art edgimication jitters

Places have extremely visceral associations for me. I have a photographic memory, in a way--I may not remember much, but what I do remember comes clearly to my mind, full-picture and detailed. Places where I spent a great deal of time, under much stress, are firmly etched there.

School (Maryland Institute, specifically) ranks among my top places for stress, time spent, and deep associations. When you add in nearly all of my former professors and a few classmates, a bubbling sort of panic starts that has no basis in the present. That was today for me, though I did manage to enjoy myself.

I went to a luncheon to celebrate the retirement of one of my favorite professors, after Lord knows how many years teaching art, teaching teachers, teaching art teachers, and supervising art teachers teaching. He was, poor man, the sole Y-chromosome representative in the department, and helped me to feel less intimidated by the formidable Womyn there. I still felt rather like a cult-initiate for much of the time, but the rational part of me knows that they turned me into a kick-ass teacher by kicking my ass so hard. Like some sort of feminist boot camp.

Well Henry was a great, tough, yet sensitive person to work with, and I only hope they can find someone half as knowlegeable and tactful to replace him. Talk about big shoes to fill.

Speaking of shoes, I made quite a bad decision about some beautiful shoes yesterday (I decided to buy them), and twisted my ankle in them on the way to this luncheon. By the grace of God, I brought an extra pair and was saved hours more discomfort, but I feel angry at myself for wasting money. I won't think about it.

Well, even though I have been back to teach, visit, and even lead a women's bible study there this semester, today was still difficult for me to handle. The feeling that I don't have my poop together, stress about deadlines I don't have to meet anymore, the feeling of my every move being watched and scrutinized--they aren't foremost in my mind like before, chiding me even as I put up dinky bulletin boards as a fulltime teacher. All the same, the feelings were still there, maybe because a handful of current students were at the luncheon and oozing that one-step-away-from-breakdown angst, as they looked over the cliff of student teaching.

I also realized it's kindof nice to feel old. The students did a skit where someone played Henry, giving them advice about their lesson plans, telling them not to "fly by the seat of their pants"(how many times did I hear that one!), and asking them to check their email because he had forgotten to include the attachments for that day's lesson. Attachments? I asked myself. When I was there, we didn't have email. I used my dad's AOL account, which he had just purchased, to email D occasionally. But I hadn't used the World Wide Web except once or twice. The first time I ever heard of the WWW was in my Islamic Art History class, of all places. I was like, huh? What's it for again? Now students get 5 emails a week from their professors, they have a grassy area to hang out instead of the median strip, 2 coffee shops and 2 cafeterias, instead of grilled-cheese-r-us down the hill. It almost feels like a real college, except the signs in the bathroom say, "please don't dispose of solvents and art materials in this bathroom." Sigh. Some things never change.

this blog brought to you by...

...the Wagner Wallpaper Steamer! If you noticed the room in my last blog post, you might see some rather frou-frou wallpaper to go with the vast Smurf collection. I have loathed, despised, and hated this wallpaper--and all the design decisions of the former owners of my house--ever since we looked the house over. The thing is, it's easy to change wallcoverings, but hard to fix really bad structural problems, and our house was luckily in move-in condition. That was six years ago.

Due to a variety of factors, including the birth of my child, a complete lack of energy and time, and perfectionistic tendencies, most of the walls in our house have the same color scheme (or lack of same) as they did six years ago. D finished fixing up our bedroom about two months before A was born, and then powered through A's room in time to get him in there without fumes bothering his tiny nose. But our room took a tremendous amount of time to finish, since there were huge cracks, an airduct to redirect (don't ask), and my lovely (OCD) husband's desire to have every square inch of wall perfectly smooth. I thanked him for all that attention to detail when A was born, as I was more or less confined to that room for the first six weeks while recovering from Blood-a-palooza 2003. I sat in a stupor and stared at the perfect walls while trying to nurse A, cry on the phone, listen to Nick Drake's Pink Moon, and eat my 200th banana-and-nutella/peanut butter snacks that D made for me. If I had divits and pock-marks from a poor plastering job to stare at, I would most certainly have needed to be checked in to Sheppard Pratt. It was still a near thing.

