. . . the people who you meet each day?
In the case of TheologyBaby, a child so city that she has trouble sleeping without the constant ambient din of sirens and hospital helicopters, the people she sees regularly are quite, um colorful.
Take, for instance, her friends from our daily walks. We regularly stroll around a park (well, a T stop with some trees) near a river (well, a stagnant pool of black goo that alleges to be a river). There are benches, occasional avant garde art work and, on a good day, ducks. There are also several homeless people who frequent said benches; notable among them are Cliff and Leo. Daily they smile and coo at TheoBaby; Cliff is a surprisingly competent tenor who sings her little ditties about how the man done kept him down. Leo can juggle almost anything left in the trash can. The kid loves it. On one of our walks, Vera (a friend of Cliff and Leo’s) held court with the men and the three of them declared that TheoBaby is the most beautiful baby they see, and they see a lot of them during the day. Though, they did say she deserved a better stroller. (My neighborhood has a lot of “Bugaboos”. I refuse to spend 1,000.00 on a conveyance device that a. I must push or b. carries someone who regularly gnaws on it.)
At the end of the “park” is a fenced in area I always thought belonged to the state, as it often had equipment for the upkeep of the wooded area. And it has been brought to my attention that it does in fact belong to the state. However, the nice men in orange jumpsuits who wield the equipment and keep my neighborhood spiffy and clean aren’t “employees” so much as convicted criminals paying their debts to society through landscaping when not in prison. I learned this as TheoBaby and I were passing by and a nice young man hit a tennis ball outside of the fence with a splintered tree branch. “Ma’am?” He called politely, “Could you toss us that? I think we’d get in trouble if we tried to get it.” I threw it back thinking that those poor employees really should be able to do what they want with their lunch break. And then I noticed the van parked nearby whose logo included the words “correctional facility.” Ah. That would explain the orange jumpsuits, I suppose. In any case, the baby waves and gets excited to see the park keeper-uppers, and they always call her beautiful and make leaf tornadoes with the leaf-blowers for her. It’s a regular carnival over there.
Odd to note, though, was awhile back I noticed a few men, similarly attired to the park guys, standing at our intersection on the way home. They had on orange vests and appeared for all the world to be collecting money in cans. Again, this is not odd in the neighborhood per se. But it is odd to see this particular group engaged in it. With official outfits and matching orange cans. I wondered if this was some sort of new strategy to beat prison budget cuts. Or maybe it was another group altogether, whose fund raising efforts just favored the color orange. I don’t know, though I think I will ask them if they ever come back.
In the meantime, I wile away the hours ignoring the dissertation in creative parenting by making up little ditties on rainy days. Sing along if you know the tune . . .
Oh, the incarcerated keep our parks clean
Even if the T riders are pretty mean,
They work, and work the whole day through
To make sure the paths are safe for you!
Cause a work-release inmate’s in your neighborhood
In your neighborhood, he’s in your neighborhood
A work-release inmate’s a person in your neighborhood
A person who you meet each day!
. . . Seriously, that is what I used to think the song actually said.
Ahem.
Why is it that while I am surrounded with God’s glorious creation, where I have no earthly (and certainly not an unearthly) reason to be bored, where each moment is alive with potential, I choose to watch the Real Housewives of New Jersey? Or, worse, why do I choose to read the blogs of these women, the comments on those blogs, and then Google the latest news on Jon and Kate Plus 8? Is this the sort of thing confession would help?
Funny thing about confession. One might think I wouldn’t be interested in such a thing, being a Methodist and all. And you would be correct, except that as of this past Easter I joined the warm fold of Rome. I’m playing for another team.
Let me answer from FAQs I have gotten due to my recent subtle shift in religious affiliation:
Didn’t you want to be ordained?
Well, yes. From about 1996-2006 this was a definite goal. But little by little committees and people who may or may not have been older white males whittled away at my resolve until I was sick of the whole process. Seldom if ever did I see God during that, my honest attempt. At least the Catholic church is upfront on not ordaining women. It won’t string me along for a decade only to decide that my theology isn’t quite up to snuff.
Why Catholic? Isn’t that a little extreme?
Maybe for some. But I didn’t really think so. Transubstantiation? On board. Seven sacraments? Sure. Nicene Creed? Word. Also, my husband and daughter are Catholic and it made me sad to see them go up to Communion together and I’d be left sitting in the pew feeling all heathen and resentful of many a proud Wesleyan tradition.
So what are you, like, going to do for a job?
Oh, who knows. Before I always sort of wanted to try pro-surfing. This is still always an option.
Do you find anything different now that you’re Catholic?
Yes, actually. I find the mandatory attendance at the liturgy of the word is good for me, as before I could skip church and think nothing of it. And I enjoy this whole “patron saint” thing. I feel like I have people, an entourage, a posse. Granted they are dead, but their connections to power? People would KILL for them. HA! Get it? Kill? Saints were often martyrs? HA!
