Zora Travels

Dancin' Shoes

Friday came and I thought fondly of the blocks.  I was tempted to spell out 53 weeks and keep the tradition alive...but alas, photos will still be taken...just without the wooden fanfare.  Monthly blocks will suffice for the next few years.  At 24 months, I suppose even monthly shots will fade...then you start saying "two or two and a half or three."

Life is busy around here.  In order to blog, I must let go of all or several items on the agenda: cleaning, showering, eating, coffee sipping whilst reading the paper or yoga.  And often one or two of these things are just to precious to give up.  I try to rarely be online on computer or phone when Noodle is awake.  I would prefer her to not grow up thinking of my attention being glued to shiny screens - screens, by the way, that I don't let her enjoy.  Hypocrisy starting early.

So, having a one-year old.  What's so different?  Nothing instanteneous but just the ever-present acknowledgement that she's our big girl.  We stared at the monitor last night, as we often do right before bed, wanting to wake her up and play (which we NEVER do). And Daniel noticed just how huge her body is in the crib.  It spans such length.  She's so tall and grown up. 

Her vocabulary is taking off.  It's composed of signs and grunts that we convince ourselves we can accurately decipher.  She can sign all of the following when prompted in German (and sometimes in English) "more, food, delicious, sleep" auf Deutsch "mehr, Essen, lecker, Schlafen" and has taken to calling Daniel "Dad" and me "Dada."  Not sure where the "mama" dissapeared to in her noggin but we haven't heard it in a while.  She loves to say "baby" and assundry grunts for "read, please, and help."

I am admittedly concerned sometimes as to how my German (with all of its grammatical weakness) is going to affect her vocabulary.  Perhaps she will be delayed in her speech as she muddles through the landscape of the English and Deutsch at home.  But it is my passion and I enjoy learning this language and sharing it with her.  Not to mention my German friends and their babies who anxiously await our visit in Cologne.  It will be so special to have Nora seated at the table and able to understand the conversations between us.

Well, while Lulu Bell sprouts in her independence, Daniel and I have also found more moments to relish our own.  For Father's Day, Claire and I presented our favorite fathers with tickets to TV on the Radio at the Hollywood Bowl.  It would be a night of friendship, picnic baskets, wine, and the sun setting to fantastic music. And it was.

By the end of the night, Claire had got us all up and dancing.  Shaking our head, waving our hands, tapping our feet. 

 

And while we danced, Noodle had her first sleepover at my mom's.  Which was easy-peasy, I might add.  She ate, drank a bottle, and slept from 7pm until 6am...in her little crib next to my mom's bed...not a peep all night.  By the time I arrived at 7:30am, she was already finished with breakfast and listening to her new favorite musical obsession, Sam Cooke's "Chain Gang."  Any song by Mr. Cooke gets her all excited with two swirling and shoulders jumping and head bobbing.

It was a glorious "first night away" and one that had me missing her far more than she missed me.  Probably the way it always is with your kids.

Our dancing feet will have to find more reasons to tap into the night while Nora slumbers sweetly.

Video time. Here's our basket climber, walker, and reader. She is obsessed with Goodnight, Gorilla. She asks us to read it over and over and over...and over every day.

Long Walks & Sweets

Daniel started attending his conference this week.  Our family mornings are now spent together in a fog, alternating getting ready and keeping Nora from bodily harm, stumbling along the uneven brick sidewalks towards a promised pool of caffeine by 7:00am (which still feels faintly like 4am). 

Noodle and I send him off to his Berkeley bus stop with waves and kisses and then begin our stroll past pumpkin tendrils curling around wrought iron fences and interesting door handles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It poured yesterday.  A near constant stream of rain and wind swirled the entire day.  Nora and I; however, would not be housebound.  Albeit a comfortable amount of space, our apartment quickly runs out of options for baby amusement.  One small bag of toys, wooden spoons, and two books only hold her attention for so long...hair brushes, eyelash curlers, empty plastic containers, and banana puffs can extend the experience for a few more minutes...but eventually, the girl has to hit the bricks.  Stormy or not.

