Celeste is TWO!

I've been a horrible blog slacker, but I feel inspired today to share my excitement about my little girl turning two today. In the chaos that is our life--identity theft, job interviews, long commutes, rain and more rain, sick dog, business trips, and so on and so on--it feels pretty amazing to take a minute to just pause and think about Celeste.

She is the kind of child that just makes you smile. Unlike Eliot, who was so serious all of the time, Celeste is hilarious and constantly making jokes. It's like she feeds off of your smile and it makes her happier. She has the most amazing belly laugh that I've ever heard. She truly is an astonishing child.

Recently, I had the chance to visit her school and watch her in action for a short amount of time. I would dare to say that her favorite activity is the trampoline. It's a small, one-child activity and has what looks like handlebars for the child to hold on to. Then they just jump and jump and jump. Celeste, all 21 pounds of her, jumps like her life depends on it. Watching her jump on this thing gives you a sense of exactly who my child is--fearless, determined, athletic, but with a free spirit that allows her to jump higher and higher with every spring-loaded jump. She is truly at home on this trampoline--truly in her element. Of course, she's fallen. And again this is a testament to who she is. She has, in fact, launched herself into the air and fallen on her bum. And then what? Tears. Love. And then right back on the trampoline, but jumping higher this time, eager to break new boundaries. She is a force to be reckoned with, and I already know that this child will teach me things about my own limitations as time goes on--how to challenge myself, how to break through, not only how to get up after I fall, but how to use the fall itself to gain momentum for the next step forward.

It's hard to believe that two years ago today I was laying in a hospital, worrying about my newborn girl in NICU, wanting more than anything to just touch and hold her. A new scar on my abdomen. The love inside, which I thought had reached maximum capacity, doubled in an instant. The happiness balanced with the grief balanced with the stress balanced with the instant inability to remember what life was like, just yesterday, without her in it.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl! You are an incredible force of nature!

A new purpose

As someone who had been either a student or a teacher in academia since I was four years old, the end of August marks a specific timecode for me: the start of school. In whatever capacity, I have returned to school in the fall for the past 29 years of my life, with the exception of the year I took off between undergrad and grad school. And this year, of course. And it's weird.

I'm not entirely sad, but I have an inkling that I will miss the students, which are my favorite part of teaching. Each one is unique and a little odd, which I absolutely enjoy. I will miss talking about the things I'm passionate about, especially Creative Writing. I will miss being part of a campus community, which I really enjoyed last year at Metro. I will miss the paycheck and benefits.

I know that I'm far from being done; in fact, I joke with my husband that my career will probably not start till I'm over 35, so in the reality of this context, I really haven't even begun. I'm still waiting for that job that's worth missing- the complete package- and I'm willing at this point to wait for it.

But it is a bit surreal, says my biological clock, that it's fall and I'm not stressed out about syllabi, class lists, first assignments, etc. On the other hand, it's my biological clock that presented me with the ultimate imperative, who is turning three months in three days, named Celeste. And my poetry calls to me desperately: nurture ME. Publish ME. Make more of ME.

My mother described it today as a "melancholy" emotion, in the context of watching some element of the world move on without you. I think this is a wonderful adjective, especially as it applies. We always want to be an important element of something, and when that something moves on, seemingly unscathed, without us, we wonder about our purpose in both the large and small scheme of things. Purposes shift, though, and embracing this will surely be my saving grace.

Feeling bad about the swing

For the past five minutes or so, as I've been hacking away at months of unanswered email, Celeste has been "speaking" to me from her swing. Not crying- mind you- but vocalizing her desire to be held as opposed to, well, swinging.

But I could spend 8 hours a day for the next who knows how many months holding her as she drifts off to sleep. . . and then as soon as I try to put her down. . BAM! She wakes up. The swing eliminates that, and it helps her get to sleep so that I don't have to.

But I have the usual and unavoidable "guilt" about the swing. Shouldn't I be holding her? Rocking her? COmforting her? Am I a bad mom for letting a battery operated contraption do the lulling for me? But I have my own work to do, don't I? Things to invest my own time and energy into? Or am I not allowed to have my own time and energy? This is an has always been my own dilemma as a mother.

It was most pronounced during Eliot's infancy and early toddlerhood when I was in the throes of my Ph.D. I remember being so angry with him when he wouldn't nap- I had work to do! I had every hour accounted for, and without his nap, I would be behind. Somehow we made it through, but certainly I could have done better on my exams and dissertation if all naps had been accounted for. Or, dare I say it?- If I didn't have a child at all.

I was having a conversation with my friend Rebecca about this yesterday. She said she didn't know how I managed a Ph.D. with a newborn. I don't know either, but as I said to her, a lot of it had to do with compromising my standards of excellence and just doing what was required. I am a perfectionist, but when your attention is constantly divided, perfection isn't really an option. Some of your energy and attention is still your own, but not undivided attention. Once you're a mother, there's no such thing as undivided attention. Your attention is forever divided.

But I've always been determined not to be one of those mothers who hides away for 18 years to raise their children and then, as they wave to you from their dorm room window as you drive away, you ask yourself, "What have I done with MY life?" I'm determined to master the fine art of attention dividing, an I guess if the swing gives me a few moments of less-divided attention, this is a good thing. I should embrace it, no? I'm still not convinced.

She's kind of asleep now, and I stopped the swing. But she's squirming a bit and probably ready to be engaged by something other than the pink butterfly mobile above her swing. One thing is redeeming, as I remember from Eliot and feel equally with Celeste- when I pick them up from the bed that they're not sleeping in or the swing that may or may not have lulled them to sleep, the moment that the weight is shifted into my arms, they are forgiven. My attention is shifted and consumed by them and there's a spot inside somewhere, sometimes deeper inside than others, that melts and softens.