Last weekend, I bought my beloved and I new phones.  We have always just taken the shitty free phone that comes with the service (with the exception of one fabled birthday of my beloved's), so it was with a bit of trepidation that I plunked down $300 (with mail-in rebates that will only take $50 of effort to get in the mail by the deadline) for two, brand-spankin' new, shiny, hipster camera phones.

Before I bought them, though, I had lots of questions.  The salesman was eager to help me, sensing my desperation with my old phone. Also, the little angel was wandering around the store, pointing out the balloons and trying to touch everything.  I alternated between asking questions and wondering how much damage she could inflict if I turned my back on her long enough to listen to the answers. 

It was while I was tuned out, trying to keep the little angel from deconstructing a delicately-stacked display of car chargers, that he started talking about the Razor phone. It's really thin.  It looks cool.  I didn't buy it, though, because for the same price you could get a different one that had expandable memory. Before making this decision, I asked what the difference was. 

Thus began the conversation about bulging.

Him:  "Well, the Razor is so thin, you can't even see it in your pocket."

Me:  "Huh?"

Him:  (laughing nervously) "Well, women keep their cell phones in their purses, but men tend to put them in their pockets. Except, well, you don't want a bulge."

Me: (inside going MWAH HA HA HA HA)  "I see. Bulges are bad."

Him:  (not getting my gutter references)  "Yeah.  So you have to use a holster if you have a really thick phone."

Me:  "You wouldn't want, then, a noticeable bulge."

Little angel:  "BULGE."

Last night I had my students read "Marrakesh" by George Orwell.   It's an essay I read when I was in graduate school that has always stayed with me.  It speaks of streams of urine running down roads and donkeys who work diligently for a decade, drop dead, then are eaten by wild dogs before their bodies grow cold.  Mostly, though, it talks about Orwell's sudden awareness of the "brown people" who labor there.  He writes about seeing bundles of sticks walking by each day and only realizing later they were carried by old women.

I'm teaching the class to go beyond just a book report or a reaction paper to forming a solid thesis in response to a literary text.  It's a concept none of them seem to have been taught before, though they are the brightest class I've had in four semesters.  I could tell I was losing them when I began the lecture by waxing nostalgic on the fun in trying to invent a thesis that had not been done before, but when I had them read "Marrakesh," I could tell they were shocked I would introduce such an inflammatory work, especially since so many of them were brown or black and the essay speaks of the invisibility of the inhabitants of the city and the Senegalese army.  I reminded them that Orwell was writing in the late thirties, a time when Jews were accused of owning the world, even though in Marrakesh, they made only pennies a day.  I also reminded them that the world was not always so politically correct as it is now, and back then people just said the things that unfortunately I believe so many still think but do not say today.

The students all recognized what it is to be marginalized, but this new vocabulary and forum for discussion seemed new to them.  I take for granted that academia is a place to examine without emotion and bring to the forefront the things in society of which no one is proud.

On the way home, I was listening to the replay of "This American Life" on NPR.  They were talking in Act Three about Elizabeth Smart and how she walked the streets of Salt Lake City with her captors and nobody saw her.  She went to a party.  People talked to her.  Someone she'd known since she was four saw her at a gas station.  Nobody recognized her - partly because she was wearing a veil, and partly because they were so used to seeing her homeless captors that they ceased to see them, even when two became three there by the Burger King or Blockbuster.

Many who were interviewed for the story said that even though the third person in a veil was young, they never assumed Elizabeth was their daughter - they all assumed she was a second wife.  Those who were interviewed attached no judgment to their assumptions about polygamy.  The story went on to say that many in Salt Lake City have polygamous ancestors, and they accept it without supporting it with a combination of recognition and shame, not wanting to acknowledge what is so hard to understand.

Heather Armstrong of Dooce had a great entry the other day about her thoughts on polygamy and the new show on HBO.  I read the entry with interest and remembered it last night when I realized that the mixed emotions she describes are what enabled Elizabeth Smart to be invisible - not on Heather's part, necessarily - but on the part of those who were interviewed for "This American Life."

In much the same way, the Moroccans were invisible to Orwell.  People who clean office buildings are invisible to the white-collar workers. The homeless are invisible to commuters.  I think one section from "Marrakesh" on the topic of invisibility is the most disturbing:  "For several weeks, always at about the same time of day, the file of old women had hobbled past the house with their firewood, and though they had registered themselves on my eyeballs I cannot truly say that I had seen them. Firewood was passing-that was how I saw it. It was only that one day I happened to be walking behind them, and the curious up-and-down motion of a load of wood drew my attention to the human being underneath it. Then for the first time I noticed the poor old earth-coloured bodies, bodies reduced to bones and leathery skin, bent double under the crushing weight. Yet I suppose I had not been five minutes on Moroccan soil before I noticed the overloading of the donkeys and was infuriated by it."