 

The long-awaited Dwight Street apartment tour (rented through the fabulous folks at VRBO)

living room

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

kitchen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the bedroom (yes, that's a full-size bed...hence the reason that Daniel is on the couch...Little Miss No-Sleep and I take the bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How it looks when one adult and one precariously-placed-lurching-infant bed-hog are sleeping.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so a walkin' we went.  With Nora strapped to my chest and her baby paraphernelia on my back, I popped open the umbrella and set out to explore the city on our own.  After a few stops on the bus and subway, I decided to walk.  To breathe in the fresh air and to hear the sounds of dropletts fall upon the umbrella.  We set out across the Longfellow Bridge.  The red line subway trains heading to Alewife or Braintree roaring past us.  Fog swallowing up the Boston skyline behind us.  Small white sailboats flitting in the Charles River below us.

 

 

 

Oh, the comedy of taking these pictures.  I struggled to uncap my camera, whilst keeping rain from Noodle and from the lens.  We were a sight to be seen.  Juggling a baby in bright rainbow leggings and monkey shoes, a large camera up to my eye, an umbrella with two broken spokes above us, and soaked tennis shoes that squished as I turned. 

Then...the lens clap fell to the ground. 

        To the ground. 

                I am not an octopus. 

I pressed Nora to my chest, slung the backpack on my back, tucked the camera under my neck, stuck the umbrella handle deep down into my bra, and fished for the cap.  I had to giggle.

In the end, perhaps we should have taken the subway across to Cambridge.  But the memory...my laughter, Nora's amazement at the pitter-patter of rain, her eyes squeezing shut when gusts struck her face, her mimicking the squeal of the subway brakes...all of it led to a memorable walk.

 

 

Our final destination in Cambridge, J.P. Licks.  Yup, I walked in the rain for over four miles in a rainstorm to an ice-cream parlor...only to buy oatmeal frozen yogurt.   I have a sweet tooth...but I also attend bootcamp.

And on the homestretch, we took the 1 bus along Massachusetts Avenue.  Winding through Cambridge, past MIT, across the Harvard Bridge, and past the Berklee School of Music.  Soon we came into the familiar South End.  After a spectacular meltdown, Nora had nursed, bitten me, and fallen fast asleep upon my chest.  I carried her through the Chinese market buying Vietnamese sweet sesame crackers and Vermont blueberries.  Who knew that there are over ten varieties of bok choy? She awoke just as the cashier was placing our items into a bright pink plastic sack.

It wasn't an "eventful" day in any tourist sense of the word but one I won't soon forget it.

 

 

It's just me and my napless wonder sidekick.  Nursing like crazy and not sleeping. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But after an hour of attempting a nap, who can resist this face?  And like my Grandma Lola said, "Nora just does NOT want to miss a thing."

Rest assured, she's not.

 

Fotos am Samstag: Week 35 - Librarian

Clear quiet thoughts are such a luxury.  It is exactly 9:00am on a breezy and gray Saturday.  The only sounds are that of Nora's sound machine coming from the monitor, the tick of the wall clock, and the occasional paw thuds of Maxwell on the hardwood floor.  I have my friends on my mind today.  Claire, who celebrates her birthday today...the day the world is ending...and in two short weeks will once again be a California Girl.  Courtney, who frolics with all of her siblings and their kids at their yearly cousin's camp (Noodle's soul-sister Alice is also there).  Janette, who is in the midst of packing up the family on the East Coast to join us out here in the West once again.

The Friday photos were taken yesterday morning...however, a spat of fatigue, profound and cross-eyed and short-fused, was so overwhelming that I didn't have it in me to post.  It is curious how much of a physical toll it starts to take on you to wake up three times in the middle of the night for 30 minute nursing sessions...and to have naps in the day so short (usually 45 min.) that you can't accomplish a household task AND squeeze in a nap before the baby wakes.  People tell me all the time, "Nap when the baby naps."  But they don't mention that this will mean cooking, eating, cleaning, folding laundry, picking up toys, washing dishes, mopping floors, and paying bills with a baby on your hip.

My brain was so fuzzy and my body so tired yesterday that I called my mom for help.  I couldn't keep my eyes open.  I was lying on Nora's bedroom rug...she crawled and rocked upon my legs and gave me gummy smiles...yet I only had one wish - to nap.  I couldn't muster my usual repertoire of songs and dances and twirls around the yard smelling flowers and fingering leaves.  I arrived at my mom's at 4:00 - immediately handed Noodle to her smiling Grandma - climbed underneath a buttery soft floral comforter, a gentle fan blowing against my face - and slept solidly for an hour.  A buttery floral hour.

