So...

Baby

So, this pregnancy has been different than the first one. Which is a given, since, duh. There's also this little thing called a global pandemic going down. And oh, yeah, I'm three years older ("advanced maternal age") and have since developed chronic hypertension (genetics + black folks + age, I guess) since the last time, too (after I had little buddy #1 and before I got pregners with little buddy #2). All of that to say, I have more risk factors this time, and this bubbling gumbo of circumstances stirred together basically means that I've been going in twice a week for extra monitoring for several weeks now and that I'll be induced if I don't go into labor on my own by 39 weeks. That is, if everything concerning me and the baby continues to be stable. If anything changes, it could be before 39 weeks. I went into labor on my own with little buddy #1 at 39 weeks on the dot, so I think there's a decent chance that I will again this time either on or before the 39 week cutoff. So alladat to say, who knows?

I'd rather go into labor on my own. Not like my doula can come to the hospital with me anyway (thanks, COVID), but if I go into labor on my own, maybe she could help me for a while at home and offer virtual support once we're admitted. If I go into labor on my own, it would be close to ideal. But if I have to be induced...I mean, it's not the end of the world, I mean, women get induced all the time. But if I'm induced, then whatever chemically kickstarted labor ensues wouldn't be natural. Meaning, if it comes to that, I'll probably just be like, if you're going to do all that, might as well go on ahead and stick a needle in my spine and numb me from the waist down so I'm not steeling myself against waves of chemically induced labor contractions (much more sudden, stronger and faster than the natural deal). 

Sigh. We'll cross that bridge when we get there. Bottom line, the most important thing is healthy body, healthy baby, however that has to happen.

Free area rug?

So, the Wayfair saga continues. I finally got my money put back on the gift card, I ordered a whole 'nother rug and ottoman. Mind you, according to Wayfair, the order for the original rug had been cancelled because the brand or whatever had been discontinued. Well, would you believe that the rug from the canceled order showed up on our doorstep the other day? Um...okay. I actually did want the rug originally, and we actually do need another area rug in the sunroom...it still shows up as cancelled in my Wayfair account and still haven't been charged for it. Keep it? Attempt to return it? Since I'm supposed to be a child of God, I went ahead and called Wayfair customer service (again) to see what they wanted me to do with it. In the end I was told that they would either schedule a pick up to send it back or instruct me to donate or discard it if I didn't want it. UPDATE: They want me to return it. Blast! If I had never called about it, no one would have been the wiser. I mean, what do they want with a discontinued rug? Alas, I shall console myself with having "done the right thing."

Middle school memories

So, my son wakes up at around 4:30 am this morning crying while saying "Go home! Go home please!" Poor buddy. I'm thinking he had a bad dream. He is at the age where children start having nightmares and night terrors. I went in to calm him down and he settled back to sleep, but then I couldn't go back to sleep. So I started puttering around on my phone and for some weird reason thought about this nerdy kid I had a crush on in 7th grade. So, I did what any bored insomniac would do and Googled his name. How I still remember his name I have no earthly idea, but he has a distinct name and I'm 99.9% sure the person who popped up is him. I didn't even do that much poking around...like all of his social media accounts were like right there, and he looked like a late-thirties version of the 7th grader I remember. But here's the thing...we sat at the same table in Art class and we had an assignment to draw a portrait of our partner. He was my partner and I drew a portrait of him. Like the hoarder I am, I actually still have it. It's in a sketch book that I saved and stored amongst other masterpieces from that class and various and sundry accoutrements consisting of sentimental junk. It's all currently in our attic. Now, here's a question: If someone in 7th grade had drawn a portrait of you and still had it all these years later, would you want to see it? And another: But if the person who had drawn said portrait popped up out of nowhere and say, sent you a picture of it via social media, would you be weirded out? If those questions were hypothetically posed to me, I think the answer to both would be yes. Yes, I would be interested in seeing the portrait. I mean, it would be interesting to see someone's rendering of my 7th grade self, I guess. But yes, I would also be slightly weirded out. Like, was the person stalking me or something? Why now, after all these years? Right?

As of now, the portrait remains in the sketch book in the attic and I haven't taken any steps towards reaching out to my 7th grade former crush to send a picture of it. I probably won't. But let's say I did. Would it be utterly weird? I mean, any surface scan of my social media profiles would reveal that I'm happily married and mothering. Like, would your first impulse be to think anything untoward if you were to receive such a missive? I told my husband about it and he just shrugged and said, "Yeah, I guess I would want to see the portrait, but it might also be weird." But, I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Or...nah. Maybe I should just leave well enough alone.