See people today.

Tonight the little angel and I read books before bed.  One of the books was Once Upon a Potty.  Part of this book discusses the different parts of Prudence's body and what they are called. 

Me:  "Can you point to Prudence's eyes?"

The little angel pointed.

Me:  "Good!  Can you point to Prudence's ears?"

The little angel considers the picture, then decides Prudence's wiry ponytails are her ears.  Good enough.

Me:  "Good!  Can you point to Prudence's hands?"

The little angel nails the hands.

I look at the next page, where Prudence is leaning over, Girls Gone Wild-style, revealing a small circle that is the hole from which her poopy comes out (I know, because it says so in the text).

Me:  "CAn you point to where Prudence expels her fecal matter?"

The little angel laughs.

Me:  "Okay, fine.  Where does Prudence's poopy come out?"

The little angel has not considered this before.  She carefully studies the picture.

Me:  "Do you see a hole where the poopy might come?  Like where we put your diapers?"

The little angel finds the hole.

And I am deeply disturbed by the entire conversation.

Damn, parenting is hard.

Hi.  I'd like to direct your attention to the link below that lovely photo of the little angel in the left navigation bar of this blog.  See that survey link?  Tempted, aren't you?  You know you want to click on it.

Here's the gig:  I've been invited to join the BlogHer advertising co-op, and they would like to learn a little more about you so that we can get all sorts of hipster cool ads instead of that one with the Kewpie doll that says it's not even the weirdest thing they found in their mom's closet, or some other equally bizarre thing.  Also, if the ads do well, I'll eventually make money and can quit my stupid job working for the man.  Okay, I probably won't do THAT well, but everyone's got to have a dream, right?

As a reward for taking the survey (which I KNOW you will do), I will now present you with a list of all the jobs I have had, so that you will understand my deep and underlying need for alternative sources of income.  They are in chronological order, starting in high school:

1. concession stand attendee at the pool
2. professional gift wrapper at the mall
3. chick who takes photos of kids sitting on the Easter Bunny's lap
4. waitress at a dog track
5. waitress a gazillion other places
6. telemarketer
7. public relations assistant account executive (professional faxer)
8. public relations account executive (media whore)
9. temp/secretary
10. technical recruiter
11. content director for a marketing website
12. web director (28 days) for a nonprofit that I bet you've given money to
13. information architect for an advertising agency (see #8)
14. usability consultant
15. freelance writer
16. sr. product manager - corporate
17. sr. product manager - small start-up
18. adjunct professor of English
19. wife to sports fan
20. Mommy

See?  And I'm not even going to tell you like everyone else that I hate the ads. I don't hate them. I've worked in advertising. I do prefer pretty ones, though, so tell them who you are, yo.

The other day at work, the conversation turned to fraternities and sororities.  The Editor Across the Aisle had asked me where I went to school, since it turns out we are both from Iowa. (Someday, I will really start the club Originally From Iowa, and it will have more members across the country, especially in California, Chicago and Kansas City, than any other state's club, because nobody that is born and raised in Iowa lives there in their thirties.)  I told her my old house, then along came another co-worker, he of the famed Bathroom Humor, and mentioned that he had been in a fraternity, lo, the same fraternity as a few of our other co-workers.

This led to a description of living in the Greek houses.  My experience with living in the sorority house was a) it sucks to have to hide your alcohol, b) it's nice to have cleaning ladies - an experience I would draw upon later in life, c) everyone borrows your car when you live in a sorority house and d) if I didn't already know how to make myself throw up by college, I would've learned how in the communal bathroom.  Some of those rumors are true, kids.  My co-worker went on to describe the antebellum splendor of sorority houses, how nice and clean they are, etc., etc.  Fraternity houses are, of course, NOT CLEAN. In fact, they are not the sort of place you want to go the bathroom in, let alone exist.

Then we talked about how I was not only Greek, but I was also on the Panhellenic Council.  I busted parties with underage drinking after giving a thirty-five minute warning and loudly announcing my presence so that anyone underage stupid enough to still be holding a cup deserved a little extra study hall and a monetary fine.  The remainder of the conversation was as follows:

Co-Worker:  "I remember we used to get so crazy in the house. I hated living there. They were always throwing things."

Me:  "Really? Like what?"