Sleep is such an obsession that I swear this entire post may very well be about it.  I crave it all the time.  I pray for people to offer me naptime while they play with Nora.  I gently remind Noodle that if she ever wants to sleep for two or three hours, that I would welcome it.  I wince when other moms mention their babies nap for several hours each time.  I lament that Nora no longer takes a third nap.  I remind her that I would be even more jolly and spirited and musical and entertaining...if I could just get a bit more sleep. 

Out of Nora's 13 waking hours per day, she sleeps about 1.5 - 2 of them...Daniel is home and helping for 30 - 60 min. of them...and that leaves her tugging on my pants, jumping holding my fingers, and squirming on my hip for 10 hours per day. (I do recognize, as always, my fortune to have these hours with her...but just saying...ten hours of interaction, engagement, education, music, talking, walking, dancing, reading, bathing, and nursing...is still a lot of time.)  We have a firm resove to not expose Noodle to television or any form of media/screen entertainment for a few more years.  This is a decision that we are both passionate about...yet, I know, around the 8th hour f our day that a 30 min. reprieve watching Sesame Street or Dora might be nice.  It's so tempting.  Only time will tell if we hold our resolve.

Clearly, my whining, falling asleep early, and wandering eye worked on Daniel last night.  Because this morning at 5:30am (after nursing), I happily threw some ear plugs in my ears, put the monitor on loud near his face, and went back to sleep until 8:25am.  It is a glorious feeling.  To wake with the whir of the monitor, Daniel slumbering lightly next to me, the cats anxious for their morning pets...and it's just me.  If I did have a nanny or mother's helper-type of babysitter -- my only goal would be to catch up on sleep. 

Speaking of childcare, a few days ago I had several moms come over in the evening, after Nora was asleep, to enjoy pizza, salad and wine.  One mum who works part-time commented to the two of us who are always home that is is SO SO SO much easier to go to work.  You have allocated time to use your mind and skill, listen to music during the commute, a few breaks, lunch, chat with colleagues, leisurely run errands, and it's possible to finish tasks - uninterrupted and completely.  I envied the two working moms.  I went to bed thinking about what I could do to work a little.  Not because I want to work, but because the one or two full days or even half-days away from home might feel splendid. 

But that was just one night...it really circles back to sleep.  If I could get more of it, I would just feel so much better.

Ah, Noodle is awake.  I'll have to save this post for later...no time to add the pics.  But for 49 minutes I was alone.  It was lovely!

********************

 

Just put Nora down for her second nap. I took a few pictures of her sweet feet.  They still rub back and forth in cricket motions, bang strongly against my arm, stretch into her fingers near my face, and dangle in the air. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seeing her curvy feet with mine in the distance is always a delight.  I swirl the cowlick at the back of her head, smooth wisps of hair behind her ears (yes, there are bonified wisps these days), and rub the silky skin between her ample brows.  After she finishes her snack, we sway to "Puff the Magic Dragon."  Sung lightly in breathy tones into the velvet patch above her ear.  She rubs her fists into her eyes.  Looks to the wall at the Indian elephant.  We tell the elephant goodnight. Stroking its vibrant quilted skin, beaded ears, and bejeweled tail.  Touching the small mirror stitched as an eye.  Saying, "Schlaff schoen, Elefant."

 

 

Then I dollop her forehead and plump cheeks with kisses and lay her in the crib.  "Schlaff schoen, Nora."  Sleep well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Favorite photos from this week.  First, Friday's batch.  Noodle can now pull herself up on her bookshelf (which Daniel has thankfully mounted to the wall).  She steadies herself with one hand and proceeds to select various books.  Then when she has one in hand, she lands (with a giant thump) on her cloth-diapered bootie. 

Looking to me in anticipation of reading.  It is just one of her many new talents that make her appear so grown up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Craning her neck to see Daddy, as she hears him enter the hallway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trying to pet Maxwell & Sophie.  They are not interested.  Sophie will actually escape in about 5 seconds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She also eats slices of fresh strawberries...all by herself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her diet has been gentle this week.  No greenery.  Only mellow veggies and fruits.  And small amounts.  She'll eat way too much, if we offer it.  This led to painful nights and horrendous screams. 

