Take Me Back Tuesday - Installment #3

Today my oldest daughter turns twelve. Twelve.  One year before the teen years, the crying about hair, boys, and clothes, whining that she can't see this, read that, listen to what "everyone else gets to listen to, Mom".  (Oh wait. She does pretty much all of that now, just not the boy part.)  So I figured it would be appropriate to blog about her birthday today, considering it's Take Me Back Tuesday and all.

Twelve years ago my life changed forever.  I was nineteen, married, and done with being pregnant.  My labor sucked (back labor - if you've had it you know what I'm talking about), and after not sleeping for three nights straight I was brain dead and barely able to fight the pain.  But I made it, we made it, and this kid was born - born to two parents who had no clue just how much their lives were going to change in the next few years.

I have friends, know people, who want babies, think about babies, hold them and say "I miss this stage."  I don't get it.  I don't feel that way at all.  Could it be due to the fact that my girls were all born in less than three years, that they're quick to fight and tattle and break things, and that I will never, no matter how much time goes by, forget how I lost my sanity for a few years there when they were little? Sure. But another reason I don't feel the twinge, that "my biological clock is ticking, I'm 31 and need to have another kid!" feeling, is that I truly enjoy the age they're in.  

I love talking and laughing at the dinner table, our inside jokes about things that know one else knows about.  I appreciate our conversations, real conversations, not explaining why the sky is blue twenty thousand times.  I love to watch them stick up for each other when times are tough, and shoot each other down (in a loving, funny way) when they're at home.  And ratting each other out?  It's the best.  Hilarious.  Just last night they made the rounds, explaining what each other had done, tattling on so and so for saying this or that.  The necessary reprimands were made, and yet, the five of us were laughing like crazy.

The phrase "Kids say the darndest things" means more to me now than ever.  They crack me up with their quick wit and superfluous explanations.  I can't imagine going back to the point where a baby cries, eats all day and doesn't laugh at my jokes or roll its eyes and say "You're such a dork, Mom.".  That's one of the things I love most right now - their reactions to me, my reactions to them, with my oldest especially.  

I love knowing that even though I'm screaming they're grounded or saying "Stop talking to me like that, I'm your Mother!" there's no question in their minds that it's because I love them.  When they clean up a room to be sweet that's exactly what they're doing - being sweet.  When they offer to make dessert, they're doing it because they know I'm tired, and they care enough to do something for me.  And when we laugh in the car at someone strange walking down the street or singing loud like someone on American Idol, we're being ourselves, our family. You can't do any of those things with a baby.  Don't get me wrong - babies are cute, adorable, and cuddly. They have the softest little buns, the squishiest thighs, the sweetest smell ever.  It's not that I don't love them.  But I wouldn't give this age up for anything.  

I'm sure things will change over the next year, and my oldest will call me a dork even more often than she already does.  Maybe I'll start embarrassing her (more than usual), start dressing out of fashion all of a sudden (in her eyes), and have to drop her off without getting out because she won't want me to walk her to the door anymore.  Maybe she'll stop talking to me about the stuff she's going through, even.  Only time will tell.    

Regardless of what the next year holds, I'm going to enjoy this age with my twelve year old daughter.  I won't enjoy the fights or the bossiness, the trying to distract me from chastising her by repeatedly cracking jokes  (which I do usually laugh at, I'll admit), and I especially won't appreciate the fits about bad hair days or not having enough of the right kind of clothes.  That's okay though.  It goes with the territory - love is love.  

Is it 12:55 yet?  Oh well.  I might as well say it now.  Happy birthday daughter.

Hiatus

hi⋅a⋅tus

 

–noun, plural -tus⋅es, -tus.

1.	a break or interruption in the continuity of a work, series, action, etc.

I'm on hiatus.  I've pulled myself away from the internet, though I'm not sure for how long.  Initially I'd thought a week would be long enough get my thoughts together, fix my editorial issues, ect.  But here I am a week later, and I don't feel a whole lot better off than I was seven days ago.

Last week started off great.  On Monday I took all of the wonderful advice my blogging friends gave me to heart, and sat down with Hallie, my main character.  The two of us had a nice, long talk, and she told me how she felt, what she saw, the things that went through her mind.  I discovered a new way to open ILYU, and though it may not work in the long run, I'm quite satisfied for the time being.  

