There but for the Grace of... God?

I know.  I know.
Everyone has had something to say about the recent shooting of 26 people, 20 of them small children, in Connecticut.
But I cannot possibly have a blog in which I write about my thoughts on the daily goings on of my life and the world around me and not address such a tragic, life changing event.
Except that there really is nothing to say.

Often when horrible things happen, babies are born disabled, husbands are killed in car accidents, mothers are robbed at gunpoint, I think, there but for the grace of God go I.

But that statement, I realize, implies that "God" has chosen to save me and mine from tragedy.  This then means that He has chosen not to save others.  Why?  Because I am somehow meant to do something great, or my child is, and she needs me to raise her in a particular way that will allow her to do this wonderful thing in some bizarre Sarah Connor/ John Connor kind of fate or destiny?
That then means that the 20 children who died were not as important to God as the children who live long, healthy lives.

No.

That doesn't make any sense.

And that is the at the crux of all of this.

None of it makes any sense.  And it never will.  Whether or not you have faith in some higher power.

All I can do is hug my baby tighter, cry for the little ones whose mommies don't get to hold them anymore, and hope desperately that somehow, some way, they will get to see each other again.  That those mommies will get to feel their babies in their arms again, smell their hair, nuzzle their necks, kiss their noses.  Because without that hope, without even the slightest chance of a reunion, what hope for humanity at all?

Life is about love, about service to each other, about connecting, touching, feeling.  Without these things we are lost.

Many, many parents are lost out there right now, not just the parents who lost their babies on Friday, but parents all around the world who have lost their children to meaningless violence.

More than anything we as global citizens should come together to work toward an end to meaningless violence, to the destruction of children's innocence and the loss of such good, pure lives.

Think about this next time you walk past a group of laughing, playing, joyfully squealing children.
I know I will.

An Ode to J.D. Robb

I am currently reading (in all my free time) A Room of One's Own, by Virginia Woolf, and Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall, edited by Kate Bernheimer.  In A Room of One's Own Woolf opines on the reasons for the severe lack of literature by women in the history of the western world.  Writing in the early twentieth century, she points out that without the adequate resources that most male writers take for granted and some time and space in which to reflect on one's thoughts and actually follow through with writing them down, women who could become brilliant writers instead end up lost in laundry and dishes, or at best, some awesome writer's mistress, wife, or sister.  Bernheimer, on the other hand, compiles a selection of today's women writers to reflect on the impact that fairy tales have had on their own writing experiences.  She chooses women from around the world, from different walks of life, and who work in different genres.  What a difference a half century makes, huh?

So what does all this have to do with J.D. Robb, perhaps better known as Nora Roberts?

Well, for starters, she was one of those women without a room of her own.  Before she began seriously writing she was a single mother making money any way she could, holding down a variety of different jobs to support her two small sons.  Once she decided to jump in and do it, to write for a living, it took a lot of work, a lot of patience, and as she says, the mandate in her house that while she was writing she was not to be disturbed unless there was fire or blood.  Obviously her boys were a bit older than my 9 month old.  

But she did it.  She found a room of her own in her own way and has become quite a prolific, best selling author.  

Of course, I had no clue about any of this when I first picked up her books as a young woman looking for the romance that I did not have in my life in paperback novels.  I just like the way, as one reviewer put it, "Nora Roberts can sure spin a tale."

Now, after working academically and professionally on literature for seven years, much of my reading (again, in all my free time) is academic.  I read to expand my knowledge of the world, to stay fresh in my various fields of literature and education, to flesh out my understanding of subjects with which I am not familiar, to engage the Spanish and French language sections of my brain, and so on.  

But in the middle of it all, when the reading becomes overwhelming and my brain feels like it will not expand any more in this moment, it simply cannot take any more information or learning, I turn to Death.

J.D. Robb's In Death series is just fun, fun, fun.  I have come to enjoy those books more than I do any television show I follow, because in the same way that a book is better than the movie on which it is based, the In Death series is like a television series that is crying out desperately to be made, if only so we fans can lament the fact that the show can never be as good as the books.  These books are witty, gruesome, action-packed, even a bit educational, with a little bit of solid romance thrown in.  

Eve Dallas, New York Lieutenant 50 years in the future, the main character, is as badass chick as they come, and her husband, a billionaire businessman/reformed mastermind criminal hailing from Ireland, is a badass in his own right.

The relationship between these two, and among them and the other major characters in the series, of which there are many, is simply striking.  The character development is constant.  And the ability of Robb to come up with a new, riveting yet disturbing murder scenario plot is pleasantly surprising.  

In short, if you haven't turned to these books when you are yearning for a quick paperback read, you should.  

I know I'm looking forward to my next escape into that fascinating fantasy world.  

Time is Not on My Side

It's racing past me!  Before I knew it, I graduated from college, and I missed the experience, wondering if I had fully enjoyed it as I should have, wanted to.  Then, I graduated again, from graduate school, in the blink of an eye, feeling much the same way.  Could I have done more?  Met more people?  Socialized with faculty more?
My mother used to say when we were little that I was a new soul and my sister was an old soul.  In a weird way that makes sense to me now.  Take our different pregnancies.  I was content to fully enjoy the experience, savoring each day, as if this was all new to me and I wanted to appreciate each moment.  My sister, on the other hand, with her first, and now again with her second pregnancy, is desperate to just get it over with already, as if she has done it a million times and the novelty has definitely worn off.  I was happy to wait until my due date, even deliver a little late.  I loved being pregnant.
Now, with my daughter, I am having the same experience.  My television is almost never on when she is awake, so I can drink up each smile, each tumble, each unintelligible sound.  And I find that I even leave it off most times when she is sleeping, so I can savor the few moments I have of peace, storing up my energy to crawl after her as she races down the hall toward the cat, a toy, her uncle, her daddy, an electrical outlet.  Before I know it she will be in kindergarten, then middle school, screaming that she hates me and it is so unfair that I won't let her date that college boy who works at the local cafe.

All this to say that I recently received an email from a supervisor where I teach inviting me to apply for a new position my company has created that would allow me to work from home.
A dream come true!  Right?

At first, I did think so.  I imagined it:  never having to leave my daughter, all this extra time with her, my office set up at home, my sister coming in a few days a week to stay with Celaya while I diligently do the busy work that needed my undivided attention.  The hourly pay was less, but the hours were more, so I would overall be contributing more financially to my family.  All good.

Until I remembered trying to pay that bill yesterday, and my daughter "Gah gah gah gah gah!" demanding my attention.  And trying to put her down for a nap in the rocking chair as she writhes and twists for five to ten minutes before falling asleep so I can put her in her crib, then often waking up five minutes later so I can go through the whole process again.  And the long walks in the morning we enjoy whenever it is convenient for us.  And the several times a week we head off to the several different stores we shop at for our necessities.  And my husband coming home from work only to need an hour or two for his homework, if he's not heading off to class.

Right now, I have unlimited amounts of patience for all of it.  I gently hum to my daughter when she smacks me in the face before her nap.  I just throw her in the front carrier when I absolutely have to get something done.  We do it together.  She does not stress me out.  My crazy life, that would most certainly stress out a full time working (even from home) mother, does not stress me out.

Right now, I can blog.  I can read.  I can stare out my window.  I can allow my daughter as much time as she needs to get through a meal or fall asleep, or crawl around naked before bath time.  And when it seems like I'm losing myself in the mundane daily tasks of motherhood and running a household, I get to leave Celaya with people who love and adore her and go off to a fun job a few hours a week to make some good money and take a nice break.

Everything I love most about my life right now I would lose.

So thanks, deceptively appealing job.  But no thanks.