There is some real agony to parental responsibility, as of late. Feelings of heavy fate in our fortunate choices. Because of the magic of what tier our apartment is, William, got into not one but two Chicago public montessori magnet schools. The famously--or perhaps infamously--fucked school system operates on a tiered priority system based on location that then has a four-level lottery on top of that. It's such a soulcrush and fiasco I didn't even want to submit the application for these arcane lotteries because I didn't want to ponder the hoops and absurdity that this is what it takes to get a three year old into preschool. But alas, the ship came in. I shook in disbelief and turned the paper over and over like some idiot in a corny movie. And then, after Matt left a few minutes later, I cried maybe four whole tears of happiness.
You guys, I was willing to move to the suburbs for a good school. Or get some normal job (WHAT NORMAL JOB AM I QUALIFIED FOR? I HAVE NO IDEA) at a place that is not the couch within my home so I could pay 16g a year for private school. Because in the greylight of the predawn hour when I am half awake feeding a half awake baby I am quaked to my soul with the thought of these boys getting some less than education and that doesn't require them to rise to the occasion. Because all I want for them is better than I did, better than I know. All I remember about my first two years of high school was sleeping through every class that didn't involve making art, hearing Daydream Nation and Three Feet High and Rising for the first time and trying to use a paper Tampax wrapper to roll a joint. I could have done worse, I know, but there is the constant ticker going along the screen of my mind that reads DO NOT FUCK THIS UP FOR THEM.
Never the less, Jude's sixth tooth has arrived and I am alarmed by these future terrors. We have made these two perfect little dudes and this is the price of admission.
"You look gay." My husband says this not as a pejorative, but merely as a description. This is, in fact, what I am going for, I tell him. For 9:30 p.m. on a weeknight at the gym, it is basically me and a dozen ringless dudes who rest for too long between reps and blankly scan the gym horizon for something of interest. You do not want to meet that gaze I tell him. So I have cultivated an exercise look that will ward off even that preliminary head-to-toe up-down glance. It is like so: with my now short hair, if I wash it and do not put a thing in it to sit it down, it looks like a close descendent of Tig Notaro's and that of a mon chi chi. I have purchased sweatpants, my first ever, and though they are tighter on my butt than I wished they have pockets which I have laden with stuff like my keys and a wad of earbuds. Then there is the hoodie. I do not own my own, so I have to swipe Matt's which are sized Men's Large, which really puts a sort of classic Kevin Federline spin on it. There is also the matter of the shoes: SAS nurse shoes in dark brown with dark brown laces. I gave away my gym shoes when I was preggo and my feet expanded like those magic animal bath sponges and I assumed they would stay that way and that turned out to not be true.
I feel like the shoes are the icing, they are really what sell it for me.