A Little Math to Keep You Warm

Can't write, must multiply fractions and find for x. And then sob in the corner.

Have I mentioned I dislike math? Especially the lonely kind of math you learn all by yourself in preparation for these evil standardized tests. They don't even go easy on you because you're Canadian and didn't grow up writing these kinds of tests. I'll just say it: multiple choice gives me the willies. And in order to cope with these willies, I have consumed more pizza and peanut m&ms than anybody ought to.

Now I must go and study some more. The good news is that I've probably passed my practice tests so far--I say probably because, despite my graduate degree, I can't decipher the cryptic scoring system of the Praxis exams. My study guide offers an explanation something like, "if you get 75% of the questions right you'll likely achieve a score of 678, but sometimes you can achieve this score if you get 65% of the questions right, or if you're writing the test on a Tuesday in June, you might score 783."

Fortunately this weekend was not all about studying. We did some other stuff too:

What is January good for if not a little static electricity. One girl found this very entertaining.

Shira grew a new tooth. That red cheek has been staring us down all week.

The neatest ice cream-eater in the U.S.A. But that neatness comes at a cost: it was the slowest cone in history.

Hille rested.

I also bought this for Shira. The girl likes her sleep sacs, and she's growing out of everything we have. I am a sucker, and I mean sucker, for polka dots.

I hope everyone had a warm weekend inside under blankets. Maybe you read a great book, or studied math?

Wish me luck tomorrow!

The End of a Week

For those of you who know anything about procrastination, Friday afternoons can be a real pain. The great potential of a Monday can come crashing down on a Friday. For those adept at putting things off until the last minute, Fridays often mean getting a week's worth of work done. Years ago I remember telling myself, and others, if they would just listen to me rather than judging my procrastinating ways, that I did my best work under pressure. I think I was just making that up.

It's true that I write productively under pressure, but I think I only write well because I'm writing. As in, I might have also written a decent paper or essay over the course of a week or month if I had just sat down to work on it. That specialness of the last minute? It turns out, that's actually just called working.

You might think that leaving graduate school might mean the end of such procrastination, but you'd be wrong. I know I was. My Friday afternoons are still filled with things I wish I'd done earlier in the week, like learn math for my Praxis exam this coming Monday and send that birthday package to Simon and Morgan. But here we are, late Friday afternoon and those things are not done. But I won't be too hard on myself. Even if I haven't re-learned all the math from high school, I've done a lot of studying this week. I also learned how to do word trees in my linguistics class (jealous?) and I've been reading lots about siblings.

There's something else. What am I forgetting? Oh, right. My baby quit sleeping this week. That can often stand in the way of progress. She's been waking up every two hours to nurse for the last two months (she's almost eight months old), but this week she's reached new heights of non-sleeping and I'm beginning to get the crazies. It happens to the best of us sometimes.

But now it's the weekend! Friday afternoon, with all its expectations, is almost behind us. I have much studying to do over the weekend, but that's not all. Alyce and I have some celebratory ice cream to eat (I'll let you in on the details next week) and I'm going to suggest to my husband that we have our own celebratory champagne with dinner tonight. You know, to celebrate that we made it to Friday.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Like Looking in a Mirror

To get ready for the "Preparing for a Sibling" class I'm teaching this month, I've been researching some material to add to my own seven-month experience as a parent of siblings (seven months sounds terribly impressive, I know). The photo below is taken from one of the few books I've found on preparing your family for the birth of a second child, and I instantly saw our family reflected in its image:

Isn't it lovely to coordinate everyone's pajamas?

And then I realized it looked more like this at my house:

Shira, overcome with grief, as Alyce removes the balloon from her desperate hands.

Good night everyone! Sleep tight.

Top photo: From One Child to Two, by Judy Dunn

Doubt

Eek, I feel a bit out of place in class.

