Cognosco

I’m leaving tomorrow on a 2 and a half week road trip. There’s piles of "stuff" all over the house in various degrees of packed. I am ridiculously giddy.

I’ll try to post frequently from the road.

I described how I feel about driving once over here. 

Woot! woot! 

…I still agonize over when to be pregnant.

I still worry if I will be hired for a job if I am pregnant.

I worry about whether or not I will be able to keep a job or get tenure if I have a baby.

And I am one of the lucky ones. I had my first child while in graduate school, which is actually a great time to have a baby in my opinion. But I’m set to graduate next year with a Ph.D. and get some kind of job in academia. There are few career paths more liberal than academia. Furthermore, my area is psychology, which when combined with academia leads to so much liberalism that you can almost choke on it. I will have my own office so pumping will not be a problem. There is quite a bit of flexibility in the schedule of an academic, so long as you somehow manage to work 50 (+?) hours per week. Doing what you love. Not bad, really. I am incredibly lucky, especially given that I am the first in my family (including cousins ) to even graduate from college with a four-year degree, let alone an advanced degree.

And yet…

…the whole thing has been keeping me up at night. In order to have my kids two years apart, I’ll have to get pregnant in the next few months. Be pregnant on job talks. In academia, job talks can be a two or three day affair, packed with meetings and interviews and presentations and intensity. I wouldn’t want to fly past 34 weeks in a pregnancy. Job talks take place from about November through February for the nicest jobs. For less nice jobs, they can continue through the May. So, we reasoned that if I get pregnant in August, the due date would be in May, which is also the same month I’ll be graduating. Then I’d start a new job the following August. Granted, most programs tend to be a wee bit forgiving in the first year because you are adjusting, but compounding that adjustment with a new baby, sleep deprivation, breastfeeding…what a recipe for disaster. And, I would miss a lot of that child’s first year because I’d be focusing on so many other things.

Sound crazy? I think so too. I’ve been in a constant state of fretting.

So, I decided that I would go for the "easier" jobs. Little or no research. Smaller schools. More teaching. Familiar. Not too challenging.

And then I stopped caring about schoolwork. I couldn’t focus on anything. Writer’s block set in like someone had wrapped gauze around my brain.

Because wait a minute–I love research. I love mentoring. I love teaching too, but to only teach would be like cutting off a limb.

    "For a minute there,

    I lost myself,

    I lost myself."

        –Radiohead

I love my family. But I love my dreams too. 

So, one day, I asked myself why I wanted my kids to be two years apart. Well, my brother and I are 2 years and 3 months apart. I think I never questioned that two years was the best spacing for kids, because it was normal for me.

It would be "inadvisable" to have a baby during the first year or two of a new job. While most universities will stop the tenure clock during that time, you may still be judged negatively for having a child during that time. And really, it would be nice to be settled in first anyway for my own sanity. So, if I have my next child after two years on a job, Albert would be four years old.

I began to contemplate this, and took the same approach to this question that I do most things. I researched it ad nauseum. Turns out that if you ask people what the best spacing is, everyone gives a different answer. There are good things and bad things about any age difference. And it seems that the most important factor in how your kids get along isn’t their age (up to about a 5 year difference), but their personalities. Good luck planning that.

When I let myself accept the possibility that this might be a better choice for our family, a tremendous disappeared from my shoulders. The brain fog lifted. I wanted to do school work again. I felt motivated. My writer’s block disappeared. I felt calm.

The down side is that my future job is not likely to be in the Phoenix area. Even if there was a job here, I don’t want to stay here. Which means that I will not have Connie as my midwife, or Leigh as my doula. And that kind of sucks.

But to be honest, I’ve always had trouble envisioning Connie at my next birth. Maybe it’s because she’s just not meant to be.

And I can accept that Leigh will likely not be there because I can entice her to visit me with the promise of chocolate and the scent of a newborn. And then we can bask in new babyness while we watch the birth video, eat brownies, and laugh.

I think MB can be coerced with chocolate too… 

Nonetheless, I still think it’s bullshit that this whole process has been agonizing. It’s bullshit that I can’t just think about what’s best for our family without worrying about damaging my career. And I am one of the lucky ones.

We have come so far, and yet have so much further to go. 

Feb 14, 2007

May 18, 2007

June 22, 2007

July 18, 2007

Aug 6, 2007

Sept 11, 2007

Sept 16, 2007

Oct 13, 2007

Oct 27, 2007

nov 22

nov 23, 2007

Dec 4, 2007

Dec 14, 2007

Jan 2, 2008

So, once upon a time, I had this dog named Batchelor, with a ‘t’. I spelled it with a ‘t’ so that his name was ‘Batchy’ for short instead of ‘Bachy’ because ‘Bachy’ would sound like a pet name for a classical composer. I was told he was an Alaskan Malamute - German Shepherd mix. I’m pretty sure that there was Doberman in there too, but the Husky was the predominant personality.

