Monday Morning

Mange à trois

I just brought home a cupcake of bread pudding made of Henry's Donuts which I will later toast in the oven and slather with butter to share with husband as a surprise this evening. I hesitate to introduce such an enticing third party into our marriage because I fear nothing will ever give him as much pleasure. But every now and then, it's good to indulge in what one heretofore thought was only fantasy.  In this case, Toasted. Bread. Pudding. Donuts. Glazed. 

Things No One Ever Mentioned

There are many things no one ever mentioned about Parenthood.  For one, when they all said, "My kids loved Vienna sausages," no one said anything about the gel.
I have often likened Celie's toes to "little cocktail weenies," but after my experience this morning I may have to revise this description.

Wonder Child

In honor of Celie's 10 month birthday, I'd like to share with you a link to a video that Mike sent recently in an email that contained one just word: beautiful. Ritchie Havens, one of our Jazzfest favorites, playing on Sesame Street in the 70's.  It just doesn't get much better.  Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DdCx-1afCgM

Time Flies

I'm not sure when it started to happen, but our baby is looking more like a little girl every day.

Your Catfish Friend

Some of my favorite poems are about fish.  I was reminded of this rather odd truth on Saturday during Celie's first visit to the aquarium. The blueness, the silent strangeness, the ribbon-like rhythm of shimmering fisssshhhhhh...Even the word sounds like the sea.

Here are a couple of my favorites.  The first, by Richard Brautigan:

  Your Catfish Friend

If I were to live my life

in catfish forms

in scaffolds of skin and whiskers

at the bottom of a pond

and you were to come by 

            one evening

when the moon was shining

down into my dark home

and stand there at the edge

            of my affection

and think, "It's beautiful 

here by this pond.  I wish

somebody loved me,"

I'd love you and be your catfish

friend and drive such lonely

thoughts from your mind

and suddenly you would be

            at peace,

and ask yourself, "I wonder

if there are any catfish

in this pond?  It seems like

a perfect place for them."

And another, simply titled The Fish, by Elizabeth Bishop.  Enjoy!

       I caught a tremendous fish
       and held him beside the boat
       half out of water, with my hook
       fast in a corner of its mouth.
       He didn’t fight.
       He hadn’t fought at all.
       He hung a grunting weight,
       battered and venerable
       and homely. Here and there
       his brown skin hung in strips
       like ancient wallpaper,
       and its pattern of darker brown
       was like wallpaper:
       shapes like full-blown roses
       stained and lost through age.
       He was speckled with barnacles,
       fine rosettes of lime,
       and infested
       with tiny white sea-lice,
       and underneath two or three
       rags of green weed hung down.
       While his gills were breathing in
       the terrible oxygen
       — the frightening gills,
       fresh and crisp with blood,
       that can cut so badly —
       I thought of the coarse white flesh
       packed in like feathers,
       the big bones and the little bones,
       the dramatic reds and blacks
       of his shiny entrails,
       and the pink swim-bladder
       like a big peony.
       I looked into his eyes
       which were far larger than mine
       but shallower, and yellowed,
       the irises backed and packed
       with tarnished tinfoil
       seen through the lenses
       of old scratched isinglass.
       They shifted a little, but not
       to return my stare.
       — It was more like the tipping
       of an object toward the light.
       I admired his sullen face,
       the mechanism of his jaw,
       and then I saw
       that from his lower lip
       — if you could call it a lip —
       grim, wet, and weaponlike,
       hung five old pieces of fish-line,
       or four and a wire leader
       with the swivel still attached,
       with all their five big hooks
       grown firmly in his mouth.
       A green line, frayed at the end
       where he broke it, two heavier lines,
       and a fine black thread
       still crimped from the strain and snap
       when it broke and he got away.
       Like medals with their ribbons
       frayed and wavering,
       a five-haired beard of wisdom
       trailing from his aching jaw.
       I stared and stared
       and victory filled up
       the little rented boat,
       from the pool of bilge
       where oil had spread a rainbow
       around the rusted engine
       to the bailer rusted orange,
       the sun-cracked thwarts,
       the oarlocks on their strings,
       the gunnels — until everything
       was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
       And I let the fish go.

Daycare, Part One

Daycare is a touchy subject. Whether difficult or not, the decision to put one's child in daycare seems to ignite a range of reactions most likely due to its connection to an even greater array of emotions. I have friends who would never dream of putting their child in any kind of daycare, while others opt for full-time help—either live-in or outside the home, because of necessity or a preference to work. I can think of more than a few who’ve recently expressed to me an admission that they’d go crazy as stay-at-home-moms, and others who’ve stated a desire to do it themselves. One acquaintance has even gone so far as to say, “If you’re not going to raise your kids, why have them?”

