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.