I should be grading papers. This is pretty much the mantra of the English professor. But my reason for not grading in this particular moment is not procrastination. Procrastination is sort of the opposite of what I'm doing. I'm not putting something off. Instead, I am waiting.
I have waited like this before, but I don't remember it being quite this awful. I spent five years waiting for the second half of every month. Hoping that something wouldn't, and therefore something else would, happen. And then, with the magical help of a virtual shit ton of medications, needles, and doctors, it did. Despite the four shots twice a day, the allergic reactions, the anxiety, the ultrasounds, I don't remember the wait feeling like this. I wasn't expecting the phone call when it arrived the morning of our garage sale. When it did, it was a revelation, probably because I didn't expect anything to happen at all.
In the last several days, I have felt feelings of joy and of misery that are, for the first time in two years, not connected to Nola. It has been liberating--I am a distinct person again--but horrible, because I know that we are moving forward into this new stage of independence. Both of us.
It is ironic that I recognized this feeling of independence only when I was trying to grow another tiny person. I have now spent the second half of this month waiting again. This time, there were no needles, although there was a doctor, so I suppose the process has been less hard. But the wait this time has been excruciating. Was that chocolate croissant a sign? Is that nausea I feel? Are my boobs sore or is Nola just really hungry? Am I tired because Nola woke up early, or is it something else? I have grown tired of diagnosing every physical twinge as relevant or not to the Big Question.
And then the day arrived, and nothing else did. But that first test was negative. I was sad, but remained uncertain. I had a bad feeling, replaced by a good feeling when the next day was also absent a certain visitor. And then the next day. And then the happiest test I ever had. Followed by the arrival of the visitor I assuredly did not want many hours later. In those hours, I worried about Nola: about what this might mean for her, about how she would adapt, about how she might feel about a companion.
And now I wait again, pretty sure I know she won't have this particular companion. But the not knowing is terrible. I have seen the test results, but this is one test I can't interpret on my own. The information is there, and as I assess the markers I can identify, I think I know. But even as I feel certain, I wait. I worry. I hope.
Friday, October 18, 2013
Friday, September 20, 2013
Has it changed me?
This isn't a question I think about a lot. In fact, I assumed that it had, as do all experiences, and I really didn't have time to think much about it. But recently, I had a little professional shaking, and it shook me right back to who I used to be, sort of.
If you're in higher education, you know that things are changing. With each generation, students change, and with each new legislature (or governor), institutions change. I embrace the changes in my students. The changes to higher ed, well, not so much. I don't want to go to an online model because I believe it's not rigorous enough, or beneficial to students. And I especially don't want the whole of higher education to tumble down around my ears. This week, I was reminded that the current financial crisis in higher ed is real, and that the institution is maybe one that isn't impervious to destruction. My response: write a conference paper proposal.
I was a pretty productive scholar before Nola came along. I got pregnant shortly after I got tenure, and it gave me an opportunity to rest the scholarly part of my identity for a while. I embraced this hiatus, knowing I would one day be motivated to go back, and that I would be able to do so refreshed and with clear eyes. I assumed that once Nola was more independent and I was doing less laundry and nursing and playing and diaper changing, I would be ready.
Well, Nola has been a champion sleeper for some time, and yes, she poops her pants far less frequently, although the playing only gets more fun--and I still hadn't had the desire to pick up the pen (metaphorically, of course). And then I got scared. I was reminded that my scholarly identity might not be one that would last forever, because maybe my job wouldn't last forever (at least in the way I want it to). I felt I no longer had the luxury of letting my fields lie fallow. So I pulled out the trusty conference bulletin, and agonized over it when I was supposed to be grading.
This, of course, is change number one. I am a better grader. Because I have no choice. Because I want Nola's waking time to be spent playing with me, rather than watching me work. Take now, for example. Past Dana would have been watching Veronica Mars on a Friday afternoon. Now Dana has a big pile of laundry sorted and waiting to be folded. She has completed her grading for two of her classes (on the day it came in, no less), and has begun her grading for the more time-consuming class. She is very efficient during naptime. I kind of admire her. I have clearly interrupted efficient-mommy-Dana to write this blog (after FAR too long). And that's another change, I guess, too.
