The parlance of pegasus

The parlance of pegasus
Originally uploaded by lunita.

A play written and enacted by the first graders of OAS. Synopsis. There is a narrator, pegasus who tells the story of the evil metal business guy and the snake that hatch a plan to destroy the forest. All the forest animals band together with the help of the rock star surfer girl and her dead rock star friends. The dead chipmunk rider searches for the dragons in an effort to help, and they all come to stop the destruction of the forest, in a big benefit concert. "All we are saying... is give trees a chance"

My baby was the narrator. As drama is her forte. (mine too, it would seem, even when I try my damndest to avoid it). Today she lost me in the book store, and went straight to the register to have me paged. She has been feeling neglected, it would seem, but what can a mommy on her own do? She was in near hysterical tears, and I was close, having thought I lost her or dreamed it repeatedly of late. She then proceeded to re-enact her trauma over and over. "And then I was like: 'mommy, mommy, where's my mommy' and I thought I had lost you forever, my little mommy that I love, and that I was going to have to be adopted." Generally anxiety reigns over our household, and I hold her hand and hug her to me, and wipe away the tears as she snuffles and buffles, and I think, dear god, and I want another one of these? Because I took a survey today that asked about future plans, and it questioned just that. Do I want more children? I think I might. But not now, not now, nononononononon. I. states, "I wish you could just make enough love." "What?!" "You know, so you could have another baby..."
"Well... I'll just have to practice I guess. But I'm not very good at this love thing, anyway." I think this part, but don't say it.

Later on campus, we sit in the sun and I grade, she cuts her paw on a tree and cries. I kiss away the blood, and the tears, and send her on her own, again, to search for the bathroom. Perhaps I want too much independence from her, but she is seven years old, it is about time she started going to the w.c. on her own, and I was strapped with computer and piles of grading. We sat and the world walked by, both Davids (not the renaissance ones) incidentally, and we schemed for a dinner party in which no nervous breakdowns would be had (baking cookies and watching Gray's anatomy on DVD for hours a night absolutely calls for rescue dinner social life). So soon, I will vacate, for a few days at least, bringing work with me, as always, the life of the grad student, no? 200 hours a week of work and all the guilt of all the work that lies ahead... soon my acting skills too will be employed, but in a more torturous way. Ah, that's if I get my act together and that abstract off. Who ever invented the concept of an abstract was either brilliant or completely insane. But I'll opt for the former, as things stand.

As the pressure comes down, down, down, I get sillier and more inappropriate. I. tells one of the Davids about P. and his fascination with taking pictures of his penis. We chortle, and she continues, interrupting our conversation to describe it some more. I tell her that some boys never get over the fascination with their members, I don't use that word but the proper anatomical term that she shouts in the middle of the quad for no one in particular. It does have a particularly nice ring to it, rolls off the tip of the tongue. I'll give it that much.

And now, I shall clean my excess laundry in an attempt to stymie the stalemate that I have with my work, or perhaps in order to thrust it over the edge into the abyss...