Confessions of an Inexperienced Housewife

Navigating a Social Life: Giving Your Children an Out

2011-08-16T09:23:00.000-07:00

One of the many new endeavors my children have embarked on since moving from rural, woodsy PA to our little neighborhood in NJ, is a social life. Before NJ, social life meant playing with your siblings and the one neighbor on our street in the back yard. After NJ, social life meant knocks on the door every single day with offers to play at new homes, walk downtown, or go to the park. In most ways, this new social life is fantastic. My kids are learning to play with new children--various ages and family backgrounds--which is paramount to living life as an adult. That's not to say our neighborhood is all that diverse, which leaves some experiences un-experienced, but it's still more exposure to other people than they had before.

At times, this is trying. For us, as parents who aren't used to our children having social lives, but also for the kids as they aren't used to navigating relationships other than their direct family. Sometimes it's overwhelming for them, as the new (and popular) kids, when there are half a dozen faces at the door asking for a playmate. I don't blame them. I'd run and hide. A social life has never been my forte' either, but I do want my kids to be comfortable in their skin when they are around new people, so we are trying to help them learn how to discern situations for themselves.

One of the biggest things they are learning is that it's okay to say "no".

Don't a lot of adults have a hard time with that one?

It's good to give your kids an "out". We've told our older two kids again and again: You can always call home for a ride or an excuse to say no to something other kids are doing that you don't want to be involved in. Use us as the excuse. Do whatever you need to to get out of the situation if you are not comfortable. So far, both of the kids have used this method. Fortunately, not in any serious situations, but even in things such as sleepovers they don't want to attend. We won't necessarily press them for reasons why they don't want to go, we will just trust them and say "no" for them. My daughter once called me (secretly) from a friend's house and said she had been invited to stay over night, but she didn't want to and was that okay? Of course! Tell them you're not allowed.

My oldest has recently struggled with constant knocks on the door to go outside and play. He really likes the kids and has a blast with them, but he's like his mother and every now and then he wants to play on his own. I could see the frustration mounting on his face with each knock. So finally I said; "Look. It's okay for you to tell your friends that you don't want to play right now. You don't have to run out every time they come calling. You can decide to stay in and that's okay." About ten minutes later, there was a knock. But this time, he told his friends that he didn't feel like playing right now and that maybe he'd be out later. I felt like raising the roof, but I kept quiet and just let him make his decision. I think he felt relieved that it was so easy.

Sometimes children are afraid they will hurt their friends feelings if they say no, but it's important for kids to know that they have that right. And that they have their parents support. These tiny situations now will hopefully prepare them for bigger situations later when saying "no" can mean avoiding a much more serious consequence.

Catch and Release

2011-08-01T03:17:00.000-07:00

As a child, I was allowed to roam and explore the seven acres we owned as well as the woods and creek and fields that we didn't. What can I say, my parents were hippies...life was about exploring and rules were more like guidelines. One of the only rules I remember clearly was an early bedtime curfew that was followed religiously regardless of season. I spent many nights looking out the window over my bed, listening to the crickets begin their sundown song, and wondering why I was in bed when it was still light out.

Another rule was the "catch and release" rule. If you've given an eight year old free reign of the natural world, then she's sure to start catching things. The collections can build up fairly quickly; the victims diverse. I was allowed to catch whatever I wanted. And I did. We kept aquariums of toads, cans of worms, jars of fireflies. Every butterfly, hummingbird moth and even bumblebee (or so says my dad) would end up between my gentle fingers. But it was all temporary. Everything had to be returned. Preferably alive.

My own children have been raised on both of these rules as well. (Plus about a hundred more.) They've always had early bedtimes and a catch and release mindset. Early bedtime was easy to instill, but when my firstborn caught his first snake at age two I knew catch and release would have to be implemented right away as well. He's always done fantastic with this rule. I've never restricted him from catching anything. I taught him about poisonous snakes early on, showed him how to hold a butterfly without damaging it's wings, and pretty much set him free on nature. (Although not before giving him the definition of property lines.)

My daughter, only months younger, followed her older brother's lead. She has a compassion toward living things as well--creepy crawlies and furry bodied creatures alike. Nothing makes me prouder to see my girl be the one to "save" friends from buzzing intruders that set them on a screaming tirade. She catches toads--usually to give to her brother--and can dig around in the dirt with the best of the boys. Usually all while wearing a frilly dress and mascara. I love this about my daughter. She is not afraid.

My youngest is a little different. He's always been a little more timid around animals. This is partially his personality, part the lack of a close-in-age sibling to show him the ropes, part a lack of parental encouragement. Not because we don't care, but because our lives are constantly evolving as the kids get older. He's always been the kid to stomp on the ants and ask questions later. Which, at times, horrifies me because my older two would have crouched down and talked to the ants directly. And would have never stomped. It's been a little harder teaching him to not react to nature like this. I don't know why, but I equate that rash, impulsive behavior with pretty negative people. I know. These are just ants we're talking about. I don't even like ants. But when I see kids kill anything for no reason, I think it's sad. Curiosity is natural; killing is taught.

We're still working on the impulse to stomp. He does love animals--especially furry ones. He wouldn't be ready for a pet at his age, like my oldest was, but he loves his brother's lizards and the family dog and he begs me for his own pet. At times, I wish he'd been raised with the same exposure to nature as the other two, but location and other factors have made that experience a little different for him.

But last night, he did something that made me smile.

The kids were getting ready for bed. Late, I might add. (So much for that early bed rule) The usual order is youngest to oldest and that's how they went through their routine. After all three were upstairs, my oldest comes back down and says: "B caught a spider in a cup." I had no idea why he needed to tell me this. But then he called me into the bathroom and there on the rug was a little upside-down cup. Apparently, my youngest was getting ready, spotted the eight-legger, covered it up so that he could finish getting ready for bed and then ran for cover. And then told his brother that he left it downstairs. For once, he didn't just smash it with the cup. We caught it, and released it outside.

I know that some of you will read this and say; "It's a spider for crying out loud." And that's fine. Everyone has a different tolerance for bugs, spiders, bees and other annoying pests. But consider for a moment that you were taught that fear. You weren't born with it, it's generally unfounded, (unless you're my friend who was just bitten by a brown recluse--I'll give her a free pass) and it's so destructive. Yes, I spray ants in my house, kill rogue wasps, and trap mice if necessary. But try to teach your children to not react as soon as they see something fly by, help them crouch down and see the amazing intricacies of an ant mound, point out the brilliant colors on garden spiders, and let them know that even the least of these are important.
(Okay...so I could do without mosquitoes or ticks. I may be a tree-hugger, but even I can't stand those.)

Parenting is such an interesting way of coming full-circle. I look back on my laid-back lifestyle as a kid and I"m so very grateful. Tis true, I've never had much regard for rules, however, I am not a destructive person and the catch and release law has definitely encouraged that. It's also taught me that sometimes you have to let things go to enjoy them. Not everything is meant to be within your grasp.

And, as for the early bed rule? It just gave me more opportunities to dream.

New Experiences

2011-07-14T05:47:00.000-07:00

My husband and I just came home from a fantastic, fifteen day adventure in Europe with about 100 high school students. It was, by far, the best experience I've ever had. At times I was exhausted and overwhelmed, but the sights were amazing. The cultures and languages were enticing. And there was beauty everywhere. (There was also a lot of trash, but I'm going to scratch that part out of my brain.)

But this post isn't about our trip. It's about our kids--because that's what this blog is about. Each of our kids went their own way while we were gone. Our oldest (few weeks shy of 13) took his first solo-flight to Florida. Our daughter, 11, took a road trip to Rochester. And our youngest, 7, traded off sleepovers with his cousins and grandparents in Pennsylvania. Before we sent them off, the older two were excited and ready to leave. The youngest was a bit apprehensive. He'd had a few nights of tears, of checking, again, how long we'd be gone, and even wanted a calendar to check off the days Mom and Dad would be gone. But when each departure day arrived--we staggered their sending off--they each handled it perfectly. And when we returned, they each greeted us with open arms and plenty of their own stories. There had been no tears the entire time.

This couldn't have pleased me more. This little experience has given them not only intimate time with other family members, but independence and confidence in their own lives. Just like navigating Europe showed me that international traveling is much more possible than I realized, I hope that their experiences showed them that leaving Mom and Dad is okay too. That they can always come home, but that there is a whole world out there waiting to be explored. I know they will look back on their little adventures with fondness. I certainly reminisce on all the times I spent away from home with other family and how special those times were. I am very grateful for the extended family we have who were willing to provide that time for our kids. I'm sure it wasn't without bumps, but it was priceless.

Past Life

2011-06-15T18:33:00.000-07:00

Do you ever look back on your childhood and wonder if it was all just a dream? Sort through the images and wonder what was real and what wasn't? I know I've posted about this before--my lack of memory, the lack of artifacts from my childhood; a lot of lacking. The older my children get the more it hits me because the more I remember about being their age. My oldest is almost thirteen, his chocolate brown eyes are nearly level with mine, and all I can think about is how his brain must be spinning with possibility, his body tormented by hormones, and his heart expanding on a daily basis. I look at him and want to say; "I remember what it's like, kiddo." But of course, he'd just pat my shoulder and say; "Sure Ma."

Tonight all three of my kids performed in a school play. Each of them strut on stage with the confidence of an experienced entertainer--not perfect, but confident. Lines were projected, some were flubbed, character was broken, but they smiled and laughed and carried on as though it was just another days work. I was so proud of them for being fearless. It's not easy to get on stage in front of all your peers, a packed audience, really bright lights. But they did it--all three. I never would have done it at any of their ages. I did later--by 15 I was onstage and loving it, but for me it required giving up hopes of parental guidance and leaning on my own understanding of the world; that it was only going to be what I made it to be. Once I made that decision, I had nothing to lose. For my three, I hope it was a combination of parental influence and their own versions of taking on the world. Regardless, I was so very proud.

In the audience was a frail woman in her late 80's (I'm guessing). Her hair had the red tinge I remembered, and I hadn't been certain I'd recognize her, but I did. My third grade teacher. I knew she lived here in my neighborhood, but I hadn't yet run into her and I didn't even introduce myself at the play, but seeing her was like finding an artifact. Proof. She was proof that my past-life was real, that my childhood existed in some of the ways I remember it. In her class, I was shoved in a garbage can by a classmate. That's about all I actually remember about third grade. That and her red hair. Watching my kids play out the history of our town, seeing my third grade teacher, and sitting next to my beloved husband made me appreciate my past-life--that remembered and that not--but most of all be thankful for the current life I lead. In reality, that's all that really matters.

Field Trip Tips

2011-06-09T05:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I braved the quintessential elementary field trip to Ellis and Liberty Islands. But before I tell you about my adventure, I want to give you a bit of background on my history of chaperoning. Normally, I do not join my children on trips. This is for two reasons: I am usually confident that the teachers and other parents will do a fine job of watching my kids and although I love taking my kids on little adventures, I don't particularly enjoy being under the itinerary of someone else. Yes, I'm a little control-freakish that way. I like scheduled bathroom breaks, meal times and escape routes. Call me crazy. But now that my kids are in a new school and suddenly their field trips have upped it a few notches (there's a big difference between the Crayola Factory and Ellis Island), I decided to let my daughter convince me that I should go. Bus rides, ferry rides, museums, a gigantic statue: plenty of opportunity for my dear darling to wander off. She's a delight on trips I've been told: enthusiastic and energetic, however, I know her propensity to wander and I wasn't taking the chance on this multi-level, mulit-grade trip. I'm glad I made that choice. Even though I am still steaming this morning from yesterday's heat, I'm glad I went. And I've decided to compile a list of tips for those of you considering chaperoning or leading a trip--especially with elementary children.

Ellis Island opened in 1892 to an eventual twenty million immigrants. Their stories of hardship and triumph and pain and rejection are throughout the building in a fantastic museum today. My husband and I visited the museum years ago, so I'd already seen much of it, which was good because when you tour museums with eight to eleven year olds, they pretty much zoom past it all. If they had reached the unit in history that taught about Ellis Island, perhaps they'd find the countless photographs and artifacts a bit more fascinating. (Perhaps it wouldn't matter.) But they had not. Tip #1: Learn about the history of the place you are visiting before you take kids. Perhaps even teach THEM some of the history prior to the trip. Tell them little bits of info as you walk around. Let them lead, but guide their learning. So much was lost to everyone yesterday, and while I completely understand not all kids give a darn, the opportunity shouldn't have been completely passed up. A couple of us moms asked the kids if they learned about this in history and one girl said: "Nah, we're still on the Revolutionary War."

When you have to usher small children from dock to boat or any other form of transportation, it has to be quick. Especially these younger kids--our group was third to fifth grade--many of them who'd never been on a ferry, and were extremely excited. We'd board the boat and then it became a free-for-all. Now, I'm confident my daughter isn't going to jump overboard, but some of those eight year old boys--yikes! I just about died when they started spitting over the edge of the rail. They just about died when I yelled at them. Tip #2: Always tell the kids where to go when moving from one place to another BEFORE you move. If you are traveling in a large group pick a level on the boat and tell them to go there. Or pick a room in the museum where you will meet. Tell children what to do and where to go if they get lost. I thought these were seemingly obvious, but just in case, I've now warned you.

Ever since 9/11, security measures have been implemented in both Ellis and Liberty Islands. I should have realized this, but I'd forgotten and so the lines and the bins surprised me. It was a pain in the butt, but these days you just deal with what's been handed. The kids were fantastic. Some of them even took off their shoes, clearly trained by the airports, but that wasn't necessary. All possessions had to be placed in the bins and each kid had to walk through the system individually. Tip #3: Have your group go ahead of you through security. Tell them to gather their things and then wait for the rest of the group and the adults.

Security went smoothly for us until we went outside and were waiting for the ferry. Something they take very seriously is unattended bags. At one point we were waiting outside under the trees and an officer made us get up and move. "We have a situation here, folks." We got up and moved as he instructed, having no idea what was going on. Then we see another officer walking off with one of our student's bags. A chaperone tried to approach him, but he quickly waved her off and took the bag to the middle of the court. We all had to wait until he deemed the bag safe and eventually one of the teachers had to put his name "in the book". Tip #4: Don't leave anything unattended or your name will go down in the annals of Ellis Island security.

While all of this was going on, a student had also been "lost". I say that lightly, he was in the gift shop, the adult with him was virtually positive he hadn't left the gift shop. The problem was the gift shop was like a cattle run. Fortunately, my group listened to me. I told them to get in line and stick together and they did. Tip#5: Little directions, every step of the way, are very helpful on class trips. Kids don't want to get lost, but sometimes they get distracted--exactly what I was afraid my daughter would do. She didn't, but this little boy was tough to find in the crowd and it was a little scary for a few minutes. Of course, it's the adults who freak, he was totally fine. "What? I was in the gift shop!"

We ended up missing our ferry to Liberty Island and had to wait another forty minutes for the next boat. Perhaps it was a little taste--very little--of the waiting all of the immigrants had to endure. We stood in 99 degrees for forty minutes. They were crammed into ships for a month. The majority of immigrants came from Italy; one of the biggest cities being Naples, which is where my father's family is from. They came in search of a better life with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Sometimes they were returned home due to illness or inability, split from their families, but often they were sent on their way. They might have just enough money for a ticket to Chicago and there they started their new life. I like to consider myself adventurous, a little-risk taker, but I don't know if I could have done what those families did. Our little group from small-town NJ, sweltered in the heat, and it wasn't lost on me that many of us wouldn't even be sitting there if it hadn't been for the bravery of our ancestors.

The best part of the day was on the ferry approaching the statue. On the bus ride, as the statue came into view the kids had flipped. It was fantastic to hear them so excited about seeing it. The wonder of little kids is always a blessing. It reminds you of the importance of little things--which are really big things that we adults tend to forget. As we approached the statue on the ferry, each and every student were rapt. Cameras out, little chins tilted up, eyes wide: "It's HUGE!" I enjoyed that moment a great deal. It erased the craziness, the security, the immense crowds and all that mattered was how excited these kids were to see Lady Liberty. Now walking up the steps to the pedestal overlook was another matter--not my favorite because I'm not keen on climbing to massive heights. But overall worth it because the kids were so impressed. Tip #6: Try to take on the perspective of those you chaperone. They tend to make it much more fun.

In the end, it was a fantastic trip. Not without error or a bit of discomfort, because what trip isn't? It was easy for me to sit back and judge what should and should not have occurred, but I couldn't have planned a perfect experience either. This was made clear to me near the close of our visit. Tip # 7: Leave room for the unexpected. After our visit with the statue, I realized I was no longer carrying my lunch cooler. I'd set it down to take some kids for drinks and it was not there when I returned. So, I sent my kids ahead to the gift shop where the rest of the group was and I went back to inquire with a ranger. I thought it odd when she insisted on walking me to the visitor's center, but went willingly. It seemed odd again when the man behind the desk made me wait for an officer before he'd give me my lunch bag. "What's in it?" He asked. I thought he was being sarcastic. "Leftover sandwich", I joked. But he still made me wait. I felt like I was being detained. After about five minutes, an officer finally came in. He asked me the same questions the rangers had: Color of bag, contents. I began to wonder why I seemed so suspicious. Then he lifted up the bag and said: "Want to tell me what's in this?" Disappointed, I realized it wasn't my bag they were holding ransom. I had told them mine was purple, and this bag was clearly blue. They didn't have mine after all. And good thing, the officer said, because when we find this guy, he's getting a fine. I scooted out of there quickly as I could. I don't know what was in that bag, but they were not happy about it. And as it turned out, another chaperone had picked up my bag for me. So, I didn't lose it after all. And my group enjoyed railing me about being "held" in the visitor's center.

Little experiences like this give kids a wealth of benefit. Whether with a class or a group of moms and friends or just your own family, these opportunities show children the world around them. They learn bits of history, current events, culture and how to behave in public. They gain some independence by being allowed to spend their own money and learn how to interact with others in various environments. And, perhaps most importantly, they have so much fun with their friends and make lasting memories together. They will look back on their photos and laugh about the time they shared. I'm happy to be able to be part of making that possible.

Swinging

2011-05-25T05:51:00.000-07:00

When we recently moved, we left behind a lot of things. We left a tractor, two swing sets, a pool, a deck and several acres of property. We also left behind debt, a house we couldn't afford, a property we couldn't take care of, and a lot of stress. But it's hard for kids to understand that or even see it at all. All they know is what they miss, what they have, and what they left behind. At our old house we had a little purple baby swing that we had purchased for my oldest when he was a baby. He's now a couple months from 13, so that gives you an idea of how long the swing lasted. Each of my three children used the baby swing and even though my youngest was six by the time we moved, all three kids still sat on that thing every day. There's just something about swinging beneath the green umbrella of a tree.

When I was a little girl, I had a swing that hung from a metal pipe spanning the distance between two trees right next to the creek. As I swung, I could watch my feet go up and over the water and imagine myself flying through the air and into the water. Of course, the water was too shallow to actually do this, but I wished I'd been able to jump into it like that. I spent countless hours on that swing, daydreaming, singing, making up stories, and purely swinging my day away. And my children seemed to do the same. At our house the swing didn't overlook a creek, but it did give them a vantage point of the acres that we had, the wildflowers, the little vernal pond, and the dog racing around chasing bumblebees. In their minds (and sometimes mine, too) we gave up everything.

My youngest cried about the swing several times after we moved. He'd mention his old bedroom or the big yard, but he'd cry about the swing. My husband and I assure him that as soon as we are able to save up enough for a swing set we will buy one, but it may take a while as there are so many things to save up for and we are relatively new to this cash-only life. (Going on three years now, but it's still an adjustment.) So, for his birthday in February, I hoped to satiate his swing desire by purchasing a single swing that we could hang from the tree. Since it was February, we didn't bother hanging it up right away and it got pushed to the side awaiting warmer weather. Then spring arrived and we hung it up on a tree in the front yard near our driveway and basketball hoop. We don't have a creek or a large yard to overlook, but we do have a lot of kids that come around and the main action is always in our driveway.

At first, he was only mildly impressed. But as the days warmed up, so did he and now the swing has become the center of the activity once again--not only for him, but my daughter as well (as pictured above). Even the oldest sits on it from time to time, when no one else is around, of course. We still plan on saving for a swing set, but I'm thrilled at the amount of attention this dinky, disc swing receives. And while my kids might be dreaming different dreams, I like to think that one day they will look back on the swing (any swing) with fond memories of becoming who they are.

The Yogurt Principle

2011-05-09T14:20:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl, the only yogurt my mother would buy was the kind with the fruit on the bottom. I didn't think twice about stirring my snack until I realized there was a type of yogurt that was already blended. Once I tried that little treat, there was no going back to yogurt I had to stir by hand, with all that jelly at the bottom--yuck! But mom wouldn't budge. Yoplait would not enter our home. I'm not sure why she was so firm on this decision, but, like sugary cereals, it just was not going to happen in my lifetime. At least until I was on my own and buying my own yogurt. I'm sure you can imagine which type I splurged on.

Once I had my own kids, I was hooked on the blended version and so that is what I began buying for them. Not always Yoplait, because of the sugar content, but nonetheless, blended was all I bought. Yogurt is a staple in our house, just like it was when I was a kid. But then a few weeks ago, my oldest said to me: "Mom, you know what? They make this kind of yogurt with fruit on the bottom, did you know that? It's really good!"

I seriously had to bite my tongue.

The funny thing is, about 6 months ago, I switched back to the fruit on the bottom as well--a Greek yogurt that I buy only for myself. So, today, I bought the kids' yogurts in blended AND fruit on the bottom. My son was very pleased when he came home from school. Which pleases me. Who really cares what type of yogurt he eats. It's better than most of the junk out there.

But it made me think. This yogurt principle is quite common. Parents instill countless values into their children, but sometimes I think we forget about the values that we instill indirectly. There are many things my parents did that I vowed I'd never do; some things I swore I'd copy to a T. In the end, not everything has played out the way I expected, even hoped, at times.

I knew from a young age that I wanted to be a mom. I think that was because I loved my own mom so much. She was the only stable thing in my wobbly childhood. Through my young eyes, she was the best and I was going to emulate everything she was. Of course, it didn't quite turn out like that. I'm not my mom. I couldn't possibly do the exact same things as her because I'm not her. Nor does my adult life look anything like her's did. It was an expectation I had to partially let go, but because of the values of motherhood she instilled in me, I value my role a great deal.

On the other hand, sometimes the yogurt principle works in reverse--as it did with me and yogurt. When I reached adolescence, although Mom was still my "model", I began to set my goals at creating a stable family unit. A bit young compared to most, for sure, but I vowed that my adult life was going to be a "normal" family--not a crazy, broken family like I came from. I knew I was choosing a stable, loving husband and I knew we were going to make it work no matter how hard it was. We celebrate our 15th anniversary this August. And for those of you who know us, you know we are not exactly normal. We are very much opposites in a lot of ways. But, somehow, we work.

Yogurt is a silly thing to stand firm on. As parents, and as adult children, we have to sift through the values that we truly want to instill in our kids and the things that can fall by the wayside. It's different for every family, of course, but the principle is the same. We make a big impact on our kids and it may turn out to be exactly the opposite of what we intended. It can be scary, but sometimes it's a good thing. If I had followed the exact path of my parents...well, lets just say I could be in a very different place today. And besides, who wants to be eating the same kind of yogurt generation after generation, anyway?

Mud

2011-04-29T11:58:00.000-07:00

A new friend stopped by last night to pick up her kids (who were playing kickball in our backyard with my kids) and we had a nice chat for a few minutes. We both lamented about our oldest kids turning into teenagers and how challenging this in-between time can be with their swings of emotions and such. It's nice to know that you aren't the only mom on the block who is confused by your son's temper one minute and then his desire for a hug the next. Or your daughter's temper-tantrums that bring you right back to the preschool era. Then she said something that stopped me in my tracks. Only for a second, though, because I knew she wasn't being malicious. It just caught me off-guard. She said: "I've never seen kids get as dirty as yours."

Huh. How about that.

It's totally true. I didn't even consider debating that fact. All three of them are little Pig-Pens with constant dirty fingernails, mismatched socks and filthy faces. Even the one who thinks she's a movie star. Shirley Temple caked in mud. I laughed and nodded: "Yeah, they play hard, that's for sure." After she and her clean kids (who weren't so clean after playing in our yard) left, I paraded all three of mine through turns in the shower. Soap, scrub, sterilize those little bodies. I like them better clean, too, but I have no problems with them getting dirty.

