"Preggo" is to Pregnant as "Hubby" is to Husband

I'm really into not being one of "those" women. And I guess pregnancy will be no exception.

Of course, I'm really excited, but there's a part of me that really fears being just another basic pregnant woman.

I finally experienced something when I had my first appointment that my friend had expressed to me a long time ago: The feeling of knowing you're just another patient to them.  In your mind, you've just made a life-changing discovery.  In their mind, this is routine.  I'm not saying anyone was rude to me or anything.  Everyone was super nice and attentive and informative, but it's this realization that you're nothing special to them.  You're just one of many.

So, on one hand I'm aware of the fact that being pregnant is nothing original, but on the other, it's original to me and I don't want to be one of many.  And that brings me back to the idea of not wanting to be one of "those" pregnant women.  Just like I didn't want to be one of "those" married women.

People who say "preggo" are the same kinds of people who say "hubby."  It's annoying, saccharine, cookie-cutter and trite.  And along with that are posts about your cravings and the emotional roller coaster you're on and belly pictures and ending everything with #preggo. Ugh.  That is not going to be me.

I was bummed when we couldn't see the baby with the ultrasound I had at my first appointment.  It's still really early and I was told that maybe I wasn't as far along as I thought.  When I go back in a few weeks, I was told we should definitely be able to see it.  It still feels pretty surreal, and maybe actually seeing it will make it more concrete to me.  But I swear, when we do get to see the little one, I am NOT putting an ultrasound picture on social media.  It just looks weird and ghosty and grainy and not even human.  Plus, like, I don't want the world to be able to see the inside of my uterus.  Ew.  Just like when people post pictures of their positive pregnancy tests...it's like, dude, you're plastering something you just peed on all over the internet.

But, I will admit that I am trying to think of a clever way to announce it once I get past my first trimester.  P and I have coffee mugs that say "Mr." and "Mrs." that we got as a wedding present, and I was thinking of taking a picture of the mugs alongside a sippy cup or a bottle or like a miniature-sized coffee mug with "January 2018" as the caption.  That would be cute, right?

Despite my aversion to being one of "those" pregnant women, I have to admit that I'm still a sucker for cuteness.

Telling People

Today our baby is the size of a chocolate chip and I'm on an avocado toast kick.

I've already told a few people...more than I probably should have at this point.  It's just that I'm so excited and I love seeing people's reactions when I do.

Anyway, of course, we'll wait until the 12-week mark to make any kinds of general announcements, but I wonder if we'll make any kind of announcement at all (at least via social media) because my husband is kind of averse to it.  He feels like it would make it less special and personal.  Having a baby is a very intimate thing, and plastering it all over social media invites way too many people in on it.  And to an extent, I agree.

But there's also a part of me that wants people to know, you know what I'm saying?  And I guess part of my reasoning may be a little petty, I'll admit that.

It's just that for so long, I felt like many people (particularly church people) had sort of written me off.  For a while, I was 30+, still in school (I can't tell you how much it annoyed me when people would say that. "You're still in school?"), and no man in sight.  Egads!  I felt like this anomaly people pitied.  And while I'll admit that I did struggle with loneliness at times, I can honestly say I never regretted my choices.  Ever.  Not once did I ever think that I should have married fresh out of undergrad, started piling buns in the oven and lived out the rest of my days in my hometown going to Golden Corral after church every Sunday.  Nah.  Even though the very idea of a woman "having it all" is super problematic (I mean, no one ever asks if it's possible for a man to "have it all"), there's a part of me that feels like getting married and now having a baby on the way is kinda like IN YO FACE.  I can have it all.  I can be in school "forever," travel the world, get a couple of advanced degrees, have a career doing what I enjoy, marry a great guy (while still in school, at that) and have a baby.  Howbow dah?

And (this is extra petty)...I will also admit that part of my desire to tell certain people is so that certain other people will find out.  And when I say certain other people, I'm talking about a right-before-I-met-my-husband person.  Is it wrong to feel like I've won?  I got married and had a baby before you, son!  I beat you.  I am victorious.  I am the winner.  I won.  I said it was extra petty.

It's also kind of cute to be in social situations where a few people know but others don't, and so you're giving each other conspiratorial smiles and winks.  We were at a party last night in honor of one of my colleagues passing her mid-probationary review.  Someone who knew came up to us and whispered, "Secret congratulations."  He's a goofy guy to begin with, but him telling us that was just extra goofy and cute, cuz you know, he was part of the "insider" group who knew.

