Light and Momentary

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Hi, internet, I am feeling a little sorry for myself at this particular moment, so I am writing this post to help me snap out of it. I am on my own this week, alone again with the slavering Rottweiler and the shrieking alarm system, while Elwood takes the two oldest boys to DC. They are staying with Elwood's aunt and uncle and seeing the sights, and I am holding down the fort here with the 3 youngest kids, all of whom are on spring break.

I am not on spring break. This has made for a busy week. I have a sick little 6yo curled up beside me, and a 3yo who is watching too many videos, and a 9yo who is so eager to have someone with whom to talk Legos and war games that they are the subject of every conversation we have.

Next week I am giving an exam and I have a guest speaker talking to two of my classes, which means I only have to prep one class -- not four, like this week. Next year, internet, I need to figure out how to make this week's schedule look like next week's schedule. (I keep forgetting to tell you all: I have a job for next year. I am teaching half-time -- this same undergrad course fall and spring, and one grad course each semester. Hurray!)

One more class to go. I am just going to ignore the ominous lurching in my stomach and trust that it will remain lurchiness and not progress to anything more violent. Sounds like a plan, right?

Off to cozy up with PowerPoint again...

Finished, finally

I'd wanted to make this sweater since I first saw it, but I was pretty sure it was too expensive, too hard, and too slow. I kept putting the yarn in my online cart and then closing the tab because I couldn't justify the expense. Months later I found a Raveler destashing the kit and bought it for a much more reasonable price.

Almost two years ago the kit came in the mail. At first I was perplexed by the pattern. I cast on anyway, thinking I'd figure it out as I went along, only to discover that corrugated rib might be the death of me. I can knit with my right hand, slowly and laboriously, but it steadfastly refuses to purl. This is weird, because I am emphatically right-handed most of the time, but I am a dyed-in-the-wool Continental knitter and my right hand just cannot seem to get a strand of yarn around the needle purlwise.

I was scared of the steek, because steeking means you can't rip back and re-knit. Not, you understand, that I'd be enthusiastic about ripping back something I'd painstakingly fashioned with 60 stitches per square inch, but it would be better than being stuck with an unwearable garment. If you are similarly scared of steeking, I recommend starting on a child's sweater or a doll sweater: small investment, low stress. It was just what I needed to get over my steeking anxiety.

The hardest part of steeking was unexpected. I had pointed out to my children that the steek looked like a monkey face. (Do you see it? The held stitches are the open mouth, the partial rosettes are big ears, and the stripes are the eyes.) When it came time to cut the steek my boys interposed their bodies between the scissors and the steek. "No!" they yelled. "Don't kill the monkey!"

You mean I should leave this sweater in which I have invested all these hours and dollars in a completely unusable state?

They said that was exactly the thing to do. I sighed heavily, nudged them aside, and sliced it open so I could make the neckband. I blocked it and wove in the ends and wore it to Behold, feeling pleased with myself for finishing it at last. Stella saw it lying on the bed and said, "What's that?" That's a sweater I made, I told her. "That not a sweater," she said assuredly. "That a monkey face."

Floppy

I was going to run 500 miles in 2011. I failed.

I started strong, but early in the year I asked my husband to run with me. I was panting and puffing and purpling, and he was...not. Not at all. I thought, "What is the matter with me? Why am I so slow? Why do I have to work so hard at running? I am just NOT getting any better at this. Why??"

Coincidentally, that same week I found an issue of Brain, Child in the magazine pile. It contained a story about a boy who didn't like running. His podiatrist explained to his mother that he was just put together more loosely than most people. He could run, but it would never be easy.

I thought, "Oooohhhh." And then I thought, "Don't make excuses."

I am also put together more loosely than most people. I don't stretch regularly, but I could hop off the couch and do a split without much discomfort. (Only one of the three possible splits, though.) The heads of my femurs can move in a really disturbing way, appearing to pop in and out of their sockets. I score at least 5 on the Beighton scale.

Dr. Google has lots to say about hypermobility, including this tidbit: it's harder for hypermobile people to run because their muscles have to compensate for their floppy joints.