But the whole thing really made me think. What is with people's obsession with kids not getting dirty? I mean, I definitely have days when I'm not thrilled about the footprints tracked across my white office rug, but overall, I want my kids to get dirty. It means they are outside, for one, where far to many kids are not. I want them to play games and search for toads. That equals dirt. I want them to help me garden. More dirt. I want them to lay down in the grass and count stars or form shapes with clouds or pick dandelions. Lots and lots of dirt.

I think I spent more than half my childhood in the mud. I grew up next to a creek and I was never out of it. God bless my mother. My kids have never been as dirty as I was. They've had ponds and woods and know how to pull out deer ticks and how to identify poison ivy. (Though I wouldn't trust the seven year old.) They hike, splash, climb, run, and explore everything. I wish we still had the property they began on because I believe that exploration is not only how kids learn, but how they appreciate the world around them. Recently in my Environmental Science class, we went on a night hunt for peeper frogs. One girl genuinely thought we couldn't touch frogs. I caught one of these quarter sized amphibians and she freaked. I encouraged her to hold it, really, it wasn't going to hurt her, it's totally harmless. She calmed down, but wouldn't touch the frog. I was genuinely saddened by that. I don't care what your position is on environmental "stuff", but how sad to be afraid of one of the tiniest, coolest creations--a tree frog that sounds like a chorus of birds at twilight--and to not be able to see it's value. Not only does growing up outside help a child to appreciate wildlife, it teaches them compassion and gentleness all around. I would never trade my kids first decade of growing up for anything in the world.

So, now we live in a neighborhood. Thankfully, it's a mature development. There are massive trees to climb, fields to explore and even a creek not too far from the house. My kids don't have it all in their own backyard like they did for so long, but at least it's still accessible. And now they have a ton of friends to play with as well, which makes it an even more kid-friendly location. With even more dirt-covering opportunities. Man-hunt at sundown, kickball in the backyard, riding bikes and driveway basketball. Yes, my kids watch TV. They play video games too. But I don't think those things will ever be their priorities. I think they will always prefer to go out. And explore.

Parenting a Tween

2011-04-08T06:13:00.000-07:00

Someone once said to me: "Bigger kids, bigger problems." I'm pretty sure it was mentioned to me right about the time time I was knee-deep in two toddler's worth of diapers and laundry and dirty dishes and I pretty much kicked their "advice" to the curb. How dare they dismiss the exhaustion I felt at chasing after two babies while also trying to balance being a wife and attempting other minor endeavors. I'd never felt so tired in my life and longed for the days my kids could use the bathroom on their own. I didn't want to hear anything about "bigger" problems.

My two oldest--year and a half between them--finally reached a slightly more self-sufficient stage, and then I found out I was pregnant with my youngest. I was overwhelmed because I wasn't expecting his arrival, though when he did finally come into the world, I was awash with love for this little surprise. At the same time, I knew it meant another five years of constant parenting. For my own sanity, I sought part-time employment to break up my day a little bit, found a trusting and loving home to watch my baby boy while I worked for a couple hours, and I began to see the benefits in splitting my time up between my children and a smidgen of a life outside my home.

We had a few blissful years with the older two--the elementary school years. If ever I had any tid-bit to share with mothers, it would only be that they will love the elementary school years. Whether home schooled or public schooled, they are precious years. The kids were so open and enthusiastic about everything as well as capable to help out at home, which they did often with their baby brother. What a blessing those few years were, while not without trials, they were fairly trivial. My youngest is in this stage now and I treasure it. Though he tends to be a bit more cynical due to the influence of his older siblings, he's still primarily a sweet, honest, and loving seven year old.

But back to the Irish Twins: Then came twelve. (oldest son) And (almost) eleven. (daughter) They say girls mature earlier than boys, and this is one of those cases where it does not work in my favor because it means both of them entered puberty, middle school, and those crazy tween years at the same exact time. Suddenly, I was thrown back to those toddler days when they also shared every milestone. More coffee, please?

Along with these new changes--physical and emotional--we threw a move to a new school in the mix. We weren't looking for that challenge, mind you, it just happened to coincide. It also coincided with me finding a new part-timer as well as heading to school part-time. Are you keeping up? Needless to say, the last eight months have been a little crazy at our house. We've embraced many changes over the last fifteen years, but this year may be the most unpredictable, adventurous year yet.

Each week there seems to be a new "issue" with the kids--usually it has to do with us balancing out the new level of expectation that comes with middle school and the socialization the kids have that they've never had before. It's almost ironic when comparing schools because they were in a large district with hundreds of students, yet had very little time at other kids homes. Now they attend a school that is only about 120 kids in K-8th grade and they are at someone's house nearly every day. Their school is like a big family, however, and they know every student by name, all of the teachers know them and us, and we've met countless families in just the short time we've lived here. It's a whole new world for all of us. And a fantastic one, for the most part.

Along with that new level of socialization, however, comes exposure to some new and scary situations for my oldest. Up until now, they've had a pretty stable upbringing. They have an active and loving extended family who get together on a regular basis, parents who are still married, and almost no experience with more severe dysfunction. This is as it should be, in my opinion. We've worked hard to provide this for our kids and so has our family and it's priceless. But, now the kids are starting to see other families and how families work in all sorts of ways. Some are a angrier than ours, some are more fun, some are broken, some are larger, and on and on. I remember twelve. And I remember going into friends homes and being jealous of silly things like the fact they had Nintendo and junk food. I remember visiting with homes that were happier than mine and homes that were more disastrous. So, I know what it must be like for my kids to start comparing. It's confusing and comforting at the same time.

As long as they continue to talk to me about these changes, I'll feel like we are tackling the big questions together, and that's how it should be. And the other day, my oldest confided in me in a huge, life changing way and I will never forget it. It made me realize that he really does trust me and more than anything else I felt so honored to be his mother. There are countless times a week--heck, a DAY--that this kid puts an attitude between us, but when it really mattered, he came into my office with absolutely no wall around his delicate ego, tears freely flowing, and a completely open heart. We talked about a standard peer-pressure issue, that I'm not going to disclose on the internet because I won't exploit my children's hearts. In adult-reality, it was mostly a huge issue because it felt huge to him, which made it huge that he confided in me. And that's the point of this post. Sorry it took so long to reach it.

Tweens (and teens) have immense emotions. As adults we tend to slough them off, we want them to wake up and smell reality, that their silly problems are not worth freaking out over. But their worlds are so much smaller than ours, so when something sends a ripple out, it feels like a tsunami. When a friend does something they don't expect, or another family reacts in a different way than their own, it is huge to them. So, our own reactions are detrimental to our kids future decisions. If my son came to me and I freaked out at what he told me, would he return to me again? I don't think so. In fact, I'm pretty certain he'd build the wall back up permanently.

After our long talk, he said something very wise to me, and completely earnest. I asked him if he felt better for talking to me and he said yes. I asked him if he understood how important it was that he was always honest with me, if he knew how much I loved him and that because of that immense love his dad and I have strict rules for him. He nodded and said: "I know, mom, your job is to sort of train us for being grown-ups, so that some day when we leave or go to college we can do the right things."

That's right, baby, and you're already on the right track.

Balancing Act

2011-03-29T07:42:00.000-07:00

I know that I post about this "creative process versus life" thing a lot. I guess that's because it's a battle I constantly face. Robert Motherwell said: "Art is much less important than life, but what a poor life without it." Sometimes I agree with that statement and other times I think I could isolate myself from every other human being on the planet and live inside my own head for the rest of my life. But what good would that do--for me or for others?

This past weekend I conducted a social experiment on myself. First, I chopped off my hair. Drastic? Maybe. I didn't shave it--that would have been extreme--but I wanted a significant change to propel me into the writer's conference I was about to attend, so I sacrificed 6-8 inches of hair. Women are strange creatures. But it worked, or at least made me feel new-ish. Three days prior to the haircut, I had found out that I'd made it through the second round of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest. It fueled new hope in me as a writer--that someone outside my circle of friends and family had read--and enjoyed!--my novel. As it sits in limbo in the third round, I wait (im)patiently for my review from Publisher's Weekly. What a prize!

Into the conference I go, with my new hair and my new ego, and I shocked myself by talking to people all over the room. I didn't sit at the table with my drink and wait for others to sit down around me. I mingled and felt great about it. I introduced myself to an agent, a NYT bestselling author, and a few dozen writers all with the same look of trepidation that I usually feel on my own face. We discussed wine (which I know nothing about), Mark Twain (whom I know even less--shameful), and our kids (now there's a topic I know!). And of course how nervous we all were to pitch to an agent, even though secretly I was way more excited than nervous this time. It's amazing what a haircut will do.

Writer's conferences are like little ecosystems, miniature representations of the larger world. You have some superiorly successful people, such as Donald Maass and Jonathan Maberry, and there are those who have managed to publish a few books and are looking to up their game. There are folks like myself who are gaining ground slowly and finally those who seem to have no idea what they are doing, yet are fed by writing and so you can relate to them on the level of creativity. I found myself giving advice and answering questions to some who weren't familiar with social networking and what it can do for a writer--not that I know it all, but some know even less than I. And rather than thinking I had nothing to give and all to gain, I found out that I've grown quite a bit in the last few years as a writer, as a mom, and as a person. It was pretty cathartic. I still came home and crashed. Felt a bit sick on Sunday, but was fully recovered by Monday. I can't totally deny the introvert inside me, but at least I was able to overcome her for two days.

So, where does the balancing act come into play, you ask? I find myself enjoying these experiences so much that it's difficult for me to come home sometimes. While I long for the familiar, warm and loving surroundings of home where I can recoup and restore, my brain yearns for more and more engagement the more I step out of my comfort zone. I had a conversation with a writer/artist at the conference about the switching roles of identity we share. He, being a guy, asked me if it was difficult to step outside the role of "mother" and become "writer". He had my attention immediately. How many guys (other than my husband who sees this struggle on a daily basis) recognize that there is a disparity for many women between these two identities? We had a fantastic conversation and he talked a little bit about the way it's similar for him as a man and a father, to step outside that and become "teacher and artist", but that it seems to be harder for women.

So, I thought about that for little while--am still thinking about it--and wonder if it's just our own doing or a greater pressure from societal expectations. Recently, I find myself getting ticked at women who say they are "Full time mothers." That phrase never used to bother me. In fact, I never thought anything about it at all. But now I get heated and a little defensive. Does this "full-time" mother insinuate that those moms who work don't mother full-time? Am I a part-time mother because I work and go to school and write? I guess in that case I'm a quarter-time mother.

In my opinion, you are a mother or you're not a mother. You either have kids or don't. It's not a matter of breaking down the time spent specifically mothering versus any other task. Yes, I'm a mom, but I'm also just me. I like to do other things beyond raising my kids. I don't think about my children every minute of the day. Often, yes, because they are still the most important thing in my life, but I don't feel the need to say that over and over anymore. It's a given. If I go out and suddenly get a full-time job, it doesn't mean my kids are any less important to me. And yes, this is me still convincing myself of that.

Gabrielle Burton wrote a book called Searching for Tamsen Donner. It's an account of her journey with her husband and five daughters across country following the Oregon Trail. Tamsen Donner was the wife of the infamous Donner party leader and the book contains tons of historical information on their amazing story--which could be, in part, the story of any pioneer along the trail. It's an encouraging story about determination and surviving difficult times. And then there's Burton's own experience traveling across country with five little girls. I think that part scared me more than the Donner party. I enjoyed the book a great deal, but one of the things that made me appreciate it the most was Burton's honesty with her personal struggle of writer versus mom. The same struggle I feel. The same struggle Tamsen Donner and the other women on the trail probably felt, except then it was "trail blazer versus mom". Here, in a time of enormous uncertainty, these families just picked up and took off across unknown land. Can you imagine what those who stayed east said? What they thought about these progressives? With their large families and tiniest of children! So many pioneers died before them and yet, they blazed. They fought the expectations of their own making and those of their much smaller society.

And in some ways we are still fighting the same fight.

Thankfully, each day is new day. So when I mess up my priorities, I can return to them. When I deprave my soul, I can refill it. When I need a nap, I can take it. And so can you. None of us should feel so pressured to display perfect lives. Because none of us have them. I'm trying to put down all self-righteous perspectives of what is "right" in the life of a woman as well as block other's judgmental blows. I have to walk my own path.
I have to blaze.

90 Minutes of Hell

2011-03-10T05:46:00.000-08:00

Now there's a dramatic title. Please excuse me while I use my blog for no other purpose than to vent my frustrations about the hellish time of day that is otherwise known as "Getting Ready for School." If you are a mother of school-aged children who attend public or private school, then perhaps you will join me in this lament. But if you are not part of this club, this post will likely mean nothing to you, and that's okay, because really, I just need to let off some steam.

PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTtttttttttttttttt

I wake my three children--ages 12, 11 (in a few weeks), and 7--each day at 7am. They have almost exactly ninety minutes from that point to get to school. I drive them or we walk when the weather is nice. I also drive several other neighborhood kids because their parents work earlier hours than I, so frequently I have, at the very least, five children in my kitchen by 8am. I only own three of them, but I believe my three are, by far, the loudest. They are certainly the messiest. From the second they wake up, to the moment they get out of my car, it's a constant battle that sounds something like this:

"Timetogetup,eatyourbreakfast,findyoursneaker,cleanuptheoatmealyouspilled,brushyourteeth,where'syour lunchbox,packyourbackpack,gogetchanged,where'stheothersneaker,cleanuptheoatmealyouspilled, stophittingyourbrother,isaidgetdressed,brushyourteeth,takeoffyourpajamas,cleanuptheoatmealyouspilled,packyourbackpack,noyoucannotplayvideogames,wheredidthelibrarybookgo,CLEANUPTHEOATMEALYOUSPILLED!"

And of course, all three of them are dishing it right back:

"Mommysignthis,mommywhere'smysneaker,mommyineedanewlunchbox,mommydidyouwashmyfavoritetights,mommyialreadybrushedmyteeth,
what oatmeal?"

Some mornings, like today, I feel like I am angry for that entire ninety minutes and I don't want to be. But I'd like my older children to be able to clean up after themselves without being told a thousand times and my youngest to be able to follow a single direction and accept the fact that he is not playing Mario Kart before school. This is March. When has he ever been allowed to play video games before school?? Must we STILL argue every morning about it?

In a rush, we cram into the car, and head off to the school--of course getting stuck at the red light--and I feel a sense of relief with each body that exits the vehicle. Everyone has said "goodbye" and "thank you, Mrs. Cooper", and I'm about to shout praises of Hallelujahs.

But then my youngest presses his blonde hair against my cheek and says: "I love you Mommy."

And then, for that minute, all is right with the world.

Throwing it Out There

2011-03-05T10:50:00.000-08:00

This is the last poem I worked on for my class. I got decent feedback from my critique group and prof, so I thought I'd go ahead and post it. I imagine I'll still continue to change it, but this is how it stands as of now. I tend to think nothing is ever finished but eventually I just have to let it go. Kind of like children. :-)

(The blog format will mess up the line breaks in this poem, but for reference the entire poem intentionally angles from the top right corner to the bottom left corner. I wanted to experiment with a visual effect and I think it turned out well. And I'm still trying to figure out how to get "unusually" out of that first line. I hate that word, but haven't worked on fixing the line yet.)

Datsun, 1979

daddy brought the Yellow datsun home one afternoon when the sun was unusually hot.

farmer-tanned arm over the edge of the door and thinning black hair escaped from

his olive army cap. vinyl bucket seats and a great big steering wheel. Yellow

as the balloon i’d puckered on all day. music detonated, spirit

in the sky, as he drove—on the grass—in front of the Yellow

farmhouse. Yellow as kitchen cabinets, the daffodils. he

dropped the tailgate, ushered us into the secret fortress.

we lay down in the truck’s bed. Yellow as jewel weed

by the creek, whiskey bottle labels on the Yellow-

speckled counter. fresh tomatoes gathered

in a Yellow wire basket. sisters cocooned

in quilts to count Yellow stars. we’ll

go to the drive-in, he’d said, but

i don’t actually remember

the datsun. i was four.

there were no stars,

no spirits in the sky,

no secret fortress.

oh, there were

tomatoes,

daffodils,

balloons,

at some

point.

but not in one day

never

all that goodness

in only one day

just Yellow.

Neglect

2011-03-04T06:23:00.000-08:00

If something has to completely fall by the wayside, I guess a blog is the best thing to go. (Of course, so has vacuuming, laundry, and grocery shopping.) Although I miss my daily challenge of posting, I can only write so much in one day. Right now I'm so consumed with poetry that I haven't done any work on my current WIP either, which saddens me, but I'm thrilled to be trying something new and to be challenged in a new genre.

I've delayed posting any poetry because I'm not very good at it yet. The more I learn, the more I realize how much I stink at it. But that doesn't keep me from trying. Ideas and lines of poetry are in my head twenty-four hours a day. I jump out of bed to get to the computer and type up things that swarm in my brain in the quietest moments of the early morning, or sometimes less than an hour after I've gone to bed. It seems laying down helps some of those thoughts to surface. Funny how that works. Not funny how exhausted I've been.

The difficult part of all of this is the neglect on my family. I know it's there, they know it's there--it's there. But we try not to speak of it. My husband is gracious enough to not complain and I think the kids are afraid to. Mom is in a zone. Don't. Go. In. There.

A couple years ago, when I felt the call of change and knew it was time for me to evolve from stay-at-home-mom to...something else...I knew it was going to be a heart-wrenching experience. On many levels, transition is always hard on the family; moving, changing schools, divorce, death--those are the big obvious ones. But the trials involved in role-change in a family are underestimated. Possibly, I feel these trials even more acutely than my family because I am, for the first time, seeing myself as two people. One being "mom/wife" and the other being "me". It's a scary realization to come to, that for the last fifteen years I've been playing in a role that isn't my sole affirmation, isn't my only calling, isn't enough.

I've said before, that most people, when they get married have to figure out how to go from two to one, that getting married is a lesson in sacrifice and love. But for me, it's the opposite. Because I married young and had children young, I have to figure out how to go from one to two. I know (in some ways) how to be a family unit, how to compromise in a marriage, but now I want more. Now I want a semblance of me back. I see a glimpse of who I was before family--and I was only a kid then--and I want some of that individuality back. Achieving this without alienating everyone around me is very difficult. It's truly a separation, of sorts, and is exhilarating and painful all at once.

That being said, I am going to continue down this path despite the challenges. For once in my life I feel like I have a true direction, a real goal worth pursuing and I'm going to figure out how to fit it into the other life decisions I've already made, like it or not! Seventeen years ago, at my graduation celebration, I wrote a letter to myself titled "My Life in Ten Years." It was for a time capsule we were putting together as seniors about to head off into the "real world". I wrote in that letter that I saw myself married (to my current husband) with two or three kids and that I'd be involved in theater, which at the time was my second love. All of the goals I set for myself I achieved, and then some. So, I know the power of planning, prayers, positive thinking--whatever you want to label it. Yes, there were setbacks along the way, compromises made, and goals rethought, but all in all, I've learned that life is what you make out of it. Nothing will be handed to you, so you can either sit there and let whatever happen to happen or--and this is my method--you can go out and grab it by nape of the neck and claim it for yourself.

Everything is a Poem

2011-02-16T11:43:00.000-08:00

Unless you are a poet, or have studied poetry, or just enjoy reading it, this post is going to sound completely insane to you. I know this because a few weeks ago, it would have sounded ridiculous to me. Maybe not entirely because I do write fiction and like fiction, poetry is an immersion in something creative. And writing is for those who love to create. That much I would have understood. But to hear myself say there is a poem in everything...yeah, I would have written myself off.

But today, I saw a poem in the melting snow.

I saw a poem in the telephone pole leaning precariously over the road.

I saw a poem in the rattling wheel that always ends up on my grocery cart. In the man who asked my help to read the expiration date on a loaf of bread. In the funny way the thunder sounds before it rains on the produce. The dead fish in the tank.

I find I can't stop myself. And that's a little scary. People are going to think I'm cracked. Who writes a poem about a telephone pole? But there's something in that telephone pole. Like, why doesn't it keel over? Why doesn't someone replace it? What made it tilt in the first place? How much longer will we even need telephone poles?

And so I go and go and go...

On the Creative Process

2011-02-09T04:01:00.000-08:00

One of the challenges facing artists of all kinds, whether they be professional or novice, is to convey an idea without giving it away at the first look. Sometimes straightforward information is necessary, such as in an essay or news article, or possibly a portrait or still-life. (I know much less about painting, so I could be wrong.) But more often, art is about expression intended to stir something in the viewer without having to tell them what should be stirring them.

In fiction writing, this is something I learned about many years ago, though I'm still figuring out how to improve upon it every time I sit down at the keyboard. However, in poetry, it's somewhat new to me. I am not surprised the same rules apply, I just haven't written much poetry to practice it. My biggest mistake is that my first thought on writing a poem is that it's about me. Me, me, me. Much like this blog. When in reality, a good poem isn't about it's writer. A good poem may contain the writer's thoughts or beliefs, but it's written so well that the concepts become the reader's. The reader identifies and thus, owns, the poem.

Yesterday, I owned this poem. The poet, Frank O' Hara, clearly wrote it about his own creative process, which is that of all writers. But I can identify with it because he wrote it in a way that illustrates the challenge that writers have in being covert; forcing the reader to read between the lines. Which is what makes for an interesting book, or poem, after all. When everything is laid out on the table for you, there's no joy in discovery. Frank O' Hara captures this challenge humorously and if you are an artist of any kind, read this poem as instructions on improving your craft. Enjoy!

Why I Am Not a Painter--Frank O' Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

I particularly love the line; "...of how terrible orange is and life." Oh, the tangents...
Keep on writing!

Embrace the Crazy

2011-02-07T03:56:00.000-08:00

We are all a little bit of crazy. Some days, I try to be/look/feel as normal as possible. Get up (on time), shower, ready the kids for school, go to work, come home and cook, watch a little TV, go to bed. That would be "normal", I guess, for most people. There's nothing wrong with that day. It's productive, it fulfills everyone's basic needs, and it's an accomplishment of which I can be proud. It's life.

But when I have too many days that are normal, I start to feel abnormal. When I don't have time to tap into some more creative endeavors--even if that just means some leisure reading--I start to feel as though I'm neglecting a little part of my soul. The part that needs some imagination and adventure and, well, fun. That's not to say raising kids isn't fun. While sometimes overwhelming and oftentimes a little frightening, raising kids is more frequently a riot. My husband and I laugh all the time at the funny things they say and do and our hearts melt when they are going through a trial or express a deeper-than-normal thought. Overall, having a family is one of the richest experiences in life. Where else do you get to peer into the mind and heart of another person on a daily basis? They are like little psychology experiments. Three different versions of the same upbringing. It's truly fascinating.

However. I find I still need a little bit of crazy. Even if the crazy is entirely in my own mind--and then ultimately written out on paper--I need to embrace the abnormal. I need to explore the dark, mysterious, and enchanting ideas that fill up my brain on the normal days. Allow myself to feel deeper: volatile moments in my childhood, people that make me angry, social topics that get me riled up on a soap box, religion, politics, sex, controversial ideas, and on and on. Because after a while watching American Idol just doesn't do it for me. And while entertaining, it doesn't create a thought process of any kind. I need that process to allow me to write with honesty, create believable characters and enduring plot lines. Even to feel free journaling on this blog and posting it for all of you to read.

In that regard, writing is similar to raising children: hilarious, overwhelming, heartwarming, and oftentimes scary.

Because what if people don't like what I have to say? What if they don't agree? What if I change my mind a year from now? What if I lose friends over something I've written or family looks at me negatively? Funny enough, sometimes I wonder the same questions about my kids! They are an extension of me by default. It's not the way I want to look at them, or have others judge them, but it's a natural perspective. And it goes the same way for writing. My words are an extension of me.

This is something I'm trying to cast off. It's a major hurdle. Just like I won't be able to control what my kids do every day of their lives, I can't control how people will perceive them. And I can't control what people will think or feel after they read something I write. Therefore, I allow the twelve year old to have a mop-head at church. He doesn't care, so why should I? Is it really a problem in the grand scheme of things? No. Will he eventually care? Yes. And then I'll probably be fighting him to get out of the bathroom. I also have to allow my words to come out as they do. Unadulterated prose. That doesn't mean unedited or sloppy, but true to what I'm thinking or feeling in the moment. Never censored. I can't control what other people will perceive, nor should I want to.

Sometimes, when I dance around the house, my kids say; "Mom. You're crazy."

I say; "Yup. Embrace it. Because someday you'll be crazy too." And then I grab them by the hands and we swing around the kitchen to "I Got a Woman".