Anyway, so I finally found a panel I was interested in, and which intersects with a project I've begun thinking and writing through. So I began to write my proposal, and whoosh, I felt that old feeling. That feeling of being taken over by the idea. Of my fingers not moving as quickly as my brain. Of the loss of self that occurs in the moment of composition. And when I was finished, I felt like old Dana, who would sit on her couch watching t.v. and processing ideas, and go to the gym and process ideas, and then BAM! in a writing frenzy, pump out fifteen beautiful pages in a weekend. It felt so good, and I felt renewed, but I also felt scared.
It's because I know I'm not entirely her anymore, precisely because I do have that stack of laundry on my couch (and I can't wait to see Nola in her new tiny denim jacket, so clearly it cannot be ignored), and those papers must be finished during naptime today, tomorrow, or Sunday, without exception, or I will lose control over the runaway train that is grading papers. It's because while I felt that great power of composition and new thinking, I can't forget the feeling of watching Nola laugh uncontrollably when I make my fingers crawl up her leg to tickle her or dance on the table like a tiny gentleman while she eats a snack. Those pleasures are new and wonderful, too.
I suppose motherhood has changed me in that I feel more. I feel it when Nola bonks her head, or when she doesn't eat like her normal self because those stupid incisors just won't cut through yet. I feel it when she's sleeping with her head resting on a book (and oh do I love that feeling). I feel it when she goes down the tornado slide all by herself, and when I drop her off at daycare, and when I pick her up again.
And because I feel more in all things involving my daughter, I suppose I feel more for those around me as well. It's not that I didn't care for my students before I had a baby, but now I feel that unique pain that perhaps their parents feel when I see them upset, or suffering, or excited. I don't think of myself as a parent to my students, but their emotions arrest me in a new way.
I am pulled up short by my empathy, and perhaps it's this that makes the complete selfishness of writing harder for me to glory in. I will, of course, write. I always have. But I don't want to lose myself as I have before, I suppose because I have too much to lose.
If you're in higher education, you know that things are changing. With each generation, students change, and with each new legislature (or governor), institutions change. I embrace the changes in my students. The changes to higher ed, well, not so much. I don't want to go to an online model because I believe it's not rigorous enough, or beneficial to students. And I especially don't want the whole of higher education to tumble down around my ears. This week, I was reminded that the current financial crisis in higher ed is real, and that the institution is maybe one that isn't impervious to destruction. My response: write a conference paper proposal.
I was a pretty productive scholar before Nola came along. I got pregnant shortly after I got tenure, and it gave me an opportunity to rest the scholarly part of my identity for a while. I embraced this hiatus, knowing I would one day be motivated to go back, and that I would be able to do so refreshed and with clear eyes. I assumed that once Nola was more independent and I was doing less laundry and nursing and playing and diaper changing, I would be ready.
Well, Nola has been a champion sleeper for some time, and yes, she poops her pants far less frequently, although the playing only gets more fun--and I still hadn't had the desire to pick up the pen (metaphorically, of course). And then I got scared. I was reminded that my scholarly identity might not be one that would last forever, because maybe my job wouldn't last forever (at least in the way I want it to). I felt I no longer had the luxury of letting my fields lie fallow. So I pulled out the trusty conference bulletin, and agonized over it when I was supposed to be grading.
This, of course, is change number one. I am a better grader. Because I have no choice. Because I want Nola's waking time to be spent playing with me, rather than watching me work. Take now, for example. Past Dana would have been watching Veronica Mars on a Friday afternoon. Now Dana has a big pile of laundry sorted and waiting to be folded. She has completed her grading for two of her classes (on the day it came in, no less), and has begun her grading for the more time-consuming class. She is very efficient during naptime. I kind of admire her. I have clearly interrupted efficient-mommy-Dana to write this blog (after FAR too long). And that's another change, I guess, too.
Anyway, so I finally found a panel I was interested in, and which intersects with a project I've begun thinking and writing through. So I began to write my proposal, and whoosh, I felt that old feeling. That feeling of being taken over by the idea. Of my fingers not moving as quickly as my brain. Of the loss of self that occurs in the moment of composition. And when I was finished, I felt like old Dana, who would sit on her couch watching t.v. and processing ideas, and go to the gym and process ideas, and then BAM! in a writing frenzy, pump out fifteen beautiful pages in a weekend. It felt so good, and I felt renewed, but I also felt scared.
