by Robbie age 5
From my husband, Matt
by Sarah age 7
by Sarah age 7
Vote for your favorite! I'll use it to grace the cover of my 1st draft!
Showing posts with label Kid Stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kid Stuff. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Cover Art, Yay!
I came home from the Tax Job tonight, to find my family had been busy creating covers for my novel in progress. I'm so glad I live with these awesome people. I love them! Look what they did!
Monday, June 13, 2011
The Question Is Why.
Because. Because even though you say you won’t, you will drop one or more ice cubes on the floor, causing puddles that I’ll slip on, or soak my sock in later. Because you will close the freezer door almost all the way, enough that it looks closed and fools the alarm into thinking it’s closed, but tomorrow, everything will be covered with frost crystals. Because you will track sand and dirt all over the floor, and even though you say you’ll take your shoes off, you’ll probably forget. If you do take your shoes off, you will either go back outside in stocking feet, or come bug me to put them back on because you’re too lazy to do it yourself. Because you’ll leave the screen slider open a half inch, just enough to allow an entire army of flies and mosquitoes into our house. Because you will leave a stack of wrong-color cups on the floor in front of the cupboard. Because you will splash water all over the counter top, and then wipe it up with Kleenex. Because you will drink two sips of the water and then use the rest to make a mud puddle. Because you’ll leave the empty cup directly in front of the door for me to step on. And because if I explain all this to you, you will argue each and every point, and cry and promise not to do any of these things. But you will. You will do all of these things. And a few I can’t even imagine.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Splittttttt
Just imagine a 6-year-old, missing two front teeth, with a mouth full of mostly chewed french fries, excitedly shouting "Banana Split!"
Now imagine her doing it two inches in front of your face.
No dessert for me, thank you. I've lost my appetite.
Now imagine her doing it two inches in front of your face.
No dessert for me, thank you. I've lost my appetite.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Things That Cannot Be Done Faster
There are certain tasks that are impossible to complete more quickly regardless of how fast or hard I work at them.
- Ironing. Several slow passes with a properly heated iron will make that skirt look beautiful. Skating the iron furiously back and forth as if beating eggs, after letting it heat up for 5 seconds, will not get the skirt ironed any sooner, but will just make me sweaty.
- Blowdrying my hair. It takes 10 minutes. It always takes 10 minutes. It will not take less time if I brush faster, or hold the hair dryer closer.
- Vacuuming. Same as ironing. Vacuuming faster can save time only if I use it as an excuse to skip exercising.
- Cooking. Because raw food sucks. And so does bleeding on the veggies because I was chopping too fast.
- Putting kids to bed. Speed reading the Clifford book will result in at least 2 additonal minutes of interruptions and requests to see that page again.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Tell Me All Your Thoughts On God
Our book club read the Shack by William Young. I was a little apprehensive before the discussion, because I wasn’t crazy about the book, although I know some people are. But as always, it was a great conversation with the ladies, not only hearing their different perspectives on the book, as well as an amazing conversation about our different perspectives on God, Spirituality and Religion.
One of the questions we discussed was whether we liked Young’s vision/description of God. My answer was that honestly, I prefer my own 4 year old child’s impressions of God.
I’m reminded of one of my favorite songs, by Dishwalla, “Counting Blue Cars.” It’s a song full of great imagery of childhood and adult/child interaction. When I first heard it I was reminded of summer evenings with my grandma, playing the counting cars game. But it also made me wish for a child of my own to whom I could say, “tell me all your thoughts of God.”
So I’m loving my little boy’s thoughts, like, “I think God’s house is really, really big, bigger than the whole world. And the whole world is inside it. And it’s invisible.” I wonder how to respond to his complaints that “God didn’t say anything back to me,” or “God didn’t give me what I wanted.” (what did he want? Oh, just a pet bird.) Or “God knows how to get to the restaurant, because God knows just about everything.”
It makes me laugh, it makes me think back to when I longed to have a little one to have these conversations with, and it takes me back to my own childhood, the carefree games, the incomprehensible adults, a memory of fresh air. It’s one of the most wonderful things about parenthood, that vision back into the past with new eyes, like rewatching a movie with a twist ending like “The Sixth Sense” or “Fight Club” and saying “aha”, as everything becomes clear with new meaning.
One of the questions we discussed was whether we liked Young’s vision/description of God. My answer was that honestly, I prefer my own 4 year old child’s impressions of God.
I’m reminded of one of my favorite songs, by Dishwalla, “Counting Blue Cars.” It’s a song full of great imagery of childhood and adult/child interaction. When I first heard it I was reminded of summer evenings with my grandma, playing the counting cars game. But it also made me wish for a child of my own to whom I could say, “tell me all your thoughts of God.”
