We'd all had a few drinks. He came back from the toilet, and as he was sitting down with the rest of us, he turned to me and said, so, now that I've had a few drinks, let me ask you an existential question.
There are moments in your life that standout against the background of all of your experiences as if they are larger than life. Because they were moments when your path shifted and threw you off balance. The trail of your life streaming down the mountain was going in was going in one direction, but then swerved somewhere else. It takes your breath away.
What do you want out of life?
Simple question, yes? But when was the last time someone asked you that simple question? Out loud? And meant it? And expected you to actually answer it?
When was the last time you asked it of yourself?
Somewhere in mid-to-late November of last year, I taught section/lesson on existentialism in my Personality course. Existentialism, you old bastard you. Like a tired old bony ache that's dormant for awhile, but creeps back up at the most inconvenient times.
What do you want out of life?
An authentic life. Right? But you can't say that. It's a cop-out. Merely asking the question what do you want is a step along the way to the authentic life. At the moment you ask it, you are LIVING the authentic life. Asking about the meaning of life is part of living an authentic life.
What do you want out of life?
To tell the truth, it knocked the wind out of me. Because it's one of those questions you think you know the answers to, but then the words fail you.
I want to be happy.
So he asked me to operationally define happy? Operational definitions are most often given in terms of quantity. What can I quantify? How would I measure it? But in this context--an existential operational definition--I think it can broadened a bit.
to have a good career and be pay off my student loans and be free of debt and have enough money to travel and to not fuck my kid up too badly by the time he's an adult
and yes, I want a career and yes tenure would be nice and I want to be able to do research as well as teach even though sometimes I think it would be easier to say fuck it and just teach at a community college
and I don't have to be the next "big" social psychology researcher, but I want to get a healthy dose of publications out the door
but my career is not everything and so I struggle about how badly tenure matters and how badly I would like to just stay here because there's some job security and I love this town and this department and feel like this is my home
and yes, I really said all of these things.
And all of them were true. At least mostly.
And within a week, it happened again, though less forcefully. And with a totally different person.
What are your career goals?
Oh, for crying out loud. This again? Granted, it is not as vexing as "what do you want out of life" but it still ranks up there as a kick to the groin if you're not prepared for it, and/or respect the person who's asking enough to not make up a bullshit answer, and/or quite frankly, don't know and/or all of the above.
And then I saw M for lunch. And told her I could see myself settling in Grand Forks. And she asked if it was because I really wanted to stay there or didn't want the hassle of moving.
The answer is both.
I could see myself here for the rest of my life. But who's to say this is the only place like that? What is my frame of reference?
If academic life weren't such a complicated fiasco, I'd move around some other places and come back if I wanted to. But it doesn't work like that. Academic jobs are hard to predict, hard to come by, and almost impossible to come home to. AND at the end of the day, I LIKE it here. For so many reasons.
But I can't stop thinking about the question, what do you want out of life? More and more, I allow myself to consider the possibility that what I WANT out of life is THIS. Simply this. Right here. Today.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Dear Dude (3rd birthday edition)
I can't believe how tall you're getting.
How tall you've gotten.
The way your clothes hang on you--a lithe little boy rather than a chubby little Michelin-man cherub. You have clothing preferences--no jeans for you! You want "nice and toasty" pants, which means soft and fleecy sweatpants. Who can blame you?
You build things. You are DRIVEN to build things. Out of whatever. Anything. Everything. Blocks, train tracks, train pile-ups, bristle blocks, tree blocks, dominos. You love your cars, your trains, your stuffed animals, your tools, and of course, Tiggy.
Daddy helped you build this robot, but then you decided to take a nap with it:
You want to play games. Candy Land, Chutes and Ladders, matching games.
You love books. You enhale them. You are a slave to them. Welcome to the order of the nerds, son. This is how so many of us ended up where we are today.
I put you to bed one night at 7:30 and peeked in on you a little later. You were still reading by the light of your nightlights and the hall light. This happens a couple of nights every week, and you usually fall asleep with an open book on your chest, part of it covering your chin.
This particular night, you were still awake at 9:30. I gently explained that it was time to stop reading and time to get some sleep.
3 years old and silently looking at books for TWO HOURS. Okay, almost silently. Occasionally you would slip and let loose with some exclamation or gibberish. But mostly, you were silent. Even when you got out of bed to grab new books, so that in the end you were trying to sleep with 10 or so books at once. In a toddler bed.
