It has reminded me of an event I attended long ago with Miranda July at the helm. It was a performance art piece at Theater Artaud, with a long, slow, audience-infused story about a couple and an adopted cat. There was a lot of bittersweetness in it, so much sadness, too. I have wished, a number of times, that I could remember the exact script of the after-piece. Bic lighters had been hidden under the seats of the guests, and in complete darkness at the end we were asked to answer the most intimate of questions with just a flicker of yes, or no. Thinking back, the only question I am certain was asked was whether we had met the love of our lives. I really can't remember whether I flicked yes or no, I can only remember now that the question gave me -- and, no doubt, much of the audience -- great pause.
I'm pretty sure, if I were asked the same question in the same dark room today, I would flick my lighter confidently. I would tell you, if you asked, that Django is absolutely, unequivocally, and never-endingly the love of my life. And it would be true, in so many senses, that it would be virtually indisputable.
But that exact question is not at all what has been drawing my mind back to that night with Miranda July, oh so long ago. It's the memory of the pause. It's the imperative of the pause. The uncomfortable realization that we sometimes need questions, circumstances, even answers to get so big that there is nothing we can do in the face of them except pause. Think. Reflect. Feel.
On Friday I got my first "you need to come pick up your sick kid" call from Django's school. My heart sank. Especially since I had taken due note of his watery eyes and whiny disposition Thursday evening. I waved a hand at the thought, willed it away, hoped that would work.
Needless to say, our house has been a crooked one all weekend, a quarantined one, a place where snot has been running in rivers and tears have been falling like rain. Django's little furnace is stuck on 102, and no amount of ibuprofen seems to be able to budge it. I can almost see the germy buggers inside him smirking, taunting, staring at me from behind his one especially pink eye. They are making me cranky. Very cranky. And when I make my fifth call of the weekend to the Kaiser advice center at some inevitable point tomorrow, they better not ask me again if my address or phone number has changed since the last time I called. If they do, I refuse to be responsible for what I say in reply.
This, too, shall pass. I know. Good, bad or indifferent, it always does. Until then, I'll have to keep my mind going back to Django's quip at the kitchen table this morning, when I said I was going to take his temperature again -- with our new $55 ear thermometer: "Ok, Mom. But then pop the cover off real high, because that's the funnest part!"
The other night -- the night before our fifth and final, out of town, summer adventure, to be more specific -- I found myself locked in another 3a standoff with Django:
Is it wake-up time? May I come in your bed? Can I have some chocolate milk? I want to go upstairs! I need to watch some TV!! Can you turn on the light?
Even people without kids -- perhaps, especially people without kids, now that I think about it -- know there is only one answer to any question asked at 3a. It starts with a groggy "hunh?" followed shortly by a baffled "what?" and finishes with an emphatic snorting of the word, "no!"
You'd think, after the number of times Django's tried this approach with no success, a smart kid like him would give up. Or at least try something new. To his credit, he does sometimes add the word "really" or even "really, really" to his plaintive requests. But, seriously, if he thinks that's going to be enough to get me out of bed doing his bidding at 3a, he has obviously mistaken me for someone 20 years younger and softer. Instead of having the intended effect, when he starts adding reallys, I start adding cuss words.
There are plenty of nights I fall right back to sleep after one of these stalemates, but not this one. My mind got to wandering. First it started mulling over the list of things needing to be done before departure the next morning -- which triggered much the same reaction in me as Django's diatribe -- hunh? what? no! Then it moved on to wondering if Django & I should design and sew the sheet, blanket & pillow his preschool asked us to bring on his first day of school next week -- hunh? what? no!
Finally, my mind found a happy place to rest in reflecting on how amazingly quickly Django learned to use a potty. I mean, literally, one day two weeks ago he was in diapers and the next day he was telling me -- with 100% accuracy -- when he needed a toilet...What can I say? Some people count sheep. I guess I just need to remind myself to count my blessings.
I just wanted to pop in and say, the $63 ticket I got today for parking on the wrong side of the street around the corner from SadieDey's play-cafe in downtown Oakland on this second Monday of the month between 9a-12n was so totally worth it.
Oh, sure, I would've parked someplace else if I'd actually read the sign. But at the moment we were pulling up, I happened to be trying really hard to give a cogent, truthful and illuminating (but brief) answer to Django's burning question: "Hey, Mom. Why are the sun & stars on fire?"
Having a precocious 2.5 year old is seriously distracting. Doesn't make for a very good protest to a street-cleaning citation, but it's very true.
Every now and again I catch myself wondering about the more distant future, not the middle one -- where I am certain to be the inappropriately flamboyant & embarrassingly geriatric mom of a teenage young man -- but the one in which Django has already found his own niche(s) in the world. For the most part, these mental meanderings of mine are classic, narcissistic, and idealistic self-projection on progeny. You know the kind, the I-always-thought-I-might-have-a-knack-for-[blank]-but-I-never-did-fully-explore-it-&-I-think-he-will!
But every now and again, I have the distinct impression I'm actually catching a glimpse of some raw talent, some unique perspective Django has on the world. I have given up (for the moment) trying to explain the more elaborate things he says that give me this feeling. Instead, I offer to you this small collection of photos he's taken all by himself. And when I say "all by himself," I really mean all by himself -- no coaching, no cajoling, no here-let-me-hold-the-camera-while-you-push-the-button. All Django, all the way.
I'd be very interested to hear what these photos say to you.
