Language Time

Cupcake's words are coming fast and furious now. I've noticed her repeating many of the words that I am saying to her like bib, spoon, etc. Last night we listened in amazement as she attempted "Oscar". She already seems to have a word for Lulu but Oscar is a bit trickier. It came out kind of like "Doscktor" but it was still discernibly his name. I am also a bit blown away that she can tell the two dogs apart. Obviously to me there are very clear differences, male/female, you know those kinds of things. But even my mother- in-law can't tell them apart, maybe because she is the antithesis of a dog lover. If I am sitting on the couch with Lulu next to me and I tell Cupcake to give Oscar a kiss she will walk over to where he is sitting and make her little fish lips face. Sometimes she runs around with her lips permanently fixed into that position passing out kisses to Mama, Dada and the two dogs. Although lets be clear here it is not like she is frenching the dogs it is more air kissing and occasionally whoever is feeling extra loving might give her a little lick back.

Mistaken Identities

I received a phone call from a colleague/good friend that I absolutely had to take. Cupcake, however had just climbed into her stroller and was insisting that we go "day, day". I figured I would wheel her down to the shops while I talked. We had just come to a halt in front of our local convenience store as I was deep in conversation. Suddenly I heard a little voice call out "Dada! Dada!" I looked down to see Cupcake excitedly pointing at a man walking towards us. "Dada! Dada!" she cried. This guy looked a bit worse for the wear- tracksuit, gold rings, bottle of lucozade under one arm, paper under the other. He was probably shaking off his midweek hangover when my darling daughter started screaming her heart out mistaking him for her Daddy. "No sweetheart, that is not your Dada." As soon as I got home I phoned himself at work and told him the news, "Somebody has a new Dada!"

Then last night we rented Duplicity with Clive Owen and Julia Roberts. As we walked home from the movie rental place, Cupcake opened the cover of the dvd. "Mama? Mama?" she was pointing to a picture of Julia Roberts. Oh sweetheart, you know how to flatter your mother.

Helping Hands

I was in the kitchen preparing some lunch for friends that are coming over this afternoon. Cupcake was talking about 'Dora' (Dora is her new word and this morning she said Lulu! Or something that means Lulu) and taking all the magnets off the fridge. I was deep in concentration chopping some peaches for a peach salsa when somebody hands me the salt. 'Thanks' I say, and then I stop and realise that somebody is standing next to me on the stool. At the counter. Are you kidding me? Now I am going to have to child proof the counters. Where will this madness end?

How Do I Know I Am Doing This Right?

This past weekend I called my mother in tears. "I am a terrible parent!" I cried. "How come 'Daddy Cool' makes it looks so effortless? I have absolutely no patience for anything!" We ran through the list of everything I was doing 'wrong' to which my mother pointed out that I was not actually doing these things right or wrong, I was just learning how to deal with them. I think at times it can be so difficult being this far away from my mother. I want to be able to have her observe Cupcake and assess my parenting skills or suggest different solutions to what I perceive as my 'problems'. Parenting doesn't come with a guidebook, so how in the hell am I supposed to know how to handle different situations? I do not think that just because I am a woman that automatically means I know how to nurture, or multitask. There isn't some biological switch inside me that clicks into 'parent mode' and magically helps me cope.

This probably won't be the last of these type of hysterical phone calls I make to my mother.

The Soup that Keeps on Giving

For the past couple days I have been eating a homemade soup. For some reason when I am sick - just confirmed by the doctor, no not swine flu but a throat infection - I stuff myself with homemade soup, tea, and cinnamon toast (toast with butter, cinnamon and sugar- a PBA family recipe). I used to drink hot flavoured gelatin, a cure suggested by my grandmother which probably came into being during the depression days but that no longer makes the list.

