I had a bit of a nervous breakdown last weekend.  My ability to hold down my corporate job, write for my magazines, teach my class, parent my daughter and exist as a functioning member of society petered out like a garden hose.  As I cried to my husband on the ride home from my parents' house, he (just as my mother had when I snotted all over her in the parking lot of an upscale strip mall in Omaha) asked me What. Can. You. Cut. Out.?

People are always asking me that.  And I usually want to throttle them, because they always suggest I cut out the "extracurricular" stuff, like getting a master's degree, writing fiction, writing magazine articles, writing my blog, teaching my class, seeing my friends, traveling. In other words, the things I like to do.  No one ever suggests quitting my day job, because We. Need. The. Money.

I know, everyone has to work.  My family is often shocked I would question my need to earn.  It's not that I don't want to work, though - I love to work!  On my writing! I just don't! Love! To! Work! In! An! Office! Doing! Stuff! That's! Not! Writing!

Still, I know he has a point. I need to be doing this now, while he builds his business.  So I've been looking for a job that will allow me to at least work sane hours and not make me want to drive a nail into my eyeball every time I attend a meeting with more than two people around the conference table.  That's a project in process.

He also brought up that of all of my "extracurricular" activities, teaching offers me the least emotional return on investment. I spend up to ten hours a week driving to and from class, teaching the class, grading papers and doing the administrative things. For this, I get only enough money to make us owe taxes every year.  I did it initially because I thought that some nice community college would hire me for a full-time teaching job eventually, allowing me summers off and hence more time for the writing.  It always went back to how can I get more time for the writing without having to go all Toni Morrison and get up at four a.m. to write.  I know she did that. I bet her kid didn't wake her up every morning at two, though. This morning I got up at two, fell asleep on her floor, got off her floor and went back to bed at four, then got up to get her some milk at 5:30 and finally gave up on that sleeping thang and got in the shower at 6:30. This schedule of naps that I like to call "my nighttime sleeping" is not so conducive to early-morning inspiration.

I'm bitching to you, aren't I?  (sigh) I'm trying really hard not to be so negative.

Anyway, I decided that my beloved did, in fact, have some good points.  Something had to go. Time with the little angel is the nonnegotiable constant in my life.  Everything else lines up in a little row, including, unfortunately, my beloved and myself.  So in order to not just be a ship passing in the night forever, I decided to get real about finding a more manageable day job and stop with the teaching.

Last night, my shining star student told me her twin sister was going to take composition from me in the fall. Then the guy who's my age and hates school told me I'm the only teacher he likes.  It was kind of like when you finally decide to chop off all your hair, then it looks AWESOME on the way to the salon.

Here's the thing, though: I know I'm good at teaching composition. I like doing it.  It is with not a small amount of wistfulness that I sent the e-mail yesterday to my dean telling her I'm not available except to sub in the fall.  I also like biking, but we've decided we're not going to go on RAGBRAI (a bike ride across Iowa that my beloved and I both love to do) this year, either, because we don't really have time to train for it, and we just can't handle any more pressure right now.  I like to sail my twelve-foot AMF Puffer, but we didn't do that at all last year, and I want to make time to do it this year. I like to see my friends. I like to go on dates.  I like to do a million things that I'm not doing much of right now.

In retrospect, letting go of teaching was good in that it made me sit down and list all of the things I like to do.  I'm a really interesting person.  Whee!  I hate having to cut things out, though.  My father-in-law once told me the hardest thing about having kids is having to give things up.  I thought he was just being negative and old-fashioned. I thought I would be able to bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, make cookies and write novels, all without skipping a workout.  I've been humbled by this parenting thing.  But rather than giving things up, I'm trying to look at it as forced prioritization. I'm actually writing more than I have in years, simply because I've had to give up so many other great things to do it.  So maybe this whole exercise hasn't been a total loss.

Next week is my final exam.  I wonder if I'll ever give another?

Today when I picked the little angel up from Toddler High (whee!  Her teacher was back today!  With a new haircut!  A week after her husband died!  We love you, Ms. L.) I noticed that her friends S. and J. were sporting shiny new bite marks on their wrists.  A matched set.  Their mommies were studying their wrists, trying to determine if they had, in fact, just bitten each other.

I was a tad worried.  Remember, the little angel was once a perp.  I marched right into Toddler High and bribed the young afternoon girl to tell me if the little angel had bitten anyone. 

Young Afternoon Girl:  "Oh, no, she's never bitten anyone in this room."

Me:  "Well, she bit Baby M. in Waddler B.  A couple of times."

Young Afternoon Girl: (shocked) "Really?  I can't imagine it."

Me:  "Well, it was personal." (under breath) "The little bastard totally had it coming."