Personally, I find this assertion not only extreme, but a bit militant. No matter the daycare, kids always know their parents and to suggest that a child shouldn’t exist unless their mommy is with them 24 hours a day seems outlandish. As much as we might wish to remain the center of our child’s universe—being the one who gets to see their first everything—there is more than a little beauty in letting others play a part. I like the idea of Celie having a community that genuinely cares for her well-being, a network of people dedicated to her success. Plus, while I'd love to stay home, I also love my job and the opportunities it affords. So for us, daycare makes sense.

Still, the topic inspires all sorts of anxiety for other reasons. Who does one choose, what kind of daycare is best, and of course, deep down, Who is worthy of spending their day with my Celie, this magical girl, this old soul of innocence and joy?

As Mike and I began our quest to find a daycare during last week’s visit to Lexington, I began to wonder:


Is it too much to ask that they, like me, see her as an extraordinary treasure?

With these expectations in mind, I will admit that Celie’s potential caregivers were up against some tough odds right from the start. Nonetheless, can I tell you the wide-eyed and slack-jawed silence that befell me once we found ourselves within the confines of the first center?

Nevermind that the director spoke to us with her eyebrows raised and eyes closed, a trait I find most confusing as I never know if I, too, am supposed to flutter my lids in reply. What I found most unnerving was the environment itself, a spatial circumstance most succinctly conveyed through one, unsettling image: huge fluorescent lights dangling from a yellowed ceiling (does anyone else find missing acoustical tiles as disturbing as I do?) while seemingly scores of sad little children with snot coming out of their eyes simply stood there, as if looking to me for hugs.

No, this was not at all like the director had described their facility.

“We adhere to your schedule and your wishes whenever possible,” she said as I tried to give a tiny wave to a little girl who had what looked like crusty sweet potato on her cheek. “So...how do you handle naptime?” I asked, thinking it seemed rather ambitious to try to accommodate the individual routines of twelve different toddlers.

“Well, some kids nap, others don’t. We can’t force a child to sleep.”

At this point I should add that in hindsight, I realize that one’s very choice of words—in this case, to force a child—is revealing when assessing a childcare provider. I never use this word when referring to Celie, and it struck me then—as it does now—as a strange and awful way to describe one’s mode of operation. (i.e. What, then, can you force my child to do?)

But at that moment, I simply pushed on with the question at hand. “So, what happens when my child wants to nap?” I looked around the cramped room with its overflowing shelves and excessive peach-colored linoleum. “Do you turn down the lights, or do you have another space...” I trailed off, looking for the quiet zone that might soothe a sleepy child.

“Oh, no. The lights never turn off. We just pull out a cot and if the child’s brought a blanket that sometimes helps them to quiet down.”

I couldn’t help but feel intense empathy for the little ball of an infant—no more than 8 weeks, I’d say—who lay flailing in his pen not far from the door on the “baby side” of the room amidst ten others lined up in their cribs, each crying for their turn at the diaper change. “Hey, little fella,” I whispered, imagining the comfort a dim room might offer.

She went on to show me the checklist and “personalized report card” my child would receive each day, all the while holding in one hand a screaming child and in the other a broken chair. I couldn’t help but notice the irony in her description of the “one-to-one” contact Celie would be given seeing as she never once stopped to calm the increasingly desperate child she held in her one free arm.

From that point forward, I had nothing to say—which is why I am ever-grateful for my very courteous Southern husband who continued to take one for the team by feigning interest with good questions and nodding politely until the end of our tour. Me? I’m not sure I hid my aversion very well. My eyes tend to glaze over once I’ve decided I’m done, so I just spent the rest of the time murmuring “Da-da-da” back and forth with Celie and smoothing the curly sprouts of her blonde hair.

Back in the car, I felt my first wave of panic—something I’d be dreading ever since we learned of our impending move back to Lexington. The end of our program is more than just the conclusion of our classes; it is the end of limitless time with our baby, the most precious benefit of being in New Orleans, a gift we didn’t even realize we were giving ourselves when the idea of the KNOA Studio first came about. I thought back to the little red-faced baby wriggling in its crib.

“Mike. I cannot do that,” I said as we drove back to town—and I could tell by the way he took my hand he felt the same way.

“Don’t worry. We won’t.”