So I’m loving my little boy’s thoughts, like, “I think God’s house is really, really big, bigger than the whole world. And the whole world is inside it. And it’s invisible.” I wonder how to respond to his complaints that “God didn’t say anything back to me,” or “God didn’t give me what I wanted.” (what did he want? Oh, just a pet bird.) Or “God knows how to get to the restaurant, because God knows just about everything.”
It makes me laugh, it makes me think back to when I longed to have a little one to have these conversations with, and it takes me back to my own childhood, the carefree games, the incomprehensible adults, a memory of fresh air. It’s one of the most wonderful things about parenthood, that vision back into the past with new eyes, like rewatching a movie with a twist ending like “The Sixth Sense” or “Fight Club” and saying “aha”, as everything becomes clear with new meaning.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Four A Happy Birthday!
My 4 year old kid fell in the ditch last week. I should be a sympathetic mom, but everything about this scenario just makes me want to laugh, starting with the angry sobbing rant he delivered upon being retrieved from the ditch by his dad. Something like, “Now l’m soaking wet, even my snowpants, even my pants, now I have to change all my clothes, I’m really really mad at her, she’s a mean girl, I didn’t want to get all wet, I don’t like it, I don’t like it, I don’t like it. She should NOT have told me to go in the ditch, that was NOT NICE!”
Then there was the sobbing and eloquent explanations offered by his six year old sister, the likely suspect. Nothing like a child defense lawyer in action to prompt mom into more restrained laughter. The transcript:
Mom: Did you push him in the ditch?
Child: It’s not my fault, I didn’t want him to fall in.
Mom: Did you push him?
Child: He was already in the ditch. I didn’t want him to fall, I just wanted him to keep going.
Mom: So you wanted him to go in the ditch?
Child: Well he already did, all by himself.
Mom: Did.You. Push.Him?
Child: Yes, but his feet were already in the ditch. I didn’t WANT him to fall down.
Mom: Why did he go in the ditch in the first place? Did you tell him to?
Child: Yes. But I didn’t think he would DO it.
The laughter continues the next day as the boy indignantly tells the story of how he fell in the ditch and it was his big sister’s fault to everyone he meets, including cashiers at the grocery store. Details include how the water was cold and his wet snowpants were sooo heavy, that he didn't want to fall in, and that his sister is a MEAN GIRL.
Two days later, we prompt him to tell Grandma and Grandpa the story:
“Tell Grandma about how you fell in the ditch.”
The boy looks curious and intrigued, “When did I fall in the ditch?”
“Just this week. Tell grandma about it.”
“I fell in the ditch?” he asks incredulously.
“Yes! Don’t you remember?”
“Was I in a canoe?” he asks.
I’m laughing hysterically now, as I say, “No! You were playing in the snow, remember?”
Clearly he's blocked the traumatic experience from his mind, because the next question he asks is, “Did I ever get out?”
Yeah, my kid fell in a ditch full of ice water and I laughed. One of the perks of being a mom.
Then there was the sobbing and eloquent explanations offered by his six year old sister, the likely suspect. Nothing like a child defense lawyer in action to prompt mom into more restrained laughter. The transcript:
Mom: Did you push him in the ditch?
Child: It’s not my fault, I didn’t want him to fall in.
Mom: Did you push him?
Child: He was already in the ditch. I didn’t want him to fall, I just wanted him to keep going.
Mom: So you wanted him to go in the ditch?
Child: Well he already did, all by himself.
Mom: Did.You. Push.Him?
Child: Yes, but his feet were already in the ditch. I didn’t WANT him to fall down.
Mom: Why did he go in the ditch in the first place? Did you tell him to?
Child: Yes. But I didn’t think he would DO it.
The laughter continues the next day as the boy indignantly tells the story of how he fell in the ditch and it was his big sister’s fault to everyone he meets, including cashiers at the grocery store. Details include how the water was cold and his wet snowpants were sooo heavy, that he didn't want to fall in, and that his sister is a MEAN GIRL.
Two days later, we prompt him to tell Grandma and Grandpa the story:
“Tell Grandma about how you fell in the ditch.”
The boy looks curious and intrigued, “When did I fall in the ditch?”
“Just this week. Tell grandma about it.”
“I fell in the ditch?” he asks incredulously.
“Yes! Don’t you remember?”
“Was I in a canoe?” he asks.
I’m laughing hysterically now, as I say, “No! You were playing in the snow, remember?”
Clearly he's blocked the traumatic experience from his mind, because the next question he asks is, “Did I ever get out?”
Yeah, my kid fell in a ditch full of ice water and I laughed. One of the perks of being a mom.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Glue Sticks
If you happen to have a child who eats glue, you’ll be happy to know, your kid might just be onto something. I’ve recently become aware, that apparently glue is a rare and luxurious substance, comparable to caviar.