My soup, when I was healthy started off as a search for turkey albondigas (note the previous post was spelled incorrectly for all you Spanish sticklers out there...). As I googled I came across hundreds of recipes claiming to have the moist-est meatballs. This appears to be a common problem with turkey mince. My solution when I make my meatloaf is usually to mix in some yummy spicy sausage. One recipe I came across suggested bread crumbs soaked in milk. What the hell I thought, let's give it a go. In went the turkey, milk soaked bread, onions, garlic, a lightly beaten egg, a splash of olive oil and some various spices including my new smoked paprika I purchased en Espana. Next I fried them up in a little olive oil. Note I am totally against frying - it just seems so pointless when things can be baked, grilled, broiled, boiled, stir fried, you get the picture. But I think meatballs are probably the one food on earth that really require frying. I didn't cook them all the way through, rather just browned the outside. I then added them to a pot of boiling broth (stock cube, onion, carrots and chopped spinach). After vigourously simmering for quite some time I added some tiny farafellini pasta. Okay so the meatballs weren't super moist but the unexpected bonus was this lovely really meaty stock. I have been making stock for years but never NEVER have I had something like this. Usually I throw in a whole chicken carcass with some good thigh meat but it has never turned out so flavoursome. For the past couple of days I have been replenishing the broth with water and the stock is still lip smacking. I am hoping that I will be cured by the time this soup runs out, although I still have at least a day or two left in it.

Stereotypes

Last night I met an American acquaintance of a friend at a leaving party. I was struck by the extremely contentious nature of her comments. Por ejemplo... She made some comment about something that I cannot entirely remember and I said that I thought she was stereotyping people. She then proceeded to argue that a stereotype had to contain some element of truth otherwise why would they reflect characteristics of a certain person - i.e. race, class, gender, sexuality, etc. I argued that stereotypes did not reflect elements of truth, rather they could be seen as the way in which cultural hegemonic discourses oppress marginalised people. It was possibly the most frustrating conversation I have had all week. That is aside from telling my daughter repeated why it is only possible to wear one pair of shoes at a time, but as she is a 17 month old I am generally a bit more patient. To add to my frustration (last night) another acquaintance turned to me and said "Yeah I am not really into feminism, it is too political for me." I replied, "Oh you don't think women and men should have equal rights?" Of course the response was "Sure I do." "There you go, that is feminism" I said through gritted teeth.

Tribute to Nonnie Garbuio

I have decided today to write a tribute to my great-aunt, Genevieve E Worthington (nee Garbuio). She passed away on Tuesday after being in hospice care for the last two weeks. Nonnie as she was known by our family was the youngest of six children. She was born in 1924 in Eastland Texas. She was married twice and never had any children. In her later years Nonnie was semi-recluse and suffered from diabetes and breast cancer. When I was in college went to visit her a couple times and she gave me tons of beautiful brushes and paints. Other than that I am not really sure what to say about her except she was a fiery Italian-American who was occasionally dramatic and prone to bouts of depression. You might ask why am I writing this tribute if I don't have much to say about her. When I received the email forwarded on from my mother, my dad's cousin indicated that Nonnie wanted there to be no funeral or memorial service. To this end there wasn't even an obituary published. This struck me as incredibly sad. My grandmother and her youngest sister often had a turbulent relationship. They could go long periods of time without communicating, sometimes event two to three years. But despite their scuffles, they were family and they loved each other. They always came back to one another in the end. If my grandmother were alive today she would be devastated at Nonnie's passing. Personally I think that we need to memorialise the lives of friends and families. It helps people to grieve and depending on what you might or might not believe I think it sends good karma off into the universe. 

Nonnie, I am dedicating this Sylvia Plath poem to you:

Words (1963)

Axes

After whose stroke the wood rings,

And the echoes!

Echoes traveling

Off from the center like horses.

The sap

Wells like tears, like the 

Water striving 

To re-establish its mirror

Over the rock

That drops and turns,

A white skull,

Eaten by weedy greens.

Years later I 

Encounter them on the road-

Words dry and riderless,

The indefatigable hoof-taps.

While

From the bottom of the pool, fixed stars

Govern a life.

Our Spanish Getaway

You may have been wondering where I have disappeared to. Alicante to be exact! We arrived home yesterday evening totally exhausted. But let's not rush the retelling of the trip...

My in-laws have an apartamento in Rojales, a little village about 25 minutes away from Alicante. We arrived in on Friday evening to the exuberant welcome of two cousins, a Nana we haven't seen for three weeks, an anxious sister-in-law who wanted to hold cupcake the instant we arrived and a nice brother-in-law who happened to swing by the airport on his way down from Valencia to collect us.  We dumped our things and then went downstairs for some well deserved beers. The weather did absolutely nothing to diminish our thirst as it was easily still 33*C or about 90 degrees F.  Thanks to our pseudo-Spanish relations we also enjoyed many different tapas.