But here's what I'm not looking forward to: The more people find out, the more people will feel invited to give unsolicited advice, pass unsolicited judgment, and regale me with unsolicited horror stories.  And I suspect that will make me want to schlap folks in the face.

I wonder: What causes people to act the most crazy, weddings or babies?

Tomato Seed

The weird thing about this blog is that either people who I'm really close to read it or people who I haven't actually met in real life read it.  I know my readership has probably plunged since I don't update it as often these days, but to be honest, I don't really know for sure who (still) reads it.

Anyway, it's weird because I've had this blog for so long...over ten years, since before I graduated from undergrad.  Now here I am, a few degrees, a few moves and a husband later, and it still functions as a creative outlet of sorts.  So, dear reader, if you're still here, whether you know me personally or not, you have been with me through a lot.  So, although I don't want to release this info to the general public yet, I don't feel like I'm releasing it to the general public by writing about it on my blog.

Yesterday was P's and my second anniversary.  And we got a special anniversary present.  Yes, it finally happened, after all of my (unnecessary) agonizing over it.  We're having a baby.

I downloaded a pregnancy app, you know, the ones that compare the size of the baby to various edible items.  And yesterday, it said that our baby was the size of a tomato seed.

It doesn't feel real.  It's something I've wanted for a while, and now that it's a reality, I don't know how to take it.  We're excited, for sure, but at the same time, it hasn't quite sunken in yet.  I pray that God will continue to lead us and guide us, as He always has.  I've always struggled with trusting Him in various areas of my life.  But bringing a new life into the world?  That's on a whole other plane.  I know that this experience will cause me to rely on Him like I never have before.

Sun Day

Come on and praise the Lord / While you have the chance

I woke up this morning bathed in sunlight.  It's getting lighter earlier.  I woke up wanting to take hold of this sunlit morning.  I got out of bed and showered in the natural light which filtered in through the blinds in the bathroom.  And then I made breakfast.  Four strips of crisp bacon (2 for him, 2 for me), scrambled eggs with cheese, two pieces of toast (1 for him, 1 for me). He made coffee. Why are you making breakfast?  Because I want to.  Don't you have to leave soon?  Yeah, but I have time.  I had time this morning.  I took time this morning.  I ate bacon and eggs and toast and sipped coffee and watched a happy, appreciative husband eat a rare weekday hot breakfast before his Tuesday/Thursday commute.  They're usually reserved for weekends.

I had to take time this morning.  I woke up wanting to take hold of this sun day.

"I always feel like I have to hold back a part of myself."

The First Elegy

Ranier Maria Rilke

Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic

orders? And even if one of them suddenly

pressed me to his heart, I would vanish in the strength of his

greater existence. For Beauty is only 

the first touch of Terror we are still able to bear, 

and why we adore it so is because it serenely

disdains to destroy us. Every single angel is terrible.

And so I restrain myself, and choke back

my own dark birdcall. Alas, who can we turn to

in this need? Not angels, nor men

and even the cunning animals know at once

that we are not especially at home 

in our interpreted world. There remains, perhaps, 

some tree on a slope, to be looked at day after day, 

yesterday's walk, and the perverse loyalty

of some habit that pleased us and moved in for good.

Oh the night, the night when the wind full of outer space

gnaws at our faces: for whom would she not remain, 

longed for, mild disenchantress, waiting painfully

for the lonely heart? Is she lighter for lovers?

Alas, with each other they only hide their fate!

You still don't understand? – Fling armfuls of emptiness
out to the spaces we breathe – maybe the birds
will feel the expanded air in more fervent flight.


Voices, voices. Listen, my heart, as only
saints once listened until the enormous call
lifted them right off the ground; but they, impossible ones,
went on kneeling and paid no attention:
such was their listening. Not that God's is a voice
you could bear, oh no! But the breath like a breeze, listen to that,
the endless report that grows out of silence,
rustling toward you from those who died young.

People don't blog no mo' all they do is diss...

Professor, naturalled
No, you may not plunge your hand into my afro hair.  This my hair.  This my real hair.  For real.  Yeah, I stopped putting chemicals in my hair over a year ago.  "Where does a sista go to get her hair done?" asked the ("diversity") candidate.  We, two Latinas and me, had coffee (or tea) to let her see, we ain't there yet, but we on the way. This sista does it herself.  I haven't been to a salon in years.  I guess I'm not the sista to ask.