"There comes a time in the day that no matter what the question...the answer is wine." -- Erin Smith Calendar, May 2010
I reached the above-mentioned time of day at about 2:30p this afternoon -- shortly after Django & Savanna refused to nap, despite my best attempts to cajole, browbeat and/or bribe them into it. The whole failed endeavor ended on a particularly sour note for me, when Django shouted up quite cheerfully from downstairs (where he'd been giggling and pussyfooting in my bed with Savanna for well over half an hour, I might add): "Sorry I peed in your bed again, Mama. Please change my diaper right now." The situation quickly went from bad to worse during the neighborhood walk we took instead, in which a brief squabble over turns driving a pretend school bus at the local used children's clothing store turned into a full-throttle, 45-minute temper tantrum, all the way home and then some. But, for the record, I resisted the urge to open my much-needed bottle of wine until I sat down here to type, at around 8p...The little guy, in case you're wondering, was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow at 7:10p.
These are days to remember. And also to forget.
Speaking of remembering, forgetting, and all the terrible confusion in-between, I recently finished reading a Po Bronson book I found in a free book box. You know the kind, the one in which you see a certain book and think, I should grab that, because you read or heard something somewhere, about something else entirely, by the same author? And then you think, No I shouldn't, because it's probably crap and I won't read it anyway? But you do (grab it) and you do (somehow read it) and in retrospect it seems like it was 'meant to be'? Yeah, well, I love that because it makes me feel like there's a beneficent cosmic radio station always broadcasting somewhere, even if I can only occasionally tune in with my receiver. But I hate it, too, because it also makes me feel like a New Age/Hippie. Back to the point, though, I found Po Bronson's "Why Do I Love these People" to be an absolutely spell-binding book. A daunting one, too. It's chock-full of incredible stories of family & personal resilience. Almost every story made me think, on some level, Wow. Could I overcome that?I seriously doubt it!
In other words, the stories in that book forced me to get a little -- no, ok, a lot -- more real about what it takes to be a good role model for family. So far, I think my chances of achieving such a thing are about as good as my chances of winning the lottery. But I keep trying to remind myself that, like the lottery, you can't win if you don't play.
So we play...As you can see here for yourself, we play in science museums, swimming pools, explorer's coves, patio chairs, rain puddles, kitchen tables, sunny streets and zoo windows. We play with sculptures and friends and balls and relatives and wigs and mirrors and buttons and rocks and water and baskets and worms and blocks and scissors and tape and paint and wild animals. Oh, we do play. And even though I hope that nothing more traumatic than a 45-minute tantrum ever happens to our family, if a time comes when something does, I sure hope all the loving, happy, wonder-filled moments that have gone before become glue that holds us each and all together. That would be the ultimate jackpot.
"As much as I try to be an easygoing, spread your wings and fly type...I just can't stop trying to burst people into flames with my mind."
-- Erin Smith Calendar, March 2010
Dear Hiring Committee:
My name is Kara Daillak. As you will see from my resume, I have been teaching elementary school for the past 8 years, primarily in the San Francisco Unified School District. I am currently working at Sanchez Elementary – where I’ve spent 5 of my 8 years in the field – in a .5 FTE position as a Literacy Specialist. Unfortunately, continued funding for this position is not available next school year. I am now seeking new employment because my family obligations leave me unable to work the additional "Dream School" hours required by the 1.0 FTE positions that are available at Sanchez for the 2010-2011 school year. I will be sad to leave Sanchez at the end of 2009-2010. Yet, I have seen and heard of so many wonderful schools around the State, I am excited to have the chance to become part of another community of dedicated, invigorated and forward-thinking educators at a different site.
Though I currently hold only a Multiple Subject credential with CLAD emphasis, I am interested in a wide range of teaching positions from .5 - 1.0 FTE, and from PreK – 12th, both within and outside the classroom, in regular public schools as well as alternative.I believe I have all of the organizational skills, instructional experience, inherent resourcefulness and enthusiasm necessary to make an excellent teacher in any of these contexts. I am also willing to seek whatever additional certification might be necessary for any position I believe suits my strengths and motivations.
In my mind, what is most important as I contemplate this change in professional venue is exactly what was most important to me when I went back to school to earn my teaching credential after a 5-year career in employment law. I want to continue to be directly and personally engaged in work that has a positive impact on society – work that makes me feel challenged but also hopeful and successful – together with a group of people energized by that same goal. I know there are dozens of school sites that might provide me with this kind of opportunity. I hope yours is the one.
Please feel free to contact me with any further questions.
Thank you, in advance, for considering my application,
Kara Daillak
P.S.
I should also probably explain that I am the only-parent to an almost 2.5 year old boy who is – without a doubt – the most delightful person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. And I would move heaven & earth, go anywhere, do anything, present any rough edge of mine to you as if it were completely polished, in order to secure employment that would allow me to spend at least half of my usual workweek 'working' for him. He's that important. Way more important than any job. Ever. Except that I need a regular job, of course, to be able to provide for him, to take him places like Chicago in the middle of winter, and buy him 'essential' things like pretend rabbit ears for playing, rainbow cupcake ingredients for baking, hooded sweaters for evening hikes, doll strollers for racing, dinners out (unfortunately including ones where he might end up chipping more teeth,) and stroller rain covers for fogging with warm breath. Still, I promise you, I make a GREAT employee -- except or unless, my mind is on other things, like the loss of my beloved pet rabbit or some weird dreams I had while I really wasn't sleeping or whether the dvds from the library are overdue already. So you should feel totally confident about hiring me. Really. Please?
Wow. September has been a hard month.