I arrived yesterday and immediately began to assess my classmates. This wasn't the kind of assessment carried out for the purpose of judging or private mocking. This was all about me: I needed to know if it was obvious to these college freshman that it had been (ahem) fifteen years since I was a freshman. Oh yes, it was obvious. At least it was to me.

Feeling a tad jumpy, I alternated between wanting to hide in the back with wanting to introduce myself to everyone. Hi! I'm a thirty-three year old recovering PhD student looking for a new career and I'm beginning right here in this Introduction to Linguistics class! I have two young children and at this very moment my breasts are filling up with milk because it's about that time for Shira to be waking up from her nap. I'm slightly neurotic, always tired, and I like to bake! Also, I hear you talking about sororities--I don't really know what sororities do, because I'm also Canadian. Do you want to sit next to me?

Fortunately for everybody, I kept to myself. I'll save introductions for another class.

But I didn't need to speak in order to stand out. It turns out that my entire personal style betrayed my age. It's not that I looked old, exactly, but I was decidedly not of their age. First, I didn't have long, straight hair. Seriously, do all college women forgo hair cuts? Is it a budget issue? And don't even get me started on the Uggs and leggings. Everyone repeat after me: leggings are not pants, no matter how much you want them to be.

All day I've been wondering how I must have looked in my own undergrad. There was always at least a couple of continuing education students in my classes--were they too wondering if each of us had signed some contract wherein we agreed to wear Silver Jeans, a GAP t-shirt, and a Mountain Equipment Co-op fleece everyday? And now that I think about it, my hair was long and straight! Great, now I feel even older. I was that girl, but now I'm not, because I'm thirty-three and married and I've grown and given birth to two babies and been in school for...

I can't even bear to finish that sentence. At least I can take solace in never having worn leggings as pants. That counts for something.

But if I'm being honest, it isn't so much that I feel or look old. I don't think thirty-three is old and as I tell my husband at least once a week, I'm exceedingly hip.* No one can see my gray hair and the kind gentlemen at the wine store asks me for my identification every time I shop. I like getting older and all the things that come with it: having kids, staying in on a Saturday night, growing old with Matt, a little more confidence. Bring it on. No, this isn't about being fifteen years older or the fact that I'm in class with people born in the nineties. This is more about my trepidation over jumping ship and starting over. It's about progression and the way I halted progress on my PhD in order to, in some ways, start over at the beginning. At thirty-three I feel a bit like an impostor amongst these other students, because, haven't I already done this? Haven't I already sat through first year surveys and written those exams and papers? Haven't I written an honour's thesis, and a master's thesis, and didn't I start writing my doctoral dissertation? What am I doing here again?

Alright, alright. Calm down. I know why I'm here again and as much as I will continue to have doubts (because that's what I do), I'm holding on to that feeling I have that tells me I'm doing the right thing. And just because I'm starting some things over doesn't take away from the hard work of things I've already done.

Now if you'll excuse, I have homework. But first let's take a moment to adore Shira's chubby arms. This post was getting altogether too serious.

The skin, the rolls. So delicious.

*Right?

I Wish I Had a New Dress to Wear

See, it's my first day at school.

As I mentioned before, I would like to be a high school teacher. Since my previous degrees are in religious studies, and since it turns out that most high schools don't hire teachers to teach courses in Buddhism or religion and gender, I need to brush up on another subject. I'm only a few courses shy of an English major so I am using the next six months to fill in these gaps. This month I'm taking an intensive course in Linguistics. It will meet everyday for the next four weeks and I'm already a little nervous about being the oldest person in class. You'll know who I am because I'll be the only woman not wearing leggings and a pair of Uggs.

I'll also probably be the only one with a breast pump in my bag. I can't say for sure, but it's a good guess.

Wish me luck! I'll be sure to tell you all about my first day.

A Magical Dinner

I never realized how tired I would be at six-thirty every day. I know, I know, this is about to sound like another post where some smug parent reminds non-parents that they don't know what tired is. As though non-parents don't have long days at work or play and neither collapse on the bed at the end of the day nor fall asleep at seven. Silly, silly non-parents who think they're tired. They should try being parents, and then they'll see.