La Tête de Course

Mike says he may have opened Pandora's box with this one.  After going for her first ride, it's all we can do to keep Celie from rolling, scooting and/or creepin' toward the bike.  She is especially enamored with the little red grips on its handbar, which she examines with great care using (what else?) her ever-active pointer finger.  

My guess, it's in the genes.  On the one hand, her Daddy is a long-time cycling lover--the kind that devotes a good portion of his July to follow the Tour de France, which happens to be exactly what we were watching on the eve of her birth last summer.  This probably explains why, in the midst of my most intense labor pains, I unexpectedly latched onto an image of myself riding a bike uphill in Provence.  Over and over for six excruciating hours, I set my mind a-pedaling through endless fields of lavender until finally, my little girl popped out.

You're So Pretty

Love Poem

We have plenty of matches in our house.

We keep them on hand always.

Currently our favorite brand is Ohio Blue Tip,

though we used to prefer Diamond brand.

That was before we discovered Ohio Blue Tip matches.

They are excellently packaged, sturdy

little boxes with dark and light blue and white labels

with words lettered int he shape of a megaphone,

as if to say even louder to the world,

"Here is the most beautiful match in the world,

by its one and a half inch soft pine stem capped

by a grainy dark purple head, so sober and furious

and stubbornly ready to burst into flame,

lighting, perhaps, the cigarette of the woman you love,

for the first time, and it was never really the same

after that.  All this will we give you."

That is what you gave me, I

become the cigarette and you the match, or I

the match and you the cigarette, blazing

with kisses that smoulder toward heaven.

 

--Love Poem, by Ron Padgett, from Up Late: American Poetry Since 1970

Monday Morning

Brown Sack Dress

Today at the St. Dominic fair I saw a little girl wearing what looked like a dress made of two bandanas.  The armholes were cut at an angle and a ribbon gathered the top to make little spaghetti straps.  Tonight I spent some time trying to recreate a similar pattern--an easy sundress that uses minimal cuts, two identical pieces, and simple stitches.  I used a piece of scrap for the top ribbon--I like the frilly, unfinished edges--but I splurged on the vertical stripe.  What little girl shouldn't wear vintage silk from 1930's Paris at $26 per yard??

Just Ducky

Crafty Things

I should be working right now.  But instead, I wish to share with you some of the recent crafty things I've made.

My Old Kentucky Home

Now that I have broken the news to my dear mother-in-law Marie, I feel it's safe to share the news with everyone:  Mike and I have been called back to Kentucky.  After almost 2 years of living in New Orleans to direct the KNOA Studio, the administration at UK has finally pulled the plug.  

When I first got word, I burst into tears.  Not to my boss, of course; I was at least able to maintain my 'I'm a team player, sir' attitude on the phone, something that I know is professionally correct yet at times totally annoying because what I really wanted to yell was "Noooo!" I did manage to get out a somewhat firm, "Well, I'm disappointed in the decision," but somehow I didn't know what else to say.  Seeing as it's a done deal, I didn't see much point in arguing.  

Budget cuts, he said.  It's out of my hands, he explained.  Every college on the campus is having to tighten their belt and I'm afraid we just can't afford to have 2 of our full-time faculty away any longer.  

Not that I'm totally disappointed about moving back to Kentucky--I really do love it there, perhaps even more than I realized before leaving. It's just that we've worked so hard, invested so much, and truly envisioned another year of having our program and our lives here last.  

But, as Mike says, no use in getting down.  Kentucky is, after all, where we met.  It's where we fell in love and where we cooked up the first of our many big plans.  Most of all, we can be proud that after the storm we actually got up and did something.  "We put our money where our mouths are," he says.  Now, it's time to go home.

There's much more to say, but I'm not sure how.  For now, I'll leave it at lists...

Ten things I will miss about living in New Orleans:

1.  Dinner at the Judge and Marie's every Sunday with Jimmy, Christine, Austin and Lily, not to mention all the others who randomly stop by, with special tears for Judge's cabbage, Corrine's red beans and rice, and Marie's blue cheese and avocado salads. 

2.  Music, music, music...Kermit Ruffins on Thursdays, street musicians in the Quarter, WWOZ.  So many reasons to dance. 

3.  Food, food, food...Chocolate cake at Marigny Brassiere (which got my through the 7th, 8th, and 9th months of my pregnancy), crawfish boils, and of course, beignets.

