Last night, I sat at a big conference table with three of my amazing professors and talked about the classes I've taken and the stories I've written.
Of course, they didn't ask any of the questions I thought they might. And I didn't get to say most of the things I had hoped I would be able to. And when they asked how my reading influenced my writing, the mental list I'd made of books I wanted to talk about went entirely blank. But we had an interesting conversation, and they didn't hesitate to tell me that I passed my thesis defense. Perhaps they were swayed by the muhammara that I made them.
All growing up, I knew my dad was a good guy. He encouraged my writing, came to my ballet recitals, and on and on. But I don't think I really appreciated who he was until I grew up enough to move to another hemisphere by myself for a while.
For the first 21 years of my life, my dad was just my dad. He was just a guy who dropped anything to help me with my math and Spanish homework. And after high school, he was just a guy willing to stay up half the night to talk me out of marrying boys who weren't good for me (without letting on that he was doing just that).
Before I went away, I didn't know that so few men are as smart and dedicated and thoughtful as my dad. All the distance I got when I left helped me to understand.
Sometimes, after we leave my parents' house, C. teases me: "It really took you 21 years?" Yeah, I think it did. I'm glad I finally figured it out. Thanks, Dad, for being born and for being so much better than I understood you were for so long.
We can't wait for our little girl to come. With baby on the brain, guess how we interpreted this fortune cookie—
K is well, though she worries whether she's doing anything wrong. I asked her if she was drinking, smoking, or shooting up heroin.
"No." She said.
"Then you're probably not doing anything wrong."
Here's to 22 weeks.
Whew! Gummi Bear gave us a little scare this past week—appropriately timed for Halloween. We got a little worried that she was already trying to join us, and it's far too soon.
I went to the doctor, took my medicine, stayed in bed, flaked out on my classes, and told my students to not even think about asking me when I would finish grading their papers. I talked Baby Gummi into waiting until March. She seems cool with it.
I think she's just excited to get here. Let's hope she's equally excited to embrace sleeping through the night and potty training.
After reading about the ignored violinist, I decided to dedicate some of my time to show my appreciation for those who devote their lives to music. I made this:
It's sad that our system respects money over art. As Thomas Geoghegan of Harper's wrote:
"It's chilling to think that some young woman is putting down her viola and enrolling as a student trader even as I sip my Starbucks and listen to Vivaldi."
Our house doesn't have art on the walls typical of Mormon homes. There's a picture of me picking my nose next to K. There's a photo of two cupie dolls crossing the street, holding hands. I've printed some melancholy poetry and excerpts from anti-war essays to tack up next to engagement pictures and a map of Hawaii. And today this joined the collection:
Feel free to print one out for your kitchen.
I've thought that since "the sabbath was made for man," it is a great time for dusting off my atrophied creativity muscles.
Though the things I create will not likely end up in the Louvre, I sure do enjoy it. I hope K soon posts some of the things she's created lately. She's incroyable.