Changing smiles

They hung on for as long as they could. They evoked shudders, even from un-shudderable individuals. Friday: Wrestling with the neighbors. Out number one. Monday: Lunch at St. Mark's. Out number two. And now we have a front-toothless seven-year old, looking older and yet somehow younger, simultaneously. I think he's relieved they're out, although he had no interest in pulling the teeth nor hastening their departures. Maybe I'm projecting here, but losing teeth signals change; baby teeth never come back. It's a very tangible way to tell a seven-year old that he's growing up. Of course, this is what he wants: to get bigger and stronger and faster. This is the promise we make as we encourage him to eat good food. But then you turn around and it's more than just running and height: it's long division and first communion. It's responsibility and more homework.

But, enough deep thought. The teeth are out and Eddie sure looks cute.

Walking the Walk

I moved theory into practice today. In my academic life, I'm a big fan using textile construction as a narrative device. I once compared some novel to quilting (I forget which) — using different "squares" to determine my paragraphs; my dissertation investigates textile references in early-American fiction for what they add to narratives of historical fiction. I like to use these largely-female occupations as a way to "liberate" texts out of a (perceived) notion of male hegemony. I feel like a flag waver for women and women's occupations though my songs of praise for these collaborate female arts. But I don't — sew, that is. I took sewing in home-ec (it was still home-ec then) and made an awkward billfold and I'm not sure what else. I started a counted-crosstich that was kindly finished by my sister when I was two rows "off" at the end and left it -- never to return. But today I did some "tie" quilting with my aunts, my cousins, my grandma, and my mom. I felt like Bob in What About Bob? : "I'm quilting! I'm a quilter! I quilt!" Although, I didn't really do too much. The experience, in fact, was very much true-to-Anne. I start: I can do this...this is fun. Then: I like this, I should quilt... Then: I could make a quilt myself...where can I get wool? Who would want to do this with me? To: Oh, now we need to finish the sides. This takes cutting and sewing. Hmm. I'm not interested anymore.

I could see half-finished quilts/piles of fabric in my future. Walk away and stick to writing about it, I say. Although I'd love to help someone like I did today, I don't want to carry the responsibility of an entire quilt. Too big for me.

Bobby the Scholar

Bobby likes to take chapter books to bed with him — he "reads" them after I read to him. An early reading book you ask? Henry Huggins, maybe? Winnie-the-Pooh? Bob has bypassed these classics for more complicated fare. Tonight, after dropping off to sleep, he happened to drop his newest selections: Achebe's Things Fall Apart and C.S. Lewis' Four Loves. When he originally selected Achebe, he paired it with Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. Then, he asked me to suggest a third book: "Umm, I think Tutola would be a complementary pairing, Bob. Its binding is yellow and blue." He went for the Lewis instead. Interesting dynamics — what could be the theme? Religion in the Empire and the colonies? (Re)narrating archetype? :)

Spring has sprung in Minnesota; warmer tones are slowly overtaking the bitter cold. The buds are swelling — leaf and flower will be peeking through before I look again. They're tricky that way. Our cardinal couple is building a nest in the shrub outside the backdoor. I can walk outside shoeless without too much discomfort. It's much too soon for it, though. I like to push the limits of Spring.

Our season of Lent ended on Saturday afternoon, giving way to a glorious Easter. It was warm enough to hunt for eggs outside in shirtsleeves, a treat for sure.