I am SO out of shape right now. I have the arm strength of an abalone and a behind of blancmange, and I get out of breath too easily. These are not problems that will fix themselves, so I went for a run today.

It was not a success. Blargh.

One of the things I was mulling as I left Behold was the relationship between body and soul. (Do you know what I did? I was sorting through my bag of goodies and I tossed my program. I thought, "I don't need to know the schedule for the day now." I forgot completely about the notes I had taken in the program. Bummer!) I can't remember quite how it was phrased (and I can't look it up either because I am a FLAKE), but the Sister of Life who spoke first said something I wanted to remember, something like "We are as much the bodies of our souls as we are the souls of our bodies."

I need to tend my body a little more carefully, and running is one of the most efficient ways I know to work on that. I was thinking about my friend Liz as I was lumbering down the trail today -- she ran a 5-mile race a couple of years ago in less than 40 minutes. She threw up at the finish line, but do you know how she summarized the experience? She said, "It was awesome."

This makes me think of St. Paul and his exhortation to run so as to win. My own approach is to run so as not to completely embarrass myself -- as long as I can stay with the pack (or at least the very tail end of the pack) then it's okay. If I ran so hard I threw up, I would not describe it as an awesome experience.  Physical discipline better equips us, I think, for spiritual discipline. I could use some of both.

So here's my plan, friends, at the end of this rambly navel-gaze-y post: I'm going to give running another shot despite my 2011 slackerness on that front. If I have joint trouble again, I will make an appointment with the doctor instead of just lapsing back into inactivity. And if you see me lurching around town, red-faced and out of breath, please don't point and laugh.

Discuss

I have posted before about our efforts to teach our kids to navigate the world independently, and our occasional encounters with people who seem to think that navigating the world independently is a skill kids should develop spontaneously at approximately age 19 after having been bundled in body armor and bubble wrap up until that time. This week, though, I am bumping up against the edges of what I'm comfortable with myself.

We have one car, and we mostly like it that way. To clarify: my husband loves it that way, and I think it works pretty well. I've been making intermittent second-car noises as the kids' schedules get more complicated, but they remain intermittent.

My oldest son had a school activity on Saturday, and he had plans to go bowling afterward with friends. "I'll have the car," Elwood told him, "so you'll be on your own getting home. Get a ride or take the bus." Alex called me at 7:00 from a friend's phone -- his battery had died. In five more minutes he was going to cross the street and catch the next bus, he told me.

I thought this was a terrible plan.

It wasn't just any street; it was the big six-lane road with some of the heaviest traffic in town. I don't like crossing that road on foot myself, and the thought of my kid doing it after dark made me very uncomfortable. Assuming he froggered safely to the other side, he'd be walking through the mall parking lot (did I mention it was already dark?) to wait an indeterminate length of time at the bus stop (in the dark). In the event of a parking lot hit-and-run or skeeviness at the bus stop, he had no phone.

"Can't you ask a friend to drop you off at the bus stop?" I asked him, thinking even as I asked that getting in a car with a teenaged driver is about the riskiest thing he does in life. Nope, he said. Everyone else was heading in the opposite direction. I spluttered a bit, weighing the options. Should he call a taxi? Should I calm down and trust him? "Mom," he assured me, "I know how to cross a street."

He made it home quickly and safely, though I still have a little knot in my stomach as I'm typing out the story. And then tonight the very same question came up again. He was walking to a Boy Scout meeting in our neighborhood. Elwood thought it would be fine for him to walk home alone afterward. I didn't want him walking in the dark. "This is Gladlyville," said Elwood, "what's going to happen to him?"

This is where my risk assessment skills break down. In the moment I said lamely, "Someone might pick a fight with him? And knock him down?" He is man-sized these days, almost 5'11", and I don't have the worries about someone physically overpowering him that I do with, say, Petely -- the meek and small-for-his-age 6-year-old. Elwood rolled his eyes. "Yeah, maybe," he said. "That's a remote possibility." What, really, are the hazards? Is walking home at night really any different from walking to the bus stop before sunrise? Are all the good mothers walking their high school freshmen to the bus stop?