 

Now, she's smooth and quick with her emmisions.  Making for a frightful scene in the cloth diapers...but easier on her stomach.  This must be the phase that causes many a cloth-diapering parent to throw in the towel, hang up their rubber gloves, and buy cases of Pampers.

 

Dragging feet on solids

In case today ends as most do as of late...with an exhausted fall into bed, I'll post this recent photo of Super Smiler Nugglet with her Grandma Lola and Auntie Barbara.

I am dragging my feet on starting solids.  It is just so easy to go about our day nursing anywhere we'd like.  Once the solids train pulls out of the station, there's no going back.  Around the same time each day, or twice a day, a full hour needs to be set aside to feed.  Starting with a nursing session...then the food prep, the slow and joyous eating conversation, the clean up.  Sure it will take a lot less time down the line - but wrapping my mind around the first feeding just makes me tired.  So it's breastmilk served a la carte again! 

Thank goodness my sis-in-law Kathy is around to always calm my nerves about all things food-related.  No, rice cereal will not make Nora diabetic.  No, I don't have to be paranoid about introducing fruits before vegetables.  No, I don't have to rush to start...up until she's a year old, Noodle gets all of her hammy thigh-goodness from my milk.  I vex too often about the eventual hormone-stuffed meat and poultry that she'll eat, the salty snacks, the nonorganic milk and produce, the chemicals and preservatives in fast food, the sugary treats, decadent cookies and rivers of juice. 

I know that I can control her eating 99% of the time for the first few years...but all of these items will drop into her diet by kind-hearted people who think she'll enjoy them.  And enjoy them she will, as I did and still do.  I just wish I could keep her in a bubble sometimes.  A bubble that bounces joyously past all the unhealthy foods, eating habits, sweet tooth, sodium mounds, and greasy morsels that I adore--- and find myself struggling with since I was nine. 

I've been a butterball since I was nine.  My mind and heart ache to keep Nora from a similar experience.  When I imagine her looking for a seat in the 4th grade...I want her not to hear the boys making "moo" sounds.  When she sits, I'd like it to be without kids making creeking sounds.  Can I keep her from the harpoon jokes, blubber comments, oinking noises, and cruel names?  I hope to.  I may not be like other moms in this regard...it isn't just a desire for Nora to be a healthy eater -- it is a passionate and fervent wish to protect her from the brutal school experiences that I had and the issues that I still have from being overweight. 

*And on a side note, if I EVER find out that Nora is on the giving end of this cruel behavior, I'll wrangle her organic-eating neck!  We will have many many conversations about making comments, about being kind to other kids, about how our family's "normal" is not everyone else's.  Some families have two moms or dads or just one.  Some children have an extra chromosome, different ways of learning, or ways of moving...and versus staring at them, we can just ask them about it.  Some families practice other faiths that are equally beautiful.  Some children have a mother and a birth-mom.  So many variations on families and faith and morality for her to see.

My goodness, I feel the need to read yet another childhood development book right now!  But maybe that makes it worse...all the reading.  Or at least the baby-book reading...I'll end this post and read my novel...perfect in its fictional form.

Little India

There are moments each day that I soak up the words of Shantaram.  A novel that captures the scents, colors, voices, and layers of India in a captivating (albeit at times, cheesy) manner. So, today, after a lovely swim class and a return of nightlights to Babys R' Us...I found myself only blocks away from Pioneer Avenue and the Little India in Artesia.  These blocks of non-descript, peeling white buildings, beckon with large glass window displays of copper pots, saris, sacks of rice and Bollywood video posters.

The temperature was crawling near 90 as I parked the car and waddled up the sidewalk...with no particular mission other than bathing in scents, words, textures, and sounds that were out of my ordinary.  And that's exactly what happened.  I fingered elaborate Hindi statues, Buddha statues, incense burners, jewelry boxes, tiny-mirrored edges of saris and silk scarves, copper tea sets, dusty sacks of unknown spices, hookah pipes, and tapestries.  Asking a woman at one point for the bathroom, only to have her arms (draped in a luxurious turquoise and cream sari) wave erratically.  A simple, "no" would have sufficed...but as I watched her hands and tried to decipher her words with more patience...I gathered that the toilet seat was broken - screws missing - slides to the side - I might fall in - too risky for pregnant woman.

She rung up my jasmin and Lord Shiva incense sticks as she continued to encourage my bathroom needs be satiated at the Indian buffet restaurant up the street.

