the mayor of tough land

it's dark in the house. eric is downstairs grading papers, and i'm in our bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching henry and wrigley sleep. peace.

i've been directing this play-- since early february. after school, i've been hanging around with kids (who i love) and working on a play. for the first 3 and a half months, it was you can't take it with you. then, when some kids just weren't showing up to rehearsals, it became an improv show. now, i want to shoot myself for not canceling the whole thing (eric could have a huge "i told you so" moment with this whole thing, but thank god he's not doing that to me). the only reason i'm not throwing in the towel is i feel terrible for the kids who really want to do this. i feel bad for the kids who've worked so hard and spent so much time. they don't want it all to end-- i get that. but me? ugh. i am DONE-zo. i have SO MUCH TO DO.

babies are hard. did you know that? they're tough. they're tough on their own, but working a full time job makes everything even tougher. working a full time job and then volunteering to direct a spring play makes it even EVEN tougher. working a full time job, directing a spring play and planning a move? you're flat out living in tough land. no, you're the MAYOR of tough land. & this mayor? she wants a BREAK.

we're movin' ya'll

three years ago, eric and i bought our first home. we moved to peoria for three great reasons: eric got a full ride to attend bradley university for his masters, i got a job at my old high school (where i always dreamed of teaching), and my parents live here! we were excited. we bought our house after one day of searching, and never looked back. this house has been pretty perfect for our first home. we made it ours. i've stocked up a thousand memories between these walls.

but, i always knew we'd leave. for whatever reason, peoria has never been it for us. i knew that. even moving boxes upon boxes into this house, i knew we'd be leaving. i knew we'd move on.

in november, they closed my school. woodruff high school has been my second home for many years. i've celebrated 7 birthdays there. i've had some of my proudest moments there. i became a real teacher there. if i think too long about what closing woodruff means to me, i cry. it gets to me at the weirdest moments: when i turn the lights on in an empty auditorium, when i sit alone in my classroom at the end of a day, when the first student says, "Seaaaaaman!" suddenly, i find myself choked up and nostalgic. i find myself helpless to stop something i wish i could. a school closing is like someone you love dying. next year, my students will be shipped off to different high schools and teachers who have taught at the same school, some for 20 years, will be teaching in classrooms across the city. it's a bum deal-- the whole thing.

i don't have tenure yet. i would be getting that next year. but, i always saw myself teaching at woodruff. i always wanted to be a part of the crew that inspired me to become a teacher. next year, that won't exist anymore. do i still love teaching, yes. of course i do. however, i can't explain it, i need something different. oh, and i was pinked slipped-- JERKS.

so, in june, we'll be moving to austin, texas. as of now, i am looking for a part-time job. that's right, PART-TIME. i will be a stay at home mama. there is nothing that makes me feel happier than writing that. i'm going to be a cowboy boot wearin', breast-feedin', liberal in a red state rockin' SAHM.

when we first move to austin, we'll be shackin' it up in eric's parent's awesome RV; we don't know where we'll be after that. we are now in the process of getting rid of roughly 80% of our belongings. i've already been researching play groups for henry and attachment parenting groups for me. when eric and i see pool floaties at target, we squeeze each other's hands and smile. this is right.

henry eats; i cry.

when i first read that pediatricians recommend waiting until 6 months to introduce solids, i thought, 6 months? that's so far away! there were so many times i thought i would start early. i bought rice cereal when he was 4 months old. but, i put it off. as the six month "deadline" approached, i found myself feeling downright sad. something about his growing up in that way depressed me. i know that is terribly selfish to admit, but it did. there is something so powerful about having someone rely on you for their every need. yes. sometimes it's overwhelming, but mostly? it's wonderful.

breast-feeding has been like something out of an indie flick with a terrific soundtrack for me. when we first started, it was tough. henry wasn't latching right, and i was worried we wouldn't be able to hack it. we met with lactation consultants often during the first few weeks, and for the first months, it was painful. my wrists ached from constantly re-latching him, and i worried i was doing something wrong. but then? around month three, we got it. suddenly everything worked. spending time feeding hendrix wasn't a chore, it was a blessing. each time he ate, it was just the two of us again, a sacred ritual. there are so many little things i'll keep close to my heart always, like the way he reaches up and grabs the collar of my shirt, the way his hands touch my face, the way he smiles while eating or the way or the way his eyes drift off into the most peaceful sleep. we are so close during our time; we're inseparable.

i know, of course, this can't last forever. i understand that, but i have so cherished this perfect design. i have loved every minute of being needed in such a powerful way. and now? henry is becoming independent. something other than my body is starting to nourish him. and someday, he won't need me to survive at all. of course, he will still need me, but not in an evolutionary sense. he will grow and be on his own.

and that? that makes me sad. happysad. i remember feeling this way after his birth. after 9 months of our secret existence, he was venturing out into the world apart from me (but still a part of me). i remember mourning our separation a little. yes. i was thrilled to have him in my arms and truly know him, but part of me missed having him all to myself perhaps each milestone of his will feel this way, like a departure?

dear lord., if i feel this way about APPLESAUCE, what am i going to do when this kid goes to school?