Starburst

I've been on a Starburst kick lately.  I just sat here and ate almost a whole pack.  I don't really like the yellow ones, but I'll eat them anyway.  I asked my husband if he wanted one before I ate them all up.  He said to give him whatever color I don't like.  Then I said that I wanted him to have one that he does like, not one that I don't like.  And he said pink.

Ginger snaps and academic political intrigue

Every happy tight-knit family at a small liberal arts college do be having some drama.  And here I am, a newbie, wandering into the invisible dynamics at play.  Will I ever rid myself of the naivete that clings to me wherever I go?  He helped me with Julius Caesar.  Kind, sensitive, unassuming, blue-eyed, bespectacled and beanpolishly tall with a mop of graying curls.  He bakes and brought homemade gingersnaps as an...offering?  A gesture.  He wanted me to know he wasn't one of the ones.  You know, the ones.  The good old boys.  Dueling proposals.  Game of Academic Thrones.  He contributed to one of them, even though he wasn't on the committee, and it got mischaracterized, reduced to something it was never intended to be.  I know you're not one of the ones.  I never thought you were.  Every single thing in this world is engulfed in a backstory. 

(No) baby (yet)

Negative.  Nope.  One line (not two).  Who knew cramps could ever become comforting because they're familiar?  They're the opposite of the "two week wait."  Anxious and wondering and reading every ding dang message board on the gosh durn internet because somehow you think it will impart to you the knowledge that you so desperately crave: Am I or aren't I?  Not wanting to take one of those horrid "first response" tests because you're tired of seeing negatives.  Not wanting to call your mom because you're just looking forward to calling her for once and at long last, quenching her grandchild thirst.  But once cramps roll around, you know that you know that you know.  No.  I am not.  And then you can scarf down a package of Starburst without shame.

Downsize

I'm going to miss this house.  The colleague we're renting it from is coming back in July.  So we were on the hunt for new place.  We found one, an apartment, that another colleague is moving out of.  It's a decent little set up.  Literally within walking distance from my job.  A duplex, more or less.  And smaller.  Minuscule kitchen.  One bathroom.  We could have a bigger place if we were willing to temporarily inhabit the home of yet another colleague abroad.  But then we'd have to cough up more dough, and then we'd have to move again once the year was up.  The apartment will be our home until we figure out what life post-P's graduation will look like.

If I ever had a daughter,

the one thing I would want for her more than anything else would be for her to genuinely like, accept, and embrace who she is as a person.  I wouldn't want my daughter to constantly struggle with insecurity.  I wouldn't want her for even one minute to believe that by just existing as the person she is, she is inherently deficient.  I wouldn't want her for even one minute to use other peoples' lives as a measuring stick.  I would want her to be able wake up every morning and truly believe that she is enough.

Love, My Husband

My husband is patient, my husband is kind.  He does not envy, he does not boast, he is not proud.  He does not dishonor others, he is not self-seeking, he is not easily angered, he keeps no record of wrongs.  He does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  He always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

We were in the car and I cried over long ago things that felt surprisingly fresh.  Listening to a smorgasbord of podcasts on our road trip, I heard something that conjured up feelings of embarrassment and shame about the older, lonely, strange girl that I was when I met him.  Devoted to the faith I was raised in, and therefore its prohibitions, which made me a stranger within secular culture, yet also a stranger within my faith because of my educational level, my career, and my aversion to the dogmatism that permeates the culture of my faith, among other things.

He rubbed my back and hugged me and told me that I was perfect and that he loved me.  And then I looked at him and thanked him for being so patient and kind.

But, Inevitably

Assistant Professor
So, I found out a couple of weeks ago that the Dean decided to convert my visiting position to a tenure-track one.  As of August 15, the word "visiting" will be officially dropped from my job title.  This is a big deal, and I'm very excited about it.  This is real security for us.  No more nerve-wracking, soul-crushing job market angst.  This is the absolute best-case scenario, right?  I went from not getting the job I originally applied for, to the Dean creating a position for me to bring me here anyway, to now having a permanent position with the opportunity for advancement and tenure.  And it doesn't hurt that a (tiny) raise was thrown in to boot.  I am grateful, no doubt.  I don't take it lightly and I don't take it for granted.

But, (sigh...isn't it always inevitable with me?)

