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.