I was able to get quite a bit accomplished until Wednesday night, and really feel as though I've got Hallie's voice the way I want it.  (That and the new beginning are the two main accomplishments I am proud of.)  But then, after spending endless hours cutting, pasting, deleting, typing, re-typing, and doing exactly what that quote says, something along the lines of "This morning I took out a comma, and tonight I put it back" (I know the quote, I've tweeted it, but I don't have time to look it up right now), my mind went on hiatus too.  No matter how hard I tried on Thursday or Friday, my thinker was done, worn out, finished.  I was very disappointed in myself, to say the least. Even yesterday afternoon, after finishing a book that wasn't at all how I thought it would be, I figured, "Hey, perfect. Lesson learned - don't do that with your WiP." but when I sat down to work, the screen felt like one of those hypnotizing swirling things going round and round while someone said "You are getting sleepy..." and I couldn't focus.

So anyway, to get to the point...  Staying away from my favorite sites, twitter, blogger and facebook, mainly, taught me one thing.  Actually, I take that back, it taught me two things.  The first thing I learned (or was reminded of, actually - this wasn't really a surprise to me at all) was that my time management sucks.  I realize I'm not the first one to say this, but the whole writing/platform thing is very time consuming.  I keep having to remind myself that though a platform is necessary, it's no use if there's nothing to platform.  Which means that the WiP is numero uno, and the platform thing comes after that.  Wayyyyyy after that.  Like my dessert to reward myself for getting everything else done first.

The second thing I learned was that I miss being on those sites, talking with people, seeing what is going on with everyone.  You all mean more to me than you will ever know - this internetal (yes, just made that up) tie to other writers out there is the lifeline that keeps me going day after day.  (I would say I miss my Bejeweled, but that would be lying, because the one thing I did allow myself to do every night, after the kids had been fed and my eyes burned so bad that I wanted to gouge them out of the sockets, and brain was so mushy I could barely form whole sentences, much less get them to leave my mouth, was a few games of Bejeweled.  It didn't require words, or commas, or thoughts, really.  I used it as my wind-down, my way to relax after trying to think all day long.  Oh and not that I'm bragging or anything, but I do have a pretty decent score. Hee hee.)  I want to thank you all for your advice, not only as comments on my blog, but as posts on your own sites, blogs, twitter, ect.  Like many readers I don't always have the time to acknowledge your posts, but they mean more than you'll ever know. 

So I'm still on hiatus.  This week is going to be crazy anyway, between the kid's birthday tomorrow and Valentine's Day and everything else.  But next week I'm going to resurface, slowly, and with purpose, and hopefully come back with much work accomplished and lots of great quips and advice to tweet again.

My Pilot is on Standby

Make everybody fall out of the plane first, and then explain who they were and why they were in the plane to begin with.  - Nancy Ann Dibble

Make everybody fall out of the plane first.  This, my readers, is exactly what I'm having a hard time doing.  I never thought the beginning would be the most difficult part. I know the story, I know what happens, I know how things are resolved.  But the plane - well my plane can't even get off the ground.  Forget about people boarding it.  The pilot isn't even remotely nearby... he's off taking a nap somewhere, or eating his lunch, or whatever it is pilots do while they're waiting for takeoff. 

I try to put myself there - at the scene - as an innocent bystander looking in at the situation.  I can see what is happening, feel what Hallie feels... but the words... they elude me.  They're just not good enough.

Is it writer's block?  I'm thinking not.  I know what needs to be said.  I know how I should say it.  I just can't... say it as well as I should. 

Take Me Back Tuesday - Installment #2

scat·ter·brain (skāt'ər-brān')  
n.  A person regarded as flighty, thoughtless, or disorganized.

***

I’m not one to keep track of things. The capability of putting something away (and then remembering where I put it later) has eluded me since I was a kid. Just this last weekend Lovemuffin asked what I'd done with a gift card I received at Christmas, and I had no idea where it was. It’s not for lack of trying. I just can’t keep track of where I stuff things. (Step one to addressing the problem - admitting I throw things in random places without thinking.)

I went through my dresser drawers, favorite hiding places ("Hey! An SD card! I've been looking for that!"), the office, my closet.

“Where did you put it?” he asked me. “You lost another one?”

“I didn’t lose it.” (My answer every time.) “It's in a safe place.”

That’s his new joke when I can't find something. “Did you put it where you put everything else? In a ‘safe’ place?”

Ha ha. More jokes. Hardy har har.

When I was a kid, the main things I forgot about had value. Now it's not so bad - a few dollars, the lighter Lovemuffin uses to light the barbeque (found it in my make-up drawer yesterday), candy. Back then, I didn’t misplace things exactly - I simply forgot about their existence for a short while. Forgot long enough that when I did remember where I'd put them, it was too late to do anything about it.

