Daycares

I've gone from full- to part-time parenting this week, which helps explain my last post. A week ago, I decided to see how my daughter would respond to a visit to her old daycare. After 5 minutes of shyness, she not only wanted to stay and play with her friends, but she wanted me to leave. (Her precise words: "Mommy, go. a. way.") I decided to enroll her for 2 days a week, which thankfully is an option at this particular place. So far, I'm finding this routine pretty ideal.

Last year, I suffered enormous guilt over putting her in daycare 4 days a week. While her teachers assured me she had "great days," drop-off usually involved tearful clinging that left me, at least, emotionally drained and confused. I was ashamed of my emotional reaction, knowing that my daughter would quickly move on to having a good time. But it still felt wrong to leave her in that way.

And it felt particularly wrong when I would return home to face a solitary day of writing (or, more often, not writing). How could I claim that writing was more important than raising my child? Writing, moreover, that was not adding even one penny to the family coffers?

It was so much easier to leave her with someone else when I'd then head off to a day of teaching, office hours, meetings, grading. When I had no time to reflect on it, and felt I had no other options than to leave her with a sitter.

In my clearer moments, I'm quite sure that my daughter has only benefitted from her daycare situations. Most importantly, she's had the chance to play with other kids, which, as an only child of rather un-social parents, she doesn't get very much when she's home.

And, in my clearer moments, I see how important it is that I continue to work, to push through this block I've had. My daycare guilt, I have to admit, has been as much an expression of professional insecurities as of concern for my daughter's well-being. Hopefully, this new part-time arrangement will clear some of the emotional baggage from the air, and allow me to focus on my work, as well as spend quality time with my daughter, without giving me enough time to wallow in self-pity.

Yeah, baby

I just turned something in ahead of deadline. I can't remember the last time I did that.

Still wondering what I'm doing

I know it hasn't been very long yet, but I'm still feeling pretty unsettled with my blogging voice. Mainly, I'm confused about audience, I think. Am I writing for myself, or for others? Do I want to attract readers, to entertain, amuse, enlighten? Or do I want to try to articulate, as best I can given the constraints of time and space, what's on my mind as I trudge through my daily life?

Because, in my case, I think these are two very different things. If, as I imagine, I'm mainly shooting for the latter, then why publish these writings on the web? When it comes down to it, I don't believe I'm a very interesting person, or that I have much to say that others would want to hear. But each time I hit "publish" I'm saying, interesting or no, this is what I'm thinking, take it or leave it. And I'm finding that sort of liberating, though mostly I feel like a dork.

Insomniac movie review

I watched "Me, You, and Everyone We Know" during a bout of insomnia last night. I hadn't even heard of the film before Netflix recommended it, though it apparently got a lot of press when it came out last year. (The closest movie theater is a half hour's drive, and we'd have to hire a babysitter, so we don't pay much attention to new releases. I totally heart Netflix.)

Many of the reviews, which I read after watching it, talk about how uplifting and affirmative the film is. Can I just say that, for much of the last half, I bawled my eyes out? Perhaps I just needed a good cry and a humanist movie in the middle of the night provided good cover. But there was something so unbearably moving to me about the way the film's unguarded, lonely characters ultimately and courageously forged connections with others, against the enormous odds of a world where consumerism and computers mediate so much of social life. Yeah, I guess I'd characterize that as affirming, but it also suggested, or reinforced, the idea that only odd, eccentric, off-the-grid types of people manage to hold on to their humanity in 21st-century society. And this makes me sad, even though I end up loving these quirky characters, because it offers no real hope for everyone else.

I was also moved by the acting, which was so refreshingly...I don't know, raw? I want to say unguarded again. Anyway, I give it a thumbs up.

On being happy

I just read Dr. Bitch's announcement about her taking a leave-without-pay in LA where her family will be able to live on her husband's salary, and she can get some writing done. Given that I'm essentially doing the same thing (albeit NOT in LA) why am I feeling jealous? (I do, at the same time, feel genuinely happy for her, and I hope she writes some kick-ass articles.) Obviously, I'm jealous because I wish I were the kind of person who could productively embrace this time off rather than get lost in it.