We stopped and picked up my beloved to head to Lowe's to pick up paint, because I, dear readers, am finally going to paint our heinous home office a lovely fog color with shiny white trim.  Then we will put up our fancy new wall sconce.  And then, we will have Zen in Home Office.  Except for the carpet, which Sybil has puked on so many times that I've stopped doing much besides wiping it up with a Kleenex and praying that the money tree will rejuvenate fast enough to pay down our credit card debt so we can re-carpet the damn place before someone has the house condemned.

In the car, I told my beloved about all the biting.  I wondered who had done it.  Then I thought Hey!  She's verbal now!  MAYBE SHE WILL SPILL IT.  The power - it was giddying.

Me:  "So, do you know who did the biting?"

Little Angel:  "I want a cwackwer."

Me:  "Who bit S?"

Little Angel:  "Goldfishie!  I want a goldfishie cwackwer."

Me:  "Did you see anyone bite S. and J.?"

Little Angel:  "Mommy."

Me:  "Huh?"

Little Angel:  (brandishing crumbled Goldfish)  "Mommy did it."

This weekend we went to Iowa to visit Mother Who Is Now Convinced I'm Not Wiccan and Father Who Wouldn't Have Noticed Had I Not Pointed It Out.  We had a great time, but when we returned, we smelled something.  A little, no a LOT of something.  Maybe even something rotten.

The last time I smelled this particular smell, I was pregnant with the little angel and deeply in throes of morning (which, sistah, is not constrained to "morning") sickness. Thank goodness that was not the case this time, because I might have just DIED.  We caught our big, fat mousie.  And, unfortunately, I think we caught our mousie on like Friday at four p.m., even though we didn't get home until Sunday at three.

While I retired outdoors making immature gagging noises, my beloved removed big, fat mousie and put him in the trash, commenting loudly on what a good, fat mousie and obviously well-fed mousie he was.  And how he probably had lots of brothers and sisters. GAH. I made evil eyes at Sybil, who is so nice as a companion but so utterly useless as a cat that I can hardly believe she still fits the physical description.  She didn't seem put off in the least that she'd been oblivious to a small metal-and-wood device and a mini Three Muskateers totally doing her job for her.

While we were outside, the little angel noticed a miniscule ant climbing along the pavement.  We were doing more sidewalk chalk, which is this month's favorite game. 

Little angel:  "OH!  What's this??" (She pointed at the ant with one still-chubby finger.  Her fingers do not seem to realize that they should fall in line with her skinny hips that make every pair of 24-month jeans look all K-Fed, resulting in me following her around the mall play place yelling "Pull your pants up!" like SUCH A MOM.)

Me:  "That's an ant."

Little angel:  "Where's he going?"

Me:  "He's going to find his friends."

Little angel:  "Oh, NO!  No friends?"

Me:  "He has some friends."  (I start pointing them out. My, but we have a lot of ants.)

The little angel reached down to pet the ant and promptly squashed him.  He didn't completely die, though, just lay there waggling his legs in what was probably excruciating pain. I wasn't sure if I should reprimand her or what.  I mean, we were outside to avoid having to explain big, fat mousie's recent demise.  I don't know after last week how many more death conversations I have in me right now.

Me:  "I think he's tired now.  Maybe we should play with chalk again."

When she turned back around, I put the poor ant out of his misery.  And actually, I sort of felt bad.

After the chalk, we walked around to the front of the house to check on Mommy's flower, Daddy's flower and the little angel's flower.  Mine and my beloved's are Gerber daisies.  I pulled off one of the stems that had lost its bloom and threw it to the side.  The little angel saw me.

Little angel:  "OH, NO!!!  Mommy!  It's BROKEN!!!"

Then the little ant-smasher proceeded to pick up the broken-off stem and replant it in the pot.  I didn't stop her.  I just can't get too deeply into the reality of the big, cruel world yet.  She's only two.

Glad you all (well, all of you that commented) like the new design.  At first, there were a whole lot more witches, but that made me all "Whoa, my mother is totally going to freak out if she sees that many witches."  Because, you see, the witch in the design is more of an accent witch, not a real witch.  She just wants her sister's shoes back, and hey, don't we all?  But yes, Mother, I'm still a good Lutheran. I swear.  Even if I'm $76,000 behind on my pledged offerings for the last five years.  My heart, it is in the right place.

I came up with the design to play off both the title of the blog and my vision of YOUR vision of Kansas City.  I think most people on the coasts believe Kansas and Missouri and all the other states in the Midwest are just sort of a large field of wheat or other starchy vegetable or grain product, maybe with some religious fanatics and a little smoke going up somewhere.  The title of this blog actually didn't mean to come from the Wizard of Oz - I started this blog when the little angel was about a month old, and at that point, I was ready to surrender to the first person who offered me a two-hour nap, even if that person was Osama bin Ladin.  I was a little crazy then.