I had him for 8 years, from the time I was 17, until I was almost 25. I was a total idiot when I raised him and trained him, and he could be a monster (only to inanimate objects and fences), but I loved him so much. He had terrible separation anxiety, so I had to get a dog friend for him. Turns out they were both escape artists. The only thing that ever kept him in was electric wire. Don’t judge. I touched it myself before I ever let him get near it.

When I divorced my ex-husband, I let him keep the chow I’d originally gotten to be Batchy’s friend because I wanted his son to have a protector and they were both very close to her. Because of the separation anxiety component, I took Batchy to doggie day care every day while I went to school or work. Because seriously, he couldn’t be alone. He broke through a window once. He chewed up seat belts. Destroyed carpets, furniture, you name it. He even managed to escape not one, but two, kennels at the doggie day care that were designed for pit bulls!

I know now that they have medications for this kind of thing, and would have considered it had I known. Instead, I just lived with it and did what I had to do because I loved him so. The day care people loved him too, in spite of his fence damage. Because he was such a PERSON.

About two months before he died, I took him to the vet because he had a cough. The vet said something to the effect of, ‘Yeah, these old huskies, they have loose jowels’. And I was stunned for a moment. Because it never occurred to me that he was old. I still viewed him as "entering his prime". But I looked at him that day and realized, yes, he was getting old. 

I was currently living with my mother after a few very stressful months, and it was not the optimal living situation. I was working on getting a place of my own, made all the more difficult by the crazy dog factor. I was really depressed at the time. When I wasn’t manic.

When we got home from the vet, I was snuggling with him on the bed, and I told him I knew he was getting old and that it had been a long, crazy, life with me, but would he please promise not to leave me until I was out of my mother’s house and in a better situation? And happy? And would he please try to make sure I was there when he passed? And if there was an afterlife, would he promise to be the one to greet me?

Don’t worry. He didn’t actually reply to these pleas. I wasn’t THAT depressed and delusional. But I think he understood.

Fast forward to January 15th, about a month after the vet visit. I was moving into an apartment owned by someone I had known as a customer from a coffee shop I worked at for several years. He even let me paint the apartment. And it was a cool little complex of only 4 apartments with a nice big grassy courtyard. Every day, I dropped Batchy off at doggie day care on my way to school. On my way home, I picked him up and we’d go to the park for awhile. It was a really nice few weeks. So nice, and so surreal, that I even remarked to a good friend of mine that life was really good and I wanted to really memorize this time with Batchy, and that I would look back on it as a really positive time in my life. The week before he died, I felt compelled to take mental snapshots of our moments together. I really appreciated our time together.

Around this time I met Hyrum. We had our first "date" on Feb 2. It was dinner at my place because I couldn’t leave Batchy home alone. Or in my car alone. Or anywhere alone. But Hyrum was cool about it. We talked for 6 hours that night and made plans for the following weekend. I was going to have my brother come over to babysit Batchelor so we could go out. Seriously, it was like having a baby.

The next day, I spent a lot of time cuddling with Batchelor. We napped on the couch together. Keep in mind, this was an 85 lb dog. I was memorizing the feel of his fur as I stroked him. Some part of me must have known what was to come.

He got sick on the night of the 5th. He had bloat. My options were an operation to rearrange his internal organs or to put him down. The operation was risky. They’d have to keep him for a week. I didn’t want him to die without me there in some recovery room or kennel. And then, he would have "special needs" and I just didn’t know how the hell that would be possible. And I had always secretly hoped that he wouldn’t have a long, drawn out kind of sickness or death, and so in some way, this sudden sickness was a twisted blessing.

He saw me through so many changes and growing pains, and when he died, I was devastated.

On the plus side, had I not been an emotional wreck, I don’t know that I would have been "needy" enough to let Hyrum into my heart. And I’m so glad I did. In a funny way, it was like Batchelor’s gift to me. Either that, or when he met Hyrum he was like "oh, god, not another man for me to tolerate–I’m out of here". I actually like to think that he saw that Hyrum was a good man, and figured he didn’t need to be around to protect me any more. And the timing was hauntingly perfect–the lack of freedom due to having to care for Batchy had probably literally saved my life when I was initially manic after the divorce. If I hadn’t had to look after someone and had to be home most nights…I don’t really want to think about where I would have ended up. But now I was in need of more freedom, and as much as I loved him, he was kind of a burden.