My anonymous commenter asks what makes me happy, which is a question that typically stops me in my tracks. Were I to be absolutely honest, I'd have to say something quite vague, like: I'm happiest when I'm most free of inhibition, when I'm immersed in what I'm doing, when I feel connected with others without losing my sense of self. And rather than "happy," I'd call it feeling alive, which can coexist with sadness, anger, or any emotion really.

This feeling, I realize, depends on situations in which I'm interacting with others who are also "alive": intense and focused conversations; teaching moments when my students are inspired by and inspiring one another; playing chamber music (OK, that's my previous career) with people who are completely focused on and responsive to one another; playing with my daughter.

Writing, interestingly, doesn't really come up on that list. I think that's because writing, at least academic writing, is so solitary; feedback comes so infrequently. I don't feel, except at rare moments, the "aliveness" that makes those interactive situations so wonderful for me.

But I do, clearly, value writing. What writing allows, that teaching, conversation, playing don't, is a time and space for reflection; a chance to articulate your thoughts with precision, to more carefully acknowledge their relationship to others' thoughts and ideas, and to consider their multiple layers of meaning and relevance. And given the fact that I'm usually inhibited around others, and conversation often leaves me feeling frustrated rather than inspired, writing allows me to express myself, and at least opens the door to interaction.

One reason I left music performance for academia is that I craved a space for reflection, which was woefully absent from the classical music world as I knew it. I guess it's obvious that my problem now is I have too much space for reflection, and not enough (hardly any) intense interactions that might give me something tangible to reflect on.

Uh, I'm back.

Well, this is awkward. I guess the "pithy posting" idea didn't really work. But I'm now back, to the blog and to my life-in-limbo.

My family's deadline for making big, life-altering decisions approaches, and we are no closer to clarity than we were a year ago. My new plan for this blog is to use it to think through what's really at stake in staying here vs. going back.

Here, as I see it, are the questions that need answering: How do I really feel about giving up my job and perhaps my academic career so my husband can pursue his? What would this do to my sense of self? To our family life? Do I really care as much about my career as he cares about his? Might this be the right time for me to return to my previous career, which was always more fun for me if less rewarding financially? Is that even a possibility?

And do I want to raise my kid in a small town that is almost entirely white and middle class, but has good public schools--whatever that means--and is safe, full of fun stuff for kids to do, and a half day's drive from a number of big interesting cities? As opposed to sending her to the culturally rich, ethnically diverse (economically, not so much), progressive town that beckons us back, where the public schools are hurting, traffic is so bad that it can take a half day to get to the nearby big city, etc. etc.? [Note to self: don't list all your questions at once, if you want to continue breathing.]

For most of the last year, we told ourselves we were for sure going to return. (I mean, really, who wouldn't?) But in just the last couple of weeks this "middle of nowhere" has started to seem much less isolated, and more inviting. For one thing, it's summer and this place comes alive in the summer with cultural activities, some of them directly related to the "previous career" I'm apparently not ready to divulge just yet. (As if I haven't aleady given enough away to be recognized by anyone who knows me irl AND happens to find this buried blog.)

And then there are the friends we suddenly seem to have made. Back in the hip metropolis where a house and (my) job await, we have many acquaintances and some family, but almost no real friends. I'm talking about the kind that you regularly get together with for dinner, that you can drop in on unannounced, that you don't feel you have to clean the house for, that share your politics. Friends are a good thing.

And it's certainly making a difference to my well being that I've decided to keep toddler girl (I need to come up with a nickname) home for a while, before carting her back off to daycare. Which means, I'm taking a break from my "work," aka, "the book," and it scares me how little I miss it. I couldn't have done this back home, where we need two full-time salaries to pay our mortgage.

Maybe, just maybe, my difficulty getting motivated to work on this book isn't just about my being neurotic and insecure and lazy. Maybe (dare I say it) the book doesn't need to be written. Or I'm not the one who needs to write it.

Whew. I need a nap.