At least that’s what I have to believe based on the miniscule amount of glue contained in the glue sticks I recently purchased for back-to-school. I sent the requested 8 glue sticks to Kindergarten and kept a few for home use. A week ago I released one from my secret stash, into the eager hands of the girl, age five. A few days later, sweeping the floor, I find (and say) the following: 1) Glue Cap. “Dang it, this glue is going to dry out if you keep leaving the cap off.” 2) Empty Glue Stick. “What did you do?!! Did you screw the whole stick out of this glue? I am NOT giving you any more glue if this is the way you use it!” 3) Nub of the glue stick now approximately ½ inch in length. “Silent Night! What on earth did you do with all the glue? How much stuff did you glue anyway?”
Girl, age 5 finally replies to my rant: “Not a lot, that’s just how much there was.”
Of course I know better than to accept the sorry excuses of a 5-year-old, so I promptly pulled out another glue stick to demonstrate the extent of the glue misuse going on in our home. Here’s what I found:
I am certain that glue sticks used to be fuller than that. I’m not really that worried about the few dollars I spent on glue. But I feel the need to complain about it anyway, for a few reasons.
First, it really annoys me when I feel like some big company thinks they can trick me with a half-full glue stick. Yes, I’m sure somewhere in fine print on the package they indicate the actual ounces (or in this case fractions of ounces). And I’m sure somewhere someone is chortling at how ingenious this is, because, who would ever compare ounces on glue sticks at back to school time?
Second, it seems to me in these times of environmental awareness this company should be focusing its creative efforts on something innovative and earth-friendly, like maybe refillable glue sticks, rather than doubling the output of plastic waste by reducing the amount of glue in each container.
Third, even though this blog celebrates wasting time, I prefer it to be on my terms. It’s bad enough my family has suddenly tripled our milk consumption, requiring emergency “milk-runs”. I don’t need to be going out on unscheduled “glue-runs”.
At least that’s what I have to believe based on the miniscule amount of glue contained in the glue sticks I recently purchased for back-to-school. I sent the requested 8 glue sticks to Kindergarten and kept a few for home use. A week ago I released one from my secret stash, into the eager hands of the girl, age five. A few days later, sweeping the floor, I find (and say) the following: 1) Glue Cap. “Dang it, this glue is going to dry out if you keep leaving the cap off.” 2) Empty Glue Stick. “What did you do?!! Did you screw the whole stick out of this glue? I am NOT giving you any more glue if this is the way you use it!” 3) Nub of the glue stick now approximately ½ inch in length. “Silent Night! What on earth did you do with all the glue? How much stuff did you glue anyway?”
Girl, age 5 finally replies to my rant: “Not a lot, that’s just how much there was.”
Of course I know better than to accept the sorry excuses of a 5-year-old, so I promptly pulled out another glue stick to demonstrate the extent of the glue misuse going on in our home. Here’s what I found:
The purple portion is the glue I removed from a new unused glue stick.
(Also note the amazing *ahem* quality of a practically new Nikon digital camera)
I am certain that glue sticks used to be fuller than that. I’m not really that worried about the few dollars I spent on glue. But I feel the need to complain about it anyway, for a few reasons.
First, it really annoys me when I feel like some big company thinks they can trick me with a half-full glue stick. Yes, I’m sure somewhere in fine print on the package they indicate the actual ounces (or in this case fractions of ounces). And I’m sure somewhere someone is chortling at how ingenious this is, because, who would ever compare ounces on glue sticks at back to school time?
Second, it seems to me in these times of environmental awareness this company should be focusing its creative efforts on something innovative and earth-friendly, like maybe refillable glue sticks, rather than doubling the output of plastic waste by reducing the amount of glue in each container.
Third, even though this blog celebrates wasting time, I prefer it to be on my terms. It’s bad enough my family has suddenly tripled our milk consumption, requiring emergency “milk-runs”. I don’t need to be going out on unscheduled “glue-runs”.
Am I overreacting? Am I imagining things? Maybe glue sticks always looked like this. Maybe there’s a perfectly good reason for this. Please, tell me if I’m wrong.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Free Time
It’s the second week of back to school and I’m sure you all are dying to know what I’m doing with all my free time*
*free time=2.25 hours X 3 days = 6.75 non-consecutive hours.
So here goes. I head home from preschool drop-off where I exercise, then I shower, dress and makeup, do my hair. As soon as I look fabulous, I head to the mall to meet a girlfriend for some Starbucks and shopping (unless I have a mani/pedi scheduled). I arrive back at preschool in a timely manner so I can bond with other parents and listen attentively to what the preschool teacher has to say about the day’s class.