And why not?  Nuglett has not enjoyed enough of the spices, fragrances, and textures of Indian food.  This vast region's flavors are not Daniel's favorites; thus, I satiate this craving rarely.  A craving that started years ago in 10th grade.  I had befriended Menal and her grandmother (always wearing a brightly colored t-shirt with a gorgeous sari over it) would make chapati on the gas stove as soon as she saw us walk in, rubbing each bubbled piece with a stick of butter, and handing them out with a loving smile.  Menal always preferred a bowl of cereal...but I was smitten.  There were new and intense flavors every time I came to visit.  I never questioned the colors, consistency, or unknown smells...I just ate...and ate.

And again today - I feasted - throwing caution to the wind (after checking my purse for the antacid tablets that would become my saviors).  A basket of non-gestational diabetes naan quickly arrived.  Chunks of the light onion-flecked bread lathered in gobhi aloo, palak paneer, palak daal, and chicken tikka masala.  I was in heaven.  Large flatscreens splashed elaborate shoulder-popping dance numbers and smitten love birds videos from MTV India on every wall.  And as I stabbed strips of spiced beets and curried potatoes, I couldn't help but smile.  Only minutes away from my home and I feel like I had traveled.  Women without English had approached my belly with outstretched hands and genuine smiles...although not one of them actually touched me.  Men ignored me all together as I fingered the saris.  Children were few and far between...except the one in the spice store who continued to ask for a cookie as her mother asked about rosewater and face masks.

So, here I sit.  Our bed beckons with Shantaram sitting on my nighstand.  A brief dip in the land I dream to one day travel before bizarre dreams overtake my mind.  On my lips the sweet honey flavors of gulab jamun from this afternoon (gulab jamun are simply the most amazing wet mushy balls floating in honey syrup).  One day, India, one day, I'll travel to you.  Daniel is listening to Shantaram on cd's during his daily freeway slog...his mind is opening ever-so-slightly to the possibility of our feet traipsing through this beautiful country.  It's long since been my dream.  One day.

String of Strength

***Click here for the soundtrack for today's post.  Don't you want to hear the Turkish classic that kept my socked feet and Galloise-smoking mouth busy during the blissfull summer of 1999?  Today, it finds me bouncing on a giant green ball.***

 

Last spring I attended my first Mother Blessing for Claire.  It was a glorious event complete with a henna tattoo artist who adorned my hands...and more importantly (and elaborately) the mom-to-be's gorgeous belly.  There were favorite baby books presented, birthday cards for the baby inscribed, a gigantic red-velvet cupcake tower, a watermelon swan overflowing with fruit, and then the blessing.  I was nervous as I presented my bead to Claire.  Wrapped inside my words of awe and love for her were also my wishes for strength and courage for her labor.  My bead, hued in tranquil sea foam like her eyes, was presented...and somewhere in Chicago on a summer day the necklace was grasped or looked upon or merely present for an incredible woman - who was about to become an incredible mom to baby Veronica.

Well, my string of strength, hope, courage, love, and joy has arrived!

Claire sweetly sprinkled emerald malachite beads between each person's bead...my mind tries to remember the words that accompanied each... but honestly, the distinct givers have muddled, although the sentiment has not.  Their unified strength already brings me comfort.  My fingers run over them, eyes closed, breathing deeply.  Each little wooden nook, smooth dip, rough edge, cold metal engraving, serene glass, attaches to an idea of who I think I'll be as a woman in labor...tense...sharp-tongued...stoic...peace-filled...and other choice adjectives that you'll just have to ask Daniel about in October.

Beyond the "thank you" cards, I wish to send gratitude once again to those whose thoughts and hands went into creating this necklace that shall either adorn my neck or more likely simply be something to rub serenely or frantically during labor. 

**And yes, Courtney, the one end is still unfinished...awaiting the arrival of your bead!

And to my great surprise this morning, as I slogged in my wet flip-flops across the gym parking lot, I discovered a new used book store.  Just inside the door were shelves full of children's books (the one and ONLY baby-necessity that I've felt we were sorely lacking...I mean, after all, I am an English teacher).  A sturdy-looking child's chair was nearby and the search was on --- just hoping for any of the following:

• folktales
• foreign languages (especially Tagalog, Spanish, German, or Croatian - and not because I can speak any of them...but I just love seeing them in the house)
• green planet/living
• any story about two cats
• Dr. Seuss classics (Horton Hears a Who, Green Eggs and Ham)
• Are you My Mother?
• mixed-race children

 

And to my delight, I found three German books, a dragon story in English and Spanish, a few Dr. Seuss (Yertle the Turtle- just for you Court), and a multi-culti book to add to our mini-collection. 