I don't know, but I still have a little knot in my stomach.

It is absolutely clear to me that my children should feel comfortable walking to and from school in our quiet and pedestrian-friendly neighborhood. It is equally clear to me that they should feel comfortable walking or biking to friends' houses, even though that's not a risk-free undertaking. I am certain that it is a valuable life skill for my kids to get themselves home from soccer practice on a well-traveled bike path, even though I had to sign a waiver for my 12yo to be permitted to do so in the fall. I reject the oft-espoused idea that parents can't be too careful: of course you can be too careful.

The end goal is to raise kids who make good decisions about keeping themselves safe and who are not hobbled by unreasonable fears. When my son goes off to college in a few years, he will be walking around at night and will need good judgment about how to do it safely. Needless hand-wringing from me will not aid in the development of good judgment.

I'm wringing my hands anyway.

Seven Quick Takes: Kick-in-the-Pants Piecemeal Edition

1. Picture me as the Wicked Witch of the West, only instead of shrieking "I'm melting! I'm melting!" I'm shrieking "I'm wilting! I'm wilting!" My steely resolve to smack my stack of grading around has almost rusted through. The straight-backed stiff-upper-lipped determination of this morning has been supplanted by a persistent inner query: would anybody notice if I raided the bag of chocolate that's left over from Mardi Gras? I am going to write a quick take each time I get a sixth of the way through my remaining grading. Let's see if I can get this post finished before Tuesday.

2. Monday morning, and I have just now finished the next sixth. But it's for a good reason. On Friday afternoon I had that problem I sometimes have, where I seem to think I can rearrange the space-time continuum to fit an improbable amount of work into an inappropriately small unit of time. I was heading to the Behold conference on Friday evening, and so the grading had to wait. Today I am determined to finish the grading and clean my house. In fact, that problem I just mentioned about thinking I can wave my scepter and the space-time continuum will shuffle around to suit my whims? I might have a touch of that same thing going on today. But hey -- a mom's reach should exceed her grasp, or what's a heaven for?

3. I loved Behold. I went last year too, and found it so unexpectedly refreshing that I put it on the 2012 calendar early on. The emphasis is not on slick sleek PowerPoint-y presentations -- it has a hometown Midwestern feel -- but the encouragement to live out one's vocation joyfully was compelling. Last year I came home from the day away and danced with my kids in the living room. I had so much residual joy from the day that when they wandered away I kept right on dancing.

4. This year I invited Betty Duffy and Mrs. Darwin, and they came! (I think BD was coming anyway, without an invitation from yours truly.) What a treat it was to meet in person for the first time. I also met Arwen in the flesh, after years of being online pals, and I was astonished at how kindly she spoke to me when her twins were falling apart at the end of the day. (It's not that I expected her to be unkind. It's just that I would have been scattered and flustered in her shoes.) It was also fun to meet Danielle Bean and Hallie Lord, to see Jen Fulwiler again, and to catch up wth Carla. If you're in the Midwest you should plan to come next year. (Erin? Renee? Sarah? who am I forgetting?)

5. I think I needed this day to take place on Mercury if I really wanted to fit all that stuff into it.

6. Oh, huzzah, I am ALMOST done with the grading. And also, huzzah, the mourning doves are back. This is the fourth year running that we've had mourning doves nesting on our porch, and though they are not the tidiest guests they are a lot of fun to watch. Oh, I do love spring: the daffodils bloomed today and there are baby mourning doves to look forward to.

7. Stick a fork in me, baby, because I am DONE grading. And it's not even Tuesday! This was a long day, my friends.

One of the things I have been thinking about: I miss writing real blog posts -- posts that aren't quick random lists or quick little kid stories. I'd like to fit more blogging into my life before summer. I just need to think about how.

