She Hath More Hair than Wit

Ah, Shakespeare. Thou art so quotable. This past week or two I've been very distracted with thoughts of going to graduate school. On our insurance I was listed as "homemaker/house person." House person? I don't want to be a plain old house person. I'm smart! I'm talented! I have a lot to offer the world! !!!

The exclamation mark is highly overused these days ---Love, Your Smart and Slightly Pretentious English Major

Pros: I love to learn, I would become more employable, gain teaching experience, have a better fallback if something should happen to Austin, become a more interesting person, take advantage of having a grad school close and my parents to help out.

Cons: A lot less time with hubby, an incredible amount of work, stress stress stress, it would be a while before we had more kids, I would have less time at home with the kids.

Looking at this list, it kind of seems like Grad school would be good for me, bad for my family. But then I tell myself, what if I need to get a job someday? Then my previously-acquired education would be good for my family.

I try not to go overboard on the poetry. But this is one of my favorites:

"The Choosing" by Liz Lochhead

We were first equal Mary and I
with the same coloured ribbons in mouse-coloured hair
and with equal shyness
we curtseyed to the lady councillor
for copies of Collins’s Children Classics.
First equal, equally proud.

Best friends too Mary and I
a common bond in being cleverest (equal)
in our small school’s small class.
I remember
the competition for top desk
or to read aloud the lesson
at school service.
And my terrible fear
of her superiority at sums.

I remember the housing scheme
Where we both stayed.
The same house, different homes,
where the choices were made.

I don’t know exactly why they moved,
but anyway they went.
Something about a three-apartment
and a cheaper rent.
But from the top deck of the high school bus
I’d glimpse among the others on the corner
Mary’s father, mufflered, contrasting strangely
with the elegant greyhounds by his side.
He didn’t believe in high school education,
especially for girls,
or in forking out for uniforms.

Ten years later on a Saturday —
I am coming home from the library —
sitting near me on the bus,
Mary
with a husband who is tall,
curly haired, has eyes
for no one else but Mary.
Her arms are round the full-shaped vase
that is her body.
Oh, you can see where the attraction lies
in Mary’s life —
not that I envy her, really.

And I am coming from the library
with my arms full of books.
I think of the prizes that were ours for the taking
and wonder when the choices got made
we don’t remember making.