In between matches, I grade papers, play trains, knit, feel allergic to stuff, think.
I've been going to a new playgroup with Desmond. A woman who used to live across the street from me moved a couple of blocks away and has a son about Desmond's age. She kept inviting us over, but I was hesitant. Her son signs -- "all the kids sign." And, since Desmond is more of a pointer than a signer, I wasn't sure if he'd be accepted. Of course I mean if I'd be accepted -- but since I'm not the one playing or signing who the fuck cares, frankly? So we went, and Desmond loves it. Calder (the boy's house) has tons of things with wheels. And since they're not his own toys, Desmond spends hours wheeling around the backyard, not minding me a bit.
And I met a fellow dissertation mommy. From Missouri, no less! She is/was working on her PhD from the Sorbonne in French Lit, with Cixous's daughter as her diss advisor. And she's writing on space. Me too! But she's writing her's in French. No thanks. I'll just have a baguette, please, sans diss-written-in-French.
Desmond here is playing with wooden clogs at a friend's family's cabin in the Ozarks. Like most summer days in Missouri, it was very humid that day -- in fact, we just got caught in a thunderstorm.
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