Zora Travels

Panic Button

Ok, ok...the past few days I have been caught up in a frenzy about toddler feeding and nutrition.  This morning was the crest of that wave.

My panic button was pressed.

The following sentence sent me into a spin of FIRST, wanting a donut; second, fearing for Nora; third, feeling anxious.

"Your child will grow up to feel about eating the way you do.  If that gives you a little thrill of dismay and dread, you have work to do."

After leaving a frantic voicemail for Kathy, I had to step back and take a breath.  A few of them. 

• First, no driving to a donut shop. 
• Second, Nora is going to be fine. 
• Third, my anxiety is not from this mountain of a mole hill.  I feed Nora pretty well and she is a good eater...there's something else underneath at the root of all this.

Hmmmm...my stressors...

Part of it is that I am suddenly overwhelmed by the academic/professional void in my life since being out of work now for over a year. At first it was just awesome to NEVER have to go to work but t he initial euphoria of motherhood is no longer new.  I have even caught myself looking longingly at my professional teacher slacks in the closet. 

Calls and emails to pre-baby friends often (and understandably) go unanswered for a long time...I imagine that's because they are busy with their jobs.  Applying their minds and time to something outside of the domestic sphere.

I used to be important (please don't tell me I'm important to Nora...I inherently get that).  I mean that I used to be a highly-respected English teacher.  Colleagues sought out my advice on curriculum, behavior issues, methodology.  I was the mentor and coach to new teachers.  I had a strong and passionate voice at staff meetings.  Administrators praised my abilities.  I was proud of being a teacher.  Yes, I complained..but at the end of the day, I knew I was good at it.  I used big words.

Parenting is different.  Sure, on MOST days, I know that I have done a solid job parenting my daughter...but my brain still feels more and more gelatinous by the hours of grocery shopping, cleaning, dishes, laundry folding, dealing with cloth diapers, cooking meals, and the phenomenal hours of engagement and entertainment provided to Nora.  Prior to motherhood, I did not particularly enjoy cooking and cleaning...and yet, there are now hours allocated each day to these tasks.

In addition to missing my profession, we are in the first week of escrow on a house.  A gigantic step in the land of adult-financial-responsibility (more to come on this as the process moves along).

Daniel is also going to return to graduate school for the next 3-5 years to pursue his MBA...while we continue to move towards having a second baby.

A year ago, this entire list of items would have normally been discussed and vexed and mulled over with a beautiful group of friends.  Friends that have busy lives...all of whom now work outside the home.

So, would I like some cheese with my whine?  Yes, I would.  A huge chunk of sharp, blue-veined, morbier, please...and a donut on the side.

Wait, isn't that how this post started?  Coming full circle.

I ain't no therapist but looks to me like some "transference-to-food-of-anxiety-over-other-things".

• Longing for genuine friendships and time to daily talk.
• Missing my career of a decade.
• Vexing about a potential 5 years of many nights/weekends of single-parenting of perhaps two (kind and veggie-filled) children.
• Starting the process of buying a home in the midst of a major recession.

 

Huh, it's all making a lot more sense.

Because, truth be told, the advice from the book led to instant and amazing results.  Not a single screaming fest since I gave up on my tricking and pleading and shenanigans at meal time.

Here's a photo spread that tells the following story from Lulu's perspective:

  "Mom was stressed out about me eating vegetables, although, I really just wanted to eat them myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  You see, I am devouring it when it's part of the tortilla casserole that her and Daddy eat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  I even got to drink from a cup by myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  I didn't quite understand how to do it...but I was having fun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Well, until it splashed on my face.  I'll practice this more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  But my first "Independence Meal" ended well.  I had lots of sauce in my hair and water on my clothes...but I'm a big girl. 

Thanks, Mom, for noticing."

 

 

 

 

 

Enlightened

Last night I visited my second German course at Long Beach State.  The professor lived up to every expectation: electric, bold, frenzied, fascinating, hilarious, and insanely intelligent.  He could flow from Obama's inauguration speech, to Schiller's thesis, to Scottish philosophers who inspired Thomas Jefferson, and back to the guillotine scenes of the French Revolution in one breath.  It was a mesmerizing dance to connect some of the greatest intellectual, philosophical, literary and democratic thinkers of the 18th century to themes of morality and reason.  Household names (Jefferson, Franklin, Washington, Hamilton) ebbed with vaguely familiar names (Aristotle, Socrates, Kannt, Locke, Hume, Goethe, Schiller), all of whom reveled with previously unknown names (Hutcheson, Ferguson, Abel).  And their words were dotted upon a bloody timeline accented by ruthless leaders (the Duke of Wittenberg, Ferdinand II, Robespierre, Napoleon, Louis XVI).