I hate that I can never completely enjoy something because I can't stop being preoccupied with the next step, and the one after that, and the one after that. I can't just breathe a sigh of relief.  First of all, my staying at this institution is contingent on my husband being able to find gainful employment in the area once he graduates.  And besides that, just because you have a tenure-track job doesn't mean you have it made.  You have to actually, uh, get tenure.  Which means you have to work and step up your game.  Despite all the positivity, support and displays of confidence from my colleagues and the administration, I remain woefully insecure.  Whenever anyone congratulates me on becoming tenure-track, I'm consumed with the idea that there may be some who don't feel I earned it.

It's a fruitless, purposeless exercise in futility, expending energy wondering about what may or may not be going on in other people's heads.  Truth be told, it's none of my business.  I somehow have to figure out a way to acknowledge my insecurity and feelings of inadequacy while still moving forward.  Lord, I believe.  Help thou mine unbelief.

I don't want to talk about it but I do.  
What is it about acknowledging your disappointment?  Why does it feel like moral weakness to admit that you'd hoped for something you didn't receive?

Instead of clinging to God, as I should, I cling to facts.  And the facts say that I am not over 35 and that it hasn't yet been a year.  No need to panic.  I'm still within the window of normality and calmness and just relax and don't worry about it, everything's fine and just be patient, you'll see.  I almost expect to hear "it'll happen when you least expect it," because that's what was said about that other thing that at one time I didn't want to talk about.

Actually, only a part of me clings to facts.  Another part of me clings to supposed spiritual, cosmic reasons only truly fathomed by God for why it's not happening: He knows (because His ways are higher than our ways) that you aren't "ready" yet.  You're not spiritually ready, emotionally ready, financially ready, mentally ready, physically ready to truly take on such a responsibility.  What do I need to do to be holistically "ready," though?  Will I ever be "ready"?  Was I "ready" for that other thing when that other thing finally did come to pass?

There's a tinier, third part of me, too.  A saner, chiller part of me that wonders whether it's not a matter of facts or readiness, but plain and simple timing.  Time.  Like a batch of banana chocolate chip muffins that simply aren't ready because they haven't baked for 25 minutes yet.  Maybe it's not the ingredients, not the temperature, nothing to do with whether the oven is gas or electric.  It's 25 minutes until golden.  No one wants mushy muffins.

Lord, Lord, Lord

The musician featured is one of several blues musicians who came to my institution for a panel conversation with students (which I moderated) and a concert.  It was phenomenal. You can't never find it in no book.  You just got to inherit the blues.

Poor Guy

Moody me.  Feeling icky, wanting to wrap myself up in a throw cover and abscond to our bedroom.  After tearfully and only minimally articulating "what was wrong" (as much as could be "wrong" during these times), I did exactly that.

For a while I hunched over my laptop and started reading over and commenting on a student's intro of his upcoming paper replete with quotations from Notorious B.I.G and Easy-E (and boy, saddown.  I get it, suburban white kids listen to rap, too and you're cool and in the know and want to interweave your problematically attained "cred" into a paper about the political implications of Julius Caesar, but it's woefully unsuccessful and just...nah), but then I stopped and (again tearfully) called my mom.

During this maternal phone call, my husband texted me and said he was on his way to pick up a few things from Kroger, did I need anything.  I texted back and said that I didn't.  When I finished up with mother dearest, I finally (untearfully) emerged.

He had already made it back from the grocery store and smilingly said he was making me a cheesecake.  What?  Making me a cheesecake?  Are you serious?  I went into the kitchen and saw cream cheese, sugar, Nutella, vanilla extract and a pie crust out on the counter.

I immediately broke down sobbing and (quite tearfully) wailing, "You are so sweeeeett!"

Poor guy can't win for losing.

Smorgasbord

It's been a little while.  Not much missed, just grinding on the grind.  Knee deep in Julius Caesar, cortometrajes, and still on that wait.  There's still the baby wait, albeit the countdown is much less anxiety fraught this month.  And the current job wait: Will I get an offer from another place to possibly use as leverage where I am?

A jumble of little things.  Nothing splashy.

Kale

Just as I became a born-again flosser when I got my first cavity at 19, I've become a born-again kale eater.  Like, everything I read about kale is that it is basically ambrosia.  The healthiest superfood to ever be made available to mere mortals.  And I have jumped onto the bandwagon with gusto.  So far I've only branched out into salads with kale and soups with kale, but I'm going to just start putting it into stuff.  I want to eat healthy, gosh darn it. And I want any tiny little being that may be on the way to be filled with all the healthy things.