Oh, wait no, that’s just my fantasy.
Here goes, for real. I head home from preschool drop off and crack open a Diet Coke, to hopefully perk my eyelids up from their current position dragging on the floor. I wouldn’t be so tired, except I was awakened multiple times during the night to deal with “scary fings.” As soon as the bubbly begins to arouse my brain, I have to decide whether to toss the uneaten toast I only made because the boy was “REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, Super-ally-duper hungry”. Or should I meanly save it for his lunch and say “You DEMANDED I make this, now you WILL eat it.”
I realize that I may or may not have eaten breakfast, standing up, and I am in fact, Super-ally-duper hungry. I eat the cold toast. Very unsatisfying. I make some fresh toast, dripping with melty peanut-butter. Cannot exercise while eating toast. Can only log onto computer and check e-mail/facebook. Fortunately, there is a clock near the computer, slowly counting down my precious 2.25 hours before I have to leave, so reluctantly I break the grip of the internet, and force myself to look at my to-do list.
Oooh, I have to make a call to the insurance company. This I can do and still play Bejeweled Blitz. Sadly, regardless of who I call or how long I’m on hold, I will only get to talk to an actual person when I’ve just begun the best game of my life. So after my conversation, (which may or may not have solved the problem, I’ll have to wait and see), I have to play a few more games to try and relive the moment that was cruelly snatched from me.
Now that I have less than 1.25 hours, exercise is clearly out of the picture. So is the mall. No reason now to bother looking fabulous. I am, however, appropriately attired for cleaning the house. Maybe a good day to mop. That’s almost exercise. First I’ll have to sweep, especially the crunchy areas around the children’s chairs. And then there’s the confetti of “art projects” (and supplies) bursting forth from the art table. Should I try to match the caps to the markers? Or do I just sweep it all up? Too many large papers to sweep. Probably should put some in the recycling. Can an art project composed of cotton balls, glitter glue, toothpicks and staples go in the recycling? Are any of these precious creations worthy of a spot on the refrigerator? Is there a spot on the refrigerator?
I realize that the refrigerator is a time capsule dating back to spring. I discard the obsolete dentist appointment reminders, memo about the end-of-school picnic, old party invitations and thank you cards. Take down a drawing so old, I can no longer recognize the “bird” that it claims to be. I must have been impressed by it at one time. Also get rid of last year’s mini-calendar from the real-estate agent, and 2 expired coupons for free kids burgers.
Finally heading to get the mop bucket, I notice that I should have left 5 minutes ago. Rush out the door, hit the preschool parking lot running, to arrive breathless at the classroom door just in time to hear my little boy shout, “Mommy!” as he runs to give me a big hug and kiss.
And that’s what I’ve been doing with all my “free time.”
*free time=2.25 hours X 3 days = 6.75 non-consecutive hours.
So here goes. I head home from preschool drop-off where I exercise, then I shower, dress and makeup, do my hair. As soon as I look fabulous, I head to the mall to meet a girlfriend for some Starbucks and shopping (unless I have a mani/pedi scheduled). I arrive back at preschool in a timely manner so I can bond with other parents and listen attentively to what the preschool teacher has to say about the day’s class.
Oh, wait no, that’s just my fantasy.
Here goes, for real. I head home from preschool drop off and crack open a Diet Coke, to hopefully perk my eyelids up from their current position dragging on the floor. I wouldn’t be so tired, except I was awakened multiple times during the night to deal with “scary fings.” As soon as the bubbly begins to arouse my brain, I have to decide whether to toss the uneaten toast I only made because the boy was “REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, Super-ally-duper hungry”. Or should I meanly save it for his lunch and say “You DEMANDED I make this, now you WILL eat it.”
I realize that I may or may not have eaten breakfast, standing up, and I am in fact, Super-ally-duper hungry. I eat the cold toast. Very unsatisfying. I make some fresh toast, dripping with melty peanut-butter. Cannot exercise while eating toast. Can only log onto computer and check e-mail/facebook. Fortunately, there is a clock near the computer, slowly counting down my precious 2.25 hours before I have to leave, so reluctantly I break the grip of the internet, and force myself to look at my to-do list.
Oooh, I have to make a call to the insurance company. This I can do and still play Bejeweled Blitz. Sadly, regardless of who I call or how long I’m on hold, I will only get to talk to an actual person when I’ve just begun the best game of my life. So after my conversation, (which may or may not have solved the problem, I’ll have to wait and see), I have to play a few more games to try and relive the moment that was cruelly snatched from me.