Day 2 we ventured to the pool located up in Quesada in a little village complex. To our complete surprise, Cupcake was very unimpressed. Later that afternoon, about 4 we headed out to the beach and again it was not a big hit. Later that evening after a well deserved siesta, I grilled up some spatchcock chickens and some mini chorizo sausages. I also made up a huge plate of grilled veg and a salad with donut peaches, serrano ham, feta cheese and dry rosted almonds. I was most excited to see the donut peaches there as they are probably one of my most anticipated fruits that I have whenever I return home to San Francisco. Their season is incredibly short - just about 4-5 weeks so it is best to fill up while one can. In Spain they are called paraguay - like the country. We asked at the local fruit market why that was the case but our question was just met with a shrug of the shoulders. I must have eaten about 20 of them when we were over there. We got 1 kilo for 1.50 euro!

Day 3 we went to the local market where I attempted to haggle for a very cool South American sweater for Cupcake. I think it is from Peru - it has llamas and a sun and a rain cloud with big blue drops falling out of it. We made the mistake of sleeping too late and then arriving at the market in the mid day sun. It was probably about 100*F and cupcake was miserable. After having a long over-due siesta we ventured to the caves which are traditional domiciles in certain parts of Spain. My in-laws hang out at one that has been turned into a little bar. The owner, Carlos is a sculptor who has a workshop in the cave below. He makes these really interesting welded sculptures that are a little Dali-esque or Surrealist.  Cupcake and the cousins spent a lot of time scrambling around on the carved benches and stone stairs.

Day 4 we headed for the pool and beach again. Cupcake hated the pool leading me to comment how could it be possible that my child was such a wuss. To fully understand my annoyance you need to know that I used to swim competitively for about 7 years and played water polo. Surely that screaming child could not be the product of my buoyant womb! We went to Bar Avenida for menu del dia - a large lunch that is served in several Spanish cafes. For the first course I enjoyed abendigas, turkey meatballs in a chicken broth. My second course was TO DIE FOR grilled lamb and my dessert was a lethal whiskey cake and un cortado. After a little sleep we arrived at the beach this time with a fully awake little girl. We eased her into the water, first by playing in the sand and building a giant hole for her to splash in. Next we sat along the water's edge and let the surf come up just to our legs. She enjoyed throwing handfuls of wet sand into the water as it retreated from us. A breakthrough!

Day 5 was really just packing and buying tons of chorizo and ham to take home. We enjoyed another menu del dia - this time I had grilled swordfish. Cupcake polished off her 3rd ice cream of the trip (was I really the anti-sugar mom?). Then came the trip to the airport. She cried the WHOLE way. I think she is teething, loads of drool had drenched both of us by the time we checked in for our flight. Then came the plane. 2 1/2 hours of screaming. Nothing absolutely nothing could calm her down. It was the flight that every parent dreads. I had a migraine by the time we touched down and I never EVER wanted to see any of those people again I was so mortified. I don't think that the later Spanish hours we maintained helped matters. She was well and truly exhausted, the poor dear.

I am not looking forward to my 12 hour flight to San Fran in August!

Imelda Marcos II

We have a new word. "Sheesh" which in cupcake speak means shoe. Little did I know that the appearance of this word would herald in her obsession with shoes. It all started when I realised that these darling little navy leather shoes we inherited from her two older cousins barely fit her growing little tootsies. I became fixated with finding a pair of shoes that would provide adequate support for her ankles. I combed pages and pages of shoes on Zappos searching for this Pablosky brand. We are heading to Spain on Friday, and I am hoping to pick up a pair over there. Meanwhile, something needed to be done, the poor darling had obviously experienced some sort of growth spurt. I started by buying a pair at Penneys. Just a cheap 4 euro pair to hold us over. Then I realised I actually needed to buy a pair of mini mary janes because the Penneys shoes were just too loose despite being the right size. I went into Next and found these adorable pink tennis shoe mary janes and another pair of purple and pink polka dots with bows. Seriously - they didn't cost that much. But I had forgotten about two pairs of shoes that I bought her last year on sale at Old Navy. Now I really don't blame the poor girl for getting a little bit confused. I keep trying to separate the shoes that she no longer wears but everytime I do I forget about something and when I turn back she is holding them in her hands. She is constantly saying "sheesh". While laying in bed we are assaulted with our runners being handed to us, even once being (mistakenly) bashed over the head. She now knows the downfalls of a free market economy... too much choice.

