Hiatus Halted

I've been a maniac for the last year. Too many credits and ongoing childcare crises have eaten my time. Fortunately, "dead week" is upon us and I have nothing new to worry about before finals. In theory.

TinyPants is old enough this year to be interested in the snow. He's cautious however, standing next to the snowdrifts with quiet concentration. Being placed in the middle of the yard in knee-deep powder is apparently too traumatic. I guess we've got more time before snow angels, igloos, and snowball fights. Perhaps it's his tropical heritage making itself known.

Every parent carries certain hopes for their children. Some have lists detailing what they would like their child to become. I have only three things I would like him to not become. They are:

1. Serial killer/sociopath/reality TV star (Yes, they all count as one. Think about it)
2. (American) Football player
3. Ice Sculptor

Numba 1 I think is fairly unlikely at this point; we don't seem to have the genetic disposition or the desire to torture small animals and large masses of people. My fear is that simply by identifying 2 and 3, I've increased the chances that they will happen. One day there will be a made-for-TV movie about how TinyPants overcame the astounding obstacle of his mother to become the world's greatest football playing ice sculptor. That's dangerously close to all of the above.

It's not that I particularly mind people who play football or carve things out of ice. They're people, too. However, the idea of being forced to endure yet another high school football game makes me cringey. I was a band geek in high school. Pep band was the ultimate intensification ritual for nerds. ART IS SECONDARY TO SPORTS AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT. It crafted a profound bitterness in my soul to all that is football. Plus, unless you're playing, it's friggin boring.

On the subject of ice sculpture, it may seem counter-intuitive for an art student to be so critical of peers in the field, but I just hate it. Passionately.

In the end, I'll gladly support whatever my kid wants to do (unless it involves killing people). I would just rather it wasn't one of those three things.

That's all.

That Guy

I survived the epoch of syllabus week with my brains largely intact within my skull. My head remains free of zombie attacks and the increasingly more likely self-inflicted gunshot wound. However, I can't help but notice in every class the presence of that guy. When I say that guy I'm not describing a specific individual. In my entire life I've never had a class that didn't have that guy in it. Sometimes that guy is a girl. That guy's mouth moves faster than his brain and he lives for inappropriate interjection. Professors deal with him in different ways.

My creative process instructor exhibits a clear inability to ignore that guy. After watching a biographical film on Vincent van Gogh, before my instructor even turned the lights back on, that guy started rambling: "Dude, he was totally bipolar. Don't you think he was bipolar? I mean, like, he was clearly, like, really sad at some points in his life, but then like.. he had the manic phases too. That's total manic-depressive shit. I mean, dude, I've been around a lot of bipolar people, and van Gogh was totally bipolar. Like how at the end of his life, he finally achieved this awesome success and recognition, but then, he like kills himself. For reals." No one is contesting van Gogh is a psychologically interesting character, and somewhere in the drivel that guy makes a point about how mental illness may have played a role in van Gogh's artistic vision. However, he wouldn't stop. His diagnosis of Vincent van Gogh continued for at least twenty minutes despite my instructor's attempts to derail him.

At least three confirmed those guys sit in the first two rows of my writing class. My professor handles them extremely effectively. Despite the tendency of those guys to amplify each other, he skillfully redirects, interrupts, or tastefully ignores them. He maintains control over the discussion without insulting those guys and leaves plenty of room for more thoughtful people to participate.

I hate pretension, so I try not to be snob. Part of me feels a little guilty blogging about something as condescending as my opinion of that guy. That guy does appear to be really amped about his education. However, the content and method of his enthusiasm appears to be directed more toward feeling secure about what he thinks he already knows rather than acquiring anything new. He is a hindrance to my concentration, expression, and learning, so I am forced to regard him with utmost contempt.

Mutha Superia?

I survived the midterm gauntlet, and now we are blasting toward the end of the semester at ludicrous speed. My son has been getting over and re-contracting several bouts of flu-like gunk which is turning the whole household into sleep-deprived, dripping zombies.

I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I'm not an especially great mother: that "Leave it to Beaver" mom with the baking and torpedo boobs. I get so frustrated. I love my son more than life -- it's not about that. I'm unable to coalesce my role as MUTHA SUPERIA with the identity I forged prior to baby-making. I can't be that lone wolf crazy girl any more. I feel enormous pressure from my mom and everyone to be some kind of perfect mother. I just can't do it. Fail.

I ran into my friend April who has a son about the same age as mine. We talked about kids and family life. When she asked me what I was doing with TinyPants during ACADEMIC ADVENTURE TIME, I told her about my daycare. She asked me, "Wasn't it just awful?"

She was referring to the day when you leave your child in the care of strangers for the first time. Some of the moms I know speak of this day the way WWII vets speak about D-Day: traumatic and strenuous. Not so for me. On TinyPants' first day, he looked around bewildered for a moment, but immediately fixated on the other kids. He practically dove out of my arms to start playing. I felt such stark, cool relief. The world was mine again. The constant anxiety ebbed. I could go to school, and I could spend a few hours being me. Just me.