So I talked to my friend L. today about the toddler.  It was very sad.  I also learned that my friend N.'s nana passed away a while ago, but she's just now gotten up the energy to tell us.  That's the third I've heard this week now, after the daycare teacher's husband.  I'm hoping that will end this week's streak of horrifically painful emotional experiences for those for whom I care deeply.

And because I now need something about which to feel good, I present you with this for your Friday - my husband's version of sidewalk chalk art:

Glad you all (well, all of you that commented) like the new design.  At first, there were a whole lot more witches, but that made me all "Whoa, my mother is totally going to freak out if she sees that many witches."  Because, you see, the witch in the design is more of an accent witch, not a real witch.  She just wants her sister's shoes back, and hey, don't we all?  But yes, Mother, I'm still a good Lutheran. I swear.  Even if I'm $76,000 behind on my pledged offerings for the last five years.  My heart, it is in the right place.

I came up with the design to play off both the title of the blog and my vision of YOUR vision of Kansas City.  I think most people on the coasts believe Kansas and Missouri and all the other states in the Midwest are just sort of a large field of wheat or other starchy vegetable or grain product, maybe with some religious fanatics and a little smoke going up somewhere.  The title of this blog actually didn't mean to come from the Wizard of Oz - I started this blog when the little angel was about a month old, and at that point, I was ready to surrender to the first person who offered me a two-hour nap, even if that person was Osama bin Ladin.  I was a little crazy then.

So I talked to my friend L. today about the toddler.  It was very sad.  I also learned that my friend N.'s nana passed away a while ago, but she's just now gotten up the energy to tell us.  That's the third I've heard this week now, after the daycare teacher's husband.  I'm hoping that will end this week's streak of horrifically painful emotional experiences for those for whom I care deeply.

And because I now need something about which to feel good, I present you with this for your Friday - my husband's version of sidewalk chalk art:

Today as I was driving to Large Corporate Tax Prep's end-of-season off-site "celebration," I was talking to my friend Cagey about my sudden awareness of motherhood's altered perspective.

I found myself in another conversation at Dave & Buster's (yes, this is where the "team building" was held) with a guy I've never met before but who works for my company.  This second conversation was similar to the first, though a bit more alcohol-induced. 

Cagey and I were talking about how motherhood changes the way you look at things. I pointed out on her blog yesterday or the day before that I see the issue of immigration as a family issue.  One of my students told me in class last night that one of her nuclear family members (and she's in her late forties and has been in this country most of her life) is still undocumented.  I mention this because I think most people see immigrants as single people who can just be sent back, but I see them as members of a family - some of the family members have probably been born here and are thus Americans - and some of the family are not.  You send back part of a family, and what happens to the rest?  Besides ripping a family apart, you've also introduced a whole new other host of problems for the American taxpayers. 

I guess I see almost every issue as a family issue, now that I have one.  The little angel's head teacher at Toddler High unexpectedly lost her husband on Monday.  My good friend L's close friends lost their toddler unexpectedly tonight.  I can't even bring myself to call her yet, because I can't bear to think about a toddler suddenly dying.  I can't think about it, because I will throw up. Because I can't let myself think anything horrible could ever, ever happen to the little angel. 

It's as if having her in my life flipped the lens through which I view the world from choice "A" to choice "B," just like during an eye exam:  You can see through both lenses just fine, but there's a sharper edge to one.  One just seems more clear, though it's hard to put your finger on exactly why.

I'm in the same romantic relationship than I was before her, but now it's got a new definition.  I have the same friends, but I see some of them differently than I did before.  I now understand the mothers better than I did before I became one.  I've become less judgmental of everyone.  I'm softer around the edges mentally and emotionally than I was.  My new glasses mean that I can't watch a Lifetime movie without crying, but at the same time, I'm suddenly able to make heart-wrenching career and personal decisions without flinching or faltering.  There is no discussion for me when it comes to her.  She's changed my worldview.

And just as she's changed it now, as a toddler, I know I'll see the world through lens "C" when she enters grade school and probably "D" when she starts driving and "E" when she goes off to college.  I'll probably go blind by the time she gets married and be wearing bifocals when she calls to tell me she's finally given birth, MY GOD MOTHER WHY DID THE EPIDURAL TAKE SO LONG?

This conversation I had at the team-building thing was with a childless man.  He was asking me to guess his age (one of my least favorite games, especially with people I have to see again), so I pegged him at between 29 and 35, though he could've been anything. I had no idea.  He first told me he owns a plane, then he told me he's 35.  I have no idea if either is true.  He said that he feels 28, and I said, hell, who doesn't?  I feel 25 even though I often have to realize that I'm the adult in the room, and if I don't pay attention to where the sharp objects are located, someone's going to get hurt.

