No offense, Leavenworth . . .

. . . but you're kind of ugly. I know you're having lots of work done right now . . . new schools, new football stadium, a shiny new Walmart that's twice as big as the old one but seems to carry half the amount of products and supplies . . . but you've become that place, Leavenworth. You know . . . the one where the sun don't shine. No, really. The sun never shines. EVER.

Mud. That's all Leavenworth is. Just a big, squishy pile of mud. And it's not even the fun kind of mud. It's rotting-organic-matter mud. It's so gritty that walking sounds like scratching your fingernails on a chalkboard mud. It's I don't have shoes grungy enough for this mud. It's did I just step in dog s&!#? No, that's just mud that smells like dog s&!# mud. Icky, sticky, ewey gooey mud. Gross.

I had high hopes for Groundhog's Day. Fingers crossed, Hannah and I went to the public library's story time where the stories were all about groundhogs and the craft was a cute little paper groundhog on a stick that pops out of a styrofoam cup (because really, who doesn't love groundhog on a stick?) I paid my homage. I prayed for an early spring, despite the weatherman's jolly prediction for not one but TWO major snow storms headed toward the Midwest in the next two weeks. Alas. The groundhog gods were not kind this year. The ones in Leavenworth, I think, must have been particularly peeved at the state of things above ground.

"Have I been sleeping in s&!#?"

"No, it's just mud that smells like s&!#."

" Oh. I guess a few more weeks won't hurt then."

In other news, Hannah has new teeth! Two more to go and then she'll be done teething for a while, which is such a relief since her favorite things to teethe on happen to be:

1. pennies
2. computer cords
3. rocks (of which there are a surprising number in my parents' house. *facepalm*)
4. legos (but only the tiny ones)
5. toys in public places
6. Leavenworth mud

. . . oh and glass Christmas ornaments! Note to new parents: never buy glass ball ornaments. And if you take your child to a place where there might be glass ball ornaments (i.e. Grandma's house where it's been a good 20 years since anything's needed to be baby-proofed), teach them the difference between said ornaments and, say, a big juicy apple. Hannah missed that memo and consequently we spent a few days picking tiny glass shards out of her teeth, face and diaper. Oh stress, thy name is parenthood!

It'll be nice if and when the sun decides to show its well-rested face. Until then you can find us energetically twiddling our thumbs during "Toddler Time" at the Community Center on Monday and Wednesday mornings, story time at the library on Tuesday mornings, and starting next month we'll be taking a baby-and-mom swim class on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. When I'm not preventing Hannah's self-destruction, I'm looking for piano and voice students (I have two about to sign up) and making tulle-tastic toddler tutus (say that five times fast) with my sister for the spring craft bazaar on February 20th. Anyone in the Leavenworth area should come - it's from 8:00 am to 2:00 pm in the Community Center's gymnasium. I'm also playing in the KMEA's annual multi-piano concert with my dear friend and old college roommate Tenessa on February 14th at 4:00 at KU's Lied Center. Try to imagine, if you can, a piano duet rendition of the electrifying song "Defying Gravity" from the hit Broadway musical "Wicked." Cool, huh? It gets better. Now multiply that piano by 18. I don't have words to describe the awesomeness that is multi-piano performing. It's $5. Be there. And bring a cheap date.

That's all for now, except that I do need to say one more thing. I took Hannah on her first and last outing to McDonalds today. I was desperate. I told you you were ugly, Leavenworth. See what you've driven me to? Now I think I owe someone $100 . . . or was it $5? Anyone want a free ticket to a concert? Anyone?

Next blog: Culture (or lack thereof) Shock!

Digressions and blah blah blah

This is going to be messy, and I don't care. I try to write about things that matter to me and might matter to the people who read this blog, but the creative, literary part of me has felt so constipated by I-don't-know-what that I feel as though I'm spinning my wheels and filling this space with shredded bits of rubber and clouds of smoke. So babble I must, and let the chips fall where they may. I don't know whether to talk about Hannah's milestones, document my travels and discoveries, catalog my ventures in vegetarian cooking, or pontificate on my apophatic religious beliefs. I've done all but the latter, purposely avoiding it for fear of offending others and exposing myself as a vitriolic nay-sayer who hasn't learned the first thing about faith and self-discovery in her 25 meager years. To be honest I really don't know what to say any more except that I feel like a failure in every aspect of my life but motherhood - and I've only been at that for a year and a half. Do you ever look at the person you were a year ago? Five years ago? Ten? - and say to yourself man was I an idiot. I'm so glad I'm not THAT person any more. Now how about this: do you ever look at the person you were yesterday and say the same thing?

