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We make our walks a daily ritual, sometimes taking even two or three a day. Scott is working full-time, and not complaining about it, while I recuperate. Next month, we’ll be switching roles. He’ll quit his job and stay home full-time, and I’ll go to grad school full-time. I have a fellowship at the university, so my tuition is paid for, and I’ll get a small stipend. The rest of our expenses will be covered by student loans. It’ll be tight for a while, but it’s worth it. I’d rather my daughter have a parent home with her than have both of us working. This is an invaluable gift we’re giving her: the gift of time and love and attention. It’s all good. It’ll all be fine. I’ll get my master’s, and then we’ll start the next chapter in our lives. I’m not sure what that will be exactly. Oh yeah, my PhD. But, I’ll think about that later.
For now, I just want to focus on Morgen. For the remainder of the summer, I want the rest of the world to fade away and let me focus on being a mom. I just want to sleep when she sleeps and be with her when she’s awake. She’s up every two hours in the night, screaming in her crib until I pick her up. Then, she looks at me, wide eyed and alert, and even before she’s supposed to be able to smile, I swear I can detect happiness in her face. All she wants is my time and attention. Just by being with her, I’m making her feel loved and cherished. I’m showing her that she’s all that matters. For now, she is my whole world.
Year Seven
Grad School
If you want to succeed in grad school, you need to work hard, and you need to make sure everyone sees you working hard. That’s what my Critical Theory professor tells us during our first class, a three-hour marathon on Thursday night.
There are nine of us in the room, including the professor. We’re all seated around a conference table in one of the private library spaces, and every once in a while Dr. Terrill gets up and goes to the white board to write something meaningful. Her long skirt swooshes as she glides across the floor in her high-heeled shoes.
“Dedication,” she writes with a squeaky blue dry-erase marker. She draws a line under it for emphasis, and then writes “ambition” underneath.
“Everything you’ve done up to now,” she says, retaking her place at the table, “is no longer enough. This is a whole new ball game.”
The grad students, all of us in our twenties, give her our undivided attention. The one identified as “Rachel” on her nametag nods her head.
“Of course you must attend every class,” Dr. Terrill says. “And it goes without saying that you’ll turn in every assignment on time. Class schedules may be convenient or inconvenient, it doesn’t matter. You’re expected to come to class prepared, contribute thoughtfully, and enjoy doing it.”
She looks at each of us in turn, staring at me just long enough to make me feel uncomfortable, and then goes to the white board again. “Talent,” she writes.
“You’re all talented enough to have gotten into the program, but now you need to prove yourselves all over again. What you did before you got here doesn’t matter. What you do here is what’ll set you apart and set you up for your career. You all want to be successful, right?” She waits for us to nod. “Then you need to go above and beyond. Arrive early and stay late. Do research beyond what’s assigned. Organize study groups. It’s those extras that’ll distinguish you.”
I’m fine with most of it: the attendance, the assignments, and the extra reading. But my free time is already spoken for. Unlike the other grad students, I have a newborn daughter at home who needs me. Study groups and spending extra time at school won’t work for me.
I make it work my own way. I do the extras from home while Morgen’s napping, after she goes to bed, and even, more often than I’d like, before she wakes up. Five or six times in the first two months, I stay up until midnight and then set my alarm for four in the morning to give myself an hour or two to work on papers before she wakes up. I’m sleep deprived, I’m stressed, but I’m doing it.
Of course, I’m not the only one who’s doing it. Grad school is full of dedicated people. Most of my peers are fulfilling what’s expected, and several are going above and beyond. Rachel, for instance, is always well-prepared and is forever ready to join a group or stay late to work on assignments. Every morning when I arrive at seven-thirty, she’s already sitting at her desk in our graduate student shared office space. She always smiles and says good morning, and she always seems genuinely interested in how I’m doing. She follows that with some sort of small-talk question about my interpretation of Descartes, or something of the sort. She never seems tired or annoyed. She’s the perfect example of the engaged student who has embraced her role and is dedicating herself to fulfilling it. She isn’t just any grad student. She is, through and through, a serious grad student. She is, I think, how I would be if I didn’t have Scott and Morgen at home depending on me and needing my time and attention.
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