While waiting for Wayfair customer service to pick up,

I'm sitting here typing stuff that I wouldn't be typing if I were actually doing anything productive.

And yes, I said Wayfair customer service. My newly-low-key-on-social-media self made the mistake of scrolling through Facebook earlier today and I discovered that there are human beings who exist who deeply believe in a conspiracy theory about Wayfair being involved in human trafficking. (By the way, I am not friends with these humans, but I am apparently friends with other humans who post Snopes links to try to disabuse humans they are friends with of these notions.) My brain broke. It's sort of like, there are literal, living, breathing people out there who find it easier to believe in wholly unfounded conspiracy theories than they do believing that wearing masks in public can help stop the spread of COVID.

But I digress. Wayfair is nonetheless problematic as heck, but my momma gave me a gift card there as a housewarming gift and you best believe I'm going to use it. Area rug and ottoman, where you at? But see what had happent was I ordered an area rug, and these chumps cancelled my order because I guess they were out of stock. But the problem was that I had used my gift card for part of the expense and the money was supposed to be returned to the gift card in 3-5 business days. We're now on Day 6. Put bluntly, where my money at? So, here I remain, in customer service hold limbo until Jesus comes back since they're experiencing "unprecedented" call volumes.

I can't believe I'll be 8 months pregnant this week. I know I've said it several times before, but this really went by fast. I'm at that stage where I can look down and see my belly rippling, contorting and bulging like an alien life form burrowed inside is using my body as a host. And isn't that essentially what pregnancy is? That's literally what it is...a separate life form using your body as a host until it, er, emerges.

I remember last time, I had arrived to the pushing stage and I was doing my thing and the doctor asked me if I wanted to reach down and feel the baby's head as it was emerging. I was like, Um, heck no, I do not. (I didn't say that, tho. I just shook my head and kept going.) But honestly, I guess maybe for some women it's like an encouragement or something, like, "See? You're almost there!" But for me, it was like, Um, would I like to touch my baby's freakish, bloody head as it is literally emerging from my body? No, thank you! Seriously. I get that it's different for everyone, I do. But for me, while trying to concentrate on expelling an entire human from my body through some pretty intense pain, touching a misshapen, bloody baby head is the last thing I'd like to do. But that's just me.

And yet, I signed up to do this thing again. This time, I'm making sure to have my bag packed though. Last time, I went into labor much sooner than I expected and had my husband throwing random stuff in the bag. A mess. This time I'm not taking any chances.

A chicken empanada, a cheese empanada and two tacos al pastor

is what I begged my husband to get me for lunch the other day. It's from an old beat up taco truck parked beside a Marathon gas station. The shabbier looking the food truck, the better the food. I think it's a law of ethnic food trucks. He took a while to come back with the goods because there was quite a crowd ahead of him. I'm not a foodie, but I know enough and have traveled enough to know the food is like, actually Mexican and not watered down for gringos, so I was surprised when my husband said the crowd ahead of him was all white people. Maybe I wasn't surprised, maybe I was more disappointed because I wanted there to be at least some brown people lined up for the food, which would have ensured its authenticity. And do rural white Kentuckians even know what anything on the menu aside from tacos even is? I mean, maybe y'all know about empanadas, but do y'all seriously know what's up with tortas, sincronizadas, huaraches and sopes? I need to stop being so judgmental and let people live. Can't fault folks for wanting more out of Mexican food life than Taco Bell. 

I got my bake on recently. I delivered fresh loaves of bread to my neighbors and baked a second batch and shared a loaf with one of my colleagues. Our sons were born 3 months apart and go to the same daycare. Sometimes when we drop off my son, he gets a little teary and my colleague's son gives him a toy to comfort him, which is adorable and sweet. My colleague told me that the other day her son said, "JoJo is my friend." Just the idea that a little boy considers my little boy his friend just made me well up with tears. 

Welcome to home ownership. Welcome to the third trimester.

So, it's been nearly two weeks at our new abode. We're settling in slowly but surely. I had to put a lavender flower touch on our front porch:

We're so grateful for our new home. Things just worked out and we're truly happy. I guess I thought a lot more things had to be perfectly aligned before buying a home could be a reality for us, but once the necessity of having more space prompted us to consider it, the pieces fell into place more amazingly than I could have imagined. This is how God has worked in my life time and time again...

