could any self-respecting lover of breakfast not preside over at least one marriage between these two morning stalwarts? The experiment wastes food but offers valuable lesson: some couples curdle one another.)

I go to bed tired. I wake in the morning tired. I devote large swaths of Internet browsing to attempting to ease the pain in my neck. I learn what my trapezius is, and how I am likely abusing mine, and how it is too late, far too late to do anything sensible about it. I put on weight. I abjure the structured pant. Outside, the pandemic is roiling and raging. Should I buy a scented candle? I am going to die; all flesh is grass; I am not sure a scented candle will be of much utility in any kind of grave/ afterlife situation. On the other hand, I would prefer the scent of pumpkin to the scent of not doing much of any cleaning.

Numb; maudlin.

What has happened this month?

We passed one-year anniversary of my father's death. I do regret not being there when he died. I knew I would regret it, but I stayed home anyway.

We learned we would be virtual schooling for the foreseeable. I was furious with the school board, but more on principle than out of any personal distress; W is kicking along OK.

W and I took a trip home. We stayed in an airbnb twenty minutes down country roads, the trees flaming, gunshots echoing through the hills. We donned masks and ran around with my family outside. My brother announced he is getting married. It felt lonely and strange, but also uncomfortably wonderful- like stepping out onto the ocean to view a lighthouse from the sea. I saw parts of my hometown I had never seen before and won't again. My brother is someone to someone.

There is a whole world outside my door; there always has been.

Retreat

2020-09-15T18:51:00.001-04:00

I never understood why people went on retreat. Why put yourself through the stress of travel when you could hunker at home? COVID has opened my eyes. When you never leave home, and when you are never alone, the desperation to be somewhere, anywhere, else mounts.

This is why you find me, today, $300 poorer than I was last week, holed up in an Airbnb one mile from my house.

It is bliss.

This is my second night; tomorrow I drive home in time to get my kind onto his school Zoom at 8:00. The first night, I sat and stared at the wall of the guesthouse for a long time. Then I went out into the garden and stared at the garden. I watched the sunset. I got up and went back inside and wandered up and down the stairs, into and out of all the rooms, the silence ringing in my ears. I ate dinner at 4:30 PM and was in bed by 8:00.

In the morning, I felt peppier. This was freedom! I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted! And what I wanted was to watch Welsh police procedurals at 6:30 AM! I did that for a while. I ate breakfast exercised and ate a second breakfast and decided to go hiking. Why have I never hiked alone before? It is the best thing.

I came home and finished a book and tried to nap a bit and began to get antsy. I was living the dream! This was the life...! Whatever I wanted, I could do, and I wanted to....work.

So I did a bit of long term planning and reflection, both on some career projects and on how I wanted to react, going forward, to the rest of the pandemic.

Looking back, it's a clear recovery arc- stupor, then bacchanal, followed by boredom leading to reflective productivity. I needed this.

I also realize now how much the fact that I am never by myself anymore is a kind of chronic trauma. I miss myself. I am great company. I miss quiet and ease and reflection.

I don't know what to do about that, other than perhaps booking my next retreat. January 2021?

Wait, what day is it?

2020-09-05T07:50:00.004-04:00

William started virtual school. It went better than I expected, because his school actually got off its duff to provide synchronous instruction this year. (I'm glad all the energy I put into loudly bemoaning the lack of synchronous teaching in the spring was justified? It's always nice to know that your untrammeled whinging had a point.)

School in general is made for kids like William. He loves structure, assignments, and conformity. I'm worried about some of these characteristics in the long term, but in the short term it's an easy ride.

What else is happening?

-A smattering of the first days that give one an inkling that there might, at some distant point on the horizon, be something other than summer.

-Donuts.

-I have muted the most egregious virtue signalers in my FB feed and it has made me much happier.

-Lots o' teaching, as per usual. Now that I only have one career, it's trickier to separate my sense of self from it. Still learning to navigate this.

-Margaret is getting to be excessively two.

My Pandemic Weeks-ish Undefined Amount-ish of Time-ish

2020-08-24T15:23:00.003-04:00

Say what? Time has passed?

I forgot this week that I am not yet 40. I feel 40.

I remember my father's 40th birthday party, which was a surprise party, the only surprise party I think anyone in my family has ever thrown, because we do not like surprises. Specifically, I remember hiding on the blue carpeted steps waiting for him to walk in the door. I must have been three or four, and it was thrilling, if unsettling. Even more unsettling is the knowledge that 40, once you are on the approach or coming in for the landing, simply does not feel that old. Childhood was yesterday!