I don't want to care about it.

Whenever there's a thing I desire, a.k.a. having a baby, that has all kinds of complex moving parts accompanying it, I don't want to care about it.  If I do anything my brain considers "extra," then I'm caring about it, and caring about it too much.  The health-conscious stuff (eating right, vitamins, exercise) isn't extra.  It's what I would or should be doing to take care of myself, baby or no baby.  But little "tricks" and teas and basal body temperature taking read extra to me right now.  I'm still in the scientifically circumscribed worry-free zone (hasn't been a year), and I'm still technically under 35 (although that's about to change quick).  I don't want to push for it. Grab at it like a little kid near the rows of candy in the check-out line.  I want to be chill and patient.  I want to gingerly wrap it up and place it on a comfy little shelf, away from me, right now.

So, I noticed you wear skirts.

After a meeting a fellow professor approached me and said, "I noticed you were one of the only ones on the hall who wears dresses and skirts and cute tights a lot.  I was wanting to start wearing more skirts, so I thought I'd talk to you."  Um?  I sort of started laughing nervously and felt embarrassed.  I admitted as much and then said something like, "I'm not a fashion expert or anything, but yeah, sure, we can get together sometime." (?)  I mean, how else are you supposed to respond to that?  What did she want to know, really?  Where I go shopping or whether I'm part of a cult?  Should I feel flattered?  Should I feel scrutinized?  I get cagey about being outed as a skirt-wearer.  I mean it's fine, and I've explained my convictions to plenty of non-skirt wearers throughout my life.  But in academia, things like religious convictions are about as intelligible as Proto-Indo-European, a language that is completely hypothetical.

Husband and home

I'm pretty pleased to have a husband who goes shopping, does dishes, washes clothes, vacuums, and is planning to be equally as involved whenever we find out we're expecting. (We're still working on the cooking part, but he can make a mean skillet of Hamburger Helper.)  I guess it's more the norm now--men sharing more of the load of chores, being more involved in their partners' pregnancies and childcare--but after growing up with a dad who wasn't one of these modern men (to his credit, he did at least wash and iron his own clothes), I feel like I lucked out.  Maybe my husband feels the same?

Baby Wait

I told myself that I wouldn't get anxious about it.  I said I wasn't going to worry about it.  I said I wouldn't get sad about it.

You just have to relax.  It can take a normal, healthy couple up to a year to conceive.  You have nothing to worry about.  It'll happen when it's supposed to.  It's going to happen before you know it, really soon, just you wait.

There is a dichotomy: My rational, thinking mind, which rationally knows certain things vs. The rest of my feeling, emotional self which doesn't really care what I know.

There are layers: The confident, unbothered me who has nothing to worry about and is focused on my stuff and sailing along, the me who belies the previous me and gets anxious because it hasn't happened yet, the me who gets annoyed at that previous me for getting anxious, the me who feels sad because maybe the fact that it hasn't happened yet means that in the cosmic scheme of things, we're not truly ready for it to happen and because maybe I'm just naive and have no idea what I'm wanting to get myself into, the me who gets angry at the sad me because I told myself I wasn't going to get sad about it and I'm making such a big deal out of nothing, and lastly, the me who gets annoyed with the angry me who got mad at the sad me because I'm human and need to stop beating up on myself...

All these layers and metalayers are so exhausting and just reading back over the previous paragraph is an additional waste of time to the waste of time that it was to even write it in the first place.  It's like, in the end, the whole expense of mental energy is so laughably unnecessary because the fact that existed before the expense of mental energy is the fact which still remains: I have no control over when it happens.

Like, why do you even want to have a baby?  Because you're afraid you're getting old?  Because all of your friends have them (at this rate, my friends' babies would be my hypothetical baby's babysitters rather than playmates)?  Because it seems like the next logical step?  Because you have a primal instinct to reproduce?  Because you feel it will validate you as an adult and a woman?  Because on some level you're the same parent-pleasing girl you always were and you want to make them happy by producing a golden grandchild?  Because you wonder what a mashup of you and your husband would look like?  Because you think your kid will be some kind of magical, multiracial, multilingual, brilliant being possessed of an otherworldly beauty?  Smh.  Weirdo.