Moments like that make me never want to be normal.

Three Times a Charm

2011-02-06T05:20:00.000-08:00

I've read that the youngest child in a family is a charmer. This is certainly true for our family. While all three of my kids say things that crack me up, the youngest comes up with things that he doesn't even realize are funny--or insulting which, in turn, make them funny. And I know there are millions of blog posts out there for all the funny things kids say, but I really don't care. Mine can float around in cyber-space with them. Maybe it's good storage space for all their crazy comments and I could compile them and someday write a book: S*&T My Kid Says. It worked for Justin Halpern.

B: I want glasses
Mom: You don't need glasses.
B: But I really want them.
Mom: I'll buy you fake glasses then.
B: Then I'll look like a nerd.
Mom: And real glasses won't make you look like a nerd?
B: No.
Mom: So, do I look like a nerd?
B: No. Cause no one sees you.

B: I wish I was fat.
A: Why would you wish that?
B: Cause then kids would make fun of me and then they'd get in trouble.

Yelling downstairs: Someone stole my crayons! (Yes. I heard there's a crayon bandit running loose.)

While cleaning his bedroom: Mom, I found a sandwich in my room.

Dad: Go brush your teeth.
B: I wish there was no such thing as teeth!!

After spilling milk for the umpteenth time: "I hate cups."

B: I want to play football
M: Hm. Not sure if I like that. But if you really want to play, you can try it. Maybe you'd like to try another sport first?
B: Okay. How about golf?

Retail Quirks

2011-02-05T06:35:00.000-08:00

I've been working in a well-known retail chain for about four months now. The last time I had a retail job was in 2004 and it only lasted about four months because at the time I also had a four month old. And he never slept, so between watching him and his four year old sister all day and then waking up at least once every night, I couldn't hack working until eleven or twelve at night. So, I quit. (What's with all the fours?)

But this time around, the timing is much more conducive to my life. With all three kids in school all day, working part-time is pretty easy. And the store is usually a fun place to be with nice co-workers and pretty clothes--though, if it were my full-time job, I'd die of boredom. I don't know how my managers do it. Or why. But they're good at it and they make the store a pleasant place to be, so I really can't complain. Plus, working in retail gives you some amazing fodder for blog posts. So, without further hesitation, here are a few of my favorite customer interactions:

One night an older man set off the alarm when trying to leave the store. I checked his bag to make sure we didn't leave on any sensors by accident and he was free and clear. But when he tried to leave again, the alarm still sounded. He turned to me, raised his arms, and said; "You can frisk me if you like."

A woman and her two year old daughter--who had a strong desire to touch everything within her reach--were at my counter. As I rang up her purchase, her daughter demanded to see a charm from the display on my counter. Mom handed her the little ice-cream charm, much to the two-year olds delight, and then continued to chat with me while the baby sucked on the charm, licking it like it was a real ice cream cone. When I was all done, Mom took the charm from her daughter and hung it back on the display. Yep. So, if you buy those little charms at the counter, I suggest you disinfect them first.

Countless mothers come in to return scads of never worn clothing that their children "refuse" to wear. I always find that situation humorous because there's still tags on everything, so I wonder how the children had a chance to refuse anything. But the better part is when I see that the items are size 18-24 months. Hm. Pretty sure my 18 month old had no choice in what she wore.

A woman came up to my counter with a newborn outfit and said she needed a box. I asked her if she also needed a gift receipt. She said, "Yes, it's for my cleaning lady who just had a baby." Ah. Must be nice.

I frequently help people shop, which is odd to me. I'd never ask someone in a store to help me shop, but it's fun when people ask me. So, I'm standing in the front of the store helping a mom and her four year old daughter shop for an outfit. The four year old was having a difficult time choosing which top she wanted and all of a sudden the mom blurts out: "Honey, don't leave your iPad all alone in the stroller!"
O.K.

One night we had a terrific promotion going on and this very large woman came in and pulled things off the rack left and right. She was a joy of a customer, happy and laughing and having a wonderful time shopping for her grandkids. I love customers like that. So, she comes up to my register with her mounds of clothing and informs me that she's going to pay in cash and I have to turn around. But before I can even try to figure out what in the world she's talking about, she lifts up her shirt, baring her entire 250 pounds to me, to pull a gigantic wad of cash out of her triple D. No. Joke. I'd pay to see the look on my own face that night.

And that's just a few. I'm sure I'll be updating frequently. :-)

Socially Challenged

2011-02-04T05:58:00.000-08:00

Hi, my name is, well, you know my name, and I'm afraid to talk to strangers. No, let me clarify. I'm afraid to talk to people. Not all of the time. I'm quite articulate in some situations, such as standing in the checkout line at Shoprite, or...um...let me think...

Yeah. That's about it. Thank you, mom, for your agoraphobic tendencies.

I know, those of you who know me well are thinking, "Whaa? We can't get her to shut up." But, in reality, there's really only a handful of you out there, so be grateful (or not) that you get to see the real, obnoxious me. My high school friends probably remember the loud-mouthed girl screaming curse words from the basketball bleachers or running down the halls or standing center-stage. But that was a long time ago. Though, sometimes I still stand center-stage, I usually have a hard time talking to the other actors after I get off the stage. As far as the curse words and the running, well, that still sometimes happens in the privacy of my own house, but that's about it.

When I Google "socially challenged" I get a lot of ridiculous advice. I guess that's what happens when you use Google as your therapist, but he's just so cheap. Most of what I read is about putting yourself out there and practicing the dreaded social situations. Ha. Funny. I pretty much avoid that at all costs. What part of socially inept do you not get, Google? Where'd you get your degree anyway?

I don't even have the excuse of being raised by the internet. I could see how today's kids could grow up only talking to people online and then bumbling around in public. I see that in myself, so I imagine in the formative years it'd be even more effective. You can't get comfortable with people if you're never around people. And that's where my issue rests. I'm wholly out of practice with people.

As a kid, I was quite isolated. I went to public school, but my mother was probably borderline agoraphobic. I wasn't kidding when I said that. She once told me that she was afraid to go the the grocery store. But she did go, so that's why I say borderline agoraphobia. However, as a child, I went nowhere. I can count on one hand the times I left the house and it was usually because my grandfather took me somewhere. Church, Christmas shopping, a visit at his new house in Colorado. There's three. I'm sure there are more that I've forgotten, but I'm not exaggerating when I say I hardly went anywhere. Oh--Girl Scout camp the summer before I moved. My mom took me to Girl Scout camp. I remember that well. I got sick.

Mom will freely admit her unease with social situations and she'd probably admit she's still on that border, though she's one of the easiest people to talk to, so those that already know her would have a hard time picking that up. I believe most people feel the same way about me. It's hard to know what's going on inside someone's mind and body--especially if you're not there. Which, in a social situation, not having someone there that you know really well is the problem in the first place!

Now, my dad is the complete opposite. He is a social genius. He has very little filter, but he's a natural in crowds. He'll talk to anyone on the street. He goes to single dances, hikes, parties, movies, and festivals by himself all the time. It doesn't bother him if he doesn't know who else is going, he'll just find someone to talk to!

Just visualizing that gives me agita.

I have to prepare myself for people. If I'm going to put myself in a situation of strangers, it has to be on my terms. I have to know exactly how long I will be there. I have to have an escape route. I plan every detail down to the most ridiculous things like what color pen I will take notes with. I usually get sick before the event and I frequently take medication to avoid any embarrassing issues. We'll just leave it at that. Often, after the event is over, I go home and literally crash. Just as if I'm crashing from eating too much sugar. I'm exhausted by putting on my game face and mingling with people.

But I am trying. I remember my first writers conference. I think it was 2007 and it was the first real event I was attending since college where I had to mingle with strangers. Since college. That's nine years, people. Nine years of pretty much staying safe at home. Though I had taken two community college classes and had performed in a few community theater productions, this was the big time. A conference. A hotel full of total-freakin-strangers. And yet, I survived. That silly weekend (where I got a partial request for a manuscript which boosted my confidence to sea level) showed me that I can survive it. I can even have fun! And I did. Even though when I got home on Sunday, I was in bed by eight.

So, this is what I've learned. Scratch that. This is what I'm learning.

1. People are not all that scary. It's the apprehension of the situation that is. If you have to plan ahead the color underwear you will wear that day, do it.

2. You do have to practice and put yourself out there if it's something you want to overcome. (damn google)

3. If you blush like a friggen tomato, as I do, just laugh about it. Point it out, joke about your ridiculous bodily malfunctions. Most likely everyone will laugh and then you'll feel much more at ease and hopefully won't continue to look like you're cosmetically challenged. (I'm still working on mastering this one. Just ask my professors.)

4. Breathe through it. And then take a nap if you still need one when it's all over. For us introverts, social situations are exhausting and that's okay. I'm not afraid of admitting I need to recover after a particularly draining situation, what I am afraid of is never putting myself in that situation again. Because that would mean defeat.

And if there is one thing I am not, it's a quitter.

Snow Days

2011-02-03T07:12:00.000-08:00

Two snow days and a delay and what do I have to show for it? A working website AND a book trailer! So, yes, I ignored my children way more than they'd have liked, but I had so much fun making these. Plus, the hubby--being a teacher--was also home, so he helped entertain the little buggers.

These aren't professional and I'm aware of the bit of cheese involved, but it was really fun making these and I hope you enjoy. Check back for updates! Hopefully, I'll have time to make a couple more trailers for my other novels, but for now, enjoy REM. :-)

Website

REM

For the Love of Snow

2011-01-27T13:26:00.000-08:00

I do not love winter. In fact, I've spent most of my adult life trying to figure out a way to avoid it, sleep it away, or move south. None of the above has worked. However, I have to admit, there is something magical about a snowfall. Especially one that dumps over a foot. Okay, magical AFTER the shoveling is done and the roads are clear.

As I drove to class today, I admired the sleeves of white on the sycamore branches, the open plains of drifts like ocean waves, and even the enormous mountains of the stuff in my grocery store parking lot. I was actually tempted to climb one and take a photo, but decided against a public display of my insanity. I did, however, finally stop to shoot these berries. They are from a tree in the Wal-mart parking lot of all forsaken places and I have admired them since fall when the berries first made their appearance. I'm yet to look up the name of the tree, but today I finally got the shot. I love it. It's not professional, but it captures the sharp contrast that I loved about them. And it reminds me to be a burst of scarlet in an otherwise white world.

Poetry Portfolio

2011-01-26T20:34:00.000-08:00

For my poetry class, I am expected to build a portfolio of my work for the semester. This requirement thrills me and terrifies me simultaneously. I love the idea of poetry. The mechanics or lack thereof. How a poet can craft a tiny idea (or sometimes a huge one) into an interesting gathering of words. Each word is handpicked and fine tuned and while it's the similar with fiction, poetry scares me more. I feel as though it's harder to please people with poetry than it is with fiction, but perhaps that's because I am not easily pleased with poetry. I often read it with a preconceived notion that I'm not going to understand it anyway, so what's the point. Fiction, at least, is straightforward. Poetry is sneaky. And yet, when I have an idea for a poem--or an assignment as I recently found out--I find myself thoroughly enjoying it. In fact, tonight, I got out of bed to jot down a few ideas for one. Which leads me to another issue of mine--not sleeping. It's a ramification of school; one I knew had the potential to haunt me again, but had hoped wouldn't. Fail.

But anyway, back to poetry. My poems tend to turn out symmetric in either form or syllable. Maybe it's my desire to order the world or just proves I'm a bit uptight. I'm going to try to resist the compulsion to make every one of my poems match up from top to bottom in one manner or another, but I can't promise anything. Maybe I'll just accept that's my voice. I'm open, really, to anything. I'm more excited about this class than any other--though coming up with a thesis for my Western Civ class did bring me great joy this afternoon. And although I spent the entire first class as red as stop sign--another uncontrollable force of nature--I think I will grow to like the intimate, nine person, critique setting. I think. I might be pushing it.

For now, here's my little ode to insomnia. I just plinked it out really quick, but since it's the cause of my late night blogging, I might as well post it. Enjoy. Or not.

The Problem with Learning

When I sleep

my hands curl

like newborn ferns against my breast.

But ideas are like foxes.

They come in and rob me, my thoughts unfurl me.

My toenail itches.

My tank-top is twisted.

Sleep has left the bed, so I might as well follow.

New Day

2011-01-20T12:46:00.000-08:00

I might be able to officially change my blog title to: Confessions of an Inexperienced Student. I've already had enough ego-punches to last me the semester and I've only had one class so far. But I say that lightly, because I bounce back easily and really, is it all that uncommon that students show up for class two days early? Or buy the wrong textbook? Or know less about Michael Jackson than the eighteen year olds in the class?

This should be good.

Today I learned what it means to be thirty-five. The "kids" know you're older, but they're not quite experienced enough yet to know just how old. The instructor's eyes pass over you and then return, wondering if he just insulted you by referring to the entire class as "millennials". Or maybe he thinks he did you a favor. You're not amused by his cracks on his spouse quite as much as the other freshmen. Yet, then again, there are a few jokes in which you find you are the only one chuckling.

So, here's to digging out my old MLA and preparing for presentations and reading multiple chapters in a history (of all subjects) book--things I haven't done in, uh...well, since before the millennium. First class, down, two more to go. What an adventure!

My Debut on NPR

2011-01-08T15:50:00.000-08:00

I was interviewed for a little segment on NPR the other day and you can listen to it here. It's not a big deal and I doubt I'll get discovered like Ted Williams, the homeless man with a "golden voice", but it was pretty cool to hear myself on the radio. :-)

Maybe someday I'll be working for NPR. You never know.

A Thread of Hope

2011-01-07T08:44:00.000-08:00

I read the suicide letter of Bill Zeller this morning. You can read it here. I encourage you to do so.

Interesting way to start one’s day; reading the last words of a young man haunted by years of sexual abuse and seemingly oppressive parents. A young man who, on the outside seemed to have everything going for him. He was a PhD candidate at Princeton, was a successful computer programmer, and even his friends didn’t seem to recognize the depth of depression he was hiding.

It makes me ask: Why?

Not only why did someone abuse him or why did his parents not stop it or know it was occurring? Or why did he never tell a single soul? Or why do these things even happen in the first place? My question is why didn’t anyone sense something was terribly wrong? And if they did sense it, did they confront him? Did they reach out? Did anyone try to help? Perhaps they did. I have only this four-thousand word glimpse into his heart. Perhaps a girl friend tried, maybe his mother, maybe a professor. Maybe he turned them all away. Maybe the damage was so deep and the hope so dim that he just couldn’t let anyone inside. Tragic.

I posted Zeller’s letter on my Facebook as soon as I finished reading it. I often share anecdotal news stories on the social networking site, but this was far from light reading. Yet, I felt it needs to be passed around, read, analyzed, and imprinted in everyone’s heart. Our lives are far from anecdotal. Many of us, if not all, harbor something painful inside on a daily basis. This was made even more apparent to me after a friend confided in me about someone who is going through a very similar experience. A dark past, difficult parents, and a lot of confusion as to where to turn. What struck me the most in her story was the question: “Why didn’t anyone notice?” The same question that came to me when I read Zeller’s letter.

I often see cries of help from friends on Facebook that make me want to reach out and say something. Sometimes I do. Other times I don’t. It’s a hard call to make. On one hand, you want the person to know you genuinely are thinking about them and want to lift them up. On the other hand, it might be someone you haven’t seen in twenty years and then you wonder: are they going to think I’m insane? But I think after reading this letter, I will try to always reach out. If nothing else, to act on my instinct to encourage and love rather than to stifle it for fear of appearing nosy or self-righteous.

Then arises the even more difficult challenge of allowing myself to approach people in person. I have come across people who cannot hide the depression and sadness from their eyes. It’s layered in their clothing, slathered across their face like cement, draping on their shoulders and even evident in the painful way they walk. I’ve seen it in children—whose eyes should be bright and curious, whose faces should be alight with energy and wonder—who instead have dull expressions of bewilderment. Who are afraid to move in the wrong direction. Because they are asking the same question. Why?

What is it that makes some of us push through it and survive while others rope themselves up in their closets? Some of us turn to alcohol and drugs, some to church and God—where I believe some people “use” just like a drug. Some turn to food and television; tuning out the world around them. And then some, like Zeller, just turn out. I understand there are many factors involved in a situation like this. Not one single event or person is to blame—they all compound each other.

But there is one clear and dispiriting connecting fiber in the lives of suicide victims and that is that they’ve run out of hope. And the part that haunts me the most is that hope is a very difficult thing to create. Sometimes it seems as though people have a genetic disposition to either hope or despair. I’ve no answers to why this is. And yet it’s not a clear-cut disposition. I’ve seen religious people who are broken and atheists who are not. Depressed people who have parents that love them. Contented people who do not.

I am not a psychologist. I'm not a theologian. And I might have a Bachelor’s in Social Welfare, but I’ve never used it for that purpose. I don’t even know exactly what has brought me in and out of dark times—other than the fact I’ve never lost all hope. But what I do know is that we, in the name of humanity if nothing else, need to be aware. What is wrong with us that we abuse and kill our children, that we foster a sense of hopelessness, that we turn our eyes from the problems at hand? We might be inclined to say; “Well, I never abused my child!” Well, good. I should hope not. Now make sure you are aware of other children who might be abused. Because isn’t it just as shameful that we are ignorant to those around us?

Yesterday at the pediatrician, the doctor lifted my son’s shirt, examined his belly and back, and beneath his waist-line. My first thought was that he was a little invasive for a strep-throat case. But today I have a different opinion. Today I am thankful for a doctor who is looking out for the least of us.

Bill Zeller’s letter is a reminder to me that unconditionally loving your children--no matter what your views, beliefs, or religion is--is priceless. And sometimes you have to set aside personal expectations in order for you to do so. May we also be aware, discerning, and loving toward everyone we meet. Because they may be fighting demons that we just have no way of understanding. Maybe, in whatever tiny way possible, we could make a difference in their day. The cynic in me says “not likely”, but the brighter part of me hopes.

Obit

2011-01-05T06:13:00.000-08:00

I am not an obituary reader. Perhaps, when I'm ninety-two and friends are dropping out of this life I will pay more attention. (Though, who is to say I won't be first.) Regardless, they seem to me one of the strangest things that people print in a newspaper. They're usually void of any real personal information that makes anyone care about who they are reading. If the piece is on someone you love, wouldn't you want it to be special? I realize they are often written by someone outside the family, but still the family has to provide the information.

The other day, I was actually searching for an obituary to find out some information on a local young man who killed himself. His story struck me and I was unsure whether or not I knew his family--turns out I did not--and I wanted to read that little blurb about him. It said nothing but the normal who, what, where, when. Terrible. But while I was perusing, another obit caught my attention. It was for a fifty-seven year old woman whose name I don't remember, but it specifically said she sold Tupperware. "Jane Doe" from Anytown, US, has died at 57, sold Tupperware."

I thought: Really? I'm not belittling a possibly very successful home business. I'm just curious as to who's idea it was to print that, so curtly, as if that was her defining role. Sold Tupperware. Maybe she loved the job. Maybe she met many other people through it, touching them with her generosity and kindness and plastic-wares. I'm being callous. Apologies. I can't help but think that is the very thing I am most afraid of. That my obit might read; "Jessica Cooper, from Anytown, US, has died at 57, worked at Gap."

Would that be all my family could come up with?

The Quandary of the Query

2010-12-26T12:57:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas break. Time for the annual family viewing of Lord of the Rings--in which all three kids ditched us for toys, snow and friends--and my personal search for publication. This week in December, six years ago, marks the beginning of my novel-writing "career". It was during that week when my husband and I brainstormed my first novel, six months after I'd taken a course at our local community college about how to write a novel. I had no idea that single class, taught by an author who is now a good friend, would turn into half a decade of writing. But the simple techniques she taught us in that class led me, an avid writer already, to try to write a book. And I haven't stopped. I have three finished books, two partials that are in limbo, and a fifth with good potential. Probably totals about 400,000 words and that's not including all of my journal entries, blogging, articles, short stories, and facebook statuses. Some would say I have a problem. And I do. Out of all those words, only about 1200 have been published. One. Little. Article.

So each year I try to compose myself and put together a list of potential agents and publishers that I can send something to. And every year, I send almost nothing. I'm an ambitious person by nature: I research many topics for myself and my writing, I am about to start a second degree, I work part-time, and I frequently have some sort of creative project other than writing as well. But when I start reading those little agent bio's and the submission guidelines, it's like a synapse in my brain short circuits. I break out in a sweat, my heart races, and I have to catch my breath.

I find agents who I think would be a terrific fit for my books. They love to read the same books I read, or they are looking for new authors, or they mention that they are an "editorial agent" and I about lose my sensibility. Each and every one seems like a super possibility! This could be it! So, I scribble down their guidelines and make notes about who they represent--often reading the very authors they work with--and then I file my list away and never look at it again.

Yeah. I know. Doesn't make any sense.

I remember when I was pregnant with my first child. I was twenty-two and a senior in college. And I had more confidence about having him than I do about sending my manuscripts out into the big, bad, world. I read every pregnancy and parenting book I could get my hands on. Breastfeeding, sleeping schedules, illnesses, development and so on. Everything. I prepared myself until I felt confident that I was going to survive this job of parenting. Of course, books don't know everything and I found that out as soon as baby arrived, but for the most part, I felt great about being a mom.

While writing a novel is nowhere near as difficult or heart-wrenching as raising a child, it's similar in the fact that your heart leaves your body. You become vulnerable. Fearful for the life of your story. Hopeful that it will inspire someone besides your mother. Anxious that's it's language might not be wholesome. Or that it won't play well with others. And while with a child, you have no choice but to let him grow up, a novel can be hidden away and ignored. Stuffed in a dark closet. Filed somewhere on the hard-drive where no one can find it. And then what good does it do? What was the point, really, of all that nurturing?

Today I made my list. Again. I am not prepared to hear "No thank you" over and over again, but I know that it has to be better than hearing nothing. I waiver between inspiration from other mom-writers turned published authors and intense jealousy. I think I find the perfect agent, and then I'm too afraid to be rejected. I don't like the business end of this hobby. And yet, I desire my words in print over any other goal I've ever set for myself. And there's been quite a few set and achieved goals.

So, here's to 2011. Perhaps six years of work is finally worth the risk.

Playlists

2010-12-21T15:11:00.000-08:00

This is a post for those of you who enjoy writing or the process of writing or maybe just the idea of writing. For others, it may just be drivel. Uh...it may be drivel for writers too. Apologies. I'm just trying to get back in the habit of a daily post and this is my lame attempt for today. It's my birthday, so you have to deal with it.

I've probably mentioned this before, but I love to make playlists for my WIP's. (Work In Progress)
For today's post, I've decided to share a super-quick description and my most recent playlist for a young adult novel called REM that I'm currently shopping around. Hint, hint, all you blog-stalking literary agents.

Right.

And now back to reality.

Here's my little blurb for REM:

Charlene, “Charlie”, Abbott, senior at the prestigious Adler Boarding school, finds a computer that can record dreams as if they were an episode of a reality show. When she and her friends discover that watching their recorded dreams leads to remarkable skills, they begin a science experiment involving as many students as they can, turning half the student body into phenomenal athletes, musicians, and scholars almost overnight. The students at Adler know how to keep a secret, but it gets difficult when they suddenly start making national news.

Then abilities surface that Charlie never predicted, nor read about in the inventor’s journal. Not only does she have to deal with the fact that she can suddenly boil water with her mind, she has to navigate the turbulent relationships between her best friend, Drew, and Brad who she starts to like. A lot. To make matters worse, some of the Dreamers begin to show signs of major psychological breaks. When Drew becomes one of the more severe cases, convinced that he can learn how to fly, Charlie has to decide whether or not to continue for the greater cause or shut down REM permanently.

And if you want to listen to the songs I listened to about a zillion times during scene construction, I'm posting the playlist at the bottom of this blog. I'm sure there is a way to display it right in this post, and I tried many times since that's what this post was supposed to be about. But as my technical abilities are limited, and it's getting late and I'm super hangry (yes you read that right. hungry/angry) for my birthday dinner, I have no more patience left. And when it all comes down to it, I just have no idea how to do it. :-)

Retail Therapy

2010-12-20T12:01:00.000-08:00

I work at a popular retail chain--Gap--in the mall. It's a fun job. It requires just enough of my brain to maintain my interest, gets me involved with other people, and keeps me moving. The people at my store are terrific and I'm surrounded by cute outfits all day long. I really can't complain. There are a few quirks to my job that only other retail-schooled people can appreciate. Such as the returning high spending customers, the people who refuse to try on jeans that appear to have been unfolded, and the shoppers you can never please.