Example 1: I’m seven years old and my parents have just gotten married. My mom and dad give my step-sister and I each a gold ID bracelet with the date of the wedding on it (it probably said something personal on it too, but I can’t remember), to symbolize us all becoming one family. It was special. A special present marking a very special occasion. 

I loved that bracelet. I’d never had anything so nice, shiny and new before. I was told not to wear it anywhere. (Or maybe I just knew I wasn’t supposed to wear it anywhere. I can’t remember. Point being, I should NOT have worn it anywhere. )

There was a large area of asphalt in front of the main part of my school, and to the left of it was a huge ditch. (Huge to a seven year-old kid anyway.) A swing set and monkey bars was to the right of that ditch, and to the right of that was a big, fat-trunked palm tree with a water fountain underneath it. Kids were always finding new reasons to play in the ditch. (The only time I ever played went near it was to play Red Rover. “Red rover, red rover, send Jessica right over!” I didn't play well. Or get picked early in the game too often. But that’s a different story for a different day.)

My parents haven't been back long from their honeymoon when I decide to wear it to school. A friend and I go play in the ditch at recess, digging around in the dirt after a decent rain. The ground is the perfect consistency to work with - soft enough to dig in, but not so moist that it's muddy. We are making huge piles and having a great time.

I’ve gone back to class and then on home from school when I realize the bracelet is no longer on my wrist.

Example 2: I have no clue what grade I'm in - possibly high school . There's some sort of dress-up day, like spirit week - something along those lines. I'm dressed like a hippie (or maybe it was a nerd?), and have asked my mom if I can wear her old 70’s or early 80’s glasses. They're prescription glasses. Not cute ones, no – these are hideously ugly and not even remotely stylish. Kids are laughing at me because of how "true to character" my glasses really are. I'm quite proud of myself. (And doing my best not to admit they came from my own house. My mom still uses them for back-up when she waits for new ones, can’t find her own, ect. But again, not admitting that to anyone.)

Enter recess time. My friends and I decide to go hang out on the swings - a place we haven't hung out in forever. But, that day, someone has a bright idea to go over there, to the other side of campus and sit on the kiddy swings. I set the glasses down on the sand, right out of my swinging feet's reach. I scurry back to class when the bell rings a few minutes later .

Example 3: It's my thirteenth birthday. One of my (four) grandmothers lives in Maine. I don’t see her often - by the time my thirteenth birthday rolls around, I’ve seen her maybe five times. (Incidentally, she's my step-grandmother, not something that is usually relevant to me. You'll see why I pointed out the step-grandmother part very shortly.)

My grandma sends me a diamond ring for my thirteenth birthday. I am floored, even as young as I am. I can’t believe my grandma would give me something so expensive, so meaningful. To a girl technically not even her own grandchild. And she sent it in the mail, no less. From Maine, all the way to California. To add to the compliment, this ring is something she actually used to wear (it said so in the letter she wrote out and folded up to fit in the ring box). So it's is a hand-me-down of the best kind, something special. I am proud.

My parents ask if they should keep it or if they can trust me.

“Oh, you can trust me. Trust me!”

I wear it to school a few days later. This time, though, I realize my mistake, and decide I probably haven’t made the best decision. So I stick it in my backpack, and plan to take it out when I arrive home and put it back away.

I never found the bracelet. I begged everyone in the school office to ask anyone who entered those doors about my bracelet. Day after day I checked to see if someone had “dropped it off” at the lost and found. It wasn’t lost. It was taken. I know this. I ran back to the dirt after school that day and looked all through our piles. Someone found it after my recess and kept it (with the date May 2 and my name on it, no less). Guaranteed.

My mom's glasses were in pieces. One lens was missing, the frame beyond repair. Someone either came along after I went back to class and swung as high as their little legs could propel them into the air before landing on them, or, the possible (and most likely) other scenario is a kid just broke them... on purpose. I'll never know.

Tires and lawn equipment were not my friend. Grandma's ring fell out of my backpack sometime between me getting out of my friend’s car after school, and running into her house. By the time I realized it was missing from my backpack, someone had already driven over it (with a lawn mower or car), and my friend's dad had blown it into the grass with the leaf blower. The diamond was completely gone. Crushed into smithereens probably. We found the band intact but bent, with a worn off darker area where the diamond’s prong had previously been.  At least I still have that.  I've only taken it out of the box a few times in the past (almost)

 twenty years.

After reading those examples, you'd think I would have learned my lesson.  Then again, maybe I did.  Maybe that's why now I only misplace little things, trivial items my brain won't lock into memory for future reference.

I'm sure I'll find the gift card in the next month or so.  But if I don't, I can tell you where it isn't.  It's not in a pile of dirt, or underneath the swings. It didn't get chopped up by a lawn mower, either.   It's around here somewhere in this house, waiting in a safe place until I find it.  And I will find it, eventually.

