The Almost Name

Mamakat's Pretty Much World Famous Prompt:  2.) I almost named my child _______, but chose _______ instead because…
  

I like to sit in church before the Mass begins, because it is quiet and I can hear myself think.  Sometimes I'll pray, but other times I just sit and think about...stuff.  On this particular Saturday evening(many years before I met my husband), I was ruminating about what I might name my children, if I should have any, when a male voice in my head said, "Nathan."

If you are in church, and a voice that is not your own says something in your head, I find it is best to pay attention.

"Nathan?"  I thought.  "Really?"

"Nathan."

I thought about it.  I would never in a million years have thought of the name Nathan.   Nathan was a good, strong name for a boy, and it was a decent bet that there wouldn't be hundreds of Nathans running about in the kindergarten playground.  I couldn't think of a single family member, past or present, named Nathan.  I filed the name away, and there it sat for years and years.  Then I was pregnant with a boy, and had to find a boy name.  Nathan floated to the top of my brain, rattling around.

"What about the name Nathan?"  I said to my husband, who was very helpful. 

"No."

I kept thinking about it.  Naming should not be a hasty decision.  The first name has to go with a middle name and a last name.  There has to be symmetry, a rhythm, so that the name flows off the tongue, a song unto itself.   I kept picturing a stadium full of people, and the announcer saying the name of my son.  What name did I hear?  I did not hear the name Nathan.

My father had to put his two cents in during all this.  He had had a dream, he said.  In the dream, God told him that I should name my son Joseph Daniel.  I couldn't help it; I guffawed.  Not because Joseph Daniel is a bad name.  It's not.  I laughed because my dad had told my sister-in-law the exact same thing when she was pregnant with her last child.  My father had become a bit forgetful!  I cheered my dad up by telling him that his grandson's middle name would be Michael, after his father, Clarence Michael.  So we had the middle name, and now we just needed the first name.  I broke down and consulted some of the 40,000 books of baby names, and there it was.

I chose the name Zane instead of Nathan, not for any grand reason, because I liked the sound of the name. I read somewhere that Zane is derivative of John, and I was born on the feast day of John the Baptist, but that's not why I chose it.  I also know that there's an author named Zane Grey who has an entire town named after him.  That didn't really factor into it.  I actually like the sound of the name Zane.  I liked hearing the name not only in my head, but also I liked hearing other people say it.  Zane is a strong, happy name, I think.  The name Zane will never belong to a Goth-y or Emo teenager.  The name Zane will belong to someone confident and capable of forging their own destiny, whatever it may be. 

"What about the name Zane?" I asked my husband, who was very helpful.

"Okay."

Got Stress?

We all endure stress.  It's just part of life, from birth on.  Even just getting out of bed is stressful on some days.  Most of the time, I do okay with stress.  I consider myself to be pretty adaptable, and most of the time I roll with it.  But there's stress, and then there's STRESS.  And by stress, I mean my stress, Larry's stress, and Zane's stress.  It seems that my role of Mom means that I am stressed by everything that stresses my loved ones out, as well. I feel that I can never be "off", because someone is always depending on me to remember something, be somewhere, etc.  I can generally refrain from trying to fix everything for everyone, but that doesn't mean that I don't suffer their stress emotionally.  If they are upset, I am upset. So what we have here is a stinkin' pile of stress.  I'm not as spry with dodging obstacles like stressors as I used to be, so I'm starting to feel it.   Lately I'm having random panic attacks, with the shakiness, the sudden sense of impending doom, the butterflies in the stomach.  This is probably a sign that I've reached the end of whatever rope is out there, but I haven't been able to take a breather just yet.  These days, although I am probably catastrophizing(I'm pretty sure that is a word, and if it's not, let's just pretend, shall we?), I feel like I'm just one step away from a complete meltdown. 

This is exactly what I look like!  Except for my hair is not as neat. 

And by meltdown, I mean the kind that gets you a trip somewhere to "rest" for a couple of months.  It's probably not a good sign that the idea of a "rest" anywhere doesn't really seem all that bad.  Somewhere where it's quiet, where I don't get interrupted every 30 seconds, where I can concentrate on a task, where I don't get guilted for not paying attention to every single thing in the world.  A place where I am not expected to drop everything that I am doing to immediately gratify the needs of people who never bother to return the favor. A place where someone else does all the cleaning and cooking.  Where someone pampers me with massages and pedicures, and I can sleep late if I want.  Where the mountain comes to me, instead of my having to go to the mountain.   Where I can walk as far as I want to, without shouldering everyone else's burdens for a time.  Yes, I know--this place doesn't exist.  I need the fantasy for a little while.

This is what I want to look like when there's stress.

I would like to be able to close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and achieve a placid, balanced state. Like those people who practice meditation.  I am sure that it would be great for my health.  My blood pressure would be lower.  The butterflies in my stomach would just up and die.  I wouldn't be clenching my teeth all the time.  My eye would probably stop twitching.  The muscles in my neck would relax, and I might actually sleep well.  Unfortunately, I was never very good at the whole "let your thoughts go" thing. 

I do love my husband and son.  I love being a mom.  This isn't really about them--it's about me and recharging my currently depleted reserve of resiliency.  I don't want to stay at home because right now it's a big sorry mess. The piles just get away from me, and then I just stop trying.  If I thought it would help, I'd go do what my friend Jillsmo does, and go stay in a hotel for a couple of days, just to get back on a more even keel.  Or perhaps it would be better for my well-being to go hang out in a monastery or a convent, where everyone has taken a vow of silence. 

What do you guys do when you've reached the end?

Random Roughage

When did my toes get so hairy? I don't remember there being hair on my big toe!  And where did all this nose hair come from? I certainly did not expect to become a hobbit in my elder years, but the nose hair is just plain weird.  I suppose that I should be glad that I don't have to deal with ear hair like older men, but I am still going to complain about the toe hair.

We watched the first part of the History Channel miniseries Hatfields & McCoys last night.  I cannot fathom getting worked up over some of the things that those families did.  One thing that I noticed tonight is that, based on their behaviors, most of the women on both sides of the family thought their men were idiots.  While I love my family, I understand their foibles, and I don't feel the urge to defend them if they are being pigheaded about something.  I'm certainly not going to hate an entire bloodline forever just because my grandfather's cousin on my mother's side had a pig stolen.  Although, I might get a bit irate if the pig had been a rare cookie recipe...

Speaking of feuds, my remaining two cats, Pounce and Zena, have been feuding since Zena arrived almost two years ago.  Zena was interested in being friendly, not realizing that Pounce is, well...insane.  Right now we have a downstairs(Zena) and an upstairs cat(Pounce), and an uneasy truce.  I appear to be Switzerland, since both cats adore me.  But I don't hold out hope that the two cats will suddenly become best buds; Zane has been in this house going on five years, and Pounce still hisses and runs from him.

I have noticed that the more "well off" women do not have the fake fingernails. They talk all about the pedicures, but don't seem to do more than trim and file their nails. Is that just something happening here or is it an all over thing?  It could have been happening all along, and I only just now noticed.  I seem to either pay attention to everything(before child) or pay attention to nothing(after child).   

Every time I see someone tossing a lit cigarette out of the window of their car, I want to run them off the side of the road, pull them out of their car by the scruff of their neck, walk them to where the cigarette fell, rub their nose in the mess, and yell, "BAD!!!!"  Is that too extreme a reaction?  Maybe if everyone had that reaction, nobody would do it.  It is not about the smoking--that's your decision.  However, random sparks from cigarettes will start a grass fire if the conditions are right, and grass fires kill.  I don't want to see any fire burning any place that doesn't have something grilling above it.

I'm swinging by Stacy Uncorked today, just to see if there's any new wines to try...

The A-List: Memorial Day Edition

Memorial Day was created after the Civil War to honor the dead.  Most of the members of the military I know and have known like, or liked, to have a good time, and I see no harm in honoring the memory of people who have served our country by toasting their bravery in the backyard today.  However,
"It is the responsibility of the living to make meaningful the sacrifices of the dead," wrote Stephen R. Donaldson.  If  you would like to do something more meaningful, there are other things that you can do for Memorial Day.

1. Visit the VA hospital or the nearest nursing home. There are tons of senior citizens, who proudly served our country, who are now sitting in these places.  Go visit them.  You don't have to know them personally to say "Thank you".  

2.  Take care of their families.   Often, after the initial round of phone calls and condolences, the families of soldiers who have died are left alone, isolated in their grief.   Reach out to those families, even if it is just a thank you card. 