Friday

I am feeling slightly under the weather after the long day that I had yesterday. It was good to see old friends who I haven't been in contact with recently. I didn't arrive in last night until 3.30am which is very late for me these days. Of course I paid for it this morning, Cupcake was full of life. I probably would have been more productive if I wasn't so tired. So I decided to bake some muffins. You have probably realised by now that I am somewhat obsessed with banana muffins. Today I decided to experiment with bananas, nectarines, blueberries and pecans. It did turn out yummy, except that I think I maybe didn't add enough baking powder, or maybe it was baking soda. Truthfully I am so lazy with measurements that I have just been 'eyeing' everything with a coffee cup. Cupcake didn't seem as interested in the muffins, although she did enjoy smashing them into the ground. Gee thanks honey! 

Fellow blogger mom Jen at Jen's Rantings has awarded me the lovely blog award. In particular she mentioned she enjoys my posts about food. So Jen I am raising bowl of warm, gooey rice pudding with lemon zest to you! Thanks! 

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I am attending the funeral of someone I used to work with. Tragically this person felt that there was no way out of depression and so ended their life. I am of course shocked and saddened. I can't but help feeling for the family, the mother and father and child this person leaves behind. As a parent it has just really hit me hard and I am trying to understand how the mother must be coping with this tragic, senseless loss. I remember feeling totally helpless when Cupcake was born. It was a combination of of an overwhelming rush of love and this realisation that no matter what I do as a parent I would not be able to shelter my child from all of the hurt, the pain, the anger and the loss that comes in life. I wanted to put her in a bubble where nothing bad would ever come into contact with her. To preserve her innocence. It makes me so sad to think that somewhere this mother is dying inside thinking perhaps there was something more she could have done for her child. All I can hope is that I can teach my daughter the life skills necessary to pick herself up and the resilience to keep going when life gets tough.

Daughter needs friends - Mother seeking like minded individuals.

Last week Cupcake's only 'friend' in Ireland moved to the U.S. I am in desperate need of a nice toddler aged 1 -2 years for her to play with. I know I sound like a negligent mother, I mean really how hard is it to make friend's for your child's sake. But really it is slim pickings around these parts. Last Tuesday when rushing to pick her up from the creche I saw another mother putting her daughter into her car seat. I thought, oh great an opportunity to make an overture. "Oh she looks so cute in her little skirt, that's Zara right?" The woman glared at me. "No." Hmm this is awkward, so I will try again, "Oh, is this Calean?" The only other name I could think of. "No." "Oh, um...ah..." I was cut off by her, "It is Sarah (pronounced sar-ah long a)." "I am sorry, I thought from the way the girls [in the creche] pronouced it, her name was Zara. My daughter is in the same room as her. I am so- and so's mother." Abruptly the conversation (ha if you could call it that) died. As I pushed Cupcake home in her stroller I informed her that neither Zara nor Sarah would be coming over anytime soon. I know I am picky and to be honest if I feel that 1) someone is not my intellectual equal or 2) we have absolutely NOTHING in common I am not going to make an effort for Cupcake's sake. 

The Weekend

We spent the bulk of this weekend outside playing. It was probably the first weekend I didn't feel under pressure to do something on my PhD or other research. The weather was absolutely wonderful yesterday so we headed out early. I needed to pick up a few new bras and I wanted to get remeasured. I haven't had a new bra since before nursing commenced (I know it sounds terrible). It really hit home how bad the old ones were when himself exclaimed, "Oh thank GOD!" Shopping, however, wasn't too much fun because I forgot my wallet in the car. That meant baby and daddy followed me around, all the while questioning how long would I be, how much was I going to spend.