It's almost like I'm afraid to even want to have a baby.  Isn't that ridiculous?  Like, what is embarrassing about wanting to have a child?

I just had an epiphany.  Baby is the new husband.  Wow.

Like, the way I used to obsess over not wanting to be obsessed with getting married?  It's just transmogrified into obsessing over not wanting to be obsessed with having a baby.

It never ends, does it?

I wish I could get into a time machine, travel back to the year 2000 right before I graduated from high school and give my 18-year-old self a bit of fair warning: It never ends.

Cheer Up Breakfast

P doesn't go back to work until about a week and a half from now, but I don't go back until February.  My institution has a month-long intensive winter session, but I'm not teaching it this time around.  However, I am teaching a bunch of new stuff in the Spring and I have to take this "extra time off" to prepare.

All of that to say, for now, P and I still have mornings where we can sleep in.  He usually ends up putting an arm around me after which I'll smile and snuggle closer, but yesterday morning, I kind of wasn't feeling it.  Despite it being only Day 6 of the New Year, I was already feeling bogged down by upcoming interviews I felt woefully unprepared for, this Humanities seminar I have to prep that I feel insecure about, and would I be back next year?  And where are we going to live next year even if we stay here?  Because we're moving regardless, and how would a baby fit into all of this, and—

"Wanna go somewhere for breakfast?"

I immediately perked up.  Even if I'm not feeling it, I will never say no to breakfasting.  We raced to get ready and out the door so that we could make it to this awesome cafe in a nearby town before they stopped serving breakfast.

Over biscuits and gravy (him) and a frittata (me), I started trying to tell him that I thought he suggested breakfast because he could sense that—he finished my sentence for me, "I could tell you were feeling bad...I thought we could do something different this morning, I thought you would like it."

I just teared up.  He just wanted to cheer me up, so he suggested going to breakfast.  It was such a simple thing, but at the same time, such a deeply caring thing.  What made me cry was not that proposing going out for breakfast was some sort of grand, sweeping gesture, but that he was sensitive to how I was feeling and wanted to do something, however small, to make me feel better.

How's that working out for you?

Day 5 of the New Year.

I went to a yoga class for the first time on Tuesday.  Apparently the Dean's secretary is a consistent frequenter.  I sidled my mat up next to hers and we became yoga buddies.  The next day I was wrecked.  Muscles ached that I didn't know even existed. But that didn't hold a candle to yesterday. 

Yesterday was a cardio class.  It was led by a spry 62-year-old who, no doubt, took glee in remarking to the rest of us youngsters that we should be able to keep up with her when some of us started losing steam near the end.  I wanted to pick up my barbells and throw them at the mirror.  How dare I not be able to keep up with a grandma who is almost twice my age?  She looked fab, though.  Fit little gray-haired lady with a pixie cut, gloriously sweating with a radiant smile.  Ugh.  Meanwhile my thirty-something self is over here praying that no one mistakes my chunky midsection for a growing bundle of joy.  Not yet, folks.  Felt steamrolled after that one, though.  Like, I came home ready to give up the ghost.  Couldn't laugh or cough or get up off the couch without feeling like I was dying inside.  I shall forge ahead.  

On Saturday there's a "RIPPED" class.  It's probably going to kill me.  But I said at least three times a week.  I must be a woman of my word.

2017, right? Come on in!

Tomorrow P and I head back to our home base after spending time with his side of the family these past couple of weeks. Tomorrow is back to routine, work, preparation.  Doing what we do.  At first I was sort of bummed about the prospect of heading back, but now that I've had some time to reflect upon this past year and my goals and desires for this new year, I'm feeling more like, "Okay, let's do this."

This year was a humongous year of transition.  I graduated, we moved, I started a new job, P passed comps, is now dissertating, and started a new position himself.  A lot of change, a lot of adjustments to make.  I thank God that we have been able to successfully manage our many transitions this year.  It has drawn my husband and me closer together, and it makes me grateful for him and the strength of our relationship.  My husband is a handsome, kind, passionate, dedicated, consistent man.  I know that we will have to weather more transition in this new year and perhaps more difficult transitions than we've had previously.  But I'm confident in us, and in the hand of God binding us together.