3.  Take care of the graves.  The great thing about military cemeteries is that most of them are well cared for.  Weeds are pulled up mercilessly, and the grass is kept well-manicured.  The same cannot be said for all cemeteries, and not all servicemen end up in military cemeteries.   The relatives of the deceased are not always physically capable of taking care of this task themselves, and they will appreciate the help.

4.  Donate money.   There are organizations that were created to help get wounded soldiers back on their feet, such as the Wounded Warrior Project, or the Fisher House Foundation.   These groups do good work, but good works are often expensive.  Help them out.

5.  Unite.  The politicians have us all polarized, seeming to be on opposite sides of...what?  I can never figure that out with all the yelling and name calling. We are all Americans, no matter our differences, and military service is honorable no matter who serves.  Maybe if we remembered that on the other days of the year?

I hope that everyone has a safe Memorial Day, whatever you are doing today!

From Little Acorns

This is the Founder's Oak in New Braunfels, Texas.

In 1700, a random squirrel buried an acorn and either promptly forgot about it or was eaten by a bobcat.  That acorn did what acorns are supposed to do if they aren't eaten by squirrels; it became a tree.  First it was a seedling.  Then it became a sapling.  And finally, it was a tree. 

People passed by the tree as it grew, and they could have cut it down for firewood or to build something.  They did not.  When the city of New Braunfels sprang into existence, this tree was there.  Germans are all about practical, and the tree would have been useful, but nobody touched this tree.

I am glad that they didn't!  It's a majestic Live Oak tree, and even though it's had to be propped up, it's still going strong.   

A Voice In the Night

"Mom!"

I heard it from a distance, a far off voice.  I struggled to the surface of my dream.   What is going on?  Who is this mom?  What is all that racket?  My brain is still poolside, sipping a tall,fruity drink brought to me by a cabana dude who looks remarkably like Batman.  

"Mom!"  

I don't usually sleep deeply.  Usually I have one ear trained to listen for my son throughout the night.  Occasionally, however, I just can't help it, and it's extremely difficult for me to wake up when I am that far under.   My consciousness smacked me.  Get up, your child needs you!  Your child is calling for you in the middle of the night!  There may be an actual emergency!  My heart raced in response and I shoved myself from the bed with a sudden alertness that belies my addled state.  I stumble through the dark, hitting the wall with my knee.   

"Mom!"

"I'm coming!"  It's only about ten feet, but it feels like a hundred because I am still groggy. 

"Mom, Wake up!"

"I'm here, son."  I am out of breath, panting from the adrenaline rush, but I am at least next to my child, and I am ready to help him.   "What's wrong?"
 
"Zzzzzzzzzz..."

It took me a few minutes of standing there to realize that Zane had been talking in his sleep.  Then I had to wrestle with my inner child another few minutes, because I wanted to wake the boy up just because he woke ME up. 

The next morning, Larry wanted to know why I was so cranky.  I think that I would have been justified if I had punched him, don't you?

WOE: The Queen Approaches

WOE prompt: use setting to deepen the development of your story.  You can use it to give insight into a character or a conflict or simply to evoke an emotional mood from your reader.


The clearing was in the deep of the forest, and it was unexpected, even with the GPS coordinates.  A sudden parting of trees, and Zenna found herself wide-eyed and surrounded by a coven of tall, ancient oak trees that stretched endlessly into the air. Their branches formed a canopy so thick that the dying sunlight barely penetrated.  Instead, a soft glow emanated from the bark of the majestic oaks, brightening with the darkness.  No insect or bird sounds seemed to penetrate the area around the circle of trees, and even the sounds of Zenna's breathing seemed to be muted.  There was a stillness to the air, as if the entire forest was waiting.  Darkness finally fell, and the air at the center of the clearing began to shimmer rhythmically.

Feeling the pulse of an immense power within her bones, Zenna bowed her head.  She did not enter the clearing.  Placing her backpack on the ground, she knelt to wait for the arrival of the Queen. 

Mamakat: Father's Day Loot.

Mamakat's Pretty Much World Famous Prompt:  3.) List 10 things you’d would love to give your husband or Dad for Father’s Day.  I combined a couple:


1.  A freshly mown lawn.  If we could afford it, I would gift my husband a lawn services to take care of this chore. My husband hates to mow the lawn as much as I hate to do dishes.  And yet the grass must be mowed, particularly when tall grass can hide...snakes.  So Larry is out there, a black cloud of mosquitoes flowing around him, pushing the lawn mower through tall grass, hypervigilantly watching for snakes.  He knows that if he sees a snake, I am to be summoned; I am the snake whisperer in the house.  Larry is the cockroach stomper.  The division of labor was necessary to avoid conflict.

2.  A whirlpool tub  We  have a whirlpool bathtub, but the motor broke, so now it is just a bathtub.  Before it broke, Larry was in there at least once a week.  He'd have a book, and his drink, sitting next to the tub on a little stool.  He would be in there until he was all pruney, but he loved it, and it seemed to relax him.  I have plans to get the motor fixed so my husband can once again relax, but I don't know when that will be.  Perhaps when I finish washing dishes...

3.  A brisket  We are carnivores in this family, and we like our brisket.  We just can't afford to have it very often.  A nice, slow cooked brisket will serve us several meals, both lunch and dinner.  Larry likes to roll his brisket into a tortilla, and that does sound kind of naughty, but it is not.  It is, however, quite yummy.

4.  A recliner  A recliner is a must have for any good father, so that he can lounge around in front of the television at the end of the day.  Perhaps Larry would fall asleep in that recliner, or at least doze off.  Then his son can jump off the sofa and land on his father's abdomen, to remind Larry of what is really important:  moving the couch further away from the recliner. 

5.  A family trip to Disney in Florida.  But not just Disney.  We would have to shell out the cash to see all the other attractions around there too, including Legoland.  It would be totally worth it to see Zane's face when he sees his characters walking about.  Larry loves going on roller coasters and the thrill rides, and Zane and I would watch. 

6.  A new laptop  Larry's laptop has seen better days.  It's survived a great many drops, and it's been to Alaska and back.  But it is six years old, and not going to be around much longer.  So Larry will search far and wide to find a sensible laptop that will do all the things that he wants it to do.  Except what he REALLY wants is this:

Source: alienware.com via Tina on Pinterest

7/8.  Tickets/backstage passes to see Iron Maiden/Rush  My husband is a hardcore Iron Maiden fan, and by 'hardcore' I mean that he has everything short of a tattoo of these guys.  He knows all of their albums in all of their incarnations, and will recite them on command.  I sometimes secretly swear that if I hear "Up the Irons!" one more time, someone's head will get a 'reboot'.  
 

Source: cduniverse.com via Tina on Pinterest

I will never understand it, but my husband's behavior at an Iron Maiden concert has been described as very similar to the behavior of fans at the first Beatles concert in the United States. I can't picture my husband screaming his head off until he fainted, so maybe that didn't happen.  Maybe.  When Larry is not going on and on about Iron Maiden, he goes on and on about Rush and how great they are, but with much less screaming and gesticulating. 

9.  Guitar lessons from Eddie Van Halen  Larry was teaching himself how to play the guitar, but he's been slacking lately.  He needs to get back in the groove, and who better to inspire excessive drinking and awesome guitar playing than the master?  Since the tour is on hiatus, those guys aren't busy, and maybe Eddie could use some extra money. 

10.  A trip to New Zealand to hang out with Peter Jackson  My husband is a huge fan of Tolkien.  He has become a huge fan of Peter Jackson as a result.  If he could have been there on the Pellinor Fields, killing orcs,  Larry would have gladly gone down under the hoof of an ellyphat.  If he were able to be on the set of The Hobbitt, Larry would completely lose his mind.  He would be as excited as a little child at Christmas, every set a page come to life.  He would talk Peter Jackson's ear off until a restraining order sent him back home.  But he would have a blast. 

Herding Ca--Kids

As part of our soccer family experience, my husband managed to secure a sponsorship with the San Antonio Scorpions, a professional soccer team.  This past weekend was a home game, and many of the kids in the soccer league were invited to come perform various activities during the game.  Some kids got to unfurl a huge American flag and wrangle with it in the middle of the field while the pros were coming out.  Other kids got to be the ones who chase after the ball if it goes out of bounds.  My husband was very adamant that our son get to participate in the festivities, but there aren't a lot of options for four year olds.  Except...escorting the visiting team out to the field. Brilliant! So Larry signed 10 three and four year old kids up to be escorts.  

We got Zane and headed to the field for the game; we all had to be there an hour early.  We gathered all the little ones and herded them down onto the field to wait.  For. An. Hour.   Little kids don't wait very well.  Some of them are able to sit still for short periods of time, but that is a rarity in nature. 