Backronyms

Narrative Magazine has a Backronym competition going on, and though I'm not the most creative person with stuff like that, I thought it would be fun to have a little competition (minus the uh, competition part) of my own here on My Thoughts Exactly.

Here's an explanation of a Backronym, according to NM:

IN NOVEMBER 1983 Meredith G. Williams won theWashington Post’s monthly neologism contest with the word backronym. He defined his entry as “the same as an acronym except that the words were chosen to fit the letters.”

A backronym is a phrase created to transform an existing word into an acronym, where each letter stands for another word. Here are three examples of backronyms that have become common:

Cop: constable on patrol

Golf: gentleman only, ladies forbidden

Adidas: all day I dream about sports

So would anyone like to create one and share it?  Maybe something that has to do with your personality, your WiP's, or just something you consider funny?

Here's mine (and I'd like to remind you of the "I'm not good at stuff like that" comment I made earlier): 

Cat - canine antagonizing tyrant (ha!)

I tried to do one with the word "writer", but a three letter word was as far as I could go on my lack of sleep this weekend.  Feel free to share any if you have 'em!

Happy Monday!

Disregarding Henry

Last night a good friend and I were talking about the new movie Extraordinary Measures.  It didn't take long for Harrison Ford's name to come up, and I asked if she'd ever seen the movie Regarding Henry.  She said no.  I almost bought it the other day when I was out shopping with kids 2 & 3, because I remember how much I loved that movie when I first saw it.  If you haven't seen Regarding Henry, I highly recommend it.  (Check the five dollar DVD section at your local Wal-Mart.)  So anyway, after our conversation I decided to name my MacBook Henry.

I'm not one to name things. My car is "my car" (though it's actually a suburban).  My husband's work truck is "the truck".  The washing mashing is "the washing machine", the dryer (say it with me) "the dryer".  We don't name anything like I've heard many (creative) people do.  But for some reason, I had to name this Henry.

We're two peas in a pod, Henry and I.  Lovemuffin laughs at me on a daily basis, shaking his head at our strange kinship.   Henry goes almost everywhere I go in the house - sometimes I take him with me to Panera Monday nights when the girls are at church.  Henry is my connection to the outside world, to writers and bloggers, twitterers and tweets, information I need at a moment's notice, friends who are miles away.  I don't know what I'd do without him.  

If Henry's battery is going dead, I feel sad.  Guess it's time to do dishes or laundry.  I'll have to watch American Idol with the kids instead of listening to it while clicking away on Henry's keyboard.  Those things just don't compare to hanging with Henry.  When he and the Internet aren't getting along, it makes me mad.  How dare it not want to connect with him?  I want to yell at stupid Internet and tell him he's being rude. I mean, come on.  It's Henry.

I've tried to let Henry go, to go back to my main computer, and work in my office.  But the chemistry just isn't the same. For one thing, she's big.  And stuck in one spot - she never follows me around or stays by my side like my pal Henry does.  I've had her way longer than him and yet, I still have no idea what her name is.

In summation, I could never get rid of Henry.  He lets people know how I'm feeling throughout the day, tells them what's on mind, helps me share information and learn a lot from others.  We're a great match, me and Henry, Henry and me.  

Now I'm wondering if I should name my cell phone - we're pretty close, almost as close as me and Henry.  I'm thinking maybe Tabitha or Annabelle or Clarice. Imagine the awesome high-tech offspring they could have if the two of them got together.  But no matter how many more electronic devices come through this house, my heart will remain true.  I wouldn't dream of disregarding Henry.

Just Tell the Story

You write to communicate to the hearts and minds of others what's burning inside you.  And we edit to let the fire show through the smoke.  ~Arthur Polotnik

I've learned yet another lesson the past few days.  Just tell the story.  

Long bouts of editing drain me.  I find myself staring at the words, sick of them, wondering what I was thinking.  Why did I think that part was necessary?  What am I trying to say here? Does this even make sense?

Arthur Polotnik's quote speaks to me because months ago I felt the story burning inside of me, the need to share it with the hearts and minds of others.  The feeling is still there, but the fire isn't burning as strong - this editing is getting in the way.  Being concerned about too many do's and don'ts has begun to stifle my voice, Hallie's voice.  

It's time to take Mr. Polotnik's advice.  Time to remember the point of all this.  I'm going to stop analyzing things word for word and go back to the beginning - the part where I had one goal: telling the story.  

I will show what's burning inside of me.  I will edit to let fire show through the smoke.