It is a testimony to Professor High that this morning, still awaiting coffee to drip into my veins, I can recall that many elements from his lecture.  I entered the Enlightenment of Europe and was schooled for three hours...taken on a verbal and literary exploration of the time period.  He's a lover of Schiller and multi-lingot bibliophile.  Yes, he has crazy hair and returns from the break smelling of cigarettes.  Yes, he yells and grabs students in the front row.  Yes, he writhes in political and sexual innuendo, peppered with curses and sarcasm.  But he is witty and the students bask in his glow.  After class, the history and German students, both graduate and under, stayed behind to listen to him rant some more.  He loves revolutions.  He loves controversy...but more than anything, he loves German.

Is there a better wing under which I should tuck?  I still wonder what I would do with a German degree.  I want validation that I can pursue my interest of the Turks/Kurds born in Germany and yet forever regarded as foreigners.  I want to read their poetry, their experiences, understand a Germany identity through their eyes...but my language needs work, my brain craves exercise.

Hmmmmm....graduate school....it sounds especially alluring after two weeks of students who upon entering the room and noticing my outstretched hand, smiling face, and passionate approach to teaching, say things like:

• "F--- this, you can't make me do this bullsh_t!"

• "I don't give a f--- why you're here.  I'm not staying."

• "My mom is texting me. She be pregnant, so I gots to answer."

• "I don't give a f--- about passing this stupid test.  Why these mother f---ers care if I can't read?"

Brilliant, young scholars.  Just brilliant.  I think after nine years, I'm ready to move on.

Switcheroo

So, there might be a big ol' switcheroo around here.  I might be the one in the fall who stuffs a new notebook, a few pens, and a sandwich into my backpack and heads off to graduate school.  It's definitely a change.  It's our version of "Plan B."  I've always considered "Plan B's" but never had to actually act upon them.

My backpack would hold a German dictionary, a laptop with a beolingus homepage, and a Schiller text.  I might take a dive into earning a Master's in German.  Just the last few days, as the idea marinates in my mind, I've felt more alive.  My brain, which had climaxed on wedding planning, desperately needed an alternate course.  Just pondering speaking, writing, reading, and seriously analyzing difficult German texts has given me an alternative.

"Can I do this?" is the first question.

"What will I do with this degree?" is the logical second question.

Ich kann Deutsch.  Dass weis ich.  This language has long been my passion, the whispered guttural words often float into my thoughts throughout the day.  For years it has also given me the luxury of talking with Fadime in a language that both of us love (*a pic with my beloved bridesmaid from last summer is here for nostalgia's sake). It all started back in high school.  My mother was dating George.  A large man who wore white cable-knit sweaters, listened to The Wave, and had coiffed Bichon Frise dogs.  He spoke Spanish and although he found my existence annoying...he also took a keen interest in my 10th grade Spanish homework.  He would hover over my shoulders at the kitchen table, his two dogs hovering at my feet and offer suggestions and criticism of mi espanol.

"Adios Amigo" said I in the 11th grade.  When checking the language box at my third high school....I thought French sounded too pretty.  I mean come on, even "you little sh*t sack" sounds beautiful en francaise as "sac à merde."  I mean, I can "Merde! Merde! Merde!" all day and not feel dirty.

Spanish it simply could not be because of the furniture-designing Mexican (who over the years never actually made any $$$...but doodled on crinkly white paper at an architect's desk with fancy pens).  French it could not be because of the aforementioned issue of a syrupy tongue.  German, the third choice seemed fitting.  It was the ugly step-child, the non-romantic, the outcast without reason, purpose, or outward beauty....all things I felt described me back in 11th grade.