So they sat...then they got up...then there was breakdancing...then there was more sitting...then there was a little handflapping...more sitting...one skinned knee...some bathroom visits..more sitting...

In the middle of all this mayhem, Larry kept wandering off, because he was as 'in charge' of this event as anybody else.  Luckily, one of the other parents snuck down there with us, and she was ridiculously prepared with stuff like wipes.  Otherwise, I would have lost my mind trying to keep track of all of these kids.  There were only ten, but it seemed like 30.  Heck, my own child was the perfect example of how not to behave in a large crowd.  (Take one of those Super Balls into a room and throw it against the wall; the resulting ricochet resembled Zane.)  He was feeding off of the energy of the crowd, and I was regretting that nap I made him take. 

Finally, it was time.  The visiting team were Canadians, and I made sure that they all knew that the kids were three and four year olds.  All of the little ones were looking up and up and up at these BIG versions of themselves.  Well, almost all.  Zane wasn't the least impressed; he was excited and happy and he did not care who knew it.   The players each took the hand of a child and led them out onto the field.  All the other kids were sedately walking; Zane was bouncing, skipping, and practically dragging his professional soccer player along.  That poor, poor man!   The players stopped in the middle of the field for the introductions.  Zane is still bouncing and from the sidelines I can see that he is chattering away.  He is not facing the audience, he is facing HIS audience of four professional soccer players, who are all smiling at my son while he is hopping and jumping about. 

Did I mention that I regretted the nap? 

When the National Anthem started, in my mind I'm thinking, "CRAP!"  Because while we've practiced what you are supposed to do for the Pledge, we did not practice what you are supposed to do for the National Anthem.  The Canadian player, with the last name of Pinto, did his best to get Zane to stand quietly, to no avail.  The boy had to dance to his own music.  It didn't help that what Larry called one of the worse renditions of the National Anthem ever(I've heard much worse), seemed to go on and on because the singer thought it would be great to sing as slowly and as flatly as humanly possible.   It got no better when they played the Canadian anthem; Zane chose that moment to throw himself on the ground and pretend to be dead.  By this point, the boy next to him was joining in and flopping on the ground too. 

The players seemed to be laughing about it, which was good.  I was horrified.  My child was being disrespectful! I would have to move to a new town and change my name.  My parents would disown me and cut off Zane's college fund.  We would not be able to show our faces here for at least a decade.  Every worst case scenario was speeding through my head.  CPS would be waiting at the gate to take Zane, since we had neglected him so...the monologue went on. 

And then that wonderful, blessed switch went off in my head.  The switch that seems to shut off all the internal naggery that my brain subjects me to.  I took a deep breath, and let it out, there on the sidelines of a professional soccer game. I relaxed.  Zane is a kid, he's happy, he's excited, and most people like that.   There wasn't a thing that I could have done that would have changed Zane's behavior; he was in the zone.  His happy place.  If he's happy, then I'm happy.  

Some people probably got upset about his behavior during the Anthem, but it was looked upon more kindly because he is four.  Little kids are not expected to follow the rules as well as the older kids.  Little kids still get to be kids.  The important thing is that Zane had a great time, everybody had a great time, and I did not have a major coronary.  I might even do this again, if beer is served. 




*And if you want to see my child, you will have to go to the San Antonio Scorpions website and download the game video. My son comes along around the 20 minute mark.*

A Day in Random

I am glad that hurricane season is finally here. Not that I want the death and destruction that comes with a hurricane. I just want the rain. Lots and lots of steady rain. We are still in a drought here, and the summer heat will pull even more moisture from the air.  I'm not worried about the cacti. It's all the other plants and trees that I don't want to lose.  Not to mention all the critters that will come looking for water and scare the bejeebers out of my husband. 

The San Antonio Spurs are my favorite basketball team, let's just get that out of the way.  I am not a huge basketball fanatic.  But I like the Spurs.   They don't talk smack.  People talk smack about them, and they don't respond, or they just laugh.  The Spurs don't deliberately hurt other players.  Even Dennis Rodman made a Herculean effort to behave himself when he was a Spur.  The Spurs are just nice people.  Oh, and they also play some killer b-ball. 

My husband likes to go to Wal-mart.  Not for any actual shopping, mind you.  He was looking for this particular spider:

What he was actually asked to go to the store for was milk.   Do other husbands hit the store for one thing and come home with something completely different?  I want to know!   But the older Lego kids often remain closed until their owner reaches the appropriate age, so I'll be looking at the spider for awhile.

Am I the only person who noticed that the Lady Antebellum song "Need You Now"  is actually a booty call?  Yep, it's after 1am, and I'm drunk, so get your butt over here NOW for some lovin'!   So romantic, these kids today!   I suppose it keeps them off the street.  

WKRP in Cincinnati was one of the funniest shows on television, back in the day.  Sometimes I miss Herb Tarlek.  And Venus Flytrap.  And Les Nesman.  Occasionally I will get tape, and in his honor, make myself a door for my cubicle.  That always makes me smile. 

And now, from the random child files:  "Frogs are naked!"  Yes, indeed they are naked.  As God intended.  We would probably freak if they started wearing clothing.  Frogs would probably be snappy dressers. 

The A-List: Reasons to Blog

One of my oldest internet friends, Jillsmo, went through a recent crisis. (Note: when I say 'oldest', I am referencing the time that I've known her, not her actual age.  She actually does not remember back before electricity like I do)  You remember Jillsmo, right?  If I say her name one more time, she'll appear, right, Jillsmo?



Anyway, she got bummed out on blogging, and she thought about quitting. Which would be stupid of her, and might have made me consider flying to California despite my fear that it would immediately slide off into the ocean.  Jillsmo is consistently funny, she got some pretty sharp insight into people, and she is someone who is willing to DO instead of only talking about doing.  I admire that in a person.  She actually got another of our friends, Cactuspants, to start a blog, something he wasn't too keen about, but it is funny.   

But I started thinking about why someone might blog.  A lot of non-bloggers think that blogging is like writing a diary.  It is not, fortunately.  Because most diaries, unless you are Xaviera Hollander, can be pretty darn boring.  Some people get into blogging because they want someone to listen to them.  Some people get into blogging to make money.  Most people get into blogging because they have something to say about something.   Travel enthusiasts, like my friend Red, blog about the places they go and the wonderful things they see on their journeys.   Car enthusiasts blog about cars, and engines, and gaskets, and something called 'headers'.  Pet lovers blog about cats, and dogs, and the occasional snake. 

Moms blog about...their children.  We can't help it--once those helpless little creatures are born, they become the center of our universe, and we do tend to go on about them.  Everything they do is absolutely fascinating to us.   Samuel Pepys, we are not.  I would venture to call it a form of narcissism, since our children are genetically part of ourselves, but I would probably get yelled at by some of the bigger and badder mommy blogs.

I began blogging as a way to write about my kid, but I also wanted to be able to write about other topics as well, hence the name of my blog.  If I think about it, I have other reasons as well, and here they are.  Ta-da!

1.  Chattiness   I've noticed that when I have spent a significant amount of time with Zane, I become excessively chatty when I encounter adults. Any adult.  Woe to the poor Jehovah's Witnesses who show up to talk; they never get a word in edgewise.   I find myself blathering on and on, and I know that I'm blathering, but at least I am speaking in complete sentences.  Parents don't often get to say complete sentences!  Blogging allows me to get some of that verbosity out of my system, so I don't bore anyone completely to death.
 
2.  Creativity  My job is not very creative.  Writing reports about standard scores and interventions is boring and stale; the standard rule is to keep it simple.  But I like to create.  I like to putter with crocheting, cooking, jewelry making, painting, etc.  I do these things for  fun, to relax, to play.   Blogging is a way for me to play, to express my creative side.  Hence my use of various writing prompts; they are a way to spark my imagination a bit and stretch my brain.  I don't always make it pretty, but I do like to try.

3.  Writing skills  Writing is an extremely important communication skill, but it is a skill that can always use improvement.  One of the best ways to improve writing is to...wait for it...write.  Practice.  I know that there are tons of people who think that they can't write, but it is often just that they don't ever pick up a pen or sit at the computer and type anything other than emails. What you write down doesn't have to be War and Peace, and nobody else ever has to see it. Yes, at the beginning writing is difficult, but the more you write, the better you write. 