Now that I have less than 1.25 hours, exercise is clearly out of the picture. So is the mall. No reason now to bother looking fabulous. I am, however, appropriately attired for cleaning the house. Maybe a good day to mop. That’s almost exercise. First I’ll have to sweep, especially the crunchy areas around the children’s chairs. And then there’s the confetti of “art projects” (and supplies) bursting forth from the art table. Should I try to match the caps to the markers? Or do I just sweep it all up? Too many large papers to sweep. Probably should put some in the recycling. Can an art project composed of cotton balls, glitter glue, toothpicks and staples go in the recycling? Are any of these precious creations worthy of a spot on the refrigerator? Is there a spot on the refrigerator?
I realize that the refrigerator is a time capsule dating back to spring. I discard the obsolete dentist appointment reminders, memo about the end-of-school picnic, old party invitations and thank you cards. Take down a drawing so old, I can no longer recognize the “bird” that it claims to be. I must have been impressed by it at one time. Also get rid of last year’s mini-calendar from the real-estate agent, and 2 expired coupons for free kids burgers.
Finally heading to get the mop bucket, I notice that I should have left 5 minutes ago. Rush out the door, hit the preschool parking lot running, to arrive breathless at the classroom door just in time to hear my little boy shout, “Mommy!” as he runs to give me a big hug and kiss.
And that’s what I’ve been doing with all my “free time.”
Sunday, September 12, 2010
They Who?
Do you know any tough old guys who think it’s funny to say stuff to little kids to make them cry?
Yeah, I do. Was having a picnic lunch with some relatives over the weekend, and my crazy uncle decides to have a little fun with my 3-year-old and 5-year-old. “Santa Claus is dead,” he announces. “They shot him.”
Thanks so much, Uncle Jack*ss. It’s bad enough my 5-year-old already cries at night, “I don’t want to die, like Noni” (her great-grandmother who passed away last year.) I’ve tried to reason with her that she’s only 5, she could live to be 100 and that’s a long time. I try to reassure her with stories about God and Heaven. It hasn’t really helped. She still has a sobbing panic attack if she accidentally swallows some potentially lethal substance, like part of a strawberry stem, or a watermelon seed.
My lessons haven’t gone unheeded though. She’s diligently taught her 3-year-old brother everything I’ve said, and now he’s totally excited about the concept of Heaven. I’m not that excited however, to hear him say, “I wish I was dead so I could see God and be in Heaven.” I try to be calm, and just say, “Not now, darling, mommy would miss you.” But my nerves really can’t handle this.
I don’t think I have the best skill at teaching my children these concepts in an age-appropriate manner. But I am sure “They shot Santa,” is NOT going to help
Yeah, I do. Was having a picnic lunch with some relatives over the weekend, and my crazy uncle decides to have a little fun with my 3-year-old and 5-year-old. “Santa Claus is dead,” he announces. “They shot him.”
Thanks so much, Uncle Jack*ss. It’s bad enough my 5-year-old already cries at night, “I don’t want to die, like Noni” (her great-grandmother who passed away last year.) I’ve tried to reason with her that she’s only 5, she could live to be 100 and that’s a long time. I try to reassure her with stories about God and Heaven. It hasn’t really helped. She still has a sobbing panic attack if she accidentally swallows some potentially lethal substance, like part of a strawberry stem, or a watermelon seed.
My lessons haven’t gone unheeded though. She’s diligently taught her 3-year-old brother everything I’ve said, and now he’s totally excited about the concept of Heaven. I’m not that excited however, to hear him say, “I wish I was dead so I could see God and be in Heaven.” I try to be calm, and just say, “Not now, darling, mommy would miss you.” But my nerves really can’t handle this.
I don’t think I have the best skill at teaching my children these concepts in an age-appropriate manner. But I am sure “They shot Santa,” is NOT going to help
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Cooler than a Mountain
On the way to the library my 3-year-old boy spoke wistfully from the back seat, “I wish I could climb a mountain.”
His *ahem*-year-old mommy in the front seat thought, “I used to wish the same thing.” Then I thought, wait a minute, I still wish I could climb a mountain.
Got me thinking about the limitless future that children see stretched out before them. As a child, you believe that anything is possible, if only you are old enough, and your darned parents quit interfering. Money is no object, practicality is irrelevant and there will always be enough time. You will eat Lucky Charms for breakfast every day, then go climb a mountain, and have a picnic with ice cream for dessert before you sail your boat home to your tree house.
At what age or milestone do people stop believing that anything is possible? We get so wise, we start dismissing dreams because they are unrealistic. But isn’t that what dreaming is about? Just because you have a firmer grip on reality as an adult doesn’t mean you have to stop believing in possibility. I believed that I would have all the skills and freedom necessary to climb a mountain, once I turned 13—my magic age. If I could believe that, why can’t I believe I could climb a mountain at, oh, 83? Maybe that can be my new magic age.