4.  The friendly employees and soundtrack at Dorignac's.

5.  Coffea, my neighborhood coffeeshop.

6.  New friends that are starting to feel like old friends.

7.  Total professional freedom.

8.  Waking up to the sounds of ships and the Natchez River Boat floating down the Mississippi.

9.  Telling people who ask me where I live, "I live in New Orleans."

10.  Seeing my daughter being passed around at big family parties on a near weekly basis and knowing she's part of a clan.

Ten things I will look forward to about living in Kentucky:

1.  Spending time with old friends who are still some of our best friends.

2.  Food, food, food...Missy's pie, Alfalfa's brunch, and Portofino's tiramisu.

3.  Walking to beautiful parks and driving along rolling green hills, not to mention the increased possibility of finding a horseback riding instructor who doesn't scare the daylights out of me.

4.  Going to work on campus and having more than one colleague.  

5.  Four full seasons that don't include "Sweat your ass off until you think you might die."

6.  Being closer to my parents, only 6 hours away by car.

7.  Bluegrass, bourbon, and opening day at Keeneland.

8.  Camping at the Red River Gorge or out at my friend's farm.

9.  Telling people who ask me where I live, "I live in Kentucky," and then watching them search for something to say.

10.  Having a great place to visit for big family parties and knowing we are a part of a clan.

  

With these things in mind, I'm excited for what's to come...but in the meantime, New Orleans, let the good times roll!

To check out our mission and the work we've completed to date at the KNOA Studio, please visit our website at: 

http://design.uky.edu/knoa/KNOA/Welcome.html

Three Days

Day One:

We arrive to Celie's room to find her pulling up onto her crib.  She is sooooo pleased.  First thought:  Wow! Celie!  Second thought: God! How scary!  Time to lower the mattress, I guess. 

 
Day Two:

Midway through a game of peek-a-boo, Celie shoots me her best "I'm a jailbird" impression. It's quite convincing.  I agree to give her whatever she wants for lunch.

Day Three:

Sudden slurping sounds.  I turn around to find her french kissing the slats.  As ever, I marvel at the size of her mouth and the insane cuteness of her toes.

Half Pint

C'mon.  Admit it.  You know you've always wanted to live in that Little House on the Prairie.

Sold!

It sold!  

While surfing the net looking for "evidence" of my work's relevance for my tenure dossier, I discovered that the Fleur-de-Lis sculpture I made last June for the Zurich Classic's FORE!Kids Foundation recently sold for a whopping $7500.  Who knew?  Not me!  You'd have thought someone from the Arts Council who commissioned the project would have let me in the good news...apparently they have better things to do?

Either way, I'm happy to report my little guy's found a home.  Of the 40 sculptures that dotted the city last summer, 18 have been purchased and I'm relieved to say Living on the River is among them.  I was starting to worry mine would get lost in the limbo of unwanted public art, gathering dust or worse--forgotten, alone, toppled over and trapped inside the cavernous vaults of Blaine Kern's Mardi Gras World.

YAY!

For more information on the FOREKids! Foundation, please visit their website at www.forekidsfoundation.com.

Easter Basket

California Dreamin'

One of the perks of academia is the opportunity to indulge in the wildly wonderful ritual of Spring Break. Just as the weather starts to warm, we are granted one week free of students, classes, and all other responsibilities—a luxury I never truly took advantage of as a college co-ed. While my classmates headed off to Daytona or some other frothy hotspot, I always headed back home to chilly Chicago—having to settle instead for hearing my friends’ stories upon their return of how they danced all night or met boys on the beach. And while I don’t regret having missed out on some of the adventure, I did make a mental note way back when that goes something like this: When given the opportunity to spend a week having fun, take it.

And so when Spring Break rolled around this year, Mike and I decided to skip town for the one place we’ve been meaning to return for some time: the sunny shores of Northern California where so many of our good friends live.

We’d been there together once before—on accident, though, not long after we’d met, about a month before we started dating. It was our first year teaching at Kentucky and we’d coincidentally both made Spring Break plans to visit not-so-significant others in San Francisco. I was supposed to fly through Houston and Mike through Cincinnati, when my flight was mysteriously cancelled and I was rerouted up north—only to find that my new seat on the new flight just happened to be located next to one Mike McKay. “What are you doing here?” we exclaimed simultaneously, both trying hard to suppress the exciting suspicion that it just might be Fate, both trying hard to act coooool. And while we were each greeted at the airport by forgettable Others, it only took about two days of disappointment before we were calling in for much needed relief. “Get me out of here!” read Mike’s distressed email at the very time I was thinking that same thing.