But working in retail also provides a few good laughs. Like this afternoon when immediately after my co-worker finished setting up a new table of freshly folded baby clothes, a little girl around three years old moved in for the kill. She was apparently helping her mommy shop and decided she wanted all of the shirts and pants on the table. Gathering each and every item in her arms she swiped them off the table and all over the floor. I think she may have managed to hold on to a few. But for the most part, the attack was complete. Three of us at the register just turned and laughed. There's nothing else you can do.

Sometimes, you are caught in a situation that is sort of funny, yet so strange that you are caught off guard. This happened to me the other night. We were busy with holiday shoppers and a nice man, several years my senior, was shopping for his granddaughter. I helped him try to find a nice Christmas dress, but in the end he decided not to buy anything. He thanked me and turned to leave. When he went out the door, however, the alarm sounded. He did have bags, but none from my store and he came back in and raised his arms.

"I don't have anything, I promise." He joked.
"It's okay, perhaps it's something in your bag from another store." I said, knowing it had to be true because I'd just shopped with him for the last fifteen minutes.
He smiled and said:

"You can frisk me if you want."

Cricket, cricket.

With raised eyebrow, I said: "Uh...sorry, this isn't the airport."
And then I laughed for good measure.

Yikes.

But I think I handled it well. People are funny.

The Sum of My Life

2010-12-19T16:38:00.000-08:00

I wanted to post every day for the last few weeks of being thirty-four, but it proved to be too difficult for me to keep up with. I'll be thirty-five in less than forty-eight hours. I just couldn't prevent it from happening, I guess. And I know I won't be able to post tomorrow or Tuesday, so tonight I'm just wrapping it up with the story of my family's reconciliation. The good part. Really, that's all I wanted to get to, anyway.

The brief series of posts were meant to be reflections of my childhood--the few I have left in my crowded brain--and I think they've served to give a good picture of my early years. My adolescence mirrors that of many other teenage girls, I'm sure. Perhaps I'll revisit some of those memories in later posts--such as my many escapades sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night, or spending an evening in the police station, or perhaps a colossal ice-fight in our senior year. If nothing else the friends I've remained in touch with may get a good laugh.

I remember once, several years back, I was standing in my kitchen washing dishes. My daughter came up next to me and began chattering away and I half listened, as mothers sometimes do, but pretended she had my full attention. I turned my head slightly to look at her, and in that instant I felt that I suddenly became my mother and my daughter became me. I've never had an out-of-body experience, but I could guess that is what it feels like. In that moment, it was as if I was watching a scene play out from my own childhood, my own mother washing the dishes and not paying attention while I chattered away about nothing. Surreal does not explain it.

Moments like that make me think about parenting, childhood, growing up and writing it all down to remember. I like to think that someday, when I'm long gone, my grandkids will read my blog and see truths that they can glean from. That my words don't all just float into cyberspace, that my thoughts don't fall by the wayside. Not that I'm Confucius. But I do have some experiences that transcend time, and the reconciliation of my family is one of those.

Several years ago, near the time my daughter was born, a tragic accident occurred. Sounds like the start of a fable. Maybe, in a way, it is a fable. A story with a lesson. Except this fable is true. I don't feel at liberty to share the details of the accident online, though a few of you know about it. All you really need to know is that something happened that sent my family reeling. It was chaotic, grievous, and confusing. It involved all of us--me and my sister and our parents--and so the only detail that is really needed is that it was a wholly unexpected and tragic accident.

Around the same time, but unrelated, my mom was planning a move to Florida. This was a difficult change to swallow because I had just had my second baby and we co-owned our property with my mom and her soon-to-be ex-husband. Although it didn't happen for another few years, I think we knew that at some point, we were going to have to make a big decision about our property and whether or not we could keep it. We did end up selling it. But that's another blog post. The upheaval of the accident and my mom's moving prompted her to lovingly force some family counseling on us. I think it was her way of making sure her family was intact before she fled. I joke, but it was a valuable thing she did for us.

I don't even remember exactly what went on in the session. I only know it was the first time my father and mother worked together on common ground since before I could remember. I know we hashed out a lot of misconceptions. Some horrible secrets emerged such as my mom admitting that she set up my father with a bottle of wine the last time he got drunk and, in a rage, destroyed our kitchen sending us to sleep at a neighbor's flea-infested house and, in turn, the police to ours. It was her way of escaping. I was horrified when I first heard this, but I realize now that it was the only thing she could conceive of to do. I do not fault her for it, nor do I fault my father for his rage that night. Pain, fear, and alcohol do not mix.

Back to the counseling session: I was an adult at this point, but I still viewed my parents through twelve-year old eyes. So, when they forgave each other and my mom told my dad that she loved him, it was almost incomprehensible. I remember thinking, for a split second, what would happen if they got back together? But that second flashed by pretty quick. I grew up and realized that my parents could love each other regardless of marital status, regardless of location, and regardless of anything that had happened in the past. Even deceit and rage and what they breed. It made me completely rearrange my thinking. Suddenly everything that was real--was made unreal. And vice versa. Talk about turning your world around.

Since that day--it wasn't really a day, more like a gradual few months--my parents have been friends. Good, loving friends. They stay in contact, they visit each other, and they've never once said another malicious thing about the other. At least not in my presence. Which is what really matters, isn't it? They don't have to be best friends, they don't have to be "together" anymore, but thank God the parental bashing is finished. I no longer have to pick sides or pretend to be two different people--one for my mom, one for my dad. A lot of that growth can come naturally with age and having your own children, but it may not have come as early at age twenty-four, without the catalyst of a tragedy, some counseling, and a tremendous amount of hope.

My father has been sober for over twenty years. My mother has become one of the most honest people I will ever know. My sister and I, although very different people, are true friends. And the four of us, albeit not traditional in any sense of the word, exist as a real and loving family.

Tonight on the eve-eve of my thirty-fifth birthday, I am so grateful for the years I've been given thus far. Even though I will admit I'm a bit depressed about my age and not necessarily achieving all the goals I wanted to by this year, I know that the most important thing has already happened. I got my family back.

My sister's wedding.

The Cynical Optimist

2010-12-13T10:49:00.000-08:00

If I had to sum up my childhood in the single most-often conveyed phrase, it would have to be; "Everything's going to be alright." My mom said it every time my father got drunk and my dad said it every time I was at his house on the weekends after the divorce. Teachers said it on the playground when I sucked at kickball and was chosen last for the team. It blared at me from the TV screen. Ran through the themes of the novels I read. Part of me would want to scream; "NO IT WON'T!" while the other half leaned into the warmth and accepted it.

Sometimes even now, as an adult, I find myself feeling aggressive toward that ideal. Most likely because of it's reputation. No matter how many times it was spoken, whimpered, written, Dad kept getting drunk and Mom kept running away. Kids still pushed me in a garbage can and stories always had the same sugary messages. The things that make up our daily child-lives leave large impressions on our adult brains--even on our best days it can take determination to shake them off.

That's the cynical me.

And yet I proceed.

I persevere as though the statement is truth even when I'm not sure I always believe it. I can't help it. Despite the constant knock-downs, I have, thus far, always gotten back up. I don't know how else to survive; without breathing the same words I hate. And so I come to the conclusion that the only logical reason is that the fluffy ideal has to be truth. Because all those stiff adults knew what they were talking about. It may have taken a long time--it may still be taking it's time--but everything (that mattered) was (and will be) okay.

I light up with that truth. Even on days I want to stay in bed. The fire burns.

My Amazing Mema

2010-12-11T16:01:00.000-08:00

This is where I come from, folks: (apologies for the sideways view--can't turn it no matter what I try!)

This is my Mema. My grandmother, who is about a month away from 80, swinging like Jane from a rope in the Amazon Rainforest. What you don't see is that beneath her is a 30-40 foot ravine. This is the same woman who wore a toe-ring to my sister's wedding this past summer. The woman who survived a car accident last year in which she broke her neck, yet walked again within months. She's always been an inspiration to me, in many ways, over the years, but this photo captures the spirit that she's passed down through the generations right to my own fearless ten year old daughter. I thank God for a family of strong, independent, faithful women. They have laid a path for me; one I intend to swing right over. Thank you, Mema.

Dreams

2010-12-10T06:08:00.000-08:00

Okay, so we all know I've failed miserably at this self-imposed challenge of a post-a-day about my childhood prior to my thirty-fifth birthday in a couple weeks. Maybe I'll get back to it, maybe I won't. There. That's done. Let's move on.

The other night I had the most freakish dream I've had in a long time. Freak-ish, I tell you! I woke up at exactly 4:44 out of what felt like a dead-sleep. (However, in my dream research, I know that you don't actually dream in deep-sleep, so really I was in REM or non-REM sleep. Sorry. I won't bore you with the facts.) I stayed in bed for about ten minutes trying to regain consciousness and normal body positioning. I had curled myself up into a ball and it felt like every one of my seven-hundred muscles had clenched at the same time. Tense is not the word for it. But I knew I couldn't let myself relax and fall back to sleep. I had to write this one down. So, if you're into dream interpretation or just want to hear a bizzaro story, sit back and drink this one up. I am a psychologist's field day.

First:
We are outside in the yard when we see a giant brown cloud heading for us. We think it's a storm. We run for the house screaming for the boys to get inside. The youngest goes out and calls the dog. The ending is unclear, but I know that it's not a storm, it's really a bomb.

Later:
There is a heightened sense of danger throughout the following scenes. Even when the "characters" are going about daily life, there's the feel of something being "off". You know that the setting is a dangerous, unpredictable place, but you're unsure why.

Two boys, brothers, roam the underground halls. There are various rooms with peep-holes in which the boys explore. Each room is a different experiment. A lot of tadpole-like creatures as well as fish tanks and other water animals. The boys know this place; this is their stomping grounds. They come here often. However, as they walk around and pass others in the halls, they are unsure who is human and who is not. Robotic or alien, they're unsure, but not human. There is a girl named Kayla with them. She's the same age as the older boy. They come upon a glass door and look inside to see a few kids playing water volleyball in the pool. There is some teasing; they don't get along with these kids for some reason.

Above ground, there are small glass houses scattered throughout the desert. It's Africa, the Sahara, maybe. Everything is dead and brown. Animals are all around the homes, vicious and barbaric. Fighting, mating, roaring...very animalistic. There are lions, tigers and other big cats--whether or not they exist together in real life is irrelevant. Here they do. And there are species that don't exist at all. Hybrids? There are also non-living animals. Robotic dinosaur-like creatures guard the houses. It's clear that no one ever sets foot outside. Arid, hot, windy. You can reach your house through the underground tunnels. The city is below the ground and the glass houses are for sunlight only. Rations are given to you. Loudspeaker voices tell you what to do and where to go.

Mom is on her way through the tunnels and comes upon the brothers. They are affectionately wrestling around in a common area. Kayla is still with them. Makes Mom happy to see the kids being "normal kids", as if they don't often get a chance to be so. Mom continues to her room. She passes Kayla later, who appears upset, but doesn't say anything other than "hello". Mom arrives in her room, which looks like a doctor's exam room. All of a sudden there is an emergency alarm and all of the automatic doors begin to shut. Terrified the boys are going to get locked out, Mom tries to hold the door open as she screams for them to return. One of the non-human people won't let her hold the door, forces her inside as she screams. The boys don't make it back.

When the doors are re-opened, the two boys come into the room. Mom recognizes them and runs to hug them; even though they are now young men. Grown up in the instant they were gone.

So. Yeah. That's it.

What do you think? Do you just see evidence of a story-teller's mind? Or the twisted thoughts of an anxious mom watching her kids grow-up before her eyes? Or maybe just wacky neuron synapses brought on by the chemical activity of a sleeping brain? There's debate about the purpose of dreams, but for this dreamer each night is like a new message. A new concept to ponder, story to write, or feeling to deal with. It's no wonder most of the fiction I've written has to do with dreams in one way or another. I just find the process fascinating. I love to dream.

1986-1988

2010-12-07T05:40:00.000-08:00

Might as well wrap up my early childhood today. Since there's been very little to talk about thus far. No need to try to drag it out any further. Twelve years of almost nothing in the way of memory. As I've written the few posts to this series, that fact has really weighed on my heart. Usually it doesn't bother me much, I don't let it. Perhaps walking down meager-memory lane coupled with living in a new state without my friends has just heightened the feelings. Either way, I'll be glad to leave the 80's behind and begin a new chapter. One that, ironically, began with a move. But that's a later post.

The last two years I spent in NJ were the most tumultuous. I have more memories--bits of images, really--from these two years than any other year, but none of which are pleasant. My parents spiraled down into a mess of self-destruction that only naturally spilled out on to me and my sister. Again, I won't put details on a blog since this is world-wide territory, and my parents are very different people today. However, their addictions took over their marriage, the house-hold, our lives. And what felt like one fell swoop, we were suddenly on our way to PA.

But before the divorce and move (which I've actually written about in an earlier post), I spent most of my time at home outside. As far away from parents as possible. I got pretty far. They had very little restraint on where I went and what I did--which I'm actually grateful for now, but would never allow with my own children. I'm not sure if this is because they had no idea what I was doing, or that they knew it was probably safer than the house. Both were often true.

We had acres of woods around us. I roamed it all. I built fires up in the woods, testing out what it would be like to live there on my own. I fished. I climbed trees. Caught frogs and catfish. While I explored, my brain was in fantasy land. I imagined being hunted by wolves. Ran from the evil queen. Searched for fairies. When I climbed the fence and jumped on one of the horses, she became a unicorn. Yes, I was always immersed in the land of make-believe. Always. Looking back now, I think it was self-preservation. I couldn't wrap my mind around the happenings in my house, but I could control my world if I made the rules. And in my world, the wolves were safer than the parents.

This was my world. Is it any surprise I was full of wonder?

Early 1980's

About this time, I also transitioned from journaling to also writing stories. I still have many of these early drafts, most of which are silly romance and ghost stories, and they are precious to me because they are proof of the young life of a writer. My kid-journals are proof of my real world and my stories are proof of the world I made up. They are an interesting contrast.

In Colorado visiting my grandfather all by myself. Reading Madeleine L'Engle's Swiftly Tilting Planet.

Around 1986--the photos of this trip (taken by my grandfather) are the only ones I have of me at this age. (except 2 from Girl Scouts that include all of the girls in my troop)

I'm so glad that they were given to me.

The summer of 1988: it all came to a screeching halt. And while my parents still had a lot of wrinkles to iron out--which they eventually did--the heightened sense of survival finally ended. I had to say goodbye to my land of daydreams, but I was able to embrace a normal thirteen year old life. Well, somewhat normal. The summer before seventh grade was a turning point of epic proportions. I can't say the next couple years were easy--junior high, freshly uprooted, new schedule of parental visitation--but at least they were stable. Or more stable, than had been my life-experience thus far.

The writing, however, didn't end. I don't believe it ever will.

1985

2010-12-02T13:18:00.000-08:00

It's fitting that I've fallen behind on this blog and that the year I'm on is 1985. You have no idea what I'm referring to, of course, but the reason I've fallen behind is because of all the writing and re-writing I've been doing with my novel. And the reason 1985 is so significant is because it was the year I got my very first journal. It was my 10th birthday, my parents were going through some seriously heavy issues and I was the fall-out kid. A ten year old should never witness the things I witnessed over the next two years and while I'm not going to get into any of the details, never, at any other point in my life, did I need writing more.

The gift came to me by way of an aunt who is no longer my aunt. See, divorce runs rampant in my family, therefore, none of the marriages that existed when I was ten still exist today. Regardless, I liked this particular aunt a great deal, although I don't know why--I just remember her with fondness. Perhaps it was because she had a simple idea to buy a little girl a diary. Maybe she knew the trauma I was going through; maybe it was coincidence. I don't know. But it was the gift of all gifts. For the rest of my life, I've remembered that diary as the beginning of my writing life. I still have it. It's completely filled with hilarious, angst-ridden, ten year old drama, as well as entries about the injustices of having a younger sister and having to share a room and some deep family secrets that were confided to me at the time. It's a tiny gem in my history. A glimpse into my childhood mind. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to go back as an adult and see yourself as a child? Reading my nearly illegible scrawl does just that for me. Where I have few memories or photos, I have journal entries that show the truth, the disgrace, and the blessings of that time. Where can you find a richer history?

So, although I'm seriously behind on my "Life in Short" posts, it's because of this gift of writing that was given to me when I was ten. Not the gift of being a perfect writer, but of the desire to write. The gift of expression on paper--or computer screen--that without, I'd likely be a very closed and hardened woman.

1983/1984

2010-11-26T14:12:00.000-08:00

I realized today that I'm a bit off in my countdown, so today I'm combining two years. Second Grade. I remember my teacher's name in second grade and I remember participating in my first play. And that is it. Pretty sad. However, on a positive note, I remember participating in my first play! And those of you who know me, know that I am still involved in the theater--when I can be--because it's something that has been a passion of mine my entire life.

When I was little, I wanted to be an actress, a writer, and a mom, among a few other things. Many of my ideas fell by the wayside as "vocations", such as Marine Biologist, when I realized a marine biologist had to be good with math and didn't just swim with dolphins all day. Though, I did become certified to dive and attended a summer science camp for budding biologists--yes, I was (and am) a total geek. My desire was there, but once I grew up, I knew my limitations. As much as I love science and ecology, I do not have a scientific mind.

But with things like theater and writing and other creative pursuits, although far from being an expert, I've managed to hang on to those abilities and knowing that they are the same things that lit my fire as a kid is encouraging. Not all adults are able to hang on to those childhood dreams. At the same time, not all dreams need to be held on to--like the marine biologist--because sometimes your vision changes.

I've had a flair for drama my whole life. Not "let's cause a scene at the mall drama", but stories and plays and movies and music and all of that imaginative-type drama. Real life doesn't need more drama, but a good story is always more fun to tell with a bit of dramatic flair. I may go overboard sometimes. A literary agent, who requested a full manuscript of one of my novels--one of the best requests a writer can get--told me after she'd read it that my "prose was excellent, but at times melodramatic." I can't say I was entirely surprised. I do love to tell a good story, but may need to learn how to tone it down just a smidge. I'm trying.

I remember being disappointed that I was not the lead in this second grade production, but the entire experience still left a huge impression on me. I mean, think about it, I have one single memory from an entire year of school: performing on that stage. To make the cut, it had to have been extraordinary.

Winner's Time Out

2010-11-25T05:56:00.000-08:00

Skipping the memoir posts for today to say thanks to my sweet husband, dear children, and exceptional friends for all your love and support over the last month. I completed my challenge with NaNoWriMo with all of your help. Happy Thanksgiving!

1982

2010-11-24T04:25:00.000-08:00

Out of my numerous photos (sarcasm), I have exactly two "documented" Christmases, two Halloweens, and one Easter. One of the Christmas photos is so poor, I can't scan it, and the Easter photo is MIA, but I know it's of my sister in I in our Sunday's best. I'm fixing her hat and she's sticking her tongue out at me. Terrific shot.

I'm not sure what caused the lack of holiday photo shoots. I tend to take more photos of my kids on those days than any other and we always make a Christmas card with all three kids to send out to family. My parents did none of this. Perhaps it was my mother's lack of photography skills. Or maybe they couldn't afford a nice camera. To a stranger happening upon my album, they might believe the little curly headed nymph in the pictures had a short, uncelebrated life. I know that's not true, but I do wish I had more of a life record.

My mother once told me that the few years right after my sister's birth were some of the best in my parent's marriage. This is evident by the fact that the photos I do have are almost entirely from the early 80's. The holiday's that were captured are all 79-84 or so. They had no money--proven by that uniquely decorated Christmas tree--but I never knew it until years later. My father worked at Duke Gardens; a wealthy family garden that is now a huge public arboretum, I believe, and my mother was home with us. I remember a conversation with my mom years later, after I learned about poverty line statistics, about how she and my dad were well below the poverty line for most of my childhood years. My grandfather had purchased our farm for them and supported them quite a bit. But my parents did well with little. My mom had a way of making everything special for a child and when you are growing up, what happens in your house is normal; no matter what it is; therefore, I had no idea any other child had a different experience. This small frame of reference had it's benefits and disadvantages, but in this context, it was a good thing. I was perfectly happy with paper chains and popcorn garlands.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I have not a single photo of any Thanksgiving as a child or teen.

I encourage you to take photos of your family. Even if they hide and yell at you to put the camera away. Someday, someone will want to see those photos. Someone may want to piece together the days of their childhood, or their parent's childhoods. They don't have to be perfect photography feats; they only need to capture the unique atmosphere of your family. If your gatherings are not happy ones, as I believe many of mine were not after these few, and you are unmotivated to capture those moments, try to fill them in with something else. If not for yourself, for your children or grandchildren. Someday, they will want to see them, even if they're not all happy. It's still life, still their unique history, and if nothing is captured, much is forgotten.

1981

2010-11-23T10:36:00.000-08:00

In January, 1981, my one and only sibling was born. My little sister. The being who would taunt, tease, stalk, and stomp her way through my life and I through hers. We still do these things, being the loudest pair of sisters to grace a family, the only difference being that now we fall into easy steps together, kindred conversation, and a tremendous amount of fun, rather than beat-downs, screaming matches and slammed doors. My mom always told me when we were little that someday we'd be best friends. I never believed her. But, like many things Mom said, it was true.

My sister inspires me to work hard for what I want. To not let the opinion's of others guide my decisions. To laugh. Often. Although our personalities are on opposite sides of the spectrum in some ways, we find ourselves alike in so many others. It's become normal to finish each other's sentences; completing unspoken thoughts; because, it has been debated that we may just share the same brain. We share the same genes, at least, and I'm so thankful that we do. Because that means she can't get rid of me very easily, even though that is what I tried to do to her for years. Funny how our roles had a way of reversing, changing the dynamic as we grew.

For a long time, I wished that I had a bunch of siblings. I'd see large families and think the relationships were so warm and fun. But, now I'm glad that it's just me and her. Our relationship is warm and fun, but also rich and interesting, and most of all has a great deal of depth, something not all siblings reach. So today's post is dedicated to my little sister (who is preparing to turn 30 as I prepare to turn 35). You know who you are.

My Life in Short: 1975-1980

2010-11-22T07:56:00.000-08:00

I had this idea for a series of blog posts for every year of my life until I turn 35 next month. However, with November also being National Novel Writing Month, my blog has been a little neglected and I unintentionally missed the date. (I did, however, finish my novel!) I guess it works out okay, though, because, to be honest, I really don't remember anything from the first five years of my life. Actually, as I've discussed before, I remember very little from the first twelve years. Therefore this project could be difficult at times! Today I'll start the series with a block of years and then continue on posting once a day for each additional year. On December 21st, you can all celebrate with me by leaving me a gazilion comments and telling all your friends to follow my self-indulgent blog.

35. Doesn't seem possible.

My parents met in a supermarket where they both worked. I think. (You will find that I use this disclaimer often. I am severely lacking in family history, so I'm doing my best to reconstruct the few details I know.) My dad was seven years older than my mom and they were both rebellious young people. Hippies by style and most likely politics. I've never really asked them about those years; what they did, what they stood for, if anything, and where they felt they fit in. I think both of them would say they didn't quite fit in anywhere; both a little lost, very independent, and a bit idealistic. Pretty common for young people.

mom-early 20's?

me and dad-28

me and mema

Mom became pregnant with me at the age of 19. At the time when I was born, she and my dad lived in Maryland with my aunt on a horse farm. They may have worked for my aunt, helping her with the horses, but again, I'm not positive. I was born in the nation's capitol, a birthplace I've always thought to be kind of cool, but shortly after I was born, my parents moved back to New Jersey. I have no memories of any house prior to age three when they moved to the home I spent most of my childhood years. It was a beautiful seven acre mini-farm and the place has haunted my dreams for my entire life. It's remarkable how a location can leave such an impression on a child.

the nj farm

my parents wedding day-August 6, 1977

me around age 5

According to my mom, she stayed home with me until I was eight. Sadly, I don't remember any of those years. When I look back through photos, I couldn't even tell you which Christmas it is, or which Easter, or even which birthday until I count the candles. And there are very few photos of these events. I own one photo album that has the only pictures from my childhood. One. Sometimes I'm really saddened by that. I feel like I've been cheated some memories and family stories and heirlooms.