So, no, April. It wasn't awful. It was liberating.

Somehow I think this makes me a freak of nature. I could never, ever, EVER be a permanent stay-at-home mom. It is the most difficult and least appreciated job on the planet -- you don't even get paid! I give credit to the women and men who choose to be "full-time" parents. I just can't do it. I hope my son will be able to forgive me one day for being what I am.

Jobby Jobs in da Liberal Artses

Here is an article about the value of a liberal arts degree in the job market:

http://encarta.degreesandtraining.com/articles.jsp?article=featured_is_there_hope_for_a_philosophy_major&gt1=27001

It's a bit contrived in some ways, but I agree with the message. Studying the liberal arts certainly is improving my life at the moment.. We'll see how chewed up I get by the job market when I graduate.

Everybody acts like the perfect job is just sitting out there waiting and all anyone has to do is get some kind of cookie cutter degree to trim the edges so you'll just fit. Life is never like that. Sure, it's important to have an education, but even an MBA is no guarantee of a job or more importantly of a satisfying career. Inevitably, an individual has to create that for themself in one way or another. Especially in the humanities/liberal arts. Being creative and flexible is obviously a plus.

Critique, Episode I

For a person with any kind of anxious disorder, critique day feels like putting your head on the chopping block. Not only is it required to speak in a formal setting, but your artistic guts are on display for judgement. It's painful, but there's a sweetness to it. It's sadomasochism at its best.

In life I am severely prone to unnecessarily complicating EVERYTHING (like this sentence). My first metals piece in six years had to be something extraordinarily difficult, or else it just wouldn't be me. I smithed a prego belly out of a sheet of copper, complete with fetus and umbilical cord. I melted solder everywhere. I had a bazillion flat spots. Best piece EVERRRRR. Everyone else seemed pretty on top of their game. I always feel like I'm playing catch-up. This is an ongoing theme.

The piece came from my ongoing struggle with postpartum depression. It was more difficult to talk about than I expected. Lynne gave me until Tuesday to work out the technical problems.

Survived!

Math One-oh-Suck

Math never worked for me. Something about formal logic and analysis fails to compute along the synapses of my otherwise occupied brain. Sure, I can do basic math functions required for daily living (I'm not that incapable), but taking it in class makes it abstract and meaningless. However, The Powers Who Would Be Academia decided long ago that all students must demonstrate a certain proficiency with the MATHEMATICS. They say it is to ensure that all graduating students have a foundation with which to enter the workforce. I say it's a dirty scheme to collect excess tuition and class fees by extending the amount of time Liberal Arts Majors require to graduate. Fiends.

Math is like my worst ex-boyfriend. When we first met, Math made me feel special and smart. I understood Math so, so well. No tricks required. However, our relationship complicated exponentially as time passed. I opened my eyes and realized everyone was doing Math. I no longer understood. Math changed. I swore I'd never do Math again, but I keep coming back for more. It's like I'm addicted.. calling Math up late at night and doing long division.. I do Math every day.

That analogy maybe went a little too far.

My Math in Modern Society (read: math for dumbass Art Majors) professor is an odd little man who wears the same shirt and tie almost every day. His website features a photo of him at a ski resort, cap and chest-length beard frosted with snow. His contempt for our mediocre computation abilities is dwarfed only by his social awkwardness. From an artist's perspective, he is incredibly interesting and I sketch him in every class period. From a less than spectacular student's perspective, he is a whip wielding slave driver in the service of our master: the Dark Lord of Mathematics. I have to pass this class in order to maintain my financial aid -- failure or withdrawal are not options.

We recently had our first test and I got --- 59%! Failed by a landslide! Wooo! I don't do well under pressure. I have to step it up in this class or else it is instant death.

Curse you Powers Who Would Be Academia.. CURSE YOU!! AND ALL CONVOLUTED BUREAUCRACIES EVERYWHERE!

Attack of the Freshman!

"No one makes money in art."

This is the mantra of parents and guidance counselors everywhere: Don't go to art school or you will die poor, hungry, and alone. Zombies will eat your spleen and you will never experience joy. EVER. Since you're good with your hands, why not try auto mechanics?

I did try the tech school thing for a while. I got through almost half of the welding program at my university when *BAM* I got pregnant (D'oh!). Having a kid really forced me to re-evaluate my priorities. I decided to scrap the welding career in order to show my son the importance of following your dreams.

So here I am. Starting over. Again. I'm 24 years old, momma, clinging on to Plan D and staring down the "Freshman" label on my university webprofile. My son and I are living on student loans with no promise of a bright future, but we're going to make it happen.

Take that, high school guidance counselor. Who needs a spleen, anyway!?