Afterwards we met our friends for lunch and a stroll in the Phoenix Park. We went to the Farmleigh estate and had a really nice lunch at the boathouse cafe. Cupcake was fascinated with the ducks that were toddling around everywhere. Our special treat was soft ice cream, here it is called a '99', explained to me as a vanilla ice cream with a piece of cadburys flake stuck in the top. I don't really get the appeal - I could have done without the flake. Which is just as well because it was so hot that my flake on to the ground before consumption. I decided to give Cupcake just a little taste and she ended up eating nearly half of it. I think we have an ice cream fiend on our hands!

Today we took a long walk out at Ardgillian Castle in Skerries. We strolled the grounds of the castle and it was nice to spend time with my father-in-law who loves being outdoors. He and I have really bonded over our mutual enjoyment of gardens and love of growing vegetables. We had a nice little picnic consisting of juicy nectarines, squash, asparagus, pea and feta frittata, chicken pasta salad, and fresh melon. Being so close to the coast there was some serious fog even though it was warm. We had expected it to burn off and were disappointed that it didn't. That didn't stop Cupcake from playing her little heart out on the super cool playground. Her new word for the day was Grandda which she pronounces like dan-da. Very cute.

Too Legit to Quit - Or my driving test

It is official, I am now a full licensed driver on the Irish motorways. It was by no stretch of the imagination easy even though I drive only automatic cars (here). We purchased an automatic nearly two years ago after I told my husband that if he wanted me to drive we would have to get a different car because driving on this side of the road + manual transmission was out of the question for me. I had applied for and got my first provisional a year before this point. 5 weeks after buying the car I took my test, and obviously failed. But due to the wonderfully weird Irish system, until last June I was able to drive on my second provision without a licensed driver in the car so there was no rush to re-take the test. After June 2008 with its crackdown on provisionals came and went I continued to drive... illegally, which really made no difference to me because I have had an American license since I was 16 and never been in an accident or in receipt of a speeding ticket. But as my second provisional is due to expire this August I said what the hell. Also I was slightly embarrassed that my youngest brother - in - law (19 yrs old) was taking his test. 

With this in mind I decided the time had come, I had been 'practicing' for two years here. I booked a pretest for yesterday. It was noted that my tail brake light was out, so I rushed off to get it fixed. There was an annoying light on in my dash - for the catalytic convertor, and even though it has passed the NCT last month, I would not be able to take the test until the light was off. So I booked in the car to the Honda dealership to have it looked at. I went off for an hour and came back to find there was nothing they could do. Uh, you are the Honda dealership, authorised to work on Hondas? The service guy was apologetic but didn't really seem to grasp the gravity of the situation (i.e. 80 euro for pretest, 90 euro to have car fixed, 70 euro for driving test - all non-refundable at this late stage). So I did the only thing that I know how to do in these situations. 

I cried hysterically. Now when I am upset, I mean really upset, it is not a pretty sight. My face gets blotchy and red and very puffy. I sobbed until my shoulder shook. Of course, these tears made him extremely uncomfortable but he was unrelenting, there was nothing they could do in the time before the test. Plus it as just a driving test. "Just a driving test? What the fuck do you know? It has taken me two years to re-take this stupid thing." I don't think that won me any friends.  

Frantically I called the driving school. Yes they had a car I could take the test in, yes it was free tomorrow. It would cost me 140 euro. In desperation I paid it. I mean what was it going to cost to fix a car with nothing wrong with it? The car arrived 1 hour before the test, it was a techtronic automatic - totally different from my Honda CRV - a Japanese import. Well to make a long story short, I passed. In fact I only received one mark on the entire sheet, that is nearly unheard of!

All day I have been singing in my brain the MC Hammer song we all danced to in 6th grade "Too Legit, too legit to quit... hey hey" We gotta represent for O-town.

Father's Day

Cupcake allowed us to gently wake up at 8.45 am and then we went downstairs to make Dada french toast with fresh blueberries and bananas. After reading through the papers, I popped a shoulder of lamb (my favourite Sunday roast if you couldn't guess from previous posts) into the oven. Off we went to the Kinsealy Garden Centre to pick up some gifts for Dada and Granda. Dada is now the proud owner of a blueberry bush, a fig (tree?), a delphinium and a pinwheel. I am sure you can guess who picked that out. For Granda we got a vibrant lavender bush, a hosta and a whistling statue of a red robin. At the Bloom garden show Granda dropped some major hints about his love of hostas so I couldn't resist picking out a lovely golden green one with blue flowers  for him. We then had everyone over for a Sunday dinner. On the menu today was roast lamb, honey roasted carrots, steamed asparagus and cherry tomatoes with parmesan, baked potatoes and a salad of broad beans, peas, feta and crispy parma ham with a lemon, oil, mint dressing. For dessert we enjoyed a simple fruit crisp made from peaches, plums, nectarines and blueberries (yes I love blueberries).

