The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

Academics have this thing about chronicling their lifetime of research into their body of work, that one thing, that one statement, that would be the voice of their years of study. It is something that must be experienced, must be developed, and never happens early in one's career. It is the twilight, the evening setting sun, the summation. There are writers who sometimes fall into this, often posthumously, of that one thing that defines them. Many are the chronicles that when the author is mentioned, there is this knowing, this ah-ha moment as if the mere mention speaks volumes. I asked my husband what would be his body of work. He looked thoughtfully and said, "I'm not sure yet." His answer was very similar to the answer given by then candidate Obama when inquired to sum up his thoughts at the tender age of 48. To me I think it is not something we fully come into in our 40s. We are just reaching the mountain top, the years of striving where we can look back ...

I cherish the quiet. Require it. Relish it. Covet it at times. Always need it. The noise level sometimes makes my head feel like it will explode. At first I thought it was just because I am 45 years old with a newly minted 8 year old daughter and 5 1/2 year old daughter who have a shrieking form of noise that all the tussling of the boys could never compare. Then I thought that perhaps this relishing of the quiet has always been with me since I was a child. The time when I can first remember anything solid was when I was seven. I remember being sick a lot and in bed a lot. There was always plenty of time for the thoughts in my mind to dance around and form. Words and imagination, ponderings and wonderings, all of this was with me when my lungs struggled to function and airways constricted tightly pushing out air. Once I thought the constant fight for air and breathing sent me into another sphere, a place where time was not time. Either way, it was always me and the quiet and...

The school year is fully underway, one month into the year, and every day, something bothers me when I pick up my daughters. I have been a work-at-home, mom-in-chief, home executive officer, full-time mom for six and a half years now. My son is a sophomore in high school and every day since fifth grade, I've been at home when he gets home. The girls have never know anything differently. The school systems have changed, but one thing seems to be constant...the frumpy moms at the pickup. Kirkwood seems to be a mecca of at-home, frumpy moms who pick up their kindergarten children in something resembling pajamas, old college t-shirts, a cross between sweats and lounge pants, and an increasingly uglier assortment of crocs. This phenomena is also true for the after school pick up of the older elementary schools. I've wondered, are these moms just too busy to get dressed? Or are they making a statement about how hard they work as moms that they just don't have time to dress...

Education has become a passion. Perhaps it has always been in my blood, being the daughter and granddaughter of educators. It is the thread of my life quilt. It is this passion that have infused my love for words, love for books, and love for learning. Learning has allowed me to mentor and tutor in my new community of the last two years. It have become a summer academy principal of sorts, a community educator, a chair of an area education committee, and a consultant bringing workshops into areas public schools. It is the combination of those things that is on my mind right now. In the small community that is now my home, education is more than a passion, it is a mission. There are plenty of teachers in the classrooms. The elementary schools have active PTOs, my daughters' school just receiving new playground equipment for the 2009-2010 school year. Even at the high school where my son attends, the PTO and Mother's Club are fueling the fire of education with their dedicat...

I was sitting on my bed, having one of those rare mother-of-newborn moments of actually drying off from a shower. My daughter was born on September 5, 2001. She was in her little bounce chair watching me put my clothes and listening to me banter with her father as the Today Shower with Katie Couric was doing their usual bit. Then everything changed...in a moment. There was the Breaking News Alert flashing on the screen and then Katie Couric mentioning that a plane crashed into one of the towers in New York. I sat down and called to my husband who was just stepping out of the shower in our master suite. He was doing his morning routine and listening. Then, right before my eyes and right as I picked up my daughter, the planes hit the second of the Twin Towers and life changed. "Did you see that!" I yelled at my husband. He quick stepped into the room and stood in utter dismay as we saw this building collapse before our eyes. I held my daughter tighter. Emotions began ...

Today we picked up the keys to the townhouse. Today I sat outside in the front yard and sighed. Today means it is real and we are moving. Today I am sad. I've never liked some things about this house we have been renting for the last two years. The biggest thing is that it doesn't have a basement and when it rains, it rains inside. There is a hole in the pipes that means everything leaks from the tub to the washing machine to the kitchen sink. I've become familiar with the comings and goings of my neighbors dogs because when I am in the kitchen doing dishes, I am looking up at their yard, this house being partly below ground. The plumber said it is a wonder that water isn't shooting into the kitchen every time it rains. It is this and the basic 1952 construction that has been patchwork repaired that makes me not like 601 Angenette Avenue. Yet, today as I hold the keys to the townhouse in my hands, I find that I will miss the neighborhood. Is it possible...