4.  Peeps  For awhile after my son was born, my world seemed to shrink.  I had coworkers to talk to, and my husband.  I needed to find other people to bond with, people with whom I could share stories, swap recipes, gripes, and tall tales.  Through blogging I have found some wonderful, positive people who make me laugh and cry and yell at my monitor.  I've seen pictures of beautiful children, heard stories of brave kitties, and found some yummy recipes.  I may not get to read every single blog every single day, but I do love my 'peeps'.  ('Peeps' is short for 'people'.  I don't know why someone felt the need to shorten that particular word.  It's kind of silly, isn't it?)

5.  Community  At the end of the day, it is about the sisterhood.  The general community of blog writers is generous with their reading time, generous with their comments, and wonderfully supportive.  The A to Z community, the Write on Edge community, and Mamakat's group have all been very positive and constructive in their comments.  Just to know that they are reading gives me a happy feeling.  They have supported my writing, my creativity(or the lack thereof), and that has made a huge difference to me, especially when I get discouraged about low comments. 

If you have any reasons to add, write them in the comments!

Book talk

I've talked before about how much I love holding an actual book in my hands, but I am too lazy to go back and find the post, so you'll just have to trust me.   I love all aspects of reading.  I especially enjoy the "pregame' festivities--the reading of the book jacket, the 'about the author' bio, and of course, the table of contents. You know--foreplay.  If there is an intro to the story, I like to delve into that, as well. 

The beginning of the book is where all the fun starts.

The beginning is where we are first introduced to what I, and probably lots of people, call 'the hook'.  This is whatever is needed to get the reader interested in the story, and by extension, the characters.  For example, the main character of Lee Child's books, Jack Reacher, at first glance appears to be extremely one-dimensional.  An ex-military cop who solves crimes.  Yay--how original!  Delve into the first couple of chapters, however, and you'll find a man with more dimensions than a seven-layer-dip. 

I like that. 

If a book is a house, the beginning is where you enter the house.  Are you entering through the garage?  The back door?  Is the front door wide open, or closed?  These are clues about the rest of the book to come.  And after you walk through the door of the house, what do you see?  An entryway with coats neatly hung up on hooks?  Piles of pizza boxes and dirty laundry?  An obstacle course of children's toys?  These are also clues.  If a beginning is too cluttered with information, the reader gets tripped up, and  it can be difficult to focus on the story.  Which is a shame.  

I am not so fond of the ending of a book.  By the time the end of a book rolls around, I've established a relationship.  I've been inside the character's heads.  We've laughed, we've cried.  But at the end of the book, we have to say goodbye and go our separate ways.  That is just the way it is.  I'm not good at goodbyes.  I get clingy and emotional.  I don't want the relationship to end, and I get a bit stalker-y.  It's kind of embarrassing.  

What is your favorite part of a book?

The All-You-Can-Eat Mosquito Buffet

Mosquitoes don't like me.  I'm not bragging here, but mosquitoes just don't seem eager to bite me.  There may be tons of the insects outside, but they leave me alone.  I can remember having mosquito bites as a child.  I seem to be persona non grata to them nowadays.  Occasionally I will get a couple of bites, but it is likely just a couple of young mosquitoes playing the mosquito version of "Chicken".   I don't even get the raised bump of a mosquito bite, just a red spot, as if the insect immediately died and fell away before even a sip of blood was tasted.     

My husband on the other hand, is viewed locally as an All-You-Can-Eat Buffet for mosquitoes.  If he sets foot outside, he is immediately surrounded by a floating black cloud of bloodsuckers.  It looks like a scene from a bad horror movie, and when it is over, my husband has to take benedryl to recover from the itchy bites.  I secretly call them his groupies, since I read that only female mosquitoes bite.  To mow the lawn, Larry has to first slather himself in insect repellent, and then roll around in a different insect repellent, and then put on two layers of clothing.  He also wears dark sunglasses so the mosquitoes don't recognize him, but it does no good.  They are waiting for him when he opens the garage door, not disturbed in the least by the sound of the lawnmower.  When we  travel to different places, the mosquitoes around here wire their friends, who usually meet us as soon as we get out of the car, wherever we happen to be.  Picture any scene in The Birds, only with mosquitoes.

I'm starting to get a little jealous, as stupid as that sounds.  What does he have that I don't have?  There has to be some reason!  Does my blood taste bad or something?  Do the mosquitoes know something that I don't know?  Was I exposed to random chemicals as a child that have made my blood toxic to mosquitoes? Was I bitten by a radioactive mosquito?  Shouldn't I have a superpower, if that is the case?  Is that my superpower--my ability to repel mosquitoes? Because that is pretty lame, as superpowers go. Superman at least gets to leap tall buildings!

WOE: Choices

Prompt: In 400 words or less, write a story or memoir which relates to choices and/or consequences.  Let me know what you think; this was all I had brainwise!


It all comes down to choice, Melanie thought. My choice.  

The two men sat nervously, side by side, on her small couch, their hands and feet revealing their agitation. Jordan's fingers twisted over each other in a continuous wringing of his anxious state. Leland's hands were still, but his left foot was bouncing an invisible soccer ball.

Melanie looked at them both carefully as she had been instructed. Jordan's eyes were the gray of an ice storm, which didn't seem to match his blonde hair or his tan skin. Leland's posture was confident, his eyes were kind, but he appeared to have had some scarring on one side of his face.   She knew the genetics of each man; they were healthy and disease free.  She knew that some of the lines on Leland's face were from laughter, while the lines between Jordan's eyes were from pain. 


Her father had handpicked these men for her.  They were known for their abilities in protection and defense skills.  They had jobs that earned good money, and both of them could support a wife and a child. All she had to do was make a choice.  Melanie chewed her lower lip thoughtfully.


"Just to be clear, both of you want to marry me?"


"Yes," the men responded together.

"And both of you want to have a child with me?" Melanie found this the hardest part to accept. She was a very plain woman, after all.  It seemed impossible that any man would want her, let alone two.  But the two in front of her murmured assent. 

Melanie looked at the two men.  As only one of the 1000 women left on the continent, her services as a baby house were constantly in demand.  And yet she was tired of being a mere receptacle used to grow a baby.  She wanted a child of her own.  She wanted a relationship.

"Okay, gentlemen." Melanie beamed at them.  "I have made my choice."  They leaned forward, eager.

"I choose both of you for my husband,"  She announced.

"But, you're only supposed to choose one!"  Jordan was aghast. Leland just sat silent, waiting.

"Then I'll be the first to have two!" Melanie clapped her hands in her excitement.  "We will start a trend!"

There was a thud in the next room as her father had fainted. 

Fourth Grade Failure

Mamakat's prompt:  Share a story from fourth grade.

I had a great teacher in 4th grade. Mrs Gill. I loved her, with that intense affection that kids develop for teachers.  She never yelled, and every day after lunch she would read aloud to us from a chapter book.  The names of the books escaped me, but there was at least one character named Caleb. 

One day, Mrs. Gill told me in so many words that I was special. Because I was so special, I would be in a special math group. An advanced math group.  I was so excited!  I was never too keen on math,  and I had only just memorized my times tables, but if Mrs. Gill thought that I could do it...wow!  I basked in the warm sunlight of her confidence.

Initially, I tried very hard, because I wanted to be worthy of my teacher's regard.  I paid attention when Mrs. Gill spoke to the group. I even took notes...except that she seemed to speak very quickly, and never seemed to be able to answer any questions about the concepts. She just gave us worksheets and sent us into the corner to work. I also noticed that this special group seemed to be assigned twice as many problems than the other kids.  Most of the kids in the advanced group seemed to finish the entire page very quickly, while I...dawdled, and doodled.  Oh, did I doodle! Math was insanely boring, plain and simple.  Even at that age, I could see no good reason in completing an entire page of the same type of problem, when completing half demonstrated that I knew what to do.  And why the hurry to finish?  There were no mysteries of the universe to be solved in multiplying 6 by 7, therefore there was no rush.  Now, of course, I know that the whole point was math fluency, but it made no sense in fourth grade, and Mrs. Gill never explained that to me.

Mrs. Gill was very upset by the end of my third week in the advanced program.   She pulled me aside again.  I would no longer be part of the advanced group, but would have to sit with the not-advanced group.  At the end of Mrs. Gill's 'talk', this is what I knew:  I was too stupid to understand math.  I was a failure because I couldn't complete entire pages of equations like I was supposed to.   Mrs. Gill's disgust was a kick where it hurt.  I may have cried. Where I had been confident, I became hesitant.  Where I had been comfortable, I now withdrew.  My interest in pleasing Mrs. Gill waned considerably. Why bother, when any attempt to complete a task might mean another failure?  