I’ve seen mountains, I’ve driven in them. Haven’t climbed a mountain. But if my little boy is going to climb a mountain, I’m going to be climbing too.
A mountain is his ultimate standard of comparison. If something is tall he wants to know if it’s taller than a mountain. If our destination is far, he asks, “is it as far as a mountain?” His oatmeal is hotter than a mountain. He even said the book he found at the library was “cooler than a mountain.”
I don’t know about that. Mountains are pretty cool.
His *ahem*-year-old mommy in the front seat thought, “I used to wish the same thing.” Then I thought, wait a minute, I still wish I could climb a mountain.
Got me thinking about the limitless future that children see stretched out before them. As a child, you believe that anything is possible, if only you are old enough, and your darned parents quit interfering. Money is no object, practicality is irrelevant and there will always be enough time. You will eat Lucky Charms for breakfast every day, then go climb a mountain, and have a picnic with ice cream for dessert before you sail your boat home to your tree house.
At what age or milestone do people stop believing that anything is possible? We get so wise, we start dismissing dreams because they are unrealistic. But isn’t that what dreaming is about? Just because you have a firmer grip on reality as an adult doesn’t mean you have to stop believing in possibility. I believed that I would have all the skills and freedom necessary to climb a mountain, once I turned 13—my magic age. If I could believe that, why can’t I believe I could climb a mountain at, oh, 83? Maybe that can be my new magic age.
I’ve seen mountains, I’ve driven in them. Haven’t climbed a mountain. But if my little boy is going to climb a mountain, I’m going to be climbing too.
A mountain is his ultimate standard of comparison. If something is tall he wants to know if it’s taller than a mountain. If our destination is far, he asks, “is it as far as a mountain?” His oatmeal is hotter than a mountain. He even said the book he found at the library was “cooler than a mountain.”
I don’t know about that. Mountains are pretty cool.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
One Day
Today was my one day between "vacation" and "real life" and boy oh boy did I have big plans for it, much to the dismay of my family, who just wanted to do puzzles (kids), take naps (husband) and otherwise be unproductive. I assigned projects to hubby and kids, and while they were re-arranging carseats in preparation for the Kindergarten drop-off zone, I got started inside.
The bad news first: I did not accomplish everything I wanted to.
The reality check: Wanting to organize the entire house in one day was probably over-ambitious.
The good news: I did manage to get the desk cleaned off, just in time for tomorrow's deluge of last week's mail which I'm anxiously awaiting--and I do mean anxiously. Have you ever noticed that sometimes people say "anxiously awaiting" when really they should be saying "eagerly awaiting"? I read that just today in a letter from the pre-school teacher. . . hmmm. . . maybe she did mean "anxiously". That's how I'd feel about seventeen 3-year-olds.
By the time I had whittled down the stack of school-related papers, sending about 75% to the recycling, I realized that between Kindergarten, pre-school, dance classes, and my tax classes, my wimpy little daily planner was not going to cut it. So I had to take a shopping break to buy a new planner capable of holding the 25% of memos I need to keep. Then I had to transfer infomation from my old calendar to the new one. And since the new planner has handy to-do list spots, I had to fill those up.
Other than the school papers, the other big stack on the desk was all the medical bills. Doesn't that sound dramatic, like I'm wallowing in debt due to some dibilitating disease? Thank God I'm not, because it took me two hours just to research and cross-reference these bills related to a simple foot surgery. (Minus the 10 minutes I spent eating the sandwiches I ordered for dinner from my dear husband.) I did however, discover what seems to be a $95 billing error, and I diligently added it to my new planner/to-do list, allocating 1/2 hour to deal with it on Tuesday. I know that's optimistic, but that's just the way I am. Remember? I was going to organize the whole house today?
I forced myself to take a Dairy Queen break with the family. And then I managed to clean out a closet while my very patient husband gave the kids a bath before bed. I can now cross shampoo off the shopping list. Need to add to the to-do list: tell mom to stop buying me cute bottles of wonderfully-scented lotion, before I end up on "Hoarders" with the world's largest lotion stockpile.
Last, but not least, I write. Not bad for my "one day".
The bad news first: I did not accomplish everything I wanted to.
The reality check: Wanting to organize the entire house in one day was probably over-ambitious.
The good news: I did manage to get the desk cleaned off, just in time for tomorrow's deluge of last week's mail which I'm anxiously awaiting--and I do mean anxiously. Have you ever noticed that sometimes people say "anxiously awaiting" when really they should be saying "eagerly awaiting"? I read that just today in a letter from the pre-school teacher. . . hmmm. . . maybe she did mean "anxiously". That's how I'd feel about seventeen 3-year-olds.