Countdown

All right, internet, how much grading can I finish before spring break? On my desk:

• 42 31 exams
• 49 in-class responses (these are quick and easy)
• 11 group presentations
• 11 fact sheets
• 49 42 37 short papers
• 1 assignment I promised to firm up and post for the class before the end of the week
• AND MORE: I'm second reader for 3 comprehensive exams.
  

I am tempted to slump and say, "Phew! I made it to spring break. Time to kick back!" But I know I will enjoy spring break more if I push hard to plow through this grading. Wish me luck!

Seven Quick Takes on a Sunday

1. One of the small pleasures of life in a large family is watching the big kids share favorite books with the little kids. My second son loved the book The Enormous Carrot as a toddler and preschooler, and my mother went through some hassle to track down a copy for him. I pulled it off the shelf recently for Stella, who thinks it's great. "Oh, it's The Enormous Carrot! The book of my childhood!" cried the 12yo, who is perhaps a mite on the young side to be waxing nostalgic about his childhood. But it was really fun to watch them read it together, to remember the sweet blond 2yo he used to be and to wonder what they will both be like in another ten years.

2. Another fun thing about having kids that I never suspected before I actually had kids is the way they laugh at my jokes. (I am a SUCKER for people who laugh at my jokes. I am putty in your hands if you laugh at my jokes. We will not discuss what this reveals about my psyche.) A couple of days ago I was talking to Joe about Stella, about how lately when she doesn't want to be on my hip she says insistently, "Walk my beet!" Even though I know it means "walk on my feet," I have a mental image of her with a dog leash in her hand, tied around a rather battered beet she is dragging along behind her. Joe cracked up -- laughing and laughing at my mental picture.

3. You might remember how one of my new year's resolutions was to make this a year of Finishing Things. You might even remember (but probably not) that I wanted to finish all the knitting projects I had on the needles. This seemed like a crazy goal, because I was working on a crazy sweater. But do you know what, internet? I have about 30 minutes' worth of end-weaving-in to go on that sweater, and it will indeed be done. This is a little surprising to me. Saying I was going to finish it felt like saying I was going to read all of Remembrance of Things Past -- in French -- even though I was about ten pages into Swann's Way and my French dictionary had disappeared.

4. This almost makes me think I should plan to read Proust in French with what's left of 2012. Except not quite.

5. But I do have a lofty goal, you guys, and I am writing it down here as a kick in the pants. I want to get a draft of an article ready to roll by the end of my spring break. Which starts Friday. OH OH OH I am looking forward to spring break. I am even looking forward to this week, in which I only have to teach one class. (Group projects this week in my grad class, and an exam for my undergrads. So grading aplenty, but only one lecture.)

6. I've been feeling a little hopeless about my research, in part because teaching classes outside my area has been enormously time-consuming. I think I just need to get back in the saddle. My plan for this article is to aim high, and if it gets rejected then aim low -- just get it out there, without worrying any further about the prestige of the journal I'm submitting to.

7. My brother should blog more often. Did you see his crazy comment? I started to reply, saying something like, "That is the wackiest comment I have ever seen in almost eight years of blogging," but I'm pretty sure I've left a reply like that to one of his previous comments. See take #2 above, about families and their shared senses of humor.

More quick takes at Jen's.

Juxtaposed

Two weeks ago I took Stella to the library in the middle of Mass. She gets a little rowdy in the narthex, as if "I can run around here" translates into "I must run around here" in her little brain, but she's usually pretty quiet in the library. The church's sound system is piped in, so I was able to hear the progression of the liturgy of the Eucharist.

We were at the Consecration when someone came into the bathroom, right next to the library, and relieved himself audibly and copiously. From the speakers I heard our pastor saying, "This is my body"; simultaneously, through the wall, I heard a body saying, "Hey, I'm a body!" And I thought, a little indignantly, "Excuse me, I am trying to PAY ATTENTION to the Mass here!"

Then I realized how often that scene plays out. As I navigate the world I can focus on the miracle of an immanent God, out of sight but always present, or I can focus on the crap that's closer at hand. I can get miffed enough about the crap that I disregard the miracle.

But that's always a bad idea.