However, I don't stay in the self-pitied mood when I think about my little friend, "Sara", who I've discussed before in a previous post who is ten and has not a single photo from her first nine years because a family member threw them in the river. I, at least, have a baby picture. I even have some baby keepsakes that my mom held on to. I know that I was cherished, even if the preceding years brought much heartache and confusion and lack of photo opportunity. Or the desire to capture and remember much of anything.

Despite all of it, I know that I was loved tremendously by both parents, so as you read through my posted years over the next month, know that through it all, there was still love in our family and I believe that is what carried us through to the other end. If you stick with me, you may be surprised to see how my family started, where they went, and where they are now. Not all heartbreaking situations remain dire. Reconciliation and forgiveness are real and powerful and I'm blessed to have been able to witness both.

Photography

2010-11-21T12:01:00.000-08:00

Got my new camera this weekend, after a few months of layaway payments, and had some fun testing it out. I need some tutelage from a good friend, but just testing out the automatic settings was fun. I can't believe the detail you can capture with a good camera!

Now back to writing! I have less than 6000 words to write for my NaNoWriMo goal of 50k. And then I'll be back to the regular scheduled blogging. :-)

NaNo Pep Talks

2010-11-18T04:08:00.000-08:00

I get these emails from NaNoWriMo nearly everyday with tid-bits of advice and why writing a book in a month is a good thing. This one is from Holly Black--who is a regular name in our house--so I paid closer attention and actually read the whole email. I love what she has to say in #7 because I make a playlist everytime I start a new project. New music that I've never heard before, preferrably, because it helps me with the tone I want to present in the story and motivates me to act/think like my characters. It's nice to know I'm not the only crazy one zoned out in la-la land.

Greetings fellow writers,

Here are some things I wish someone had told me when I was writing my first book. I want to say them to you in the hopes they will help and encourage you. Even if you've heard them before, it doesn't hurt to be reminded.

1) No one can tell if the writing was fun or if it was hard. Trust me. I know it seems like writing that pours out of your brain in a passionate flood should be better than writing that comes slowly and miserably, but the only person who will ever know the difference is you. So no excuses—get the word count done.

2) You don't have to believe you can; you just have to do it. I remember everyone telling me I had to think positive when I was writing my first book. If I believed I could do it, then I could! If I pictured myself published, then it was going to happen! Which sounded great, except...could I do it? If I didn't think I could, was I doomed to fail? What if I was almost totally sure I would fail? I am here to tell you—what matters is sticking with it. Even if you don't know if you can make it through NaNoWriMo, just get through today. Then get through tomorrow. Don't worry about the day after that, until it's today. Then you know what to do.

3) There aren't good books and bad books. There are finished books and books that still need more work. Please don't let wondering if there's a market for your book or wondering if the book you're writing is genius or evidence that you should be heavily medicated get in the way of the writing. Remember, right now you are not writing a good book, you are writing a good draft. Later, you will have lots of time to kill your darlings, make the suspense more suspenseful, to add foreshadowing and subplots. Later you will have time to change the beginning or change the ending or change the middle. Later, you will have time to cut and polish and engooden. For now, trust the process and write (that said, if you suddenly wake up in the middle of the night and realize what's wrong with Chapter 7, then by all means, jot that down for later).

4) Figure out what happens next. Some people swear by outlines; other writers are like to find the story along the way. Whether you're a plotter or a pantser, before you quit for the day, write a little bit of the next scene or a couple of lines on what you think will happen next. That way, you are never looking at a blank page.

5) Write for your reader self, not your writer self. You are the best audience for your own work. If you would absolutely love a character like the one you are writing about, if you adore books like the one you are working on, then you are going to know how to make the book appealing—write it like you were the person who was going to read it. Remember the fun bits, the juicy bits, the stuff you linger over in other books—the good stuff.

6) Talk it through. When you get stuck, sometimes it helps to talk through the book out loud—even if only your cat is listening. Sometimes hearing the plot is enough to engage a different part of your brain in solving the problem.

7) Give yourself regular rewards. A fresh cup of coffee (even if it is your 353rd) when you get to the end of a scene, an episode of your favorite show, a snack, a couple of minutes rearranging your My Book is Awesome mix—if you give yourself regular motivational rewards, you will have small goals to work toward.

Over the course of this November, you are going to feel frustrated, despairing, elated and exhausted. You will walk around in a foggy haze at your job or the bank or the supermarket. People will talk to you for twenty minutes and you won't have heard a word they said because you just thought of a fantastic new subplot. You will look up things on the internet that make you look like a serial killer. But it's good practice—just think, once you become a professional writer, that's how you'll behave all the time!

Holly Black

Holly Black is the New York Times bestselling author of The Spiderwick Chronicles. You can learn more about her writing here.

Skinny Jeans

2010-11-16T16:32:00.000-08:00

Today was my first official day at my new place of employment--Gap. I completed a few days of training, but today was the first real shift and I had a pretty good time. It was slow, so at times a little boring, but it was a good pace for me to gradually get used to ringing people up and talking to customers on the floor. A recluse by nature, I actually still enjoy casual interaction with people. Particularly strangers. I find it easier to talk shop with customers than to try to keep a conversation going with someone whom I am already acquainted. (Now, if you're a close friend, you know I don't shut up, but there are really only a handful of you out there.) Overall, Gap is a customer service oriented store and they value people a great deal. In my particular store, some of the employees have been there for a decade or more. I think that's saying a lot for a retail job.

One friendly customer came up to my register and started talking about how she and her siblings had purchased all these matching clothes at Gap for their kids' Christmas photo. She had purchased a few options, apparently, and was now returning the losing selections. I mentioned that I also had three kids and how those family shots were always a challenge to get everyone smiling at the same time. She just looked at me funny and said: "You have three kids?"

I get this a lot. And I'm not saying that to boast; there are plenty of women out there with three kids (and more!) who look better than I do! When I'm presented with a compliment, I am able to say "Why, thank you!" But when I'm presented with a guffaw or an "i hate you" disguised as a compliment, I have no idea what to do. It's a very awkward situation. Sometimes I want to say: "You should see my body under the clothes; stretch marks from head to toe." But I just smiled and put on my usual apologetic face and finished her transaction.

I want to tell people to stop comparing themselves to me. It's the most pointless way of thinking out there. Later, when a tall redheaded woman came in the store and tried on size 2 and 4 jeans, I was a little envious--at first. I have always coveted red hair and would love to be 5'10" without heels, but what's the point? I'm not. And once I take my head out of the fitting room clouds, I realize how ridiculous it is to want things that I will never have. While I could dye my hair if I really wanted to, I certainly can't grow another two inches.

Before the woman at the register left, she said to the other woman working with me--about me--(this happens a lot as well. As if thin women can't hear.) "I want her diet!" I did almost laugh at her then. Really? You want my diet? Cause I can't eat much sugar or carbs because my body doesn't digest it. Since I am horrible at following this rule, I usually make myself sick. And because of my disease, food doesn't absorb correctly anyway, therefore the cause of my slender frame. I'm not lucky, I'm not a work-out freak, I'm not a vegetarian. I don't smoke, I barely drink, and I eat healthy....usually. But mostly, I'm just me. This is how I was born and how I am. And if I tell them that truth, they'll really get mad.

What else can I say? It's the skinny jeans?

Cause it certainly isn't my diet...

Registered!

2010-11-15T08:15:00.000-08:00

Today I took another step into the education world. I'm officially registered for the Spring semester! It's been a long, hard road to get here, lots of bumps and turns along the way. Especially when you consider I really started this journey in 2004. However, I finally feel settled and I know I've made the right decision. It's a little humorous how long it took me to make said decision, but now that I'm confident that I've gone in the right direction, all of the flip flops in the past seem worth it. I'll be attending my community college to begin my second degree. It's an Associate's in Fine Arts Creative Writing program. I am not sure where it will lead, but I've decided it's okay not to know. I may be fulfilled with just these few courses, or perhaps I'll move on to a four-year after I'm done. Either way, I have never felt better about a decision. Even if it took six years for me to make it...

Stories from the Heart

2010-11-14T15:23:00.000-08:00

All of my children enjoy writing their own stories which warms my heart for obvious reasons. My youngest, age six, tends to make books of all topics on nearly a daily basis. They are all very short and sweet and usually spelled so incorrectly that no one can read them, but I commend his effort big time. Just the thought process that he uses to write out his thoughts--all complete, viable sentences despite the misspellings--is worth a lot of praise. I hope all three of them continue to write and read. Here is a sample of his work--I've edited for spelling so that you can completely understand them. I'm certain they will make you chuckle.

The Vet
One day a vet found a cat. It was hurt. The vet took care of it.

My Favorite Toy
One day a boy was going to shop with his mother. He got his favorite toy.

The Cat
My cat is cute. I love her.

My Favorite Mom
My mom is crazy. I still love her.

Mysteries of the Universe: Part One: Time Change

2010-11-13T04:44:00.000-08:00

Every year when we change back the clocks, I look forward to waking up to the sun for a few more weeks. Getting up in the dark is the worst idea ever--unless you are a farmer and then it's necessary. And maybe a couple other jobs out there. But for the most part, we've created this early morning schedule to get more done in one day: a philosophy that fits well with yesterday's post and goes right on the wall next to my other complaints.

I am a morning person. I prefer to work in the morning. I do almost all of my writing in the morning. However! I think repeatedly getting up before 6 am is an atrocity that eventually runs us into the ground. Especially because many of those same people are staying up past 11 the night before. I don't know how (or why) people do that to themselves. I had a large window of time when I never got any sleep--it was when I had my babies--and I would never choose that sleep deprivation for any other reason!

Anyway, the mystery that I'm really discussing is not why people choose sleep deprivation, but why is it that children are so affected by the sun? This really backs up my opinion that we force ourselves into an unnatural schedule. My boys are perfect examples of the phenomenon. I am not sure why my daughter doesn't have sleep patterns like this. My theory is that she has the same brain mechanics as my husband who has slept through inhuman sounds and is able to stay asleep despite her noisy brothers. But for the most part, my boys wake up at sunrise. So, if it's summer and sunrise is at 5am, guess who is awake? Only after several weeks of staying up late do they finally begin to sleep in.

So here we are in November--a week after time change--and my boys are up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning despite the fact my six year old was up 2.5 hours past his bedtime and who knows how late the 12 year old was up. (My daughter is still snoring--so it's two out of three.) Why can't they just go back to sleep when they wake up--because the sun is streaming in their windows. In their minds (and bodies) it's time to get up. Now if they went to bed at sundown, I'd not mind as much, but instead they will run us ragged all day and much into the night only to repeat this cycle again tomorrow.

Can you see how I look forward to Monday?

Merry Christmas?

2010-11-12T13:06:00.000-08:00

Doesn't everyone cringe when the merchandise begins showing up in department stores by the middle of October? Every year it makes me more angry, and yet, if I do not participate in purchasing items earlier than I want to, there will be nothing left by Thanksgiving. This goes the same for every season, essentially making me feel like I am constantly trying to keep up the pace. It's ridiculous and exhausting.

For the last three days, I've been working on decorating Christmas...ahem, excuse me...Holiday Wreaths for large hotels in Philadelphia. Three days of artificial pine, gold glitter, and giant red bows. Bleck, bleck, and more bleck. It's the most gaudy thing you'd never expect to see in a fancy hotel, but this is my father's business and he knows what they want. He's been doing this for years and has wonderful relationships with his clients, so I have to trust him and hot glue the bejezus out of these buggers.

It will all go up the day after Thanksgiving. I'll be running around Philly throwing up garland everywhere I turn, which is fine by me because it will keep me far away from the insanity that I really can't stand: Black Friday. I know that there are amazing deals, and I will admit I would love to participate in the savings aspect of it. (You can, actually, get many of the same deals online.) However, I find it to be a shameless display of greed and that way too many people have checked their brains at the door before they leave at 4am to shop.

You are probably seriously offended and throwing excuses at your computer monitor or maybe even cursing at my "bah-humbug" attitude. Feel free to click off my blog; I know I'm in the minority when I say Black Friday is the pits. I know lots of shoppers love the excitement and hype of the beginning of the season, but I am not one of them.

Before you write me off as a wacko, even if you don't celebrate Christmas' religious aspects, is the gold glitter and artificial pine and rude crowds and boat-loads of plastic crap really how you want to spend your holidays? Is that how you want your kids to remember their growing up years? Rushing around , honking horns, trampled guests at the front door of Wal-Mart, and shopping carts full of things that will be thrown away in less than a year?

I love to buy nice gifts for my family. I love the games we play with secret santa's, holiday parties, and decorating the house. I love the excitement of the holiday season...not to mention the food. But, I've made a very concerted point to stay away from malls, department stores, and anywhere else most Americans are congregating on Black Friday because that atmosphere ruins it all for me. It may not for you; it may be just the opposite and perhaps fuels your fun-filled fire. I'm totally cool with that. But I do challenge you to ask yourself this: Is that discount or that "one item" really going to make or break your Christmas? And if your answer is yes, my next question is: Why?

The Day After Tomorrow

2010-11-11T04:44:00.000-08:00

When I was in elementary school, the cold war was coming to a close. Well, not exactly--more like remnants of the cold war were coming to a close. The 80's were a time when there wasn't much of a threat, but we were still doing things like "Duck and Cover" under our desks. These drills were also used for environmental threats like tornadoes and earthquakes, but I don't think there was much of threat of that in New Jersey. Regardless, those drills left an impression on me. They are one of the very few moments of the early 1980's that I actually remember. Along with all of the movies at that time that portrayed nuclear destruction, it's no wonder my generation grew up fearing war. As a kid, for me, the worst possible thing I could think up was a nuclear bomb and it haunted me for a long time. Thankfully, and thanks to our Veterans, it's a reality that never came to fruition.

My kids look at me like I'm crazy when I talk about these things. War is an abstract concept. And really, even for me, it was an abstract concept. The children of the 1940's had a much more tangible fear of war, and yet, the leftovers of that fell on us--the children of the 80's. But for my kids, there really is no "threat" that they perceive. They were even too young to remember September 11th, 2001--thankfully. That will be an event in their history books that they respond to by saying; "My mom was alive way back then." I pray that they won't have to live through something worse.

Right now, my oldest is obsessed with the end of the world. He wants to watch movies about it, look up Youtube videos about it--because there are a number of people out there who somehow video tape what it will look like??--and he wants to talk about it all the time. It doesn't help that CNN is there to back him up with all the hype of 2012 and the more valid claim of Global Warming. He reads current event articles on every natural disaster that occurs. He just can't get enough of it.

Sometimes it makes me wonder if this will be my kids' "worst realized fear"; the big "what-if" that looms over their heads as they grow up. If it is, how will it shape this generation? Will they become more environmentally minded? Will they find themselves obsessed with the Weather Channel? Will the generation produce more scientists, analysts, and meteorologists than ever before? Or will they all be building "End of the World" shelters in the ground?

Every generation has it's quirks that seem to fall on the majority of the people due to societal conditions at the time. I just wonder where the current generation will fall into place in the future.

If there is a future....
:-)

Discipline

2010-11-09T12:52:00.001-08:00

Usually when I have a work in progress (WIP), I like to carve out several hours of the day to spend writing. I want to wear my PJ's all day, sip coffee, curl up on the chair and blast my music of choice--usually pertaining to the scene or tone I want in my work. (Lately, this means a lot of Rob Dougan who composed the music to The Matrix.) To me, this is the description of a perfect day. This is how I spent the first four days of the NaNoWriMo challenge. This is how I got close to half the goal down in less than two weeks. But now, we are back to two realities of limitations: work and imagination.

I have no idea how professional writers spend their days, but for most of us not earning thousands of dollars from our stories, hours at a time doing anything other than work isn't usually an option. So, while I've enjoyed these days immensely, looming on the horizon the threat of a job and limited ideas has frightened me a little bit. How would I discipline myself to only write a little bit? How do I "get into it" when I only have an hour of time? Or maybe thirty minutes? What do I do when I get to that sagging middle part?

Today, I"m starting to see just what I do. I write. I just make myself do it. Now I'm beginning to understand what all those other writers and bloggers are talking about: You just do it. You stop worrying about how perfect it isn't, and just finish the scene. I know I'm going to be rewriting this stuff again and again before anyone reads it. In it's rough draft, it's just for me, so who cares if it's boring right now!

Posting to this blog and writing a novel sounds like a lot of work. Especially on top of kids and work and everything else. And it is a lot of work, but it's not as hard as I thought to discipline myself to just do it. I let things like the dishes go for a while so that I can get my scene done. I ignore the phone (sorry if that was you). I put aside other things that aren't as important to me--like TV and reading and exercise. (That might come back to haunt me.) But most of all, I make the most of my time. Writing is important to me; therefore disciplining myself isn't as hard as I thought it would be.

Then there is the challenge of imagination. I have a terrific imagination. One that frequently runs away with itself. As a writer, I cherish my ideas and dreams and interpretation of things into imaginative scenarios. But, there comes a point in many of my stories when I'm stumped for new ideas. I think it's mostly because I just really want to get to that end point--the big showdown between protagonist and antagonist. With the first novel I wrote, I actually wrote the last chapter first. Strange, but it worked for me. I was excited to get my characters from A to C because I knew how it would end for them. This time around, I have a general idea how the story will wrap, but I don't want to limit myself just yet on the details. So, I'm still anxious about writing the ending, but I'm not as certain as to how they are going to get there!

Again, the D word comes into play. If there is a scene I know needs to be in the story, but my imagination isn't living up to it, I just need to write it out play by play and forget about the witty comments my heroine should be making or the fact that my setting is lacking in any description. I just make myself do it.

I know that if I want to be successful, I have to just do the work, just like any job or chore or task that has to be done. Sometimes I will enjoy it, sometimes I won't. I think I've come to grips with this part of writing and it feels good to know I can get it done.

Now enough procrastinating with this blog post and back to the book!

Evening Conversation

2010-11-08T16:11:00.000-08:00

Today's post consists of our (abridged, but not invented) conversation as we prepared dinner, set the table and ate together. Just so you have an idea of how our evenings run: Each child has a chore for the evening--either set the table, wash the dishes or dry the dishes. They rotate on a schedule and complain every night. We are usually all in the kitchen during the entire process. Our kitchen is small. And our mouths are big. So, as you read through my little screenplay, keep in mind that most of this conversation was nearing the decibel of a rock concert.

We started out with some pleasant conversation about school and substitute teachers, but it quickly morphed and escalated to yelling (not angry) about video games. One of the things that frustrates my youngest the most is when we don't understand him. He's six; he sometimes has a hard time describing "things".

B: I tried to get the thing on the thing.
Dad: I have no idea what you're talking about.
B: Yes you do! I got...that...thing on there...where it sits on that thing!
Dad: (now laughing) I seriously have no idea what you're talking about.
B tries to explain this "thing" for several more minutes. We're all laughing until B bursts through.
B: Daddy! Listen to your Father! (He meant son)

So, now we are all laughing and yelling like lunatics--so much so that the dog starts barking at the cat. Who isn't even in the kitchen and happens to be behind the closed door of the basement. Guess she felt left out?

Later:
B: What's for dinner?
Mom: Spaghetti with clam sauce
B: EWWWWWW! Gross! What's that?

Later:
B: I want to sit by mom.
A: I want to sit by mom!
B: It's my turn!
A: No it's not! It's my turn!
B&A: MOM!
Dad: Alright! We will do this fair and square. Pick a number. Whoever wins gets to sit by me.
B&A: NO! I want to sit by mom!
Mom: Don't take it personally, honey. I like to sit by you.
Dad: (hides two slips of paper in hands) Okay, pick a hand. Whatever you get is where you sit.
A: (picks first) (loses) (or maybe wins depending on which perspective) (tears ensue)
B: Okay, you can sit by Mommy.

Later:
Z: When we get to eighth grade, we're going to dissect frogs.
A: Ew. I don't want to do that.
Z: Me neither. I just couldn't cut it open. Gross.
Mom: It's not so bad. There's no blood or anything.
Z: Oh, okay!
Dad: I remember I had to dissect a sheep's eye and it squirted into my eye when I cut into it.
A: EWWWWW! What's a sheepseye?
Dad: Uh...a sheep's eye. (points to eye)
A: EWWWWWWWWWW!

Tonight was priceless. It was hilarious, made absolutely no sense, and was so typical of our meals. The best part of the whole night? After I dish out spaghetti and clam sauce to everyone, I sit down to enjoy and my husband says: "Uh, is B supposed to be eating this?"

Forehead in hand. My son is allergic to shellfish.

Social Networking

2010-11-07T11:24:00.000-08:00

There is a lot of debate out there about whether or not social networking is a good tool. As a member of Facebook for several years--I do believe I invited enough friends to be considered a pro-bono employee--I am an advocate for social networking pretty much all around. I find it hilarious when I hear people say things like: "Facebook is evil".

That's funny. I didn't know Facebook had a conscious, or lack thereof.

I understand where the hesitancy comes from whether its a generational gap, technological challenge, or just no interest in trying to keep up with another new form of communication. Some of us are still grasping emails and cell phones and now there's texting, facebooking, and skypeing. (skyping?) I'm sure there are sites out there that I don't even know exist. (Please forward me the links if you know of any.) It's clear that technology jumps quite a bit faster than a lot of us.

Think about how long it took for the telephone to reach people: 75 years to reach 50 million people. That generation had a lot of time to learn and get used to the telephone, which was not regarded by everyone as a great idea. "The telephone is the greatest single enemy of scholarship: for what our intellectual forebears used to inscribe in ink now goes once over a wire into permanent oblivion." Stephen Jay Gould. After the "invention" of the internet, it only took about 4 years to reach the same amount of people and even less for Facebook. When I look at it like that, it doesn't seem evil, it sounds like a virus!

The technological advances that we make now are new on a monthly basis. At least. Cell phones come out with new perks, plans, apps, and gadgets. Computers get smaller and faster. Our books are being transformed into digital files just like our music. None of it is evil, but I do believe that it becomes harder to separate ourselves from it. How we choose to use it is what really matters. "Cell phones are just the newest invention in rudeness." Now that quote I can identify with, but again, it's not the phone that's rude, it's that woman in the grocery line who is shopping with three kids and yakking away while one of them screams at the top of their lungs and the other two are swiping candy from the shelf all while the poor checkout kid is waiting for the woman to swipe her card. Have a nice day.

There's really no point in fighting technology; it's always going to change our society. What really needs evaluation is our self-control. It's our reactions and how we choose to use these advances that makes a difference. Think about it. There was a time when reading a book was considered a waste of time. We've come a long way since that track of thought. There will always be pioneers and those who stay behind to mind the farm. If we didn't have pioneers, we'd never learn anything. And if we didn't have those on the farm, we'd never have a home to come back to. Choose where you fit best on that line, pick what makes you feel at peace, but don't hate the line.

Research

2010-11-04T16:29:00.000-07:00

I don't have much of a post today. Just a simple thought, really. It was a rainy day today and my kids had off from school. We made cookies and I stayed in my PJ's all day and volleyed between my real children and my imaginary ones. For those of you who now think I'm slightly off my rocker, I'm referring to the characters of my story: Charlie, Drew, Brad, and Jax. Charlie is short for Charlene, and she's the heroine of of the story. But now I'm getting off track.

I didn't complete a record breaking word count today--maybe a few thousand--but I did do a lot of research on topics surrounding my story. Dreams, psychology, boarding school life, soccer, and even weather in upstate NY. Reading about these things helps me create a more realistic world for my characters, but also throws me deeper into the story, immersing me in things my characters would see or do. Suddenly I'm incredibly interested in things I'd never read about. AKA: soccer And even more enthralled in things that had already peaked my interest. AKA: the psychology of dreams.

So, what's my simple thought for today? It's that I love to learn--often on my own terms--and writing helps me pursue so many new things that I'm always learning. That's really all there is to it. It just makes me happy.

Good Stories

2010-11-03T18:24:00.000-07:00

Last night I attended a lecture at Lehigh University given by Betty Anne Waters. She's played by Hillary Swank in a new movie titled "Conviction" which tells the story of a sister who fought for her brother's innocence for twenty years. She put herself through college and law school to become a lawyer and get her brother out of jail. She was successful and her story is inspiring to anyone persevering through anything. Ms. Waters wasn't the most dynamic speaker I've ever seen, and I didn't understand all of the legal jargon involved, but I was entranced in her talk because she is so remarkable. Her passion and knowledge incomparable. But most of all, her story is wonderful.

Often when I read, I read as a writer. I forget I'm supposed to be enjoying the story and I pick apart every aspect of how the author wrote it instead of why she wrote it. Sometimes this is because it's not written well and I have little choice but to rip it to shreds. But most often I just lose sight of the story. I get tangled in the details and forget the purpose of reading in the first place.

