Ah, the Masculine Seed!

From Babies: History, Art & Folklore:

Aristotle believed that "the woman functions only as a receptacle, the child being formed exclusively by means of the sperm." According to an amusing theory of his day, the masculine seed, manufactured in the brain, descended along the ears and then made the journey down to the testicles via the spinal cord; those who championed this view of conception saw the sperm as a sort of "brain drop." He also believed that semen naturally produced males, and that a female resulted only if its development was disturbed.

Things that Open

Hanna came with little more than wind and rain, and then the sky just opened up, and it felt so good to wander under it.

Last night, I went to hear Ada read poems and then I ate Brazilian food with old friends and sipped on pineapple-acai juice; now, I'm thinking of things that open, of parachutes and windows, yesterday's sky and envelopes, drawers and elevator doors, blue eyes and brown, thinking of shows and hands and hips and jaws, of how the o sits between the n and the p open as can be. My dear old plum-toed friend may very well be giving birth today (open as the inside of a flower, as a cracked walnut, a conch shell, an undone heart).

This morning, I banged the lid of a new peanut butter jar with a knife; I ran it under hot water; I wrapped a dishtowel around the neck and groaned like the birthing books teach me. Finally, the gasp of opening, and I downed my glass of milk and licked the knife clean.

Holed Up from Hanna

As if I needed an excuse not to leave the house...

Ruh-Roh

Looks like I was erring on the side of subtlety
when I said I "burned my belly (just a bit)."
Ouch.

In the words of C.,
"Let's just hope you didn't blind our baby." Yes, let's hope.

(Frankly, I was just desperate for one last big dose of Vitamin D before the fall sets in.)

The Peach Itself

It's been too long since I've written about birds or fresh peaches or thought about the temperature at which the oven should be set. I am in the daze of pregnancy, nodding at people as they speak to me but really doing little more than turning inside myself and feeling for kicks. The sun is so bright today, and I laid on the roof, burned my belly (just a bit), wondered (of course) if this means I'll be a bad mother, decided (I hope) that it doesn't. Up there, I watched a pigeon make circles on the silver flattop and ate a just-washed nectarine.

Sometimes I wonder if the doing might be just as good as the writing, if what makes it all worth it is the peach itself--all that sweet juice--and not the hump of the p, that long e, ever-eager a, the ch-ch-ch like a cloudy day train forcing itself over and over up a too high hill.

First Day of School

The day after Labor Day, and this morning on my walk I took the street by the local school (for years I've avoided it--citing noise as my excuse). Lunch pails banged against summertime bruised knees, and girls with bows in their hair posed with backpacks in front of entrances. I rubbed my belly, hoping not to look insane but instead expectant.

In a few hours, I'll be back in my own classroom. I'll be sipping my big ole tea and trying to get everyone's names right from the beginning. I'll probably wave my arms in the air and barely refrain from standing on the chair and shouting. There's something I love so much about teaching. It makes me feel alive and aware and free, and it gives me the liberty to portray my passion for writing in a way that I don't always feel comfortable doing in the ordinary world.

Heck, maybe it's the captive audience, or maybe it's because they're only eighteen or nineteen, or maybe I feel validated because I'm actually getting paid. Maybe it's nothing more than the slight sugar high from the single square of dark chocolate I eat before entering the room. Whatever it is, I love the feeling. I'm a sucker for the first day of school. It makes me giddy and full of hope; it makes me spit-shine my shoes and put cucumbers on my eyes and sing little songs.

Today's assignment: In a single beautifully constructed sentence tell us what you did this summer. Have at it. If they can do it, you can do it.

Confession #1