It's because I know I'm not entirely her anymore, precisely because I do have that stack of laundry on my couch (and I can't wait to see Nola in her new tiny denim jacket, so clearly it cannot be ignored), and those papers must be finished during naptime today, tomorrow, or Sunday, without exception, or I will lose control over the runaway train that is grading papers. It's because while I felt that great power of composition and new thinking, I can't forget the feeling of watching Nola laugh uncontrollably when I make my fingers crawl up her leg to tickle her or dance on the table like a tiny gentleman while she eats a snack. Those pleasures are new and wonderful, too.
I suppose motherhood has changed me in that I feel more. I feel it when Nola bonks her head, or when she doesn't eat like her normal self because those stupid incisors just won't cut through yet. I feel it when she's sleeping with her head resting on a book (and oh do I love that feeling). I feel it when she goes down the tornado slide all by herself, and when I drop her off at daycare, and when I pick her up again.
And because I feel more in all things involving my daughter, I suppose I feel more for those around me as well. It's not that I didn't care for my students before I had a baby, but now I feel that unique pain that perhaps their parents feel when I see them upset, or suffering, or excited. I don't think of myself as a parent to my students, but their emotions arrest me in a new way.
I am pulled up short by my empathy, and perhaps it's this that makes the complete selfishness of writing harder for me to glory in. I will, of course, write. I always have. But I don't want to lose myself as I have before, I suppose because I have too much to lose.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
The Last Name Game
It's the first week of classes and I actually have a lull (which means there's no grading yet). I could be writing one of the two lectures I have to give in the next two months, or writing up Administrative mumbo jumbo. But instead, I'm going to write this post that I've been stewing about since last fall.
When I got married, I didn't change my name. Even when I was in junior high, I knew I wouldn't change my name. When girls were scrawling "Mrs. Dana Johnson" on their notebooks to indicate their crush on whichever boy du jour, I would try it, and it just didn't feel right. I knew I would never be Mrs. anyone, even though I also knew I wanted to be married someday.
Anyway, when we got married, I told Drew we could either hyphenate or have two different last names. He wasn't super excited by this conversation, but he has always known who I am, and I know this was not a surprise. It's not that his last name isn't cool--if I was going to change my last name for anyone, it would be for a Carmichael. Dana Carmichael sounds like a spy. She would have excellent trench coats.
It took his parents a little while to get used to it, but the most I ever got from them were a few good-natured jibes. From time to time, a friend will formally address a letter or card to Mr. and Mrs. Drew Carmichael, which I understand, but which, I must admit, I am bothered by. I am not the property of Drew Carmichael and his family, nor is he my property. I am all-too-aware that my current last name is my father's name, but hey, you've got to start somewhere.
So WELL before Nola came along, Drew and I had the conversation about last names. I said that we had two options. Our potential children would have my name OR we could hyphenate her last name and she would then have both. His last name only was not an option for me. I was not about to have a different last name from my child, and I knew Drew wouldn't want to either. It's a clumsy solution, particularly since his last name is so stinkin' long, and it wasn't one that he liked much. However, neither of us wanted to give up our own name or invent a new name, or any of those thousand compromises we had discussed when we got married. So Nola's last name is hyphenated, starting with his last name.
The order of our names was an easier discussion. While we both kind of wanted to be first, of course, but then we started thinking about our future. Yes, this poor kid is going to have a 17-letter-long last name (SOO many bubbles on the standardized test sheets--sorry, Nola), but more importantly, we are going to be sitting through a lot of graduations. Wouldn't it be better to be out of there more quickly? So we went alphabetical, ergo, Carmichael is first. Drew can complain all he likes--but it's his last name that has 10 letters. I only have 6.
But now the problem of the mis-addressed envelope is much more pronounced. The reason that I'm still irritated by these mis-addressed missives is that I'm too big of a pansy to correct people. I don't want to be perceived as a feminist pain in the ass, even though clearly I AM a feminist pain in the ass. So I usually don't say anything, but it DOES matter to me when people call me by the wrong name. And now it's starting to happen a lot more.
The first time was at daycare. All of Nola's documents and sign-in sheets and what have you were addressed to Nola Carmichael. Not Nola Carmichael-Oswald. I didn't notice at first, because I was always in frenzy, getting in and out of there before my hour-long commute to work. But then I noticed. And I stewed, for about a month. Finally, when chatting with the director, I said it. I said something like "I've noticed you just use the first part of Nola's last name, but my name is the last part. It kind of hurts my name not to be included." The director apologized far too profusely, and said that it was only because of the length of the name--understandably!--but that this would be fixed. And it was. She even had to change the spacing on the sign-in sheet a little, but I felt both a little ashamed and a lot happy when I signed in the next time. I know this won't be the last time this happens. I think I will speak up more quickly next time.