As I plunk out this rough draft to a new novel, it's all I can do to not read from the beginning over and over, rewriting sentences as I go. With the challenge of completing 50,000 words in thirty days, I don't have time to edit right now. I remind myself I can go back to the details later--because I'm pretty sure I'll hit the finish line before the month is up and I'm going to edit then anyway! Right now, this is my gift: to spew out the words, to ignore what needs to be changed, and just immerse myself in the beauty of a story I am in love with.

My story will never make it to Hollywood like Betty Anne Waters' did, but for me, persevering through it is just as important as the finished product. For Betty Anne, I imagine it was the same.

More About that Zone

2010-11-02T13:46:00.001-07:00

I'm repeating myself on this post, but I think that's part of the point. There is a Buddha quote that says: "Your work is to discover your work and with all your heart give yourself to it." I am confirmed this week that writing is my work. I am transfixed by my characters and their problems, glued to the plot like the next episode of LOST. I'm not only in the zone, I'm in their world. It's an enchanting place to be, though very difficult to return to the real world of mothering and marriage and housekeeping. I think about all of the writer's biographies that I've read; their trials and struggles, their failing relationships, the constant battle that rages between them and the real world. And on days like today, I can totally relate. The only way I was able to escape my story today was to force myself to take a short nap. And even then, I had a notebook in bed with me to jot down ideas that I knew would surface before I fell asleep.

I don't know if I'll ever get any of my books published. Part of me hopes for that above a lot of other things, but the other part of me doesn't really care. Writing keeps my mind focused, entertained, and stimulated. It's a solitary craft, however, and I have to force myself to leave the confines of my office when I am on a roll, to go, say, pick up the children from school or go out with friends. But even when I do force myself out, I can't stop thinking about what I'm going to write next, what the characters are going to do, when the conflict will arise and so on and so forth.

The zone is an amazing place to be--even though it sometimes feels like a parallel universe--but I need to figure out how to balance it with another amazing place to be: my life.

In the Zone

2010-11-01T11:21:00.000-07:00

Is there anything better than being in the "zone"? Today I think not. While I realize I can't always have this natural high, feeling invincible with my words, the feeling is so great that I imagine I can carry it with me through those days when my words are more like a dying flame. Within four hours today, I hit 10% of my monthly goal for NaNoWriMo. That's 5000 words. Really, that's not much at all, but it encourages me because I realize I only need ten days of that to complete the required 50,000 words. This won't be as difficult as I initially thought, and maybe I'll even be able to start polishing before the end of the month. Because the ultimate goal is to have a finished novel at some point--the 50,000 words is just part of that goal. Here's to many more days of writing--good or bad--and to finding what puts YOU in the zone!

2010-10-31T16:30:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween!

Autumn Afternoons

2010-10-30T14:58:00.000-07:00

As winter quickly approaches, we have been trying to get the kids to a park--county or state--nearly every weekend before it gets too cold. Today we were in Bucks Co. again and followed the canal trail up to a great covered bridge and historical village. But what I enjoyed the most was watching the kids appreciate the leaves and the sun and the woolly bear caterpillars as we walked.

It was a good two and half miles in the crisp October air; good stuff for the soul. I soaked up as much as possible. Hopefully it will get me through the dreary days of January and February when I anxiously await the crocuses to pop out of the frozen earth. Not to mention the upcoming thirty day challenge of writing an entire novel. I'm getting antsy as the date approaches: November 1st, unsure if I'm going to be able to tackle this project considering I'll be working at least twelve hour days in the last week.

Writing is dear to me, but being a great writer is a daunting consideration. I am a perfectionist at heart: one who rarely tries things unless she knows she will succeed. This challenge has me anxious, excited, cynical, and optimistic all in the same breath. I have to remind myself that this is a personal challenge. No one is likely to think more or less about me regardless of the outcome. And no matter what happens, it's all practice of the craft and that cannot be wasted time. There will always be more words just like their will always be more autumn afternoons.

Disclaimer

2010-10-29T09:43:00.000-07:00

Uh-oh. I'm disclaiming already. But it's for a really good reason! I swear!

In early September I registered myself for National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo (www.nanowrimo.com), but never thought I'd actually come up with a firm enough idea to participate. I've been thinking about it on and off all month, between kids, registering for school, cleaning, finding and interviewing for a job, and blogging. But nothing came of it. I even thought about taking my name off the site just so I wouldn't feel tarnished. So, I went online and looked at my account and thought: "Come on! You can come up with something!" I wouldn't let myself quit just yet. Literally within hours, something in a conversation my husband and I had triggered an idea. It began with a question, as most of my ideas do, and evolved into a problem. After processing it for a week or so, I began outlining ideas to carry out the story. Had one brainstorming session with my husband and "Wa-La!" An actual plot.

I can't believe it came so quickly--beginning, middle and end--and now I'm left a little overwhelmed at the thought of tackling this in thirty days while starting a new job and preparing for the holidays. (Whose idea was it to schedule National Novel Writing Month in the same month as Thanksgiving?) However, now that I've given myself this challenge, I must at least try. So, please, dear readers, if I miss a day of blogging or if I write about writing for the entire month of November, you will understand why.

I regret to say I will not mention my story or its details for a while. I find that when I share my ideas too soon, I lose my passion for them. But you can know that, once again, it's YA fiction and revolves around dreams. It's clear I've found what I like to research and write about.

Everyone wish me luck, say a prayer, keep your fingers crossed, send your positive energies into the universe--whatever you do to well-wish a friend--because I'm (and my poor family) really going to need it!

Letters to my Children: Part One

2010-10-28T06:06:00.000-07:00

Dear Firstborn Son,

I need to write this for you before you grow up any further. So, pause on the growth spurt for a few minutes and read my words with a child's mind; remembering that your mother loves you more than anything in this world.

We are very much alike. Allergies, insomnia, and energy levels aside, we have similar ways of thinking. We both think we are always right. Neither of us are good at apologizing or admitting when we are wrong. But there are some good things in there, too. Both of us love to read and learn. We appreciate nature a great deal. And when we are focused on something, we cannot be pulled away.

Because our personalities are so similar, we are going to bump heads a lot. There are going to be many times when you are frustrated with the rules I put on you. You are going to always want to do more than I allow you. And sometimes you are going to see that we've let your brother or sister do something that you weren't allowed to do at their age. That's because you are the first. In some ways, you're like our test-kid. If we can get you through life alive, then we know we've done something right. Every obstacle we come upon--for you or for the family--will be harder on you than your siblings because you have to go through it first and us with you. We require more responsibility from you. But we also give you small privileges like staying up later or going to friends houses on your own. There are, at least, a few perks.

Being first can be hard because your parents don't really know what they are doing. Everything that is new for you, is new for us, too. Can you see how it might be hard for a mom to make decisions for her son every time a new experience comes up? I know you'd probably like to think that you can make your own decisions. You are very capable of making some of your own, but you still have a bit of growing up to do before you can make all of your own decisions. Try to see that as a good thing because when you are an adult you will be overwhelmed by the amount of decisions you have to make all the time. Being grown up might seem fun, and it can be, but mostly it's a lot of work. And honestly, I almost never make a decision without talking to someone I trust first.

You are entering a very confusing time of your life. We've had little talks preparing you for some of the things you are going to come up against. Sex, drugs, drinking, changing bodies, and lots more icky stuff you hate hearing. But there are few more really important things that I want you to hear before your ears are completely closed to my words.

1. You will be loved by your parents no matter what you do, say, or what happens to you. We might get angry at something that you do. We might yell or ground you or take away privileges, but it would never be possible for us to not love you. Nothing is bigger than that. Only God's love trumps mine.

2. Nothing in this world is permanent. (Except for number one) Everything changes all of the time. This can be scary, but it's also comforting because if something happens that makes you sad, depressed, angry, or confused it will pass. I promise you this. Life is full of confusing events; but the feelings will pass. And even if they linger, you will make it through. At the same time, remember that even happy times can pass and you must not put all your desires into one box. You must learn to be acceptant with the ups and downs of life.

3. Never lose hope. Hope for the future, hope for yourself, hope for others. I know I harp about positive attitudes, but that's because the only thing you can ultimately control in your life is your attitude about your life. Faith is hard work, not something to be taken lightly or for granted. But it is priceless.

I believe if you can remember these three things, you will go far in life. These are principles that are true and good no matter where you go, what you do, or who you become. Remember always that you are so special to me--especially because you were first and made me a mommy for the first time.

I love you.

The Bad Guy

2010-10-27T04:26:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure when I turned into the bad guy, but it certainly has thrown me for a loop. I knew the day would come when the kids no longer thought I held the entire world in my hands, but I wasn't prepared for the amount of animosity between us. The tweeners exhaust my patience every day before the sun even sets. I feel like I'm a parent for the first time all over again.

Based on what my kids tell me--or rather how they complain when I ask them to do something--I believe that I must be the only parent who requires them to do any of the following:

Clean their room
Do their homework
Take showers
Put away their shoes
Eat
Ask permission to have a friend over
Wash dishes after dinner
Turn off the TV
Feed the dog
Brush their teeth
Get dressed
Wear different clothes than the previous day
Wear clothes not slept in
Wear clothes

The arguements are tedious. The excuses are never-ending. Each day there is new reason for me to ask; "Who are you?" I have to be prepared for each afternoon after school when the flurry of eye-rolling and questions begin. Gear myself up for: "No", "Not today", "Homework first", and so on and so forth. I can understand why so many kids are running around doing whatever they want--parents are too tired to fight!

I try to start each day with a positive attitude even when they don't. (Mostly that's my oldest) I make sure I have my coffee in me. I check my emails, facebook, cnn.com, and the weather before I wake them up. I take a deep breath and say a little prayer that the morning goes as smoothly as possible. I don't want to send my kids off to school upset, frazzled or especially angry, though from time to time it does happen. I have the entire day to myself, which is wonderful, but I still get tired by the time I have to go pick them up. It's the opposite of the morning when I'm awake and they are tired. In the afternoon, they are raring to go and explore the social pleasures of the neighborhood. I just want a nap.

Being the bad guy takes hard work. It deflates me. But I know it's necessary because the kids don't know their own limits. They don't value things like responsibility, sleep, and homework. They're kids--they're not really supposed to. It seems like a never-ending battle. When I think back to their infancy, it was an exhausting time as well. Two babies, a year and a half apart, and pretty much in my charge alone. I barely had a second of time to myself and was physically exhausted. All. The. Time. But I made it through that maze, despite some bumps and bruises, and I plan on making it through this one as well. The Tweeners will not get the best of me! Or, on the contrary, they will get the best of me, because that is what I try to give the ones I love the most.

Twelve

2010-10-26T10:48:00.000-07:00

Do you remember twelve? That year when you're getting too old to dress up for Trick or Treating, but still want to jump in the leaves. When you think you should be allowed to watch rated R movies, but still sleep with a light on. When you hate your parents telling you what to do, but want them to tuck you in at night. Such a confusing age.

I remember twelve well. It was a big year for me. For the longest time, I couldn't figure out why every time I reminisced on my childhood, I was certain each event happened when I was twelve. Could it be that I didn't remember anything prior to 1988? When I turned thirty-two, it was the first birthday in which I remembered my own mother turning that same age. She turned thirty-two the year I turned twelve. My life was so chaotic, that the only photograph I even have from that time is my school picture. And honestly, I'm not even positive this is from seventh grade. But it's close.

That year meant a lot of things to me. My parents got a divorce, we moved to a new state and I started junior high in a new school. All of that on top of the normal twelve year old drama and I was disaster in tight-rolled jeans. The very first day of seventh grade, I got off the bus at the high school instead of the junior high. My first thought was: "Wow. They grow em' big in Pennsylvania." Fortunately, my second thought was; "Something's not right--where's the office?"

After I was transported back to the school with peers my own size, I then had to face the fact that I was an outsider. Big time. I was also a complete geek, had absolutely no knowledge of the proper brand of jeans one was supposed to wear, (It was "Guess" in those days.), and no idea how to "do" my hair. I had grown up on acres of pasture, woods and a creek, riding horses and catching frogs--not a far cry from rural PA, but still, I did not feel similar to the kids in my new school. I'm thankful I made at least a couple new friends early on, otherwise my stay in Junior High Purgatory would have been more like hell.

I try to keep all of these things in mind when dealing with my own twelve year old. His life is quite a bit different: he's a boy, for one thing, he has an intact family who are not bent on destroying each other, and he's had more experience with social situations than I did. But, he has started at a new school in a new state just like I did, and so I have to remind myself how traumatic just that one aspect of my life was. It's not that moving to a new school damages you for life, but it definitely requires a bit of adjustment and alignment with your current crowd. Navigating assimilation and individualization in middle school is an extremely difficult task--for a twelve year old.

I watch my son goof off with his friends and I'm thankful he's open enough to laugh and have a good time with the other kids. He's not afraid of them and he's soaking up the social aspect of school; something he's never enjoyed a great deal until now. I'm proud that he's come out of his shell and I hope he continues to grow and adapt in positive ways. Maybe once the roller coaster ride of twelve is over, thirteen will be a breeze. But, I won't count on it.

Halloween Havoc

2010-10-25T16:22:00.000-07:00

Having a theater background, I've always loved Halloween. Okay, so part of it might be that I just never really grew up when it comes to playing "dress-up"; my favorite childhood activity. When I'm doing a production, costuming is my favorite part. Tracking down authentic clothing is something I take very seriously and this tends to overflow into Halloween. Even though I don't really decorate for Halloween or do anything with the kids other than Trick or Treat, we have a lot of fun with the costume part.

Confession: Yes, I've dressed up on multiple occasions with my kids. With themes.

This year, I am going to spare my children's fragile ego's and forgo the dressing up. But I still wanted to find original and creative costumes for them. My oldest decided he is too big to dress up this year, so he went with a store bought mask. Boring. My youngest changed his mind so many times that we had to finally settle on reusing a costume the oldest used--though, thanks to my husband's quick thinking, we are turning it from a Jedi into a Samurai. Who knew?

My hopes were held out high for my daughter--the one not afraid to be funny or silly or unique. She had the idea of being Elvis, one of her favorite singers, and I thought that was a great idea. Until I realized I'd either have to make it or buy it. I used to sew costumes for my older two, but I no longer have a sewing machine so making it was pretty much out of the question. Party City had one for sale, but it was 30 bucks for a flimsy white jumpsuit. Didn't include a wig, microphone, cape or any other accessory. I don't mean to offend anyone who buys costumes, but I just don't do that. First of all, it would cost an arm and a leg to purchase three costumes and all their accessories. But most of all, for me, half the fun of Halloween is coming up with an original idea and making it or at least piecing it together through eBay or thrift stores. But Elvis threw me. Finding that one foundation piece in which to build the costume with turned out to stump even me: the thrift shop queen. And do you know how impossible it is to find white pants in October?

So after a little disappointment and much debate, she's settled with Zombie Prom Date. That I can work with. Tomorrow: back to the thrift shop.

Food Obsession

2010-10-24T14:38:00.000-07:00

What exactly is with our entertainment industry's obsession with food? When I surf the channels--which is not all that often because I can't stand TV for very long--I cannot believe the amount of programing that revolves around food. From the little cooking segments on "Good Morning America" to crazy shows like "Freaky Eaters" and even an entire channel dedicated to food. Need I even mention the irony of "The Biggest Loser"?

I appreciate a well-cooked meal. I especially love Italian and Mediterranean dishes. Trying different restaurants when we eat out and experimenting with recipes in my own kitchen are both rewarding. But to watch it on TV? I don't get it. I find a show where someone is slicing and dicing and sautéing and frying to be about as boring as watching a golf match. But, I don't know, maybe you like golf? Clearly someone is watching these shows.

A recent article on CNN.com states that experts predict that the cases of Type 2 diabetes will triple by the year 2050 if we do not amend our eating habits. Right now, according to the CDC, 1 out of 10 people have diabetes. The future prediction would put us at 1 in 3. That is terrifying. And kind of disgusting. But it is preventable and while I tend to think eating right is common sense, I forget that not everyone grows up knowing what eating right looks like, therefore their children don't see it and neither do their grandchildren. If no one educates themselves and just follows along the footsteps of their parents, then we see horrifying trends such as this diabetes epidemic.

I'm not inferring that because there are so many cooking shows on TV we are all contracting diabetes. I'm not looking for a correlation; I just find our culture's obsession with food to be, well, a lot of things: intriguing, ridiculous, shameful, and yet, as I said above I, too, love a good meal! I can also appreciate someone else's love of cooking or baking--especially when I get to eat it--but I don't understand the overall cultural obsession with eating mass amounts of food or instilling horrible eating habits on children.

Let me state that my kids are allowed to have sugar and pizza and chicken nuggets. I don't forbid all of the fun foods of childhood, but we regard them as treats. They are not allowed to eat sugary cereals on a daily basis, but every now and then I'll slip in a box of Lucky Charms. They go so ballistic on those days, you'd think I'd put a million dollars in front of them. We drink milk or water with our meals, but soda on pizza night. And we all love homemade chocolate chip cookies; something we make on an all-too-often basis!

However, I also try to instill making good choices as often as I can. It's non-stop battle, to be honest. They see all of the "good stuff" their friends eat or they want to buy lunch at school more often because the school serves nothing but a jazzed up version of fast food. The TV is constantly advertising "healthy" snacks like Gushers or Pop-tarts or whatever other bizarre candy-disguised-as-food options are out there. The sugary foods are at kid's eye level in the store. The vending machines at school sell Starburst and Snickers bars. They are bombarded everyday by delicious, yet nothing near nutritious choices. And while I have no problems with eating a dessert, I do take issue with the fact that as a mom I feel like I am fighting the entire world when I am trying to get my kid to eat a carrot.

There are times, though, when my kids make terrific choices. My daughter loves to bring hardboiled eggs to school despite the looks she gets from other kids and she'll choose the chef salad option for lunch from time to time. It makes me proud when I see them make one of these little decisions on their own. Hopefully they will carry that into adulthood and maybe even improve upon what I try to teach them.

Street Art

2010-10-23T10:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, while waiting for some friends, I had the privilege of watching an artist at work on the streets of Stroudsburg, Pa. When I approached him, he was finishing a portrait of a family of three and the brilliant colors caught my attention. They walked away before I had a chance to get a really good look at the piece, but fortunately, there was a few more people in line waiting for their portraits to be done. I decided to stay and watch him work.

I know absolutely nothing about painting, but it amazed me as he threw up a few brush strokes and instantly had a figure on the board. Several more colors and brush strokes later, and a few scraping touches at the end with an old business card and he had finished this guys portrait in under fifteen minutes.

(This is not the artist, but one of his subjects proudly holding his portrait. Hopefully the artist doesn't mind my posting this.)

While I watched the above painting being completed, a young mom and her daughter--maybe three years old--approached me and asked if I had a lighter. I don't smoke, so I couldn't help her, but I was little concerned because she didn't sound just right and was unsteady on her feet. She and her daughter watched the artist with me and all of us exclaimed how wonderful it was when it was finished. She wanted her daughter to have her portrait done as well, and I could see how quickly this artist would be profiting from this little post on Main Street.

The three year old was less than thrilled to be standing in one spot for five minutes, let alone fifteen. So, Mom picked her up for the remainder of the sitting, swaying back and forth the whole time. I'm pretty sure she'd been drinking and it made me ill to think about her walking the busy streets with this little child. I wondered if she'd even be able to pay for this painting of her daughter and thought I'd love to buy it for the little girl. But, unfortunately, I didn't have any cash on me. In the end, the mom did buy it and I thought what a wonderful, colorful piece for her daughter to look at. I hope through her life, tumultuous as it may be, she will look at that painting and remember her mother's love.

Bad Mom Moments

2010-10-22T05:48:00.000-07:00

You know the ones. Admit it. I will; freely. Bad Mom Moments. We all have them; we all hate them. I'm typing this reflection immediately after having a Bad Mom Moment (BMM--such a fitting acronym)just so I can capture the instance of truth, the feeling of complete and utter inadequacy to be charged with the precious lives of my children. I do not know when I will post it.

My latest BMM was this evening toward my daughter while carving pumpkins. She's probably scarred for life and will forever associate jack-o-lanterns with her mother's shrill shrieking and complete lack of self-control. What can I say, I'm Italian and German. Loud with a quick temper. I had a long, sleepless weekend, had just finished arguing (in a respectable way) with my eldest about not staying up late to watch TV. This is an argument we have quite often and so I exhausted my last bit of patience with him. None of this is an excuse, only back story so that you can see where I'm coming from as I'm sure you've all had these less than attractive moments.

My daughter was finishing up her pumpkin in the kitchen...last, as always, because she takes her art exceptionally serious. This is a quality I thoroughly admire most times of the day, but as I'm trying to herd them all to bed, her lagging picked at me like Chinese water torture. I began to explain to her (this was my first mistake; the girl is not rational) that she could finish the fourth, yes FOURTH, face on her pumpkin tomorrow, but that we could light the candle just so she could see how it looked so far. This is how far I got in my sentence: "Tomorrow..." Tears began to flow, the wailing began, and her ears closed to anything I had to say.

I tried to say it again. She got louder.

It was in that moment that everything came to a head. The lack of sleep, the busy weekend, the impatience on my part, the immaturity on her part, and so on. Plus, it's Monday. Why we thought we could carve pumpkins on a Monday is beyond me. Mondays should be reserved for returning to school/work and watching TV. I think my eldest had it right.

I know that I have issues with anger. I always have, since the day I was born--my mother can attest to that. I'm not sure why it is, but some people just seem to be born angry and I often see that dark side of me and hate it. However--that being admitted--I have worked extremely hard over the years and by the grace of God, I've been able to get a lot of that anger under control. "Be angry, and do not sin." A bible verse that hits home again and again. While I won't even pretend I know anything about the translation of that verse in context, I do know it's literal translation hits home for me in this situation. Being angry is one thing, sinning against your children is another. No matter what you believe, I'm certain that no one wants to wrong their children. And that's exactly what I did.

Heat rushed into my face and all I could think of doing was smacking her across the mouth. It was like having a fire truck in my kitchen and all I wanted to do was make it stop. I did not touch her; I controlled myself that much, at least. But my mouth got the best of me--just like hers got the best of her--and I screamed nearly at the top of my lungs--but not all the way, because I'm certain I could be louder if warranted.

"GET OUT!!"

Ugh. [shaking head]

As soon as it was over, I felt like a complete shit. And rightly so. I should have just told my husband to take over. I should have left the room. I should have done so many other things that I did not do. But I did not. The BMM got the best of me.

After I cooled down and my daughter recovered from her punctured eardrum, she came to me and apologized. She apologized first. My second mistake. She has a better heart than I. Apologizing was the last thing on my mind. But she gave me a chance to apologize and to explain what I was trying to tell her in the first place. We hugged, forgave, and lit the candle in the pumpkin. She told me; "I don't like it when you yell, Mommy." Stab me again, please, I'm beginning to feel like ol'Jack.

(A literary side note: The irony of her multi-faced pumpkin is not lost on me. Can it get any better?)

I know in my head that all moms have bad moments, bad days, maybe even weeks. But I don't want to compare myself to other moms. I compare myself to my own standards, which are sometimes ridiculously high. And when I fall off my own pedestal, it's harder to brush off the dirt.

Thank goodness for the forgiveness and unconditional love of my children. Sometimes they exhibit God's love better than any verse, church, pastor, person, book, or painting out there. And the fact that they extend it to me, is nothing short of miraculous.

Laughable

2010-10-21T11:47:00.000-07:00

I had no idea what I was going to post today, so when I had two unexplainable things happen in less than an hour, it made for good fodder. Today's post is all about how ridiculously paradoxical life can be; despite what you do or what you expect, things don't always turn out how you think they will.

I interviewed for the Big Bullseye chain this week with little concern as to whether or not they would hire me and more of an attitude of: "How will I turn them down when they offer a job?" My over-confidence stemmed from the fact that I want another job more than this one and because going into this interview I thought it'd be an easy "in". I even joked with a friend that the GM would say; "You're an adult and you have a college degree? You're hired!" Ha! Joke's on me. Apparently I wasn't what they were looking for after all. I got a nice little email that said; "...we are unable to offer you a position at this time..." Um. What?

So, after I picked myself up from that little ego booster, I showered and dressed for an interview at another chain, this time with Panera Bread. I never even finished applying to Panera because I was uncertain that I wanted to work with food. Especially very tasty fattening food. But they must have accessed my profile because yesterday they called me and asked if I was interested in interviewing. I figured, why not? It'd be a good back-up back-up. Just in case the first back-up didn't work out. See above.

