December 9, 2010
Feeling this tired, I should of had a whole lot more fun yesterday than I did.
An endless parade of frazzled first years and tuckered third years came to me yesterday like I was the mountain and they were Mohammed.
Part of that is correct.
And in those few, and I mean few, short periods of quiet, I was editing, editing, editing.
And the editor was in the next room, passing pages of my manuscript with lightening speed.
Matched by my I-wish-I-had-lightening-but-I-can't-even-find-rain speed.
Interspersed throughout the mania and panic, the frustrations and hair pulling (mine, not my students) were the phone calls from home, reminding me, in case I had the audacity to forget, that I have an entire other life outside of my office.
And if there was ever a day where I would have, perchance, forgotten this, yesterday would have been that day.
Even my parents called, to lay on a layer of extra thick and creamy guilt.
Last evening was the nursing home Christmas party.
I was not there.
Experience tells me this is something for which I was pay, greatly.
Instead of partaking of cranberry juice and petit fours, I was in front of my computer, editing, or at my desk, editing.
The at my desk editing was for my students.
Who have, at this point, about as much confidence in their writing abilities as I have in mine.
Now, the day may not have been so long yesterday had I communicated better with my husband.
I laboured under the delusion that he had an appointment at 7.00 pm last evening.
He had an appointment at 6.00 pm.
By the time I was apprised of my error, it was too late to do anything about it.
This would be one of those experiences where I may have thought less about our decision to be a one car family.
A lot less.
Instead of coming home for 6.00 and enjoying a lovely meal of homemade chicken with wild rice soup and black bread, I had my supper at my desk.
Supper that was hastily delivered with an "I'm late I'll pick you up when I'm done!" and not even so much as a peck on the cheek.
MY husband was supposed to have dinner at my desk, too.
Cause misery loves company.
But, as usual, his internal clock was running about 30 minutes behind that of the entire planet's.
He returns at 8.00 pm.
I have been in my office since 8.00 am.
Tired and cranky are my office companions.
I want to go home.
But, I am missing a child.
Emily.
I know, approximately, where she is but I don't know if she knows that I want to leave.
Through texting and voice mail, I inform her that I am ready to leave.
We sit for another 30 minutes waiting for her to return my phone calls and texts.
Cause I was NOT getting home only to have to turn around and go right back out again.
I had to sit at the kitchen table and finish those edits.
And I did.
And at 10.30, I sent the completely edited manuscript to the proofreader for its final, and I do mean final, once over.
I'm starting to think that writing books is like giving birth.
You say you're never going to do it again.
But you do.
Because in between never and again there is a hidden space where your mind tucks away all the horrific memories until its too late.
And then hauls them out again.
While you listen to the cosmic muwahhhahahahahahaha in the background.
One bright spot during my day kept me from wanting to hurl myself off the Westmoreland Street Bridge.
A student came into my classroom during the last-class-help-with-term-paper-session with a plastic grocery bag.
And in this bag was a profusion of Lebanese delights.
I LOVE Lebanese food.
Okay, I love all food, but especially Lebanese food.
And this lovely student brought me and mine a meal for 4 in a bag.
A huge tub of hummus and bags of things I don' t know the name of, but it didn't matter because not knowing the name does not interfere with the taste.
It was simply delicious.
I know because I started eating as soon as she left.
Until Stephen intervened and took the bag away.
Under my barrage of admonishments about what would happen to his physical person if he ate it all before I did.
The kids each feasted on the bounty in the bag.
Loving every. single. solitary. minute.
We usually only have Lebanese food when we go to Basha's in Montreal, on the corner of Mansfield and St. Catherines.
But yesterday, Basha's came to me.
Emily, while sitting at the table with her plate in front of her, munching away in complete and utter rapture said,
"I wonder what it would be like to have a Mom who made you Lebanese food just because."
Thank you, thank you, thank you Mrs. Y.
You achieved the one thing I never had.
You made my 16-almost-17 year old happy.
Bless you!
Title Lyric: Bad Day by The Flaming Lips
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