But the bigger concern is one with larger social connotations. What should children call the parents of other children? Should they be referred to by formal titles? I appreciate the respect that such a practice indicates, and the manners that it teaches children. But titles are uncomfortable for me. I am not a Mrs., although I am married. I SUPER HATE this title. My actual title is Dr. That Ph.D. did not come easily, although no, friends, if you are having a heart attack at a restaurant, I won't be much help. I don't like the snobbery that's attached to Dr., but I like it a hell of a lot more than Mrs., because it's a title I actually earned, rather than one that indicates if I am sexually available (okay, an overstatement, but seriously. Men's titles don't change when they get married. It's stupid.).
I would prefer to just be called Dana, but I absolutely respect my friends' desires to have their children use formal titles. But how do I communicate my preference for Dr. without sounding like a jerk? I don't know. People are embarrassed when they are corrected, and that feels very rude to me. But I do suspect that if a man were a medical doctor, this wouldn't be an issue. He would Dr. without any hesitation--and it might be true for a woman as well. But so far it's not true for me. So friends, what do I do? Can't I just rule the universe and get rid of our horrible titles and replace them with non-sexist ones? That would make my life as a parent so much easier.
Anyway, I guess I have many years of being called Mrs. Carmichael ahead of me. But I really don't think I can grin and bear it.
When I got married, I didn't change my name. Even when I was in junior high, I knew I wouldn't change my name. When girls were scrawling "Mrs. Dana Johnson" on their notebooks to indicate their crush on whichever boy du jour, I would try it, and it just didn't feel right. I knew I would never be Mrs. anyone, even though I also knew I wanted to be married someday.
Anyway, when we got married, I told Drew we could either hyphenate or have two different last names. He wasn't super excited by this conversation, but he has always known who I am, and I know this was not a surprise. It's not that his last name isn't cool--if I was going to change my last name for anyone, it would be for a Carmichael. Dana Carmichael sounds like a spy. She would have excellent trench coats.
It took his parents a little while to get used to it, but the most I ever got from them were a few good-natured jibes. From time to time, a friend will formally address a letter or card to Mr. and Mrs. Drew Carmichael, which I understand, but which, I must admit, I am bothered by. I am not the property of Drew Carmichael and his family, nor is he my property. I am all-too-aware that my current last name is my father's name, but hey, you've got to start somewhere.
So WELL before Nola came along, Drew and I had the conversation about last names. I said that we had two options. Our potential children would have my name OR we could hyphenate her last name and she would then have both. His last name only was not an option for me. I was not about to have a different last name from my child, and I knew Drew wouldn't want to either. It's a clumsy solution, particularly since his last name is so stinkin' long, and it wasn't one that he liked much. However, neither of us wanted to give up our own name or invent a new name, or any of those thousand compromises we had discussed when we got married. So Nola's last name is hyphenated, starting with his last name.
The order of our names was an easier discussion. While we both kind of wanted to be first, of course, but then we started thinking about our future. Yes, this poor kid is going to have a 17-letter-long last name (SOO many bubbles on the standardized test sheets--sorry, Nola), but more importantly, we are going to be sitting through a lot of graduations. Wouldn't it be better to be out of there more quickly? So we went alphabetical, ergo, Carmichael is first. Drew can complain all he likes--but it's his last name that has 10 letters. I only have 6.
But now the problem of the mis-addressed envelope is much more pronounced. The reason that I'm still irritated by these mis-addressed missives is that I'm too big of a pansy to correct people. I don't want to be perceived as a feminist pain in the ass, even though clearly I AM a feminist pain in the ass. So I usually don't say anything, but it DOES matter to me when people call me by the wrong name. And now it's starting to happen a lot more.