And yet. This is so weird and hard to explain, but even while my feet are resting comfortably on the hardwood floor, when I'm outside watering my hanging baskets of lavender flowers, when I'm out back on the patio furniture my parents handed down to us, while we're letting our son roam around our backyard inspecting the trees and flowers, I feel like it's not really ours. That it's still somehow impossible for us to own a house (even though we have the keys) or that we can't really afford it (even though we were approved for a conventional fixed rate mortgage) or maybe the bank thought we were better off financially than we actually are and that all the paperwork and tax returns and pay stubs we provided weren't completely accurate, or worse, somehow, that we don't really deserve it. 

It's similar to the feeling that I had when I got married. Like, because I had been single for a while, I had just gotten used to it and somehow felt like, even though I definitely desired a partner, that there was something about me that made marriage not for someone like me. And I don't even know what that "something" is, or what "someone like me" even means. It's just this inexplicable, elusive quality that makes certain things not for you. And when I say "not for" you, I don't mean that this quality makes you somehow unsuitable or unfit for certain things, I literally mean that they aren't for you. Like, they literally do not and cannot belong to you. Like, if you pick a gift out from under the Christmas tree and it has someone else's name on it, that gift is not for you. So, once the "gift" actually has had my name written on it and handed to me, it's still been hard for me to accept as truly mine. 

Even after 5 years of marriage, a kid and a half in, sometimes I look at my husband and wonder if he really knows who I am, and that if he had, would he have still married me. I don't mean that I'm secretly a serial killer or anything, it's just this stupid thought that there's something not completely authentic about the way I'm perceived or understood. I guess that's just another way of saying imposter syndrome, but for me, it's more complex than a fear of being exposed as a fraud, although that's definitely part of it.

Our new neighbors are mostly older and white, and while the ones we've met so far have been very friendly and welcoming—no-bake cookies and rolls with fig jam have been proffered—I've been hyper concerned over not wanting them to regret the slight browning of their neighborhood. I've placed thank you notes in their mailboxes the next day. I've, er, highly emphasized the lawn duties to my husband because I don't want them judging our yard. I pray that my bushy hair doesn't look too unkempt while out front watering the flowers. Can you imagine having lived in a house for longer than I've been alive? The rolls and fig jam neighbor said she'd lived in her home for 50 years. The no-bake cookies neighbor said she moved here in 1986 (okay, not quite as long as I've been alive, but still). I realize, in my more rational moments, that this is all ridiculous and my paranoia is just that, but this is a glimpse of my brain. And, also, like, thanks for the cookies and rolls because my pregnant self definitely destroyed them, but can we be honest and say we know you probably voted for Trump?

I was sitting next to my husband at dinner and we were eating some fried chicken breasts I made to go along with my mom's leftover greens, mac and cheese and potato salad. (Okay, only I was eating potato salad because my husband is picky like that). And I thought about the fact that the only reason he's eating greens is because of me. He also listens to a lot of black gospel these days, and I'm like, is this the skater punk I married? Like, I'm sitting here listening to Jars of Clay and 90s hits while he's blasting Eddie James. I know he's listening to this music now because of me. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that. I'm just wondering if he thinks about it as much as I do. And even while I'm typing this, I know that he definitely doesn't. 

This pregnancy has gone by at lightning speed. I'm officially in the 3rd trimester. I have less than 3 months before showtime and I don't know how we got here that fast. I am a humpty-dumpty. Like, have you ever had a cart so full of stuff that it was a little hard to steer? That's how my body feels. Like an almost too-full cart that I have difficulty maneuvering. Although a lot of things have made it a bit more difficult to enjoy this pregnancy in the same way I enjoyed my first, it still feels like something new and exciting. I have a feeling this little boy is going to look like our first. He'll likely come out like his big brother, reddish with a shock of abundant, slick black hair that will eventually turn curly and brown. But what will he be like? What will he sound like? What will his personality be like? Will he be enthralled by the same things as his older sibling (clocks, pushing buttons, sunglasses, elevators, signal lights, Peppa Pig, chocolate cake)? We'll find out in about 12 weeks. 

Yet, here we are.

Hello. It's me.

So. Much. Stuff. Shall we?

1. Our sweet pea is a boy. So...guess I'll be outnumbered for life. Because this little guy is our last little buddy.

2. So, we're, um, almost homeowners. Long story short, we're gonna be needing more room soon and it just made more financial sense to buy. So, 3 bed, 2 bath, ranch style, hardwood floors (with a sunroom) and two-car garage, here we come. I want to set up a garden out back, but maybe I better focus on baby stuff for now.