Co-Worker:  "Like...beer bottles."

Editor: (incredulously)  "What?  Didn't you get hurt?"

Co-Worker: "Well, one guy did cut his eye when a bottle broke. We took him to the hospital, got in trouble, all that.  After that they passed out safety glasses when we partied."

Editor:  "Why didn't you use cans?"

Me:  "Or kegs?"

Next...followed a stunned silence.  My co-worker was actually dumbfounded that they hadn't just used cans.  We were blown away that he was blown away.  It was one of those surreal moments when you realize just how scary group-think can be.

Alpha Beta Gamma Delta Epsilon Zeta Eta Theta Iota Kappa Lambda Mu Nu Xi Omicron Pi Rho Sigma Tau Epsilon Phi Chi Psi Omega...I can barely remember being that person, but I can still sing the damn alphabet.

My least favorite expression is "See Me."  I hated it when teachers wrote it on my papers.  I hated it when bosses e-mailed it or wrote it on Post-Its stuck to my computer monitor.  I never thought I would have to deal with this most hated expression in the world of the little angel.

Today her teacher in Waddler B wrote it on her sheet.

Apparently the little angel has been "clingy, whiny and wanting to nibble on her cup" during the day. "See me," the note read.  "I need to talk to you face-to-face."

I HATE it when someone says that when there is no even remote possibility I can see them face-to-face in the near future.  I won't even see her face-to-face tomorrow morning, because I can't do drop-off due to an appointment.

I'm sure the recent regression is easily explained by one of two things:  1) my new job and our recent schedule changes (hell, I was nibbling on my cup most of the day, too) and 2) her hatred of the growing midget population of Waddler B.  Oh, Two-Year-Old Room (henceforth to be dubbed Toddler High), you can't come soon enough for the little angel.  She hates those damn babies, yes, she does.  She loves certain babies, such as Baby N. and Arrruuuuun (as she says it, as though she is howling for the moon), but these babies are children of our friends.  They share their toys and gurgle cutely at her.  They don't steal her toys and yell when she's trying to sleep.  Even Ms. S. finally said something to that effect the other day.  We all know that it's time for her to go, Waddler B has jumped the shark, let's move on to the next thing already, WTF.

Yet still.  I'll have to call her teacher, Ms. J., and either come off as a busy working mama who doesn't care if my daughter is, like, totally regressing or an obsessed mother-of-one who doesn't know a phase when it breathes Doritos in her face. I can't win.  Really. 

See me tomorrow. I'll let you know.

Today I happened to see one of the executives administrators at Large Corporate Tax Prep Company where I'm on a three-month contract (I hope) until June.  I haven't seen her since I left exactly one year ago last week. 

Her:  "Oh, my gosh!  How ARE you?  How is the little angel?"

Me:  "She's fine!  She's almost two."  (I'm wondering what the right next question to ask is, since the last time I saw her, she'd just suffered a miscarriage.)  "How are yours?"

Her:  "Oh, he's great.  He's almost four."

(I pause.  So do I ask?  What's the right thing to do?)

Me:  (I'm rude) "How have things been going?"

Her:  "No luck yet.  There's nothing wrong, though.  Just have to keep trying. When are you going to have your next one?"

Me:  (Long pause while I consider why the hell everyone assumes you plan to have multiples if you have one.)  "Never?"

Her:  "WHATTTT?????"  (She could not be more mortified than if I had told her I thought I might just leave the little angel outside for the squirrels.)  "You CAN'T stop with one?"

Me:  "Really?  Why not?"

Her:  (sputtering)  "Because...only children...they just...don't you WANT another one?"

Me:  "Well, no.  That's the thing.  I'm sort of happy with the one that I have."

Her:  "I just don't understand.  It can't work."

Me:  "There are a whole bunch of people who have made it work.  They're called 'China.'"

Her:  "Does your husband want another?"

Me:  (I'm starting to tire of this conversation.)  "He's seventh of eight, and he doesn't want another one."

Her:  "Don't you?"

Me:  "No, not really.  No.  Plus, look, G. - I don't even have a REAL JOB.  How would I afford even more daycare?  My beloved is an entrepreneur.  It's just not in the cards."

Her:  "But maybe later?"

Me:  "Um."  I shrug.  What does she want from me? "You know as well as I do that the brunt of it will be on me.  I've got to want it to do it, G."