By the time I had whittled down the stack of school-related papers, sending about 75% to the recycling, I realized that between Kindergarten, pre-school, dance classes, and my tax classes, my wimpy little daily planner was not going to cut it. So I had to take a shopping break to buy a new planner capable of holding the 25% of memos I need to keep. Then I had to transfer infomation from my old calendar to the new one. And since the new planner has handy to-do list spots, I had to fill those up.
Other than the school papers, the other big stack on the desk was all the medical bills. Doesn't that sound dramatic, like I'm wallowing in debt due to some dibilitating disease? Thank God I'm not, because it took me two hours just to research and cross-reference these bills related to a simple foot surgery. (Minus the 10 minutes I spent eating the sandwiches I ordered for dinner from my dear husband.) I did however, discover what seems to be a $95 billing error, and I diligently added it to my new planner/to-do list, allocating 1/2 hour to deal with it on Tuesday. I know that's optimistic, but that's just the way I am. Remember? I was going to organize the whole house today?
I forced myself to take a Dairy Queen break with the family. And then I managed to clean out a closet while my very patient husband gave the kids a bath before bed. I can now cross shampoo off the shopping list. Need to add to the to-do list: tell mom to stop buying me cute bottles of wonderfully-scented lotion, before I end up on "Hoarders" with the world's largest lotion stockpile.
Last, but not least, I write. Not bad for my "one day".
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Write Now
Why am I writing a blog? Well, because I am a “writer”. Right. I guess that all depends on how you define the word “am”. It’s been 20ish years since I decided that was my career goal. A few less since I pursued my goal on a daily basis with college journalism classes, writing for the college paper and writing radio commercials. Things which convinced me that “doing what you love” for a job, was a sure-fire way to make you hate what you love. (By the way, that’s also my biggest fear about being a stay-at-home mom.)
About a year ago I met a lovely lady who was starting a writing group (check out her blog cursinginheels.blogspot.com). I thought, “Now is a great time to get back into writing.” Not really, actually I thought, “hey, she lives in my neighborhood and she’s a mom. Maybe our kids can have playdates.” I realized I was way out of my depth, when she talked excitedly about the book she wrote for “NaNoWriMo” as if everyone knew what this “rhino” creature was.
“NaNoWriMo” turned out to be “National Novel Writing Month”, an annual challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. A couple of the other women who attended that initial group meeting came back the next month enthusiastically stating their intention to “do it.” Me? I thought, that’s nuts. But I did our writing exercises, and that crazy NaNoWriMo thing kept charging around my head. Because the thing was, I actually had a story in my head again.
I’ve always had a story in my head, since I was five years old. Back then, the story was that I got the red ruby slippers. With a matching headband and barrettes. And a purple room, with a purple telephone and a fluffy purple rug. And the kid with the cowboy hat was my friend. Don’t worry, the plots have improved since then, although color coordination did play a major role for way too long. Mostly it was an escape mechanism, but I figured I could turn it into a real success, if only I’d develop the skill for getting the stories out of my head, onto paper for others to enjoy.
But the years went on and although I always had time to think of these stories, I never seemed to have the dedication to writing them. As I grew older, busier, less in need of escape, the stories came more slowly. Then something happened to turn them off altogether (long pause for dramatic effect).
I had a baby.
This sweet, fussy, crying, demanding little girl suddenly became the thing that occupied every spare brain cell I had. And even some of the non-spare essential brain cells, like the ones that allow you to place dirty dishes in the dishwasher rather than in the refrigerator. After a while, Crying Little Girl and I worked out a compromise. I would devote 50% of my brain to her, and that would leave 50% for normal human function. This plan was working great for 2 years, and then along came sweet, cuddly, hungry little boy. Now I wanted to give him 50% of my brain. And how could I give Little Girl anything less? Which left nothing. One month of zombie life later, enter plan B. 25% brain to Little Girl, 25% to Little Boy. 25% for functioning. 25% to guilt over not being able to give 150%. Zero, Zip, Zilch to creative daydreaming.
Eventually, the Little’s demands eased up a bit. I chucked the guilt on the compost pile. In place of guilt, a story was creeping in. Nothing too deep—just a combination of a dream and an actor I had a minor crush on. Said actor’s career seemed to be going nowhere, and in frustration at the lack of good film material, I decided to give him a leading role in my NEW STORY.
Long story short, I decided to make this short story long, and turn it into a NaNoWriMo attempt with no greater goal than to say I did it. And since I’m very goal-directed when I actually have a goal, I did do it. I wrote the required number of words, of my novel, in the month of November.
Best of all, I loved it.