3. This "unprecedented" semester is still lingering on. I still have presentations and finals to grade (UGH) and after that I have to meet with advisees and clear them for registration so they can register for fall classes. (UGH) I just want to not do anything and sit around, eat white chocolate-covered pretzels and feel the baby move. I just wanna be DONE.

4. This pregnancy is speeding by. I'm like, pregnant pregnant now and I'm just like, whajushappend? I hope this guy is mellower than his big bro. I'm certainly more chill about things this time around.

Once this semester has been effectively put to bed, I'll feel more able to breathe.

Pregnant During a Pandemic

I'm not usually a panicky person. I'm still not a panicky person. I usually have a tendency to see things as a bunch of hype and get highly annoyed with people who re-post of a bunch of fear-mongering, uninformed clap trap on social media. In times like these, I go on unfriending campaigns because ain't nobody got time for that.

But I have now come to the realization that this is not media hype, and that I should take it seriously. Where I am, schools have closed down, my institution and my husband's institution are moving to online instruction. Our son's daycare hasn't closed down yet, but thankfully since we'll both be working remotely, we won't have to worry about childcare if it does. I haven't yet decided whether we'll just keep him at home with us regardless. (One super con: It's hard to get things done with a 2-year-old running around).

I refuse to live in fear, so I am not having a full-on freak out session, but it is hard to not let my mind wander and imagine post-apocalyptic situations (cue images of empty shelves at the grocery store and such like) and have fleeting thoughts of not being able to protect my children from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

It's weird to say children, but considering that I am presently with child...(which is also weird to say, lol).

Sigh...anyway, we're staying home from church for the next few weeks. I know lots of sanctified folks might consider this decision a "lack of faith" or whatever, but look, while it's true that the Lord has not given us the spirit of fear, he has given us common sense. For goodness sake.

So, here we are. Scrambling to shift my classes online and trying to fight both a sense of encroaching isolation and inertia. It is going to be all good, but I'm going to be honest: it's times like these sometimes makes me question why I wanted to bring another human into the world.

Sweet Pea Is a Lot Bigger Than a Sweet Pea

Our sweet pea at 12 weeks

So, as you can see, Sweet Pea is getting big! I'm starting to show a little bit. This picture is just amazing to me. You can see the features of the baby's face! I told my students about the pregnancy this week. Didn't want them thinking I was eating too many Oreos. I could be wrong, of course, but I have a feeling this little sweet pea is a girl. We have names picked out either way. We'll find out in about a month.

Blueberry

Our little sweet pea is currently the size of a blueberry. (Well, I guess a little bigger than a blueberry at this point.) We got a sneak peek earlier this week:

Hey, little one!

I'm sort of hoping for a little girl this time. I would also be perfectly fine with another little boy, of course. But I guess my mom and I have always had a close relationship, and I would love to have that kind of bond with a daughter.

This is probably it for us. I feel sort of ambivalent about that. Just the idea that something is your last. However, to be honest, I'm anxious about the transition from one to two. Everything we're doing now, all of the expenses we have now, imagine them doubled. Two pick-ups and drop-offs. Two daycare tuitions. Twice as many diapers to change. (We're working on potty training with little buddy, and he has sporadically pee-peed in the potty like a big boy, but we still have a ways to go.)

Right now, I'm enjoying telling select people about the pregnancy. I love the way the words "I'm pregnant" elicit smiles, congratulations, surprise, hugs, laughter. They're such powerful words. But at the same time, I also enjoy the fact that it's still more or less a secret. You're sitting there, typing at your desk, going about your normal life, seemingly the same person you always were, but little do they know that you're not the same. That you have a tiny baby inside of you.

More Adventures in Motherhood

Happy New Year!

So...yeah. It's been a while. At this point, I'm 99% positive my audience consists of cricket noise. Nevertheless, if you're still out there, somewhere over the rainbow, consider yourself privileged to be privy to a tiny bit of life-altering info that I'm still processing.

I'm pregners.

It's not that it's a "surprise," necessarily. We were consciously trying for #2. But I guess I'm still in shock that it happened so quickly. With our first, it took 9 months. This time, it only took 3. My best friend says my body was "primed," and I have read and heard anecdotal evidence that it doesn't take as long with subsequent children, but still. There was still a niggling doubt in my mind due to my "advanced maternal age." No lie, the medical field calls the pregnancies of women over 35 "geriatric pregnancies." Ugh. I've also read that the older you get, the longer it takes. And I am rapidly nearing the precipice of my 40s. But we're not going to talk about that right now.