Since that year, I've struggled with math, barely passing those classes. That day, when I learned that I was a failure at math, left me with feelings of inadequacy that have never gone away.  And why is that?  

Because she made me feel like a failure.  I hate her for that.

The Fifty Phenomenon

Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey? 

No? 

I have. 

And so have about fifty of my female friends. 

And fifty of their female friends.

And so on... 

It is amazing.  I've been in grocery stores and on the sidelines of soccer games and I'll hear the familiar exclamation:  "Have I got a book for you!"  This is usually followed by several random women, often mere passerby, piping in to say "Fifty Shades!"   With those two words thrown in the mix, women gather, and suddenly there is conversation.  Conversation that doesn't have a thing to do with, well...kids. 

This buzz has been different from the Twilight event.  This has been different from The Hunger Games. Those books were stories that provided a common ground between mothers and daughters(in the case of Twilight), and between parents and their children(in the case of The Hunger Games).  I could discuss these books with my niece, my nephews, and various random children. 

The Fifty books are adults only.   But are these books "Mommyporn", as the media asserts?  I don't believe so, and I resent the implication of that label.  Porn is about the quick fix, the instant gratification, usually between strangers.  What the Fifty books offer is erotica.  Erotica is about the relationship...the slow dance, the anticipation, the delayed gratification...all leading to the grand climax. 

Those women who have read the books share a camaraderie, a safe relationship, where it is suddenly safe for women to ask other women questions about sex, without fear of ridicule and with minimal nervous giggling. As a parent, my world has narrowed dramatically; I don't get to spend a lot of time with other women, and when I do, the conversation is often about children.  I'm not complaining; that's what parenting is about, after all.  But since the Fifty books came out, I've discussed aspects of sex with other women that I haven't even thought about since college, dug out a few old textbooks, found my copy of the Karma Sutra, and I've asked questions of my own. Even if the person asking the questions has no intention of ever using anal beads or ben-wa balls, the curiosity is illuminating aspects of female sexuality that are usually kept in the dark.  I think that is wonderful.

What's more, the women who have read the Fifty books have taken what they've read, and discussed, home to their husbands or significant others.  There are conversations taking place in the bedroom that have not a thing to do with children and everything to do with intimacy.  And that is a good thing.  One of the biggest issues for new parents is re-establishing some sense of intimacy in their relationship.  Once there is a child in the mix, there are interruptions.  There are sleepless nights.  There is sudden projectile vomiting.  Even when the kids are older, there's sporting events, Sunday school, camps, and sleepovers stuck in between the grocery shopping, laundry, and gainful employment.  Being a parent wears us out on most days, and doesn't make us feel sexy or pretty or even remotely interesting sometimes, and that can make it difficult to feel romantic.  There has to be a conscious effort, on the part of both parties, to rebuild the intimacy. From what I've seen and heard, these books offer a place to start, a road map of sorts.  I've heard of some husbands asking to read the books, but mostly I've heard of women reading the books, aloud, to their husbands.  The important thing is that husbands and wives are re-establishing their relationship, rebuilding the very closeness shared before children came along. 

And that is a very good thing.  What do YOU guys think?

I Think I'm Random Today

I'm feeling a bit "off" today.  My brain doesn't seem to want to hang on to any one thought for longer than it takes to register that it is, indeed, a thought.  In other words, I seem to be having a James Joyce stream of consciousness day.  I blame that Lego Alien dude with his green ray gun.  Luckily, my friend Andrea over at Maybe It's Just Me  saved the day, since she introduced me to Stacy, who is reportedly uncorked.  Uncorked is a good way to be, I think.

I am sad to say that my son went into daycare with his pants on backwards yesterday.  I didn't notice until he was walking away from me on his way into his classroom, because well, I'm not really awake when we drop him off.  I'm still on the guilt trip from that one.  To be fair, the boy is all about independence right now, so he wants to get himself dressed, and I have to let him. Right? I guess that I should be glad that he is still asking me which shoe goes on which foot!

We have a family of barnswallows that visit us every year.  I am not sure what the average life span of a barnswallow is, but these seem to be from the same family that has been visiting us since we moved in.  I am enough of a science-geek type that I enjoy watching the birds as they sit on the eggs and struggle to keep those babies fed.  My cat Zena loves the barnswallows, too--she regularly parks herself somewhere under the nest and takes a nap.  I know that she is doing it just to perturb them! Those birds will make a racket and dive bomb her, but she's a cat, and she loves that drama. 

We have had tons of storms the past week, and I couldn't be happier.  Why?  Because we are about a quart low on water around here, so any rain at all is very appreciated.  At least, appreciated by everyone who isn't my husband.  (As you might surmise, he is the one who mows the lawn around here!)   We've had about ten inches of rain over the past ten days, but we could probably do with ten more.  I would really like to plant some flowers and grow some veggies!

Speaking of random, my son told me that "Dogs don't write."  I think that I will wait to tell him that our dog, Sandy, may she rest in peace, used to maintain regular correspondence with several small children in her younger days.  Sandy was a faithful dog as well as a faithful letter writer, even if her spelling and handwriting were atrocious.  I guess that it is difficult for a dog to hold a pen, but perhaps a smart one could learn to type?  Then it could go into politics!

The A-List: Ways to Build a Better Brain

The more I read about the human brain, the more amazed I am.  I know that people often compare brains to computers, and there are some similarities.  But the brain is so much more complex than that!  We have been studying it for centuries, and we still don't know all of the secrets that it has to offer.  One thing that we DO know, however, is that the brain that goes unused tends to deteriorate.  I saw this with my father-in-law; once he stopped working, he went downhill very fast into Alzheimers.  I also have seen this in children brought in for special education testing.  If a child has been stuck at home(as in never leaves the house) without  anyone to talk to them or read to them, we certainly can't expect them to talk or read as well as those kids who have had that in their homes, but those kids are at a disadvantage from the beginning of their school careers.

I am not a neurologist, and I do not have a PhD.  I do not spend hours in a lab with electrode-embedded rats.  So this is not, nor should it be considered to be, medical advice.  These are MY ways of keeping my own electrodes firing on most cylinders.  I am just sharing, because that is what I do. This is what works for me.

Nutrition  Good nutrition makes for good brain, we all know this.  Unfortunately, it is the rare child or adult who will bypass a deep fat fried chicken nugget for a hunk of broccoli.   We are all programmed to go for the tasty stuff, but that isn't always the healthiest.   I've seen those books out there who advocate 'sneaking' veggies into the food via purees and such, but I am way too ridiculously lazy to do that, and I think it is a bit unethical to lie to your children about food.  But the nutrition has to come in there somewhere.  So taking a multivitamin is a good idea, preferably one that has DHA or Omegas in it for extra brain support.  The pediatricians in most places can recommend a few to try.   

Outside   People need to be outside at least an hour a day.  They need to be playing or working, but they need to be outdoors, and so do you.  We all need Vitamin D and we can get that via sunlight. Staying indoors all the time isn't good for anyone. Exercise of any kind gets the blood circulating everywhere, and that includes the brain.  The more blood circulating, the better the brain works.  Being outdoors means breathing fresh air instead of air conditioned air, which is a good thing.  Being outdoors means flowers and sunshine and earth.  It means walking in the cool grass with bare feet or hunting for lightning bugs.  It means kicking a soccer ball, or flying a kite, or just sitting, if you can't do anything else.  If you are allergic to something, take your epipen along or your inhaler.  The benefits of being outdoors outweigh the possibility of a bee landing on you. 

Language  The very best way for a child to learn language is to hear it, yet there are a lot of parents who never speak to their babies because they think it is silly.  It is not silly.  The more words a child is exposed to early, the better they speak.  The better they speak, the better they read. They've done studies...lots and lots of studies.  It's all connected, in the brain as well as out in the world. Where I live, I am as gringa as they come, but I still keep trying to pick up Spanish.  Because when you're an adult and worried about the brain deteriorating, what is the best way to help yourself?  Learning a new language.  Even if you feel that you are hopeless with learning a new language, a word-a-day calendar can work wonders.  When you look at a new word, think about how that word connects with words that you already know; that will help with remembering it. 

Adventures   My parents used to haul my brother and I all over the place on trips to different countries, different museums, different parks.  I might not have liked these trips at the time, but when I found out that some people have never even left the town they live in, I thanked my parents for their foresight.  Having adventures builds up the brain by building new connections to prior learning.  Actually going to the Capitol is not the same as studying it at school.  Seeing an elephant is not the same as reading about it or watching one on television. We all could do with a little more adventuring in our lives!  Go exploring a local park that you've never been to.  Take a drive to a part of your state that you've never seen before.  Being in new places, having new experiences, meeting new people...these are all good for the brain, even if it doesn't seem that way at the time.   Just ask my friend Red, who is on a quest to explore Australia, one town at a time.   She is quite the adventuress!