Oh yeah. I know the Vatican is ready for ALLLLL THIS.
Well *cough* it’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Arguably it’s been half of a person’s life, provided that that person turns one in July. Which happens to be the case with one of my close associates. The close associate who renders blog updating difficult, in that most of my stories now end with “And then I’ll change her diaper!” And who wants to read that? Someone, I’m sure, given the proliferation of so-called “mommy bloggers” out there. But typing it makes me feel boring.
This is not to say that everything I type is boring. So I decided, again, to brush the dust off ol’ Theology Girl.
TheologyBaby is indeed almost a year on this earth. For her birthday, we got her a new car seat so that she can comply with the nation-state when she is carted around in a vehicle. This went over famously, as the Britax Boulevard CS box is an amazing gift for a toddler. It is at least 10 times her size, making it an exciting fort or tunnel. It has grooves so that parents can easily carry it (lies and propaganda, that) that make perfect peep holes for the two and under set. And, if it collapses, it makes a perfect surface on which your child may begin her career as a break-dancer. Because that art form is surely more likely to come back into style than it is that college tuition will be affordable in 2027. TheologyBaby almost has her head spins down.
Besides avoiding the blog, I also still revel in avoiding my dissertation. I’m on chapter 4, or “page 75 of utter crap” as I am wont to call it. I am trying to argue that literary theory can be used for theological analysis. Sometimes I convince myself that this is true. I just hope I can fool some of the people long enough to get the Ph.D.
I have also taken to planning quite the celebration for my 31st birthday. Why? Well, because what else is there to do when you’re 31? At 16 you can drive, vote at 18, drink at 21, car rentals go down at 25 . . . but at 31? Nothing. So I figured I might as well live it up every year until 65 when I can join the AARP and get discounts at family restaurants. I have Star Wars favors to give out, the extras of which I will be using as theme pieces at TheologyBaby’s first birthday extravaganza as well. I expect she and I will share in a deep appreciation for George Lucas’ early work and wax theological about literary theory and popular culture.
And then I’ll change her diaper.
Time was that I would update this blog two, three times a day, instead of once every three months. And it’s not that life was more interesting then, unless you consider the fact that Josh Groban was coming out with CDs more frequently. But since I decided I had better step up this whole “graduate student” thing and give “motherhood” the ol’ college try, typing for the Internet has lagged woefully behind.
And it doesn’t help that the only thing Groban has come out with lately is YET ANOTHER collection of previously released songs with maybe one new track, released ONLY IN THE UK. What? I mean, come ON. This is almost enough to make me stray from his side.
Almost.
I have committed to actually writing my dissertation, a process that I wouldn’t recommend. I thought qualifying exams would break me, but it turned out that you can fool some of the people all of the time, and I made it through those. And I thought that the dissertation wouldn’t be too bad--I mean, hey, I can write 10, 20-page papers! But then I sat down to write but one page of 20 and was instantly daunted. As it turns out, I don’t know anything about theology worth writing. How did that happen? I sat through all those classes. (Someone somewhere is going to be annoyed they funded my education when this gets out.)
Oh, and then the baby came.
Whereas before most of my stories ended with, “but then I fell over and the Nobel laureate laughed at me,” now it’s more like, “I know she put her pacifier in herself because it was upside down! HA! Isn’t that the most remarkable thing you’ve ever heard?” You really miss your brain once it’s gone.
My saving grace is that I am relying on literary theory for the bulk of my project, a subject I find best explicated on three hours of sleep. A friend pointed out that if you are starting to make sense using literary criticism, you probably aren’t doing it correctly. Not unlike talking with an infant, really. The baby and I thus have many productive academic hours.
“Little lady, would you say deconstruction methodology applies to religious narratives produced in this brave new millenia, or would you argue that I should try a feminist or even post-colonial structure?”
“Mamamamamamamamamamamamamamamama”
“What, I should also incorporate Marx?”
“Ba. Am ma.”
“Good point.”
I just worry she’ll figure out what’s going on and demand payment as my ghostwriter.
Otherwise, time marches on all residence and life-y. Alas I can’t blog about that, lest I incur a lawsuit that would cost me my very pants. Suffice it to say that it would make extremely juicy reading. And cause me to end most of my sentences instead with, “Apparently the fight escalated when they all grabbed forks and hammers.”
Oh that I were only making that up.
So, good times being had here. Good times that I have resolved to, once again, chronicle for my loyal 6 readers. (Hi Shannon! Shouldn’t you be doing work, Peter?) Though I will probably talk about the baby a lot. Because, did I tell you? She puts her own pacifier back in her mouth! Upside down! Truly the world has never seen a child so intelligent and intrepid.