We're definitely excited. I mean, this is what we wanted. Little bud turns 2 in a couple of weeks, and we wanted him to have a sibling. And, like I said, I'm nearing the precipice of my 40s, so we don't exactly have the leisure of waiting too much longer. Ya girl ain't a spring chicken no more. That's for sure.

However, baby #2 opens up a whole new set of considerations, the most pressing of those being our living situation. We have a great little bungalow, but it ain't going to work with 2 little buddies running around.

We'll sort it out, with the Lord's grace and guidance. Right now, I'm just trying to focus on being happy and grateful about the prospect of having another child. It truly is a blessing.

I want eggs.

Is he going golfing or going to deliver newspapers in the 1930s?

Yesterday morning, I placed buddy in his high chair and went to prepare his usual breakfast of raisin toast. But then he spoke one of the most crystal-clear sentences I have heard him utter to date: "I want eggs." So, I did what any other proud, enamored mama would have done; I whipped my buddy up some scrambled eggs.

Coffeehouse, I'm-supposed-to-be-grading thoughts

My husband is a warm hug. I left work early and met him at the local coffeehouse to grade. He's a dimpled smile. A back and foot massage. Kisses on the forehead and sweetness. Gentle. We nuzzle. Laugh. Intertwined fingers and nerd-talk.

My son is glasses obsessed. He just wants glasses. It's the first thing he asks for when he wakes up in the morning. A singing legless cuddly bear with a star belly that lights up is his "friend." He runs up to me, plants his face in my legs. I pick him up and before he buries his face in my neck he says, "I love you," with emphasis on the "love." I've never minded anyone's drool less than his.

I can't let this baby go.

This blog is like, my baby. I began it almost 15 years ago, and have updated it pretty regularly ever since. My first entry was in 2005...I was on the cusp of graduating from undergrad. I talk about graduation, breaking up with my first boyfriend, starting my first job, moving into my first apartment, quitting my first job and going back to school, moving into my second apartment, graduating with a Master's degree, travels to Spain, travels to France, moving back in with my parents, working again and quitting again, going back to school for a doctorate, moving into my third apartment, learning to play the guitar, travels to Cuba, falling head over heels for a fellow grad student hottie 5 years my junior, getting engaged to the guy, marrying the guy, graduating with my PhD, getting my current job as a university professor, moving to another state, moving into a house, getting pregnant, moving again into an apartment attached to a bigger house, having a baby, trying to keep up with a toddler...that was legit an abridged version of 15 years of life. I started it when I was in my early twenties, and here I am now, looking down the barrel of 40. Almost. Not quite.

I can't let this baby go. I can't just abandon her. 

I feel like all of my now once-a-month posts are just "Look at my kid. I'm busy at work." I don't have the energy or the time to do the creative, introspective musings I used to do. Have I lost my creative spark? Is it that I feel my stuff isn't exciting anymore because it just revolves around career and parenthood? I feel like I used to be more fun. Like, things were more interesting and unpredictable. None of this single girl meets postmodern world coffeehouse musing stuff. No more rants. No more crushes (other than, currently, Idris Elba. You're welcome.) No more sternly worded letters to old disgusting dudes who had the audacity to try to holler at me. No more excitement or expectation about the path my life would follow. Well, that's not to say I don't have anything to look forward to. I do. I'm just saying, the major things have more or less been settled. If the good Lord wills it, maybe one day I'll write about another baby or buying our first home. But that's not as fun and quirky as the other stuff.

Maybe I should just face up to the fact that I'm a boring, tired, almost 40 year old. That just does not sound interesting at all. Like, nobody wants to read that (I mean, at this point in time, nobody really does anyway) and I certainly don't want to write it. I mean, nearly all of my posts nowadays have to do with the fact that I rarely post. Sigh.

But there's just something, a still small voice whispering to me. Don't give me up. Don't let me go.

Maybe I should sing this song to my blog:

Pre-Fall Term Denial and Other Musings

So, the fall semester is merely weeks away, and I still haven't done half of what I need to do to prepare.

It seems like every summer, I get lazier and lazier. I can't even blame it on the kid...we still take him to daycare during the day, so I sort of have no excuse.

I'm also a little in over my head this fall...organizing visits and video chats and Multicultural Languages Festivals, book review deadlines still hanging precariously over my head...(sigh) just thinking about it is already making me tired.

Don't get me wrong...I don't dislike my job. I honestly couldn't see myself doing anything else. Once I'm in the classroom, in front of my students, I'm in my zone, in my place. It's just all the stuff that surrounds being in the classroom...planning, grading, syllabi, online platforms...I wish I could be one of those fancy schmancy professors who just waltz in and teach and let their TAs do all of the grading and admin stuff. But you have to be about dat lyfe to get to that level of professoring. And I ain't about dat lyfe.