Actually, it is one of those posts. I am tired, and I blame my children.

But my purpose here today is not to complain about exhaustion, but to celebrate the hour between six-thirty and seven-thirty, that first hour after both girls are in bed. I love these children to pieces, but that hour? It's pretty amazing. And I'll fight you for it.

Some days I collapse on the couch (if I haven't already fallen asleep nursing Shira). We try to eat some version of dinner as a family most nights, so this magical hour isn't usually spent cooking. Matt often heads back to the office in the evenings (Matt spends part of most days with Shira while I'm working, so he needs to make up that time) so we've usually had dinner. But sometimes I'll use these nights to cook for myself, and tonight I was rewarded with a bowl of incredible pasta and a glass of chianti, for one. Really, there is something magical about that hour, and I just needed to share it with you.

Pasta is a required food in my life. I have no patience for those who try to convince me that pasta is bad for me. My mum instilled in me a love of pasta with oil and garlic (with more than a sprinkle of parmesan) and it has remained my comfort food for years. It's cheap, real food. But in the last few years I have coveted an additional ingredient, one that could drastically change my favourite dish. But everywhere I looked, I heard people singing the praises of this little addition. I devoured Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life, where I noticed she added this special ingredient to more than just pasta, and I found that Mark Bittman considered it a staple, in How to Cook Everything Vegetarian (and that little column he writes).

I was ready to try it. I added a fried egg to my pasta. And it was a fabulous decision. I hope you will too. Tonight's dinner was just the third time I've tried this, and it was certainly the best. Maybe it was the hour's magic.

Pasta with Fried Egg
Adapted from Mark Bittman

Serves one

A handful of spaghetti or any long pasta (I use whole wheat)
olive oil
1 clove of garlic, minced
2 eggs
parmesan
salt and pepper

Boil the water for the pasta. Add some salt to the boiling water, add the pasta and stir to prevent sticking. While the pasta is cooking (and it won't take long), heat the oil in a pan over medium heat and add the garlic. Let it sizzle a few minutes and then crack the eggs. Watch these eggs carefully, because you don't want them to overcook. The yolks will serve as an instant cream sauce for the warm pasta, so no eggs-over-hard for this dinner. As soon as the whites are almost set, flip them over for just a moment to warm up the yolks. Drain the pasta, add the eggs and oil, and toss with the parmesan (you can add a little reserved pasta water if it is too dry). I like to mix it up in the pot and slice up the eggs with a knife so that the egg really coats the pasta.

Pour glass of wine and enjoy.

Was Anyone Else in Bed Before Eight?

Is everyone relaxing and recovering at home today? I was asleep by 7:45 pm. It was the best New Year's present ever. I'm really looking forward to when the girls are a bit older and we can all spend New Year's Eve together with a bunch of games and good food. Maybe we'll be a little crazy and invite some friends, too. I'm already thinking about the menu. It's looking good.

Meanwhile, here are some of my favourite moments of 2010:



From the top, left to right:

My first trip away from Alyce. I was six months pregnant with Shira, and spending a week in Canada. Matt sent me this photo while he and Alyce were making "I miss you, Mama" signs.

Alyce's first big kid haircut; My mum spent two weeks here with us, waiting and waiting for Shira to arrive. I went into labour the day after she left. As much as I wanted mum to be there for Shira's birth, the time we spent together, just the three of us girls, was worth it.

Alyce tried out her old car seat, just to make sure it was alright for Shira. At that moment, Alyce became a big kid to me.

Then Shira arrived. That was a good day.

The only photo of the four of us.

I'll never know what the two of them have together, but I can sense them plotting already.

Alyce's word for 2010? Silly. When I'm having a hard day with her and her three-ness, I look at this photo.

Shira, having already become entrenched in our family, as though she was always here.

My Halloween fairy princess.