The first time was at daycare. All of Nola's documents and sign-in sheets and what have you were addressed to Nola Carmichael. Not Nola Carmichael-Oswald. I didn't notice at first, because I was always in frenzy, getting in and out of there before my hour-long commute to work. But then I noticed. And I stewed, for about a month. Finally, when chatting with the director, I said it. I said something like "I've noticed you just use the first part of Nola's last name, but my name is the last part. It kind of hurts my name not to be included." The director apologized far too profusely, and said that it was only because of the length of the name--understandably!--but that this would be fixed. And it was. She even had to change the spacing on the sign-in sheet a little, but I felt both a little ashamed and a lot happy when I signed in the next time. I know this won't be the last time this happens. I think I will speak up more quickly next time.
But the bigger concern is one with larger social connotations. What should children call the parents of other children? Should they be referred to by formal titles? I appreciate the respect that such a practice indicates, and the manners that it teaches children. But titles are uncomfortable for me. I am not a Mrs., although I am married. I SUPER HATE this title. My actual title is Dr. That Ph.D. did not come easily, although no, friends, if you are having a heart attack at a restaurant, I won't be much help. I don't like the snobbery that's attached to Dr., but I like it a hell of a lot more than Mrs., because it's a title I actually earned, rather than one that indicates if I am sexually available (okay, an overstatement, but seriously. Men's titles don't change when they get married. It's stupid.).
I would prefer to just be called Dana, but I absolutely respect my friends' desires to have their children use formal titles. But how do I communicate my preference for Dr. without sounding like a jerk? I don't know. People are embarrassed when they are corrected, and that feels very rude to me. But I do suspect that if a man were a medical doctor, this wouldn't be an issue. He would Dr. without any hesitation--and it might be true for a woman as well. But so far it's not true for me. So friends, what do I do? Can't I just rule the universe and get rid of our horrible titles and replace them with non-sexist ones? That would make my life as a parent so much easier.
Anyway, I guess I have many years of being called Mrs. Carmichael ahead of me. But I really don't think I can grin and bear it.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
I Used to Love Violence, but now...
Does anyone remember the movie Doomsday? I'm sure it was a critic's nightmare; it was garish, disgusting, violent, and probably lazy from a film perspective. It's a movie set in England, wherein a mysterious disease is unleashed, and the northern part of the country is walled off (the medieval geek in me loved the re-appropriation of Hadrian's wall--see, it was educational!). Those north of the wall are left abandoned and descend into savagery, depravity, and cannibalism. In one scene, a guy drives recklessly through the countryside with his decapitated girlfriend's body (head sloppily reattached) in tow, seeking revenge. You can guess what happens to the head. Anyway, I loved the garishness post-apocalypsy trashiness of this movie, and its uberviolence (as you can probably tell from the glee with which I composed this paragraph).
But no more. I can hardly watch this season of American Horror Story. Its constant barrage of brutality makes me cranky for the whole evening, and I am generally unhappy after watching it. What happened to me? In part, I think culturally we may be growing sick of violence because it's so ubiquitous (to give credit, I heard a great analysis of this on NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour), but in part, I think it's mommyhood.
I live in constant fear that something will happen to Nola. It was so hard to make her, and she is so precious to me. I can't imagine my life without her, and after the Sandy Hook shootings in December, I find myself thinking about the possibility of one day having to do so. It's horrifying--and nothing new for mommies across time and across cultures, I suspect. I've been obsessed all week with anchoring all the furniture in our house after reading a story posted to facebook about a dresser falling on top of a 3 year old, and killing her. The pathos of dead children is awful and terrifying and makes me hold Nola closer, even when she's woken up (uncharacteristically, to be fair) 4 times in one night and I am desperately tired.
But it's not only TV and movies. Oh no. Apparently it's books, too. And it's not just me! It's Daddy, as well. We're both reading Justin Cronon's new book, The Twelve, a follow-up to his novel The Passage. (side note: must be inspired by vampire culture and turn from impoverished college professor, like Cronon, into best-selling novelist. Seems like a good gig. Except I haven't written a blog post in 4 months. Damn.). There is a great deal of violence to children in this novel--or at least, there is a great deal of anticipation and inevitability of violence to children. We see various narrators watching parents with young children desperately trying to save them as the vampire-y apocalypse falls upon them. We know that all of these people--the parents as well as the children--will likely not survive. And yet it's the children that bother me.
I have never been one of those people to say "but won't you just think of the children?" I hate the pathos appeals of childhood innocence as somehow being superior to other lives. The loss of any life is terrible--why fetishize children's lives above adults'? And yet, with the arrival of Nola, I (unsurprisingly) care more about her life than those of other adults, and perhaps even my own. I'm not sure yet if this care spreads to all children culturally--but Sandy Hook shook me, as it did most people. I don't want damage to be done to children. I wonder if it's because I think of the parents, though, as much as the children? I think of the loss those parents endure, and it makes me feel sick. I try not to imagine it.
