If I don't get some attention...I'll have a tantrum

I've been scouring my recent experiences for something quirky, funny, unusual, or hopefully all of the above to write about. Alas, things have been relatively "normal" and "routine" - or I have been uncreative as of late.

I check my blog for my hoards of fans, their plethora of comments and praise. Oh yeah, I've got it bad. I also have delusions of grandeur that I must constantly keep in check.

There is a blog conference happening in Vancouver.

http://infocult.typepad.com/infocult/2005/02/blogging_and_ac.html

I am seriously considering implementing a Blog for a course on Health, Healing and Religions that I am teaching during intersession. More on that later.

I must fly.

RIP Hunter. You crazy fuck.

the Lord of the Flings

I bear a secret.

Sounds exciting eh? Well, it's hidden because I fear the cheese factor. I am a huge Tolkien fan - and I'll unabashedly admit that I loved the films. Seems a bit passe to be referring to last year's "thing". I guess I am not a Tolkien purist - I thought both the book and the films were brilliant. So what am I getting at here?

I usually have a good hour, two if I am not lucky, between the time the kids go to bed, and when I collapse in utter exaustion. It's too late for me to read (unfortunately my eyes have seriously deteriorated since graduate school), so I "veg" and watch the tube. Being that I only have 2 out of 4 possible channels - the choices can sometimes be bad, like Fear Factor, or worse, like Sue Thomas F.B Eye. I find this happens with a great amount of frequency - so I usually pop in a DVD of my own choosing. I have been trying to make it through Troy, but I am only capable of making it through the first hour, until I realize that it's 3am and the Main Menu has been flickering for god knows how long. So, this week, as a reward for surviving the horrors of singleparenthood, I rented The Fellowship of the Ring, Special extended version extravagganza. Better than chocolate, ice cream and sex. I did admit that my obsession is cheesy, remember.

It's not that I swoon over an actor, although Jackson (or his wife) did choose their beefcake wisely, its that I feel something sublime. It's hard to describe. This feeling comes deep within my being, located somewhere around my solar plexus to be precise. Whenever I watch any scene in The Two Towers featuring the Ents, tears inexplicably stream down my face. It's not that I am sad for their plight, but I am overwhelmed by the story, the character, their legendary significance - I'm not sure what it is. It's more like I am overwhelmed that they were ever created. A creative process traced through the films, through Weta workshops, through Peter Jackson's vision and inspiration, to the work of Alan Lee and John Howe, stretching back to Tolkien himself and all that happened to him to inspire this story...the chain of influence goes ever on. Maybe I am trivialising or oversimplifiying it. A professor once told me that he cried the first time he read Ovid in latin. Maybe we were experiencing the same thing.

I don't know what "that" is - but it's exactly "that" which I want to do. As I watch the special features which explore the special effects and art departments involved in these movies - I am completely awestruck. The amount of collaboration, the attention to detail, the passion to achieve the very best that could be accomplished - that is what I want to do. Tolkien was the same way, in fact. He did not set out to write a novel, he did not consider himself to be a writer. He spent over a decade working on a story that he felt so intensely driven to get out of his head and onto the paper. I've read some academic ponderings on Tolkien the writer - and his style and form were not all that remarkable. What I am fascinated by, is a committement to detail, not because it was a requirement or an expectation, but rather because it was possible.

What frustrates me to no end is that I feel that I am spending far too much time thinking about these things, and not actually doing them.

I am not talking about writing a fantasy novel or directing an epic film - but rather finding something I feel so passionately about that I can direct "that" energy into it. The problem is, that I have spent far too much time thinking about it, that I have wrought so much doubt in myself in regards to the doing.

Herein lies the essence of my stuckness.

Things that make it all better

I do not consider myself a complainer. If the short history of my blog attests to anything -it could demonstrate that I have a very skewed vision of myself. So I suffer Personality Dismorphic disorder perhaps? In the past three weeks (since hubby left for Texas) I suffered through the flu, that migraine that had enough latent energy to run our appliances, and now the daycare that I pay over 3/4 of my salary to has given me a cold. I must say that the common cold is the most bearable of all the illnesses I have endured these last few weeks. I can feel slightly drugged - legally.

So I was attempting to salvage this day into something marginally cheerful when I find that Harry has found the hidden Sharpie and has redecorated the dining room table that I refinished this fall. I've checked some of the helpful hint sites and the least invasive and non-toxic suggestions have failed. I fear that I need to break out the sandblaster or some noxious smelling chemical that will ruin the finish. I'm sorry if I am paying far too much attention to the inanimate table and not oohing and ahhing the praises of my son's artistic abilities....but I poured my muscle and sweat into that table this fall...to get rid of the first round of crayon and marker stains. I'm less than enthused over this recent display of postmodern expression.

So Harry comes up to me this evening.

"Here mommy this is for you"

He gives me bwankie, his grey and threadbare companion that I guarantee with absolute certainty will attend his first day of kindergarten in the fall.

"Its yours now Mommy".

I tell him that I will borrow it.

"Mommy, you're my best friend"

Harry has all the best one-liners. My other favorite is "mommy lets snuggle".

This will probably embarass the snot out of him when he is 15...but who cares...

...day redeemed...

The Bird Word

I heard a rumour that some students describe my course as a "bird course"

Ouch.

This is the trouble with having an "inferiority complex" or "low self esteem" or "insecurities". Call it what you want. Its certainly clear to me, and yes I try and "work on it". Some academics hide behind big words and a podium. I let it all hang out and offer a course that is different. Essentially, I think that teaching is more sophisticated than mere information delivery - which is the standard pedagogical method in the university. Throw in some Q&A and presto ...its "Interactive"!

Being a postmodern feminist...and I mean that in the nicest way - I am conscious about power, systems which impose oppression and those which encourage empowerment. I've created a classroom environment that is student focused - and that means that everyone's role radically changes. I see my role as a facilitator - someone who guides and pokes a process where students can discover their own voice. No longer am I the preacher teacher - the bearer of the truth. There are no exams and lectures in my class. Students work collaboratively, and are responsible for coming to class prepared. I don't look over their shoulders to tell them if they are doing it "right" or "well". This is something they must choose. If they want to learn - they have to make a decision to put in the effort. Once there is effort, the formatting details can easily fall into place.

I feel at times that I am working against the grain. Some students want the McDegree. They want to drive in, be told what they need to know, be told when they need to spit it out and then drive away with that diploma. What I offer often frustrates students. I don't grade everything they write - I don't dangle the grade as a reward - I offer learning. And you need to work at learning.

How I "teach" puts me in a vulnerable position...I offer myself for the picking.

I fundamentally believe that learning need not involve "pain", "stress" or "rote memory". One can learn from pain, but there are others ways too. Courses that demand 3 hour exams, or long winded lectures, or use copious amounts of red ink on a term paper (topic predetermined of course), are considered "hard" and therefore beg everyone's respect and attention. Because I offer something less painful, something that invites each student to find their own passion and interest and run deep into it...my course is described as "easy" and "bird".

Some students do get it. And its amazing to see how they unfold intellectually - with their newfound freedom to soar and explore, to see how they realize they possess the power to both teach and learn.

The Birdness description still hurts. I'll get over it.

Tweet tweet!

My Grain and You Foria

Last week, all the boys had the flu - the flu of the dry heaving variety. Being that I am alone for the month of February, I became rather alarmed at the whole situation. If I believed in hell, I might describe it as being confined to a small space with three small vomitting human beings. I would also include the descriptors "milk and hot dogs" and "all over the furniture". It was not so much the task of decontamination that I deemed hellish, but rather the potential of succumbing to the same fate.

What I do believe is that one needs to have a firm and unwavering faith in the efficacy of any remedy, drug, cure or treatment. I bowed down, prostrated and kow towed to the healing powers of echinaecea - which I ingested with fervor and devotion. But yea, I was not spared. The echinaecea did make it bearable.

So this week, I thought we were on the road to good health.

Today, I came home from work to discover that my little annoying headache eventually became a full blown migraine, complete with photophobia. I've redefined hell to include "having an intense migraine while Harry has a tantrum". Harry is much happier with some spaghetti and a cat nap under his belt. Mom had 1 400mg Advil, then an hour later 2 Tylenol 3's with codeine, and an hour later look 3 regular stregnth Tylenol with codeines. (this is after having my head buried under a blanket desperately hoping that the kids did not find anything messy and/or sharp)

Mother is now feeling human again, and grateful that I have a sister who will come over and feed my children and send me to bed.

I also praise the Saints at Pixar.

The reluctant bather...

Like it or not - my kids need a bath. Take it from the resident expert:all cheesy media stereotypes are completely true. You will need a sou'wester and gum boots, an umbrella, even the Alvin...Now no matter how hard I have tried - there is no way to simplify this process. "Simplify" in this context means "Allowing the mom and the floors to remain relatively dry". I could bathe one kid a night...but herein the problem lies - I have 2 that can undress at will - and use every opportunity to do so.

If anyone can figure this out...please enlighten me: Why do my 7 yr old and 4 year old need to get naked when they poop?

Bathing. Owen and Harry spit water at each other, and thats after the kicking contest, followed by tub diving...my motherly instinct screams that its all wrong, but after trying to use my logical, rational, non-mess seeking sensibilities...I can find nothing morally reprehensible about this. Then there is Aidan. At 2 1/2 his idea of the big fun is to get in and out of the tub...ad infinitum. The benefit is that with a towel underfoot, I can also wash the floors...multitasking! Did I mention Aidan's fear of lather or Harry's adversion to running water?

I used to have a foolproof system. I used take a shower with all the kids. It was very efficient and pleasing to those motherly instincts. That ended the day that Owen said to me "Mommy you have a beard like daddy".

So, reluctantly I will go plug in the tub...did I mention that I have an irrational phobias of tubs? ( This also extends to waterbeds...thank GOD these have become artifacts of the late 20th century) Its true. I have a seriously weird fear of tubs full of water. I get a phobic feeling in the pit of my stomach when I see one - a fear that the weight of the tub will cause it to crash through the floor. See, I told you it was irrational. Perhaps this is underlies my bathing reluctance? Maybe beneath this I fear water? Okay Jungian analyists...I am just RIPE for the picking! (See...Harry learned procrastination from his mother.)


Where's that plug...

Why Phenomenology...WHY?

Why?

Its probably time to admit a few things - air some dirty laundry so to speak. Academically speaking, I teach in the Religious Studies department. I have a background in anthropology and religious studies, with an interest in convert Buddhism. Domestically speaking, my focus is poopy diapers and six pairs of bright and curious eyes. I'll stray from my domestic roots for a moment.

So, I've been doing all this reading lately.... mostly arcane stuff such as Tylor and Frazer and now a bit if Husserl (just a bit...I am not quite completely insane)...A little Rudolf Otto, some Van Der Leeuw and now a dash of Ninian Smart. All this under the guise of the developement of the academic study of religion. As the boys play with their Tonkas, I have my nose buried in one of my books...wondering where in the hell I am ever going to find the time to actually read and write - if I wanted to take graduate work with any amount of seriousness. I am the madam of multitasking - I used to be able to breastfeed and make a salad simultaneously. It has occured to me that, yes multitasking would be an important skill to have while attempting to complete a PhD...and breastfeeding could very well be as well. BUT, I can't even find 10 minutes of uninterrupted time to have a dump, let alone focus on reading AND writing.

What kind of crazy aspiration do I have?

And then I ask...then why am I reading phenomenology?