Ahem.
You are my son. I am so honored to know you.
You stayed the night with the babysitter for the first time a few weeks ago because it seemed easier than waking you up to bring you home (and it's easier for you to be at her house because she has a wee-un that's younger than you). You snuck out of bed at 5 in the morning, got a stack of books from their cabinet, and crept down to the living room to look at them. She woke up to the sound of whispering from the living room, and was concerned that someone had broken into the house. It was just you, and she sent you back to bed, but let you take some books with you. You were over there today, and apparently were trying to cuddle with and read to the cat. He was not amused.
You have imaginary friends. The whole lot of them showed up one morning after a week of crappy sleep. I have learned that when your sleep goes to shit you are either getting sick or about to have some kind of developmental leap. Some of your friends are Disney/Pixar/fill-in-the-blank-corporate-creations. But some are not. They ride in the car with you. You tell them to line up behind you to go into school. This morning, when caught tearing pages in a book, you said Penny told you to do it. We explained that sometimes you have to tell your friends no, that it's not the right thing to do. You introduce them as "see, mine friends" and pan your hand around. One of them is Petos, the dragon, along with his best friend Walter. Petos and Walter are characters in some of the stories I tell you. Stories about why it's a good idea to walk, not run, on ice. Stories about why it's a good idea to let your mommy put lotion on your face and hands. Stories about why it's important to wear your snow boots and coat. Petos ran on the ice, and he hurt his wing, but the wizard made it better and now Petos knows that walking is safer. Petos didn't want to put lotion on, and his poor tail and wings got all dry and cracked and hurt, but the special dragon lotion keeps his wings and tail soft. Petos got mad at Walter one day and hit him, and then he felt very sorry, so now when he gets angry he takes nice, deep, dragon breaths to let out his fire. I always ask you what color Petos is, and what color his wings are, and those change from day to day. I didn't know if you actually heard the stories, until you started repeating them back to me. One day I was so upset I couldn't stop crying, and you said, "mommy, just breathe, like Petos doos". You are such a blessing to me. If you can remember that, to just breathe, and remind other people to do it too, you'll be just fine in life.
You have friends from this dimension too. This year was the first year that when I asked who you wanted to invite to your party, you had an opinion and it was consistent over several days. You had opinions about your cake, too. It was to be a chocolate train cake. And so it was.
You love the movie Wall-E, and spend much of your time as Wall-E. You will pick up "trash" from the ground, squeeze it towards your belly with a grrrr sound and then drop it back to the ground, "like Wall-E doos". I recorded you one day as you acted out parts of the movie along with the movie. Then I showed you the recording. Now you ask to watch yourself doing Wall-E. I don't know what the long-term effect of seeing yourself on video so young will be, but I do know that we're well on our way to having another performer in the family. You also ask to watch footage of your cousins and yourself from when we visited Arizona for the holidays. I am so happy that you have a big extended family and can't wait to watch you all grow together.
It's hard to believe that less than a year ago, I was worried about your language. When we moved here in June, it was a big deal that you were consistently putting two words together. Even when I met with your teacher last October, it was rare for you to put four words together. Now, you talk constantly. And you even have a special language for your imaginary friends that is some kind of hodge-podge of English and gobbledeegook. I wish I could speak it too.
You asked for a Barbie. Sigh. What a dilemma for me. On the one hand, I want to support your interest in non-gender-normative toys. On the other hand, IT'S BARBIE. I don't want to support the notion that she is what a woman is. In the end, I bought you the Barbie, but it was the rock star one, by god. I kind of want to tell you that she's from another planet and that's why she looks so strange, but that might be a bit much.
You love the digital camera and take good pictures. You have started to sing songs you know. You love the alphabet. You love counting. You love school. You love cats. You love hot chocolate. You LOVE. And sometimes you rage. And I love you always.
~Mama
How tall you've gotten.
The way your clothes hang on you--a lithe little boy rather than a chubby little Michelin-man cherub. You have clothing preferences--no jeans for you! You want "nice and toasty" pants, which means soft and fleecy sweatpants. Who can blame you?
You build things. You are DRIVEN to build things. Out of whatever. Anything. Everything. Blocks, train tracks, train pile-ups, bristle blocks, tree blocks, dominos. You love your cars, your trains, your stuffed animals, your tools, and of course, Tiggy.
Daddy helped you build this robot, but then you decided to take a nap with it:
You want to play games. Candy Land, Chutes and Ladders, matching games.