Father's Day turned out to be a success. Happy Father's Day to all!

Filipino Day - St Annes Park

We are recovering well from my sister's visit. Her first night here the girls and I went a bit crazy on our night out on the town. And I mean crazy for a 30 year-old, not crazy for a 21 year-old college student. My sister's friend put it aptly when she said, "After college it is just considered alcoholism." 

We decided cupcake needed a day out at the park and attended the 6th Filipino Day in Ireland which coincided with the 111th Philippine Independence Day commemoration. The sun wasn't exactly shining but members of the Filipino community were out in full force. There were all sorts of different community groups there, lots of singing, dancing, some martial arts and general merriment. One of my best friends, a Filipina/Thai American, who shall hence forth be known as Disa, was trying to get people to sign up for the Filipino community network. It was really cool to have Disa explain a bit more to us about her heritage, and of course, point out all the great food to eat. The food booth that we practically raided was run by a woman who travelled down from Belfast with her goodies. First we tried the pork siomai, which are chinese-influenced steamed dumplings. DELICIOUS. They were served with soy sauce and a homemade chili sauce. I happen to be obsessed with chili sauce, so I was in heaven. We also tried the lumpia which is a flaky pastry-like spring roll. They can be filled with vegetables, pork or banana. The banana ones were the lumpia on offer and I thought they were great. I love fried bananas and this was a similar sticky-sweet flavour. Himself wasn't too keen but I think it is because he complains if things are too sweet. On our second trip back we tried the siopao which is a steamed hot bun filled with some kind of meat. The bun is actually made from rice dough. I found it a bit too much like white bread for my liking. The filling however, was gorgeous and made from bola-bola which was some kind of pork. We had another large plate of siomai and had a bite of Disa's rich leche flan. Disa explained that Filipino food is a cross between chinese and hispanic influences. I have noticed that pork appears to be the favourite meat and if these tasty morsels were anything to go by they sure know how to cook it. 

Haircut

I gave little darling a tiny haircut today. I just really wanted to clip her bangs because she absolutely refuses to leave her hair pulled back and I wanted to get it out of her eyes. I think I cut it too short, and she moved, so it is a bit uneven. The little lock of hair is so precious I have to save it. When I snipped it off I was reminded of this woman I taught in my women's studies art history class three years ago. We discussed a piece by Kathy Prendergast, Love Object, a brush with a woman's long brown hair attached and at the end of the hair was a comb. Some people were uncertain how to react to a sculpture with real hair and struggled to connect with the work. So in order to try to generate some ideas we discussed the different meanings culturally attached to hair. A woman who was normally quite quiet in class shared what hair symbolised to her. She told us that she had saved a lock of hair from her daughter who died at age six. She absolutely cherished this precious, soft curl that she kept in a special little box. When I glanced around at the other women, there wasn't a dry eye in the room. Even as I write this, I still tear up thinking about that poignant story. I suppose one really can't put a value on memories.

Allergies and Cleaning: Fun and Games

I am supposed to be 'working' today. By that I mean I am supposed to be undertaking research on 1) my PhD 2) my summer research project for a big international artist.

Of course we all know that no one ever really does what they are supposed to right?  Instead I am trying to prepare myself for my little sister's arrival (+ 3 friends). The problem is we only have one spare bedroom at the moment because my darling husband who I occasionally call 'Mr. Good Idea' recently decided to rip out all of the insulation out of our 4th bedroom/attic conversion. To do so he moved everything, absolutely everything into the spare room. So on top of general tidying I now have to try to find a home for everything in the spare bedroom whilst avoiding shoving it back in the attic. It probably does not make matters any better that I suffer from extreme hay fever - i.e despite nasal spray, 24 hour hayfever relief I still want to rip my itchy eyes out. A strange side-effect of my unbearable hay fever is that I become easily incredibly frustrated with people - i.e. cupcake, my sister, my husband and my mother. Not that these people are currently aware of this frustration. In fact the first they may hear of it is from this blog. 