What has happened since I last wrote?

-Margaret threw up in the car on rural roads. We have to drive several miles to find a place to pull over, strip her down, and shellack the car with wet wipes. Parental achievement unlocked!

-I needed a vacation from our vacation.

-We've really gotten into a rhythm with my oldest, who wanders around playing by himself and reading all day. This rhythm will be imminently disrupted by virtual school.

-We visited Lafayette Park, and you know, all I can say is that it is sad when gazebos become thrilling

-We also went to an orchard and picked apples. One of those quintessential normal family things, except we've never had time in the past because of the volume of work we used to do on weekends. It was fun, but I'd rather have my old life back.

-I ordered an international snack subscription, because what else is left to us in this life? Cheese of the month club may be next.

-I'm very much enjoying no longer being a member of my local mom's FB group, which basically consists of progressives virtue signaling to one another while shaming the rest of us and exhibiting startlingly hypocritical blindness to their own privilege. Who would have thought I would become so crabby? (Oh, wait, everybody.)

-I do believe this election is a battle for the soul of our nation and I've decided to funnel all my charitable contributions toward electing Biden for the foreseeable.

-I can't remember any books I read anymore. The make almost no impression, like a fire walker slipping across the flames. It's scary, but convenient in terms of cost savings.

My Pandemic Week

2020-08-10T15:53:00.002-04:00

I have started a Facebook group for pandemic cruciverbalists, and so far we have managed to discuss a shocking number of crossword clues between us. Does this count as an accomplishment?

I don't remember much from the beginning of the week, because it was much like the beginnings of other weeks. David is more irritable than usual. I wonder sometimes if it is tiring, being that affronted by so many small things. It certainly exhausts me. What does he get out of it? He must get something out of it, or the behavior wouldn't persist.

Or maybe that is a behaviorist's daughter's blind prejudice- that, over time, we only engage in behaviors that reinforce themselves. Maybe we are just mad beasts making noise.

In other marital news, we have, when in the car, started a stealth battle in which the holy grail is to turn on the other person's seat heater without that person noticing. It is the most fun I have had all week.

We are on vacation now, two night at a small cabin in nowhere, MO I found on Airbnb. As we drove down over pot-holed, graveled hairpins, we passed a rifle range filled with men shooting. It was like the exclamation point at the end of a long, tangled sentence full of rotting barns and dilapidated trailers and confederate flags. You think this milieu is made up for the movies, but it isn't.

As ever, in parenting, being on vacation consists of doing a whole bunch of housework in an unfamiliar locale. I miss gigs.

But it is nice to have an excuse to read during nap time, and to drink a gin and tonic on the porch, and to force oneself, for the minute one has between cleaning up other people's crap and serving them the raw material to make it, to sit and listen to the birds and whine of bugs and the suck and slop of the river: summer sounds, still here as the world crumbles.

My Pandemic Week

2020-08-03T16:48:00.001-04:00

Even my complaints about the sameness are the same.

I miss being alone.

What happened this week?

I am buying book after book for my kid, because they take him completely out of commission, like darting and elephant, but in a virtuous, skill-building kind of way. Also I enjoy seeing him enjoy books, so I keep wanting to give them to him, book after book after book, though I know I need to ration them. I've tried reading all day as a lifestyle choice; it makes you weird.

I gave up on our parks tour this weekend; it rained Saturday and on Sunday it just felt like a chore, so we walked to the neighborhood park instead and Margaret attempted to kick the ball and William kicked the ball; and then we got hot and walked back. Sometimes you just need to do what you haven't recently done.

We had Mellow Mushroom pizza, which reminded us of the Mellow Mushroom pizza we usually only have on vacation.

I read a fantasy novel for book club; it reminded me that fantasy used to be all I read. It's odd how thoroughly I went off it- most of my childhood interests are still active in one way or another, but that one, which was fairly consuming, seems to have simply died. Then again, I am not longer into dinosaurs, either.

I am boring even myself with this catalog.

My Pandemic Week

2020-07-28T09:32:00.000-04:00

This was the week we found out there will be no school for my son, and that once more, we'll have to take on the extra full-time job of educating him on top of everything else we do.

I am not going to pretend I took it well. I was really excited about this upcoming school year- I'd finally left my part-time speech job, so I was going to have only one career, and the space and time to invest in it and help it grow.

Not it will be survival.

But what we did, other than that?