I introduced myself to the girl behind the counter and she went to find a manager. Though, not after giving me a complimentary drink. I think I could get used to that! I waited at a table and the manager approached me and said; "Who were you supposed to see today?" I told him and he nodded knowingly. "Oh, I see. That's the manager of a different Panera." Blink. Um, again...What?

He kindly gave me the number for the other manager, with whom I called and rescheduled immediately, and I walked to my van with my diet pepsi and a confused spirit. He did say to come back and see him if the other Panera didn't work out. That's a plus.

Now I'm back at option one, which was my first choice before all of this anyway, and have a second interview with them tonight. Let's just hope nothing else curious happens. I know they must like me a little bit because they asked me to come back. I know where the store is located, so, assuming they don't mind my college degree, I'm hoping it all goes well. If not, I guess I'll have a lot more time to work on my blog.

Enjoying Whatever the Day Brings

2010-10-20T10:30:00.000-07:00

I took a drive through Bucks County today that left me breathless. The old stone homes and bank barns are impressive enough, but the leaves were fantastic. Unfortunately, it's a very cloudy day and my little camera just can't get a terrific shot without some decent light. I did, however, stop on the highway to get a picture of Lake Nockamixon. It was around 8:30 and I wanted to capture the mist rising off the water. I would have stayed on the bridge to find some other angles, but the traffic whizzing by at sixty miles an hour dissuaded me.

As I drove through the crimson and fire woods, I noticed this stone bridge off one of the side of 611 and made a mental note to stop there on the way home. I'm so glad I remembered because it turned out to be a gorgeous double tunnel bridge. I have a fixation on bridges for a reason that I can't explain. It's rather odd considering I hate driving over the larger ones like the Tappan Zee or Chesapeake Bay Bridge. But I can hack crossing a little one-way stone bridge out in the country.

I parked my van on the side of the road, pushed myself through the brambles and got this photo. I could have sat down by the creek for hours; it was such a peaceful spot. The creek bed was full of red shale which always hits a nostalgic bone as I grew up next to a similar creek that also had a stone tunnel bridge. When I went up on the road, I noticed a plaque that read this bridge was originally built in 1804 and rebuilt in 2001. Unlike "my" bridge, they did a wonderful job retaining the history. The one I was fond of in my childhood was turned into a giant round cement pipe.

As I walked back to my van, a red Jeep Cherokee slowed as it approached me. I smelled the interior of the truck before it even came to a complete stop. Inside was a weathered man with a beard to his lap and a clear devotion to cigarettes. He wore a baseball cap and had a kind face. Sadly, when he spoke he had almost no voice.
"Is that your car?"
"Yep." I said. "Taking pictures of the bridge."
"Oh, okay. Lots of people dump here."
"Oh no!" [holding up my camera] "I would never do that."

He nodded, as if talking might just hurt too much, and continued on his way. I guess he was satisfied that his patrolling turned up nothing criminal. But when he swung back around--(he clearly drove out just to check on my van)--he stopped again and whispered out his window, "That's the oldest bridge in Buck's County." I, genuinely impressed, told him it was a beautiful bridge. (I resisted the urge to ask if he built it.) He tipped his cap to me and continued on his way.

I have decided that I really like that I'm able to take a day and go driving. That I can can combine a trip to the thrift shop with photo opportunities and little bits of local history. I will have to remember this day so that in the future, when I'm working, schooling and caring for the family all at the same time, I don't forget to take a day off and just enjoy it.

Young Relationships

2010-10-19T12:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve been married for over fourteen years. When I tell people that, I almost always get a sideways glance. I know they are wondering if they heard me right. There are not many thirty-four year olds who have been married for fourteen years. I don’t usually go into details in casual conversation because I’m afraid if I told them I’ve actually been with my husband for eighteen, they’d spontaneously combust.

Yes, I married young. Can we get over it now?

I think the biggest question people turn over in their minds is; “How, at fifteen, did you know he was the right one?” If they actually had the guts to ask me this question, I’d have no problem telling them: I didn’t. I was only fifteen and he seventeen. We began dating at the urging of mutual friends and it just worked. At first, I don’t think I saw it as anything other that. Although if you ask him, he’ll tell you he knew he was going to marry me right from the start. Either way, we were young and just having fun.

As the months went by, however, we grew very close. I don’t know what other high school relationships are like, but I believe ours was exceptional in that we were both very different from a lot of our friends and therefore, very much alike. We were both overcoming some childhood wounds and clung to each other as we dealt with growing up. We were best friends. In some ways, that made dating more complicated. Because you don’t dump your best friend. I did try a couple times to break off the relationship; once in high school and once in college. But I was left feeling like a part of me was missing because he was the only person who knew (nearly) everything about me. The breakups never lasted. I knew in my head that we were too young to be so serious, and yet, we were. Marriage felt very natural and appropriate and so in we jumped. I am sure we had more than one skeptic at our ceremony, but we didn’t care.

Fast forward fourteen years: I have no idea how we have lasted. And I mean that in a happy-flabbergasted way. Six moves, three children, two jobs, and a zillion hobbies later, we are still each other’s best friend. We’ve had our ups and downs, like all marriages; it’s never been a perfect relationship, but I think now we know that it doesn’t have to be perfect to work. It doesn’t always have to make sense and it won’t stay the same. And that’s okay.

One thing that I see, looking back, is that we’ve grown up together; always challenging and re-thinking our relationship as it changes with each new event. It’s very common for young marrieds to grow apart and while I’m not the exact same person I was at fifteen, we seem to adapt to the changes together and squeeze through. Again, not with perfection, but perhaps persistence.

If someone were to ask me how we make it continue to work, I don’t really think I’d have a concise answer. We work hard, we take life seriously, but we laugh a lot. Our marriage comes before our kids, which isn’t all that common, I’m learning, and I believe that’s been a huge factor. We look forward to spending time together, alone, whether that’s after the kids go to bed or a date night or trip away. Overall, at the end of my life, I don’t want my goal to have been just to stay married forever. Lots of people do that and are miserable. I want to be able to still be smiling next to my best friend. And I believe his goal is the same.

Interviewing

2010-10-18T11:49:00.000-07:00

I haven't gone on a real job interview in over six years. The last couple of places I have worked have been word of mouth and very casual conversations. Today I went to two retail interviews--one in which I actually interviewed with three different people--and had a really good time! One thing that caught me off guard were the questions that required a "Tell us about a time when..." response. Like I can remember what I even ate for breakfast, let alone something that happened in a past job! But I did my best, and am pretty confident that they both went well.

I have a second interview already lined up for later this week with my first choice in which I will have to "sell" items to the manager. Should be interesting. I'm not really a sales person by design, but I can definitely help put an outfit together and encourage someone to go for it. The difficult thing will be to push the store credit card. It goes against my moral fiber to encourage someone to use credit. However, I do understand that this is a necessity in a retail position, so I'm just going to have to bite my tongue and smile. It'll be worth it for the impressive employee discount that I intend on using to clothe my entire family. :-)

Autumn on the Delaware

2010-10-17T12:06:00.000-07:00

Spent the day with the family at Washington Crossing State Park--NJ side. It was one of those gorgeous fall days; 70 degrees, all blue skies, and a light breeze. We had a wonderful family day (minus the fighting in the car on the way home due to plummeting blood sugar levels) and even made it home for the Giants game. :-)

Exploring

2010-10-16T15:04:00.000-07:00

Today, I went on a historical home tour with a good friend of mine who I knew would appreciate the older homes and photographic opportunities they would present. She's a talented photographer and I enjoy capturing--or trying to capture--interesting shots, so I figured we'd have a fun time driving around and taking it all in. It was a self-guided tour that began at a vineyard and led us all around the area of Pohatcong, NJ. When we first arrived and browsed through the extensive booklet, the first thing I noticed was a boldface sentence: "No Cameras..."
Hm. Well, we will have to just pretend we didn't see that one.

I have always had a love for older homes--the stonework, the craftsmanship of the the interior right down to the window sills, and the cozy look of the 1800's decor all captivate me immediately. Hearing the owners talk about the history of their homes was not only impressive--one home was surveyed by George Washington--but also endearing. We enjoyed how much pride they took in not only recreating an authentic tour, but living in homes so rich in history. Each home had a unique story, dating back to the early days of our country. Although I know I won't remember a tremendous amount of what we heard, we were able to be a part of the oral tradition of storytelling in a very real, tangible way.

In the end, I took few photos. And my favorite one, which I have posted, wasn't even of a house! But it marks my favorite moment of the day when, as we walked out of one home, we heard the steam train approaching. Like children, both our faces lit up and we jumped up to the tracks and waited for it to roll by, snapping a few great shots as it chugged along.

Foreclosed

2010-10-15T13:22:00.000-07:00

I debated sharing this post on the internet, unsure if the entire world needed to know every aspect of my life, and then decided “why not?” This is a blog about life and honesty and today this is what I dealt with. Foreclosure.

Right now, reports vary on the number of foreclosures in the United States, but last year’s numbers fell at around 3 million. Some experts predicted 4 million for 2010, but regardless, it’s a record breaking amount. At some point, I’d heard one out of every four listings was going into foreclosure. That was before I became one of the four. It was shocking then; it’s reality now.

I don’t feel the need to give a rundown of all of the events that led us to this point—it’s a rather lengthy story that spans about two years—but I do feel the need to express how frustrating it’s been dealing with our bank. I’ve felt over and over again that they are somewhat incompetent, especially when I’d diligently send in every record, paystub, and statement needed and they’d continue to “lose” certain pages. Or how one day we’d qualify for a program, the next we wouldn’t. Then we’d apply for a different option, only to be turned down for not doing it soon enough, or too soon, or not on a full moon on the second Tuesday of every other month. If you’ve gone through this run-around, you know all too well what I’m describing. If you haven’t dealt with this, thank your lucky stars.

Today, I had to go back to our old home and shut off the water. Leaves littered the high grass, flowers, dried and brittle, were strangled throughout the weeds, a swing we left behind swayed in the breeze. The house was cold and smelled musty after being closed up for three months. The fireplace, once my favorite spot, was just a dark, useless hole. It was a sad, desolate sight. It was our home for five years and now it’s just an empty shell. It wouldn’t be nearly as heartbreaking to drive by and see a family working in the gardens or kids playing in the yard; just to know someone was there to enjoy it as much as we did. I don’t regret moving, but I mourn the lost potential of a wonderful piece of property.

But as I drove back to my new home, I thanked my lucky stars. Out of three million foreclosures, I wonder how many families had a place to go afterward. How many were able to rent after that credit-debilitating experience? How many became homeless? How many deaths or suicides resulted? I am in a far better situation and thoroughly count my blessings.

We still have a while to go in the whole foreclosure process. We’re actually trying to apply for a deed-in-lieu of foreclosure which just means we voluntarily give our home to the bank. I say trying because they already misfiled this new application and attempted to modify the loan. Funny. We applied for that two years ago and were denied. Thrice. Too late, bank, but thanks anyway.

I know eventually it will all be over and we will be able to rebuild our lives. I’m grateful for family and friends who have helped us through the muck of it and for the mysterious ways God has worked our situation for good. In some ways, losing our home was one of the best things that could have happened to us. It forced us to become more budget-conscious, convinced us to stop using credit cards, and brought us back to the town of our childhood. I can think of far more heartbreaking situations and I can only say I’m glad I’m not one of them.

Walking to School

2010-10-14T08:00:00.001-07:00

We live in a walking district. There are no school buses except for one small bus used for the sports teams. The kids either have to get a ride or walk to and from school. I have been truly enjoying this experience. It's barely a 15 minute walk; great little dose of daily exercise. The kids don't seem to mind walking down to school, but on the way home I tend to get some complaints as it's uphill. Overall, I love the arrangement and will continue walk as much as possible. Although, we will see what happens when the snow begins to fall!

Fostering

2010-10-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

Every day, I help a neighbor who works by taking her daughter to school and bringing her home to my house for about an hour afterward. She’s a sweet girl who happens to be in my daughter’s class so the arrangement was very easy to commit to. I’ll refer to her as “Sara” to protect her anonymity as she is a minor and not my own child. Sara is also a foster child; not my neighbor’s biological daughter.

I can’t imagine what it must be like for a foster child to have arranged visits with her parents—if they even have visits—and to only see siblings once a year—if at all. This is Sara’s life. She is bussed around from house to house, family to family, and then is watched after school by a complete stranger. AKA: Me. You’ve got to give the girl credit for each day she has a smile on her face.

My daughter and Sara get along pretty well. They have their moments as Sara is becoming one of the family; here every day like a sibling; and so they sometimes quarrel like siblings. In fact, Sara knows how to hold her own and she will even argue with my sons when they are annoying her. I can’t say I blame her. Boys can be quite obnoxious. My daughter says that Sara sometimes loses her temper at strange things when they are at school, that she gets angry very easily, and grows quiet at awkward times. I tell her that Sara has a very different life than she. My daughter knows what to expect when she comes home from school. She knows who will be there and what they will be doing and saying. She knows everyone will be fully functional and cognitive. Dinner will be made for her. Someone will help her with her homework and tuck her in at night. Although Sara’s foster mom does all these things for her, she hasn’t always had that and certainly not with her biological mother. You can imagine why she’d sometimes be quick to anger.

Each day after school, the kids unload their books and papers on the kitchen table. They put their ice packs in the freezer—if they remember—and then they grab a snack before all of the friends start popping in to see who can play. One afternoon, my daughter, Sara and another friend were sitting around my kitchen table eating some popcorn. I was folding laundry and washing dishes and doing all the lame chores I hold off on as long as possible. I claim to be domestically challenged—though it’s not that I’m incapable, it’s that I’m unwilling. I view household chores as “have to’s”; things that must be done so that we can go about doing the things we really want to do. Very infrequently do I value housework—though I do value my house when it is clean. So, I keep up with it as much as possible, but almost never let it rule my day or stress me out. If someone invites me to breakfast and I have dirty dishes in the sink and a load of wash going, I still go to breakfast. The chores will be just fine till I get home. If I’m exhausted, I’ll let the dishes sit till morning and still sleep without interruption.

But this day, as I went about my parental duties, I listened to the girls around the table, truly enjoying their banter. Watching your children socialize with friends is an interesting experience. Sometimes you want to butt in and correct them if they say something not so pleasant, sometimes you want to join in on the conversation, but mostly, it’s a joy to see them maturing.

My daughter initiated:
“What do you guys want to do after we eat?”
“Ride bikes?”
“Go for a walk?”
“Watch TV?”
And then Sara chimed in: “I want to stay here and watch your mom work.”

[Cricket, cricket, cricket]

The other two didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know how to respond, other than to mentally clutch my heart. Here, two girls from together families are ready to run out the door and play and be free, while Sara was soaking up the tiny bit of normalcy that I provided by…washing dishes and folding clothes. Two chores that I do on a daily basis and often hate. Chores that my kids take for granted, knowing there will always be clean clothes to wear and food on the table. Chores that were precious in little Sara’s mind because they meant family.

I can’t say that the moment changed my view point on housework. I still value it very little. But I do value the fact that I know my staying home this long has helped to provide stability for my kids. It’s helped them to know their parents will always be here and they will always have a home to come home to. I’m not saying that working moms can’t also provide the same atmosphere for their children, but in my case, Sara’s words that day reminded me that what I am doing is valuable. Whether I continue to stay home or eventually go to work, I will always remember that even the little things help build a home and family. And I will try very hard not to take them for granted.

Stress

2010-10-12T14:28:00.000-07:00

I’ve heard that mothers with young children rank among the groups with the highest amount of stress. How’s that for a comforting thought? Add to that demographic a disabled child or the addition of caring for an aging parent and the levels rise even further. Many of the things in life that cause stress are unavoidable and none of us can escape stress completely, but some are better than others at preventing it and diffusing it.

The physiological process that happens to our bodies when we are stressed out is equal to that of a fight or flight reaction. For those who never had Psych 101, basically it’s a reaction meant for a situation that requires your survival. When put that way, because we aren’t often in actual life or death situations, the stress reaction seems like a bit of a waste. And it is. Not only is it disadvantageous to be stressed out all the time, it also damages our physical health in many ways.

Here’s where I enter that lofty little phrase: Studies have shown. General, I know, but I don’t want to bore you with where/how I found my data, I just want to share what I learned! So, for lack of a better intro: Studies have shown that people with higher rank within the same occupational atmosphere have less stress reactions and physical repercussions. I found this interesting because I would have assumed that the higher the responsibility, the higher the stress. But what the study shows is that the lower the rank, or even the lower the rank perceived, the higher the stress. (That, my friends, is what they call a “negative correlation”—my psychology professors would be so proud.)

Back to the interesting part: If someone's perception was that they had absolutely no control over their lives then they were unhappy, more stressed, more likely to have weight gain (especially around the middle) and were less healthy in other aspects, as well. Heart health was a big factor as was gastro-intestinal issues. Hm. So, have I included you in any part of that description? I know I’ve included myself.

The “solution”? Try to find your happy place. I know: you’re laughing. I used to make fun of that sentiment as well, until it was presented to me like this: Your happy place just means an aspect of your life that you truly enjoy. A place that you feel worthwhile; where you can contribute and feel like your contribution is valued. It could be your job (although for some, that’s the major cause of the stress), gardening, a softball team, a social group, your church, painting, etc. In this place, you have an element of control and if you can say; “You know what? My [enter stressful situation here] isn’t the end-all in the quality of my life because I still have [enter pleasurable activity here]”. Perception is key.

In the study, the people who had a “happy place” were healthier, happier, and less stressed. We can’t erase all of the stressful triggers and we can’t control every aspect of our lives. But we can all find something that helps to alleviate some of the effects. I know exactly what works for me: an activity that takes me outside the home and outside the role of mom for a little while. I’ve discussed in previous posts how activities, such as Community Theater, have helped me. The times when I’ve had an extra-curricular activity, as I like to call them, are the times I’ve been the happiest and the most able to deal with my every day stressors.

When I was in full-blast novelist mode, for example; writing away many hours of the day, I was able to let go of some of the things that really dug into me. Walking and gardening help to dispel some of the extra energy that builds up. Going out to lunch or a movie with friends reminds me I’m human and that we are all in this walk together. Setting out time to read a good book helps to calm me. Prayer settles my restless soul.

Find your happy place. Don’t scoff at it. Don’t think you can roll it all off your shoulders with some pat excuse. Stress is real and dangerous and damaging. I’m living proof of that. But I’m trying to change.

Irish Twins

2010-10-11T13:07:00.000-07:00

My two oldest children are not technically “Irish Twins” because they are a year and a half apart rather than the required under a year difference. However, when they were babies, I received countless comments about my “twins”. They are so similar in size, and skin, hair and eye color that if they were riding in the grocery cart (where they spent a considerable amount of time) people couldn’t tell which was older!

Having children so close in age has its ups and downs. And now that I have a third who is four years younger than the second, I can compare the differences between siblings of varying ages. I’m certain I prefer to have a few years difference between them for the following two reasons: preschoolers and teenagers.

While going through milestones at the same time can be convenient, it is also double the amount of work. Two sets of diapers, two half-potty trained kids, two wrestlers at bedtime, two bodies to chase at the store, two noses to wipe and twenty fingers and toes to wash up every day. Though, I remember blissful moments such as two first lost teeth, two ABC’s learned, and two nappers. :-)

The years between four and ten were fairly uneventful. Lots of new experiences for both of them, but pretty much just chugging along with school and growing up. They kept each other’s company; fought, of course; but often played together and enjoyed the same activities. Until now. And this is where the second crazy stage begins: Adolescence.

Technically, they are “tweeners”; caught between elementary and official teenagerdom, but they have all of the beginning signs of this next stage: Two sets of rolling eyes, two sets of slumped shoulders, two cranky attitudes, and two increasingly changing bodies. I now have to fight two children, (who are getting better at arguing back) about limited TV time, homework, visits with friends, bedtimes, and other evolving rules and regulations. There are some absolutes, but as a parent of tweeners, you have to also learn where to let go and where to keep your grasp. It is a very difficult walk—one that I know will become more difficult as they cross into adolescence. But sooner than I know it, I’ll be counting two graduations, possibly two weddings, and perhaps someday, two sets of grandchildren.

And a third set of all of the above not so far behind.

Two Buttons

2010-10-10T16:28:00.000-07:00

Today my sister and I got to visit Two Buttons--the store owned by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love. (Yes, we were stalking her.) A combination of affordable souveniers and museum quality pieces of art, the store was not a place you just pop in and quickly browse. We spent almost an hour examining everything from simple bangle bracelets to furniture made out of reclaimed fishing boats.

Upon arriving, we were offered red wine and popcorn (we passed on the popcorn)and the freedom to shop unhindered by pushy salespeople. We each bought a small item, her a necklace, me a shoulder bag, but didn't leave before a nice snap of the some of the goods. I felt like a total tourist, which is ironic since we grew up in this town, but we had a great time.

We didn't run into Ms. Gilbert, but even if we had, I wonder if we'd had done more than giggle and hide. Either way, it was a nice hour spent with my sister.

The Annual Bed Race

2010-10-09T15:26:00.001-07:00

I am a newby to this long-held tradition, but never would have expected to see so many people on Bridge Street to see beds. Racing. However, it was a treat to watch the local businesses and community members come together and race their homemade sleeping vehicles down the main line of town. We had a good laugh and a great time. Fun to be part of such a sweet community.

Normal

2010-10-08T10:43:00.000-07:00

I don't have time to sit and reflect much on any particular aspect of today, unfortunately. I enjoy that process quite a bit, so I'm a bit disappointed that I'm barely leaving a post. However, I have to be normal today in preparation for a wonderful family visit. Tonight my sister and her husband are coming in from NY and tomorrow my mom and her husband are coming in from Florida. And if that wasn't enough familial interaction for me, on Sunday my dad is having a good sized family reunion at his house.

I ran around this morning picking up groceries and extra pillows for all the extra bodies that will be in and out of the house through the weekend. I stopped at Sam's, Wal-Mart, Kohl's, Kmart, and Hobby Lobby. (Okay, so there were a couple extra stops in there.) It's amazing how many people shop. I realize I, too, am shopping, but when I stand in line with my purchase and survey the carts around me, I can't believe how much stuff we all buy! And how fast we all walk through the stores. How quickly we pack up our mini-vans and rush out of the parking lot to the next store! I don't particularly enjoy shopping because it never feels leisurely. While this is normal and fun for some people, it feels crazy to me.

So, I still plan on a daily post, however mediocre they may be, even if it's just a photo of what we do each day. However, the weekend will bring lots of laughter I'm sure, with the blend of siblings, parents and extended family (especially the Italian ones)! I imagine I'll have more than one tale to reflect on come Monday morning. Here's to a wonderful Autumn weekend for all of you.

Maneuvering Medical Maladies

2010-10-07T11:57:00.000-07:00

Ah, the never-ending maze of the medical world. Always something to deal with; a phone call, paperwork, appointments, co-pays, referrals, and on and on and on. And the worse your insurance, the more complicated the maze becomes. Today I had an appointment with a professional I can't even pronounce. The eye doctor. At my last exam, administered by a qualified technician at a big chain store who shall remain nameless, it was discovered that I had some sort of fogging or spots on my eye. Cataracts were a concern, despite the fact I'm only 34, because of my medical history. My doctor felt it would be best to go to a "real eye doctor" and he was correct. I've just always avoided "real eye doctors" because I've never had vision insurance, but with a possible medical issue, I made the exception.

The ophthalmologist, an older man who's been doctoring in this small town for a very long time, pretty much made fun of my prior vision care. What can I say? When you have limited funds, you make concessions for things that don't seem that important. When my two older children were toddlers, we didn't have well-baby coverage and the pediatrician wanted to charge me $60 a visit for each kid, each month. I let that preventative care fall by the way-side after the kids reached a certain point. Our insurance has since improved, but my vision is still uncovered.

I tend to look at it like this: It's just my eyes! Nothing serious. Up until now I've had no reason to be concerned. "Ah-ha!" says the small town ophthalmologist "But they never found this problem, did they? A more trained eye (no pun intended, except that is was) would have seen this a long time ago." True. I can't argue that. But what am I supposed to do? If I am healthy I don't go to a doctor. My sight hasn't been compromised any further than my nearsightedness and what happens naturally as you cruise through your years. And besides, Mr. Optha-whatever, this technician did see this problem, hence my visit to you. (I didn't say that to him, though)

After a standard exam, it was determined that I most likely have a congenital defect. Sort of a cataract that you are born with. And since it doesn't seem to be affecting my vision, it's not really a problem. "And", he added, "if you feel like being a 'real person' come back and see me again."

