December 30, 2010
To prove that I could work at Starbucks, I spent several hours yesterday morning, after dropping off the kids to work, sitting at my own little table, headphones snug in my ears, and worked away.
Coding data.
My project: I am attempting to follow the lead of a very famous symbolic interactionist, Herbert Blumer. In the 1930s he published the results of an extensive study examining movies, crime and delinquency, specifically: How do motion pictures influence people's decisions to commit crime?
They don't.
That was his primary result.
Blumer used multiple tools to collect his data with a large number of participants.
Including the "film autobiography."
THAT is the part I have modified into an assignment for my Crime and Popular Film class.
And after 5 years of teaching this course, I have amassed almost 4000 pages of undergraduate student responses to a series of questions they answer over a period of six weeks during the course.
They analyze their responses and write a final paper.
I have kept the responses.
Not sure, initially, what I was going to do with them, but not willing to recycle them, either.
Which is the story of my life.
I don't throw away anything.
But that's for another time.
I am working on analyzing only one of the six questions, where I asked the students to write several pages about how they understood gender in the context of crime films.
Instead of 4000 pages of data, I am only looking at 356 pages.
Which is what I was trying to do Tuesday evening before we were hijacked by the woman who was compelled to tell us her life story in two hours.
Hence why I was sitting in Starbucks, coffee beside me, listening to music, coding data.
And then *I* was distracted.
By the only thing, short of a puppy or dog, that could distract me.
Since, as far as I know, puppies and dogs aren't allowed in Starbucks.
A baby.
More specifically, a twenty-six day old baby girl.
I love babies.
For the longest time after Stephen and I got together, I wanted another baby.
And most of the time I still do want another baby.
But I have resigned myself to waiting for grandchildren.
Which I don't want right away, thank you very much.
But certainly within the next ten years, provided any one of my own children are able to look after an infant.
At this point, I'm doubtful.
This little bundle was so cute, sleeping her portable car seat, snug, content, with the cutest little pink cap covering her head.
I tried to resist.
I really did.
I turned my music up.
Turned my chair in such a way that I couldn't see this little angel out of my peripheral vision.
Buried myself in the at-that-second-not-so-stimulating-data.
All to no avail.
The pull, the power, the strength of the sweetness of that little bundle was too strong.
And I, too weak to resist.
The music was paused.
The headphones came out.
The chair turned around.
The inevitable question, "How old is she?" asked.
The conversation started.
The mother of this adorable child was also quite lovely.
Plus, she had a look I recognized from my own early days of motherhood.
The look that results from waking up one morning and realizing the only person you talk with for most of your day doesn't talk back.
The I-would-really-love-if-some-sane-and-normal-looking-mother-would-talk-with-me-for-just-a-few-minutes-so-I-don't-forget-what-adult-conversation-sounds-like.
But instead she got me.
I tried my best.
We talked for a half hour or so about babies while I stared longingly into the sleeping face of her newborn babe.
Her husband flitted here and there, looking at books, sitting long enough to join briefly in our conversation.
Once comfortable with me, she shared the other reason she was in Starbucks and avoiding returning home.
Her in-laws had arrived two days after the baby was born and were staying until mid-January.
I have been blessed with wonderful in-laws, but I have heard horror stories from others about their in-law experiences.
So I could, to some extent, sympathize.
Escaping the "love" daughters-in-law experience from their mothers-in-law has even provided fodder for reality tv programs.
So who was I to judge her need to get away for a couple of hours, and then attempt to prolong the return home with a stop at Starbucks?
Unfortunately, as all good things do, our time ended when the little baby opened her eyes and signaled that feeding would soon be required, leaving Mum to pack everything up and go in search of her husband.
And leaving me to return to work and wonder,
"I hope I didn't do to her what the crazy woman from last night did to me!"
The kids have been working everyday since Boxing Day.
And will continue to do so right up until they go back to school.
Em is on day 5 of a ten day stretch.
Keith may have a day off next week, but I'm not sure.
And Mer has worked so many doubles this week that she may as well move her bed into the theater.
Not that I'm complaining.
But it has meant that I'm not seeing them as much as I normally do over the holidays.
Last night, tricked into thinking they would all be here for dinner, I prepared a feast of Dijon chicken, white rice, sweet potatoes and a veggie stir fry.
Only to be informed that Mer had picked up another double and Em was staying after work to see a movie with her friends.
Leaving Keith, alone, to fill the void created by working children.
And even he wasn't willing to give up too much of his time to spend with his child-lonely mother who just wanted to be surrounded by the love of her three children.
At least long enough to eat dinner, anyway.
Keith graced us with his presence at dinner last evening, in between finishing work and drunken sledding with his friends last night.
Yes.
Drunken sledding.
Because apparently, sober sledding, that is, flying down hill at sound breaking speeds is fun . . . .
. . . .flying down hill at sound breaking speeds is MORE fun if you have managed to compromise your speech and motor skills and obliterate hundreds of thousands of brain cells at the same time.
My son, who clearly does NOT want to show off his intelligence, thought this would be fun and in the process of hurling down ice laden hills on a piece of plastic while inebriated, broke the arm on his glasses.
Requiring, for the time being, tape to keep them together and on his face.
It isn't bad enough that he does this, but then, because he is my son, he feels the burning need, the tug of the mother-son bond, to share with me his midnight inebriated escapades.
These tales usually begin with, "Guess what happened last night, Mum."
Even I am not that creative, and have to wait for him to regale me with his sordid tales.
And occasionally those of his older sister.
Who apparently, had some adventures of her own last evening.
If I had of ever felt the need to share any of my own youthful larks with my mother, or, worse, actually shared them with her, I'd be the one in a nursing home right now.
With bones that would never heal properly.
Ever.
Given his hair, had he kept his mouth shut, I would have never noticed the Scotch tape holding his glasses together.
But now, because I have been armed with knowledge, I feel obligated to do something about it.
Meaning next week, at some point, I'll have to take him to the optometrist and get them fixed.
Or rather, I will drive him to the optometrist .
He can tell them any story he wants.
But I would caution him to leave out the drunk part.
He is home now, wandering around in his housecoat.
Popping in and out of the kitchen sharing stories with me about other escapades last evening.
And availing himself of the comforts of home.
Food.
Heat.
Laundry machines.
Chugging just below me, attempting to rid his clothes of the remnants of Keith's adventures.
Last evening, just after eating supper and before departing for the madcap mayhem of the evening he said to me,
"You know that once the term starts, I'll stop having so much fun, right?"
Just how am I supposed to respond to that???
Title Lyric: Sledding Gear by Hold Tight!
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