The Last Good Woman, or, how not to prepare for kindergarten

Where does the time go? Hambet, who was not even two when this blog started, is headed off to kindergarten next Monday!
We’ve been getting ready slowly but steadily over the summer: new clothes, new shoes, picking up a few supplies here and there….
We started serious preparation this week by practicing the morning routine: laying out clothes the night before; getting up, dressed, fed, and out the door on time; and then actually making the drive to school. It’s going well — we’ve made it “on time” four out of four days this week. This morning Hambet was even up early and made his bed without complaining.
The one who’s really dragging is Mommy! I’m so embarrassed, because I’ve been a lark all my life. Even in college, when I needed to cram I would go to bed early and then get up at four to study. When Posco and I were courting, he teased me mercilessly about how my eyelids started to droop at nine-fifteen, but what could I do? I was getting up at five-fifteen so I could start my shift at seven. And even after I quit bedside nursing, I still left the house by six so I could make daily Mass and still be at work by eight.
Things slowly changed when Hambet came along and the only thing I had to do by six-thirty was get the coffee started and make sure Posco had a shirt ready to go. Still in my robe at six-forty-five? No problem. I still got up reasonably early, but I had plenty of give in the morning.
But those days are over now, and I’m having a hard time getting back to my larkish ways. I’ve been trying to get up at six sharp and it just hasn’t been happening.
Here’s why. I like to read before I go to bed. Over the last week, I’ve been working on The Conservative Mind — and wondering in despair exactly how much Burke I would have to read to even hope to comprehend even the first chapter.
So on Monday, when I received my very own copy of dear Mr Luse’s The Last Good Woman, I tossed dear Mr Kirk’s book on the ironing board for later. I figured I could read a chapter or two of the novel every night and probably finish it in a week.
It didn’t quite work out that way. I opened the book and half an hour later, I was still reading. My husband finally asked me to turn out the light so he could sleep; I took the book and moved down to the kitchen, just to finish the chapter. Half an hour later I looked at the clock and thought, oh, I’d better get to bed. It was another hour before I finally made it.
Hambet dragged his sleepy Mommy out the door on time the next morning. That night, as I saw the book on the nightstand, I thought, no. No, I must wait and read tomorrow. And then I thought, well, maybe just five more minutes….
I made it to bed ninety minutes later, after I finished the book. (Disclaimer: I do read very quickly, especially when I realize I’m going to be reading something again.)
So the moral of the story: if you need to be up early the next day and need your sleep, and you know your will is weak, you may not want to make The Last Good Woman your designated bedtime book.
Make time during the day instead. You might want to block out a couple of hours.
I knew this was going to be a good read, but I wasn’t prepared for its being such a good read in this way. The narrative is compelling, not in that plot-driven oh-no-what-happens-next! way, but in an I’m in the moment and following this thought and totally under the writer’s spell way. In his book meme post, Bill mentioned Faulkner as an author he’d read more than once; as I read Bill’s book, I wondered if I was hearing an echo of Faulkner in there, in the tapestry of thought and memory and association. (Of course, I could be totally wrong since I’m thinking of what I’ve been told about Faulkner. I’ve read only one book by Faulkner myself, and it wasn’t one of the good ones.)
I heard a lot of Apologia in there as well: fatherhood and faith, daughters and wives, and the acute observation of how even the most trivial acts and encounters can be manifestations of the potential for goodness or even heroism — or great depravity — that lies within the hearts of even the most ordinary-seeming people. And beer. There’s lots about beer.
So poor Dr Kirk’s going to have to wait a while longer. I want to skim Bill’s book again. And ever since I’ve finished the book, I’ve had the line Why do men not reck his rod? stuck in my head, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence, so I need to follow up on that. Then I might try some Faulkner. I should have some good reading time as I wait in the pick-up line at the end of the school day.
(And note to self: I need to get an old T-shirt, a box of gallon-sized zipper bags, and a towel ready for Monday.)