There are plenty of desires that I wish for this new year, the main one is the desire to become a mother.  No, we didn't have a little Christmas surprise this month.  It's totally okay, though.  I'm resigned to being held in suspense each month indefinitely.  But I resolve not to get disappointed with negative pregnancy tests this year.  I'm truly confident it will happen when it's meant to.  Just as I can now see the perfection of God's timing with meeting and marrying my husband, with accepting my current position, with so many other things, I know that the perfection of His timing applies to our future children as well.

Here are a few concrete things I resolve for this year:

1. I want to work out at least 3 times a week, and I will take advantage of at least one of the free fitness classes offered at my place of employment.  I want to be intentional about taking care of my body, especially since we're planning to have a baby, and exercise offers physical and psychological benefits.

2. I want to be more intentional about my prayer life, and the main way I can achieve that is by being a better manager of my time.  I waste so much time.  I often let my evenings fritter away when I could be using that time to plan for the following day.  And my lack of preparation often makes for rushed mornings without time for prayer, devotion and reflection.  I want to consistently spend my evenings preparing for the following day and wake up in enough time to have at least 30 minutes of prayer and devotion each morning.

3. I want to read a financial planning book and a parenting/"preparing for baby" book with my husband.  Financial literacy is an area I feel very weak in, and it's something we could both stand to learn about and preparing ourselves to have a child is absolutely necessary.  Reading books about these topics is a concrete way to inform ourselves.

4. I want to say something or do something at least once a week to build up my husband's confidence and demonstrate my trust in him.  I often catch myself going back to my "I'll handle it" mentality from my single days.  What I realize is that it communicates to him that I don't trust him to do whatever needs to be done.  I want to be intentional about communicating my trust and confidence in him.

5. I keep putting this every year, but I seriously want to learn how to knit.  I noticed a group of older ladies at a knitting circle at a local coffee shop a little while ago.  Maybe the next time I see them, I can inquire.

I'm truly looking forward to what 2017 will bring.

Moments of Joy

In several posts during my dissertation writing journey, I'd sworn off participating in a graduation ceremony.  I reasoned that just finishing was celebration enough and I complained about the cost of the regalia and the whole rigmarole of participating in a graduation ceremony for literally the fourth time.

But my homegirl persuaded me that it was worth it.  "People need to see you walk across the stage!" she argued.  She prompted me to think about what walking across the stage would symbolize for me and for everyone else; I am the first in my family on both sides to ever receive a doctoral degree, and walking across the stage is a testament to others that it can be done.

Now a semester removed from grinding out an existence in the dissertation-writing trenches, I was able to distance myself from that space a little bit and begin to see it in a new light.  I felt better about formally recognizing my accomplishment, and I looked forward to reconnecting with colleagues and mentors in the town that my husband and I consider our first home. 

So, after officially graduating in August, I walked across the stage this month with my adviser and we performed the traditional "hooding" ceremony.  After the ceremony, I hosted (okay, my parents hosted) a reception with a few friends, family, colleagues and mentors in attendance to celebrate.  Before we cut the cake, I gave an off-the-cuff speech thanking everyone, and in that moment, I was overcome with gratitude.  It was just a glowing, joyful moment, and I basked in it.

The following day, my parents had a little holiday get together at their home.  My husband and I were asked to get our guitars out and we played a few Christmas songs.  One of them was "Feliz Navidad." I gave my tambourine to my little bro and he played, and we all sang and clapped and danced while my husband strummed.  I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas!  I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas!  I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart!  Again, I was struck with this overwhelming sense of gratitude.  We were united, smiling, laughing, in a warm, celebratory moment.  I was surrounded by so much love.  It was a moment of pure joy.  And I felt so present in that moment.  I cherished it.

I never want to take these moments for granted.  I want to always be present in them and hold them close to me.

Tomorrow we're checking to see whether I'm carrying a little Christmas present.  Regardless of the result, I will embrace it.  I'm confident that when it happens, it will happen exactly when it's supposed to.

First Semester as Profesora, Done

So, I've come to the end of my first semester as an actual, real live professor.  I have one more section of exams to grade (and then I have to actually enter the overall grades into the system) before I can say I'm done (oh, and then I have the email the bookstore my book selections for next semester before it gets too late...ugh!) but I'm just about there.

While I have honestly enjoyed my time here so far—I enjoy my students, I get along with my colleagues and I've had a ton of support from them as well as the administration—I have to be honest and say I have struggled with insecurity. Some people would specifically categorize it as impostor syndrome.  I constantly question whether I should even be where I am.  Whether academia is where I belong.  My mind gets crowded with perceptions of my inadequacy, my lack of experience, my lack of expertise.  But not just that, the feeling that I should be knowledgeable about a certain thing, or have experience in a certain area, or have traveled to a certain part of the world, but I don't or haven't simply because I haven't given enough effort, further proof of my unsuitability for the place in which I somehow ended up.

