*kendraspondence*

I think I am the only girl in the history of high school that took seriously the summer reading.  And by that I mean that I not only was STRESSIN’ that I hadn’t completed a novel (probably some pastoral romance like Julie because you know those nuns would have been finding The Thornbirds wayyy tooooo racy) by the 4th of July, but I was taking copious notes, chewing my pen as I considered whether Mr. Darcy was really a protagonist or villain, and slapping those post-it notes between chapter pages –

Again. Reason 32934802582 why I got my first kiss at the painfully late of 17.  And I kid!

I was 18!

When late August came and we pleated skirt-rocking bun-haired lasses found ourselves stuffing books into a different locker in some hall that totally felt promoted from the dank corner of the unlit hall we were formerly occupying in locker land, there was much buzz about how little of the summer reading everyone had done.

Girls are good at this, aren’t they?  “Ohmygawsh, I am going to fail this!  I didn’t study at all!”  This means, “I will probably nail this.”

Why do women do this? Fake like everything is very hard, fake like we are very fat, fake like we are broke, when none of those things we know to be true.

Anyway. Summer reading. I remember it, and I remember what a chore it was. What was the best assigned book you read once upon a summer? I think Dead Man Walking by Sr Helen Prejean was one of my favorites. Definitely gave me a new set of lenses for the death penalty.

***

My girl lovin’ her some story hour at the BPL with her mate….

Our good pals Maddy, Claire and their mama school our Madi in Berensteins….

I don’t think we should be proud when we work a lot of hours. Not that a good work ethic isn’t a point of pride, but I think we should be grateful for our opportunities, and take them as blessings from God.

Oh, but now I do so love to complain. And I have, often, about the hamster wheel work-a-day schedule my husband has maintained for the last couple of years while I was finishing grad school. I found myself rattling off his m.o. like a radio announcer, “Three jobs! 70 hours! Often overnight! With crazy people!” I was always proud of him and the way he never complained, working so many hours with such a difficult population. But it was always clear to me how tempting it was to become self-satisfied with this life. As if there was some award at the end of the year for Most Nights a Therapist Has Been Paged In a Row. Oooh, I hope it’s a cookie. That would make it all worth it.

This school year, I’m no longer a student, and Lovey Loverpants will no longer be working an insane number of hours with the insane (excluding the hours he has to coexist with me). He’ll take a day off each week to spend with Baby Girl while I am prepping my lesson plans and grading papers. Once again, it’s so easy to become prideful of this, to congratulate Loverpants for making such a sacrifice, for being such an honorable dad. But you know what? Daddy and Madi Day is a blessing. It’s given to us in grace. I’m so thrilled for my family, so excited for more daddy/daughter facetime, and taking it all as a gift and not a given.

***

They’re together so much, they’ve started to dress alike.

Cooking Class

::MELTS::

I have a best friend. She is a showstopper.

She enters the room and the scene changes. Curtains rise. The orchestra is cued.

Lauren is here.

I never minded that she always stole the show. She wouldn’t steal the spotlight on purpose, but she doesn’t shirk it either.

We met when we were fourteen, and I can’t describe our unlikely pairing. Perfect foils. Australian amazon teeniebopper meets American munchkin goodie two shoes. She charged into every romantic scene, black bra and Doc Martens. I held back like a stagehand, overalls and sneakers.

But she was next to me in every green room, dragging me to every cast party, sharing her light, ravishing everyone with her love.

Sometimes she dated guys who would try to outstage her. Who didn’t understand her theatrics.

It always ended with a poor review.

So when I heard she had met Peter, with whom she found life to be so “peaceful,” I sensed that this was a show with promise of a long run.

I was absolutely desperate to be in the audience for their big day, but tickets for me were simply an impossibility.

But she sent me the Playbill, and after scanning it several dozen times, I am confident it was a beautiful expression of love, more than symbolic rendering of their union, an experience that transcended this world.

My best friend’s wedding. I know that God was in the audience – they say He clapped the loudest.

The Crimson Mafia did indeed let me exit stage left with a diploma, sparing my life but not my bank account. Right now I’m still shaking the crimson dust off my feet having had a great experience but no desire to attend school as a student for a very long time.

The festivities in the yard were very festivey and while I am not impressed with pomp and circumstance and graduation speeches that must, by some law of cliched graduation speeches, use the words “horizon,” “triumph,” and “in spite of the global recession,” I have to say that the fanning out of masses to the tune of the bagpipes did impress me. My heart was stirred, and I felt proud to be there, but mostly I felt blessed…oh what? I’m sounding like a cliched grad speech too, now! Hey HEY!

Big Pops came in from the Mid-West to support me, but mostly to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to Baby Girl. And then after a few minutes she’d waddle over again to his lap and point to the word SUCKER on his forehead and make him read it again. Did you know that the very hungry caterpillar turns into a beautiful butterfly every.single.time?

We also ate ridiculous amounts of pizza, watched a ridiculous number of episodes of “Everybody Hates Chris” which is one of the best funny family shows evah, and talked a ridiculous deal of bulllloney during the days that Big Pops was here. It is nice to have your parents be proud of you, whether you’re earning a degree in a field with no lucrative future, or teaching your own kid about caterpillars and chrysalis.

I suppose I should once again be distributing my resume for various adjunctries (Is that the plural of adjunct? It is now!) but sabbath begins in just over an hour and just about every fiber of my petite self is needing to rest on the seventh day. Maybe by doing so, by languishing a bit longer in this cocoon, I will be ready to emerge as the proverbial butterfly in the weeks to come.

***

Notice my baton. I can haz baton because am best baton twirler Crimson Mafia ever did see.

10. Paint my hallway. The whiteness of the walls has gone from whispering at me to full-on screaming a la Charlotte Perkins Gilman at me. Lovey Loverpants wants a purpley gray. I want a buttery yellow. At this point, I don’t care if Baby Girl goes all graffiti on them. Anything but white!

9. Hit the gym at least 3x/week. Thesis booty is a creepin’, soon to be cascading if I don’t make the gym my party place.

8. Send my Nana a new picture of the baby. My dad told me it’s the only thing that brings her happiness. I feel terrible for delaying this happiness!!

7. Go to bed by 11p at the latest. My recent bedtimes have been OBSCENE. They should be rated something ominous to keep small children from learning about them.

6. Deep clean our bedroom. Moving the pile of dirty clothes to the hamper? Does not constitute deep cleaning

5. Finish reading the 3 books for pleasure I started before my thesis unhinged its proverbial jaw and swallowed my life anaconda-style whole.

4. Take some new books out of the ‘bary for Baby Girl. I’ve been hesitating because I’m so bad about returning them. No ‘scuses no mo.

3. Take Baby Girl to the aquarium. Need to go to library to get free passes. Again, no excuses!

2. Eat more salads. Which requires my fridge to contain more than one vegetable at a time.

1. Give this girl a tissue, a change of shirt, and buy this girl some pants: