three messages

A text, from Paul, after he found out he had to work tonight:

Miss you. Oh, the pains my tender soul has inflicted upon it every second we are apart. (He's probably been reading Jane Austen again.)

A voicemail message at work:

"Hi. This is Barbara. I talked to you earlier. You said you were going to early cancel me. I CAN'T COME TO CLASS BECAUSE I'M COUGHING UP YELLOW GUNK. I just got an email that you late cancelled me. WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME. (Barbara's voice is Long Island accented, and coated with about thirty years worth of cigarette smoke and whisky. I replay the message twice before calling Barbara back to apologize for the mistake, after which she thanks me and calls me a doll. Twice.)

A second voicemail at work:

"Hi. This is Floyd Clerkin. I live in Indiana and sometimes I get these faxes from you guys. My daughter is an instructor and she teaches. Anyways you have this picture of this lady on your fliers and she looks like a poor man's Jacqueline Kennedy. She's got sunglasses and a black dress and she's biting her teeth or something. It's really unattractive is what I'm trying to say to you. Really you should do something about this- SHE LOOKS LIKE A POOR MAN'S JACKIE KENNEDY. This is Floyd. Thanks. God bless." (I replay the message three times, save it, and commit it to memory. You don't want to forget someone like Floyd Clerkin.)

sitting in the middle of a hot fudge sundae

We have new kids in nursery.

I don't know if words have been invented yet that can fully express how much Paul and I adored our last bunch of young 'uns. If you're one of our Nursery parents, know this:

I. LOVE. YOUR. KID. FOR. REAL.

So extensive was my adoration that I found myself feeling a little concerned for the coming year. Could I love another group as much? Can your heart really grow that big? Because mine was already splitting and I had tried to fix it with those iron-on patches but it was hopeless.

And I tried to make time stop except it turns out that never works and the New Year came and now we have new nursery kids and I AM IN LOVE AGAIN.

I love how their little brains are trying to understand ideas like sitting in one place and I love how they will share pretend pancakes with you and how they sometimes lie about having poopy diapers and GOOD GRIEF THIS IS A MUSHY POST.

I'm just going to stop now. This is like sitting in the middle of a hot fudge sundae.

Sticky.

monday night study group

Right before finals, I hosted a study group.

It was for my sociology class. Evaluation of Evidence. It's the class Columbia recommends for non-math majors. Which would be me. (I am extremely non-mathy.) Before you register for classes they have you take this placement exam. It's not supposed to be a big deal, but when I was taking the test and making blind guesses and desperate attempts at recalling theorems I'm pretty sure there was some smarty-pants Columbia mucky-muck wearing elbow patches standing behind me pointing and laughing.

So I took Evaluation of Evidence. Which, as far as I'm concerned, ranks as significantly less difficult than rocket science and a bit more challenging than I was anticipating.

Hosting a study group just made sense. It was clear that I had no idea what I was talking about, so why not have some people over who did?

I went to Frank's and picked up five gallons of Diet Coke, two economy size bags of Super Puffed Cheez Doodles, and put in an order for a couple extra large pepperoni pies.

They arrive together: Jordana, Michael, and Remy. Jordana has a tangle of curly brown fizz above ping-pong ball bugged out brown eyes. She's covered in freckles and when she smiles she tilts her head to the side.

Michael is charming, pudgy and balding, with heavy black frames sitting on a hooked nose. He wears bow-ties and sweater vests and talks a lot about his cat named Blanche Devereaux.

Remy is barely five feet tall, all bony edges, with long and straight straw hair and blue eyes that crowd her nose. She hugs her laptop to her chest and her lips attempt to cover her braces.

We crowd in the kitchen and fill our plates, then move to the living room and pull out notebooks. Remy opens her laptop, and begins to beat the tar out of her keyboard.

"I'd like to focus on Weber's Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism" Remy says, pulling a book from her purse.

"We should all write romance novels over the break," Michael says, "and then we can all get together and share them. Like a little writers group or something."

Jordana is giggling at her i-phone. "It's my high school fencing team. They're playing in the finals for like the FIRST TIME EVER."

"I don't know that I want to write a romance novel; all the same, you're quite a visionary." And then Michael and I proceed to debate whether or not Monsoon Wedding is a Bollywood film.

Remy's nose pokes up above her laptop. "I think Weber's use of Ben Franklin as an example of religion and work ethic combining is particularly effective."

"THEY'RE WINNING! MY HIGH SCHOOL FENCING TEAM IS WINNING! I'm texting Brittany."

"Esmerelda's bosom heaved at the sight of Weber's strong and muscled arms."

"Monsoon Wedding is totally not a Bollywood film. There's like no singing at all."

I got a B in the class.

winter break

I'm on winter break right now.