The memory of that funny trip made this time around--married, with our lovely baby--all the more special.  Not to say our journey wasn't without its snags.  In addition to arriving to the airport late and barely making Not to say our journey wasn’t without its snags. In addition to arriving to the airport late and barely making our outbound flight, we were most upset to learn of the $80 fine for our “HEAVY” bag. Who knew one package of wipes, a jumbo bag of diapers, ten rainbow stacking cups, two stuffed giraffes, four types of rattles, one furry bear with chewable appendages, and five non-chewable-yet-chewed-anyway books could tip the scales so expensively? And the worst part, had we packed in two bags, it would have been free. “Well, it all evens out,” Mike lamented, our answer to all of life’s unexpected fines and fees. “Yea, it’s just 25 lattes,” I added, an illogical scale of conversion that’s always made losing money more manageable for me. “I’ll just drink that shitty coffee on the plane.”

Once to San Luis Obispo, however, things started looking up—and the contrast from where we’d just come could not have been more striking. As we stepped through the doors into the brightness of our first California morning, I’m sure I had much the same feeling Dorothy must have felt when she awoke after the black-and-white storm: everything was colorful, beautiful, clean. Flowering bushes framed the view. Fragrance filled the air. Literally. I kid you not, we half-expected cherubs to appear singing in the distance, an expectation not totally unmet when an impish little fellow behind the Avis desk slyly handed me keys to our rental car with a kindly, “Hey, mannnnn, I’m gonna give you a maaaajorrrrr upgrade.” He nodded slowly, knowingly, as if we shared a secret I was suppose to understand.

Either way, I was totally grateful for his kind of strangeness after we loaded up its leather seats, eased back the sunroof, and cruised our way downtown. “Where should we stayyy?” Mike sang in that way he does when he’s got 5 stars on his mind. Yep, if there’s anything Mike loves more than me, it’s a well-appointed hotel room. While I’m sure he’d never have an affair with another woman, I can’t say the same for a king size bed that someone else makes, a shower with great water pressure, and cable TV. Sadly, though, it’s a love that often goes unrequited, as our budget dictates like it did this trip, a less-than-starry pad.

“Ummm…” I didn’t know if I wanted the answer, but “can you tell me what that sign outside means?”

Something about cleaning supplies, the gal assured me, an explanation that eased my mind only somewhat. Sure, it wasn’t mold or asbestos, but seeing as I’d just written an entire blog about my house being hosed down with bleach, I didn’t know how to take the news.  Back in the car I wondered if Celie shared my concern as she wouldn't stop writhing with an "ahhhnnn!  ahhhhnnn!" kind of whine, a sound most atypical of our otherwise happy girl. Thank God for what we discovered as a sure-fire way to quiet her cries:  that nail-biter of an epic tome, Where Is Baby's Belly Button?, a book I found myself repeating endlessly until Celie finally fell asleep. 

While our room was less than luxurious, it didn’t matter much as we made the most of our time outside. We toured campus, strolled downtown, walked the creek and generally set the tone for the remainder of our stay, alternately awe-inspiring and laid-back.  With its vast and rolling hills, breathtaking views, and idyllic everything, there's just no other place like California.  "Why wouldn't we live here?" Mike and I kept asking ourselves until, of course, we were reminded of the approximately 1.2 million reasons why it might be difficult.  The first thing out of everyone's mouths was housing--a particular challenge for people like us:  teachers.  In fact, in many of the cities we visited the only way to afford housing is to qualify for one of the State's newly subsidized "special occupancy developments" that target low-income families, teachers, and health care providers.  Pretty sad, I'd say, when two Masters degrees from Princeton and Berkeley can't rent you more than a one-bedroom subsidy. 

"It's a killer," one woman mentioned, adding that she and her husband were currently considering a move themselves.   But what she said next is what really got me.  "Outside of the astronomical cost of housing, the main thing is that San Luis Obispo is just too perfect to stay. Everything is wonderful, taken care of, too clean...so much so that it's more than a little tempting to disengage from reality."  Coming from New Orleans, I couldn't quite comprehend what this must feel like--to live in such a Pleasantville where the streets are too clean, where one has to search for problems to fix in order to feel grounded.  She went on to say that she'd recently finished reading Barack Obama's book, Dreams of My Father, a story that had her rethinking her retirement.  "It's incredibly inspiring," she said, "and we realize we have an obligation.  We've led great lives here, but now it's time to give back."