So back to my amazing wallpaper steamer. Sometimes you get something that is worth every damn cent, and this, my friends, is it. When you've lived with wallpaper that is--no lie--the very same pattern as the interior of a Bob Evans Restaurant, for six years, being able to get rid of it with minimal effort and no chemicals is like an impossible dream. You just hold the steamer plate over the area for about 15 seconds or so, and slide a putty knife under it to release the wall from its homestyle-country aesthetic bondage. And if you're really lucky, the powder-blue and pink-flowered border trim will pull off 8 feet at a time! Oh, ecstasy!

Now the hard part: choosing colors. I think it's harder to pick colors as an artist, because you really have no excuse if they turn out horribly. You can't say, "well, I don't know anything about color!" There are billions of colors to choose from, and they all look different in different kinds of lighting, then there's the other rooms adjoining to consider, and the existing furniture (because I don't think we'll be getting luxury dining room sets with a preschooler and art lessons using the same space). It's overwhelming. Here are two of the scenarios I am considering (kudos to D, photoshop wizard, for helping me with the technical aspects!)

(I haven't decided on trim colors yet either, or anything for that matter...don't judge)

You might be able to tell that I love deep cerulean blue. It's Smurf-color, I just realized (well not JUST, but much too recently to be considered smart), pthalo blue, like Bob Ross enjoyed palette-knifing and fan-brushing all over his paintings. Something comforting about that.

Tell me what you think.

I love your self, mommy

Sometimes my life as a mother is frustrating, monotonous, and exhausting. The past couple of days were what I call "boundary-testing days." A will be defiant and disobedient all day, putting him in the naughty zone (the aughdy som he calls it) so many times that it seems like he might as well just park himself there for the duration. He's checking, during those days, to see whether I am still the mommy or if there was a mysterious, bloodless coup putting him in charge of the household. He's doing what kids need to do somehow. After boundary-testing days come about 3 weeks where he's totally fine, for the most part, and just has minor incidents during the day. I am very happy when they're over and so is he. He knows there is structure, and safety, and love even when my teeth hurt from clenching them down so many times. I don't like when he disobeys, and I do have a quick temper because I am a control freak, but the naughty zone gives me a chance to cool down enough to keep from saying hurtful things, and remember not to take his disobedience personally.

So I think today marks the beginning (fingers crossed) of our non-testing time, as A put away a bunch of toys without being asked, and is trying to use his spoon to eat like a civilized creature. He's still a mess, but there has been progress.

He likes to give hugs and kisses a lot, and sometimes he'll touch my face and say, "I love your eyebrows, Mommy," or "I love your nose, Mommy," like a person who is noticing a new accessory (I love that bag, Dolores! I just love those earrings...). It's very sweet. Lately he'll say, "I love your self, Mommy." It's the whole shebang, that one.

For someone who spent most of her life in the midst of an identity crisis, full of self-condemnation, to hear "I love your self" makes me wonder: Do I love my self? Not in a narcissistic way, but in a healthy, "as-God-sees-me" way. I'm glad to report progress in this area, just like A can use his spoon better. I've learned to give myself time off to be alone, which I desperately need to keep my head above water. I've learned to breathe more, as strange as that sounds, and to take a step back from most situations so I don't fall into default mode. I say "no" more often, and am trying to listen to my instincts instead of charging ahead with something I don't want to do--just because I think people expect me to do it.

One of the difficult conversations I had this winter with my counselor was focused around the idea of loving myself; wasn't it selfish, or self-absorbed, to do so? He said that it would be disobeying God's command if I didn't love myself. Jesus said to love God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love your neighbor as yourself. I cannot love my neighbor as God loves him, if I do not also love myself. My first reaction, as always, was deep skepticism, but I came to understand the truth of it. When I started to put that concept into practice, it helped me to increase my capacity of love for other people. If I'm worn out and exhausted and frustrated and angry because I haven't taken time for myself, then I cannot serve anyone effectively because I'm always thinking about the pain in the ass it is, and can't they see that I'm tired and yet they keep asking me to do crap for them??? But if I allow time to read, or veg, or crochet, or go out shopping (where I get most of my ideas, honestly), I feel so much kinder towards people, and feel like I have something to give instead of giving out of my own depleted energy.

Sometimes there isn't enough alone-time in the universe for me to feel replenished, and on those days I need to hear "I love yourself, Mommy," from God. Or from A.