We wish for Nuglett to have memories of more than just European-looking kids in their childhood books.  Not that us Europeans aren't simply fabulous on the eyes...but a little color never hurt!

 

Bubbling Characters

I had this vibrant image this morning as I wheeled my teacher cart down the sidewalk, bumping over cracks and dancing around sloshy mud puddles.  I imagined that I was a novelist, with words flowing from my fingertips.  The words bubbled on the page.  I had imbibed such life and luscious detail into the characters, that they took physical shape.  Pealing from the pages...moving into the room with breath and body.  My characters entered my life.  I smiled as we met.

Now, this fanciful walk was surely inspired by the gritty base tones of Toni Morrison, whose voice had filled my car yesterday evening as I drove home in a miserable clusterf--k of traffic.  She was reading from her new novel out next month, A Misery.  I ached to read about Florence and the Dutch trader who purchases her.  Toni scraped my soul in college.  She singed characters into my memory, most of whom have now joined hands with others from Jhumpa, Arundhati, Rohinton, Alice and Zora.  I can isolate a few of her moments of poignant humanity...which for my mind, is a total victory of literary genius.  Tiny babies slain before slave masters arrive, an old man jumping from a roof, a little girl playing with her blue-eyed doll.

Daniel struggles lately to unravel himself in his personal essays for grad. school applications.  I told him to simply "be natural" and to "write without trying to hard."  Yet, do I not sit here with my little blog and labor over each sentence?  Taking what starts as an energy-soaked kernel and overwatering or sunning it into a faltering sprout.

I laughed aloud last night as I curled on the couch, sipped warm Gewurztraminer with ice-cubes, and watched Smart People.  How does a writer pluck such succulent morsels of our common experience and portray them so artfully?  The cantankerous professor, the miserable Young Republican daughter, the poetic biting son.  It was a wonderful film that left my mind spinning with ideas of both how to raise a child that is equally brilliant with words (as the daughter is in the film) but also fluid within relationships.  A child that relishes the tickle of the SAT without scratching it raw.

Our eventual parenthood is often a topic of discussion.  It seems to creep into our thoughts after any time spent with the beloved children in our lives.  On Sunday, I slid, sang and smiled with my nephews in San Diego.  Trevor, a brown-eyed dynamo and Caiden, his mellow blue-eyed brother.  How can two siblings be so different?  Personalities that squish out from their very first faces and continue to spread wings that don't resembe one another.  Heather, their mother and my step-sister, had this book on "strong-willed children" and I found it riveting.  As her and my mother diced onions and carrots for the turkey soup, I soaked in passages that were completely opposite of every pedagogical article and text I've read of late.  "Be firm, do not offer options, do not praise proper behavior, enforce the rules, never back down, always battle in cases of disrespect and defiance."  I wondered how this would work in my classroom.  I wondered how this would work with some of the children I know...with the ones I may one day have.  Will I be as tough as I think?  Will I have children that don't interrupt, show respect as they enter and exit a room, use inside voices, and follow the rules?  Will they fear me?  Will I fear them?  Will they look back on their childhoods and be happy I was their mother?

Those are a lot of questions for someone with a bare finger and a pill popped religiously at 8pm.

A weekend which started with touching airy moon jellyfish in the bay, ended with kissing a monkey and an ultimate fighter.  Halloween with all of its candy, chocolate, candled pumpkins, and costumes will soon be here.  My mouth waters with the prospects of all the "borrowed" candy I'll pilfer from pillowcases and bowls.  Mara's children, lacking the raging sugar tooth of most youth, are always such easy and sweet victims.

A literary question

I have two choices this September.  Choice #1: read the novel, Rule of the Bone, that is normally read to the 10th graders.  Choice #2: select my own.

If I choose to flow with the norm, then my friend Kaitie (who is out on maternity leave) will hand me eight weeks of finely-sculpted lesson plans, quizzes with answer keys, and sample essays.  Thematic questions on transformation and change will be handed over for me to simply implement.  I'll come up with some key talking points; however, the bulk of the unit will stem from her prior work.  On the other hand, if I chose to select my own narrative, I will need to develop the entire curricula myself.