Fast-forward sixteen years, to a dingy third floor classroom at CSULB.  Last night I observed a 500 level German class.  They discussed the search for a "Wenderoman" which would be a novel that encapsulates the experience of former East Germans and West Germans post-reunification.  It was a stimulating discussion, not over my head; however, the text gave me quite a fright.  Words were longer than they should be, concepts that would necessitate an amazing amount of online dictionary usage.  And as Daniel picked me up last night, I wasn't sure what I felt.  Overwhelmed by the level of academic language needed, underwhelmed by the excitement of the 15 grad. students in the class, nervous about what does one actually do with a German degree during an economic recession and yet, thrilled that this adventure means leaving the classroom, becoming a student, and using my mind.

This Wednesday I'll traipse into the offices of the head advisor.  I'll pepper him with my questions, I'll hope to receive a waiver from undergraduate coursework due to my stellar linguistic ability, and I'll find out what type of jobs a German MA finds.  Just wearing a book bag, thinking of literary and cultural criticism, and speaking in a foreign tongue for one night has my neurons firing at a faster clip.

Our grand switcheroo will just continue to develop over the next few weeks.  Plan B in action. 

**Und weil ich fülle dass ich mehr Französisch als Deutsch benutzt habe...sag ich nur dass.  Pass auf, miene Freundinnen (Fadime, Anna, Jule)...ich will verdamnt viele Hilfe mit dieses Program brauchen.  Kennen Sie Schiller?  Ich hoffe....ich hoffe.

Seattle's out, Texas is in...and I need a cocktail.

Bush had just finished yammering about the economy and making his typical stupid faces when the young woman wearing a rhinestone peace sign shirt, tucked into jeans with a rhinestone encrusted belt and fur collared boots approached our screen door.  From the comforts of our collapsing couch, we nodded during her spiel about Obama needing more volunteers in battleground states and that although we are a "like really blue state" we are still "like so needed" to contribute to the effort.  We could have cut her off at any moment and said, "Do you take a check?" but instead we heard the rehearsed bullets fall from her barely 20 year old lips.

She gladly took our check and stuffed the larger envelope back into this enormous hot pink alligator skin-like purse, adjusted her rhinestone peace sign, accepted the Fiber-One energy bars for her and her partner, and shuffled her lanky self up our neighbor's walkway.  80 houses per night she said.  Her and her partner from the Westwood office (near UCLA) try and hit 80 houses per night.  Apparently out of 25 houses last night, 11 of our neighbors are strong Republicans.  She knocks on every door except those with McCain signs in the window.

I didn't know as Bush was prattling on last night, that I may one day live in his dusty-cow state.  Daniel has taken the University of Washington off his list (along with the prospects of the Evergreen State's nature, serenity, and proximity to family and friends) and replaced it with the University of Texas at Austin.  I immediately needed a cocktail.  My beverage of choice is shown here (along with the washed chicken roasting pan in the background).

I know, I know.  "Austin is a great town."  "The San Francisco of Texas."

Well, I'm sure even Islamabad has a "Bohemian" quarter, in which, similar to Texas, I just never needed to visit...let alone, live in.

I have issues with Texas.  It raised George Bush, and has lots of oil, and cattle, hurricanes and dust.  In my mind, most Texans are similar to the couple I met at the Orange County airport several years ago.  An old couple who begins to explain to me how much they both hate certain minorities, that they are taking over, and that Alaska....oh, no, that's Palin's husband, I meant Texas should become an independent state.  This couple frightened me and in my life there is a complete void of Texans (with the exception of my cousin) who are open to diversity of people, thought, and religion.  How will Austin paint the canvas of my first pregnancy, carrying a caramel-coated baby, walking hand in hand with a chocolate-hued man?  So, Austin, may be incredible....but incredible for Texas...or truly incredible?  That's the big question.  That's why I needed a cocktail.

Impending move

My mind feels just like the pale yellow tea pot right now.  It sits atop a blue-tipped fire, rumbling, tempted to a boil.  When it whistles, I have to take notice.

Lately, the discussions at home tend towards shrinking budgets, impending moves, potential grad. schools, reciprocity of teaching credentials, and the nightmarish garage.  We try and cuddle on the lopsided couch and pick whimsical, political topics; however, inevitably one of us brings up the notion of how our life will change in the next few months.  I wish I could say that I look down the road and just feel giddy about our adventure to volunteer and learn Spanish, setting up a new home in a university town, and starting our lives anew as a couple in a location we both decide is best...but a thin film, like a hard-water stain, clouds the shine on this experience. 