Problem-solving   Some of my favorite games when I was growing up were puzzle games like Memory or Clue.  I was not big on Monopoly, and not just because my brother usually won.  I also enjoyed mystery novels as a kid.  I had no idea that I was building a better brain by indulging in my natural tendency to 'puzzle' things out, but that is what I was doing.  The thrill for me was figuring these things out on my own, without any help. Puzzle or Mystery games offered that.  Puzzles of all kinds are the key.  Rubik's Cube works on problem-solving AND visual spatial skills.  Soduku puzzles work on math skills as well as problem-solving.  Mystery games(except for that Mystery Date game--lame!)  or mystery stories work on deduction skills.  Look and find books are also a great idea--finding Waldo requires attention to details to solve the problem, which is also another vital brain skill.  I loved it when I knew that Miss Scarlet had beaned Professor Green in the head with that lead pipe; I felt incredibly smart for at least an hour!







Did I miss any?

Happy Mother's Day

My son was on the soccer field, eye on the ball, in a race to gain control of the game.  He was able to kick the ball ahead of his opponent, and he ran ahead of the melee on the field.  When he was near the goal, he kicked...and he scored!   I clapped and cheered, one of a multitude of mothers and fathers. Zane's father was cheering from the coach's bench, but my son's eyes searched for me. 

Zane looked right at me, smiled...then he raised his hand to give me a thumbs up.  Everyone on the sidelines laughed, but I raised my hand to salute my boy with a thumbs up of my own. We had a little mother-son moment.

It was perfect.

Soccer has mostly been about my son and his father. They watch it on television, they practice in the back yard, they discuss strategy(well, Larry discusses...Zane points out bugs or birds outside). Sometimes I've wondered if they even knew that I was there!  So it was wonderful to find that my son does know that I am there.  That touched my heart, right in the soft spot. 

So happy Mother's day to all the unsung heroes out there, who do little things, like show up at soccer games or buy the special Spiderman band-aids or give extra special hugs.  Your children DO notice!

I Am Mom Enough.

The Internet is abuzz.  It's a media feeding frenzy, all over this magazine cover, which has made the Breast Nazis very happy.

Source: flickr.com via Tina on Pinterest

When I had my son, two women came into my hospital room, smiling so very pleasantly.  I thought they were some of the various church volunteers that visit the sickly, otherwise I would have been more wary.   These lovely women were actually from a breastfeeding society, and they  proceeded to tell me all about how great breastfeeding is.  My son would gain weight faster.  He would be able to punch holes through brick walls. He would never be sick.  He would be smarter than Stephen Hawking.  And...as a special bonus, my breastfed child would be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound!  They were so effusive in their praise of breastfeeding(You can lose 40lbs in a day!) that I started looking for lobotomy scars or other evidence that they were Pod people. 

I had researched breastfeeding, and indeed there are tons of health benefits for the baby, which do not include any superpowers.   I had already decided that I wanted to breastfeed.  I didn't need these women, as pleasant as they were, to persuade me.  I started to speak several times, but they were not to be deterred from their speech.   So I just sat, nodding politely every now and then.  Then things got weird.  It would be a crime against humanity for me not to breastfeed, I was told.  Charles Manson's mother didn't breastfeed, and look how he turned out!  I would have to be the most horrible mother on Planet Earth not to breastfeed.  Maybe these women did not say that outright, but that was the gist of their prepared speech. I must breastfeed! I started to feel bad about myself.

Except what if I physically couldn't breastfeed?  Zane was early.  What if that meant a strike at the milk manufacturing plants in my chest?  I said as much, voicing my fears.  Not to worry, these women told me.  The milk would come, if I would just pump every two hours.  Every two hours for how long?  By the time they left, my head was spinning. I would not be a real woman, or a good mother, if I did not breastfeed.  If I felt this way, how must other women feel, fresh from the physical trauma of childbirth? 

I got angry at these Breast Nazis.  Why should a woman be made to feel less than perfect just because she might be unable to breastfeed, or if she chooses not to breastfeed?  Who decided this?  Why make a new mother feel horrible about something that might be out of her control? What purpose does it serve for them to try to bully women this way?  Over the years since Zane was born, it seems like some of the women who breastfeed tend to lord it over the women who don't or can't.  The implication is that I am a terrible mom, that I am not "mom enough", because I was only able to breastfeed for six months.23 That the response to this magazine cover has been so extreme tells me that I am not the only mother who has experienced these feelings.

Here are MY feelings on the subject of breastfeeding a child over the age of two:  I don't think it is a good idea.  I think that it can have negative consequences for the child(in 18 years, when that boy is looking for a job and his prospective employer googles him, for one), and ultimately a negative effect on the attachment between mother and child.  After a certain point, I think that breastfeeding becomes more about what the mother wants and not what the child needs.  In the wild, weaning is  done pretty quickly; babies don't survive otherwise.  That is how it is supposed to be; the child has to separate from the parent and learn some measure of independence.   But let me make it clear that I have no interest in forcing others to believe as I do.  What works for one mother may not work for another, and while it may seem weird to me, I try to not to judge. However, I resent the idea that I am not "mom enough" because I am not still breastfeeding my 4 year old.

Being "mom enough" has nothing to do with how long you breastfeed. It has nothing to do with getting your picture on the cover of a magazine. It has nothing to do with everyone sleeping in the same bed, or keeping your child with you 24/7.  Parenting has everything to do with love, and it is never about YOU.   Once a mother understands that, she is "mom enough".

WOE: Moonlight

Prompt: For this week, I’m offering you this opening line:
“Two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane.”

Previous visits with these characters are here and here.


Two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane.   As his wings folded quickly behind him, Boone had a brief moment to watch Melchior materialize from the shadows in front of him.   The man moved toward him, the shadows grew cold tendrils which slithered over the ground, pulling life out of everything it touched. Even the moonlight seemed to falter.  The creeping darkness curled around Boone's legs before his innate warmth drove it back. The nauseating stench of a freshly opened corpse seemed suspended in the air around Melchior, but Boone took two steps forward anyway.

"You wanted to meet?" The muscles in Boone's jaw twitched as he fought his revulsion.

Melchior seemed to inhale the shadows around him, his yellow eyes glaring as his body seemed to become larger and more solid.  Malevolence animated the man, despite his great age.

"Why did you return the money from our contract?"   Melchior's breath hissed in the air, and carried his voice back toward Boone.

"The engagement was broken," Boone's voice was flat, impassive. He breathed in shallowly through his mouth, which helped.   "I returned your money, since there is no longer a need to kill the woman." 

Melchior coughed harshly. 

"I do not care if there is a need," he barked. "I want her dead."

"Why?" Boone asked. "She poses no threat. Your son will find someone else."

The air around Melchior seemed to shimmer, his anger a living creature encircling him.

"She consorts with dragons!" he spat.

"Dragons?"  Boone snorted, a mistake. His hands fisted, even as he kept his voice even.  "Have you been smoking that medicinal marijuana, old man?" 

"If you won't kill her, I will find someone else! That woman must die." Coughing harshly, he seemed to collapse in on himself, his body disappearing as the shadows collected themselves around him.  When the darkness was a solid mass, it began shrinking out of existence, taking its foulness with it.

Boone waited, his whole body clenched, until the mass of darkness was swallowed and the moonlight returned to its former brightness completely before he leaned over and threw up.

The Moment

Mamakat's prompt: Share a parenting moment where you really began to realize what this mothering thing is all about.

I didn't really get to touch my son until a couple of days after he was born, and even then, those first few days were kind of surreal. Zane was in an incubator, and our touching him was limited by his need to stay attached to monitors and feeding tubes.  So there was a little distance at the beginning, a little space between my heart and my son.  Breathing room.

There are a lot of tests run on babies, NICU babies especially.  Tubes are checked, oxygen levels are raised and lowered, blood is drawn, etc.  Most of it happens when parents are not around, because parents in the NICU tend to get hysterical, for rather obvious reasons.  It is just easier for the doctors and the nurses to deal with one patient instead of two or three.  So many of the medical tests that Zane had to undergo happened when we were at home or early in the morning.  Various tubes and wires appeared and disappeared, or we were informed of the results of this blood test or that.  Again, there was that distance for me. Breathing room.  Sometimes it seemed as if I were dreaming that I had a son.