Narrative units are luscious.  Dollop class discussions of life, experience, and family against a fine piece of literary canvas.  The words on the page act as a catalyst that stimulates the students to reflect on their own lives, sense of loss, and hopes for the future.  Characters who peel back layers of unspoken fears and anger often invoke students to do the same in their writing.  And in the midst of their brave journey, my own mind finds the calloused traveling feet and satiated sensory experience of an imagined vacation. 

Another consideration for this unit...it might be my last (at least of the "inner-city high school English" variety).  Potentially the final unit that I unwrap with heart-pattering anticipation like a beautiful gift on Christmas morning.  Careful not to tear the shiny paper, gently nudging the taut bow off the corners, slipping my fingers under the tape on the back, wondering if it is really a coffee maker or merely a ruse.  The box opens revealing layers upon layers of tissue paper (it's definitely not a coffee maker).  I embrace the new treasure nestled between the crinkling pastels.

This is what literature and the teaching of it means to me, hence my struggle to teach a novel, albeit easier, that contains quotes such as:

"I'm like, Gimme twenty bucks up front or find yourself another protege.  Plus I don't do no sex with you.  No f---ing or sucking (36)."

"He had a bunch of stolen credit cards that he used strictly for phone sex with Orientals, Dial-a-Jap he called it, his favorite recreational activity...(47)"

"Joker or Raoul or Packer would be over in the corner on his hands and knees with his pants around his ankles humping some female from behind...Roundhouse sprawled on the chair next to them jerking off...(58)"

Is it a fair fight; however, when I purposely selected the most offensive and sloppily written blather above from Rule of the Bone and lovingly coaxed out the beautiful melodies of one of my favorite novels below for the comparison?  But, just for fun, here are the slightly-melted-dark-chocolate-with-a-glass-of-sweet-muscat quotes from Arundhati Roy's God of Small Things (a novel first brought to my attention by its greatest fan, Claire)

"Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story (32)."

"Anything's possible in Human Nature ...Love. Madness. Hope. Infinite joy (112)."

"It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined."

Now, I imagine settling my gigantic behind into the tall vinyl stool at the front of the room, I lick my lips and look out onto the sea of utterly bored faces and ask them to pick up their novels.  Several minutes pass as the students cluster themselves around the few who actually brought their novels, I finish scanning with my stink eye, I clear my throat, there is a palpable sense of anticipation, and my voice either casts these words out to the literary-starved 15 year olds,

"They all broke the rules. They all crossed into forbidden territory. They all tampered with the laws that lay down who should be loved and how. And how much (31). "

or I ignore the faint sting of vomit at the back of my throat, grateful for easy lesson plans, and say,

"The females definitely weren't skags but they weren't anything special neither.  Not babes (51)."

I realize that the debate seems pointless, the gauntlet cleanly passed before it even began; however, the quality of my personal life wrestles with my professional integrity.  First thing I must do is actually finish this bright yellow novel...all 390 pages of what I hope will turn into the novel that "is a work of can-do genius" (New York magazine).  I already know what awaits behind Roy's lily pad cover and dog-eared pages.  Page one will plop your mind immediately down into a quiet space of wonder, whilst page 101 of Rule of the Bone already has my mind slurping dredge off the sea floor.  But fair is fair and I have to at least finish it to justify my eventual decision.

 

Gentle Traveling Abundance

Riding up the blue vein to the heart of LA on Saturday, I spent time with the Columbian whores and nonagenarian journalist in Marquez' novel.  We disembarked at Pershing Square.  Wafts of urine, scurrying pigeons, and incense-burning street dwellers awaiting our arrival.  We circled the streets looking for the market.

Blond wood shavings curl on the contrete floor of the Grand Central Market.  It's a luscious sensory slip into the fruit, herb, and fruit stalls.  Amidst the piles of ripe melons and avocados, gentrifying couples and chin-strapped tourists jostle alongside sweaty day laborers.  Salvadorian pupusas competed with shiny kung pao chicken, aged falafel patties, and Mexican sopes.  My Berkeley memories of cheese oozing from thick cornmeal pickets, smothered in pickled cabbage salad and salsa, found us awaiting our calabeza, hongo, espinaca, and pollo surprises.  And soon, with laborious plastic-knife precision, lunch was finished and we waddled with greasy lips back into the subway's belly.