I mean, I'm teaching first year, first level Spanish this semester, which I really love. Just getting back to the basics and doing all the fun stuff. I really enjoy being students' first engagement with Spanish. My goal in this case is to inspire them to go further. I'm also teaching Junior Seminar this time around which is much more involved and involves much more planning. And I'm totally excited about what I'm doing...I'm even planning to incorporate some of the research I did in Spain, but I'm just not excited about sitting my lazy butt down and organizing it all.

The kid is gorgeous as ever, had his 18 month check up and growing like a weed. Exhibit A:



This cutie face with his fresh haircut (done by yours truly...a little bit of YouTube tutorial goes a long way!) He's feeding himself, getting into absolutely everything, and smart as a whip. The other day I heard little bud count to five...in Spanish! He'll be 2 in January, which is ridiculous. Which brings me to another consideration. Are we going to /when will we try to give our bud a sibling?

Here's the main thing: your girl ain't getting any younger. And I'm not trying to be 40 years old with an infant. Like, if we want another one for real, it wouldn't be a great idea to wait until then, anyway. Mother Nature's biological clock don't play no games, and nothing's a guarantee. Here's another thing: there is never a perfect time. Like, if we're going to sit around and wait for the stars to align before we even think about number two, it'll likely never happen. So, let's let buddy have his second birthday and let's see what hubby's job prospects look like and maybe we can think about trying again in the spring. I think we'll be good with two. Like I said, your girl ain't getting any younger.

We're trucking along. Trying to wait on God and trust in His timing. There are so many things I hope for, but there are also so many things I am so very thankful for.

Toddler

Mr. Independent

Our son is officially a toddler. Which means he's officially everywhere, in the throes of establishing his independence.

I used to silently judge parents in public who seemingly "gave in" to their kids. No wonder their kid is acting like that...they're literally enabling them to be spoiled brats. Now, I know better. It's not a matter of giving in. It's a matter of survival. It's about getting through an experience with the least amount of friction or noise as possible. And if that means giving your kid unlimited goldfish crackers and peanut butter cookies, or allowing them to tear up a napkin and throw the pieces on the floor, or attempt to balance a dinner roll on their (supposedly spill-proof) sippy cup, then you live and let live, thereby avoiding roars of disapproval from your very vocal child and judgey looks and otherwise unwanted attention from fellow bystanders (or in the case of a restaurant, where survival mode is much more acute, fellow diners).

We're currently at the beach with my husband's side of the family, and it's our buddy's first experience with sand and the ocean. He's not really a fan of the water, but loves playing in (and attempting to eat) the sand.

España, Day 3 or Then and Now

I remember the first time I went to Spain. It was over 15 years ago. I still remember how magical it all was, even the simplest things, ice cream in the Plaza Cervantes, cobblestone streets, loving how they give you a little snack when ordering my requisite Fanta naranja at a cafe. And may I add that the disgusting, fake neon orange, corn syrup-filled Fanta orange soda in the U.S. is nothing like Fanta naranja. I remember tears coming to my eyes when I saw an Andalucian flamenco show. I remember saying goodbye to a Spanish boy I had a desperate crush on. But that was then.

Now...

I'm with him.

Instead of a Spanish host mom's house, an Airbnb apartment is my dwelling.


















Now I have a kid and missing him like crazy. WhatsApp video chat all the way!
Now I have a research project to undertake and it's going all right. None of my fears about archival work were actually founded. Now that I know how it all works, I'm completely fine.

Lines That I Couldn't Change

"In My Place" by Coldplay has always been my nostalgic/melancholy moodiness anthem.

It reminds me of undergrad, a general sense of wistfulness, a certain sadness at the cognitively dissonant fact that things change yet remain the same, an unsettled feeling, unease at the fact that no matter where I am, no matter how my identit(ies) have (re)adjusted, I hit this solipsistic nerve again and again, it represents a resigned realization that there are certain elements of the circumstances which circumscribe me that are uncontrollable, left to the whims of outrageous fortune, it conjures up something inescapable, something bittersweet, an unanswerable mental query over whether I'd be satisfied even if everything I wished for were instant reality, it's wondering what could have been, what would have been, an unspecified yearning, the inexplicable urge to wander, to slip away unnoticed.