Then one day, while I was sitting with Zane in the NICU, the pediatric opthamologist showed up.  Since premature babies have a chance of developing eye problems, the hospital wanted Zane checked out.  The doctor explained that he was going to shine a bright light into my son's eyes to examine the retinas and the blood vessels of the eye.  As the nurse pulled the curtain around us to darken the area, the doctor looked at me.

"You can stay, but you have to remain over there," he said.  This made me pause a moment, but I agreed to remain seated on the other side of the room.  Zane was sleeping, swaddled as tightly as I could manage, like the nurses taught me.

The doctor hovered over Zane's crib a moment.  Then he pulled out some clamps.  I'd seen those clamps before.  They were a smaller version of the clamps used on Malcolm MacDowell's character in the film A Clockwork Orange.   I watched in horror as the doctor used those tiny clamps to prop open my son's eyelids, then shine that very bright light into them.  Zane screamed in protest, and his cry ripped through that tiny bit of distance that had been between us since his birth and stabbed painfully right into my heart.

Intellectually, I understood what the doctor was doing, and knew that he wasn't being deliberately cruel to a three week old infant.  Intellectually, I understood the implications of pediatric retinopathy and what it might mean for my son's future if the doctor did not see normal blood vessels.  Intellectually, I knew that the doctor only took about twenty seconds to complete his exam and remove the clamps. Unfortunately, what I witnessed was not all about intellect.  I was unprepared for the emotional reaction. It was as if the doctor were shining that light into MY eyes.  I couldn't pretend it wasn't happening.  My child was in distress and I had to sit there and let the doctor do his job, even though I really, truly wanted to punch him right in the face. 

And I realized that this would be my life. They don't talk about this part of being a parent.  I might have to hide it, but I was never going to be able to hear my son cry without having this visceral reaction.  There would be times, however, when I might have to let doctors do their job. Immunizations would have to happen.  Stitches might become necessary, or other medical procedures along the way.  Someone would have to be there for the broken arms as well as the broken hearts.  And that someone was probably going to be me, his mother.   I have never felt so inadequate, but it was too late to go back.  I mentally sucked in my gut and grit my teeth as I moved to comfort Zane.  We were in this thing together, and we would do what we needed to do.

 

Backseat Drivers

We used to tell Zane the colors of the traffic lights before he started talking; it was a way to pass the time and help him learn his colors.  We were stupid back then.  Somewhere along the way, my son started watching our driving very carefully.  I am not sure when it happened, but Zane began channeling the evil driving instructor from my high school days.  He even has that old school driving instructor tone of voice, that "I am so bored with you morons" tone.  It drives me up the wall, although I do my best not to show it.  At least he's looking around at the world, right?

"Green means go."

"Yes, son."

"Red means stop."

"Yes, son."

Yellow means slow down."

"Yes, son."

"Green arrow!"

"Yes, son."

"Car's coming!"

"Yes, son."

"Stop Sign!  Mama, why are you hitting your head on the steering wheel?"

Fortunately, my son cannot see the speedometer.  He'd be telling me to slow down, too. Come to think of it, that would have been a good idea.  It might have kept me from getting my second speeding ticket in the past year.  Before last year I hadn't had a speeding ticket for almost twenty years, but suddenly I have a lead foot, and was going 8 miles over the speed limit.

I wasn't trying to speed, but I also wasn't paying attention to my speed, either.  My son didn't say a word while I was talking to the police officer and giving him my license, etc. Once he went to his car to write out the ticket, I had to explain why we had been pulled over.  It's a little embarrassing to have a cop behind you, lights flashing, when you have your kid in the car.

It's even worse when your husband is sitting in the passenger seat. He's not ever going to let me live it down!

The A to Z Challenge After Party

Alas, the Great A to Z Blog Challenge is over for 2012.  However, there is still the after party, for those who still want to dance.  Since I'm usually in bed asleep when most 'after parties' get started, I am just taking the word of my younger friends about the dancing.  Back before electricity, we didn't have an 'after party'--we just kept the party going until we all fell asleep with blisters on our feet.  We were pretty hardcore in the 1880s.  Still, after parties are all the rage now.   

The blog challenge wasn't as difficult for me as it was last year.  I suppose that my natural anxiety about the unknown fueled my fears last year; the blog challenge seemed like a colossal mountain to climb.  And the bloggers!  Yikes!  Serious authors, with actual published books!  Wayyyyy more intimidating than I expected it to be.  I would sit in front of the computer, and the white screen would taunt me with its blankness.  When I was able to type something, it was with the worry that I wouldn't measure up. 

This year my anticipation of the event was way more than my anxiety.  I loved thinking about what to write, and it seemed that the ideas flowed more freely.  I don't know if my ideas were that great, but at least I had them this time.  The blank screen was enticing instead of intimidating. It was exhilarating!  I felt as though I completed a marathon of sorts, only without the major asthma attack and torn ligaments!

And I got to read lots of great blogs!  This year my phone had a screen large enough for me to be able to read blogs on it, so whenever I had a free moment, I was reading. What awesome talent is out there!  They were like little snapshots in an album, and I loved fussing over every single one.  Of course, when you guys become famous, I'll expect an autographed copy of your novel!  

The A-List: Why I Go To The Movies

I used to watch a lot of movies.  We would hit the theater near our house at least once a week when we lived in Germany, and when Beta-Max hit, my entire family was spending their weekends in front of the television, watching movies.  As I've grown older, however, my theater going days have been significantly reduced by the dollar signs.  At ten or eleven bucks a ticket and throwing in eight dollar popcorn and and four dollar drinks, it isn't worth the cost.  Even if we don't get the popcorn or drink, if the movie sucks, I feel like I've been cheated. 

Source: en.wikipedia.org via Tina on Pinterest

We cheerfully paid the money, however, to see The Avengers this weekend. We did not have to stand in line for tickets(thank you, Fandango!). We did have to arrive at the theater earlier than normal, keep a restless 4 year old busy during that time, and wait forEVER in line for popcorn and a small drink.  While I was standing in line and reconsidering my footwear, I thought about why I was there on a beautiful Saturday morning.  I was there with my family, paying to see a movie about comic book superheroes.  Wow. That thought, of course, led me to consider what sorts of movies I am willing to pay to see in a theater these days. 

1. Pure escapist fare.   I don't go to the movies to see Oscar-worthy films anymore, unless there's something else about the film that catches my attention, such as The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  Nor do I enjoy sitting in a theater bawling my head off watching chick flicks.  I prefer to view those movies at home, sometimes with a giant box of tissues.  Maybe I am an oddball, but when I plop down the exorbitant prices they charge at the theater these days, I want fun. I want to escape reality for a small window of time.  I want stuff exploding.  I want car chases, the more ridiculous the better.  I want my hero/heroine decisive and clever.  And I want to look at the pretty actors who work out forty times a day to have the rock hard abs and nice biceps and a butt that you can bounce a quarter off of.  None of those things have anything to do with real life.

2. Bring me the funny.  When Old Yeller died, I cried.  When ET died, I cried.  When Spock died, I cried.  I hate crying in public; my face gets all blotchy, and there are never enough tissues.   And why would I pay money to cry and be depressed?  Real life does that to me on occasion for free.  I want to giggle.  I want to guffaw.  I want to belly-laugh so hard that I am crying, because those types of tears are wonderful.  Laughter is cathartic and it is healthy, and I don't have nearly enough of it in my life, so I will pay to see a movie that will make me laugh.

3. Samuel L. Jackson.  I will pay to see just about any movie that has Samuel L. Jackson appearing in it.  I will also pay to see Daniel Craig, Robert Downey, Jr., Tim Roth, and Christian Bale.  These people have credibility with me, because what I have seen of their work has been consistently good.  I don't limit myself to actors.  If Joss Whedon is involved in a movie, I am there, as I am with Quentin Tarantino, Robert Rodriguez, Guillermo Del Toro.   Sometimes I am disappointed, of course (*cough* Snakes on a Plane).  Mostly, I am just transfixed.

4. Good stories.  I read books for the stories they tell me.  I watch television shows for the very same reason.  Movies are no different.  I don't have to be told a great story, but I want to be told a good story.  If a movie tells me a good story, I can ignore bad acting and poor CGI.  A good story makes even a poor director look decent, which is why so many movies panned by critics become cult classics. 

5. Connections.  If I read a good book, I talk about it.  If I see a good movie, I talk about it.  Movies give us a cultural point of reference, a form of language that isn't necessarily verbal.   If I am on the streets in a foreign country, and I say "Hulk smash", at least one person in the crowd will lift his eyebrows and nod to show that he gets it.  There are very few places out there where people don't know what "Yippy-kai-ay, Mother-F*****" is from.  Even if we are complete strangers and have no other way to communicate, the movies give us a common language to use to communicate with others. That is pretty awesome. 