Sandy Hook didn't start this reaction to violence, though it has surely affected its continuation. Having Nola has made me see all people, not just Nola, through a different lens. All of you had a mother who loved you (perhaps in a misguided way, if your relationship with her is troubled or nonexistent), and for whom you were the whole world. She stared at your head and watched as your hair grew slowly over your ears, as your teeth popped through, as you went from being a tiny thing who couldn't reach for a toy to being an army-crawling machine of dog and kitty torment, leaving a tidal wave of toys in your wake. She couldn't wait for you to fall asleep at night, but once you did, she missed you. I feel kinship with all these other mothers out there, and I see more clearly that adults were once the beloved babies of their mothers. It makes me more patient with idiots. It makes me see history differently.
I short, I have become a different person, because of Nola. I suspect my negative reaction to violence will fade, and I think I still secretly love Doomsday, but for now, I might retreat to the land of gentler stuff, with puppies and rainbows and mommies and babies who grow old.
It's good to be back.
But no more. I can hardly watch this season of American Horror Story. Its constant barrage of brutality makes me cranky for the whole evening, and I am generally unhappy after watching it. What happened to me? In part, I think culturally we may be growing sick of violence because it's so ubiquitous (to give credit, I heard a great analysis of this on NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour), but in part, I think it's mommyhood.
I live in constant fear that something will happen to Nola. It was so hard to make her, and she is so precious to me. I can't imagine my life without her, and after the Sandy Hook shootings in December, I find myself thinking about the possibility of one day having to do so. It's horrifying--and nothing new for mommies across time and across cultures, I suspect. I've been obsessed all week with anchoring all the furniture in our house after reading a story posted to facebook about a dresser falling on top of a 3 year old, and killing her. The pathos of dead children is awful and terrifying and makes me hold Nola closer, even when she's woken up (uncharacteristically, to be fair) 4 times in one night and I am desperately tired.
But it's not only TV and movies. Oh no. Apparently it's books, too. And it's not just me! It's Daddy, as well. We're both reading Justin Cronon's new book, The Twelve, a follow-up to his novel The Passage. (side note: must be inspired by vampire culture and turn from impoverished college professor, like Cronon, into best-selling novelist. Seems like a good gig. Except I haven't written a blog post in 4 months. Damn.). There is a great deal of violence to children in this novel--or at least, there is a great deal of anticipation and inevitability of violence to children. We see various narrators watching parents with young children desperately trying to save them as the vampire-y apocalypse falls upon them. We know that all of these people--the parents as well as the children--will likely not survive. And yet it's the children that bother me.
I have never been one of those people to say "but won't you just think of the children?" I hate the pathos appeals of childhood innocence as somehow being superior to other lives. The loss of any life is terrible--why fetishize children's lives above adults'? And yet, with the arrival of Nola, I (unsurprisingly) care more about her life than those of other adults, and perhaps even my own. I'm not sure yet if this care spreads to all children culturally--but Sandy Hook shook me, as it did most people. I don't want damage to be done to children. I wonder if it's because I think of the parents, though, as much as the children? I think of the loss those parents endure, and it makes me feel sick. I try not to imagine it.
Sandy Hook didn't start this reaction to violence, though it has surely affected its continuation. Having Nola has made me see all people, not just Nola, through a different lens. All of you had a mother who loved you (perhaps in a misguided way, if your relationship with her is troubled or nonexistent), and for whom you were the whole world. She stared at your head and watched as your hair grew slowly over your ears, as your teeth popped through, as you went from being a tiny thing who couldn't reach for a toy to being an army-crawling machine of dog and kitty torment, leaving a tidal wave of toys in your wake. She couldn't wait for you to fall asleep at night, but once you did, she missed you. I feel kinship with all these other mothers out there, and I see more clearly that adults were once the beloved babies of their mothers. It makes me more patient with idiots. It makes me see history differently.
I short, I have become a different person, because of Nola. I suspect my negative reaction to violence will fade, and I think I still secretly love Doomsday, but for now, I might retreat to the land of gentler stuff, with puppies and rainbows and mommies and babies who grow old.
It's good to be back.
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