There is no frigate like a book. . .

My daughter is studying poetry in school where she has not told her teacher that her mother's a poet. She reads Silverstein and the children-focused poets and says "Meh, they're okay, I guess" and she shrugs.  But then.  Then.  Then she reads someone and falls in love.  She reads Dickinson to me and she asks how I like it and if I like it and shifts uncomfortably when I read her Billy Collins or Rita Dove or Sherman Alexie or someone (anyone!) but Dickinson. She tells me trivia she’s learned from a Wikipedia page or some Scholastic book.  "Did you know she never left the house?  Did you know she wanted her poetry burned but her sister couldn't do it and published it posthumously?"

I am reminded of that day, in the middle of some dark teenage funk that I announced to Mr. Mercer's creative writing class that Dickinson’s final wish should have been fulfilled. That her words, committed to paper, piled upon each other should have been sparked into a glorious bonfire never to be studied by surly tenth graders. I don't know why I disliked her so. Maybe it was Tuesday.  I wrote weird Kerouac-inspired poems and turned my nose up at her nature-based poetry just because. I reeked of patchouli and had a chip on my teenage shoulder, I guess. I didn't meet Dickinson in the poetry reading-filled coffee shops I frequented so I didn't have much use for her. And for whatever reason, that chip has remained on my shoulder since.

And now here I am and my daughter is in love with Emily Dickinson and I love my daughter. Dickinson has provided her that first spark to light the fire for poetry inside of her.  Whether she grows to be a writer or not, I get the distinct impression that my daughter now understands that words on the page are more than just letters put together to communicate - but to convey meaning in ways that are somehow indescribable.  Thank heaven for that. And, I guess, thank history for the sister who defied a final wish and compiled Emily Dickinson's pages into volumes that would be flint instead of kindling.

When I Grow Up. . .

Often, mid-lecture, while discussing their futures, I will tell my students that I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. We'll be talking about transferring credits or financial aid or what have you and I will tell them that I once heard the average American changes careers seven times during their working life. And how I have always known that when I grew up I wanted to teach. But where?  How?

And I guess in some ways that question remains.

I have been an English composition adjunct now since I graduated college - at private, state, and community colleges.  I've loved every classroom - every set of students.  For those I've kept in touch with - I feel a special sort of pleasure watching their careers unfold before them - be they academic or elsewhere.  I love everything about that part of the job.

And yet.  The fact remains - I am working the job of a college adjunct.  Low pay. No benefits.  Little feedback or reward from my employer.  My faculty-titled colleagues do good work to help offset the nature of my job - they are supportive and complimentary, and I appreciate that.  Their feedback - and the excitement and engagement of my students - is what drives me to continue as an educator.

But I think it's time for a change.

Is that change to pick up more contract work, like many modern adjunct employees? Stretch myself between two or three schools - representing, to my best ability, the interests of all of them?  To pick up writing or blogging or editing work?  To look into licensing for K-12 and take my MA and 10+ years of teaching experience back to school, incurring debt to ensure a possibly potentially maybe future career?  To continue to toss my hat in the overly crowded ring at various community colleges and hope that my application stands out over the 200 or 300 or 400 other applications they have received?  To effectively up the ante and invest in pursuing a PhD in order to fight this fight again with higher stakes at a higher level that would likely require uprooting my family?

It is no surprise to me that educators at every level fight their natural desire to teach and abandon this system.  Frankly, I guess, I'm surprised when my colleagues show up and keep showing up - their love for and commitment to education overpowering their more logical and rational desires - like reasonable pay, insurance, or stability.

I guess, right now, the answer for me is to try a lot of things and see what happens.  And, above all else, to just keep teaching.

I've let myself go. . .

It happens to all of us - we peer into the mirror and see a person that resembles the person we think we are - but is covered in schlumpy clothing or frazzled hair or what have you.

Right now, that person is me.

But it's not the mirror I'm looking at - it's my writing life. I've let myself go as a writer - and now is the time to  reclaim that writing life of my youth.  My youngest is two - this means that there's no reason I can't commit to early morning reading and writing and recapture that poet I once was.

And the blogger I once was.

You are all welcome to prod me along the way with reminders and queries.

As a first step back into the game, I'm going to spend a portion of time each morning reading - and another portion writing new work.  In a few weeks I'll add revisions to the mix as well and I hope, by the end of the year, to have a larger goal or get back into that fun futile exercise of submissions and rejections.

Wish me luck!

:Hanging head and begging forgiveness:

I have no excuses, friends.

I mean, yeah, I'm parenting three children.  But a lot of people in this world parent and still write.  And I'm teaching two classes - but people teach and write always.

So, yeah.

Please forgive me.  I'll come up with something amazing soon.  In the meantime, please accept this tidbit from Carter who will either grow up to be an atheist or a preacher:

Carter: So mom, how did Jesus die? 
Me: Dude. You know this. What's the Easter story? 
Carter: Yeah, yeah, cross, spear blah blah blah. I mean after that. How did he die after that?
Me: Well, remember in the creed we say he ascended into heaven to be with God? 
Carter: (lowering gaze) I prefer to think of him as an old man. 
Me: That's cool dude, I'm just saying what the church says. 
Carter: Yes. I think he was an old man who died in his sleep. And had a cane. Canes are cool. The church can say what they want. They're church. I vote old age.

Mom and Baby encounter: Candy Corn Oreos Edition

Honey Badger and I had big work to do today.  We had to drop the Budge and Monkey moo off at school, then stop at Target to spend $50 on whatever it is that people spend $50 on at Target and pick up the much loved and reviled Candy Corn Special Edition Oreos.
So. . .10 Scotch tapes (I'm always out. ALWAYS. And they were 70% off.), a bucket of coffee, and 2 steeply discounted t-shirts later, we rolled through the checkout with these babies:

I had to buy the special edition Halloween Oreos because look! Bats! Yup. I'm a sucker for marketing. 

I asked the Honey Badger if she wanted one. In the parking lot.  At 9:33 a.m.. Of course she said yes because she's 21 months old and don't care!
Oh look! I said. These are special - they have a roll top and little tabs.  How quaint. Then I ripped open the package.  Oh dear god. Oh dear god. These smell. . . awful. And the smell was everywhere - the scent of canned white frosting.
I handed one to the Honey Badger, who immediately twisted it apart and said (I can only assume, as my baby translation isn't so grand) Why mother, you are wrong, these look delectable - I shall now suck the yellow and orange goo off of this side while I jam the other half under my butt to warm it up. 
I ate one myself.
Fast.
Then I broke into the Halloween Oreos with orange middles to try to kill the taste.  It didn't.  I think the orange goo might be pervasive to this season's specialty Oreos. Or, wait, is that just how they taste all the time?  It's been awhile, I'll admit it.
Five minutes later, Honey Badger piped up from the back seat:  Anodder cookeeeeee mommy?  Anodder cooooooookkkkkkkkkkiiiiiieeeeeee?
And because I am the world's best, most amazing, clearly superior mother, I gave her one.
It took her the next 45 minutes to eat it.  It was as if she knew in her heart it was a cookie and thus should be good because, hey, cookie.
Right after she finished she asked for gum.  Which she promptly swallowed.
Then asked for more.
Me?  I came home and brushed my teeth.