But sometimes, little jewels are unexpectedly dropped into your lap.  Things that make you feel like, despite the uncertainty, despite the insecurity, the questioning of yourself and your place, that maybe you're okay. You're not perfect, but maybe you're doing something right.  Yesterday, I got an email from a student that totally made my day:

I hope you are having a good start to your winter break!! I just wanted to email you and thank you for such a memorable first semester. Your class was by far my favorite class because of the enthusiasm and joy you brought everyday. You made my learning experience much more enjoyable, and after a full day of classes I was always relieved to come to Spanish. I also wanted to thank you for your outstanding effort in making sure my needs as a student were met. You wanted the best for our class and you always made sure we knew you were there for us! I felt like you genuinely cared about my development as a student, and that is something a lot of teachers can't do. You don't know how much it means to me that you gave your full effort. Especially since this was your first year at [name of institution] (hopefully you get to stay for many more)! But I just wanted to make sure you knew how much of an impact you had on me. You set the bar high, and I hope to see you back on campus next semester! Have an awesome break and Merry Christmas! 

Wow...I was just floored.  And my little teacher heart felt really warm and fuzzy.  I wrote him back, thanking him for his kind words.

And that brings me to something else...will I be back next year?  I think there's a good chance that I will be asked to stay.  A colleague is going on sabbatical and I've been told that a request to extend the visiting position (my current position) has been submitted to the Dean.  But nothing has been offered or made official or contracts signed yet, so I'm still exploring other options.  So far, I have interviews lined up with two other institutions.  There's a lot to consider.  But we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

What I'm wondering now is whether I'll have a little Christmas surprise this month.  It would seem especially apt this month, what with the whole reason for the season being that For unto us a child is born...lol.  I guess the ubiquitous birthing/maternal imagery in our traditional carols aren't made any more clear to you than when you're actually considering "bringing forth a son."  Actually, we'd prefer a girl first, but of course would be happy either way.

As with so many other things, we'll just have to wait and see.

Morning Details

Dimple on the right.  I kiss it.

Chin indentation.  I trace it.  A brief horizontal line above a chin that I softly grasp between my thumb and forefinger, grizzly with stubble.  I have a chin indentation, too, but it's more like a dimple, almost a cleft.  My brothers used to call it a butt chin.

A pronounced cupid's bow on his upper lip.  The only way you can explain a cupid's bow to people who don't know what a cupid's bow is is by mentioning Rihanna, because she has a pronounced one, too.

Deep-set, down-turned hazel eyes.  They could be sad eyes, but when he smiles, you realize they're the kind of eyes that smile more than the actual smile of his lips.  They're framed by ample eyelashes some women would envy.

A small bump on the bridge of his nose.  It happened when he was a kid and took a baseball to the face.  When we went to his hometown together for the first time and he pointed out a ball park, I asked, "Is that where you got your nose broken?"

Freckles sprinkled everywhere.  A small mole in the center of his neck right above his collarbone.

For maybe the third morning in a row, after returning from a too-long shower, I find him still in bed but awake and ask if he were waiting for me to get out of the bathroom.  We both laugh at the repetitiveness, the absurdity, the familiarity.

Loving

During our much-needed Thanksgiving holiday break, my husband and I went to see Loving. It's about the couple behind the landmark Supreme Court case Loving vs. Virginia, which struck down anti-miscegenation laws throughout the U.S. in 1967.

It was a quiet, powerful movie.  So much is communicated in its silences.  It focused on the Lovings as a couple and the Lovings' family life rather than the legal processes of the court case.  Although theirs was a landmark case during the Civil Rights Movement, they weren't trying to be heroes or trying to make a statement.  They were just trying to live their lives and raise their family in peace.

My husband and I felt a little awkward getting tickets at first.  I imagined people at the theater seeing us and thinking, "Oh, we know why you want to see this movie."  An interracial couple goes to see a movie about an interracial couple.  Typical.

But it didn't matter.  We had M&Ms and popcorn and Dr. Pepper and each other.  We walked into the theater hand-in-hand.  And we walked out hand-in-hand.