Coffee, blueberry muffin,
and some time in the adjunct office. First class went more than well, in fact it startled me how easily conversation precipitated. Thought while walking back from treating self to coffee and this blueberry treat that I need to keep careful inventory of everything I write, print, plan and otherwise this semester if I’m to graduate. “To graduate?” Yes. Be on the road with my writings and ideas, teachings and all from me that sprees. From moment 1 this day, when Jack woke in his joking role and then Emma with her giggles and repetition of what sounded like, “Dadadadada…”, I haven’t stopped. This morning’s full fatherhood charges stressed me a bit but all came to music when it was time to leave, drive the babies to school. And that smoothness in the writing/teaching/running/blogging fathers life stations itself for me to enjoy, thrive in. I’ll print the post from earlier, before the English 100 meeting, then this one, add to stack that already seems to promise depth and an expansive nature that I never anticipated. I need to graduate, leave the adjunct world and be on the road with my work, bring in more revenue for the family and my business. My aim, as an educating and entrepreneurial “Dadadadad” as Emmie says is to one day tell my kids they can go wherever they want for college. I want them to have more than just “every opportunity”, I want them to be free of stress, of the ‘nay’, and I’ll do everything to make sure that’s part of their story. Is that sheltering them? Well, I guess a bit. Isn’t that the point of parenthood, to protect and provide shelter? And, if I should stop at a certain point is it horrible that I still have the inclination to do so? What the coffee has me thinking.
Feel the Self giving to exhaustion but the keeper or owner of that Self tells it “There’s more work to do!” And indeed there is. One more class to teach and I HAVE to stay on top of my writings this semester. I see an offer coming, of some kind — or maybe not an “offer” so much as an open door or window and a demand from the Story that I travel through, and keep going. “But what?” I wonder. “What?” I have to keep going. To early in the semester to get impatient. But that’s how I am, I’ve noticed, believe me. Getting quieter in the hallway, I’ve noticed. Couple minutes ago several full-timers talking about some something that got passed and what they’re going to do now and when the next meeting is, and when they should schedule the next meeting to plan another series of meetings. This is what I will not miss, when I graduate — all the full-timers and adjuncts that love to not only hear themselves talk but are addicted to self-deception. No, not a negative remark, just an honest observation and my interpretation of it.
Readying for 1A… Using many of the same notes as I scratched for 100. I’ll have just as much energy as I did for 100, if not more. And should the running, writing, teaching father need more coffee then guess what, he gets more.
Funny details from today: parking spot battle when first here, making copies just before center closed (100 syllabus), copy machine breaking down for 1A syll’. And now here in the adjunct cell, so relaxed I’m uncomfortable. I’m overthinking, I know. Most parents do, I’ve found, and nearly all that write have, do, and will always. Sometimes I think it’s a more challenging reality being a parent who writes. But it’s who I am, more than just ‘what I do’. Now that I have a second or two to think about how the day started, how Jackie was making me laugh and me laughing only made him laugh more, which made him irreversibly hilarious, I appreciate this day as the most unique start to a semester. I’m assured graduation, I’m thinking. But I need to do the work as I told the ‘100’ students, that my job as the instructor is easy, it’s them who really have a job to do. So we write on, together, my Fall ’16 students and I. Haven’t stopped, but I could if I let myself stop. The exhaustion catches me, but I wiggle away. More coffee… Why won’t it work quicker? “Think about the students, the semester,” I tell myself, “graduation!”