Cupcake- just annoyed with you in general. Specific instances include you not listening to me when I tell you to stay away from dog poop while I am cleaning it out of garden, throwing the ever annoying food on the ground, not going to sleep like a normal child, accidentally, although painfully falling on me while I lay in bed this morning and shoving your little fingers up my allergy-ridden nose. 

Husband- I know broke more than the items you previously told me about when you fell down the stairs, i.e. half of our wedding gifts. I am also annoyed that your 'good idea' involves more cleaning than should be necessary and you are in Scotland for work while I try to get everything ready.

Sister-  Generally annoyed with you because things aren't ready. Although this is not necessarily your fault but I keep replaying in my mind some comment you made to mom about us living like slobs (even though you contributed to the messiness of this house while I let you live here for 2 months). Two years later that still bothers me. So in an effort to prove you wrong I am trying to clean but feeling frustrated that I have to prove you wrong because inevitably I will lose interest, stop cleaning and you will be right.

Mother - again generally annoyed with your sparkling house and the fact that Sister will probably in her mind compare everything to your house keeping skills even though she is also a slob. Also I can hear your voice telling me to be nice and I don't feel nice right now.

I do not feel too bad about sending this off into the universe because 1. cupcake can't read yet, 2. sister doesn't know this blog exists, 3. mother never has time to read this, 4. husband I want you to know.

What a weekend

I have spent the past three days at a seminar devoted to the oeuvre of Leo Bersani. I am literally running on metal empty. It was an amazing three days filled with psychoanalysis galore. Bersani writes on all sorts of things, relationality, art, queer politics, literature, philosophy and of course Freud. Somehow I keep falling into these psychoanalysis seminars 'for fun'. I honestly do find the stuff fascinating but it can be so mentally draining to have to focus on theory for sustained periods of time. I did have a very cool moment I must confess. I got to meet James Coleman. Seriously. He was so cool. We just talked about everyday normal stuff. You know. Art. AWESOME. I can't even write coherently. 

It never fails to amaze me how I can be thinking about these obscure things and then I need I hold a baby, correction MY baby and all the theory flies right out of my head and I remember, 'oh yeah I am a mommy'. On Friday I arrived home spend some quality time with cupcake. It was much needed on my behalf. Perhaps the most loving, tender moment we have shared (this week) was when she sat on my lap in her pyjamas facing me. She patted me on the chest and said Mama. I nodded, 'Yes I am Mama.' Then she pressed her face into my neck and whispered 'Mama, Mama' as if to assure herself that I was real.

Please oh please

I am anxious. I can't concentrate on what I am supposed to be doing. Yesterday I emailed a contact regarding funding for my research. The response back was that a call had been sent around and I had missed the deadline. I promptly burst into tears. But the injustice of it is that the email was never sent to me. On any of my millions of mailing lists!

Funding is a loaded word 'round these parts. Undergrad was expensive but was managed through loans. Postgrad - well surely I must be crazy to be undertaking 5 years worth of study without any funding. This of course is not through want of trying. I have applied for 3 scholarships now. The first I didn't know what to expect and was cocky. The second I was humbled and anxious, and then found out that my friend got it. That was a blow to the ego, only because she was someone I like, not that I begrudged her the achievement but a tiny part of me asked 'why not me?' The third call was written for me. When I read the specs I was blown away, everything about the details fit EXACTLY my research. I was quietly confident that good things happen to good people. This was the good thing that was bound to happen to me. And of course you know I didn't get it. That had me depressed for days. I couldn't understand it. Until I realised who got it - someone who is an expert in my field. What competition was I? 

But then at a meeting on Monday it was suggested that I contact the scheme again as more funding was due to become available. I was puzzled as I had not mentioned to this person that I had applied. I wondered what connect they had with the project. After reading an email 20 minutes ago that read 'after you came so close last time' I nearly had a seizure. What? So I was in the running last time? I really came close? Like actually almost had it? That was like rock salt in a old wound. 

My mantra that I am repeating in my head goes something like this: 'Please let me apply, I am so worthy, if I get it so many monetary issues would be solved.'

Fingers crossed.