I am supposed to be writing an annotated bibliography, but instead here I am writing…..to whom? To me? To you? Does it matter? If a woman writes and nobody reads what she writes, is she voicing anything at all? I haven’t decided.

After putting the daughters to bed—the very sleepy, weepy, yet somehow luscious daughters—I sat at my computer, took notes on a website and then wandered downstairs to be with my husband, my very best friend, with whom at that moment I was peeved. I went downstairs hoping that by making my presence known, I would set off the sparks again so we could resolve a heated “conversation” we had had about my plans to work on the garden in the front yard. And you know what? We resolved it and had a good time in the end. Isn’t it funny how that happens sometimes? Not always. Just sometimes. Funny, I was thinking earlier today about how if we parents look at ourselves and our spouses/loves as children, how much easier it would be to treat ourselves and our partner in a nurturing way. Do you know what I mean? We are all so beautiful, as beautiful as children, but it is so much easier to see beauty in a child than an adult. I think I better move on. This is getting lame.

But my point is/was….I am now back upstairs, attempting to work on this bibliography and I have a cup of decaffeinated coffee and a glass of wine from the bottle my husband opened in what I like to think was a sweet, conciliatory move (since I’m the wine drinker in the family). I knew not choose the wine, having this paper I’m working on, but I rebelled.

So here I am after only half a glass of some mighty fine wine not wanting to write about mold in archives. Wanting instead to write about how I am very fulfilled and happy and joyful, but at the same time so tightly compartmentalized. Is it just me? In an academic setting, it’s acceptable to mention one’s children in passing, in chit-chat, but one must not seem too worried about them…too much a like a mother. My friends who I met through my kids, who truly have been a sweet refuge for me these past years, are happy to hear about my intellectual life to a point, but our conversations are usually very light. Because really, who wants to hear about an archives class or my fears about the war when there is Wife Swap or Grey’s Anatomy to talk about, and I say this with real respect. Seriously, if I didn’t compartmentalize at least a little bit I would be a bit too intense on a normal day. (For the record, I enjoy Wife Swap immensely, but think Grey’s Anatomy is a fine guilty pleasure, but overrated. I prefer The Office, but that doesn’t mean I don’t watch both. Did I mention not blogging has led to a rebirth of my tv habit? Yikes.)

I know that compartmentalization is not all bad. I do have dual, even multiple personalities, I think. A very good Gemini I am. It’s gotten to a point, though, where I feel like something in me wants to explode. Like it’s not okay to be so tightly compartmentalized. Like I need to unscrew the boundaries a bit and burst out.

This is actually a really good, exciting feeling.

But I don’t know what the hell it means. Seriously, maybe its’ all just hormones, or a case a really scintillating case of indigestion.

I don’t really understand how to play this exploding out in my real life. I can’t help think that in real life the explosion will be simply a matter of pointing myself in a familiar direction and walking steadily. And maybe I’m already facing it, looking at it, and all I need to do is just go there…like greeting an old friend. So that maybe it’s really in the end a settling….but still quietly an explosion of sorts.

I just don’t know.

Do you get it? Do you know what I’m talking about? Or am I just plain old too intense for my own good?

Do you still want to be friends with me? : )

Oh, and I can tell you how really giddishly excited I am about a ballet party I am working on for Hannah. Ah—girls at three. Isn’t it just the best? The BEST?!

Back to that bibliography.

Our deepest fear is not that we’re inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we’re powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkest fear that most frightens us.

We say, who am I to be brilliant and gorgeous?

Well, who are you not to be? You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing good with shrinking small so that other people don’t feel intimidated by you.

Your presence automatically liberates others and helps them feel that they can do the same.

–Marianne Williamson

“I told [my teacher] that we were late because you couldn’t find your keys,” Rachel told me nonchalantly yesterday. Really?, I thought. “What did she say?” I asked, curious to know what impact that piece of news might have on Rachel’s teacher’s impression of me. “Nothing.” Rachel answered.

But really, I wonder what else seeps into the classroom from our quirky home life. Does anybody know about the game, “Mommy, Mommy, Pants on Fire?” The game that I made up to amuse myself during a late afternoon of a looooog day in the last stretch of summer? A simple game really. Someone holds up a handful of cards. Someone else pulls out a card from the hand and says, “Mommy.” They thoughtfully pull out another card, look at it and say (what do you know) “Mommy.” Then, at the very right moment, they pull a last one out and shout, “PANTS ON FIRE!!!!”

Do they know about that? (Blush)

Do they know that I sometimes give a stern look and say, “You are headed in the right direction for a smack on the bottom” and then grab the daughter in question, put her over my knee, and playfully pat her on the bottom until her tummy hurts from laughter? Or worse yet, have they only heard half of the story? Do they think I just outright smack my girls on the bottom?

(Blush)

Do they know that my daughters are working patiently with me, trying to help me break my addiction to saying “HELL-o” like Mike Myers in “I Married An Axe Murderer.” I say it every time something happens that’s little offbeat. Rachel always smiles, shakes her head and says, “You’ve got to stop saying that” and I nod my head and say, “I know. You got a point there.”

Do they know about that?

And Hannah. At school, does she spout off Music Man references like she does at home? Does she run through the schoolyard holding her finger in the air and shouting, “But he doesn’t know the territory!!” Does she suddenly break into song, singing “Goodnight My Someone” with an exaggerated falsetto? Does she say “Eee gads?” or “Waddya talk?” Does she sing “She-boo-pee?” Does she tell people that she’s Marion, and that they can be the librarian?

Last week while getting Hannah ready for nap, she said “HELL-o” in the Mike Meyer way and I asked her quietly if she ever said that at school.

“No.” she answered, looking a little puzzled. “They don’t know “hello.”

Oh yeah.

I guess that settles that.

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(Hannah this morning) “I don’t want to die like a baddie or a sister. I want to die like a ballerina.”

Why does watching the very beautiful (there is one scene when Charlotte is dying that just takes my breath away) Charlotte’s Web always spark a loss of innocence in my children.

Damn spider.

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A very sad fact: I just spent a half hour searching for a post I wrote more than six months ago. On the post I asked for advice. One thing I asked for was recommendations on bras. I found it again, and am finally sitting down to order a good bra.

(Blush)

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I have no explanation for the fact that I am blogging when I am officially not a blogger anymore.

(Blush)

I’ve tried to write one, but am just not getting excited about sending updates via e-mail. The format just doesn’t do it for me. I have to figure this one out. Maybe monthly or quarterly updates here? Maybe a whole other blog? I just don’t know.

All is well. Really well. Just checking in.

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(Tonight, while I was putting Hannah to bed.)
Hannah: “Rachel is my favorite kind of sister. She is too special. I don’t want her to turn into a toy.”