Everything blurs. We wandered through Suson park on Saturday morning- a million degrees, the sky boiling, the pond full of dead fish. Sunday there was squalling in Blackburn park. I do like my "collect the parks" idea; there is literally nothing else to do.

I am also trying to make a clearer demarcation between the week and the weekend. This is something I've never had, because the various cycles of my work overran traditional boundaries, but I think the cycle of work and rest is something I need, and have been missing. Some small difference in the texture of life.

Week #4,970,994

2020-07-19T14:45:00.000-04:00

It's funny the tweaks that matter with kids (with people?)

Unlike my youngest, who demanded "GO TO SCHOOL. MARGARET'S SHOES" at 7:30 AM, and proceeded to drop to the floor and bawl when I told her it was Sunday, my oldest has a lukewarm relationship to adventure and outings. If I simply say, "let's go the park," I face a protracted effort to get him into his shoes and out the door.

For him, you need an added ingredient, some element of mission. My son is not even one shred an explorer. Instead, he is an eager executor of instructions, a dedicated ticker of boxes. Much like his mother, though it pains me to admit it.

So my tweak for him is a checklist. For every park we visit, we get to check off the appropriate box. Slowly, we're collecting the parks of the metro area- square by square, tick by tick.

This week we visited Columbia Bottoms on Saturday (crowded floodplain, sunflowers, mighty Missouri), and Shaw Park on Sunday (money, racing from bench to bench, pleasant flowers, secret paths). I am in theory enjoying these visits; they get us out of the house, which is something. And some of them I truly enjoy, but it depends on the mood of my oldest. Saturday he was sour and anxious, whining at every deviation from expectation; Sunday he was charming and enthusiastic, holding his sister's hand and showing her all the secret corners of the park.

In other news this week:

We had Mexican takeout.

David went back to "church," insofar as the church was open for private prayer for fewer than 10 people Sunday morning. Only two or three people showed up; he played the organ anyway.

Margert is transitioning to twos on Monday. On Friday, I had to report an unmasked staff member in her new room. I'm nervous.

I'm furious with the unthinking privilege displayed by the #onlywhenitissafe folks. All that energy should be directed toward #makeitsaferightnow. Just because you can work from home and form a pod with your fellow upper SES-ers, perhaps hiring private tutors to support your children, doesn't mean everyone can. Schools are vital lifelines to many; we should be doing everything in our power to open them, at least for those who need them.

And it's such a double standard: Daycares have been open across the US for months; there has been no massive outcry to close them Why? Because daycare providers are low wage workers, and more likely to be minorities; k-12 teachers are wealthier and whiter. I KNOW that is where the disconnect originates. And of course low wage childcare workers will be the ones to pick up the slack if schools stay closed.

Being agry is so draining. And so useless. And it (once more) pits me against the progressive tide (no clue why progressives are glossing over the profound consequences of closing K-12 schools, but they are). I'm sick of feeling so alone, politically. What has happened to all the people who want left-wing policies implemented with logic, pragmatism, balance, compromise, moderation, calmness and compassion? Where have all the reasonable people gone?

What else? I did laundry. I taught many lessons and a webinar on breathing. It was a really solid webinar. I am good at what I do, though of course I could be better. You can always be better; I find that both humbling and inspiring.

My Pandemic Week

2020-07-13T16:08:00.000-04:00

Last week was the same as the week before, which was the same as the week before, etc. etc.

But I will try to effect differentiation:

1) We had a nice time at Tilles Park on Saturday. Margaret is an explorer- so unlike her brother. She plunged fearlessly up steep slopes and down hills; tried to brain herself on bleachers; leaned out over the water. We saw a fountain and got very close to ducks; we watched a family catch a fish. The sky was a very deep blue and the breeze made everything bearable.

2) There is such vitriol around school reopening. I predicted this at the outset -that we would open the bars and shaft the children- and I am so very sorry to see that I was right. The thought of having to attempt remote learning next year is making me nauseous. The region's plan is supposed to be announced next Monday, so we'll see.

3) We're watching chicken run at night. I cannot seem to keep my attention on it.

4) My herbs are giving me great satisfaction. They perch just outside the back door. I've made a pasta dish with them, and David has made some drinks. Why don't I do herbs as a matter of course? Oh, that's right. Because I'm away and they die.

5) I've booked an exorbitantly expensive two-night stay in the middle of nowhere for early August, because the sameness is so very oppressive.

6) I need more social contact but reaching out makes me so tired. And everyone is full of anger and fear.

7) More than a week ago, but we did hold a Zoom birthday party for Margaret. It was nice.