You love books. You enhale them. You are a slave to them. Welcome to the order of the nerds, son. This is how so many of us ended up where we are today.
I put you to bed one night at 7:30 and peeked in on you a little later. You were still reading by the light of your nightlights and the hall light. This happens a couple of nights every week, and you usually fall asleep with an open book on your chest, part of it covering your chin.
This particular night, you were still awake at 9:30. I gently explained that it was time to stop reading and time to get some sleep.
3 years old and silently looking at books for TWO HOURS. Okay, almost silently. Occasionally you would slip and let loose with some exclamation or gibberish. But mostly, you were silent. Even when you got out of bed to grab new books, so that in the end you were trying to sleep with 10 or so books at once. In a toddler bed.
Ahem.
You are my son. I am so honored to know you.
You stayed the night with the babysitter for the first time a few weeks ago because it seemed easier than waking you up to bring you home (and it's easier for you to be at her house because she has a wee-un that's younger than you). You snuck out of bed at 5 in the morning, got a stack of books from their cabinet, and crept down to the living room to look at them. She woke up to the sound of whispering from the living room, and was concerned that someone had broken into the house. It was just you, and she sent you back to bed, but let you take some books with you. You were over there today, and apparently were trying to cuddle with and read to the cat. He was not amused.
You have imaginary friends. The whole lot of them showed up one morning after a week of crappy sleep. I have learned that when your sleep goes to shit you are either getting sick or about to have some kind of developmental leap. Some of your friends are Disney/Pixar/fill-in-the-blank-corporate-creations. But some are not. They ride in the car with you. You tell them to line up behind you to go into school. This morning, when caught tearing pages in a book, you said Penny told you to do it. We explained that sometimes you have to tell your friends no, that it's not the right thing to do. You introduce them as "see, mine friends" and pan your hand around. One of them is Petos, the dragon, along with his best friend Walter. Petos and Walter are characters in some of the stories I tell you. Stories about why it's a good idea to walk, not run, on ice. Stories about why it's a good idea to let your mommy put lotion on your face and hands. Stories about why it's important to wear your snow boots and coat. Petos ran on the ice, and he hurt his wing, but the wizard made it better and now Petos knows that walking is safer. Petos didn't want to put lotion on, and his poor tail and wings got all dry and cracked and hurt, but the special dragon lotion keeps his wings and tail soft. Petos got mad at Walter one day and hit him, and then he felt very sorry, so now when he gets angry he takes nice, deep, dragon breaths to let out his fire. I always ask you what color Petos is, and what color his wings are, and those change from day to day. I didn't know if you actually heard the stories, until you started repeating them back to me. One day I was so upset I couldn't stop crying, and you said, "mommy, just breathe, like Petos doos". You are such a blessing to me. If you can remember that, to just breathe, and remind other people to do it too, you'll be just fine in life.
You have friends from this dimension too. This year was the first year that when I asked who you wanted to invite to your party, you had an opinion and it was consistent over several days. You had opinions about your cake, too. It was to be a chocolate train cake. And so it was.
You love the movie Wall-E, and spend much of your time as Wall-E. You will pick up "trash" from the ground, squeeze it towards your belly with a grrrr sound and then drop it back to the ground, "like Wall-E doos". I recorded you one day as you acted out parts of the movie along with the movie. Then I showed you the recording. Now you ask to watch yourself doing Wall-E. I don't know what the long-term effect of seeing yourself on video so young will be, but I do know that we're well on our way to having another performer in the family. You also ask to watch footage of your cousins and yourself from when we visited Arizona for the holidays. I am so happy that you have a big extended family and can't wait to watch you all grow together.
It's hard to believe that less than a year ago, I was worried about your language. When we moved here in June, it was a big deal that you were consistently putting two words together. Even when I met with your teacher last October, it was rare for you to put four words together. Now, you talk constantly. And you even have a special language for your imaginary friends that is some kind of hodge-podge of English and gobbledeegook. I wish I could speak it too.
You asked for a Barbie. Sigh. What a dilemma for me. On the one hand, I want to support your interest in non-gender-normative toys. On the other hand, IT'S BARBIE. I don't want to support the notion that she is what a woman is. In the end, I bought you the Barbie, but it was the rock star one, by god. I kind of want to tell you that she's from another planet and that's why she looks so strange, but that might be a bit much.
~Mama
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