Need I mention that it is spooky how well he kept his deal? I was out of my mother’s house. I was happy. And he didn’t get sick while I was in school. I didn’t show up to pick him up to find him dead or in the hospital. I was right there with him. If there is some sort of afterlife, I am positive he will be there to greet me.

It’s been 5 years today since he died. I have three dogs. There is no dog shortage in this house. But there is also no Batchy.

About six months after he died, I wrote this poem. I don’t even think it’s very good. But I thought I would post it, for no other reason than maybe someone else will read it and totally know that they are not the only ones who have cried spontaneously for years to come over a lost furry friend.

For Batchelor

December 21, 1994-February 6, 2003

The night I lost you,
you were so sick,
and it came out of nowhere,
no warning.

It had been the perfect day
in the park,
you’d gotten in
up to your belly–
you, the dog who hated water.

And when we crossed the bridge–
click, click, click,
your paws on concrete,
every few seconds
looking back at me,
of course
I was always right there.

Always.

When the pain started,
I knew
this was no bellyache to pass,
and somewhere,
in the back of my brain,
I heard the word ‘bloat’
and remembered
it could be fatal.

I had no phone book–
called a friend for a number
to an emergency vet.
I knew
time was running short–
your quiet whine–
no dog so big
should ever cry so small.

And when you went to lay
in the bathtub,
the line was crossed
and off we went.

The x-ray came back,
I was right,
it was bloat,
and you would die
without surgery,
and probably die
even with surgery,
and I asked someone,
something,
you,
what to do…

and I knew
it was time.

All I’d ever hoped
was that I’d be there
when the time came,
and that you wouldn’t die
a slow death
in months of pain.

They gave you drugs to calm
and sooth
and let me sit with you,
while I waited for my mother
to arrive
and give me strength.

And you knew,
you knew,

your huge head in my lap–
your head now bigger
than your entire body
the day I brought you home–
so long ago.
You knew,
and you conceded.

The doctor entered
and explained
there might be
twitching,
convulsions,
spasms,
but not to be alarmed.

I stared at the
yellow
cabinets and thought,
‘well, at least it’s a color I already hate,
so I can really hate it now.’

The room was vibrating around me
and I couldn’t look at you.
And the doctor asked, ‘are you
ready?’
and I said, ‘yes, let’s do it
now.’

There was no resistance.

When the drug moved in–
you moved out of this world
with one big rush–
you were your mother’s dog
indeed.

Your legs
stiffened, your head went
slack,
and there was
one
gasp,

just one–

it was an easy death.

And in the days that followed,
I thought I would die,
I wanted to follow
you, my best friend,
the extension of all I am–
but I knew,
that in your previous doggie mind,
you would hate to see me sad,
so I pressed on,
and replayed memories–

the feel of your fur against
my hand, the click
click, click of your paws,
the wild thump of your tail,
the sarcastic, last word comments
I could always translate.

And late at night,
I would plead with the
universe
for just five minutes more,
with no response.

And slowly, I started to let go,
and now, I still cry
sometimes,
it sneaks up now and then,
but I count myself as blessed
for knowing such pure love,
my best friend.

I’ve been thinking about holiday traditions a lot this year, probably because I now have someone to pass them along to. When I was growing up, our big holiday tradition was begging our parents to open presents early. We usually succeeded, and got to pick out a couple of different gifts on different nights within the week prior to Christmas that we were allowed to open. It was kind of fun, and I guess most people don’t do that. That’s a tradition that would be kind of fun to pass on, and my parents were crafty enough to not put the good stuff out until Christmas morning (even after we outgrew Santa). We put up the tree every weekend after Thanksgiving. Mom would let us blare the Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas music (still love it). We went to my Grandma Mickey’s (a nickname from when she was in high school) house for Christmas dinner every year. My grandpa Judd (who she married after my father’s father died) would give us "weird" gifts like National Geographic magazines. My parents called them "used". I would now call them "recycled". And dammit, I wish I had all those National Geographics now. Another tradition was that my parents would inevitably end up in a fight on Christmas morning. This was really nothing out of the ordinary. They fought all the time, but it just stood out more on Christmas. That’s a tradition I don’t intend to pass on.