That's my list.  What do you think?  What gets you to pay to see a movie in the theater these days?

Climb Every Mountain? Are You Kidding?

Everyone, everywhere, knows about Mount Everest.   There is no higher place to be and still have your feet on this planet.  When you are standing on the top of Everest, you can wave at the passengers on  a 747 as the plane flies by, because that is how high you are. You would also be oxygen deprived and probably freezing to death, but that part doesn't really look good on the brochures.  While up there, you are supposed to feel as though you have conquered the world in a metaphysical as well as real game of King of the Mountain.  You are supposed to feel a sense of achievement that will last for the rest of your life, assuming that you are able to make it back down the mountain. People die trying to have that feeling.  Not only do they die, but they pay good money for a license and a guide to get them there. 

Source: google.com via Tina on Pinterest

I've felt as though I've had a lot of mountains to climb lately.  They aren't so intimidating as Everest, but they still exist.  For instance, there is paperwork.  Have I mentioned that I hate paperwork?  Maybe it is the time of the year, but it has been even more difficult to get out of bed the past couple of weeks just because I don't want to face the mountain of paperwork.  As soon as the alarm goes off, I have a sudden horrendous picture of my desk, with the 40,000 folders on it, which MUST be completed by a specific deadline or else.  I'm pretty sure that the "or else" involves shackles and a bull whip.   In that brief moment, that stack of paper looks like Everest.

Why do I have to climb that particular mountain?  Where is the purpose, the sense of achievement, that should come from completing all this paperwork?  I've calculated that I spend more than 50% of my job doing paperwork. Boring, ridiculous, repetitive paperwork that nobody ever reads unless there is a lawsuit.  I was raised to believe that when you overcome an obstacle, no matter what it is, it is an achievement, but when it comes to paperwork, that sense of achievement doesn't exist.   It never will.

Nobody finishes a pile of paperwork and does a victory dance.  Nobody gets a bonus check for dotting all the is and crossing the ts. Nobody whispers on their deathbed that their greatest achievement was that they cleared their desk off.  Your coworkers don't high-five you when you turn in that last folder at the end of the workday.  Those victory celebrations are for real achievements like getting an important account or winning a legal argument, not for completing paperwork.  Sometimes the toughest obstacles to complete are the ones that seem to have no regal or heroic aspect. We are expected to do them, so we do them.  They are just part of the humdrum of daily life, and you aren't going to get accolades for completing them. 

Unless you give them to yourself.  I plan on treating myself to a cupcake or two just as soon as I manage to reach the summit of this particular mountain.  And that is something that the people who reach the top of Everest can't do!

But Was It Ironic?

Note:  This story was told to me by Lori, but it happened awhile ago, and so some of the facts may be murky or completely fabricated as my brain tried to fill in the blanks.  But the end result was still the same! 


A colleague of mine was working in her office one afternoon.  Her two children had been dropped off by the school bus, and they were working on their homework while their mother was finishing up a few projects. 

"Mom!  My backpack moved!"  Her son moved nervously to her side, and her daughter joined them. They gathered together protectively and then turned to look.  Indeed, the outer pocket of the backpack was wiggling, as if something were trying to get out.  Momentary pandemonium ensued, as all parties freaked out a bit.

"C, what do you have in your backpack?" Lori was no idealist; she knew that boys tend to collect the random animal as the opportunity presented itself.  C. insisted that he had no idea what was in his backpack. 

Then Lori remembered C.'s teacher mentioning that a mouse had been spotted in the classroom that week.  Could that mouse have accidentally hitched a ride?  How did it get into the backpack? Was there anything else in that backpack besides a mouse--say two mice?  One thing was sure: whatever was in that backpack was not going to be set free inside her office. 

Down the hall to the elevator the three of them went.  Out the door to the small back parking lot.  The backpack pocket was opened...and the mouse scurried out and made a beeline for the other side of the parking lot, where a ditch full of tall grass offered a refuge from loud fourth graders.  Lori and her children watched the mouse's progress as it briefly hid underneath cars then raced ever closer to sanctuary. 

Finally, the mouse was there!  The trio watched as the mouse disappeared into the ditch.  They had rescued the mouse, released it back into the "wild" of  New Braunfels.  There was a brief pause,  to consider the entire episode before heading back upstairs.

...And that is when the cat ran out of the ditch with the mouse in its mouth. 

WOE: Laughter is the Great Healer

Prompt: This week, focus on dialogue and body language to set a scene or move a story forward, limiting your use of narration.  You have 450 words, beginning with the line: His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke.   I tried to avoid narration completely, believing that cold turkey might be best, and I am not sure how this went.  Unlike Christian Grey, I'm not all that into spanking, so be gentle!


His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke; David wouldn't look at her. 


"Yes."


Miriam hugged herself tightly, chin on her chest, unprepared. 


"Why?" her voice sounded muffled, suffocated.  He imagined that she was biting her lip to keep from crying, when tears might have saved them.  David bluntly wielded the death blow. 


"Because she is not you."  He stood rigid and stared straight ahead.

Miriam collapsed to her knees, her hands thrown out to land on all fours.  Her body seemed to be seized by the force of his words, shaking silently.   David sighed in irritation, but remained where he was. 


"What did you expect, Miriam? You're such a cold bitch, and I have needs," his voice was loud in the room as he stared down at her. "Half the time it felt like I was making love to a dead fish!"  

The sudden whoop startled him.  Miriam fell to her side, clutching her stomach, laughing and gulping air.  She looked up at David and collapsed into laughter once more. Several minutes passed, then Miriam, giggling, pulled herself up to stand in front of David, out of breath.  She leaned on the back of the couch for support.


"Not me--? Hahahaha---" She could not stop giggling. "--But David--hahaha-- dear--you are still YOU!"  Another fit of laughter overtook her.  


She was still laughing as he walked out. 

Distractions

Mamakat's prompt:  4.) What have you been too busy to pay attention to?

When I was single, there were some television shows that I watched religiously.  The X-Files.  Buffy the Vampire Slayer.   When these shows were on, I paid attention.  I did not answer the phone.  The computers were turned off.   I did not even leave the couch for bathroom or snack breaks, just so I wouldn't miss a single second.  When my 'stories' were over, I would happily spend hours on the phone with my bestie, discussing plot points and one liners. 

When I met my husband, I conned him into watching Buffy with me, and he was hooked.  We would park ourselves on the couch, side by side, holding hands.  When the spinoff Angel began, we were there for that as well.  We found that we loved many of the same shows, and our viewing habits expanded.  The Sopranos. Deadwood. Firefly. Homicide. The Shield. Supernatural. Lost.   I would not only discuss the shows with my husband, but would happily spend hours emailing my bestie, discussing plot points and one liners, or grousing because we had to wait an entire week for the next episode.

We were the Nielsen's dream of the perfect television viewer.  

When my son first came along, I was still able to pay attention to my 'stories', because he slept a lot, and he did not move around much.  I could sit on the couch with my sleeping child on my lap, and still find myself transported to whatever universe was on the channel for the evening.  Except that babies need to be fed, or changed, and not necessarily during commercial breaks.  My husband would make a valiant effort to tell me what happened during my absence, but it was never the same. 

It's been downhill ever since.  As long as Zane was falling asleep before 7pm, there was a chance to use the DVR and fast forward through the commercials, so I still got my 'stories' fix.  But I was tired, and usually fell right asleep with Zane.  Gradually, before I even knew what was happening, the DVR would be full.  The entire last season of The Shield had to be deleted to make room for other shows, and we still haven't been able to see what happened to Vic Mackey.  

I've missed other shows completely, shows that I probably would have loved.  The Borgias.  Dexter. Boardwalk Empire.  Justified.    I remember some vague mentions of the shows, and I fully intended to watch them.  I even recorded a few episodes of each, but then never got around to watching.  Somehow, they slipped by in the haze of my exhaustion.  These days, my 'Must See' stories are getting shorter and shorter, and if the DVR and our schedule are full, things are deleted.  The entire season of Supernatural is waiting for me, as are the last two episodes of A Game of Thrones. My husband has the last four episodes of The Walking Dead to view, but we may have other shows to record.

What other shows have taken our attention?   Ones that we can watch with Zane, of course!  The Big Bang Theory. Ultimate Spiderman. The Avengers.  Young Justice. Green Lantern.

I still have my 'stories', but now they're stories I can share with my son.