"Come on down to New Orleans!" we replied, sharing with her our story of the KNOA Studio, the city, and the work that still needs to be done.  She seemed impressed, a reaction that I must admit I enjoy. Not so much because I need my feathers stroked, but because every so often it can't hurt to be reminded as to why we've come here, to our nation's epicenter of devastation. 

Like many of the folks we met in California, she was refreshingly friendly and simply in love with our girl. She'd approached us, as many strangers do, to comment on our "beautiful baby" and catch a glimpse of Celie's smile--a lovely little look that she grants somewhat discriminately--a trait that we've grown to admire. 

 

"She doesn't smile for everyone," we often say, either as an attempt to make someone feel better for only receiving a cautious stare, or to reiterate their good fortune in getting one of her enthusiastically toothy grins.  "God, it's like the paparazzi," my friend Jill laughed after a rather large group of Spaniards at the next table over requested if they could take a photograph of Celie at dinner.

"That's actually never happened before," I added, "In fact, that's a little weird."  Still, they seemed to enjoy her Sweet Eyes and Fish Face, two crazy expressions she seemed to pull out just for the camera, like some kind of little showman's reward. 

The best part of the trip, however, was simply being with friends.  It was an amazing few days of spending time with the very peeps who know us best:  first, Walter and Dana in San Jose who showed us around the Apple Computer mothership (who knew sushi, fresh avocado salads, and made-to-order omelets would ever qualify as "cafeteria food?"  Thank you, iPod!);  followed by a truly exceptional four days with Dean and the fabulous Jill, my very best friend from childhood.  

To this day and despite the distance, she is still my favorite pal--so fun, so funny, so original and real.  With Celie in tow, we visited museums, drank good wine, walked to the ocean and back through Golden Gate park, grazed on pizza, and generally had fun doing nothing at all.

And as my family and I boarded our plane, Celie fascinated with the lights outside, I realized that our time away was more than just a vacation--for me, it felt like checking in with that part of me that so easily gets lost when life gets carried away.  The word, I guess, is comfort--the kind that only old friends and a big blue sky can give.  From San Luis to San Jose to San Francisco, our week was filled with what can only be described as one glorious day after another.  Just as I remember it, California is truly a dreamer's dream, the kind of place that will always feel like home.

Sweet Shades

Daddy's Girl

Something's Gotta Give

It’s not that life’s been boring lately or that there isn’t plenty to write about. In fact, just the opposite. At seven months, every day is full of firsts (and equally amazing seconds), all of which I'd like to record: the way Celie grabs at my nose when she eats, her obsession with the remote control and her determination to reach it, the exactitude with which she uses her thumb and forefinger to examine new fabrics and foods, or the way Celie turns her head to the side and wiggles her bottom when settling in for sleep.

Yet there is so little time to write these days. With my maternity leave effectively over and tenure looming in the not-so-distant future, it seems I just can’t find the time like I used to—or rather, there are many evenings when the last thing I want to do is sit in front of the computer.

Still, I don't want to forget these little things. Like the day we spent in the park last week after a visit to the coffee shop. It wasn’t anything particularly special, just a picnic. But it was the kind of day I'd always pictured having with my child: we sat together, Celie sitting up on her own yet still kind of leaning on me, while I slowly sipped a latte and tried to figure out what had her so entranced. She searched for the source of sounds and squinted at the sun; both of us surprisingly warm on an otherwise chilly day. We watched boys play catch while a pack of dogs tried to steal the ball. We turned as trucks rumbled by getting louder and louder and then softer and softer until only the whistling of birds remained. We noticed how the breeze blew our hair. We pulled up grass, but we didn't put it in our mouths—“grass isn’t for eating unless you’re desperate,” I explained, which seemed to suffice as Celie turned her attention toward digging her heels into the gooey soil.

Each day I lament not having more time, but alas, something's gotta give. In fact I realized somethings already had when I almost mistook a giant ball of dust rolling across the floor for our dear cat. "Lilly!" I said, thinking, "You've grown!" It wasn't long after I caught Celie gingerly stroking a piece of lint from our carpet (again, with just one little finger, with such care) that I finally broke down and hired some help. After a considerable search, I was overjoyed to welcome Claudia and her team of Brazilian cleaning ladies into our home, each of them taking turns ooooohing into Celie's blue eyes as I stood there feeling bad for the mess.

"We really don't normally live like this," I began, suddenly feeling as if I were back at St. Pet's in confessional instead of my own living room. "I'm a teacher, you see, and well, with Mardi Gras and this workshop I'm planning, it's been three weeks since my last..."

I couldn't tell if the details of my message were getting through, but I could