None of those traditions were "official" traditions that anyone talked about. I just recognize them now as I look back. My husband’s family, however, has several "official" traditions. He comes from a big family of eleven–six boys and five girls. Apparently, every Christmas eve, they would get to open one present–new pajamas to lounge around in on Christmas morning. My mother-in-law used to make the pajamas, but eventually started buying them . After all, that’s a lot of handmade pajamas! She continues to buy pajamas for all "unmarried or uncohabitating" offspring. This tradition has continued so that her kids now do the same thing for their kids. I’ve already bought Albie’s for this year, and Hyrum and I also buy each other something pajama-related. He bought me a robe last year so I could use it during labor (didn’t happen–I never got in the tub). His family also tells the Christmas story on Christmas eve–they either read it, watch it, or act it out (it varies). I have a hard time keeping a straight face if it’s read or we watch a video about it, but I do enjoy it when the kids act it out. It’s just damn cute.

Another cool tradition they have is that on Christmas morning, everybody lines up outside the living room in order of their age, so that the littlest get to come into the room with the presents first. It makes for great pictures. Many of the kids come home for Christmas, with their kids in tow, so there are A LOT of people there for Christmas. This stands in stark contrast to my family, where the maximum number of people we ever had at grandma’s house for Christmas was ten. With occasional pop-ins from a few others. One year, there were thirty people at my in-laws’ house because all the kids and grandkids were there. Since then, five more grandkids have been born, and there’s another due this February. Being around that many kids on Christmas morning is way too much fun. I’m not Christian, and have struggled for years about the whole Christmas thing. I’ve finally just given in and accepted it as a great time to celebrate family. And nobody celebrates family better than Mormons! This year, almost all (if not all) of the grandkids will be there. I can’t wait to see Albie with his cousins. I only grew up with one, and she was kind of lame…

Somewhere along the way when my husband was a kid they had a family meeting about other traditions they’d like to have for Christmas. So, on Christmas eve, they make pizza. They get premade crusts and lots of different toppings, and then everyone gets to create the pizza they want.  And on Christmas day, rather than having a big dinner, they have a big breakfast. It’s huge. And it works out so well for Hyrum and I because we have breakfast there and then drive up to Prescott Valley to my grandma’s house for dinner.

As for the traditions Hyrum and I would like to start for our family, I’m uncertain. I really want to celebrate Solstice, so that may turn out to be a day that we exchange gifts among ourselves and then go celebrate Christmas with the extended family. The Santa thing complicates everything…Maybe we’ll celebrate all the December holidays! More cheer for everyone.

We do have one tradition so far. Every year, on an unspecified date close to Christmas, we watch "It’s a Wonderful Life". Maybe this will be a movie that we eventually watch on Solistice, even though it’s sort of Christmas themed. Hyrum was talking with his coworkers the other day about favorite Christmas movies, and he was the only one who mentioned this movie. I think that’s so sad. His coworkers are all pretty much in their early twenties, and they thought the movie was "cliche". They failed to realize that all of the "cliche" movies were modeled after that one! But to be honest, I don’t know that I would have appreciated it in my early twenties either. It’s the kind of movie you learn to appreciate after life has kicked you in the crotch a few times and you’ve had to give up on dreams and learn to appreciate new ones. I look forward to seeing it every year. And I cry like a baby during the scene between the pharmacist and young George. And then of course I cry at the end. If you haven’t seen it in years, watch it again. I doubt you will be disappointed.

So, what are the holiday traditions in your family? If you write about them, please comment and leave a link. If you aren’t Christian, do you still celebrate Christmas? If you celebrate Solstice, do you still celebrate Christmas too? Do you do the whole Santa thing? I love hearing about families and their traditions.

When my mom was in town, we (me, hubbie, Albie, and mom) all went out to dinner the last night she was here. I took Albie’s mesh safe feeder with us so he could eat some grapes while we had dinner. At one point, he (of course) dropped the thing on the ground. I picked it up and started to give it back to him and mom said, “No!” because, “you just don’t know what kind of germs are on this floor”.

Okay. Fine. Never mind that my shoes will track what is on this floor onto my own floor, which is why they say you should take off your shoes at home and I just never do. Because I have dogs, for god’s sake, and who knows what kind of stuff they’re bringing into the house! Nonetheless, I said I’d rinse it the feeder off when the hot water to warm his bottle came. So, we gave him his little plastic keys to play with to keep him busy. He chewed on them and slobbered on them, and then (of course) dropped them on the floor. Mom picked them up and handed them back to him.

I said, “How is that any different than the grapes?”

She sort of stammered, but before she actually responded, I said, “Oh, I know, they’re grape-activated germs.”

I thought this was hysterical. She did too, but hid it, and simply replied, “Oh, you and your damn logic. And just to think, I was so happy when you learned to talk”.