This stops her.  She does know.  She does know that despite the father's best intention, it is generally the mother who worries about nutrition labels, knows exactly whom to invite to the birthday parties and why, when to make doctor and dentist appointments and how far in advance to Ebay the playclothes to get the best bargains.  My beloved does not even know what size shoes the little angel wears.  He knows these are all things I keep in my brain, along with a possible menu for dinner tonight, six possible job leads, my syllabus for the entire semester, all his relatives' birthdays and a reminder to buy conditioner that will go on sale next week.  Oh, and I needed to return the book Raising Your Only Child to the library.

Her:  "Well, I would never tell another woman how to live her life."

Me: (shocked silence)

So I took this last comment back with me to my prairie dog hole in the cube farm.  I looked at the editor, who sits across from me. 

Me:  "Do you have kids?"

Editor:  "Um, no."

Me:  "Do people ever ask you why not?"

Editor:  "Um, no.  I might have to kill them."

Me:  "Why does everyone tell me I need to procreate again just because I managed to do it once?"

Editor:  "Really?  That's so rude.  That's like asking someone when they're going to get married."

Me:  "Yeah."

Editor:  "I think you should tell them you can't have another because it would interfere with your drinking."

I think I love her.

This weekend we went back to Iowa to see my parents and my sister.  The little angel was her normal, rambuctuous, precocious self.

On Saturday night, my sister and I were giving the little angel a bath when she admitted the parenting thing looked hard.  She said she wasn't sure she was ready for parenthood after watching Elmo twice in one day.  I laughed and said nobody is ready for parenting, that I myself often didn't feel like the adult in the room.

In retrospect, that's a lie.

The thing is that once you give birth, your eyes are no longer your own, at least not when the little angel is in the room.

We went to the Henry Doorley Zoo, which is an awesome zoo.  It's in Omaha, which is not a particularly glamorous city, but the zoo has always been its claim to fame.  The aquarium there, I would have to say, rivals at least the Shedd in Chicago.  We've visited both in the past year, and watching sharks swim over your head in the tunnel at the HD is an awesome and powerful experience.  But even when the shark was directly above me, so close that I could've counted the intertwining rows of teeth, I couldn't even stop to fathom its nearness for needing to know at all times exactly where the little angel was.  My eyes are not my own anymore.

My eyes need to see her when she is with me, at least now, when she is so young and needs me to watch over her.  I wish they were my own, the way I wish I could've seen The Sopranos tonight at its regularly scheduled time. It is my favorite show - well, it rivals Grey's Anatomy - and though it may seem silly to rate a television show up with my daughter's bedtime, it does.  But of course, the little angel wins. She wins because she is made up of my skin, just as Amy so aptly put it.  I can't think straight when she's crying, even though I know a toddler should have the right to cry, just as a baby does.

It was easier to let her cry when she was a baby, because then I always figured she didn't really know what was going on.  Now that she does, now that she cries for me, and me specifically, it is like someone has shut down my neorological functioning when she is crying for me. Oh, sure, I try to ignore it, don't want to spoil her and all that. I do want her to become independent and function by herself in this strange world, but there is a part of me still that wants to gather her up in my arms at all times as she is young, knowing that someday she will cry for a boy, or a girl, or someone other than me when she is sick, or sad, or scared. 

There will come a day when I have to take back my eyes, for both of our sakes.

It's just not now.  For now, the sharks are literal, and I can still shield her from most of them, and I should.

Because I am the adult in the room.

Last night I got home from dinner with friends just in time to put the little angel to bed.  Well...she was already in bed, but I kicked my XM-radio-listening husband out of her room and sat down next to her.  She was so excited that I was home that it then took a while to get her calmed back down, so I picked her up and went to the rocking chair for a while. 

As we were rocking, her little hand snuck back around my waist and started playing with the edge of my sweater, which had fringe on it.  I felt her touch on the skin of my back.  It felt like nothing else.  The touch of a child's hand on the mother has an authority over almost any other touch.  When do we lose that confidence about our right to lovingly touch our mothers and fathers?  What adult would simply reach up under their mother's sweater to pat her lower back?  But children do - at least small children, toddlers, babies.  They will stick their fingers up our noses, but they also bury their faces in our necks with such certainty it inspires us mothers to prepare to run through fire to protect them, to justify their belief that we can prevent all harm.

I still hug my mother, as often as she wants me to, but I can't remember the last time I stuck my nose in her neck or lay down next to her on the couch.  Somewhere around tweendom, we pull back from touching - our fingers grow tentative.  Mothers begin to ask permission to hug or touch their children's hair.  Children, in their growing independence, have no idea how great a loss their hugs really are until they, too, become mothers holding their toddlers in a rocking chair and wondering how long it will be before those little fingers no longer reach out with such authority.