I'm not looking for sympathy - the solicited "Oh Suzie, you're not a failure." I know I'm not. I just feel that way today. Seriously, WTF am I doing with my life? Where am I going? Who am I really, and who am I trying to be/become? Healthy questions all, but the dissatisfaction I feel in my answers is unnerving. I played the piano today. Scott Joplin. I haven't played in weeks, my excuse being the little baby fingers that wander onto the keyboard whenever I sit down at the bench. She pulls on my elbow during a particularly troubling arpeggio and I throw my hands up in frustration and look down to see the two biggest, shiniest, saddest brown eyes in the universe looking up at me with a betrayal that makes me want to rip my beating heart from my chest and lay it at her feet. I pick up this tiny reflection of myself and set her in my lap, and we play and sing her favorite songs together in perfect pitch.

Keekal Keekal kitty tar,
Howa wadee watee are!
Ah-pa ba dee watoo high,
Yikee daiky iida tai . . .

And somehow, even though I still can't play the C section of the Maple Leaf Rag up to tempo, I'm satisfied. And I remain satisfied until I get an afternoon to myself and gleefully plan my day and think about all the profound things I'm going to write and books I'm going to read . . . and then I crash on my bed and fall asleep because I'm just EXHAUSTED. I wake up feeling like I've been hit by a train, and by then it's already time to pick Hannah up from the sitter's and be a mom again. Wait, hold the phone. Something's wrong here. Be a mom AGAIN? You're always a mom, sister. That doesn't stop when you have the house to yourself with a glass of wine in your hand and all you can think of doing is organizing the past three months of photos you took of your beautiful daughter. Always a mom. That's who you are. And why is that something to be ashamed of? Why do I lower my eyes and drop my voice when people ask "what do you do?" I cook three times a day because I don't want my daughter to eat processed food. I go to the park so she can run in the wind and taste dirt. I teach her important phrases like "kiss please" and "I'm stinky." I make cardboard-cutout refrigerator magnets with pictures of fruits and animals. I sing lullabies and read Dr. Seuss. I step in poop and clean behind ears, brush teeth and pick rice grains out of the carpet. I play Mozart one-handed, a squirming prodigy sitting in my lap. Mother Teresa said "We can do no great things, only small things with great love." I'm no Mama T, but I am Hannah's Mama, and I know that every small thing I do with great love is for the sake of this small, sweet child . . . and that, to me, is great.

On a completely unrelated note, I am absolute bollocks at letter-writing, phone-calling, thank-you-card giving, and good-friend being. What is wrong with me? After a particularly self-absorbed session of the lamentations woe is me and I hate my life the other day, I sifted through a plastic tub of memories - ticket stubs, tourist maps and mile-high piles of notes, letters and hand-drawn pictures that say I love you Suzie. You're the best. Thank you so much. Congratulations. You are beautiful. I also came across this pile:


. . . of well-intended letters and thank-you cards that I've written over the past 2 and a half years - two of which, I'm ashamed to say, are addressed to the same person. I've had a pile like this in every place I've lived, collecting dust and earning "ungrateful" points at an alarming interest rate. The next time you see my mother, just mention "wedding thank you cards" and she'll probably have one tucked away in her purse for you - hand written and signed "Love, Suzie" September 2004. Dang! She found my stash! See I WRITE them, I just forget to GIVE them. Forgetfulness can easily turn to neglectfulness though, and like a bulging diaper that's long in need of a change, I need to do some house cleaning in the gratitude department. I think if I lived my life and treated my relationships with an ounce of the grace the people in those mountains of notes and letters have given me, I might be in better shape right now. A lesson that will repeat throughout my life until it's learned.

So what comes next, you might ask? What'll happen on the other side of the Pacific? I. Don't. Know. I'm terrified of the unknown right now. Maybe that's what's consuming all of my creativity . . . filling in the blanks. I feel like I owe my music another chance when I get back, but I still can't reconcile a completely selfish graduate degree with the economy I'm entering. My talents, few as they are, don't translate well into the professional world. And so I spin my wheels some more.

I'm sorry for this vomitous mess. It was that or another youtube video. I'm sure you understand.

Once Upon a Time

Music Credits: Joanna Newsom, "Bridges and Balloons"