So despite my extreme trepidation, I'm going to call L. and see if she's okay or wants to talk about the toddler.  And I took a peace lily over to the daycare for the little angel's teacher, who is having an understandably hard time getting past the fact that her husband was dead on the couch when she got home from work.  All this heaviness would've made me sad three years ago, but it weighs on my heart like lead now.  Like lead.

Karen from Troll Baby Graphics is designing me a fancy-schmancy new blog job.  It has wheat and witches and cool trees and it's all stuff I could've never, ever, EVER done on my own.  She said it will be up sometime today or tomorrow - it's like childbirth - they say "Oh, you'll deliver on April 13. No, 12th.  No, 6th...or maybe the 24th.  But trust me, we won't let you go into May."  Then you walk around your block seventeeny-million times looking like a deranged hippo, swearing and leaning on your husband as though he might soon spout chocolate martinis.  Then you go to the hospital and the send you home, then bring you back, then give you morphine,then say the epidural lady is just down the hall for two hours. Then your OB drops your little angel's placenta on the floor.

And then, you have something new.

The suspense...it kills me.

I had to find all the little pieces of my head lying around the house this morning before I could go to work.  Part of the problem is that I'm sick, and so is the little angel and my beloved, and the little angel and I were on the couch from about two in the morning on last night and midnight on the night before.  Part of the problem is that while my writer's conference was the best use of $130 I've had in a long, long time, it caused the very messy business of my head exploding with all the things I must do to get this project in any sort of working order before I seriously seek an agent.

Like so many things in life, it was life-changing in a good and bad way.

Part of my problem is TIME.  What with the searching for the day job (my contract at Large Corporate Tax Prep has five weeks left on it and counting), finishing up the semester at the community college (fourteen essays, each four pages long and with three outside sources done in MLA style coming my way in two weeks - oh, and I haven't recorded one grade yet in my computer all semester long - ack), working on this book project and balancing Toddler Birthday Season (because every toddler I know was born in March, April or May) is kicking my ass. Not just a little bit. It's all kicking it a lot.

Which brings me to the issue of identity. What is mine?  My job thinks I should be focusing on my career, and which position I take here next will largely shape that.  My class thinks I should be focusing on them, and rightly so - they want to know what's on the dang final.  My daughter and husband are begging for my time, and really - they are THE most important thing and are getting as big of a piece as I can possibly give them (well, my daughter at least - my beloved is probably going to join Abandoned Spouses Anonymous soon).  Where is the book?  Where is the blogging?  I'm hanging on to them by my fingernails, because that is the part of this whole big mess of my life that is still ME.  It's what I wanted to do when I was a little girl - be a writer, discuss the larger and smaller issues of life with other, like-minded people.  If I let that one slide out of my fingers, I'm going to wake up twenty years from now with the little angel calling me hung over from college and wondering what I liked to do before she came along in the first place.

My biggest fear in life is losing sight of me.  I understand how much I love my child and my husband, friends and family. What gets in the way sometimes is forgetting how much I love me.

I had a crap year last year.  My beloved got on the right track with his career, and we've spent a lot of time nurturing his entrepreneurship.  I got depressed because I wasn't sure when my ship would ever sail.  The little angel never slept, and I realized that not even my basic physical needs were being met - the need for sleep,the need to eat healthy food and exercise and laugh.  Once I got the physical needs under control, I realized I had long been neglecting my existential need to practice my own free will and do something about me and my interests. 

I've been trying to behave in a more loving way toward myself this year, and as a result, I'm more invigorated than I've been in years, but I'm also BUSIER.  I'm not sure how to make it all happen.  I'm not sure how other people make it happen. My best friend and I were discussing this, and we came to the conclusion that people are either sacrificing a lot of sleep or their own interests in the name of Career, Marriage and Family.  Does it have to be this way?  Are you doing it all?  If so, can you please tell me how you find the time to do it?

I think this is the biggest question for me right now.  How can I be true to self without becoming a distant wife and absent mother?  How can I be good to others without forgetting to be good to me?

So tomorrow I'm going to a writer's conference here in Kansas City.  It's for the Missouri Writer's Guild.  We're going to write about deer and moonshine.  No, just kidding, though I know, I KNOW that's what some of you on the coasts think we are all about here in the flyover states.  See?  I caught you.

Actually, I have a fifteen-minute pitch with a fancy-pants NYC agent who will probably wear black, sniff disgustedly down her hipper-than-thou glasses at me, and reaffirm my deepest-held conviction that my writing does actually suck.  However, I've spent hours upon hours upon hours on my proposal and have some really, really, REALLY cool people working on the project with me, so I'm hoping at the very least to get some decent feedback I can then use to target the superstar agent who will catapault me and mine to fame in two years or fewer.

Hey, baby, everyone's got a dream. Wish me luck!