Hm. So people who have to go to...ahem...Wal-mart aren't real people?

I know he was teasing me, but it got me to thinking about the people out there who don't have regular medical coverage, let alone vision. People who can't afford to take their sick children to the doctor or pay for the always-elevating costs of prescriptions. For people who can't get coverage because of a pre-existing condition or who are dropped because they develop something unexpected. Are these people not real?

I know that I'm taking a man's silly comment further than what he intended. Likely, he feels that it's ridiculous that I've neglected my eyes for a reason out of my control. Not necessarily because I wanted to, but because I felt that I had no other choice. In my case, I just didn't see the need to worry about it, but in someone else's case, it could mean a threat to their sight. And no one, real or otherwise, should have to neglect their sight, or any medical issue, for any reason. Unless they choose to despite their circumstances. And in that case, I might say they should try feeling like a real person and go to the real doctor.

Girl Versus World

2010-10-06T06:32:00.000-07:00

A Facebook friend of mine (and yes, you’d be correct to assume we’ve never met in person) had a blog post about church stuff (Orthodox Christianity) which peaked my interest. Upon further investigation—because that’s what I do—I started listening to podcasts about the topic. For some of you, the mention of religion, particularly Christianity, makes your hair stand on end. Feel free to stop reading; I will not be offended. But the history of this religion is fascinating. In fact, the history of all religions is pretty amazing. I remember studying World Cultures in high school and going over a few of the world’s dominant religions. The diversity of beliefs is astounding. First time I ever got an “A” in a history class. If someone were to pull up my internet history as of late, they’d find everything from lessons on the New Testament to Polygamy. The range of Christian beliefs alone is staggering.

However, while I truly enjoy religious discussions and learning, I am like a yo-yo when it comes to maintaining a relationship because I'm repelled by stigma of Christianity. I can't handle the hate and condemnation that comes out of the mouths of so many, so I tend to alternate between stagnation and participation. I do consider myself a Christian and I’ve attended various types/denominations of churches over the years, but the older I get, the less it satisfies me. Hence the occasional personal search of listening to podcasts, gleaning over websites, and reading. I have always enjoyed learning, so this makes religion palatable for me. Whether or not I believe everything I read or that I’d regularly attend a particular church because of what I read is irrelevant at this point. I consider it all under the blanket of a life-long research project.

Reading different perspectives sometimes helps me examine my own beliefs and often solidify them. Sometimes it forces me to ask myself; “Why do/don’t I believe that?” The truth is I don’t always know. A good religious girl, I do not make. I ask “why” too much. My skepticism often keeps me on the outskirts of staking any claims. I guess I could consider myself a fringe Christian; one who floats around the border, gleaning what she can, but never quite stepping inside.

But religion isn’t the only thing I approach in that manner. Staying on the fringe is very much how I operate my entire life. Be it trust issues or commitment issues—or both—I tend to watch and wait, only diving into something when I’m 100% ready. I consider this life a constant classroom, be it religion, relationships, schooling, jobs, hobbies; anything I put myself into. I will never settle for being “done” with something; there is always more to learn, more to experience. I cannot put myself into a little box and define my roles, beliefs, and values and then say; “I’m all finished! I’m now complete!” Life doesn’t work that way. Those who think they are complete at age twenty, thirty, forty will end up angry, depressed, or just plain apathetic in their lives. I’ve had days like that. Maybe even weeks. But I climb out of that box and remind myself there is a whole world out there; only a corner of which I will probably have time to discover, but it’s still there.

The cliché’ says: “The world waits for no one.” But it does. It’s always there and while it’s constantly changing it will always have new things to learn and explore. I, for one, do not intend on missing out.

Kidversations

2010-10-05T14:21:00.000-07:00

I'm a little late in the game today with constructing a decent post. It was a rainy day and I used up all my kid-free time listening to podcasts that I'm going to talk about on tomorrow's post. So, in effort to keep the daily posting without all the work, today I'm sharing a couple of the funniest conversations I've had with my kids. Yes, I write down what they say. As a writer, all words are precious, but as a mother, my kids' words are the most treasured. I hope you enjoy!

My oldest is the most literal of the three kids. This was apparent early on when he was about a year and a half old. He'd just gotten over a bad bout of croup and was playing on the floor near my husband. I mentioned he was a little hoarse still. Zach began “naying”.

Kids are the most funny when they don't even realize they are being funny. My daughter is a perfect example of this. She is constantly adding her two cents to conversations that I am having with one of her brothers that is off-hand and hilarious.

While discussing the movie 2012 with my son:
Zach: "I really want to see that movie."
Mom: "I know. I'm just debating because there is a lot of swearing in it."
Ainsley: "Well, of course there's a lot of swearing, it's the end of the world."

One day we saw a group doing a road side clean up:
Ainsley: "I want to do that!"
Mom: "When you get a little bigger you can do stuff like that."
Ainsley: "Good. I rather pick up the world than my room."

My youngest melts my heart with his charm, is quite literal like his older brother, but he also makes me laugh to tears. And he never lets me get away with anything.

Driving to preschool one day:
Braeden: That was a stop sign.
Mom: I know.
Braeden: Then why didn't you stop?

And getting ready for school:
Mom: (calling upstairs) Are you dressed yet?
Braeden: Yes! I just have to put on my pants and shirt.

I could write a screenplay with the conversations I've had with these three.

Just not sure what the plot would be. :-)

Customer Service

2010-10-04T10:47:00.000-07:00

“Hi. Thank you for calling [Enter name of any business here]. We appreciate your business and will only keep you waiting for a minimum of fifteen minutes while we ask you a number of inane questions including your address, social security number, account number, phone number, birthday, and shoe size and when you finally get to the real person at the end of this long automated message we are going to ask all of them again. Press 1 for…”

Hate this runaround, too?

Next to bill collectors and telemarketers, the automated phone service is my least favorite thing to deal with. Unfortunately I don’t have much of a choice because it seems everything is automated. In fact, even calls coming in are often automated. A robot calling me? I don’t think so. I won’t even give them a chance to spit out more than four words. As soon as I realize it’s a robot, I hang up. I am not a rude person, but I’ve been known to tell off more than a few Customer Service Reps—real or otherwise.

Seinfeld feels the same: http://tinyurl.com/3xqpq8p

The most frustrating thing about these systems is that after you plug in all the numbers to get to the right “department”—(which I don’t even believe is real. I think they are all sitting around at desks in the same exact room and it’s just a process of waiting, but makes you think you’re actually getting somewhere)—and IF you make it there, you often can’t hear a word they say! I frequently have to hang up and try again because the connection is so bad. Is there any wonder that the tasks that require phone calls build up on my desk?

Sometimes when my kids are in a particularly Mommy-ish mood—you know, the days when they repeat “mom” about a hundred and fifty times each?—I will respond with; “I’m sorry, Mommy’s not available right now, please leave a message after the beep.” When they were little, they’d tilt their heads and look at me funny. Now they just roll their eyes and keep asking questions. Pretty soon, one of them is going to chime in and say; “The customer is always right.”

Confessions of a Real NJ Housewife

2010-10-03T10:17:00.000-07:00

1. I judge books by their covers.

2. I shave my unnaturally large and hairy feet.

3. My mini-van and I have a love/hate relationship.

4. I love watching my children grow-up. While some moms seem to grieve this process, I genuinely and thoroughly enjoy it.

5. I’ve probably spent half of the last twelve years in my PJ’s.

6. I taught my children how to read, write, and solve basic math problems before they entered kindergarten and I will take all of the credit for it thank-you-very-much. And now I’m more than thrilled that it’s no longer my job and instead that of the public school system.

7. I hate cooking for my kids unless it’s a meal I know they will love. Like chicken nuggets.

8. I have sent my children to school so dirty under their clothes that a stranger might have cause to report me.

9. I am uber-proud of myself when I do something “right” as a mom.

10. I hate myself when I do something “wrong”.

11. While I’m happy that I seem to age slower than some, I know the inevitable gray hair is around the corner and I’m not looking forward to it.

12. Possibility keeps me going. When I feel like there is no possibility, I will be dead.

13. Being a mother is not enough. It is rewarding, challenging, physically and emotionally demanding, yet it’s not enough. I have always needed something “on the side” for just me; be it a production with the community theater, a part-time job, or writing a novel; I need extra-curricular activities.

14. There is a big difference between “content” and “complacent”. I am neither.

15. I never cry, but wish I did.

16. I hate shopping. I know what I want, I go in and buy it, and get out. Unless I’m with my sister and in that case, I could empty the bank account.

17. I get angry over really stupid things. Like open cabinet doors and kids forgetting to turn off the lights; age old arguments that I swore would never bother me.

18. I am sometimes jealous of my children.

19. I tend to think I’m always right because I usually am.

20. With the birth of each of my children, I became more vulnerable because of the sheer amount of love and intense fear of losing them. No matter what excuse I might tell you, for those two reasons alone, I will not have any more.

365 Days of Motherhood

2010-10-02T15:35:00.001-07:00

Don't let this post's title deceive you. Once you're a mom you're in for life. It's not just a year long commitment. "Um...my baby is walking now...how about you take him?"

How you choose to serve your time is up to you. I hope you choose optimism and grace and a good sense of humor, but regardless motherhood has settled on you. Possibly rearranging your life and your goals and definitely your living room. Maybe, if you stumble upon my blog, you and I can go on this journey together. I may be a step ahead or a step behind you on the baby train, but perhaps my words will comfort you, make you laugh, or at least help you see that you are not alone.

Therefore, today I’m announcing my new challenge. I tend to give myself a lot of them, but this one came from the suggestion of a good friend. In order to hone my writing skills, seek new adventures, and to help my blog fill out a little bit, she suggested working on a daily entry. Not that I hadn’t thought of that, exactly, but having someone else encourage it somehow makes it more worthy of giving it a try. So, thank you, Heather. If I fail, I can blame you. ;-)

The Challenge: I’ve set a goal for a daily post about mothering or just a new adventure I might be going on for that day. Although the title of this challenge is “365 Days of Motherhood”, it encompasses a lot more than cleaning house, cooking dinner, driving kids to soccer, wiping noses, and well, you know the list. Many of us set aside our former selves when we become mommies. The time and commitment that it takes to physically care for, nurture, and love our children is quite overwhelming. It’s no wonder that we often set aside a piece of ourselves for while. For a mom who doesn’t work outside the home, it’s even easier to set aside everything they thought about doing prior to baby. It's natural and often easy to set one's eyes upon that new, wrinkly baby and never look back. However, there comes a day when there are no more babies and you must have something else to gaze at. What will you gaze at? What dreams did you have before children that you may have put on the back burner? What have you always thought would be fun to try, but didn't have the time?

I’m not in the preschool stage anymore (See how I did that? My children are not in the preschool stage any more) where doing things for oneself is even harder. But I find stepping out of the role of mom to just be Jessica, is still difficult. Therefore, this blog challenge will be about motherhood, yes, but it will also be about womanhood…or maybe just Jessicahood.

I hope to encourage other moms and moms-to-be and gently illustrate the complexities of motherhood to those of you who have had moms, but not children of your own. It's a beautiful, chaotic, maze we must run through; these days of raising children and helping them find their way. But it doesn't mean you can't pursue your own way as well. Often they come together in a splendid constellation of triumphs and failures, but all valuable lessons and experiences that shine for the rest of our lives.

Come, journey with me...

Mommy Mode

2010-10-01T05:30:00.000-07:00

When my children were babies, my life functioned at a higher level of awareness than at any other time in my life thus far. Newborns bring a sense of unsettled concern on a daily basis--especially when they are sleeping. Is he really breathing? Should I make her roll over? I remember checking on them constantly when they slept longer than I expected; placing my hand on their belly to make sure it was really rising and falling and that it wasn't my eyes playing tricks on me. I heard every little sound they made through the night and anything out of the ordinary sent me into their rooms again. Do you know how many out-of-ordinary sounds infants make? It's a wonder I ever slept.

Now my children are all school age and I'm not in this Mommy Mode as much anymore. Several times a year, maybe, when one is sick or injured, but not on a daily basis. And thank goodness because it was exhausting, and still is, when you are thrown into that zone of concern and heightened awareness. It's like raising the DEFCON level from 4 to 2, on alert for any abnormal behavior your child may exhibit. All systems GO.

Last night we were waiting on a storm. I was hoping for it; I love thunderstorms. Before we went to bed I pulled out some candles and the lighter and left them on the table. I asked my husband to get a flashlight out for me. He commented that I loved this stuff. I said; "It's not like I'm preparing the bomb shelter." He laughed and said; "Yeah, but you love this." I agreed. I do love storms. But I don't love being thrown into Mommy Mode without some form of preparation. Thus the candles--just in case--because I know when the electricity goes out in the middle of the night, my boys freak. My daughter just snores right through it, but the boys inevitably come to the top of the stairs and call for me. Not because they're scared, mind you...

Sometime around 1:30am the power indeed went out. I have no idea why because I never heard one roll of thunder or a single gust of wind. It just rained. Boring. But nevertheless, the power is out and it's pitch black and I know what's next. Boys' room door opens...I head them off at the stairs with one of my candle lanterns. "It's alright guys, I'm bringing up a light."

I slept the rest of the night on the couch, waiting for any minor disaster that might happen. Our basement flooded a little bit, but that was all the excitement we got. At least I know Mommy Mode is still up and running effectively. And the electricity came back on around 8. Today I can lower the level back to DEFCON Four and rest easy for a little while longer.

Welcome to the Rural Suburban Small-town Neighborhood!

2010-09-30T05:38:00.000-07:00

It's taken much less time to settle into our new home that I thought. I've found there is a comfortable familiarity with this neighborhood despite the fact I didn't live here as a child like my husband did. The neighbors are exceptionally friendly, which I did not expect, eerily quiet, which I love, and genuinely community minded which I find fascinating. I'm quite used to being a loner and this embracing of us as a new family from the neighbors and school is overwhelming, but in a positive way. Where I thought I'd feel watched and scrutinized, I instead feel protected by the people around me. What an odd transformation in such a short amount of time! Don't get me wrong, I still enjoy hiding out in my office, plunking away at the keyboard in complete privacy. But knowing that I can walk right outside my door and also enjoy new friendships is priceless.

The neighborhood is primarily a 1950's development. There are no cookie cutter McMansions here--at least in my section. There are a few newer homes that tower over our quaint cape cods and bungalows, but they are on the outskirts of the original development so I don't have to look at them and wonder how in the world the owner's keep them clean. The trees on our property are over fifty years old, were planted by my husband's grandfather, and give us the feel of nature in our small backyard--something me and my kids will miss a great deal from our previous homes. However, there are birds and deer everywhere and they are not afraid of us. We actually get closer to them then we ever did on our 3-acre property. And there are fields surrounding much of the development so we even have visiting bluebirds.

Our house is about a half mile from town, a pleasant walk--at least going to town; coming home is a bit of a steep hike--to nearly anything you might need on a given day. There's a pet store, a general store, a few cafe's and restaurants, and even a family run pharmacy that sells penny candy and automatically fills my prescriptions for me. No more runs to annoying chains like CVS and Petsmart. When a town has what you need, you can shop locally, which should be our goal as often as we can.

The Delaware River, crossed over by a towering green bridge, evokes wonderful memories. It's not the exact bridge I used to cross as a child, but it's identical and only a few miles upriver from my own childhood stomping grounds and therefore feels just as nostalgic. When my sister and I would visit my dad, we'd buy an ice cream and cross the bridge nearly every weekend. I didn't think much of it then, but it's precious to me now. I'm thankful my father was (and still is) wise when it came to making memories with his children.

While the move has been an adjustment to all of us in various ways, overall it's been a pleasant, exciting time. The old connections we have to this area and the new connections we are making continue on an invisible circle that we never could have foreseen. It's a circle that carries on with my children; the fourth generation to live at this address. My husband, his mother, and his grandparents have lived by this bridge, this town, in this very house. The history is rich and pulls me in.

Not Just Scribbles

2010-03-23T05:27:00.001-07:00

(Published in Curious Parents Magazine June 2010 issue)

It’s not a secret that art is expression. It’s not an epiphany that even children use art to communicate. But when you witness it, and especially when it concerns your own children, you better listen carefully and heed the expressions of little ones.

Twice in the last couple of months, my children have humbled me through their art. While my oldest tends to scribble scads of stick figures in battle scenes and write stories of zombies and vampires—still full of meaning in its own busy way—my daughter and youngest son clearly use art to tell me their secrets. “I love you.”, “I love our family.”, or “Mommy, I miss you.” Their drawings bring me back to their level. Their projects remind me that little things are big things to them. It helps me draw out more patience for my day. Sometimes it makes me cry.

A couple weeks ago, my daughter came home with an assignment. The lesson was personification. The mission was to create an image of your family within the descriptive confines of an object. For example, if your family was a car, who would be the wheels? Ainsley designed her family as a bed. Mommy was the comforter that kept her warm. Daddy the pillow to rest her head. Zach was the fitted sheet because she wanted to squish him since he was mean to her. Braeden was the flat sheet because he likes to lay on her when they watch TV. And Ainsley was the bed frame to hold everyone together.

Her imagery punched me in the gut. Did she think that? Did she think it was her job to hold us together? Do we appear to be falling apart? Or was it just typical middle child syndrome—the mediator, the middle ground, the frame. I praised her for her beautiful project without one word of surprise or fear or sadness. I don’t ever want to squelch her expression. Keep on writing, baby.

Then today. I had a rough day today. It was the first crappy day after several gorgeous 70 degree days. I fell into immediate depression when the rain began. I can’t take any more oppressive weather. I need June like I need water. I spiraled down into a self-pity party of remorseful thoughts. (I can’t write. I have no stories to tell. I have horrible grammar. I will never amount to anything.) I spent most of the day in my room playing on the internet and watching movies. Purely wasting time waiting for the sun to set. I have spent way too many days like this.

Braeden came upstairs and asked if he could read Green Eggs and Ham to me. He’s read this book to me at least a dozen times—as well as several others—and frankly I’m sick of Dr. Suess. He was way too successful as an author. I don’t think I like him anymore. So, I brushed little Brady off and said “Not now.” He went back downstairs in tears. He’d been rejected by his own mother. Is there any worse feeling? But his sadness didn’t make me call him back. I ignored it. I didn’t have the strength. When parental roles are imbalanced, it makes the burn-out even greater.

So, Brady went into the kitchen and began pulling out all of the art supplies. Glue, paper, scissors, stickers, markers, popsicle sticks and so on. I returned to my movie. About twenty minutes later, I hear little feet coming back up my stairs. I knew he was on his way to show me his project and I didn’t want to reject him again, so I paused my movie and gave him my undivided attention. He drew a sweet picture of him and me and the dog. We each stood by a tree and there were two houses in the distance. I asked why there were two.

“One for me and one for you, “ he answered brightly, as if he’d just solved all my problems.
I frowned. “Well, that makes me kinda sad.”
“Why?” He asked.
“Because I want to live in the same house as you. I love my little buddy.”
He glanced at me, contemplated my claim as if wondering whether or not I was telling the truth. “Okay.” He countered. “This one is our house and that one is the neighbors.”
Much better. Be still my weeping heart.
But keep drawing, baby.

I will never be the perfect mother I want to be. Even on the days when I recognize that I’m being miserable and it takes a six year old's drawing to yank me out of the muck—I’ll still drown myself again. It is my nature and something I must be aware of and accept in order to change. I’m trying, oh, how I’m trying. In the meantime, I continue to express myself with words and try to encourage my children to express themselves in any way they can. May it never be stifled.

The Big Move

2010-01-27T09:47:00.000-08:00

When I was twelve years old, my parents got divorced and my mother moved my sister and I to Pennsylvania. I've been here ever since. And I've never gotten over it. I look at the big picture from an adult's perspective and I recognize that it was so traumatic because a lot more was going on than just moving to a new state. My entire family was in turmoil; it was a disastrous situation; and moving just added to the mess. There were far too many changes in one summer for my young mind to wrap around, so it all got categorized as "the big move", and thus remained the focus of my blame for years.

I'm able to sort through the mess now. I'm able to accept that sometimes stuff just happens and you have to move on from where it leaves you--even if it leaves you in Pennsylvania. You'd think after spending twenty-two years in a state, you'd put down some roots, for Pete's sake, but I remain a Jersey-girl; always feeling at home when I drive through NJ. I only lived there for nine years of my life, but it clearly left an impression. Even if that impression is only that I cling to the location of my once-together family. Whatever the psychological reasons, I miss it.

Over the last year or so, our financial situation has turned dire. We tried to sell our house and relocate closer to my husband's job, but in six months of non-stop showing, we never received a single offer. So, we made some beautiful improvements on the house and decided to try again this year. As we faced the fact that we were not going to get the price we wanted--or needed--to move to our choice school district, we became overwhelmed with the lack of options. Wanting desperately to get our kids out of their current district, but not being able to afford the "good" ones leaves a parent in a helpless spin. You want the best for your children and for the first time we began to feel as though only the wealthy have opportunities; the rest get what they get. Nothing was seeming fair.

Until my husband spoke up. An idea had been churning in his head for a couple weeks, but he hadn't mentioned it to me because he wasn't sure I'd like the idea. I tend to only like my own. But this time, his idea was perfect. His grandparents house, which has stood empty for about a year since his grandmother's death, is actually closer to his job than we are now. But neither one of us had thought of it prior because we didn't associate going east as getting closer--his work is south west of us currently. However, this house, which happens to be the house he grew up in, is far enough south that it actually cuts the time in half. Not to mention it has four bedrooms, a fenced in acre yard, a quite neighborhood, a dead-end street, and a wonderful, tiny, within walking distance school. Could we ask for anything more for our children?

Oh yeah. It's also in NJ, in the town next to the one I grew up in. There is an interesting story in that alone, as my husband and I would have attended the same high school in NJ, but both our families moved to PA during the summer of '88 and we ended up in the same high school in PA. Perhaps there have been more divine romances than that, but I sure can't think of any.

Transition caused me to start this blog. And since starting it, transition has remained on the horizon, but I've been preparing for it, knowing eventually it would arrive and I'd be ready. I feel closer than ever. I'm about to send my application to grad school (this Friday!), I have a list of 2010 agents and publishers I want to send my MSS to, and I have a new home waiting for me that has completed a cycle that I never thought I would witness.

This Jersey girl is going home.

Jane; Take Two

2009-12-16T08:58:00.000-08:00

Last night, I watched Mansfield Park. While I’ve always been a huge fan of the book-to-movie interpretations of Austen’s stories, I identify with Fanny Price more than any other heroine. “I have no talent of certainty”, she says. And with emphasis I echo; “Ditto! I think.”

After the movie, I decided to revisit some Austen history. I have a tendency to get caught up in a character or author with an insatiable urge to learn and know everything about them. Unfortunately, my memory only files away random quotes or general ideas such as; “I really liked this story,” and then leaves me searching for words when someone later asks me a question. “Why did you like Fanny Price the best?” “Well, um….because she was…um…I just really liked her”. Articulate, Jessica.

I found far too many websites on Austen that contained pretty much the same information as the next. (Really, can we condense them, please? So that I don’t have eighteen tabs open on my browser? An internet-editor would be terrific right about now.) However, I did learn that her birthday is today, December 16th, and that she was born in 1775. Amusing to me, as my birthday is exactly two-hundred years and five days after hers. I am thirty-three, the age she was when she moved to Chawton, the home in which she spent her final years and wrote most of her novels.

I’ll be honest; I’ve done little more than skim her books in the past. Austen purists will be aghast; I’m sure; to know that up until now my experience has been with that of the movies’ interpretations of her works. But that’s changing today. On Miss Austen’s 234th birthday, I have dedicated the day to research her life and works. I’ve downloaded her letters, a memoir written by her nephew, and have discovered I can read all of her novels online. For free. Can you beat that? http://tiny.cc/5hbmA

So, I’m settling in for a day of Austen-esque meditation. Wrapped up warm in my shawl (aka: sweatpants), reading and writing, while stoking the fire and listening to string instrumentals on Pandora (as well as my two boys pounding through the house—oh Jane, you have no idea what children do to the creative process. Or, perhaps you do and this is precisely why you remained single). It’s not as fulfilling as, say, inviting her in for a cup of coffee and a chat, but I do believe it’s something like what she would’ve done for her birthday if she were alive today.