Assuredly, with the first cocktail on some Costa Rican beach, after the first morning volunteering with children at a community center or school, and the first afternoon butchering Spanish with a tutor....I will have loosened and shed the knots that tangle my neck and the frantic nerves that cavort in my mind.  But for right now there is a palpable web that scrambles my thoughts, a thickness that creeps up my neck, and a twisting clamp in my back.  All of these symptoms come and go.  There are days when I manage to squeeze through the tunnel just focusing on the light at the other end, other days it is the murky wetness of our unknown future that garnishes my attention.

Today, I wish to see the light.  I have meditated, yoga'd, and soon dark Nicaraguan beans shall course through my veins whilst I drive north on the 405.  Heading towards the bright lights, swiveling televisions, and constant whir of machines and the clank of collapsing weight plates.  The buzzing scene that welcomes me each weekday with friendly faces that only say "hello," some that pretend they never see me, and the little person with OCD who never works out but showers for over 1.5 hours and then dries herself for another 20 minutes with a hair dryer in the front and the hand dryer in the back.  I try not to judge this woman.  I mean she does pay a membership fee to use the facilities.  But a 90 minute shower...every day.  It's a little much.  And parking...wow!  She pulls into a parking spot as if in a chase scene of Die Hard variety, she looks around, rocks a bit back and forth, then peels out of the parking spot and finds a new one with the same rocking routine.  I admit, I am a bit mesmerized by her routines sometimes...and if she didn't seem so intensely angry, I would like to say "hello."  It's hard when our only face-to-face interactions involve her naked with dryers blowing on each side.

Gratitude

I miss my boyfriend...although he's here.  In the bedroom, sleeping for another half an hour.

I miss long walks without students on my mind, lazy breakfasts without errands to run, late night cocktails that use the blender and lots of ice and rum.  Mutually embarassing afternoons on the Wilson High tennis court chasing balls.  Chilly mornings and silly kisses on my Grandma's porch.

Teacher mode swallows most of my waking energy.  Student-GMAT-MBA application-TA mode has once again zipped up Daniel until December.  We capture moments on the collapsed couch.  Olympic closing ceremonies (how many of them are wearing diapers this time?), Michelle Obama's speech (I cried...beyond my hormonal tears...emotion of pure joy and hope that she could be our First Lady.  That those little girls could be seen running after a dog in the Rose Garden), Hillary Clinton's less-than rousing endorsement (albeit understandably difficult).

The next few months hold significant milestones for us.  Natually, one event is hoped for, longed for, anticipated at every romantic interlude, invitation to dinner, or hint of tropical vacation; however, other time occupiers are solidly entrenched on the Fall calendar.

1. Daniel will keep studying (seemingly all the time) for the GMAT.

2. His MBA application packages, letters of recommendation, final selection of schools, finishing his economics thesis...must occur.

3. Trips to visit Berkeley and the Ann Arbor to explore the campuses, communities, and culture.  Can we imagine ourselves in these places for several years? (My alma matter is pretty easy...and Ann Arbor, I am hoping, is as fabulous as people say.)

3. Do I want to go to grad. school?  If so, where and to study what?  Do I have the courage and mind to tackle a Master's in German?  Does education still linger on my radar?

4. Where in South America are we going? To do what? Where will we take Spanish classes?

My shoulders tense as I type these sentences.  They seem like such enormous enveloping questions.  I like things black and white... quick analysis ...decision...boom...done.  And as I feel a tiny mercury ball rise and fall in my chest, I remind myself that in the shadows of Decision Mountain, I should still find the time to be grateful.

Grateful that I have the love of my life with whom I can hike the mountain, see the vista, and descend into the valley of future.  Yesterday, he made my lunch and placed a love note in my bag.  He rubbed my feet, asked me not to do the dishes, and didn't roll his eyes when I shared my greasy flashbacks of potato chips and quesadillas that I had inhaled for dinner.

I will never know why or how I was so fortunate to meet this Marquez-reading, five-block-away, traveler, wordsmith, humanitarian, environmentalist, intellectual...but I hope years from now we are still so in love that he dances for me.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com