The Olvera Street of my adolescent recollection is highlighted by virgin margaritas with my aunt and uncle, stalls sprouting from the brick pathway enticing tourists with folkorico dresses, wooden toys, and vendors hawking the latest in Chinese and Mexican crap.  Saturday's vision was not an extreme diversion; however, the hammered tin crosses and thick shot glasses sold at my beloved Iguana were not only cheaper here, but also enchanted by the Mariachis and blind accordion player's ballads.

From El Salvador to Mexico to China we scurried.  Daniel and I make a point of visiting every Chinatown on our travels.  I think for him this honors his mother, who adores the plastic-wrapped, bamboo shoots, and dangling caramel pigs of all Chinatowns.  We have fingered satin slippers, ginseng root, and Boba tea in New York, San Francisco, Portland, and now in our own back yard.  San Francisco's dragon-tailed gate and hilly contents rise far above the rest; while Portland's one block of shuttered stores with cheesy Chinese accents lags behind its urban brethren.

This adventure spawned from Daniel's morning cyber-hunt for fatigue remedies.  Upon reading about the powers of ginseng and Wing Hop Fung Emporium, we both ignored the red tea box already lurking in our kitchen cabinet, and decided upon this tourist journey.  Red lanterns  (an image that never tires) swayed across the stone plaza, complete with dead-serious old men smacking tiles onto a wooden board, cursing (I'm confidently assuming), and leering with cigarettes dangling from their mouths at those tourists who found them irrestible to photogaph.

As we hustled towards the fanciful gold line station, we came across this spiral of Chinese characters.  This statement woven in concrete suited our adventure perfectly:  Encouraging the gentle traveling abundance.

***This is my first post sinced receiving a wonderous post on my friend Claire's blog, Life in Chicago.  I appreciate all of my new readers and encourage you all to visit her personal blog and the hilarious blog, She Wrote, He Wrote, that she co-writes with her "soon-to-be husband" Greg.***

The Hand of Fatima

Yesterday afternoon as balmy clouds swallowed the sun, I found a spot in Portfolio.  With my nutmeg-spiced mug of soy cocoa and a sack of new library books, I wiggled down into a worn chair and opened my journal.  I began to take out each book coated with plastic and bar codes, and remember what had drawn me to them.  My books cover liberation (The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted) and American divas in Paris (The Book of Salt).  Some of them garnered my attention because of their reviews...I mean how can you resist a book described as an "exotic brilliance of a saffron sky" (The End of Manners)?  And while Love in the Time of Cholera still beckons from my night stand and White Teeth lingers heavily in my backpack with a Golden Spoon napkin on page 102...I was drawn to check out another Marquez (Memories of My Melancholy Whores).

But just before the spice-flecked foam settled, I found my afternoon friend.  Gilded swirls with orange pom-poms and golden birds, flit across the turquoise wrapper.  The Hand of Fatima  lies gently near the title and Rabih Alameddine's The Hakawati became my current read.  I took a few minutes to take in my surroundings before diving into a novel that promises to be an epic that will take me from "the Koran to the Old Testament, Homer to Scheherazade."

To my left at the long table, slumped a petite intellectual, his dark glasses continually smooshing up his face as he tried to center clip-art on his Power Point slide.  He was working on "Topic 2:  The Development of the Modern Atomic Theory" and I approved of his choice in clip-art, albeit the slide itself was a little wordy.  A lanky musician to my right (pictured with the hand on his forehead) with navy loafers and skinny jeans bent over his sheet music notebook (I hadn't seen this before), musing over his notes, and marking large red A's in places that desperately needed them.  Outside under an umbrella, the alternative crowd, complete with the tiger-printed baby stroller being lightly shaken by a cursing mother with cherry slurpee hair and a gigantic metal spike jutting out of her chin, smoked and ranted about some dress that had been mistreated.

I should come here more often, I thought.  It offers far more for my senses than the parrot-screeching street and hyacinth entangled porch of home.  And they offer knitting class on Monday nights at 7:30pm.  I could finally complete the sweater arm/scarf/purse medley that lies wrapped in the back of my closet.  And maybe Ms. Slurpee Cursor or Professor Atom have a neglected project, too.