Is this some way I placate that little voice inside my head that whispers "you can't teach part-time forever"? Here we stand at the margins of my inner soliloquy...I've been spiraling for about a year...it goes something like this:

• You are good enough, smart enough and dog-gone it people like you!
• read, read read read read read
• research and read read some more
• bad teaching day
  
• enter: doubt
• arrogant academics piss me off
• questioning: I can't imagine fitting the Phd process into my life without first having to sacrifice my 1st, 2nd and 3rd born
• I imagine that I am getting too old for this
• enter: euphoric experience in the classroom
• You are good enough, smart enough and dog-gone..

**sigh**

Now that I have sucked you into my vortex of self cross examination ...you can plainly see that yes...I need some more chocolate.

A Desperate Housewife?

We only have three channels with our TV. Actually four. One is french. So I don't count it. We also don't count the CBC since the reception is so bad that it's not worth watching. So that leaves 2. I do get to indulge in the popular running programs - Desperate Houswives being one of them.

I relate most to Felicity Huffman's character - the one with all the kids. She has the look down pat...that glazed and wide-eyed expression of utter dispair. The look one uses to try and connect with someone out there when the are the kids are having a tantrum of the nuclear variety...a look that begs "please someone feel sorry for me!", a look that is usually met with the unspoken response "You had 'em lady...quit breeding" That's about all this character has in common with us common folk. Most of us desperate housewives are a bit more substantial than a size 2, and don't live in relatively clean and spacious Colonial style homes. I've never seen a dust bunny on that show or watched anyone crack open a box of Kraft Dinner.

There is nothing desperate at all about being a housewife. Desperation belongs back in the dating world and in novels authoured by some broad who changed her last name to "Lovelace". I hate to break it to you guys - Most of being a housewife is just plain boring. It figures that this show is the brainchild of a guy. Has this man ever considered that matching socks can be the highlight of the whole laundry process? Has he ever thought of using a downy ball as a way to spice up his day?

My Very First Blog Posting

Well Shucks.



How special



I've been holed up in my house all weekend - except for the trip to the grocery store I braved yesterday. Husband is out of the country - temporarily. I've been left to fend for myself - and to prevent impending disaster from my 7 , 4 1/2 and 2 1/2 year old sons. Sons. All boys. Three pee-pee's and a me. You're getting the picture. So, I did muster the courage to conquer the supermarket. There are two where I live. The one I prefer and the other one that has the shopping carts shaped into big plastic pick-up trucks. Yep. You can guess where I headed. The supermarket was left relatively unscathed, with the exception of a squished chocolate bar that a cute and chubby 2 1/2 year old hand managed to swipe and drop right under the moving wheel of the truck-cart. I pulled out my best mom-of-three boys trick - keep on pushing and pretend nothing happened.

But thats not the reason I started this blog. I am facing an impending identity crisis. Okay, so this is serious - potentially important shit. I need to talk about it - and frankly - no one understands it better than myself - so I will just go on pretending that I am talking to myself and in the meantime hope that I can work out some of this stuff.

To make a very long story short - I have at least convinced myself that I need to make some decisions about my career. I am linking career with identity very consciously. I want work that doesn't feel like a job, or a job where I don't feel like I am working. Currently, I teach 2 courses at a small university - and although the pay is bloody awful and there is zero job security and benefits - it fits this impossible qualifier. There are issues of course...more complaining about that later.

So why don't I just find a full time teaching position? Well...thats part of the dilemma folks. I would need to get a Phd...which means many things would have to happen and change. I'd be risking my time, energy and dollars into obtaining a very obscure and specific degree with no guarantee of being employed in this chosen field. I find academics to be very mean, nasty and cutthroat in general. Essentially, I am a wimp. Herein lies just a taste of that great crisis I alluded to earlier.

This is my first post. The wild and wacky antics of the Owen, Harry and Aidan Show will no doubt bring a lighter side to my incessant whining. Owen is 7, and was diagnosed with PDD-NOS (an Autistic Spectrum disorder) - and I am quite convinced that he was labelled for the sake of bureaucratic convenience. I'll complain about that too. I'll share my cooking - which is a good thing - and maybe my lefy slanting politics. (Be very afraid!)

I've run out of clever segues so...I'll hit to post button