About a year ago I met a lovely lady who was starting a writing group (check out her blog cursinginheels.blogspot.com). I thought, “Now is a great time to get back into writing.” Not really, actually I thought, “hey, she lives in my neighborhood and she’s a mom. Maybe our kids can have playdates.” I realized I was way out of my depth, when she talked excitedly about the book she wrote for “NaNoWriMo” as if everyone knew what this “rhino” creature was.
“NaNoWriMo” turned out to be “National Novel Writing Month”, an annual challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. A couple of the other women who attended that initial group meeting came back the next month enthusiastically stating their intention to “do it.” Me? I thought, that’s nuts. But I did our writing exercises, and that crazy NaNoWriMo thing kept charging around my head. Because the thing was, I actually had a story in my head again.
I’ve always had a story in my head, since I was five years old. Back then, the story was that I got the red ruby slippers. With a matching headband and barrettes. And a purple room, with a purple telephone and a fluffy purple rug. And the kid with the cowboy hat was my friend. Don’t worry, the plots have improved since then, although color coordination did play a major role for way too long. Mostly it was an escape mechanism, but I figured I could turn it into a real success, if only I’d develop the skill for getting the stories out of my head, onto paper for others to enjoy.
But the years went on and although I always had time to think of these stories, I never seemed to have the dedication to writing them. As I grew older, busier, less in need of escape, the stories came more slowly. Then something happened to turn them off altogether (long pause for dramatic effect).
I had a baby.
This sweet, fussy, crying, demanding little girl suddenly became the thing that occupied every spare brain cell I had. And even some of the non-spare essential brain cells, like the ones that allow you to place dirty dishes in the dishwasher rather than in the refrigerator. After a while, Crying Little Girl and I worked out a compromise. I would devote 50% of my brain to her, and that would leave 50% for normal human function. This plan was working great for 2 years, and then along came sweet, cuddly, hungry little boy. Now I wanted to give him 50% of my brain. And how could I give Little Girl anything less? Which left nothing. One month of zombie life later, enter plan B. 25% brain to Little Girl, 25% to Little Boy. 25% for functioning. 25% to guilt over not being able to give 150%. Zero, Zip, Zilch to creative daydreaming.
Eventually, the Little’s demands eased up a bit. I chucked the guilt on the compost pile. In place of guilt, a story was creeping in. Nothing too deep—just a combination of a dream and an actor I had a minor crush on. Said actor’s career seemed to be going nowhere, and in frustration at the lack of good film material, I decided to give him a leading role in my NEW STORY.
Long story short, I decided to make this short story long, and turn it into a NaNoWriMo attempt with no greater goal than to say I did it. And since I’m very goal-directed when I actually have a goal, I did do it. I wrote the required number of words, of my novel, in the month of November.
Best of all, I loved it.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Sail Away
I’d like to dedicate this “Wasting Time” post to Abby Sunderland age 16, for her efforts in making a totally unnecessary solo sailing trip round the world. Talk about a waste of time….oh yeah, that’s right, everyone is talking about it, and they seem to agree, that Abby’s parents are irresponsible idiots. What strikes me as strange though, is the absence of media scrutiny and outrage when she began this trip. I didn’t even know about her, or the other young sailors who had attempted this same goal. I guess nothing succeeds like failure.
If I had heard about Abby before the accident that cut her trip short and required a dangerous rescue, the long-lost 16-year-old within me would have thought “That’s pretty damn cool.” And as a parent, I can only hope that I’ll have inspired my children to pursue their goals by the time they’re 16. I feel encouraged by the Sunderland family, that someday, I will eliminate the whining “I can’t dooooo it!” from this family’s vocabulary.
To those people who feel that Abby’s family has deprived her of the chance to live a safe, average life, perhaps you can find a teenager closer to home who needs help being average. Sixteen-year-olds give birth, commit murder, do drugs, join gangs. There are sixteen-year-olds whose parents abuse them, neglect them, kick them out. There is no shortage of causes worthy of public outrage. The real waste of time is worrying about parents who didn’t buy their kid a bigger boat.
If I had heard about Abby before the accident that cut her trip short and required a dangerous rescue, the long-lost 16-year-old within me would have thought “That’s pretty damn cool.” And as a parent, I can only hope that I’ll have inspired my children to pursue their goals by the time they’re 16. I feel encouraged by the Sunderland family, that someday, I will eliminate the whining “I can’t dooooo it!” from this family’s vocabulary.
To those people who feel that Abby’s family has deprived her of the chance to live a safe, average life, perhaps you can find a teenager closer to home who needs help being average. Sixteen-year-olds give birth, commit murder, do drugs, join gangs. There are sixteen-year-olds whose parents abuse them, neglect them, kick them out. There is no shortage of causes worthy of public outrage. The real waste of time is worrying about parents who didn’t buy their kid a bigger boat.
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