As I type, I am in my pajamas and Gilly is sitting on my lap, napping. Sissy is curled up on the ottoman and her whiskers are twitching, which probably means she's dreaming about soft food, or chasing her catnip filled toy mouse.

I like this winter break thing. For the last three months, I rushed from school to work and from work to home and I can count on one hand the number of times I cooked something that didn't come from a blue box.

I kind of overestimated my multitasking abilities last semester. I was all "sure, I can work part time and go to school and be a wife and get all A's and stuff. No problem." But know what? When you're not eighteen any more, sometimes your body is all like "Nope. You actually can't do that. Sorry." And then you get your first B and it kind of stinks but you get over it.

My stomach is gurgling at me. Time for lunch now.

hello old friend

The way it goes is this:

I break down.

And I don't blog for a while.

Then, I think about blogging for a long while. But to come back from the breakdown is like the change of the seasons, when it's turning from winter to spring and I realize I've forgotten that it can be warm.

I spend time thinking about how to bridge the gap. Blogging is my good friend who probably isn't mad that I haven't called in a while but still seeing her for the first time after that break is sort of awkward and I feel like I need a funny story or something to break the ice.

I think it's because usually my breakdowns follow posts on Big Important Life Stuff and after that I'm not always sure what to say. I mean, Big Important Life Stuff is, well, important and all, but also sometimes you want to post about Paul Boerem because he's just funny.

Which is exactly what I intend to do right now.

The other night as I attempt to drift off to sleep, Paul reaches over and grabs my arm.

"Mmmmffffphhhfffrrrruuuudoingyrnails???" He is both muffled and extraordinarily loud, since he sleeps with earplugs on account of my teeth grinding which I feel very bad about but which I have no control over whatsoever.

"What?"

"Are you doing your nails?"

I want to be mad, but when Paul asks you in the middle of the night in your darkened bedroom if you're painting your nails, it's kind of hard.

"No. No, I'm not."

"Oh. Great, I probably have a tumor."

And he falls right back to sleep. And I should fall back asleep too, but instead I lie awake for a few more minutes chewing on the funny story in my mind like it's bacon or something else delicious.

the time i give myself

I am looking at hairstyles online when Paul finally gets off the phone.

He's always so happy after talking to Kevin. "How is he?" I ask, and Paul smiles and moves his hand in a curve over his belly.

"Kevin got fat?" I ask, and Paul smiles again and shakes his head.

"Ryanne's pregnant again." His smile is the smile of a proud uncle, of a proud brother. And I put on the smile I wear to match his, the smile of a proud aunt, the smile of a barren woman grieving something never lost.

"That's so great!" My voice sounds canned to me, like a recording.

"Wow," I say, "wow."

I walk into the bedroom, and I sit on the orange rocking chair I got Paul for our anniversary. I look out over the rooftops. Before my empty uterus reached up and smacked me in the face I was thinking about doing my Spanish homework, but it is impossible for homework to exist amidst so much pain.

This is stupid, I think. I am happy, I am happy, I am happy. I repeat the words over and over as tears blur my glasses.

There was a talk in General Conference a couple of years ago and it was all about how the Lord remembers us, how we need to hold on, to have faith that we will be blessed. And he quoted the scripture about Rachel, about how God remembers her and she conceives Joseph. I sit in the orange rocking chair and remember that talk. I want for God to remember me, too.

I want to believe that the Lord is preparing something amazing for me, that this is the reason so much time has passed, that this is the reason I am sitting in the orange rocking chair wiping mascara streaks from my face.

Paul walks in, stands beside me, places his hand on my hair. "Are you sad because Ryanne is pregnant?" He asks this in the voice he uses when he is ready to listen, but I remain silent.

He stands beside me for a long time, not pushing my silence.

I don't have an answer to speak, at least not one that's necessary. Paul has been a witness to my waiting. The cat climbs on my lap, and shoves her cold, tiny nose against mine. Paul rubs my neck, and walks back into the living room to watch T.V.

And I sit, in the orange rocking chair I gave Paul for our anniversary. I make a list in my mind of the work to be done, work meant to be done today that I will push to tomorrow. And I give myself this time. This is the time when I can feel the pain. Tomorrow I will tell myself enough now, and I will wash my mind clean of it.

I move from the chair to bed, where I remove my socks and change into my pajamas. As I look up, I can see Paul in the doorway, watching me.



***I wrote this just to witness what I experience, but I really, REALLY want all of you mothers to know how genuinely happy I am for you when you produce a new life. I am especially thinking of my wonderful sisters-in-law who are expecting. Waiting to be a mother is challenging for me, but I never want any of you to feel any guilt on my account. Nothing is better for me than to see women rejoicing in their motherhood.***

society as we know it breaking down

Paul: Can you put more soda in that thing?

Andrea: That thing? Do you mean THAT GLASS?

Paul: Yep.