I got this awesome travel grant. I didn't even apply for it. It was a "perk," more or less, of being promoted and receiving the same benefits as a newly hired cohort of professors from so-called underrepresented groups. I ain't mad, I'm just saying. So, with this generous travel grant, I'm going to Spain (among other places) and decided to bring my husband along.

We're leaving next Monday. Well actually, on Wednesday, we're leaving to go visit my parents for a few days, leave the kid with them, and then leave. Which means that I should be doing a ton of preparation and packing and making sure of this and that, but I'm not. Instead, I'm lounging around in my pajamas, blogging, not wanting to do anything worthwhile.

I should be excited. Ostensibly, I am. I mean, hello, a "working vacation" in southern Spain? With your also Spanish-speaking beloved? Kid-free? Why can't you just be happy?

I'm doing archival work. Which means I have no earthly idea what I'm doing. I have a general idea of what to expect, just from talking with others who have done similar work and reading about this particular site online. But I can't stop myself from imagining people's perception of my competence, or rather, lack thereof. I show up to this official, super strictly regulated Spanish archive that contains centuries-old documents looking like how I look. Young-looking, black, female. You're a professor? I mean, I'll have an official-looking letter of introduction to present to the archivists to "prove" that yes, I am indeed a professor who is looking for a very specific piece of documentation, but still, I'm kind of dreading the initial scrutiny. Like, the questioning of if I belong there. Me, an anomaly in the U.S. and most certainly in Spain, among all the "serious" scholars who definitely know what they're doing.

I mean, I'm looking forward to the trip, I truly am. But there's another part of me that feels strangely ambivalent about it.

Big Boy

I cannot believe how fast our little guy is growing! I remember when all he could do was lay there. Now he does all sorts of things. One of the things I have to say I enjoy about being a parent is seeing my son sort of test the limits of his physical abilities. Can I reach that? Can I open that? Can I move that? It's like, he's trying to see what he can do and he does certain things just because he can.

He says all kinds of words. P speaks to him primarily in Spanish, but the only Spanish word he uses consistently is agua. And he uses it to refer to all liquids. Like, if he sees P drinking out of a coffee cup, he's like,"Agua?" He loves to repeat what he hears us say, and though it's usually hilarious to hear him try to mimic us, it's also really scary. Little ears are listening...

I want to cherish this time I have while buddy is still wanting me to pick him up and cuddle him. I know he won't always.

I'm Free! For Now...

So, it's been what, 2 months since I last blogged? Those faithful souls who still (maybe?) check in from time to time, I salute you.

Academic summer
I'd say that Monday officially began my academic summer. Turned in grades Friday, made it through commencement on Sunday (sweating through my regalia). This semester seemed particularly draining. Perhaps it had to do with teaching the winter term and then gearing right back up for the spring term with a week to spare. Perhaps it had to do with dealing with a mentally draining and emotionally exhausting experience with a student who, among many other things, struggled with mental illness. Perhaps it had to do with the stress of awaiting my mid-probationary review results (a performance review at the halfway point to tenure) in light of one of my colleagues not attaining tenure. (For the record, I passed with "flying colors" according to the Dean. Whew.) Perhaps it also had to do with several instances of figuring out life as a part of a partnership with two working parents and a sick kid. Sick kid = can't go to daycare. Ear infections, Rotavirus (that was a new one), hives, hand foot mouth, pinkeye and just various and sundry fevers, congestion and cough. No joke. We had that humidifier blasting. Stayed wiping everything down with Clorox wipes. The custodians may have had to vacuum up more than their fair share of cracker crumbs in my office and my colleagues may have heard more than their fair share of crying, banging of xylophones and roaring of toy dinosaurs. Little boy is going to have quite the robust immune system.

Anyway. Don't be deceived by the carefree sound of an "academic summer." It's not like, once grades are in, I vegetate until September. Nawl. There are book reviews to write, articles to submit, new courses to prep for. I'm teaching Junior Seminar in the fall, which is kind of a big deal and I want it to be successful. Let's not talk about the bookstore breathing down my neck. "What texts are you using for SPA 450 in the fall?" I don't knoooowww yettttt.

However, one of the upsides to academia, is definitely having more unstructured time over the summer, and having the chance to travel for "research," heh, heh. No, seriously, it is for research, but in what other profession would I be able to travel to Europe for free with my husband in tow? Which brings me to...

Spain!
So, I'm supposed to be doing archival research for the purposes of  "contextualizing" an article I'm planning to submit. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I guess I have to start somewhere. What better way to use my generous travel/supply grant than to plunge into the archives and bring my husband along in the process? P and I have both been to Spain separately back in the day when we studied abroad, but have never been together. I've always wanted to travel internationally with P, and our son is old enough to leave him with grandparents for a while, so we're going for it! We celebrated our 4th anniversary this month and didn't do anything super fancy. So I told P going to Spain together will be our anniversary trip/post-baby moon. Lol. I'm really excited about it. I'll do my work in the morning, but once the archive closes mid-afternoon, we'll have lots of time to ourselves.

I'm looking forward to having café con leche at a cozy café, having all kinds of wonderful tapas, sitting in the plaza in the evenings and soaking up the summer air and maybe going to a Flamenco show or two. I fell in love with Spain and I'm finally getting to go with the one I love.

Buddy

Our little guy is not so little anymore. He's 16 months old this month. Not walking quite yet...he pulls up, can stand unsupported and he can walk pushing his little "puppy walker." I know it's not far off. I've let his curls grow out a little. He's a gorgeous cutie guy, but he's also developing a little will. He says "no" quite often and sometimes hits at us or throws toys when he doesn't get his way. I was raised old school (i.e. got my butt whooped), but we're not doing that with little bud. Not saying I believe I was abused or anything, but there are definitely more effective methods of discipline. I think the main thing is for us to be in agreement and be consistent. Even though little buddy has shown himself to be a drama king at times, he understands and listens when we tell him "no." When P says "no" firmly, sometimes bud cries. Awww. But it makes me feel like if he cries just by us saying "no," maybe saying "no" will be enough of a deterrent. For now...

I'm trying to figure out

why exactly it is I don't blog as often.

Saying I'm busy with a kid is true, but honestly, since I've gone back to work and he's been going to daycare regularly, I'm not in the baby-attached-to-me-24/7 position I was in back when I was on maternity leave.

I could say that work consumes me, and that's more or less true. I have less unstructured time than I did when I was back in grad school or what have you. But still...

I mean, I can't put my finger on it, exactly. Maybe it's that I feel like my life has become more or less routine. The major milestones have been settled. No mystery men or cryptic flirtations to write about. No anticipation/disappointment about whether or not I'm preggers, at least not for another couple of years.

Not to say that there aren't things up in the air, or even exciting things coming up. We're still praying about my husband's job search. I'm (supposed to be) making plans for a research trip to Spain this summer. But I don't know what has changed about the way I used to write.

Maybe I feel like things are routine, more routine than they used to be. Which isn't altogether a bad thing either. But maybe I feel like whereas before I was more interesting, "single girl meets postmodern world" used to be my tagline, I now feel more conventional. Like, I'm not a single girl defying the statistics and going against the odds as I figure out living life unconventionally. Now I make my mark balancing marriage, career and parenthood. Somehow, not as unique. Now you're just like the rest of us.

I mean, not everything has been routine lately. In fact, P and I recently attended a marriage retreat and had a much needed weekend getaway while my mom came to take care of (read: spoil) the little one. We ate lots of good food, did a bit of exploring, and just got to focus on us for a while. We both learned a lot at the sessions and we came home with some practical tips for improving our marriage.

I'm on my Spring Break this week and spent the day watching Netflix films: Icelandic dramas and Spanish thrillers. It's nice to have a few lazy days to myself. But in a few minutes I'm leaving to go pick up my son from daycare. I'm falling more and more in love with him as I watch him develop his own little personality. He can say a few words now: "bubble," "oh, wow!" "boy," "eyes," and, of course, "no." He's pulling himself up now. It's only a matter of time before he starts walking.

The End of an Era

So, this marks the second week that this little cutie pie face has been weaned. No more mommy's milk.

It was a little less dramatic than I thought it would be. For the past month or so, the only feeding that he was still hanging on to was the morning one. I knew it was time because he began pulling off frustratedly crying because he wasn't getting enough to be satisfied. My supply had definitely gone way way down by that point and I figured it was probably time to pull the plug for good. Now, every morning, he gets a good dose of lukewarm whole milk from his sippy cup. He's much happier now.

It sort of happened naturally rather than abruptly, which I guess is how it's supposed to happen, but I guess I'm still sort of processing what it means to have moved on from this chapter of a particular type of bonding with my son.

No longer nursing is nice on one hand. No more human dairy cow. But in the other hand, it means our son isn't a baby anymore.

At one point, I provided all of his nourishment. Everything he needed came from my body. But now, that time has passed. I make sure to give him extra snuggles to try to make up for it. I know the day will come when he won't be as cuddle-prone as he is now. Little buddy. Snugglums. Ba-ba-boo.